“I was of three minds”, the poet of petrified unrest has written, resplendent in city tailored suit, white handkerchief precisely folded, the triangulated tip emerging from his breast pocket, having composed the second stanza, and probably several more as well, during his morning journey to his office. On arrival he hands the yellow ruled paper office memorandum sheets with his hand written compositions to his secretary. She will pass them to his team of stenographers, and ensure that the typed drafts are returned to him before midday so that he can read them and make any corrections in the back of his car as he is driven to lunch across town.
Everything works smoothly, the secretary at head office thinks, the system having been developed this way over many years to avoid any mistakes, anything that could upset or disturb the daily routine of the great poet. Sometimes she thinks of his retirement, wondering if the great poet ever considers the possibility. He has become very old, she thinks to herself, Sometimes he even wears short sleeve shirt and cap retirement clothes like old golfers do. He is very old indeed, but who can succeed him, she thinks. There is simply no one like him. Nobody can do what he does. Certainly not his son, the gift he has is unique. There is nobody like him. He is irreplaceable.
Actually, it is an error to call her ‘his secretary’. Even ‘P. A.’ does not do her justice. These days times have changed and now she is called his ‘Chief Executive’. But the job remains the same, the routine stays fixed, and, however many times her job title changes, she still belongs to him – The Maiden. She has had several names over the years, and the truth is she has been replaced in her position several times (she, unlike the great poet, is not irreplaceable). And her names have been several. One we remember from the just past is Zoe. More recently went by the name of Charlie, but the idea of such a boy/girl indifferent name caused some unrest in the typing pool. Couldn’t we call you call you Carla, one of them asked her recently. No, she said with a gentle smile, shaking her long curling tresses of orange hair from side to side, But if you prefer you can call me Rebekah.
Yes, the truth is she has been replaced several times. Sacrificed, as it were, for the greater good. Or simply to appease the great dragon. But, in this instance he, the great poet, has refused to let her go. He is holding on to her despite the clamour for her blood. He refuses. People like the great poet are rare. We have to understand this. Being a person of three minds is always an extraordinarily rare gift. I get it in the neck again, he says to himself as he waits for the car to arrive to whisk him away to his lunch appointment. Another crisis, he smiles to himself, Another poem. Rebekah hands him the typed sheets for him to read and correct in the back of the car. Easing himself into the back seat he smiles again, being of three minds, sure in his knowledge that there is no need for him to believe in one or the other, to be either monster, victim, or saviour. No need to believe at all, he is above such things.
I get it in the neck again, he says out loud. Nobody hears. Everything is still working perfectly, he thinks to himself as the car moves off, Pretty good for my age and no mistake.