Session Four: Solomon’s Dust and Drip
SOLOMON // “DUST & DRIP”
Recorded on a voice memo app, never meant to be transcribed. Found on a gold-plated tablet in a hotel safe labeled “Vanity Project #11.” Sounds of distant fountains and light jazz filter in. Solomon’s voice is smooth, calculated, and heavy with too many insights he no longer wants.
You ever try to find meaning in a room full of meaning-makers?
That’s what this place is.
Every panel. Every symposium. Every wise man with a podcast.
And all of it—chasing the wind.
Still stand by that, by the way.
Whole book. Ecclesiastes. Wouldn’t change a word. Maybe a comma. The translators got cute with a few metaphors. But the ache? The ache is accurate.
And yes—before you ask—maybe I should’ve thought of “less” somewhere along the line.
But that never occurred to me.
Because “more” was just… so available.
More wives? Just build more rooms.
More theories? Add another scroll.
More influence? Another alliance. Another temple. Another throne made of ivory and regret.
I loved them, you know. All of them.
Not the same way. Not wisely. But truly.
Each in their own moment.
And I didn’t see the gods they brought with them, not really.
They came braided into their hair and whispered into their jewelry and sung into their lullabies.
And I thought—I can manage this.
I’m wise.
Barbara…
(that’s your cue to lean forward)
I don’t think I was wise.
I think I was clever.
There’s a difference.
When God offered me anything, I thought I was gaming the system.
“Give me wisdom,” I said.
What I got was insight.
Analysis.
Strategy.
But wisdom?
Real wisdom?
Knows when to say enough.
And that word wasn’t in my vocabulary.
Because my father—you’ve heard of him, right?
David.
Slinger of stones. Slayer of men. Singer of psalms.
Founder of my house…
But it’s his name they keep.
I got the temple, sure.
But it was his blueprints.
I built it like a son proving himself with Legos and an audience of angels.
I thought if I completed it, I’d be something.
Be my own man.
Instead I became a brand. A headline.
The wise king.
The rich one.
The harem hoarder.
Pick your title.
You know how many years of legal work it takes to untangle 700 marriages?
I’ll wait.
The 300 concubines? Worse.
You can’t divorce a concubine. You can only disappoint her permanently.
And yeah—okay—it was fun for a while.
Ideas. Women. Wine.
Debating existence while my sandals cost more than most people’s childhoods.
But now?
Empty.
Too many attachments.
Too many tearings away.
Too many mornings where my smile lifts my cheeks, but nothing else.
You ever try to mourn when you’re famous for wisdom?
No one thinks you mean it.
They think it’s a metaphor.
They think it’s a teaching moment.
It’s not.
It’s just sadness.
Plain and vanilla.
Anyway.
The penicillin drip’s almost done.
They’re bringing in someone from NCF Qatar to talk about “the ethics of legacy.”
I might nap instead.
But Barbara…
next time you’re in the city of gold, come find me.
We’ll sit.
And I won’t say anything profound.
I promise.
I’ll just listen.
For once.