  OK,  I screwed up.  There was only one entry for yesterday.  I had to return a call to my family and now it is after midnight so I couldnt get this on the Blog until now.  So,  I will give you chapters 3 and 4.
 I hope you have enjoyed the manuscript so far.  A Working Manuscript by Rachel Kochackis Copyright pending 2003 No part of this manuscript may be reproduced in any form,  without the express written consent of the author.  Chapter 3 Poet removed her Cloak of Many Names As Teacher cooked the rabbits Victory caught that night.  They found shelter Under an old weeping willow On a bluff over looking The next city from Worklyn.  Poet perched herself on a large rock As she solemnly played her guitar Feeling her intensity rise And spill through her fingertips.
 The city waited below But she didn't know its name And now her heart spoke words Of question,  sorrow and pain Poet felt very much alone.  Victory ran to Poet As he too sensed her sorrow In his own way He sought to comfort His new friend.  Teacher Witnessing it all Brought their dinner And his compassion To listen to his new pupil.  Victory lapped away her tears And finally brought a smile To the lonely Poet's face.  Victory.
 How can I express my sorrow When you always bring me joy?  Poet exclaimed with gratitude As Victory curled up beside her.  Teacher climbed the rock To be with his two companions Victory had already begun working On Poet's troubled heart.  The three gave thanks and ate what God provided.  Teacher examined The Cloak of Many Names What will you wear tomorrow Prophet?  Poet Looking up from her guitar Saw the cloak in Teacher's hands Today it was a Cloak of Solitude.
 I don't know what tomorrow will bring.  You are right Prophet Each new day Is like a lifetime With enough to deal with In its 24 hour life cycle.  Poet continued to play her guitar.  I don't know that I will be comfortable With the name Prophet,  Teacher.  God's work isn't always comfortable child.
 All God requires of you is a willing heart The rest is up to Him.  Please,  continue to sing what is on your heart.  Poet strummed the guitar Closed her eyes And began to sing.  A song is like a prayer Pouring out of your soul Through the strings of a guitar As you beg to waste a lifetime For the security of an eternity While the ebb and flow of emotion Steams down your face Chilling and numbing you to the reality That you have no control here And as you watch it soar Through the onyx sky You know it's a futile attempt at freedom From the heart of the one Who captured your attention You wonder if it can crack Such infertile ground And as crescendo fades To final strum Your wary body shakes Satisfied that God Finally felt your soul.  Teacher warmly smiled and said,
 A- w- w- w Prophet How can you be uncomfortable With your name?  Teacher.  Poet quietly responded.
 Those were merely words That express the present state of my heart How does that make me a Prophet?  Truly some days I feel my intensity is a curse And my passions are my downfall Yet these are the very tools That help me create.  Child.  Your expression of suffering Reaches out to the rest of humanity And the humanity within yourself Yet throughout it all You point to God Reminding yourself and others That perfection is not a pre- requisite For His love And if you were perfect What need would you have for a Savior?  The issue you struggle with In essence,
 your humanity Is the thorn in your side That keeps you close to God.  He paused.  Solomon wrote:  The man who fears God Will avoid all extremes.  What do you believe that to mean?  Poet thought a moment.
 Teacher.  Solomon was one of the wisest men Who ever lived How can I even contemplate what he meant by that?  Teacher took Poet's hands.  Look at your wrists child.  Poet felt the bandages And looked up at Teacher to continue All your life you have striven for an earthly perfection You could never attain And what did you accomplish?  Poet's eyes questioned Teacher.
 Child.  Look at your wrists again What was the result of your folly?  My Folly?  Poet immediately answered,  As defensiveness filled her heart.  How can you call my service to God folly?
 I didn't call your service to God folly.  I called your quest for earthly perfection folly.  So what do you think Solomon meant?  Poet thought again.  Perhaps to find balance Since I must avoid extremes.  However,
 I'm not quite sure what that means.  Teacher smiled,  You don't have to know everything at once Prophet That's one step to finding balance Does that make it a little more clear?  I think so Teacher.  So am I ever going to find balance?  The fear of the Lord Is the beginning Of wisdom and knowledge.
 You definitely fear God.  So long as you seek Him He gives these things freely.  Add these things to your humility and faith And eventually you will find your answer.  We will continue your lesson tomorrow You've got enough to ponder today.  Chapter 4 Teacher,  Victory and Poet Arrived at the city gate at dawn.
 Welcome to Futility.  The ornamental sign read.  Poet had heard of the city before Yet she had never realized How close it was to Worklyn She had lost friends in Futility They died much too young In her heart she knew It could have just as easily been her.  The children of Futility Were spilling into the streets now All were anxious to play The Game Teacher,  Victory and Poet Stood just inside the gate As the children of Futility Lined themselves up Along the city wall Poet watched in amazement As the children's excitement grew While they waited for the right moment to start The Game.  Suddenly a gust of wind Blew through the gate The children squealed with excitement As one of them reached into a leather gunny-
sack The child threw a fine golden- metallic dust Into the wind Which was picked up and carried Into the innermost parts of the city.  Instantly the children shrieked with joy As they all began running from the city wall.  CHASE THE WIND!  CHASE THE WIND!  They all yelled out with glee.
 Poet watched with amazement As the children chased the wind Reaching and grasping For the gold- dust In the breeze.  And when the winds died They all marched back To the city wall Empty- handed And waited for the next gust.  Poet questioned the child Who held the gunnysack.  Little one What is the purpose of this game?
 The child looked up at Poet As if she had just spoke In a foreign language.  I don't know.  The child responded.  It's just fun.  Mommy says Futility is OK So long as you're enjoying yourself.  And while those words Still lingered in the air Another gust of wind arrived The child with the gunny-
sack Quickly fed the golden dust To the hungry air And again the children of Futility Chased the wind with joy And were finally consumed By the city streets.  Poet was speechless.  Come with me Teacher Poet solemnly asked I need to see why I lost My friends here.  And with that Poet,  Victory and Teacher Set out to explore Futility.
