In Search of a Different Existence

I always ignored my late maternal uncle's irreverent greetings as I had no wish to quarrel. Gregory was a widower with years of richness, unhappiness and loss buried deep inside him. I silently sat in a low-backed, wooden chair taking care to sidestep his intense gaze. As he lost himself in his layered memories I often permitted my mind to wander in search of a different existence. Nothing too extravagant, something more than memorable, something entirely unforgettable.

I imagine a perfect accomplished man in the company of a perfect accomplished woman. This calms me. It gives me time to forget what most preoccupies me. The woman and I are both high in spirit and wander in a place where the sweet flowers grow. Uncertainty, anxiety, painful surprises and evil cannot creep up on us and destroy our exquisite nature. We candidly grapple with existential questions: 'Why does a species such as ours not possess a well-shaped head similar to that of a camel?' - 'Why does bindweed proudly choke my plants?' and perhaps the most vexing question of all, 'Why do we sag with a heavy load as we traverse this earth until we die?'

The woman and I are not fools. We speak of the complexity and stupidity of many things including the question of human love, of fate, of creation, of renewal, of desire. Our walk from the garden leads us to the edge of a splendid lake. The world seems captured in the slight silent water and in our pools of thought. Such moments of contentment last only a few minutes, but are worth hanging onto while they last for they bring a bolt of happiness.

'You're an odd one. Why can't you make a clean sweep of things? Two children by two different woman and still not married! Your behavior is reprehensible.' Gregory's vitriolic voice jolts me from thought; I sigh, acquiesce and turn my eyes towards his gaunt face. 'I'm senile, worn out and have savage dreams,' Gregory exclaims. 'There's nothing left for me to discover in this world. Nothing.' I like Gregory: his intense thinking, his distaste for human ignorance, his mood that can toss like leaves in spring, his contempt for pity, his acceptance of growing old.

Gregory remained active until his demise; sometimes taking a bus into town and a taxi home. The downside being that he stole the vehicles and picked up passengers on route for no charge. I usually had to post bail and collect Gregory from a police station. He lamented, at times: 'Why is my hair snowy-white?! I don't even like Christmas!' And while I was driving, 'A fine boat you have here. Goes at a good pace. In this mist it's hard to tell where the shore starts or ends. How can you see?'

*

Reflection: I was the only boy to drop out of college because I was pregnant. The psychoanalyst said I was obviously starved for attention and fabricated the pregnancy to skip class. When I give birth she jumped from the Carrick-a-Rede Rope Bridge. An observer believes her last words were: 'I'll never eat kangaroo meat again'.

Solitude and The Metaphysical Nose

Today I feel like a bare bulb on a ceiling. My wife (her name escapes me, and runs downstairs) gives me a hate-filled stare, and throws the cat's crutches at me. I speak without saying a word. Her old fire is not there. Though I must say the reduction on heating costs are gratifying. Our relationship is at its most precarious. Who will suffocate whom first? Our bedroom has the icy coldness of an Alpine peak. And one does tire of skiing aficionados who use our sleeping habitat as a favorite ski spot. We attract the odd jet skier and the noise is horrendous.

I rarely talk or write about my personal life because none of it is true. Lately I've been getting up at 8 o'clock each morning. After I bath, shave, and have breakfast, I'm usually back in bed ten minutes later. Before lunch I take a long walk around my bed with the dog. Then we both start drinking heavily. I believe this is why I think and write at a quarter of the speed I used to which was close to half speed. For some strange reason I'm starting to weep a lot. At least it stops me from crying which would be disastrous for a man in my position; prostrate on the floor.

*

I hated turning fifty years old, just as I hate suddenly turning direction in a crowded street, or turning the pages of a newspaper belonging to a person sitting beside me on public transport. I really should buy a paper of my own. However, I detest darting to the front of a queue to purchase one.  All I seem to attract are savage faces and angry voices. At such moments I seem to arouse the banalities and absurdities of the human condition best not talked about.  No one is shielded from the world, even when drunk, making love, or taking out the garbage.

