Faith and Damnation

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What price faith, dusty nomads? From all corners it seems, people cry out to us to believe, to have faith, to act as if we know when we don't, when we can't; all of it at some undefined cost. Let's talk about the cost. Let's talk about the price, because you always pay, even when they say it's free. It's never free.

My boss believes that he's a manager, a senior captain of industry, a skilled businessman. He isn't. When my boss' boss mentions that one of our partners is worried about the relationship between our two companies and "needs a hug," my boss puts hugging them on my list of objectives. Then he checks up with me to see if I've hugged them yet. He's concerned about it. I think he's afraid that if I don't do it it's going to fall to him to take care of it, and he hasn't even been introduced to them yet.

I'll bet he doesn't sleep all that well at night. Sleep is a barometer.

They cavorted in the fields like wild dervishes, producing stunning displays of geometrically destroyed wheat.

I saw a TV show about crop circles recently. It was fascinating. For half an hour, camera crews explored mysterious circles and geometrically inspired patterns that appeared in farmers' fields around England. A small slew of "experts" came on and spoke excitedly about their various theories, explaining with the wide-eyed rapture of the converted about the awe and spirituality they experienced upon entering various circles carved in would-be food products. They spoke equally of the presence of God and of aliens.

Then they had ten minutes of frantic footage of crop circle hoaxers; sometimes just a couple of guys on a mission to screw with people, at other times entire formerly secret societies of guys who devoted their spare time to making aesthetically pleasing patterns in farmers' fields. They talked jovially of the design process for their creations, demonstrated for the cameras their various methods and tricks, and waxed nostalgic on the glory of creation and the popularity of their pastime. They cavorted in the fields like wild dervishes, producing stunning displays of geometrically destroyed wheat.

Then the program cut back to the experts.

The experts were un-phased. While some crop circles, they acquiesced, might be man made, many more were the products of divine activities; the product of a God with a desire to communicate with his favoured offspring but remarkably little talent for doing so. Aliens were, of course, also big culprits, forever traveling across the vast wastelands of space to tell us about peace and love, but never able to just write a note or call someone. The experts glowed with insight and passion, speaking of the impossibility of humans creating such complex works, while bright-eyed crop circle enthusiasts hopped around demonstrating how they made the things with boards and string, often while ripped on vodka. The show concluded that the mystery might never be solved.

Honestly, it hurt my head to watch it.