Can You Ever Get Too Much of Anything?

One morning last week I woke feeling dizzy. As Dizzy is our live-in nanny - our last child left home fifteen years ago - I was charged with sexual harassment. I felt like drinking long and hard but opted for alcohol instead. Regardless, I pleaded 'sexsomnia' but the judge, Mr Justice Useless, was arrested during the hearing for 'sleepwalking'.

I should have pleaded 'parasomnia' only the police officers' fell asleep while taking my statement. To make matters worse, my counsel, Mr Lola Heyday, snored while addressing the bench during my plead. The cost? Well, the facts! On the morning of the alleged incident I had woke from a deep sleep - recorded in my statement as 8 feet in depth - believing Dizzy to be a 'two and a half metre' high veggie pizza called 'Barefoot Sally'. I was mortified this was not brought to the court's attention.

I was gratified, however, to be fully exonerated of the alleged charge. The jury unanimously agreed that Dizzy did indeed look like a pizza and eat her for lunch.

*    

An ex-manager of mine was a popinjay and wore a poppadom on his head which he only removed when conversing with street signs. His love for comfort included sitting on a hard-boiled egg strategically placed on his office chair each morning. Sometimes his face would go deathly pale: testimony that the egg was working its magic on his posterior. His brain vacillated frequently causing him to fold his arms behind his back, raise his right leg in a Nazi salute, and anxiously declare, 'If my wife sees me with a paint brush my goose is cooked!' For the rest of the day he would walk on his hands.

He had a mania for sermonizing about painting and could make day feel like night to anyone witnessing his performance. I remember one day he looked at me with his moist mouth - his eyes were elsewhere - 'I've some canvasses I'd like to show you which I will be exhibiting soon in my outside toilet'. I remained taciturn. Sometimes he resembled Goya on a good day and radiated the aroma of a rotten Corot. For six months he studied under the eye of Charlie Orchard (the rest of Charlie's body was never discovered) a well-known harmonica player, who had studied under a hospital bed in Paris.

Stunned by my silent interludes he used to talk about his reputation in artistic and social circles and his collection of park gates. All his misery stemmed from wanting to be himself: no mean achievement. He appeared to live outside of life. Everything he thought, and said, was convertible into cash. He possessed no imagination: a meaningful prerequisite for a manager. perhaps, but an artist?

*    

Reflections: For some people there is 'never enough' of anything: money, time, gossip, praise, clothes, trains, bowel movements. No one, to my limited knowledge, has fought fate and won. Your true soul is written upon your face (if not in public, at least in private) and cannot disguise envy, greed, hatred, unhappiness, selfishness, and that you need to use the bathroom.

Spring and regeneration do not exist forever, for anyone. It's not the journey that counts: it's your intentions and actions that define your true self. Others can accurately describe your life if you are unable. Camouflage helps most people cope with their life as best they can. The rest? Too self-obsessed, prejudiced and ignorant. They're already dead and don't know it.

Trying to Live an Authentic Life

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 protracted and painful suffering and illness, it is not uncommon for individuals to wish they had never been born in the first place. However, as Mark Twain remarked, ‘In religion and politics, people’s beliefs are, in almost every case, acquired second hand and without examination’. Acceptance without questioning leads to ignorance and prejudice, and the failure by individual’s to seek enlightenment concerning other people’s ideas, beliefs and culture.

Any study of anthropology will illustrate, while variable from tribe to tribe, some form of religious belief has persisted; a durability. It must be acknowledged, that similar to other words in daily use, the term ‘religion’ is open to a wide range of interpretations. What does the word ‘God’ mean? It can't represent anything the average individual can comprehend if God is identified as a supernatural being. To the anxiety-riddled individual the belief in, and reverence for a supernatural power (or powers’) regarded as creator and governor of the universe, gives comfort. A supreme being, aware of their existence, and preparing a place in the hereafter, gives console to those who fear death, and have a burning desire to exist after their earthly death. Why do some individual’s need to believe the soul, essence, or personality of a person exist after their death?

For some people religion provides a unitary purpose for living; a community and social group for the lonely; and for the dejected the hope of better things to come. I am reminded of the quote by Friedrich Niezsche, ‘A casual stroll through the lunatic asylum shows that faith does not prove anything’. The difficulty with the three theistic religions’, Christianity, Judaism, and Islam, is the ambiguity and conflicting statements on how humankind should behave on moral issues including marriage, divorce, adultery, the treatment of women, abortion, alcohol, sex, race, homosexuality, criminality, animal rights and war.

