#moral-imagination — Public Fediverse posts

Greed

the heart is a void
sucking greedily
at anything around it

a vain attempt
to satisfy
its eternal hunger

until even the self
is swallowed

into the hollow cavern
of its unending lust

the person disappears

and the dark virus remains

the emptiness begins
to curl back upon itself

its bloody lips
attacking
in steady demise

until all that remains
is the ache
of never enough.

May 18, 1987 (rewritten June 2026)

Greed

the heart is a void
sucking greedily
at anything around it

a vain attempt
to satisfy
its eternal hunger

until even the self
is swallowed

into the hollow cavern
of its unending lust

the person disappears

and the dark virus remains

the emptiness begins
to curl back upon itself

its bloody lips
attacking
in steady demise

until all that remains
is the ache
of never enough.

May 18, 1987 (rewritten June 2026)

Greed

the heart is a void
sucking greedily
at anything around it

a vain attempt
to satisfy
its eternal hunger

until even the self
is swallowed

into the hollow cavern
of its unending lust

the person disappears

and the dark virus remains

the emptiness begins
to curl back upon itself

its bloody lips
attacking
in steady demise

until all that remains
is the ache
of never enough.

May 18, 1987 (rewritten June 2026)

Greed

the heart is a void
sucking greedily
at anything around it

a vain attempt
to satisfy
its eternal hunger

until even the self
is swallowed

into the hollow cavern
of its unending lust

the person disappears

and the dark virus remains

the emptiness begins
to curl back upon itself

its bloody lips
attacking
in steady demise

until all that remains
is the ache
of never enough.

May 18, 1987 (rewritten June 2026)

Greed

the heart is a void
sucking greedily
at anything around it

a vain attempt
to satisfy
its eternal hunger

until even the self
is swallowed

into the hollow cavern
of its unending lust

the person disappears

and the dark virus remains

the emptiness begins
to curl back upon itself

its bloody lips
attacking
in steady demise

until all that remains
is the ache
of never enough.

May 18, 1987 (rewritten June 2026)

Avarice

A big red-lettered sign outside the house pronounced it CONDEMNED, and still I ventured across the creaky porch into the dark abyss that lay beyond the doorway.

The sign should have been enough.

The sagging roof should have been enough. The busted windows, the weeds grown waist-high against the steps, the porch boards soft beneath my feet like wet bread. Even the silence should have warned me, that heavy silence of a place no longer waiting to be lived in, but waiting to fall.

Still, I entered.

At first, I told myself I only wanted to look.

I stepped carefully through the doorway, one hand out before me, the other trailing along the wall, my fingers gathering dust as thick as ash. The air inside was stale and sweet with rot. Somewhere in the walls, something skittered. Somewhere above me, a loose shutter tapped in the wind, though no wind seemed able to reach that far into the house.

I walked slowly, carefully, among the rooms, savoring the cobwebbed pleasures each one offered.

In the parlor hung a beautiful chandelier, dimmed by dust but still glittering faintly where the sunlight found it. I stood beneath it for a long moment, imagining it cleaned and lit, imagining its crystals throwing stars across a ceiling that was already splitting.

In the dining room, half-buried beneath a fallen curtain, I found a gold-embossed vase. I turned it in my hands, brushing away the grime with my sleeve. There were cracks in it, but not enough to ruin its beauty. Not enough to keep me from wanting it.

In the kitchen, beside a rusted sink, I found a silver spoon.

I slipped it into my pocket.

That was the first thing I took.

It was so small it hardly seemed to matter. A spoon from a dead house. A little rescued thing. A little reward for courage. No one would miss it. No one could want it now.

And yet, once it was in my pocket, I began to see more.

A brass candlestick. A framed miniature. A blue glass bottle on a windowsill. A cracked mirror whose tarnished edge still caught my reflection and gave it back to me in fragments. Every room offered something. Every corner whispered, take this too.

The house, for all its ruin, was rich with forgotten beauty.

I forgot the sign.

I forgot the porch beneath me, the warning in red letters, the dark mouth of the doorway through which I had entered. I forgot the sky outside and the field beyond and the clean air I had left behind.

There was only the next room.

And the next thing.

And the next.

I began to move faster, less carefully now, my pockets heavy, my arms full. I no longer savored the rooms. I searched them. I pulled open drawers swollen shut with damp. I kicked aside fallen plaster. I tore through the dust as if the house owed me what it had hidden.

Then the house gave a lurch.

It was not a sound at first, but a movement, a deep shudder traveling up through the floorboards and into my bones. The chandelier trembled. The walls groaned. Somewhere above me, a beam cracked like a rifle shot.

I froze.

For one foolish second, I clutched the vase tighter.

Then years of rot began to cascade down around me.

Plaster fell in pale sheets. Wood split. A rain of dust poured from the ceiling, thick and choking. The rooms that had seemed so full of treasure became suddenly full of teeth. The beautiful chandelier swung once, twice, then tore free and crashed behind me in a glittering explosion.

I began to run back through the rooms, oblivious to their ancient beauty in my haste to reach the spot of sunlight that spoke of the doorway and safety.

The vase fell from my hands and shattered.

I did not stop.

The brass candlestick dropped from beneath my arm and rolled away into darkness.

I did not turn.

The spoon in my pocket struck against my thigh with each step, a small, hard reminder of what had first persuaded me that stealing from ruin was not theft.

Beams landed beside me with thundering crashes as I ran, sending up clouds of choking dust. I began to cough uncontrollably, each breath tearing at my throat. My eyes watered. The doorway vanished in a smoky haze.

For a moment I could not see anything.

I stumbled into a wall, felt old nails bite into my palm, and cried out. Something sharp tore across the top of my foot. I kept moving. There was no thought left in me but air, light, escape.

