T̶h̶e̶ ̶L̶i̶t̶t̶l̶e̶ ̶M̶a̶n̶

  

When you started studying, the days seemed grey and endless and pounded on your head like a cluster migraine. They were a persistent type of grey where you thought that that the sun might never shine again; that perhaps even your memories of the Sun were placed there by God just to increase your suffering.

You couldn’t stand it. And yet you did.

University and all that it had promised had been cruelly juxtaposed with the reality of living in a hall of residence covered floor to ceiling with antiseptic surfaces that were somehow never clean. Nothing seemed to matter. You couldn’t connect with anyone you met until the time you got drunk enough to mention the Little Man.

That night you had methodically drank a bottle of cheap whisky and joined them in your antiseptic shared kitchen. You had sat with them and you had listened and you had smiled with your mouth and you had laughed with your larynx and you had winced at both yourself and the wooziness you felt inside.

You don’t know why or how you started talking.

You had been trying your hardest not to say a word in a vain, deluded effort to fool these people into thinking you weren’t as you were – that, in fact,  you were just like them.

“Yeah,” you must have said (about what you have no idea), “like the Little Man.”

And they must have looked at you with eyes wide and confusion in their faces. They must have said What? or What the fuck? and laughed.

And on autopilot, for there was no other way you could have said it, you must have finally let it all out.

You must have told them about the Little Man that sat in your childhood “playroom” (which was really just a little corner of your living room with a blanket tacked up over it) and about his little blue chair that you could never touch. How the chair was the slightly larger than a doll’s chair and how its gnarled form seemed to grow from the ground.

You must have described how some days the Little Man was there, sitting stolidly on his little blue chair, and some days he was not. And you must have described his wizened little head with his long white beard which flowed like water - for if you mentioned him at all, you must have mentioned these things.

You must have explained that you weren’t allowed to look directly at the Little Man and how you had always known this. That no one could have told you not to look at the Little Man in just the same way no one could have told you about the Little Man. You must have explained that from before you were even able to form the words to explain that there was a little man sitting there, you knew well that he was not to mentioned.

And that it wasn’t just that you shouldn’t mention him: it was that you couldn’t - it was an impossibility. To think that anyone would be able to talk about the Little Man would be a category error. Like thinking you might detach your shadow or that you could eat Mathematics.

You must have told them that you had always assumed that everyone else could see him too until, one night, when you were safely - safely? - wrapped up under the covers in your bedroom, where he could not see you or hear your thoughts, you asked yourself if this were actually true? Were others really aware of him like you were? Or were you - you alone - the only one who knew about the Little Man?

And that the day after you asked yourself this, he was gone.

And you hadn’t mentioned him after that. No, you had never mentioned him. All things were as they had to be in this universe. Your shadow remained attached to you. Mathematics was inedible. And not one word left your mouth about the Little Man.

And yet, that night, there in the kitchen, you somehow broke the omerta. And, drunk as you were, you knew you had done something very, very wrong. You wanted to vomit. You felt as if all the dread that had been pooling inside you had finally burst open and the horrors that lay hidden beneath the surface of the world were being released. 

But you stayed sitting on your cheap plastic chair the same as you were before, looking from the outside just like a human being, whilst you gripped the underside of the chair as if your life depended on it.

And then, to your surprise, they said: Yes.

Yes, the Little Man had been in their houses too. And, Yes, they could never look at him.  And, Yes, they had never been able to speak of him until today. Until just now.

And then you watched as they calmly reached their hands to their faces and began to peel them off, bit by bit, layer by layer, from skin to flesh to bone and when you thought there was no more that they could possibly remove, they peeled off one more layer to reveal the Little Man inside. Except this time, this time you were able to look directly at him. And he was smiling at you. And you tried to scream, to throw yourself to the floor, but you remained unmoving on your little chair, forced to look upon his grinning face.

Then you awoke. You decided that the Little Man had been the horrifying realness of the alcohol induced dream. But your conversation? Well, that felt solid, somehow. That night you had spoken of the Little Man. You had somehow detached your shadow and feasted upon Mathematics.