Sacred texts, which some people believe to be the irrevocable word of God, were generally documented following the events from memory, or stories handed down over time. The texts remain caste in stone; fixed and unchangeable; never revised or updated to reflect contemporary human behavior where a change of attitude on the part of the general public may have altered, for example, birth control; abortion; euthanasia; in vitro fertilization; the role of women in society; Sabbath observance; and other ethical and moral decisions we may make, consciously or unconsciously, each day.

The introduction of the Book of Revelations in the New Testament has caused many Christians and non-believers to be traumatised by the depiction of hell awaiting those not deemed one of the ‘Chosen Few’, and the visionary presentation of the end of the world. No one is sure; however, which individual(s) wrote the book, or when it was written. Some find it hard to read, understand, and to contemplate. George Bernard Shaw dismissed it as ‘the curious record of the visions of a drug addict’.

Where did the idea of original sin emanate? Why did a benevolent God create an earth where people are prone to suffering, illness, and internalised guilt. In fact the term ‘original sin’ does not exist in the Bible or Jewish writings. The Fall in the Garden of Eden, according to St Augustine, meant humankind would consequently be flawed, and therefore liable to suffering and evil. He was convinced the consequence of original sin was damnation and applied to people who hadn't committed any sins, including newborn babies if they died before their souls were cleansed by baptism.

Some Christians advocate that the apparently needless suffering and deaths of small children has a purpose in God's plan. They believe it inspires others to carry out ‘good works’ for God on earth, and that the innocent children will be rewarded in an afterlife. I consider it unjustifiable to punish an innocent child in this world to formulate a point and to awaken the consciousness of others. Such a facile approval of suffering in life seems immoral and contemptuous. 

It beggars belief that members of some churches are staunchly opposed to medical intervention in the case of illness and prefer to depend on prayer to achieve healing. Their blind devotion to what they call ‘God's will’ has, in some instances, resulted in unnecessary death. The parents’ refusal to seek medical treatment, and conceivably the failure to administer simple antibiotics in some cases, has resulted in the death of a child. Devout Jehovah’s Witnesses refuse blood transfusions for themselves, and their children, when this action may save a live.

By referring to religious belief as an illusion, Sigmund Freud tried to show how our wanting something to be true often has the effect of making us believe it is true. In the case of religion we want to believe there is some God, heaven, or reward which compensates for earthly frustrations and death. He believed religion avoids dealing with the harsh reality of life by promoting a self-deluding and infantile belief in a father figure who will save us from feelings of helplessness and fear.

Does God answer prayers and physically intervene to grant certain individual’s a favourable conclusion to recovery from suffering and serious illness? Some Christians perceive illness as a battle between God and the Devil; the result of the patient’s treatment dependent on the strength of prayer and their relationship with God. Where prognosis is ominous the patient may be held responsible for prayers not answered. It should be borne in mind, however, that virtue does not correlate with happiness or vice with misery. 

Suffering, shortened life span, bereavement, torture, murder, physical and mental abuse are not the sole preserve of those deemed wicked and immoral. The injustices of this world, and the seemingly random distribution of good and evil, are beyond human prayer to a supernatural being. The conviction that God will make evildoers pay for their transgressions in an afterlife may give solace to believers, but not to others.

What about the mysterious near-death experience? This phenomenon has been presented by many people as testimony the human mind is capable of continued function after death. The idea consciousness could exist and work independently from the human body invites fantasy; ghosts and immortal souls, transmigration and reincarnation. Gravely ill individuals have, on occasion, reported out-of-body experiences where they seem to be souls travelling outside their bodies. Many people do it in their dreams; some experience it when they take drugs. Some scientific experiments suggest out-of-body experiences are illusory, and may be the result of chemical reactions in the brain, even when triggered in the brains of dying people. Scientific research has indicated the disturbance may be due to malfunctioning of certain brain areas because of interrupted oxygen supply or disconnection, and can be provoked by stimulation with electrodes administered by doctors.

