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4AM, November 7,
Election Day. I am working on the naming process for this old man. I’ve
decided on Quintain, I think. The Quintain was the apparatus Knights used
to practice their lance work, and consisted of a rotating crossbar on a
post with a shield on one end of the crossbar and a chain suspending a
leather bag of sand on the other. The jouster striking the shield had to
remember to duck or be unhorsed by the swinging consequences.
Cervantes’ Quixote could have
tilted at this windmill with the similar effect as Brer Rabbit’s
confrontation with the Tar Baby. This may be a semi-political message at
a time when public dialogue is like knuckles on a grater, and often
representative democracy means the lesser of two weevils, but is more
likely the result of whacking at shield strikers, or from the other view,
finding myself in the dirt for failure to duck a few too many times this
year. The most trivial and humorous example came when, applying for Social
Security, I was told I couldn’t get my money until I appear with
documentation to prove I am not my father. For someone with philosophic
interest in genetics this can be a mind numbing puzzler.
To the owner of this piece I
would advise hanging it high, so the impression is of a determined look to
the horizon. This is a character you don’t want to make eye contact with.
The red ferocity of intent must be balanced with a cool head and heart. |
