The Antithesis of Combat: Shoulders of Giants

Shoulders of Giants
(by Maria Lindsey)

Whoever recognizes Plato’s “Republic” in the series of posts “The Antithesis of Combat“, even if it is only a small glimpse of it, with incomparably less philosophical and literary quality, is not in the face of mere coincidence. I have always admired the construction from scratch of Plato’s state in Book II of the “Republic”, and I think it came to my mind when I realized how inferior the adults are to children, and I decided to get rid of them (us) in “my state”.

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The Antithesis of Combat: “It’s Mine”

“It’s mine.”
(by elijah)

The “children” on the other side of the valley would have been very surprised, but welcoming. Decades would have passed without anyone to observe, talk or play. They would be happy to give chocolate to the prairie children and let them play with their toys. They would also have heard about the different types of toys the children from below would have, and would be more than happy to taste the meat they would have brought. Their valley would be too narrow to allow cattle to be raised, and all they would have would be goats and poultry. Only then would they realize how fed up they were with goat meat. They would propose to provide more chocolate if the prairie kids brought them more meat, and an agreement would be made cheerfully. But something strange would happen when the prairie kids asked for toys in exchange for even more meat. The kids on the mountain would not agree to trade their toys.

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The Antithesis of Combat: Lure of the Mountains

Lure of the Mountains.
(“Foothills Children”, by Doug Zwick / CC BY-NC 2.0 / Desaturated from original)

Let me now deepen my fantastic assumptions and establish that these kids would never grow old. Well, they would eventually reach sixty, seventy or even ninety years of age and then die like we do, but their bodies would remain the same throughout their lives. This means that women would never exist, only little girls that wouldn’t elicit nor feel any sexual appeal. Boys and girls would forever attend to their chores and play with their toys. This is not to say that they wouldn’t become mature — they would. But their relish would never move from that innocent playfulness of childhood towards the lustful shallowness of an alcohol-induced hunt for the pleasures of flesh. Their vices would be others.

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The Combatant – #1

When the alarm goes off at two in the morning, he is sure he is still dreaming. He just closed his eyes, so it can not be time to wake up. But it is. The problem is that after twenty hours working hard to protect the families of others, trying to earn in the private sector the money the police is supposed to provide, those three hours of sleep seem to pass like a glimpse, a brief interlude of life as deep as one’s own death.

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Despicable Mourning

“We are in mourning. For ALL the lost lives in Rio de Janeiro during these 39 days of 2019, we are in mourning.
For the six dead after the storm.
For the ten dead in the fire in the Vulture’s Nest.
For the thirteen dead in the police operation in the Favela of the Pleasures.
And for all the dead that didn’t make it to the news.”

(I don’t understand the world I live anymore. Innocent or criminal, you are all the same.)

Six people died because of heavy rains that ravaged Rio two days ago. Yesterday, just before dawn, ten youths between the ages of fourteen and sixteen were burned alive in a fire at the Flamengo training center. Shortly after, thirteen armed criminals were killed by the police in a violent favela. What, besides the Angel of Death hovering in the skies, is common among all three cases? According to one of the city’s largest newspapers and, of course, to a bunch of idiots across social networks, the answer is obvious: EVERYONE is a poor innocent victim.

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Living dead

“I’ve lost all my youth in there… I’m a living dead.”
If it depended on me, you’d be just dead.

Two facial expressions: one bursting with mirth, the other, frowning with sorrow. A homage to the muses of comedy and tragedy? A symbol of live theatre? No. Cop killer. The AK-47 is just a confirmation. The pistol tattooed on his calf, another. Three cards: Ace, Five and Seven (Art. 157: “Armed robbery”), yet another. I say he should have been dead by now. “I’m a living dead”, he agrees.

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First Day of Work

I got to work thinking about police cars; I got home thinking about sheep.

The flames of the celestial battlefield remained on the horizon, declaring the day’s imminent victory. Before the white wall, police cars were dark pieces of night, deserters of a lost war. They filled the whole right edge of the extensive patio leading to CORE, parked at near right-angles, skewed toward the exit as if yearning to depart. In the past, I’d say they looked thirsty for combat; now, they were just homesick. Only I seemed to want to be there, since I came from the opposite way. But that was just an impression.

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