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.

Everything's Coming Up Roses

Today my wife is infused with imagination, inspiration and a deep commitment to uncover why we've drifted apart. She gazes at me like a large-eyed, watchful donkey. After spiting on our wedding picture album she points a thick streaky sausage at me. Aided by her toothless mouth and undersized black patent pro-wrestling boots, she groans, 'You once seemed young. Now you're a bloody withered tree. You no longer live in or by time … Just books, and more bloody books!'

Differences divide her reality from mine. What's my wife looking at? The ghost of a man once celebrated for searching for "one great love" - the ideal woman? Maybe she observes an old beggar-man; half-crazed with a maze of half-healed scars on his swollen nose. Why do I bother staring back, it only makes a fuss?

Words only invoke memories of jealousy, hurt, a wrong turn in the road taken, innumerable ghosts. What she likes I detest, and vice-versa. Silly little things that grow into stupid big things. She drinks cocktails – usually, a "Singapore Sling" – while removing the wax from her ears with a large hair pin while singing “Everything's Coming Up Roses”: You'll be swell! You'll be great! Gonna have the whole world on the plate! Starting here, starting now, honey, everything's coming up roses! I sit traumatised by the deafening din and embrace the darkness only I can feel and see. The collected wax is utilised when she attempts hair highlights at home; always with disastrous consequences, for example, setting the dog on fire.

My wife makes sounds as well. One, in particular, starts of delicate, and ascends to a steady thud which rattles every window in our house, and dwellings beyond for all I know. Our poor dog's tail stiffens, his fur bristles, and he leaps about on the dining room table unable to bark. I think the dog hates me for saying nothing to my wife about her behavior. I'm never filled with enough confidence to confront her; the dog doesn't understand my predicament. Once the dog brought me a carving knife from the kitchen. As it wagged its stiffened tail, its sad, large eyes seemed to plead, ' Stab her to death, for me, please. Just this once!'

Outside the church bells chime. Why so far from the church? It must be 50 kilometers, at least, from our home to the little church, the graveyard, to the sound of rushing cars, and the black clad, hymn-singing congregation? The bells seem to be pacing up and down close to our living room window. How infuriating it must be to have to play the same melody each day, at the same time, and receive no gratitude? The chimes begin to fade. Perhaps the bells have deserted the church in order to be with other bells in a creative community? Or a tropical island in search of the simple life, if such a life exists?

I check my watch. Mr Cloud is due at 7.00 o'clock.

I hear his footsteps before he knocks on the front door. 'Beautiful weather,' he murmurs. Mr Cloud's appearance chills my blood, just like my wife's naked body on our wedding-night. He has no blood under his pale, translucent skin. He holds out a trembling hand. 'It belongs to my son, Ivar. I never leave home without it.' I gaze at the hand and say nothing.

We go into the living room. I pretend not to understand taxidermy. 'What type of bird is it?' he enquired.

'I'm not quite sure? Large, with ears like a rat. It flew in through the back door, circled the room a few times and hovered above my head. I was petrified. It was fearsome and confident. Lucky I was cleaning my shotgun. A single shot. I don't believe in death, but what else could I do?'

I was troubled by Cloud's cold stare. There was a long silence. He sighed deeply. 'Date and time of death?'

Lowering my eyes, I replied, 'Mid-afternoon ... today ...'

'Extent of injuries?'

'The nostrils are completely gone ...'

'The nostrils?!'

'I mean mouth! ... Beak! ... Whatever the hell you call it!'

I told him once again how it had happened. I also enquired if his services were expensive. When he asked if I wanted the mouth open or shut I thought either way unsightly; her mouth had morphed into a thin sharpened knife in search of hardened veal. I told Cloud I would accept his professional judgement.

Cloud and I went into the kitchen and opened the large chest freezer. We exchanged a knowing look and then everything went quickly. The large bird was well wrapped in polyethylene and frozen. We both grunted as we carried the heavy package to the back of Cloud's black van. He would contact me once she was stuffed.

Three days later Cloud was waiting for me at his premises. When he unveiled the mounted bird I was surprised how well she looked. Suddenly, I felt a lump in my throat.

'I know, I know, it's hard. But your wife would be proud. I'll deliver it tomorrow night when the world is silent.' In spite of everything Cloud and I began to laugh. 'What will you do now?'

