Ashes To Ashes
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Ancient Art-i-fact
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The future never matches your expectations, I thought, as I boarded the transport for home. In the past, people traveled in compartments. Large compartments, like a bus, or a series of compartments hooked together. Incredibly, many people rode in tiny individual compartments on wheels: Ridiculously inefficient. Before the Great Die-off, one would go to the station and wait for ones compartment to roll up, at which time, they would climb aboard. Nowadays, you enter the station, relax, watch TV or read the ‘eeps,’ order dinner, or a drink, and the whole station moves on a cushion of air, quietly taking you to your destination: You and 5,000 others.
I was reflecting on matters of fate and destiny, because I had been left behind while my colleagues had gone out of town for the weekend. Despondent about my luck, and unaware of my surroundings, I bumped into a friend I hadn’t seen in over a year: Adrani. He was promoting an event, and offered me two tickets to an art and history fair, opening that weekend. Upon my arrival home, and seeing my future bride, Lakshmi, I feigned a look of intrigue and asked her to guess what I possessed. “A broken mind?” She offered, without looking up. I took a deep breath and looked out the window. The view was of a building, 5 feet away. “No-o-o. Guess again.” “I don’t want to guess, Pradi.” That’s what she calls me, Pradi. “Come on, I’ll give you three guesses.” She looked me up and down. She was beautiful, but stern. “You have tickets to some show or something.” I was crestfallen. “How did you know?” “That elusive friend of yours called today. Adrani? He said he had given you tickets to something special, and that I shouldn’t let you wiggle out of it.” “Why would I?” My surprise was ruined, but the gift was as yet undelivered. “Two tickets to the Art and History Fair. With the added attraction of a painting from the past.” Her arms were crossed in front of her and she looked dubious. She said, “Really. Let me see them.” I offered them up for her inspection. “Mmmm, look at that. Your right,” she says. “A painting from the past.” She handed the tickets back. “What’s a painting?” “It is…” I paused, wondering where to begin. Everything is digital now. You make a piece of art, and you post it, and a million people like it. And you get points for the likings, which you can exchange for coffee, dinner, or tickets to a fair. Then you un-post it. A stale post will start getting un-liked and you can end up losing points. That’s the way it is today. I began, “In the past, people would paint things for permanence.” She frowned and said, “ Pradi, I ask you what a painting is, and you tell me it is something that is painted.” I reworded my explanation. “In the past, people reproduced images of the world, or from their imagination, onto rigid frames of wood, paper or canvas. Using artificial and natural pigments, they would produce a permanent object, for perennial viewing.” “But why?” She asked. This I did not know. Maybe my friend Adrani knows. “We will ask Adrani at the fair.” When we caught up to Adrani, he was bursting with pride at the attention garnered by the painting he had found. A long line of people stood in a queue to get a closer look at the masterpiece. He ushered us to the front of the line, huffing with self-importance, and escorted us to the velvet rope that kept admirers just out of arms reach of the glass-encased relic. I was about to ask him to enlighten us on the historical nature of ‘paintings’ when I leaned in toward the artwork and saw, under an area of thin paint, many small numbers. “Adrani,” I said. “What is the meaning of all these little numbers under the paint?” “It is a marvelous technique used by the ancients,” he replied, “commonly referred to by the historians as a ‘paint by number.” |
The Cynic
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I’m nobody’s fool, that’s for certain.
I could see he was a huckster, a thespian with a flair for self-promotion. Just last night he gathered his little flock together for what he called a final, ceremonial dinner: The wine flowed freely, the food was good and plentiful: All were in a festive mood. My cup runneth over, with disdain.
It was he who put the damper on the occasion, not I. He bade us all be silent, and spoke in his usual rhymes and riddles. Some would face trials, and some would have doubts. Some would deny his fellowship, and still another would betray him. Yet he girded us to be resolute, to have faith. It was all I could do to keep from laughing in his face.
He seemed cognizant of my cynicism. His eyes met mine many times that night. Each time, he seemed to find amusement in my face, my expression. It infuriated me beyond description. It was part of his personae, to know his fate, and our hearts. It was all a scam.
I went along with it for the sake of my church. I wanted to know his secret, his methods, his ultimate game. I had no doubt about his motives. They were the same as any huckster. Money, personal gain, though he played the impoverished mystic with inerrant accuracy: From his bearded face, to his sandaled feet.
I was not fooled, not for an instant.
I knew he’d never go through with it. He would put on his little show of omniscience, then scurry out of town in the middle of the night with his ill-gotten gains.
I refused to stand idle while this self-proclaimed mystic made a mockery of my faith, my lifelong devotion to the God of my father, and my father’s father.
