The Teachings of Don B.

by Donald Barthelme

  THE EDUCATIONAL EXPERIENCE

  Music from somewhere. It is Vivaldi’s great work, The Semesters.

  The students wandered among the exhibits. The Fisher King was there. We walked among the industrial achievements. A good-looking gas turbine, behind a velvet rope. The manufacturers described themselves in their literature as “patient and optimistic.” The students gazed, and gaped. Hitting them with ax handles is no longer permitted, hugging and kissing them is no longer permitted, speaking to them is permitted but only under extraordinary circumstances.

  The Fisher King was there. In Current Pathology by Spurry and Entemann the King is called “a doubtful clinical entity.” But Spurry and Entemann have never caught him, so far as is known. Transfer of information from the world to the eye is permitted if you have signed oaths of loyalty to the world, to the eye, to Current Pathology.

  We moved on. The two major theories of origins, evolution and creation, were argued by bands of believers who gave away buttons, balloons, bumper stickers, pieces of the True Cross. On the walls, photographs of stocking masks. The visible universe was doing very well, we decided, a great deal of movement, flux—unimpaired vitality. We made the students add odd figures, things like 453498*23:J and 8977?22MARY. This was part of the educational experience, we told them, and not even the hard part—just one side of a many-sided effort. But what a wonderful time you’ll have, we told them, when the experience is over, done, completed. You will all, we told them, be more beautiful than you are now, and more employable too. You will have a grasp of the total situation; the total situation will have a grasp of you.

  Here is a diode, learn what to do with it. Here is Du Guesclin, constable of France (1370–80)—learn what to do with him. A divan is either a long cushioned seat or a council of state—figure out at which times it is what. Certainly you can have your dangerous drugs, but only for dessert—first you must chew your cauliflower, finish your fronds.

  Oh they were happy going through the exercises and we told them to keep their tails down as they crawled under the wire, the wire was a string of quotations, Tacitus, Herodotus, Pindar . . . Then the steady-state cosmologists, Bondi, Gold, and Hoyle, had to be leapt over, the students had to swing from tree to tree in the Dark Wood, rappel down the sheer face of the Merzbau, engage in unarmed combat with the Van de Graaff machine, sew stocking masks. See? Unimpaired vitality.

  We paused before a bird’s lung on a pedestal. “But the mammalian lung is different!” they shouted. “A single slug of air, per hundred thousand population. . .” Some fool was going to call for “action” soon, citing the superiority of praxis to pale theory. A wipe-out requires thought, planning, coordination, as per our phoncon of 6/8/71. Classic film scripts were stretched tight over the destruction of indigenous social and political structures for dubious ends, as per our phoncon of 9/12/71. “Do you think intelligent life exists outside this bed?” one student asked another, confused as to whether she was attending the performance, or part of it. Unimpaired vitality, yes, but—

  And Sergeant Preston of the Yukon was there in his Sam Browne belt, he was copulating violently but copulating with no one, that’s always sad to see. Still it was a “nice try” and in that sense inspirational, a congratulation to the visible universe for being what it is. The group leader read from an approved text. “I have eaten from the tympanum, I have drunk from the cymbals.” The students shouted and clashed their spears together, in approval. We noticed that several of them were off in a corner playing with animals, an ibex, cattle, sheep. We didn’t know whether we should tell them to stop, or urge them to continue. Perplexities of this kind are not infrequent, in our business. The important thing is the educational experience itself—how to survive it.

  We moved them along as fast as we could, but it’s difficult, with all the new regulations, restrictions. The Chapel Perilous is a bomb farm now, they have 8,000 acres in guavas and a few hundred head of white-faced enlisted men who stand around with buckets of water, buckets of sand. We weren’t allowed to smoke, that was annoying, but necessary I suppose to the preservation of our fundamental ideals. Then we taught them how to put stamps on letters, there was a long line waiting in front of that part of the program, we lectured about belt buckles, the off/on switch, and putting out the garbage. It is wise not to attempt too much all at once—perhaps we weren’t wise.

  The best way to live is by not knowing what will happen to you at the end of the day, when the sun goes down and the supper is to be cooked. The students looked at each other with secret smiles. Rotten of them to conceal their feelings from us, we who are doing the best we can. The invitation to indulge in emotion at the expense of rational analysis already constitutes a political act, as per our phoncon of 11/9/72. We came to a booth where the lessons of 1914 were taught. There were some wild strawberries there, in the pool of blood, and someone was playing the piano, softly, in the pool of blood, and the Fisher King was fishing, hopelessly, in the pool of blood. The pool is a popular meeting place for younger people but we aren’t younger anymore so we hurried on. “Come and live with me,” that was something somebody said to someone else, a bizarre idea that was quickly scotched—we don’t want that kind of idea to become general, or popular.

  “The world is everything that was formerly the case,” the group leader said, “and now it is time to get back on the bus.” Then all of the guards rushed up and demanded their bribes. We paid them with soluble traveler’s checks and hoped for rain, and hoped for rodomontade, braggadocio, blare, bray, fanfare, flourish, tucket.

