Thirteen Ways of Looking at Twilight—9
I don’t deny that I may have, as the expression goes, a couple of loose bolts in the attic—who doesn’t, right?—but it was solely in the interest of humoring my wife, not concession, that I enrolled in non-sentient phenomena therapy.
The labcoated types were a little smug, but on the whole nice, well-meaning people, I found. Besides, what else is there to do in January?
Doors do not shut, and they certainly do not open, on their own. Chair legs do not lie in ambush to stub your toe. Light bulbs do not burn out from a malicious ability to know when it would be most inconvenient to leave you in the dark, and clocks that stop are not making an occult statement. Paper towels do not tear off imperfectly, nor do garden hoses kink in mid-watering, out of spite. Mr. Coffee—and please note I didn’t name him—is not heavily breathing as he finishes his sinister brewing cycle. And speaking of coffee, only chance is responsible for my beloved Chessie System coffee cup I’ve used for thirty years escaping my hand and shattering on the tile floor. Plus, you can’t love a coffee cup. And numbers on license plates don’t really mean anything beyond what car it is. In fact, numbers in general do not have hidden meanings, and it is insane to have a “favorite” number. There is, in short, no conspiracy among the non-biological entities in your life to communicate with you. They do not plan, they do not thwart, they do not portend.
This is the sort of thing they teach you.
So I’m responsible for the cup falling and breaking? Me—not the suicidal cup, nor the hard tile floor luring it like a predator in an alley? It’s a novel idea, but please note I didn’t mean to break it. I didn’t want to break it.
Sure, you say, but what about subconsciously?
Okay, so something in me wanted to break the cup that for all these years has been my loyal companion? Just like my grilling tongs, my fruit bowl, my trustworthy rake, and all the other venerable appurtenances of my life I have protected and mended and treasured?
That’s as insane as “nothing” did it.
So, if the cup didn’t do it, and the floor didn’t do it, and I didn’t do it—it just happened?
I can’t get my head around that.
But these clinicians, they’re adamant about it. Happenstance rules the world, and inanimate objects and non-sentient phenomena do not have personalities or volition. Any affection for them, any fear of them, is imagined, and if you lose one you just go get another one and nothing is different. I can’t say I buy that, but I went along.
Ancient people imagined spirits—or who are we to say they didn’t actually perceive them?—in trees and glades and mountains and pools—oceans, for God’s sake, planets, and so forth. Imagine a world where every “chance” event was something’s will. Actually I do imagine that, which is what got me into therapy.
You see, I’m deviant.
But consider—is “rain” a noun or a verb? It’s neither and both, so we should say “Rain rains,” but that offends logic. Instead, we say “It is raining.” Our presumptions about reality, hence our language, demand a subject and a verb—a “complete” sentence—a fact which reveals our need for an agent in everything. Nothing “happens.” Something happens it.
So ease off with the “deviant” business.
* * *
When I was done with my sessions I honestly wanted to give my wife the new man she was hoping for, and I did think, I am in sort of a rut—change my life, change the way I think—yes, that might be good.
Except, what do I do with the fact that on my way home the first number I saw on a license plate was 777? And how do I explain that it took me exactly 21 steps from the car to the door? After 21 days of therapy. One third of my age (now you know—and no, I’m not the guy writing this). I had 23 missed calls on my phone which I had stuck in a drawer for 42 hours. Double 21. Two of which were obvious butt dials. 23 minus 2 equals 21. Or why I dropped and broke my newly-adopted coffee cup. Yes, I had already sensed that it just wasn’t feeling comfortable—but two cups broken in the same spot—2-1—21 days apart?
Please.
To say nothing of the paper towel that refused to tear off cleanly. And yes I counted the sheets left on the roll and there were 21. And how about how, when I turned the handle to the bedroom door, the door completed the process by itself?
Welcome home, sucker. On February 1.
My wife has fallen into despair, but it was obvious to me what I had to do. So for the last nine days I’ve been absorbed in the memory-plundering 21st century exercise of reconstructing the places, events, people, and feelings of my 21st year. Recapitulation therapy.
I spend nine hours a day on it.
And I’m sure I don’t need to mention what my favorite number is.
May 13, 2022