From moral distress to moral

January 29, 2004

From moral distress to moral courage. A bible belt rallying cry. Who cares? Weakness is a slippery slope. I say lets ride it. Moral collapse seems to provide far more entertainment. Sin is fun. I’m not even sure which are the moral choices. I have chosen an amoral dimension. Humour is possible here. Lets adventure in my amoral principality. The roadhouse is open at the dinner hour. Ethics are hanging around the bar and getting a lot of attention but morality has gone home with its mom. The band hits its first squall of intentional feedback. I pass on the frontage road shirtless riding a spanish dirt bike. I am smoking for effect. The thin ruby stripes in the Wallace tartan kilt bring out the red in my eyes. The paintball pistol tucked loosely under my sporran is warm down its barrel. The falcon on my shoulder is trained to hang on without breaking the skin. Johnny Depp follows behind in the battered taxi he has chartered three cities away for I am the holy grail of swashbuckling character studies. Making all the right wrong choices. I wear Maori tattoos and a golden crucifix around the neck just to drive home the point that my definition of a spiritual course is completely unique and darkly conflicted. Supermodels dining at the street side table of a cafe are left breathless as I snatch a fillet of seared tuna from their plate at full clip. I carry it in my teeth as I catwalk the Bultaco through the outdoor market. The falcon is unfazed and only narrows its gaze on the prize. Her wing brushes my cheek as she launches upward above the bell tower of the old city hall and is caught in silhouette against a smoggy scrim of tired twilight sky. She disappears into an upstairs window then returns to my shoulder as I shift up, twist the throttle and hit the outskirts of town. In her talons is the rodent pelt of the mayor’s toupee. I smile slowly, squint, draw the paintball gun from my belt and fire backward hitting the windshield of the pursuing cop car with a lime green explosion. He veers left, veers back, cuts right hard then the brindle brown and dark ghost car jumps the ditch into a cornfield. The stick-on rotating red light falls from the roof and disappears into the cloud of dust. Nobody gets hurt. Ethics takes a drink back at the bar as the band packs up its cigarette signs and endorsement swag. I will return tomorrow and the falcon will snap the mother superior’s bra strap. Banzai in the amoral dimension. What could be more important than a laugh?