Brian Carey assured himself, and then reassured himself; that on the contrary he hadn't failed at all. In fact, wiser thoughts, deeply rooted within those primordial instincts for a preservation of the self, told him (in most uncertain terms) that he had recognised the unfeeling nature of the machine. He had recognised it before it had entirely consumed his soul and spat out his leather uppers and polished bones.
Yes! he exhaled secretly, lest he was discovered by the somnolent other beside him, mister Carey had candidly, single-handedly, identified, without;significant assistance from without, without avuncular guidance, without the influence of mentor, elderly brother, Lacanian 'other', wizend old parent, or figure of such) through the guidance and counsel of his mother: literature, his father Sigmund, and his brothers and sisters in the guise of of books from the flea market), he had uncovered the thing that was in it, the crux of it, the vacuous cleaner that had sucked up the millions, the gazillions of dried crumbs, of hair-balls, of bless me fathers, of please sir can I have another, of I could do a better job myself, the masticated soulless messes, that had once been human beans. And as such in accordance with the dictates or reason and the imperatives of survival he had tendered,accordingly and without much prejudice, the altogether better part of valour.
How can youth be blamed for falling in love? Shiny cars that didn’t rust like the old Datsuns he’d left behind. Cheap food, multi-laned freeways, massive skyscrapers, all the towering reminders of his insignificance had been turned into tree houses.
'Rome of the twenty-first century'. The phrase had been amusing when he’d first heard it; before it became another cliché tossed about the espresso bars, like paper planes in a classroom of boisterous blockheads.
He shifted uncomfortably, wishing he might stretch his legs beneath the seat in front of him and doze even for a few minutes.
How can youth be blamed for falling in love? Shiny cars that didn’t rust like the old Datsuns he’d left behind. Cheap food, multi-laned freeways, massive skyscrapers, all the towering reminders of his insignificance had been turned into tree houses.
'Rome of the twenty-first century'. The phrase had been amusing when he’d first heard it; before it became another cliché tossed about the espresso bars, like paper planes in a classroom of boisterous blockheads.
He shifted uncomfortably, wishing he might stretch his legs beneath the seat in front of him and doze even for a few minutes.
Try as he might, he could not filter the hum drum of the engines from his drums. It was as though a fly had crept inside his head and was frantically searching for an escape. He had told himself at the beginning that he would soon become accustomed to it, but that had been his mistake. In waiting for the noise to dissipate it simply became more distinct as he found himself checking regularly to see if he had become accustomed.
No, what he needed was to forget, he should never forget the need to forget, and never forgot that forgetting itself was the universal antidote to everything. Unfortunately, each time he reminded himself of the need to forget, he found himself remembering that which he needed to forget.
Disjointed memories of life in America sailed through his mind. One night towards the end, he had ventured beyond the foyer of his complex. Such excursions were facilitated by the following system. He would turn left or right at the front door and keep taking turns in the same direction each time the opportunity to do so became available. He would then stop at an establishment that suited his purpose and upon entering would commit to memory the direction he had been turning. Upon entering his initial choice of direction was all that had to be committed to memory. When he wanted to get home he simply had to emerge as he entered and take turns in the opposite direction until he would arrive at his own door once again.
On this particular instance he found himself outside a diner, eight lefts from his door. he seated himself at the counter and was watching the two Ewes debut their latest offering with flash and glitter, upon a wall hung television. Soon he became distracted by a conversation between two uniformed police officers, two stools down from where he was seated. It had been one of many conversations, eavesdropped or otherwise, that had brought him to the edge.
".......Ye see Lynus." the Sheriff spoke coolly, chewing his cud. "Take one of dem Somally boys and fly that sucker here. Quicker than a buzzard on a gut wagon, that young fellar’s gona find himself a jaub!" He waved a fillet o-fish sandwich in the air as he spoke. "That young fellar'd be tossin them there grease patties! An I'll bet you a nickel, that Somally-boy aint gona have no; 'I hate thisGawd damn jaub', or '.....I jus spat in your damn burger....' painted all over his face neither!" He pointed a ketchup coated fore-finger towards the disgruntled teenager behind the diner counter.
“Why, quicker than rat spit, that Somally boy is gona buy himself a beat up Cadillac. He'll be livin in a shack he'd be a calling a ‘palace’, .....an sure as I'm sitting here Ly." The Sheriff pointed to the plastic bucket in which he was seated. "...that sonfabitch, be sendin half his Macdougal cheque, ryde back home to the Keebutz." He paused and swilled from the straw of a super-size soda. "....So ye see Ly, I'm with Governor on this one, and as the good book says; we've gotta extend the hand of friendship to all our brothers and sisters."
The burger had cooled from the heat of the discussion and he slipped the remaining mouthful between the parted lips as his social theory forged its way into the unexplored jungle of his deputy's mind. For his part the deputy seemed more interested in the steaming limp shaft of pink hot dog meat which he bit and then blew, and then bit again, slicing it shorter with yellow incisors.
"I'm afraid I don't quite git your meanin Sherrif?" He replied with half cooked curiosity.
“I'm sayin Ly…," The sherrif elaborated. "What this country needs is a gaud damn Somally-swap! Jus git a plane load of convicted felons from county or state pen, fly them fellars over to Somally-land an dump their asses in the god-damn sand! Then Ly….," He paused so as his ideas might not become involved in a pile up. "Then we load that plane with Somally boys an ship them boys over here to the land of the free! There you have it!" He said triumphantly. "Empty jails! And whole lota God fearin, law bidin, tax payin, citizens."
The unmistakable fragrance of something profound became infused with odours rising from the griddle.
"I see what your sayin Sheriff..." Lynus replied, with uncertainty. ".... I like the eyedear I really do." He continued unsure of what he had been convinced of. "Only thing is sheriff.... " He paused, reluctant to share his misgivings and then lowering his voice to a whisper. ".....Is, then we got us a whole town full a niggers!" He said before taking another bite from the end of his dog.
The sheriff was silent, he shuffled his blocky frame uneasily within the plastic bucket of his seat, and replied severely. "Now Lynus...! What did I tell you about that racist shit!"
The lot of it had unrolled itself like a toilet roll tossed into the air, like a golf ball opened slowly with a penknife, snapping and unravelling taught elastic truths before his eyes. He had double had enough. The ironing board was, that he was returning to embrace the same creases he had spent the best part of his youth trying to escape. Torpid time had taught, that questions could no longer be answered by mass produced truths, folk heroes, disc-jockeys or bleeding-heart rock stars.
The new objective was to encounter once again...., No! ….. was to return to that fork in the road or the woods. The one whereat-wherein his younger days he had chosen the well travelled option; the grass flattened safe bet. Now at last at least, older and with a little more or less sense between a pair of hairless ears, he was to return, and begin again.
JFK remembered.
His grandmother, Nan, would boil a ham when Sunday dictated a visit to her flat in Fairview, by the stinking Tolka. Her front door was divided from the river by a tarmacadamed Jurassic playground of bended steel skeletons imprisoned behind a tall iron railing. One could almost see clear over the paint peeled bars from the top of the arse polished slide. Higher in them days when when people wouldnt or couldnt sue councils or landlords. All around graffiti in undecipherable glyphs on red bricked walls or etched into the peeling paint, declared that Decko was indeed a fag, that our day would come, or quite simply penis or wanker.
He and Niamh would slide and swing through an air ripe with river-stench, refuse shoots and burning coal. At high tide the river’s green waters veiled a gloomy battlefield of buckled bicycles, shopping carts, tyres, and broken prams. When the tide fell, they projected their macabre and twisted frames above the slime, like animal carcasses denuded of their flesh.
Nan controlled the heat in her flat by opening a window. She loved a fire that roared up the hearth and, melted droopy insomniac sockets into her brown plastic coal scuttle. In the narrow kitchenette steam from the pots would loiter about the ceiling and the noise of Match of the day would murmur inwards from the dining beyond. There stood he, staring for a while into the big metal pot that she used to boil her whites, her stockings, and smalls in a strange and magical stew.
His aproned grandmother filled the pot with a flaccid joint as he watched the boiling water turn over and try to consume the brown scum bobbing on top of its turbulence. Nan and mother would retire to the dining room whispering, over the oil-cloth covered table, thick limbs and polished planks crowned with a glass Virgin, plastic oranges and apples at her feet; treasures from Knock or Lourdes. Miracles and Holy virgins whispering secrets to children, that was her exotica, her phantasmagoria, strange and beautiful it seemed in the dim light of its departure.
Regardless of the temperature without, there was always a fire burning in Nan's flat. The flames from the hearth moved with the rhythmic mumblings of family squabbles, and the gentle pock pocking of the grumbling joint. His mother held the bottle in Niamh's mouth. His sister; small, round, fat and pink with life, her wine-gums gnawing at the brown plastic tit, disinterested, full of milk and wind. Out from the pot came joint of pig, steaming, pink, framed with a cuff of jaundiced fat. All of it tied about the waist with a piece of string, keeping flesh together. The bristly twine was cut with the black handled carving knife.
Strange that he should recall such a detail; a knife and its handle, he thought. Yet, how vividly he recalled the serrated blade, that never needed sharpening, and how all in the house would refer to it respectfully.
He watched with nauseous curiosity as the dead fiend would slip steaming onto the cutting board. Pushed from its skewer it resembled a primordial creature crawling from the sea towards it’s two legged destiny. Flesh of pig, fruit of tuber, work of human hands, the green veins and arteries of cabbage all emerging from the steaming fog of the little kitchenette. All was neatly arranged upon chipped china plates, positioned with historical geometry about the table, and then suffocated with brown sauce and mustard, before being hacked and mashed with old fashioned knives and forks, His father would paint a thin layer of luminous mustard across a slab of ham before proceeding to butter his potatoes.
Nan’s silverware was blunt and dulled with age, an awkward miscellany of old and older, wedding gifts, dissolved unions scattered by decades.
Pops would return as evening grew dim, home from the pub to breath life within. His hearty portion of desiccated pork would be produced from the oven with sighs and exaggerated admonishments. Its yellow edges crisp, potato ridges browned and pointed, parched mountain peaks, cabbage a deeper shade of Tolka green. After he had eaten he might bounce Niamh upon his knee, making baby noises, his breath warm and sweet with barley juice. Then upon draining tea leaves from the end of his cup, the box of bulbs and tubes that consumed fifty pence pieces.. was silenced at last and Pops would tell stories about the Tans.
He was a soldier of the free state during the civil war, and was rewarded with a job in the Post Office for services rendered in the cause. From uniform to uniform in the service of the state but all he wanted was his few jars, an auld smoke and to be left alone. He was just a boy when Pearse dispatched him with orders for the lads in Boland's Mills; " ….just before the Huns sent their gunboats down the Liffey." He would lower his voice as though divulging secrets of national importance.
"Mick! …Be a good lad, and bring this wee note to the lads in the Mills. “And Mick…..,” as Pops had turned to depart “…remember me to your grandchilders. Remember me to your grandchilders." Pops repeated the final wish, to his open mouthed audience of one.
There were countless cannons, tanks, and weapons of mass destruction, all hidden away, waiting for the right moment. For the right enemy to come along. weapons that could be used against burglars, school bullies, kidnappers, monsters, and creaks in the night. The precise location of this store of mayhem, like the rest of his stories was buried with him in a Tipperary grave.
Atavistic dialogues.
"Would you like tea or coffee sir?"
"Yes thanks, all of the above." He replied cheerily, sleepily. But the hostess wasn't inclined to banter. The computer programme did not contain a suitable response. Anoher 'smart-arse' her raised brows declared silently.
“Coffee please,” he apologised with a humble grin, before receiving his cup. She returned to him most graciously that practiced smile of the service industry, and moved on to the seat in front of him. She hadn’t seen him at all. He sipped his brew slowly, and leaned back into the limited recline of his seat, peering out the window at clouds, contemplating their infinite complexities their mysterious synthesis of chaos and physics. White nebulous cushions receded into the turquoise depths of a vast and tranquil ocean. Yet the whole of it was a teaming mass of volatile steam! The same steam that burst from pots and the spouts of truculent kettles. How could it be that all of it now solid and as unchanging as the earth.
Turbulent twisting gaseous steam,
apparently calm and so serene
Gas of my bowels from deep within.
The aparent inconsistency might yet be explained if as he suspected mass and time were related? Not related, but the same thing altogether perhaps. If the great mass of steam within the enormity of a cloud had its own time, a time that was relative to its size? In which case the more massive a thing the slower its own time would pass. That was the very why of how the outside of a wheel moved slower than the axle. Time and space were one, not related, but one of the same with one being another way of looking at the other. That would explain why the steam of the kettle erupted into the air and tumbled about itself wildly whilst that of a cloud, made of the same stuff changed hardly at all. All on account of the one being bigger that the other.
The white motionless world outside was a landscape unique unto itself, beautiful and uninhabited slightly ephemeral and utterly unexplored, not unlike those planets at the farthest regions at the universe.
At last, when he least expected it, and at the moment he had ceased to think upon the matter any longer his ears were liberated from the hum drum and sleep, gentle sleep began to bath his drums and cool his coffee.
The nose lifted and the aircraft began to ascend, higher and higher still it rose, quietly and smoothly without a hint of turbulence. The mountainy ocean of cloud below lost its grey shades of frost and became as even and smooth as a fallen drift. Beyond the tiny window, clouds gave way to the uninterrupted vista of pale blue, extending towards infinity, and just as he began to fear the plane might leave the stratosphere and venture into darker realms, it ceased in its ascent and assumed the horizontal once again.
Presently they began to circle about an enormous continent of cloud. The cabin bell chimed twice, first soft, and then severe. The seat belt light above him became illuminated, and the captain announced, in a comforting and urbane tone, that the plane was about to land and that the crew were to prepare the cabin for landing. The aircraft began it's decent and he watched from the window as the gigantic nimbus below became more defined in its architecture. Vaporous wisps of gas rose into the air assuming the contours of buildings, control towers, terminals, hotels and car parks. A silver lining flashed intermittently and declared the runway. Beyond, a spaghetti of , grey roadways ferried vehicles too and fro, it was an airport devoid of colour and not like any other he had ever seen. He continued looking out the window, strangely unsurprised as the runway of flattened cloud rose to meet them.
The proximity of the ground exposed the realities of speed and power in a frightening moment before the wheels touched, and then violently thumped and wobbled upon the smooth surface of the runway. Rivets rattled convulsively, shaking simultaneous sensations of fear and relief into all on board. Wing flaps were raised the nose dipped as plane and passengers sped towards a reluctant stop.When at last they came to a halt the seat belt light above his head was extinguished and passengers began to stand and stretch retrieving luggage that might or night not have shifted within the overhead compartments. The same young pullet who had served him his coffee stood at exit. He paused before her."Where exactly are we supposed to go from here?" he asked. "What is your final destination sir.?" she asked as though speaking with a child.
"Dublin,." He replied, "....Dublin Ireland." he added, being as specific as he could be.
"Go straight ahead Sir," she replied. "into the main terminus, and follow the signs to the 'Transfer Lounge.' You can wait there for your connecting flight." She nodded to indicate that the information had been transmitted, and there would be no more forthcoming, and he was holding up the train of passengers behind.
Once inside the terminal he was comforted by the realisation that there was nothing untoward about the place. The ground was solid beneath his feet and the buildings made of cement and glass. Perhaps his initial perceptions had been more the result of tiredness? Of not having finished his coffee, or having slept when he should have been awake? The terminal building was thronged with people moving about in all directions, each oblivious to the other, lost in the mindlessness that defines the crowd. Automatons pushed luggage on trolleys, and waited patiently within rows of orange seats forming a crossword in the centre of the bustling hall. There were a number of shops and restaurants behind a mezzanine above his head. All were busy with customers, purchasing window shopping to pass the time. Christ airports are truly ghastly places, he thought.
