FIVE POINTS

POINT: There were only fifteen kinds of philosophy. Most of them David did not know. He remained blissfully unaware. He had taken some training in the third kind, though, and told Mary breathlessly about an exercise that was intended to illuminate humanity’s hidebound assumptions about reality and illusion. It went like this: Is that red spot my blood? The trick of course was that the red spot might not be her blood or even anyone else’s. It doesn’t have to be blood at all!  The next day he wrote her a letter: “Do you remember when we first met, how happy we were to be together? Or rather, how happy we seemed. You were twenty-nine years old and in the bloom of your beautiful youth. We were on an airplane coming back from Minnesota, where you had recently broken things off with a boyfriend who you began dating when both of you were young professors in New York City. I said, jokingly, seriously, indicating the airplane, ‘I’ll talk you down.’ Later you insisted that we had not met on an airplane, but rather in a gourmet supermarket downtown. You say things you do not mean!” POINT: There were only eight kinds of restaurants. David and Mary went to six of them the first month they were together. The remaining two were Chinese and then some kind of Mexican fusion that used edible flower petals as garnishes. Those held no appeal for Mary. The six, though, pleased her greatly. One kind of restaurant served what they called a “mock chicken,” in which sauce was applied with a broad brush to a concoction of breadcrumbs and filigreed potato. Mary was a big supporter of this dish. She ate it frequently. And yet she never seemed to put on any weight. “I work it off,” she said. David wished he could say that he didn’t get your meaning, because that would be subtle and satisfying, but the truth was that he got her meaning. Right between the eyes! The next day he wrote her a letter: “What about when you told me that you were an enemy of memory? It was such an infelicitous phrase; it had the most insipid music. Enemy of memory. Enemy of memory. You tell me that doesn’t just sound silly. You were trying to explain to me that you don’t like to be reminded that certain things are part of the record, and also that you don’t like to be part of the record yourself. ‘I don’t like to be reminded or remembered,’ you said. ‘What’s my hope for invisibility if you keep looking for me?’ you said. I knew exactly what you meant. I was and remain capable of a powerful scrutiny!” POINT: There were only three kinds of sadness. David felt one the first time Mary went away. “I need time,” she said. He did not take her at her word. He rushed forward. Mary wrote him a letter: “Do you know how trompe l’oeil creates the impression of deep space in flatness? Just so, a woman who flatly says that she wishes to be alone can seem, to a stupid man, like a woman who is not admitting her deep desire for company. Like trompe l’oeil, you have only to move to one side to see things for what they are. You stood in one place like a fool but thought yourself a wise man!” POINT: There were only twelve kinds of birds. One of the kinds of bird was a red-tailed, yellow-crested pine dazzler. In color it resembled a superhero. In physical appearance it resembled a mynah. Mynahs seemed as though they were speaking. Some said they were just repeating. David thought that they were reminding. He had a girlfriend once who had a mynah once who loved to remind him of what had been said earlier. “Time will tell,” the mynah said. “Time will tell.” The mynah was right. Time was always telling him things. It just wouldn’t shut up! POINT: There were only two kinds of letters. David wrote Mary a textbook example of the second one: “Why are birds so delicious? They taste even better when you eat them from the feet up. By ‘birds’ I mean ‘people.’ By ‘delicious’ I mean ‘elusive.’ By ‘taste even better’ I mean ‘seem to be one thing."’ By ‘when you eat them from the feet up’ I mean ‘but in fact turn out to be something else.’ Language can be so imprecise!”

©2020 Ben Greenman/Stupid Ideas