There is an elephant in the room. We try not to mention him because there is nothing we can do about him. Theories abound, mumbled and whispered, about responsibility for the elephant. Does it really matter, though? The elephant is here and he's not going away. So, we throw a blanket over him and tell people he is an end table. No one believes this, but everyone sticks to protocol. Except the elephant. He throws off the blanket and takes a giant dump in the corner. We tell people it is a plant stand.
The elephant is a poem in which all the words we cannot say flow in perfect rhythm and rhyme. Nothing ever goes unsaid in the end. You can hold your tongue. You can shove your fists into your ears. You can sew your mouth shut or scream at the top of your lungs. When the dust settles, however, the elephant has crushed your chest and written your story in big red footprints leading toward the elephant-shaped hole in the wall. Every story gets told and you have to listen to the part you're in. Elephants never forget.
Here's what you do: Teach the elephant tricks. Make him your friend. Paint murals on his massive sides. Ride him away into the sunset.
Hello, friends. How are you today?
Later. Love.
