Mano-a-Mano With Self

Am I losing it? Am I? Or, have I already lost it and don't know it? That's what I said to me when I woke up with a jerk this morning. Denial, indeed. Is my brain slowly -- slowly like an ancient glacier -- melting away?

A crazy bear insists I owe him a report. Not what he said caused me to constantly flip back to that day -- but his image. His face -- round, semi-slanted eyes, and a bluish grey caste. In a word, odd. Perhaps his con job is just beginning to catch. What's he really after, I asked me? Forget that baloney about a report, forget it. He's pulling one over on you and you can't let yourself be bamboozled.

I think I'm becoming flabby in the head since leaving the Big Apple. In 25 years. I became immune to being shouted at by crazy folk as I passed them by. You get used to being insulted on the street with provocative profanity that accuses you of various gross perversions. You walk on the wide sidewalks of the avenues and you are always acutely aware that 1 out of every 10 who pass by look right through you like a airport security machine does. That's not to mention the 1 out of every 100 who'd just as soon shoot you as to look at you. In the city, you must learn to walk without fear to avoid being picked out by predator sensors as fair game.

It's the repetitive images that are bugging me so. I've let myself slip, ever so slightly, into the paranoia zone, just the edge, mind you. I've rerun those images of the stranger so often they appear with equal reality in both my conscious and unconscious modes.

Awhile ago, I had a really weird notion -- could Mr. Pant be an agent for some force from outer space? You know, like a spy trying to find out about what we're planning to do after we blow up the planet or let it be smothered by CO2. Now, I mention that, not because I'm about to consign my sanity to believe such a cockamamie idea, but because I want you to know just how that paranoia is creeping up on me.

The main difficulty with losing it, I suspect, is that the person losing it is the last to know. That's the case with most abnormalities -- the perpetrator is blind to his own faults until everyone else gets tired of looking at it and tells him. It happens with obesity, alcoholism, rudeness, dementia, hubris, stinginess, halitosis and many other unpleasant behavioral anomalies.

Another notion: I have to face the possibility that my brief encounters with Mr. Pant are figments of my imagination. When I encounter a memorable person (or nonperson, for that matter), he or she alights on my hippocampus for awhile until he or she becomes comfortable in my messy or messed up "attic" upstairs. At night he or she or it roams around at will and feels perfectly free to interrupt my nocturnal problem-solving operations. After some time passes and everyone becomes acquainted, he or she or it becomes absorbed by the cerebral cortex and that's when it's let loose from the hippocampus. Comprehendes?

It's getting on and I have some routine domestic chores to carry out this morning. It's my off day and I don't work out. While I'm doing those things, I might as well begin to think about what I could conceivably have to report. Could start jotting down notes, you know. Couldn't hurt, could it?

I'm Working On It!

I thought I was clever thinking of a smart retort for Mr. Pant should he ask me again about that stupid report. That's so like me to think of a smartass reply AFTER the opportunity to be effective has passed. What bothers me most about this situation is that the damned encounter bothers me at all. I can't think of one celluloid hero who would respond as I did. Jack Lemmon? Well, maybe; but, in the end, he'd figure it out and wouldn't -- in the end -- look like a jackass. Wish I could same the same for Self.

Meanwhile, the creep hasn't showed up while I've been at the Center and worked out. I've asked some members of the staff -- at the reception desk, two of the trainers, and the maintenance man -- what they could tell me about Mr. Pant. Two of the trainers, Nicole and Charlie, just looked at each other and hunched their shoulders as if to say, "we haven't a clue". Does that make sense to you? Hannah, at the reception desk, put her hand gently over her mouth and smiled (or suppressed a laugh, I couldn't tell). Norm, the maintenance guy (I think that's his name), just shook his head, and then, kept shaking his head as though the question or thought brought forth a spell of agititus. If I had to summarize my limited inquires I'd say -- the staff jolly well knows who I was referring to but they weren't about to tell me anything. Growl.