The house groaned again, deeper this time, like some enormous animal folding in upon itself.

I ran toward where I believed the door had been.

Or where I prayed it had been.

Suddenly I burst through its frame and out into the field as the house fell with a great crash behind me.

The sound rolled through the ground and up into my chest. Dust billowed outward, swallowing the porch, the windows, the red-lettered sign, the rooms, the chandelier, the vase, the mirror, the bottle, all the small treasures that had called to me from the dark.

I fell to my knees in the grass and coughed until my ribs ached.

For a long while I could only kneel there, bent over, my hands pressed into the dirt, breathing the open air like a man newly born.

I had escaped certain demise with few scars, save the bloody scratches from nails on my hands and feet.

But they would soon heal.

I told myself that as I stood.

I told myself that as I brushed the dust from my clothes.

I told myself that as I looked once more at the heap of timber and plaster and ruin that had almost become my grave.

Then I felt the weight still in my pocket.

My fingers went to it before I could stop them.

The silver spoon was bent now, scratched and blackened, but it was still there.

I drew it out and held it in my bleeding hand.

Behind me, the condemned house settled into silence.

Before me, the field opened wide and clean beneath the sun.

I should have thrown the spoon into the wreckage.

I should have left it there with the rot and the dust and the red-lettered warning.

Instead, I wiped it on my sleeve and slipped it back into my pocket.

After all, it was only a small thing.

Originally written June 16, 1987, expanded June 2026

Avarice

A big red-lettered sign outside the house pronounced it CONDEMNED, and still I ventured across the creaky porch into the dark abyss that lay beyond the doorway.

The sign should have been enough.

The sagging roof should have been enough. The busted windows, the weeds grown waist-high against the steps, the porch boards soft beneath my feet like wet bread. Even the silence should have warned me, that heavy silence of a place no longer waiting to be lived in, but waiting to fall.

Still, I entered.

At first, I told myself I only wanted to look.

I stepped carefully through the doorway, one hand out before me, the other trailing along the wall, my fingers gathering dust as thick as ash. The air inside was stale and sweet with rot. Somewhere in the walls, something skittered. Somewhere above me, a loose shutter tapped in the wind, though no wind seemed able to reach that far into the house.

I walked slowly, carefully, among the rooms, savoring the cobwebbed pleasures each one offered.

In the parlor hung a beautiful chandelier, dimmed by dust but still glittering faintly where the sunlight found it. I stood beneath it for a long moment, imagining it cleaned and lit, imagining its crystals throwing stars across a ceiling that was already splitting.

In the dining room, half-buried beneath a fallen curtain, I found a gold-embossed vase. I turned it in my hands, brushing away the grime with my sleeve. There were cracks in it, but not enough to ruin its beauty. Not enough to keep me from wanting it.

In the kitchen, beside a rusted sink, I found a silver spoon.

I slipped it into my pocket.

That was the first thing I took.

It was so small it hardly seemed to matter. A spoon from a dead house. A little rescued thing. A little reward for courage. No one would miss it. No one could want it now.

And yet, once it was in my pocket, I began to see more.

A brass candlestick. A framed miniature. A blue glass bottle on a windowsill. A cracked mirror whose tarnished edge still caught my reflection and gave it back to me in fragments. Every room offered something. Every corner whispered, take this too.

The house, for all its ruin, was rich with forgotten beauty.

I forgot the sign.

I forgot the porch beneath me, the warning in red letters, the dark mouth of the doorway through which I had entered. I forgot the sky outside and the field beyond and the clean air I had left behind.

There was only the next room.

And the next thing.

And the next.

I began to move faster, less carefully now, my pockets heavy, my arms full. I no longer savored the rooms. I searched them. I pulled open drawers swollen shut with damp. I kicked aside fallen plaster. I tore through the dust as if the house owed me what it had hidden.

Then the house gave a lurch.

It was not a sound at first, but a movement, a deep shudder traveling up through the floorboards and into my bones. The chandelier trembled. The walls groaned. Somewhere above me, a beam cracked like a rifle shot.

I froze.

For one foolish second, I clutched the vase tighter.

Then years of rot began to cascade down around me.

Plaster fell in pale sheets. Wood split. A rain of dust poured from the ceiling, thick and choking. The rooms that had seemed so full of treasure became suddenly full of teeth. The beautiful chandelier swung once, twice, then tore free and crashed behind me in a glittering explosion.

I began to run back through the rooms, oblivious to their ancient beauty in my haste to reach the spot of sunlight that spoke of the doorway and safety.

The vase fell from my hands and shattered.

I did not stop.

The brass candlestick dropped from beneath my arm and rolled away into darkness.

I did not turn.

The spoon in my pocket struck against my thigh with each step, a small, hard reminder of what had first persuaded me that stealing from ruin was not theft.

Beams landed beside me with thundering crashes as I ran, sending up clouds of choking dust. I began to cough uncontrollably, each breath tearing at my throat. My eyes watered. The doorway vanished in a smoky haze.

For a moment I could not see anything.

I stumbled into a wall, felt old nails bite into my palm, and cried out. Something sharp tore across the top of my foot. I kept moving. There was no thought left in me but air, light, escape.

The house groaned again, deeper this time, like some enormous animal folding in upon itself.

I ran toward where I believed the door had been.

Or where I prayed it had been.

Suddenly I burst through its frame and out into the field as the house fell with a great crash behind me.

The sound rolled through the ground and up into my chest. Dust billowed outward, swallowing the porch, the windows, the red-lettered sign, the rooms, the chandelier, the vase, the mirror, the bottle, all the small treasures that had called to me from the dark.

I fell to my knees in the grass and coughed until my ribs ached.

