13  A Good Laugh

   

ustine knocked several times on Plum’s door. When he didn’t answer, she pushed it open and stepped inside. “Plum,
are
you here?” she called.

“Upstairs, dear. Come on up.”

Justine took the stairs two at a time and strode swiftly into the room.

Plum sat on his bed surrounded by collapsing piles of books. “Now you see why an old man needs a
queen-sized bed,”
he chuckled with a twinkle in his eye. Justine sat down on the edge of the bed, and Plum took her hand in his,
squeezing it.
“To be honest, I prefer these dear friends to the poverty people around me call relationships—doings based primarily
on convenience, finance, vanity and lust. Arrangements in which each person is scarcely aware of the real existence of
the other. And these,” now his voice turned tender, “what are they?” His trembling old hand swept over his books as if
it
were conducting an orchestra. “Little boxes that contain vast worlds. The outer manifestations of inner life.”

Justine got up and paced around the room, surveying the thousands of volumes that filled the surrounding
shelves. Beautiful artifacts from Plum's travels—bronze statues, clay pots, hand weavings—were wedged in between
them. “No, I never became a writer. Never had the time. Too busy thinking. I could spend ten lifetimes thinking, there
is so much to think about. And sometimes lately I think I'm beginning to have my first real thought. When I finally
get my thoughts, I'll be able to begin my philosophy.”

Justine settled down into the worn dark leather chair across from him. “What do you think life is all about, Plum,
really?” Her tone was serious now. “Why are we here?”

“According to my books,” he answered without a pause, “there are three theories. Love, Power, and Work. The
Love people believe that the universe has a heart, that all of creation is nothing but a vast Goodness machine invented
by
God for our own good. The Power people, on the other hand, believe that the universe is founded upon supreme
Malevolence and has an emptiness at its core which human beings must resist falling into with every dyne of their
life force.

“Whereas the Work Theory proclaims that human beings actually make a difference in the final outcome
of Creation, depending on whether they choose good or evil. This is where morality comes in—a word,
incidentally, I positively abhor, for it has been used as a synonym for hate more than any other word I know. That's
why I say, just give me my beloved books, my thoughts, my dreams, my observations and endless ruminations,
but please  keep that obscene word out of it.”

Justine's attention was riveted. “And which theory do you believe in, Plum?” she asked with intense urgency
rising in her voice.

Her friend leaned back slowly until he touched the wall. Suddenly he looked hundreds of years old. Something
like a tear was pressing itself out of the corner of one dim blue eye. He had little hair left, and what there was of it
was white as a ghost's. He clasped his wrinkled hands together. “Naturally, I'd like to believe in the Love
Theory—like all those fortunate saints who see nothing but Love everywhere, in every frown, under every rock, as
if the whole cosmos were nothing but a gigantic gorgeous flower, pulsating with triumphant joy. —And I'm working
on that.

“Meanwhile, until Grace reveals herself to me naked, until She comes and tells me personally that God really is Love, I'll keep on believing in the Work Theory. It gives me sufficient hope and seems to agree with both my
optimistic nature and all the suffering I've been through and seen with my own eyes.

“Ah, let us not even speak of those demons who say that existence is nothing but an empty power game in
which the petals of the cosmos are made of plastic and even the skin of the Gods is fake.

“My dearest Justine, the universe is most certainly a three-ring circus, with a ring for love, a ring for power,
and a ring for work. And I wonder how many other rings there may be as well. The universe is like one of those
busy yet harmonious Tibetan paintings, with agnostics hanging around the periphery burying their heads like ostriches in the sand, and just beyond them the tormented crazies buried up to their necks, their mouths producing a
ceaseless cacophony of petty resentments.

“You see, the older I get, and the weaker my outer eyes become, the more I can see. Oh, It has curves, all right. It has the power of an eternal thunderbolt. It is happening. Beauty is created constantly everywhere. And love—I am
sure of it—is yet to come. There are ideas, like the idea of love, that connect us. And mystic streams that heal us.
And there is never-ending harm. The whole is a splendid vast writhing joyous and suffering Serpent, shedding her skin
as She wiggles along, perpetually revealing a new Self that arises out of her own pure delight.

“Ah Justine, It is luminous, explosive, awesome and miraculously funny. Do you get the incredible joke? Can
you hear the roaring gusto of the laughter? There is really nothing but this sound, my child. Awful perhaps, but
listen closely.” Plum stood and moving toward her fell down at her feet. “Can you hear all of the voices—each
one different yet all of them laughing? In that laughter is everything. How important it is to laugh along and never
stop laughing. There simply isn't time for anything else.

“So take my hand, dear, and join me in a good laugh. It will add a little spice to the sidesplitting symphony
of laughter. Oh, let the tears of laughter roll shamelessly down your cheek, as the skins keep falling away. For laughter is the very sound of change.

—Now there's a thought.”