the 'final' chapter

.
Today, surrounded by an early-morning fog, my TV mind is up and running, offering a spiritual sitcom to pass the time. Funny how smug I can be that at least my sitcom never has any 'boring' ads, while all the time it's just one bit of snake oil after another.

Today's episode concerns the final chapter in any religious compendium ... the completion of Bible or Torah or Vedas or whatever. This chapter has been forever hidden from gurus and saints and ordinary people of good will. In this morning's episode, it lies hidden beneath some unremarkable rock in the desert or in the interstices of an ancient stupa or just out of reach in some Basque cave where paintings adorn the darkened walls.

No one can ever find this final chapter -- the one that eludes even nut-brown men speaking in hushed tones of  'secret teachings.' But just because it can never be found does not mean this morning's sitcom cast of characters is not in hot pursuit. They've read the preceding chapters with care. They know the sweet beckoning of words and the exercises required within their meaning. But now it's time to close the book, to stumble upon the final chapter.

The logic of this sitcom quest is flawless: What has a beginning in Bible or Torah or Vedas -- in efforts sometimes feeble, sometimes fiery ... what has a beginning must have an end, mustn't it? And even if the final chapter (the last "book" among the other books) can never be found does not mean it cannot be found ... beneath some unremarkable rock, perhaps, or in the interstices of some ancient wall. Anyone's "Indiana Jones" might be inspired and go forth, eyes a-twinkle, bullwhip and revolver at the ready.

And finally, there it is ... the successful end to a grueling quest ... at last ... written in what seems to be a wobbly hand ... the final book that only the seeker himself can write ... and yet cannot be written at all...

No more canned laughter. No more prefabricated tears. No more fade-in, fade-out. No more mystery. No more blessings or curses. No more accolades or repentance. No more popes and panoply. No more morning fog ...

The Book of Laughter.

Don't you pity the poor bastard who tried to write it?

Who in their right mind would try to write while laughing?
.