Several weeks ago I was tasked with organizing and superintending the annual neighborhood weenie roast. Everyone was well aware of my unfitness for the job, but they assigned it to me anyways, thinking that some sort of amusing tragi-comedy would ensue as a result of my mismanagement.
The first thing I did was look the term up in the dictionary: "1. a cookout where roasted frankfurters are the main course. 2. an informal meal cooked and eaten outdoors. 3. a social event at which weiners are cooked, typically on a barbecue or sticks over a campfire."
I then summoned an inner circle of close friends and allies who had experienced weenie roasts before, and would be able to provide me with the mythos, ethos, pathos and logos of such primordial events.
One by one, the basics fell into place. We made a sand mandala representing the relationships between all possible factors, with different colors and textures representing such core elements as fire, people, weenies, and sticks.
When the big day finally arrived, it was raining, and the forecast revealed that it would continue unabated for over 24 hours. Moreover, there were a number of troubling stories being reported by the media which would certainly dampen the spirit of of such a simple and hopefully festive event. My advisors made it clear to me that melancholy would carry the day, and that the cooking and eating of weenies would be regarded as a sick and tasteless joke.
I drew up a memorandum and had copies hand-delivered to every house in the neighborhood talking about the grand traditions of humankind and how the dictionary defines event as "1. a thing that happens, especially one of importance and 2. a planned public or social occasion" I had no objections to offer, none to demand, how it drags on, all the confusion surrounding the weenie roast, whether it should happen or not, whether or not it is possible, with the rain, with the media, with the beautiful sand mandala washing away down the gutter, maybe we could put a tarp over the fire somehow, I’ve no objection, they could never get me to understand that, the things that stir, depart, return, a light changing, we wanted the weenie roast to be festive, I was told by my advisors that people would not be feeling light-hearted, it’s because of the rain melancholy on top of the media melancholy on top of the sub-atomic principles, that makes three possibilities, yes, far, or near, distances, you know, measurements, enough said, gleams, as at dawn, in the silence, full of murmurs, distant cries, the usual silence, spent listening, spent waiting, waiting for the voice, the cries abate, like all cries, that is to say they stop, the murmurs cease, they give up, the voice begins again, it begins trying again, quick now before there is no neighborhood left, no voice left, nothing left but the core of murmurs, distant cries, I don’t know, I’ve forgotten, it doesn’t matter, I never knew, to have them carry me into my story, the words that remain, my old story, which I’ve forgotten, far from here, through the noise, through the door, into the silence, that must be it, it’s too late, perhaps it’s too late, perhaps they have, how would I know, in the silence you don’t know, perhaps it’s the campfire, offering light and warmth to the universe, that would surprise me, all this time I’ve journeyed without even knowing it, you must say words, rumor has it, as long as there are any, until they find me, until they say me, strange questions, posed by the annual weenie roast, you must go on, perhaps it has happened already, the weenies cooked on whittled sticks over a roaring fire under the rain, perhaps we have carried this memory to the threshold of the media, before the door that opens on the media, that would surprise me, if it opens, it will be I, it will be silence, where I am, I don’t know, I’ll never know, in the silence you don’t know, the weenie roast begins to take on a life of its own, I should never have been the person to organize it, such a hallowed tradition, people of all ages and sizes and backgrounds putting aside a few hours to gather in a backyard somewhere, hunkered down, telling stories, feeling a sense of community, wondering if the sand mandala was really so neccessary, given the straightforward nature of a neighborhood cookout, and yet there are people present with confused and vacant looks on their faces, they need guidance, this event poses a labyrinth of terrors, echoes, murmurs, chuckles, excitement no longer capable of being contained, I should have sent the memorandum via email instead of hand delivery, people wonder about that, wonder if it is all really so urgent, I have no explanation, smoke is blowing into my eyes, I was thrust into this supervisory role against my will...
