10 April 2005


Candy is dandy, but Zarathustra is peachy.

What kind of fruit would he be?

Bachelor Number One? “Something that will make a really great pie. And that's a promise. I am one dependable fruit.”

Bachelor Number Two? “I'd be plums, I'd be sweet and red and very juicy. And honey, I'm always ripe.”

Bachelor Number Three? “I am a north wind to ripe figs. I am a prophet of the lightning and a heavy drop from the clouds. I am an intoxicated sweet lyre-- a midnight lyre, a croaking bell which no one understands but which still must speak”

I didn't move but I was suddenly aware of my thighs, of the insides of my arms. Bachelor Number Three had a voice like a cloud speaking, traces of roar and thunder and waves held together with honey-cello. But what did I know about him? He might be ridiculous, I thought. He might be sublime.

When a man is mysterious enough, when I have no idea which things will be good or bad or where the problems will be or even what will happen next, it makes me think that anything might be possible.

“Num Ber Two! Num Ber Two!” the female audience chanted during the Thinking Music.

Number One hugged and kissed me. Number Two slipped a note with the number of his hotel room down the front of my dress. Number Three stiffly bowed.

He was older than the others. His eyebrows were shaggy and his mustache needed trimming. He wore a long black coat, which would never, in the course of our acquaintance, be removed.

He bowed and shook my hand. Then, lifting his eyebrows, he peered at it: a hand, yes, in his hand, a hand attached to other parts of a fairly beautiful woman with whom he was about to spend a weekend in Las Vegas. That is where they were sending us, to the glittering neon desert, to try our luck.

“Ah,” he said. “What a long and beautiful hand! It is the hand of one who has always distributed blessings. But now it holds fast him you seek, me, Zarathustra.”

If you like it, there's lots more.


The Most Übermensch Man in the World

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