Eleven Nuggets and a Comment

by G David Schwartz

1.     When the actor arrived in heaven and was required to tell about his life, his real life, and nothing but his life, he became confused.  As a result of his confusion, the angel who was in charge of assigning pivot-centers for their unearthly remains became equally confused.  Well, of course!  Angels are only mirrors!  Anyway, once the actor saw how confused his angel became, the actor fell into a deep purple anguish.  This only caused the angel to experience a lavender distress which quickly darkened.  Upon seeing the angels affliction, the actor experienced absolute dread -- which is interesting because his agent had always steered him clear of low budget films.  The angel in turn, as you might expect by now, experienced sheer terror.  This caused the actor to experience whatever it is which lies just the other side of horror, for which we humans do not yet have an appropriate name.     So you see, my dears, your grandmother was correct both when she told you that actors go to hell, and when she said there is an eternally progressive kismet.

2.     Norman Nuckols was a narrow, short man who lived a narrow, short life in a narrow, short town.  One time he loved a long luscious woman who showed him low regard!  Lo, his self-esteem had disintegrated dreadfully and he seemed to shrink from a condition resembling permanent embarrassment.  Indeed, he was so narrow and short a man who lived so narrow and short a life that I had to stretch the point simply to tell you this little bit about him.

3.     Once upon a time there was a very tiny girl with big brass buttons on her dress, and very dull eyes.  To make a long story short, by the time this tale ends she has very dull buttons on her dress and large shiny eyes.  If you want to know the magic formula which made this story happen, send me seven million dollars in cash, check or certified money order and I will send you the middle of this tale.

4.     I was once witness to a particular kind of bird called a loon; but they were a particular kind of loon.  These birds hailed from Mesopotamia and were called baal-loons.  They aged nicely, however, and when they were grown they would swoon (especially at noon) in their baal- loonness.  All right, Albright studied them for several years and determined they were nothing more than empty-headed, thin-skinned, bobbing-round buffoons.  Or did he say "baboons"?  Actually, factually, if you've ever seen one you've seen another.  Both are the same.  It is not all in the name.  A rose is a rose is a rose, but a buffoon is a goon is a baboon is a baal-loon.

5.     First the lights sparkled.  They were 1200 watt bulbs!  Then the wine sparkled.  It was White Zinfendel, but it was really pink.  "Imagine," Mauftour Amelma said, "what their red wine looks like!"  So I did, and it was quite distracting to the story.  Next the girl sparkled.  Finally, there was so much sparkling Henri (looks like "Henry," pronounced "onree") feel asleep.  He had a wonderful dream, which I would very much like to tell you about.  But when he aw (oke he had forgotten the dream and his wallet was missing.

6.     Perhaps this was the dream:     Once upon a time there was a lovely princess, for all princesses are lovely, except those who know they are princesses or have read about themselves in the paper.  Once upon a time there was a lovely princess named Lirpa.  There, that narrows the facts down.  Okay, all you other princesses can go home now.     Once upon a time there... Oh.  You heard!  Well, Lirpa was kind and gentle, paid attention when people spoke to her, joined in every conversation, encouraged others even when she was under bitter polemic and hostile stress, did not complain about problems out of bitterness, and when she did speak about problems always did so just before mentioned what solutions she was considering, had a light, lilting laugh, an excellent sense of humor, a great smile, a really decent smile, a really, really grand smile, really, and was intelligent, and athletic, and good looking, and sweet, and considerate and polite, and if I took the time to list all of her wonderful attributes this sentence would not only be a run on sentence, but would be a run right off the page, out the door and down the block sentence.  Did I happen to mention her smile?  Her eyes?  Oh, those delicate jewels; how can any teller of a tale forget those wonderfully blue, soft, subtle laugh-framed eyes?  Well, I suppose next you are going to tell me I forgot to mention her ability to soothe, charm and relax people?  These were the gifts which made her a princess; not the matter of her birth.
 Unfortunately for us, we know such people do not really exist except in fantasy tales, and if they did exist, they would not exist long in this narrow-eyed world of ours.  So one hour, she simply disappeared, vanished, the lovely Lirpa.  Yet even to this day, whenever the mail carrier approaches, I still run to the box to see if she has send a word or two about her whereabouts or wherewithappenings.

