The Fool - Chapter Nine ======================= I - I wake up and it is Monday. If I leave right now I will maybe avoid being late for work. I dress leave the house in a slow daze. My whole body aches. All I can think of is that the instant I get in I can go and get a coffee. While I am standing at the coffee machine, I realise that my temporary inability to understand the complicated sequences of symbols on the machine is irrelevant, since I can get it to do the right thing by pure muscle memory, pushing whichever buttons feel right. Peter Chapman comes and queues up behind me. "Good morning Adam," he says. I attempt to smile but instead growl at him with a sound resembling 'morning', but only vaguely. He takes half a step backwards. I look back at the machine and find that my method of selecting coffee by pushing whichever buttons feel right has not worked. I force my brain to start understanding numbers again and push the right buttons this time. A coffee appears. "I'll, er, talk to you later," says Peter Chapman, as I turn to stalk off down the corridor with my prize. "Oh, ok," I stammer, trying neither to be rude nor to spill the coffee, which is taking up all the available energy I would otherwise use on having something sensible to say. When I get back to my desk, my heart is for some reason pounding. But from the first sip of coffee I feel a spread of energy rushing through my body from the crown of my head to the tips of my toes, and suddenly even the thought of data entry doesn't seem too bad. I start typing. II -- The numbers whirl and flash before me as I type, breathing deeply, trying to be still. My task hovers just on the brink of being something I can do without thinking, without conscious control, but somehow today I am unable to cross the threshhold. My brain begins to go numb, and my head aches dully. My eyes hurt. I obviously need more coffee. Coffee in hand, I adjust the monitor and change the text to a slightly less lurid shade of green. Yes. Much better. I continue typing. I remain unable to completely relax into it until lunchtime, by which stage my head feels like it has been stuffed with wet cotton wool. On the way to the caff I buy a paper. The woman behind the counter smiles at me and says 'Usual'. I nod and sit down, turning straight to the crossword. Parts of my brain are singing with delight at being given something to do. Others are complaining that they cannot possibly be expected to remember what words mean after four solid hours of doing strange things with numbers. The conflict resolves itself by me staring at three across for a long time, without getting it. III --- Three across. His unsent text: I'm Tree HTH. Nine letters. No clues. I have no idea. Eight across. Blue motel. Ten letters. Still no clues. Still no idea. Crossroads. Fuck. What is this? Seven down. Improve pig house for straight talking. Seven letters, second letter O. Honesty. Hone Sty. Honestly. Eleven across, chickens first flame breaks the rules. Five letters, third letter E. Cheat. Four down. Old car trapped in intervention - a spiritual experience. Something something D something T something something something something something. No idea. I experience a growing sense of paranoia that there is some cryptic message to be understood from the three words 'Crossroads', 'Honesty', and 'Cheat'. Thirteen across. Rework rubbish - nothing makes a root vegetable. Op backwards, tat, O, bingo, potato. Potato. The paranoia subsides. I cannot read any deeper meaning into the word 'potato.' Nor can I solve any of the other clues. It's like my brain has gone on strike. Some of them I can see are the kind of thing I ought to be able to get straight away, but the synapses are refusing to function. Crossroads cheat potato honesty. Four down is now something something D something T something T something something something. Meditation. IV -- It is time to return to work, for they are logging every keystroke, and will know if I am late back from lunch. They will know, in fact, exactly how late back from lunch I am, which is around two or three minutes, every day. This does not seem to be a problem. I am back at my desk, staring at a screen full of figures, my stomach heavy with lunch and my head aching with dull annoyance about not having been able to do any better on the crossword. I am also struck with an inchoate worry, attributable to nothing I can put my finger on. Perhaps what I need is more coffee. I get coffee, but it tastes acrid. Just as I am about to get into a rhythm of typing, Peter Chapman approaches. "Hello Adam," he says. "Do you have a moment?" Given that I am reporting to him, I suppose he does, yes, and stop typing. "Good," he says, turning. "Please step into my office a moment." He leads the way into his office, and I follow, blankly, wondering what on earth he could possibly want. He asks me if I know about databases, which it so happens I do, so I start telling him about databases at some length. Eventually he says, "Ok, thanks Adam." His phone rings. He pauses before answering it and says, "Thanks Adam," again. I leave his office feeling slightly dazed. What the hell was that about? I am not being paid enough not to care. V - The afternoon passes by in a blank, and all at once I am at home, by myself, and it is Monday evening. It is six thirty. I am restless. I resist the urge to go to the pub. I resist the urge to wank. I pick up a book and put it down again. I stand up with a sudden certitude and put my coat on. Then I take it off again. I am not going to the pub now. I sit down and force myself to breathe deeply, to recite a mantra, to calm myself down. Maybe I should call Beth. Maybe I shouldn't call Beth. Suddenly I'm not even sure I want to call Beth. Not with this restlessness. I'll only annoy her. I'm annoying me. I catch this negative train of thought and let it peter out to nothing, continuing to force myself to breathe deeply. A slow wave of calm begins at the top of my head, and spreads slowly down my neck and chest. I feel it running along the length of my spine in fits and starts. When it reaches the base of my spine it begins to spread down my arms