Parable of the Moldy Situation

Into the mist, the forest of illumination waits with hundreds of tree tentacles reaching out to the sun, to the matter in the sky. Fuel for fire and figs drop on harmless grassy blades bending in the wind, bent to the will of their rising heads. Gravity pressing down so things can come up. It always happens this way and most of the time without starting the stopwatch.

Nearby, an eagle-hawk chants his lore and wisdom to the jungle monkey who sits listening but really just wants to ruffle his feathers. The serpent leans against a rake, smoking a cigarette. There is a light in his eyes that gleams beyond his sunglasses. The eagle-hawk spies the smoke rising and flies away to protect his eyes. The serpent apologizes and lights another cigarette.

Stern and hardy, lean and bold, Typewriter the Magnificent takes a vacation (to the south seas! on a skiff!). Alone and lonely he begins to record what he sees. Waves, clouds, sun, sky. He records all, understanding nothing. He is interrupted by the Great Whale. It lifts its head and blasts a fountain of questions to the sun. The sun replies with the same answer as before and before. The Great Whale, seeming satisfied, takes back to the underwaves without another groan. Typewriter the Magnificent, stenographer extraordinaire, records all, understanding nothing.

Blood beats behind the horizon, pulsing with the distant sun arches. Eventually dusk fades to night and the stars resume their shining. They blink and bounce their harmonies to the world below. We sit and wonder why we can't keep one in our pocket for the next time we run out of wine and the jungle monkey has a handful of feathers.