Zany!. Jim Gold

Чтение книги онлайн.

СКАЧАТЬ and with power-pumping blasts, I expel suppressed bits of the devil. I see ancient faces and hear voices in my eyes. I’m afraid others may criticize me and ruin my fun.”

      “So,” Dr. Zany suggested paternally from his armchair, “it is not joy you’re afraid of, but the reaction of the audience to your joy! In their emptiness, you hear them shouting: ‘How dare you have so much fun? How dare you enjoy yourself as long as others in the world still suffer?’ ”

      He waited for his psychological insight sink in before adding wisely, “Fear is but one expression of the higher powers. Ills will pass. Through self-knowledge, your body heals itself.”

      “ . . . How?”

      “Do you know about the curative power of endorphins.”

      “I’ve heard of them. Where do they fit in?”

      “My son, as a Zany child, you were born with a fiery imagination. This gift gave you a landscape to work with: mountains, abysses, peaks, and pits. It gave you both freedom and terror. In order to harness these wild forces, your imagination created discipline, the creative road from fear to glory. Use it!”

      Attila silently contemplated the dialectics of these opposites. After an hour, he rose, shouldered his AK-47, bowed to his father, and returned to the attic.

      There among his books, sitting on his three-legged mahogany trinitarian thought-stool, he remained in a half-lotus for the next six hours. Deep in meditation, he visualized Finno-Ugric linguistic roots and Latin diacritical marks floating down his inner Nile. Biblical giants waved in the distance.

       7

      SEEDS

      FINALLY! SEEDS IN MY garden,” Zany purred, staring out the living room window. “How I love spring. Petite flowers of Zanyhood blossoming, trees flourishing, brooks flowing in many new directions. My flowers are my vegetable children. And now that my flesh-and-blood Attila is on his way, I can focus more attention on these fragrant beauties!” He observed the shining sun with cosmic pleasure.

      The doorbell rang. Martha opened the front door to find St. James the Apostle standing in the doorway. The six-foot-eleven- inch business consultant was wearing his signature blue trousers, pin-striped shirt, and bow tie. “I’m here to plant hyperboles,” he said.

      Zany called his friend from his armchair. “My dear St. James, welcome to our spring festival. What took you so long? Flowers are popping. The garden is ready. Have you asked Loco Flores for her flowering maps? Wives know truths about gardening that mortal violinists fail to comprehend.”

      St. James winced. “Don’t call Mad Mother Loco my wife. I’d never ask her. She knows nothing of the virtues of gardening.” Zany yawned. Martha left the room as the apostle continued his tirade. “Why I married that woman, I’ll never know. Since divorce is forbidden under the Metaphysical Gardening Statutes, Section 2—”

      “Apostle,” Zany snapped, “stop whining! I can’t stand hearing your annual complaints. Can’t you see the wisdom in her decision? Remember how she rescued you during your Crimean period, when the Tartar mustache roses got stuck in the lawn mower?”

      “Stay out of my business, Zany!” St. James picked up the spring hoe lying beside Zany’s armchair, swung it over his head, slammed it into the rug. He was about to dig a trench across the living room but stopped immediately. Winded, he leaned on the hoe and grunted, “Planting seeds is no easy task. Conquer the Kingdom of Speed and its dictator, Velocity. Wait for time to work its magic . . . . But you’re right about one thing, Zany.” The Apostle lifted the hoe to his shoulder. “By waiting so long to marry me, Mother Loco demonstrated that patience is the key to success. She sprinkled legato on my trees and flowers. The aquerosa vixen flower is my model for patientia. I’ll admit, Mother Loco taught me the virtues of hardiness, resistence, stubbornness, and endurance. Slow planting, that’s the way to go. In times of upheaval and tumult, only a hero dares to go slow . . . . You know, Zoltan, you could be that hero.”

      Zany snorted in disgust. “Oh, please. You give the same speech every spring. Slow, you say? Agh! I planted my garden that way for years! It was easy. Too easy! So I changed my style and went for speed. I planted at a lightning pace. I wanted to be the fastest seeder on the block, and make my deceased Mother Zany proud of me.”

      “You weren’t mature enough to slow down.”

      Dr. Zany ran his double-stop violin concerto hand through his mane of white hair as he considered this wise assertion.

      “ . . . Apostle, do you really think speed has caused my suffering?”

      St. James calmed himself. Speaking in quiet, firm, philosophical tones, he explained, “There are so many causes of human suffering, it’s hard to know which ones are yours. But certainly pain creates a blind, impassioned rush past the Gates of Understanding.”

      Outside, the spring sun was pouring on the sprouting grass. Zany’s well-trained ear could hear flowers pushing their heads through the soil. St. James rose, exited through the kitchen door, pulled the gardening hose from its rack by the garage, and gently fingered its nozzle. Zany turned in his armchair to watch through the open window. “It’s close to watering time,” St. James called. “After I do your lawn and garden, I’ll go home to practice. My goal is to play J. S. Bach in public.”

      “On the garden hose or the guitar?”

      “This, of course.” The Apostle turned on the hose. “Hosing practice has given me a love of wind instruments,” he said as a spray of water, reflecting sunlight, fell on the garden soil. “I remember when dirt accumulated in my nose and I had to blow it out. I used a reverse breathing technique to suck up the leaves, grime, and bits of gravel. After the air passage was clear, I heard a half-whistling, half-humming, half-witted whirring sound. I loved it! The enormous musical potential of the hose became clear. I was hooked! Wind instruments and classical piping became my hobby, then my passion. Added to that, the sound of moving water turned Loco on! Another positive. My playing made her swoon!”

      St. James returned to the living room, Zany reminisced, “I remember that Baroque period of your life. You refused to learn organ, clarinet, or any traditional instrument. Though you wanted to please your audience, you insisted on novelty, originality, and daring.”

      Dr. Zany pressed his hands together in a musical act of worship. “How splendid to be faithful to your vision while reaching for public adulation. I wish I still cared about such things.”

      “Some day you’ll care again.” The Apostle paused, hoping this prediction would take root. “ . . . Zoltan, did you know we’ve named our performing group ‘Gardeners Delight’? Our quartet of leaf blower, guitar, saxophone, and garden hose starts practicing this Sunday.”

      “Is performing with such a group worth the effort?”

      “Good question. I’ve been exploring the floral ideas of Muhlhausen gardener Hammurabi von Tuttleberg, in his Book of Babylonian Gardens: How to Build Paradise on Earth, subtitled A Teutonic Primer. I believe my mature vision of garden music eloquence is in place. How to apply it is my current dilemma.”

      “I am also wondering about my next planting,” said Zany.

       8

      ARE СКАЧАТЬ