Barreling into the Thanksgiving Season the chorus ofgratitude begins.  Lord, thank you fornot making me homeless, shoeless, sickly, foodless, stupid, uppity, short, misinformed, ugly, or fat. The list is endless.  

Although Idon’t like to reference the Bible, not being an expert on its contents nor a subscriberto its Santa Claus boss, I do occasionally peruse it to see what my fellows areup to and there it is: Luke 18:10. A Pharisee thanking gawd for making himsuperior (he’s the bad guy in this story) and a Normie (the good guy) beggingfor mercy because he’s a sinner. Whatever the hell that is.

Sometimes bible subscribers ask me – for my own good -- what I’m going to do about my original sin. 

Say what?

If I was born with a defect, how is that my fault? Soundslike propaganda from a ruling class that wants to keep me in check. Ask the Manufacturerhow I got through quality control with faulty brakes. Don’t ask me.

But I’m not godless and I resent the casting of me as anatheist, a disbeliever in accepted myths. I’m a fiction writer. I very muchbelieve in the power of myths and mythical figures. Stories. I just don’tbelieve these mythical figures are sitting on my mantlepiece monitoring mybehavior and reporting back to headquarters.

I’m reading a giant book of fairytales right now, and Ithink they should be required reading in third grade. Fairytales are myth-likelessons in wisdom passed down through generations and they illuminate truthsabout human nature. 

Like, everyone wants a beautiful mate and will often waitthrough several permutations (frog, beast, somnambulant princess) to get one.

Like, greed propels people to do cruel things which are oftentheir undoing.

Like, the scullery maid knows a lot, a LOT, of shit and willsave the day and wed the prince.

These are mythical figures and I pay attention to theirtruths because they have weathered the storm of time. They aren’t gods.  

But, as I say, I am not godless. What I call god is theenergy force that powers me. And you. The energy force that powers my cats, thegiant oak in the back yard, the grass, the creek, the fox that scavenges theneighborhood on garbage night. We are all propelled by the same life force and I am highly respectful of that force. 

And I can live with grace as long as Irespect the rule it plays by, which is this: there is a time to eat and a timeto be eaten. Trying to force its hand by supplication and flattery and falsemodesty won’t get you anywhere—if by anywhere you mean immortality, a free passat death.

So Happy Thanksgiving to those who observe. Be glad you don't gobble. And becareful with that wishbone.