Maybe you do this too. I don't know. Sometimes I like to pretend I've been given an assignment — an important mission, if you will — by the king and queen of everything. "Walk the Earth," they might say to me, "and find the small stone on which is engraved the meaning of life. We dropped it a long time ago and we need it back because we do not remember what it said." "What does it look like?" I might ask. "It's brownish and smooth." "And how big?" "Not very big. Maybe, like, this big," the king might say, holding up his hand and indicating a smallish size with the gap between the tips of his thumb and forefinger. It's the trouble with people who have too epic an opinion of themselves. They're always engraving things onto stones. Metaphorically, this is a very inflexible method of communication. There's little wiggle room. "Are these plans set in stone?" you might ask. "As a matter of fact...," comes the sheepish reply. Maybe you do this too. I don't know. I like to write in pencil, or just talk. Why do we need a record of everything? These titans carve everything in stone but you cannot prove they exist. Meanwhile here I am, perfectly tangible, walking around, looking around, stooping now and then to pick up a smallish stone, staring at it, turning it over in my hand, tossing it away. Hello, friends. How are you today? Love. |
