Judi Dench says when her daughter
was a little girl and she was askedwhat she would like to be, the little girl
replied, "an acrobatic nurse."
The vatic curse with which
she didn't live but under whose mad fix
too many of the rest of us believe we do
and did -- the itch we've been afflicted by --
is the inordinately sly intemperately
wicked lie that each of us is burdened by
an alien and awkward arcane prophesy
that only tests like Myers-Briggs
could possibly dig up for us
and therapeutically decode. Which means
we bought a load of crap that others
know much better than we know
the nature of what traps us and what
might deliver us from evil. This is not,
presumably, the sort of psychic crisis
that besieges the boll weevil.
So what's innate in you and me?
To run a small confiserie? To be a belly
dancer? Let's imagine any question's
always loaded with its answer.
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