The Rise of Working Singles, Sharks, and Onions

The "office environment" in the 21st century is a time bomb - full of testosterone and estrogen, and rats if it's an old building. The rise of working singles working round the clock - and those working near a clock - has turned some offices into "Singles Bars" with bouncers on the door, and the water you consume during "Happy Hour" gets charged to your credit card. And let's not forget those who are married, and suffer transient global amnesia for five minutes while having sex with their secretary. Once their memory returns they recall they have a spouse. This can be particularly frightening if it happens during a board meeting; especially for fellow board members'. Where I used to work a lottery was held every week to guess who the CEO's next conquest would be. The last list I saw included females, males, and a vending machine on the 2nd floor.

My wife has suddenly elected to stop speaking. Pleading with her to watch "Persona" by Ingmar Bergman payed off big time. For months she hasn't uttered a word. She's currently watching "Jaws". I can tell she empathises with the Great White shark. She eats all the fish remains I throw at her. Our apartment's a mess - even the cat's left - but things are going according to plan. How will she react to the last scenes of the film when the shark's corpse sinks to the ocean floor? My wife doesn't know, but she's booked to go solo surfing in "Shark Alley" near Cape Town this weekend. I expect to fly home alone ...

I can no longer write, or say, the word, "right". My therapist says its psychological; a blockage. How she arrived at that diagnosis without inspecting the plumbing in my home beggars belief. My boss told me a few weeks ago, "You're fired." "Who? Me?" "I don't see anyone else in the room?" "But you're here?" He took a deep breath, "You're fired. F-I-R-E-D. Fired!" It wasn't being fired that upset me - I half-expected that. I was making car doors in a solicitors office - it was the emphasis on "RIGHT". It's left me traumatised. On my early morning walk down Fifth Avenue a man with a string of onions around each ankle asked me how to get to Columbus Circle. I told him to go down Fifth Avenue, and turn up river at Central Park South. He immediately thought I was making fun of him. " Do you see a canoe, or a boat with an outboard motor anywhere? You should be ashamed of yourself." As he stalked off, mumbling to himself, I shouted, "Keep turning left. Perhaps someone else can help you?". My heartbeat started playing a Brazilian samba, my hips and knees wanted to change places. The sweat from my brow made my eyes blurred as I hastily ventured home. I bumped into someone. I couldn't see who it was, but the voice was unmistakable. "Turn up river ... eh ...." I rubbed my eyes as he chased me down Fifth Avenue. As we ran I was attacked by flying onions for at least four blocks. After that, he either ran out of onions, or jumped under a crowd of tourists on a Big Onion Walking Tour.

Reflections: Sometimes when I sit, or stand, I feel the entire landscape - of which I am at the centre -becomes minimised, or eliminated. Only natural sounds and silence become of importance. Only then, do I truly feel free to evaluate, and understand my achievements, and place in nature. I try to adjust my expectations, and put aside my gender, past experiences. I am alone. But not for long. The landscape returns.

The Thin Man, Digestive Biscuits, and Pimples

The cottage is now silent, deserted, and rain falls silently through holes in the roof, delicately touching my shoes. I recall exceptional times, and the exceptional people to whom this ruin was once home.

I met Arthur for the first time at the grocery store. He was thin, and wore his clothes like an old, wire coat hanger. Though much older than me, we talked, wherever, and whenever, we met. In fact, he worked with my father. Arthur treated all women with courtesy - an old-fashioned trait, seemly, by some men today - and had an easy, relaxing disposition. He was full of commonsense, and not an inkling of bitterness permeated his body.

One day, Arthur, told me about the night he first met Ellen. I listened intently as we sat beside the sea; the glint of the sun playing with the soft waves. The taste of salt filled the air. Arthur's first recollection of Ellen was her kicking him in the face. It was during a dance - thirty or so years earlier - held in the local church hall. One of her feet caught his nose as she fell on the floor. After an abrupt silence they went outside, and successfully suppressed the bleeding. He recalled it was an unseasonably warm, and windless night.

