Page from The Jackdaw and the Doll, a fable I wrote, which is being illustrated by Izumi Yokoyama. Inspired by a story about Franz Kafka.
Posted in Artwork, Books, Press, Prose, Publications, Uncategorized
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Tagged Artwork, fable, franz kafka, izumi yokoyama, jackdaw and the doll, John Biscello, Prose, storyteller
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The Fool lay down on his back
in the grass and stared
at the illuminated cursive pooling
of stars in the night-sky and mused—
If the entire universe
is a functioning example,
a play script and concert
operating fluidly under the impossible umbrella
of “Why Not?”
then it stands to reason that we,
children of the stars,
are the privileged inheritors
and rightful claimants
of an innate cosmic streak of experiential boldness,
which engages the daring music of “Why Not?”
to the holy scroll of life, unfolding,
back to front,
with you, a respiring signature,
and improv sketch of molecules,
well-lighted
and measureless,
except to say Yes.
The accomplished archer, the Master if you will,
handed the bow to his initiate, who many referred to as the Fool.
The Master pointed at the target, some fifty feet or so away,
and instructed the Fool to hit the bullseye without aiming.
The Fool drew back on his bow, cutting a taut figure of symmetry
on this windless day, then suddenly wheeled around, facing backwards,
and shot the arrow in a gliding arc into the target-less air.
What are you doing, the Master reprimanded.
Can’t you see where the target is?
The Fool smiled shyly and set down his bow in the grass.
Yes, that’s why I shot my arrow where I did.
The Master, who was noticeably perturbed, walked over to the target,
and rapped his knuckles against its demarcated center.
THIS is the bullseye.
The Fool, who did not want to contradict the Master, nor generate conflict,
responded, somewhat evasively—Well, yea, I guess it is … can I show you something?
The Master walked back to where the Fool was standing.
The Fool raised his hands above his head and made broad, sweeping, circular gestures,
saying—The air is everywhere, right? So, just as I was about to shoot, it suddenly came to me that if I were to ignore the limited target with the marked bullseye and just shoot the arrow into the air, I couldn’t miss.
Miss what, the Master questioned.
The target. In the air, there are no targets. So in a sense, everywhere is the target. Very freeing, don’t you think?
Yes, but, but—the Master stammered, his brain no longer cooperating.
Or perhaps that is just archery for fools, I don’t know, the Fool grinned littleboyishly.
The Master placed his hand on the Fool’s shoulder and said—Or perhaps it is strain of wisdom that I missed, that my knowledge and skill as a master archer blocked me from seeing.
And so the Master and the Fool spent the rest of that windless day doing it the Fool’s Way,
simultaneously hitting every single bullseye and none at all,
and laughing like children nestled in the cushy lap of Eternity,
where arrows are destined to kiss air, just because.
Did you catch
that latent glimmer
out of the corner of your eye,
that fugitive spark?
Sometimes,
a piece of the sun
longs to mate
with a certain quality of air
in such a way
that a marvelous and undimming
proof of art is called
to give you due pause,
and a cradled peek
at your rightful inheritance
to be claimed,
whenever.
Life,
a molecular slideshow
and Bardo movie set,
generating the most epic
proofs of art and illusion,
where you, as viewer and participant,
are invited to enjoy and celebrate
ephemera’s transient take
on Creation’s never-ending birthday.
At the commonest altar,
a stone is laid.
A voice asks you
to turn over the stone
and find your name.
You do as you are told,
and then inform the voice
that there is no name to be found,
anywhere.
Good,
the voice brightens,
and out of the blue
appears a single white feather.
Now that you know who you are not,
the voice says,
replace this stone
with that feather.
Its lightness,
coupled with silence,
invites you to write something new,
but do it in the air, where history cannot be traced
or sealed,
and the burdens of false claims
become as unsigned wind.
The voice disappears.
You are left alone
at the commonest altar,
with the presence of a single feather
anointing the largesse
of a promised unknown.
If,
by carnal
you mean
a song of skin’s
peal and riot
drumming itself known
to light and liquid,
and how they congeal
as totemic sacrament,
then yes,
I will take your pulse
wherever it leads.
Sssssh! You can’t tell yourself,
but you have a crush on God.
Between classes, in the hallway,
you see her leaning obliquely against
the edge of a wall,
books shadowed in the crook of her arm.
Your eyes track her bare thin arms
down to her wrists, which are adorned in bracelets,
then to her fingers, studded with rings.
You wonder about God’s choice in jewelry,
while noticing that she’s not wearing any make-up.
God is giggling, talking to several other girls,
and since your legs are locked in place,
you know you won’t be walking over to God
anytime soon,
but you do wonder if you can work up the nerve
to make eye contact.
Your stomach takes a break from chewing your brain,
and you lift your eyes to take in a direct view of God,
who suddenly tucks several stray bits of hair behind her ear,
and this initiates a siege of trembling
which kickstarts a surge of bloodflow in your stone legs,
and you are suddenly aware that God is staring directly at
you,
her smile a beam of radiant light slivering into a thousand tiny knives
plunging into and searing your vitals,
and you recall your friend Teresa’s impassioned encounter
with that chiseled Angel, and the sensations she experienced—
the burning beyond burning, the delicious excruciation—
that she so vividly laid out for you
in that tear-stained treatise
of a letter.
Your throat swallows itself
as God’s gaze
staggers you to a point of lucid blankness—
I mean, she’s staring explicitly at you,
her mouth a curved and starry beacon,
this is happening,
between you and God,
in the hallway,
between classes,
and when the bell rings
there is a mass, manic rush,
a whirlwind of bodies and voices,
followed by emptiness
and silence.
God,
along with everyone else,
was gone.
You run your mildly numbed fingers
over your eyes to make sure they are still there.
Check.
Then your fingers crawl into your mouth,
verifying your tongue as present.
Next your fingers migrate from the cave of your mouth
to your heart, where the concentrated burning
reveals a singed hole in your shirt
the size of a fist.
Your fingers dance gingerly
upon the tender circle of pinkness
flushing your exposed chest.
It hurts in a good way.
You are not crazy.
You have a crush on God,
a requited one.
Sssssh! It’s between you
and her.
Let no one,
ever,
tell you what your destiny
is or isn’t,
or allow their criterion
to influence and determine
your course of being—
There is so much
you
inside you,
so much vast, unexplored
country which calls
for your footprints and courage,
to claim the wanderer’s
pitch-bright way
in a soul’s ceaseless asking
to be marveled in breadth, and known.
You can,
if you wish,
file a million and one
embittered complaints
to the Universe,
but none will bring
the strange and mysterious
results that a single shred
of glimmering gratitude can,
its kiss the tenderest seal
upon symmetry’s origins.
John Biscello 