The Taste of Stones

by Regis Boff

I was talking to a new friend who may well be smarter than me. It is not that he may be that unnerves me; it is that nothing I can think of to say to him seems to put him off this scent.
We have been discussing the un-receptiveness our children seem to display every time we present them with snippets of our hard-earned wisdom, stockpiled after coursing through our own lives.
His take was that even though this wisdom is digested by them grudgingly it still takes a lifetime to move through their lifelong intestine where it finally emerges for a short period of time to be once again force fed into their children’s children with not much gained overall.
I really think there is improvement through generations, a kind unquantifiable accrual. The study of history is largely full of shit for precisely that reason. We tend to display history as a warning, one vast cautionary tale played out by people differencing themselves from us only by costume.
I believe antiquity is more like that old children’s story about stone soup, where the villagers use stones instead of the meat, which they did not have, to start then everybody adds whatever vegetables and herbs they have until no one remembers the stones anymore.
I am slowly as I grow old; losing the taste of the stones.