inklingfair Small things, they get away more quickly than they used to. I feel like a kid who gets handed the joystick by the arcade’s top scorer and – two minutes into the game – is fighting a losing battle with Space Invaders.
(After 45 minutes of frenzied emailing and responding to Disqus… defeat. I’m never going to get close to finishing all these tiny little things before they build up into an avalanche, so I might as well resign myself to the inevitable.)
In other news, TMP is coming along quite nicely – but offline. I’ve got treatises on happiness vs. freedom of choice and the crystallization of love written in royal blue longhand in Red Book II. Tonight, however, is about Cap O’Rushes.
Cap O’Rushes was one of my pet girlhood stories (along with Pavilion in the Laurels; the beauty about Pavilion is that not even Google can find the story, so it’s my secret and Patty’s alone).
As a child, I loved the story because, well, it is the perfect revenge story. Cap O’Rushes is banished by her rich father, who misunderstands her profession of love, “Why, I love you as fresh meat loves salt!” After years of estrangement, she asks her father (who has no idea the invitation came from his own daughter) to her wedding-ball, where she serves up meat without salt. The father, of course, bursts out weeping, and Cap O’Rushes reveals herself to him in the end.
It’s a classic tale of knowledge withheld till the opportune time. Imagine if Cap O’Rushes stormed out then came back one day after her banishment to try to explain what she meant to her numbskull father. Or if the Swan Princess spoke before her time. Or if the frog prince said at the outset that he was a prince. Or if Scheherazade had held her tongue in Poe’s story.
I think I understand now why knowledge (the concept of knowing as well as the love-language) is incomplete in itself. It must be revealed to us in perfect time (the fourth dimension and the love-language) for us to appreciate its beauty. Otherwise, it will fall on thick heads and hard hearts, and what good is that?
Food for thought. The Sandman cometh.
Photo by Jonathan Borba on Unsplash
