11-01-04

On Monday, as the Good Doctor kept his vigil over the sleeping creature, certain powerful, religio-political entities spewed false, terrorific news to him and millions of others that children should not attend the birth and raising of the Good Doctor's child, nor anything similar. The masses were commanded not to indulge in the beauty of the other half of light; no celebrating of the changing of seasons. They were told that terrorists would poison children's candy, and other horrific political lies.

All through this, the creature child rested, content, until Friday, October 29, when it was awoken to show its promising glory. A few outsiders attended, along with a few of the Good Doctor's close friends, but, as written above, most shied away. A few small children ran aimlessly (despite the Doctor's orders to stay put, and only when necessary, to run aimfully) throughout the town, but helped when they could settle down and focus for a few minutes at a time. The Doctor looked on patiently, benignly. The nursery was bedlam, a mirrorry, cobwebbed attic of the Doctor's tortured, frantic, earnest and honest but malunderstood past. But this was the time of rebirth. Redemption. A time to eat.

Saturday, the eve of the millenia-old, brightly, gaily colored celebration of The Change, saw a few more outsiders. They were mystified at the beauty of the creature child. There were other creature children about the Valley, but this one they realized was created out of love, not out of money. Yet, as the child and its father looked on, it became apparent that people were falling for what was being demanded of them by the shadowy kings who controlled the world of one-way modes of communication. Had the creature been born ten years earlier, thousands of celebrants would have attended.

Sunday, October 31, the most joyful, most important, most life-affirming day to many across the land, saw a few score of revelers. These revelers had spent the entire day flitting from town to town, creature to creature, and having finally seen this fantastic creature child, rejoiced, but it echoed hollowly in the sadness caused by the masses' fear, complacency, excuses ("I would have loved to have seen this marvel you speak of, but alas, I must work on the morrow" and "...but the cost of travel is too high; it would cost over a gallon of fuel to attend!") and worst of all, the masses' deep, unknown-but-felt sentiment that they had killed their own child within themselves, letting the child drown as they drifted down the grey current of "adulthood."

Some gave all; a few gave more than that, and some gave none, opting only to take. The creature closed its eyes.

The next morning, the Good Doctor began to write to all the friends and visitors who'd attended the birth of the creature child, thanking them for all they had given to see that the child's birth would go as safely and beautifully as possible. With a great sense of accomplishment (how many create children out of love, and then have the luxury of a few dear, compassionate midwives?), and eternal gratitude for the few good gifts bestowed upon the creature child, he let out a sigh. The love he had witnessed from the few was good, but not nearly enough as would have been expected from an entire town, which is required to raise a healthy, pure child.

And so while child stirred fitfully in its sleep, the Good Doctor began planning to move to a place where the weather may not be as fair, but where the masses hopefully would be. It did not matter anymore to the Good Doctor that he had been scoffed at while he was fighting to ensure that this uniquely wondrous child was borne and celebrated; nor did it matter to him that people realized he'd became jaded beyond return when all the energies and efforts put into the child were taken for granted. For he had given everything away, except his knowing that what mattered was that beauty prevail.