Just Another Day

Hmm, hhmmmmmm . . .
Hmm, hhmmmmmm . . .
Just another day . . .

What a pretty melody. Of late I've grown fond of the music of Brian Eno.

Some day we will put it all behind,
We'll say it was just another time,
We'll say it was just another day on Earth.

I find something so sadly wise in these simple lyrics. It seems to me that this one simple phrase says it all. That there will come a time when we will come to know that everything we once thought to be worth killing and dying for were all just another day. The madness, the fears, the anxieties, the hatreds, al those things which make life unpleasantly interesting . . . we'll simply put all these things behind us.

Of course, the lyrics are ultimately a little sad, insofar as we will regard our loves, our hopes, our dreams in the same way. Because we will come to know that what we regard as all the vast significance of human existence constitutes nothing but just another day on earth.

Zen mind is the inclination to smile for no reason.

Still, lest we forget, we are in the here and now. And today is a friend's birthday. Happy Birthday, Gail. I raise my glass of chianti in a toast to you, as I pass yet another day along the boulevard. Ciao, mia babina cara.

Congruence

Sitting beside the boulevard a person has time to think long about many things. Such as the congruence of space and time. The phenomenon rarely fails to give me a sense of wonder.

To give you an example. Yesterday evening a friend and I were conversing amiably over the telephone about this and that, as friends are wont to do, and she asked me whether or not I had seen the film The Jacket. I was mildly astonished, because I had, in fact, watched the film only the day before. Mere coincidence, you say? Perhaps. But when such congruences occur I always have the fleeting impression that they have either happened before, or that the matrix of circumstance has been scripted, that it's all been laid out beforehand. For aeons. Before the sun and moon. Before the Big Bang. Before Time.

I'd even hoped to draw parallels between Contact and The Jacket, but didn't do so when I found the previous blog becoming too lengthy. But I want to do so now.

My friend and I have spoken to some degree about the relativistic weirdness of all existence, as set forth in the theoretical speculations of quantum physics. The film Contact is so fascinating insofar as it portrays so well the wonderful strangeness of creation. It portrays an event which defies the known laws of physics, and invites the viewer to entertain possibilities beyond human understanding.

The film The Jacket also posits a seemingly unlikely possibility, although within a very different moral and dramatic milieu, and for different effect. The concept of precognition. How can such a thing be? Only in the movies, you say? Tut! How jejune. Such a thing can be, simply because we exist in far more than a single here and now. Precognition is a misleading term, as there is no pre- and post-. Metacognition might be a more suitable term. The ability to see the other "nows". And death is simply the passage to another "now". And at some point along these infinite passages one comes to realize that they have abided since the beginning.

This is merely the absinthe talking, you say? Perhaps. Still, I enjoyed watching The Jacket because I like to think that a person can come to be at a place and in a time where the pain is gone and the hurting has stopped. I think you have to admit, it's a pleasant thought.

Contact

I was delighted to receive recently a hardcover edition of Carl Sagan's novel Contact. I'm very fond of the movie for a variety of reasons, not least of which is Jodie Foster's fine acting in her portrayal of Ellie Arroway. Foster gives a very intelligent commentary on the DVD edition. Her acting seems all the more remarkable when one considers that she performed against nothing but a blue screen throughout her solo transit of the galaxy. I think it an astounding forensic tour de force.

Aside from the acting, however, Contact appeals to me principally because of the effectiveness with which it portrays the unfathomable vastness of space and time. And in doing so it serves to render as utterly pointless all the fears and hatreds which motivate so much of human behavior. On the fantastic shore of some impossible galactic place Ellie comes to realize how truly long all of this has been going on. That a cosmic drama has been unfolding long before and far beyond the ken of humankind. After such a realization it's hard to take governments and borders, with all the provincialism and limitations they represent, seriously. I was also deeply affected by the words of her "father", who tells her that "In all our searching, the only thing we've found that makes the emptiness bearable is each other." It's a statement I find true on both a macro- and a microcosmic level.

In reading the novel I've rediscovered that Carl Sagan represented the sort of individual who was far more prevalent at a time when it was easier to have hope. A reasonable and humane individual who could regard others and their beliefs without judgment, and who saw the promise of approaching ages. Such people have now been supplanted by ranting ideologues who now shout at us the many reasons we should live in fear and anxiety of everything and everyone around us. Through some perplexing rhetorical alchemy all those admirable qualities which such a man embodied are now intended to be regarded with derision: liberal, relativist, one-worlder. I never thought I would see the day when a liberal humanist would come to be regarded with contempt. As a young man I was taught that the United Nations was a noble experiment, one of the more promising institutions to come out of the hell of the Second World War. I was also taught that the war was in part the tragic result of the demise of the League of Nations.

