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| 7.5.2011 |
"Readers," I think to myself, "are my path home." Fiction is my tool to ensnare the harlequin. He can't escape the words that describe him. An archetype lives as a mental construct. My descriptions give him life. We need each other.
He agrees to do the story if the role is well defined. I must use specific names, places and dates. So now I begin the story by describing his unique arrival on Earth... The harlequin is a fool of major proportions. An idiot and an acrobat. A time traveler. He is lucky beyond statistical reason; six sigmas lucky; Buster Keaton passing through a window as the front of a house collapses lucky; the chance of human beings evolving from primordial soup lucky; but he is as troubled as anyone you meet. He can't see the forest for the ease. He can perform the most extraordinary contortions for the amusement of himself and others; often for personal gain and just when you think he is stuck and cannot escape the situation, the same thought occurs to him and in the sheer panic of the moment he manages to escape elegantly and you think he had it planned all along. The harlequin comes to Earth as a disembodied spirit looking for a home, a projection of a larger entity. His arrival occurs in the twentieth century and his name is Fred. |
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