16 On Originality

Then a writer said, Speak to us of originality.
And he answered and said:

Originality is the “original state or quality.”

Or so the Webster would have us believe, though I have never held the Webster to be a highly original work. And of “original”, the Webster says, “that from which anything is copied”. But did I not just now copy from the Webster? Is the Webster not then an original work?

Would you dishonour the copy and not tarnish the original as well? How can one shame the son, and not sully the father? And how can one shame the father, and not sully the son?

Much of what you see or hear may be derivative. As a very wise ass once said: “Some works are more original than others.”

But was not The Godfather Part II just as exciting as Part I, which did precede it?
There are some pretty darn good sequels in this world.

15 On Sleep Deprivation

Then an eccentric hummed the first three bars of “Light My Fire”, threw his toupée into the wind and shouted, Speak to us of sleep deprivation.

And verily he answered:

We are all too frequently bored by the virtue of moderation. Instead, we worship the goddess of excess, even if her fruits be strangely devoid of nourishment. And our misfortunate celebrities are destined to let us down.

I have been up now for three days, and three nights in an orgy of wakefulness. And verily I did pass through the doors of perception, and cross over to the other shore. And there I did see visions of rare truth and beauty.

I kept a careful diary of my thoughts and notions, born of this caffeine induced madness. And though my writings may some day be published, I suspect them to be mysteriously lacking in meaning and content.

14 On Humour

Then the world’s funniest dentist said, Speak to us of humour.
And he chuckled, and he said:

Humour is the ability to laugh at one’s own sad self.
Humour is a million joy buzzers, rubber chickens and whoopee cushions.
Humour is something your children know, but many of you have sadly forgotten.
For there can be no sacrilege in humour. You would do well to leave no sacred cow untipped.

For a bad joke is naught but that which is unfunny.
And a funny joke is simply one which contains hidden within it a tiny grain of truth, to make you itch and scratch, even as you are convulsed with laughter.
Don’t take my word too seriously folks, for you can never quite tell when I’m joking.
But do pay close attention to what I say, or you may never know when I’m serious.

At this point, sadly, the prophet’s train of thought mysteriously derailed, and he might never have gotten back on track, had he not stubbed his toe on the rim of the oil drum.

Unfortunately the memory that now sprang to mind was unrelated to the present discourse. Instead, he recalled a conversation he’d had the last time he’d stubbed his toe. On that occasion he had been chatting with his biographer about the possibility of selling his life’s story. Thus he now spoke:

Is one’s life story a commodity, the right to which one naturally owns? You may well wonder, how it should be possible to sell the story of one’s own life. How much will the networks pay for a poor prophet’s tale? How much will the publisher shell out to re-package and re-issue his collected works? My contract forbids me to disclose the sum.

The crowd might have been thinking that their beloved old coot had finally lost his marbles until someone suggested:
I think he’s joking.

And thus cathartic laughter began to ripple the crowd.
The prophet was not immune, and his matted beard began to quiver, and his belly began to shake until he burst.

And the two hundred migrants were infected also, and their precarious platform creaked and shivered dangerously, with peals of ecstatic laughter.

Until finally, the people of Orphalese just lost it. Tears streamed down their faces, and they turned to each other for support, clutching their neighbors to steady themselves, or else they would have toppled like dominoes.

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.

12 On Solutions

And a scientist said, Speak to us of solutions.
And he answered and said:
Pocky sticks.

Imagine a world in which we all stirred our coffee using naught but Pocky sticks. The chocolate or vanilla coating would add a marvelous hint of flavor, and there would be no need to use onerous plastic or wasteful wood.

Would this solve all our problems?, the scientist asked skeptically.

The prophet spoke:
No, it would not. In this technocracy that is the modern world of marvels, we seek bigger and bigger solutions to bigger and bigger problems. There is nothing wrong with technology as long as you recognize this: The bigger the fix, the bigger the leak it will eventually spring.

Your collective madness can be traced to one simple itsy bitsy teeny weeny fallacy. Mistakenly you cling to the idea that through the massive application of energy, you can create a greater degree of order in the world around you, than was there before. This is plainly false.

Is not the bridge that crosses your vast river a monument to the ingenuity and skill of your engineers? Is not this magnificent bustling hub of activity that is the city of Orphalese testament to the achievements of modern man?