Ellen looked at Arthur with her bright eyes.

'Would you like to go out?'

'We are out!'

'No. Silly. Would you like to go out on a date?'

'Well, I don't know? You just kicked me in the face. Maybe I'm wrong, but I think a relationship with you could lead to more violence down the line?'

'What weight are you? Seven stone? I'd take you for ten at least?'

'Ten what?'

'Ten stone, stupid! What weight do you think I am?'

'It's hard to say. It's getting dark, and the moon isn't bright tonight .... ?'

'Go on. Have a guess?'

'You're upsetting my blood pressure!'

'What's 7 times 2 divided by 7 times 2 multiplied by 14? Plus a stone, either way, of course.'

'Ten stone!'

'On the nose!'

'What's on my nose?'

'Not your nose!'

'Well, whose nose?'

''Nobody's nose!'

'I know that song.'

Ellen started to sing:

'Nobody nose the trouble I've seen
Nobody knows but Jesus
Nobody nose the trouble I've seen
Glory Hallelujah

Sometimes I'm up and sometimes I'm down
Yes lord, you know sometimes I'm almost to the ground O yes ...'

They sang two, or three, choruses together. Arthur sighed, but there was something about Ellen he liked. She made him feel good, with her boisterous laughing, nudging and winking. There would never be a dull moment with her around. They agreed to meet the following Saturday night. Spring turned to summer, and they tied the knot. Arthur got drunk after the wedding, and Ellen carried her husband over her shoulder back to their cottage. Arthur and Ellen; Seven stone and Eighteen stone; Laurel and Hardy, Skin and Bone.

When Ellen died, Arthur moved to England, and rented a small room from an elderly lady who once cleaned the local Mission Hall. It's cold, and dark, as I leave the ruins of the cottage. The rain plays tricks, and voices, and conversations, appear to flow from the cottage; forging their way into my mind, memory, the skin of my soul.

Reflections: Did you know the name ‘digestive’ originated due to the high content of baking soda used to aid food digestion? Neither did I until I sought an explanation from one of my teacher’s. Miss Peters seemed to know a lot about biscuits. In fact, she informed me about the history of biscuits, including tube packaging and brand portfolios. During her account she became quite energised and passionate; eyes bulging and hands whirling in escalating loops. I thought she was deranged. Imagine knowing so much about the history of biscuits, and getting excited telling how generations’ have enjoyed eating them. A real nutcase. I bet she went home and scoffed digestives every night.

Some years' later, someone told me Miss Peters exploded in class one day, and all her pupils were covered in baking soda. For some reason - after the incident - there was a startling decline in pupil's attending the school with acne and pimples. I never found out who Acne and Pimples were? Probably got married? Who nose?

The Old Sock Trick, Sandals, and The Visitor

This morning while walking in the desert I was accosted by either a woman sporting a beard, a man wielding a beard, or a hedgehog on stilts. It happened so fast, I can't, in truth, be sure. As I had forgotten to bring a golf club, a fire extinguisher, a picture of my wife naked, or a pot of boiling water on my daily stroll, I had to think quick, or fast. I suddenly recalled David slayed Goliath with a simple slingshot. I took off my right sandal and threw it in the air, which amazingly distracted my assailant. Suddenly, his features softened. I took off my sock, filled it with five twenty dollar bills, and beat my assailant about the head. But to no affect. Despairing of hitting his head continually with my sock, I asked if he had change of a twenty? He announced - with the aid of a late 19th-century speaking trumpet, that should have been present earlier - that he had a few nickels and quarters he would lend me. I thanked him, and we swapped our money. I then filled my sock with the coins. However, just as I was about to hit my assailant once again about the head, I was struck on the head by a flying sandal, and lost consciousness. When I awoke he was gone, and so was my sock. He left a note that read the complete works of Shakespeare, and said I owed him a nickel.

