The Madding Crowd

The Madding Crowd

When I came up with the title, I was so sure. Finally, this three-worded string managed to capture my feelings when I was creating it. 

Unlike most art I make, this project was driven by anger, rejection, pain, despair, fear, subjection and sadness.

At times I felt like I was creating a collective, a paper revolution. I felt hope as I cut out the faces. How powerful can an individual be in a collective. The crowd is fighting for a brighter future.

Other moments I would feel watched, observed. Not by a collective but a collection of individuals. Each their own judgement, their own reflection. You never know what they might think. 

It’s a crowd of individuals, each with a unique print and pattern. Each with their own thoughts, logic and morals. How can we then ever become one to make a change? 

 

I was running out of paper. I started cutting multiple faces from one page. Of course I tried to have them as far apart as possible. For composition’s sake. 

Now when I look at my wall, I feel like God. Plato said that soulmates were one creature, but cut and divided by God as a punishment. I took the pairs apart and tried to mix everything well. I bet he tried to do the same. 

There are groups and factions in the crowd. The red ones don’t like the blue ones. The floral ones believe, the fashion ones don’t. The modern art ones are leftist, while paint smudged ones are alt-right. Interieur design are queer, the newspaper ones have "traditional" preferences. 

 

But you see, none can be described just their pattern or just their beliefs. In the crowd they are divided by colour and the rest of their facets are forgotten. 

But even if I, as God, would hear their prayers and cries, I could never grasp how rich and dimensional they can be. That idea equally pleases and terrifies me. 

More than a hundred faces hang on my wall. Each of them I traced and cut and stuck to the wall. I’ve touched all of them. Does that make us family? What more is family than a promise and a personal touch?

Whether a unified collective or a collection of strangers, the madding crowd will be watching me. Maybe they are my god.  

Blueprints

Blueprints

It was a world where everything was square. Buildings were cubes, trees were cubes, wheels were smaller cubes, squares were squares and people were rectangles. 

They lived their whole life in a square society. Things were either in or out, knowledge could be categorized or it was not, everything was put in boxes.

The pyramids were square. The messiah of the rectangle people was crushed by a giant square boulder. Thus the symbol of piety was a square. The notion “god is in everything” was easy to argue in this world.

We see inside the square that is Hector’s house. The fridge, the washing machine, the chairs and the table are only to be distinguished from one another by size, color and buttons. Hector was an innovator of sorts.

He worked for the department of geometry development. He made equations. The department had a rule that no mathematical equation should ever result in any other shape than a square. 

Hector had known Pythagoras, the poor colleague that invented the triangle. At the court of many sides, he was found guilty of treason and additionally charged with witchcraft, when he claimed that two triangles would make a square. They forced him to count  the sides of the triangle, it was on national television. His execution was too. 

Hector had had a long day at the office. He took his square glasses off and put them on the blue square with stars, indicating its purpose as a nightstand. To avoid confusion as to which cube served which purpose, the colors and patterns had been dictated by law. Imagine someone putting down his glasses on a chair!

Not that there was anyone to sit on his glasses. Hector had always been alone. Not lonely, mind you. He was content with his own thoughts. He thought in many more shapes and colors than the outside world would allow.

Sometimes at night, he would sit under his blanket with a box of crayons. Inside of the box was an envelope with very small pieces of paper. On each he tried to reinvent the world.There were bright yellow circles, with arrows coming out and red numbers scribbled on the side. Purple hexagons, gradual slopes, bent lines. Hector drew and drew. Every night he drew. If an envelope was full, he would put it under the cube that was his wardrobe. At first, this was not visible, but as the years went on, the wardrobe slowly rose.

In the morning, he took his rectangular suitcase and wandered through the shoebox town. Pigeons pecked at some crumbs. The sun was a huge fiery cube. He walked through the gates of the geometry department. The receptionist was very skinny, she looked like a ruler. She cheerfully greeted him. He did not pay her any attention. Elevator, 17^th floor, 344^th cubicle. He had no assignments so he sat down on his square chair. He looked at the snow on his monitor. It probably was not plugged in right. 

When Florence walked in, Hector had just drawn a few squares with some squiggly numbers on its sides. Hector thought about saying, how can I help you. He did not. Florence said, I start working today. I was told this was my office. Hector said, that is a mistake, but 345 is empty. Florence smiled and walked out. Then he walked back in, saying would you want to have lunch together?

Hector sketched increasingly wild. His equations were surpassing the 3^rd dimension when we met him. Now we are well into his grey years. He was retired now. He was working on the 14^th dimension. He was so old that he had to sketch at his table. The doorbell rang. It is open, Hector shouted. Florence walked in. I start living here today and I believe this is my house, he joked. Witty as ever. Florence had become a very fine old man. His jaw square, his beard strong, his shoulders broad. Hector always enjoyed his company. 

Florence picked up a paper and inspected it. What vibrant colors, and these incredible shapes! I cannot believe what I see. Hector got up slowly and took his hand. Florence, listen to me. Do not be afraid of what you just saw. You need to believe me when I say that we are turning our backs to the world that could be. We are only allowed to live in the world as it is. Hector took the papers and showed him. His eyes lit up. This is what we are told to ignore. We could be exploring dimensions. 

