Cycles of chaos

“Men are made unhappy not because they fail to gratify some fixed set of desires, but by the gap that continually arises between new wants and their fulfillment.”
~ Francis Fukuyama, The End of History and the Last Man

During a recent conversation, I was asked if a democratic humanity, where all people(s) are regarded as having worth, dignity, equal rights, and rightful access to the resources that make for a healthy, fulfilling life, will ever be possible.

Long ago, I read a book titled: “The End of History and the Last Man,” by Francis Fukuyama.

One of the premises of the book is that humanity is driven by the struggle for recognition and power, both individually and collectively. If there is truth to this, then it explains the ongoing conflict between the desire for democracy—where all individuals are recognized as having worth, dignity, and basic rights—and ideologies and tyrants seeking to be recognized as superior among all others, thus having the right to subjugate others to their demands and wishes, and to control their access to resources—hoarding them for themselves and their cronies.

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Field trip

The lot of us roamed the state park, back and forth, like zombies searching aimlessly. We’d keep going until Liz – the activities coordinator – blew the whistle, and then we’d scramble back to the bus.

Lenny and Chip, the OCD sufferers, zigzagged the grounds in convoluted patterns, understood by them alone. Reminded me of the football patterns I ran with my mates behind Foley field, about 40 years earlier. The difference being that we never crossed into each other’s lanes in those days. But, Lenny and Chip crashed into each other at one point, almost coming to fists over it, before arriving at a compromise with my assistance.

“Avoidance is the key,” Lenny told me after calming down.

“Yep, stay in your own lanes, and all will be good,” I said. And I gave him a thumbs up. He smiled, gave me a pat on the back and continued his zigzag patterns. I felt validated from the pat.

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Reconnaissance dog

We walked down the thicket path to Main street, keeping our heads low, covertly peeking through the clearings of foliage. Old vehicles – some military – were lined up on both sides of Main, one after another, their engines running. Men with assault rifles sat on the bumpers, taking turns patrolling the street, slowly turning their heads in 180 degree arcs, ready to defend the flanks. Some remained on standby inside their vehicles; others were crowded onto the attached flatbeds, sweating profusely and guzzling down beers. A rough looking crowd covered in war tats and wearing mismatched uniform attire, like they were going deer hunting after a weekend military exercise.

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Dad’s cloud

The local townsfolk call it Old Albert’s Place, located on the north side of the crater, near the bunkers, a few miles off of Route 18. “Can’t miss it,” they tell me with raised eyebrows. “Just follow the dirt road to the end. It is still passable, despite the winter rains last year. Watch out for the potholes and radioactive stuff. Good luck, mister!”

And so I walk…

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Please don’t shoot me dad!

Dad, please don’t shoot me in the back, I thought to myself. I’d been retrieving pellets from the wooden board used for our target practice, when the vision of him shooting me from behind appeared. Several times, I turned my head for a sideways glance, making sure the gun was not pointed at me. Dad just looked at me and said nothing, but the Larkin boys laughed heartily at my paranoia. I thought of my ancestors lined up at the edge of mass graves, waiting to be shot in the back, one by one, like a factory line of executions; the soon to be executioners finding humor and a perverse justice in their victims’ predicament.

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