the(proverbial)Road To Damascus

 "How many fingers am I holding up?"

"Is that a joke?"

And the scales were removed from those previously-Pharisee eyes.  Truly, born of the seed of Abraham and an observer of the Sabbath/Shabat and all that.  Averse to pork.  Were any, by works to be considered righteous, then that one.

And yet.

Of what faith?  Of what real belief, of what to draw him nigh God's bosom?

I mean really, who wants to hear a story about Gatsby sitting by the lake all day with whiskey in his glass?  No, we don't relate to that, and we have enough rosy daydreams of things turning out well.  Like people reading biographies of Warren Buffet, and then another class of Cheever at the all-you-can buffet.

But how about a good outcome?  Or at least an outcome, despite the odds, that one can readily accept and even welcome.

Then there's the big Democrat reverend with the six vacation homes, and yet, he works for a charity.  Enquiring minds would want to know, right?  Or the other guy, with the hair.  Talking on the cell phone to the President of the United States.

My nuts, kind of sitting there like, "what, me?"  Blame it on Rio, some might say, or the early morning miasma of a Paris backstreet.  If I were to condemn myself, who I ask, then, is best equipped to give my defense?

Swerves, words.

Nouns, verbs.

a participle, and a chocolate colored nipple.

"I thought you were blind?"

"My dreams are all certified Technicolor, my Cheever."

Equally nutty monk behavior is met by, well, a pressure valve.  Mardi Gras on an unpaved road.  And one does not simply discard his ideals like a threadbare cloak, but instead focus exclusively on more immediate matters: the flesh being.

And yes the flesh fails, brain chemicals can come back into balance, sanity restored, and the monk at the bowl of porridge again, again ready to trot the thousand steps up the mountain with the days water supply in two giant urns.