*

Lately, I've been gripped by suffocating despair and anguish. I've been working on the draft of my first book Solitude and The Metaphysical Nose for over thirty years. (A romantic story based on an ugly adolescent who discovers a small turned-up nose under her bed, and suddenly she becomes a beautiful, intelligent seductress). Yesterday I flew to Moscow and got the first plane home. I only intended to get a jar of gherkins from the local store. To make matters worse I keep having absurd, horrible dreams: snatches of conversation, people, faces ... Faces I do not care to see, minds I do not trust. The worse dream involves being in love with my wife again. I use to fear death, now I fear sleep.

*

Reflections: We are all vulnerable behind our public facade. Questioning our actions and motives continually. There is no cure for disenchantment except to yield to our vulnerabilities, lost illusions, our loves and daily life. While one's energy prevails one must struggle with equal ferocity against hate and violence without reserve.

A Thousand Pitfalls a Day

 

Today I received an 'old-fashioned' letter which I read several times at the Café Rousseau. The village is immaterial: the letter isn't. The message is beautiful and haunting. A letter accords a sense of the individual which an email, a text, a phone call, or a face to face meeting can ever hope to express. Tonight I shall sleep with the letter beneath my pillow as the moon lights up the rooftops in the village, and lazily watch my chest gently rise and fall as tranquility fills the room. 

I feel stronger than I did yesterday, and, indeed, the day before. Sometimes, thinking is worst than physical pain. I'm thankful, however, that bleak thoughts can be sweetened by satin words from a fresh-faced, beautiful - not necessarily, attractive - young woman. What do I fear? Perhaps drowning in my own thoughts, when frightening memories wash back and forth, and overwhelm my strength and spirit.

I recall watching a cow giving birth. And how the mother tenderly licked her calf. I was seven-years-old. The grass in the field graced my father's knees. His face, normally hard, was covered in a shiny coat of sweat. I could sense he was content, happy. For a moment he stood motionless, glanced at me, and smiled. I thought, 'It's so beautiful. The newly-born calf is so beautiful!' I had witnessed the birth of a new life.

*

'What do you want?!' a shrill voice exclaimed. A boorish waitress with a red face and pink arms stared down at me. 

'A coffee, please.'

'We don't have any!'

'Tea ...' I felt like a hunted animal.

'There's nothing to eat or drink! Don't you know there's a war on!' she said frostily.

The main shopping street was busy. Everything seemed normal. The coffee shop was full of people. I looked at them, one by one, through pale eyes. What were they thinking about? Some sat with their eyes closed, as if asleep.

'What war?' I enquired. The dazzling glare of the lights made me giddy. Everything that seemed simple a moment before now seemed complicated.  'What war are you talking about?'

The waitress came close to me. Her mustard breath tortured me. 'You must be a foreigner! What war?! Look around you! There has to be balance in nature between good and evil, love and hatred, murderers and bodies, or all hell breaks loose!'

To change the subject, I expressed interest in the coffee shop, and its customers.

'Don't they all look sad?' she asked, without waiting for an answer.

At such moments I wait for my thinking to produce words to lighten my heart and mind. It's strange how individuals and groups can cultivate fear. They trade in life and death, and can penetrate the strongest ceilings and walls. Their eyes shine in the darkness as their claws dig deeper and deeper into the bodies and souls of victims. The scent of death is never far from all things beautiful.

*

Reflections: It is not possible to identify yourself in someone else, dream their dreams, or to enter their soul. We are alone, finite, prisoners of our own egotism. Each one of us face 'a thousand pitfalls a day.'

Each second on this earth a person's mouth quivers with contempt and hatred of fellow human beings. They live in a restricted world of unceasing conflict. Such individuals may breathe copiously but they are already dead: they feel no sense of love, compassion, sadness, or loss. The one thing they cannot tolerate, above all other things, is life.

Rocket Dog & When is a Just War a Just Cause?

