Monday, February 20, 2006
About Nothing
“Were the hen scratches”
Anon.
Sometimes, I wander around without moving, looking for something to reach. There is always a room in these times. Four walls, eight corners, a window and a door. In the air, a vanishing, some shape of idea that would not let go. Eyes reel from scratches to stains, hunching and trifling. After a while, I stand up to walk, roam, avoid and swing, to sit back again -Hitting the trail to nowhere. These wanderings invariably end up in a corner, between fading lights and disappearing shades. There is always a hazy feeling about this spot. The more I fathom over there, the less I dig.
Whenever I follow the vertical line of the corner -there is always one- and reach out for the top, the point disappears. Even if I can guess where it is, I cannot focus on it. Either one of the lines vanishes in white, or the spot becomes indistinct. When I aim for the center, as soon as my gaze is set, my mind flies away. No more walls, no more room, no more world. Everything turns faint, and nothing is anymore.
I’ve never been able to face a corner more than a flickering second. Still, I can try for hours, sitting on a chair or on a bed. Shadows pass over, cities roam through and nothing remains, save me endlessly fighting a blank point of the mind. I’ve been playing this game for a long time. Whenever I feel misspelled, washed away by feelings or lost in the curse of thoughts; I play what I call the “Nothing game”.
It all started with a collective wee session. We were three for that. Laurent, Wilfred and me. Up in semi-circle, behind the bushes, zips open, we were aiming in a joint effort to cover a bicycle with our own brewery . I cannot remember who had the stupid idea first, but we all loved it at once: “What if we peed on Will’s sister’s bike?” Even though we had nothing against her, a common and powerful assent rose. It was a nice three-wheeler bike, with a hard plastic seat, chrome blue frame and white handlebars. While heavy drops fell on the poor object, I was vaguely considering our situation. We were not the nasty kind and, still, found this thrilling.
I was around six years old, when this happened. My parents were having the difficult task of trying to give me strong moral values, usually implemented by spanks on the bum and a very solemn voice, to underline what I had done, generally, wrong. My dad was better at this than my mum. I could not take my mum seriously when she tried to punish me. I would definitely deserve a big one for this pee –whoever it came from. Lost in thoughts, I put away my, then, small apparatus with a mechanical gesture and a blurry gaze, obviously denying my presence to the world.
“Wot’ you’r thinkin’ bout?”
“hmm nothin’”
“Look’d like ya were thinkin’ of somethin’”
“No I told ya, I wasn’ thinkin’ of nothin’”
This question suddenly struck me. Could someone really think of nothing? Was I thinking of nothing? And what would it look like? I mean, Nothing, what is it? Is it like the night sky, but without stars? Or more like a fog? More likely pitch black like Space where the astronauts live, but different because if they call it space it’s because there is something there. Not like Nothing. Even if you can’t breathe and you need a full suit, and oxygen. What was I thinkin’ bout? Space? Astronauts? Oh I can’t remember now. It was important though…No, nothing comes back…No, wait, wait, wait! That was it! I was tryin’ to think of nothing. That’s exactly what I was thinking of – Nothing.
That was as far as I would go. The concentration was so demanding. I could not focus any more. I was only six, after all, and stuff had to be done, like losing Batman or Green Arrow up on the wires, next to a longing Robin. We were very clever at putting the hard duties of our superheroes close to reality – flying high , bouncing around, and chasing each other. Other times we would nose around at the neighbor and his girlfriend. They used to sunbath naked in the park next to the collective building we lived in. No matter how many trees there were for them to hide, we, “tall ones” and “small ones”, always managed to get a sneaky glance at the desired breast. I guess it was also their version of hide-and-seek. And we loved it. Despite all these very fulfilling activities, the question still haunted me.
“You can think of somethin’. Okay. I can think of Death, old auntie Martha died. I know how she looked like. I can think of that tree over there, or mum. But what about nothing? There’s always something in my head. I’m always thinking of something. I can ride a bicycle without stabilizers, I can do that. Try to think of nothing.”
I remained dead silent, aiming away and dreaming without words. Almost a minute of stillness and it came. Winged, yellow and buzzing around: the bee.
“It’s flying around … … I can hear it … …bzzz … … annoying… …Oh! I’ve just been thinking! That’s it, I lost it. Right let’s do it again. … …Think of nothin’… …bzzz… …nothing… …bzz… …think… … bzzz… … nothing… … bzzz … nothing nothing nothing … bzzz …Nothing! Nothing! Nothing! Nothing! Nothing! NOTHING! “
Out of breath, shaking to the knees, my eyes began to sore as the bee finally went away. I despaired just as much as when my lego castle breaks down. Hours of patience blown away; turning a whole new world into total chaos. Despite its flying-off, I could no longer keep on.
