eshet chayil mi yimtza

A good question, let us consider it carefully. She took tea with the witch onceuponatime and discussed it on tiptoe. The witch speaks in well-reasoned tufts of nothingness, on this subject as all others. Candy-floss and quick suppression of suspiration define the meat of her discourse. So the conversation was like that, set to the rhythm of the spoons against the cupsandsaucers.

The witch does not understand what a woman is, what a man is, what a person is. She can only make them with words.

That is why we take tea with the witch in cautious charity.

êšeṯ ḥayil mî yimṣā

Surely, a worthy query! In the shade of the swamp at last she put it to the little prophet, and to her surprise got no answer. The prophet ran dirty hands through short-cropped hair and took out a cigarette but didn’t quite manage to light it. The prophet hissed through the nose and kicked at the moss. The prophet shrugged.

“I thought the words were out here, I’m asking you for a word,” she said. “Give me the word.”

“If I knew that one I’d go straight to Heaven,” said the prophet. “What do you think keeps me from the mountaintop?”

A crow lifted from the treetops with an uneasy croak.

אֵֽשֶׁת־  חַ֭יִל  מִ֣י  יִמְצָ֑א

What a question that is! Don’t ask the boy with the angel face, all he knows is dancing, all he’s ever known are tomcats and dogfoxes. My little Irish, my little syncretist, you cut-rate Aquinas you. He’s hand-in-glove with the king of jacks these days, the little liar and the big one, that dark paw enfolding that pale hand. You’d have to unlace their fingers before you got a straight answer out of him. Even then it wouldn’t be worth much.

He and the prophet were always closer than they looked; you revile most the thing that fits most neatly into the velvety pouch of your heart.

a woman of valor, who can find?

Oh my loves my lo-ammi, oh tiger-children and witch-women, I am so full of words! They bunch together and get stuck in my eyes and my hands.

Timeo Danaos indeed, for are not most of the dead the dead the dead from Greece? Socrates is a sharp-clawed manticore, and Plato a gargantuan water-bear too far-sighted for spectacles. Odysseus is a jackal, Helen the butcher-bird, and Athena grey-eyed goddess has more blood in her chamber than Bluebeard. Those who love them become like them, and their teeth are admirably strong. What big, bright, white, wet, shining, solid, well-rooted cuspids and bicuspids and cusps of all kinds! They grow fat and flourishing.

Out here in the desert the winds blow through my eye-sockets. Out here the vulture and I discuss the words of the abbas in measured tones, with long pauses that the sunlight fills. Out here the bones in my hands hum but gently.

The prophet and the Marigold Woman hesitate still on the verge of the swamp. The elephants have one last chance to achieve their pirouettes. The morning-doves mutter amongst themselves, watching the king of jacks with suspicious eyes. The clouds sit low and weep occasional tears in an occasional eulogy.

Out here in the desert the sun tries to find a finger-hold in the shade of the cells. Out here I know two things, two things and a third. Out here the dust is warm.

Out here, I wait.

SCENE: The prophet and the Marigold Woman look at the trees with considering eyes. It is night, and they are alone. The moon is not quite–not quite–full. The clouds haze around it. The bottlefield spreads its twinkling fruit behind them.

Prophet: We can’t stay there.

Marigold Woman: Why not?

Prophet: I don’t know. They won’t let us. The witch is still out there, and the bees, and the robots, and–oh!–a million and one things. The elephants–

Marigold Woman: The elephants are leaving.

Prophet: I guess. For now. I don’t trust those elephants.

Marigold Woman: scowling I will never go back to the witch’s kingdom.

Prophet: Oh, you will. You will. You’ll do it every day. You’ve closed the doors nice and tight but you know what? I think you just wove yourself another cocoon.

Marigold Woman: What if I did? What’s it to you?

Prophet: I wish I knew. I only wish I knew. removes cap, scratching head Got a light?

Marigold Woman: No.

3.3.3

SCENE: The elephants are here! The elephants continue to shuffle about in the moonlight, but they still have not got the beat. The Cheshire watches them from the spot where the garden gnome used to stand, in the tall grass.

