The Death & Subsequent Resurrection of Simon Peter

You are an owl in that tree--don’t tell, don’t tell me what to do! Stupid owl, humans have shotguns. But owls make better listeners than wall-mounts. Okay, I’ll tell you what happened on the weekend in owl-language, so that only you may understand. We humans can pick up meaning here or there, but have little idea of what is really going on in owl language. Perhaps with diligence and a well-experienced ear we will learn to pick up on these things; we will learn to judge what is true and what is fancy. But tell you a story I said I would! Ergo:

Ern Friday Nacht--Children, the wild children, running around. Wrestle? Yes. Blood? A bit. Our people call them yooth. I hear a story of a man who said ‘I’ a thousand times and choked on his own words. Non. A better story, which I hadn’t heard. 2 ducks, 1 frog. Pond dries. ‘Hang onto the stick little froggy, yup, with your froggy gums, while we lift you to safety!’ Farmer sees 2 ducks flying by with stick and frog, says ‘Who came’er up widdis bootiful idear?’, whereas the froog replies ‘I!’
And one child is sad, for his friend Simon Peter has fallen from the sky.

Ohh Der Saturdas--Vurld is a nice place, and safe. I wrack brain making b/s for college & career. I find a story of the fierce lion and a stream from ‘The Silver Chair’ and talk about this (even wear my tiger shirt accidentally). Criers during the black plague, criers and the healers, called ‘those who take a risk’. Go to Lindsay’s and play pool--show the world how to ‘bank heist‘. But the most striking is the story of Legion. Legion lived in the tombs and could not be shackled by any man. A miserable, rotting, ferocious ogre. Not a lion, but strong as well. But the Man comes and makes his demons flea into the nearby hillside of pigs.

Inn Eats und Soundae--And I do this in church. Nick comes up to me and asks me to make nine tapes of her funeral. She died last Wednesday. We don’t know why. There was a bit of blood. The blue ink was filling her mind. She stood up in church the week before and said she was going to meet the priest. On Thursday. Our kind doesn't talk to priests. We think that we are priests (demons begone!). There were others, others whose patience was wearing thin. What were the shackles? She gave the boy a Bible and asked if he was from Hong Kong. No. Canada. Hearing about the God again brings back memories of the dead. The boy writes a letter, ‘To Simon Peter, From Your Lover.’ As if the pain could only be expressed in the form of a man longing for an estranged woman. Is it only some cruel arrow shot by the Trickster’s bow that passes through a dozen hearts? Is S.P. only the juice of a mind that is free to roam where it wants, picking up images from Galilee to Health class? How far could one really go to plan a funeral for an imaginary friend?
No.
No.
No.

The boy gets another letter. ‘Simon Peter has returned from L.A.’