For a long while I could only kneel there, bent over, my hands pressed into the dirt, breathing the open air like a man newly born.

I had escaped certain demise with few scars, save the bloody scratches from nails on my hands and feet.

But they would soon heal.

I told myself that as I stood.

I told myself that as I brushed the dust from my clothes.

I told myself that as I looked once more at the heap of timber and plaster and ruin that had almost become my grave.

Then I felt the weight still in my pocket.

My fingers went to it before I could stop them.

The silver spoon was bent now, scratched and blackened, but it was still there.

I drew it out and held it in my bleeding hand.

Behind me, the condemned house settled into silence.

Before me, the field opened wide and clean beneath the sun.

I should have thrown the spoon into the wreckage.

I should have left it there with the rot and the dust and the red-lettered warning.

Instead, I wiped it on my sleeve and slipped it back into my pocket.

After all, it was only a small thing.

Originally written June 16, 1987, expanded June 2026

Avarice

A big red-lettered sign outside the house pronounced it CONDEMNED, and still I ventured across the creaky porch into the dark abyss that lay beyond the doorway.

The sign should have been enough.

The sagging roof should have been enough. The busted windows, the weeds grown waist-high against the steps, the porch boards soft beneath my feet like wet bread. Even the silence should have warned me, that heavy silence of a place no longer waiting to be lived in, but waiting to fall.

Still, I entered.

At first, I told myself I only wanted to look.

I stepped carefully through the doorway, one hand out before me, the other trailing along the wall, my fingers gathering dust as thick as ash. The air inside was stale and sweet with rot. Somewhere in the walls, something skittered. Somewhere above me, a loose shutter tapped in the wind, though no wind seemed able to reach that far into the house.

I walked slowly, carefully, among the rooms, savoring the cobwebbed pleasures each one offered.

In the parlor hung a beautiful chandelier, dimmed by dust but still glittering faintly where the sunlight found it. I stood beneath it for a long moment, imagining it cleaned and lit, imagining its crystals throwing stars across a ceiling that was already splitting.

In the dining room, half-buried beneath a fallen curtain, I found a gold-embossed vase. I turned it in my hands, brushing away the grime with my sleeve. There were cracks in it, but not enough to ruin its beauty. Not enough to keep me from wanting it.

In the kitchen, beside a rusted sink, I found a silver spoon.

I slipped it into my pocket.

That was the first thing I took.

It was so small it hardly seemed to matter. A spoon from a dead house. A little rescued thing. A little reward for courage. No one would miss it. No one could want it now.

And yet, once it was in my pocket, I began to see more.

A brass candlestick. A framed miniature. A blue glass bottle on a windowsill. A cracked mirror whose tarnished edge still caught my reflection and gave it back to me in fragments. Every room offered something. Every corner whispered, take this too.

The house, for all its ruin, was rich with forgotten beauty.

I forgot the sign.

I forgot the porch beneath me, the warning in red letters, the dark mouth of the doorway through which I had entered. I forgot the sky outside and the field beyond and the clean air I had left behind.

There was only the next room.

And the next thing.

And the next.

I began to move faster, less carefully now, my pockets heavy, my arms full. I no longer savored the rooms. I searched them. I pulled open drawers swollen shut with damp. I kicked aside fallen plaster. I tore through the dust as if the house owed me what it had hidden.

Then the house gave a lurch.

It was not a sound at first, but a movement, a deep shudder traveling up through the floorboards and into my bones. The chandelier trembled. The walls groaned. Somewhere above me, a beam cracked like a rifle shot.

I froze.

For one foolish second, I clutched the vase tighter.

Then years of rot began to cascade down around me.

Plaster fell in pale sheets. Wood split. A rain of dust poured from the ceiling, thick and choking. The rooms that had seemed so full of treasure became suddenly full of teeth. The beautiful chandelier swung once, twice, then tore free and crashed behind me in a glittering explosion.

I began to run back through the rooms, oblivious to their ancient beauty in my haste to reach the spot of sunlight that spoke of the doorway and safety.

The vase fell from my hands and shattered.

I did not stop.

The brass candlestick dropped from beneath my arm and rolled away into darkness.

I did not turn.

The spoon in my pocket struck against my thigh with each step, a small, hard reminder of what had first persuaded me that stealing from ruin was not theft.

Beams landed beside me with thundering crashes as I ran, sending up clouds of choking dust. I began to cough uncontrollably, each breath tearing at my throat. My eyes watered. The doorway vanished in a smoky haze.

For a moment I could not see anything.

I stumbled into a wall, felt old nails bite into my palm, and cried out. Something sharp tore across the top of my foot. I kept moving. There was no thought left in me but air, light, escape.

The house groaned again, deeper this time, like some enormous animal folding in upon itself.

I ran toward where I believed the door had been.

Or where I prayed it had been.

Suddenly I burst through its frame and out into the field as the house fell with a great crash behind me.

The sound rolled through the ground and up into my chest. Dust billowed outward, swallowing the porch, the windows, the red-lettered sign, the rooms, the chandelier, the vase, the mirror, the bottle, all the small treasures that had called to me from the dark.

I fell to my knees in the grass and coughed until my ribs ached.

For a long while I could only kneel there, bent over, my hands pressed into the dirt, breathing the open air like a man newly born.

I had escaped certain demise with few scars, save the bloody scratches from nails on my hands and feet.

But they would soon heal.

I told myself that as I stood.

I told myself that as I brushed the dust from my clothes.

I told myself that as I looked once more at the heap of timber and plaster and ruin that had almost become my grave.

Then I felt the weight still in my pocket.

My fingers went to it before I could stop them.

The silver spoon was bent now, scratched and blackened, but it was still there.

I drew it out and held it in my bleeding hand.

Behind me, the condemned house settled into silence.

