The Philosopher's Stone

“Literature is its own art: the turn of phrase, the delicate spiderweb of words interwoven to snare the reader, an intricate dance of rhythmic sounds and archetypical images silently parading before scrolling eyes.

But storytelling transcends literature. From the campfire tale to the big screen and everything in between, our stories traverse artforms like possessing ghosts. They inhabit the form and animate it. The form does not create the story. The story was always there, an egregor, an imperturbable living energy seeking a vessel, ever wandering, ever willing itself upon us.”

The old Buddha was explaining to the Poet why his stories kept coming back to haunt him.

“So you’re saying it takes on a life of its own?” asked the Poet.

“Yes,” the Buddha said. “Your demons are yours alone. But the world will try to convince you that you are the only one with demons, because you tell the demons’ story—the story of your exorcism—while the bulk of the world hides its demons and calls them angels.

If you tell the story of your angels—again, your story—the world is all too ready to exclaim how we all share these in common; so your demons, they are yours and yours alone… and the world will offer to save you from them, for a fee! But your angels, well, they watch over us all, they will say, and thereby they equate solitude with damnation and the collective with salvation. An ironically self-serving state of affairs.”

“And what do you think?” asked the Poet of the smiling Buddha.

“That’s just it, my dear friend! I don’t! I leave such self-torments for you! I only answer your endless questions because I too am a construct of your mind, a touchstone to a peace beyond the scope of your conscious understanding. I’m just here dropping stones into the cauldron of your heart, watching the kaleidoscope of changes in the bubbling brew. I am the spirit caught in the beyond-vessel. Yours is the fire. Yours is water, yours is the earth, yours is the air. Mine is the spirit. You bless me, Poet, with the loving way you fashion the very existence of an ideal with your dirty hands.”

“It is but the one stone that I seek, dear Buddha. The Philosopher’s Stone, some call it!”

“Yes, but the one is made from the many, and the many becomes again the one. Exactly in this way, from my creation, are you blessed in turn.”

“Yes, indeed,” said the Poet, cracking his own smile. “Poets are the unacknowledged legislators of the world.”

“Indeed! So, Poet, what have we learned?”

“Don’t let the idlers piss out your fire. There’s more love in your heart than joy in the mire! Lightning struck the kindling ablaze, a torch to reveal a way out of the maze. The cauldron boils and roils with pleasure and therefrom arises the peace of the spirit—the ultimate treasure!”

How’s that?” the Poet asked.

“A beautiful bird with wings called passion and precision,” replied the Buddha. “It burst from the egg of Haiku:”

Love blooms rose petals

Unfolding before the dawn

Light cleanses bad air

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The way is opened

By the wandering spirit

Who treads unworn paths

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Not mere thought alone

But an act misunderstood

So(u)l freely given

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The light does not blind

But opens another eye

Which sees a way out

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No need to rush forth

As energy never ends

And neither do we