You know, someone should tell the story of a girl's quest to find her cats in the afterlife. You'd bribe Charon, bargain with Pluto, drink with St Peter, walk with Maudgalyayana through Naraka, sit on a subway bench reading magazines while listening to lift music in limbo, talk math with Aristotle in purgatory, argue politics Trajan in a ploughman's Dream; you'd ask directions from the Prophet in jannah, interview the Panchen Lama, hide from the Vucub Caquix in Xibalbá, you would dine in the hall of long spoons and be the only one to save some roast in your pocket; you'd find HK$2000 on the street in Diyu beside a singed cardboard facsimile of an PS2, you'd break bread and pick up some Flor de Muerto in october and dance the Bon Odori in july, you'd kill the devil with a shotgun, spend an afternoon with a man who maintained ferris wheels. You'd travel further up and further in, to the true world where every rock and flower and blade of grass looked as if it meant more; then fly on to the place where time curves around on itself, and get offered a nice meal from a talking cow. You'd pass beyond to the place where all the silver threads tangle and break, where the last redoubt of humanity has fallen, where the saidin and saidar have been spent, where the sharks of the ether have starved of souls to eat and the dead but dreaming gods at last lie frozen beyond all recovery. There you may stare into the cold blue gaze of Death, or walk with her and hear the gentle beating of her mighty wings.
And then, when you got home, you'd find them on your doorstep, butting their heads against the door and asking for dinner.
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branchandroot
no subject
Date: 2007-09-04 01:50 pm (UTC)You know, someone should tell the story of a girl's quest to find her cats in the afterlife. You'd bribe Charon, bargain with Pluto, drink with St Peter, walk with Maudgalyayana through Naraka, sit on a subway bench reading magazines while listening to lift music in limbo, talk math with Aristotle in purgatory, argue politics Trajan in a ploughman's Dream; you'd ask directions from the Prophet in jannah, interview the Panchen Lama, hide from the Vucub Caquix in Xibalbá, you would dine in the hall of long spoons and be the only one to save some roast in your pocket; you'd find HK$2000 on the street in Diyu beside a singed cardboard facsimile of an PS2, you'd break bread and pick up some Flor de Muerto in october and dance the Bon Odori in july, you'd kill the devil with a shotgun, spend an afternoon with a man who maintained ferris wheels. You'd travel further up and further in, to the true world where every rock and flower and blade of grass looked as if it meant more; then fly on to the place where time curves around on itself, and get offered a nice meal from a talking cow. You'd pass beyond to the place where all the silver threads tangle and break, where the last redoubt of humanity has fallen, where the saidin and saidar have been spent, where the sharks of the ether have starved of souls to eat and the dead but dreaming gods at last lie frozen beyond all recovery. There you may stare into the cold blue gaze of Death, or walk with her and hear the gentle beating of her mighty wings.
And then, when you got home, you'd find them on your doorstep, butting their heads against the door and asking for dinner.