Father continued: “If any ordinary man was hearing this, he would dismiss the words as being from a fool. How can a person totally make up a story, and as soon as he tells it, believe that it has a secret message; that it is actually a metaphor for something other than what it verbally seems to be about. How can such a thing be?”
The father asked the line judge for a fresh divot and drove forward. “I guess you now expect me to tell you how this can be. All stories are written by brains.” He took a mighty swing, “The brain is shy.” He hit one on the wing, “And doesn’t like to hear itself talked about.”
(In the beginning, everyone looks in the wrong place. It seems like the right place, and it cannot be avoided. When they start, everyone looks in the direction that is the most fun. It is not the ultimately profitable place, but at the time, it seems so. Well into this adventure, at least time wise, it becomes clear that few people are programmed to ever look in the right place; even though they are born with some interest in this affair. They are not given an interest strong enough to finally look there, nor perhaps, a stomach strong enough to take what is to be seen there, but does not matter. The great machine continues to receive current and run, and the music that secretly makes life what it is for man still plays, and those who get it – get it, and those who don’t – don’t, and no harm visits anyone…unless you were born with a ticket to Istanbul, and you keep getting off the train in France to look at the local scenery.)
J.