Sunday, February 05, 2006

Morgenröte. Gedanken über die moralischen Vorurteile

From the pages of my family apocrypha there was long ago a story about a club-owner who had a 1957 T-Bird, much like the powder-blue one owned by my father. Beautiful car, that one. My dad, mostly he motored around on a Matchless Twin motorcycle. But the T-Bird was an acceptable car to him. As cars go. Or went.

My mother drove a Ford Falcon station wagon. I take after her, driving a Hyundai Elantra wagon. I like wagons. But I wish to the great buddha of two-wheelers with my every drawn breath that I had that old Matchless Twin my dad owned.

Talk about cool. You could transport frozen transplant organs on the coolness of that motorcycle. People write songs about motorcycles like that.

Motorcycle songs.

Anyways, this other guy that had a T-Bird also had a pet ocelot. It was a mini-rage back in the day. And the story went that the cat was always docile and normal about the house, like a regular felis catus.

Except, according to the apocryphal story, the day when the ocelot was left alone in the T-Bird for a few moments, in which it shredded the seat covers and anything else in the car interior susceptible to large nasty cat claws.

Car Interior.


Destroyed. Shredded. Torn Asunder.

Doctors do that.

You think they're nice guys, domesticated, poop-in-the-box and cover-it-up kinda normal cats.

But they are not. They are doctors, and as such will never, despite years of training, betray their indwelling deeply feral ways.

They cannot. To betray their genetic heritage would cause them no easily quantifiable sense of critical personal harm and distress. They must unbear their claws, just as the moon must morph in its cycles from new to full. Just as Frankenstein's monster must drown the little girl in the pond, tragedy immeasurable that it is. Fate always intervenes, and character fails before this grossly dim goddess.

Like a cake out in the rain.

So as this goes, nurses must fear doctors. Close comes the day when a trusted friend, a father-figure, a protective sweet-heart, turns like a rabid weasel to tear at your professional fur. It was ever thus. Ever shall it be so.

Thus spoke shrimplate.

Daybreak: Reflections on Moral Prejudices, 1881, Nietzsche.

1 comment:

SassyNurse said...

Well that post felt like a motercycle ride, down a curvy road. Well said!