says who

You hurt my feelings.

What?

You hurt me.

You, or your feelings?

You're doing it again.

Doing what?

Hurting me. Sowing harm.

"Sow" what.

It's not some big joke.

I didn't say it was.

You're acting that way, talking that way.

But you hurt me.

When? How?

That time. You remember.

No, I don't.

We're not going to start arguing about arguing.

Why not? 

It's like we got into our NASA spacesuits, buckled up, listened to the countdown as we waited on the launchpad, 4-3-2-1-0 ignition liftoff, traveled a few light years, and landed on Planet Harm.

Or Planet Hurt.

Anyway, we can agree on that, pretty much.

True.

. . . and then opened the hatch, climbed down the little ladder, more wobbly than expected, and planted our feet on the hardscrabble, arid harmscape, littered by empty promises, goodwill wrappers, and used condomeants.

Condomeants?

Prophylactic measures meant to prevent punctured egos, infertile ejaculations, and scrambled eggs.

Ewww.

You stepped on the surface first.

No, you did.

Not going to argue that. It's all on the tape.

"That's one small step for a gland, and one existential leap for love."

That wasn't it.

Close enough.

That was the problem: not close enough.

We were in those spacesuits. I couldn't reach you, touch you.

I couldn't find you.

You had G.P.S.

G.P.S.?

Guaranteed Personal Symmetry.

But it didn't work on Planet Harm. Doesn't work . . .

Why would it? How could it?

By design.

The atmosphere, the gravity, the loneliness.

And then they played the meanest trick in the history of the universe. Houston pulled up the ladder, turned the ignition on, and flew away. Without us.

Left us to our own devices.

And we don't mean handheld devices.

Left us to our own vices.

And virtues, what's left of them.

Right.

They must've figured we were the best lab rats misery could buy.

What now?

What then?

What when?

What next?

Hey, Planet Harm doesn't even have Wi-Fi!

What does Wi-Fi stand for, again?

 

beyond the harmed circle

Who doesn't want to escape a circle of harm? For that matter, who is not from a circle of harm? Freudians, perhaps Jungians, too, as well as anthropologists, sociologists, historians, biologists, theologians, philosophers, pornographers, and poets would note that the circle of harm we all experience is birth, the trauma of passage through the dark and narrow avenue of the womb to the rude light of day in the fresh and brutal but necessary air. (Some theologians would hearken farther back, all the way to the birth of the human race and its rupture from Paradise.) 

Harm might be the wrong word. How "harmful" could it be if we're all in the same boat (or ark)?

And why a harmed circle? Why not a harmed square, rectangle, oval, or triangle? That's easy. I hardly need to type it. Who hasn't at one moment or another (maybe many or most moments) felt like a hamster on a wheel of frustration, pain, or madness, in an inescapable loop? The circular treadmill might even be jubilant, pleasurable, or poignant. Good or bad, it's hard (impossible? barely possible?) to extract oneself from that furiously spinning circle.

It might not be harm at all! You might be in a circle of charm. You might be hamster-running under a spell, on an intravenous-magical-mystery drenching of espresso, sex, drugs, religion, righteousness, reason, anger, angst, success, failure, danger, or drama. 

Can the circle be unbroken?

Maybe.

Maybe not.

Aha! I got it. Eureka. I have found out how to wed harm and charm (lucky or not), quirk and quark (charm, it turns out, is an elemental particle; don't ask me why they chose that word; channel Stephen Hawking). The enchantment of charm can dispel harm, singing an aria (that's right, charm circles back to song, incantation, chant, verse) of freedom and release.  

Before we get too excited about the charm bracelet of etymology, before we decide it always works like a charm, bear in mind that a charm can be a curse or a blessing. No less than Jakob Grimm, of the Brothers Grimm and their grim fairy tales, reminds us of this in 1883. To be effective, Grimm says, a charm "must be a choice." He claims it can't be a blessing and a curse. It's got to be one or the other, "either/or" (which is the title of a work by the philosopher-theologian Sören Kierkegaard). 

Take your pick.

Or flip a coin.

Charm or harm.

Give or take a letter.

Who said "spelling" wasn't important? 

 

Prayer for a Palimpsest

O Goddess-God-Supreme Being-Cosmic Energy-Eternal Now-Silence:

Grant me, if it be your will, the selective amnesia of serenity, a magic slate of erased pain, a scraping away of the ragged scars of burnt memory from the parchment of remembrance. Vouchsafe to grant your servant a palimpsest of the mind, an electroconvulsive therapy (formerly known as electroshock therapy) without the electricity, if you don't mind. May it please you to wipe my slate clean, revealing a fresh layer in this palimpsest brain, enabling me motion: to reverse course, look away, move forward. While you're at it, gift me, please, with ablution and absolution, permitting a fresh and clean restart, a do-over. Ah, but you caution me against this? You tell me that every moment affords an opportunity for me myself to do this very thing. You remind me that the memory of pain can be a useful motivator, a shield against desolate repetition. In fact, you warn me of the mortal dangers of such palimpsestic thinking and feeling (and after all, is there a difference between the two?). So now I am confused. I am baffled. Puzzled and stumped. I see where oblivion has taken me, its tides tossing me wayward. Yet the burden of memory (no, pardon me; I didn't say guilt) is an anchor tied to my ankle. You decide. Yes, you decide in all your Silent Wisdom. You decide what to grant. But let me know when you have an answer. And give me the strength to abide by its commands. Amen.