1st December, 1998

 

IS THERE A LORD OF THE DANCE?

by Desmond Blarney

We take pleasure in answering thus prominently the communication below, expressing at the same time our great gratification that its faithful author is numbered among the friends of The Gazette:

Dear Editor – I am 8 years old. Some of my friends say there is no Lord of the Dance. Papa says, ‘If you see it in The Gazette, it’s so.’ Please tell me the truth, is there a Lord of the Dance? - Virginia O’Hanlon

Virginia, your little friends are wrong. They have been affected by the skepticism of a skeptical age (the age of Moya Doherty and Bill Clinton – not to imply that the two ever engaged in ‘inappropriate relations,’ but hey, you never know). They do not believe except they see (which is next to nothing in the haze of a maniacally-edited dance video). They think that nothing can be which is not comprehensible by their little minds (no doubt trashed by MTV and sugary breakfast cereal). All minds, Virginia, whether they be men’s or children’s are little (especially now when everyone is on either Ritalin or Prozac). In this great universe of ours, man is a mere insect, an ant, in his intellect, as compared with the boundless world about him, as measured by the intelligence capable of grasping the whole of truth and knowledge (except, of course, for those omniscient dudes Alan Greenspan and Deepak Chopra).

Yes, Virginia, there is a Lord of the Dance. He exists as certainly as love and generosity and devotion exist (not to mention Guinness and cheesecake), and you know that they abound and give to your life its highest beauty and joy (and enough craic to make Al Gore put on a grass skirt and dance the hula on Capitol Hill). Alas! how dreary would be the world if there were no Lord of the Dance (but we’d still have James Devine…ewww)! It would be as dreary as if there were no Virginias (or Heather Locklears, or Jenny McCarthys, or Yasmine Bleeths, or...). There would be no child-like faith then, no poetry, no romance to make tolerable this existence (sitting in our underwear in front of the boob tube). We should have no enjoyment, except in sense and sight (although hedonism ain’t all that bad, kiddo). The eternal light with which childhood fills the world would be extinguished (but it’d be a heck of a lot quieter in church).

Not believe in the Lord of the Dance! You might as well not believe in fairies (and their magic resurrecting dust)! You might get your papa to hire women to watch in all the HMV Music stores to catch the Lord of the Dance, but even if the Lord of the Dance stays far, far away, what would that prove? Nobody sees the Lord of the Dance (except promoters, accountants and living Barbie dolls), but that is no sign that there is no Lord of the Dance. The most real things in the world are those that neither children nor men can see (which should, like, totally freak you out, especially late at night). Did you ever see fairies dancing on the lawn (this is, like, a completely rhetorical question)? Of course not, but that’s no proof that they are not there (for all you know, they could be working on their tans in Club Med). Nobody can conceive or imagine all the wonders there are unseen and unseeable in the world (except for those folks in white jackets who live in padded cells).

You tear apart a baby’s rattle (if you’re a heartless cuss, that is) and see what makes the noise inside, but there is a veil covering the unseen world which not the strongest man (e.g. the governor of Minnesota), nor even the united strength of all the strongest men that ever lived (we’re definitely not talking Republican congressmen here) could tear apart. Only faith, fancy, poetry, love, romance (and a double shot of Jack Daniels) can push that curtain and view and picture the supernal beauty and glory beyond (in Timothy Leary Land). Is it all real? Ah, Virginia, in all this world there is nothing else real and abiding (except death, taxes and Oprah).

No Lord of the Dance! Thank God! he lives, and he lives forever (like George Burns). A thousand years from now, Virginia, nay, ten times ten thousand years from now (a really, really long time), he will continue to make glad the heart of childhood (and of womanhood, for sure).
 
 

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(With apologies to Francis P. Church, venerable editor of The New York Sun, who is now turning over in his grave…)