“Pfff! I can’t do it. Now there’s plenty of nothings in my head. Too many of them things. And I’m tired now. Maybe I can’t because I’m too small. Maybe grownups can. Or maybe I just need some training. If I think of nothing plenty of times, maybe one day, I won’t notice it but I’ll be thinkin’ of nothing. And then I’ll know cos’ cos’… But what if I think that I am thinking of nothing? What about That ? Then I won’t be thinking of nothing anymore. I’m gonna have the idea “you are thinking of nothing”. I can hear it already. And That is something.”
Determined as only goats are, I decided to exercise with my eyes closed, right in the middle of the road. Even though I could not think of nothing, I believed that if I closed my eyes, I would, at least, see nothing. This was only the first clever idea: cup my hands and block my ears? See nothing, hear nothing, think nothing? I would be close to nothing, even though I would still hear my breath. That was a problem I solved by holding it. After a couple of seconds, I felt my blood pressure began to rise. My whole chest sounded like an African drum beating from a deep jungle. When the sigh of despair finally came, mum called for dinner. It was already dusk and despite late summer light, boys’ games were over.
“What were you doing in the middle of the road? Some car could have come you know.”
“I was thinkin’”
“About what?”
“I’m tryin’ to think of nothing’”
“You what?”
“It’s hard stuff you know. And if you interrupt me, I can’t do it mum!”
“Don’t talk to me like that! Come inside it’s dinner time. And get your bike out of the road will you! How many times do I have to tell you that?”
“Pfff… Can’t do what I want. Can’t even think of nothin’ here”
Naturally, during the dinner the interrogation came. “What was I thinking of? Standing in the middle of the road? It’s dangerous, and dark, and what was I doing: closing my eyes? blocking my ears? Some car might have come, somebody tired, or worse drunk, and wouldn’t see me... And who gave me this stupid idea, anyway?” On, and on, and on. I answered when I felt the heat coming. The spanking was there, right in the corner of the kitchen, waiting for any missed step. So I told my parents the truth.
“Well, we were with my mates, wee… we were playing… you know stuff. And it came up like that: … Oohh, It’s hard to explain. Better ask it : Dad?… Can someone, ever in the world, of the cosmos, of the universe –that was a common joke we used to have, implying a very deep and resounding questioning for my part, and a painful and mind-breaking moment for my old man– think of nothing?”
“Yes of course. Sometimes, I’m not thinking of anything in particular. I’m just looking away and things pop up in my head. Even if they’re nothing in particular.”
“I already know that dad! I mean, you know nothing, like nothing at all. Not even … a single thing. Because, there’s always something inside my head. I can’t think of nothing. Maybe the others can but not me. I tried so hard. But, but I can’t!”
This outcry for light followed by the eternal “Is it bad, dad, that I can’t do that?”. I cannot imagine how lost, and suddenly tired he must have felt at this time, but he tried to give me satisfying answers. First evoking empty spaces, then zen, unreachable corners of the human mind, even quoting Plutarch “The hearing of deaf action, and the seeing of the blind” –this one gave me a headache– closing the chapter with a traditional “ That is a very deep and important question, son, and you should continue to ask yourself this. Maybe, one day, you’ll find the answer”. Nothing worth satisfying the thirst for answers of a curious boy, facing the mysteries of existence.
Until one day, one dead corner. It must have been one of my bedroom. The answer was right there, between three lines and a plane. I found the answer, more by stumbling than logic, but I had it. I got so excited, that I crafted my speech for ages before catching up with my mates. The corner of the bed was my favorite spot for this and still is. When I felt ready, I jumped off the balcony –we lived on the ground floor– and ran to unveil my findings to the world.
“You cannot think of nothing”
“Wot? Wot’re talkin’ bout?”
“Remember, when you asked me what I was I thinkin’ bout, and I answered nothin’?”
“Uh yeah, maybe”
“Well that’s wrong!”
“Wot?”
My beautiful, nicely crafted, speech had been blown away by the shrill state I was. Gathering my little brain back together, I started the pitch:
“Ok. Try to think of nothing, not even what you can see or hear. Nothing in your head. You can close your eyes and block your ears if you want.”
“Wot? You mean now?”
“Yeah right now. Both of yous, try it !”