Did I mention what my BW said the other day? No, I think not. Looking me up and down one morning after I returned from my work out, she blurted out, "what's the matter, you feeling alright?" Naturally, I responded just as any normal spouse would and turned on my puzzled look, "why do you ask?" Because you look puzzled about something -- and, I watched you as you got out of the car and you were mumbling to yourself, it looked like to me. Finding myself in the headlights of her sharp intuitive powers, I did as anyone in my shoes would do, I denied it. "Hey, I'm feeling just dandy. What's for lunch?" She stared at me for a brief moment (giving her time to decide with her computer logic mind, whether to feign indifference or simply lay off and pursue the matter more vigorously when I'm disarmed, like when getting ready for bed when she knows damn good and well my defenses are shut down).

Well, right now, I'm in my study and safe from prying eyes or scanning ears. I can confide in you, I hope. I have gone through -- systematically, I must say -- my proven routines of denial. I have busied myself with a spurt of clearing my cluttered desk. I've jotted off enotes to friends I have been neglecting for too long. I've talked with my children a couple of times, and when they ask me "What's up?" or "What's new?" I, of course, sigh and say there ain't nothing to report (aware only of my illogical ungrammar) . These are only a few of my tried and true tactics in my denial repertoire. Naturally, I'm in the early stages of denial and if you're at all skilled in advanced denial stratagems, you know that it is physically impossible to quit denying, you know, cold turkey. It's an organic process and each stage must be completed before you can go onto the next stage. That's elementary, right?

Just what is it I'm in denial about? Isn't it obvious? I can't refrain from worrying about my worrying about this absurd situation. Who is this Mr. Pant and why on earth should I even give him the time of day? Tomorrow, I'm going to sit down and discuss this dilemma with myself -- mano-a-mano. Yes?

You're Late! Where Have You Been?

That's what the rude "bear" blurted at me -- You're late! Where have you been?

I'm not going to embarrass myself any more than necessary (i.e., to confide honestly with you). I did not have the presence of mind to say, with a sneer or snarl, "what's it to you, buddy?" Or, better, "Didn't I see you at the circus last year?" No, I'm sorry to say, I was dumbfounded, I was flustered. My instantaneous response was to assume I probably was guilty of something. No, that's not quite right; I don't automatically assume I'm wrong -- quite the contrary. What it is is some primitive slow response that has to do with perils on the ground once our folks came down from the cozy trees. Something totally unexpected; something not experienced or seen demonstrated on the screen.

But I wasn't entirely stupid, for I did manage to ask in my best annoyed voice that "who are you? What's your name?" At least I think that's what I said. He, the bear, didn't answer, and, I later realized that had he said who he was, I'd know nothing of real importance, for that question, I realize, is a social reflex -- Who are you? What is your name? As if it was relevant to the situation.

I'm not going to go through the tedious narrative of what exactly was the verbatim conversation at that encounter and later -- suffice to say here that the bear was impatient to get me to acknowledge an obligation I had made before but which I had no memory of.

That initial meeting with the bear was -- wow -- two months ago, at least. At one point I was so agitated that I thought seriously about not going back to the Center until the bear had moved on, or whatever bears do when they have run out of boobs like me to make fools of. But, I didn't quit. That's not a particularly noble trait, though it is considered by many as a sign of strength (I'm not sure why).

Since that initial encounter two months ago, I saw the bear twice. In the first instance he repeated his assertion that I had promised to do a report and that it was long overdue. I kept asking what report and he kept accusing me of knowing but playing dumb. The second time, and the last time, he did tell me his name was Ahque Pant. Like James Bond, he said, "Pant, Ahque Pant."

What kind of name is that, I asked. Indonesian? Indian? Tibetan? He didn't say. And before I could ask him to spell his first name, he was ought of sight.