Ay and nay, for entropy must needs always be on the take. The bridge may be of great benefit to the people of Orphalese today, but it will have crumbled into the river before the generation that is to pay for its construction will have even been born.

And even as this pathetic excuse for a ship, which did bring me here, dissolves into the vast ocean, so the infrastructure of Orphalese will begin to erode, until your fair city requires more energy to sustain itself, than the sum total of what you can produce.

11 On Games

Then a day trader said, Speak to us of games.
He answered:

Some of you are poor. There is no shame in this. But shame on us, for having created a new and bitter kind of poverty. It is this impoverishment of the mind and of the soul, against which we ought to wage fierce battle.

Through play, our children become adults, and adults may once more be children. Is not the Lego truck fully recyclable into a fire station? Fain would I live in Legoland, where nothing is created that cannot be re-invented as something else. We must cease to manufacture that, for which the final intended resting place is the landfill.

Forget not that global economics is a game also. The rules were invented by the rich to keep them that way. But they are arbitrary rules and could easily be re-written from scratch.

Does the elm grow forever, until the world knows naught but shade? Do not be deceived when economists equate prosperity with economic growth. That which grows unchecked, is surely cancer.

By now the prophet had worked up some steam. The people of Orphalese read in his incessant bouncing a kind of passionate fervor, but actually, after such a long journey, the poor prophet longed to utilize a bathroom.

You are mistaken, if you believe that it is money which makes the world dance on its axis. For just like it is not energy, but free energy, which is required to do work, so it is the unequal distribution of wealth, which keeps the planet spinning. Thus to imagine a communist utopia is to imagine a world which does not rotate. Which is another way of saying that the answers to these lofty questions can never by found by substituting one ideology for another, shuffling from left to right and right to left, like an orator who forgot to relieve himself.

And now the prophet himself could bear it no longer. He had to excuse himself, and the people of Orphalese politely averted their eyes, as he pissed into the harbour. Then he resumed:

And you who would earn a living by shuffling money about, from blue chips to pork bellies and back again, I ask you this: In “making” money, what have you truly created? What is your contribution to society, even as you pad the gross domestic product, which the economic scientists take to be an indicator of our collective well-being?

10 On Air Travel

Then Achmed the travel agent said, But what of air travel?
And he answered:

It has been brought to my attention that your two national airlines are to be merged under the banner of a puppet corporation to be passed over into the hands of a foreign empire. I ask myself: Why is this so odious to the people of Orphalese?

Your national symbol is the fig leaf, is it not? It graces the tail fins of all the planes of your national airline, instilling a rare sense of national pride at every port of call. But all this is mere illusion, for your proud national carrier was privatized long ago.

And is the Jumbo Jet not a magnificent testament to the powers of engineering? That such a graceful beast should fly. Wherever you may travel, you will see these stellar griffins bearing your fig leaf for all the word to behold. And you may count your nation among the magnificent ones. And you may count your country among those favored by God.

(The crowd in general, and Achmed in particular seemed very pleased to hear this.)

And this is why there is outrage over the impending loss of your national symbol to a foreign corporate giant, though the carrier in question ceased to be national the moment the people themselves ceased to own it.

It had to be sacrificed, for it is a well known fact that public corporations cannot be profitable lest they be in the business of stripping the environment of its natural resources. Even then they have a penchant for turning in losses.

Verily this is so, for it is economic imperatives, not governments, that rule the world. Lamenting the perceived loss of your national pride is futile. The world economy is blinder than justice, controlled by no woman or man, and accountable to no one.

Here No one’s head briefly jerked to attention, roused from a mild stupor. Alas, he had not been addressed directly. The prophet still spoke:

In this world, the big fish must needs swallow the smaller ones, ad infinitum. This is unfortunate, for it is often the littlest fish that serve the needs of the people best. The colossal foreign airline that will be the ghost flying your national symbol does not represent a foreign interest, any more than it represents your interests. It is simply the bigger fish. Multinational corporations are entities unto themselves. If you crave a piece of the pie, you are always free to buy shares.

