A metal door opens.
"Ahem," echoes off white walls.
"Speak first, introductions later," came response.
"Do you know who I am?"
"Someone who wishes to speak to me."
"Do you know why?"
"If I knew we'd have already had this conversation."
"This one is going to be a handful," the entering man grumbles.
Once seated, he opens his briefcase with a waving motion from each of his fingers, pulling out a handful of papers. Eyes focused on writing, the two sit in silence for a moment.
"Name?" the guest asks.
"Does it matter?" comes the reply.
"Only if you want to talk to me," the guest calmly retorts, eyes ever steady on his paper.
"Erastus," if you insist.
"Good. Now you may tell me whatever story you have for me. I'm all ears."
"My story begins with a large illuminated letter, so as you will know it is the light of the world, and a literary classic."
"Surely."
"And what of the moon and the flower and the sun? The eclipse, the water? What are these to you?"
"Is it customary where you come from to interrupt a man mid-story?"
"Well, the reason I ask is because I am here to-"
"I very well know what you think you are here to do. If you would let me finish then you might be able to do it."
"Very well then. I apologize."
"Ahem."
"Fairytalesque," said the guest.
"Were there any fairies?" asked Erastus.
"Certainly not, but what I mea-"
"Was there a tale?"
"You know what I meant,"
"I most certainly do not."
"Must we play these games?"
"You can't do your job if you look at it like that."
"It's not just a job, I take sincere interest in the people I work with."
"Why is that? Because you want to fix us? With what? What makes you think you're so enlightened that you're going to get rid of this illness?"
"I do not look at you that way. Now seriously, calm down. I just want to ask you about your story. It's quite beautiful. And to be honest I rather enjoyed it."
"Fine."
"Fine?"
"Fine."
A guard opens the white steel door, looks first to Erastus, then speaks to the man, telling him he has thirty minutes remaining today. The man nods in ascension and awaits for the door to close behind him before continuing.
"Ok then. Let me ask you something, where did you hear this story?"
"I hear it every night, when I look out of the window, when I dream, when I write, when I think, when I pray, when I eat my lunch for fuck's sake--it's everywhere."
"Alright. Umm, how does this story appeal to you? What emotions occur when you tell it? How does it make you feel?"
"How does it make me feel?
"My my Doc, aren't we a little bit slower than the rest?"
"Please answer the question."
"Why? So you can get to the root of the feeling? So you can point out the obvious and make me think we're going somewhere other than circles? The story makes me feel something and whatever that something is you'll trace back to the story. You don't get it Doc."
"And what is it that I don't get?"
"Feelin' ain't the problem, it's just an effect. All that training and you haven't figured that one out yet?"
"So then why don't you tell me what the problem is? Perhaps I missed the true meaning of your story. What is it that I was supposed to have learned? What did you learn from it?"
"Do your job much?"
"What do you mean?"
"Isn't it you who's supposed to be analyzing me?"
"I'm just having a conversation with you. Whatever you want to talk about is why I'm here."
"Oh good, 'cause for a second there I thought it was about you asking me questions rather than me talking about what I wanted to talk about."
"No need to be hostile. We'll talk about whatever you want."
"Fine. What did you think about my story Doc?"
"I thought it was lovely, reminded me of my childhood."
"Which part?"
"All of it. I told you it was like a fairytale. Reminds me of those my mother used to read me before bed."
"Ah, now why do you suppose that is?"
"Fairytales appeal to the child's imagination. When we are young we are fascinated by possibility, but when we are older we are only concerned with what is real."
"Says the man whose job it is to deal with my imagination."
"It's my job to help you see through it."
"And how are you going to do that until you see it?"
"I asked you the meaning of it."
"And I told you I'm not doing your job for you."
"You're not trying to talk to me."
"And neither are you to me."
"Our time together is running out Erastus. I can see you're far too upset today to talk. We'll have to finish this tomorrow."
So the man folded up his papers and centered them in his briefcase, both thumbs outstretched, clasping the thing shut.
"Tomorrow" Erastus echoed.
Getting up from the chair, the guard opened the door, and the man went to leave. With one foot through the door, he turned back to Erastus,
"How does the story end?"
"I told you the ending."
"No you didn't. The conflict wasn't with the moon nor the sun but with the flower."
"Some say the peasant picks the flower but the princess he presents the flower to is disgusted by it and throws it down in the mud. The man tries to pick it up but a carriage pulled by horses stomps it into the ground."
"And others?"
"That the rain brings life, and when the flower is plucked the peasant becomes king of a mighty kingdom. His queen sets the flower in a crystal vase outside her balcony, where every night she blooms until the moon slowly waxes back to full."
"And which do you believe?"
"I don't know Doc, it's just a story."