Florence left early that night. He forgot his coat. Hector carefully draped it over his fridge, Florence could pick it up tomorrow. He felt uneasy. He wrote a letter to Florence: I always cared for you. If something happens, send all the envelopes under my wardrobe to the department. Maybe someone will understand. 

The furniture was thrown about. Signs of struggle everywhere. Florence stepped over a chair. The fridge was still in place. On it, his coat. He slipped it on, opened the fridge and drank some juice out of the box. He found the letter in his pocket and read it. He found a bag and started filling it with envelopes. Florence left the house with three bags and one bag with the contents of the fridge. 

He watched national television, or tried to. He had to pinch himself. Only the cat was watching him. Florence flipped through the drawings. He smelled the chalk, touched the paper, licked a corner.

Later he counted his stamps. Who has 145 stamps at home. Would it be suspicious to buy that many stamps. He could not possibly put all the envelopes in the same mailbox. What was his distribution plan. 

When it was pitch black outside, he went into his garden and grabbed a rusty square barrel. The envelopes fit in one try. He reached for his matches, touched the letter. Florence read it and lit it. The fire burned for four hours. The chalk stained the flames and made them cry. 

Not Wired For Society

The rain drizzles quietly over the cars greeting each other at the cross-road. The lamppost is flickering, unsure which moments of the dark night to light up. The specks of water become golden spears when illuminated in a twinkle.
               Dave has leaned his bike against the light pole and watches traffic go by. His blond curls peeking out of his blue hoody catch wet pearls, his clenched hands in his pockets. He does not know how long he has been standing there. Maybe 10 minutes. He does not know exactly why he is standing there, but he feels that he should not go home yet.
               At home, only a mountain lion awaits him. The contrast between his smooth fur and his death claws have scared him out of the house. Dave had never felt comfortable with the novel. How does one deal with a lion? When humans were closer to primates than to Dave, there was a well-defined course of action to be taken if a mountain lion found its way onto human territory. The group of not-exactly-Daves would be gathered, supplied with rather ineffective weapons, have communicated a strategy in grunts and wheezes and eliminated the threat.
               Dave, on the other hand, had to deal with animal protection and the division of the government handling illegal immigration, contraband and smuggling.  Dave’s backyard was tiled and too narrow to secretly bury a lion. Burying an illegal immigrant was also novel to Dave and something he desperately wanted to avoid. He had not even wanted a lion, but one day it just stood on his porch and let itself in once the door was answered.
               Moths are periodically flocking around the lamp post, fluttering off disappointedly every time its light dims. The rain is slowly but intrusively seeping through the holes in Dave’s right shoe. A red Honda smiles at a black Toyota. The Honda’s headlights give it the appearance of a girly cat, the Toyota looks more like one of those fast bugs Dave can never catch but always sees lurking in the dark corners of his pantry.
               There is nothing wrong with Dave. He has a part-time job at a copy shop, goes for runs in the park, likes foreign movies and cooks the same four meals in a rotating order. It makes it easier to remember his grocery list. It is not appreciated or even considered worrisome to not have connections, so Dave has a handful of friends he sees once a month. He does not have a girlfriend and is unsure if he actually wants one. None of his friends are girls, so to think that first he has to find a girl to befriend and then make her his private girl-friend does not seem within his capacities.
               The day after Dave went to the therapist for the first time, the mountain lion became his roommate. The therapist is nice but asks difficult questions:

                              “Do you have problems relating to others?”

                              “Have you been feeling different this week?”

                              “How do you deal with stress?”

               She has long brown hair that cascades over her shoulders. A few locks have tangled themselves around the wooden buttons of her wrinkled blouse. She is good at watching Dave kindly and waiting for him to formulate an answer.

                             “What makes you happy?”

               One moth has been caught by surprise when a fat drop engulfs and smashes it into Dave’s left sleeve. He sees how the brown powder creating the patterns on its wings bleeds into his jacket. It probably cannot take off and fly anymore and has to spend the rest of his short existence on Dave’s arm. 

               D:           “What makes other people happy?”

               T:           “That shouldn’t matter in what brings you happiness.”

               D:           “More as an example.”

Her nose wrinkles when she pushes her glasses into their preferred position. Her eyes dart from the aloe vera plant in the left corner to the supposedly calming painting of a sunny meadow on the north wall of the consultation room. 

T:           “For example, most people gain happiness from pursuing a goal or an interest, that can be a promotion, a study or course, a family, a pet or journey.”

D:           “I already have a pet.”

She sighs, closes her notebook and chucks it aside to then arrange it in line with the corner of the table.

T:           “I’ve told you this before: the mountain lion is not a pet. But that does not mean you shouldn’t take care of it.”

D:           “Every time I approach it, it does something unpredictable, I don’t like it. Every time I chase him off the porch, he is back in the living room by the time I come in again. How can I be thinking of my happiness if the source of my unhappiness is on my sofa, eating my dinner every night?”

