I Prefer the Sound of Laughter to Tears

I've just returned from a hot, humid and crowded Paris. After breakfast each morning Cecilia and I walked the beautiful streets and squares - some loud, some flowing with serenity - and we sat down when our bodies told us it was time. Usually it was in one of the wondrous gardens: Luxembourg or the Place des Vosges.

When we were hungry we stood on the sidewalk and looked at the tables where people were eating to see if the food suited our taste and pocket. We mainly drank white wine with our meals to match our light-heartiness. This usually enriched our conversations with residents or visitors who sat near our table. The girls were young, pretty and stylish and the women were attractive, tanned and walked in a relaxed, unworried manner to parade their pretty legs. Pleasure shone on their faces as if they alone had a secret they would not share with anyone. Paris filled my heart and mind with magic. A magic only Paris can summon while you reside in its bosom.

*

Two days ago I finished composing the closing movement of my "Concerto for Microwaveable Cauliflower Cheese." I used Swiss cheese hence the quaint gaps in the work. The premiere, held last night inside a constipated cactus bent over a deceased housekeeper, was a success. A success due to the absence of an audience or mice, and the sweeping power and delicacy of the microwave which breathed new sounds, new life into a nocturnal sky. The intimate novelty of hearing the work moved me more than I anticipated. Art should be fresh - esp. when food products are used - it should awaken the mind, the heart, the soul, and keep you in unstinting luxury until you are unmasked as a fake. 

*

Some days it is hard to think of a captivating title for a short story or a novel. I take the John Cage approach. The title of my next novel (also, my first novel) will be 72,846 - the exact number of words contained in the work. I'm presently working on  83,218 and only have 18 words to go. In fact, by the time you read this post I may have typed them. It is hard to gauge how long it will take when one is seized with the horrible fear of failure and internal tremors. I nearly forgot. The words in either novel are not in order, and require to be chanted by a yellow rubber duck inside a carafe of oakey and intense Tempranillo wine while slapping the last people on earth with a dead fish.

*

Reflections:  Neither the dark, the black streets, or windswept pigeon droppings, can conceal that a once sensual, glowing and moody face has descended to one that is sour, brooding and overweight. The face of my wife? my girlfriend? my dog?  No, mine.

Sometimes my new-old face is a blessing. I can now obtain a seat on public transport, a bicycle, a toilet, and be served drink and food promptly in a restaurant and sit with my 'one true friend' for company—a manila folder. A manila folder that drinks too much, lies and tells stupid jokes in amusing voices. Unbelievably it is more interesting than most people I have met and pays its half of the restaurant bill. It knows when I do not want to talk and when I am deep in thought. It knows I prefer the sound of laughter to tears.   

A Bikini Wax & Upstaging the Bride

This morning a neighbour, Randy Camelus, was killed while out galloping with some companions over nearby hills. As Randy was on foot police are treating his death as suspicious. Poor devil. He had a weakness for bobbing canoes, earthenware products and impersonating a tram at rush-hour. In fact, he was arrested twice for carrying too many passengers. Randy always preferred the countryside to his home; less mud, manure, cows, nettles and flies. To be honest he got on my nerves. He felt the need to upstage people wherever and whenever possible. Once he pretended to be a hard boiled egg and turned up in my lunchbox. At his niece's wedding - held in the middle of a desert - he arrived as a camel wearing a straw hat. Most guests agreed he outshone the bride.

I remember Randy had trouble with his wisdom teeth. He had seven: three on top, two on the bottom, and one that worked and lived in Germany and never sent money home. However, it was as a salesperson that Randy excelled. Besides selling crystal balls to fortune tellers his most profitable venture involved selling bilingual individuals two of each product they wished to purchase, and had the audacity to make them pay twice. One of his greatest sales involved getting a bald-headed man to purchase and undergo a bikini wax. The man was last seen travelling eastwards across the desert with a bikini on his head shouting, 'Help! Help! I'm not what you think I am! . . . I'm not Lady Gaga?! . . . Am I? . . . I'm Madonna . . . Where am I? . . . . Boy, do I miss the stairs in my house!'

Randy maintained that the creation of prose, poetry, music, painting, sculpture, etc., is easy. This divided his world from mine. I wasn't surprised by his statement. In fact, it made me sad. I told Randy on one occasion, gently: 'All things seem easy that are created without talent.'  He didn't answer. His face became serious, pale, suddenly frail. His teeth left before him. As they scuttled across the street they collided with a car. The air was sharp, biting cold. How coincidental.  The only sound? Randy's silent tears as he lifted his shattered teeth. He looked at me, then began to soothe his teeth with the softness of his hand. I watched as he made for his home in a remote village inside an old shed behind a house close to a river in the middle of nowhere - a village called 'H'.