Large television screens suspended from the ceilings advertised the arrivals and departures. Whilst perusing walls and columns for appropriate signage, a laminated plaque upon one of the many concrete pillars emerged from the chaos and directed him towards the ‘Transfer Lounge’. He followed the invitation of several pointed signs, up a series the airy escalators and down the rushy thoroughfares. The crowds had begun to thin when finally he arrived at his destination, on the uppermost floor of the terminal building.., but he couldn’t be certain for the escalators appeared to go on forever.
He passed through a pair of glass sliding doors which silently parted before him, and once inside he realised with some relief, that he had entered the cosy confines of a suitably furnished, gently illuminated Pub. Soft strains of Chopin filled the air and mingled with the aroma of tobacco, beer and sliced lemons. There were a number of bulging brown leather chairs worn at the arms, elegant in their day, quietly awaiting company in various in nooks and snugs. Mostly unoccupied they sitting patiently about sturdy wooden coffee tables scuffed but crowned with thick glass ash trays. Formidable weapons in the wrong hands.
A bar of darkly stained teak emerged from the shadows and divided the lounge. About it, perched upon velvet cushioned stools, a few enduring patrons spoke together in low serious tones. Raindrops were followed by the moonlight sonata t and indeed the ambience was so inviting that there was nothing else to be done but recline. He approached the bar and occupied an empty stool next to a retiring gentleman sporting an elegant tweed suit and presently engaged in conversation with a companion to his left. The other was perhaps twenty years his junior, and was wearing a brown cassock of the type that might be worn by a monk or clergyman of some sort.
A bow tied wispy waist-coated barman emerged from the darkness shining a thick tumbler, pausing now and then to inspect. "Do you take dollars?" Brian asked, interrupting the polishing. The bartender’s dark eyes sparkled with a hint of mischievousness. "Sur.." he said in a low deep voice that seemed out of keeping with his slight frame and youthful face, "…..we take all the currencies of the wurld…., except dollars." His smile exposed a gold incisor and lower canine, the bank account of a nomad. An odd looking character.., with dark hair and the complexion of a Roma gypsy, and yet he spoke with the unmistakable accent of a northsider.
"Ar its alroigh bud; all of the drinks here are free. Slong as ye don gerup te any trouble." He said, as Brian had begun to root in his jacket pocket for currency. "Free?" He replied wondering what the reference to ‘trouble’ might mean. "Tha's wor I said guvenor." "Well in that case I'll have a pint of plain when you'r ready." He removed his jacket and hung it upon the back of the stool impressed, if not a little suspicious at all he had seen so far. The barman placed a creamy pint upon the counter before him and together they watched it set in silence. He topped off the head, and with a flourish of the hand he added the outline of a shamrock to the surface of the rich dark cream before returned to his shady corner and his quiet polishing.
It had been a long time since his last pint. “Your only man!” he said to himself as he sipped a partial mouthful. The first sensation of course was not to be savoured. Pleasure could only be experienced once the palate had been gently reintroduced to the conflicting assertions of cream and burned malt. Bitter, slightly grating at first, and yet soothing and delicate for the remainder. He gave an imperceptible shudder taste and smell were united in surprise.. Then at last he bathed his lips once again and agreed emphatically with the auld bursted cliché about the best things in life being free.
As he savoured familiar flavours, the conversation between his immediate neighbours became audible. The monk was addressing the tweed suit who all the while was contemplatively puffing upon the stump of a fat cigar.
"....it wouldn't matter much to me Sigmund." He said emphatically. "You know quite well that I was never much of a traditionalist." The tweed suit began to chuckle. "Oh come off it Tommy! How can a monk not be much of a traditionalist? That’s ridiculous!" He laughed a cloud of smoke. "I feel....," the monk replied, shifting himself upon his stool, ".....that far too many conflicts over religion have begun with a particular and sometimes fanatical declaration of who or what God is. Whereas, more important than such trite and ludicrous detail, is our supposed pursuit of the ideal."
"Oh phooey.., the ideal of God!" The suit replied sarcastically. "What does that mean exactly? Nothing less than a euphemism. Man has declared that God created him in His own image…, therefore God is a man, or at the very least is the image of one. If a camel could paint a picture his God would look like a Camel!
This pursuit of the “ideal” as you call it, is a retreat to some kind of pre-Christian tribalism and tantamount to blasphemy, and you a Monk!” He guffawed. "It is not a euphemism Sigmund nor is it blasphemy." The monk replied.
"The ideal I am speaking of is that of enlightenment, a phenomenon as uniquely human as man’s image of himself or that of his God." He added with emphasis. "Enlightenment my friend, that is the most honest conceptualisation of God." "So, you are now stating, that you don't believe in the Judaeo-Christian description of the Almighty as per Old and even New Testament?" The cigar asked with disbelief.
"Sigmund that is a silly question, one that is asked in the hope of winning some kind of argumentative concession, rather than engaging with the issues we are attempting to explore. We cannot have a conversation if you insist upon this egotistical point scoring." The monk returned. "It would be correct to state, that I don't believe that the Christian faith, or any faith for that matter, is large enough to encompass the idea (or the description) of God in His infinite entirety. Yet describe this entity we must, we must put meat on the bones and flesh on the skin so that we can see or at least imagine what it is that we are speaking of. If you simply wish to divest God of his particular manifest form why don't you carry on this conversation with Spinoza and not me? Our view of the almighty is egocentric and anthropocentric; we see God as manlike we give him a son, an antagonist, and a Virgin bride, so that he will become real to us so that he can live within us, so that we can give comprehensible form to his Infinite entirety."
“Infinite entirety!” The cigar scoffed contemplatively. “You’re a cad! You’ll be pinned to nothing but your crucifix! Infinite entirety", he repeated laughingly.
The monk was undeterred. “Let me ask you this, mister matter-of-fact. Do we accept, that ‘God’, be he real or conceptual, can only be correctly described in terms of the infinite?" "I'll grant you that."
"Well then.., it follows that our infinite God cannot be wholly contained within the limited definitions of any particular faith or creed."
" Yes yes…. perhaps you should be wearing the suit and I the cassock.” The cigar puffed.“Semantics Thomas! Your going about in circles. What I am asking you, is how can you displace the doctrine of Christianity with these ideals of infinity and infinite entirety, when, with few exceptions, Thomism," he puffed a large cloud so as to give emphasis to the eponym. " is practically synonymous with Catholicism?"
The monk seemed to be taking the conversation far more seriously than his companion, pausing and pondered before his reply. "I wouldn't agree that I'm rejecting Christianity in its entirety Sigmund.” He said following a contemplative pause. “After all…., we are in purgatory." The reply was tendered with a satisfaction that was close to smugness. "And as you know, it was the Christians who insisted upon that point from the beginning." He lifted his glass and gave their eavesdropper a friendly nod that at once acknowledged his presence and almost invited a contribution. "Well just a minute now Thomas,” the cigar put in defensively.
"This may very well be purgatory, but we can't be sure of that, until we find out what is coming next. I mean, who knows, perhaps we might have to go back down for another round? You heard that Gautama chap going on about all of that jazz the other night night." "We are certainly waiting on something, I’ll grant you that." The monk replied. However, there are plenty around here who maintain that we may well be in Heaven, that our expectations are simply too high. .” He fell silent for a moment, and added in a tone of self deprecation. “Although there are plenty who feel that it might even be hell. Nonetheless, we can’t exactly call it purgatory until we know what’s coming next.”
“Heaven indeed!” The good doctor laughed. “That was your comrade's idea, and he only said that on account of the free drink.” Sigmund you know perfectly well Saint Patrick is no friend of mine, he's an inebriate, and just because we wear the same.." "No matter, no matter," the cigar interrupted. "He is one of your lot, and a Saint to boot.” The tweed suit uttered the word saint with some irreverence if not a with a hint of envy, Brian noticed. "The salient point here.." the monk continued, "is that I don't know what lies in store for us, and of course that Christianity doesn't have all the answers, despite what the despots and demagogues might insist. If we are to believe that the Christians have a monopoly on truth we are saying that Muslims, Hindus, Buddhists, Atheists, and the whole shebang, are all wrong, or at least utterly misguided in their interpretations of the universe. And that, my good friend is tantamount to religious jingoism! If the existence of many religions proves anything at all, it proves that none alone is large enough to contain infinity.
Infinity alone, my good doctor, its existence, or non existence…, that remains the cardinal question to be answered, for that is the only concept that is large enough to Gods and Atheists alike. If the Universe is as infinite as we suspect, it follows that our God must also infinite also. As an infinite, He, She, or It simultaneously defies and includes all definitions and dogmas, and is large enough to contain all finte creeds and yet by definition is too large to be contained by them, despite their conviction or eminent scientific background ." The monk peered irreverently at the suit from over the brim of his raised glass.
"Oh you are the chameleon Thomas! Am I to understand, that you are a Christian, what is more a Monk.” The cigar petulantly puffed. “And yet you are as much a Christian as; a Muslim, a pagan, a Jew a Hindu, a Buddhist, a Shiite, a separatist, a unionist, a spiritualist, a hedonist, a masochist a misanthropist a big ender or a little ender? Ha ha!” He laughed smooth and luxurious peels of laughter. Ha ha, what a lot of humbug! You, my good man are either a Christian or you are not!
You just wait until I tell Copernicus and Nosey Brahe about these new notions of yours. Infinity humbug.” He laughed again more heartily. Brian had been listening attentively and was not so much interested in the subject matter as he was in one particular point he had overheard. "Excuse me, he interrupted as politely as possible. "Did I hear you say that this is purgatory?" he asked. The cigar fell silent and turned to examine the interloper. "I don't mean to be rude....," Brian added with some embarrassment, as the cigar looked him up and down with an air of haughty suspicion."That's quite all right young man.” He said at last. “I see you have just arrived?" "Yes, well, I'm waiting for a transfer flight to Dublin. I don't expect to be here too long." To his surprise both men began to chuckle, and he blushed brightly as he tried to ascertain the source of their amusement.
"Well my friend, I wouldn't be in a hurry. I've been waiting for a transfer for more than sixty years!" The cigar puffed. "And my good friend Thomas here," he gestured towards the monk. "he has been waiting for more than seven hundred."
"Seven hundred and twenty six, old and wise years to be exact." His companion added smiling. "I'm sorry, but I'm afraid I don't quite understand." Brian said as both men began to chortle like schoolboys. "Oh don't apologise." The monk insisted, pausing to catch his breath. "Allow me to introduce myself. My name is Thomas Aquinas, and my companion and arbiter elegantarium," he raised his glass in salute, "is the eminent Psychiatrist, Physician and ichthyologist, Doctor Sigmund Freud." He drained his whisky glass and tapped the edge upon bar in judicial confirmation..
Doctor Freud ceased his laughter and extended a confident and friendly hand. "Do call me Sigmund." He said taking a firm grasp of Brian’s and shaking with a strangely exagerated vigour as though that had been in aquaintance for some time. Simultaneously he exhaled a mushroom-cloud into the air above his head.
"And what is your name, young man?" He asked "Oh, I'm sorry, it’s Brian…,” “Ah, Boru?” The doctor finished. "We've been wondering where you were." “ Ne, em, Carey, Brian Carey.” “Mmm, I see,” The replied a little disappointed, I don't recall any Carey's in the anals Thomas do you."
"Are you by any chance a relation to George Carey, Christian missionary to Indian and recently remembered on the six ruppee stamp?" The monk asked. "I'm afraid not." Brian replied "Well, in answer to your initial question," the monk continued, “…we suspect that this is purgatory; the place where fortunate mortals arrive before being dispatched to the after life. Wherever or whatever that might be." He added, throwing Doctor Freud a glance that bespoke of their opposition on the subject. "I'm terribly sorry," Brian interrupted. "…but this is an airport.” He looked about himself. “Isn't it?"
"An astute observation." Dr. Freud replied, dipping the wiry tips of his grey whiskers into the creamy head of his pint. "You are quite right." Thomas Aquinas put in. "And can you think of a more fitting venue for our celestial sojourn?" Brian thought for a moment. "I suppose not…." he said, looking about at his surroundings once again, as though all was beginning to make some kind of sense.
"You're Irish are you?" Thomas Aquinas asked him. "Yes I.. eh yes..." Brian replied uncertain of even this solid fact. "Why that’s marvellous!" The monk said enthusiastically. "I'm sure you'll have time to have a chat with Paddy. He’s the only other Irishman here, apart from your good self. A very interesting fellow, English by birth, but Irish to the core I’m sure. He’s done all kinds of marvellous things, frightening the snakes out of Ireland and miracles on a par with Christ himself... Do you know him?”
“Christ?” “No No… Saint Paddy?” “If he wasn’t that fond of the drink he might get around to driving a few snakes out of this place.” The cigar put in dryly. “Oh Sigmund don’t be so sour.” “You know as well as I do there were no snakes in Ireland when he got there.” The doctor replied imperiously. "Really?" Brian replied. "He's here too?" he asked in disbelief. "Oh yes, in fact he's down in the casino at the minute with his best pal The Marquis di Sadie, inseparable the pair of them. Tweedle dee and tweedle dummer.”
Thomas Aquinas dismissed the Doctor's flippancy, by rolling his eyes towards the ceiling. "I'm sure you'll meet him, they’ll be back for happy hour. Never misses the pickles and sausage- rolls, " he added in a whisper, "a bit of a cad but he loves a good ‘chin-wag’ as he puts it." "Almost as much as he loves his porter,” Doctor Freud added. "Purgatory?" Brian interjected in a tone of respectful disbelief, leaving Saint Patrick aside for the minute. "Yes indeed." The Doctor confirmed, producing a silver lighter from his jacket pocket and proceeding to ignite a fresh cigar.
"A subliminal state of existence and non-existence,” he puffed and paused and puffed again. “Wherein, imagination is the product of reality, and reality the product of ones imagination. A hiatus from the madness below; a place where", "Oh now you’ve got him going!" Thomas Aquinas laughed loudly and began to tap the bar to the iambic pentameter of the doctors song:
We souls wait here, with juice a plenty
He paused and raised his glass in salutation.
For the wretched world to empty
A few come here but most to hell
Where ten to one the righteous dwell
There’s nothing here to do but wait
And pass the days at any rate
But our discourse it serves us kindly
And destiny’s road we travel blindly
Imprisoned high on drink and dreaming
The world without is gas and steaming
The laws of physics are a rhyme
So we converse to pass the time
And when our words with chaos mingle
Snowflakes hail and raindrops fall
Maggot man looks blind about him
And he the master of it all.
Whether it be doom and gloomy madness
Each his thoughts he shares with gladness
For, as all of us do know
We could have ended up below
We souls wait here, with juice a plenty
For the wretched world to empty
The few come hither, yet most to hell
Where ten to one the righteous dwell.
"Wonderful!" declared Thomas Aquinas raising his glass in salutation as the Doctor drained the dregs from his own, keeping the glass elevated until the last frothy island had slid into his bearded gaping mouth. Brian had not been especially attentive to the song, for he was deep in thought. "What do you mean, when you say you don't know where you’re going from here?" He asked. "I'm afraid that no one is quite certain my boy." Thomas Aquinas sighed. "If we did, it would certainly put an end to quite a bit of quarrelling." He leaned closer and whispered. "Last night a fellow by the name of Hobbs, and.." he paused and looked quizzically at Doctor Freud for a moment. " Sigmund, what was the name of that talkative American chap who was in here last night?" "Thoreau.” The doctor replied. “Henry David…. too sweet to be wholesome if you ask me."
"Yes that’s him, a very handsome fellow…” he added with an exaggerated wink that Brian found immediately unnerving."Anyhow, the two of them were thrown out, for starting an almighty row that almost came to blows." "Pity it didn’t. That chap is too full of nature’s kindness. I tell you, if he’s going to heaven, everyone is!" "All we are certain of.." Thomas Aquinas continued whispering, "....is that we must wait here, until whatever happens, or doesn’t happen next."
