The man in the archival Library of Congress photo we're using to promote our production of Coal Creek probably didn't give a rat's ass about normalcy, sanity or anything but living to dig another day.
There’s a passage in the Sinclair Lewis novel It Can’t Happen Here that I’ve flagged. It’s about the fragility of social order, but on this particular day it reminds me of my bipolar friend …
“… The crust of learning and good manners and tolerance is so thin! It would take just a few thousand big shells and gas bombs to wipe out all the libraries and laboratories and art galleries … No inherent reason why our grandchildren – if anybody’s grandchildren survive – shouldn’t be living in caves and heaving rocks at catamounts. …”I think sometimes about how miraculous it is that we make it from zygote to birth … all the pieces that have to fit together properly, all the intricate systems that have to align. And then the enormous leap we make from birth to fully-integrated members of society … dear God.
But the crust of normalcy and sanity and functionality never does get very thick, does it? No matter how well-educated we are, how successful.
Reading one of my friend’s manifestos today, I felt a shock of recognition. I’m every bit as chaotic as he is, I think. We all are. The difference between us and him is our ability to hide our chaos from our neighbors and from ourselves. Look under my hood or your hood or the next guy’s, and you’ll find just as much duct tape and faulty wiring as my bipolar friend’s manifesto shows us he has under his. As quick as we are to shake our heads and say, “There but for the grace of God go I,” a more self-perceptive statement might be, “But for the grace of God, I show everyone that I’ve gone there myself already.”
