How the creaking frame of that wizened, elder dramaturge resounds in the shadows of the stage; how his eyes, misty, alight on every clapping hand; too frail to bow! At last, it calls! The bell, the ringing bell! A daughter takes his elbow, and leads him away through flowers, falling like rain....
**
I experienced low blood sugar today. Normally, I maintain a strict schedule for when I eat, and I never have any problems. But today, I made a different choice of food for lunch, and I guess it wasn't enough; by mid-afternoon, I wasn't exactly hungry, but I was deep in the doldrums. All around was misery and gloom, and clawed shades from the past came a-clutching at my sunny disposition. How frustrating to escape from an unhappy situation, only to learn that it was a relatively normal situation, and merely my physiology contributing to my unhappiness! At least I kept myself from inflicting it on others -- such is my gift --
**
Oh, that brave fish struggles, struggles, that big, brave fish. He fights and pulls and whips his tail, he gasps and heaves and flaps his gills, but nothing's left for him. He's hooked, well and truly, soon to be strung up on a line and shown, or cleaned out and cooked; there's his tail, and there's his tale, my son. Never thrown back, not that fish, much too brave for that. He's strong and true and hooked, and there he lay, bedeviled by his own appetite.
**
I'm writing in front of a mirror right now, and while I usually try and keep one nearby when I'm writing, it's never so direct. I can cast my eyes up a little from the screen and see my face, and for some reason, I'm scowling. My face is relaxed, my jaw is loose, and I look like a man who's been harpooned. Was it always this way? I can still smile, there's that, but people tend to ask me why I look so upset. I see what they mean. But on the inside, you know, I'm happy and sad, grateful and angry, kind and unkind, all at once. My face can't manage it; I'd need a mask to give people any insight into me.
**
The baby duck cries on the cool, soft sand, but its mother can't hear. She's alive, yes, but far away, and she has tears of her own to shed. The little one is fuzzy and warm, but not for long. Soon, his gentle chirrups will give out for rough, sharp quacks, and his lovely down will fall away from his slick, stiff feathers. He'll be a drake if he makes it; if not, there's no-one to blame but the water.
**
I'm puzzled and afraid. My voice is childlike and uncertain. My words are gentle and encouraging. Or so it always seems to me. I feel so little, but I'm not.
**
Something hisses there in the desert night. Is it forward, or behind? Does it warn you back, or drive you on? And why is it a noise only you hear? Why do your friends look right and left, or any other way? Clasp hands and spin, senseless, wondering, repeat the eternal circles that are the only real form of progress. Clear out the hissing with laughter, stomp the dunes to plains, and fill in the quiet canyons with a sense of grace. That's the way the world was formed, and no other. Smile, dance, and be alive.
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