My mythic adult is seen by the crowds around me; never is the charade exposed. Close inspection has been suspended so we can keep each other’s secrets. Circulating through the crowd, these children are impoverished from carrying this load of pretense. Dropping this burden is a risk far too great. Exposure invites attack. Stand tall; act brave. Unreasonable expectations are the water that moves the wheel, the power that generates this ongoing play. Hamlet is dead, yet I reprise the part daily. Daily I watch my fellows do the same. I mimic a ghost I never knew in life. Did it ever live? Or is it only a mythic adult?
Plant some things for their flower and others for their fruit.
I have my say, though my fear is
that I constantly repeat myself;
very much the way a crow calls the same thing endlessly,
but it all has different meanings to the crow.
I would offer code keys to my readers
if I could lay my hands on one.
My mind whispers that the soothing
people get from my work is like the calm
induced by chanting monks.
Possibly it is more the actor’s trick of reading repetitive lines
each time putting the emphasis on a different word;
a way of squeezing all the juice from nonsense.
I jot ideas swearing these lines are to be found somewhere
in my previous work, perhaps whole pages are redundant.
Finally I stop this fight reminding myself I have but one voice
and what I accuse myself of as similarity might merely be my style.
You are reading selections from Sober on the Way to Sane and More Lines From My Life by Sherrie Theriault