And, days later, when you finally gained the courage to re-entered the antiseptic scene of your crime, you nodded to them and they said “Hi” to you and you said “Hi” to them but the look in their eyes told you not to mention the Little Man and that they too were deliberately not looking at the space next to the sideboard where a little gnarled blue chair was growing up out of the ground.

But at least you weren’t alone anymore.

How I plan on living forever

Even the nerds have facial tattoos today.

Especially the nerds, I should say.

It’s an easy signifier. “Hey,” it shouts on behalf of the nerd, “Hey! Look at me – I’m not a nerd – Look at me! Would a nerd have a facial tattoo?”

It’s a nice closed loop which we can consider thusly:

 

The Nerd’s Facial Tattoo Theorem

 

Axiom 1: Nerds don’t have facial tattoos.

Axiom 1 (restated): Facial tattoos are never on nerd.

Statement: Look at my sick ink.

∴ I cannot be a nerd.

Q.E.D.

Corollary: If anything, I’m edgy.

 

I remember being a younger man, often hearing other people’s tattoos being commented upon (by those without them, naturally) with a tut and a cluck,

“They’ll regret those when they’re older.”

This is not true and was never true. What the betatooed will regret is not a tattoo existing upon their bodies - upon their faces - when they are old but the very fact that they are now old. The tattoo should be the preserve of the young! Those whose bodies are bedecked by artwork – a stylish spiderweb, a mermaid or a labubu perhaps - would trade all the supposed dignity of not-having-a-tattoo for the thrill of being young and supple and stupid. The fact that a crinkled, old tattoo looks shit is the purely fault of the body it is on and not the tattoo itself.

Me, myself, I intend to stay young.

Therefore, I will never get a tattoo.

How does this follow? Well, whilst the nerds’ initial premise was faulty, my mathematics is impeccable.

Let me explain:

Once upon a time, it may have been true that a nerd would not have felt the needle -something which I myself doubt – but, today, tattoos have reached critical mass. Right now, at this very moment, everyone has got one. They have all tried to co-opt the tattoos inherent hipness, their innate cool.

Look, they say. This is me! This is me! I am young, I am unique and glowing and a canvas for someone else’s art! I will endure the pain and admire myself in the mirror every day until it becomes something that is merely on me, part of my body’s architecture, and I forget it’s there. Then I might get another one. This is me! I will proclaim. And all my friends have one!

So, a whole generation of people, slowly, ever so slowly, ends up tattooed in some-way, small to big, torso to neck. It might take a few years for them to get there but get there they will; just look at Lionel Messi, a clean-cut superstar for years until he was beguiled by the ink…

And the generation below them? Will they express themselves this way? Not so much.

And why? Well, as we observed, even the nerds have facial tattoos these days. What reeked of rebellion to one generation reeks of conformity to the next. Tattoos become what mullets and hairspray, flares and denim, were to us, way-back-when, in our younger, non-tattooed days. Tattoos will become 1 word: uncool.

I predict, nay I know, that the next generation will have no tattoos. And me, I will be with them. I will not have a tattoo to regret. I will not have something that places me amongst the haggard and wizened. People will look upon me, looking for signifiers, triggers to tell them, consciously or not, where I sit in the life cycle of a man, and they will not find what they are looking for. No.

 

My Tattoo Theorem

Axiom 1: Every old person has a tattoo.

Axiom 1 (restated): Only young people don’t have tattoos.

Statement: Look at my lack of ink.

∴ I cannot be old.

Corollary: If anything, I’m young.

 

And, am I saying that this – my lack of tattoos, my non-tatooedness - will make me immortal? No, I am not that naïve. But it’s certainly part of the plan.

 

The Crab/ Cartesian Carcinoma

  

All through my training, I idolised my mentor. I shouldn’t have - I know that and I knew that - but I wasn’t yet enlightened. What could I do? Did he know how I felt? Did he discourage me or encourage me or did he just sit and allow me to make my own the path?

When I couldn’t sleep, I thought of the all words I would use to describe him. Brilliant. Beatific. Beautiful. I knew that there were gates I was supposed to be traverse and that I was crashing into them like some lower order of ape.