09 On Ingenuity

A consultant said, speak to us of ingenuity.
And the prophet spoke thusly:

When James Watt pioneered the steam engine, it powered a revolution. His key insight was the seemingly simple idea to separate the piston from the condensation chamber. Keeping the piston hot transformed the machine from a curious gadget into a powerful tool.

Unfortunately, as industrial society mushroomed, Watt’s machine rapidly gobbled up Europe’s forests. The solution to one problem had created an even greater challenge, and more ingenuity was called for.

The use of coal became widespread, giving rise to a new axiom: You gotta spend energy to make energy. Steam shovels dug the holes. Steam pumped the sump water out, crushed the ore, and transported whatever coal was not needed to power the machines that had helped produce it.

A concept is needed to define the relation between energy that goes in, and the energy that comes out. That concept is called the E.R.O.I. - the energy return on investment.

As our holes get deeper and deeper, and we crush the oil sands, we are rapidly heading towards an E.R.O.I. of one to one. For every barrel of oil produced, one barrel of oil will be required to produce it.

We’ve got to include the costs people! Global warming is also a cost of the energy extraction game. And the dreadful wars ! The wars to gain control of the lands through which the pipelines flow. How much oil does it take to keep a Hummer humming?

Dear people of Orphalese. This black sludge leaking from the rusty bucket behind me - we live in an age in which we are killing each other to secure its flow. Can you think of any reason to minimize its use?

We’ve reached the end stop of James Watt’s mechanical dream. It had its time, but move on we must. Ingenuity people. Ingenuity.

08 On Transportation

And then the ice-cream man said, speak to us of transportation.
And he answered and said:

Verily the world is in motion, even as the glaciers do not rest. Everything is in constant flux, transforming itself and all else in time and space.

Nature has such unnerving patience. Patiently the fig leaf is harnessing the sun’s life-giving rays, restoring a tiny bit of order to your tangled gardens.

Humans, though we too be born of nature, are less patient than our mother. We buzz about in our jolting jalopies, and floating fortresses such as the perforated bucket bobbing behind me, leaking fuel oil into your waters even as I speak.

Alas I am no efficiency expert, but I do know this. Internal combustion engines are big on explosions. These are fabulously loud, but irreversible. To wit: The faster you seek to transform your world, the less efficient you will be. Patience, people, patience. Patience, I’m afraid, is the key.

Your cars are to you the very symbol of your freedom when actually, they are the fetters that make you immobile. You would do better to see the car as the symbol of your mania. The bee does not leave its hive to collect pollen from just one plant, yet you think it nothing to fire up your engines for a million single-errand, one-stop trips.

And when you speed past a hitchhiker, do you feel a moral obligation to stop? Perhaps you should.

07 On Paranoid Delusions

Then a young schizophrenic said, Speak to us of paranoid delusions.
And he answered, saying:

Paranoia will destroy ya. And yet I do still wonder. Have we really no right to be paranoid?

For though there be no mastermind, you may yet be the victims of a conspiracy. And though the monster be faceless, it may yet be out to get you. For you are naught but a number in a file on a data bank of a gargantuan, impersonal bureaucracy. As such, is it relevant whether “they” actually exist? And if not, then try telling that to “them”.

More often than not, perceptions of reality and definitions of sanity are naught but an exercise in democracy. Verily, schizophrenia is but a break from reality. This we know to be true. But who would be the arbiter of reality? You look to me, but am I aught but a raving lunatic?

Here a brief, but uneasy dissenting murmur made it’s way through the crowd. The prophet continued unfazed:

What can it mean to be “diagnosed” with schizophrenia? In the case of mental illness, diagnosis is really no more than the attaching of names to symptoms perceived.
If my doctor should inform me that appendicitis is the cause of my abdominal pains, then I shall gladly deem this a diagnosis. But to be “diagnosed” with schizophrenia is the equivalent of being told that one is suffering from abdominal pains.

May I quote Aldous Huxley?
“They are normal not in the absolute sense of the word; they are normal only in relation to a profoundly abnormal society”.

Schizophrenia then is the likely result of broad thinking. Even as the beating of a butterfly’s wings is inexorably linked to the surging price of gasoline, if you are to think too intensely about the incestuous bureaucratic sludge of an unaccountable, uncaring government, you will in all likelihood get your wires crossed. Ponder this at you own peril.