 |
| Melech Tzipardeiagh & Rosario Dawson |
Tea for
Three at Hatter & Hare's
Emerging
from a late-afternoon haze, a waking dream, it must be, because my sleeping
dreams are quite different, more like silent movies in kaleidoscope.
God appears – but in the form of a
frog, a cartoon frog wearing a boater
and big bow-tie. He says, “There are no longer consequences.”
Now what? Do I say, “Wait!” − because the
frog seems to be dancing his way off-stage? I do: “Wait. Help me think this
through. Does it mean that it doesn’t matter what I do? Or, does it mean one thing no longer follows
another in any accountable way, which would not mean that I might not be held accountable
but that no one could account for anything?” I hesitate but plunge on: “If the
latter, how has the world changed?”
And the frog chirrups or burps, “I
rescind my offer.”
“Wait!
Did you make an offer? You stated a fact.”
“Perhaps. How clever of you to notice.
I rescind my fact.”
“Shit!” And I don’t believe I’ve said
that, “Shit!” to God, even guised as a
frog, but I have: “Shit! You can do that?”
“Of course.”
“Any chance you’ll rescind your rescission?”
“Perhaps. Another time. In the interim
you might consider if you’re going to agree to it or try again to parse the
terms.”
“Yes.”
“ Au revoir” he waves. And I heard him
declaim as he rose out of sight: “You’re much too serious. Lighten up, my dear.”
I thought I heard him . . . .
Scene
Two. I’m telling Rosario Dawson about this, and she says it’s “bullshit.” She
seems to think that may be a little harsh and adds: “I’m not saying you didn’t see this. But God
is not ever a frog.”
“He was a pigeon once.”
“Doves and pigeons are related; but
they’re different birds.”
“He was a dove then.”
“Can frogs fly?”
“Not normally, but . . . .”
“He is right though − about you.” And she sucked in her breath, almost
gasped. “Wait no.” Takes another breath. “Not God. Maybe the devil. It’s
something the devil might say, ‘No consequences.’”
“I don’t think . . . .”
“No, no. It wasn’t a frog. You don’t
know the difference between a pigeon and a dove. It wasn’t a frog; it was a
toad. Don’t the angels find Satan
Squat
like a Toad, close at the ear of Eve;
Assaying
by his Devilish art to reach
The
Organs of her Fancy, and with them forge
Illusions
as he list, Phantasms and dreams
. . . .
discontented thoughts,
Vain
hopes, vain aims, inordinate desires
and so
forth.”
Out of the mouths of babes, I’m
thinking, but I don’t say it, because it might be misinterpreted.
“But, one thing whoever does have right:
you do need to lighten up, amigo.”
She looks at me. She looks serious. It
must be mock-serious; she’s an actress. I say, “Do you want to go dancing then?”
Not intentionally; those are the words that come out of my mouth.
“With you?”
You
pour your light heart out to some girls, and . . . nothing. “Adios,” she exclaimed as she rose out of
sight.
v
(bicbw)
No comments:
Post a Comment