This afternoon an old friend dropped by to see me. We reminisced for a few minutes over several cups of coffee. I know it's more comfortable to sit on a chair; for a start it's cooler on one's posterior, but he didn't seem to mind. He told me about his fiancee, whom he described as possessing long legs, long white teeth, a long nose, a long memory, and enjoyed long conversations. In fact, everything he described about her started with the adjective "long". As I watched his mouth move - first toward my knee, and then toward a light fitting - I was certain their engagement would be short. I think he guessed it was time to leave when I went upstairs and returned with pyjamas on. It was 4:30 in the afternoon. As he drove away I waved my nightcap in the air. It was the least I could do. I forgot to ask why he had no teeth, one eye, and had enquired if I had a tin bath with ice, cold water? People can be strange.

Reflections: I remember a knock on the front door that resonated through our whole house, and my mum talking to a softly spoken man. "Something has happened to your dad!’ she exclaimed with a worried gaze. As she ran into the hall she cried out, ‘Get your coat - we’re going to the hospital . . . Mr Dorment is giving us a lift . . . quick!’

While travelling in the car, Mr Dorment, a hefty, crimson faced gentleman - who looked capable of exploding at any minute - advised that my father had fallen at work, and swallowed both rows of false teeth. His stomach had been x-rayed, and he was out of danger. I couldn't’t make head nor tail of it, but I could tell my mum was worried. Her face was red and white, like bunting.

After a few days in hospital, the teeth left my dad’s body the natural way. He never speaks about it, and neither do his teeth. I hope they give the teeth a good cleaning? My dad definitely doesn't smile as much as he used to. I suppose that's to be expected. His bedside table has a glass of water for his teeth, and a fake silicone head on a pole for his wig, eyebrows, beard, and earrings.

The Human Condition, Indifference, and Evil

It's three or four o'clock in the morning and I am unable to sleep. I am in my father's home. My home, also, until I married. I feel engulfed by a void, a sense of emptiness, even though I abhor indifference. I'm not frightened; I'm numb. I can honestly say I am not anxious about myself. My despair, pain, and sorrow are directed toward my father. Also, toward my mother who died five years' earlier. What would she think?

I sense - not for the first time -the total indifference of the universe. I'm in "No Man's Land". I'm not ambiguous about my love for my father, who I know is lying awake in the next bedroom. Has he become another victim of indifference? Are we both looking into the same abyss? I love and care for my father. I know it is reciprocated -without words; it is.

From where I lie - in my old bedroom - through the darkness, I see the dim colour of the walls, the white of the ceiling, the flowery curtains. A world of fragrances and faint sounds: mainly ticking and chiming clocks, enter my senses. Random memories appear. I want to see my mother's face, so I get up quietly, and fetch a photograph from a sideboard downstairs in the living room. While the black and white photograph captures her in a stubborn mood, she is undeniably beautiful. The photograph seems to radiate her strength of will, intelligence, and humour, which, thankfully, she never lost.

This morning, my father's home, my late mother's home, my former home, my siblings' former home, represents a house of clay - Why? Trust and love make us all susceptible to hurt. My father, no longer feels safe and comfortable in his own home. Is it any wonder the church buildings in the area remain locked when not open for Sunday worship? In fact, the buildings resemble security-leaden fortresses, not places of worship.

As my father -who is eighty-five years old - and I eat breakfast, the trauma of yesterday's events are clearly etched on his pale face, his speech scarcely audible. We talk, and ask each other questions, to which there are no answers. Why? Who? When? My father is fearful they will return. Again, I try to allay his fears, though I, or no-one else, can guarantee it.

The perpetrators’ used a 'jemmy' (a small crow bar) to break the wood surrounding the side door of my father’s home to gain entry. My father and I had been out for something to eat, and to visit the local library. It happened between two and four on a sunny afternoon last week. Incredibly, no-one seen it happen. Each room, cupboard, cabinet, drawer, armchair, seat, had been overturned and ransacked. The thieves took cash, and other sentimental items. It is impossible to describe the scene. My late mother's clothes, and personal items, jewellery, did not escape their onslaught. So you will understand my family's predicament. Crime, while constantly in the spotlight, is one area of human endeavour where the perpetrators' largely go unpunished, or atone for their deeds.

