13 On Communication

From behind the prophet, one of the illegal migrants said, Speaking for us about communication.
And he answered:
True communication dwells in a world beyond words.

In your law books you employ precise phrases which can only be written, read or understood by highly trained professionals. Thus you may worship the letter of the law, but not its spirit. You are wrong if you hold that precise meanings can be pinned down with mere words.

Words are nice, in a limited sort of way.

And your holy books contain the wisdom of ages. But verily this wisdom exists not within the pages themselves, but in the hearts and souls of every one of you. If you but listen to the songs in your hearts, then your books shall lead you to the milk of human kindness. But if you would attempt to decipher your books in unflinchingly literal fashion, they will lead you only to the cod liver oil of discrimination, torture and mayhem. Has this not occurred in the past, time and time again?

Communication through words can only be imperfect, as each of us is tethered to his or her frame of reference. And sometimes, what passes as dialogue is naught but two alternating monologues.

I have oftentimes tried in vain to explain these things ere now, but always the audience was ignorant and inattentive. Most recently, it lead to a tragic stoning incident, and the utterly avoidable demise of my agent.

All of which is to say: Listen with your hearts, not your ears. Seek to understand, not to hear. And for God’s sake, give each other the benefit of the doubt. When you dwell on offending words you bequeath upon them a life of their own. Let them evaporate, instead, into the ether, even as the thought that spawned them has already been surpassed by loftier ones.

The boat people, though they understood little, nodded in polite agreement. And then the pleading shriek of a neglected cellphone, like a malnourished tamagochi, ruined the moment. Embarrassed, Ali, the blind filmmaker ducked out of the crowd.

The prophet spoke:
Is not the cellphone called “Handy” in Germany?
Is not the pager called “Pocketo Bell” in Japan?
And are not these turbo-charged, steroid-induced nations models of insanity? Would you really wish to be reachable at all times?

Dear movers and shakers of Orphalese: Congratulations. You have mastered the sought after skills of the twenty-first century, as it is now upon us. You have learned how to put on make-up, while sipping latté, while turning left at busy intersections - all this while speed dialing each and every one of your associates to leave urgent messages in their voicemails. “Here I am, stuck in traffic”. Click.

Poor over-worked, overwrought hyper-tensioned multi-taskers of Orphalese: Re-learn how to do one thing at a time, and do it well. If you must needs own a cellphone, refuse to use it in your car. And if this only serves to remind you how many hours you butcher within the confines of a fuming tin can, each and every day, then perhaps there is a secondary lesson in all this.

It has been said that cellphones cause cancer. This is nothing to be alarmed about. It is merely a case of natural selection, taking it’s course. But you may fear that in modern urban centers such as Orphalese, wave levels could be high enough to blindly kill users and non-users alike. Your fear is unfounded. It is far more likely that we shall all die first in car accidents, caused by those driving under the influence of a cellphone.

The rain continued to pound the faithful, as it began to get dark. Perhaps there were masochists among them, for they continued to stand still and patient, and to let the deluge wash over them.

And yet there was also a growing restlessness among the crowd, for some felt that the waters were more caustic, than cleansing. There was perhaps an underlying tone of cynicism in the air, which did not altogether become the prophet well. Perhaps they felt too, that in his long absence, the bugger had simply become a cantankerous old man.

A comic sight was he, drenched like all the others. His beard was an erratic pendulum, animated by the passion in his speech. And as it swept the dirty pier, it sopped up oily residue from the puddles below, leaving long tinted streaks in his beard.

Meanwhile the tax collector had been steadily pushing his way forward. Now, from somewhere in the middle of the crowd, he tried once more to raise his quivering voice above it.
Speak to us of taxation, he croaked.
Once again, to no avail.