Attention Seekers & The Struggle for Silence

 

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 big house! Big-shot! Watch out for sharks, and women who smile and take you for a sucker!'

I watch this little man navigate imaginary waves and seas, and think I'm experiencing a film in slow motion. Sometimes it is hard to tell whether someone is laughing or screaming inside. Sooner or later, the shallow, amenable, myriad of persona one adopts each day, must crumble for the sake of one's sanity. The illusion of indispensability, the pressure to conform, to be respected, loved, is a shallow pier.

I have a charming, shallow house. J.D. who continuously craves attention 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 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 Series. 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 the piano.

I notice the sky is overcast. J.D. is rowing with conviction, and going nowhere; throwing fish, torturing himself. The dog tells me that it wishes to be potty trained. My wife says, grimly, 'I can't be bothered. You're an empty restaurant. You'll never amount to more than a short walk around the docks. '

Suddenly, I feel my life has structure and 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 and work 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. When I feel calmer, I intend to potty train the dog, and cook some of the fish lying in my back garden.

How to Speak Several Languages Simultaneously

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, and 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, 'Heed my words! There's no cure for loneliness, old age, or mud wrestlers rash!'

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

Racine indeed sang with haunting passion, and extraordinary depth of feeling. Yet he looked tired and old; barely able to crawl by his master's side. Racine was still an amazing singer, with an incredible 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 the doctor. It's believed he used to be called John Dody, and shortened his name to Wilkelfield Finkelfukal in 1856 when he was thirty-two. He spoke several languages simultaneously. This is probably why no-one understood anything he said.

He wrote a 'one page' book titled: The Wisdom of Wilkelfield Finkelfukal. Unfortunately, it was deemed tedious and long-winded. Two copies were sold to a man with uncombable hair, before it was recalled by the publisher. After this disaster his volcanic imagination deserted him and he became a tree in 1866. In 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 imperilment of conformity, greed, respectability and silence. To reenter my vagabond life, jettison hypocrisy, and remove the knife that pierces my soul. Time to improvise, vire from the shooting scrip, and rediscover myself.

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

A Gutsy Gal & A Dog Named Venezuela

Somewhere during the night I may have morphed into a gutsy gal. Sometimes, I feel young, old; like a father, like a mother; reflective, oblivious; wear split skirts, chaps; and climb on the back of the woman next door, who sadly doesn't share my fondness for adventure and outdoor exercise.

I've been arrested twice: once for overworking her, and once for forcing her to eat pecan pie. I remember promising her unlimited freedom, and a proper deworming schedule. Thankfully, my tame wooing made her blush, and the moon quickly waned. Her husband, a blank toxic man, in possession of a body built solely to store air, is besotted by daffodils, lupins, hollyhocks, and his collection of corridor lights. A bald-headed man, he wears a goatee beard to hide the fact he has one leg.

Once he asked me a strange question, “If someone asked you to look out of your window in the middle of the night, would you do it?!” I realized I was in the presence of a madman. A madman with a shotgun. A madman with a shotgun and cartridges.

'CAN'T YOU HEAR?! Would you look at cars, people, houses, the horizon?! Damn you ... Would you ... ?!' My mouth and throat became dry. He took hold of my arm with his leg and cried, 'I've burned boats in my time! Thousands of them! And leave my Daisy alone!' As he walked off he shouted, 'It's getting dark and I've still to climb the church tower! The lighting isn't right for sniping, I tell you. Damn it!'

Daisy was once rich and possessor of a fine coloratura soprano voice; unfortunately it belonged to her brother. The naked truth was discovered one night when Daisy fell asleep (along with most of the audience) as she attempted an aria from The Magic Flute. As she snoozed it was discovered that her prodigious mouth housed a sizable family of illegal immigrants disguised as cows. 

*

My friend, Rada, who is from Bosnia and Herzegovina, has a French bulldog named Venezuela originally from Belgium. The dog barks in five languages: Serbian, Croatian, French, Dutch, and German. I believe Venezuela is presently reading Hungarian with a doctorate in mind. My intuition tells me the dog is slightly disturbed regarding its family history, and has no means of communicating its anguish to human beings.

Some days I watch the dog board the bus on its way to visit the Museum of Modern Art (MOMA) to view works by the Belgian artist, René Magritte. A particular favourite, The Menaced Assassin, tends to remind Venezuela of his home in Brussels. He pins posters of the work on trees in our district, usually as dusk is falling. Then he sits gazing at the picture weary of his aging, burdensome exile. He never complains, but I can tell he despises his fate.

Once I witnessed Venezuela drunk, wearing a t-shirt and blue velvet jeans. He had shaved his head, and was ranting about his tax affairs. Rada, a gravedigger, who reeks of decay, is unworthy of such an elegant, lucid, and gentle animal.