"Here on top of our magic mountain, where time stands still.." The Doctor added dryly, setting his pint glass upon the bar. "Where, beyond our windowless pub the seasons melt into endless oceans of undulating cloud." He added with a hint of melancholy. "Oh now it is not quite as dreary as all that Sigmund." Thomas said with strained enthusiasm. "We’ve got all the facilities here. Good food!" He thought for a moment and placed a forefinger vertically across his lips. "Plenty of fine malt..," He raised his glass cheerily. "And there are lots of nice shops to have a browse in, whenever one gets really bored. There’s a casino, a Gym, and a pool and sauna on the ground floor even a clinic to care for our corporal constitutions. Now you can’t get better than that.” “Oh four star, four star!” The Doctor repeated. “But the best thing about purgatory is the stimulating conversation. Thomas Aquinas said hurriedly.
"Almost everybody here loves a good chat, discourses ad circularium ad infinitum… and they’re always entertaining." "Especially when ones opinions are changed as frequently as ones undergarments," Doctor Freud interrupted.The monk placed his glass carefully upon the bar and took up the gauntlet. "Sigmund, you know perfectly well that beneath this Hessian cassock there is nothing but the generous endowment of nature herself, as unchanged as my own opinions for the past seven centuries." Thomas Aquinas straightened himself upon his stool releasing a fold of cloth that had become tucked between his cheeks.
"To return to my original point, I am simply stating that like any religion, Christianity is limited, by its own contemporary ideology. Yet, as a means towards the pursuit of enlightenment, it is as good as any other belief system in some respects better. In my opinion it is certainly more comprehensive than that psychoanalytical mumbo-jumbo of yours. Or even the transcendental twaddle that handsome young Thoreau fellow was going on about last night."
“Transcendental twaddle indeed! You should have said that to his face last night. The Doctor said with a yawn stretching his legs beneath the bar. "Religion is to God, as a map is to ones destination." Thomas Aquinas continued ignoring the doctor’s quip. “The destination cannot be discovered, nor the journey be properly begun, without some idea of a route."
"Well Thomas, I'm afraid I would have to disagree, in the strongest possible terms." Doctor Freud replied. "Marvellous Sigmund! Absolutely marvellous!" He clapped his hands and seemed excessively delighted at the prospect of a disagreement.
"As far as I'm concerned, Religion is man's licence for immorality, the primal delusion of humanity and the rock it is sure to perish upon!" He declared confidently. "Delusion?" Thomas repeated, winking at Brian as the Doctor concealed himself behind another grey nimbus. "Precisely. A firm fixed belief in the unreal. A mass psychogenic delusion affording man the moral entitlement to polute and destroy an earth that has been 'given' to him, it vindicates his ignorance of science and the unpalatable reality of his mortality. What is more," He lowered changed his tone and glanced at their guest. "I suspect that you are in agreement and that you are simply inveigling a debate for the amusement of our friend here." He said as he calmly puffed another cloud.
"Now Sigmund how can you possibly....," "But never mind, never mind." The cigar waved. "Given that Socrates is not about to entertain us…,” “Having his hair done.” Thomas confided in another whisper. “I shall endeavour to put the subject to rest, once and for all." He puffed like a steam engine, bellowing regular clouds of smoke and building pressure before departure. "Institutionalised religion, has unquestionably done the greatest disservice to our race since its invention some twelve thousand years ago. He said with a frown. "How so Sigmund?" Thomas Aquinas asked with exaggerated enthusiasm. "It has, as Nietzsche put it, 'murdered God'.
"Is he here?" Brian interrupted the Doctor’s preamble. "Who, God?" "No, Nietzsche?" Brian replied. "The Thug!" Doctor Freud added, and was about to say more until Thomas Aquinas cut him short. "Comrade Nietzsche is indeed here, but you'll not meet him in this establishment…,” he cast a side long glance at the polishing bartender paused poised and submerged within the shadows. Leaning over the Doctor’s pint he whispered; "Barred for life,” and winked, touching the tip of his nose communicating a point that was apparent to none but himself. Doctor Freud emitted a brisk cough. "Excusibus muchibus." Thomas Aquinas demurely deferred.
"As I was saying,” the Doctor continued, "when man invented the concept of possession, Religion was its inevitable consequence; he had no need of it before then. When the first brute of our race decided that certain things belonged exclusively to him, he needed an authority to validate that claim, and on that day his God was born. The Christian God was the first true capitalist."
Religion, has built its church, upon the solid foundation of man’s fears and his preference for passive ignorance over education. It stuccos the walls of this enormous empty vessel with spatterings of mythologies, stolen or at best appropriated over the centuries. It comforts the dullard and shields him from the intellectual demands of philosophy, sanctifying his ignorance and his life’s pursuit of the material. It protects the status quo and calls wealth; the ‘blessings’ and the ‘endowments’, of a racist, vindictive, nepotistic, interventionist and profoundly schizophrenic God!” He puffed an enormous cloud. Historically, organised religion has been a vehicle used by politicians and priests (there was a time when the two were indistinguishable) to keep the masses beneath the boot-heel of their master.
The authority of this God-fantasy has been put to immense use ever since; whipping the malleable masses into shape, convincing them to be happy with their miserable lot, compelling them to build pyramids, and ziggurats, sacrifice virgins, and pay a share of their labours over to those who claimed a special relationship with their proclaimed creator of all things. Second only to his greed and born directly out of it, man’s God concept has been the most destructive delusion the world has ever seen. This God of men was fashioned in man’s own pot bellied image; and once imbued with magical powers, universal knowledge and absolute authority he signed over to his creator, unrestricted dominion over the earth, conferring upon him title and deed to the physical universe in its entirety. Soon after he was invented he was put to work on man’s behalf; stamping his seal of infinite approval upon man’s selective morality.
It was the Emperor Constantine who saw the potential of the first Christian sect and rather than boil them alive.., which the prudence of his predecessor had directed, he gave them the investment they’d been waiting for and used them to his advantage, soon discovering that it was and would remain the greatest ally in military conquest and expansion. Non believers became fit for the sword, and their wives and possessions forfeit to the true faith. Indigenous populations became heathen savages and entire continents became the property of those who believed in the new God. Ever since the sorry day of his invention man’s God has been very busy rubber stamping the most heinous atrocities the world has ever seen.
“Oh Sigmund!” Thomas Aquinas interrupted suddenly. “Now you hold your horses Doctor Angelicas, I have not finished.” The Doctor cut him short. “For centuries, with the authority of this self made God, politicians and priests have exploited man’s congenital gullibility and his preference for sweets of fancy over a diet of bitter fact and harsh reality. With costumes, rituals and the omnipotent threat of hell wrath or the sword of the faithful, man is compelled to grovel and scrape, so that his wheat might have rain, his pigs grow fat and his miserable lot be ennobled and eked out in the service of this divine afflatus.
The means may have evolved but the end has remained the same and the conquest of philosophy and the capacity for independent thought. Control of behaviour and thought in return for visas to so glorious afterlife. The after life! Ha1 What genius and what foolishness to eat it… To get a man to work his life for you and promise to pay him for it when he is dead…. that is the promise, nay Thomas that is the genius of your religions!
“Visas to the after life!” “Ha Ha!” Thomas Aquinas slapped his knee violently, and laughed so loudly that the bartender briefly emerged from the shadows to throw a watchful eye upon the ribaldry. The Doctor ignored the outburst and continued dryly. “This man made God of yours is a plague, a disease, it is the curse of Sisyphus, the killer of truth and the greatest evil the world has ever known.”
He fell silent and reached for his half filled pint glass. Bravo Sigmund, Bravo!” Thomas Aquinas called. “Isn’t it a pity that Jesus is down at the clinic with that Magdelin one! He would have burst his sides at that soliloquy, ‘A schizophrenic God!,’ He lowered his voice. “ You had better be careful Sigmund, I don’t think the Ayatollah would laugh if he heard you.” He glanced cautiously towards the barman who had finished polishing and was presently slicing lemons.
“He might put a fatwa on your bearded head.” He whispered. “Or worse still, bar you.” “He can do as he pleases.” The cigar replied peevishly. “Himself and the Joiner have more to answer for in all of this than I do.” "Don't you think that's a little unfair Sigmund?" Thomas Aquinas asked calmly. "What if society were to be abandoned by religion, and left to its own devices?" He scoffed disdainfully, raising his eyebrows to the ceiling. " What would man and his evolved brain have come to then? The moral anarchy that you and mister Thoreau go about preaching is little more than hedonism and would unravel itself in no time, because of the very gullibility which you have already mentioned. Man cannot survive without leadership, and unless that leadership claims authority over his very soul he will dismiss it.
If children were not taught of the existence of God, or morality or the concepts of sin or evil? Chaos would reign supreme, I have little doubt about that!" Thomas Aquinas said with conviction.
"I don't believe that anarchy and chaos would reign supreme in the absence of religion." Doctor Freud returned. "No less than anarchy or chaos do reign at the moment in the presence of religion." He added, turning towards Brian.
"My good man, given that you have just arrived from below. How would you describe the present state of affairs down in the badlands?" He nodded towards the velvet carpet. "Madness, utter madness." Brian replied honestly. "I have just left Ameri..,"
"Well there you have it Thomas ‘madness!’ utter madness!" the doctor repeated. "Right under the olfactories of that same religion you are at pains to defend! I put it to you Thomas that it is not madness for the want of religion….. but rather madness because of it.
We have tried more of it, and different variations of it, as antidotes to that same madness, and all to no avail. I put it to you my friend that religion is no antidote for the insanity, but is the bloody cause of the greater part of it!" "Well now Doctor Freud....,." Thomas replied, “I am afraid you are simply ranting. It is not religion that compels men to rape, pillage, brutalise and murder, to steal and slander, as you would have us believe. These crimes, this 'madness' as you put it, cannot be blamed upon religion, for I am aware of no holy doctrine which directs man to do so. If you are hoping to relate social decay to the presence of religion, you have failed to convince me, for it is quite clear that man is in more need of spiritual guidance today than he has ever been in the past." Thomas Aquinas spoke coolly. The doctor placed his pint upon the bar with exaggerated delicacy.
"Allow me to explain Thomas" he continued. "Oh please do, please do." His partner repeated with obvious insincerity, glancing towards the ceiling briefly and intimating to the bartender that all of their drinks should be refilled. Upon duplicating the round, the bartender emptied the ashtray of extinguished cigar butts, and placed a freshly polished one in its place, a cube of thick clear glass that had probably cracked a skull or two in its day."Perhaps an example would elucidate the point." He continued. "We are all ears Doctor Freud." Thomas replied facetiously.
The Doctor reached for his pint, and then hesitated, noticing that it was not quite settled. He satisfied himself by igniting a fresh cigar. "Well,..." his words were preceded with a gentle pocking and puffing, then a glow of amber through the aromatic fog. "Were one of the many fine statues in the Vatican, or any simple church for that matter, to suddenly begin weeping heavy genuine tears,..." He paused and sipped with evident pleasure. "The event would undoubtedly be hailed as a miracle. In good time a delegation of inspectors would arrive, and if warranted divine intervention would assuredly be declared. True?" He turned to Brian.
"I suppose so." Brian replied, "...In the absence of a natural explanation, of course." He added in favour of the dubious Aquinas.. "Well then, there you have it!" The Doctor asserted, as though he were about to announce a checkmate.
"And your point being?" Thomas Aquinas asked."Well Brother Aquinas…." the Doctor continued. "Where are the inspectors for each blade of grass?" He asked in a tone of undeserved triumph. "For every leaf!" He continued the pitch of his voice marching steadily higher. "For every star? Every petal of every flower? Every note of song? Every; cloud, cliff, clod or crest of wave? For indeed, my good Doctor Aquinas, there is more of a miracle in one blade of grass than there will ever be found in an army of weeping statues."
"Oh please Doctor Freud!" Thomas Aquinas said suddenly with a prolongation of the ‘please’. "Is this perambulation, permutation and patent obfuscation really necessary?" He asked, with unconcealed irritation. “For God’s sake! Give me a break!” He snapped in annoyance. “And …the ‘every blade of grass’ bit. Wow weee! That kind of talk does you no service at all Sigmund, and besides it is very dated, really!
"Well Thomas," The Doctor replied smugly as he produced his silver lighter and held it before the tip of his extinguished cigar with an unsteady hand. "I maintain that the world is as mad as our young friend here has put it, precisely because God has been murdered and reinvented by your marvellous religions. How convenient it is to destroy and mangle, then to have the omnipotent one wag His paternal finger at our transgressions and dispense penance and even forgiveness.
Man's transgressions are not; "against God’s will" as your cohort might have us believe. Man does not traverse the ‘will’ of God, for the will of God is the will of man!" He emphasised the word as though it contained the thrust of his meaning. “Moral law is mans creation. Man is governed by the laws of physics, he is glued to the earth by the measurable force of gravity. He does not sin against the ‘will’ or doctrine of zealots and their invented divinities. If man sins he sins against himself, against the earth, the nature which sustains him, and against a dead God whom religion has murdered. There is no forgiveness for mans sins, none that can be sold by priests or purchased by man. There is no forgiveness, there is only consequence.
"Sigmund!" Thomas Aquinas snapped. "Stop raising your voice! You will have us all thrown out." He motioned towards the bartender who looked from his lemons with a stern expression upon his face and seemed about to say something when the doctor continued in a whisper addressing himself to Brian. "When I was a medical student…, long before you were born, I conducted research upon certain members of the carnivorous elasmobranches family. I came to realise, through the study of that archaic and intriguing creature that...."
"Sigmund!" Thomas Aquinas interrupted his companion with evident annoyance. "Not only are you digressing, but you are quite unashamedly attempting to bamboozle us with scientific terminology. Kindly state what a carnivorous elasmobranches is, and please endeavour to make you point as clearly and concisely as possible." "Oh, I do apologise, sharks, my good man," he said. "Through my research on sharks I came to realise that the creator of the universe is unmistakably manifest in the physicalities of or universe.” “Now look who’s being vague, having his cake and eating it too.” Thomas Aquinas put in peevishly.
“That, we can see the handiwork of the Almighty all around us, and nowhere more clearly than in the pulse of life itself. From the macroscopic to the microscopic…, all around us, beneath and within our noses, is the essence of this thing we call God. Man is that same trinity which your predecessors have been squabbling over for eons. Man is composed firstly of physical matter, the effluvium of stars, secondly the potent electrical and gravitational energies which holds those same atoms together… and thirdly he is infused with that illusive motive force we refer to as life. There is your trinity, your holy triumvirate.
The ancient faith of animism, that was practised by our ancestors recognised that the divine in everything around them. “Mankind has ceased to recognise the miracle that is without and within him. This is the tragedy of your age…,” He directed his remak towards Brian “That is rock upon which our species is sure to perish." He paused and suddenly thumped the bar with the base of his fist. "A crime, that has been perpetrated by organised religion. A thousand year old tree is seen only as firewood, whilst the brick facade of a cathedral is believed to house the creator of the universe. Shite and onions!” He roared.
The Barman emerged from the shadows. “Roigh Lads… that’s enough of that…” He said with a gravity and authority that was accentuated by a brief flash of his gold teeth. “Yis will have to tidy things up a bit now if yis don’t mind. There are people trying to have a bit of peace and quiet.” Brian looked about but the pub was clearly empty. “Anymore shouting and I will have to ask yis to leave.” He warned. A silence descended upon the trio and Brian wondered if perhaps the conversation had come to an end. The Barman returned to his lemons.
