Gobbledygook, Frisbees, and The Moon

Life is full of hard times, hard words, hard consonants, and hard knocks on the door if your portable doorbell refuses to chime. I have a portable model which is particularly useful for hearing visitors when I'm in another country, or continent. It works at a distance of up to 8000 kilometers when there is a good wireless signal. This morning I had the door knocker removed. Tomorrow I plan to remove the door.

In truth, I'm tired of people turning up at my home unannounced, or worse, without telling me in advance. I'm tired of people who beg, steal, deceive, and commit fraud, so I've decided to change my outrageous behavior. No more gobbledygook, doublespeak, oxymorons (especially, between meals), false empathy, insincerity, telling strangers, "The doctor will be with you in a minute" in bank queues, and eating custard while simultaneously trying to sing "Goodbye Yellow Brick Road" by Elton John.

I'm also giving up my position in the financial industry. As Howard Hughes famously said, "So what if it took two and a half million feet of film to shoot the film, I've the money and I'm taking drugs!"

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This morning it's raining. My wife and I are soaked. Our clothes and rucksacks are damp, and our heavy boots are cold and muddy. I check my guide book. It confirms we are sitting at the kitchen table in our home. Where would we be without maps?

Though hungry and thirsty, we are both relieved to know where we are. As we suck on beach pebbles we exchange a Frisbee, and think about salmon sandwiches, donuts, ham and eggs, and the person who introduced half-day closing.

My wife and I have vowed to avoid all unnecessary expenditure, to never leave the house until "the current financial crisis" has concluded, and all "bubbles" have burst. When my wife inquired about lunch, I smiled. I pulled a piece of pancake of two months standing from my pocket and proudly announced we were in luck.

While our diet is frugal (though we sometimes dine at a neighbour's house when he is out), and we retire to bed early to avoid the expense of candles, we usually sleep badly due to the absence of sheets and blankets, and fretting over debts. As creditors' are pressing heavily down on us we have hatched a plan to outwit them which, to my knowledge, has not been tried before in the history of civilization. We intend to do a "moonlight flit" during day light hours.

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Reflections: Some people like the moon better than the sun. One day I asked my paternal grandmother what she missed most about her younger days. She replied wetting her ankles, wading in the sea up to her knees. She always loved the nighttime and wasn't afraid of the dark or what lay beyond. She found the sparkling stars and the moon enchanting.

"To me, the moon is more beautiful than the sun. Always has been, always will. I recall lovely summer evenings when our town was still warm. As night fell my heart would dance. The gleam of the moon on the sea, the shore, the lights of houses, boats, was beautiful. The sky was filled with stars. The evening was sweet. I was happy."  She added, "Parents frighten children with tales of bogeymen, ghosts and spooks. It gives children nightmares and instills a fear of the dark. What is the point of that?" What is the point, indeed?

An Unexpected Awakening, No Cure for Growing Old, and To Hell in a Handcart

Sometimes when I am unable to sleep I sense the distant magic of my childhood. Our tied-cottage lay near the edge of a forest on one side, and cattle sheds and barns on the other. I smelt of cow-dung, and Jean of buttermilk. Lying on her back in the grass Jean stared at me with soft, pale eyes. Suddenly, she said, "Do whatever you want to me". Her smile was dazzling, teasing. Her face beautiful, her mouth soft. We never touched each other though we lay close. I remained silent while she talked. I was eight years old. She was thirteen, or fourteen. I felt terrified, my heart trembled, and emotional and physical disquiet descended upon me.

I gazed at at her wide-open eyes, and ash-blonde hair. I had never seen anything so beautiful, alive, and full of fantasy. She radiated sensitivity, warmth, protection. I was too young to answer her questions. Too naive to respond to her sudden impulse.

I don't regret my embarrassment, lack of intuition, or emotional paralysis. I did not love her. In fact, I do not pertain to know what love is. Perhaps I delude myself like so many others'? I remember the event without emotion. This may be untruthful. It lies encased in my memory - unreal, an unexpected awakening that happened while dumbstruck.

Her physical appearance haunts me, yet the vision is lost. While the event had undoubted consequences for us, it remains, somehow, associated with loss, solidarity, loneliness. My immaturity may be seen as the reason. I have never wished to grow old, age, and progress towards death.

That is an easy answer, however, and disregards valued relationships with family and friends. Maybe, I'm not alone? Perhaps it is an impossible task to confront reality each minute of every day. How else would we preserve our sanity and energy? And is this not the price we pay for a meaningful, authentic existence?

Reflections:   Some of us are going to hell in a handcart, unable to smile, unable to talk - and worse - unable to think. Has the cosmetic industry any positive features? None that springs to mind.

Time to stop worrying about wrinkles, instant success, and where the "tooth fairy" stores all those teeth. Life is neither static, repetitive, timeless or devoid of reality. Live life while alive. Dead, it tends to be harder.