Consider the mindset of a spiritualist medium. Their claim to contact the dead and channel messages to a relative(s) is extravagant, highly unscrupulous, and immoral. Some people may feel no harm is being perpetrated, and that an individual recently bereaved may benefit from engaging in superstitious nonsense. Many visit a spiritualist medium in a time of acute grief; a vulnerable time for any one. The comfort of receiving a message from a deceased loved one may be analogous to a fix of morphine. However, while content to receive a message from the other side (sic), the effect will not necessarily last long for the bereaved individual.

Martin Heidegger believed we must live with the insight that while death is the most important fact in the life of every single human being, no one will experience their own death. Others will share this experience; not the deceased. The sorrows of death are of the living, not of the dead.

Each individual has their own interpretation of life and death. I consider we come into this life by chance and leave by the same route. The opinions and views of others, of which we are inundated daily, for example, the news media, television, newspapers, the internet, researchers, politicians, TV evangelists, church leaders, advertisements, and sales people should not be accepted without critical thinking incorporating the broader concepts of rationality and objectivity.

Our society is full of phony scientific claims used to market everything from breakfast cereal to cancer treatment by bogus practitioners who make false claims and give patients’ erroneous hopes for their future. We should stimulate and encourage our children to be critical and sceptical of claims, arguments, and pronouncements made by others regarding social, ethical, moral, political, secular, and religious issues, and to continue to question their authenticity in the absence of categorical scientific verification, objectivity, and honest analysis.

We should appreciate and value the gifts that those loved ones now deceased shared with us. The core values they engendered including love; sincerity; generosity of time and energy; broad mindedness; compassion; abhorrence of intolerance, bigotry, hypocrisy; and the purported wisdom of know it alls’. The deceased will remain in our consciousness and in that of our children. Beyond that it is of no necessity. Life is for the living in this world.

By living an authentic life as defined in the statement ‘love thy neighbour as thyself’ (which predates the Bible, and conceivably primary interactions between Homo sapiens), there is hope humankind can survive into the foreseeable future. Individuals should, however, restrain their 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.

Bertrand Russell said, ‘The whole problem with the world is that fools and fanatics are always so certain of themselves, and wiser people so full of doubts.’ There are no crisp, clear answers. Why should there be?

(2009)

Owner of a Foggy Mind & House Walking

This morning I'm looking out of the living room window of my home. There is a muddy pool of rain water on the grass. I may, however, be looking in through the window of my home at a pool of water on the green carpet in my living room. If only I could dig into my memory . . . Wait a minute . . . Yes! . . . My foggy mind is laid to rest when a thin little man drives towards my home in a banal little car.

The little man is lost and explains that he turned into my driveway to seek help. I tell the little man to leave my house immediately! I tell him I have no driveway! That I find his little manners despicable! The little man leaves my living room with great haste. In fact, through the living room ceiling, leaving his banal little car and two of his little legs in the process. I could tell his temperature was rising during our encounter. I will, of course, try to ascertain his name and address tomorrow. Tomorrow? Yes. No sense getting myself worked up over nothing.

I hate to watch individuals suffer unless they are relatives or friends. Fortunately, I'll no longer have to stand in a bus queue and make idle chatter with people who - like me - neither wish to feign warmth or speak about grey winter mornings, timetables, how their children smell like sweet vanilla, and how their dog once desired to starve itself to death due to a bad internet connection. I now have a car; a banal little green car. It does, of course, tend to make the living room appear smaller. 

Sometimes I hear the two little legs "house walking" - mainly at night - in a bid to lose calories. A crazy exercise routine which allows both legs, adorned with inexpensive pedometers, to multitask while watching the TV.

*

Sometimes the lyrics of a song can send me into a deep depression. One afternoon I was having a warm bath, I heard Bill Withers singing, Lovely Day. I think it was the line, "Just one look at you and I know it's gonna be . . . a lovely day". I immediately adorned my chastity belt equipped with a GPS tracking system, locked all the doors and windows, loaded my handguns and rifle, ripped out the phone line and sat in the kitchen sink where I had a clear view of my record collection. In the invisible silence I contemplated my weakness for bathing in yogurt and for jumping on sandcastles while wearing one shoe.

Suddenly I realized I was torturing myself and enjoying it. I no longer felt trapped. The fog I was living under suddenly lifted and I found myself sitting - half-naked - on stage with the New York Philharmonic during a performance of Tchaikovsky's Second Symphony nicknamed “Little Russia”. Somehow it all seemed appropriate. A stunned tuba player blew a lady's left ear off before he fainted.