"Till tomorrow then."
"So be it."
Erastus could hear the thick plopping of the man's shoes as they touched tile floor. So he turned his back to the door and the whole conversation that had just taken place. Looking through the window, outside sat a small hill, with a meek flower, directly under the moon. He hoped night would soon fall. Perhaps then, with the nightly crying and shrieking of his neighbors, he might be able to ignore the story until morning.
"Ahem," echoes off white walls.
"Speak first, introductions later," came response.
"Do you know who I am?"
"Someone who wishes to speak to me."
"Do you know why?"
"If I knew we'd have already had this conversation."
"This one is going to be a handful," the entering man grumbles.
Once seated, he opens his briefcase with a waving motion from each of his fingers, pulling out a handful of papers. Eyes focused on writing, the two sit in silence for a moment.
"Name?" the guest asks.
"Does it matter?" comes the reply.
"Only if you want to talk to me," the guest calmly retorts, eyes ever steady on his paper.
"Erastus," if you insist.
"Good. Now you may tell me whatever story you have for me. I'm all ears."
"My story begins with a large illuminated letter, so as you will know it is the light of the world, and a literary classic."
"Surely."
nce upon a time, the moon hung high. He was guardian of the night, watcher of the earth, and he loved to sprinkle light and dew upon all of earth while the sun slept.
ne particular season he took special interest in a flower. It bloomed by night with many shining silver petals, each laden with beads of water provided by its delicate stem. The Latin name for it was tristitia lunaflorum and it was the most lovely thing that the moon had ever shone upon.
He enjoyed lathering the flower in moonlight, watching it blossom when his eye turned upon it. And as the nights progressed, so did his love for the flower, so much that every night he turned more and more of himself towards it, so that at last he might be fully turned, and give the flower all the light he had to offer. This phase lasted many days, the moon growing fuller, the flower growing more beauteous. The two would sing songs to one another and found company with one another.
This lasts until the day of the eclipse. The moon disappears when it moves in the wrong direction and so shadow consumes it. The flower bows down, unable to open by night, thus it begins to wilt, resting solemnly in its own petals. The stem still tries to feed the flower water, but it only succeeds in dripping out of the closed petals. So the flower sat weeping, unable to open, and the moon could not escape from shadow."
"And what of the moon and the flower and the sun? The eclipse, the water? What are these to you?"
"Is it customary where you come from to interrupt a man mid-story?"
"Well, the reason I ask is because I am here to-"
"I very well know what you think you are here to do. If you would let me finish then you might be able to do it."
"Very well then. I apologize."
"Ahem."
So went darkness for sometime. Until at last a traveling merchant came along the flower's path, having guided his ox and cart towards a stream for water, he took to rest.
"Please sir, have mercy on me," wept the flower.
The man having never seen such a thing bowed down to listen more closely to the flower.
"What manner of thing is this? That a flower should talk?" he said.
"I am but a poor flower that needs moonlight to blossom. If you should be so kind as to bring the moon back, I might once again open. If you would do this for me, that I might see the moon once again I will reward you greatly."
"And how is this?" replied the peasant.
"I am a tristitia lunaflorum," said the flower, "in all the land in all the kingdoms you will not find another of my kind. Whatever woman you should give me to, they will be taken aback by my glory, and will take your hand in marriage for such an offering as I."
"So it shall be done," said the peasant, and went his way.
The peasant is gone for many a day, and the flower grew bold and took to trying to blossom by day. She took to opening at dawn, where light is low and the mist of the wood is still heavy. The sun rising every morning cast its rays around tree and shrub, and the two would converse until, from fear of heat, the flower would close again.
After many a day the flower had become accustomed to the light, and adapted to blossoming in full at noon. However, she ventured to open for too long and was burned. Determined to try again she closed and waited for the next day.
She enjoyed the sun's company by this time and had forgotten completely about the moon and the peasant she had sent to do her bidding. On one particularly bright day when she had just taken to opening and going through her ritual greeting to the sun, the peasant returned with his same ox with cart in tow.
"Grace be unto you little flower, and peace," the peasant greeted her.
"What word do you bring of the moon?" she cried.
"He has found his way out of shadow, and shall return tonight."
So the flower waited till night.
That night she rose from slumber and dew glistened on every leaf, waiting intently, watching the moon as she rose. The moon shone full but the flower had forgotten how to bloom by moonlight. She stood only half full and she sorrowed that she could not open fully.
"It is ok little flower. You can learn to open again in time," whispered the moon.
"And if I do not wish to learn?" snapped the flower.
"I do not understand, for are you not moonflower by nature?"
But she said naught, so the two sat quietly until dawn.
