You look one way and you see the following:
A group of people playing games, charades down the line, broken telephone, drawing on each other’s backs in a circle. They’re all cheerfully tapping their noses, letting their cackles of encouragement and agreement cascade, one after the other, until they reach a state of jubilant cacophony, like a happy hen house without any wire.
But then you hear a noise, so you look over:
Well I’ll be . . . Am I seeing this right ? There’s no answer. And who are you supposed to be ? Who I’m supposed to be ? Well, I don’t know-uh. I’d like to, I’m not opposed, but who, I don’t know who. ( Pause. ) No, I wouldn't. What ? What ? What ? What ? What’s the matter with you ! Pause. What’s the matter with me ? Well-uh. Just stands there, still, smiling like a clam, and blinking quickly, look blankly, looking all silly, but still shuffle off little sign of a shrug. I’m waiting . . . We’re waiting. You’re entirely impossible. Impossible ? I can’t believe it ! Like I’m talking to a wall, dammit! We’ve been graced by a true, blue dreamer. Daresay a dreamer of dreams? Somewhat of an astronaut, or alien, wouldn’t you say ? There’s no answer. Say, I’d like to dream. So then, what’s it like ? Is space as cold as they say ? There’s no answer. Hey, come on. You know I’m just teasing ya, right ? There’s no answer. So, what ? You’re just going to stand there? There’s no answer. You know, I’m beginning to lose my patience with this. Speak up ! There’s no answer. Fantastic. You . . . You’re taking me round for one aren’t-cha ? Well, you can drop it. I’ve had quite enough by now. There’s no answer. Enough ! What’s that ? Enough ! An uff ? Enough ! Uff ? Enough ! Hmmmn. Enough ! Enough ! Enough ! Enough ! White knuckles the neck. Like first love’s first kiss, head runs cherry red. A steam engine’s whistle sounds: All aboard! And grip so tight , like an eel, the top slip up, up, out of hand, like a banana from its peel. Rotiss’rie head rolls, e’en lolls cross the floor. Sticking of the tongue, one eye closed, and a smile half cocked.
When we can’t be direct, we end up saying the craziest things. I think people tend to ask vague questions when they feel shy asking them. Then I sense this apprehension and that there is more to the question. And it is then this unspoken part which I feel shy to answer. I was never asked, but even not answering I’m overcome by a resounding shyness, which they must also sense. And it is then that we come to an understanding.
To an audience, the tragic figure is nothing but a bumbling idiot. But who really sees us, if not us ourselves ? Chide ourselves from moments ago, for not knowing what we know now.
I’m not great at verbal agreements, or remembering secrets. I have to spit it back to you, or else I’ll forget. I tend to be forgetful. I’ll tell it back to you just the way you said it. Then you’ll know I got it or got it wrong, or got any of it at all. But better not to tell me, don’t tell me it at all, as surely I’ll forget not to tell as well.
I don’t like mistakes and will avoid them if I can, of course. But that feels like a mistake too, and so it seems to be an impossible predicament.
A long time ago, over ten years ago now, back in school, after filling in a questionnaire, a classmate of mine was given the recommendation to become a circus performer. As unserious as that may have sounded at the time, that afternoon I did learn something interesting, namely that in the circus they extensively rehearse failing — that is, falling. I was told they do this as much, if not more than whatever they intend to actually do. And so, then when things go wrong, they’ll go wrong their way. And all is well.
To me, there was and still is something very attractive to this idea. Because there is always this fear in me that when I fail, I won’t fail in a way that’s becoming. Maybe I groan the wrong way, or otherwise communicate something unaccounted for. Or worse, I communicate something I feel is completely foreign to me. I worry they’ll get the wrong idea about me. ‘That’s not me ! ’ I’ll try and bring in, but it’ll have been too late, won’t it? Nobody questions the authenticity of things produced automatically, beyond our conscious decision. But of course this must be wrong.