*

Reflections: It is beguiling how language stimulates one's thoughts and emotions. A sequence of words, either spoken or written, can make your heart droop. The words begin to haunt you, follow you to your place of work and your return home. And finally to your bed where everything worth having ends.

Attack of The 50 Foot Woman & African Horse Sickness

Today I feel like a leafcutter ant which 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. 'What if it's African horse sickness?!' he says, rubbing his swollen head and neck.

To make matters worse my son continually 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 hypocrite'. I can barely stand the truth, and he talks so slowly. Sometimes I believe I'm not parental material. I'm too authentic, full of anxiety and dread. Having my frontal lobes positioned at the rear of my brain doesn't radiate any degree of security. In fact, it only raises curiosity, especially at the beach.

* 

I've always enjoyed going to the movies. It was summer. I was nine, or ten. I remember watching a film called Attack of the 50 Foot Woman. I fell in love with the protagonist, Nancy.

When I left the cinema a man was selling full sized, cardboard cutouts of Nancy. 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, Ivar, who lived close to the cinema, was content to cut a hole in the roof of his house so 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 Ivar'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 Ivar was infatuated by Nancy - her height, the feel of cardboard - and had rented a hot-air balloon. He had secured Nancy to one side and both had disappeared into the cold, midnight sky. He said Ivar had cried out with an emotional intensity he had never witnessed, 'My one true love! My one true love! At last!' 

Ivar and Nancy were last seen high above the Zuyder Zee heading north. This episode has made my relationships with women complicated and unexciting, especially when the subject of cardboard or hot air enter the conversation.

*

Reflections: 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 in silence: partly in fear, partly on a chair.

The telephone rang. It was my father. 'On second thoughts ... eat the right hand pocket of your trousers instead.' 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. To be devoid of a sense of humour and resemble a Prussian carp can't be easy.

'What is "Great" about Jay Gatsby?' - (Part 1)

At least the post was on time. One of the letters was addressed to me. It contained a note: C♯, or was it D♭? I knew this cryptic note held a deep dark secret. For some reason it reminded me of the noise the automatic doors at the local library make when they open and close, and go for lunch at a deli across the street.

When I entered the library it was half-full. Two police officers were at the scene. An officer was reading the library its rights; the library was charged with operating while intoxicated (OWI). I overheard it got the alcohol from a nearby second-hand book store. It looked on the verge of collapse. It was drinking coffee, and eating pretzels.

I approached a librarian; a tall, dark-haired woman with bright eyes, a generous mouth, and an old woman's face. I watched her place the old woman's face in a drawer which she immediately locked. She put the key down her considerable cleavage. She looked at me and said nothing. I cleared my throat.

'I'm looking for a book ..."

'And I'm here to ensure you leave satisfied,' she said, with a swift smile.

She lent over the desk, her ample bosom lit by the desk lamp. I could see the key was in a warm and safe place.

'My instinct tells me you're looking for a novel that has "Great" written all over it. Short, prose infused with lyricism. Ingrained with wonder, romance, realism, amorous pleasure ..." As she spoke she gazed upward as if to obtain her flow of words from an outside source.

I felt hot and dizzy. Her confidence overwhelmed me.

She pointed to a section of the library. The Great Gatsby by F. Scott Fitzgerald. You'll find it in the "Classics" section.' Then she added, softly, 'I recommend you look at Chapter 5, page 88". We exchanged glances, then she smiled, "I promise, you won't be disappointed.'

I found the book and sat at one of the old oak tables. After sniffing the book, I turned to page 88. A message was written in pencil at the bottom of the page: Bemelmans Bar, 9.30 p.m. I looked again at the message. Who had scribbled the note, when, and why? Then I thought: All relationships that evolve into love, explode into conflict.

I met my first wife through on-line dating. I think it was a niche site. DateAGolfer, DateAPedalKayake - some subspecialty site. She uploaded a picture of her sister which set my pulse racing. I had to chase it for two blocks before a fellow citizen kindly intervened to contain it.

