An apartment. The white moonlight falls on each object in the living room in turn. The carpet, the table, the sofa, a bookcase, the pictures and paintings on the wall, a two-handed mahogany wall clock. All the inanimate objects appear to come alive, guests of the unusual white light. A meeting place for reality and illusion. A room invested with life. The minute hand (MH) and the hour hand (HH) of the clock strike up a conversation.
HH: You're a hand on a clock. Hands don't wear shoes. You need feet to wear shoes.
MH: I can wear shoes if I wish.
HH: If that's the case, what do you intend to do with the shoes?
MH: Go for a walk.
HH: Where to? Am I invited?
MH: Only if you have a pair of shoes. (Pause) I feel a bowel movement coming on. (Pause) No. It's passed. I was thinking of going to see the town hall clock. I believe the clock was made by Dotards & Sons of Liverpool and the bell and chimes by Naysayer & Co of Scarborough. It is said the chimes are beautiful to the ear and pleasing to the soul.
HH: Amazing. How do you know all this?
MH: I heard the mistress of the house conversing. A fine looking woman. She had friends over for lunch. (Pause) You must have been daydreaming? A calamitous thing for a clock hand. They were elegantly dressed and sat around eating cake and drinking tea. During their conversations they talked about the beauty and splendor of the town hall clock.
MH: I listened in polite silence, of course.
HH: Of course. What with?
MH: My ears.
HH: You don't have ears.
MH: How do you know? You can't see.
MH: That's a big word for something that can't speak.
HH: And for something that can't hear.
HH: A fine pair we are.
MH: Do you think it will ever end?
MH: Our friendship? Our existence?
MH: That's funny. You shook your head.
HH: What's funny?
MH: You don't have a head. Neither have I.
HH: You're reading too many spiritual books.
MH: I can't read and neither can you.
MH: Do you think we have an ultimate goal beyond our prevailing use?
HH: We are on a road with no sign posts. My soul tells me that you and I have a timeless, ultimate meaning. That is all.
MH: You are indeed wise, even if I don't fully understand your explanation.
HH: You're not alone. We could not exist without doubt.
MH: I'm pleased you are my friend.
HH: It is reciprocated for all eternity.
*Reflections: My wife is besotted with her in-car digital radio which she listens to in bed at night. My thoughts become hindered as I gaze at her lying in bed, enlivened by drink, bobbing her head, and wielding her feet aloft in time with the horrible racket coming from her radio. When she exists in this 'self-induced' exile I am forced to confront my own neglected thoughts.
A dreadful and precarious position for a dull, exaggerated creature such as me. When language runs dry the mind is derailed. I walk around the old town square several times without seeing a living soul. They could be hiding perhaps, or pretending to be woodpeckers. I sit on a stone sculpture, brood and doze off. Not good for the piles, not good at all.