Is Life a Paradox or a Parahands?

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.

MH: I can't find my shoes?

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 wife talking. A fine looking woman … She's like an angel. She had friends over for lunch. (Pause) You must have been daydreaming? A calamitous thing for a clock hand. They were all very well dressed and sat around eating cake. During their conversations they talked about the beauty and splendor of the town hall clock.

HH: Indeed.

MH. Indeed. I listened in polite silence. 

HH: What with?

MH: My ears. 

HH: You don't have ears. 

MH: How do you know! You can't see!

HH: Irrefutable. 

MH: That's a big word for something that can't speak. 

HH: And for something that can't hear. 

MH: Exactly.

HH: A fine pair we are. 

MH: Indeed. 

Pause 
 
MH: Do you think it will ever end? 

HH: What? 

MH: Our friendship? Our existence?

HH shook his head indicating no.

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!

HH: True. 

Pause 

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 say I don't fully understand your explanation.

HH: You are not alone. We could not exist without doubt.

MH: I'm pleased you are my friend. 

HH: It is reciprocated for all eternity.

 

THE END

Reflections: Samuel Beckett in Waiting for Godot identified the fear of being forgotten as possibly one of the greatest anxieties which humankind face. Conscious of the fact of death and annihilation, conceivably preceded by suffering and illness, it is not uncommon for individual’s to wish they had never been born. However, as Mark Twain remarked, ‘In religion and politics, people’s beliefs are, in almost each case, acquired second hand and without examination’. 

Perhaps individuals should try to restrain desire to believe things as a consequence of social pressures to conform. One must be willing to ask if conformity is motivating one’s belief or opinion, and if so, have the strength and courage to abandon a position until they can attain a more objective and thorough evaluation.

Attention Seekers, The Struggle for Silence, and Everything Dissolves

 

My next door neighbour, J.D. Cornfield, works as a shoulder blade sharpener. I can't remember when he painted his Garapa garden decking green and blue to mirror the sea. I know it made me nervous, tense, and drink sour milk. The man is a blatant attention seeker. Each morning, at sun rise, he can be found sitting in a lifeboat in his garden, its bow directed towards my kitchen. He wears an orange life jacket and vigorously rows while shouting or blowing a whistle.

His facial expression is usually one of fatigue and anguish. Sometimes he sees me and throws fish into my garden. Then wails in a voice, stern and provocative: "This sea is poisoning my life!" "You think you're a big-shot!" "Hey, you in the house! ... Big-shot! ... Watch out for sharks! ... Women who smile and take you for a sucker!"

I watch this little man navigate imaginary waves and seas and think I'm experiencing an esoteric film in slow motion. His behavior is embarrassing, but who am I, or his executioners', to talk. A firm handshake, a charming demeanor, may belie dangerous uncertainty. Sometimes it is hard to tell whether someone is laughing or screaming inside. Sooner or later, the shallow, amenable, frivolous myriad of persona one adopts each day must crumble for the sake of one's sanity. The illusion of indispensability, pressure to conform, to be respected, loved, is a shallow pier.

I have a charming, shallow house. J.D. who craves attention - continuously - has a transparent home. Each room has glass walls. Some are frosted. For example, the bathroom and master bedroom. Only curtains obscure the view from the least observant voyeur. He installed CCTV cameras (inside and outside) to watch every movement he makes. I believe he has a website devoted exclusively to thrill-seekers detached from reality. The number of subscribers is frightening. And yes, I watch with darkened gaze.

J.D. has a desire to be noticed at all cost. In fact, he's just an empty train fastened to an an unused railroad track. And there's no shortage of trains.

To my dismay one of our interior French doors is starting to dress and speak Dutch. I stand and stare at the doors like an idiot. The dog is playing the piano; something from the Canine Composer's Series by J.S. Bark - you couldn't make it up. Now I understand how silence sometimes struggles to be heard.