The problems in our relationship started when I met her for the first time. She always wore "underwater flippers", and carried a rudder when she played golf, attended classical concerts - especially, Mahler - and the odd time we attempted copulation. Once her rudder stuck in my mouth, and I had to be rushed naked to a hospital. The doctor's though I was straight from a masonic meeting. Her leg muscles got so large they slept in their own room. Our marriage became dull: she blamed the lack of light in our home - I removed every light bulb - and having our beds in single file.

As I left the library the librarian smiled enigmatically at me. She was the opposite of my present wife - female. A well-proportioned lady who radiated uninhibited sensuality.

It was exactly one o'clock. I had a meeting with my analyst at 2 o'clock. I could hardly breathe, and had a lot to think about. Suddenly I heard a strange sound. I turned round and discovered it was my old friend, Hedvig Oppenheimer. He was laughing, but looked overly anxious. As he spoke saliva dripped from both sides of his mouth.

"I can't stop thinking about Gina Lollobrigida. You know, the Italian actress. I mean it's the sweetest name I've ever heard. She was a looker. What do you think?"

"What about Jennifer Lopez. Isn't she from the Bronx?" I said, thinking about other things.

"J-Lo? You're joking . . . It hasn't got the ring of Gina Lollobrigida!"

"What about Sophia Scicolone?"

"Who the hell is that?"

"Sofia Loren. You know . . ."

"Not in the same league."

It was a hot day. I watched Hedvig walk toward the town square. His mouth wide open, crying, "Gina. Darling, Gina . . ."

I walked with quick steps towards the office of my analyst and was glad of the company. Perhaps she could answer some of the questions racing round my mind? For instance: 'What's it like to be a human being?' 'Who wrote the first book?' and more importantly, 'What was so "Great" about some guy called Jay Gatsby?'

Read Part Two

 Reflections: Everyone has enemies. Even enemies have enemies. At work, where you live, in your social life, in your bed, in your socks, in your shoes. The strange thing is that some of those enemies may be individuals you have never met, conversed with, or corresponded with. Am I the only person to believe that humankind is in a terrible state of decay and has stopped evolving?

Some people feel it necessary to judge quickly with a deep sharp thrust to avoid judgment of themselves. How shall one know them? Their faces and minds reflect emptiness; their hatred is as clear as crystal.

What is "Great" about Jay Gatsby? - (Part 2)

Sometimes life plays tricks when you least expect it, or need it. As I walked towards my analyst's office, LIFE decided to play a virtual game where the supposedly 3D "me" became an extension of the real "me". I began to float in some hard-to-pronounce netherworld, where you can dance, chat, play, and hang out with other nuts in 3D. Not my scene. I'm 2D - always have been; always will be - at least, until I receive confirmation my current wife has vaporized, and I can't stick hard alcohol.

Suddenly, I stop floating, shiver, then smile. I remember my pal, Jesse (named after Sitting Bull's left leg, and Standing Bull's left ear) only drinks wine, and it has to be the most expensive on the list. He's sixty-two, tall, with tousled white hair in his pocket which magically appears on his head when he thinks he spots a female.

Jesse's eyesight is poor, and he refuses to wear anything to improve it. I believe it stems from a bad experience with colonic hydrotherapy. For a while he didn't blink, or exhale after smoking, and said repeatedly, "It was a giant enema, I tell you. A GIANT ENEMA! Who's playing the bagpipes?!" He's been arrested twice for sexual assault. Once, for attempting to copulate with a Marlin Lever Action .22 Rifle, and, on another occasion, for inappropriately touching an organic drink at a health-food convention.

As I walk I pass a bridge. I make a note to change my diet; eat more wheat-grass. One of my ex-mother-in-law's - an ex-wrestler, who dresses as a rabbit when she's not in the ring - told me, "Eat green, and be self-sufficient! And never sit on a flowery sofa!" She's a compulsive collector of people who shake their hair in public just for effect. She's over ninety, but you wouldn't know it. At the last count she had over six hundred people on her farm; mostly female. The last time I visited she was excavating the lawn to extend the house's basement. Her ardour is undimmed. I think she gets her warm, mischievous humour from eating raw artichokes.

As I enter the premises of my analyst, Milena White, I start to sound and look like an injured dog. If I said I was in love with Milena, it would be true. But not as described, and portrayed, in books and magazines; films and television. I will confess to desire, passion, jealousy, and my own definition of love.

