I flew. Over the hills and meadows, a rolling roundabout or merry-go-round.
Just the four of us. Me, you, Pinky and Perky. We saw an old man dressed as a scarecrow. He told us he was the king of love. I said “what are you really?”.
He said “A king of something. Or a scarecrow. A clown was in my place once.”
He smiled at us. He had a friendly face. Straw and bandannas.
“What are you here for?” Said Pinky.
“I want to know.” Said Brain.
The scarecrow danced as best he could. He was little more than a cloud of horsefeed. “I need the most secure gesture. The greatest affection. Only that will give me peace.”
“Peace?” I said. “You plan to die?”
“I do not plan.” he said. “But I am not made of durable material.”
“A sign of love?” you said.
“That’s what I mean.” spoke the scarecrow.
“I have it here.” said Pinky. Or was he Brain or Perky? They were all mad.
The mouse produced a great list of rules and regulations. Desires and accommodations. They were scrawled out on parchment in perfect English.
“What is this?” you asked.
“The constitution” said Brain. “This is what love is. An expression. An action. A list of… openness.”
“But these are words! Demands!” I roared. “How can love be! – so legal?”
“It is you see” spoke the scarecrow. “The first step is knowing where we stand. This will not last forever. It may not last a day. But so long as it stands upon the fridge we have something to call back to. Some common set of assumptions. We must know what is right and what is wrong according to each other. For only then can we truly love.”
At that the scarecrow leaped up and burst into a million fibres, scattered over England’s green and muddy fields. His was a short life, but dramatic. He existed mainly as metaphor and none of us were sure what for. Not even you. And you knew everything.