How time flies! The last Dooku story was told two years ago. To satisfy your curious mind, Dooku no longer works in an office. The only thing human about human resource is that: Do you have the arms and legs to do the job? Oh yes. And a brain that performs basic functions which may or not not include the ability to perceive or articulate senses that are deemed common. It was an eyeopening experience for Dooku. Because alas! In reality, there is nothing human about human resource. Very soon, Dooku finds himself being re-purposed, and then re-purposed again. Aspiration is an illusion one creates in order to mask the lack of a direction one partakes. Organization is an entity that keeps on reorganizing itself from within. In the end, only the bees sing the songs inspired by the backward wind of change that swirls in a downward spiral. At infinity, it is a beeline to nothingness.
* * * * *
One day, Dooku has decided to leave the city. In his usual state of hungriness, he has stumbled upon a village called Bumble Bees and the Magic Flute. How odd the name is. How odd the village appears. But that did not matter. With no money in his pocket, all Dooku could think of was: What’s for dinner tonight?
By now, Dooku has worked in this village for quite some time. Not long enough to feel like home. But not short enough to cling onto the joy of discovering new things the first time either. One fine morning, one of the elders approaches him and says, “We have a crisis. It is time to re-purpose your role in this village again, Dooku”. Dooku is surprised, though not that surprised. He replies, “It was only recently when I was re-purposed to become a blacksmith plan designer. So soon?”
“It is never too soon, son. You see. Our village exports magic flutes and right now, magic appears to have stopped working. Our customers from outside our village are not happy.”
Dooku should have said, “But I know nothing about magic! Or flute for that matter! Surely you can find someone better to re-purpose?” Instead, he nods, unintentionally encouraged the elder to carry on.
The elder shakes his head in distress and continues, “There is a massive shift of magnet core interfering with the vines that give forth magic. Without its sustenance, the vines are interlocked with its surrounding energy. Quite simply put, some of our magic flutes sold to our customers have stopped working. Do you see the gravity of the situation, Dooku? The pulsation is killing the system! You can feel it, can’t you?”
Dooku looks out to the horizon thinking about today’s dinner. The elder takes it as a sign of contemplation and secretly admire Dooku’s dedication to the village. This one gets it. After a long moment, Dooku speaks, like he does every time he is re-purposed, “So tell me what I have to do.”
Throughout the day and night, jars of honey are being brought in by the flying owls. Inside each jar, all sorts of messages and communications between the customers and villagers – past and present – are preserved within the honey. These are the messages to be listened to, not read. Messages of how broken magic flutes are affecting the customers’ lives. Messages of the villagers asking the customers to be patience. Messages of the customers demanding the magic flutes to be working, now. Messages of the villagers trying all that they can to resume magic. Messages of desperation, of suggestion, of threat, and of imploration. Messages of missing messages.
In the village of Bumble Bees and the Magic Flute, language is a collection of the songs of the bees. Writing is not necessary. Ideas are painted by a honey brush, spoken through the bees. New ideas are added onto the old ones. Mixed together. Blended into one single jar of honey. Preserved by honey. Ideas are made timeless.
Each morning as Dooku arrives at work, the first thing he has to deal with are 200 jars of honey delivered overnight. He opens up the honey jar one by one and listen to its content. With very little knowledge of what magic flute does, Dooku would pick up his honey brush, add on a polite acknowledge that is neither helpful nor meaningful, and return the honey jars to the senders using the owls. A little bit of honey is now added into the honey jar as Dooku solidifies his thought, his thought of acknowledgement.
Dooku ponders: Someone needs to keep an eye on the overall big picture. Songs intertwined are weaved into a tapestry made of new pieces of human knowledge accumulated daily that form a whole new honey world. An ocean of honey understood only by the keen observers. The song weavers. One such as Dooku.
Honey jars come in batches. The more Dooku handles, the more they arrive. As the day goes by, every time when the number reduces to manageable size, the owls fly in and deliver a new batch of honey jars.
Dooku has developed a habit. Towards the end of day, whenever the number of honey jars reaches zero or the closing hour is at hand, he would close his eye and slowly tune out the surrounding. There are no owls. No honey jars. There are no anxious customers. No magic related problems. He has handled 500 honey jars today and that is enough. In his head, there is nothing but the songs of the bees. Of honey baked chicken and honey cake with caramelized pears, lemon honey water, maybe honey ginger tea. There is no way to keep a public toilet clean so long as people keep on peeing. Dooku feels the growling of his stomach. He is ready to go home.
That night, Dooku has a dream. In his dream, on the next day, more honey jars are delivered. Many more indeed. Customers are demanding answers to why their magic flutes are still not working. This time, directly to Dooku. By the hours, the situation is snowballing to a whole new level of epic failure. Honey jars upon honey jars, they are strapped onto Dooku’s body. Are you reading mine now? Aren’t you answering me now? In this ocean of honey, the songs of the bees can be deafening. The only thing Dooku can do is to drown himself into the honey, weighed down by the jars. There is an eerie sense of clamminess underneath. Dooku is falling asleep, but he wants to wake up. What if he doesn’t wake up the next day? 1,000 jars of honey will be waiting. Next week? 3,500 jars of honey will be waiting. By the end of next year? Maybe magic will resume working. All the problems will disappear.
That may not be a bad idea at all.
The owls keep coming. And the honey jars pile up. Darkness falls but the problems don’t go away. The wind of change is howling. From this point onward, it is all going down.