Attend, fair friends, and I, your humble servant, will proffer for your kind consideration the Fable of a (nearly) unflappable Fellow.
In the time of Wilhelm III, whilst the King wast dancing on the breath of fish in his sour Sargasso soup of sleep, deep in the Dark Woods of Dogmata there ran a sweet fine fellow dressed in tan. With a bow on his back, red wine in a sack, in buckskin buff the dashing He ran dashing through the glade. Filled with gusto, he shouted "Hurrah! Hurrah for the philosophy of Enigmata!," for he had been mightily influenced by the Words of Tzengpo, Ancient Ascended Master of Mutterings. As he recalled, thus spake Tzengpo: "Between nothing and all, infinity and naught hang we. For this reason must thou fetch water, wood and make tea for me. Also, chop some of the wood and do the dishes."
Ah, those were the days, my friends, his time with Tzengpo! Yes, he thought they'd never end, those halcyon days, when life was simple in its pursuit of the complexities overlaying the singular Un-Oneness that was Enigmata. Enigmata in depth, Enigmata in breadth, ineffable contemplations dancing like flames on the tongue of a Dragon put to sleep.
So it was he ran, masticating upon his seeds and nuts, and leaving a trail of gaseous putts, and thinking such thoughts as, "The Water runs swift off the Mountain and the Mushroom pops forth in the Meadow. Dig it, man." Such phrases as struck him as particularly fine, which were many, if not all, fair friends, he did utter aloud and the forest fell silent at his eloquent Thespian squeak.
These his lusty cries distracted a melancholic falcon who was wearily sneaking peeks at the paths of hopefully foolish rodents. This wingéd wonder our Fine Fellow did spy and follow with his eye and think to himself, "Knows she not the Flight of Freedom, the Movement past Pretense, the Cosmic jumping hence and thence, the bygones and fly-on's? Oh, if only I had wings! If only, if only!" Whereupon he did sigh in a deep and heartfelt manner.
So turned he then his footsteps toward a Mountain where Mohammed was not, Mohammed being busy discussing his wishes and washing his dishes all through the long hot Arabian night, and plodded he off through the gloomy, sweltering forest.
But a thought occurred unto the beamish boy as he paused and wiped his be-sweatéd brow: though he had not wings, could a horse be procured, t'would speed his frenzied fateful Self! Oh, would that he had a horse! Wouldn'a horse be nice! Without a paddle, if only a saddle, a horse in the Wood be nice. Ha-ha!
And so ran the wild horses of his Imagination on through the canyons of his mind, that echoing chamber wherein lay his manners and mannerisms, and in this manner set he forth again with heart renewed (even though he no more had horse and saddle than wings or paddle!) and wondered why indeed he had not run into a Castle full of foul Fearsome Creatures, a fairy princess, or perhaps an elderly Chinese man towing a cart filled with spices and scrolls and bundles of sticks, who, with the Holy Glow of Sanctity all round his hairless pate, would utter some glittering Gem of Thought as precious as those of Tzengpo.
But lo! Even now did such an Oriental Personage approach the lucky Lad! But to our Humble Hero's astonishment, shock and despair, when Supplicated in all true Earnestness for some Apt Aphorism, some Koan to carry in Consciousness, some Great Truth to make his Own True Mantra, that Worthy Ancient did grimace and say in a most annoyed way, "Footstep by footstep we follow the Way. Forward, Young Fool, and into the fray! Furthermore, kid, you bother me, so say 'Sayonara!' G'day! Go 'way, okay?"
Then when our sweet Buckskin did remain stock still before the Ancient, the youth's profundical Mind caught in a Snare of Confusion, then did the Pernicious Peasant take switch in hand and beat the Boy soundly, roundly 'round the glen. Repeatedly, brutally, soundly 'round the glen.
Le Moral of the Story
When the dogma gets too deep, get le fou out of the woods!
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©1995; 2007 Chet Nickerson
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