February 27, 2002
This is not a love story
I will tell you a story.
Once a boy loved a girl and a girl loved a boy. And they stood very close together. Then the girl said, I do not really like the colour of the flecks in your eyes from this close. And she left. The boy drew a circle around himself in the summer heat and said, if anyone crosses this line, I will push them out of my circle, even the spring and the autumn. And he did. And no one knows what colour the flecks are in his eyes. But he lived in an eternal red desert.
Once a girl loved her mother more than anything in the world. She offered up to her mother the most priceless of diamonds. But the mother, you see, was the daughter of a ferrier, and she thought that only iron had worth. So she took the diamonds and said “why are you giving me ice in the winter, it will only melt” and flung them out into the snow, so that they were lost until the spring came. And the girl wept and her tears were of such a nature that they froze the land. The diamonds were never found. And the mother never knew that they would not have melted. She lived in an eternal blue glacier.
Once a boy of eternal summer who never let anyone look at the flecks in his eyes and a girl of eternal winter whose diamonds were cast into the snow like waste made a country. From afar the boy could see the flecks of his eyes in her ice and the girl could see the shimmering heat of his summer.
But although the snow covered the lands prettily in winter and the hot breath of summer cast them in light, they had no spring in which to plant, and no autumn in which the fruits of labour could be harvested. With no nourishment they grew gaunt and thin. The only way for them to bridge the gap was for her to step into spring and find that things begin again; they expand and grow. Or for him to step into autumn and find that one can fill the larder and the smokehouse with that which has grown rather than leaving it to wither in the sun and die on the vine.
So did they? That is the woe of this story; it has no end. You say I am the teller of the tale and should have an end? What do I know about it? I am no magician; I only love to travel in every season.