A face floats before me like a plate of Tagliarini with courgettes, prawns, mint and chilli. In fact, it is food. My present wife, Mona, has thrown my lunch at me. Her face has cracked and the dreadful anxiety of her thoughts are laid bear. "Nothing happens around here except what's in my head!" The dog keeps playing.

I notice the sky is overcast. J.D. is rowing with conviction and going nowhere, throwing fish, torturing himself. The dog asks to be potty trained. My wife says, grimly: "I can't be bothered. You're like an empty restaurant ... The reason I look at walls for excitement."

Suddenly I feel my life has structure, meaning. I feel a strong connection with the earth. I look down. My wife has smeared the floor with high quality super glue. I'm barefoot and, for the foreseeable future, not going anywhere.

*     *     *

Reflections: Most of the time we are acting without being aware of it. In the end everything becomes jaded and dissolves. Surviving life, work, pleasure, requires considerable hypocrisy. Sometimes honesty can be a luxury. The future looks bright for the pharmaceutical industry, so keep plenty of water at hand to help swallow their pills, whether you need them or not. Also, the banalities of self-help books are embarrassing and rootless, and foster the illusion that fulfillment is easy, which it isn't. Later, I intend to potty train the dog, and cook some of the fish from my back garden.

The Water Lilies, Doctor Wilkelfield Finkelfukal, and Rediscovery

Often on my way to work I see my neighbor, Maximilian Odon Von Woods, swathed in bandages, walking his well-bred German Shepherd dog called Racine. Some days the dog is nimbly disguised with a beard, wears sunglasses, or sings in an American-born Greek soprano voice - ranging from high soprano to mezzo - with an occasional woof thrown in for good measure. Today, it sounds like Gilda from "Rigoletto," or feline distemper, which must be worrying, especially for the dog.

'They're trying to kill me!' cried Maximilian.

'Who?' I said feinting surprise.

'Damn tree surgeons, shady doctors, water lilies ... They say I'm taking too long too die .... Do I look like someone who wishes too die?!'

'No ... ?'

'They've a bloody nerve ... Take it from me, if you are ill do not go to a doctor, do not tell a soul .... There's a plot to rid the world of the likes of you and me. They want to bump us off.'

He laughed hysterically, then continued in a loud voice so the neighbours could hear. 'Doesn't anyone care?! The white coats make a living out of killing us! Sly little devils!'

I blushed, and didn't know what to say. His eccentric eyebrows appeared to exchange places, and speak in unison, 'There's no cure for loneliness or old age.'

'SLY LITTLE DEVILS!' His voice shook me. 'Thank God, I've still got my dog. Listen to that voice ...' The dog and I looked at each other with sadness, our eyes half-blinded by the morning light.

The dog indeed sang with haunting passion and depth of feeling. He looked tired and old; barely able to crawl by his master's side. Racine was still an amazing singer with a large vocal range; effortlessly moving from the lowest note to the highest. Such stunning talent seems a miracle. Then so does a dog that sings.

Several readers have inquired about the illustrious Doctor Wilkelfield Finkelfukal. Little is known about him. He used to be called John Dodd and shortened his name to Wilkelfield Finkelfukal in 1856 when he was 32. He spoke several languages simultaneously. This is probably why no-one understood a word he said.

He wrote a one page book titled The Wisdom of Wilkelfield Finkelfukal. Unfortunately, it was written in white ink and no-one could read it. Two copies were sold to a blind woman before it was recalled by the publisher. After this disaster his volcanic imagination deserted him and he became a tree in 1866. On 12 March 1875 he shot himself in the trunk. He tired of death and moved to Manhattan in 2004 where he runs a GP surgery when he's not walking.

Reflections: To live in nature - not with nature - is what I crave. To drift on the river and escape the dangers of conformity, greed, respectability, silence. To reenter my vagabond life, jettison hypocrisy, and remove the knife that pierces my soul. Time to improvise, vire from the shooting script, and rediscover myself.

Are we condemned to be free only when we forget about our own life?