sozobe wrote:Let me try another parable, Tryagain...
There once was a maiden who was much in need of a knight in shining armor to come and save her. Save her from what? Well, that was not entirely clear. She cast her eye around the collected villagers and decided that she would find a way to be saved. She poked a villager. The villager looked at her askance, and went on her way. She poked another villager. The villager raised his eyebrows and went on his way. She found an upended soapbox and climbed upon it and began to declaim upon the subject of her own importance, and also about how she was being paid to observe the villagers.
The villagers began to stir.
The villagers asked, for example, for her to explain what she meant by being paid to observe them. The maiden dissembled. The villagers persisted. The maiden got shrill. The maiden insisted that she would leave.
The villagers shrugged and went on their way.
The maiden then reappeared and, ascertaining who their leader was, placed herself in front of him and began squawking loudly about various indignities and problems with his village. He ignored her. The squawking became louder. The squawking took many forms.
The villagers were getting a little peeved.
Variations of this state of affairs continued for quite some time. The maiden in need of rescuing continued her quest for a situation that required her to be rescued and for a knight to do the rescuing. She was somewhat successful in each.
I lit my purest candle close to my window
Hoping it would catch the eye
Of any vagabond that passed it by
And I waited in my lonely house
Before he came I felt him drawing near
And as he neared I felt the ancient fear
That he had come to my door and jeer
And I waited in my fleeting house
Tell me stories, I called to the hobo
Stories of old, I smiled to the hobo
Storie of cold, I wept to the hobo
As he stood before my fleeting house
No, said the hobo, no more tales of time
Don't ask me now to wash away the grime
I can't come in for it's too high a climb
And he walked away from my lonely house
Then you be damned I screamed to the hobo
Turn into stone I cried to the hobo
Leave me alone I knelt to the hobo
And he walked away from my fleeting house
I lit my purest candle close to my window
Hoping it would catch the eye
Of any vagabond who passed it by
And I waited in my fleeting house.
Tim Buckley