I was shouting at them, as little corporals from cartoon armies do. Bouncing from one foot to another, staring at each other, they were wondering what the hell was happening to them. What had they done wrong to deserve this? But we were mates for life. There was no “You’re too strange, we won’t do it” between us. That’s what mates for life are for. You can even ask them to abandon the joys of cricket hunting, to stop and try to think of nothing.
“Okay. Give us a minute”
“Are you ready? Do you think you have it?”
“Yeah I think I’m on it”
“Yeah me too”
“Wrong! Both of yous! Wrong!”
“Why? That’s not fair!”
“Yeah we weren’t thinking of nothing!”
“You answered me, you idiots. You were thinking of me talking to yous”
“That’s because…”
“I know I know I talked to yous. But can you swear, you were thinking of nothing? You were thinking of tryin’ to think of nothing, weren’t yous?”
They were lost. Like many people around me, during these times. I had this very special ability to lose people with tricky questions which nobody, except me, found worth getting interested in. Of course, I could not take them to face the unknown, and leave them without a clue. You do not make people ask themselves something they would never have thought of, and abandon the ship. They were my mates. For life, remember?
“I know it’s a bit complicated, but I think I really found something. Trust me. Just listen to what I’ve gotta say, I know it’s hard but it’s worth it”
“Ok, go for it”
“You can’t think of nothing because you are always thinking of something. Even if you look somewhere, without concentrating, there’s always something you see. The sky, the tree, the bee.”
“The bee?”
“Listen will you? Even when you close your eyes, you always hear something. Your breath or you heart. But even if you could not hear outside, you would hear the words inside your head. And even if you had no words but things inside, that wouldn’t do. Because, if you try to think of nothing, there’s still the idea nothing in your head. You can’t think of nothing because you always think of something. Although this something is nothing. D’yer get it?”
“You mean, we never stop thinking.”
“No, never. That’s why we can’t say, when somebody asks “What are you thinking about?”, “Nothing” because that is something we’re thinking about. So it can’t be nothing.”
“So you’re saying we can’t think of nothing. Nobody can?”
“Exactly”
“So what do you think of that? Great idea isn’t it?”
“Great. We can’t think of nothin’, because if we think, then there is somethin’ : nothin’”.
“Yeah.”
“Let’s go back to the crickets.”
That was that. The problem was over. No need to share with the tall ones. We could, at last, think of something else than nothing. We had crickets and ponytail girls to chase, along with plastic bottles to burn under the bed. Up to wander around, looking for something to reach.
Barcelonetta, 05 February 2006
Monday, April 18, 2005
A True Feeling
I clench two fists on the tap. Knuckle against porcelaine. Grey with sweat, fists tight with agonising bands. I lean a bit for the tap hole. Forearms contracted, shoulders tense. All muscles visible. They draw what is to come. I'm ready. He's gonna suffer.
It already started. Here. In the showers. Before the Ring. He's eager now. Yeah just like that. Dance on your feet. One after the other. He can hope. He wants it to stop. He wants to drink. He doesn't want it now. Not yet. Not here. He's gona suffer. For sure.
I haven't finished. There's still to come. I hock up. Loud. He can hear. I've gotta big one. I spit it. Slow. I love it. Saliva and mucus meleted. It's good. Just what's needed. Ugly. It stains. Porecelain is white enough. It's spoilt now. I turn on the tap again. Wash mouth. Another long stream, other tight muscles.
Then I pretend to notice him. I barely look in his direction. I'm off. Put gloves on. Right first. Then left, as far as I can. A punch on one, then the other. I go for my corner, turn around. He's already here.
This time I look at him. A head higher. Obvious quadriceps. Shaved head. Veins running along biceps. Big shoulders. Abs. No doubt: he's a monster. If I get it wrong, I'm dead. But not today. Today he's gonna suffer.
Whistle. Salute. Fists against fists. Tough but not much. And in the eyes. Just in the iris. He wonders. He's asking why? Why all this stuff in the showers. A real beast except that I don't look like it. Not even the face of it. And surely not a big tatoo on the back. Not like him who blows flying kicks like a windmill. But now it's traditionnal. English boxing. My ground. And something's wrong. He doesn't get it. He's gonna suffer.
It starts. I lean a fist. Not even armed. Barely aimed at his head. He doesn't even block, or react. A wimp. I'm a wimp who believes he's tough. I'm sure he thinks so. He's gonna fall. For sure.
But I dodge. I take in. Not too much. He mustn't know. Not yet. My fists are there. I disappear when needed. But I let it go. Let him crush me. I counter a bit. Just the minimum. And of course, had to happen, a receive a good one.
On the bone cheek, under the right eye. He wants to stop. Pretends to worry. I'm already back on guard. And in one of his eyes, on the corner, he smells confidence. It's for now. He's ready. Gotta be good. He's done. He's gonna suffer.
