What is reason?

I’ve been accused, more than once, of being an unreasonable person. I bury myself in whatever happens to inspire me at the moment, whether it’s work or friends or love or sitting in a park reading a good book. But often the word “unreasonable” comes into play.

Do we need reason?

Reason is a way of making bad things feel less bad when sinking in failure, and to take less credit (or, at least, less visible credit) for our victories. Reason keeps us from feeling like the bad decisions we make are really our fault. Rationalization keeping a stranglehold on feeling passion.

I’ve been told that my elation regarding the timely death of Fallwell was morbid and misplaced, that I was somehow “sinking to his level” when I danced on his wilted shadow. That his decades of hate-mongering was, indeed, exactly the same as me feeling joy to see that his ignorance, at least the ignorance owned only by his marbled brain, has shuffled off this mortal coil. No, I feel joy that he is dead. I am giddy.

I am a good and decent man. That I feel joy in another person’s death should, perhaps, cast a shadow of doubt on that other person’s life. We are told by the supporters of the death penalty that, apparently, not all life is sacred, that you can do actions that invalidate your rights to freedom, happiness, and oxygen. Our President tells us that a seemingly benign God is looking down on us and smiling and hoping for the best, but somehow preparing for the worst as he slings arrow after arrow on a beleaguered species. Fallwell indeed believed in this strange bearded sky-dweller. And I certainly hope that his faith was strong enough to somehow craft this imaginary Cloud City (one perhaps NOT run by Lando Calrissian) out of planks and mortar of reality, that Jerry could sit in the opulence he surely desired, casting his hate on all sorts of people, now from a perch of opulence.

But one thing he will never be able to do again is affect my life. And _that_ is why my joy is so palpable. Reason can turn my giggles of seeing dead old man into the self-preservation actions we animals know all too well as we hope to keep our huts safe from other creatures that wish us ill.

So. Who needs reason? Jerry’s still dead. I’m still a little schoolboy tugging at pigtails.