The words? I'm still naming things? This damn tree. We chop it down. We carve its wood. We eat its leaves, constantly mistaking knowledge for mercy - we keep constantly taking from that tree - that's all we know. All God knows how to do is expel us from Eden. Over and over. All man knows is how to try to get back. Play on wooden pipes. Sing songs - make a sonnet.
ababcdcdefef gg.
Can fourteen lines bear so much weight?
The weight of auditioning for God?
Hoping this time He will hear us?
A symphony, a drawing, a dance, a sonnet.
These fragile inventions of man's are man's only defense against the silence of God.
And we keep trying to contact that which cannot be contacted, name that which cannot be named, define that which can never be defined. What are our tools? Something as paltry as a sonnet -
A song -
A dance -
A story -
Is a hazy reminder of what we had in that garden when the Tree of Knowledge still grew alongside forests of mercy.
God, we wanted mercy and all you gave us was knowledge.
Eve
The General of Hot Desire by John Guare
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