"Why Sigmund," Thomas Aquinas replied calmly and quite suddenly. "I could not possible agree with you more." He said, much to the other’s surprise. "However you must remember that souls are not equal and that most men are incapable of recognising God, in any form other than that presented to him by religion." "You see!..... There he goes again!" Sigmund Freud said suddenly, raising his voice and appealing to their guest. "I'm afraid I don't quite understand." Brian replied. Doctor Freud placed his half smoked cigar in the ash tray so as his hands would be free to gesticulate. "How can one possibly have a discussion with this self proclaimed Christian, what is more, one of the gurus of his faith, when he insists upon changing his colours like a dammed chameleon?" "A chameleon?" Brian repeated curiously. Yes, yes!" Doctor Freud continued, lowering his voice. "Our friend here, he pointed to Thomas Aquinas with undisguised annoyance. "The smirking monk! He insists upon being a Christian, and then tells us that all souls are not equal! I mean can one produce a more un-Christian utterance than that?"
"I'm afraid I must correct you my good Doctor." Thomas Aquinas said with a smile. It was clear that he was more pleased at having caused the Doctor annoyance, rather than at the prospect of proving him incorrect. "The suggestion that all souls are not equal is no more un-Christian than simply stating that some mortals are more enlightened than others. "Humbug!" Doctor Freud blurted seeking refuge in his pint. "Well..." Thomas Aquinas continued, much pleased that he had taken control of the podium. He spoke to Brian without looking at the indignant Doctor.
"When my learned friend here, refers to the great mass of believers who participate in Christianity, he is failing to make a distinction between the masses and the religion itself. If the great majority of participants in Christianity are dullards, it does not follow that the religion itself is at fault. It simply means that some souls are more enlightened than others."
"I'm afraid.." Brian interrupted, ".....that I have to agree with the doctor. This idea of some souls being better than others does not seem to be very Christian." "Well put my boy!" Sigmund Freud rewarded him with a grin. "You see Thomas! Just as I said." He added triumphantly. Thomas Aquinas continued, ignoring Doctor Freud and directing his comments towards Brian. "What I am implying is not inequality." He said calmly. "Some souls are simply more enlightened than others. Differential enlightenment, if you will. In essence it amounts to nothing more than the simple observation that, some individuals begin their own particular journey of life at a point that is much further down the road towards enlightenment than others.
The great multitude of men eek out their existence within a glass menagerie; as oblivious to the enlightened who observe them from without, as they are to the manacles and pinioning that kennel them within. No matter what one does, or how much one tries to point to the spiritual futility of their lives, such individuals remain steadfast in the belief that despite their misery and abrogation of self, that they are happy. Should a wiser man try to liberate his peers, they will invariably stare blankly back at him and ask; ‘liberate me from what?’".
I cannot help but believe that the enormous difference in the degree of enlightenment that people posses is perhaps explained by some form of reincarnation. Enlightenment or true wisdom is not the product of 'spontaneous generation', as science might have us believe." He threw a testing glance toward his companion. “Enlightenment is instead cultivated over time, or perhaps even lifetimes.” "Madness!" Doctor Freud interrupted, swaying slightly upon his bar stool. "How dare you ridicule science with your accusations of ‘spontaneous generation’, and then hopscotch from, monotheism to infinitism, to reincarnation and from transubstantiation to transmigration! Your position is untenable, you are a charlatan! " His annoyance deprived him of words.
“In my professional capacity as a physician, I must suggest that you desist in this prevarication. You must choose your poison Thomas and be faithful to it otherwise you are at risk of slipping into a psychosis from which even I may be unable to deliver you." He laughed haughtily and then belched loudly. "Sigmund Please!" Thomas Aquinas chastised. "Whilst in matters of physic, I do readily defer to your expertise. I must insist that upon issues of theology you should not be so presumptuous. At least allow me the courtesy of finishing my own sentences." He said before continuing.
"To my mind the purpose of life's journey, is the pursuit of enlightenment. And a crucial element to that enlightenment is the capacity for independent thought." He said quite seriously. "Thoughts, that are not of the great multitude." "Independent of religions!" Doctor Freud interjected slyly. "I don't dispute it Sigmund" Thomas Aquinas replied haughtily. "That is the single commonality that all of us in this place share with one another. But what of the great masses who are incapable of independent thought, of enlightenment or philosophy, what of them? He paused and took a draught of whiskey. "Now before you interrupt me… I must say that it is not from religion, but rather from that desolate hole in man’s consciousness, that springs forth the very fountainhead of his misery. You say religion prevents man from thinking I say that most men are incapable of thinking and at least religion offers them hope.”
"Here here! Brother Aquinas." Doctor Freud put in jovially, before he drained his pint. "Consequently," Thomas Aquinas continued. "What are we to deduce from the observation that at any moment in time the pursuit of enlightenment or philosophy does occupy but the smallest proportion of our race?” He asked."I have absolutely no idea." Brian replied with sincerity, skilfully concealing a yawn between the syllables of his reply. "Well firstly…." the monk continued. "if we agree that all things being equal some individuals are quite simply born more enlightened than others. Within the same family nay amongst identical twins one may be a fool and the other a philosopher. From whence does that inherent innate wisdom come? Is it not possible that the path towards enlightenment is one that stretches before the womb and beyond the grave. Is it possible that the soul of man is as infinite as that of the universe? This latter point would suggest the existence of some form of reincarnation. Furthermore, the fact that those pursuing enlightenment as a mode of life, seem to represent a mere minority, would suggest that mortal life is merely the smallest portion of an of educational process. This possibility at once explains and gives a purpose to our existence…. We see why thinkers are in a minority in the same way that final year students are the minority within any institution…. and at last we begin to circumnavigate the elusive permutations of the cosmos."
“The lyceum of life.” Doctor Freud put in dryly. "A university for the soul." Thomas Aquinas said proudly. "One, where, (not surprisingly), the ignorant are in the majority.
"Oh what a load of drivel!" Sigmund Freud snorted."Well I think it makes quite a bit of sense." Brian said in Thomas's defence. "The earth as a kind of University, from which we must graduate before we get to enlightenment or heaven." He paused and thought for a moment. "It certainly would explain a few things." “All flummery and humbug of course. Borrowed rehash from Gnosticism and eastern mysticism. He doesn’t believe a word of it himself you know.” Doctor Freud replied simply. "Ha!" Thomas Aquinas exclaimed triumphantly. "And..." he went on grandly, "I wonder if perhaps our Doctor Freud here, is a little afraid that he might be returned to the flatlands to a life of deprivation and penury as just deserts for his intellectual intransigence!""So that I might perhaps become a little wiser?" Sigmund Freud asked with a caustic emphasis upon the wise.
"Well Sigmund, the medical profession has served you well in your life. Perhaps you might benefit from life upon the receiving end of your own particular brand of magical mumbo jumbo.""My dear friends." The Doctor replied. "Not only do I dismiss your suggestions of reincarnation as hypothetical hyperbole. But in all sincerity I would gladly embrace with axial-arms extended, that illusive entity which you refer to as poverty." He flung the last word disdainfully. "I'm afraid I don't catch your drift Sigmund." Thomas Aquinas said. "This poverty of yours Thomas is perhaps one of the greatest illusions of modern times!" Doctor Freud continued, emphasising the word illusion as though he were exposing the trickery of a conjuror. "Illusion?" Brian repeated, in disbelief. "Yes indeed!" the Doctor continued, delighted at the gauntlet he had tossed before his companion's assertions.
"Poverty as we know it, is a purposeful misconception!" He returned. "A fallacy, existing as all fallacies do; to protect those who have created it." Thomas Aquinas began to laugh unreservedly.
"Why that is madness!" Brian asserted boldly. It was clear the Doctor had become inebriated. Thomas Aquinas would doubtless enjoy a swift and decisive victory. "I'm afraid Sigmund, we may have given your ideas some credence up until now. However, it is quite clear that you have taken leave of your senses." Thomas Aquinas said with a chuckle as he emptied his whiskey glass.
The Doctor continued. "You have a pint of stout in your hand my good friend?" He said to Brian.
"Indeed I do." Brian agreed, swallowing a mouthful so as to confirm both pint and point. "The stout is given its shape by the vessel within which it is contained, and as such you have neither a glass nor porter in your hand, but rather a glass of porter. True?" The Doctor asked with a sobering grin."Of course." Brian replied, confident that at any moment the Doctor was about to insist upon something so outrageous that he would be free to release a laugh that was becoming increasingly difficult to contain. The Doctor was silent for a moment, before continuing. "If I were to wave a magic wand..," he said, "...and make only the glass disappear, you would no longer have a glass of stout would you?" He smiled at the foolishness of his own question.
"He'd have a mess upon his lap!" Thomas Aquinas put in. "Really Sigmund you are not making any sense at all." He added with another laugh. "Well," continued the Doctor, ".... poverty is our porter, and wealth is our glass. The one defines the other. When you speak to me of poverty you are pointing to the porter and neglecting the glass. Of course the idea of poverty as an isolated entity can be conceived by the mind, just as the liquid can be conceived in the absence of its container. However in reality, outside our thoughts poverty does not, and cannot exist in isolation. We have trained our minds to magic away the glass and enjoy a concept of poverty that is more conducive to our self sustaining perceptions of reality. Indeed….,” he sighed. “The mind is most adept at embellishing our perceptions re moulding them to fit with preconceptions essential to the superego or conscience. I need only remind you my friends of the well known fact that images received by the eyes are inverted when they alight upon the retina. In truth, we see the world upside down, of course the mind assists by compelling us to believe that the opposite is true.” He puffed a long zeppelin of smoke that drifted towards Thomas Aquinas like a cloud of rain.
“One should never be surprised at the mind’s capacity for reinterpreting reality." He grinned at the monk. "It is for our own protection that the mind divides the single entity of wealth and poverty into two separate concepts, for we cannot simultaneously aspire to one and be repulsed by the other, unless the mind conducts this handy little trick for us. The mutually inclusive concepts of wealth and poverty can only be understood, can only be truly perceived when they are reunited into their actual form; one single entity." He rubbed his beard and stubbed his extinguished cigar into the ashtray. “Our gracious brother Aquinas even baptise the union and christen it ‘wealthoverty’.” He said resolutely.
"Poverty pasha! The psychological division of a single concept has been fomented by man and his church as means of protecting all parties from the truth." "Sigmund......," Thomas Aquinas interrupted. Brian began to chuckle as the bartender approached and refilled their glasses solemnly. "If, as you say, there is no such thing as poverty, then what is the point in behaving charitably? Indeed what is the point in morality at all? Once again, we return to the culmination of your fantasies Doctor Freud; a lawless and hedonistic world."
"There should never be a point to behaving charitably.” His antagonist replied. "For if there is a 'point', then by definition, one is not behaving charitably. One is acting in ones own interests and that is moral capitalism. If one executes good and charitable deeds in order to get to heaven or to please his God, one is not engaged in charity. One is investing his good deeds in the hope that they will accrue the interest of eventual salvation. That is not charity my good Shepard, that is investment banking at its crudest." The trio were silent, Brian broke the stalemate.
"Doctor Freud, are you suggesting that the concept of charity is related to the artificial division of wealth and poverty as you put it." As he re-ignited his cigar, the flame of his silver lighter illuminated a pair of cold grey and bloodshot eyes, sharp and tinged with laughter. "Exactly my boy! He said with pleasure. “A single concept divided in two with this silly thing called charity at the junction between the two. That is why the richest societies are home to the greatest charities. That is why the richest men are among the greatest philandering philanthropists, and why the wealthiest churches are amongst Charity’s greatest proponents.” He paused to sup and puff. “Why, I believe Muslims are compelled by their doctrine to devote an actual percentage of their wealth over to that most comforting of delusions.” He continued looking at Brian but directed his final remarks towards the monk. “That is precisely how the Vatican can reconcile the fact that there is enough gold in its coffers to pave a road to heaven, whist the vast majority of its flock live and subsist in depravity, filth and squalor.
Of course we look admiringly upon our wealthy humanitarian and priestly purveyors of charity, for instead of seeing the mass of suffering that is a consequence of this continued perversion of reality, we see only the modicum of good that is proclaimed by the ostensibly charitable act. In essence, the act itself does nothing to alleviate that which we see as poverty, rather it serves only to reinforce the delusion, that is why charity has never and will never succeed over poverty…., because it is the same bloody thing a vote for charity is a vote for poverty. Charitable institutions may seem to represent man's benevolence, his spirituality, his moral and intellectual superiority above the brute beasts, however as a scientist, as a rationalist I cannot help but consider the existence of this devious imaginary division of ‘wealthoverty’ single concepts as yet another indictment of mans tunnelling baseness, and his phenomenal ability to embrace delusion when reality does not suit his selfish motives.” "Are we to understand, Sigmund, that in exercising kindness towards our fellow man, we are, according to your hedonist model, behaving immorally, or at best deluding ourselves?"
"What I am saying Thomas, is that the only act of charity that is ever practised is the recognition of truth, and the following of its holy dictates. When one possesses no more than ones needs, there exists no obligation to charity or its Mephistophelean emissaries. It is out of his profit and the fat of his excess that man purchases the lovely epaulet of charity. "Now look here Sigmund." Thomas Aquinas blurted. “I think it is most disingenuous of you to attempt to prove that charity is an elaborate farce! These kind of assertions are a disgrace to your profession, and I have no doubt that Hippocrates will be most annoyed as soon as he hears that you are going about corrupting people with this sort of parabolic rhetoric."
"Au-contraire….." Sigmund Freud replied with a debonair puff, turning upon his seat to look his companion straight in the eye. "In the first instance Thomas," he replied, "...it is the medical profession that is a disgrace to Hippo and I. And secondly, it was the old Trojan himself who put forward the idea, one which he simply borrowed from Pythagoras. I have merely brought it to its logical conclusion." "Its logical conclusion!" Thomas Aquinas fumed angrily.
"You....” He was visibly irate, “…..in your fabulous tweed suit! with that ridiculous Vandyke beard and that lavish Cuban cigar dangling from your lips, like an overcooked sausage!" He shouted with disgust. "Need I remind you Sigmund....," his voice quivering with annoyance, "...that I am the one who has lived to a vow of poverty all his life." He said. "And one of celibacy for that matter!" He brandished the blade of his abstinence as the Doctor fled behind a cloud of silence. "...vows under which you, and the bourgeois class that has spawned you, would buckle like a rotten floor board." He scoffed. "Well now." The Doctor replied, chastised, it seemed by Thomas Aquinas' reference to his admittedly lavish suit, and his penchant for fine cigars.
"Indeed..." he faltered, pausing as though waiting for the cloud before him to vaporise. "Whilst I concede to you upon the question of your self impost austerity and your rejection of material comforts…." he continued, "....I feel that it is no less a gift to our race than that of your celibacy."
Brian could not resist a laugh that arose from deep within, and he concealed a grin behind his pint glass. "You can be as rude and as contemptuous as you like Sigmund. Humour does not subtract from the actualities of suffering and deprivation. These ridiculous suggestions that poverty is illusion and charity a myth are an insult to those who are truly in need. What is more, this urbane pettifoggerey of yours is a poor bread for the starving victims of your bourgeois politics, and your own bourgeois life." He said, regaining control of his composure.
"That is a fair point!" Brian agreed. "Young man.” The Doctor turned towards him his drunken eyes ablaze. “Your impressionable mind is just about fit to receive ideas of serious import. Do not tax it further with conjecture that is clearly beyond it’s capabilities.” “Well excuse me!” Brian returned stung somewhat by the Doctors sudden temperature change. “I put it to you Thomas," He continued “….that if indeed the life of man is to be evaluated by your celestial arbiter? Or, even if we are destined to mature through a school of the material? Man will be counted, or will count himself, not upon the basis of his charity and what portion of fat he has shared with those less ‘blessed’ than he."
"Is that so Sigmund?" "Indeed, my devout and humble friend. It is so." “Should you and I be fortunate to sit in the gallery of that great court of heaven, we might hear your master of the universe ask a different question of his subjects. "A different question?" Thomas Aquinas repeated. "Indeed!" The Doctor declared with a snort. "Each righteous, obedient, penitent and even abstinent soul might come to his judgement quite prepared. He may have meticulously recorded and categorised his noble deeds and charitable acts.” The Doctor’s voice grew louder. “ But how shall he respond, should the Almighty be unmoved by these ostensible generosities and charitable deeds?
