#101: The Tripartite Rite Of Right (Truth)

Men Will Separate, Stuff And Size,
Count And Catalog, And Categorize . . .
Detail, Divide, And Systematize
Reality's Rigmarole.
But Do We Ever Internalize
Things To Really Make Us Wise,
In Spite Of All We Organize?
Or, Is It Just How We Devise,
To Ponder And Pigeonhole?

Although we'd suffered many-a ride,
now came the trip that showed
much more of what we'd yet to learn,
and means to be bestowed.

We were cruisin' along, with a noticeable
lack of windshield blur,
when a light brightened, the source of which
we just could not infer.

By the time the Carriage came to rest,
the light had turned so bright
we covered our eyes with cards and maps,
trying to save our sight.

We tried real hard to hold the doors.
They opened just the same,
revealing little or nothing on
a dingy, barren plain.

We stepped outside, relieved to see
the burning brightness passed,
but more concerned to find it was
no spot for anchor's cast.

No grass. No trees. No flowering plants . . .
not even any dirt,
except some dusty, gaseous stuff,
that smelled like liverwort.

"We're lucky we can stand on this,"
Jo observed at once.
I said they had to let us, or
their jokes would have no brunts.

"Off in the distance . . . what is that?"
Jo was pointing right.
Sure enough, the horizon glowed . . .
a tiny arc of light.

We headed off for yonder light,
our challenge clearly lain.
We had to go and do our best,
the source, to ascertain.

Well, if I could list the pitfalls that
we met upon that trail,
then this story'd last forever, and
most likely make you wail.

The holes and chasms of every kind
that came into our view . . .
blind alleys even showed they could
pop up a time or two.

And after we walked for what seemed like
a couple of miles, I'd say,
We turned to find the Buggy sat
about ten yards away.

Shocked, we turned around to check
the progress that we'd made.
The light, now close, confirmed we'd done
some part of our crusade.

But another hour passed before
we finally came to where
"1 + 1 = 2" was carved
in stone of brilliant glare.

But we just stood, transfixed a while,
and tried to catch our breath.
The evening was approaching, but,
that day would see no death.

As soon as we were rested up,
Jo looked again to see
another distant, glowing light,
that called enticingly.

With shrugging shoulders, we headed off
on another terrible hike,
dodging a brand new set of traps,
deep chasms, and the like.

Finally, we came upon the light
that lay there in the gray:
"2 + 2 = 4" was carved
in glowing stone, and lay . . .

upon the gaseous nothing-scape,
and begged our minds to jump
for answers we could feel too ripe . . .
to questions far too plump!

But Jo just stared at the carving, while
I saw the Buggy stood
where I could throw a whiffle ball,
and bounce it off the hood.

"Well, this is shit," I said to Jo.
"I'm tired of chasing these
simple answers to the puzzles of
all life's mysteries.

It's too much work, this plodding through
a simple State of Math."
Jo answered me, "I agree, it brings
a momentary wrath."

At just that second, the Buggy cranked,
but we could hardly tell,
nor did we ever get the chance
to verify it well.

It felt as if that whole State was
erased from under us,
and a brand new State appeared complete
and instantaneous.

Now grass and stone, gravel and sand,
and dirt of every type
appeared with flowers and trees with fruit,
from seed to very ripe.

I thought the Buggy might be there,
but underneath that green,
it was just no place to now be heard,
and even less, be seen.

Our only hint of the prior State,
the carving had gone soft,
from glowing stone to fence posts that
were fully ivy coifed.

"Okay, ol' buddy, now tell me how'd
we get from there to here?"
I asked, so irritated with
these worlds that disappear.

But Jo was not to answer me,
fixating as he does,
upon what used to be carved stone,
and flaming as it was.

Well, I'd say it was still glowing, but
I wouldn't say we'd call
our mathematical formula
a carving now at all.

It was sort of like the burning bush
that we had seen before,
ivy-covered hedge in flame,
"2" and "2" and "4."

And no sooner had we come to grips
with new terrain and feel,
than Jo went back to studying
equations, now, for real.

"Well, I can't deny this number tune
hasn't changed a tone,
except this flaming, sculpted hedge
just ain't the same as stone."

So I asked my friend, and having watched
as he was going through
every curve and dimension of
the equals, 4 and 2:

"Okay, you say there is no change,
but then you say there is.
Now, grade me, Bro, on any curve,
but I won't pass that quiz."

"Well, first, the twos are off, you see?
One's larger, I believe.
And then this four looks like an eight
under all these leaves."

"Well, so what's your point?" I asked.
"We know what's under there."
"Well, yeah," Jo said, "but only 'cause
we knew what to compare!

Someone else might come along
and miss the entire deal,
without our history helping him
recognize what's real."

"What you're saying is others might
see different things expressed,
and all because the fire's heart,
would show a new context."

Just then our universe was turned
back to empty gray,
while the formula glowed on shapelessly . . .
a Jell-O-like flambee.

"Hell, this is only getting worse,"
I exhaled my fatigue.
"This whole place is either nuts,
or we're beyond our league."

"Wait a minute," Jo said, like
he had some confidence.
I held my breath, knowing that he
had paid attention whence.

"You said 'context,' and then it changed
as if you'd found the word.
And there's something about this formula
that's flaming just absurd!

I think you've found the answer, Bo . . .
as it's ostensible . . .
this message has been burning through
all different kinds of fuel."

Well, Jo was onto something, but,
I couldn't give my mind
to any counting gallivant,
or puzzle of that kind.

I guess that my frustration grew
to more than I could hide.
First grade numbers were leaving me
a bit dissatisfied.

The more we watched the Jell-O burn,
the more it lost its shape.
"That's it," I said, "the lessons stop.
School's out at this landscape!

Go ahead . . . stand here all day,
and study stupid flames . . .
but it won't change the ones and twos,
no matter what it claims."

When the Buggy's door popped opened then,
it almost knocked us down.
I lost my step, and fell to my seat . . .
while Jo just turned around.

"Where's this from?" he asked wide-eyed.
I jumped back to my feet.
"And how has this thing followed us,
permit me to entreat?"

Perhaps it was some instinct that
inspired us to take
a moment's look around at our
flaming arithmetic.

Now imagine our surprise to find
the Jell-O back to stone,
as clear as polished marble where
now the formula shown.

Shaking my head, I walked away.
"Damn, if this ain't crazy!
I mean, it ain't like we aren't trying,
smart . . . or just plain lazy."

"Believe it or not," the Voice returned
the way the sky might shout,
"plenty of creatures have found this test
easy to figure out.

Experience tells me that you'll try.
For that, I credit you.
But there are no points for effort years
whatever you accrue.

I'm going to lend a hand again,
though I won't stop to count
all the times that you've been bucked,
for me to help remount.

You expected a fancy fanfare, or
a band and waving flags
when you dreamt beneath the quilt of Truth,
and its elemental rags."

"Truth? Truth?" My frustration did
take over my good sense.
"There's nothing true about this place,
except its insolence."

It was lucky for me the Voice had grown
increasingly fond of us,
allowing me to act myself,
and a bit ridiculous.

"Of all of these Philosophy States,
Truth may be the one,
toughest to learn and understand,
even when you're done.

The problem is that Truth is not,
like many other States,
one place, one word, one visit, or
one battle with the fates.

A trio of strange landscapes greets
all Truth's visitors.
And four words, said in order, are
key to its exit doors.

So first, there is the light of Truth,
and that's what we call 'Fact.'
Nothing found in any world
can make this light diffract.

And this, alone, has often proved
to be the final thought
of some who've left real knowledge of
Truth to be half-sought.

As you have found, that light demands
a persevering soul
who seeks despite the plethora
of trap and obstacle.

Yet, the height, when finally scaled
up to final climb,
you discover that the light of Fact
was near you all the time.

Then, all at once, you find the source
of light has changed on you.
And many good souls will give up here,
deciding nothing's True.

Good fortune blessed Jo's vision, and
he saw the Fact reflect,
and understood it's always right,
though sometimes not correct.

So Context is the changing fuel
within which Facts will burn . . .
while some men dwell too far below
the flame, and fail to learn.

You were not fooled by Context, but
you had no time to rest,
since Truth will not come simply by
a memorizing test.

The light was there. The Facts were real,
with Context all but gone.
You had to Will the Facts to be
to keep the light turned on."

"Uh, pardon me," my partner spoke,
"permit me, if I might,
confirm that I was always taught
that only Truth was light."

"Truth shines brighter than any Fact . . .
too bright for mortal eyes.
That it's made up of other things,
men fail to realize.

Like the formula that you both pursued,
as philosophical sleuths,
Fact and Context are required,
plus Will, to equal Truth.

I trust you boys are rested now . . .
all maps and cards aside . . .
they're useless when it comes down to
your last and final ride."

With that the Voice was silent, and
we knew that it was gone.
We climbed back in a running Car,
determined to go on.