I like sock puppets, and I used to believe anything they would tell me. Note that I’m speaking in the past tense, for I no longer heed their words. For years I was like one of those poor saps chained to the wall of Plato’s cave, taking illusion and artifice for reality. Eventually I made it into the light of day when I realized that an agent of deception, a middleman interposing himself between me and the truth, was operating behind the scenes, using smoke and mirrors, pulling the strings as it were. It’s as if Toto inadvertently drew back the curtain to reveal the mighty Wizard of Oz a fraud, nothing more than the product of levers and mechanical devices operated off stage. I guess what I’m trying to say is that someone had been putting his hand inside the said sock to animate it and thereby fool me over and over into thinking that Sock Puppets are real.
Once you’ve been disillusioned, there’s no turning back. I can’t deny that those beautiful lips of my erstwhile friend were merely someone’s thumb and finger forming a mouth. I can no longer pretend that the disguised wrist and arm is the Sock Puppet’s long, sensuous neck. And yet, Lord help me, I long for Paradise Lost. To a certain extent my ignorance was blissful. Heck, I learned about history, literature and philosophy from Sock Puppets. I even got private tutoring on managerial statistics and business reporting from an attractive Sock Puppet with yellow yarn for hair when I was considering an MBA. I always felt I could just be myself around my little white friends. I could tell them anything and they wouldn’t judge me. Most of all, I learned the ways of love from Sock Puppets. In the end, I look back at the world I’ve lost with both regret and anger. Now I feel like a lost soul adrift at sea, driven and tossed by the waves, without direction and no firm footing. I miss you, Sock Puppets, real or not.
Once you’ve been disillusioned, there’s no turning back. I can’t deny that those beautiful lips of my erstwhile friend were merely someone’s thumb and finger forming a mouth. I can no longer pretend that the disguised wrist and arm is the Sock Puppet’s long, sensuous neck. And yet, Lord help me, I long for Paradise Lost. To a certain extent my ignorance was blissful. Heck, I learned about history, literature and philosophy from Sock Puppets. I even got private tutoring on managerial statistics and business reporting from an attractive Sock Puppet with yellow yarn for hair when I was considering an MBA. I always felt I could just be myself around my little white friends. I could tell them anything and they wouldn’t judge me. Most of all, I learned the ways of love from Sock Puppets. In the end, I look back at the world I’ve lost with both regret and anger. Now I feel like a lost soul adrift at sea, driven and tossed by the waves, without direction and no firm footing. I miss you, Sock Puppets, real or not.