All my muscles. I call them back. I need everything. And I' scared also. He must not see it coming. This is big. In one strike, all must come in one strike. Because I know. Because I saw. And the head also, must stay cold. As in training, facing the mirror, when shadow boxing.
He's back on guard. He still doesn't get it. So he does it again. Like before. Just a bit less. A direct, a feint, a hook. But now I block. And it's tough. He has to feel it. He can't pass. With all these blows, he's gonna bruise his bones. My guard's gonna hurt like rock. The he won't dare. Not as much. He's done. It's all done.
He leans a lot...It went straight and fast. Between the eyes. He saw it coming. He got scared. And it hurts. I know the feeling. And everything stops. I watch him. No feet moving. Still guard. Two red fists on pause. His head goes back.... and forth. Like rubber. Another right, followed by another. Two in less than a second. Same spot. He saw coming. But couldn't block. Scared.
I let my guard off. Pretend to wonder. He can't say no. We're too far. He's done. Trapped.
After that I fight straight. Tough but straight. And he suffers, takes in. He can't get me. Even when he comes back, just as I feared. When he hits hard. I hit harder. Everytime above. Harder. Faster. Smarter. He can't win. Not after that. Not after the sink, the feints, the pity, and the true fighting. Not after noble art.
Me a cheater? Not after what I've seen. Not after the girl he knocked out, or the guy he smashed. And this during training. He doesn't deserve to be here. I hate his pleasure. I hate people who have this pleasure.
So when the techer put us together. I looked at him. I remembered. And there was one thing to do: crush him. One thing to think: he's gonna suffer. And forget the rest.
A very true feeling in Aix-en-Provence, 2000.
Darwin, 18th April 2005.
Saturday, April 16, 2005
The woman who was never surprised
"I remember the frost of the wind in winter time.
I recall the heat of the sun in summer time.
I hear the song of the corncrake when spring awakes.
I smell the joy of dolphins when autumn arrives.
I embrace every loop of every path of Inishowen.
I breathe the shores from Innis Head to Dunaff Head.
I finger the sands of Trawbreaga and Carrickaveal.
I even walk through the secret gates to the Other World.
But my heart is still painful when I breathe. My will is no stronger than a candle in the storm.
Why, oh why, does nothing await me?
Why, oh why, does nothing move me?"
The wind was taking her lament away to the East, to Garvan islands where only birds live.
They all knew Etain's chant by heart but none of them could join her, for the western winds were too strong. They could see her when passing by Wee Malin House, but she never noticed them.
One sundown, and a strange dawn it was, the tide went out and never came back. The sea retired from the coast and left nothing but dry land. Even the strong gales from the West drifted away. The north coast of Hibernae became a rocky field crammed with brown seaweed and orange stones.
Without any further waiting the birds flickered directly towards Etain's shelter. Amongst them gathered Albatross, Gannets, Shear Water, Skuas and Auks. There were also Redwings, Finches and Snow Buntings. An amazing spectacle it was, but not a soul to admire it.
Etain was standing on the entrance to Danngus Bens where a secret tunnel leads to Ancient's fort. She was shedding so many tears that her whole body seemed like a shuddering.
The flock of birds almost concealed the sky, but hardly a sound came from them. They were all appalled by Etain's solace. Floating around, they tried to draw her attention. Only a sad whisper echoed. When the moon rose high and the stars enlightened the dark, Etain sheltered in the Wee House of Malin. The flock followed her inside. There were so many of them that it would have taken a man's life to count them. Nevertheless they all entered the hollow rock for, in the Wee House, no matter how many came, there was always room for more.
Standing on a boulder Etain was surrounded by the birds but hardly a sound could be heard for no bird dared to bother her.
"Go away birds", said she, "for nothing moves me anymore. Please leave me with my solitude." None of them moved.
Only the tallest of the birds risked an answer "Why are you so weary?" said the Albatross.
She refused to answer.
"You are young, fair and beautiful. But still you stay alone all the time. You do not deserve solitude. Why don't you take a man?"
"Three times I took a man. Three times I cried. I will not bear another sorrow anymore".
The Albatross stood silent for he was clueless.
Then a little redwing flew upon Etain's shoulder and piped the following:
"What did you see in their eyes? Men's gaze is an open gate to their heart."
"See?" answered she, "What a strange way of speaking. I know only the salty one and men do not taste so".
The Redwing asked again "Are you saying that you cannot see?".
"Again, little bird, you are speaking in a sound manner. Men and Sea are different. They have nothing in common."
