The Nature of Things

A Story by Paris Hlad

As Understood and Explained

By a Charming French Bee

(The First Decoration)

I was born to speak on a poet’s behalf, for a lady has written:

He is that handsome rebel of the hive

Whose heart is like the lovesome days of spring,

When daffodils awake and bloodroots bloom,

And all-new creatures in life’s chorus sing!

Bonjour! I am Andre De Foi,[1] the “handsome rebel” of the lines above, and it is my pleasure to present Paris Osowski’s way of thinking about life. The poet believes that I will prove to be a better him, and more than a gracious compliment to me, it is also a fait accompli, since what an artist creates is often similar to what he originally imagines. Should you visualize me, you will be mine, as I am all about me. And although many say they do not like that attribute in others, that is true only when it is exercised by the inarticulate and the physically unattractive. Obviously, I am neither, and I think you will find me to be a character that fairly glistens with trenchant insight into another’s take on the nature of existence and his philosophie de la vie. Also, I have a certain flair for making personal beliefs fun to learn about without provoking a raised eyebrow or sigh of disapproval. I have been compared to that kind of charming tour guide who is himself the highlight of a tour.

Yet, the void left in the wake of any serious literary effort is greater than the words that fill its pages, and detractors will say that my only real function is to occupy the perplexing blank space you might otherwise encounter in this book. But this cannot be so, for already I have begun to fill that void with particulars that may provide insight into the mind of the great Paris Osowski. Were it not so, you would not at this point know that the poet thinks so highly of his inventions that he favors their voice, and possibly even their existence, to his own.

But only a moment ago, I was a miraculous figment, taking form in a poet’s mind. I could not write a line or think a thought, as I was not yet a part of the physical world. But now that I am a perceptible ink that imbues the measurable dimensions of a page, I am free to share the fruit of Paris Osowski’s rich ontological garden[2] - And clearly, I am qualified in that regard, for although I am him, and therefore arguably the primary authority on him, I am also not him, and therefore, may speak of him with some degree of detachment and objectivity. But I am also a creature you have allowed to step into your personal universe and speak as candidly as I choose about … Well, about anything, really - No longer a figment that exists in Paris Osowski’s mind, but a being that has taken on a much different meaning by existing exclusively, and perhaps forever, in yours. That said, we are free to proceed with our tour.

Where Osowski’s Garden is concerned, there are only two kinds of insects that matter, the confetti bee, and the common fluke - The former being an idealistic and decidedly wistful soul who believes that his life has meaning, and the latter being a more pragmatic individual who believes only in things that may be physically experienced. Where the bee is suspicious, even fearful of the physical world, the fluke enthusiastically participates in the destructive activities of his overlord, Conqueror Worm. Notably, these creatures share similar biology and may even claim the same family members, but they are as different as the air we breathe and the dust to which all living things are fated to return. Neither looks nor wit, station nor pedigree count in that regard. Only the Gardener’s intentions and her original designs matter. Everything else is camouflage or an imposter’s sleight of hand.

Now, despite the contributory role the common fluke plays in bringing about the Worm’s pernicious objectives, he does so unwittingly and cannot reasonably be faulted for his behavior, as he is what he is and can do only those things that he is capable of doing. Where the spiritual universe is concerned, he is the proverbial termite in a joist, in that he is oblivious to the effects his activities have upon the structure that surrounds him. Yes, it is true that some common flukes pursue their business with rancor or even religious or political zeal, but they are few, to be sure, and according to the best thinking, these individuals may not be common flukes at all.

Here, I hope you will enjoy a charming digression, for the thinking I speak of is championed by my lover, a belle femme and visionary genius who will speak to this subject a little later. We have loved wildly since I, an intrepid rebel, could no longer endure the limitations imposed on my existence. I fled the madding hive upon a magic night and came to sleep enfolded in the wings of my first love. Oh, how our hearts did beat as one beneath the blushing cheek of heaven, for the moment that I saw her, my hope was hung upon her favor - Which is not to say, that my hope was hanged, as that would be a completely different metaphor. She is the lepidopterous glory of my garden, and like me, she has made life only about herself. And that has filled my heart with even greater passion. For in her, I see myself, and in myself, I know there to be a resplendent love of me! Her name is Myrina Gabrielle- I am her loving bee.

