Kahve Chronicles: Part -10

“Death by attrition is not the same as attrition by death.” I think I read this somewhere deservedly obscure.
All things start out by being alive, because they are formed by an unspoiled, pristine principle
The snow, before people and cars muck it up, is alive.
It covers everything based on the principle of gravitational projection – this is indeed a very grave topic.
Those surfaces that counter the direction of gravity are white, the rest are not.

Then little by little, motion, heat and chemicals transform it into a dead thing.
Tires smash it, Plows pile it. Sewer-line access covers melt circles in it. .Salt particles pepper it with holes.
Before you know it, it is an unrecognizable mess.
There is no rhyme, reason or overriding principle that can explain its unified form and existence, any longer.
Snow, invariably dies a thousand deaths before it vanishes and is reborn into another existence as water

My friend the Oak goes through the same process, only over a longer period of time, say a few centuries
Cardinals, roses, snails, ladybugs, and carnations all do the same thing within their own pace and pattern
Neither all animates are alive nor all inanimates dead.
Uranium 238 is not only alive but also fertile. Kim Jung Il, on the other hand, is as dead as a doorknob
– at the time of this writing, according to all indications, he was still running North Korea; a real feat for a corpse.

Even though with every passing quantum of time it tick-tocks closer and closer to its ultimate demise
The original constitution of 238 is in tact and readily recognizable, centuries later.
The original constitution of Kim Jung Il on the other hand is far gone
Not even his mom could figure it out anymore
He is dead and mummified for all intents

The sun is the most extraordinary of all living things
It lives a million lives and dies a million deaths every day
Every split second, it begins its cycle of birth on a new spot on our lonely planet
Just as it concludes its cycle of death at a different spot far far away
Its is a metaphor for all living things that continuously light up and fadeout on the timeline of existence

When I first began teaching at my department, I thought I belonged to a living thing
I perceived an order of knowledge acquisition and dissemination
The world was my repository from which I harvested
The students were my depository into which I planted
Little by little I lost it all

Kuhn convinced me that harvesting was a reenactment of an ancient Teutonic ritual
This is “embedded in our DNA and is a necessary part of a balanced life.
Through ritual we are able to keep our Physical, Spiritual, Emotional and Mental aspects in dynamic balance.”
We go through predetermined motions of presumed discovery and end up with fragments of ideas
Which are not alive even for a split second and; at best they are perfect candidates for a male menopausal purge

My protégé convinced me that he can imitate me and everyone else we knew
Better than I could
He succeeded at failure splendidly
He could think his way into deeper labyrinths of reasoning than anyone else I knew
He mastered attriting his original constitution better than any academician. This he died even before graduating

Little by little the constellation of lights that surrounded me got snuffed out by attrition
Each dying corpuscle of my being contributed in kind to this overall process
Until there was nothing left.
This is the tirade I engage in every time I start a new semester with a new bunch of students
I wait with bated breadth to see if someone – anyone – will stand up and yell ”bull hit!” But alas…

“Bullshit! “You know, I did it, you nincompoop!” It was René
I thought you read my biography carefully, since you pontificate about my intellectual rebellion, in your lectures.”
I must have been vocalizing my thoughts and he must have overheard.
I tried to change the subject: “If you are looking for slightly used cooler bottles you are out of luck, I already looked”.
He did not buy it; no wonder he is the father of Modern Philosophy, come to think of it, he does look like a hound dog

“Oedipus, Socrates, Occam!” he summoned the rest of the musketeers – he always fancied himself as D’Artagnan
Thus the sword, the debauchery, and the unwarranted aggression.
One by one my nemeses emerged from the shadows. They were wearing solemn faces in front of their usual masks
“I am bringing charges against this creature – Réne uttered with disdain – for corrupting the minds of the young”
This has an awfully familiar ring. Cicero; yes! he was charged with similar nonsense. At least I am in good company.

“I overhead him lament the fact that his students were not clever enough to recognize his lies and distortions”
“Here before you stands a confessed criminal of the worst kind, one who screws with innocent minds”
“A mind is a terrible thing to waste.” René was filling time now, he had ran out of original syllogisms a while ago
He was resorting to clichés and jingles.
And without any fallout since the triumvirate he summoned appeared indifferent to the informal proceedings.

Occam was preoccupied with occupying the least amount of space,
Socrates was counting invisible quantities.
Oedipus was staring into silence,
“Gentlemen!” Réne bellowed and drew his rusty sword as if to conceal his threat-full intent behind accentuation
“You are here to judge this individual, Son of Hounddog and cohort of persons with dubious origin and destination!”

“Let the proceedings begin!”
As if waiting for this cue Socrates joined the fray: “Once he questioned my questionings.”
“He disproved my … I mean tried to disprove my method of questioning, whilst he was questioning himself.,”
“See the contradiction in his ways, devious, questionably devious, I say.”
“Of course, in principle all of this is questionable…” He started to mumble to himself and continue with counting

Clearing his throat as loudly as he can, as if to try to override the last waves of speech that left Socrates throat
Réne exhorted: “There you have it! Deviousness at work! Confusing young minds beyond a chance for redemption”
Occam was raising his right finger but the gesture was so faint that Réne called on Oedipus instead
“Well, I always thought the fellow was troubled. Let me tell you. I should know!
“He was disguising himself as a superhero to slay his own father. Fratricide! I say, by way of villainous murder!”