  THE DRAGON

  One day a wan and scruffy dragon came to the city looking for a disease. He had in mind ending his life, which he felt to be tedious, unsatisfactory, tax-troubled, lacking in purpose. Looking up diseases in the Yellow Pages, and finding none, he decided to enroll himself in a hospital. At St. Valentine’s, he approached a guard and asked the way to the No Hope Ward. Directed to the proper floor, he found there a bed newly made, whitewashed with sheets. He climbed in and turned on the television set, which was attached to the bed umbilically. A nurse motored in.

  “What have you got?” asked the dragon, thinking of diseases.

  “Everything,” said the nurse. “Eclampsia to milk leg. There is nothing that we do not have. Our Intensive Despair Unit is the envy of the profession. You will be edified. Everything will be all right. Trust us. The world is waiting for the sunrise.”

  The subsequent examinations, consultations, testifications can easily be imagined. To the point. The hospital refused to give him a disease. After three days, he’d been offered not so much as a nip of pneumonia.

  “I trusted you,” he said to his nurse. His fine fiery eyes regarded her with reproach and disgust.

  “I thought for a while we had something worked out with the Kidney Committee,” she said. “But when they discovered the precise nature of your undertaking . . .”

  Thinking of diseases still, the dragon left the hospital. Many fine diseases passed through his mind—rabies, gout, malaria, rinderpest. Or, he thought suddenly, I could get myself slain by a hero.

  At that moment, a Colonel of Sanitation came striding by, in his green uniform. “You there!” he cried. “Ho, dragon, stop and patter for a bit. Quickly, quickly—haven’t got all day! There are Mr. Goodbar wrappers in the streets still, after all my efforts, and the efforts of my men, day in day out—people, people, if we could just do something about the people, then perhaps an end to the endlessness. One could go home of a Friday night, and wipe the brow, and doff the uniform, and thank God for a day well squandered. But you—you have a strange aspect. What kind of a thing are you? Are you disposable? Biodegradable? Ordinary citizen out for a stroll? Looking for work? Member of a conspiracy? Vegetable? Mineral? Two-valued? Hostile to the national interest of the Department of Sanitation? Thrill-crazed kid? Objet d’art? Circus in town?”

  “I am nothing much,” said the dragon. “But I must declare, if you will allow me, that I am in a catatony
of admiration in re your life task. Your labor is indeed Sisyphean.”

  “You look rather like one of our fine Department of Sanitation trucks,” said the colonel, “now that I regard you closely. Are you sure you are not a malingering sanitation truck?”

  “I don’t think so,” said the dragon.

  “Let it go,” the colonel said, with a sigh. “Let it go, like so much else in this radically imperfect world, in this radically befilthed city. This is my lunch hour, after all. Would you care to rip up a chop? I like your style, know a place—quiet talk, exchange of views, not-bad Gibsons, pretty waitresses, Diners Club and American Express cards accepted.”

  They sat over their tasty and well-onioned Gibsons.

  “Tell me,” said the dragon. “Are you West Point?”

  “Sandhurst,” said the colonel. “Now, what is it, exactly, that is eating you and making you wan? Some order of death wish, I would imagine.”

  “That is the case,” said the dragon, “exactly.”

  “A question of existence,” said the colonel, “or its opposite.”

  “You have put your finger on it,” said the dragon.

  “Dragons exist,” said the colonel. “Only a fool would doubt it.”

  “If pricked, do I not bleed?”

  “You suffer, however, from a sort of general meaninglessness.”

  “Since the thirteenth century.”

  The colonel thought for a moment. “You could be an endangered species,” he said. “That would give you a meaningful life role. We love and cherish our endangered species and extend to them every courtesy.”

  “Well. . .”

  “By the authority vested in me by the Department of Sanitation,” pronounced the colonel, “I hereby declare you an endangered species, in tenebris, inter alia, pro forma, primus inter pares, and subject to approval at the highest levels.”

  “Thank you,” said the dragon. “Thank you very much.”

  “The President himself is vitally interested in endangered species,” said the colonel. “He has a list.”

  “Are men on it?”

  The colonel rose up in a great fit of anger and threw his glass into the fire. Half a Gibson followed it into the flames. He then stamped from the room with skillful majesty, excellent hauteur, and the bill. The dragon, filled with self-regard and convinced that he had at last gotten a message to the Authorities, bought a two-dollar lottery ticket and decided to stop smoking.

  NEWSLETTER

  BOARD MEETING:

  The last meeting of the Board on Wednesday, June 10, ended with a general manifestation of mutual respect and Christian fellowship. Ralph Hammer, speaking for the Deacons’ Committee, said that the Deacons had decided to withdraw their mass resignation of March 18. Recent developments within the church, he said, had convinced the Committee that their action had been precipitous. He pointed out that although the Deacons did not mind turning their robing room over to the new Ecology Center, in view of the grave threat represented by the environment, they felt that other apportionments of space within the church had been, perhaps, precipitous. His examples were the discotheque and the Encounter Pool. However, he said the Deacons would bend to the will of the majority, in these instances. Ralph raised the question of the audit, noting that the accountants had refused to certify the last-quarter accounts because they were blurred. Something ought to be done about this, he felt. Bill Quantrill, representing the New Priorities Committee, thanked Ralph and all the other Deacons for their valuable work in the past and said that some provision would have to be made for them in the new scheme of things. This would be worked out, he said.

