“The whole future lies in uncertainty: live immediately.”
What do those offices we spent our lives in look like?
The heartbeat of the Old World. Cubicles. Computers gathering dust. I tuned into the ether and listened to the past, the steady arrhythmical, mind-numbing repetition. Line upon line of worker ants looking in unison at what flashed on a screen. A conveyor belt of bees earning a living. Cashing in time.
“I must write emails.”
“We have to cut costs.”
“Another three hour meeting? Yes please.”
But nobody was listening, everyone was talking. “Great, Thursday at three p.m.?”
“I must buy things.”
“I must create spreadsheets.”
“The cat sat KILL on the mat.”
Viral load.
I heard it outside, vibrating out of the lockdowns in China, Japan, Canada, New Zealand, America, Chile, Peru, Thailand. Advancing over oceans and landlocked deserts where multi-nationals had dug up the dunes to build factories.
Re-wind, repeat.
“I must write emails.”
“We have to cut costs.”
“Another three hour meeting? Yes please.”
But nobody was listening, everyone was talking. “Great, Thursday at three p.m.?”
“I must buy things.”
Was the Earth sending colossal vibrations across the globe? Imploring change?
Harvey Weinstein had it. Silver linings.
“Look back, over the past, with its changing empires which rose and fell, and you can foresee the future too.”
English today.
I told Alice actions speak louder than words.
“Can I have some sweets?” she said.
“When pigs fly,” I said. “It’s ten o’clock. We have to keep a modicum of sanity.”
“What’s when pigs fly, Daddy?”
“It’s a proverb.”
“What’s a poberb?” she said, stumbling on the V.
“When pigs fly.”
“Pigs don’t fly.”
“That’s the point.”
“Of what?”
“The proverb.”
“Poberb?”
“Yes, when pigs fly.”
“What does it mean?”
“Never going to happen.”
“What isn’t?”
“Pigs flying.”
“Pigs don’t fly.”
“No, they don’t. And they never will. We use animals for their visual power. They’re everywhere in language. A little bird told me.”
“Birds can’t talk. Who is the little bird?”
“That’s a secret.”
“Why?”
“Good question,” I said. “What about take the cow by the horns.”
“Can I have some sweets?”.
“Sneaky snake, make a beeline,” I listed animal expressions. Trying to make a point I never had. “I’ve got an albatross around my neck, angry as a bull, as the crow flies, at snail’s pace, bee in your bonnet, the bee’s knees, bull in a china shop, butterflies in your stomach, can of worms, donkey work, fat cat, fish out of water, Queen bee…”
My breath got caught for speeding and I started to hyperventilate.
Alice was scared.
“Sharks are circling.”
I needed oxygen.
“…I…smell…a rat…”
Once I had my breath back I said, “Let’s read Shakespeare.”
And Alice looked at me like, WTF?
So I said OK, you choose what we do.
And we went outside and played hide-and-seek.
We ran barefoot in the grass, and since nobody had cut it for three months it felt like a memory. Can you picture a dog running through long grass? It jumps high so it can see where it’s going. Alice looked like that. It was a complete happiness we often mistake for stupidity.
I wasn’t a teacher, I was a guide. When you are nearly-four, the universe is your teacher.
The grass, the clouds, the trees, butterflies and flowers, the mud, the puddles. It’s all about the senses, building experiences and sensations, sights and sounds and feelings. It’s why babies eat plants, they’re working on their sense of taste and texture. They don’t like eating dandelions, they are building up mental models, creating anti-fragility into their senses.
Alice started cartwheeling through the rose bushes, the scabs from the previous day’s cycling cracking, bleeding as she learnt about thorns, pain thresholds and how a body can repair itself.
She picked up a ball and ran. I saw her gain an extra gear – which she didn’t have when she woke up – as she powered on to eight-miles-per-hour. Light speed to a four-year old.
Light and time, all relative.
Father time.
Fatherhood.
I threw the ball. She chased after it.
“I’m not a dog.”
We looked in drains. She was happy.
“The world is my oyster, Daddy,” she said, picking up a worm and dangling it over her head. “The world is my oyster.”
She saw a bug. She counted the legs. Then counted them again. Then she saw a spider and counted its legs and then went back to the bug and counted its legs for a third time. She looked confused. They weren’t adding up, like some kind of physics formula with no right answer.
Theoretical maths. Theoretical insects.
“Six legs plus eight legs is twelve legs, Daddy.”
I told her she was working hard and she must be proud of that.
I know I was.
“Daddy?” she said, getting up, dusting herself down.
“Yes,” I said, adding spider legs in my mind.
“What’s an oyster?”
She didn’t wait for an answer. Instead, she started walking sideways.
“I’m a spider,” she said. “Walking sideways with only two legs. But a spider.”