Since it's been awhile since I last saw the bear, I probably would have dismissed these strange episodes were it not for Mr. Pant's appearance. His face suggests an Oriental caste, I think it's because his eyes are slightly slanted and his face is more rounded than sharp. I can't say I looked very attentive at his eye color, but think more brown than not. But it's his skin color that distinguished our bear, Mr. Pant -- it was/is grey, with a slight bluish tinge. Grey -- like he was neither black nor white but smack dab in the middle of the anthropologist's skin pigment chart -- grey -- as if he'd been designed to blend in with all races, a centrist, if you will.

Oh, yeah. And another thing that I've remembered -- Mr. Pant's speech is remarkable because he articulates words so carefully with precise emphasis of vowels as well as consonants. It's like he had learned English in some artificial environment, or -- a crazy thought -- maybe his voice was not his own but one programmed by some computer. Oh, I forgot to add -- the person inside the bear costume was bald, completely hairless, as far as I could tell.

I have a feeling I won't see Mr. Pant again. That's a hunch. But, should he show up and ask me where that report is I've figured out how I'd reply. I'm working on it, I'll tell him. And the next time after that, I'll say the same -- I'm working on it. Ha!

About That Stranger

Well, did you give any thought to my PROBLEM? To be honest with you, I didn't really expect that you would. It's not your problem. I fault myself. Here I am trying to get you thinking about my PROBLEM and I haven't really confided in you, have I?

Let me tell you about my first encounter with this "person" who told me about my overdue Report. You'll find this interesting, perhaps amusing, even if you don't care a fig about my Problem.

Religiously, every other day I work out at a nearby Fitness Center, which is really a sweat shop. After all, that's what people do when they go there to work out -- they sweat. Imagine, paying a sweat shop to let you work up a sweat. I'm on a treadmill for 35 minutes, more or less. While I walk as fast as I can, I imagine that I'm running away from Mr. D. who I know is gaining on me -- each day, he gets a day closer. Then I push pedals on a unicycle for 10 minutes. Adding the two together, the machines tell me I've gone nearly 3 or more miles; yet, I know full well, I haven't moved an inch. Then I spend 10 minutes on hydraulic machines that simulate lifting weights in a variety of postures; altogether, I might have lifted in the aggregate the equivalent of a few tons.

At the Center the patrons come in many shapes and sizes, about as eclectic as any big city would display. Our Center is a 60,000 sq. fit. facility; the muscle machinery is on the second floor. Across from the wide stairway leading to the second floor, and adjacent to an elevator, is a snack alcove, about 20' x 20', with a couple vending machines and two small tables and about a dozen comfortable chairs . That's where I first spotted this person some weeks ago. He was wrapped in a heavy dark fur coat, his head almost completely covered. The coat reminded me of those raccoon coats popular with college students in the 1920s. At first glance I wondered if it was a friendly trained bear seated at the table in the alcove.

For several weeks, this apparition was seated at one of the tables. Sometimes there would be someone else sitting next to him. On maybe one or two occasions there were two other people sitting with him. After a week or so, I began to make mental note to ask one of the staff who was this person -- always wearing a heavy fur coat when the place was loaded with fans and air vents and everyone was wearing unfashionable casual skimpy. Did he have some disease that destroyed his built-in thermostat? Or -- as I amused myself -- was this one of those tacky reality shows with an actual bear there to entice the unwary to come forth and chat and be suddenly assaulted by a TV crew with a toothy reporter accompanied by an hysterical audience laugh track?

The bear-person was turned sideways when I walked over to his table, to simply ask -- what? Can you believe, I had challenged myself to finally approach and ask but failed to rehearse what my initial query would be? (Perhaps, I should have used a Dr. Watson approach: "I say there, my dear fellow, what cruel malady has struck you so unkindly as to force you to wear a heavy raccoon coat in this heated environment, this hot house?") But I didn't. I stood for a moment and before I could compose an appropriate question, the bear stared at me for just a second and then abruptly asked in a most unbear-like voice --

YOU'RE LATE! WHERE HAVE YOU BEEN?

(to be continued)

What Would You Do, If...

