So many times I have been at home
when all the best things happen : the
birth of an angel, the song of a God.
I only see them as a glow on the horizon,
nothing certain or definite or sure. Like
three wise men, but a different three, I
sense the approach : hobbled old men,
barely walking along, with a horse and
a donkey in tow. They, none of them,
understand the other's language; a real
mish-mash trio this. Trying to count
stars, but getting it wrong; bad numbers
and a super-nova to argue over. Later
it would be El Cid. Cervantes, and all
that. This time, it's just three fools each
pretending to be wise. I go along; I like
charades, the play of shadows on a wall,
the seven-hour performance by Javanese
puppets of the Mahabharata. A tale of
envy and creation and woe; that's my sort
of drama - melted crayons in the soup,
scratched lines on the surface of dead
heads. The skull factory. The ossuary.
Where lepers once worshiped their
own fleshy God; He who never lost
parts; He who started time over; He
He - the one who never got anything
wrong. Isn't that what we play for?
Pray for? Imbibe and get drunk for?
A land wiser than the living that's
done there. A place for all things.
With all things in their place.