The world is a mask that hides the real world.
That’s what everybody suspects, though the world we see won’t let us dwell on it long.
The world has ways - more masks - of getting our attention.
The suspicion sneaks in now and again, between the cracks of everyday existence…the bird song dips, rises, dips, trails off into blue sky silence before the note that would reveal the shape of a melody that, somehow, would tie everything together, on the verge of unmasking the hidden armature that frames this sky, this tree, this bird, this quivering green leaf, jewels in a crown.…
As the song dies, the secret withdraws.
The tree is a mask.
The sky is a mask.
The quivering green leaf is a mask.
The song is a mask.
The singing bird is a mask.


Saturday, April 30, 2005

the passion of conviction

Mystery Interlocutor's mad tale of Ice Age falcon worship seemed to echo from my cubicle throughout the silent dormitory.

A curious rant, but falcons and falconry tended to attract cranks and crackpots, I had learned in the years of my research.

I'll admit it: I'm hooked.

What next?





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