Randy's fate reminds me that "everything" and "everyone" go through phases of uncertainty, silent acceptance, indifference, economy of words, half-light, darkness, silence, oblivion. While he is no longer here occasionally I see his teeth pass my house on the way to the dentist. Sometimes they smile at me through the window.

*

Reflections: At the moment my attempts at writing lack focus and an elementary grasp of grammar. I've been aware of this for some time; since childhood, in fact. I spend 24 hours a day figuring out which project to work on and let my thoughts run wild. Finding them again, however, can present a problem. Once they texted me from Amsterdam. A problem with their passport; something to do with photographic ID?! Anyway, I must learn to "adjust my lens," so to speak.

Me, Me, Me, You and Me & No One Can Stop Time

My wife is a mistress of her career and radiates confidence, intelligence, energy, optimism, strength, tenderness, responsibility, and an uncanny ability to hold a 'high C' while eating Beef Wellington in her bare feet. Sometimes she makes me feel I peaked too early in life, that I should eat my dinner in silence and go to my room. I'm still waiting for the heavy mist obscuring my vision to head west. I have major eye floaters in both eyes which makes it difficult to drive on unfamiliar roads at night. Of course, it may be due to the fact I don't own a a motor vehicle.

I tend not to last long in traditional jobs. For a while I was employed as the dull silhouette of a banker. The worthless scoundrel took pleasure in making me stand outside on cold flooded pavements while he wined and dined for hours - at public expense - with fellow dead heads. It's a shame he's no longer with us; if only to witness the court proceedings. His funeral service was painful for all the wrong reasons. Fellow dead heads stood up and used words such as: 'A man of truth and integrity'; 'A man of wisdom and warmth'; 'A man of ...' I went outside and threw up. He was a dried-out runner bean, a misshapen pebble who liked young girls though he was grey at the temples. Fellow dead heads made sure there was a constant supply.

Sometimes when I am alone I think of Nicole. For one night I was employed as her 'discreet cough'. We attended the Opera. During the performance Nicole give me a mischievous smile. We never spoke to each other. The sensation of sitting by her side for the evening made me lightheaded. I longed to touch her hair, her mouth, her body. The closest I felt to Nicole was when she passed me her Opera program. It retained the warmth of her beautiful pale hands. It was a schooling, of sorts, in hidden desire and silent passion.

*

When one is truly deprived, one will do anything. I once underwent an operation for a friend, Gotthard Hydleman. He was afraid of being anesthetized. He promised me $1000 and I considered it worth the money. I foolishly had my gallbladder removed. Unfortunately, Gotthard died before I received payment. The cause of his death?  Wearing female Skinny Cargo Pants for longer than six hours without a breather. When I asked the surgeon for my gallbladder back he declared with a smirk: 'I am so sorry, I eat it for dinner last Sunday. On the up side, I believe it has improved my French.'

*

Reflections: At 82, my maternal grandmother, Gloria Tenderloin, believes she is beginning to look her age. May I burst one of the thinnest bubble's on the planet. No one - including Joan Alexandra Molinsky, aka Joan Rivers, can stop time.

Forget facelifts, hollow faces, age spots, staying out of the sun, copying hair styles of young emaciated models, wearing short skirts wrapped around withered thighs, grey hair, baggy knees, drinking forty gallons of water a day, taking supplements. Be thankful you are alive, healthy, not homeless, unemployed, a victim of physical or sexual abuse, a person whose life hangs by a thread, or someone who died tragically young.

Most forms of beauty depend on concealment, integrity, mystery and are veiled by a mist which one may pass through to meet the real person on the other side, if one wishes. Everything else is a performance: a denial of ageing, decay, life, death. Embrace and experience your true uniqueness, your true value to others, and your true value to the world.

'The Godfather - The Musical' & Polpette Alla Casalinga

The sound of rain beating down on my car roof used to drive me nuts. In a moment of frenzy I removed the roof with a metal cutter and replaced it with thatch. On the upside it makes the car interior cool, rainproof, and muffles the sound of rain. On the downside when the thatch is dry, it is flammable. On a few occasions I've driven to work with the car roof on fire. Once, on arrival at the office, I went straight to a meeting with my hat on fire. In a moment of panic I threw the burning hat at a colleague and his nose hair caught fire.

