3 goats, Sun Tzu and the emperors concubines

Cracking the whip and prodding at the wild beasts with an upturned chair. Thrusting and parrying and moving towards them even as they growl and foam and bare their razor sharp teeth. Eventually they will tire and calm a little and return to their corner of the great cage. I have encountered few humans such as these, but it is known that a great many live in this feral state. They live in their own separate world and outsiders are recommended not to stray there. If they have strayed there, then it is recommended watch on them closely without venturing too near. Ultimately, some of these beasts have proven to be tamable. Able to plod in line in line on the masters orders, or even to march to an even beat. To be fed safely by hand and even wander free of chains and ropes for short periods of time. But can they be left to roam freely without bringing harm on themselves and all around them? Such is the view when seeing them from another paddock.

The weeks of feral communion go by, lurching between sunlit days with hot blooded humour with the occasional storm of darkness lashing. So it is when you find yourself surrounded by the pack. And the pack itself seems to be bound by the beastly law of the dominator. The dominant member gets up on his hind legs and urinates everywhere, bares his teeth and bites at anything that gets close, and stakes his claim in the universe. The underlings for their part say yes and follow, occasionally biting to the side to check their position in the hierarchy.

Traveling as one group and as one body. A pack that travels from place to place,  brazenly laying to waste everything that it encounters. At the helm is a burly brute called Big Richard. We just call him Big Dick. Apart from his ability to dominate others his one distinct feature is to always take things further than his peers. Where any normal beast would step back having had enough, he will bare his teeth and step forward for more.

Around him and around them all the mountains grow deep creases and shadows that shade the day. Rocks break-off from their places at the top and roll down bringing others with them in a flurry. The wind becomes cooler and the damp becomes more cold. The light is sucked out from good things and the plants and trees all go black and die. The stars disappear behind heavy clouds and the sun and moon try to hide behind each other.

Such is the day of the leader of the pack. A similar day it is for those that follow. Always pushing against the boundaries of what is acceptable and proper until they falter and madness prevails and the sun and stars surrender and jump from the sky. The largest star falls into our midst and bitter is its name.

Landing in this world with a thud. Turning on the spot to see their comings and goings through our own great mirror. Each member of the pack carries their own burden of illness and suffering. Each member appearing dressed my own clothes. Following my manner, even wearing my own face. Turning around on the point of resistance. Resistance to life and the harsh hand of suffering. Flailing as it nails us to the spot. Nails us to whatever we wish to escape from. There with a clear connection to the resistance, watching the comings and goings through our own web of our own world. The reluctant resistor holds tightly to all that damages and dismays. Biting, and with a grimace falling harder that way. Thinking of them and that their way offers little hope of escape or relief.

The sea of waves and of discord upsets our idle and ideal dreamy view of life. It upends our vision of how we would like things to be. Wavy and rough is the nature of the surface events. Holding-on for dear life, and yet to fear not the proximity of death. The disruptor fallen, foiled and failed. For too long the breath and blood of devils. Now he is a patient in lifes hospital ward. Held with the arms tied to each other in a room of soft surroundings. It is imperative that we find the right doctor, who can nurse away this madness. For a dark afternoon this is how it is, but at the first moment returning to the known rythmn of life.

The pack moves as a tight band driven about by waves of the moment. The active part of whatever moment appears. They might be from the moon. Or was it Mars or from yet further still. In one direction anger bursts and great sparks crackle and flame. Then suddenly for no apparent reason there is an eruption of humour. Ha ha ha. HA HA HA. Then yet again a shift in to a dark mood of foreboding. And then a moment of earnest sobriety. It comes to refresh us like a cool wind in spring. Reminds us of what it is in life that really matters.

They frizzle and frazzle and move off in random directions, bouncing off everything that they encounter. One minute a gang of hoodlums out looking for trouble and struggle. The wind shifts slightly and they become just a group of naughty boys out looking for some jolly old fun.

The gamekeeper must herd them together and move them on their way. He walks in circles muttering to himself. A cloud of steam emanates from his head. His hair went grey and then white, and then started falling out. Anything that didn't fall out by itself he pulled out in frustration. Such is the effect of the pack. Eventually he will open the gates and let the beasts wander free. The weak must learn to be wary, and the strong to stand by their side. Of the beastly ones - it is our hope that they will grow thin, finding only the prey that they need. Perhaps they might learn to live off vegetables, or better yet on light and air and water and on a life that is attuned the right way.

The gates have been opened and the gamekeeper will chase the brutes out into the empty sky. Push against that I say ! Drown in the measureless air if you must. Fly around and bump into whatever you encounter until you find yourself bouncing off only images of yourself. Eventually they will tire and begin to move powered by strong economical movements.

The great hand of fate might gather them together and hurl them into the great emptiness beyond the sky. Beyond the boundaries of all places and into empty realm of space itself. That they might eventually see the grist of life, and their faces amongst it all. To travel together from constellation to constellation until they have visited every single place that unhappiness resides. In every single thing. To look closely at them all and take note. When enough is seen to turn and take the path home.

The path to return home is always a straight one. When leaving it was a little bent perhaps, choosing a route that takes in all of the sites to visit and experiences to be had. Taking the odd diversion and tangential detour. But eventually when enough is seen, turning about wherever one happens and beginning the journey home. And everybody knows where home is. Knowing home going home. A straight line to the heart. The  very shortest route. Walking that way step by step by every step.