I was writing something else; I got tired of it. I can only wallow in my own gravy for so long before I need a shower.
My little sister told this story at the first wedding she performed. I almost used it in the only wedding I’m likely to perform. I was internet certified. My little sister had to write a theological dissertation and shit. Of course she can do things like the Eucharist; I’m not sure where to go online to get certified for that. I will totally journal slap the first through the last person who posts a link to such a place.
If I knew where it was from I’d just cut and paste the real text. I likely can’t speak the language and I’d rather tell it than search through translations anyhow. I want to say it was from Gnostic scriptures.
There were these two brothers, let’s call them Joe and Ike, and they shared a field of wheat. They would plant together in the spring and reap together in the autumn, and it was a prosperous field. Joe had the comfort of a fine wife and three wonderful daughters. Ike lived alone. Each had a home on the edge of the field; Joe and his wife and daughters on the eastern margin and Ike on the western margin.
One winter Ike looked in his silo and it was very full and he thought to himself “I am just one man; this is far too much grain for me. My brother Joe has so many mouths to feed surely he needs this bounty more than I.” So throughout the night Ike carried sacks with half his grain across the field and placed the grain in his brother’s silo. The next evening Joe said to his wife “I am so blessed to have your love and that of our daughters. My poor brother has so very little to move his heart.” And Joe decided that what he could do for his brother was to give him half his grain, and whereas it would not bring the same solace he would never go hungry.
For years each brother would haul half the grain in their silo unto to the other’s. One night as the wind howled across the brown winter-barren field the two brothers met each carrying their sacks of grain. On that spot was made the first covenant; Selfless love one brother unto another.
Yeah ok, so I put in an unto and a bounty or so, sue me. It’s a pretty good story. I’m not a hundred percent sure the bride and groom got it, but to be fair to the bride she had been drinking a lot of tequila. I mean I don’t know, they weren’t married all that long. I’m pretty sure I’ve spent more time telling stories from that trip than they spent married.
Part of the reason I wanted to write that down is I have been, for one reason or another, respectively, tossing out various meanings of words that aren’t quite right, but aren’t quite wrong. I’ve been playing dictionary for context. Let there be no mistake whatsoever, the person who goes around giving definitions to words in all seriousness deserves whatever tragedy will eventually befall them. I’m of the same definition school as whatever funny dead white guy that said “Any idiot can spell something the same way twice.” If I can’t figure out the right word I’ll pick a pretty one and tell you what I’m trying to make it mean. Like the word for the chronic definition giver; asshole --- soft A and hit the shole running. It is the definition for definition giver. Seriously. I know because I been called it. And often. And by someone who knows how.
I’m not sure my little sister is allowed to cuss when she’s wearing fancy purple things. That’s why it’s so funny to get her a’cussing. My wee sinner of a daughter decided a year or so ago she wanted to get baptized and she insisted on my sister baptizing her. I know I was still in Oregon because my daughter hung up on me when I said “it’s like getting in a Jacuzzi with Jesus”. Oh, no, she didn’t hang up, she called me a heathen or maybe a fucking heathen. Which leads me to why this paragraph is in at all. She insisted both herself and my little sister managed to get through a baptism without cussing at all which is solid proof, according to her, that I’m likely the cause of all cussing. It’s difficult logic to argue against. Well, no, but it is when you’re biting back “Oh. I could have told you that.”
It’s not like I’ve ever given explicit instructions to any of the current six billion humans to NOT think of me when they say fuck, but y’all know which of y’all would be best off not. I have told at least a dozen of the six billion dogs (well, the six billion registered dogs, you know, in the yellow pages. Heh. Frank Zappa potty puppy reference. Zappa means “go with god”) to quit woofing up the joint which is sort of the same thing in Sheppard, Pit and Norwegian elk hound. Want to know how I came to speak elk hound? It’s actually a good story. Some other time perhaps. To be fair one woof pretty much sounds like another to me. I mean I can distinguish the voice of one dog over another by timbre and duration, but they have a real limited set of phonemes. No swinging on the species’ nuts about it though, they can tell what you had for breakfast from fifty paces with their eyes closed. Most dogs have a rhythm to their barks, kind of OCD. Herschel, for instance, had to bark in threes. I really would run out of a bath or wake up from a dead sleep if I heard Herschel go Woof Woof, sure that the world must have ended to keep that third bark from coming. It happened very rarely and he’d just look at me like “You look wet” or “You look sleepy”. Although perhaps the world ended, how would I know?
And I’m spent
Loading comments...