Wednesday, August 31, 2005

idée fixe

These bones shall mend. A broken femur, shattered fibula, cracked tibia - yes, these bones shall mend. A childhood fall from a tree results in injuries easily repaired. An idiotic, alcohol-fuelled leap from a raised sidewalk produces no damage which can't be healed in relatively short order. This, however, is different. A strained malleus, splintering, a fracturing incus, a disintegrating stapes - ear bones: the hammer, anvil, and stirrup. These bones shall not mend - not while listening to you.

"Where do all the ideas go?"

In your mania, your desperate grabbing for understanding, wisdom, your voice has raised to an intolerable level, grating, becoming an unbearable shriek.

"Where do they go? I'm writing, coasting along, really in the groove, you know, then all of a sudden, the tap is turned off, I'm shut out. Just like that, left stranded! Dying of thirst!"

The human body, little more than a machine, doctors, surgeons little more than glorified mechanics, plumbers. A worn out alternator requires a simple replacement. A leaky pipe beneath the kitchen sink is easily fixed, unclogging the trap, tightening, taping the connexions.

"We used to sit around and laugh, remember? We'd laugh at this mad scramble for enlightenment! Nobody is content to just wait their turn, sit tight, waiting for their number to come up, you know? We used to laugh at these suckers in this obscene rat race of the arts, this eternal chasing of ideas, non-ideas. Now I'm right there with them, no-one leading, each of us tripping over the other, falling ever behind!"

The human mind, little more than a machine, psychiatrists, neurosurgeons little more than glorified electricians, engineers - and you obviously need one or the other.

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