Cheshire: Look, the king of jacks is in the window again. this to the boy with the angel face

Boy: Oh, let him stay.

Cheshire: looks at him sharply Oh?

Boy: Yeah, maybe–maybe I like him. Maybe we need him around here. I mean, where would I be if I wasn’t needed? Maybe if he left–maybe I– he half-raises his hands, a helpless expression making his eyebrows slip

Cheshire: You’re afraid, my precious foxling.

Boy: N… nobody needs me any more. he shoves his hands in his pockets, glancing away from the dancing-lawn and down along the path, all edged with monarch butterflies and white wire, that leads to the pool. The sound of scorpions and blacksnakes drifts through the cool air.

Cheshire: What is it you think makes you so necessary, foxling?

Boy: kicks at the ground and frowns more deeply, but does not respond

Cheshire: Bless you.

Boy: I didn’t sneeze.

Cheshire: Who said anything about sneezes?

The elephants continue to shuffle about.

My blood is made of yellow sunshine, it only dries red-brown homely.

Blessed ones, I strive to be whatever you need, an abba-of-every-shape that I may have words for each and every inexpressibly adored visitor. I hang in little ribbons some days, it is a relief to know that my job has been done well. But sometimes, on those days, a little voice comes in the dirty sunlight and he whispers to me. He suggests most subtly that I have not done right, I have not done enough, or perhaps I have done too much.

I would die for them, I tell him, is that not enough?

But what good are gifts given in folly?

That is the king of jacks, that one, he’s a clever poker player and he plays the blues like nobody’s business. But he stole the blues from the oldest bluesman that ever was, who hung himself with someone else’s hands. That man knew how to die for ‘em, all right. One he’d finished there was no point anyone having a go.

So why do I keep trying?

He was a tiger, and his children are tiger-cubs. So why does the king of jacks sit on my window-sill licking his chops and whispering wolf-words?

Mostly I don’t know what to be, if the original bluesman, the original abba, the certified original tiger, got the last word in. What other key is there to play in? They only taught me the one, I can’t jump to the next fifth on the circle.

Maybe if I knew that, maybe I wouldn’t feel so kindly towards the king of jacks. Maybe I could finish up that dear john and change all the locks.

Who knows?

Prophet and Marigold Woman are at last on the move again, but slowly, brother, slowly, looking at Mt. Fuji with snail’s eyes. The air bubbles with thick-tongued thoughts looking for heads to inhabit.

The dead the dead the dead, they whisper insistent hissing suspicions of every tradition that someone else preached. If you love truth too well they will catch your ankles in cold hands, warbling in their throats false promises of gnosis too delicious for words.

Avoid the graveyards, if you love truth too well, for your jealousy will open your ears to the dead the dead the dead, and rob you of your discernment. They will tempt you and shame you and slide their fingers through your skull, so that the cold air blows through and the night rot sets in.

If you love truth, beware the dead the dead the dead, their tongues are thick with winsome words.

It’s true, they do not mean to destroy you. It’s true, some of them mouth truths most healthful and nourishing. It’s true, a thicker hide might let you walk among them unscathed.

But if you love truth, beware. Those who love truth too well are always most vulnerable to doubt.

3.3.3

I am floating high on the crest of pain, admiring the spots and speckles at arm’s length. Nothing can touch me, nothing can touch me, up here where the sky is clear and the geese are outlined so crisp and the dead the dead the dead are silent.

How do I make you understand, it’s like strong drink, it’s like success.

How do I make you understand how easy it is

And how high I float, above everything, untouchable, not powerful not weak, not happy nor sad, not boy nor girl, not wanted nor unwanted, a yellow balloon above the rooftops. Sometimes I think about loneliness, but I can float above that, too.

3.3.3

when the world is so full of words, and your life is so short, how do you dare open your mouth?

3.3.3

that warm-weather devil jumps to life and tries to break out at the pores, reaching long fingers around teeth and staring through your eyes with his own.

They kept walking.