Can you recognize the box?
Not if you are a Harrier, Raised by Harriers, In the Land of Harriers. How can anyone anywhere recognize the absence of what has been withheld since birth? The walls of your box are made from the gifts no one ever gave you, What is more, Without such gifts and glories, You are marooned, Forever, In a universe of Harriers.
What has been withheld? Many things. If I could, I would weep for the things that have been withheld from you, But like all Harriers everywhere, all I can muster is a list, Because you already know better, Which is your legacy, As Harriers.
It is not a long list, And no one anywhere will agree with it, But the word of an Ultra-Harrier is as good as anybody else's, And so here it is: Time, Language, Knowledge, Imagination, Belief, And Home.
Ridiculous? Of course. Now show me how ridiculous.
Speak to me of your sense of time, You who were raised with a rapacious hunger for the new, And a positive scorn for what is old or out of date. Do your grandparents live with you? Or in another city? Or in a home somewhere? And have you ever talked to them about what happened in the past, Provided you know anything about what happened in the past, And have you ever learned their slang, Or listened to their music, Or danced their dances, Or tried to see your world from their point of view? Do you read old books for pleasure, Books written before you were born, And before your parents were born, Before there were movies and records and telephones? Do you ever talk with people who *aren't* about your own age, And I mean really talk with them, About events, And Ideas, And your hopes and fears, And the meaning of life, And god and history and human accomplishment? Do you feel a deep respect, or even awe, for a single old person who has stayed alive through it all and acquired some wisdom along the way? Do you ever sit and wonder about the past, And what it was really like, Before there were cars and TVs and electricity and hospitals and jet planes and rock and roll? Do you ever ponder visions of the future, And what it could be, And what you could do to change the world, If you dreamed and worked for it hard enough? that's okay. Really. It's just that you are Harriers, And today is one wall of your box.
Speak to me of your love of language, You who were raised to use four-letter words, To express all your deepest emotions. Have you ever read something out loud, Just to savor the way that it sounds? Have you hungered and hunted for the words that give life, To the subtlest distinctions you feel, And felt your conscious space expand, because now there were more ways to feel? Have you prowled through the jungles of syntax and grammar, To see just how much one sentence can say? Have you felt the power that language can give, To the building and thinking of thoughts? Have you ever once felt that you said it just right, And conveyed your full thought to another? Have you ever felt brand new words take shape in your mind, from no other source than the spinning and spinning of words? Have you acquired a different taste of life, By trying another world's tongue, And felt a new timbre enter your voice, Echoing Rome or the steppes or the Seine? Have you seen how language, all by itself, can alter the nature of truth, And twist and distort, Or distill and reflect, The innermost essence of things? That's okay. Really. It's just that you are Harriers, And your muteness is a wall of your box.
Speak to me of your love of knowledge, You who were raised to do well on a test, Then go on to the next on the list. Have you felt the world as a four-dimensional puzzle, Coming together as you add each new piece? Have you wondered exactly which things one could know, And arrive at understanding? Have you ever been gripped by the compulsion to know, The truth of some buried event, And then followed the trail of what's supposed to be known, Through the twisting and turning of guesses and maybes and might have beens, Till you know what is known, And still hungering for more, Because no knowledge is ever enough to be finally final, As long as there's more to be learned? Have you ever discovered a miracle link, Between something you know, And something you don't, And the link taught you more about both? That's okay. Really. It's just that you are Harriers, And your ignorance is a wall of your box.
Speak to me of Imagination, You who were raised on color TV, Until books went as flat and black and white, As the paper and ink they were made of. Have you fought back to back with Alan Breck, Or come back from death with the Count of Calvary? Have you seen yourself as a hero, Defeating the odds with you courage and dash, Until you believe that you fate is a quest, One that will merit all that it costs, No matter how much that might be? Have you ever fantasized a breakthrough, A new approach, A frontier, A new and fine idea, A source of hope for all mankind, Born from the depths of your own mind, A gift you'll give freely, Because no one else can, And because somebody somewhere has to? That's okay. Really. It's just that you are Harriers, And lack of imagination is a wall of your box.
Speak to me of belief, You who were raised to be smarter than fools, And to say the things that are said. Have you ever just know that *they* were wrong, Because you knew your feelings were right? Have you ever explained to your private self, Where the world and it's mysteries came from? Have you ever felt that deep down, You were good and on track for a purpose, And no matter what happened you'd learn from the worst And follow the best to its end? Have you ever once thought, I would die for this, And I couldn't live if I failed to stand fast, Because that's how much it means? That's okay. Really. It's just that you are Harriers, And unbelief is the lid of your box.
Speak to me of Home, You who were raised in the City of Brotherly Love, Where your address is a token of dollars and cents, And the young ones grow up to get out. Have you ever sensed your homeland in you, When you were far away, And felt you were born of earth, And bound to your place of birth, By something deeper than love, And stronger than life itself? Well, That's okay. Really. It's just that you are Harriers, And homelessness is the floor of your box.
Toot toot, The Whistle Bloweth,
All Aboard For Something Town!
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