Mrs. Zuckerman is the only human being who sees through Charlotte's ruse. Edith Zuckerman knows that the little grey spider is special, but nobody listens to her. Everybody falls under the spell of the web, and, eventually, even Mrs. Zuckerman succumbs to the trick. Thank goodness. If Mr. Zuckerman had listened to his wife at the beginning of the book, Wilbur would have ended up Christmas ham, and Charlotte would have probably been pickled by some ersatz entomologist.
Being special. Charlotte is special. She convinces the world that Wilbur is special. I've always been told that I have a special talent for poetry. It's something I do well. I play the piano and pipe organ, but I'm not a gifted or special musician. I sing in church choirs, but I'm not a gifted or special tenor. I've acted on stage, directed musicals and plays. I'm pretty damn good in theater. I'm not gifted or special, however.
Being special means that you have something beyond skill and talent. A spark. Something that sets you apart. Michael Jordan and basketball. Katherine Hepburn and acting. Maya Angelou and everything. They all had some quality that no other person possessed. They were special.
I like to think that I have a spark for poetry. I'm not sure if that's hubris. I just know that poetry makes me feel alive. When I'm writing poetry, I feel at home. Maybe I'm wrong, but, if I am, I don't want anybody to tell me so. Leave me to my little fantasy that I am a gifted poet.
Once upon a time, a really rotten poet named Gobert lived in a little village at the base of Muse Mountain. Gobert thought he was gifted because, every morning when he was growing up, his mother would tell him, "Son, you are a special poet."
Gobert believed his mother's words. So, he grew up thinking that he was the world's greatest living poet. He wrote terrible poems his whole life. Bad sonnets and sestinas and pantoums. And he thought he was God's gift to verse.
One day, Gobert was visiting his mother in Ye Olde Person's Home. Gobert said to his mother, "Thank you."
"For what?" said his mother through her mouthful of oatmeal.
"For telling me every day that I am a special poet."
"What?!" said his mother
"Every morning," Gobert said, "you would say to me, 'you are a special poet.'"
"I never said that," his mother said.
Gobert blinked at her. "Every morning, that's what you said to me."
His mother spit a raisin into her napkin, shaking her head. "No, no, no," she said. "Every morning I told you to go milk Rochelle the goat." She slapped Gobert on the head. "You never did listen to me. I used to think there was something wrong with you."
"You mean," Gobert said, "that I'm not a special poet?"
His mother cackled. "The only thing special about you is that I had to breastfeed you until you were seven because you had food allergies."
Gobert never wrote another poem ever again.
Moral of the story: Rochelle the goat never got milked and died udderly distended.
And Saint Marty lived happily ever after.
 |
| Udderly gross |
No comments:
Post a Comment