7.     She had an extremely sensitive skin.  Well, all princesses have something the commentator must mention.  Lirpa's was her extremely sensitive skin.  I will be sure and mention this fact.  Her skin was extremely sensitive.  Relief from an itch would cause a red river to flow up her marble column, and a kiss from any commentator's stubbled face would cause a variety of crimson blotches.  She wore them well, however, and when I would look longingly and long upon her long neck after a passionate moment, I would recall the picturesque image of a map where the legend would promise green land now white and a azure sea now scarlet.  She was, I frequently thought -- and thought without consequence, I might add --  she was a land and a sea herself.  And I would go sailing off, sailing off, sailing off...     Which is about all I can say because I was so far at sea that I could not see the legend to tell me either where the sea would end or, for that matter, where this legend would cease.

8.     A slightly mad troubadour played slightly mad troubes on his trouba.  He felt fairly secure about his abilities until he heard a saxophonist named Sax make his instrument speak like a human voice on a telephone.       "Grand, absolutely grand," he complimented Sax.     "Thank you," Sax replied.     "No; man, really!  I mean it!"     "Thank you ever so much, don't you know."     "You play a splendid horn."     "That's quite nice of you to say," the saxophonist intoned, "but the truth is I've always wanted to be a troubadour."     Having heard these vocal notes like a revelation, the slightly mad troubadour walked some slightly cobbled steps down to the cobbled club house concourse and, realized he was ever more mad, slung his trouba over his shoulder.  As he did so, the slightly mad troubadour resolved to become a matador.
(I might note that the trouba was slung over his shoulder like a scarlet cape.)

9.     Mickeley Pflause sat around the hole which led to the pool of his unconscious.  He was waiting, as they say, to see what dead fish might float up.  There he sat... and sat... and sat... and, as I suppose you could tell by the rude inclusion of the [...] signs, he sat there quite a long, long time.  Day turned into night and night into day and day into, well, he sat thee a really long time.  But Mickeley did not notice the passing of time because he had stuck his quite round head into the quite triangle hole which led to the pool of his unconscious.  Yet no dead fish floated up, which was a damn good thing, too, because it is no fun to have dead fish rise in waters which turn stagnant around your face as the dead fish flutter fins and tail in the face fixly fastened inside a hole.
 Which is precisely the moral of this tale: Round heads should never be stuck in triangle holes, even if those holes are the spots where the unconscious dredged up its thoughts.

10.     I saw a weeping man sitting by a weeping willow doing what weeping men do best.  Need I tell you?  He was weeping and, I should add, he was hunched over like a willow.
 "What's the matter?" I asked.
 "Ahh, the matter is that I fell in love with a woman."
 "Yes," I responded, "That is quite a matter."
 "That's not the problem, however.  The trouble was that she had a boyfriend."
 "Oh, dear."
 "But that wasn't the problem.  He worked for a soap company, and was frequently out of town selling something or other."
 "Soap?"
 "Could be.  But I held out the hope that he would find another woman, fall in love, marry out of town, and never return."
 "Yes?"
 "Yes.  But he came home."
 "Oh, dear."
 "Oh, yes.  But by then the woman was in love with me, and I hoped she would drop him like the cold potato he was."
 "And?"
 "Well, women don't seem to drop cold potatoes all that quickly."  "No?"
 "No.  So I held out the hope that all my good qualities would persuade her that I was the better man of the two." 
 "And?"
 "And my good qualities persuaded her that there was more to be accomplished with him in terms of development than with me."
 "Oh."
 "Oh, yes.  So I tried to convince her that he was perfect."
 "And?"
 "And before long she believed me."
 "That's terrible."
 "Terrible?  Now she thinks I'm a bongo and there is more sense to beat out of me that she has seen to date.  I'll tell you..."
 "Yes?"
 "Yes.  And we are declared to be wed one month from last Thursday."
 "That's great!"
 "Great?  That's terrible!"
 "Why?"
 "In the first place, I have to leave town because I survive by being a traveling salesman."
 "Oh."
 "Oh, yes.  And in the second place, he is my best friend!  Obviously he is going to be my best man, and therefore both my and her best man.  Aye, that would seem to make him the better man!"
 "Oh, dear."
 "Yes, indeed.  And there are more complex things involved about which I could tell you, but I feel a powerful nap coming on."
 And true to his word, he was snoring a great snoozle within seconds.