'I'm not sure,' I replied. 'It will not, however, involve lifting heavy weights. I believe I shall paint my front door blue. Black can be such a sombre colour. Good day to you.'

I stepped out into the quiet street and stood still for a moment. My soul felt revitalised. My self-confidence had returned. I walked swiftly back to my home. It was dark but I was unaware of darkness. My anxieties turned into curiosity; curiosity and craving for my new life.

*

Reflections: Romantic love is ephemeral; therein lies its preciousness.

What did Vincent van Gogh eat for Breakfast?

The image one acquires of a genius is dependent on the selection. Whether the individual is a gifted painter, poet, philosopher, musician, inventor, or scientist, is, in fact, immaterial. Genius remains a matter of opinion and can't be measured. The genius, by accident of birth, possesses the special gift of originality, heightened perception and intuition, and embraces individualism in spite of (or because of) ridicule from contemporaries, in pursuit of their own vision and goal.

There remains a potent romantic image of the genius – probably, from Victorian times – as someone disturbed, on the verge of mental collapse, unable to keep their body and soul together. This is not the case with most geniuses. Jonathan Swift, David Hume, and Galileo Galilei, come to mind. There are others, of course.

The image of the artist Vincent van Gogh is a case in point. We know Van Gogh was a great artist: his works exist to to prove it. However, what is authentically known of Van Gogh's thinking, his inner tensions, the struggles his gifts bestowed upon him, his family and friends? A study of his life and work reveals a complex individual. This raises a further question: which human isn't complex?

Who decides whether a painting, a poem, a novel is, or, is not, a great work of art? In reality, it is a small coterie of academics, critics, merchandisers (so-called experts); an informal jury of sorts, who can make or break an artist's reputation and fortune.

Indeed, if we approach the works of geniuses without knowledge of a tragic backstory how would we view their works? It is impossible to know. The fact an artist may have died tragically at an early age draws some individuals to their works. This prior knowledge undoubtedly distorts one's view of the artist's output. How would such art be received if the artist were still alive? Would it be venerated to the same degree?

As with all individuals labeled geniuses, or not, excess of natural ability does not make for satisfaction and happiness, any more than excess of wealth.

Finally, what is normal? Each one of us is unique. We all have discreteness. We are all outstanding in our own way. Primarily, we are all moving in the same direction: seeking to live an authentic life out of the reach of false judges.

*

Reflections: For some people fame and fortune are a cross or a crown. They are recognised everywhere they go. As I live in anonymity, I am able to walk around my home unrecognised by my wife and children. Even our dog has stopped peeing on my leg, an affection which, oddly, I miss.

Rebekah Kerrigan interviewed in the Neonatal Unit, Ulster Hospital on 13 June 2010 - 'First Hours on Mother Earth'

I'm using Ronnie's blog to explain some things before people start talking about me and I won't be able to get a word in edgewise.

My name is Rebekah. I was born by caesarian today, 13 June 2010. I'm only five hours old. I hope you like the photograph. It's not my best side and the nappy nearly touches my nose. Smaller sizes, please! My first 'tantrum' and it feels good.

Anyhow, my dad, Ricky, is talking to a young nurse dressed in water blue scrubs. Not my dad, the nurse, silly! Such a beautiful colour. I shall always remember it. In fact, it may become my favourite colour. Ricky looks pale, tired and anxious. I can tell he is kind and clever. Believe me, I can see him. He smiles and waves at me. I'm snug in my little incubator in the neonatal unit.

There's another baby in the unit, too. I'm quite small: four pounds, four ounces. I'm surrounded by monitors and a tube carries milk to my stomach. My mum, Lindsay, is in a side ward recovering from the delivery. My mum looked exhausted as she cradled me so I did my best not to cry too loud. She has lovely, soft hands. Mum needs rest, just like dad. I arrived unexpectedly, but, in truth, I couldn't wait any longer to be born.

My favourite nurse has blonde center-parted hair and a dazzling warm smile. My instinct tells me I will be blessed with charm and beauty, too. I may even be a nurse. Now that the curtain has raised on my life I intend to be kind, courteous, form my life and destiny, and live in harmony with all living things. I will try to remember that the simple things in life are usually the most important.

