NO-MAN

(ca. 1983-4, Buddhist Psychology Studies; inspired by this, F. Kafka, R. Serling,

 American Book Of The Dead,...and my driving record)

"No-Man is an island, No-Man stands alone ..."

(Donne?...why, no - it's all just starting)

Bill N. sipped his morning coffee with a relaxed air not ordinarily granted him. How long that momentary relief could be extended he had no idea. His four-year-old daughter was slowly filling her mouth with soggy Rice Krispies, her face low in the bowl, her eyes cautiously keeping vigil on daddy's state of mind. No, not really, on his outward behavior perhaps, but – could she really know his states, his condition? At her age? Perhaps better than anyone, who knows?

As he peered over the rim of his cup their glances locked. Each was imbibing is or her respective morning tonic slowly, watching every possible change in the other like two gunslingers circling in an old Western. Ah – she trembled! no, it was he, he was being overcome with a tremor starting from the back of his head and extending through his neck, his shoulders, his ribs; his breathing was slowly becoming stifled. Still her gaze, innocent or knowing, kept its bead on him.

Every object in the room had to it a kind of lucid certainty, was communicating its awareness to him through his periphery and, it would seem, beyond. Everything contained in the kitchen – and certainly the kitchen itself – possessed a quality of is-ness which struck Bill N. forcefully, even arrogantly, and drew all of his attention most accutely to the eyes of his daughter, who had not flinched one muscle except to bat an eyelash now and then and feed her face, in the rhythmic, even mechanical manner she did now.

Nausea overcame Bill N. and following a brief moment of utter blackout of vision or thought or any sense, he was transported to a quite different scenario, with a steering column thumping him in the chest and blood trickling fast from his nose.

One prominent sound accompanied the blast to his body, the sound of metal colliding with metal at sufficient velocity to apply great shock to his entire system, enough to take a life. His mind immediately assessed the entire situation, computing in one familiar second the next sequence of events and eventualities: consideration of casualties, of damage, of insurance, of faults and responsibilities,; police, perhaps state troopers, ambulence, witnesses, would-be witnesses; did he have his license and was his watch still functioning . . .

Somewhere between shattered and clear, Bill N. drew himself gradually from his now totaled '78 Pontiac and approached the probably distraught others – if this one involved any others – he was getting really tired of this sick joke, time and again. The morning was crisp, the sunlight was exhilirating despite the circumstances; he wished like hell he could be anywhere else but here. As ambling bodies gathered around him and various blue and red lights flashed in his eyes the stabbing pain in his head returned and he swooned. The weight of his back rested flatly on the padded stretcher as the sickly blue-green halls of some dreaded place rolled past his view.

Looking up at the attendant who loomed over him manning the stretcher, his eyes came back into focus and he summoned all of his strength to exercise his feeble voice. "Where's my car?" The clean-shaven attendant looked down without moving his head an inch in Bill N.'s direction. A faint turn of his lips to one side denoted a condescending mixture of pity and amusement. Considering whether to tell him again at all, or just to keep walking to the ward, the young man answered finally and with markedly detached professional patience, "Bill, you've just come out of electro-shock treatment, there's no car; this is your home and I'm taking you to your room now."

And the eyes went right back up and the stretcher went right on rolling and Bill N. could have burst an artery with rage, were he not too, too wiped out just now to express anything. And his glazed eyes merely fixed on that ceiling, welling up with tears, lips tightly pressed. Bill would like to have fought the confusion which dominated his sensible mind; however, he was likewise altogether aware, nauseatingly aware, that it wouldn't come to anything to grasp at that.

You see, Bill N. was doomed by a sentence he didn't recall invoking upon himself, doomed to pass fluidly from one experience in time to another, with no delineations, no linear time reference, no certainty of what might consciously be happening with him at any moment, no control over the process, and what was most profound of all: no solidity whatsoever of anything except just as it was happening in the exact moment. If he could somehow be awake for the blackouts, perhaps there was solidity in that. No, Bill N. was doomed, and he knew it. He hadn't always known it but he knew it now – but where did that get him?

He strode up to the rostrum and placed himself in front of the large Kiwanis Seal on the wall, and grabbing the podium with both hands awaited the dying applause; he greeted and addressed the invisible audience hidden behind glaring floodlights. Introducing his topic, he spoke on a subject in which he was well-informed, and keeping track of his time began to draw to a close. Suddenly a harsh and unnerving sensation came over him, imperceivable to an observer, as familiar to Bill N. as it was unwelcome.

His forehead broke out in perspiration, his head throbbed, cold clammy dread overwhelmed him as he fell into the clutches of this unknown justice which prevailed over his existence – for there was no person or society behind it, and no way out, as the floodlights grew in area and brilliance, penetrating his shut eyelids and insisting, insisting – what? - that he not give in to the blackout?

Bracing himself he passed on and on through this scene and that, each experienced with full-bodied sensuality and presence of mind, and each punctuated with the oncoming sense of desperation and dread, and final termination through a simple exchange in reality – or rather, perspective of motion, since reality could not be named. Right now he was typing a short-story for a class – ah, so he was a student, a student! No – he was at a wedding – whose? Ah, so he was really this member of this family – or was he – that member?

Bill N. was a Flying Dutchman of sorts, traveling groundless over many grounds, an island without fixed location, alone with not even enough time to be alone where he could get a handle on anything – because in every situation he thought he was there! "That's me standing on the rostrum, that's me visitng my father in this nursing home, that's me snapping pictures of the bullfight in Madrid – now, it's happening now, and it is it must – be – so!"

And on and on it went, unrelenting for Bill N. And at this very moment, most pernicious of ironies: Bill has just experienced another rebirth – as you, reading for your enjoyment or curiosity a short-story about Bill N.

So good luck, Bill.

"The bad news is that we are in free-fall,
with nothing to hold on to, and no parachute;
the good news being, that there is no ground."

(Chögyam Trungpa, Rinpoche)