The episode wouldn't have been so catastrophic if the fire hadn't spread quickly to his beard and virgin wool underwear (Who knows what people wear to work underneath their clothes? For a while I wore a black PVC gothic corset with black satin trimming, purely for medical reasons, of course - an out-growing toenail.) My colleague worked part-time as a Forest Fire Lookout at the local national park. It didn't help matters that he ran straight out of the building, jumped on his bison, and made straight for the watch tower in the park.

Subsequently, the tower burnt down, and he was observed running from the scene by a passing Long tail Weasel with short eyesight. With smoke billowing from his clothes he appeared to rant, 'I can't find Himmler, my little meadow vole!' He was never seen again. It is believed Himmler met a broad rat called Adolf, and together they wrote a major treatise titled: The Economic Importance of Rodents.

*

My lineage has endowed me with a lack of muscularity befitting an interloper without the 'loper.' During the night my wife kicked four of my front teeth out. Was it deliberate? Who knows? It was the first time - to my knowledge - she has worn black German Army Para Boots and camouflage netting to bed. She usually prefers Soviet and Russian tactical and combat gear. As for me, I just wish she'd wear something from Harvey Nichols' - a Pierre Hardy Perforated leather handbag with a small strap, preferably around her neck.

All day I had to speak, smile, and eat while holding a hand in front of my mouth. It was a mistake to order Polpette Alla Casalinga at lunch. The meatballs were about 3 inches in diameter and the tomato and basil sauce ruined my clothes. A fellow diner thought I was learning Spanish. Another thought I was preparing to audition as Don Vito Corleone in 'The Godfather - The Musical.' I left the restaurant before there was an assassination attempt. I like my thighs and arms as they are: close to my hands.

*

Reflections: All this, of course, is insignificant when I recollect I was recently refused service at a restaurant in Belfast. I exclaimed to the owner, whose head resembled fossil remains (picture, if you will, the face of a 5 million year old turtle with three teeth belonging to a chimpanzee), 'I'll have you know I served with the French Foreign Legion. I was decorated several times and advertised as a 'spacious furnished apartment' for rental in Paris!'

Alas, my protestations were in vain. My feelings were indelibly hurt. Shooting the proprietor, however, give a semblance of redress. I had to complain. It is all I have left.

The Beginning of Survival

Last night, while driving home from work, I spoke on the phone to my girlfriend. 'Tell J.M. and Eavan we can make it over to their house on Friday night. It will be good to see them again. I should be home in about half an hour.' Following the short call I signaled before changing lanes then turned off the signal.

A green station wagon had been tailgating me for the last few minutes. I yielded to the right to let the vehicle past. The driver continued to tailgate and started to honk their horn. The antagonistic behaviour began to irritate. I was conscious how straightforward confrontations can lead to violent behaviour. I stayed calm and rational. I didn't want hassle.

A violent and loud thud suddenly projected my existence into illusory slow motion. For a split second I stared into the enraged gaze of my aggressor who pulled level with my car.  Haunting… crazed… the hothead tryed to force me off the road. Both vehicles became intertwined in a power struggle.

I began screaming in concert with the grinding of metal. I finally lost control of the vehicle and headed towards a weather-ravaged dark wooden fence. My final recollection was the rear of the station wagon as it sped of in a triumphant show of power. I slowly descended into unconsciousness.

'Are you all right? Can you hear me?' frantically enquired a young female voice. 'I saw what that guy in the vehicle did! He tried to kill you ... run you off the road. Are you all right?'

As her soft voice undulated I slowly came round. Disorientated and confused I tried to move each limb in turn to distinguish the extent of damage. While my vision was blurred - exacerbated by blood pouring from lacerations to my upper and lower face - I became gratefully aware of survival.

The girl continued to converse in a frenzied manner. 'Can you hear me? Are you able to speak? I've telephoned for an ambulance ... the police. They should be here soon. Just hold on ....'

The ambulance and police arrived at the scene in concert. The young girl was tearful, and persistently shook as she recounted the distressing event. I was lucky; I was still alive. Suddenly I acquired a new knowledge of reality, life, what it means to be mortal. Once more, I became part of the sun, the moon, the stars, this earth.

*

Reflections: A river runs by my house every morning at seven o'clock. I believe its a fitness fad, of sorts. This morning we strolled together and spoke of our childhoods. We have much in common.

The river dutifully executes its roles despite severe constraints, namely: lack of affinity with hard hearts, harsh words and voices, wanting to die but afraid of death. Constantly taking risks, being humorous, mostly ingratiating despite unwanted conflicts.

The river's tormented face sometimes bothers me, as does its toneless voice. It never complains, but despises its fate. It detests pity most of all.

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.