Prologue
A scholar mints the mock that the Christians made their myth and history mulls the math that the Christians made their mess and poetchilde—alas—spins dancing mouse to moan and moose to measure and a lifetime hunting treasure while lodging in his ken respect for all and rumor that not all be met with truth. Does poetchilde truckle the track or rather—challenging quixotism, daring scintillation, braving perspicacity, playing a Squire of the Misty Mightiness of the Deeper Metaphor—does he sally forth with courage of the lion’s cub trying his first kill to take to task the Jesuses in their particolored robes and the philosophers like wizards slipping out of Middle Earth? Socrates says courage must be wisdom. Do Egyptian chariots ending in the Red Sea begin the cycle of stories that question? Does Red Sea crossed by Moses leading opposed by waters deep rebuked by staff uplifted become Jordan River crossed by Joshua superintending opposed by waters flowing rebuked by steps of obedience which becomes Sea of Galilee crossed by Jesus dozing opposed by waters in storm rebuked upon arousal becoming Jesus quiescent beside the Throne opposed by the ages of the weeds rebuked by the white horse ridden overseeing the harvest of the wheat with scission of the Son of God from God the Son? Welcome, indeed, scholars, seekers, and such, to the Forest Sly. My opinion tosses as you perhaps disdain the scene: trees and stumps, flowers and thistles, rocks and fungi, dancing dybbuks, dueling dyads, philosophers groomed and burdened to the bone. What your judgment while perceptions rousing wonder cluster in the brain? A myth can paint a learning. A scholar’s hour is worth a fool’s year. Audacious am I there is a wisdom in the count.
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