*

Reflections:: Some people say they write, play a musical instrument, paint, act in the theater. However, it is not the fact they do these things, it's how they write, play, paint, act, that matters. Is it inspired by the soul, the heart, or is it practical, sober, and devoid of spirit?

Sleepwalking in Manhattan - Chapter 1

I checked my appearance in Kiehl’s Pharmacy Store window on Third Avenue. Average height, average weight, average looks—everything average. You see people like me everywhere—whether it’s London, Paris, or Madrid—if you take time to look.

Natalie was late. We met yesterday for the first time. She was just another pretty girl walking down Fifth Avenue. Our eyes didn’t connect until she dropped a glove. I called after her, waving the glove in the air. She thanked me with a shadow of a smile and resumed walking. I ran after her, and she laughed when I said I was new in the city. 

I asked bluntly if she was free tonight. Perhaps to Natalie it was my illusionary arrogance, but she stopped and looked at me from head to toe. She became prettier by the minute. She had never considered doing such a thing before, though said it might be pleasurable.

Walking away she said, ‘Eight O’clock at Pear Tree Corner. If you want to meet me you’ll find it.’

A thin breeze and a twinkle of neon helped relieve my tension as I stood outside the store. I had given up hope when a hand suddenly gripped my wrist ushering me along the street.

'Just follow me.' It was Natalie, the voice and fragrance were unmistakable.

'What’s going on? Why the dark glasses ... The headscarf?!' I found her demeanour unsettling.

'I think I’m being followed. Just trust me.' I looked around and saw what appeared to be a caravan of Japanese sightseers armed with a million cameras. 'Japanese?!'

'No!' she responded. 'I’ll explain when we get to proper surroundings.'

As we turned the corner Natalie hailed a taxi. Soon it was speeding towards the city centre.

'Why the disguise?'

When she turned towards me some of the apprehensions about the situation disappeared, her eyes sparkled.

'What’s your name anyway?' she smiled.

'Conrad ... ' I stuttered.

She held out her right hand and we shook hands briefly. 'Well, Conrad, it’s good to meet you. I don’t normally talk to strange men in the street, but I made an exception in your case for some strange reason. I admired your style. Hope my intuition dosen't let me down,' she winked. 'Where are you from?'

'Back there,' I replied, nodding towards Pear Tree Corner.

'Are you for real?' she laughed, looking at my face. 'I guess you are. You’re sitting right beside me.'

The sky was darkening, streaked with scarlet clouds. She asked the taxi driver to pull over. Natalie paid our entrance fee into a small gloomy cinema. Several people were watching an old movie.

'This is my favourite film. I’ve seen it a thousand times. The Maltese Falcon with Humphrey Bogart. Try to chill out.' She took my right hand and caressed it. 'You’re too uptight.' Natalie resumed watching the screen. 'Sydney Greenstreet as "Kasper Gutman" has some great lines in this film. Anyway, if anyone should be worried, it should be me,' she half-smiled.

'I thought we were on a date?'

'We are. I want to discuss a proposition. This place is as good as any.” Even in the dark I could see her soft wavy hair, full crimson lips and bask in her fragrance.

She resumed watching the screen. Now and then she would glance at me and extend a wink.

'Why me?'

'I don’t like Prima Donnas. Tall pretty boys with strong chins. Always someone telling them how great they are. Anyway, you can’t tell someone’s good just by looking at their face, can you?' she said, producing a playful laugh.

Natalie returned to the film. 'This is my favourite part. Listen and watch closely. Amazing dialogue.'

I watched Natalie as she mimed in unison with the film. “Well, sir, here’s to plain speaking and clear understanding. You’re a close-mouthed man? - I like to talk - I’m a man who likes talking to a man who likes to talk.”

She turned and winked. It worked every single time. Even though I felt things could descend into a kaleidoscopic nightmare at any moment, I was, for now, mesmerised.

To be continued . . .?

Reflections: Everyone needs dreams. Some men love soft delicate dreams and soft delicate woman. A lady of my acquaintance loves a man she believes does not dream. Yet jealousy of his thoughts keep her awake. He is a master of deception. Her virtue, wise or unwise, lies in her performance.

Headline: Heavy Cold Sweeping the Country

Today I'm sick, My head feels like it's made of wood. My temperature is leaping about on the roof of a neighbour's car. I'm surrounded by a faint injured air. Have I a cold, a heavy cold, or a very heavy cold? I'll weight it later when I'm feeling better.

The headlines in the morning newspaper confirm a "heavy cold" is sweeping the country. Surely that's a job for Council personnel? I was considering embracing a tin of meat for comfort when Doctor Wobbleski strutted into my bedroom. As I was downstairs in my living room I found his behaviour outrageous.

