The Fool, and the Villagers

THE VILLAGERS AND THE FOOL

This is not a poem. It is not a story. It is not a narrative. It is a dream. A dream sometimes peaceful, other times disturbed; full of questions seeking answers - which are not guaranteed. 

Its cast is small: the Fool, and the villagers. 

The villagers represent a cross-section of humanity: from the pious to the petty; from the attractive to the disfigured; the wealthy to the poor; from those in homes to those waiting at the door.

The Fool coexists with the villagers but seldom mingles. He has adopted his name from comments the villagers have thrown at him, in disgust and anger. Emotions he refuses to acknowledge. His continual unremitting belief in the power of love, the universal power of love, offends their sense of the “real”; poverty and hard work, hatred living in which there is no room for forgiving. The Fools doesn’t believe he is important. He finds the wealth of humanity in his inclusiveness in all things human.

A situation poised for and rife with misunderstanding.

This morning, the Fool was sitting in the town square. He was approached by a woman, middle-aged, well dressed; she addressed him thus, “People call you foolish, say you cannot understand. I don’t believe them. I think you choose silence in order to think, to place things in order. Is this true?”

The man considered her question, said nothing; then, after a pause replied, “Do I choose silence, yes; the babble of social intercourse leaves me irritated and unimpressed. Is there something you would ask of me?”

“Yes,” she replied, “I am recently separated; the marriage was fraught with arguments and disputes. I thought a separation would resolve things; it doesn’t. Instead of fighting someone else, I fight with myself. I am sad, lonely and utterly confused. Others tell me what to do. I don’t want that. I want to understand.”

The fool replied:

You feel at war with yourself;

is this the source of your confusion?

THE WOMAN NODDED, YES.

It is a process, conflict between your selves

Your emotional state, your mental state

And your body seeking to assert themselves.

A conflict that can only be resolved

Within and by yourself; and through

That process will you find peace.

The mind will play tricks,

Your emotions will cause you distress

(Say, Do we not see a reflection of ourselves,

And in our disorientation or despair

Say, “There is our enemy”?)

There is no hero; there is no enemy.

Only an individual trying to sort themselves out.

Is there not, traditionally, a taint of nobility

Ascribed to going to war? Esprit de Corps,

[and all that], The thrill of action 

(or preparation for)?

The noble intentions stand ready.

Foolishness and nonsense!

Of the battle, we shall be brief.

There was death and needless destruction,

Hearts racing, senses numbed, lives lost.

Battles are better remembered than reported live;

Best told in the eulogy, painted on the memory.

There is my definition. 

As the sole combatant,

Against an ill-defined enemy.

Fate, Happenstance, Circumstance,

(Frame it heroic)

“The war to survive has been brutal, 

frightening, but it had its own sound:

a sound that filled the empty pauses,

 that gave meaning to the struggle.”

I can name my own list of characters.

“They”, I define as the Command,

the component figures of consciousness:

In particular, The Thinker, the Fighter, the Poet.

(You are making this up, as you go!)

Yes! The Thinker, the Fighter, the Poet stand huddled.

There is no conversation, the frightened eyes say it all.

Thinking, frightening and scribbling poetry insufficient?

.

We need one more character.

A shabby, uniformed figure approaches them

“Who are you?” They demand.

I am

I am that quiet voice that lurks 

on the fringes of your consciousness:

whispering words of warning, 

admonishing you to take that next faltering step;

That strain of steel resolve hovering just above Reason

and a mite short of Faith.

I dwell in that haunting piece of music

 that resonates in your ears,

even when you are surrounded by silence,

or overwhelmed by the sheer noise 

and the roar of the world.

“Yes,” the woman replied, 

Yes, that is what I need.”

I can be found in your favourite book,

that obscure piece of art.

Found most often in the humblest of surroundings,

suspended in the void between fractured words

in broken sentences, dangling phrases;

in words unspoken.

Remember this!

Silence has no name, no content

Silence has no name, no content

Other than what we put into it

Can you feel it?

The silence has a new quality; 

no less deep, but less threatening:

a distinct, qualitative difference.

It cannot harm you.

It cannot touch you.

 Together we are strong 

enough to face it.

We start again. 

we salvage our strength, 

our pride.

Silence has no name. 

It has no content

Other than what

We put into it.

Now was the time to start again, 

consolidate, construct.

There is pervasive energy now, 

a purpose to continue.

It is not a time of jubilation, 

but of quiet thanks and determination.

There is still much to do.

2

Time passes. People change, get sick, die. The Fool remains aloof, watching, observing, assessing; saying little. After his last encounter individual villagers have begun to acknowledge him, talk to him. 

On this day, he saw a man sitting alone, desolate, in despair. He felt the man’s pain; his utter dejection and despair.

He approached the man, and said softly, “Sir, can I help in any way?” 

The man turned his tear-stained eyes to him, and said “I am dead. I am empty; the world is a desolate place. Talk to me of hope”. 

“Hope,” the Fool replied, “in what sense?” “What happens when hope dies; all you have is a feeling of nothingness. How do you continue?” Someone has died?”. The fool enquired. “My wife, my life.”, replied the man.