The therapist knows that she put that mountain lion on Dave’s porch. She has been telling him that since their second session, but he is a stubborn patient. There is nothing wrong with Dave. He has a job, enough friends to call him sociable and does not mind bad weather.

He was not a bad psychiatric case, did not need medication, maybe did not even need therapy. Because his life was alright. She took him on as a patient because he seemed empty, unaware of his routine, emotions and fears.

His first session he came in with his eyes widened, his blond curls a fuzzy halo. He sat down on the leather sofa that seemed to have belonged to Sigmund himself. He told her that he had got a letter that was not addressed to him, but opened it anyway. It said:

Dear Marras,

I’ve been thinking about you a great deal. It must be lonely without knowing my whereabouts. I really could be anywhere. I assure you that I’m fine. Me and the boys always find something to keep us busy, happy and maybe also useful. Soon I’ll tell you more about this mission, but its details are still confidential. Sorry honey.

I think we should go on that trip together we always talked about, once I’m back and settled in again. This fucking desert is so hot, I’d like to go someplace cold. Maybe Norway. You always wanted to go to Europe, right?

I have also been working on a list of novels and poems we should read to each other and movies we should watch in our bed. I miss our orange curtains that make our room look like a circus tent every morning, when the sun tries to beam through them. Maybe Harriette can join us, if you make sure I got enough tissues to battle my allergies. Speaking of, I surely hope you’re feeding Harriette less these days, remember that the vet said clearly that she should lose weight!

I have to admit I even miss that furry scoundrel. Marras, you’re the light that wakes me up at 5am and guides me through the day, my fig princess. I can’t wait to hug you again. This time, I will hold you forever.

Yours, Keith

T:           “Why do you think you opened the letter?”

D:           “It was on my doormat. It felt like it was mine.”

T:           “Then what struck you when you read it?”

D:           “I can’t seem to connect to Keith’s feelings for Marras. The letter seems to be filled with pockets of happiness and love. I made me realize that I have never experienced anything like it.” 

T:           “Love? Affection? Intimacy? Happiness? Can you explain what you mean?”

D:           “None of it. But I’ve also never felt like I needed it. I am alright. Now, after reading this letter, I wonder whether alright is enough for me.”

Dave flicks the moth of his sleeve and grabs his bike. He does not cycle, but walks along the boulevard, reading the license plates, wondering how many spy agencies communicated through these combinations of letters and numbers. He speculated what an Arabic license plate would look like and whether you would have to read it from the left. Then how would someone unable to read the Arabic alphabet report an Arabic-license-plated car?

D:           “I feel off. Confused. Not necessarily boring, but empty. I have never registered specific moments of happiness, so why do I constantly notice my unhappiness since I read the letter?”

T:           “Because you are socially comparing yourself to Keith. He has a partner, shared memories, future plans and apparently a mission. Maybe you feel like you don’t have that. There is nothing wrong with you. You just need to adjust to the small disappointments in life. Keith is just different from you, not better or worse. But you should try to work on yourself and find things to trigger happiness. In the long run, the small issues will slowly expand from the back of your mind until they are so big that you can no longer hide from them and then there is something wrong with you. Stress builds up and you have to tend to yourself. Don’t let this problem become a mountain lion.”

D:           “What does that mean?”

T:           “Dave, you are a modern human with modern problems. When your ancestors had the same amount of stress as you have about your unhappiness, it was usually caused by an identifiable threat. Maybe a mammoth or mountain lion. Cortisol, adrenaline and other hormones, causing an alert, stressed state, would make them more efficient at killing the beast, after which their bodies would return to its baseline. Even though our society, lifestyle, technologies and stressors have changed, our biological circuit hasn’t. If you worry too much about your unhappiness, but don’t take steps to live a life you deem worthy, you don’t go back to that baseline. The threat becomes unidentifiable.”

D:           “So my unhappiness is a mountain lion?”

T:           “I think humans consider a lion a bigger threat than unhappiness. Or at least they should.”

               Dave realizes he is now walking in his street. He wonders whether lions can turn on stoves and burn his house down. Maybe the lion would do him the favor of staying inside. The quiet is deafening when the soft rustling of the rain drops suddenly stops. Dave parks his bike against the wall and peeks through the living room window. The lion is curled up on the red sofa, a few gnawed ribs slightly hidden in its tummy fur. Dave silently slides the door open and tiptoes to the bathroom. He grabs a marker, bought with the intent to write the birthdays of his friends in his calendar, but had not added any in four years now. 

                              I AM WORKING ON IT

he writes in the middle of his smudged mirror. He observes his reflection through the letters and says, “What makes you happy? Well, the answer is obvious: evict the lion. Does that mean I want to become Keith?”
               Dave realizes that he feels uncomfortable talking to himself and that he wants orange curtains. He sneaks into the living room to his desk, where one lonely volume has been catching dust next to a cactus. One Hundred Years of Solitude had been a present from his friend group. Just like a foreign movie, they said, but then in words and sentences. Dave wipes the cover clean, slowly approaches the sofa and sits down next to the lion. it yaps contently in its sleep and stretches its legs over Dave’s lap. He strokes its soft greyish fur and wrinkles his forehead in preparation of the first sentence.