“Ok, there you have it! If this is not an open and shut case I do not know what is.”
“Does anyone have anything more to add?”
“Yes” said Occam, from behind the shadows.
“Speak ma’man, don’t be bashful, what is taking you so long?
Oh Occam! I forget; come forward; say what’s on your mind”

“Was he read his rights? He has a right to representation.”
“C’mon man! Do you have to bring this up now?”
Bemused by the antiques of my dumpster chums, I was quietly observing the shenanigans
“I agree, I have not been read my Miranda rights that I have a right to remain silent, and a right to representation.”
“I want Cicero; summon Cicero!” I exclaimed.

Réne was visibly annoyed by the prolongation of these proceedings.
“First of all, you betrayed your own demand, thanks to your menopausal-mouth shooting off when it should shut up.”
“You seem to know your rights by heart. That is why we did not recite them to you.”
“It was Occam. He said ‘Why repeat the obvious? ‘Isn’t that right Occam? Isn’t that right?”
Struggling to make his nod visible from his dark corner, Occam uttered a faint breadth of air that sounded like “hum.”

“Secondly, your demand for representation is an exercise in futility.”
“Cicero. Let me think, if my history classes bear any witness, a lawyer who failed in his own defense.”
“One who had to forfeit all to save his life by fleeing Rome with only the shirt on his back in the dark of the night.”
“You want him to defend you? I would gladly let you suffer the consequences of your own demand,”
“Only If it weren’t for our preference for brevity and expediency – Occam what do you say? “

By this time Occam had decided that he had done all he could and left the proceedings
Oedipus spoke on everyone’s behalf “Cicero, I’m summoning Cicero!”
Out of the garbage dumpster emerged a disheveled old, diminutive man, wearing rags that used to be a toga.
“Thank god, someone called me out of hiding. I hope that villainous Caesar did not hear my name being called.”
“If he finds out, he is likely to chase me around with his sword.”

“Do you want to represent this man in these proceedings? He demanded your representation.”
Cicero turned around to see who was speaking.
Seeing Rene in his getups with drawn sword in hand he jumped back a few feet before collecting himself.
“Sure, I will. I am a little rusty but I’ll do it. Who is the defendant, what is the charge?”
Cicero and I bonded in no time. I think he empathized with me owing to the sorry state of my fur and sad eyes.

“Senators, citizens and slaves!” Since the passage of civil rights act he seems to have revised his address.
“I submit to you that these are trumped up charges. I know; been there; done that.
“In the first place, let us examine the credentials of the accusers.”
“A murderous, incestuous, mythological character brought before our lime lights through Shakespearean fiction”
“No doubt, he has been motivated by guilt, envy, and a deep desire for parity with others. Need I say more?”

“A so called Greek Philosopher who is unsure of everything lest he may be slightly mistaken about their truth.”
“What business does this man have accusing anyone of any thing?”
“Why should we believe anything he says when he can say nothing that he believes?”
“Sigmund Freud, personally, would have a field day with the source of his insecurities.”
“And about the other protagonist called Occam, there can be, by definition, little to nothing to say.”

“Réne is a bit more complex. Unlike the others, chronologically speaking, he succeeds me,.”
“So I have not had a chance to learn about him or his singular god.”
“His god was invented before my time; and I must reserve judgment on these matters as well as his true motivation.”
“However, it seems to me that he is a scavenger of information morsels and a manipulator of their composition.”
“Anyone who can go from ‘I think.’ to ‘There is god.’ needs to be credited with slight of hand and derision of thought.”

Cicero, had resorted to his old ways in the Senate and the Consulship he held.
His accusations were not only weak but also so subtle that even I, a professor, found them to be esoteric
“What about his debaucherous ways? What about seducing married women, consorting with prostitutes?” I yelled.
“How about drinking, gambling, fornicating and his mercenary ways?”
“How about denouncing the teachings of his mentors?

Now I had found the foundation of my litigation: “Isn’t that motive enough?
“He is denouncing those who are able to convince their students of the truth of their teaching?”
I could see, with a gleam in my eye that Réne was getting flustered by the second.
I decided to put the nail in his coffin: “He thinks he is D’Artagnan; he is a delusional impostor; he is a fake”
“Dumas! You created a monster, who is not even a part of your fiction.”

René did not take my sarcasm sitting down.
In fact, he leaped up; yelled ‘En garde!;” and stabbed me with his rusty sword right through my ribs.
I was stunned.
Now I know what it is like to watch something dramatic happen to you as you watch it as a third-party spectator
René withdrew his sword. Wiped it with some rotten banana peels and placed it back in its shield.

One by one, all of the protagonists dissolved into the dark corners of the Starbucks loading dock.
As he scurried out, Cicero said: “Too bad, just when all was going so well; I better get lost before Caesar shows up.”
Oedipus articulated “’To be or not to be, that is…” He paused before continuing ”…not supposed to be overused.”
Occam walked in, nodded and walked out without saying a word.
Socrates mumbled “We need to reexamine the facts here; where as we think he is stabbed in the heart…”
His voice trailed off and disappeared as he walked away and disappeared, himself.

Kahve, propelled by some power outside of thoughts emanating from any specific part of his physical being
Crawled to the back of the dumpster where he kept his unpublished notes about his menopausal brain
He clutched them against his bloodied body
His final thoughts were; “the world is never the way it’s supposed to be”
They found him days later.

The Coroner declared: “death by attrition, causing an offensively pungent decomposition of the body.”
They buried his body in a mass grave near the municipal dump.
His brat, Cappuccino inherited the bloodied manuscript of menopausal notes Kahve left behind
His mom was not interested in notes of a bloodied sort. She is a clean freak.
His dad could not be reached on account of an Elvis sighting that was reported on National Public Radio.

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