We are all different; think differently. Milena is blessed with large brown eyes, an elegant nose, high cheek bones, and long and shapely legs which she displays to enliven, or disarm me. If she has a weakness, I'm not aware of it.

The lady at reception - glossy white hair, and well-manicured - welcomes me. She advises Milena will not be in attendance today. A woman called, Lee Mailer, will take the session. Suddenly, I feel cold. The lights in reception become sharp, and I close my eyes. I bite on a knuckle, and an elderly man in reception hits my face with a magazine. In fact, he follows me to the door of the consulting room, ranting, "You could have rabies, anything ... you degenerate!"

I hurriedly closed the consulting room door. I felt the bitter taste of mortality in my mouth, and toyed with the idea of pretending I was a trapper walking downwind, upriver, to get away from a bear walking upwind, downriver. I couldn't remember what language to speak; English, French. I believe I smelt a sniff of overcooked weasel as I hit the carpet.

"I read some of your notes while you slept. You seem tormented by fear, anguish, desire, and a guilty conscious? You're obsessed with sex, and this has driven you to constant bouts of infidelity? How many wife's? Six, at the last count .... honestly! ... you better get up. There's only twenty minutes of your session left." Her voice was warm, courteous, with a hint of good-humour. I sat in a chair opposite her and looked at her face for the first time. She was strikingly beautiful, extremely sexy; like a young Jane Russell.

I tried to impress her. "My body has become a silent companion. Indeed, my soul is locked in a cage, and the key is misplaced, or, worst, lost."

She sat back in her chair. Her smile was swift and dazzling. She give a dry, pure laugh. "Who sent you to me, the Devil?"

My anxiety faded almost at once. She made me feel happy, because she was happy; or full of mischief. I didn't care.

"What's it like to be a human being?" I asked.

"Wrong person to ask. I'm an alien."

She leaned over the desk. "I read that your third wife locked you in a cupboard under the stairs as punishment. Why would you let her do such a thing?"

"It was either that, or watch her weight-lifting while dressed in a skin-tight leotard."

"Don't be surprised, or upset, by what I'm about to say." Her voice was soft, controlled. "Most inhabitants of cities tend to be, or become - I'm sorry to say - invisible, anonymous, part of the mass. I'm not preaching powerlessness, shallowness and hypocrisy, but take a good look around."

She then spoke in a calm, friendly manner. "Search for the important things in life -truth, integrity, fairness, loyalty, courage, strong friendship, partnership, love, wisdom and learning, humour - plan your life with great care. Remember, no-one is indestructible." She sat back, and winked at me. "And don't believe anything you hear, unless it's a horn." Again, she give a dry, pure laugh. I was stunned into silence. She seemed to eliminate my anguish and turmoil.

"Have you ever read The Great Gatsby? I asked.

"Why, yes. Why do you ask?"

"Why was Jay called "Great"?

"Have you read the book? And you still don't understand? My advice is to read it again. Then you can tell me, tonight, in your own words, what is "Great" about Jay Gatsby. I'll meet you at Bemelmans Bar, 9.30 p.m". She leaned towards me. "My friend, Julia, give you a copy of the book at the library this morning and directed you to page 88. She knows the type of man I like. Totally unprofessional, of course, but invigorating just the same."

I left the consulting room, ran home, and read The Great Gatsby ceaselessly. As I waited in Bemelmans Bar I felt tense and anxious. When Lee arrived wearing a thin, black dress, and shoes with very high heels, her face radiant and beautiful, I felt a gentle wind touch me, and suddenly life tasted better than ever.

The End?

Reflections: Some people find music - in all its guises - tedious, because they don't take time to truly listen. Some people don't read books; they find it laborious, regard it as a luxury, rather than a means to gain insight to different thoughts and viewpoints. Most cities and towns are littered with libraries, bookshops, art galleries, museums, which some people - to their loss - refuse to experience by simply walking through the door.

We are inundated daily with junk television, junk films, junk magazines, junk advertising & marketing, junk websites, junk blogs [sic] and junk rubbish. The list of junk is endless. It's strange how some people are swift to criticise individuals for eating a poor diet, but not for "not reading" books, novels, or obtaining differing perspectives to events happening around, or to them, or other human beings around the world. It might just lift the conversation/debate to a higher level and help push the bigots and bullies to the sidelines.