A strange thing happened to me one innocent afternoon. I’d been gazing at that clever bronze Grail with my face shoved up really close—so close that the breath from my nose made little vapor patterns on the outer wall—and a small earthquake just beneath my stool shook my head just enough to knock the Grail out of my main vision. I gasped to see that the world itself carries no sheen-beige of that bronze; I gasped to see that All extended well beyond myself and the Grail. I stared—eyes overcome—as a drunken realization stumbled into my mind and tripped over my cozy hearth. I stared—mind shocked—as this new visitor slumped into my best padded chair and slurringly told me that not only did more exist, but that I had little part in any of it. He attempted a smug smile; I shrank back from the crazy-angled canines pushing out over stubble-lined lips. I dazed in exit from the house—leaving it in his dubious care—and whispered something as my exposed feet brushed against the grass and collected moonshine dew: “Why do I exist?”
Presently, I came to a slightly elevated dirt road and sat down on it. At this point, I remembered the Grail and realized that I still had it; in my stupor I must have instinctively grasped it. Taking it in both hands, I gazed at its outside edge from an angle. My thumbs traced the question onto its base, and I waited. Relief soon succeeded anxiety as the outer wall distorted to form a scene—the familiar question-answer ritual remained constant. Vague shapes formed a Picasso’s rendition of a workshop. An older man walked in, appearing in DaVincian clarity, and I recognized him from a picture on top of the piano at home: my Grandfather eighteen-years ago. He picked up a wood board—upon his touch it snapped from Cubist abstraction to Realist concretion with all the subtleties of a grain and with one edge still rough-hewn from the lumber-yard. I cocked my head and leaned in closer towards the Grail, engrossed. He picked up tools, screws, and wood, each touch bringing them to reality. For two years I sat on that dirt road and watched, coming to understand that this master craftsman lovingly formed the rocking-horse I received upon birth.
The scene ended. I looked up at the bright sunny day, ready to return and to answer that drunk once and for all. As I stood, however, and wiped the dirt off of my pants, I heard a loud clatter approaching. A dust cloud grew larger; I brought a hand to my brow and leaned forward to see. It came closer. I leaned further. It came closer. I heard a wild yell hurtle forth from its dry obscure confines—and stepped off the road because it did not seem to be slowing down. Finally, I saw: an enormous and magnificent horse, regaled in waves of glossy black hair and trimmed in a bright red harness of ornate leather and bronze. And then I recognized my drunken visitor reclining in the cart, wearing an ill-fitting orange-and-green checked jockey’s uniform and laying so his knees stuck out at odd angles. Spying me, his head thrust over the edge of the cart, bloodshot eyes twitching irregularly and pallid cheeks pulling thin lips into a shouting grin. I stood, infuriated by his presence, and held his gaze with clenched fists as he thundered past. Abruptly he threw his head back and released a tearing guffaw and waved the reins back at me. Unable to endure it any longer, I launched in pursuit. This only encouraged him, and in a disconnected sequence of thoughts he decided to turn his cart off the road. I chased his cart bouncing over the uneven ground; he stretched his bony arms and laughed again. I saw him go into a forest well ahead of me; tears of frustation mingled with sweat of exertion and I lost sight of my quarry. Nevertheless, I sprinted onward—at least, until I tripped over a tree branch and fell sprawling into a stream.
The shock of the impact and the coolness of the water jolted me out of my singleminded mentality. I wept, this time because my rocking horse was less than his. Rocking horses don’t grow. I sat on a wet stone in the stream and watched the water rush on past my exposed legs, and suddenly realized that I was very thirsty. Without thinking I scooped up some water in my Grail and brought it with unsteady hands towards my face; and saw the inside of the Grail for the first time. I forgot my thirst as I saw something dark in the water. I cocked my head, and at that instant the dark form in the water moved. Surprised, I shoved the heavy Grail down into the stream—and saw a vague neck-and-shoulders complex take form in the wavy water. I came to understand that these forms somehow related directly to me. The stream was slightly deeper than the height of the Grail, and so water flowed over its sides and further rippled those dark forms of mine. A flying realization alighted on my shoulder, and this iridescent dragonfly stretched to whisper into my ear. She showed me that the dark form in the Grail is the convergence of several forces; the flowing stream gives rise and change while light lends form. She explained that the dark form is a corollary—a very educated dragonfly was she—of the All; in fact, a fully congruous part of the All, as much the constituent as the constituted. So I had no autonomous existence; for the All did, and it simply involved a thing that called itself Me; or I was simply a region of the All that called itself Me. I nodded as though I understood, and she flickeringly chuckled. Then she told me to lean out from the water. I did so, and the form grew. In fact, it grew so large that part of it reached out of the water onto a rock. She flew off in satisfaction, declaring that she had taught what she came to teach, and now must go. I absentmindedly picked up my Grail as I stood up and watched her into the trees, mulling over my lesson—and breathing into the wind breathing into me. Then I drank from the Grail.
