The Fate of Scheherazade

At my mother's insistance, I've further stressed my night stand. Now on top of Vonnegut's Bagombo Snuff Box, Eliade's Myths, Dreams and Mysteries, An Encylopedia of Mythology, the NRSV Bible with Apocrypha, A book about the Hebrew Goddess, the autobiography of Malcolm X and the Oxford Dictionary (yes, I read the dictionary), I've added Tales from the Arabian Nights. I'm keeping it on top not because I prefer it but because the colour is purple and since my discombobulation (see I told you I read the dictionary), it matches the new paint job I gave my-once bed, now romper- room.

It sounds like a lot of reading. But truth is, I've read X already and have yet to return it to its owner. I keep it there next to the word Goddess to make Detroit Red roll in his grave. The Bible, the Encylopedia and the Dick are for reference. So that leaves two non-fiction and two fiction. I have alloted myself all the time that I require to busy my brain dot dot dot two weeks.

Now I am not embarssed to admit my ignorance re: Arabian Nights. I took it as something of a cross between animated Aladin and the Old Sinbad movies I watched as a kid. I was pleasantly surprised to discover the story is how I adore them-a story within a story within a story within a story, on and on. And having read only the first four tales or so, the common theme emerges with the sound of my God's cruel laughter.

Waiting. Waiting- with anticipation of dread. Waiting- with fear of the end. Waiting using stories to pass the time in hopes that the stories themselves will somehow alter the inevitable executions.

And oh how I want the Sultan to be in love with Scheherazade, to not fear love, to stop making the poor girl worry if every night may be her last. But most of all, I want the Sultan to allow Scheherazade to remain in his life where the stories can go on and on.

I shall cross my fingers for the brave girl and in two weeks I shall know her fate.