I've noticed talking can be difficult. Talking sense, I mean. On top of everything else I have to learn how to be relaxed and amusing in conversation, and learn all the social gestures, looks and hidden meanings. I intend to never sulk or make a fool of myself, and spread joy wherever I go. Of course, I expect my parents to discipline me, when necessary, out of general concern and love for me.

I occasionally wonder why some individuals fail to realise I'm a unique individual. I'm a girl like no other girl who has ever lived. Yet some people gaze at me and foolishly say I've my mother's eyes, my brother's nose, my father's legs. I'm not a diva, just making a point. I'm not a carbon copy or a genetic copy of other people. I'm me. REBEKAH KERRIGAN! Guess that counts as a second tantrum.

Well, I have two sisters and a brother. I've acquired the main role and expect to be subject to extremes of sibling jealousy and devotion. When I get out of hospital I'll arouse interest everywhere I go. Meanwhile I'm being looked after by mum and dad and nurses in hospital and they keep me clean, spotless and fed.

I wonder what our house looks like and if it's in a quiet street? How many rooms does it have? Has it got little cupboards and hiding places? The furniture, pictures, the symphonies of smells will be new to me. A newborn world of sounds, colours, lights, odours.

In the weeks, months and years ahead, I'm looking forward to experiencing all kinds of things, like: Christmas and birthday presents, reading books about horses, watching cartoons and films, playing games with my sisters and brother, riding a bicycle, smelling flowers (especially roses), eating food (I wonder if I will like Mexican?), licking ice-cream and lollies, listening to music, dancing, laughing, being read 'bedtime' stories by my parents and grandparents,  bathing in warm, bubbly, scented water with lots of toys, throwing small stones into a lake of calm water, chasing butterflies, wearing jewelery, perfume, makeup, finding true friendship and unquestionable love in all its guises.

The nurse is coming to check my oxygen levels. I have to go and pretend I'm asleep. Bye for now.

*

Reflections:  I am five hours old and the 'baby' of the family. And guess what? I will always be the baby, even when I’m thirty, forty, or sixty! That sounds really old now. I might even be married with children of my own and still be the baby. How strange is that?

Extraordinary Scenes in the Attic

 
This afternoon, on the stroke of two, I heard something resembling a Pistol Shrimp firing a Schwerer Gustav gun. I slowly climbed the stairs towards the source of the sound and opened the small, dusty trapdoor of the attic. An icy chill immediately infected my body. I'd tell you about my state of mind, but you might laugh, choke on a watermelon sorbet, hit me with a hefty lawsuit, or - heaven forbid - a pair of brown, thin Wale Cord trousers.

My breath began steaming in front of me then moved to the rear. I pushed my glasses back on my nose. My body parts and accessories were deserting me. I called out through the semi-darkness. No one replied. The smell of damp reignited an instinctive fear I'd almost forgotten.

Aided by the flickering, faint light from a bulb hanging from a long wire I glanced around the attic like an intruder. It was full of trunks, clothes, faded paintings, a three-poster bed, Howard Hughes, a collection of jungle clearings, a Boeing B-17 Flying Fortress World War Two airplane and, horror of horrors, my ex-wife, Loretta.

I thought she had drowned on vacation six months earlier when we attended an exhibition of paintings by Salvador Dali in Thomas Beecham's cigar.

I closed my eyes and turned away. My legs began to shake like an old horse. I heard a loud whine! I looked again, in silence. Loretta was clad in a diving suit, sitting in a bathtub, furiously waving her arms about in the air. It was difficult to know what Loretta was saying as she was wearing a diving helmet. I think she was swearing, 'You need locked up! . . . You made this happen!'

I rapidly closed the trapdoor and wiped the sweat from my face. My heart began to beat in time with my shaking legs. Trembling, I went downstairs and drank water to moisten my swollen tongue. I caught my reflection in the kitchen mirror and put it outside with the cat. I had to talk to my dear friend, Dr Hans Lubricant.

'Are you sure it’s her? A diving-suit, you say? A dreadfully unattractive woman, if I may say so?'

'I'd recognize that cold, harsh, miserable face anywhere!'

'Stay calm . . . We're all mortal, you know. A diving-suit, you say? Have you told her you remarried . . . her sister? An attractive, young woman, if I may say so?'