What would you do if you had just recently been told that The Report you supposedly promised to do long ago is now long overdue? What would you do if you also were told that whether you "go or stay for awhile longer" depends on that Report? What if you suddenly realized that you had been expected to be working on that Report all these years and had been oblivious of that obligation. And just what was supposed to be in The Report? Are you expected to explain the meaning of human life? Or, just what is planet Earth's actual intentions regarding conquest of space? Explain the weird behavior of your fellow humanoids? And, what have you done with all that time you were given when you arrived yo many years before?

I saw that! That look in your eyes, mumbling to yourself, "uh-huh". You think I'm kidding, don't you? You think I'm making things up, right? Well, I can't say I blame you. I mean, when I first was told about The Report, I thought the one who told me was putting me on. This guy keeps appearing and reappearing -- very disturbing, as you might imagine. (More about him later.)

Don't go, just yet, please. This is a true story, believe me. It's strange, that's for sure. It is, on the face of it, a bold faced fabrication -- but, wait until it happens to you -- out of the blue being told to get that Report in and you've apparently forgotten all about it. Just goes to show you how much we've been brainwashed by the Earthlings.

I wish there was some way I could convey to you the dread I felt when I was told to do The Report. I wish I could convince you that I truly want to know what you would do, under similar circumstances. The truth is, I'm terrified to realize that I just might not be able to do The Report, that all this time I've just been living an ordinary life, learning how to survive in a mostly artificial environment, learning how to fake it -- you know, to pretend knowing what's really going on but knowing deep down you don't have a clue.

Let me explain something. I'm going through this "thing" with this guy, this stranger. I don't know how to get out of doing The Report and still stay awhile longer, and I realize I need help. Naturally, I thought of telling my wife but, well, she's skeptical of strange things (even though she is a Catholic).

I'll be back tomorrow. I hope to pique the interest of someone who'll maybe have thoughts on how to deal with my PROBLEM, what I should include in The Report.

I'll leave you with this thought expressed by the 19th century Italian poet, Giacomo Leopardi (1798 -1837)
"It seems absurd, yet it is precisely true, that since all reality is naught, illusions are, in this world, the only true and substantial things."

Pretend You Are On a Train...

Pretend you are on a train that you believe is going to a destination you know fairly well. The train seems to be going faster and faster as you near your destination, as though the goal was a cosmic magnet pulling you toward it. While the train moves in what seems to be a forward motion, you are busy absorbed in the comfort of your private envelope of Self, and you hear snatches of conversation between a man and a woman.

The man seems to be doing most of the talking and you try to crawl back into your envelope, but, against your will, you continue to notice words and phrases that inform you of another envelope, split open, revealing tidbits of ordinary lives, not your own -- lives which are like aimless shooting stars that streak across the horizon and are quickly extinguished by our dear planet's atmosphere.

You wish for total privacy, for you cannot shut out completely the overheard conversation, nor can you tell your ears not to listen, at times enticed to hear more, at times annoyed and determined to ignore.

That's okay. It is a long trip and one needs diversions, like salted peanuts, to interrupt the soft drone of lulling repetition. You turn around to locate the source of the conversation and you see a man talking to a pretty young woman sitting next to him, who may or may not be a traveling companion.

The man, distinguished only by his lack of distinct features, could, for all practical purposes, be talking to himself, not a misdemeanor but certainly against the mores of our dunned-down civilization. You ask yourself, why can't he be self-absorbed like me? Why can't he remain silent in the face of our communal fate? Let us all go together, as loyal subjects of the universal honcho, and, for his sake, without whining.

Now, at last, you are saved by the white-jacketed attendant, who has brought you a teeny cup of peanuts in the expectation that you will purchase a few expensive sips of fermented grain to quench your thirst, and, joyfully, a complimentary set of earplugs. Now, you can reenter you cozy envelope at will, and...

Now, pretend you are in a highly unusual dream which makes you uncomfortable and you're haphazardly searching for an exit which you suddenly locate but then it moves away as you come closer to it, it continues to move away, like Doppler sound waves.
(to be continued)