And so it came to pass, that once the phony merriment dwindled to a close, we all went our separate ways. I went to the Governor’s house to speak with the Captain of the Guard. They made it known that they were looking for this peddler of strange ideas: This mystical trickster. So grateful was the Guard that they paid me for the information. I tried to refuse the money, it was a trifling amount, and I am not a poor man by any measure. I am a priest, after all. They ignored my protestations, threw the money at my feet, and sent me on my way like a common street urchin.
But today I stand beneath him. Looking up at his face, contorted with pain and despair. His mother and his woman grovel in the dirt before him, pleading with the guards, who respond by tormenting him further. He dies a lonely, painful death, and as the spirit leaves him, it is as though the whole earth shudders with remorse: And me with it.
Storm clouds form in a matter of minutes, the sky is seared with fearful bolts and thunder roars with such force and number, it fills the air with a terrible and wrathful vengeance. I’m so suddenly frightened, I pray to my God for surcease and protection, but the sky only grows darker, the lightning closer and the thunder louder.
I clutch my robe about me tighter, preparing to run for the shelter of my stone house. But a guard grabs my arm with terrible strength, holding me fast, and points at the specter who is nailed to the cross.
“Your name,” says the guard, who knows me not, with words that cannot come from his own ignorant tongue, “shall forever and ever, be known as the name of a traitor.”
A bolt of lightening smashes the ground no more than two rods distant. Even the great muscled guard looks to the heavens in fear. I break free of his grasp and scurry down the hill, and in my haste, I bump into a patron of my church. He recognizes my visage and proclaims for all to hear. “I know you, do I not? Your name is Judas. Judas Iscariot.”
That night I prayed, that his fearsome God would somehow forgive me.
I could see he was a huckster, a thespian with a flair for self-promotion. Just last night he gathered his little flock together for what he called a final, ceremonial dinner: The wine flowed freely, the food was good and plentiful: All were in a festive mood. My cup runneth over, with disdain.
It was he who put the damper on the occasion, not I. He bade us all be silent, and spoke in his usual rhymes and riddles. Some would face trials, and some would have doubts. Some would deny his fellowship, and still another would betray him. Yet he girded us to be resolute, to have faith. It was all I could do to keep from laughing in his face.
He seemed cognizant of my cynicism. His eyes met mine many times that night. Each time, he seemed to find amusement in my face, my expression. It infuriated me beyond description. It was part of his personae, to know his fate, and our hearts. It was all a scam.
I went along with it for the sake of my church. I wanted to know his secret, his methods, his ultimate game. I had no doubt about his motives. They were the same as any huckster. Money, personal gain, though he played the impoverished mystic with inerrant accuracy: From his bearded face, to his sandaled feet.
I was not fooled, not for an instant.
I knew he’d never go through with it. He would put on his little show of omniscience, then scurry out of town in the middle of the night with his ill-gotten gains.
I refused to stand idle while this self-proclaimed mystic made a mockery of my faith, my lifelong devotion to the God of my father, and my father’s father.
And so it came to pass, that once the phony merriment dwindled to a close, we all went our separate ways. I went to the Governor’s house to speak with the Captain of the Guard. They made it known that they were looking for this peddler of strange ideas: This mystical trickster. So grateful was the Guard that they paid me for the information. I tried to refuse the money, it was a trifling amount, and I am not a poor man by any measure. I am a priest, after all. They ignored my protestations, threw the money at my feet, and sent me on my way like a common street urchin.
But today I stand beneath him. Looking up at his face, contorted with pain and despair. His mother and his woman grovel in the dirt before him, pleading with the guards, who respond by tormenting him further. He dies a lonely, painful death, and as the spirit leaves him, it is as though the whole earth shudders with remorse: And me with it.
Storm clouds form in a matter of minutes, the sky is seared with fearful bolts and thunder roars with such force and number, it fills the air with a terrible and wrathful vengeance. I’m so suddenly frightened, I pray to my God for surcease and protection, but the sky only grows darker, the lightning closer and the thunder louder.
I clutch my robe about me tighter, preparing to run for the shelter of my stone house. But a guard grabs my arm with terrible strength, holding me fast, and points at the specter who is nailed to the cross.
“Your name,” says the guard, who knows me not, with words that cannot come from his own ignorant tongue, “shall forever and ever, be known as the name of a traitor.”
A bolt of lightening smashes the ground no more than two rods distant. Even the great muscled guard looks to the heavens in fear. I break free of his grasp and scurry down the hill, and in my haste, I bump into a patron of my church. He recognizes my visage and proclaims for all to hear. “I know you, do I not? Your name is Judas. Judas Iscariot.”
That night I prayed, that his fearsome God would somehow forgive me.