Last night I dreamt that I and forty other passengers survived a plane crash. To our dismay there was no food on board. The prevailing consensus was that meat from one passenger might sustain everyone else until assistance arrived. Someone asked if anyone on board worked in marketing. An irrational, portly man raised his hand. It was the first time I had consumed a leg wearing an extra soft argyle sock, and Rocket Dog shoes. On the downside we were arrested by police on manslaughter charges as the plane had crashed-landed on the runway 100 meters from the terminal.

This morning I awoke with numb feet, and tingling hands. As my wife had left for work—and they didn’t belong to me—I telephoned my doctor. He told me to drop them off at the local hospital. If they aren't reclaimed by the owner in six months they are mine to keep. At last, someone to talk to.

I haven’t had a shower since watching Janet Leigh in the shower sequence in Psycho. I can’t go near a shower curtain without feeling weak, anxious, and wondering if an enormous bar of soap is going to attack me. I still wear my “Moo Cow” shower hat when I’m working, driving, shopping, making love, or taking our dog for a stroll. That reminds me; losing hair is no joke – especially when it doesn’t belong to you. A new design promises wonders. The innovative shower cap has a hole at the top which lets warm water fall into the opening at the crown. The maker’s profess the shower cap will capture steam, and that the pores will open and allow hair to start growing again—and for only $150? There’s always idiot’s who will buy anything; I’ve got ten of them.

War has never lacked its enthusiasts; especially those wearing armor, and hanging around all day playing Gin rummy (Gin for short; Ginny Rummy for tall). Is there, however, such a thing as a “Just War"? When is a “Just War" a “Just Cause”? To go even further - I’m not sure I have the fare? - when is a "Just War" a “Just Cause”, and a “Just Intention”? Can a “Just War” be fought unjustly, and an “Unjust War” fought justly? I believe war should only be justified if every living creature has gone to the Moon on vacation, or is waiting on the Moon for a connecting flight to Mars. What is happening to our beloved planet and its inhabitants? It’s clear to me but I’m drunk. The people in power are sober.

*

Reflections: I borrowed my son’s shirt today and immediately became obnoxious. I owed money to everyone, and expected food to appear from nowhere without having to order or prepare it.

Dreams & Cécile De France

The curse of 'the potato' struck again last night just as I was about to marry Cécile De France. You may find this childish, but to have a potato replace Cécile in my dream was like having the sun replaced by heavy rain, and I don’t wear a coat, or carry an umbrella to bed. The potato, this time, was dressed in clothing of the opposite gender. However, it was the potato's pronounced eyes, exaggerated bodily mannerisms, and missing nose which unsettled me the most. 

Perhaps 'the potato' has been to see the The Rocky Horror Show too many times with the girls from the office? The potato sang and danced to Cole Porter's song, "I Get a Kick Out of You". I can still see the slinky red dress it wore, the flat lipsticked mouth, its wild green eyes; the pitiless hideous voice ...  To be honest I’m dreading falling asleep tonight. What if the potato surprises me and turns up disguised as a carrot? I’d contact the police but they would think I was nuts, and get me to confess my fear of being eaten alive by a large root vegetable.

I have great compassion for anyone who has to write travel brochures. How many ways are there to describe golden beaches, blazing suns, the kindliness of local people, pick-pockets and muggers? It reminds me that I am still searching for my ‘tone of voice.’ Everything I write is dispassionate and bereft of artistic thinking. In fact, any person I show my work to is disturbed by it. An unapologetic acquaintance had the audacity to tell me, 'Please do not take this the wrong way. For now, go back to bed.'

Anyway, I’m still pondering whether to use first-person, second-person, third-person, fourth-person, or fifth-person narration in my novel. Frankly, I could write as a woman, or a vegetable, and still not get published. I haven't ruled out that I might have to wait forever for inspiration that may never come.

*

Reflections: As I get older I seem to mumble with greater coherence. This is deliberate. If certain people, with whom I do not wish to communicate, understand what I am saying, they are gravely mistaken.