One of the younger rebels one day inquired of an older trooper, “I heard it said that ‘A Real Revolutionist is never comfortable with his clothes,’ so tell me, would he be more so with someone else’s clothes?” The older subversive dragged his boot around in the campfire, and started picking around in his ear. By the time his foot began to smoke he spoke, he said, “Kid, you see that tree over there…?”
I had an uncle, (he wasn’t really my uncle he paid me to say that), who would take all the important things he still had to do and put ‘em all off to the same uncertain day…so as, (as he put it), “To get a better handle on the handle.”
There’s no violence like old violence.
(If Stradivari had been a gunsmith we’d all be living in the hi-rise.)
In one Revolutionist camp I visited someplace else, while in the shower, I heard a dis-embodied voice softly floating atop the steam, gently singing, “Drowning, oh drowning in this, my sea of freedom…”
Upon hearing it stated quite dogmatically, most emphatically, and by, no less I guess, than an “expert” that, “Knowledge is but remembered experience,” this one warrior thought only to himself, “If it’s come to that then all the dings in my shield can be fixed and I’m no better off than before.”