We are clumped together in a bewildering welter of struggles against precision-tooled not-good things (ranging from chintzy to show-stopping in appearance and effect) but most of us don’t know it. Many of us sense it,  dreamily, yes. The sensing hasn’t matured into an understanding culminating in a useful response. Things are vague.  Our Army lacks coherence. We are tossed into the battle by birth and more often than not simply age out of Existence before we manage to fire a single shot in the War.

There’s the mad scramble for Status preoccupying us but to how many of us is it given to grasp that the inner lack, the wound, that the dreamed-of Status is meant to heal, cannot be plugged by bling or accolades? Too many of us have got souls out of which huge chunks were bitten very early on, and a good hard look at any number of billionaires,  weight-lifters, beloved jugglers or supermodels will confirm that those chewed-up souls do not re-grow, do not grow whole, in the limelight, or even in the reflected light of irrigated acres of pyramids of gold. The mad scramble for Status upon which the entire economy rides is a dead-end, a dire snark-hunt, a mad dash in concrete boots for an eternally-and-snickeringly-receding rainbow’s end with which the majority of us are preoccupied while the thousand overlapping battles,  in which we are semi-consciously thrust,  rage on.

If only we were a Conscious and Efficient Army, fighting all the Good Fights winningly, marching from strength to strength, song to convivial song, instead of filling a long, deep, smoke-filled trench of hundreds of millions of semi-coherent dreamers, twitching and gasping through fitful naps and groggy daymares. A half-life in which we twitch-dream of Status while vaguely (but distinctly uncomfortably) aware of all the knees and chins and elbows and foreheads and asses pressed against us, from below and above and on all sides, in this long, deep, snaking trench in which we half-sleep through this immemorial War of a thousand incomprehensible battles. A trench aflicker with a billion trivial screens under a gloaming glommed by exclusive glooms.

Great Lit was once the call to wake and join the battle in an effective and coherent Army that had long-ago been prophesied to form  and that is why Great Lit, and the Great Interpreters of Great Lit, are being put to the torch by the gold-encrusted creatures who patrol the trench with Smart Flamethrowers™  and prizes.

LETTERS TO THE EDITOR [letters are vetted for cogency and style]

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