SO WHAT DIFFERENCE DOES IT MAKE, ANYHOW? Tad "Baxil" Ramspott
baxil@tomorrowlands.org
August 02, 1998
Okay, so I am a dragon. It's something that I believe, and whether
you agree with me in that belief or not, you've come to terms with my
acceptance of that draconity. (If you haven't, read the rest of my
pages in this section first to find out where I'm coming from.) But
something is nagging at the bax of your mind ... "So what?"
This is actually a very serious and authentic question. I could
choose to call myself anything if I so wished -- a toaster, a purple
wildebeest, or Emperor of the Solar System. But what difference does it
make in my life? How does being a dragon affect me and my relationships
in what is so quaintly called "real life"? What am I doing different
because of my draconity that I wouldn't do, say, if I were a purple
wildebeest or celestial emperor?
Let me tell the following story to shed light on my answer. My
friend (and roommate) has two rather mischevious cats, constantly
underfoot, who delight in sitting down on computer keyboards (but that's
another tale for later). This afternoon, though, they were unusually
placid, sitting up on the bed in my friend's room. I was wandering the
house and noticed them both lying side by side in front of the window,
two parallel calico lines, ears perked up expectantly. I wandered over
to see what was catching their attention.
A large white insect, a butterfly or moth of some sort, was
fluttering around in broad circles above the grass of the backyard. As
it lazily swooped and dived and danced across the yard, both heads moved
in unison to track the bug. I leaned down and joined their little
sentry outpost, and my mind wandered slightly while three pairs of eyes
focused, transfixed, on the simple movement of an insect in flight.
Now, this might just be anthropomorphising, but I could almost feel
the cats' desire to go outside as a tangible thing. They are both
indoor felines, and this strange white intruder in the backyard cried
out for exploration, for understanding; the joys of the hunt, of the
unknown, whispered in their ears. I was reminded of humanity looking up
at the night sky. Despite all our technology and our hubristic
self-assurance that we're the center of the universe and that we are
mapping and understanding all we can reach, there are still things
humanity can only stare through the proverbial window at. Too many
doors lie locked -- unopened and unopenable by science.
In some hidden Disneyesque realm of my imagination, a scenario began
to form ... two cats, staring through the window, suddenly hearing the
pad of footsteps behind them. They turn to look. A third cat, fur a
little ragged, has walked into the room from the direction of the front
hallway.
"Hello," one of the pair says, "who are you?"
"I am a cat who has walked in the Outside," responds the new cat,
smoothing his fur down as he settles into a sitting position.
The two cats look at each other and laugh. "You cannot walk in the
Outside," one says. "It is a flat and smooth wall with shadows inside
of it that move but cannot be touched."
"Aye," chips in the second. "And there are cats sometimes in the
Outside-in-a-box that the humans watch. But they do not talk to us nor
answer our meows nor recognize that we are here. The Outside has no
influence on our life."
"But I have walked in the outside," the new cat says. "It has new
smells, smells that I've never smelled before and cannot recognize. It
has huge metal wheeled cats that eat humans and run very fast down the
black carpet. And the green carpet is tall -- it tickles my stomach
fur. And tasty."
The two cats look at each other again, then stare back at the
newcomer. "And your point is? There is no way to the Outside. We
cannot smell these smells or talk to the big metal cats or eat the green
carpet."
"But it is new and beautiful."
"That beauty is unreachable. So what?"
This is a question the outside cat cannot really answer.
The body and the society I'm in today are of the inside cats, and my
draconity is that walk in the Outside. And Earth is a house with locked
doors. But even if this world admits no Outside, I know that I have
been there. It can't help but change the entire way I look at life. I
can't explain *how*, but to me it is obvious that it does. I have seen
the sights, smelled the smells, thought the thoughts of a different
world, and there is no turning back.
I suppose the simplest answer to the inside cat's question is a
dejected "You just don't understand." But that is too insulting. That
would be blaming him for not sharing my world, and I can't do that, no
more than you could blame me for not sharing yours.
So, how then do I answer "so what?" What difference does it make?
Draconity is an overwhelmingly broad and sweeping thing. Frankly, I
think any dragon that answers in detail how draconity affects them is
either a guru or a fool. I possess not the former's wisdom and try to
avoid being the latter, but I can and will say this:
There is no way to be objective about the effect of a belief. There
is no way to quantify happiness or inner peace. There is no way to
measure the strength of love or self-acceptance. You can, however, look
at it comparatively -- and it is apparent to me that draconity has
enriched my life.
Ultimately, that's what it comes down to:
What difference does my draconity make to me?
... I am a better person for it.
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This document's URL is: http://www.ecis.com/~ddragon/so-what.txt
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