Before me, the field opened wide and clean beneath the sun.

I should have thrown the spoon into the wreckage.

I should have left it there with the rot and the dust and the red-lettered warning.

Instead, I wiped it on my sleeve and slipped it back into my pocket.

After all, it was only a small thing.

Originally written June 16, 1987, expanded June 2026

Avarice

A big red-lettered sign outside the house pronounced it CONDEMNED, and still I ventured across the creaky porch into the dark abyss that lay beyond the doorway.

The sign should have been enough.

The sagging roof should have been enough. The busted windows, the weeds grown waist-high against the steps, the porch boards soft beneath my feet like wet bread. Even the silence should have warned me, that heavy silence of a place no longer waiting to be lived in, but waiting to fall.

Still, I entered.

At first, I told myself I only wanted to look.

I stepped carefully through the doorway, one hand out before me, the other trailing along the wall, my fingers gathering dust as thick as ash. The air inside was stale and sweet with rot. Somewhere in the walls, something skittered. Somewhere above me, a loose shutter tapped in the wind, though no wind seemed able to reach that far into the house.

I walked slowly, carefully, among the rooms, savoring the cobwebbed pleasures each one offered.

In the parlor hung a beautiful chandelier, dimmed by dust but still glittering faintly where the sunlight found it. I stood beneath it for a long moment, imagining it cleaned and lit, imagining its crystals throwing stars across a ceiling that was already splitting.

In the dining room, half-buried beneath a fallen curtain, I found a gold-embossed vase. I turned it in my hands, brushing away the grime with my sleeve. There were cracks in it, but not enough to ruin its beauty. Not enough to keep me from wanting it.

In the kitchen, beside a rusted sink, I found a silver spoon.

I slipped it into my pocket.

That was the first thing I took.

It was so small it hardly seemed to matter. A spoon from a dead house. A little rescued thing. A little reward for courage. No one would miss it. No one could want it now.

And yet, once it was in my pocket, I began to see more.

A brass candlestick. A framed miniature. A blue glass bottle on a windowsill. A cracked mirror whose tarnished edge still caught my reflection and gave it back to me in fragments. Every room offered something. Every corner whispered, take this too.

The house, for all its ruin, was rich with forgotten beauty.

I forgot the sign.

I forgot the porch beneath me, the warning in red letters, the dark mouth of the doorway through which I had entered. I forgot the sky outside and the field beyond and the clean air I had left behind.

There was only the next room.

And the next thing.

And the next.

I began to move faster, less carefully now, my pockets heavy, my arms full. I no longer savored the rooms. I searched them. I pulled open drawers swollen shut with damp. I kicked aside fallen plaster. I tore through the dust as if the house owed me what it had hidden.

Then the house gave a lurch.

It was not a sound at first, but a movement, a deep shudder traveling up through the floorboards and into my bones. The chandelier trembled. The walls groaned. Somewhere above me, a beam cracked like a rifle shot.

I froze.

For one foolish second, I clutched the vase tighter.

Then years of rot began to cascade down around me.

Plaster fell in pale sheets. Wood split. A rain of dust poured from the ceiling, thick and choking. The rooms that had seemed so full of treasure became suddenly full of teeth. The beautiful chandelier swung once, twice, then tore free and crashed behind me in a glittering explosion.

I began to run back through the rooms, oblivious to their ancient beauty in my haste to reach the spot of sunlight that spoke of the doorway and safety.

The vase fell from my hands and shattered.

I did not stop.

The brass candlestick dropped from beneath my arm and rolled away into darkness.

I did not turn.

The spoon in my pocket struck against my thigh with each step, a small, hard reminder of what had first persuaded me that stealing from ruin was not theft.

Beams landed beside me with thundering crashes as I ran, sending up clouds of choking dust. I began to cough uncontrollably, each breath tearing at my throat. My eyes watered. The doorway vanished in a smoky haze.

For a moment I could not see anything.

I stumbled into a wall, felt old nails bite into my palm, and cried out. Something sharp tore across the top of my foot. I kept moving. There was no thought left in me but air, light, escape.

The house groaned again, deeper this time, like some enormous animal folding in upon itself.

I ran toward where I believed the door had been.

Or where I prayed it had been.

Suddenly I burst through its frame and out into the field as the house fell with a great crash behind me.

The sound rolled through the ground and up into my chest. Dust billowed outward, swallowing the porch, the windows, the red-lettered sign, the rooms, the chandelier, the vase, the mirror, the bottle, all the small treasures that had called to me from the dark.

I fell to my knees in the grass and coughed until my ribs ached.

For a long while I could only kneel there, bent over, my hands pressed into the dirt, breathing the open air like a man newly born.

I had escaped certain demise with few scars, save the bloody scratches from nails on my hands and feet.

But they would soon heal.

I told myself that as I stood.

I told myself that as I brushed the dust from my clothes.

I told myself that as I looked once more at the heap of timber and plaster and ruin that had almost become my grave.

Then I felt the weight still in my pocket.

My fingers went to it before I could stop them.

The silver spoon was bent now, scratched and blackened, but it was still there.

I drew it out and held it in my bleeding hand.

Behind me, the condemned house settled into silence.

Before me, the field opened wide and clean beneath the sun.

I should have thrown the spoon into the wreckage.

I should have left it there with the rot and the dust and the red-lettered warning.

Instead, I wiped it on my sleeve and slipped it back into my pocket.

After all, it was only a small thing.

Originally written June 16, 1987, expanded June 2026

Avarice

A big red-lettered sign outside the house pronounced it CONDEMNED, and still I ventured across the creaky porch into the dark abyss that lay beyond the doorway.

The sign should have been enough.

