When There's a Will There's a Way

The hall was narrow, just perceptibly so, in such a way that a tense man might walk more comfortably than a man at ease. A turn to the left yielded little and the right perhaps even less, although it was difficult to be certain; a fortunate turn to the right was possible or still more a fortunate turn to the left - the intersections were so spectacularly numerous - and at each stood a chair which sat a man, who would foretell the traveler of the imminent hope or despair awaiting he who turned left or right, according to his will.

"Sir," said a traveler addressing a man seated at the fork, "I've been walking longer than I can remember. I need to arrive soon. Please tell me the way."

"Dear traveler," answered the seated man, who was remarkably slight and pale, "you must choose a path according to your will, which leads to either hope or despair."

"I know this!" the traveler snapped, "each time I've been told the same thing. You must tell me which leads to hope, or I shall not move from here."

"Left."

"Thank you, Sir! Finally comes grace after all this struggle. Thank you again. I shall go to the left."

The traveler resolved to set off when -

"Right."

At length the traveler argued and fought with the seated man to understand but nothing came of it and finally he collapsed on the floor, losing his senses altogether and lay dying in utter exhaustion.

Whereupon the seated man calmly picked up the traveler, revived him with food and water, placed him in the chair -

and walked off, aimlessly.

The Jellyfish Dream

Heir Kafka, give us a beach, won't you? And don't skimp on the existential expansiveness this time.

That's it.

Monsieur Seurat? I was thinking of something pointillistic for the landscape. Could you -

Great, thanks.

Senior Neruda, I don't want to tell you how to do your job, but that sea foam could be a bit more surreal.

Perfecto.

Everything in place? Well then -

A dead jellyfish washed up at my feet, lying there in fine repose as a home-coming traveler does collect himself before the door. I had a look down at this soundless, stillful fellow and rather expected him to make introductions, seeing as how we were alone together on this beach of my dreams, but, no - this was a stubborn and final jellyfish, death notwithstanding.

To the left and right the vista extended farther than the eye could see, and, if one could travel out past that point - this is impossible, impossible - but if one could then one would only discover another infinite stretch of sand and shore. Resignedly, I hung my head and was met again by the imploring presence of the dead jellyfish washed up at my feet.

I rose to the occasion with the most penetratingly quizzical expression in my repertoire.

Reveal your secrets, my gelatinous friend.
Heap upon me all your whys and wherefores.
Enlighten me.

Suddenly I heard a familiar voice declaim simply,

"That is a jellyfish."

I nodded in assent but at the same time a dream a butterfly was dreaming in another place rose quietly-steadily from my toes to my voice and said,

"That is not a jellyfish."

Whereupon the whole world, as jellyfish, stood writhing at my feet in ecstasy, as something that self-evidently both is and is not, in stunning, lovely, equal parts. I smilingly watched the languid fingers of the rising tide swallow the jellyfish and myself, giving me reluctant passage back to the waking world.

The Dolphin Swims with Porpoise

My dear, sweet, devoted readership! After having our offices here at Three Rolls and a Pretzel virtually inundated with different blog requests, we've decided to settle roundly on the quite indisputably intriguing question of purpose:

what is it, and from whence; what of its hows and its nows, to say nothing of its brown cows ostensibly bereft of purpose but whoso are, in fact, perfectly molten with imperative, cheesy or otherwise.

To begin, purpose is born at birth, a myriad different mechanisms, old with memory, lying in wait in quite perfect silence for the moment to sound. Nerves and muscles more, ten thousand gestures scrambling to be heard in the race that time began.

And they're off!

Continuing, then, at a brisk trot, we have purpose squinting uncomfortably in the light of consciousness, hugging the darkness before being duly appropriated by the intruder, debased to such lowly stations as: "I didn't do it on purpose!"

Humiliated, it recedes back into the nerves and muscles, back into its native darkness while consciousness looks for it unrelentingly but without repenting for its first, and, if you really want to hear it, original, sin.

So it is, then, that we look everywhere it is not, allowing a perfectly ridiculous, harmless-ful thing like the world to dictate our purpose in a delirious attempt to recover it outside of ourselves.

Repent, oh ye of the world, repent, and let purpose find you again.