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OZYMANDIAN DREAM 

Part One

 

I'm a young man, proud to be a member of the prestigious Philosopher's Forum. 

 

Our meeting place is a stately hall with white columns, not unlike a Roman temple, perched atop a steep hill.  

 

The names of the great philosophers, our wise elders, are chiseled on the marble wall.  

 

There's a grand salon where the elders speak and an archive where their lectures are recorded for posterity.

 

Our favorite days are when the elders visit to share their life experiences and ideas.  

 

My friends and I gather in the grand salon, listen attentively and ask many questions.  

 

Afterward we meet in the archive to read the great lectures of the past. 

 

We passionately debate the nuances and meaning of every phrase.

 

Part Two

 

It's now decades later. 

 

I'm honored to have been invited to speak at the Forum, but when I arrive, it is not as I remember.  

 

The columns are crumbling and the marble wall is covered in graffiti.  

 

The names of the elders, long dead, are barely legible beneath the chaotic scrawl.

 

The grand salon has been carved up into dozens of tiny rooms. 

 

There are too many speakers and everyone is shouting.

 

I struggle to communicate with a restless young audience. 

 

They seem distracted and have no questions.

 

Afterward, I ask if I may visit the archive. 

 

“Yeah, we don't really have that anymore,” I'm told. 

 

“It's a Chipotle now.”

I GO DOWN TO THE SHORE 

I go down to the shore in the morning
and depending on the hour the waves
are rolling in or moving out,
and I say, oh, I am miserable,
what shall—
what should I do? And the sea says
in its lovely voice:
Excuse me, I have work to do.
—Mary Oliver
 

WILD GEESE 

 
You do not have to be good.
You do not have to walk on your knees
For a hundred miles through the desert, repenting.
You only have to let the soft animal of your body
love what it loves.
Tell me about your despair, yours, and I will tell you mine.
Meanwhile the world goes on.
Meanwhile the sun and the clear pebbles of the rain
are moving across the landscapes,
over the prairies and the deep trees,6
the mountains and the rivers.
Meanwhile the wild geese, high in the clean blue air,
are heading home again.
Whoever you are, no matter how lonely,
the world offers itself to your imagination,
calls to you like the wild geese, harsh and exciting --
over and over announcing your place
in the family of things.
—Mary Oliver
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