The sagging roof should have been enough. The busted windows, the weeds grown waist-high against the steps, the porch boards soft beneath my feet like wet bread. Even the silence should have warned me, that heavy silence of a place no longer waiting to be lived in, but waiting to fall.

Still, I entered.

At first, I told myself I only wanted to look.

I stepped carefully through the doorway, one hand out before me, the other trailing along the wall, my fingers gathering dust as thick as ash. The air inside was stale and sweet with rot. Somewhere in the walls, something skittered. Somewhere above me, a loose shutter tapped in the wind, though no wind seemed able to reach that far into the house.

I walked slowly, carefully, among the rooms, savoring the cobwebbed pleasures each one offered.

In the parlor hung a beautiful chandelier, dimmed by dust but still glittering faintly where the sunlight found it. I stood beneath it for a long moment, imagining it cleaned and lit, imagining its crystals throwing stars across a ceiling that was already splitting.

In the dining room, half-buried beneath a fallen curtain, I found a gold-embossed vase. I turned it in my hands, brushing away the grime with my sleeve. There were cracks in it, but not enough to ruin its beauty. Not enough to keep me from wanting it.

In the kitchen, beside a rusted sink, I found a silver spoon.

I slipped it into my pocket.

That was the first thing I took.

It was so small it hardly seemed to matter. A spoon from a dead house. A little rescued thing. A little reward for courage. No one would miss it. No one could want it now.

And yet, once it was in my pocket, I began to see more.

A brass candlestick. A framed miniature. A blue glass bottle on a windowsill. A cracked mirror whose tarnished edge still caught my reflection and gave it back to me in fragments. Every room offered something. Every corner whispered, take this too.

The house, for all its ruin, was rich with forgotten beauty.

I forgot the sign.

I forgot the porch beneath me, the warning in red letters, the dark mouth of the doorway through which I had entered. I forgot the sky outside and the field beyond and the clean air I had left behind.

There was only the next room.

And the next thing.

And the next.

I began to move faster, less carefully now, my pockets heavy, my arms full. I no longer savored the rooms. I searched them. I pulled open drawers swollen shut with damp. I kicked aside fallen plaster. I tore through the dust as if the house owed me what it had hidden.

Then the house gave a lurch.

It was not a sound at first, but a movement, a deep shudder traveling up through the floorboards and into my bones. The chandelier trembled. The walls groaned. Somewhere above me, a beam cracked like a rifle shot.

I froze.

For one foolish second, I clutched the vase tighter.

Then years of rot began to cascade down around me.

Plaster fell in pale sheets. Wood split. A rain of dust poured from the ceiling, thick and choking. The rooms that had seemed so full of treasure became suddenly full of teeth. The beautiful chandelier swung once, twice, then tore free and crashed behind me in a glittering explosion.

I began to run back through the rooms, oblivious to their ancient beauty in my haste to reach the spot of sunlight that spoke of the doorway and safety.

The vase fell from my hands and shattered.

I did not stop.

The brass candlestick dropped from beneath my arm and rolled away into darkness.

I did not turn.

The spoon in my pocket struck against my thigh with each step, a small, hard reminder of what had first persuaded me that stealing from ruin was not theft.

Beams landed beside me with thundering crashes as I ran, sending up clouds of choking dust. I began to cough uncontrollably, each breath tearing at my throat. My eyes watered. The doorway vanished in a smoky haze.

For a moment I could not see anything.

I stumbled into a wall, felt old nails bite into my palm, and cried out. Something sharp tore across the top of my foot. I kept moving. There was no thought left in me but air, light, escape.

The house groaned again, deeper this time, like some enormous animal folding in upon itself.

I ran toward where I believed the door had been.

Or where I prayed it had been.

Suddenly I burst through its frame and out into the field as the house fell with a great crash behind me.

The sound rolled through the ground and up into my chest. Dust billowed outward, swallowing the porch, the windows, the red-lettered sign, the rooms, the chandelier, the vase, the mirror, the bottle, all the small treasures that had called to me from the dark.

I fell to my knees in the grass and coughed until my ribs ached.

For a long while I could only kneel there, bent over, my hands pressed into the dirt, breathing the open air like a man newly born.

I had escaped certain demise with few scars, save the bloody scratches from nails on my hands and feet.

But they would soon heal.

I told myself that as I stood.

I told myself that as I brushed the dust from my clothes.

I told myself that as I looked once more at the heap of timber and plaster and ruin that had almost become my grave.

Then I felt the weight still in my pocket.

My fingers went to it before I could stop them.

The silver spoon was bent now, scratched and blackened, but it was still there.

I drew it out and held it in my bleeding hand.

Behind me, the condemned house settled into silence.

Before me, the field opened wide and clean beneath the sun.

I should have thrown the spoon into the wreckage.

I should have left it there with the rot and the dust and the red-lettered warning.

Instead, I wiped it on my sleeve and slipped it back into my pocket.

After all, it was only a small thing.

Originally written June 16, 1987, expanded June 2026

The Ascendents

Ancestry, Memory, Humanity, and the Upward Calling of the Living

We have been taught to say that we are descended from those who came before us.

The word is not wrong. It is genealogically useful. It traces the stream from the spring, the branch from the trunk, the child from the parent, the living from the dead. It tells us that we are not self-made, not self-originating, not isolated sparks floating in the void. We come from somewhere. We are carried into being by names, bloodlines, migrations, accidents, loves, wounds, prayers, hungers, wars, fields, fires, and forgotten hands.

Yet the word troubles me.

For to say that we are descended may also suggest a downward motion, as though we have fallen from some ancestral height. It can feel as if the past stands above us in solemn judgment, and we, the living, are merely the lower remainder: diminished copies, scattered seed, thin-blooded heirs of stronger people.

We speak of descent as if we are always coming down.

