#66: Act Shuns Don't Talk At All! (Effort)

You Might Decide That Life's Too Fast.
Maybe You Want Someone To Cast
You In The Role Of Scholiast,
Or Whatever You Think May Fly.
Burglar, Bugger, Bum, Bombast,
Or Anything Else You Find A Blast . . .
The World Will Ever Flabbergast
You 'Til The Day You Try.

It's strange to wake as from a dream,
and come full face-to-face
with a condition of your own design . . .
but you don't know the place.

Well, so it was when we were shown
new incidences
by a radio sound, "Desperado,
you better come to your senses . . ."

"Hey, desperadoes," the DJ boomed,
and from a hidden source.
Jo and I quickly recognized
the Voice conveyed remorse.

"I gave you guys a history dream,
but recess time has passed.
But, now you boys are running late.
It's time to hit the gas."

We looked around at maps and cards . . .
some of them, decoded.
The Voice had lent a hand since we
were clearly under-loaded.

Jo reached down to the pile of cards,
and picked up one close by.
A radio station name was there,
I read, "KTRY."

I didn't even touch the card,
and never saw the map.
The windshield blurred with often-seen
psycho-philo crap.

I guess we were now jaded some
with all that we had shared.
For all the weird stuff flying around,
made neither of us scared.

In seconds we were witness to
a junkman's true delight . . .
a valley view of trash and stuff
from our old landing site.

We disembarked, surveying fields
stretched out for miles around.
"Jo," I said, "do we always land
on this elevated mound?"

Jo didn't pause to answer me.
His concentration stayed
fixed upon the sculpted works
filling dell and glade.

"So, what all do we have down here?"
I scanned the scene below.
"It looks like fraternities partied here
with Rodin and Christo."

Hundreds, and maybe thousands of
some structures filled the plain . . .
composed of every material, and,
no two designs the same.

As I trained my eye to focus more
clearly on each one,
I was awed to see the artistry
with which they'd all been done.

Each one of them, majestic,
in spite of size or shape.
They looked to stretch to infinity,
and through the whole landscape.

"I don't believe this," Jo-Mima said,
"this is something else.
I like the occasional sculpted piece,
but there are no parallels . . .

for what I'm viewing in this field.
There is no gallery
with work like this. It's almost like
each one can talk to me.

There's pain, and anguish, and suffering . . .
and love and charity.
They're all intense and different, and . . .
Well, what's it meant to be?"

I turned and looked behind us then,
and I could almost see
each sculpture emit a steamy ray
of psychic energy.

"Each one, a different message, and,
all claim, eternally true . . ."
Jo-Mima went on translating them . . .
then I could hear them too.

"They're beautiful," I said, awestruck and
unable to say much more.
I heard each work attesting to
a sole, unique sculptor.

Jo shocked me then, by interpreting
the 'feel' of more than one . . .
that ninety-nine percent of them
were far from being done.

"We don't get many visitors here."
We jumped to hear the sound
of a stranger approaching from behind,
and as we turned around . . .

we met a man who looked as old
as anyone could be,
and still have legs to walk, or eyes
clear enough to see.

"I guess you boys are on the trip.
Every blue moon, or so,
somebody stops to visit me.
I'm never certain, though . . .

why it is they work so hard
to learn the obvious.
And you boys look 'bout the same as all
the others, more or less."

"We're not sure what we're here for.
We've learned a lot so far."
Jo continued, "This place goes
way beyond the par.

The very intensity of these works
does expand the mind,
but the message remains a mystery.
Is the password hard to find?"

"Ha, you travelers are all alike,
anxious to move along . . .
too busy trying to learn the dance
to stop and hear the song . . .

so intent on cleaning your plate, are you,
you fail to taste a bite . . .
so eager to grasp the vision that
you never catch a sight.

You miss the wonder of each step,
impatient with the trail . . .
so obsessed with winning that
you almost always fail.

These works shine brightly and announce
their message loud and clear.
You look at them and listen, but,
you neither see nor hear."

A bit perturbed by the preaching, I
snapped back, "Okay, it's art."
I couldn't believe my reaction caused
the Phil-Mobile to start.

The old man smiled and nodded,
"I'm sorry to see you go.
There's so much more for you to learn,
so much more to know.

As the curator of this wondrous land,
it is my job to guide
the visitor past these images
to essence they can hide.

You've stumbled on an exit word,
but it was obvious.
Eventually, it would have been
easy for you to guess.

You have no time. Well, be it so,
better than your guessing,
I'd rather take a moment to
offer you the lesson.

You see, your world is full of folks
measuring themselves
by wins and losses, material gain,
and trophies on their shelves.

They pretend acquiring another yard,
to symbolize a win,
means everything, while failing is
to lose three feet again.

So, lives become a game of dance,
stepping back and forth,
all effort spent not moving south,
and none on moving north.

Such mindless preoccupations with
the map, and not the trip,
keep them ignorant of all truths,
and final championship.

You see, each effort you undertake
is just a piece of work.
No matter what the duty's size,
one must never shirk.

The sincerity of trying is
expression of the heart.
It shows up here in pristine form . . .
a noble work of art.

Here, work is magnificent with
nothing to divide
the successful effort from the failed . . .
it's art that one has tried."

I chose that time to interrupt,
"Are you there telling me
accomplishment doesn't matter at all,
philosophically?"

"Though in your world, accomplishment
seems all you ever count . . .
where measuring material gain
is all but paramount . . .

that tends to be a world wherein
a winner will take all.
Little respect is paid to those
who either lose or draw.

The opinion of your peers may mean
everything to you,
or maybe numbers of dollars is
the measure of your due.

Regardless how you see yourself,
and evaluate your life,
the worldly means of measurement
are relatively rife.

Now, look upon your acts as though
no one will ever see
whether or not you attained your goal,
or failed it miserably.

Don't allow life's trophies and
the smell of victory's rose
to blind you to the truths that all
the failures can disclose.

Set the standards for yourselves
of effort you'll apply,
and once you have begun that task,
make no compromise.

Accomplishment is a measure, then
of honoring your plan.
The expression of one's effort is
the measure of a man.

Or, measure yourselves in such a way
that helps to get you by,
but know that all the artistry
is measured by your try."

With that, the old man's face and form
began to fade away.
We stood there on our hill, alone,
above the art display.

Without a word we stepped into
our borrowed Buggy bus.
That lesson was so heavy, words
felt almost blasphemous.

I simply fastened my seat belt while
Jo-Mima fumbled cards.
I winced to think of all the debris
which normally bombards . . .

our view as we pursue our quest,
stopping in each State.
If only all this learning were
a task to abnegate.