Dorian on Arriving in a Story Workshop:
Let us say I am here because of youand you are here because of me.
we’ve arranged the chairs
in café style, six to a table.
when we begin the story
only half of the people are here
though all the workshop seatshave bodies sitting in them.
one’s still traveling on the crowded train.a mother still burps her child, fevered on her hip.
another slumps with a black cloud boss problem.
the man at the back table yawns like a hippo
trapped in a falling high rise dream.
one mutters “I don’t have time for this.”
we tell of Nasrudin riding his donkeydown an open road when he spies men
on their donkeys, trotting towards him.
he fears they are thieves come to do him harm
in a rush of silencethe other half of each participant
shows up. you can see
the sudden arrival in their eyes
and the way their bodies lean in to the tale
in the curious shape of the question mark -
what will happen next?
by the time Nasrudin dismountsand climbs over a cemetery wall,
tumbling into an open grave,
the work-shoppers are riding with him
on the donkeys their ancestors in-spanned
to pull carts down dust roads in trying times
with belongings bundled high above them.
as they listen, what’s deep inside climbsout of the hole under the floor boards
of the venue and sits at the table.
for the other donkey men turn out to be neighbours
who ask Nasrudin, “why are you hiding in an open grave?”
by the time we share Nasrudin’s response,people are sipping the narrative
rich as a cappuccino,
with a heart motif in the foam.
froth and muffin crumbs line their lips.
now they sit relaxed at this roadside innconnecting story to story, each to each,
while the donkeys, grazing green grass,
bray in unison, exchanging wisdom
for work and well-being.