Our man in the dock might look to his peers, and his priests with wonderment and awe when the veil of delusion is removed from his eyes. For what will he answer if the Almighty should ask him; not what he has he given unto the world….., but rather, to account for that which he has taken for himself. He stubbed the but of his cigar into the glass tray with vehemence. “If that be His question then all your inventories of worthy deeds become redundant, and heaven might a lonely place indeed!" He slapped the bar with the palm of his hand causing their glasses to shudder. The bartender approached them with a surly expression upon his face.
"Excuse me sir." He addressed himself to Brian. "You will have to fasten your seat belt." "My seat belt?” Brian tendered a confused reply. Staring then at his lap he realised that his eyes were closed and upon opening them he noticed that his belt was indeed unfastened. The stewardess was standing in the aisle beside his, seat pleasantly smiling and awaiting some compliance. "Your seat belt sir, we are about to land.” She repeated, he fumbled, and then she movedon. He watched her depart as though she were a ghost and at length, he came to accept that the foregoing had been but a dream, one that had left his mouth dry and his shoulder wet with drool.
Disjointed memories of life in America sailed through his mind. One night towards the end, he had ventured beyond the foyer of his complex. Such excursions were facilitated by the following system. He would turn left or right at the front door and keep taking turns in the same direction each time the opportunity to do so became available. He would then stop at an establishment that suited his purpose and upon entering would commit to memory the direction he had been turning. Upon entering his initial choice of direction was all that had to be committed to memory. When he wanted to get home he simply had to emerge as he entered and take turns in the opposite direction until he would arrive at his own door once again.
On this particular instance he found himself outside a diner, eight lefts from his door. he seated himself at the counter and was watching the two Ewes debut their latest offering with flash and glitter, upon a wall hung television. Soon he became distracted by a conversation between two uniformed police officers, two stools down from where he was seated. It had been one of many conversations, eavesdropped or otherwise, that had brought him to the edge.
".......Ye see Lynus." the Sheriff spoke coolly, chewing his cud. "Take one of dem Somally boys and fly that sucker here. Quicker than a buzzard on a gut wagon, that young fellar’s gona find himself a jaub!" He waved a fillet o-fish sandwich in the air as he spoke. "That young fellar'd be tossin them there grease patties! An I'll bet you a nickel, that Somally-boy aint gona have no; 'I hate thisGawd damn jaub', or '.....I jus spat in your damn burger....' painted all over his face neither!" He pointed a ketchup coated fore-finger towards the disgruntled teenager behind the diner counter.
“Why, quicker than rat spit, that Somally boy is gona buy himself a beat up Cadillac. He'll be livin in a shack he'd be a calling a ‘palace’, .....an sure as I'm sitting here Ly." The Sheriff pointed to the plastic bucket in which he was seated. "...that sonfabitch, be sendin half his Macdougal cheque, ryde back home to the Keebutz." He paused and swilled from the straw of a super-size soda. "....So ye see Ly, I'm with Governor on this one, and as the good book says; we've gotta extend the hand of friendship to all our brothers and sisters."
The burger had cooled from the heat of the discussion and he slipped the remaining mouthful between the parted lips as his social theory forged its way into the unexplored jungle of his deputy's mind. For his part the deputy seemed more interested in the steaming limp shaft of pink hot dog meat which he bit and then blew, and then bit again, slicing it shorter with yellow incisors.
"I'm afraid I don't quite git your meanin Sherrif?" He replied with half cooked curiosity.
“I'm sayin Ly…," The sherrif elaborated. "What this country needs is a gaud damn Somally-swap! Jus git a plane load of convicted felons from county or state pen, fly them fellars over to Somally-land an dump their asses in the god-damn sand! Then Ly….," He paused so as his ideas might not become involved in a pile up. "Then we load that plane with Somally boys an ship them boys over here to the land of the free! There you have it!" He said triumphantly. "Empty jails! And whole lota God fearin, law bidin, tax payin, citizens."
The unmistakable fragrance of something profound became infused with odours rising from the griddle.
"I see what your sayin Sheriff..." Lynus replied, with uncertainty. ".... I like the eyedear I really do." He continued unsure of what he had been convinced of. "Only thing is sheriff.... " He paused, reluctant to share his misgivings and then lowering his voice to a whisper. ".....Is, then we got us a whole town full a niggers!" He said before taking another bite from the end of his dog.
The sheriff was silent, he shuffled his blocky frame uneasily within the plastic bucket of his seat, and replied severely. "Now Lynus...! What did I tell you about that racist shit!"
The lot of it had unrolled itself like a toilet roll tossed into the air, like a golf ball opened slowly with a penknife, snapping and unravelling taught elastic truths before his eyes. He had double had enough. The ironing board was, that he was returning to embrace the same creases he had spent the best part of his youth trying to escape. Torpid time had taught, that questions could no longer be answered by mass produced truths, folk heroes, disc-jockeys or bleeding-heart rock stars.
The new objective was to encounter once again...., No! ….. was to return to that fork in the road or the woods. The one whereat-wherein his younger days he had chosen the well travelled option; the grass flattened safe bet. Now at last at least, older and with a little more or less sense between a pair of hairless ears, he was to return, and begin again.
JFK remembered.
His grandmother, Nan, would boil a ham when Sunday dictated a visit to her flat in Fairview, by the stinking Tolka. Her front door was divided from the river by a tarmacadamed Jurassic playground of bended steel skeletons imprisoned behind a tall iron railing. One could almost see clear over the paint peeled bars from the top of the arse polished slide. Higher in them days when when people wouldnt or couldnt sue councils or landlords. All around graffiti in undecipherable glyphs on red bricked walls or etched into the peeling paint, declared that Decko was indeed a fag, that our day would come, or quite simply penis or wanker.
He and Niamh would slide and swing through an air ripe with river-stench, refuse shoots and burning coal. At high tide the river’s green waters veiled a gloomy battlefield of buckled bicycles, shopping carts, tyres, and broken prams. When the tide fell, they projected their macabre and twisted frames above the slime, like animal carcasses denuded of their flesh.
Nan controlled the heat in her flat by opening a window. She loved a fire that roared up the hearth and, melted droopy insomniac sockets into her brown plastic coal scuttle. In the narrow kitchenette steam from the pots would loiter about the ceiling and the noise of Match of the day would murmur inwards from the dining beyond. There stood he, staring for a while into the big metal pot that she used to boil her whites, her stockings, and smalls in a strange and magical stew.
His aproned grandmother filled the pot with a flaccid joint as he watched the boiling water turn over and try to consume the brown scum bobbing on top of its turbulence. Nan and mother would retire to the dining room whispering, over the oil-cloth covered table, thick limbs and polished planks crowned with a glass Virgin, plastic oranges and apples at her feet; treasures from Knock or Lourdes. Miracles and Holy virgins whispering secrets to children, that was her exotica, her phantasmagoria, strange and beautiful it seemed in the dim light of its departure.
Regardless of the temperature without, there was always a fire burning in Nan's flat. The flames from the hearth moved with the rhythmic mumblings of family squabbles, and the gentle pock pocking of the grumbling joint. His mother held the bottle in Niamh's mouth. His sister; small, round, fat and pink with life, her wine-gums gnawing at the brown plastic tit, disinterested, full of milk and wind. Out from the pot came joint of pig, steaming, pink, framed with a cuff of jaundiced fat. All of it tied about the waist with a piece of string, keeping flesh together. The bristly twine was cut with the black handled carving knife.
Strange that he should recall such a detail; a knife and its handle, he thought. Yet, how vividly he recalled the serrated blade, that never needed sharpening, and how all in the house would refer to it respectfully.
He watched with nauseous curiosity as the dead fiend would slip steaming onto the cutting board. Pushed from its skewer it resembled a primordial creature crawling from the sea towards it’s two legged destiny. Flesh of pig, fruit of tuber, work of human hands, the green veins and arteries of cabbage all emerging from the steaming fog of the little kitchenette. All was neatly arranged upon chipped china plates, positioned with historical geometry about the table, and then suffocated with brown sauce and mustard, before being hacked and mashed with old fashioned knives and forks, His father would paint a thin layer of luminous mustard across a slab of ham before proceeding to butter his potatoes.
Nan’s silverware was blunt and dulled with age, an awkward miscellany of old and older, wedding gifts, dissolved unions scattered by decades.
Pops would return as evening grew dim, home from the pub to breath life within. His hearty portion of desiccated pork would be produced from the oven with sighs and exaggerated admonishments. Its yellow edges crisp, potato ridges browned and pointed, parched mountain peaks, cabbage a deeper shade of Tolka green. After he had eaten he might bounce Niamh upon his knee, making baby noises, his breath warm and sweet with barley juice. Then upon draining tea leaves from the end of his cup, the box of bulbs and tubes that consumed fifty pence pieces.. was silenced at last and Pops would tell stories about the Tans.
He was a soldier of the free state during the civil war, and was rewarded with a job in the Post Office for services rendered in the cause. From uniform to uniform in the service of the state but all he wanted was his few jars, an auld smoke and to be left alone. He was just a boy when Pearse dispatched him with orders for the lads in Boland's Mills; " ….just before the Huns sent their gunboats down the Liffey." He would lower his voice as though divulging secrets of national importance.
"Mick! …Be a good lad, and bring this wee note to the lads in the Mills. “And Mick…..,” as Pops had turned to depart “…remember me to your grandchilders. Remember me to your grandchilders." Pops repeated the final wish, to his open mouthed audience of one.
There were countless cannons, tanks, and weapons of mass destruction, all hidden away, waiting for the right moment. For the right enemy to come along. weapons that could be used against burglars, school bullies, kidnappers, monsters, and creaks in the night. The precise location of this store of mayhem, like the rest of his stories was buried with him in a Tipperary grave.
Atavistic dialogues.
"Would you like tea or coffee sir?"
"Yes thanks, all of the above." He replied cheerily, sleepily. But the hostess wasn't inclined to banter. The computer programme did not contain a suitable response. Anoher 'smart-arse' her raised brows declared silently.
“Coffee please,” he apologised with a humble grin, before receiving his cup. She returned to him most graciously that practiced smile of the service industry, and moved on to the seat in front of him. She hadn’t seen him at all. He sipped his brew slowly, and leaned back into the limited recline of his seat, peering out the window at clouds, contemplating their infinite complexities their mysterious synthesis of chaos and physics. White nebulous cushions receded into the turquoise depths of a vast and tranquil ocean. Yet the whole of it was a teaming mass of volatile steam! The same steam that burst from pots and the spouts of truculent kettles. How could it be that all of it now solid and as unchanging as the earth.
Turbulent twisting gaseous steam,
apparently calm and so serene
Gas of my bowels from deep within.
The aparent inconsistency might yet be explained if as he suspected mass and time were related? Not related, but the same thing altogether perhaps. If the great mass of steam within the enormity of a cloud had its own time, a time that was relative to its size? In which case the more massive a thing the slower its own time would pass. That was the very why of how the outside of a wheel moved slower than the axle. Time and space were one, not related, but one of the same with one being another way of looking at the other. That would explain why the steam of the kettle erupted into the air and tumbled about itself wildly whilst that of a cloud, made of the same stuff changed hardly at all. All on account of the one being bigger that the other.
The white motionless world outside was a landscape unique unto itself, beautiful and uninhabited slightly ephemeral and utterly unexplored, not unlike those planets at the farthest regions at the universe.
At last, when he least expected it, and at the moment he had ceased to think upon the matter any longer his ears were liberated from the hum drum and sleep, gentle sleep began to bath his drums and cool his coffee.
The nose lifted and the aircraft began to ascend, higher and higher still it rose, quietly and smoothly without a hint of turbulence. The mountainy ocean of cloud below lost its grey shades of frost and became as even and smooth as a fallen drift. Beyond the tiny window, clouds gave way to the uninterrupted vista of pale blue, extending towards infinity, and just as he began to fear the plane might leave the stratosphere and venture into darker realms, it ceased in its ascent and assumed the horizontal once again.
Presently they began to circle about an enormous continent of cloud. The cabin bell chimed twice, first soft, and then severe. The seat belt light above him became illuminated, and the captain announced, in a comforting and urbane tone, that the plane was about to land and that the crew were to prepare the cabin for landing. The aircraft began it's decent and he watched from the window as the gigantic nimbus below became more defined in its architecture. Vaporous wisps of gas rose into the air assuming the contours of buildings, control towers, terminals, hotels and car parks. A silver lining flashed intermittently and declared the runway. Beyond, a spaghetti of , grey roadways ferried vehicles too and fro, it was an airport devoid of colour and not like any other he had ever seen. He continued looking out the window, strangely unsurprised as the runway of flattened cloud rose to meet them.
The proximity of the ground exposed the realities of speed and power in a frightening moment before the wheels touched, and then violently thumped and wobbled upon the smooth surface of the runway. Rivets rattled convulsively, shaking simultaneous sensations of fear and relief into all on board. Wing flaps were raised the nose dipped as plane and passengers sped towards a reluctant stop.When at last they came to a halt the seat belt light above his head was extinguished and passengers began to stand and stretch retrieving luggage that might or night not have shifted within the overhead compartments. The same young pullet who had served him his coffee stood at exit. He paused before her."Where exactly are we supposed to go from here?" he asked. "What is your final destination sir.?" she asked as though speaking with a child.
"Dublin,." He replied, "....Dublin Ireland." he added, being as specific as he could be.
"Go straight ahead Sir," she replied. "into the main terminus, and follow the signs to the 'Transfer Lounge.' You can wait there for your connecting flight." She nodded to indicate that the information had been transmitted, and there would be no more forthcoming, and he was holding up the train of passengers behind.
Once inside the terminal he was comforted by the realisation that there was nothing untoward about the place. The ground was solid beneath his feet and the buildings made of cement and glass. Perhaps his initial perceptions had been more the result of tiredness? Of not having finished his coffee, or having slept when he should have been awake? The terminal building was thronged with people moving about in all directions, each oblivious to the other, lost in the mindlessness that defines the crowd. Automatons pushed luggage on trolleys, and waited patiently within rows of orange seats forming a crossword in the centre of the bustling hall. There were a number of shops and restaurants behind a mezzanine above his head. All were busy with customers, purchasing window shopping to pass the time. Christ airports are truly ghastly places, he thought.
Large television screens suspended from the ceilings advertised the arrivals and departures. Whilst perusing walls and columns for appropriate signage, a laminated plaque upon one of the many concrete pillars emerged from the chaos and directed him towards the ‘Transfer Lounge’. He followed the invitation of several pointed signs, up a series the airy escalators and down the rushy thoroughfares. The crowds had begun to thin when finally he arrived at his destination, on the uppermost floor of the terminal building.., but he couldn’t be certain for the escalators appeared to go on forever.
He passed through a pair of glass sliding doors which silently parted before him, and once inside he realised with some relief, that he had entered the cosy confines of a suitably furnished, gently illuminated Pub. Soft strains of Chopin filled the air and mingled with the aroma of tobacco, beer and sliced lemons. There were a number of bulging brown leather chairs worn at the arms, elegant in their day, quietly awaiting company in various in nooks and snugs. Mostly unoccupied they sitting patiently about sturdy wooden coffee tables scuffed but crowned with thick glass ash trays. Formidable weapons in the wrong hands.
A bar of darkly stained teak emerged from the shadows and divided the lounge. About it, perched upon velvet cushioned stools, a few enduring patrons spoke together in low serious tones. Raindrops were followed by the moonlight sonata t and indeed the ambience was so inviting that there was nothing else to be done but recline. He approached the bar and occupied an empty stool next to a retiring gentleman sporting an elegant tweed suit and presently engaged in conversation with a companion to his left. The other was perhaps twenty years his junior, and was wearing a brown cassock of the type that might be worn by a monk or clergyman of some sort.
