Thursday, October 19, 2023

The Hoober-Boober highway to hell

I'm a bit at odds with the world's current tilt towards World War Three, or Four, depending how you look at it (I count everything from the end of World War Two to now as World War Three- check Robert's alternate classification below). You know the feeling, don't you, when all the optimism of your youth, all the ideology and philosophy, the cosmic agreements that allowed you to survive and sometimes flourish, unravel in a hiccup?

I've longed to share my thoughts with someone, but my options are limited due to self-induced isolation in the Mojave Desert. So this morning, although we've been estranged of late, I reached out to my iconoclastic companion, Robert the Telepathic Gila Monster.

As usual Robert was not hard to find. I just headed out my back door into the desert, walked about fifteen minutes, and there he was on his favorite rock.


Harry, you soggy old human, he thought (he's telepathic, as I am). What can I do you for?

I just need a little distraction, Robert. I came upon you deep in thought. What were you thinking about?

Sorry, Harry, my "MindGuard" was on; normally we don't let humans engage with us on a thought level- you're the exception.

I'm honored.

You should be.

[Author's note: In the text below the indentation, paragraph separation and italics have been corrupted by what I suspect are spy-bots from The Manifest, my latest term for The Master Program, that resist correction. I beg the reader to persevere against this sabotage and march forth with me and Robert!]

Robert is an avid student of human culture. [New paragraph] Harry, in answer to your question of what I was thinking about, you may recall Dr. Seuss' "Hoober-Boober Highway"? I thought you might from your years teaching elementary school.

I do indeed, and I marvelled that the school district allowed teaching such an open and questioning book about humanity's place in the cosmos.

Yes (Robert continued), so you'll recall that it's a story about autonomous pre-destination, in which the souls of people soon to be born (though not yet combined with sperm and egg elements) are offerred a conference with the Hoober-Boob, an angel of sorts who converses with the preborn souls about human life, offering them some choice about being born human, as well as where and when they will be born, finally determining to which coordinates they will be delivered via the Hoober-Boober Highway, a designated wormhole that opens into the mother's birth canal. Could such options possibly be available to humans? Imagine your soul before you were born looking at the timeline of humanity and choosing to be born now...who would do that? Your species is about to launch its so called "Third World War," which in reality is a single war that never stops, having learned exactly nothing from earlier non-stop war, except maybe that human civilization hasn't happened yet. You're still in the kill-or-be-killed stage.

And gilas are not?, I asked.

Gilas are incidental by human standards; we're just waiting around. And to clarify, I'm not saying humans don't have pockets of civilization, but the overall mood was summed up by Nietzshe: "To live is to suffer; to survive is to find meaning in the suffering," and that's on a good day.

Again, how are gilas exempt from this?

Gilas are exempt from responsibility. If there is a Hoober-Boober Highway, Gilas, possibly because of their attitude, have not been invited, which is good because we can't be accused of choosing anything. But Harry, why would a human soul with such an option choose this moment to be born when your species, lost in the wilderness one year too many, finally collapses in mass insanity and suicide? I'm venturing that no one would choose it, and that no one did, because my theory is that your pre-birth souls were not guided here by some benign force, but were lost in the cosmos- probably after one of its frequent explosions- susceptible to passing vortices that whisked you into random Hoober-Boobian space, minus the Hoober Boob.

Robert, you have a knack for cheering me up.

Any time. The human goal, then, has been to overcome the random chaos of your birth and try to make sense of things. It's always hard to do that. Any species needs help, and yours especially. So before you adopt an adolescent video game of sadism and death and proclaim it your culture, you should find a way to connect the many people who are outside this game (or want to be) and together build an alternate game.

Thanks for the tip, Robert. I may have a chance to get to it next Tuesday.

I like to leave Robert on a sardonic note, but while trudging home I had to admit he had a point. Humans alive today have landed, by choice or not, at probably the most unlucky moment to be human in our 300,000 year history, at the climax of a long life-or-death struggle with our selves, our planet, maybe even with the whole universe. We seem to have limited options in this struggle, but every little bit helps. In my view it would be a big help if people talked openly about our isolation and impossible choices. To advance this concept, I've decided to stand along Highway 138 with a sign reading, "People of Earth: Compensate for the unfortunate accident of your birth with good conversation!"

I was going to stop by Pearblossom Hardware this morning for sign materials but then saw it will be 119 degrees on the highway today. Next week is supposed to be cooler. I'll keep readers posted on my new movement.

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