He was not unusual in himself of course. True he did not fit the
regular demographic for this particular incarnation of the project, as
he was younger than the average participant- he was perhaps a few years
younger than me- but he certainly was not the first person of general
intellect to drift into the unit. His jaunty goatee and only recently
unkempt hair lent the impression of a creative, or liberal, or somesuch
type, and his fairly well disguised midlands accent seemed the natural
auditory accompaniment to this demeanor.
He flapped a B5 envelope
in his other hand, between thumb and index finger, as he mused on what
might be the best way to pin down the amorphous idea that was clearly
crystalising quite nicely in his mind. It had always been a refreshing
interaction when a passer by would encounter, digest, understand and
then participate in the installation without needing prodding or goading
by me. Most would, at some point, need confirmation that what they were
doin was right- was permitted, or expected of them. It is part of the
creature that we have become, to need assurance or security in the fact
that we are doing it as expected, by the rules, to form. There is indeed
a term for the 'fear of freedom' - but it escapes me now. Our envelope
flapper needed no introduction or encouragement, no shepherding or cues.
He got it right away... he knew exacty what he had to do- he just
needed to get it, well, just right. It was almost as if, in fact, this
whole exercise had happened upon him at just the right moment- that if
circumstance had been different, and he had not wandered into this
operation, he might have spent the next forty minutes looking for some
equivalent vehicle that could alleviate him of this burning idea. After
some rather embarrassed smiled exchanges, some chin rubbing and, I
think, a little finger wagging to his unseen conscience or mental
spirit, he finally filled with the confidence that he had got it right.
He
humped his rucksack higher onto the one shoulder that carried it, so
that it should not slump awkwardly as he leaned forward to write, and he
placed the paper on the desk and quickly scribbled the words onto it.
After a brief pause, looking at them on the page, to check that they
were, in fact, a fairly accurate representation in written form of the
conceptual miasma that had taken so long to condense, he nodded to
himself (or his unseen conscience once again) and slid the paper across
the desk to me, a look of satisfaction on his face that just about
resisted becoming an expression of smugness.
I looked at the
phrase that he had written, and turned it over once or twice in my head,
making sure that the concept that had been so lovingly wrapped in words
and then written on paper, would be as diligently recreated by my own
cognitive processes. I smiled politely as I had trained myself to after
so many diverse contributions. It had become a polite ritual to
acknowledge vulgarity, racism, stupidity or perceived wit with equal
measure as a way of thanks for at least bothering to participate in the
project. Genius and Hideous were treated with zen-like equal measure in
this house.
In themselves, the words were a commendable effort,
but especially so in the context of the project. The phrase would have
stood in its own right had it simmered to the surface of his
consciousness of its own accord, without being teased out under the
duress of participating in the project, but it seemed even more vigorous
when considered as a manufactured response stimulated by the unit. I
had come to expect a yield of perhaps one or two real crackers for every
two days spent within the installation, and the statistics had not
deviated from form on this day. The better responses were not the very
best I had ever seen, but they had that immediacy, resonance and sparkle
that I knew would translate fairly effortlessly into something visual.
This one, however, was a stand-out winner. They had a weight or gravity
because of the person from which they had come, rather than in spite of
him. The words read 'I know I shouldn't do it, but I have to'.
Their
power was augmented substantially a moment later, when the young man
paused on his way out of the unit and turned to me, envelope once again
flickering between thumb and finger... 'is there a post office very near
to here?'.
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