As I relinquish myself to this night's sleep,
My rabbit ears bring me TVO images Of Rushdie speaking of his books.
And of his drive to write them.
He says, after all, the human is
The only animal that is Storyteller.
I muse on this in dreams and awake
To read Gaiman's American Gods,
A story of humans and their gods
And their mutual need to believe
In each other...
In each others' story...
To be associated with story...
To be Story.
All the while L. Cohen
Sings via iTunes and
Brings tears...
Hallelujah! in the Tower of Song.
I pause and remember
Tiff's Not Wanted on the Voyage:
The old god who invokes
Noah's participation
In extending His story.
How in the stage version
Noah's family search each other's
Faces for understanding...
Then nod in confused acceptance
Of Noah's story.
Leonard says the Light is coming
From a crack in the wall.
Of course his story's about democracy
Coming to the USA...
Now a national story of debt
That grips us all in it's spiritual despair.
I can hear it about other cracks in other walls.
The Light is always the same.
It is the Light of Recognition
Of human spirit... it is the Light of Knowing
Our part.... it is the Light of Acceptance
Of life... and its cycle with death.
Leonard, as well as Salman, Neil, Timothy et al
Shine Light on snippets of my own story.
That Light exposes myself to myself.
I guess we each choose storytellers to call our own.
Some write, some sing, some tap dance,
Some seek directly the hearts of others.
After all, we need each other to sense...
To discover...
To find The Story...
Bette Forester
Toronto
30 July 11