Now we have a form of Newthink. The cultural idols of our youth have been supplanted by new ones. Gatherings of nations for the purpose of bringing order to the affairs of states are weak and corrupt. Unless they are "ours".Freedom fighters are ours. Theirs are terrorists. Or guerrillas, if we haven't yet made up our minds. Our heroes are the smiling tank commanders rolling triumphantly across the flat expanses of defenseless lands, much as they did in their Mark III's in September, 1939.

Ah, but I rant. Time to stop reading the editorial page, put down Le Monde, and try to enjoy life along the boulevard.

Yet, I sense rain in the air. It appears there may be a change in the weather coming on.

Duc D'Esseinte

"And you think you left it in her shoe?"

"Yes, yes! I'm certain of it. I have no idea where else it could be!"

"Quelle tristesse!"

"An utter tragedy, I assure you."

"How do you think it possible such a thing could have come about?"

"Oh, I confess. I must hold myself at fault."

"Truly? How so?"

"Well, you've seen her toes, haven't you? Particularly in the summer?"

"Mmmm?"

"The rings. The rings on her toes?"

"Ah, yes, yes. They are a delight, I agree."

"An absolute medley of silvery pleasures. Yet, in the sun they flash and dance so. The music they make reverberates through one's head. Ai!"

"I think it's the gypsy dancing you hear. She works such magic when she silvers her toes."

"I agree. Still, on this occasion it was quite too much for me . . ."

"Poor man!"

" . . . so I gently placed my hat over her toes. Just to tone them down enough to allow me to clear my head, you know."

"Hmm. Well, I must say, old man, that did border on the rude. In a mild sort of way, I mean. Covering a woman's toes without her express consent . . ."

"No, no! My god, man. I would never do such a thing. I always ask a woman for leave beforehand. I may be a rake and perhaps a scoundrel, sir, but I am never rude. With knowledge aforethought, anyway."

"Of course not, of course not. And you know I didn't mean to imply any such thing."

"Thank you. You're a dear friend. But now I'm left without my hat."

"How's that?"

"Well, when I took my leave I neglected to retrieve my hat. And I'm afraid she may have slipped on a pair of Ferregamo's with my hat still dangling from her toes. Oh, the humanity!"

"Now, now, now. It'll be alright. Besides, don't you think the fit may have been a little tight? I mean, with your hat, and all?"

"Oh, but you know how delightfully petite are her feet. So delicate, so finely wrought. They belong in a museum, you know. Amongst the Delft and Meissen of grander ages."

"Bien sur, mais . . . well, may I be so bold as to suggest, um . . ."

"Please, please, go on. You are my friend. I know of nowhere else to turn."

"Alright. You may want to steel yourself. But please remember I tell you this as your friend."

"I have prepared myself, monsieur!"

"Very well. Your hat, my dear Duc, is on your head!"

"Eh? Wha . . . ? The saints be blessed, man! So it is! Oh, monsieur! Happy day! Why . . . please. Give me a moment. Only a true friend, a man of preternatural insight into the totality of all things could have wrought such a miraculous thing! Monsieur! I am your servant."

"Tut, tut. It's nothing. A friend can do no less. It gave me pleasure to be able to help one as deserving as yourself."

"Still, there must be something I can do in return? Didn't you have your eyes on that chalet in Savoy? Outside Belleville, wasn't it?

"I would not so sully myself. But if you insist you may buy me a drink when next we meet along the boulevard."

"Sans doute! Ah, but here's my cab. Is my head still on?"

"Firmly affixed!"

"Then I am off. Until we meet again, my true, true friend."

"Au revoir, mon brave. And remember what I always say."

"I never forget. Be kind to one another. It will be alright."

"Good man! May the winds be at your back and the gods be kind."


Le Boulevardier always enjoyed meeting D'Esseinte. A trifle eccentric, but no matter. Some call him mad, but he thinks that rather unkind. The man has a generous spirit, and always speaks well of others. Besides, if he does sometimes act a little unhinged it's due to the loss of the woman he loved. Such behavior deserves understanding, by its very nature.

Ah, what a glorious day along the boulevard! Look! Great clumps of cloud sailing lazily through a bright azure sea above. A warm breeze whispering gently past one's ear. It's good to be alive along the boulevard on such a day as this.

And there's always the chance he may glimpse her walking by.