“...but abraham was greater than all, great by reason of his power whose strength is impotence, great by reason of his wisdom whose secret is foolishness, great by reason of his hope whose form is madness, great by reason of the love which is hatred of oneself.”

-søren kierkegaard, fear and trembling

the young geppetto was a miscreant and a spring jailbird. a drunk who shoved past his protesting mama, barreling into her like he did not know her. some say he only became a man once he came back with the regina marina. she'd heard they dragged him onto a ship, loused and blacked out, and just left him there to find his way back. they figured a ship full of sailors were the only ones who could contain his heart which was hard as stone.

but geppetto came back a changed man. quiet, somber-minded. he first took up wood work while stranded on an island in the aegean. the lone survivor of eighteen, all but two cannibalized. the last two taken by dysentery. he said he took up wood because it was softer and more malleable than stone. because he could squeeze it and feel it give a bit within his grip. 

for thirteen months, he stood by the shoreline and waited for the regina marina to send rescue, to send help. to pass the time and to keep from going crazy, gepetto carved tiny insects out of the wood: dung beetles, scarabs, daddy long legs, wolf spiders, ladybugs, mayflies, horse flies, preying mantis, ants, grasshoppers and crickets, which were a favorite of his. he would leave the crickets--first two or three, then dozens--facing seaward all through the night, a silent orchestra keeping watch till morning.

but it was an ottoman trading vessel laden with punjab spices that found him. taken aboard and bound by heavy chains, they intended to take him to the sardinian military fort and trade him for something useful. the captain, eager to give the infidels a taste of his power, took gepetto's manhood in his hands, like he were a bull ram, and stole it away--no doubt feeding it to the fishes. he bled through the night and next to died were it not for a vision--he never said what--only that it shimmered blue as the sea.

when he came back to the sleeping village he'd left, he was different, even to those who knew him and feared him most. there were rumors of a salvational change, visions of his holy mother on the high seas, miracles of a restoration. there were also other rumors circulating, always relayed with anatomical detail, always by some jealous buck and never with concern for nearby children. but it made the great mystery of the prodigal geppeto all the richer and deeper. beautiful women regarded him as a handsome castrato who might, played correctly, sing a song to make all the other girls jealous. 

but geppetto lived at home with his mama and his four brothers and sisters, and took no interest in the pretty girls. at night he cried and screamed into his pillow and twice tried to bite off his own tongue, swearing it tasted of maggots and the flesh of dead men. his younger siblings started spending the nights with neighbors. but his mother stood watch, glaring at him on the chaise lounge from their dining room table and swigging back sour vino with every curse her laggard son laid to god. 

the screaming only stopped when he took up the wood again. at which point, it is hard to say what matter of spirit took over the young man. at first he set upon the kinder wood, then the furniture, then the walls and floors. the neighbors told his mother they should call the police or have someone from the asylum come fetch him a padded van. but it was old calimero, blind and deaf, he posed the idea of simply getting the man more wood. the neighbors were touched by the old man's compassion. each unit donated a portion of their kinder each month to the family who kept wood in large mounds by the fireplace.

you see, mama, remarked her oldest daughter, we shall keep a surplus for the fire year round and never have to fear the cold again. you should thank your son, for all his compulsive love provides you.

and indeed, the output was remarkable. in return to the neighbors, as tribute and visual token of their love, geppetto peopled the staircases with pine marionettes, one after the next. there were forty-two stairs from their door to the groundfloor, and at night, after everyone had gone to bed, geppetto would place the days work on the next bottom stair. each face was different and yet the same, a single child's face sent through every experience of terror and ecstasy, peace and grief a person might know or come to know or hear of a poor soul who had. and so life-like, the neighbors told his mama, eerily so. they're almost like real boys. the oldest daughter said nothing to their mama, but amongst sisters (and giorgio) it was openly discussed how much like geppetto the little marionettes looked, at least as the eldest remembered.

at a certain point the stairs were full and by this point the marionettes were recognized throughout the neighborhood. a shop was opened and the surplus sold. and not just puppets, but figurines of varying shapes and sizes: animals, figures of history and legend, shapes of remarkable abstraction. so long as geppetto was given each day his daily wood and left to his own devices, he'd sit there on the floor and whittle his life away.

this he did for years on end, stretching onward and inward until his hairs were gray and his bony fingers trembled beneath the knife. the children left and his mama passed, but his eldest sister tended to his needs. one night she took advantage of his aging pace, and between breaks posed the question that no one had ever thought to ask: why do you do it? she wondered aloud to him. what drives you to it?

geppetto's voice rattled: in the bible, it's said that abraham's father was a maker of idols and that his son lamented the fact. there could be no image of god, no image at all. god is that gentle stillness on the horizon, the undisturbed sea. god is what's left when the idols you cling to and the ones you fear, together fall away. no more matter of 'meanings' or 'truth.' god does not come as an image. he comes as voice, and all at once...i hear it when i work...calling to me as he called to abraham, tempting us, calling out our names, us responding: here i am. 

i have made myself a wooden boy, lord, and i offer him to you as isaac to his father. first this one and the next, endless little wooden boys, ready for your flame upon the extinguishing pyre.