David, a Soliloquy

It is hard to be the David, so hard. I stand all day in a state of readiness, moments away from slaying the giant. I am magnificent, the image of a perfect man, frozen at the most critical moment of my young life. I am fierce determination and tightly coiled power.

And yet, I am sad. I am never the first David in any admirer's mind. That honor goes to Michelangelo's David, the fellow with the big head. And why? What is he doing to merit this love? He is a clod, a heavy browed brute. Where is the sense of movement, of action? He can't even be bothered to throw the rock.

I am rarely even the second David. That's the earliest David, the Donatello David, the fey little boy with the floral hat. Knee boots and a floral hat? Did he slay Goliath after coming from an audition at Centerfolds?

The other Davids are beloved. The other Davids are compared. I am an afterthought, if I am thought of at all. Woe is Bernini's David.

But wait! What is this? The lady of the house has knitted a scarf for the David! No longer must I stand under the air conditioner in my state of readiness with my neck exposed to the breeze. I am beloved above all other Davids.

Shut up, Verrochio's David. This is my day.

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This is the first completed crochet thingy I've ever completed. It's a long strip of single crochet (I think), made from the leftover yarn from Tubey. I worked it up in a couple of hours this week. I think it'll be a nice little scarf for the slightly cold summer evenings. It looks good on the David, but I don't intend to give it to him permanently. Shhh...don't tell him.