and legs also. I keep breathing slowly. VI -- I am alone on a hillside. The ground is covered with snow. I walk along a little way to the summit of the hill. The path winds, and is not steep. I have a staff and a lantern with me. I am wearing a long, heavy cowl. My beard is long and white. I am lost, alone, frightened. I open my eyes. I am sitting here in my chair at home, on my own, making stuff up. I have no idea what I am doing. On impulse, I reach for my bookshelf, and pull out Waite's 'Pictorial Key to the Tarot'. I look up trump number nine, 'The Hermit'. There. At the end. "The Divine Mysteries secure their own protection from those who are unprepared." That was what Dora had said. I'd always thought this just meant that it didn't matter what you did because you were never going to get anything you weren't supposed to get. Suddenly I'm not so sure. I've been under actual attack I don't know how by people I don't know who for I don't know what reason, and I have no idea what the hell to do about it. Another impulse strikes me, and I go to the kitchen and make up a cup of salt water. I sprinkle the water towards the four corners of the room, feeling I should have something to say at each point. Given that I do not, I perform the process in silence, as my next best option. I sit down again, feeling slightly better. I have no idea what to do, but I have at least done something. VII --- I go back to the crossword. Two down. Six Romans begin to move after sign. Five letters. VI something? Virgo. Three across now. His unsent text: I'm Tree HTH. Three letters and six letters, fifth letter I. Must be an anagram of some sort. The something? The Hermit. The ninth trump. What a terrible clue. But that's what it must be. I begin to laugh, uncontrollably. My laughter subsides. It is a sign. Of something. But I have no idea what. The clue that the sign points to is another sign. A sign representing things known that cannot be communicated. I put the crossword down. Suddenly I am in no mood for crosswords. The Waite book catches my eye, and I pick it up. It is still open at the section on the Hermit. 'Therefore the Hermit is not, as Court de Gebelin explained, a wise man in search of truth and justice; nor is he, as a later explanation proposes, as especial example of experience. His beacon intimates that, "where I am, you also may be."' This is as maybe. Maybe I may also be where the hermit is, but right now, I don't think I know where I am myself, let alone where the hermit is. I have no idea what the hell I am doing any more. VIII ---- I ring Beth. No answer. I sit there fitfully for a while, wondering what to do, when the phone rings. It's her. "Hi," I say. "Hi." There is a pause. "You rang me?" she says. "Yeah, you know, just ringing to say hi. That's all." "Ok. Hi." Another pause. "Are you ok?" she says. "Yeah, fine. You?" "Fine. Look, I'm in the middle of a rehearsal right now, so I can't talk. I'll call you, ok?" "Ok." She hangs up. I feel a dull twinge in the pit of my stomach and wish I hadn't rung her. Can't be helped now, I tell myself, but I don't seem convinced. I pick up the crossword again. One down. Godhead. Four letters, second letter H. I have no idea. My mind blanks completely. What about sixteen across? Employing order to perform karaoke, five letters, fourth letter N. Not an anagram of anything. I don't know. I don't know. In the back of my head, the thought of going to the pub grows insidiously, but I resist. It is Monday night. I am not going to the pub. IX -- I am in the pub. I am just having one, I told myself when I came in here, but I have just finished one, and am starting another. It doesn't matter. The pub is quiet. A couple of lone drinkers at the bar, and me, by myself at a table in the corner. That's three lone drinkers, then. Fine by me. I raise my pint glass in an imaginary toast and light a cigarette, reflecting that it is indeed pleasant to come and sit in a pub and have a quiet pint. I haven't done this in a long time. When was the last time I did this? I cannot remember. Obviously not a problem then. As for my life, that's different. I am thirty-two years old. I am living in a bedsit. I am just about scraping by with paying the rent with the data entry, but that could end at any time. I would like to have a more interesting job, but I have been lazy and have not been chasing job adverts like I should have done. I have made my bed and I am lying in it. I have read a lot of books about magic and the occult and I have learned precisely nothing from any of them. I'm no longer sure I know what I was looking for there in the first place. I may or may not have a girlfriend named Beth. I am seeing someone called Beth. There is this girl called Beth. I sigh. Beth. X - When I get home, I am drunk, but not so drunk that I forget to drink some water before I go to bed. As I pour myself a second pint of water, my hand slips and I break the glass. Shit. I try to be careful as I am sweeping up the bits of broken glass, but there is a large curved piece sticking up that I do not see and I manage to graze my hand on it. Ow. The cut is clean, not deep, but it takes a while to stop bleeding. I run my hand under the cold tap until my whole arm begins to feel a little numb. Eventually I get the glass and water mess cleared up, wipe away the blood, and stick a plaster on the cut. I lie in bed, feeling my hand still smart with pain, resisting the urge to scratch it with the other hand. I find it hard to get to sleep. Deep breathing doesn't seem to work. I try reciting a mantra. Again, nothing. I lie awake, staring at the ceiling, for what feels like hours. I feel almost feverish. My forehead is burning. I lie there a while feeling it burn, before the thought slowly occurs to me that I have a thermometer, and I can check to see if I am actually feverish or not in a moment. Slowly I get up, and locate the thermometer, my head throbbing and aching. I remember that I am more drunk than I had intended to be. It does not feel pleasant. I check my temperature. Nope, no fever. Must just be imagining it. I lie back in bed, and at last, exhausted and aching, I fall asleep.