The Parable of the Sockless Youth
There was a young man who left on a great journey to the city of Umz-al-Ren. Four days from his home he remembered that he had not only forgotten to put out the cookfire before departing, but had failed to bring fresh socks as well. Nevertheless, he marched on with baleful determination. As night fell, he stumbled footsore and roadstained into a lonely oasis, where stood a fabled caravanserai, its lanterns blinking in the brown desert night. On joining his fellow travellers around the coffee fire, they were heard to remark on the pungent odor emanating from his tired and unsocked feet. Mortified, he left the group and scaled a small hill where he would be free of their accusations and defilements. Believing to have found respite, and feeling the pangs and tines of homesickness goading his loins, he lowered his gaze west and homeward. There in the black distance he spied a small, bright light, a beacon of joy to the gainsaid and redolent youth. It was comforting to know that there was a light to guide him home again. The young man felt his unease and even the stench of his feet subsiding when suddenly, like a petrel striking a leaping, crippled mullet, he realized the meaning of this homey beacon. It was his own house burning to the ground.
   Of course many of us know the horror of this all too well. We have experienced the lasting shame of being without clean socks in the company of strangers. Yet we try to forget. We go on as if life still held purpose.
   "If wishes were camels, beggars would be allowed to lead the wealthy merchants, swollen with cheese and goat meat who ride them, into town for a splendid evening of wine and dancing girls", as my grandfather was wont to repeat. And how true has that old saw proven itself. Even in winter, when all is frozen, quiet and honey pours slowly from the jar, does the import of this drum its simplicity on my scorpion, my soul. Perhaps we are not so unlike those burdened with the task of cleaning public lavatories afterall.
   Yet all is not without pleasure. Consider the dolphin, how he weaves his spell on the gods of the deep, leaping and cavorting, a precocious youngster, blessed with fins and blubber, carving the blue like an able butcher. The gods may repose, or are they entranced, driven to dreaming by the jocular hijinx of the dolphin-children? We wonder. They know. We guess. They yawn. We stutter, stagger on the pier, stiff-legged and fidgeting, refusing the call of nature. Yet we know we must go.
   Satchidinanda, once in great distress from an over-curried spleen, was heard to comment as he collapsed gasping on the tiles, that the pain of release is often greater than the pain of ingestion. This truth is not lost on the prisoner, the soldier, or the pepper farmer, all captive to their release, all hoping for it, yet dreading it still.
   The meaning of this is not lost on the vested nor on those in robes of satin. The journey has begun. It is far and the road has many turnings, many forkings and culs-de-sac with few and distant rest stops. Where does it lead? What shall we discover at its unseen terminus? Will it be golden, like ale in the autumn or dark like the wine of summer days? We shall not know until we reach that fabled inn where rest is redemption, food is multi-lingual and cool drink rains down like frogs. Only the fool or the wayward would venture thus unprepared. The wise will not go forth sockless.

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