Date: Sun, 11 Jun 1995 19:12:03 EDT From: ave scriptus Subject: SUB, ESSAY: The Mission Comments: To: the walls Under moonlight, sunlight, clouds, and other whims, the mission stands. The edges of its walls are deceptive. Sometimes they seem to stand tall and white, shining, splitting the grimy ordinary world from that wonder they shelter. Sometimes they tumble down, down, down, to let in the oily slime that stinks and drains from the bottoms of gutters and the edges of pus-filled diseased sores of society. They move, they shift, they hide and then draw back, revealing, reviling, reviewing, realigning minds that were so solid just moments before. The walls themselves are strange. Here stands one cast in the next century's best materials, with the light of elves gleaming from the core, and edges sharp enough to shave a thought. Beside it slumps a pile of mud, mixed with drying grass and straw, with finger, hand, palm and even footprints somehow etched into that crumbling dirt from the inside. A white bone lies below it, gnawed by uncertainty. And the next is but a wall of mist, dancing below the waterfall that vanishes somewhere behind it... There are marks of fire on these walls. Explosive devices, from the primitive flash of young gods' lightning to the latest playthings of the physicists, have been detonated here, and will continue to scour away the dust and cobwebs from time to time. Admittedly, the soot builds into interesting patterns of life and death sometimes, but personally, I've warmed my fingers at those fires once or twice too often, and found the heartache left by those dry winds too harsh. When sparks fly and the heat rises in the mission, what can anyone do? Some, frightened and disbelieving that anything good can come from the dance of Shiva, run. Frankly, when they run, they give power to those who dream of destruction. This is not a condemnation of that impulse to flight, for many wish they could run and hide. It is only recognition that leaving the sandbox to the bullies is not a victory. It is not, no matter what the bullies think, a defeat, but it is not a victory. Rather it is simply a sapping of strength and will that could be put to better service. And in time, the cycle turns, and the universe is reborn...the bullies are revealed as merely full of bull, and the toreador parades... Others, mistaking their strategic options, fight back. Chain reaction, thy name is explosive, let us avoid that tactical weapon which assures mutual destruction, amen! In mushroom cloud, erectus. Some turn away from the sparks and flashes of misspent bits to bow down before the muse. That sheltered little statuette, covered with blackest soot, face twisted and misshapen by the blows and slag of older defeats, still stands in a corner of the mission. And behold, I bring you tidings of great peculiarity, for from those sockets, two rivers of sadness and joy flow, cleansing the mind and soul and making fingers jump on keyboards new and old...yeah, verily, wetting the ground of all being into wild creative outbursts! in scriptus delight us. Oh, don't be too surprised if your muse stands there, while my muse sits over here, and yet another muse lies languidly above us...for in this mission, there are many amusements and far more muses than are dreamed of in poor Horatio's philosophy. So in the midst of the firestorm, despite the temptations and admonitions of the sirens to take cover and bury ourselves in subterranean shelters--at the mission, on the bleachers, in the gothic heights of the lectionary, or kneeling on the modern computer seats before their screens, the worshippers praise their muses. Again, and again. And the walls ring with hosannas, echo the fervent cries of those touched to give testimony, and... Those who came to fight may learn another way. They may yet learn that when they castigate, when they snipe, burn, and try to gain attention through destruction and noise, they are simply hurting themselves. Ah, yes, I dare to cry for you...for when I seek to understand, to see how you can believe that what you are saying is true, and to imagine for myself a reality and a life from which such statements might emerge, I find myself in agony. The messages delivered here at the mission are varied. They come from many different backgrounds, they come in many different shapes and styles, and they come in various stridencies. But to convert someone else--to make them hear your message in such a way that they change-- takes far more than simple noise and fury. Even to get someone to sit, to say hello, and discuss lightly the issues of the day--takes something a bit more polite than a scream and a yell. As for the strangely twisted argument that daring to utter our hosannas and psalmistries to the muses in some way, shape or form incites argument and discord among those who draw bloody lines in the dirt in order to have a reason to fight--nonsense. Those who come prepared to fight need no rationale or reason, only an excuse. Let them bloody their noses in testesterone inspired displays attempting to gain status and attention, but turn your writing to the little muses. Welcome to the mission. Toss your worries and despair in the collection box, confessions heard from time to time, and please be aware that anything mentioned in open session is open for all to comment on--even that dratted little muse grunting under the grating on the drain... Between these walls, there is sanctuary, and sanctus, and various other sacraments. Baptism with words, confirmation through critique and comment, penance in works (sackcloth and ashes for you!), the communion of the writers, the anointing of the sick with words of kindness and understanding, and occasional unholy marriages of the mind. As for holy orders--make mine baloney, okay? Go, now, and write some more... Revise, submit, and send it out again. That, mi amigos, is the mission of the WRITERS... at least as seen from these warped reflections in the darkened cave. The Right Unreverend Tink