Whether we're talking about a midsummer night's dream or an American presidential campaign, what difference can it make to one whose place in the Pantheon is assured?
I look with the blank eyes of a Roman god upon it all, unseeing as I am unseen by you mere mortals. Yes, I know, you're supposed to be superior, for you feel, endure, experience, remember . . . . but for how long--one eternity or two or endless more? Does it matter?
But for those of you poor tormented souls who believe there ought to be an intelligible narrative called History or some such that adds up to Meaning, isn't all that but a mortal illusion?
We gods know better, for we've seen 'em all come and go, tarry or sojourn, or whatever it is that moves 'em in endless, unrequited toil, whatever that is. And aren't those just the loveliest words in your language or any other? Latin it may not be, but the Hebrew ain't bad for those of you who must live and die, not knowing the absolute serenity that comes with our ever higher station.
Ave, Caesar, we who are never about to die salute you. Can you smell the roar of the crowd, hear the smell of the greasepaint, or however it goes? I keep forgetting.
We gods do not have the best of memories, nor do we need to in our occupation. Every trade has its pluses and minuses and ours adds up to a placid nothingness. For it makes no demands on us, neither does it exact any toll, this god-business. Easy as chocolate creme pie. Or maybe one of those deliciously sticky Irish Maid doughnuts. Talk about food for the gods. Pass me a few right over here, would you, if you don't mind getting your toga a little messy . . . .
It's all in an eternity's work for those of us here on Mount Olympus, which we mount with the help of a few artfully designed wheels and pulleys. Talk about guaranteed employment. There ain't nothin' like it in all the celestial realm. Just keep those cards and letters coming even if the celestial mail service is a little iffy in these never cloudy realms. Maybe you all can't have everything, but near 'bout. For that lucky ol' sun, he just keeps rollin' 'round heaven all day. Why, just like us gods!
Who says the divine and the mortal have nothing in common? How about a Gershwin tune, a Broadway melody, for fish gotta fly and we gods gotta keep lovin' one man/one woman till we don't die. Great year, 1927, for those who must keep track of such passing phenomena. Much better to just keep on keepin' on, wouldn't you say?
So pass the word, for this is the life or rather the eternity. We ain't goin' nowhere and why should we, for whatever needs we gods have--nectar and roses?--are more than provided for up here. The bells are ringin' for me and my goddesses and never cease. If all that godly racket gets on your nerves, too bad. We've just started to shine like the constellations in the night sky, bright beyond words. Be sure to tell your friends. Wanted: more gods to do absolutely nothing. It'd be sheer boredom if we had any idea of what that's supposed to be.
There ain't nothin' like stasis, eternal godhood. It's a snap, brother, but why bother changing anything even if you could? What would be the use? Usefulness is something we have no use for up here. Why should we? It would do no good, or rather it would do anything and everything except the unchanging bad, not that such a concept would be known to us the marble-visaged, the unquestionable fates.
Want to know what it's like? Like nothing you know or will ever know, not being gods major, minor, or in-between. So stick around, pal, you ain't seen nothin' yet, and we've seen it all. For who can see, touch or feel even the hem of our celestial garments? Stay out of our way, for the gallery of the gods keeps forever rotating, like one of those rooftop restaurants that can only reduce you to a state of perpetual dizziness.
So pass the grapes, will ya? Don't spin off the edge for there is nothing down there but mortality, and who needs it? Certainly no self-respecting god minor or major. Or you'll go falling into the earthly Void and none of us--least of all you, mortal creature--could stand it. Spin on and on, heavenly globe, 'tis no matter to us the divine.
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Paul Greenberg is the Pulitzer Prize-winning editorial writer and columnist for the Arkansas Democrat-Gazette.
Editorial on 01/13/2016