The Unquiet Sun, My Bank Account, and Knitters Anonymous (KA)

Today I looked at the sun, then put it back. Who am I to deprive others' of sunlight, or the experience of seeing another enchanting sunset? By contrast, consider those people who feel the heat of this bright, fiery ball, yet may have lost, or never had, the ability to perceive visual images.

In any event, I tend to do my best work when surrounded by flat, impersonal images silkscreened by Andy Warhol or Roy Lichenstein; listening to Ifukube on my 120 GB iPod (which contains a complete history of the universe); smelling glossy magazine covers, and listening to my wife, dog, and myself, snoring on separate BT Baby Monitors wall-mounted a foot from my bed. When we snore in unison it is not dissimilar to a composition by Philip Glass, except for the absence of tedious repetition.

A tabloid headline has prompted my new poem, "Headless Body In Topless Bar”. The opening lines require a certain subtle, aesthetic sensibility; the closing couplet must be sharp, finely crafted, and include reference to a hat, a new remedy for headaches, and conflicting evidence that an invisible dancing pink zebra was at the scene.

I've come to the conclusion that time and space no longer exist. Neither does my bank account - it lies frozen. Why it decided to holiday in Iceland defies rationality. My inescapable financial straits follow me everywhere. I'm at my wit's end - not a long distance, I know - but try getting there during a bus and subway strike.

Today, I visited the bank. First, I had to recover my memory which was recuperating at a local day spa. It seemed pleased to see me. As I entered the bank a lady at reception gazed at me with a distracted air, wearing - at least - three days' growth of beard.

She was unsmiling, and her tone, words, and pattern of speech failed to conceal boredom, irritation, or distraction of some sort. When she advised the manager would see me now, I asked why she could not smile. I advised that her failure to smile made me unhappy, and had ruined my day. As a consequence, I would meet the manager in a miserable mood, drive home in anxious silence, open the door to my house in a distressed manner, interact in any conversation with my wife with rage, kick the cat, and refuse to feed the dog. Indeed, her cynical manner filled me with anger.

I believe she sighed as I walked towards the manager's office. I told myself that in the face of despair words are powerless. I didn't speak for two weeks. No-one noticed any difference. No even me.

Aware off my failure to write anything of worth in English I've decided my next play will be in French. Being monolingual is a hindrance, I know, but I've a great title: The Wild Hollyhock (La rose trémière sauvages); everything else will be an afterthought.

I recalled my mother had been half French, half English, and part mallard. She had short legs and didn't like swimming, especially in water. The play will include a firm handshake, and a green, plastic vase. I must create strong characters, and something for them to say, otherwise it will be a joke.

How many people are aware that Attila the Hun, Beethoven, Mozart, and King Henry VIII were compulsive knitters? Indeed, the execution of Anne Boleyn was delayed by an hour due to King Henry dropping a stitch while simultaneously gazing at a "Hot Housewives Special Edition" of Playboy magazine.

Knitting sites are now the most viewed sites on the Internet after "google.com" according to a recent survey carried out by an Auto Worker at a factory in Antarctica. Do the following questions and answers surprise you?

Questions
1. Men don't knit.

2. Knitting is a woman's hobby.

3. Knitting has always been associated with women.

4. Russell Crowe has nits.

Answers

1. False

2. False

3. False

4. True (However, they belong to Christian Bale - currently on holiday in the Aran Islands. His agent hopes the rest will prove beneficial. His constant ranting that his best role was: "Playing a Knitter from Hell”, was driving his friends nuts.

The fastest growing craze on this planet is knitting and crocheting. My addiction started when I read a copy of "Stitch 'n Bitch" in the dentist waiting room. Soon I was knitting till the early hours, then night after night, out with friends, going to the bathroom. It didn't occur to me that my actions were in anyway pathological. I was using terms like, "I'm in the Zone," and "Pass me some thread, man." I was constantly getting new patterns and visiting sites like "MenKnit.net" and "menwhoknit.com".

When I started to use tooth picks and thread to knit a "beanie hat" for my pet peppered moth called 'Pass the salt, please', I knew my life was out of control. I sought help through Knitters Anonymous (KA) - a worldwide fellowship of men who share a desire to stop knitting - and it seems to be working. The only downside is that I used knitting as a calming distraction. However, I'm now making customized underwear for young, single/married woman, and it seems to help me relax.

Reflections: Some people read so many newspapers, magazines, news-sites, blogs, there is a real danger they may start to believe all they read. Lying has always existed, and some elements of the the mass media, some politician's, some television and radio producers - seeking to optimize viewer and listener ratings - may intentionally distort the truth about those who do not hold power.

If able, we should challenge, where possible, the misuse and abuse of language from whatever source it comes, for the sake of integrity, and our collective sanity.

Parenting, A Phony "Tuscan Red", and "Attack of The 50 Foot Woman"

Today I feel like a leafcutter ant that has lost its switchblade. My adolescent son is starting to resemble a marsupial mole - his eyes and ears are hidden by fur, and his nose has enlarged and covers his whole face. On the upside it prevents him popping white heads over the breakfast table. He keeps repeating, "What if it's African horse sickness?!" as he rubs his swollen head and neck.

