My apologies for the lack of posts over the past few days, but I seem to be being affected by something best described as creative narcolepsy; as soon as I start to write something, I find myself falling asleep.
Those of a more churlish disposition, who might accuse my prose of having the same effect on them, can rest assured it's now doing it to me.
I think I know what's causing it. The nature of my illness is such that one can live with it, but doing so is an exercise not unlike fighting the Zulu - you have to take certain precautions, and ensure that they are observed without question. One of these is the necessity of maintaining routine. For better or worse, and as always for no particularly good reason, there's not been much routine about for the best part of four months now, and of course one eventually has to pay the penalty.
For as surely as nature abhors a vacuum, when one routine goes out the window another comes in automatically through the front door. I much prefer a routine which involves reading GK Chesterton to one of addiction to 'Star Trek: Deep Space Nine', but that's the way the chips have fallen. Yet just as there could have been no triumph at Rorke's Drift without the disaster of Isandahlwana, as soon as normal routine is restored one can go back to the contemplation of the weightier issues in life, rather than getting angry about a fantasy Universe in which God is forgotten, only alien cultures are permitted to be religious, and civil societies based on harmony and brotherhood require massive military machines. It's too far-fetched.
The pious and humble Bajorans give every impression of being Klingons in saffron robes. The Vorta are what you get when you teach koala bears to read 'Mein Kampf'. And the Federation's hypocrisy is astonishing. It goes to war with The Dominion, a society that genetically engineers less sophisticated life forms for its own purposes and then demands that they be worshipped as gods, without realising the effects that its own presence, and the presence of the equally hypocritical Maquis, its hypocrisy always served with a dash of hippy sanctimony, have on the inhabitants of so-called 'uninhabited worlds'. Imagine what effect seeing a race of giants descending from the skies in silver chariots would have on the local wildlife. Imagine what local creatures might think when they see these giants appear and disappear at will, and summoning their food out of thin air with just a command.
Regardless of the colonists' intentions, could they not come to be worshipped as gods? Or be tempted to set themselves up as gods? I guess such a scenario would need another 'Star Trek' spinoff show...