We were the children of delusion--a tepid, spendthrift parent, but loving and persuasive nonetheless, like Mother building forts and spaceships from old newspapers and dog hair-coated blankets. We loved her. We believed her. We would defend from the parapets. We would fly to the moon.
But like all children, we grew up. Mother became imperfect, flawed, human. The newspapers were yellowed. The blankets reeked. We moved on.
The Spire beckoned so like demons to a damsel we flocked. "Here," it said, "here you'll find it. Amidst the stones and sycophants, a darling little life dwells. Come, children, come."
And we preyed upon the chance. We hacked through vines with machetes that read "Masters of Public Policy." The blade was dull, but we all had them. Surely El Dorado was around the very next corner. We'd spend nights in the jungle. Sometimes we called Mother. She'd mention the forts, the spaceships, and, for a time, we grew homesick.
But we did turn that corner. There was no darling life. There was no El Dorado. What we saw was a microphone sprouting from the earth. We were suspicious.
"Should we kill it?" one of the others asked.
"Perhaps," whispered another, "But I'd rather we stab it with our steely knives--"
"--but you just can't kill the beast." a third person finished.
Sure. It was a bard's tale we were all familiar with. But why did it come into our heads now? At this moment?
The machetes fell from our hands. We gathered around the microphone and a Great Song flowed forth. Then another. We bellowed tales and words that were not our own, donned costumes like so many players, formed alliances of respect and good humor.
And while The Spire was in the distance, where it remains to this day, we found solace in the act.
And sometimes, dear reader, when the group looks my way and I am handed the microphone, I think of the forts Mother and I would build, and of the spaceships we flew, and I no longer see the words on the newspapers. I no longer see the seams on the blanket. I become the singer of songs. The words are my own. These clothes are my skin. And I own a moment that The Spire cannot steal away.
Also, it's really fun. read more