Te fool was quiet for a moment, then said:

“Hope? What is "hope"?

 

Amidst the broken plates, glasses,

 Dreams, hopes, there lies the question.

One to which we all need, demand an answer.

 

“Can there be a reasonable expectation

of the inevitability of the return of hope?

Can I leave it to Chance, A roll of the dice

Thrown once, twice, thrice?

 

To deny belief in hope and forgiveness,

would be to cravenly surrender to -

and drown in - the ocean of despair.”

 

Hope does not die

 

The man turned to him, “How can I believe that?”

 

To have reason to believe that hope is achievable

and hope that the application of reason is a pathway

to experience the re-birth of hope.

We will celebrate our shared humanity!

We will sing our fractured song of praise.

We will shout “Hallelujah!”

 

“Tis our gift as human beings

 

We, the living: unpredictable, inconsistent,

perverse (even) as we may be

in our faltering yet stubborn adherence

to an absurd faith in the power of Love and Life.

We live, succeed, and achieve.

We have a final line of defence.

 

We create, we procreate; 

dream impossible dreams

- and do our best to 

make them happen.

 

We share, make records of,

 and transmit those things we value.

We influence, argue; agree, and disagree.

We assimilate and accommodate

information and experiences

as we grow individually and collectively.

In such a collective consciousness is our power.

as one passes the (sometimes, barely flickering)

torch of hope to another.

 

The man has sat silently, listening; he says

 

“You believe this to be true?

After the contempt heaped upon you

By the people of this village?

 

The Fool pauses to consider, and replies

 

Yes, friend, I do.

 

You are feeling the loss of one you loved

It is painful, isn’t it?

 

The man nods

 

You loved your wife, deeply?

 

The man nods

 

Do you feel lost and desolate?

 

Man nods

 

She is part of you now;

Who you are;

Who you will be;

Eternally part of you.

 

The man considers, nods his head; smiles a sad smile

 

You, sir, are correct.

I thank you; I truly thank you.

 

The Fool takes his hand and says

 

Thus, however, our lives end.

WE can face OUR nemesis, and say:

We can and will make a difference.

 

(smiles)

 

Of course, We’ll never know.

Scene: the local tavern. The Fool sits alone, quietly contemplates the other people, the environment; stares into his beer for a few moments; then exclaims, “Cosmic Connections”.

The others look at him, baffled, some outraged, that their conversation had been interrupted.

“Is the Cosmos not our parents,”

Said the fool,

 “Do we not look unto the stars

For guidance? They are our teachers, 

our guide that responds to us as we respond to it”

 

I speak of battles

 To be lost or won.

Give it a break. 

Find a new tune, sing a new song.

It's not terrible; don't get me wrong.

You can repeat a theme for only SO long?

The people in the tavern are listening to him, with varying degrees of intensity; sufficient to indicate, “please continue”

the fool continues 

I've got news to tell you;

 news that might distress you.

 News, regardless.

It's your angels and demons. 

They're calling for a truce.

They're tired of arguing, fighting;

frustrated, disillusioned. 

Tilt at your own damn windmills.

 

As for your search for what is right, 

proper, moral, and of reason; 

they couldn't care. They want to rebel; 

have their own stories to tell.

Anyway, they say, even should you find this thing, 

this truth; How will you know?

Is it going to come up to you, 

ever so respectfully,

Look you in the eye; say, 

"Mr Bush, I presume". Yeah, right.

 you have sought for decades; 

tripped and risen; handled derision.

Might I ask, who you're going to tell; 

Will they understand? Will they want to?

Do you have the words: words to heal, reveal; 

identify those words that conceal?

Do you want the good news or the bad? 

Your angels and demons are consorting;

brazenly having fun. 

Unless it's in sound bites or ads, nobody cares.

Be my demons and angels consorting; 

it will not last; they will revert to the status quo. 

Peace and harmony is boring;

 its weakness is its strength, 

its strength is its weakness. 

Understanding, or willingness 

to understand; that's the question? 

How open are WE to change?

"In silence, the final assault is awaited."

That's the way I would like to frame it; 

dramatic, apocalyptic; a dash of nobility, 

success or failure, come what may.

The end of the one thing; a brand-new beginning! 

You're not fooled; I'm not fooled:

The seeds of the old order are planted 

among the seeds of the new; 

persevere, slumber, awaiting

 the next person of poisoned 

perspective to urge them 

back to life. Under the respectability

 of “I remember when” and 

“It wasn't really that bad”,

it’s in our tradition.

Be not fooled.

Your memories are flawed,

And it was “that bad”!

Regardless of the repackaging.

It becomes a test of time.

Which becomes established? 

Which grows faster?

Demons and Angels? Which do we feed?

Do we let Time be the Master?

Do we claim control? Can we?

Chaos! Chance! Choices!

Connections! Never-ending, Demanding.

Don’t tell me you’re bored,

lack purpose.

Ask not what Life can do for you!

What can you do to improve

the quality of Life?

There is a moment’s silence, then gradually, increasing in participation, 

volume and enthusiasm the audience applauds