Archive for the ‘Trent Walters’ Category
Disciples Teach the Master a New Principle
Wednesday, August 29th, 2007
Confuscius–winded from a tangle with a Bengali tiger which he had grabbed first by the tail, then the ears, and finally the head before dispatching the beast–was cresting a small rise on his stroll through the metropolitan zoo of Sung. He was decked out in his finest serge and skins, his belly full of acorns and chestnuts. In this pleasantly sated mood, a sight confused Confuscius: Holy men, with rods of chastisement, beat two young men.
“Pray, good sirs,” Confuscius inquired of the holy men whom Confuscius belatedly recognized as his own disciples, “explain your behavior.”
The disciples, who did not recognize their master, said, “These two brothers were bruising each other in their rough-housing and enjoying themselves. Their motive for doing this–since we do not understand such motives except as outsiders–must be anger and power; therefore, even though Confuscius never forbid such behavior, it is wrong and should be punished.”
Confuscius’ puzzled expression cleared, and he nodded. “You were quite correct to do so. Please, allow me to examine your rods of chastisement, They look impressive.” When they handed them over, Confuscius whirled them through the air until they sang. “Yes, they are impressive.” He handed the rods to the brothers. “Please, at your discretion, use these on the holy men, for clearly these rods were meant to be wielded on those who revel in anger and power.”
This Is the Fairy Tale
Friday, August 24th, 2007
This is the fairy tale your mother wouldn’t tell you. This is the fairy tale the brothers Grimm found too horrifying to ink on pure white parchment. Through the years only the meanest mothers passed it down to their most iniquitous children to frighten them into submission (and wetting their beds) in the darkest, coldest hours of bleak German winters when the bloated moon cast shadows of swaying tree limbs into the children’s bedroom–the gnarled fingers of a witch lingering just outside and tapping at the window.
This is the fairy tale that survived on the back flyleaf of dusty library tomes hiding Grimm’s worst fairy tales that an unfortunate listener had to pen in order to purge herself of the nightmares that still stalked her into adulthood or in order to burden new generations with his own childhood afflictions. This is the fairy tale, rumor spreads, that the fabled old wives share with a hearty cackle as they squat around a boiling black cauldron deep in the thickest thorny bramble and poison-oak woods.
This fairy tale is typed here only to purge the world. Legend tells that if the story were told to the world at once, evil would flee from the land and leap back into Pandora’s lock box. And so, paradoxically, I wound the world to save its soul from the stain of this story: