#105: Applause That Refreshes (The End)

You Work Your Ass Off 'Til You've Paid
Your Dues In Every Escapade,
The Fates And Muses Loomed And Laid
To Trip Your Walking Staff.
They Taunt And Tease, And Steal And Trade . . .
Your Home, Your Heart, Your Stock And Kade,
Until You Think You've Made Their Grade,
And Passed Their Polygraph.
But No, It's Just A Masquerade,
Some Pointless Pro-Cess And Parade,
And All They Want From You Is Played
Like Jokes For Their Good Laugh . . .
But Can It Be, That Even Those
Are Played On Your Behalf?

We sat down in the Buggy, and,
it then occurred to me,
the floor was strewn with cards, but maps
were nowhere to be seen.

As Jo began to search the floor,
to look for only one,
we remembered what the Voice had said . . .
how final rides were done.

It felt quite strange now, having had
a card for each new dance,
to think, our final steps, we'd take
much more by seat of pants.

Jo looked down and found one map,
like almost in plain sight,
as if we weren't to find it 'til
we'd started on this flight.

He studied all the squiggly lines,
and tried to concentrate,
but nowhere was there to be found
a hint about this State.

About that time, the windshield went
way beyond berserk.
Words cannot describe the scene
that put our eyes to work.

So many pictures came at us,
it felt more like a film.
A movie of the entire trip,
and every concept realm.

An image of Jack Willey on
the stage at GHS
dissolved into a picture of
Laz's last address.

Ace, and Welch, and Jacey Bean,
and faces from Tri-State,
hit the window just before
a pickled Hollidge pate.

Blades with blood, and forks with food,
and empty picture frames . . .
ping pong balls and animal fur,
and ice, and dice with flames . . .

some people with no faces, and
some faces without names . . .
some founders without finders, and
some miners without claims . . .

It all came crashing down against
the glass that kept us whole . . .
a motion-collage of memories that
sought to take their toll . . .
with a fury and a vengeance that
could shake the prattled soul . . .

And then it stopped. The air turned clear.
And we felt close to home . . .
with no excitement, and no fear,
and less desire to roam.

"That's it. Good job," the Voice boomed in,
bringing us around
from something like a dreamy-fog,
with a 'final' sort of sound.

Jo's frustration boiled so fast,
ol' Mount Vesuvius
could never want to spew so much
as he spoke out for us.

"Wait a minute . . . you tellin' me
we've done this hellish trek
to learn that answers don't exist,
I mean, damn-it, what the heck!?!"

And then the Voice began to speak
the weirdest way of all,
talking about his boss and how
he had to make a call.

"I told Him there'd be trouble if
He laid it out this way.
The Creator wanted everyone
to glimpse the Judgment Day.

I told Him not to hand to man
one hint of all beyond
unless He wanted everyone
to ask what's going on.

Though man exists in Level 1,
where he can mix and stew,
The Creator wanted him to sense
the other Levels, too.

I said it was a big mistake,
and, in the end, would cause
wars and grief and wailing sounds,
and camels' backs and straws.

He had His plan, and I'll admit,
the rest of us agree,
it's pretty good for mortal souls
up to Level 3.

Okay, Boys, I'll tell you what . . .
get back in your Car.
Maybe I can sneak you through . . .
the next gate isn't far . . ."

Well, honestly, and this is weird,
with neither hand nor glove,
it felt just like the Voice got down
and gave the Car a shove.

We jumped ahead a foot or two,
and started slowing down,
then all at once the Buggy churned,
and made a roaring sound.

And, well, this time the Carriage seemed
to keep a smoothly pace.
There wasn't much in the way of stuff
to slap us in the face.

Then all of a sudden, the ride became
much rougher than before.
We bounced real hard a couple of times,
and crashed right through the floor.

There was a terrible sense of sliding through
some very gooey sort . . .
of lake of Jell-O-atinous gunk
that provided NO support!

Then we jerked and found ourselves
afloat within a sky,
without a sun, or clouds, or wind,
to measure living by.

We drifted forward and sideways with
controls, now, all but gone.
Gusts of wind were tossing us
all over, here and yon.

And then ahead, some fifty yards,
and marked in groups of ten,
we saw a football field goal post
just swaying in the wind.

We pulled up near the uprights, and
the Carriage door unlatched.
A plaque hung on the closest pole,
weather-worn and patched.

Jo-Mima started reading, and
I didn't interfere.
The words rolled smoothly from his tongue
as if he'd practiced here . . .

"Feeling, sensing, thinking thought . . .
conjecture, test, determine ought . . .
and knowledge, no requirement
for world's of change and glimpses caught
of being with intent.

Passion, though not ever sought . . .
doing what emotions taught,
and focused out with no relent,
to pay for that which can't be bought . . .
for being to be meant."

Jo-Mima's reading trailed away,
and in the silence, we
felt ourselves begin to float
up above the trees . . .

back up to that ceiling made
of thick and spongy goo . . .
to slowly gurgle through it, and
emerge at Level 2.

Whatever trials and mysteries that
ol' Jo and I endured,
it quickly disappeared, as then
both our minds were skewered . . .

by the purest crystal clarity
of revelation's light . . .
the sun of realization shown
to chase away all night.

For a time we sat there silently,
just thinking through events,
of the feelings and the visions and,
the mandates and the hints . . .

and every kind of lesson withe
ach noise and every bruise,
and then, we found this notion that
we'd soon prefer to lose.

That's right, again we realized
messages on plaques
still never gave us answers that
might help us grasp the facts.

I turned to Jo and said at last,
"Hey, wait a minute here.
It just occurred to me that things
still aren't very clear.

I mean, what answer have we now,
we didn't have before?
It's not like we've peered deeply at
our life's most inner core.

And when you stop to think of it . . .
aren't we left to feel
without participation, life
might not be all that real . . .

that is, it seems, the lessons weren't . . .
'the answer's so and so,'
but much more like, 'here's a bunch of stuff
you only think you know!'

And then we drop into some soup,
and fall down to a field
that looks like high school football with
a cheer carved in a shield.

And, tell me you can understood
a single line that you
read from off that plaque back there.
Crap, this whole thing's poo!"

"Damn it," Jo just blurted out,
"I really wish you'd been
quiet 'til we might be sure
we'd made it home again.

I'd made my mind up, going forth,
that I would treat this trip
as just a Disney-esque-apade . . .
X-phil-o-comic strip.

We came and got all beaten up
to learn a truth more true
than any we might ever find
by any worldly view . . .

and after tackling concepts in
the form of every beast,
were dealt solutions that we knew
weren't answers in the least."

But then, I interrupted Jo . . .
if just to save my mind . . .
I hated thinking that our quest
was just a waste of time.

"Well, let's not go crazy, now.
We wouldn't just suggest
that all those lesson puzzles were
no more than fruitless quest?

I think we've been enlightened some . . .
not just to what is true,
but to the fact that notions mean
far less than actions do."

"Yes, of course, that's right enough,"
Jo-Mima then returned,
"that's a fair description of
some of what we've learned . . .

especially as we capped it with
a puzzle on a plaque . . .
how wonderful, we're finished now!
So, now, can we head back?"

Clearly, Jo was worried some,
and maybe he could see
some of what still lay in store
for us through history . . .

but I was confident that ours
had been a fruitful ride.
So I was now prepared to treat
the whole thing with more pride.

"My common sense can make quick work
of learning stopping here.
Hell, 'learning' is a concept, too . . .
if that, alone, ain't clear.

The thing that strikes me, now we've come
up to the finish line,
is 'knowing' ain't the answer . . .
at least it isn't mine!"

Jo and I conversed some more,
but pretty soon, deduced . . .
the Buggy sat there like a fruit,
waiting to be juiced.