Debug: (v) to detect and remove errors

Our protagonist quietly walks into a room, using hand gestures to signify to his close companion to be quiet.

After our hero searches the room for about forty-five seconds, he discovers several listening devices, which he removes so that  conversation can return, and they can discuss where these bugs might have come from and why it was important to debug the room.

It is a staple of American movie folklore.

For after all, no one wants to believe they’re being overheard and therefore manipulated into doing what someone else wishes.

Yesterday I asked myself a very valuable question.

How much further along would we be in overcoming this present pandemic of Covid-19 if the media was not covering it?

What if there wasn’t a camera in every corner, a microphone for every politician and a running death toll displayed to the side as a constant reminder of the horror which is afoot?

What if we had to solve this problem in silence?

In other words, let the experts talk among themselves, come up with ideas on how to battle the disease, and then, as in olden times, print flyers and distribute them from house to house, explaining what is expected of each citizen in pursuing and maintaining a solution.

If the arguments were removed, the politics were squashed, commentators silenced, and people with jobs just did their bit and passed along terse but well-worded demands to the general public—who would have to believe the reports because they were the only insights available…

Well, would it be better if America were debugged of the electronic albatross that listens in to see what frightens us, so more fear can be delivered?


Contaminate: (v) to make something impure

The first time I said a prayer my soul merged with God.

Then I went to prayer meetings. Now a sense of loss floods my heart every time I listen to over-exsggerated supplications.

The first time a woman kissed my lips and touched my face I thought I was going to melt like butter on a hot waffle.

Then came television, movies, and all sorts of insidious representations of romance, which make me sometimes wonder why in the hell we’re attracted to each funny wisdom on words that begin with a Cother.

The first time I voted I believed I was accompanied to the polls by George Washington himself.

Now, through the disappointment of the Electoral College and the tainting of civil discourse, I would rather have a 24-hour stomach virus. (Well, maybe not.)

The first time I stood onstage and sang a song for an audience, and had chills go up and down my spine as I harmonized with my friends, I thought I had pierced the heavenly gates and joined the supernal chorus.

Now I feel perplexed at a musical cacophony that shouts, screams and contorts without ever touching the human heart.

I remember the first time for many beautiful things.

And then humanity tried to contaminate the simplicity, insisting that the complexity brought deeper meaning.

It didn’t.

I have taken a brief season of my life to debug myself from the infection of religious fanaticism, entertainment porn, political grappling and music composed with a tin ear.

I feel good.

I feel simple.

I no longer feel contaminated.

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