Yesterday, I saw the future. The future being planned for us. Isn’t it grand that there is always a plan for us? Why is that, exactly? And how is it that these plans made by others are binding on us?
It’s a largely unquestioned and strangely accepted oddity of life.
The natural order of things is for children to grow up into adults who make their own plans. This latter is what Jefferson – that hateful white male patriarch – meant when he wrote about the pursuit of happiness. It is a thing natural – instinctive – to every normal human being. Could anything be less normal than having one’s own life – you don’t get another – planned out by others?
Could anything be more effronterous, more tyrannical?
Jefferson wrote about that also. This business of some born to hold the reigns and others born to the bit. That is what plans mean when you aren’t the one making them but are the one expected to abide by them. Insufferable. Yet accepted as a matter-of-course by what seems to be most people. Perhaps because it is presented – as these things almost invariably are presented – in the most benign-sounding way imaginable. As if the “plans” were the result of a gentle committee at which everyone had a seat – and a say. As if those who didn’t and don’t could say no to the plan – without violent repercussions attending.
This is even more insufferable and effronterous, for it attacks the very dignity of adult manhood (as the hateful old patriarch would have said – and did). Children are dealt with by adults in this manner, soothing and coo’ing. With the belt (the “time-out” in these insipid times) always at hand if they say no . . .
And that is at least natural in that they are children – and the parents’ role is to guide them toward adulthood which, upon having been achieved, the children become adults and are freed to make their own plans.
That is not an effronterous or tyrannous plan.
I saw what they have planned for us yesterday. One of the things they have planned for us. I saw it at the far end of a local shopping center. Five charging stations for electric cars. They were all unoccupied save for one, at which there was an electric car plugged in, its owner waiting within.
This is their plan for us. Or rather, part of it.
Who decided we must give up not having to plan our lives around recharging? How many of us would freely choose to park and wait for at least 15-30 minutes at one of these so-called “fast” chargers – rather than choose not to have to plan such a wait into our day?
The planners will say it can be planned around.
Who are they to over-ride our plans?
They say, of course, that their plans for us are necessary – in the manner of a parent telling a child that eating his spinach is necessary. That if we do not adhere to their plans for us, the “climate” will “change” in alarming and catastrophic ways. It has the ring of the bogeyman some parents tell their kids about, to frighten them into not questioning the parents’ plans.
Of course, the parents are not afraid of this bogeyman, themselves. They do not got to bed early, fearing that if they do not the bogeyman will “get” them, as they have told the kids he will if they do not go to bed. But the kids can hear the parents watching TV out in the den and know they haven’t gone to bed.
So much for the “bogeyman.”
Those who consider themselves our parents and expect us to abide by their plans for us also use the bogeyman to scare us into obedience. But they do not believe in him, either. Once we are “put to bed,” they retire to their close-to-the-ocean estates – which they obviously aren’t afraid are going to be inundated because the “climate” is “changing.” They fly on private jets that burn more gas – and emit more of the bogeyman gasses – than any of us “kids” generate by driving our cars in a year (probably several) to attend parents-only “conferences” where they make their plans for us.
Hasn’t the time come for us to grow up – and make our own plans? To tell these effronterous and tyrannous people to let us be?
And if they will not, to make plans as necessary to deal with that?
. . .
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