I sat on some grass at the edge of a pond.
It was midnight.
Nostradamus was beside me smoking cigars with Fidel Castro.
In the wisps of tobacco were whispers of vague and unfulfilled prophecies
pronounced by blood, steal, and crumbling icons.
(They both looked pretty bad-ass in their black-leather jackets.)
Across the pond Foucault was busy dissecting things with a pen, the ghost of Kant, and a pair of spectacles.
But Buddha, who was seemingly unfazed by any external stimuli, including Krishna's purple dye, didn't seem to notice;
he was too busy staring intently at the fragrant lotus flowers blossoming at the edge of the pond.
Across from me there was someone wringing out a homespun cloth,
I squinted to see a bald and principled man, Ghandiji, making salt, undisturbed by rippling water.
Splashing within the pond was Mother Teresa who was creating waves and blowing bubbles, her nun's habit was soaked but she looked childlike, happy, free, and surprisingly progressive.
Christopher Hitchens, saw her differently and was writing a book about it.
To no one's surprise a full moon appeared from behind some clouds -everything was illumined.
I borrowed Foucault's spectacles and was able to see that the grassy knolls,
stretching forever in every direction, were filled with people -
large crowds of pilgrims journeying to this humble pond: walking, running, and dancing across the fields.
I realized I was one of them, and my curiosity drove me to the waters edge.
In the center of the pond, undisturbed by Teresa's gaiety, were twelve stars
but conduits not sources of light.
A creature swam under these stars and reverent rumors of Leviathan rolled across the knolls.
It spiraled up and up and up from the depths of the pond.
It grew in size, Teresa laughed, Gandhi smiled, Fidel's jaw dropped, and the pilgrims clapped at the spectacle.
Teresa's waves were soon dwarfed by the tsunamis of Leviathan.
I approached the wisest and largest of creatures, now fully surfaced.
Her smile started an earthquake of laughter amongst those gathered, which was more the result of an effervescing joy than a knee-jerk reaction to a punch-line.
Her eyes were kind, bidding any to come to her, to embrace her, to love and be loved.
She was god-like but not a god yet the finest of creatures.
Perhaps because I was drunk from the rhythm of the place or maybe because the beauty of her eyes pillaged my judgment, I ran to her, and with remarkable stupidity jumped on her back, swinging my arms around her neck.
And with this, in an instance of playful levity she dove back into the pond.
I was submerged, my arms still tight around her neck, my world was suddenly changing.
It was out of my control and I didn't know where I was going.
With happy stoicism Buddha waved goodbye.
It was midnight.
Nostradamus was beside me smoking cigars with Fidel Castro.
In the wisps of tobacco were whispers of vague and unfulfilled prophecies
pronounced by blood, steal, and crumbling icons.
(They both looked pretty bad-ass in their black-leather jackets.)
Across the pond Foucault was busy dissecting things with a pen, the ghost of Kant, and a pair of spectacles.
But Buddha, who was seemingly unfazed by any external stimuli, including Krishna's purple dye, didn't seem to notice;
he was too busy staring intently at the fragrant lotus flowers blossoming at the edge of the pond.
Across from me there was someone wringing out a homespun cloth,
I squinted to see a bald and principled man, Ghandiji, making salt, undisturbed by rippling water.
Splashing within the pond was Mother Teresa who was creating waves and blowing bubbles, her nun's habit was soaked but she looked childlike, happy, free, and surprisingly progressive.
Christopher Hitchens, saw her differently and was writing a book about it.
To no one's surprise a full moon appeared from behind some clouds -everything was illumined.
I borrowed Foucault's spectacles and was able to see that the grassy knolls,
stretching forever in every direction, were filled with people -
large crowds of pilgrims journeying to this humble pond: walking, running, and dancing across the fields.
I realized I was one of them, and my curiosity drove me to the waters edge.
In the center of the pond, undisturbed by Teresa's gaiety, were twelve stars
but conduits not sources of light.
A creature swam under these stars and reverent rumors of Leviathan rolled across the knolls.
It spiraled up and up and up from the depths of the pond.
It grew in size, Teresa laughed, Gandhi smiled, Fidel's jaw dropped, and the pilgrims clapped at the spectacle.
Teresa's waves were soon dwarfed by the tsunamis of Leviathan.
I approached the wisest and largest of creatures, now fully surfaced.
Her smile started an earthquake of laughter amongst those gathered, which was more the result of an effervescing joy than a knee-jerk reaction to a punch-line.
Her eyes were kind, bidding any to come to her, to embrace her, to love and be loved.
She was god-like but not a god yet the finest of creatures.
Perhaps because I was drunk from the rhythm of the place or maybe because the beauty of her eyes pillaged my judgment, I ran to her, and with remarkable stupidity jumped on her back, swinging my arms around her neck.
And with this, in an instance of playful levity she dove back into the pond.
I was submerged, my arms still tight around her neck, my world was suddenly changing.
It was out of my control and I didn't know where I was going.
With happy stoicism Buddha waved goodbye.
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