We took photographs of the scenes of destruction and tried to settle our father, while upset ourselves. The police came and took a hazy statement from my father. Next, the forensic team. The police officers' didn't voice hope of catching the perpetrators', and had no information regarding the level of burglary in the area; priority, or possible, offenders; those known to handle stolen goods ... I could go on. Would it serve a purpose? No. I shiver with despair. I'm sure the burglars carried out some kind of reconnaissance prior to breaking into my father's home. Perhaps they called at the house? An elderly person living alone is an easy target.

Reflections: Throughout the world jails are full of people who feel no guilt for their crimes. You and I, hopefully, consider that delusional. In fact, some perpetrators relish their life of crime, and live with impunity. They sleep sound at night because they see no higher power than themselves. At the same time they have a great ability to lie to themselves, ignorant of their own faults, while they commit attacks of violence, and target vulnerable people.

What is evil? I can't answer that. All I know is that actions which are, by their consequences and nature destructive of life, are carried out by individuals who find it easy to blame others for their behaviour. They live in denial, and with little though for the well being of others'. I'm just thankful we are not all cut from the same cloth.

Passion, Watchful Observer, and Parrot Disease

What age does one have to be to form a passion that will endure a life time?

During the primeval darkness of puberty I began an ebullient love affair with reading, music, humour, television, and discovering erogenous zones (not necessarily in that order, or frequency) - mainly, drama, film, and anything involving an armpit. Language and music seemed to delve deep into my soul; fire my emotions. Though still childish for my age, and with a restricted ability to understand the rules of grammar, and vocabulary, I soldiered on. Then I discovered melody, harmony, rhythm, phrasing, imagination - not only in music -but in folk tales, novels, poetry, and arm-wrestling. I read voraciously, but the story was overly optimistic, so I opted for "Anne of Green Gables". The one thing in life I've never regretted.

In this new era of my life, I have morphed into a watchful observer. When I'm not at home - shopping, or visiting someone I've never met before in hospital - I hold a wood effect country birch venetian blind in front of my face. I've been arrested five times as a "Peeping Tom". Am I to be pilloried the rest of my life for boring a hole in my shutters, just because Lady Godiva's hair was cut too short, prior to riding into town on her horse? I demand justice! I demand brown sauce on my burger! Do I sound irrational; erratic; crazed? If not, you're on the same medication as me. Try meditation, or standing naked among cattle lying in the meadow in winter. However, watch out for the swishing of tails.

I took my dog, Tanya, to the vet today. The vet's diagnosis was worrying. She said Tanya had Parrot Disease, aka Parrot Fever, Pigeon Fancier's Lung! When I said I couldn't understand how a dog could catch this disease my dog said, "Who's a pretty boy then? Who's a pretty boy? Go on ... tell me. Who's a pretty boy, then?" I cracked, and was in such a state, I drove home without a car. It was a mistake to buy Tanya her own tape recorder, and let her sleep in the kitchen. There's no food left in the fridge, and she has left the iron on again.

This afternoon I sat down, and wrote an email to one of my friends in Oxford, England.

I've fallen in love again. This time with a human being! She's beauty personified, wealthy, and fluent in German. I know what you're thinking? I can't speak German. But I'm besotted! I know! I know! Even when the sun shines at its brightest, the rain runs down her face, and her voice is sometimes lofty. I've made an appointment with a doctor to diagnose her condition. However, believe me, she is like no other. She's learning me how to "Goose-Step" to "Achy Breaky Heart" by Billy Ray Cyrus.

I know this may sound simply-minded, however, every time I mention Gabriel Daniel Fahrenheit, she gets hot under the collar. Any ideas?

Reflections: The time will come when everything one does will be just a memory, including one's notion of paradise.

