The Point of the Egg (w/ poem!)

Or: Rhettie’s #7 Dream — or Somebody Called Out My Name, John

A collaborative poem from a former 14-year-old boy who listened to The Beatles and John Lennon in 1974 while building model rockets in the basement, and then went on to do other things; a nerdy talking beetle named Stu that imagines insidious alien interlopers; and a girl named Rhettie who heard Stu call her name in a dream. It’s mostly Rhettie’s (and written in her voice).

What it’s about:

Rhettie (Born in Chicago, October 7, 1990) has been working with Wally (too mysterious for origin details right now) on some ideas for a series of stories and a musical metamockumentary, which they believe can act as a sort of cozily expansive “reset” for the benefit, initially, of Middlers.

Middlers are regular people that sense missed opportunity in the naturally reductive political and philosophical narratives of the last several decades, especially in light of post-Millennium cognitive science and well-recognized biases in the assimilation and synthesis of what is known and relevant to current and future human flourishing.

Middlers refers mostly to seeking depth and whole stories, not necessarily to avoidance of political affiliation or opposition to Left/Right voting tendencies.

And…

Rhettie and Wally recently watched The Point from 1971. This might have initiated a breakthrough for their project. Rhettie has had trouble expressing a clear, robust thesis and concise point on behalf of Middler thinking for their productions. But in watching this classic animated movie, she realized how the assumed context of any point might be more important than the point itself. Or at least, contextual understandings or assumptions come before a point does.

Contexts change over time, or their salient characteristics are redefined, or understood in new ways. But the parents, if you will, of the point, often want to protect the point by preserving the shell, the context, through which it first came to life — and to light.

Well, it was a big deal to all of us anyway, so here’s the poem it inspired, on what is an inspiring day to many, for better or worse, as our icons, in body and spirit and symbolism, are often endearing enough to be dangerous.

Rhettie looked up to the stars and said softly, “Somebody called out my name, John.” — Bug Stu October 9, 2021

The Point of the Egg

The point of the point
is to crack the shell,
once meant for protection,
but we know quite well,
once the little bird
has formed, and can sing,
it needs to explore,
make a door, soon take wing.

More than once in a while,
a shell becomes a cage.
It protected a notion
at an earlier stage.
But once it’s formed, whole,
been around for a while,
that cognitive shell’s full of holes,
and some guile.

That bird of a notion
has pecked its own holes
and exposed itself fit
for reality’s tolls.
“Will that notion fly?
It was formed with such zeal.”
But the parents fear failure,
so they bring in the steel.

Now the shell is a cage,
reinforced with strong wire.
Once creators of a life,
and now that life’s deniers.
The parents, or guardians,
make a cage that protects.
They forget that things change,
and that changes context.

They escaped from a cage
of the cognitive kinds
and conceived a solution,
by combining their minds.
But the context and content,
the contact of-their-point,
was temporal in nature,
too ephemeral to annoint.

But elevate they do,
to a Truth in their eyes
and bring in the steel,
for the cage, which denies,
freedom of thought
and further explorations.
Our kids bear the error
in the next generations.

The cage might be steeled
with esoteric books.
Love and power are the payoffs
of quasi-cleric hooks.
New-or-old quotes and phrases
make for all-knowing looks.
But proof is in the pudding,
not the claims of the cooks.

So shed charades, don’t be afraid,
to look under that shell;
there’s a con in condescension,
and it works so well.
But our children will pay,
and what will grandchildren say,
if we look the other way
and admit but don’t tell?

Or like this…

The mavenhoods and the guru’s goods
wouldn’t sell if we didn’t
crave solutions and Shoulds.
That’s good…
But solutions and Shoulds
have a context, a frame;
let’s say that’s the shell
for the solution they claim.

Well just about anyone
can create their own frame,
the context, or shell,
the egg they then aim
to break with their point,
or their beak, or their speech;
and the egg they’ve created
validates what they teach.

But how real was the egg
that their beak point would break?
Or how long would it last,
producing pain and heartache?
A point must have value,
or a hard shell to crack.
And-if the egg isn’t real,
who’ll turn the clock back?

We won’t buy the point if
we don’t first buy the egg.
But if the egg’s fake or old,
no matter how they’ll beg,
our kids will be left,
with tears in their eyes,
in a world we created
from half-truths, like lies.

Not we directly,
but we bought the shell,
or the egg, with the beak,
the point they sold so well.
With no egg there’s no point,
of the point, I mean,
so the egg must sell first,
it’s the setting, the scene.

Then “Here is the scene,
and here’s the solution.
There’s no need to question,
let’s commence execution.”
And execute they will,
the options to Their Way,
and the whole truth stands by,
for yet another day.

Or another generation,
that kind of “day”,
and while-we-wait for whole stories,
here comes…the Fray.
But the Fray’s not the way,
to their peace and those smiles,
cuz the Fifty Year Fit,
just delays and beguiles.

The Fifty Year Fit,
the Fray, closely connected,
began as a quest,
but then got infested.
Both began as a question,
a wondering of sorts,
“Let’s qualify the quotidian.”
Soon that met retorts.

And I saw, in a dream,
small creatures perk up,
as-if-they sensed alarm,
and a chance to disrupt,
a valid conversation,
about flourishing and joy,
and assumptions heretofore,
and what steps to employ.

The creatures looked
at each other,
and their eyes got real big,
because this was their chance,
for a plan that they’d rigged.
They didn’t have mouths,
or they would have grinned.
They’re like green potatoes,
just eyes and green skin.

They can puff up their bodies
and can take a new shape,
change color, blend in.
They don’t want to escape.
They lurk in their camo,
and mumble from-inside,
no mouths, I don’t know;
it’s-from inside their hide.

When people hear a voice
confirming their notions,
it’s-often these things at work,
working their emotions.

As I wondered how aliens,
small, and unlike I’d feared,
got into my head, I mean dreams,
why they appeared,
I saw a blue bug,
well, blue and green,
with glasses, and-a-phone,
like a cute Disney scene.

And he spoke, through his mouth,
and with a faint voice he called,
“Hey Rhettie, are you ready?
Will you get involved?”

And his name is Stuard,
well, it’s Stu, for short,
and he’s all alone,
the only one of his sort.

And he told me about Stralfs,
and their planet, so far away,
how-they came here long ago,
and he remembers that day.

As he watched from a cattail
by his home on the shore,
as John Murphey named a-town,
and some wondered what for.

But a Stralf had been lurking,
and wanted to show,
he could lead John’s deciding,
on which way to go.

John thought of some names,
but all-at-once they departed,
and he chose “Morocco.”
That’s where-and-how this all started.

Okay, it’s-a weird dream,
kinda lucid, and woo-woo,
but the Stralfs are our problem
— at least according to Stu.