A bow tied wispy waist-coated barman emerged from the darkness shining a thick tumbler, pausing now and then to inspect. "Do you take dollars?" Brian asked, interrupting the polishing. The bartender’s dark eyes sparkled with a hint of mischievousness. "Sur.." he said in a low deep voice that seemed out of keeping with his slight frame and youthful face, "…..we take all the currencies of the wurld…., except dollars." His smile exposed a gold incisor and lower canine, the bank account of a nomad. An odd looking character.., with dark hair and the complexion of a Roma gypsy, and yet he spoke with the unmistakable accent of a northsider.
"Ar its alroigh bud; all of the drinks here are free. Slong as ye don gerup te any trouble." He said, as Brian had begun to root in his jacket pocket for currency. "Free?" He replied wondering what the reference to ‘trouble’ might mean. "Tha's wor I said guvenor." "Well in that case I'll have a pint of plain when you'r ready." He removed his jacket and hung it upon the back of the stool impressed, if not a little suspicious at all he had seen so far. The barman placed a creamy pint upon the counter before him and together they watched it set in silence. He topped off the head, and with a flourish of the hand he added the outline of a shamrock to the surface of the rich dark cream before returned to his shady corner and his quiet polishing.
It had been a long time since his last pint. “Your only man!” he said to himself as he sipped a partial mouthful. The first sensation of course was not to be savoured. Pleasure could only be experienced once the palate had been gently reintroduced to the conflicting assertions of cream and burned malt. Bitter, slightly grating at first, and yet soothing and delicate for the remainder. He gave an imperceptible shudder taste and smell were united in surprise.. Then at last he bathed his lips once again and agreed emphatically with the auld bursted cliché about the best things in life being free.
As he savoured familiar flavours, the conversation between his immediate neighbours became audible. The monk was addressing the tweed suit who all the while was contemplatively puffing upon the stump of a fat cigar.
"....it wouldn't matter much to me Sigmund." He said emphatically. "You know quite well that I was never much of a traditionalist." The tweed suit began to chuckle. "Oh come off it Tommy! How can a monk not be much of a traditionalist? That’s ridiculous!" He laughed a cloud of smoke. "I feel....," the monk replied, shifting himself upon his stool, ".....that far too many conflicts over religion have begun with a particular and sometimes fanatical declaration of who or what God is. Whereas, more important than such trite and ludicrous detail, is our supposed pursuit of the ideal."
"Oh phooey.., the ideal of God!" The suit replied sarcastically. "What does that mean exactly? Nothing less than a euphemism. Man has declared that God created him in His own image…, therefore God is a man, or at the very least is the image of one. If a camel could paint a picture his God would look like a Camel!
This pursuit of the “ideal” as you call it, is a retreat to some kind of pre-Christian tribalism and tantamount to blasphemy, and you a Monk!” He guffawed. "It is not a euphemism Sigmund nor is it blasphemy." The monk replied.
"The ideal I am speaking of is that of enlightenment, a phenomenon as uniquely human as man’s image of himself or that of his God." He added with emphasis. "Enlightenment my friend, that is the most honest conceptualisation of God." "So, you are now stating, that you don't believe in the Judaeo-Christian description of the Almighty as per Old and even New Testament?" The cigar asked with disbelief.
"Sigmund that is a silly question, one that is asked in the hope of winning some kind of argumentative concession, rather than engaging with the issues we are attempting to explore. We cannot have a conversation if you insist upon this egotistical point scoring." The monk returned. "It would be correct to state, that I don't believe that the Christian faith, or any faith for that matter, is large enough to encompass the idea (or the description) of God in His infinite entirety. Yet describe this entity we must, we must put meat on the bones and flesh on the skin so that we can see or at least imagine what it is that we are speaking of. If you simply wish to divest God of his particular manifest form why don't you carry on this conversation with Spinoza and not me? Our view of the almighty is egocentric and anthropocentric; we see God as manlike we give him a son, an antagonist, and a Virgin bride, so that he will become real to us so that he can live within us, so that we can give comprehensible form to his Infinite entirety."
“Infinite entirety!” The cigar scoffed contemplatively. “You’re a cad! You’ll be pinned to nothing but your crucifix! Infinite entirety", he repeated laughingly.
The monk was undeterred. “Let me ask you this, mister matter-of-fact. Do we accept, that ‘God’, be he real or conceptual, can only be correctly described in terms of the infinite?" "I'll grant you that."
"Well then.., it follows that our infinite God cannot be wholly contained within the limited definitions of any particular faith or creed."
" Yes yes…. perhaps you should be wearing the suit and I the cassock.” The cigar puffed.“Semantics Thomas! Your going about in circles. What I am asking you, is how can you displace the doctrine of Christianity with these ideals of infinity and infinite entirety, when, with few exceptions, Thomism," he puffed a large cloud so as to give emphasis to the eponym. " is practically synonymous with Catholicism?"
The monk seemed to be taking the conversation far more seriously than his companion, pausing and pondered before his reply. "I wouldn't agree that I'm rejecting Christianity in its entirety Sigmund.” He said following a contemplative pause. “After all…., we are in purgatory." The reply was tendered with a satisfaction that was close to smugness. "And as you know, it was the Christians who insisted upon that point from the beginning." He lifted his glass and gave their eavesdropper a friendly nod that at once acknowledged his presence and almost invited a contribution. "Well just a minute now Thomas,” the cigar put in defensively.
"This may very well be purgatory, but we can't be sure of that, until we find out what is coming next. I mean, who knows, perhaps we might have to go back down for another round? You heard that Gautama chap going on about all of that jazz the other night night." "We are certainly waiting on something, I’ll grant you that." The monk replied. However, there are plenty around here who maintain that we may well be in Heaven, that our expectations are simply too high. .” He fell silent for a moment, and added in a tone of self deprecation. “Although there are plenty who feel that it might even be hell. Nonetheless, we can’t exactly call it purgatory until we know what’s coming next.”
“Heaven indeed!” The good doctor laughed. “That was your comrade's idea, and he only said that on account of the free drink.” Sigmund you know perfectly well Saint Patrick is no friend of mine, he's an inebriate, and just because we wear the same.." "No matter, no matter," the cigar interrupted. "He is one of your lot, and a Saint to boot.” The tweed suit uttered the word saint with some irreverence if not a with a hint of envy, Brian noticed. "The salient point here.." the monk continued, "is that I don't know what lies in store for us, and of course that Christianity doesn't have all the answers, despite what the despots and demagogues might insist. If we are to believe that the Christians have a monopoly on truth we are saying that Muslims, Hindus, Buddhists, Atheists, and the whole shebang, are all wrong, or at least utterly misguided in their interpretations of the universe. And that, my good friend is tantamount to religious jingoism! If the existence of many religions proves anything at all, it proves that none alone is large enough to contain infinity.
Infinity alone, my good doctor, its existence, or non existence…, that remains the cardinal question to be answered, for that is the only concept that is large enough to Gods and Atheists alike. If the Universe is as infinite as we suspect, it follows that our God must also infinite also. As an infinite, He, She, or It simultaneously defies and includes all definitions and dogmas, and is large enough to contain all finte creeds and yet by definition is too large to be contained by them, despite their conviction or eminent scientific background ." The monk peered irreverently at the suit from over the brim of his raised glass.
"Oh you are the chameleon Thomas! Am I to understand, that you are a Christian, what is more a Monk.” The cigar petulantly puffed. “And yet you are as much a Christian as; a Muslim, a pagan, a Jew a Hindu, a Buddhist, a Shiite, a separatist, a unionist, a spiritualist, a hedonist, a masochist a misanthropist a big ender or a little ender? Ha ha!” He laughed smooth and luxurious peels of laughter. Ha ha, what a lot of humbug! You, my good man are either a Christian or you are not!
You just wait until I tell Copernicus and Nosey Brahe about these new notions of yours. Infinity humbug.” He laughed again more heartily. Brian had been listening attentively and was not so much interested in the subject matter as he was in one particular point he had overheard. "Excuse me, he interrupted as politely as possible. "Did I hear you say that this is purgatory?" he asked. The cigar fell silent and turned to examine the interloper. "I don't mean to be rude....," Brian added with some embarrassment, as the cigar looked him up and down with an air of haughty suspicion."That's quite all right young man.” He said at last. “I see you have just arrived?" "Yes, well, I'm waiting for a transfer flight to Dublin. I don't expect to be here too long." To his surprise both men began to chuckle, and he blushed brightly as he tried to ascertain the source of their amusement.
"Well my friend, I wouldn't be in a hurry. I've been waiting for a transfer for more than sixty years!" The cigar puffed. "And my good friend Thomas here," he gestured towards the monk. "he has been waiting for more than seven hundred."
"Seven hundred and twenty six, old and wise years to be exact." His companion added smiling. "I'm sorry, but I'm afraid I don't quite understand." Brian said as both men began to chortle like schoolboys. "Oh don't apologise." The monk insisted, pausing to catch his breath. "Allow me to introduce myself. My name is Thomas Aquinas, and my companion and arbiter elegantarium," he raised his glass in salute, "is the eminent Psychiatrist, Physician and ichthyologist, Doctor Sigmund Freud." He drained his whisky glass and tapped the edge upon bar in judicial confirmation..
Doctor Freud ceased his laughter and extended a confident and friendly hand. "Do call me Sigmund." He said taking a firm grasp of Brian’s and shaking with a strangely exagerated vigour as though that had been in aquaintance for some time. Simultaneously he exhaled a mushroom-cloud into the air above his head.
"And what is your name, young man?" He asked "Oh, I'm sorry, it’s Brian…,” “Ah, Boru?” The doctor finished. "We've been wondering where you were." “ Ne, em, Carey, Brian Carey.” “Mmm, I see,” The replied a little disappointed, I don't recall any Carey's in the anals Thomas do you."
"Are you by any chance a relation to George Carey, Christian missionary to Indian and recently remembered on the six ruppee stamp?" The monk asked. "I'm afraid not." Brian replied "Well, in answer to your initial question," the monk continued, “…we suspect that this is purgatory; the place where fortunate mortals arrive before being dispatched to the after life. Wherever or whatever that might be." He added, throwing Doctor Freud a glance that bespoke of their opposition on the subject. "I'm terribly sorry," Brian interrupted. "…but this is an airport.” He looked about himself. “Isn't it?"
"An astute observation." Dr. Freud replied, dipping the wiry tips of his grey whiskers into the creamy head of his pint. "You are quite right." Thomas Aquinas put in. "And can you think of a more fitting venue for our celestial sojourn?" Brian thought for a moment. "I suppose not…." he said, looking about at his surroundings once again, as though all was beginning to make some kind of sense.
"You're Irish are you?" Thomas Aquinas asked him. "Yes I.. eh yes..." Brian replied uncertain of even this solid fact. "Why that’s marvellous!" The monk said enthusiastically. "I'm sure you'll have time to have a chat with Paddy. He’s the only other Irishman here, apart from your good self. A very interesting fellow, English by birth, but Irish to the core I’m sure. He’s done all kinds of marvellous things, frightening the snakes out of Ireland and miracles on a par with Christ himself... Do you know him?”
“Christ?” “No No… Saint Paddy?” “If he wasn’t that fond of the drink he might get around to driving a few snakes out of this place.” The cigar put in dryly. “Oh Sigmund don’t be so sour.” “You know as well as I do there were no snakes in Ireland when he got there.” The doctor replied imperiously. "Really?" Brian replied. "He's here too?" he asked in disbelief. "Oh yes, in fact he's down in the casino at the minute with his best pal The Marquis di Sadie, inseparable the pair of them. Tweedle dee and tweedle dummer.”
Thomas Aquinas dismissed the Doctor's flippancy, by rolling his eyes towards the ceiling. "I'm sure you'll meet him, they’ll be back for happy hour. Never misses the pickles and sausage- rolls, " he added in a whisper, "a bit of a cad but he loves a good ‘chin-wag’ as he puts it." "Almost as much as he loves his porter,” Doctor Freud added. "Purgatory?" Brian interjected in a tone of respectful disbelief, leaving Saint Patrick aside for the minute. "Yes indeed." The Doctor confirmed, producing a silver lighter from his jacket pocket and proceeding to ignite a fresh cigar.
"A subliminal state of existence and non-existence,” he puffed and paused and puffed again. “Wherein, imagination is the product of reality, and reality the product of ones imagination. A hiatus from the madness below; a place where", "Oh now you’ve got him going!" Thomas Aquinas laughed loudly and began to tap the bar to the iambic pentameter of the doctors song:
We souls wait here, with juice a plenty
He paused and raised his glass in salutation.
For the wretched world to empty
A few come here but most to hell
Where ten to one the righteous dwell
There’s nothing here to do but wait
And pass the days at any rate
But our discourse it serves us kindly
And destiny’s road we travel blindly
Imprisoned high on drink and dreaming
The world without is gas and steaming
The laws of physics are a rhyme
So we converse to pass the time
And when our words with chaos mingle
Snowflakes hail and raindrops fall
Maggot man looks blind about him
And he the master of it all.
Whether it be doom and gloomy madness
Each his thoughts he shares with gladness
For, as all of us do know
We could have ended up below
We souls wait here, with juice a plenty
For the wretched world to empty
The few come hither, yet most to hell
Where ten to one the righteous dwell.
"Wonderful!" declared Thomas Aquinas raising his glass in salutation as the Doctor drained the dregs from his own, keeping the glass elevated until the last frothy island had slid into his bearded gaping mouth. Brian had not been especially attentive to the song, for he was deep in thought. "What do you mean, when you say you don't know where you’re going from here?" He asked. "I'm afraid that no one is quite certain my boy." Thomas Aquinas sighed. "If we did, it would certainly put an end to quite a bit of quarrelling." He leaned closer and whispered. "Last night a fellow by the name of Hobbs, and.." he paused and looked quizzically at Doctor Freud for a moment. " Sigmund, what was the name of that talkative American chap who was in here last night?" "Thoreau.” The doctor replied. “Henry David…. too sweet to be wholesome if you ask me."
"Yes that’s him, a very handsome fellow…” he added with an exaggerated wink that Brian found immediately unnerving."Anyhow, the two of them were thrown out, for starting an almighty row that almost came to blows." "Pity it didn’t. That chap is too full of nature’s kindness. I tell you, if he’s going to heaven, everyone is!" "All we are certain of.." Thomas Aquinas continued whispering, "....is that we must wait here, until whatever happens, or doesn’t happen next."
"Here on top of our magic mountain, where time stands still.." The Doctor added dryly, setting his pint glass upon the bar. "Where, beyond our windowless pub the seasons melt into endless oceans of undulating cloud." He added with a hint of melancholy. "Oh now it is not quite as dreary as all that Sigmund." Thomas said with strained enthusiasm. "We’ve got all the facilities here. Good food!" He thought for a moment and placed a forefinger vertically across his lips. "Plenty of fine malt..," He raised his glass cheerily. "And there are lots of nice shops to have a browse in, whenever one gets really bored. There’s a casino, a Gym, and a pool and sauna on the ground floor even a clinic to care for our corporal constitutions. Now you can’t get better than that.” “Oh four star, four star!” The Doctor repeated. “But the best thing about purgatory is the stimulating conversation. Thomas Aquinas said hurriedly.
"Almost everybody here loves a good chat, discourses ad circularium ad infinitum… and they’re always entertaining." "Especially when ones opinions are changed as frequently as ones undergarments," Doctor Freud interrupted.The monk placed his glass carefully upon the bar and took up the gauntlet. "Sigmund, you know perfectly well that beneath this Hessian cassock there is nothing but the generous endowment of nature herself, as unchanged as my own opinions for the past seven centuries." Thomas Aquinas straightened himself upon his stool releasing a fold of cloth that had become tucked between his cheeks.