Down from the fathers.
Down from the mothers.
Down from the old country.
Down from Eden.
Down from glory.
Down from the dead.

But what if the truth is not only that we descend from them?

What if we ascend from them?

What if we are not the falling away of our ancestors, but their rising continuation?

What if we are the place where the buried become conscious, where the forgotten become remembered, where the unfinished become possible, where the dead are not merely behind us but beneath us — not as a weight dragging us downward, but as roots pressing life upward through the dark?

To be human is not simply to be descended.

To be human is to be ascendent.

Not ascendant in the arrogant sense. Not ascendant as empire is ascendant, not as a conqueror ascends a throne, not as a nation ascends by trampling another underfoot, not as wealth ascends by feeding upon the poor, not as the celebrated ascend by making the nameless disappear.

That is false ascendancy.

That is Babel.

That is the tower built upward by those who refuse to look downward at the bodies embedded in its bricks.

The ascendancy I mean is humbler, older, stranger, and holier. It is the rising of life from soil. It is the green blade through the graveyard. It is memory becoming mercy. It is grief becoming wisdom. It is ancestry becoming vocation.

We are not above our ancestors because we are better than they were.

We are above them because they are beneath us as foundation.

The child stands higher than the parent only because the parent has bent low.

The living stand higher than the dead only because the dead have become earth.

Every generation is lifted by those who are no longer visible.

This is the first doctrine of the Ascendents: we rise from what has been buried.

We rise from bodies and stories. We rise from names spoken and names erased. We rise from villages burned and fields planted. We rise from ships, cabins, kitchens, trenches, meetinghouses, reservations, prisons, refugee roads, hospital rooms, schoolhouses, barns, factories, cemeteries, and quiet beds where the dying whispered blessings no one wrote down.

We rise from all of it.

Not only from glory.
Not only from virtue.
Not only from noble sacrifice.

We rise also from sin.

This is what makes ascent morally dangerous.

For our ancestors do not hand us only wisdom. They hand us wounds. They do not give us only courage. They give us cowardice disguised as prudence, prejudice disguised as tradition, violence disguised as necessity, greed disguised as providence, silence disguised as peace.

To be ascendent is not to romanticize the past.

It is to redeem it by telling the truth.

A person who worships their ancestors remains trapped beneath them. A person who despises their ancestors cuts themselves off from their own roots. But a person who honors their ancestors truthfully becomes capable of rising.

Honor is not flattery.

Honor is not nostalgia.

Honor is the severe mercy of remembrance.

To honor those before us is to receive what was good, repent of what was evil, grieve what was broken, and carry forward what was unfinished.

We are the living edge of their becoming.

We are their unresolved sentence.

We are their prayer still traveling.

We are their question still being answered.

This means that the past is not dead in the simple way we imagine. It is not gone merely because the bodies are gone. The past continues to move through us as habit, language, land, fear, blood pressure, lullaby, recipe, doctrine, posture, accent, suspicion, hope, inheritance, and unexamined reflex.

History does not stay in books.

History enters the nervous system.

A war may end, yet its tremor continues in the children of the children of those who survived it. A displacement may be recorded as an event, yet the hunger for home may live for centuries. A massacre may be omitted from the official monument, yet the ground remembers. A church may repent in words while its architecture still faces the wrong direction. A family may never speak of grief, yet every child learns how to lower the voice around sorrow.

The dead are not silent.

They speak in us.

The question is whether we will listen.

The Ascendent is one who listens downward in order to live upward.

This is not ancestor worship. It is ancestor responsibility.

Nor is it progressivism in its shallow form. Progress, as commonly preached, often imagines time as a ladder on which the present naturally stands above the past. It assumes that because we come later, we must be wiser. This is foolishness. Chronology is not sanctification. The future can be more brutal than the past. Technology can amplify barbarism. A people may move forward in time while moving backward in soul.

No, ascent is not automatic.

Humanity does not rise merely by surviving.

We rise only when remembrance becomes transformation.

We rise when the grief of one generation becomes the compassion of the next.

We rise when the violence of one generation becomes the refusal of the next.

We rise when the silence of one generation becomes the testimony of the next.

We rise when the buried cries of the forgotten become the moral hearing of the living.

“The blood of your brother cries out from the ground.”

That ancient sentence is the foundation of all history.

The ground is not mute. The earth is not neutral. Soil is archive. Dust is witness. Every field has its dead. Every town has its omitted chapter. Every nation has its sanctified lie. Every family has its locked room. Every monument has a shadow. Every victory has a graveyard of the unnamed.

The Ascendent does not merely ask, “Who were my ancestors?”

The Ascendent asks, “Whose blood is beneath my feet?”

Not because guilt is the final word.

Guilt alone can paralyze. Shame alone can distort. Accusation alone can become another form of vanity, where the living make themselves dramatic by endlessly displaying the wounds of the dead.

The purpose of remembering is not to become impressive in our sorrow.

The purpose of remembering is to become faithful in our living.

To be ascendent is to understand that I am not an isolated self. I am a crossing point. I am a confluence. I am made of many streams, some clear, some polluted, some holy, some poisoned, all meeting in the temporary river of my life.

My task is not to pretend the waters are pure.

My task is to help them run cleaner through me.

This may be the deepest meaning of repentance: not self-hatred, but generational purification. Not the rejection of one’s people, but the healing of what one has received from them. Not a descent into despair, but an ascent into truth.

Repentance is how ancestry becomes possibility.

Without repentance, inheritance becomes repetition.

Without remembrance, repentance becomes vague.

Without love, remembrance becomes accusation.

Without courage, love becomes sentiment.

The Ascendent must hold all four together: remembrance, repentance, love, and courage.

Only then can the past become seed rather than chain.

There is also a personal meaning here.

