Monday, January 28, 2013

What this Blog Entry is About

Imagine for a moment that you're sitting on a wrought iron bench at the back of a rice terrace in the middle of the Philippines. There's water everywhere, sitting, flowing, dripping. The sunlight is fighting its way through the mist, though, and the rain has temporarily stopped. You're sitting there, staring out into the fog that's filling the valley before you, waiting for a train.

That's not what this blog entry is about. In a veiled way there's meaning there, but you can't get at it unless you have the key. The key inside my mind. So, instead, you'll make up your own meaning, or listen to someone else's interpretation, or not even look for the meaning at all, simply letting yourself imagine the scene I've laid out before you.

That's not what this blog entry is about, either. I wanted it to be, but once I boarded the train I realized that it would not be that easy since the ticket taker was really a cyborg that's been after my sea-shell table centerpiece for days. He has no qualms with killing me, if he can get what he wants, so I've taken the liberty of locking myself into a passenger compartment full of old women.

This would not have been a problem at all (they didn't notice me lock the door, and really they're all very nice), except that they happened to be intrepid members of the Canadian Women's Murder Society from a chapter located in British Columbia. They were twittering away excitedly over an twenty-one year old case of massacre and I was left defenseless against my imaginations.

Suddenly one of them stood and said, pointing a gnarly finger at me, "He's not supposed to be here. He'll ruin our whole plan if he stays! Sabotage isn't something we just fit in around tea and tête-à-têtes, you know."

The sweetest looking one of them all, a plump mother-hen type that was knitting, smiled up at the speaker and replied, "But, Jean, what would you have us do? Throw him out the window?"

"Well…" commented a third, "Does it open far enough?"

I was out the door in a moment and dashing down the hall. Halls in trains are hard to dash down, though, especially when they're traversing Philippine rice country. I ran into the right wall, then stumbled my way across into the left. That time a door slid open and I fell right through. I found myself face-to-foot with a large gnat, sitting delicately on the seat, reading a joke book quietly to herself.

It was then that I began to wonder what on earth this blog really was about. If I meant to make a point about meaning in writings and writing meanings, I may have missed the mark. On the other hand, if the point was about translating meaning out of writings then I may still have a chance.

At that moment the gnat spoke. Whispered, really, "What did the rabbi say to the horse when they walked out of the bar?"

"I'm sorry?"

"No. He said, 'And that's why you're never getting to pick where we go to when we come to town again.'"

I stared at her. And had an epiphany. Suddenly I was being dragged out into the hall again by an iron grip. It was the cyborg. "Ah, ha! That's where you've been hiding! Where's the centerpiece?"

That's when the train rocked violently, then exploded into the air. The cars came apart. People were whooping and screaming. Old ladies drifted by, some still knitting, others still holding a detonator. The gnat flew up and knocked on the cyborg's head, whispering, "Knock knock."

I didn't hear the rest because I was busily catching the sea-shells streaming out of my pocket, and blinking away all the rice falling into my eyes. A horse and a rabbi floated by, and the horse was saying, "And that's why you're never getting to pick where the CWMS vacations again!"

My epiphany was simply this:

If there's meaning in any writing,
If there's gold in every tale,
Then its worth is in ease of finding.
And if it's too hard you fail.

So I handed the ticket taker my emptying centerpiece, Tipped my hat to the rabbi and pushed off into the breeze.
The sun was shining at that point, clear and blazing bright, And I floated off in that direction knowing full well I was right.

1 comment:

  1. You must be right, how could anyone argue with logic like that?
    Honestly, you are my absolute favorite writer, ever. Even if I didn't know you, I'd be just enthralled with your word crafting. I used to be grieved that Lewis Carroll had not written more. But now I just bask in your writings instead. They're wonderful!