But I stray too much from the task at hand. Suffice it to say that the common fluke is ignorant of the harm he does and is reasonably comfortable with the rules of the Garden. To him, life is an unanswerable riddle, and ultimately, a meaningless experience: He will know pleasure and pain, and then, he will die. But he is agreeable to that construct because it provides him a significant advantage over the confetti bee in virtually all Garden activities. Indeed, his rejection of things that are beyond the purview of his corporal senses, allows him to appraise the potentiality of physical objects with greater clarity and deeper insight than the bee. Moreover, he is free of the desire to meddle in things that neither require his meddling nor could even be meddled with, since those things which are immaterial seem to exist only in the minds of others. He triumphs by his ability to simplify, which is the essence of genius and the theme of all successful mortal campaigns.

However, the common fluke’s practical advantage is realized only because the confetti bee must compete with him in a game in which the bee is outnumbered and perennially the visiting squad. And unlike his more comfortable rival, the bee does not find the rules of the Garden reasonable in the least, particularly the part about death. Moreover, the bee is often distracted from his efforts by considerations of the role he plays in a physically non-existent world, while the fluke is ever focused on the empirical challenges at hand. To be sure, the common fluke cannot safely acknowledge even the possibility of a spiritual world, as to do so would significantly diminish his advantage and possibly bring about the collapse of his personal universe: Either his pleasures and pains are subject to chance, the actions of others, and his own decisions or they are not. And there is no room for compromise on this issue.

But the confetti bee cannot forfeit a game that he is required to play to the death, even if it is rigged. He must abide by the rules of the Garden, despite his intuitive sense of the eternal. Unfortunately, he can too much admire, or even covet the worldly skills and dazzling sophistication of the creature he too often tries to emulate. That dooms him to navigate life in ways that are contrary to his nature and causes him to experience life’s vicissitudes with more profound and longer-lasting consequences than his rival. This is so because the confetti bee believes that his fortunes in the physical world are in some way connected to the smiles or sneers of a spiritual realm that he cannot help but imagine. Thus, his participation in physical reality is congested with incompatible notions like guilt, honor, and nobility of purpose, all of which are couched in a debilitating sense of personal inadequacy and acute feelings of social isolation.

However, it is important to remember that although the confetti bee is destined to be a loser who “lies infinitely low" beneath the rules of Conqueror Worm, all things, including the Worm, “lie "infinitely low" beneath the rules of the Gardener.^{^[3]} Yes, if there is a Garden, Conqueror Worm will prevail, but everything in the universe must die: The bee, the fluke, the Garden, even death itself. Conqueror Worm may be a god now, but like everything else in the physical world, he, too, is destined to perish.

Once nothing is alive, death no longer exists. And that is much to the confetti bee’s liking, for he is convinced that such a state is the one for which he was created. No one knows why he believes this. It seems to be a congenital grace that skews his perception of physical reality, and sometimes even influences his interaction with others. Ironically, an existence that features death may be to the pleasure of the common fluke as well. For, as he ages, he yearns for a finale in which he will no longer be a stooge to callous physical forces. And when death comes, he will be free from a paradigm of waxing pains and waning pleasures. He can call it quits, which, to him, could be the consolation that waits at the end of a pointless, though occasionally entertaining journey. Also, there is no reason for him to suspect that an eternal state of nothingness is less than transcendent peace, as paradise may simply be the obliteration of life’s perpetual ups and downs.

Obviously, the matter of primary importance in all of this is whether there is a Gardener. And there is much to motivate a confetti bee’s interest in that issue. The mere fact that he exists in a beautiful garden that will one day serve as a backdrop to his death is enough to gain his attention. Such irony is not lost on any French bee worthy of his winning demeanor. Why that he ponders his existence at all gives him signs and miracles enough to stay on his toes and keep a pleasing appearance. That is why I think it is so important to remember that simply because all living things are destined to die, it does not mean that the fluke is right about the “nothingness.” He knows no more than the bee does. And again, the bee believes he is fated to experience a completely new personal universe, but one that he may enjoy under far more favorable conditions than those of the Garden.

Perhaps it is that superlative hope that causes us to wonder if a common fluke can become a bee. Sadly, there is no satisfying answer. But it is traditionally believed that anyone who expresses a sincere interest in becoming a bee is a bee already because a common fluke does not ask honest questions about subjects which he believes to be a waste of measurable time. True, he may have an intellectual interest in the subject or personal interest in someone who finds the subject interesting, but he has already relegated such considerations to the realm of wishing wells. Thus, any inquiry he makes is seldom motivated by more than emotionally detached curiosity or a pernicious desire to manipulate the feelings or ridicule the beliefs of another.

