FARTHER, MY GOD, FROM THEE
Okay, one evening maybe a month ago I volunteered at a worthy function. Brought the bowls of party nuts as requested. Offered to wheedle dough out of attendees’ hands, but right away the spouses involved nabbed that action, so I crept into a corner and settled onto a rickety stool. That’s when I got that creepy feeling: someone was watching me. I looked around. I looked up. I jumped. There he was staring straight down at me, bang, right into my eyes as if to say, Why the hell aren’t you home writing? Shakespeare himself. On the mantel. Spooky. I mean, spooky that he was staring at me. And spooky that he was on a mantel, for heaven’s sake. I totally felt his gaze. As if he were alive. Which, of course, he is, at least to me. He is, of the gods, the god. But there’s no way I’d have him front and center in my house. I have to keep my gods at a healthy remove. I like to visit them when I’m feeling relatively confident, but I can’t have them living with me while I wrack-wrack-wrack my noggin for the occasional worthy sentence. I guess Mr. S. showed me: we cannot hide from our gods, even skulking, anonymous, at a fundraiser.
© i.e. ideas expressed 2011