He had brought his three-pointed black and white beard which looked ridiculous hanging out of his trouser pocket. He uttered unspeakable words: 'You scum!' I stayed silent. While I have the gift of the gab I'm damned if I'm giving it back. I resumed listening to myself growing old. I glanced at Doctor Wobbleski. He looks like a man who works hard all day, but has nothing to show for it. His jacket is shapeless and baggy: in league with his face.

'Well, doctor,' I said, in a polite murmur. 'What do you think?' He seemed indecisive, scratched himself, ignored me, and attended to the "faint injured air"! Suddenly, I remembered why I dislike people who smell of carbolic acid. I began to howl but the doctor told me to be quiet. My anxiety for my health persisted. Meanwhile, the doctor made vague promises he would tend to me shortly. I watched as he grunted like a pig while examining the faint injured air.

'I'm at a loss, ' he said. 'Of course, I don't know what's going on inside . . . No, indeed . . . But you look in terrible shape . . . It has been a cold winter. I do believe you've caught a dreadful cold. I'll give you something for the cough.' The injured air had another coughing fit. The doctor enlightened the injured air of the benefits of a refreshing trip to the seaside, or to a quiet corner of a park. He felt it would help its mood, ease its headaches. He further prescribed excitement, music, curiosity, a change in diet and whistling.

Just as I felt all was lost Doctor Wobbleski approached me. He felt my pulse, listened to the blood racing through my body, then shook his head. I sat motionless, anxious, covered in dandruff. 'You're in a dreadful state. You smell like a mouldy rope, and worst, look like one. Do you want my advice?' he said, clearly intent in getting out of my house as quickly as possible. 'You've lost your spirit. First of all, take that cigar out of your left nostril, your glasses out of your mouth, and your false teeth out of your ears. Get out of bed, shave, and kiss the first women you meet outside who is blessed with full pale thighs. Get a job that doesn't involve work, and remember: It may be foggy, but it's not raining. Whatever the hell that means!'

After Doctor Wobbleski left I put on an extra layer of clothing and jumped into a warm scented bath. I lit a cigar and dozed with Pleasure, a young lady friend, who rinsed my back with her soft hands. I believe it was her hands. I could be mistaken, of course.

*

Reflections: Some people, places and things, once important, lose their impact on us over time. Loss of colour and ambivalence, speed their demise, and our conviction towards them. Something to be celebrated, surely.

Why the Silence?

I profess to ignorance, stupidity, to wear a mask that sometimes slips and to be the owner of a small mind: not a large mind, a little mind. I tend to jump to conclusions about issues happening all over our dear planet. Test me on any subject. I know human existence is stressful, just pick any subject. Any subject at all ... Tomorrow? Well, if you wish.

Why the silence? No doubt you're right. I've no patience. My little mind is spluttering thinking of all the questions one can be asked. Some people appear to be blessed with a big mind; one that belonged to a pretentious charlatan and now belongs to them.

Is there an excuse for the above paragraph? Well, yes. The exact issues and journalistic reports are immaterial, and this personal view is not directed at authentic, serious, accomplished journalists and politicians.

This is what happened today. I listened to journalists and politicians on the television and radio, and evidently some believe their thinking and utterances are of special importance. Indeed, superior and of greater significance to that of doctors, psychologists, scientists, artists and philosophers. Indeed, any other human being on this planet.

Give them any subject: the economy, health, accountability, finance, morality, the role of men and woman in society and culture, motherhood, careers, education, prosperity, advertising, mental health, infidelity, how to raise healthy children, religion, automatic washers and driers, gourmet cooking, frozen dinners, interior decorating, fashion, political and social events, flight attendants, dieting, sex, childcare, shipbuilding, pregnancy, fertility, ad infinitum. Then listen and watch as they speak and write with a 'drainpipe mentality'.

However, their depth of thought and insight into certain issues may be patently shallow, and subsequently their words highlight their ignorance, and unsavory ability to jump to conclusions on complex matters without access to the full facts. It's a patent challenge to listen to their unenlightening, unintelligible, and absurd rantings.

Of course, the full picture behind the story will emerge, and the newspaper, magazine, and television editors, and staff, can celebrate their role in presenting, not only the telling details, but the dirt dug up to dupe readers into believing it is in their interest and is necessary to provide a full and accurate picture of the issue.

Life is difficult enough without listening to people talking and writing about other peoples lives, problems, burdens, as if they, alone, possess a unique insight. Inept journalists and politicians should leave people to confront and solve their own painful problems. As we should do ours. Are human beings condemned to torture each other, emotionally and psychologically, for ever?

Hopefully, daylight will arrive soon and shine light on these motionless, standing, robotic creatures. No-one is totally innocent of anything. A lesson some journalists and politicians have still to learn.

*

Reflection: By appearance solitude does not deserve praise. However, gazing into empty space has its reward - sometimes you may find something of value.