The Redwing, smart as it was, was unable to clear up the misunderstanding. He proposed the following:
"We people of the sky, travellers of the seas and wanderers of the lands are going to search for a man who can see. He will tell you what his eyes discover and, then you will be surprised by what lies in a man's heart."
Etain grimaced at first. Eventually, she accepted the birds' proposal, though without any conviction.
Henceforth, the birds scattered away from Wee House, from Innishowen, from Mourning County, from Donegal, from Ulster, from Hibernae. They went North and South, East and West and never came back.
A month passed, and Etain forgot the challenge amidst flowering tears of despair.
Time flew until a foggy dew spilled over Malin Head. A man arrived, looking for a shelter where he could rest. He entered the Wee House as if he always knew/had always known the place.
"Good evening Etain", said he
"Good evening Stranger", said she anxiously.
"My name is Eoghain", added he to reassure her.
"Welcome then, Eoghain" answered she, relieved.
After a silence he said in a confessional tone "I have come a long way for you"
"For what reason have you come?"
"For the birds of the North warned me that in Malin Head was a young woman who did not believe that women could see"
"I still do not believe that"
"What if I told you what I see? Would it be proof enough?"
"Tell me what you …"see" and I'll make up my mind."
"I see a beautiful woman standing alone in a grey rocky house without any fire inside"
"You have a smooth and even voice, Eoghain, but I do not believe you. You say I am beautiful only because you want me. You say there is no fire because cannot feel any heat. Grey is a sound word but still a lie because it does not exist."
Eoghain sighed but said nothing. He rested for the night and went away in the morning.
The following night a strange storm embraced Malin Head. A second man arrived, looking for shelter. He entered the Wee House.
"Good evening Etain"
"Good evening stranger"
"My name is Echùn"
"Then welcome Echùn… from the North" said she ironically.
"No Etain I come from nowhere else than/but the West. Birds told me that in Malin Head was a woman who did not see what was in men's eyes"
"I am not convinced at all"
"Tell me how can I change your mind"
"Tell me what you pretend to "see"..."
"I see a beautiful lady with blonde flowering hair, deep grey eyes and charming lips. She lives in a dark hollow rock , in a country where rivers are black, boulders green-bearded, rocks dark-orange, hills brown and the sea turquoise. She is alone but shall not be alone for much longer."
"You have a grave and slender voice, Echùn, but it is only a cover cast upon lies. You flatter my body because you desire it. And the qualities or flaws with which you describe my country are pitiful attempts to soften my ears. They are mere melodies, not truths"
Echùn sighed twice. He wanted to add something but did not. He tried to rest. By the morning he was gone.
The following night a strange coolness settled in Malin Head lands. A third man arrived, looking for nothing.
He entered the Wee House as if he did not know it.
"Good evening" said he
"Good evening stranger" answered Etain.
Silence flew around.
"Do you have a name stranger?"
"I have but it would mean nothing to you."
"For what reason have you come here" asked Etain anxiously.
"I have no reason"
"Did not the birds of the East asked you to come here?"
"I have seen many birds but none spoke to me."
"Don't you pretend to see like other men?" asked she in a shrill tone.
"To see? What a strange question!"
"Tell me what you "see" here and now!" imposed she angrily.
" I only see a lone woman who is never surprised." Whispered the nameless.
" Your voice is smooth and grave but you're just like the others. You cannot "see"."
The nameless did not answer and stood still for the whole night.
When the sun rose up, a queer sound woke Etain up. There was water dropping next to her hand. It was not raining for there was no damp.
"Who or what is pouring water?"
"It is me Etain" echoed the nameless.
"Why are you crying?"
"Three nights I came, three nights I changed my voice, three nights I told the truth… three nights you distrusted me. I am sad and you will never see it."
And, for the first time of her life, Etain opened her eyes and saw what lied in a man's heart.
As for the nameless man, he took his bag and stood up. He gazed deep into her before turning back to the long dark night. Since then he goes from valleys to oceans, mountains to forests, telling the only story he knows by heart : the story of the woman who was never surprised.
Friday, April 15, 2005
Why Hedge Hopping?
Web
Results 1 - 10 of about 30,800 for hedge hopping. (0.30 seconds)
Foundations of English 12 -- Themes... Hedge-hopping Excerpts from The Straight Story. HEROES/HEROINES/VILLAINS/ORDINARY... Hedge-hopping Trifles. DISABILITY: Opening Doors The Will to Win ...www.harcourtcanada.com/school/ english/foundations/themes.htm - 13k - Cached - Similar pages
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