But eventually, as I was instructed to in my early life, I put away my childish things. I tried to take his example and find the way. And I did. In a way.

For all this, I remain a man, and spend my days looking back. When I think of him, I do not – cannot - picture the brilliant, enigmatic teacher I first knew. I know, in my head, that he was a great man who taught me explicitly through his lessons and implicitly through his actions; his dedication to routine and dharma. But in my heart, I do not believe this.

Instead, I see him on that first day. The day he began picking up piles of sand and letting it fall through his fingers, grain by grain, over and over again. He started that morning as the light’s rays began to filter through the slats and continued until we could no longer see the sand but merely hear the shhh shhh shhh as the it hit the bare floor.

The next day, when we returned with crowing of the cock, he was still pouring the sand, grain by grain, onto the floor, through his fingers. We meditated upon it.

We thought: I dwell not in the past.

We said: I dream not of the future.

We concluded: I concentrate mind on the present moment.

He stopped with his usual practice and teaching, and continued in this way instead - pouring the sand seemingly endlessly. I never saw him start and I never saw him finish; I merely observed him scooping up the sand and letting it fall forever.

We thought of the lesson of master who ate the same dish every day. When questioned on how he could eat the same meal every day, he replied, “How could I possibly eat the same meal every day?” I suppose you can’t step in the same river twice.

We tried to take in his message. Some of us followed his example and began to pour sand through our own hands. Some continued the routines as previously set. Some were not as skilled as others, and let the worry show on their brows.  What anyone really thought was hard to say.

And, as with all temporal things, this continued until it didn’t. One day, he began to stop letting the sand sift through his hands and positively began to play with it.  

Throwing it into the air.

Swirling it on the floor.

Throwing it at the walls.

Placing it grain by grain into his mouth.

Spitting it out at the neophytes.

Some thought of the Laughing Buddha. Some thought of the master who killed with the keisaku. Others, the wise ones, thought of the Parable of The Poisoned Arrow.

Soon after that, my mentor’s face drooped on one side. Saliva spilled from his mouth as freely as the sand had from his hands.

He was taken to the hospital and the tumour was confirmed. He died shortly after.

In his hospital bed, he was no longer the master I had known. He had begun to curse his carers and grasp at invisible things. His body was no longer him. He had become an old, scared, angry man.

I so strongly desired an end to my own personal Buddha’s suffering. I desired the end of my suffering. I needed the serene man who had achieved bodhi, who was destined to leave our wheel of suffering, not this cruel trick our corporeal world had played on him - on his body.

As I look back, as in a mirror dimly, I ask myself if he left the saṃsāra and ascended as I was sure he would when I was his disciple. My mentor was perfect, enlightened. Could I take it that he, himself, had gone from his body before his mind changed?  Did his soul ascend to nirvana the second the first sarcoma cell split in his brain? Was the body that lay in the hospital bed merely the husk of who he had been?

I try and I fail and I am doomed to repeat in my next life. That is a given. But for him, my mentor, I cannot help but wonder if it is the cancer that will continue the cycle of existence – preferably reincarnated as a slug or a nematode - and that he, himself, has achieved liberation.

 

One Cyclopean Disaster

Did I check before I left? I’m pretty sure I checked before I left. But I can’t stop the feeling. They’re shrinking. I can feel it. They are scrawny twigs hanging from my sides. They feel smaller. They do.

What if I didn’t check? I can’t remember. Did I check? I have a feeling I checked but what if I didn’t check? If I checked – I did check, I always do, don’t I, how could I not - I have a feeling that I didn’t start at the bottom of my triceps because I got distracted by those rustling leaves and I rushed. I always rush and now I’ll be late. I checked. I checked and they were fine. I know. They were fine.

I don’t want to get my Jack out again. If I use him too much, I’ll damage him and I’m late. But I can’t not know. I have time for one more check, surely? It’ll be fine.