Each of us carries within ourselves earlier selves. The child, the adolescent, the wounded one, the ambitious one, the ashamed one, the hopeful one, the foolish one, the frightened one, the one who failed, the one who survived. We often speak as if we have descended from those selves into disappointment. We look back and say, “I was once more alive. I was once more promising. I was once closer to what I might have been.”

But perhaps we also ascend from our former selves.

Perhaps every earlier self, even the embarrassed and broken ones, is part of the root system.

I rise from the child who dreamed.

I rise from the young person who misunderstood.

I rise from the failure that humbled me.

I rise from the wound that opened me.

I rise from the grief that deepened me.

I rise from the fear that taught me how much I needed grace.

Nothing is wasted if it can be transfigured.

This does not mean everything was good. Some things were evil. Some things should not have happened. Some wounds are not secret blessings. Some suffering does not ennoble; it damages. Some losses remain losses.

But even what cannot be justified may still be gathered.

Even what cannot be called good may still be refused the final word.

The Ascendent does not say, “All things were good.”

The Ascendent says, “Even here, I will rise.”

Not by denial.

By truth.

Not by domination.

By integration.

Not by forgetting.

By carrying.

This is why ascent is not escape. It is not floating away from the earth into disembodied purity. True ascent is rooted ascent. The tree rises because it goes down. The mountain ascends because it is grounded. The resurrected body still bears scars.

Any spirituality that rises by abandoning the wounded is not ascent but evasion.

Any politics that rises by erasing the poor is not ascent but conquest.

Any theology that rises by despising the body is not ascent but contempt.

Any family story that rises by silencing the inconvenient dead is not ascent but propaganda.

The true Ascendent rises with scars visible.

This is where humanity stands.

We are a species that has learned to fly but not yet learned to kneel. We have ascended into the air, into orbit, into code, into machines of astonishing power, yet our moral imagination often remains tribal, fearful, acquisitive, and easily bewitched by idols. We can split the atom and still cannot share bread. We can map the genome and still cannot honor the stranger. We can remember data forever and forget the dead almost instantly.

So the question is not whether humanity is technologically ascendant.

The question is whether humanity is morally ascendent.

Will we rise from our ancestors or merely repeat them with better tools?

Will we carry forward their wisdom or only refine their weapons?

Will we remember the forgotten or continue to build monuments to the victorious?

Will we become more human, or only more powerful?

The Ascendents are not those who dominate history.

They are those who redeem memory.

They are the ones who refuse to let the common dead remain common in the sense of disposable. They remember the foot soldier beside the general, the farmer beside the statesman, the Indigenous village beneath the colonial map, the mother beneath the family name, the enslaved beneath the plantation ledger, the child beneath the statistic, the refugee beneath the border argument, the prisoner beneath the ideology, the enemy beneath the uniform.

They understand that every human being is an ancestor of the future.

This is a terrifying thought.

How will the future ascend from us?

What soil are we becoming?

Will our lives be root or rubble?

Will those who come after us have to heal from us, or will they be strengthened by us?

Surely both.

We too will hand down contradiction. We too are mixed. We too are capable of tenderness and harm, courage and cowardice, insight and blindness. The Ascendent is not pure. The Ascendent is accountable.

Perhaps that is the most we can ask of any generation: not purity, but accountability; not perfection, but faithful transformation; not innocence, but the courage to become better ancestors.

To be an Ascendent, then, is to live with one’s face turned in two directions.

One face turns downward toward the dead and says:

I remember you.
I receive you.
I grieve you.
I forgive what can be forgiven.
I name what must be named.
I will not pretend you were gods.
I will not pretend you were monsters only.
I will carry what was holy.
I will heal what was harmed.
I will not let your suffering vanish.
I will not let your sins rule me.

The other face turns upward toward the unborn and says:

I am trying.
I am unfinished.
I am clearing what I can.
I am planting what I may never see.
I am refusing some inheritance so you need not bear it.
I am preserving some inheritance so you may be nourished by it.
I am becoming soil for your rising.

This is the holy middle place of the living.

We are between the buried and the unborn.

We are the narrow bridge of breath between memory and hope.

We are the Ascendents.

Not because we have arrived.

Because we are called upward.

Not upward away from the world, but upward into fuller humanity.

Upward into mercy.

Upward into truth.

Upward into responsibility.

Upward into reconciliation.

Upward into the difficult radiance of becoming worthy of the dead.

And perhaps this is why the dead haunt us.

They do not haunt us merely because they are restless.

They haunt us because we are.

They haunt us because something in them remains unfinished in us. They haunt us because the lie has not yet been confessed, the grave has not yet been marked, the name has not yet been spoken, the wound has not yet become wisdom, the inheritance has not yet become blessing.

The haunting is not only terror.

It is vocation.

The dead rise in us so that we may rise from them.

And if we listen closely enough, beneath every field, beneath every town, beneath every family tree, beneath every national myth, beneath every human triumph, there is a murmuring from the ground. It is not only accusation. It is not only lament. It is also invitation.

Remember us.

Tell the truth.

Rise better.

Become what we could not.

Carry us toward the light.

So let us no longer say only that we are descended.

Let us say also that we are ascended from.

Ascended from dust.
Ascended from grief.
Ascended from labor.
Ascended from women whose names were not recorded.
Ascended from men who did not know how to speak their sorrow.
Ascended from children who died too soon.
Ascended from migrants, prisoners, farmers, singers, sinners, saints, cowards, prophets, fools, and friends.
Ascended from the blood that cried out.
Ascended from the prayers that rose before us.
Ascended from the earth that holds us all.

And let us become, for those who follow, not a ceiling but a root.

Not a burden but a blessing.

Not a curse but a calling.

