We are wrong about a good many things
We are imperfect but explorers, and we somehow become less wrong as we travel. Untethered from the point of departure, the process is often so incremental we don’t see it except in hindsight. Sometimes we lose ground to delusion, only to correct course and emerge at some obscure point marginally ahead of where we started
Once in awhile lightning illuminates, and the disorientation is so severe we question our sanity, our right to sit at the table with the terrifying majority who have it all figured out. Who are we to claim insight? How dare we believe we own even a scrap of wisdom?
Less wrong, gradual and uneven. This is our way
Once we found a dead timber rattler at the edge of the road. We took it home and marveled at its construction and wished that somehow it had been elsewhere. Only its head was damaged — as if it had barely been caught by a tire or — someone had taken time out of their day to stop, get out of the truck, and crush its skull with a rock / tire iron / baseball bat. The correct version is unknowable. It is known that with hesitation we cut off the rattles and carefully removed most of the bits of attached flesh with tweezers and a swiss army knife. The viper itself we laid gently at the edge of the woods. The rattles went inside a guitar
Some may declare us wrong, but we concede only in part