Natural disasters are little understood things. We can guess at when they will strike, but we never know the precise hour, nor the exact direction and location, nor the intensity. Further, we may prepare for the disaster and still be surprised by its results. A tornado might spawn a fire. A quake or a flood might disrupt sanitation, giving foothold to all manner of disease.So it is with disasters of the mind. Wherever some 50-greats grandfather sent out his tremor, generations shook; he passed his energy to those who followed, and followed, and followed, for a thousand, ten thousand years. Where is proximate cause? Tangled in the roots of our oldest memory.
Sometimes I catch a silhouette, and say, “Good day to you, grandfather; is that a knife, a gun, an army you wield? How is your hand present, who lived so long ago?” I get no answer, but see his shade; watching, listening, waiting.
Even the slightest shades are dangerous. This one may be but a match stick; yet amidst dry grass it is the herald of Death. Find these in the dark places that hide them so well; give them no shelter.
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