The Great Pretender
A poem, maybe; prose, certainly.
In my home, I have a large picture window, fourteen feet wide by five feet high, framing a crisp December morning in Missouri — a blanket of
what, from a distance, appears to be gentle white snow covers all
exposed to it in its wintery state of grace. All but the different trees
bereft of foliage. The sun catches the veneer of white, and it springs to life in a quiet burst of refracted sparkles.
From within, my home’s warm interior would seem almost idyllic if it weren’t for the knowledge of reality just beyond the pane. Stepping outside the conditioned confines of the home brings nature’s truth to bear, a pristine, non-apologetic, cold slap in the face.
The white isn’t snow at all; it’s one constant sheet of ice. Clouds amble along, caressing the blue with a fringed innocence, and the wind is no afterthought — an invisible blade Mother Nature uses as an ever-present cutting edge.
Looking inside is the visual equivalent of Tchaikovsky’sDance of the Reed Flutes, cotton candy for the eyes, an impish prance-around for the unwary, or reality-adverse. The other side of the glass is more like The Hall of the Mountain King, slightly mischievous, encroaching, closer to the aural truth.
The Pretender, ever content to avoid the truth, sits amongst the reed
flutes, ignominiously parading about as the self-imposed great one. He
is, with baton ready, blissfully unaware of the rich complexities on the other side of the picture window.
And all shall be right with the world, so let it be written and done.
The Pretender has no time for the politician, the executive — all paying solicitude to the rigors of daily reality, deftly walking the blurred line between choice and reason with caution, and upon abandonment of either, allow themselves to become the usurped slaves of greed.
No mountain or valley shall be an obstacle if the Great Pretender is the carrier of liquid. He carefully careens atop the wave’s ridge, noticing the wave is comprised of the actions of many, not the purported achievements of the few.
The far wiser stand upon the beach, having a healthy respect for tide and current and the counsel of experience.
But listen to the political donkey bray, and know that he is trying to tell you
something. In his own convoluted, perhaps misunderstood way, he
beseeches all to listen, stirred beyond all doubt that he is right, if
not harmfully stubborn.
Some will pity the donkey, say it is a beast of burden; others will listen long enough and come to understand, even speak the donkey’s language. It has been noted in some circles of civilized society that there is little difference
between the jackass and man. Also noted has been the tongue-in-cheek
philosophic reply: Does this not wrong, the jackass?
The Great Pretender is so far removed from humanity that he fails to
see it in those around him. Has he enthroned himself as the lumberjack and all those around his forest, taking refuge in its requiem of peacefulness, embracing its natural resourcefulness, not merely using its resources?
So why argue with the Great Pretender — maybe for the chance to prove what’s right or wrong…or only to prove what’s gone? Is the Pretender really
so bad? Is he a pawn within his own game, perhaps only playing by rules
Is the Great Pretender calloused or numb from God knows what: the tenacious mourning of heartbreak, the vile mingling of tears and anger, pride swallowed whole?
As light melts into muted evening, the ice sheet becomes a linear representation of yin-and-yang; the lengthy, dark shadows of the trees cast their pall upon the allure of innocence with the Mona Lisa smile of darkness. The fourteen-foot window frame slowly becomes a window and a mirror at once. In the sharpest of glimpses, could it be that the glass's soft, almost transparent reflection is the Great Pretender?
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