The Mystic and the Spin Doctor – a modern-day fable
It so happened that a spin doctor went travelling across distant lands to convince the heathen people of his ability to transform the world. He carried his wallet and hand-held device with him as talismans, proof of his transformative powers.
“I challenge anyone not to believe as I spin my stories with golden thread and magnetic promises!” he declared to hordes of open-mouthed onlookers. He thumbed exhortations into his tiny screen which projected in majestic splendour across the skies. “Believe and I shall transform the world!” he concluded, to a riotous backdrop of thunderous applause, clenched fists and gleaming smiles.
A mystic, seated cross-legged on a stone step, nodded silently in response to the bald man’s claims. He remained motionless as he sipped on an ancient herbal infusion of cinnamon, cardamom and liquorice, his eyes turned inwards, his beard blowing in the wind.
“Who does not believe?” screamed the spin doctor, grasping with his outstretched fingers, reaching for any final vestiges of scepticism.
Silence. And then a solitary voice. “I! I do not believe!” The words scraped from the depths of the mystic’s throat. Air squeezed from a thousand throats in gasped response.
“You! Who are you, old man?” demanded the spin doctor.
“My name is Aa. I tell stories.”
“And what stories do you tell?”
“I tell stories of ancient times and wisdom.”
“And what do you achieve in telling your stories?”
“I achieve satisfaction and humility and belonging.”
“And do you change the world?”
“I change every day.”
The spin doctor first frowned, then smiled, then nodded. Then he guffawed long and hard, casting his eyes far and wide until the hordes laughed with him.
“Well, respect to you, old man! We all love histories of the past. They have their place. And I believe in those little folklore stories.”
The old man nodded. “And you, sir?” He asked with deference. “Who are you, rich man?”
“My name is Tobias Z Insomnia Jr. I too tell stories.”
“And what stories do you tell?”
“I tell stories of boundless wealth and pleasure.”
“And what do you achieve in telling your stories?”
“I achieve status and fame and glory.”
“And do you change the world?”
“I change the world!” declared the spin doctor, with a proud glint in his eye.
The mystic shook his head, soaking the ends of his beard in his spicy infusion and shaking the droplets far and wide, anointing the heads of the now silently gathered people.
“Respect to you, rich man. We all love stories of abundance. But I am a part of this world but I remain unchanged on hearing your stories. So you do not change the world.”
The people rose up in a babble of whispered nods, then smiles, speaking louder and louder, then singing until finally they were dancing and chanting in local tongues that were unknown to the spin doctor. Fear and anger arose in the spin doctor in response to this strangeness, and the spin doctor busied himself by grabbing his wallet, pocketing his hand-held device, and turning on his heel.
And so, according to the story that is told still to this day by the mystic Aa, the spin doctor ran far, far away back to his tiny homeland, and the world remained unchanged.