'Of course not! I'd take my own life, but where to? Travel insurance is so expensive.'

'I''ll come right over!'

The doctor walked across the living room. He spoke through clenched teeth which belonged to one of his patients.

'You're too hard on your self. She was idle and pampered. Look at your life through your own eyes, not through those of others. Why if it were "The Middle Ages" she would have been burned at the stake. Twice, at least.'

Hans took off his glasses and wiped his eyes with a handkerchief. He began to fidget, nervously.

'Listen. You're tired, exhausted. Have you considered your “inner eye” affliction may have returned? Momentarily, of course. You have an extraordinary imagination. I''ll check the situation myself.'

I listened in silence and drank more water.

Hans went upstairs and headed for the attic. A few minutes later he came flying down the stairs in the Boeing B-17 Flying Fortress airplane with Howard Hughes on board.

'Let's get the hell out of here!' Hans shouted at me. ' It's the most terrifying image I've ever seen! All the hate of the world is contained in that women! She's alive, yet as old and cold as a corpse!'

As we flew through the front door the whine of bullets and explosives were too close for comfort. Without doubt Loretta had fiery ancestry in her blood. She fired until we became one with the soft, white clouds.

I fear her hunger for danger, excitement and hazardous adventure will be her downfall. Loretta's luck will run out, sooner or later, like me. 

*

Reflections:  Some people sacrifice everything in pursuit of wealth. They forget that life, love, compassion, altruism, humanity and laughter can not be pursued posthumously. Sometimes we watch each other suffocate and decline to help. Pity the individual whose life is enriched by watching a fellow human being in trouble, engaged in a struggle for survival, and does not intervene. A life becomes yesterday's news. Yet, life goes on.

I Love the Smell of Manure in the Morning

My new short story runs the gamut from light comedy to stark tragedy. It's about a lady's eyebrows who 'fall in love' with a gentleman's mustache. Then tragedy strikes. The eyebrows announce their engagement to a nose hair. This drives the mustache 'nuts' and starts drinking heavily. In a drunken stupor the mustache sends an ambulance, a fire engine, a police car, an electric chair, a hearse, a rickshaw, a refrigerator on stilts and a dancing hedgehog to the home of the eyebrows. 

The plot acknowledges that the lady's eyebrows have a need for excitement, hence the sirens, emergency vehicles, dancing animals and men in uniform running in all directions, including sideways. The mustache then kidnaps the eyebrows. They drive off into the sunset in a car blazoned with the sign, 'Hair Today, Hair Tomorrow, and for the Foreseeable Future.'

In their haste to get away the car narrowly misses an elderly lady performing handstands on the sidewalk. The police issue a 'mugshot' of the mustache. However, the possibility that the mustache may be disguised as a beard can't be ruled out, rubbed out, or removed from unsightly moles.

*

This week an old school friend, Hedwig Hardwick, was officially registered as a "listed building." Now H.H. can't be demolished, or altered, without government permission. This news has gravely upset his bewhiskered hairdresser, Herrmane Von Follicle, who never misses an opportunity to cry out, 'It must be terribly embarrassing walking about with a naked head! You should be locked up!' when he sees someone with a bald pate.

While Hedwig is selfish and unfeeling and cantankerous he also has negative traits. His eccentric behaviour has involved inviting reindeer to tea in the drawing room of his home in Norway, and Hedwig turning up as a pair of black spectacles. He also has a habit of making outrageous statements which particularly irritate his wife: "All elephants enjoy gardening, don't you know." and "Some people are riddled with bullets and some are riddled with woodworm, don't you know."

Hedwig's most sensuous pleasure is lifting a book in his hand, sniffing its invigorating fragrance, fondling its pages with his thumbs and reading while naked. Due to this extravagant behaviour, Hedwig has been thrown off tube trains, buses and department store escalators, on numerous occasions.

Hedwig's favourite book is Animal Farm. When I asked him why, he replied, 'It's utterly compelling if one can read. The book greatly improved my understanding of myself, the human condition and, let us never forget, the secret network which exists between all animals. Above all, above all else! I love the smell of manure in the morning!'

*

Reflections: Sometimes the intense pleasure of reading comes from re-reading a piece of literary work. It is one of life's pleasures to return to a novel one has read to discover something new, something one may have missed on the first, second or third reading, for example, the title.