One night an old, retired butler led me to the grave of the Kerouac Tree, a tale I've told elsewhere. But later that night, he also showed me the world's fair. It wasn't what I expected--or what you think.

He led my mother and I up on a high saddle of land, and over a gentle pass, while telling her the tale of the Kerouac Tree. On the far side, below us, spread endless tents and pavilions, more medieval-looking than modern.

"The World's Fair" said the old man, firmly. Though it's a huge affair, my mother refuses to see it! The butler and I are incredulous, and he points again and yells as if she's hard of hearing:

"THE WORLD'S FAIR!"

Fireworks go up, lighting our faces, but it's no use. My mother just won't see the world's fair.

The old man sighs and looks at me, and I realize what he knew all along: the world's fair isn't a place, or an event.

It's a sentence.

NOTES ON WAKING UP

Despite the suffering of the world, I now believe this is true: the world's fair.

We come here to learn, and some of the lessons we choose involve suffering.

Doesn't mean we can't ease some of that pain, but I'm getting slower to assume things are truly unjust, that victims don't choose their roles, to learn things too subtle for us to grasp.

Too many spirit-journeys, I guess, where things turned out to be more complex than they seem...

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