I wandered in the forest for a time, but found my way out—somewhat reluctantly—near my point of previous entry. I determined to return home—where else to go?—with the brightly-sheened chuckle of the dragonfly still gracing my mind. As I pushed myself onward, I spied on the horizon—slightly to my left—a high structure of some sort. I changed course to investigate. As I neared, I saw that—underneath a small wooden shack—was a sort of unexpected rocky outcropping. It was as tall as a man and twice as long in diameter, and had the appearance of being surprised itself at its level locale. The shack on top looked to have a sort of serving counter—the kind found at museum ticket booths—except that the window that normally shows the person’s face and torso was quite small and revealed only two thin arms and the bottom portion of a green burlap shirt. I decided to continue my examination and climbed up. A deep husky voice asked me if I was hungry. I realized that I had not eaten in a long time and reported that in fact I was quite hungry. He said that he did not have much food, but made a business of giving pomegranate seeds to wanderers like myself. I asked him how much they cost, and when he said that they cost nothing, I told him that this was indeed a queer sort of business. He agreed. I determined that, despite the huskiness of his voice, he sounded cultured and educated, and decided to take some pomegranate seeds. He handed me half a pomegranate through the window and I began to eat the seeds slowly and one at a time. After I had eaten seven, I asked if I could come into the shack to escape the sweltering sun. He told me that he would much rather enjoy the bright heat and requested to come out and sit with me on the rocks. I shrugged and agreed, and he told me he’d be just a moment. I heard some rustling around inside the shack, and then the door opened. I ate another five pomegranate seeds as he worked his way out; a tall, thin rectangular slate of wood blocked all view of him except for his bare feet. He turned to face me. He was the drunken visitor.
I dropped the pomegranate in shock; he grinned condescendingly. I lunged at him, and he leapt sprightly off the rock with the wooden slate. He took off, and I followed. We ran across the plain, sweat beading down my back, muscles burning through my legs, wind whistling ‘round my neck. He was surprisingly quick to be carrying that wooden slate. I saw that we were heading for my house and began pounding the ground harder to catch up with him. He made it before me and jumped through the still-open door into the dim house. Frustration lending one last burst of energy, I threw myself into the house—hurtling through the portal, I hit the marble hearth hard. Stunned, weak, and tired, I remained kneeling as I tried to gather myself and absorb my surroundings. A few moments passed, and I noticed some of the gas lamps had been lit. Using my Grail for support I rose to a half-standing position leaning against the stone mantel. I felt the drunken visitor’s gaze to my left.
Straightening my shoulders, I turned to face him. My vision clouded in confusion—for I saw two such visitors—with unshaven faces and unkempt hair, with weathered skin and worn countenances—standing side-by-side, one held erect with an experienced expression on his face, the other hunched and gripping a Grail in his left hand. I shook my head and rubbed my temple with my right hand; the second visitor did the same. Wild concern fluttered across my face as I jerked to attention—as did he. Then I noticed the optical incongruity between the second visitor and the region immediately surrounding; the first visitor’s wooden slate had been the backside of a mirror that he now held directly beside himself. I walked in close, fascinated, examining myself. I had never before seen myself in such fullness, in such clarity. I moved and touched the mirror with a dirt-encrust finger—when I touched my finger in the mirror, my image of the vague dark form at the stream consolidated and realized itself into an image full of the grain of very human skin. The visitor pulled the mirror away from me; I froze expectantly as he leaned in close to my ear. He told me that now I exist to myself because of action. I looked up at him. His face glowed; the heat of the chase had eliminated the pallor of his cheeks and the stubble now effected candor rather than horror. I straightened up and stepped back. His gaze followed me with a wide-eyed grin that was not so unpleasant; then he threw back his head and shouted that action to caused existence to and that pursuit of caused existence of. I opened my mouth to agree and to inquire further. He looked at me sharply, broke into a sly grin, and threw the mirror at me.
When I awoke among the shards of glass, the visitor was gone and my Grail was full of wine. Stretching, I stood up and took the Grail. Sipping sparingly, I walked out of my house, to consider carefully my three strange teachers. Then I breathed deeply and was.
