Zany!. Jim Gold

years! It was easy. Too easy! So I changed my style and went for speed. I planted at a lightning pace. I wanted to be the fastest seeder on the block, and make my deceased Mother Zany proud of me.”

      “You weren’t mature enough to slow down.”

      Dr. Zany ran his double-stop violin concerto hand through his mane of white hair as he considered this wise assertion.

      “ . . . Apostle, do you really think speed has caused my suffering?”

      St. James calmed himself. Speaking in quiet, firm, philosophical tones, he explained, “There are so many causes of human suffering, it’s hard to know which ones are yours. But certainly pain creates a blind, impassioned rush past the Gates of Understanding.”

      Outside, the spring sun was pouring on the sprouting grass. Zany’s well-trained ear could hear flowers pushing their heads through the soil. St. James rose, exited through the kitchen door, pulled the gardening hose from its rack by the garage, and gently fingered its nozzle. Zany turned in his armchair to watch through the open window. “It’s close to watering time,” St. James called. “After I do your lawn and garden, I’ll go home to practice. My goal is to play J. S. Bach in public.”

      “On the garden hose or the guitar?”

      “This, of course.” The Apostle turned on the hose. “Hosing practice has given me a love of wind instruments,” he said as a spray of water, reflecting sunlight, fell on the garden soil. “I remember when dirt accumulated in my nose and I had to blow it out. I used a reverse breathing technique to suck up the leaves, grime, and bits of gravel. After the air passage was clear, I heard a half-whistling, half-humming, half-witted whirring sound. I loved it! The enormous musical potential of the hose became clear. I was hooked! Wind instruments and classical piping became my hobby, then my passion. Added to that, the sound of moving water turned Loco on! Another positive. My playing made her swoon!”

      St. James returned to the living room, Zany reminisced, “I remember that Baroque period of your life. You refused to learn organ, clarinet, or any traditional instrument. Though you wanted to please your audience, you insisted on novelty, originality, and daring.”

      Dr. Zany pressed his hands together in a musical act of worship. “How splendid to be faithful to your vision while reaching for public adulation. I wish I still cared about such things.”

      “Some day you’ll care again.” The Apostle paused, hoping this prediction would take root. “ . . . Zoltan, did you know we’ve named our performing group ‘Gardeners Delight’? Our quartet of leaf blower, guitar, saxophone, and garden hose starts practicing this Sunday.”

      “Is performing with such a group worth the effort?”

      “Good question. I’ve been exploring the floral ideas of Muhlhausen gardener Hammurabi von Tuttleberg, in his Book of Babylonian Gardens: How to Build Paradise on Earth, subtitled A Teutonic Primer. I believe my mature vision of garden music eloquence is in place. How to apply it is my current dilemma.”

      “I am also wondering about my next planting,” said Zany.

       8

      ARE YOU JEWISH?

      ARE YOU JEWISH, DR. ZANY?”

      “Of course, Martha. You know that from my writing.”

      “I have never seen you write, Dr. Zany.” Martha rested a hand on her hip, and looked into the eyes of the good doctor. “Or perhaps I have,” she reconsidered. “The nervous twitches, ecstatic arm and wrist movements you perform every morning: Is that writing?” Zany was about to answer when she added, “I thought they were involuntary muscular contractions before taking your medication.”

      “Now, now, Martha. The word is meditation. You know I never take medication. I scribble higher thoughts on a pad every morning. Some may call it ‘writing.’ I call it synthesis and reflection. Holding my pen, carving words into a page, this ‘writing,’ is my form of meditation. I suppose some might consider it medication, since the process calms my mind. Writing medicates me into a meditative state.”

      “Dr. Zany, this is gibberish. I can’t understand what you’re saying! But, for you, such a lack of communication is a wonderful way to begin the day!” Martha smiled; mirth and incomprehensibility mixed in her eyes. “That is why I love working for you! Taking care of your worldly needs for so many years has been a daily adventure into the unknown.”

      “Thank you, Martha. You are a faithful servant, ministering to my body while I search for my soul. Mother Zany no longer visits me. You have become the closest thing to her presence.”

      Zany imagined his mother’s celestial vibration. Grand Doctoress of the Maternal Mattress Erica von Fumbler, a.k.a, Sultana Ubersnatch, vaginal embodiment of a much faded Turkish Empire, now gazed down upon him. In dissolving-fusion dance, she transformed herself into a Teutonic knight, hiding her armor-clad form behind the northern facade of Malbork Castle in Poland.

      This stellar vision vanished, leaving a sorrowful vacuum in Zany’s mind.

      The violinist faced the emptiness. “Aha,” he sighed with illumination, “finally I understand. I’ve witnessed the disintegration of my old self. Down, down, it has rolled. Daily I sit in my armchair, descending further into the dark valley of desperation. Although the sun shines above me, its radiance brings no joy. I have everything and nothing simultaneously. In my rush to fill the demands from the old life, I have lost my spiritual center. Well, ‘lost’ may be too strong a word. ‘Forgotten’ is better.

      “But I can feel that center rising again, kicking me like a baby in the womb. Yes, I need a new direction, a new mission and purpose. Determination, both conscious and unconscious, is my fulfillment technique. And I plan to sit in this armchair until I find it!”

      The next day, Zany was reflecting upon his aching toe. “Imagination creates my physical failings. When they occur, I believe the worst. But suppose I imagined the best? What would happen?”

      He paused to reflect on his reflections. “Maybe I need to worry.,” he muttered.

      “Dr. Zany, I am so glad that you worry,” Martha called out happily from the kitchen as she cut up a squash for her French vegetable soup. “Anxiety unites you with the universe.”

      “Martha, you are so philosophical this morning.”

      “Yes. I am also right.”

      “ ‘Philosophical’ does not mean you are wrong.”

      “Well, whatever.” She sliced some carrots. It was a clear day, and sunlight dappled the counter top. “This worry idea is more fascinating than doing the laundry. Dr. Zany, you are blessed with a wild, expansive imagination! It gives you the flexibility to worry about anything you like!”

      “Anything . . . .”

      “Yes. But secretly, I know you follow your own self-help program, the one you discovered seven years ago in Tashkent. Remember that Uzbekistan tour when you figured out how to handle stage fright? Your own invention, the Fear Replacement Therapy Program, worked! During that concert, in fact, you were so relaxed on stage, you fell asleep playing the Tchaikovsky Violin Concerto. Vibrations from your performance were so powerful, the orchestra and audience fell asleep, too. When you heard your fans snoring, you woke up to finish the concerto. Next day you started writing about your new self-knowledge and created the pamphlet Fear Replacement Therapy Rules, which soon swept the music and psychotherapy worlds.”

      Zany’s eyes closed as he recalled that concert tour of Central Asia. “Yes. It’s coming back. You’re right. I remember that, during the performance, the Uzbekistan police broke in to capture my wrong notes. I can still picture their black uniforms, clubs, and rifles. They searched under every seat and even frisked members of the concert audience!”

      “Yes, Doktor. But now that your concert career is over, you have