A Family Re-Union, I'm Not Mad (but I'm working on it), and: "Was that a Shot?"

Each year - late in the summer - an unusual event takes place in my parent's home. Some family members, living and dead, congregate and nod at each other without talking. We tend to sit amid profound and astonished silence for several hours listening to the noise of passing traffic. As the nearest road is 20 kilometers away this tends to be quite unnerving. Usually, after a while, someone gravely undernourished, rises from a chair and faints. After they hit the floor the silence returns. This is usually a sign that food should be served.

We sit down to a restrained meal - usually throttled fish legs - and discuss matters of import. For example, should individuals be allowed to sing folk songs in public? While genius runs in some families, why does it walk in others? Can one be an "exhibitionist" if one has nothing to exhibit? In the world of spirits is it possible to get a glass of beer? Sometimes as I gaze around the room at the hollow faces, I think: so many people, so little insight. A recipe for boredom.

Suddenly my emotions take me back to when I was a small boy. My father was very strict and mistrusted everyone, including himself. In fact, if I remember correctly, he only smiled when asleep in front of the fire. His favourite hobby was shuffling socks. Sometimes, he would suddenly leap from his chair, hold five socks aloft, and cry, "A straight flush!"

Where was I? Ah, yes ... to be honest, I still wonder why my father used a carpet beater to inflict punishment upon us - my brother, sister, and I - for minor misdemeanors, when our home was devoid of carpet. It was completely covered in linoleum which had a symphony of smells: dried cat and dog pee; buttermilk, turpentine; the sweaty armpits of an elderly man from Bavaria whom none of us had met. Then time for the dull, rumbling sound of father reading 100 pages, or so, from his favourite book: In Search of Lost Time by Marcel Proust.

At this juncture - after a hundred pages, give or take a leaf - someone always starts to chant, sweat, flush, hyperventilate, and rush from the room screaming, "It isn't easy being a candle ...", or something of that nature. Invigorating, but frightening for the faint of heart. As for my father? Well, he would suddenly stand up, pull his trousers up, zip up, and violently throw Proust to the floor. His face would show despair, embarrassment, anger. With a fiery face he would storm out of the room through the nearest window, his voice quivering in his wake, " No man should have to abide this! Plot is not the point!" Quite funny, really. He never appreciates the entertainment he provides. At this point I usually pretend to be drunk, stand up, and spew. This tends to let others' know the party's over. It never fails.

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Today my Consultant is wearing a rope around his neck which I don't believe is a good sign. He has several birthmarks: two on his neck, one on his face and three on his suit jacket. He looks curiously at me and asks if I'm awake. I reply, no. When he asks why I am wearing a dressing gown and slippers, I reply that walking around naked isn't my scene. He looks at me with cold contempt - a fellow consultant - and says, "I know what you're up to, and it's not going to work on me ... I'm damned well brighter than you are! I know all the tricks!"

He starts to write furiously on his left hand. He asked me if the word contained one 's' or two? I reply the former. To be fair, my consultant, Mr Zee, has one commendable quality. He plays scratchy jazz records on an antique portable gramophone during our consultations. The music hits my emotions like an electric shock. I seldom listen to his rantings, but his small round mouth magically moves in time with the music.

After a prolonged silence he suggests I should make a list and try to accomplish something positive each day. So I blasted him with a shotgun. Now I have one less bill to pay, and no need to worry about missing the date of our next appointment. I’m just sorry I never got the opportunity to thank Mr Zee for the sound advice. I shall miss the jazz.

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Reflections: As small creatures in this vast multiverse, painters, poets, philosophers, musicians, inventors, actors, writers, politicians, et al - are relatively uninteresting - like most of us. Most walk a path in life littered with imitation; with no internal need to be original. This thought helps me sleep sound at night even when awake.