I pull him out of my pocket and hear a crack. I must be more careful!  He doesn’t seem to be squirming as much as usual. If he’s dead, what use would he be? He’d rot and he wouldn’t be the same size and he’d be squishy and I’d have to ask for another one and they’d ask why and then they’d know and they’ll think I think it was a big deal because why else would I mention it? But I’ll tell them it wasn’t a big deal, I just needed to him to check, then they’ll ask why I need to check and I won’t be able to explain. They’ll think that I think they’re shrunken! I will tell them… I will tell them… I was only using him to measure… but they’ll want to know why I was using him to measure and then they’ll look at my arms and see my arms and they’ll think…

Oh! A prick on my leg. Ok. Breathe. Breathe. Focus on the task in hand.

I speak to him, tell him to rouse his blood and shake him. He begins to moan. I roar and coax and move him closer to my mouth, smacking my lips, he gets so close that I can taste the smoky metallic taste coming up and, as he thinks I’ll gobble him up, at the last second, I lower him down and finally - finally - he stands up straight as a bean pole. Good man. 

Hmmm, I can’t put him on the floor, as he might try running again and I can’t risk him falling from a branch so I will just use my free hand… and… yes, it clears him still. Have I lined him up properly? It seems to be fine. I’ll check again to be sure. In my haste, I have smushed him completely against my arm. Is he bent? No, no, no… it’s fine… he can straighten up and I can see they are fine, definitely fine.

Repeat a thousand times: Tree trunks would envy my arms.

I shove him back into my pocket. He served his purpose today. Or did he? Was he stooping? Did I check properly? Was his back broken? I was so relieved by it all that I wasn’t careful again. Gargantuan Idiot! I can’t check again lest I damage him more and I’m so late, will they ask why I was late?

It’s ok. It will be alright. But what if, when I get there, he wriggles about and starts to moan and they hear him squeak and ask me why I keep him and I have to tell them? I will tell them I was keeping him as a snack. Yes, as a snack. I will practise and then they will never know. Never.

“I was keeping…”

Errgg, I’ve set the trees to rustling again. Focus, get there, no time to lose.

Where was I. Ah, yes. Confident: “I was keeping him as a snack.”

Once more. Deeper.

“I was keeping him as a snack.”

It felt ok. They are fine. Did I measure from the base of the arm? They still feel withered. Maybe my jerkin was billowing too much and I was measuring the cloth rather than the muscle? Just once more and I’ll roll up my sleeves this time to make sure it’s accurate…. There…

Ow! A prick and…. The little blighters are everywhere. Swarming. I do not have time for them today and …. Oh Typhon! They saw me measuring! They saw! They know!

“Bare arms!”

They are looking at my arms! How dare they! I must have stumbled onto a village of them whilst I was checking and... what if they tell the others about my arms?! They’ve seen them naked!  I’m going to have to crush them all and I don’t have time. I do not have time.

“Fe…” I start to bellow but I can hear that they’re still shouting in their shrill voices. Not scared enough. They don’t fear me because of them?

“Raise arms…” Yes, this one is calling at me in his little acorn hat. Raise arms? They dare tell me what to do? They dare tell me to show my… my... lilliputian arms.

Then they’re throwing their little sticks at me.

That one drew a speck of blood! My jerkin!  I’ll crush their bones and make them my bread!  No, wait. It’s Jack. Blefuscu!

He’s no use now! I need to get him out and find one that’s the same height. This will take all morning. I guess I needed a replacement anyway. It’s ok, I’ll tell them I got attacked but what if they ask why I took ages and then they think it’s because of my little-ended arms. What if…

*Brobdingnag*

I go down with a titanic crash. Fi! When did they tie my legs?

My Jack is all smooshed up and my clothing is all gooey. I can’t even get someone the same size as him now. Fo!

Easy enough to tear their weak string… But…This is embarrassing. They’re looking at me, staring at my scrawny arms, judging me, planning on telling the others, “They’re tiny! They’re tiny!”  they’ll say. Oh Pantagruel! Don’t let them see. They can’t look any more. Tuck the arms under my back. They can’t see them now, not even a thumb. It is ok. I am safe.

What’s that? Something smells like iron… hot, boiling iron…