Unemployed elephants, shouldn’t we admit that it is inexplicable – the course of history. Unemployed elephants with nothing to do, covered with dust and mud and sequins and plumy tops. Unemployed elephants, unconcealable immensity of individuals – dense in matters of gravity, numbered as Stars, as real as the circus unknowns. Unemployed elephants, bearing their wonderful equipage showing the finesse of their servant girls, now wandering in the provinces. Some in memory ponder the big idea, the Big Tent, presenting the fears, the follies, and some skills brought to – finesse; and the value of pachyderms, now past. Maybe it is best.
All emotive lives are the stuff of dramas, runny mascara on artificial heroes, pains from discarded dreams (or is it discarded activities); taming a beast or learning what the beast would have. Sequins and ribbons on wrinkles and scars.
The Temporary Museum of Enfant Terrible Culture sits on the glacial out-plain of the ancient iced home of the mastodon. As things warmed the tree top ripper and scat pooper provided useful service. Mastodon was gone long ago, before these enforced migrant elephants came to entertain and provide bits of a story.
We have offered fields for the elephants to spread their droppings and fertilize the home of ancient grasses, the gift to future growing. A home for unemployed elephants, as if we knew the mastodon – or remembered to care.
Please join us next Saturday, the befuddlement of urban myths arrive at the tent.
Anachronistic Anarchist by Herb Eaton 