On the occasion of a birthday that is today, I am posting here a small origin story:
A lesson on our origin as a soaring prince
Today we are going to have a smile. I will take it down from the shelf and you will put it between your teeth like a picture of money. You will lift your eyebrows like they are heavy, and—I’m speculating now—you will lift the smile with your arms and walk it over to me. I will put it back on the shelf.
There, we have had a smile, let’s progress to the farther mysteries.
For instance, who is she? I am talking about Henge. Some say she is a fan of mother’s, like the kind for dispelling memories on hot days. Others say, We have seen her out on the end of the land demonstrating to the odds her superior hopping and crouching abilities, only Knob Boy gets in her way.
And so Henge is seen from both angles with the sun behind her eyes, nothing behind the sun but the knot in her pink bandana. And the swells of the sea.
Knob Boy is nobody.
What did mother ever accomplish to attract a dispeller like Henge? Questions are a skin we can disappear in. Run! We run after the ball down the street to the bottom of the ravine, where we cannot hear our mother’s bark-call. Only down here in the silence we can hear the twitches inside of us. They sound like kindlings in a small flame. Mother, if she is mother at all, will have to find us. As if we are under a spell and can’t do the finding of ourselves ourself.
Henge, who she really is, has been lent to us by the ends of dreams, when we have just begun to wake up and when we have not yet woken up, this is a liminal stage in early childhood, everyone knows that you’re you except you because you still think you are a prince with wings soaring over the grasslands of your own contentment, which is a warm feeling between your elbows and your knees like you have just peed, and sometimes there is a feeling of sparkling and sending off shoots and rays of gold, and of exploding due to being so great. What a happy prince we are, I wonder if Knob Boy is ever as happy.
Anyway, in an apotheosis of do-goodery, Henge finds us at the bottom of the ravine, where we have been resting in our princeliness, and pulls us, delivers us to our mother. In this way we are born, some say, and others do not ever speak.