11.     At 3 A.M., the senses are at their most fevered pitch.  This is, no doubt, to compensate for the weariness of the rest of the body which is rapidly losing all feeling.  I sat in the dark and listened to the aquarium percolating bubbles at the far end of the oblong room.  After some moments, I realized that the sounds emitted from the air blower had all the features of a language with one exception.  The bubbles being blown into the aquarium and speeding  to the surface re-enacted the effects of human articulation.  I heard guttural sounds, gargling sounds, clucking, creaking, colon, and semi-colon sounds.  The only thing missing, I thought, was a tongue.   
 My fantasy played havoc.  Why, if I could rig up a tongue to this thing, I could listen to what my aquarium was telling me.  Not knowing where to find a tongue that late at night -- my refrigerator could technically be referred to as empty -- I allowed the idea to slip away.
 I slumped in my chair, still concentrating on the gargling, gorshing noises.  The more deeply absorbed I became, the more I could distinguish parts of words.  It sounded as if the aquarium was speaking the first syllables of words, allowing the rest to bubble off into nothingness:  Flishhhh... grrrr... plassssss...  I listened most intently.  I swear I made out the first part of a sentence.  I was elated!  Was I on the verge of making a wondrous discovery which could connect humanity with their most distant ancestors, the bubbles? 
 Suddenly a dull feeling swept across me.  It brought panic in its trail.  Could it be?  NO!!  I ran across the room and grasp the air filter into clammy hands.  Slowly I lifted it to me eyes.  DAMN!  It was true!  The filter was made by the Kierkegaard Tank Company of Denmark .  And I do not speak a word of Danish!  How foolish I felt as I crawled numbly to bed.12.     I know what you're are thinking.  I know.  You think this apparently eclectic conglomerate is in fact a single, unified tale.  I disavow any knowledge of your claims.  I cannot comment on the overt or covert possibilities of your assumption, the formal or informal implications, the conscious or unconscious paradigms, the preconscious or post- conscious dynamics.
 I can only tell you the facts as I know them.  First, I never heard of any loon, except pantaloons; and my wife quit wearing them years ago.  Further, I never heard of a person named Mickeley Pflause, and I doubt very seriously if he could ever hop, hobble, or hopscotch on those knobby legs of his.  Also, I have had my head inside the hole which leads to the pools of the unconscious, and I can tell you that hole is not triangle but rectangle, and that there are always dead fish floating to the surface.  What goes on in hell is none of my business, but I know when I get there I will not talk about brass buttons, short, narrow men, nor light bulbs sparkling.
 Finally, I can tell you that I had a quite pleasant conversation with the lovely Lirpa.  She made the audacious claim that the troubadour was me!  This would make the saxophonist my rival!  At first I thought:  Of all the rude nonsense.  If anyone was going to be the saxophonist, it was going to be me!  But you know, on further reflection, the very notion of me wanting to be the saxophonist indicated I am, indeed, the troubadour.  Doesn't it?  Or does it?  The whole questions is really quite irrelevant, I suppose, because the troubadour is now a matador.  Issues resolved!  Humph.
 In any event, I hear the mail carrier at the door, and I am graciously expecting several checks or money orders for seven million dollars each.  I must go now, and invent a tale with no beginning and no end.  Only a middle.  Hummmmm.  Challenging. 

Challenging.

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G. David Schwartz is former president of Seedhouse, the online interfaith committee. Schwartz is the author of A Jewish Appraisal of Dialogue. Currently a volunteer at Drake Hospital in Cincinnati, Schwartz continues to write. His new book, Midrash and Working Out Of The Book is now in stores.