At last sun peeled back the gown of night to reveal his shining form, and the flower rose again. The moon still sat out, awaiting his daily slumber, when the flower looked back at him,
"I do not wish to blossom by night anymore. From henceforth I shall be a sunflower."
"So be it," whispered the moon, and receded into the hidden night.
The flower was burned by the sun that day, and wilted away several petals. She closed for fear of death, and waited for night. When the moon rose she cried out for his light, but the moon had turned away from the flower. Closed to the light that the moon once had shone upon the hill, the flower looked up to but the dark side of the moon.
But when the night comes, and the moon sits idle, back turned to that side of the world, the moon softly whispers to the clouds, blackened and hidden by the sheets of night, to rain on the flower by day, so that it might find restoration--so that it might become whatever kind of flower it wishes to be.
"Fairytalesque," said the guest.
"Were there any fairies?" asked Erastus.
"Certainly not, but what I mea-"
"Was there a tale?"
"You know what I meant,"
"I most certainly do not."
"Must we play these games?"
"You can't do your job if you look at it like that."
"It's not just a job, I take sincere interest in the people I work with."
"Why is that? Because you want to fix us? With what? What makes you think you're so enlightened that you're going to get rid of this illness?"
"I do not look at you that way. Now seriously, calm down. I just want to ask you about your story. It's quite beautiful. And to be honest I rather enjoyed it."
"Fine."
"Fine?"
"Fine."
A guard opens the white steel door, looks first to Erastus, then speaks to the man, telling him he has thirty minutes remaining today. The man nods in ascension and awaits for the door to close behind him before continuing.
"Ok then. Let me ask you something, where did you hear this story?"
"I hear it every night, when I look out of the window, when I dream, when I write, when I think, when I pray, when I eat my lunch for fuck's sake--it's everywhere."
"Alright. Umm, how does this story appeal to you? What emotions occur when you tell it? How does it make you feel?"
"How does it make me feel?
"My my Doc, aren't we a little bit slower than the rest?"
"Please answer the question."
"Why? So you can get to the root of the feeling? So you can point out the obvious and make me think we're going somewhere other than circles? The story makes me feel something and whatever that something is you'll trace back to the story. You don't get it Doc."
"And what is it that I don't get?"
"Feelin' ain't the problem, it's just an effect. All that training and you haven't figured that one out yet?"
"So then why don't you tell me what the problem is? Perhaps I missed the true meaning of your story. What is it that I was supposed to have learned? What did you learn from it?"
"Do your job much?"
"What do you mean?"
"Isn't it you who's supposed to be analyzing me?"
"I'm just having a conversation with you. Whatever you want to talk about is why I'm here."
"Oh good, 'cause for a second there I thought it was about you asking me questions rather than me talking about what I wanted to talk about."
"No need to be hostile. We'll talk about whatever you want."
"Fine. What did you think about my story Doc?"
"I thought it was lovely, reminded me of my childhood."
"Which part?"
"All of it. I told you it was like a fairytale. Reminds me of those my mother used to read me before bed."
"Ah, now why do you suppose that is?"
"Fairytales appeal to the child's imagination. When we are young we are fascinated by possibility, but when we are older we are only concerned with what is real."
"Says the man whose job it is to deal with my imagination."
"It's my job to help you see through it."
"And how are you going to do that until you see it?"
"I asked you the meaning of it."
"And I told you I'm not doing your job for you."
"You're not trying to talk to me."
"And neither are you to me."
"Our time together is running out Erastus. I can see you're far too upset today to talk. We'll have to finish this tomorrow."
So the man folded up his papers and centered them in his briefcase, both thumbs outstretched, clasping the thing shut.
"Tomorrow" Erastus echoed.
Getting up from the chair, the guard opened the door, and the man went to leave. With one foot through the door, he turned back to Erastus,
"How does the story end?"
"I told you the ending."
"No you didn't. The conflict wasn't with the moon nor the sun but with the flower."
"Some say the peasant picks the flower but the princess he presents the flower to is disgusted by it and throws it down in the mud. The man tries to pick it up but a carriage pulled by horses stomps it into the ground."
"And others?"
"That the rain brings life, and when the flower is plucked the peasant becomes king of a mighty kingdom. His queen sets the flower in a crystal vase outside her balcony, where every night she blooms until the moon slowly waxes back to full."
"And which do you believe?"
"I don't know Doc, it's just a story."
"Till tomorrow then."
"So be it."
Erastus could hear the thick plopping of the man's shoes as they touched tile floor. So he turned his back to the door and the whole conversation that had just taken place. Looking through the window, outside sat a small hill, with a meek flower, directly under the moon. He hoped night would soon fall. Perhaps then, with the nightly crying and shrieking of his neighbors, he might be able to ignore the story until morning.
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