Not the final height, but one more living terrace on the long climb of mercy.

For humanity is not yet finished.

We are still rising.

We are still being judged by the dead.

We are still being summoned by the unborn.

We are still becoming the answer to our ancestors’ unanswered prayers.

We are The Ascendents.

A Trip to the Moon

History, Artemis, and Humanity’s Space Junk

There is something almost innocent, at first glance, about Georges Méliès’s A Trip to the Moon. The painted sets, the theatrical gestures, the famous image of the capsule lodged in the eye of the moon — all of it feels whimsical, handmade, full of wonder. It bears the marks of ingenuity in their freshest form. Cinema is still young. Imagination is learning what machinery can do. Human beings are discovering that they can build not only devices, but dreams.

And yet, to watch the film closely is to feel a disturbance beneath the delight.

The voyage is not simply a journey. It is an invasion. The moon is not approached with humility or reverence, but penetrated, subdued, and turned into a stage for conquest. The lunar beings are encountered not as neighbors in wonder but as hostile “natives,” there to be struck, shattered, and overcome. The travelers return not merely with experience, but with a captive and a triumphal procession. What looks at first like fantasy reveals itself as a little parable of empire.

That is why the film still matters. It is not only an early science-fiction spectacle. It is an early warning.

Read the full essay at PeaceGrooves.

A Trip to the Moon

History, Artemis, and Humanity’s Space Junk

There is something almost innocent, at first glance, about Georges Méliès’s A Trip to the Moon. The painted sets, the theatrical gestures, the famous image of the capsule lodged in the eye of the moon — all of it feels whimsical, handmade, full of wonder. It bears the marks of ingenuity in their freshest form. Cinema is still young. Imagination is learning what machinery can do. Human beings are discovering that they can build not only devices, but dreams.

And yet, to watch the film closely is to feel a disturbance beneath the delight.

The voyage is not simply a journey. It is an invasion. The moon is not approached with humility or reverence, but penetrated, subdued, and turned into a stage for conquest. The lunar beings are encountered not as neighbors in wonder but as hostile “natives,” there to be struck, shattered, and overcome. The travelers return not merely with experience, but with a captive and a triumphal procession. What looks at first like fantasy reveals itself as a little parable of empire.

That is why the film still matters. It is not only an early science-fiction spectacle. It is an early warning.

Read the full essay at PeaceGrooves.

🧠 Philosophy Eats AI — and it should ϕ According to MIT Sloan, the rise of AI demands more than just coding skills. It calls for moral imagination and philosophical leadership.

Why? Because AI is now shaping:
⚖️ Justice systems and hiring decisions
🧬 Healthcare outcomes and policy
🔍 Surveillance, privacy, and autonomy
💼 Corporate power and governance

AI can’t govern itself — we must lead with wisdom.

💬 What if your org’s next great AI investment isn’t tech... but ethics?

#AIethics #Leadership #MoralImagination #ResponsibleAI #DigitalStrategy #Ethice #Philosophy
https://sloanreview.mit.edu/article/philosophy-eats-ai/

🧠 Philosophy Eats AI — and it should ϕ According to MIT Sloan, the rise of AI demands more than just coding skills. It calls for moral imagination and philosophical leadership.

Why? Because AI is now shaping:
⚖️ Justice systems and hiring decisions
🧬 Healthcare outcomes and policy
🔍 Surveillance, privacy, and autonomy
💼 Corporate power and governance

AI can’t govern itself — we must lead with wisdom.

💬 What if your org’s next great AI investment isn’t tech... but ethics?

#AIethics #Leadership #MoralImagination #ResponsibleAI #DigitalStrategy #Ethice #Philosophy
https://sloanreview.mit.edu/article/philosophy-eats-ai/

🧠 Philosophy Eats AI — and it should ϕ According to MIT Sloan, the rise of AI demands more than just coding skills. It calls for moral imagination and philosophical leadership.

Why? Because AI is now shaping:
⚖️ Justice systems and hiring decisions
🧬 Healthcare outcomes and policy
🔍 Surveillance, privacy, and autonomy
💼 Corporate power and governance

AI can’t govern itself — we must lead with wisdom.

💬 What if your org’s next great AI investment isn’t tech... but ethics?

#AIethics #Leadership #MoralImagination #ResponsibleAI #DigitalStrategy #Ethice #Philosophy
https://sloanreview.mit.edu/article/philosophy-eats-ai/

🧠 Philosophy Eats AI — and it should ϕ According to MIT Sloan, the rise of AI demands more than just coding skills. It calls for moral imagination and philosophical leadership.

Why? Because AI is now shaping:
⚖️ Justice systems and hiring decisions
🧬 Healthcare outcomes and policy
🔍 Surveillance, privacy, and autonomy
💼 Corporate power and governance

AI can’t govern itself — we must lead with wisdom.

💬 What if your org’s next great AI investment isn’t tech... but ethics?

#AIethics #Leadership #MoralImagination #ResponsibleAI #DigitalStrategy #Ethice #Philosophy
https://sloanreview.mit.edu/article/philosophy-eats-ai/

🧠 Philosophy Eats AI — and it should ϕ According to MIT Sloan, the rise of AI demands more than just coding skills. It calls for moral imagination and philosophical leadership.

Why? Because AI is now shaping:
⚖️ Justice systems and hiring decisions
🧬 Healthcare outcomes and policy
🔍 Surveillance, privacy, and autonomy
💼 Corporate power and governance

AI can’t govern itself — we must lead with wisdom.

💬 What if your org’s next great AI investment isn’t tech... but ethics?

#AIethics #Leadership #MoralImagination #ResponsibleAI #DigitalStrategy #Ethice #Philosophy
https://sloanreview.mit.edu/article/philosophy-eats-ai/