S.B.T. 443

made of light

I’ll refuse to hear about our dark and devilish ways borne out by history, because you all know it’s imagined, not real, if you think it’s real that’s why it’s real; to you. If it’s real to you, your friends your family then it’s so-called realness gets bigger, it’s a village, then a city. When you consider the world population, it’s big. But it’s just 1% of everything. I won't try to remove evil from the world because I tell you it doesn’t exist, it just isn’t really there. I’ll simply insist and that’s that. If you criticize me for it, you’d be right. If you don’t know how much you need it, you will. Finally, all there is, is Love, and it’s time to know that with certainty, it’s time to rejoice. it just isn’t about evil! Fuggettabbouttit, tear that old building down. Satan needs a new place. His job is done. I say retire to Key West old friend.

Either we’re made of light or not, what do you think? We’re water yes and every molecule is a collection of atomic energy, the energy of Light, being this way is real if real is what you’re after.

S.B.T. 442

 The difference between right and wrong

 

“Suffering shared by both sides of any argument is not the kind of sharing we prefer.”

The poor little plastic nutcracker, the size of a half-dollar, remembered his glory days when he was hung high amid sparkling glass balls and satin bows on the Lindy’s Christmas tree. He sighed and smiled, remembering those days. Nowadays he was at the back of the college science laboratory, in the corner of a pale orange mottled formica countertop next to the microwave and fridge. There were oversized crackled navy blue pottery mugs, each with a collection of pencils, pens, a few straws, elastics, abandoned key-chains, plastic spoons, dusty odds and ends, all overcrowded and usually ignored. It’s funny how often old pens with no ink stay where they are forever.

But this is where our hero is now, his hanging string dangling precipitously from the top of a yellow #2 pencil with a chewed eraser. His home, one at the back of about 3 rows of scattered mugs, had housemates who were dry black and red Sharpies always meditating and some bent copper pin-clips who lived in the basement. But there was also Marian, the baby spoon, and he always looked out for her, he was in the position to do so, dangling from the top. And he had to, it was his duty, he was, after all a soldier with a bugle and 1880’s finest doiuble-breasted marching coat and boots. They really were the only 2 with any awareness in the group, and she was just a child, an orphan really.

He was delighted to have her company.

Then one day, an out-of-work artist who’d been employed by the college as team organizer for the maintenance crew, during a day of rounds to determine the game plan, noticed the reckless lineup of pottery mugs and stepped closer to observe the details. The nutcracker could feel the ground rumbling beneath him as the mugs were pushed away and finally, yes! His mug was lifted high in the air and up next to the mans eyes, where he was SEEN.

“Well lookie here,” the man said, lifting the little plastic nutcracker off the eraserhead “Now I would call you Harold Hill, Harold Hill you shall be! and what’s this? a pretty little baby spoon, it’s a bit tarnished, but I can fix that, I’ll take them both home and keep them for when the grandkids come to visit.”

And so it was, Harold was given a place of honor on the window-sill over the kitchen sink and Marian was propped up next to him. And every year at at holiday times, the man put Harold high on the Tree.

And this is very right.

On the other side of the world, there is an elderly couple hiding in fear, afraid of being killed, afraid of losing their home, watching the skies erupt in flames. There is no character, or time-line to be stretched out, no fresh plot or satisfying ending to this story. Yet.

And this is very wrong.