Byline: Blues For Pluto

Buford Youthward

Celestial misgivings aside, it's hard not to be a hater when your fate is placed in the hands of someone other than yourself.

Reason, science and logic are cast aside as our hearts, by proxy, are left holding all our hidden alibis. It's hard to bargain emotion by surrogate, it's much cooler to intellectualize from afar. Order is often overrated.

Scientists must labor to prove their theories, conducting experiments to put theory into practice. Religions and religious leaders have a much easier go of it. Perhaps the universe will one day call out all leaders who sell denial and mix messages of hope with fear.

Governing bodies like heavenly bodies defy the sciences. When you wish upon a star it makes no difference who the legislators are, you might as well wish upon a fish.

And like the heavenly bodies that afford great visions dancing in our dreams, graffiti writers are bent on making a message for the ages or at least a mess for the ages.

Recognizing your uniqueness and assuming the virtues you desire may find you in front of a magistrate sorting out matters. Ignorant, unbelieving, dismissive minds devise ways of wishing you were invisible. Strength in the face of these little people must be mustered.

Who you are today may not be who you will be tomorrow. While some maintain a longing for the past, nostalgia for the sake of itself is betrayal of the future.

The universe has mortgaged itself on high interest rates, milky way madness and solar sensation. Trying to stay in orbit around bottles of rubber cement, old blackbooks, organic stimulants and cold bottles of lager is like trying to hum a tune with a mouthful of marbles.

Personal purposes and interplanetary desires play against backdrops of urban violence and sectarian wars. Strong tonics ease anxieties.

Arguments are made, even justified, that every decision, every whim of fate has been forecast, set in motion by our own hands, predetermined by our DNA. Dancing with destiny requires courage to accept revolutions around stars while star struck societies are sick with celebrity.

So Pluto bemoans an adolescence of the cool. While the death of the cool is exaggerated. There's too much cool still left to go around, lots of bodies that still need to be buried and too much emotion that must remain bottled up.

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