Preface:
Renaissance
In Cyberspace
The prince, as the king his father lies dying, retires to his study, dusting his books and contemplating his soul.
His hand creeps towards his pen -- make use of the moment! -- but stalls, paralyzed by the infinitesimal fraction of the known, and the exponentially exploding magnitude of the unknown. He fears for his mortal soul, but mocks himself for being titillated, for feeling so important, so center-stage. If one's heaven is what one envisions, who can doubt the existence of hell? Do you believe you have an immortal soul, Father? "I don't even know what that means," the king his father had replied with unapologetic candor. Clearly these Buddhist tomes must be divided between the Philosophy and the Theology shelves. I may have to weed out some Medievalists...
The prince, as the king his father lies dying, retires to his stronghold, polishing his armor and contemplating his destiny. The treasury is fat, the army withered but for my corps (loyal, for we've bled together). The keys to the treasury: the keys to the kingdom. For decades, his reputation has served as our defense. I will be tested to the bone on every side by the wolf, the lion, the jackal, the snake. Who will be the first I must kill, as my father so carefully killed, and rightly too (most times)? A weak king is a brief king. Brothers, half-brothers, allies, enemies, shift, blend, separate, shift again. Twenty years too soon! What will I do without him? Twenty years too late! How could he make me wait so long? I'm so nearly old myself that the hip wound throbs dull and heavy as a rubber gavel. And now I shall be The Old Man. I have curried the people's favor with diligence and fairness and good cheer. May I not be unworthy of the king my father...
The prince, as the king his father lies dying, retires to his bath, fondling his testicles and contemplating his mind, awash-in-thought/engaged-with-feelings, brain enfumed by the true twenty-seven-blend incense (which the Tibetan promised would heighten concentration during meditation and relieve tension and petulance), senses aquiver to every impression until the sensation cascade melds and blurs and falls away, and his mind floats loose from its moorings. [A woman enters, silent, barefoot, checks his breathing, kisses him lightly atop the head and withdraws.] "To be" is the first verb, though not the first uttered (not "flee" nor "eat"), but the first uttered by a human consciousness, and indeed the very proof of that consciousness. A verb is a word of action or being, but what a chasm between the two concepts. How profound, then, not only to be, but to cause to be -- and half of me is the king my father, straight down to the random fractured chromosome. And I FEEL him -- not just seeing him in my dreams nor hearing him in my memory (his laconic "It's hard to get in trouble with your mouth shut"), but feel him in my muscles and nerves, my stride, my brain when I attack a puzzle obliquely, the smell of my shit, my "polite" laugh, the insistent quest for further. When the king my father is no longer, who will that half be then? Still him. I owe him children, I feel him most when I come, and the king his father before him a quarter of me, and the king his grandfather... Ah, swim on!
[In one version, they are the same prince. In another, they converse. In another, the prince is clearly Secular Humanism. In yet another, he is only Bradford.]
The prince, as the king his father lies dying, retires to the hunt, slacking his reins and contemplating his life as his stumbling mount throws him and breaks his neck.