"To return to my original point, I am simply stating that like any religion, Christianity is limited, by its own contemporary ideology. Yet, as a means towards the pursuit of enlightenment, it is as good as any other belief system in some respects better. In my opinion it is certainly more comprehensive than that psychoanalytical mumbo-jumbo of yours. Or even the transcendental twaddle that handsome young Thoreau fellow was going on about last night."
“Transcendental twaddle indeed! You should have said that to his face last night. The Doctor said with a yawn stretching his legs beneath the bar. "Religion is to God, as a map is to ones destination." Thomas Aquinas continued ignoring the doctor’s quip. “The destination cannot be discovered, nor the journey be properly begun, without some idea of a route."
"Well Thomas, I'm afraid I would have to disagree, in the strongest possible terms." Doctor Freud replied. "Marvellous Sigmund! Absolutely marvellous!" He clapped his hands and seemed excessively delighted at the prospect of a disagreement.
"As far as I'm concerned, Religion is man's licence for immorality, the primal delusion of humanity and the rock it is sure to perish upon!" He declared confidently. "Delusion?" Thomas repeated, winking at Brian as the Doctor concealed himself behind another grey nimbus. "Precisely. A firm fixed belief in the unreal. A mass psychogenic delusion affording man the moral entitlement to polute and destroy an earth that has been 'given' to him, it vindicates his ignorance of science and the unpalatable reality of his mortality. What is more," He lowered changed his tone and glanced at their guest. "I suspect that you are in agreement and that you are simply inveigling a debate for the amusement of our friend here." He said as he calmly puffed another cloud.
"Now Sigmund how can you possibly....," "But never mind, never mind." The cigar waved. "Given that Socrates is not about to entertain us…,” “Having his hair done.” Thomas confided in another whisper. “I shall endeavour to put the subject to rest, once and for all." He puffed like a steam engine, bellowing regular clouds of smoke and building pressure before departure. "Institutionalised religion, has unquestionably done the greatest disservice to our race since its invention some twelve thousand years ago. He said with a frown. "How so Sigmund?" Thomas Aquinas asked with exaggerated enthusiasm. "It has, as Nietzsche put it, 'murdered God'.
"Is he here?" Brian interrupted the Doctor’s preamble. "Who, God?" "No, Nietzsche?" Brian replied. "The Thug!" Doctor Freud added, and was about to say more until Thomas Aquinas cut him short. "Comrade Nietzsche is indeed here, but you'll not meet him in this establishment…,” he cast a side long glance at the polishing bartender paused poised and submerged within the shadows. Leaning over the Doctor’s pint he whispered; "Barred for life,” and winked, touching the tip of his nose communicating a point that was apparent to none but himself. Doctor Freud emitted a brisk cough. "Excusibus muchibus." Thomas Aquinas demurely deferred.
"As I was saying,” the Doctor continued, "when man invented the concept of possession, Religion was its inevitable consequence; he had no need of it before then. When the first brute of our race decided that certain things belonged exclusively to him, he needed an authority to validate that claim, and on that day his God was born. The Christian God was the first true capitalist."
Religion, has built its church, upon the solid foundation of man’s fears and his preference for passive ignorance over education. It stuccos the walls of this enormous empty vessel with spatterings of mythologies, stolen or at best appropriated over the centuries. It comforts the dullard and shields him from the intellectual demands of philosophy, sanctifying his ignorance and his life’s pursuit of the material. It protects the status quo and calls wealth; the ‘blessings’ and the ‘endowments’, of a racist, vindictive, nepotistic, interventionist and profoundly schizophrenic God!” He puffed an enormous cloud. Historically, organised religion has been a vehicle used by politicians and priests (there was a time when the two were indistinguishable) to keep the masses beneath the boot-heel of their master.
The authority of this God-fantasy has been put to immense use ever since; whipping the malleable masses into shape, convincing them to be happy with their miserable lot, compelling them to build pyramids, and ziggurats, sacrifice virgins, and pay a share of their labours over to those who claimed a special relationship with their proclaimed creator of all things. Second only to his greed and born directly out of it, man’s God concept has been the most destructive delusion the world has ever seen. This God of men was fashioned in man’s own pot bellied image; and once imbued with magical powers, universal knowledge and absolute authority he signed over to his creator, unrestricted dominion over the earth, conferring upon him title and deed to the physical universe in its entirety. Soon after he was invented he was put to work on man’s behalf; stamping his seal of infinite approval upon man’s selective morality.
It was the Emperor Constantine who saw the potential of the first Christian sect and rather than boil them alive.., which the prudence of his predecessor had directed, he gave them the investment they’d been waiting for and used them to his advantage, soon discovering that it was and would remain the greatest ally in military conquest and expansion. Non believers became fit for the sword, and their wives and possessions forfeit to the true faith. Indigenous populations became heathen savages and entire continents became the property of those who believed in the new God. Ever since the sorry day of his invention man’s God has been very busy rubber stamping the most heinous atrocities the world has ever seen.
“Oh Sigmund!” Thomas Aquinas interrupted suddenly. “Now you hold your horses Doctor Angelicas, I have not finished.” The Doctor cut him short. “For centuries, with the authority of this self made God, politicians and priests have exploited man’s congenital gullibility and his preference for sweets of fancy over a diet of bitter fact and harsh reality. With costumes, rituals and the omnipotent threat of hell wrath or the sword of the faithful, man is compelled to grovel and scrape, so that his wheat might have rain, his pigs grow fat and his miserable lot be ennobled and eked out in the service of this divine afflatus.
The means may have evolved but the end has remained the same and the conquest of philosophy and the capacity for independent thought. Control of behaviour and thought in return for visas to so glorious afterlife. The after life! Ha1 What genius and what foolishness to eat it… To get a man to work his life for you and promise to pay him for it when he is dead…. that is the promise, nay Thomas that is the genius of your religions!
“Visas to the after life!” “Ha Ha!” Thomas Aquinas slapped his knee violently, and laughed so loudly that the bartender briefly emerged from the shadows to throw a watchful eye upon the ribaldry. The Doctor ignored the outburst and continued dryly. “This man made God of yours is a plague, a disease, it is the curse of Sisyphus, the killer of truth and the greatest evil the world has ever known.”
He fell silent and reached for his half filled pint glass. Bravo Sigmund, Bravo!” Thomas Aquinas called. “Isn’t it a pity that Jesus is down at the clinic with that Magdelin one! He would have burst his sides at that soliloquy, ‘A schizophrenic God!,’ He lowered his voice. “ You had better be careful Sigmund, I don’t think the Ayatollah would laugh if he heard you.” He glanced cautiously towards the barman who had finished polishing and was presently slicing lemons.
“He might put a fatwa on your bearded head.” He whispered. “Or worse still, bar you.” “He can do as he pleases.” The cigar replied peevishly. “Himself and the Joiner have more to answer for in all of this than I do.” "Don't you think that's a little unfair Sigmund?" Thomas Aquinas asked calmly. "What if society were to be abandoned by religion, and left to its own devices?" He scoffed disdainfully, raising his eyebrows to the ceiling. " What would man and his evolved brain have come to then? The moral anarchy that you and mister Thoreau go about preaching is little more than hedonism and would unravel itself in no time, because of the very gullibility which you have already mentioned. Man cannot survive without leadership, and unless that leadership claims authority over his very soul he will dismiss it.
If children were not taught of the existence of God, or morality or the concepts of sin or evil? Chaos would reign supreme, I have little doubt about that!" Thomas Aquinas said with conviction.
"I don't believe that anarchy and chaos would reign supreme in the absence of religion." Doctor Freud returned. "No less than anarchy or chaos do reign at the moment in the presence of religion." He added, turning towards Brian.
"My good man, given that you have just arrived from below. How would you describe the present state of affairs down in the badlands?" He nodded towards the velvet carpet. "Madness, utter madness." Brian replied honestly. "I have just left Ameri..,"
"Well there you have it Thomas ‘madness!’ utter madness!" the doctor repeated. "Right under the olfactories of that same religion you are at pains to defend! I put it to you Thomas that it is not madness for the want of religion….. but rather madness because of it.
We have tried more of it, and different variations of it, as antidotes to that same madness, and all to no avail. I put it to you my friend that religion is no antidote for the insanity, but is the bloody cause of the greater part of it!" "Well now Doctor Freud....,." Thomas replied, “I am afraid you are simply ranting. It is not religion that compels men to rape, pillage, brutalise and murder, to steal and slander, as you would have us believe. These crimes, this 'madness' as you put it, cannot be blamed upon religion, for I am aware of no holy doctrine which directs man to do so. If you are hoping to relate social decay to the presence of religion, you have failed to convince me, for it is quite clear that man is in more need of spiritual guidance today than he has ever been in the past." Thomas Aquinas spoke coolly. The doctor placed his pint upon the bar with exaggerated delicacy.
"Allow me to explain Thomas" he continued. "Oh please do, please do." His partner repeated with obvious insincerity, glancing towards the ceiling briefly and intimating to the bartender that all of their drinks should be refilled. Upon duplicating the round, the bartender emptied the ashtray of extinguished cigar butts, and placed a freshly polished one in its place, a cube of thick clear glass that had probably cracked a skull or two in its day."Perhaps an example would elucidate the point." He continued. "We are all ears Doctor Freud." Thomas replied facetiously.
The Doctor reached for his pint, and then hesitated, noticing that it was not quite settled. He satisfied himself by igniting a fresh cigar. "Well,..." his words were preceded with a gentle pocking and puffing, then a glow of amber through the aromatic fog. "Were one of the many fine statues in the Vatican, or any simple church for that matter, to suddenly begin weeping heavy genuine tears,..." He paused and sipped with evident pleasure. "The event would undoubtedly be hailed as a miracle. In good time a delegation of inspectors would arrive, and if warranted divine intervention would assuredly be declared. True?" He turned to Brian.
"I suppose so." Brian replied, "...In the absence of a natural explanation, of course." He added in favour of the dubious Aquinas.. "Well then, there you have it!" The Doctor asserted, as though he were about to announce a checkmate.
"And your point being?" Thomas Aquinas asked."Well Brother Aquinas…." the Doctor continued. "Where are the inspectors for each blade of grass?" He asked in a tone of undeserved triumph. "For every leaf!" He continued the pitch of his voice marching steadily higher. "For every star? Every petal of every flower? Every note of song? Every; cloud, cliff, clod or crest of wave? For indeed, my good Doctor Aquinas, there is more of a miracle in one blade of grass than there will ever be found in an army of weeping statues."
"Oh please Doctor Freud!" Thomas Aquinas said suddenly with a prolongation of the ‘please’. "Is this perambulation, permutation and patent obfuscation really necessary?" He asked, with unconcealed irritation. “For God’s sake! Give me a break!” He snapped in annoyance. “And …the ‘every blade of grass’ bit. Wow weee! That kind of talk does you no service at all Sigmund, and besides it is very dated, really!
"Well Thomas," The Doctor replied smugly as he produced his silver lighter and held it before the tip of his extinguished cigar with an unsteady hand. "I maintain that the world is as mad as our young friend here has put it, precisely because God has been murdered and reinvented by your marvellous religions. How convenient it is to destroy and mangle, then to have the omnipotent one wag His paternal finger at our transgressions and dispense penance and even forgiveness.
Man's transgressions are not; "against God’s will" as your cohort might have us believe. Man does not traverse the ‘will’ of God, for the will of God is the will of man!" He emphasised the word as though it contained the thrust of his meaning. “Moral law is mans creation. Man is governed by the laws of physics, he is glued to the earth by the measurable force of gravity. He does not sin against the ‘will’ or doctrine of zealots and their invented divinities. If man sins he sins against himself, against the earth, the nature which sustains him, and against a dead God whom religion has murdered. There is no forgiveness for mans sins, none that can be sold by priests or purchased by man. There is no forgiveness, there is only consequence.
"Sigmund!" Thomas Aquinas snapped. "Stop raising your voice! You will have us all thrown out." He motioned towards the bartender who looked from his lemons with a stern expression upon his face and seemed about to say something when the doctor continued in a whisper addressing himself to Brian. "When I was a medical student…, long before you were born, I conducted research upon certain members of the carnivorous elasmobranches family. I came to realise, through the study of that archaic and intriguing creature that...."
"Sigmund!" Thomas Aquinas interrupted his companion with evident annoyance. "Not only are you digressing, but you are quite unashamedly attempting to bamboozle us with scientific terminology. Kindly state what a carnivorous elasmobranches is, and please endeavour to make you point as clearly and concisely as possible." "Oh, I do apologise, sharks, my good man," he said. "Through my research on sharks I came to realise that the creator of the universe is unmistakably manifest in the physicalities of or universe.” “Now look who’s being vague, having his cake and eating it too.” Thomas Aquinas put in peevishly.
“That, we can see the handiwork of the Almighty all around us, and nowhere more clearly than in the pulse of life itself. From the macroscopic to the microscopic…, all around us, beneath and within our noses, is the essence of this thing we call God. Man is that same trinity which your predecessors have been squabbling over for eons. Man is composed firstly of physical matter, the effluvium of stars, secondly the potent electrical and gravitational energies which holds those same atoms together… and thirdly he is infused with that illusive motive force we refer to as life. There is your trinity, your holy triumvirate.
The ancient faith of animism, that was practised by our ancestors recognised that the divine in everything around them. “Mankind has ceased to recognise the miracle that is without and within him. This is the tragedy of your age…,” He directed his remak towards Brian “That is rock upon which our species is sure to perish." He paused and suddenly thumped the bar with the base of his fist. "A crime, that has been perpetrated by organised religion. A thousand year old tree is seen only as firewood, whilst the brick facade of a cathedral is believed to house the creator of the universe. Shite and onions!” He roared.
The Barman emerged from the shadows. “Roigh Lads… that’s enough of that…” He said with a gravity and authority that was accentuated by a brief flash of his gold teeth. “Yis will have to tidy things up a bit now if yis don’t mind. There are people trying to have a bit of peace and quiet.” Brian looked about but the pub was clearly empty. “Anymore shouting and I will have to ask yis to leave.” He warned. A silence descended upon the trio and Brian wondered if perhaps the conversation had come to an end. The Barman returned to his lemons.
"Why Sigmund," Thomas Aquinas replied calmly and quite suddenly. "I could not possible agree with you more." He said, much to the other’s surprise. "However you must remember that souls are not equal and that most men are incapable of recognising God, in any form other than that presented to him by religion." "You see!..... There he goes again!" Sigmund Freud said suddenly, raising his voice and appealing to their guest. "I'm afraid I don't quite understand." Brian replied. Doctor Freud placed his half smoked cigar in the ash tray so as his hands would be free to gesticulate. "How can one possibly have a discussion with this self proclaimed Christian, what is more, one of the gurus of his faith, when he insists upon changing his colours like a dammed chameleon?" "A chameleon?" Brian repeated curiously. Yes, yes!" Doctor Freud continued, lowering his voice. "Our friend here, he pointed to Thomas Aquinas with undisguised annoyance. "The smirking monk! He insists upon being a Christian, and then tells us that all souls are not equal! I mean can one produce a more un-Christian utterance than that?"
"I'm afraid I must correct you my good Doctor." Thomas Aquinas said with a smile. It was clear that he was more pleased at having caused the Doctor annoyance, rather than at the prospect of proving him incorrect. "The suggestion that all souls are not equal is no more un-Christian than simply stating that some mortals are more enlightened than others. "Humbug!" Doctor Freud blurted seeking refuge in his pint. "Well..." Thomas Aquinas continued, much pleased that he had taken control of the podium. He spoke to Brian without looking at the indignant Doctor.
"When my learned friend here, refers to the great mass of believers who participate in Christianity, he is failing to make a distinction between the masses and the religion itself. If the great majority of participants in Christianity are dullards, it does not follow that the religion itself is at fault. It simply means that some souls are more enlightened than others."
