Zany!. Jim Gold

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СКАЧАТЬ course, Martha. You know that from my writing.”

      “I have never seen you write, Dr. Zany.” Martha rested a hand on her hip, and looked into the eyes of the good doctor. “Or perhaps I have,” she reconsidered. “The nervous twitches, ecstatic arm and wrist movements you perform every morning: Is that writing?” Zany was about to answer when she added, “I thought they were involuntary muscular contractions before taking your medication.”

      “Now, now, Martha. The word is meditation. You know I never take medication. I scribble higher thoughts on a pad every morning. Some may call it ‘writing.’ I call it synthesis and reflection. Holding my pen, carving words into a page, this ‘writing,’ is my form of meditation. I suppose some might consider it medication, since the process calms my mind. Writing medicates me into a meditative state.”

      “Dr. Zany, this is gibberish. I can’t understand what you’re saying! But, for you, such a lack of communication is a wonderful way to begin the day!” Martha smiled; mirth and incomprehensibility mixed in her eyes. “That is why I love working for you! Taking care of your worldly needs for so many years has been a daily adventure into the unknown.”

      “Thank you, Martha. You are a faithful servant, ministering to my body while I search for my soul. Mother Zany no longer visits me. You have become the closest thing to her presence.”

      Zany imagined his mother’s celestial vibration. Grand Doctoress of the Maternal Mattress Erica von Fumbler, a.k.a, Sultana Ubersnatch, vaginal embodiment of a much faded Turkish Empire, now gazed down upon him. In dissolving-fusion dance, she transformed herself into a Teutonic knight, hiding her armor-clad form behind the northern facade of Malbork Castle in Poland.

      This stellar vision vanished, leaving a sorrowful vacuum in Zany’s mind.

      The violinist faced the emptiness. “Aha,” he sighed with illumination, “finally I understand. I’ve witnessed the disintegration of my old self. Down, down, it has rolled. Daily I sit in my armchair, descending further into the dark valley of desperation. Although the sun shines above me, its radiance brings no joy. I have everything and nothing simultaneously. In my rush to fill the demands from the old life, I have lost my spiritual center. Well, ‘lost’ may be too strong a word. ‘Forgotten’ is better.

      “But I can feel that center rising again, kicking me like a baby in the womb. Yes, I need a new direction, a new mission and purpose. Determination, both conscious and unconscious, is my fulfillment technique. And I plan to sit in this armchair until I find it!”

      The next day, Zany was reflecting upon his aching toe. “Imagination creates my physical failings. When they occur, I believe the worst. But suppose I imagined the best? What would happen?”

      He paused to reflect on his reflections. “Maybe I need to worry.,” he muttered.

      “Dr. Zany, I am so glad that you worry,” Martha called out happily from the kitchen as she cut up a squash for her French vegetable soup. “Anxiety unites you with the universe.”

      “Martha, you are so philosophical this morning.”

      “Yes. I am also right.”

      “ ‘Philosophical’ does not mean you are wrong.”

      “Well, whatever.” She sliced some carrots. It was a clear day, and sunlight dappled the counter top. “This worry idea is more fascinating than doing the laundry. Dr. Zany, you are blessed with a wild, expansive imagination! It gives you the flexibility to worry about anything you like!”

      “Anything . . . .”

      “Yes. But secretly, I know you follow your own self-help program, the one you discovered seven years ago in Tashkent. Remember that Uzbekistan tour when you figured out how to handle stage fright? Your own invention, the Fear Replacement Therapy Program, worked! During that concert, in fact, you were so relaxed on stage, you fell asleep playing the Tchaikovsky Violin Concerto. Vibrations from your performance were so powerful, the orchestra and audience fell asleep, too. When you heard your fans snoring, you woke up to finish the concerto. Next day you started writing about your new self-knowledge and created the pamphlet Fear Replacement Therapy Rules, which soon swept the music and psychotherapy worlds.”

      Zany’s eyes closed as he recalled that concert tour of Central Asia. “Yes. It’s coming back. You’re right. I remember that, during the performance, the Uzbekistan police broke in to capture my wrong notes. I can still picture their black uniforms, clubs, and rifles. They searched under every seat and even frisked members of the concert audience!”

      “Yes, Doktor. But now that your concert career is over, you have time to focus on your body falling apart. It’s part of the rest period you recommended in your program!”

      Zany mind drifted back in history. “It’s hard to imagine I wrote such a curative book,” he said, rubbing his aching quadriceps, gastrocnemius, and buttocks before moving up to his triceps and trapezius. “I’m tired of these sedentary cellular discomforts, suffering these persistent muscular pains. Isn’t there a better way?”

      “For you? I doubt it.” Martha glanced upward as she considered the long slow period of Zany’s transition plight. “Actually, I really don’t know. We’ll see what the Lord brings.”

      She dropped four tomatoes into boiling water, pulled them out, and began to remove the skins and seeds.

      “Can’t you save your religious opinions for the laundry?”

      “Mein Doktor, the body is the clothing of the soul. It too needs cleansing. Though imagination is your essence, its flexibility may compromise your happiness.”

      While Dr. Zany thought about flexibility, Martha sauteed onions and garlic. “You mean enlarge my desires, expand my vision? If not, I’ll focus only on aching body parts?”

      “Exactly . . . .” She added three sprigs of thyme. “Ah, Dr. Zany, what a homey aroma!”

      Zany sat in silence for the next few hours, considering his options. Martha mopped the kitchen floor where a fried fish had fallen.

      Finally, he spoke. “Up to age eighty-three, Freud constantly revised his ideas. So should I. Vision enlargement is the way to go.” A hint of enthusiasm entered his voice. “I’ll revise my Bumble Bee Concerto and reexamine, restore, and improve my other compositions as well. I’ll search for new meaning in the Bach Chaconne. New interpretations will flow.”

      Zany nodded as he agreed with himself. “Goodbye, nirvana, enlightenment, and yogic meditation. Inner peace is no longer my goal.” Zany raised his hands, flailed the air in 4/4 time, and began conducting an imaginary Beethoven’s Pastoral Symphony. “I prize the dynamic moments of restless imagination. I want battles of creativity shaping the rest of my life!”

      Martha cleaned away the soup plates.

       9

      FIRE!

      DR. ZANY WAS SITTING in his living room armchair, contemplating his future, when he happened to notice his house was burning down.

      At first he paid little attention, thinking the flames would die away by themselves. But as wall boards heated up and ceiling burst into flame, he put aside СКАЧАТЬ