My Evergreen Plant, Relatives, and The Blog Tag

(My grand-daughter, Aimee)

I'll get straight to it. I've a depressed evergreen plant on my hands - O.K., it's picked up some bad vibes from me from across the room - the leaves have turned Caramel Brown; which just happens to be the name of an old girlfriend. Everything I look at reminds me of her, especially her photographs. I used to call her, CB, for short. She called me, Loser. Anyway, my evergreen plant is starting to get up later each day, demanding coffee and the newspaper. Also, it habitually complains about the cold weather, and says our home is full of seal-hunters' dressed as egg white. It's worse at night. It's scared of the dark, and has to sleep in my room. The funny thing is - I got the plant to brighten up my life.

When I was young I used to detest when uncles came to visit our home, sometimes with their irritating wives. Some were fat, bearded, spoke in loud voices, smelt of whiskey, and smoked cigars - the men weren't much better. Once, the combination of smells was overbearing. I had to hold my breath, or die. However, I held it too long, and passed out. When I came round a red-faced, plump woman said, "Look at my finger - yes, just as I thought. One of your eyes isn't moving ..." I wet myself, and lost consciousness, again. From that moment onward, my life has moved unhindered between explosive joy, boundless terror, and hysterical laughter. I do believe I've wet myself again. Life has its ups and downs, and I need new underwear.

Blog Tag, as initiated by Frieda Babbley. The following is not for the faint of heart, or mind.

List 1: Things I've always wanted to do

1. Ride an elephant to work and get my manager to pore through the dung for his monthly pay check;
2. Master vertical take-off, and landing, without an aircraft;
3. Wear a veiled hat to my optician's, and talk hysterically about my deteriorating eyesight;
4. To lie between Cécile De France, and Audrey Tautou, for one night in a large bed in a Paris hotel, eating grapes, drinking champagne - both ladies laughing, smiling, and conversing with me in French and English (I can't speak French, who cares?);
5. Wade up to my knees in the sea with my wife under the sparkling stars - the upshot, my wife has to walk on her hands throughout our stroll;
6. Learn the mysterious art of ventriloquism: then perhaps have someone to converse with;
7. Turn the tables on all the "bullies" I have encountered in my life - at school, during my career, socially, out on the street, etc. You know what I mean. All to parade through the city, each with a placard around their neck stating "I am a Bully";
8. Take my grand-daughter, Aimee, to Central Park, NY, to sit on the sculpture of "Alice in Wonderland" - something, everyone should do irrespective of age, or disposition.

List 2: Foods I love

1. The paintings of Francis Bacon - grilled;
2. Butter, only if pale blue;
3. Day lilies - only at night;
4. Fiddler crab - breaks my heart to eat them especially after they've performed a violin sonata;
5. My doctor said I should eat more fibre. I'm currently eating the hull of a boat. A guy told me that was " fibre-glass". So what? I'm starting to enjoy the taste, though a tad salty;
6. Runner beans when I can catch them;
7. Anything from the "Hellenistic Age" - great with home-made pitta bread;
8. Any plays by Luigi Pirandello. So far, I've consumed ten copies of " Six Characters in search of an Author". I recommend a good, second-hand copy with a stir-fry.

List 3: Things I love

1. Driving my jet-ski through the streets of my town;
2. Skipping without a rope;
3. Throwing turnips at my wife, and children, packed with explosives;
4. Works by Andy Warhol completed before 1927;
5. Sailing of Norway, and shouting " Here Boy!" at dogfish;
6. Running over people with my car who sport badges saying, "Frodo Lives";
7. Looking at the Earth from the Moon;
8. Laughter, beats the sound of crying any day, or night.

Reflections: The modern era is often referred to as the "Information Age,"not the "Knowledge Age". I do not find this strange. Why? Because information does not directly translate into knowledge. It must be processed: accessed, absorbed, comprehended, integrated. Knowing is not understanding. There is no easy answer to any question worth asking.