I heard it said there is but one best entry into the heart of a novel: “Barabbas came to us by sea.”
Meanwhile, I train my blog entries like puppies in a corybantic litter. Come. Stay. Roll over. Bark. Meow. Fetch. Eat. Defecate. In the right places.
And when these tired commands exhaust themselves, I lie back in resignation and accept that blogs, like puppies, are Mother Nature’s training ground. Let’s see where Darwin leads this generation…
Volte-face, I scalpel the beginnings (because they are all that matters to people who don’t read past the third sentence): “Lord, I have a cock the size of Africa.”
Barabbas would be disappointed. There he stands, shoulders of religion and history weighed upon his back, ushering through the tales told about him to some incongruent sea. Why should he be coming? And to whom? And why by sea? Which sea? On a boat? On a Friday? On the Sabbath? With sandals? Convicted? Runaway? Escaped?
Or did Barabbas, by the comical quirk of Nature, simply look all too similar to that outspoken Paul—the very same who lived on ships between the colic of Jerusalem and the playground tiffs of Corinth? That would be rich. But it would be rich regardless, because there is much to talk about.
A cock the size of Africa, however. That’s just crude. It grabs your attention like a sidelined freeway accident. Not glamorous, just sick. And where the ambulance rolls is always predictable. There is no post-prandial conversation about it. What would we say, after all? Not, “Oh, how Europe suffered in her wake.” Not, “The lives of men were made better in the suffering it chronicled.” Not even, “It made me smile a bit, which I rarely do. And that is an accomplishment.”
No. Only: “It was sick.” And that, being what it is, need not be said at all.
For God’s sake, come to me for a spell, would you, dear Barabbas? Be my muse and help me dust away this crude pornographic nonsense. I’m a better writer than that. Wouldn’t you say?