The Nature of Things (Part Three of Three)

A Story by Paris Hlad

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 beauty that I see in her transcends 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!”[1]

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