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ride them high, those waves, simon says sunlit dolphins curl up and over sew up the seas, while we watch simon says sit and listen simon says says Enough of that talk, the king said to his son. Songs get you nowhere in the real world. And the brightly colored palace guards threw Prince out the window. Brightly colored handkerchiefs waved down at him while we love you was chanted from farther and farther away. Prince, gazing around him, spat on the ground, because he was scared. But that story makes no sense, I said to simon says. We are not songs. And he is not a story, simon says said. Prince turned and walked as is usual, over and under hills and mountains and rivers and seas, etc. The difference in this case was that this Prince felt pain, and he wanted to know when he could go home. In and out of the usual adventures with princesses, three wishes, flying, and talking cats — very interesting, but Prince could find no real meaning in it all. simon says closed the book. Is that all? I was surprised. It’s an old story, the kind everyone knows but nobody tells, simon says tells me to choose, in a certain order, acceptable op- tions, right in a row, right down the line, and grabs my root-of-all-evil away to himself all the while, as fast as he can. simon says has a bad reputation and insists on my acting like a grownup while treating me like a child, simon says has many faces — a hard-to-accept but true fact that is often forgotten. But, if I listen very very carefully, he tells me stories that let slip secrets. What happened to Prince? Why do you expect me to know? simon says returned. You're the storyteller, aren’t you? Sometimes I am, simon says confessed, but sometimes I’m not and the story tells me. When The Prince told his father he wanted to work in the dirt, the King laughed. My son the farmer, a prince of the Realms! But Prince had been booted out very suddenly into a world full of princes. And what is wrong with a little dirt? We live on dirt, simon says reflected. We breathe dust that is dirt, we eat food from dirt, and our lovliest scenery is not more than dirt piled on dirt. Learn to live with it. Prince wandered around in all this dirt highly depressed Life was full of dirt, he contemplated, but it’s not much fun, except every once and a while. He had learned from the seventh — or was it the eighth? — talking fox he’d met that once he decided on a course of action and went for it, he would forget all about being lonely and lost. (This is quite true, never be still or you will remember again.) But Prince didn’t know what he wanted to decide, etc., etc., so he went from elf to elf, hoping to find a magic kingdom whose golden glow was not accompanied by an enormous electric bill ... I was scribbling hard, trying to copy all this down, certain that there was great knowledge in it for me. After all, simon says had age and a position of authority to prove he knew something. simon says laughed very hard at me. Then he cried into his hands. Not until an evil magician captured Prince and forced him to sit by himself for years upon years in the usual, but extremely unpleasant, moldy dungeon, was Prince any semblance of content. To keep from losing his sanity (bad form in any fairy tale) Prince was forced to think. So he thought. When finally free, Prince was an older man. Was it the years of thinking that aged him? The book had long ago feathered away to gray ashes while simon says told the story from memory. Is that all? I asked when he stopped. What else do you need to know? That’s a terrible story! Princes always know what they have to do. They go out and become heroes. simon says wouldn’t look at me, but sighed. In every fairy tale, the manchild or the womanchild who sets out does merely that. He sets out. He follows where his roads lead, makes his decisions according to the circumstances that come up, and just tries to do the best he— You talk in worn out rhythms. What about the happily ever after past? It’s an old story, simon says told me sadly. There are no new things I can tell you. Sea tides of the shore we sat on came in and went out, over and over again, never, never ceasing. Our strong hot fire licked itself more and more feebly. You just have to get straight in your mind: some things are done already and are as they are, some things are up to you. I stared around. Dark rags of clouds waved above me while the wind blew them farther and farther away. It only looks black because you’re in the dark, it's nighttime, simon says comforted. Really, there’s a lot of bright colors here. I spat on the ground. Nancy James
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