The Cloud Minders: Little Red Breathing-Mask

Today’s sonnet comes from the perspective of Spock’s one-off romantic interest (Kirk also had a bit of a love-thing going on but it wasn’t nearly so entertaining). You may recall — a few episodes back — when they tried to play an interesting game with the race card with the folks who were half-white/half-black and mirror images of each other and how it backfired because people are drawn to people who reflect themselves physically (to a certain degree).

Well this week they played very literally with the issue of upper class versus lower class with a cloud city and subterranean miners. Apparently mining releases toxic gas which reduces mental processes by 20% while increasing the tendency toward violence, this resulted in years of misunderstandings and prejudice and all those things sci-fi loves to explore.

In the cloud city is a beautiful blonde in a very sci-fi kind of dress (a skirt attached to a bra with some sort of cape thing). She is immediately taken with Spock and he is immediately intrigued by the paradoxes on which her society is built and sure she would not follow through on societal prejudices if she knew the plight of the miners.

Taking a compliment she gives Spock early on, I riffed a little on Little Red Riding Hood noticing strange things about the wolf in Grandmother’s clothing and came up with a speech which moves from a place of prejudice to a more open perspective. You’ll find it does not reach a perfect conclusion, but suggests the need for more time.

I like that because that’s the way we still fight prejudice today; logic, time, and patience (and a healthy dose of impatience).

Sonnet 40
O what terrible hands are yours
which — when not bruised with your work —
are prone to violent overtures
that just beneath the surface lurk.
O what ferocioud mouths are yours
to prove you nothing more than boors
when from the depths you rise to speak
in hope of bettering the bleak.
O what discerning eyes are yours
that seeing clear the path to take
do rouse in me a sort of wake.
O what exquisite ears are yours,
no utterance escapes your note
ere you should move to cast your vote.



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