Fantastic Logic

Org. 11/4/11

    Once upon a time there was a princess.  She thought she must be a princess because she helped her father run a kingdom and made appearances to boost morale and acted hostess at the palace.  She was trained to act like a princess, to hold herself like a princess, to be a delegate to those outside the palace.  She was encouraged to pursue fulfilling education and careers for the benefit of the commoners. 

    Logic would have our heroine believe herself to be a princess.

The major premise:  Princesses are female members of a royal family.

Minor Premise: She is the daughter of a man who rules a kingdom.

Conclusion:  Because she is a female child of the man ruling the kingdom, she is a princess.

     However, because our heroine has been raised and educated as a princess she knows the evidence supporting the minor premise may not always line up with the major premise, leading to a break in the logic and failure of the deductive reasoning. If, for instance, her father was usurped and someone of another family was positioned to rule the kingdom, what then?  One can’t have stray, untagged princesses running amuck. They would taint the commoners causing discontentment.  Or, what if the royal family ceased to be a “family” or that she was somehow ostracized from the family? Could that technicality negate her princess-ship? 

     It just so happens, while in the process of forming these calculations, our heroine receives a message from the kingdom.  “Your father was inefficient at running a kingdom so we are removing him from power.  We request the attendance of his family at his sending off to exile.”  Options were few, so she paid her respects to her father and left the kingdom.  As she wandered far from her position of power she could feel the discontent growing.  The discontent was not her discontent, no, it stemmed from those around her.  Her now, supposed peers, saw through the meager disguise of poverty and hard work and sensed that here was someone used to power and honor.  Reactions were mixed.  Some were repulsed and afraid.  Others wanted to harness whatever power she did possess for their own gain. More than anything, our heroine noticed that she did not belong among them.  So, she set out to try again to be a princess. 

    She began further calculations. 

Major Premise: Princesses are female members of a royal family

Minor Premise: The wife of a prince is a member of the royal family

Conclusion:  Therefore, I will be a princess if I marry a prince.

    Now, perfectly ridiculous arguments can be logically correct.  And this was logically sound, albeit ridiculous, she thought, to hope that she could find a prince when she had no access to money and little to no allies in other kingdoms.  But, she thought, everything about her was trained and trusted to be a princess.  If she did not fight for the place she knew she belonged she would betray the sacred trust of her own soul. 

The problem was, our heroine had never seen or met a prince.  She had only seen pictures in fairy tales and museums.   The premises she set out she was unable to verify with fact.  Therefore, she proceeded with caution but decided the only way to find a prince was to test the validity of each logical conclusion.

… to be cont.

Ode to the Empty Vase

There’s a bruise on my arm, right above my elbow

And I feel like I’ve seen it there before.

I remember when we stood there

And you held me to you tightly

And you whispered to me softly

“don’t you fucking start to cry”

Today, it’s no coincidence when I jump at raised voices

I still flinch at quick movements, and stiffen at man’s touch.

We would always stand there

And you’d tell me you’d be better

If I’d make myself much thinner

If I would only try much harder

In my efforts to be perfect for you I only found more failure

I’ve learned how much pressure I can take before I cave

Remember when we stood there

And you held me to you closely

And you whispered to me softly

And you taught me how to cry

But to understand your demons was to let them get inside me

All the time I thought, love could put you back together

Instead I let it tear my soul apart.

And we stood there so damn often

As the people walked right by us

While you nightly tore my soul apart.

The Thinker

    The skin on his arms caught my eye today. Elbows on his knees and face in his hands; the skin was caught between the pulling of muscles stressed by inactivity and the downward push of the world on his shoulders. It wrinkled. Dry and soft, the skin wrinkled.  
    Twenty-three years and I’ll have his forearms. Mine might look a little different; less hair, more feminine, but they’ll have been strengthened by the same activities, weakened by the same cares. The tendons of my arm will exercise as his do, typing, writing, drawing thoughts of the world from the air that weighs upon it. The muscles of my arm will build as I lift burdens he once lifted. I train to someday hold my own weight and the weight of others, even his. The sinews of my arm will be taut from pulling back bow strings as we strain to meet our aim. The skin of my arm may be grabbed by hands much smaller than mine, yet belonging to me, like I once grabbed his. Twenty-three years. In less than twice my life I’ll have his arms.
    Truth be told, his skin doesn’t look bad. I’ve seen much worse on people his age. Softer, drier. I’ve seen the look, the loss of elasticity, like old nylons that sag, on older arms. His isn’t quite there yet. His arm does not yet compel me to reach out to hold it. Mommom’s arm does. Hers is a compelling arm. It compels you to offer your own, as she wobbles a little with each step. So you offer your arm and suddenly the soft, wrinkled skin imbibes you with the love and warmth that she’s given - emitted to everyone around her. It feels like she is doing you the favor by taking your offered arm and leaning towards you while making a witty comment in your ear that only you can laugh at. No, his arm is not like Mommom’s.
     His arm is also not like Poppop’s on whom you can’t see the wrinkles for the hair. When I look closely I can see wrinkles along the scars, canyons where no hair grows, bleached white by the sun. I asked about the scars once. Poppop got very quiet. “I was bear hunting, one day, when I was a lad. And we got into a wrestling match, the bear and me. He grabbed my arms, and I grabbed his and the first one to get the other to the ground won. Mr. Bear forgot to clip his nails that day and we struggled so much that his claws ran right down my arm. I finally got him to the ground, but that is why you must never wear fur.” I asked about the scars another time. “One night I had to rappel down the walls of a POW camp with a broken hip. The bastards put shards of glass sticking out of the cement walls. Never let yourself get captured.” The most recent time Poppop said they were from vehicular assault. “I stood in the middle of the square, and made the tank stop with my bare hands. But then they had the pull the tank off my hands and the bent metal scratched a little. Never let them stop your protest.” Those arms could still stop a tank.
     His arms aren’t that strong, nor that soft. His arms hold books. He holds the books close to him. I wanted in his arms once so he offered me a book. Because had been in his arms, I took it. The book was warm and smelled like him. Or was it that he smelled like the book? I read to find out what it was in his arms. He holds pastures and seas, creation and evolution, entire systems of constellations and worlds that never existed outside of his hand. As the skin on his arm softens he seems to soften his grip on the books. He gives them more freely, gives thoughts more freely, gives his time more freely.
     Twenty-three years, my arms are going to look like his, holding the same books, constellations, worlds. I hope, though, that my skin softens sooner than his. I want to give sooner; let thoughts and time slip out earlier. Twenty-three years is too long to go without wrinkles inviting others to touch my arm, softer, drier, looser, skin that entices small hands to reach up. Perhaps if I train my arm enough it can carry both books, and the burdens of others.  
    The skin on his arms caught my eye today. Elbows on his knees and face in his hands; the skin was caught between the pulling of muscles stressed by inactivity and the downward push of the world on his shoulders. It wrinkled. Dry and soft, the skin wrinkled. I wanted to reach up and touch it.