To make matters worse he plays "Highway to Hell" by AC/DC on his didgeridoo into the small hours. He's been arrested three times for loitering in our home. He calls everyone a "liar and a cheat". I can barely stand the truth; what others' may think - temporarily, at least - should hasten hair loss, or the disappearance of the sun behind the clouds.

He told me I used to represent "the world" to him, now its "lawn maintenance". Sometimes I believe I'm not parental material. I'm too authentic; full of anxiety and dread. Indeed, having frontal lobes positioned at the rear of my brain doesn't radiate any degree of security and only raises curiosity.

My father was a strict disciplinarian. One afternoon he telephoned home and told me to stop picking my nose. I truthfully denied his accusation. He wouldn't listen, and told me to eat a pocket handkerchief as punishment. I sat for several hours shivering and in silence; partly in fear, partly on a chair. The telephone rang. It was my father sounding short and sharp. "On second thoughts ..." Suddenly, I saw the port, the harbour, the door to hope, " ... eat the right hand pocket of your trousers!" I felt interned. I consoled myself with the fact I was wearing my sister's favourite dress. As I was bare-foot I picked my nose with the big toe of my left foot. I shook my head and thought how gullible my father was. It can't be easy to be devoid of a sense of humour and resemble a Prussian carp.

Everyone has secrets that cause physical and emotional disquiet. Some may even cause rumblings in the nether regions, fever, or worse, a sudden urge to drink plant water. For some time after the incident with my father I believed life has a pattern, a track, a path. I sensed my future lay ahead of me, that sleepless nights can keep you awake, that all women behind windows are not expensive, that boredom is contagious, and a flattering reputation can be a millstone around a person's neck. Otherwise life would be a joke.

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As I walked up the steep hill to my house I met my neighbour, Cinders Sodenstock. He's in his sixties, and wears a worn, weathered face he purchased from a bric-à-brac store. His present belief that he is a phony bottle of "Tuscan red" makes conversation difficult.

'Nice morning,' I said. 'Keeping well?'

'Can't you see? My colour's remarkably deep.'

'Indeed ...'

'And I'm close to the cork .... close to the cork. Perfect in every sense. Colour, bouquet, taste. Let the blighters' tell the difference'.

The aromas of black currants, cherries and dried herbs engulfed me. I thought the aromas originated from Cinders. I was wrong. It was my socks. As he walked away I remembered the time he believed he was a small surveillance camera, and insisted on hanging upside down from his living room ceiling for three weeks. He only came down when offered a similar position in a city centre hotel.

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I've always enjoyed going to the "movies", the cinema, the pictures - call it what you will. It was summer. I was nine, or ten. I went with my brother to see a film called, “Attack of the 50 Foot Woman”. I fell immediately in love with the protagonist, Nancy.

As we left the cinema a man was selling full sized, cardboard cutouts of "The 50 Foot Woman". I had to have one. The complex problem of how to get her home never crossed my mind. I was in love for the first time. My uncle, Albert, who lived close to the cinema, was happy to cut a hole in the roof of his house so that Nancy could stay with him. At least, she would be partially dry. He said I could visit Nancy whenever I wished.

When I called at Albert's house a few days later I was alarmed she wasn't visible from the top of his roof. Was she taking a bath? Was she shaving her legs? The memory has never faded. A neighbour told me Albert had become infatuated by Nancy - her tenderness, her sincerity, her passion, her height, the feel of cardboard - and had rented a hot-air balloon; secured Nancy to one side, and both had disappeared into the cold, midnight sky. He said Albert had cried out with an emotional intensity he had never heard before, 'My one true love! My one true love! At last!' They were last seen high above the Zuyder Zee heading north. I believe this episode has made my relationships with women complicated, unnatural, and boring, especially when the subject of cardboard enters the conversation.

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Reflections: Some people forget their parents were once children, toddlers, teenagers, young adults. Something other than a parent. A unique individual with dreams, fears, their own view of the world, with long vanished emotions. Nights of dancing, laughter, believing they, alone, knew life's secrets. Perhaps they faced periods of uncertainty and insecurity and, conversely, the gentle wind of success and fulfillment. Most of all, they had an individual and unique relationship with their own parents, grandparents, teachers, friends, and contemporaries.

Of course, they had their favourite hobbies and games and played pranks. How can children ever know of their parents experience with life? The depth of the obstacles and trials they faced to comfort and protect them? To provide security, shelter, and love? We can learn a lot from each other - both parent and child - but only if honesty, understanding, sensitivity, reciprocation, and genuine love are present. Just like the gentle wind in search of the salty wave of the sea. In a blink of an eye the baby becomes a child, goes to school, shouts and rebels, goes to work (if lucky to gain employment), goes out with friends to drink at a bar or club, goes out on dates, drives a car, then suddenly announce they are leaving home.