  The question of the stolen mailing list was discussed. Elaine Berube said that there was no point in talking about who could have walked off with four drawers of Addressograph plates or for what purpose, and that the thing to do now was reestablish contact with the membership. It was decided that everyone would be asked to call in their name, address, and telephone number, and that this issue of the “Newsletter,” containing that emergency request, should be placed prominently in the vestibule and in places in the community, such as Laundromats. So please comply! Margaret Akin is in charge of reconstituting the list. She will be at 695-9445 between 2 and 4 P.M. daily for an indefinite period.

  The Board voted, 19–2, to allow the Film Group to “fly” a screen in the altar area. To “fly” means to hang the screen so that it can be pulled down during a screening, and pulled up during regular services. There was some debate as to whether the screen, when in the pulled-up position, would be visible from the sanctuary. Chris Robeson, director of the Film Group, said just the bottom of it. The schedule of films for August was also announced (listed elsewhere in the “Newsletter”).

  Three hundred and forty dollars was voted for a new set of drums. These will be purchased from G. Schirmer, Inc.

  Helen Meadows pointed out that while consciousness-raising and radicalization have a place in the Sunday services, we must not forget continuity. When asked for examples of continuity, she suggested flowers regularly, with special attention to such special occasions as Palm Sunday and Easter. Pierre Spirot said that flowers were not of as much value as situational experiences.

  Meeting adjourned at 4:35 P.M.

  AUGUST FLICKS:

  Gizzards, with Tanya Fritz and Paul Capelle, August 8, 8 P.M. A Man and a Man (Gregory Ratatouille), August 11, 8 P.M. I with Berger Resthaus, August 15, 8 P.M. House of Chains with Antonio Taxi, August 29, 8 P.M.

  KARATE CLASSES:

  A new series of Karate Classes will begin on Monday, July 20, under the direction of Patti-Lee Ivens, a Black Belt. They will be held in the Bell Tower.

  BABA MAHEESH:

  Baba Maheesh, formerly Theodore Lily, Ph.D., will lecture on “Transcendental Meditation” Thursday, July 16, at 8 P.M. His subtitle is “Improving Our Emotions.” There will be a 50¢ contribution.

  CENTERS:

  The Astrology-Telepathy Center, the Third World Center, the Dance Center, and the Center for the Study of Ecstasy have been discontinued. Their rooms will be assigned to new projects as new needs are felt.

  REPAIRS:

  The contractor fixing things up after the fire reports that extensive water damage presents problems. The building is structurally sound, he said, and the load-bearing walls weakened by the explosion have been shored up. The work is running well ahead of estimates, he stated. The new Encounter Pool is already installed. It is, as previously noted here, big enough for eight. A schedule of hours for the Encounter Pool will be posted as soon as the water heater is connected.

  MINISTER:

  Our minister, Ripley Bligh, is continuing his leave of absence. He is back in town and looking for a small apartment in the neighborhood.

  ORGAN:

  Anyone having any information as to the whereabouts of the organ, which has been missing from the choir loft since about May 1, please contact Bill Quantrill. He promises no prosecution or recriminations of any kind and says that the organ is needed so that we can continue to go forward on an even keel in the spirit of love and Christian fellowship.

  Peace!

  THE PHOTOGRAPHS

  FIG. 1

  FIG. 2

  The attached photographs of the human soul (Figs. 1 and 2), taken by Pioneer 10, the first spacecraft to navigate the outer solar system, were made on December 14, 1973, as the craft was leaving the magnetic field of Jupiter. The “photographs” (actually coded radio signals from the device’s nine-foot dish antenna beamed back to Earth) were, of course, incidental to the photographing of Jupiter itself, one of the mission’s chief aims. They were made by Dr. Reginald Hobson, FRS, of Britain’s Cavendish Laboratory, using Kodak spectroscopic plates type IIIa-J baked for five hours at 65° C. under dry N2 before exposure. Dr. Hobson very shortly afterward brought the resulting images to his friend and colleague Dr. Winston Watnick-Mealie, FRS.

  “Uh, Winnie—”

  “Yes, Reggie?”

  “I have somethi
ng to show you.”

  “More shots from 10?”

  “Right, Winnie. But these . . . There’s something rather special about them.”

  “What’s that, Reggie?”

  “Well, Winnie, I have reason to believe that they are photographs of the human soul on its way to Heaven.”

  “Oh, really. That’s interesting. Photographs of the human soul on its way to Heaven. I suppose you’ve, uh, checked this out, have you, Reggie? I mean—”

  “Uh—rather thoroughly, Winnie. I did a computer search of all extant images from space, and, uh, these photographs are sui generis, you might say. They are like nothing previously photographed. Nothing. I also did a worm-path study of the possibilities, and the result of the worm-path study was that, uh, these can only be photographs of the human soul on its way to Heaven.”

  “Any other tests?”