To the harsh critic, J__P___. #211B –Robert M. Shelby, 9-27-13. [543 txt wds]

We should all grasp that our president, Barack Obama is not omniscient. But neither are you, Mr. Harsh Critic, who sees him and all he does darkly through glasses of — scotch? Viewing from outside the foul-line of Too-far-Right Field, you find nothing but vacuous incompetence and vacillation in decisions or actions taken by Obama. The trouble, Sir, is not in his stars but in your eyes. They, and the mind that uses them, did not develop under humanizing influences. Your educational and professional experiences have not fitted you to be anything but an overlord, out of place in a democracy. Facing the world as you now find it has made you a very sick person. I wish you well, but know my wish is wholly in vain. It is too late for you to recover balanced and circumspect perception. Sadly, what impact you have on our world points in the wrong direction. You seem self-blinded to the big picture. Your maps are cock-eyed, your values backwards, antique. You side with the Koch brothers, the tea party and all that is retrograde in a democracy. Clearly, you stand against democracy except for your freedom to speak negative opinions from an eccentric position.

At the still center of the turning earth, gravity is nil.  In the central flux of political life, individuals weigh little. “Heavyweights” are they who endure the crowded buffeting of diverse opinion. At earth’s weightless point, mass lacks centrifugal impulse. So in secure seats of government no one wants out. “Lightweights” participate in crowding.

What of stations midlife in middle earth? Far from surface events in the deep churning world nearer center than suburbs, men feel floating urges to escape, but they stay trapped by weight of lighter people as surely as, beneath earth’s mantle, super-dense metal finds no escape through massively in-crowding, lighter rock.

A president fibrillates in everyone’s desires. Having reached his pinnacle, has he still his own goals? He may imagine them. He may work tirelessly to lead peripheral events that turn him around. Information and directives must be manhandled, his feelings whirl with no means of expression but to stay in order while bold fiats and fine plans fountain out to trickle on recalcitrant desert. Earth rotation and revolution are complicated by common center with the moon, at odds with mere geometry, churning the deep interior while in turn both find their true center with the sun which flies around the galaxy. So, too, the states and nation complicate a world where everyone feels central to self and every self partially identifies with some composite or other.

What is it like inside stars? Such fusion and effusion, fission and revision—the greatest star a gnat-feast to occasional dark flash of a universe when all mass reunites in a space smaller than a schoolboy’s penciled period where baryons bang togetherness apart and recreate Time’s arrows? Repercussion like no cherry bomb must so punctuate phrases of cosmic silence that if we realize the center of our being, we no longer fear trivialities like interstellar distance or local noise, nor mind that we are viscous smoke destined to dissipate, for there will be no loss, nor shall we miss a thing.

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