"I'm afraid.." Brian interrupted, ".....that I have to agree with the doctor. This idea of some souls being better than others does not seem to be very Christian." "Well put my boy!" Sigmund Freud rewarded him with a grin. "You see Thomas! Just as I said." He added triumphantly. Thomas Aquinas continued, ignoring Doctor Freud and directing his comments towards Brian. "What I am implying is not inequality." He said calmly. "Some souls are simply more enlightened than others. Differential enlightenment, if you will. In essence it amounts to nothing more than the simple observation that, some individuals begin their own particular journey of life at a point that is much further down the road towards enlightenment than others.
The great multitude of men eek out their existence within a glass menagerie; as oblivious to the enlightened who observe them from without, as they are to the manacles and pinioning that kennel them within. No matter what one does, or how much one tries to point to the spiritual futility of their lives, such individuals remain steadfast in the belief that despite their misery and abrogation of self, that they are happy. Should a wiser man try to liberate his peers, they will invariably stare blankly back at him and ask; ‘liberate me from what?’".
I cannot help but believe that the enormous difference in the degree of enlightenment that people posses is perhaps explained by some form of reincarnation. Enlightenment or true wisdom is not the product of 'spontaneous generation', as science might have us believe." He threw a testing glance toward his companion. “Enlightenment is instead cultivated over time, or perhaps even lifetimes.” "Madness!" Doctor Freud interrupted, swaying slightly upon his bar stool. "How dare you ridicule science with your accusations of ‘spontaneous generation’, and then hopscotch from, monotheism to infinitism, to reincarnation and from transubstantiation to transmigration! Your position is untenable, you are a charlatan! " His annoyance deprived him of words.
“In my professional capacity as a physician, I must suggest that you desist in this prevarication. You must choose your poison Thomas and be faithful to it otherwise you are at risk of slipping into a psychosis from which even I may be unable to deliver you." He laughed haughtily and then belched loudly. "Sigmund Please!" Thomas Aquinas chastised. "Whilst in matters of physic, I do readily defer to your expertise. I must insist that upon issues of theology you should not be so presumptuous. At least allow me the courtesy of finishing my own sentences." He said before continuing.
"To my mind the purpose of life's journey, is the pursuit of enlightenment. And a crucial element to that enlightenment is the capacity for independent thought." He said quite seriously. "Thoughts, that are not of the great multitude." "Independent of religions!" Doctor Freud interjected slyly. "I don't dispute it Sigmund" Thomas Aquinas replied haughtily. "That is the single commonality that all of us in this place share with one another. But what of the great masses who are incapable of independent thought, of enlightenment or philosophy, what of them? He paused and took a draught of whiskey. "Now before you interrupt me… I must say that it is not from religion, but rather from that desolate hole in man’s consciousness, that springs forth the very fountainhead of his misery. You say religion prevents man from thinking I say that most men are incapable of thinking and at least religion offers them hope.”
"Here here! Brother Aquinas." Doctor Freud put in jovially, before he drained his pint. "Consequently," Thomas Aquinas continued. "What are we to deduce from the observation that at any moment in time the pursuit of enlightenment or philosophy does occupy but the smallest proportion of our race?” He asked."I have absolutely no idea." Brian replied with sincerity, skilfully concealing a yawn between the syllables of his reply. "Well firstly…." the monk continued. "if we agree that all things being equal some individuals are quite simply born more enlightened than others. Within the same family nay amongst identical twins one may be a fool and the other a philosopher. From whence does that inherent innate wisdom come? Is it not possible that the path towards enlightenment is one that stretches before the womb and beyond the grave. Is it possible that the soul of man is as infinite as that of the universe? This latter point would suggest the existence of some form of reincarnation. Furthermore, the fact that those pursuing enlightenment as a mode of life, seem to represent a mere minority, would suggest that mortal life is merely the smallest portion of an of educational process. This possibility at once explains and gives a purpose to our existence…. We see why thinkers are in a minority in the same way that final year students are the minority within any institution…. and at last we begin to circumnavigate the elusive permutations of the cosmos."
“The lyceum of life.” Doctor Freud put in dryly. "A university for the soul." Thomas Aquinas said proudly. "One, where, (not surprisingly), the ignorant are in the majority.
"Oh what a load of drivel!" Sigmund Freud snorted."Well I think it makes quite a bit of sense." Brian said in Thomas's defence. "The earth as a kind of University, from which we must graduate before we get to enlightenment or heaven." He paused and thought for a moment. "It certainly would explain a few things." “All flummery and humbug of course. Borrowed rehash from Gnosticism and eastern mysticism. He doesn’t believe a word of it himself you know.” Doctor Freud replied simply. "Ha!" Thomas Aquinas exclaimed triumphantly. "And..." he went on grandly, "I wonder if perhaps our Doctor Freud here, is a little afraid that he might be returned to the flatlands to a life of deprivation and penury as just deserts for his intellectual intransigence!""So that I might perhaps become a little wiser?" Sigmund Freud asked with a caustic emphasis upon the wise.
"Well Sigmund, the medical profession has served you well in your life. Perhaps you might benefit from life upon the receiving end of your own particular brand of magical mumbo jumbo.""My dear friends." The Doctor replied. "Not only do I dismiss your suggestions of reincarnation as hypothetical hyperbole. But in all sincerity I would gladly embrace with axial-arms extended, that illusive entity which you refer to as poverty." He flung the last word disdainfully. "I'm afraid I don't catch your drift Sigmund." Thomas Aquinas said. "This poverty of yours Thomas is perhaps one of the greatest illusions of modern times!" Doctor Freud continued, emphasising the word illusion as though he were exposing the trickery of a conjuror. "Illusion?" Brian repeated, in disbelief. "Yes indeed!" the Doctor continued, delighted at the gauntlet he had tossed before his companion's assertions.
"Poverty as we know it, is a purposeful misconception!" He returned. "A fallacy, existing as all fallacies do; to protect those who have created it." Thomas Aquinas began to laugh unreservedly.
"Why that is madness!" Brian asserted boldly. It was clear the Doctor had become inebriated. Thomas Aquinas would doubtless enjoy a swift and decisive victory. "I'm afraid Sigmund, we may have given your ideas some credence up until now. However, it is quite clear that you have taken leave of your senses." Thomas Aquinas said with a chuckle as he emptied his whiskey glass.
The Doctor continued. "You have a pint of stout in your hand my good friend?" He said to Brian.
"Indeed I do." Brian agreed, swallowing a mouthful so as to confirm both pint and point. "The stout is given its shape by the vessel within which it is contained, and as such you have neither a glass nor porter in your hand, but rather a glass of porter. True?" The Doctor asked with a sobering grin."Of course." Brian replied, confident that at any moment the Doctor was about to insist upon something so outrageous that he would be free to release a laugh that was becoming increasingly difficult to contain. The Doctor was silent for a moment, before continuing. "If I were to wave a magic wand..," he said, "...and make only the glass disappear, you would no longer have a glass of stout would you?" He smiled at the foolishness of his own question.
"He'd have a mess upon his lap!" Thomas Aquinas put in. "Really Sigmund you are not making any sense at all." He added with another laugh. "Well," continued the Doctor, ".... poverty is our porter, and wealth is our glass. The one defines the other. When you speak to me of poverty you are pointing to the porter and neglecting the glass. Of course the idea of poverty as an isolated entity can be conceived by the mind, just as the liquid can be conceived in the absence of its container. However in reality, outside our thoughts poverty does not, and cannot exist in isolation. We have trained our minds to magic away the glass and enjoy a concept of poverty that is more conducive to our self sustaining perceptions of reality. Indeed….,” he sighed. “The mind is most adept at embellishing our perceptions re moulding them to fit with preconceptions essential to the superego or conscience. I need only remind you my friends of the well known fact that images received by the eyes are inverted when they alight upon the retina. In truth, we see the world upside down, of course the mind assists by compelling us to believe that the opposite is true.” He puffed a long zeppelin of smoke that drifted towards Thomas Aquinas like a cloud of rain.
“One should never be surprised at the mind’s capacity for reinterpreting reality." He grinned at the monk. "It is for our own protection that the mind divides the single entity of wealth and poverty into two separate concepts, for we cannot simultaneously aspire to one and be repulsed by the other, unless the mind conducts this handy little trick for us. The mutually inclusive concepts of wealth and poverty can only be understood, can only be truly perceived when they are reunited into their actual form; one single entity." He rubbed his beard and stubbed his extinguished cigar into the ashtray. “Our gracious brother Aquinas even baptise the union and christen it ‘wealthoverty’.” He said resolutely.
"Poverty pasha! The psychological division of a single concept has been fomented by man and his church as means of protecting all parties from the truth." "Sigmund......," Thomas Aquinas interrupted. Brian began to chuckle as the bartender approached and refilled their glasses solemnly. "If, as you say, there is no such thing as poverty, then what is the point in behaving charitably? Indeed what is the point in morality at all? Once again, we return to the culmination of your fantasies Doctor Freud; a lawless and hedonistic world."
"There should never be a point to behaving charitably.” His antagonist replied. "For if there is a 'point', then by definition, one is not behaving charitably. One is acting in ones own interests and that is moral capitalism. If one executes good and charitable deeds in order to get to heaven or to please his God, one is not engaged in charity. One is investing his good deeds in the hope that they will accrue the interest of eventual salvation. That is not charity my good Shepard, that is investment banking at its crudest." The trio were silent, Brian broke the stalemate.
"Doctor Freud, are you suggesting that the concept of charity is related to the artificial division of wealth and poverty as you put it." As he re-ignited his cigar, the flame of his silver lighter illuminated a pair of cold grey and bloodshot eyes, sharp and tinged with laughter. "Exactly my boy! He said with pleasure. “A single concept divided in two with this silly thing called charity at the junction between the two. That is why the richest societies are home to the greatest charities. That is why the richest men are among the greatest philandering philanthropists, and why the wealthiest churches are amongst Charity’s greatest proponents.” He paused to sup and puff. “Why, I believe Muslims are compelled by their doctrine to devote an actual percentage of their wealth over to that most comforting of delusions.” He continued looking at Brian but directed his final remarks towards the monk. “That is precisely how the Vatican can reconcile the fact that there is enough gold in its coffers to pave a road to heaven, whist the vast majority of its flock live and subsist in depravity, filth and squalor.
Of course we look admiringly upon our wealthy humanitarian and priestly purveyors of charity, for instead of seeing the mass of suffering that is a consequence of this continued perversion of reality, we see only the modicum of good that is proclaimed by the ostensibly charitable act. In essence, the act itself does nothing to alleviate that which we see as poverty, rather it serves only to reinforce the delusion, that is why charity has never and will never succeed over poverty…., because it is the same bloody thing a vote for charity is a vote for poverty. Charitable institutions may seem to represent man's benevolence, his spirituality, his moral and intellectual superiority above the brute beasts, however as a scientist, as a rationalist I cannot help but consider the existence of this devious imaginary division of ‘wealthoverty’ single concepts as yet another indictment of mans tunnelling baseness, and his phenomenal ability to embrace delusion when reality does not suit his selfish motives.” "Are we to understand, Sigmund, that in exercising kindness towards our fellow man, we are, according to your hedonist model, behaving immorally, or at best deluding ourselves?"
"What I am saying Thomas, is that the only act of charity that is ever practised is the recognition of truth, and the following of its holy dictates. When one possesses no more than ones needs, there exists no obligation to charity or its Mephistophelean emissaries. It is out of his profit and the fat of his excess that man purchases the lovely epaulet of charity. "Now look here Sigmund." Thomas Aquinas blurted. “I think it is most disingenuous of you to attempt to prove that charity is an elaborate farce! These kind of assertions are a disgrace to your profession, and I have no doubt that Hippocrates will be most annoyed as soon as he hears that you are going about corrupting people with this sort of parabolic rhetoric."
"Au-contraire….." Sigmund Freud replied with a debonair puff, turning upon his seat to look his companion straight in the eye. "In the first instance Thomas," he replied, "...it is the medical profession that is a disgrace to Hippo and I. And secondly, it was the old Trojan himself who put forward the idea, one which he simply borrowed from Pythagoras. I have merely brought it to its logical conclusion." "Its logical conclusion!" Thomas Aquinas fumed angrily.
"You....” He was visibly irate, “…..in your fabulous tweed suit! with that ridiculous Vandyke beard and that lavish Cuban cigar dangling from your lips, like an overcooked sausage!" He shouted with disgust. "Need I remind you Sigmund....," his voice quivering with annoyance, "...that I am the one who has lived to a vow of poverty all his life." He said. "And one of celibacy for that matter!" He brandished the blade of his abstinence as the Doctor fled behind a cloud of silence. "...vows under which you, and the bourgeois class that has spawned you, would buckle like a rotten floor board." He scoffed. "Well now." The Doctor replied, chastised, it seemed by Thomas Aquinas' reference to his admittedly lavish suit, and his penchant for fine cigars.
"Indeed..." he faltered, pausing as though waiting for the cloud before him to vaporise. "Whilst I concede to you upon the question of your self impost austerity and your rejection of material comforts…." he continued, "....I feel that it is no less a gift to our race than that of your celibacy."
Brian could not resist a laugh that arose from deep within, and he concealed a grin behind his pint glass. "You can be as rude and as contemptuous as you like Sigmund. Humour does not subtract from the actualities of suffering and deprivation. These ridiculous suggestions that poverty is illusion and charity a myth are an insult to those who are truly in need. What is more, this urbane pettifoggerey of yours is a poor bread for the starving victims of your bourgeois politics, and your own bourgeois life." He said, regaining control of his composure.
"That is a fair point!" Brian agreed. "Young man.” The Doctor turned towards him his drunken eyes ablaze. “Your impressionable mind is just about fit to receive ideas of serious import. Do not tax it further with conjecture that is clearly beyond it’s capabilities.” “Well excuse me!” Brian returned stung somewhat by the Doctors sudden temperature change. “I put it to you Thomas," He continued “….that if indeed the life of man is to be evaluated by your celestial arbiter? Or, even if we are destined to mature through a school of the material? Man will be counted, or will count himself, not upon the basis of his charity and what portion of fat he has shared with those less ‘blessed’ than he."
"Is that so Sigmund?" "Indeed, my devout and humble friend. It is so." “Should you and I be fortunate to sit in the gallery of that great court of heaven, we might hear your master of the universe ask a different question of his subjects. "A different question?" Thomas Aquinas repeated. "Indeed!" The Doctor declared with a snort. "Each righteous, obedient, penitent and even abstinent soul might come to his judgement quite prepared. He may have meticulously recorded and categorised his noble deeds and charitable acts.” The Doctor’s voice grew louder. “ But how shall he respond, should the Almighty be unmoved by these ostensible generosities and charitable deeds?
Our man in the dock might look to his peers, and his priests with wonderment and awe when the veil of delusion is removed from his eyes. For what will he answer if the Almighty should ask him; not what he has he given unto the world….., but rather, to account for that which he has taken for himself. He stubbed the but of his cigar into the glass tray with vehemence. “If that be His question then all your inventories of worthy deeds become redundant, and heaven might a lonely place indeed!" He slapped the bar with the palm of his hand causing their glasses to shudder. The bartender approached them with a surly expression upon his face.
"Excuse me sir." He addressed himself to Brian. "You will have to fasten your seat belt." "My seat belt?” Brian tendered a confused reply. Staring then at his lap he realised that his eyes were closed and upon opening them he noticed that his belt was indeed unfastened. The stewardess was standing in the aisle beside his, seat pleasantly smiling and awaiting some compliance. "Your seat belt sir, we are about to land.” She repeated, he fumbled, and then she movedon. He watched her depart as though she were a ghost and at length, he came to accept that the foregoing had been but a dream, one that had left his mouth dry and his shoulder wet with drool.
