Upon the heat and flame of thy distemper
Sprinkle cool patience."
Hamlet, Act 3, Scene 4
[edited for continuity reasons]
When I think of Trump, I think of the sea wind, and the sound of sailors shouting in the background, bells ringing in the fore. I did not learn of the Trumps so much as learned patience, you see.
At first I was not convinced of their importance. Youth often has that luxury, feeling that the world will drop things into its lap as needed. It was explained, then, that I was not being given a choice; it was a command from a superiour officer. The aforementioned youth still rebelled. If I was going to learn, it was to be on my own terms. I needed to understand the "why," as much as the "how."
It was not so for my taking the Pattern. A birthright, yes, a proof of who I was as I stepped onto the burning line and became part of its circuit, the power coursing through me and activating the latent parts of my blood and heritage. I became myself even more, even more myself... as I completed it. It did not conquer me; we explored each other.
Trump. All the sailors had hobbies, for while the memories are strongest of fighting the waves of her salted majesty, much time is spent in the between, ready for the next attack. I grew adept at carving, and, of course, throwing the knives, winning much in the betting for that latter. I had spent much time weaving nets and working knots, designing new ones in caricature of pompous officers. These loops represented ears, you see, and this one the nose that bobbed so much it was more like to turn the new men seasick than any motion of the deck.
Understanding was not an art I have ever felt I excelled in, and my first challenge was to deal with the frustration of imperfection.
"Every artist," my tutor reminded me, "has his own style. Every speaker his own voice."
"Am I trying to learn something stylistic or how to pay attention?" I demanded, in a tone I realize now was fairly insubordinate.
Nevertheless, I was not answered that day, nor the next, nor until I simply looked past the Picture to the Truth. "Like the words of hunger underneath the Siren's call," I explained it then.
If I were to say it is the simple things that are sometimes the most difficult, I would not be trying for any sort of cleverness of phrase. We create hurdles of the mind, not in some perversity of self-punishment, but to defend ourselves. We clasp complexity to ourselves like a cloak sheltering us from the whims of petulancy, and on a deeper level, to be able to meet the eyes of others without seeing too much. The better the maze, the longer the jumps between premise and conclusion, the harder it is for others to see our plans.
Perhaps.
The first connection was just seen as a few lines on the map discarded for a coastline whose weft and warp had differed from our Mincart guide's memory. That wasn't Reality. That was Shadow. Only a few lines needed change to make the example, from picture to person, a few whispers to words, a few words to Knowledge.