Gethsemane

Good morning,
 
Now I know you guys have been missing the Thursday Reading Corner segment of “Living Well” and I don’t want to ‘lose my readers’ as the self-help books warn against, so I’ll give you your weekly fix (maybe that’s not the right word). I am only a writer when I write, that’s what some famous guy with ten published novels once said, and I’m beginning to realize the value of such a statement. I am happiest when I am doing this than at any other time, because if you think reading transports you to other places, you should try writing this stuff. Readers are toldwhat to imagine; what to view in their minds; where to go; and who to see. Writers just imagine and every single possibility is just that – possible. To write you have to be slightly neurotic, slightly flawed, slightly maniacal, slightly unsure of your talents. To write “well” you have to be an absolute sponge for life’s minute details. Some of the best ideas I’ve ever gotten have been taken from conversations I’ve over-heard and the many characters I create are simply extractions from the potpourri of personality quirks I’ve come across in my lifetime. So each of you have helped to make me into what I am; from the way you like to comb your hair; to the way your feet are stuffed in your shoes; the scent of your perfume; the careless, wispy hello; and the bland, painless goodbye – they all come together to make up my abundant repertoire, my catalogue of simple instances, my drawer of scattered minutiae, of which you are a chief contributor dear reader. Are you the sweet, gentle giant with the huge strangulation hands that people don’t care to understand, or are you the self-centered beauty queen with the blackened soul and the shiny compact mirror, or are you just ‘you’ because you’re so interesting? Whomever you may be in the wild, fanciful menagerie of Marc’s ideas be assured that I could not do this without the you and you’re as much a partner in this as an agent or a publisher…minus the right to a share of my royalty check of course.(tsk tsk Well) 
 
With that said…on with the story. Yes! On with the story! 
 
Gethsemane
Republican Translation: Get Some Money (low blow) 
 
What a dark and dreary night. It seems as though the walls of the dingy buildings sag in anticipation of what the clouds looming above have in store for them. Smells like rain. Thunder murmurs in the distance. Naked tree branches scratch and scrape at each other and the faint light of the high yellow moon turns their shadows into playful monsters wrestling rhythmically on the cobblestone streets. The earth is shrouded in a sable pall as for the burial of yesterday, the clumps of dark trees, it’s giant plumes of funeral feathers, waving sadly to and fro. All hushed, all noiseless, all in deep repose, save the swift clouds that skim across the moon, and the cautious wind, as, creeping after them upon the ground, it stops to listen, and goes rustling on, and stops again, and follows, like a savage on the trail.
 
The gates to the garden creak loudly as the wind makes its way to its precinct. Shall we follow? The wind dances through the vines which have claimed its entire eastern wall and then suddenly disappears into the orchards; you know how wind is – especially the young, immature breezes that know no such thing as rest. What is this? Beneath the olive tree are four or five lumps of human beings curled up and fast asleep. Are these the homeless refuse of the village come here to ride out the surging storm in the bosom of nature? Or are they some wayward group of youths exhausted by the day’s frolicking taking rest within the fragrant zone? Let’s move on stealthily, I was taught to let a sleeping dog lie…and any other form of life for that matter.
 
Steps softened by the damp grass brings us to a clearing, and there we find an even more curious sight. A man slumped over whispering inaudible words. He is on his knees and buries his head in his own lamp, every now and then rocking back and forth as if in intense pain. Has he eaten something he shouldn’t have? Does he need help? Edging closer we reach out to touch his cloak when suddenly we hear exactly what he is saying:
 
‘Father…if it be your will, allow this cup to pass from me’
 
The End
 
Marc Wellington
 
Scripture of The Day
Matthew 26:45 (New King James Version)
 
Then He came to His disciples and said to them, “Are you still sleeping and resting? Behold, the hour is at hand, and the Son of Man is being betrayed into the hands of sinners.
 
Quote of The Day
 
“Sleep that knits up the ravelled sleave of care
The death of each day’s life, sore labour’s bath
Balm of hurt minds, great nature’s second course,
Chief nourisher in life’s feast. – William Shakespeare, Macbeth