Now, every creature knows that the Gardener has her limitations; she cannot make square circles, and so forth. Her skills are many, but, I have never, in the many weeks of my existence, observed the transfiguration of a common fluke into a bee. Only a heavenly creature like my Myrina has ever made a comparable change and lived to speak of it. A butterfly is special in that way. Yet, it is so sad for me to think about this question, for my love is something different from a bee, but better in all the ways that matter to a lover. The beauties that I see in her transcend this Garden realm, and yet I know she must be of the Garden, too. How so? How can the Gardener's special ones be something that my love is not? How can she so shine over all the others and not be among the Gardener’s favored few? But there are things about le Jardinier I cannot know. I scarcely understand her simple sayings, let alone her greater will. It may be this: Should creatures love, they should do whatever love requires and see what happens. But I digress too much. I beg your pardon.

But you should know that neither the Gardener nor her counterparts get overly involved in an individual’s decisions. They seldom interact with blood flukes. All the great forces give way more attention to the general condition of things. The Gardener fertilizes, waters, and prunes, while the forces of darkness do what they can to promote universal destruction. However, neither the Gardener nor the Evil One himself is shy about getting in an individual’s face, especially when philosophical curiosity devolves into existential bitching. No creature has ever been denied an interview; nor has he ever escaped prolonged chastisement when he has gone about things in a too familiar manner. The ways of the supernatural are inscrutable, and even the Gardener’s gifts are occasionally unpleasant. Why I, her loyal Andre, was once driven to the brink of suicide by an act of the Gardener’s loving grace.

It is said that you should be careful what you wish for, but you should be hundreds of times more careful about the gods to which you pray. Indeed, only a fool would pray to a backstabber like Beelzebub. He is the ruler of this world, but he refuses to share power with anyone, and seldom even acknowledges a creature’s fealty to him. He will, however, occasionally supply the work and dispense a temporarily euphoric madness to the mind that seeks his benefaction. Still, his gifts are fleeting, and they often transform a creature’s life into a realm of yelps and special whips. Ironically, those yelps are heard only by those outside the victim’s head, even though the whips are manifestations of the victim’s personal universe.

Here, I must conclude our little tour, and yet there is beneath me more blank space that I should fill. Perhaps you would like to see a drawing I have done. It is for Myrina, and it signifies my dream. Even in my drawings, I am a lover of excess because I have “defied the stars” that place me in a role too small for me and must refuse direction that would shrink my stature further.

I was to live a common life among my brothers in the hive until that Day of Congregation in some special place. There, I was to wait upon the coming of a Maiden Queen �" And how I rage to think of what was then to come! But did you know that the grand finale of that awful drama was to conclude with the sacrifice of my endophallus? Really? Should I dumbly smile at the prospect of neither it nor I having a future on life’s stage? These expectations are too cruel and absurd, and I defy them with all my masculine resolve! I must say in my firmest voice, “No thank you, monsieur!”

-P-

I shall live for love, but if I die for love,

It shall be for my goddess and my dream �"

For “To live without loving is to not really live!”[4]

[1] Paris said he got the inspiration for Andre De Foi while observing the misfortunes of a bumblebee imprisoned in a mason jar. There, the unfortunate insect grew pensive and emotionally distraught. However, when he was inexplicably released, he rushed valiantly into his captor’s forehead, before tumbling helplessly to the ground. Unable to fly, he continued on foot, encountering other problems along the way - Not the least of which was an inability to move in a straight line as he traversed a muddy flower bed. Later, he became stuck on the syrupy end of a discarded popsicle stick. To Paris, the bee’s mishaps provided a metaphor for the way a dreamer experiences physical reality: He is doomed to suffer and ultimately marooned in the mysterious sweetness that seems to crop up out of nowhere.

[2]Andre is referring to the poet’s take on the meaning of his life, not the formal and highly complicated branch of metaphysics that deals with the nature of being.

[3] Paris believed that a confetti bee should not try to carry the world on his shoulders because he cannot make physical reality significantly better than it is. To him, a bee is too small and has never really had a good understanding of what “better” is anyway.

[4] (Moliere) Jean-Baptiste Poquelin, a French dramatist and playwright.