I’ve logged more experience than most with simplicity and the complexity you discover inside simplicity, minimalism and asocial behavior, endurance and landscape.
Here is the truth: I think some deep wisdom inside me (a) sensed the stress, (b) was terrified for me, and (c) gave me something new and hard to focus on in order to prevent me from lapsing into a despair coma — and also to keep me from having a jelly jar of wine in my hand.
Subscribe and Save up to 55%
David H. Manning is a freelance writer and media designer who lives in New York City. He and his wife, Suzanne, co-direct the Synergic Theater. He has recently completed his third novel, The Count of Catalunya.
I didn’t go to my grandfather’s funeral. I had excuses at the time — I was living 500 miles away, no money for plane fare, other obligations, and so forth — but mostly I suspected that funerals were some kind of superstitious pagan ritual.
Good afternoon ladies and gentlemen, welcome to WYOY’s Mental-Basketball Game of the Week. Today’s contest pits mind against matter for the championship of Western Civilization. The winner here will meet the Eastern Civilization Champion to ultimately determine who will oppose the forces of nature in the Fourth Dimension. I’m Pebble-Mouth Grimsley here to call the blow by blow along with Flash “Whatever-Happened-To-Him” Gordon, our colorful commentator. Flash, how does it look?
Theophilus Neutron was a generational transvestite. That is, he was capable of slipping from one peer mode into another with all the deceptive ease of a West Villager trading jockey shorts for lace panties. As near as he could tell, this behavioral quirk began twittering at exactly the same moment as he did — he was conceived at the precise moment the bomb landed on Hiroshima. Though few physical conclusions can be derived from that fact, it was, as Theophilus said about everything that happened to him, a remarkable coincidence; for moments after the bombay fingers opened and the cargo parachuted lazily earthward, an electron-size gap was split open between the generation of the War Babies and the generation of the Post War Boom Babies, and Theophilus Neutron was condemned to a lifetime of confusion in the middle. He was half the product of the despair of war and half the product of the hope for peace — yet it was his War Baby side that hoped and his Boom Baby side that despaired. The residual generics of the terms War Baby/Boom Baby labelled him into a lifelong condition of infancy (known in more sophisticated jargon as innocent, idealistic and naive) while the transitional war boom (reverberations from the bomb) jolted him out of so many historical wombs he felt like a metaphysical vagabond. Half of him viewed social revolutions as events that transpired leisurely over eras, centuries and decades, while the other half watched society revolve at rates relative only to each other and the speed of light. And he never could figure out whether it was man or God that rolled an oversized marble into Sisyphus’s life cycle.
But, as the fool soon learned, looking for himself raised some rather complex metaphysical pimples on his brain; for although he fully expected to recognize himself once found, he really had no idea what he was looking for in the first place.