Mr. Finch, you think Jem killed Bob Ewell? Is that what you think? Your boy never stabbed him. Bob Ewell fell on his knife. He killed himself.
There’s a black man dead for no reason. And now the man responsible for it is dead. Let the dead bury the dead, Mr. Finch. I never heard tell that it’s against the law for a citizen to do his utmost to prevent a crime from being committed. Which is exactly what he did. But maybe you’ll tell me it’s my duty to tell the town all about it, not to hush it up. Well, you know what’ll happen then. All the ladies in Maycomb—includin’ my wife—will be knockin’ on his door, bringin’ angel food cakes. To my way of thinkin’, takin’ the one man who’s done you and this town a great service, and draggin’ him, with his shy ways, into the limelight: to me, that’s a sin. It’s a sin. And I’m not about to have it on my head.
I may not be much, Mr. Finch, but I’m still Sheriff of Maycomb County. And Bob Ewell fell on his knife.
—To Kill A Mockingbird
Once upon a time, I introduced Mr. Ha-Ha to these pages. I now feel uneasy about that.
And so I’m here, now, as this year is put to rest, to lay him to rest, too.
He first appeared here, did Mr. Ha-Ha, just about two years ago.
So far as I know, and though obviously accomplished with assistance from folks like the Gnostics, I invented him.
Not my finest hour.
I invoked him again here and here and here and here and here and here and here and here and here and here and here and here and here and here and here.
His last appearance was here, in early April of this year. By that time, guided by the light that had come into my life, I had moved beyond him. Though I didn’t see that at the time. Sometimes I’m slow. And it takes me a while. To catch up even with myself.
In his day—which were dark days—Mr. Ha-Ha seemed to explain things. From the madness of Lucia Joyce to “The Nine Billions Names Of God.” From the dementia of Linnaeus to the nature and meaning of generals. From the airplane crash that took the life of Ted “Tubes” Stevens to the presence of 100 helpless “magicians” on a becalmed cruise ship. From the man from Porlock who starcrossed Coleridge to my daughter’s fall on Solstice.
But, really, he never explained a thing. Mr. Ha-Ha. He was but a creature of fear and cowering. Masked in ironic simmering would-be detachment. He was of giving up, of hiding. Of “everyone said/i’d come to no good/i knew i would/purely to please them.” Of expecting the worst. And thereby making it manifest.
He never belonged here. This creature of the dark. Because this a blog that, as it says right up top, exists “because the light is beautiful.”
Which it is. Long have I seen it. And now I do live it.
Life is light. And in it one can vibrate, shimmer, fade and fancy, without boundaries. That’s where I am. I am no longer interested in “I should have been a pair of ragged claws/scuttling across the floors of silent seas.” That’s Mr. Ha-Ha. I am not about him any longer. Oh no. I am now, alpha and omega, world without end amen, about Ms. Ah-Ha. She of the light. Of what is possible made probable made Real. Of seeing and feeding and bringing into being. Of the Fool of a Magician that is the World that is the Fool. Mr. Ha-Ha sees the world as dark: and thus the world is dark. Ms. Ah-Ha sees the world as light: and, yea verily, the world is truly light.
Life is light. So am I. And so I will be there, each dawn, when Jem wakes up in the morning. Because that is the light of what I am. What I was brought here, unto the final spiral of this mortal coil, to be.