…although when need be, I can make it fit.
Tonight’s debate at the cafe concerned schools of thought. It did not need to be a debate. It could have been as simple as what is considered decent among two people from very different philosophical points of reference – simply said, “agree to disagree”. Such was not the case with Spoon. I can’t blame him for wishing that I commit suicide. With such a statement, he missed the point of the philosophies I asked him to research. Of the two that I shared, he only remembered one. This was after a three-hour session of “back and forth”.
The whole time we spoke, I understood that perhaps we were communicating from different parts of our minds. Basically, because our ideologies didn’t match, our comprehension of language – the language of one man speaking English to another – was non-existent. Over the course of three hours, time and again, we were back to “square one”. It was then that I offered an explanation in the form of two words, and I asked him to look them up if inclined to do so.
A short time later, he returned and said very little. Then, as if he were sitting on an M80, he exploded from his chair and requested that I commit suicide. At this time, there were others at the table partaking of our nightly coffee and cigarette binges. Some were surprised, others were bored to tears. (Spoon and I do this often.) The scene reminded me of something that might’ve happened to Nicholas Stavrogin, Peter Verkhovensky, or “Prince” Mishkin – three men I have more in common with than I do actual, living beings. But to explain who and what they are to you, or Spoon, would take months. We didn’t have months tonight, so I sat in silence.
You see, conflict is not a suit I wear well. Although when need be, I can make it fit. Tonight I took a page out of one of my mentor’s books. I wore the mask of the Mahathera Phang. I sat in silence and allowed Spoon to work himself up into a frenzy, foaming at the mouth, confusing the others, and making himself sound like a man who had lost his mind.
Shortly after the spectacle, the party dispersed, and again, Spoon prayed for my death. (I wonder what school of thought he follows?)
I waved and bid him an au revoir, and experienced a vision, both holy and terrible in this author’s words:
“Once again tears gathered in the magician’s eyes; he understood, more deeply than he had ever done, the Sorrow of the Universe. He saw how utterly incompatible are all our human ideas with the Laws of Life.” – A.C.