I had heard the talk about the
waters of Bermuda and believed it. They were colored with the kiss of turquoise
and clear like mountain springs.
But when the ship approached the
eastern end, I saw the talk to be mere words and my belief a phantom of the
operatic mind.
Oh sure, there is a turquoise hue
in pools and places, but even turquoise isn't turquoise. It's just old French
for Turkish,
and the colors range through
Persian Blue, Black Spider Web, Dark Green Damale, and Yellow Ivory Tortoise,
as well as ten-thousand variations
on that painter's theme. It's like the classic difference between religion and
the truth,
thinking and experiential
witnessing, rationale and love, the pointing finger and the bright full moon.
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