Wittgenstein Wants to Have Fun

That isn't what I meant, said Wittgenstein. The poem is by William Blake. It's about a little lamb, not a little gull.

I know that, said Saint Nicholas. I was playing one of your language-games. Two of them in fact.

What were they? asked Wittgenstein.

In the first one I substituted gull for lamb in a poem, and the second was a deliberate misunderstanding, where I pretended I thought you were talking about the sandwich filling rather than the poem.

Very crass, said Wittgenstein. Please don't do it any more. I'm trying to forget work for a while. Let's go for a walk.

They walked inland, hoping to avoid the wind. They reached a river bank and crossed over a bouncing bridge. Then they followed a little-used trail up the side of a hill. The trail was lined with leg-scratching weeds.

Ouch! said Saint Nicholas. I knew I shouldn't have worn my shorts. Where are we anyway ?

I don't know, said Wittgenstein. But here's a sign.

What does it say? asked Saint Nicholas.

Caution, read Wittgenstein, in a ranger-like voice. This area is subject to seasonal change and trail collapse. In some places there is no trail or the trail has collapsed.

I don't much like the sound of that, said Saint Nicholas.

I do, said Wittgenstein. Come on. Are you with me?

They proceeded along the narrow prickly trail for a short distance, until they were forced to stop, the trail having collapsed.

A number of excited ants began to crawl over their shoes and up their legs. Wittgenstein and Saint Nicholas stamped their feet and jumped up and down. Then they turned and hurried back towards the river.

That was no fun, said Saint Nicholas.

Yes it was, said Wittgenstein. That was fun. Now, what shall we do next?

Demise of Number 14

We've lived on this street for ten years now, approximately. No one's lived at number 14 for most of those.

We'd walk past in the evenings and see the setting sun reflected in the windows, which made it look like someone was inside.

But the broken blinds and flaking stucco walls, the cracking concrete and the unattended weeds, the ever growing collection of Messenger newspapers lying in the driveway, spoke of emptiness.

I've stared into those windows from the footpath, imagining some lonely person sitting in a darkened room inside, staring out, while their Messenger newspapers slowly turn to mush.

And their roses doggedly bloom, pink and red.

Now the house at number 14 has been pulled down. All that remains is a pile of rubble, and that too will soon be gone.

But for just a few days last week, when the house was still standing but the roof was gone, daylight poured in, illuminating the delicate lilac pink and lavender painted interior walls.

Green Star Dreaming

Lord Buddha!

Yes?

What do you know of dreams?

They are empty and meaningless.

I dream of green stars before I fall asleep.

Before you fall asleep? That is a monkey dream.

I know why I dream it. The green stars are weeds. And I have been spending too long in the garden with my weeding prong. That isn't what I wanted to ask.

What then?

I seek enlightenment. Today I was in the front garden pulling up green weeds with my prong, when suddenly I had the strangest sensation. As if I were asleep, and dreaming of green stars, illuminated by the sun.

So you were awake, and weeding, and yet it seemed that you were asleep and dreaming that you were awake and weeding?

Yes.

And how did you feel about this?

I knew that I preferred to be asleep and dreaming. Because in the dream I'm simply staring into the heart of the weeds and not actually weeding.

That is because you are lying down.

Is that important?

You will never accomplish the task of weeding that way.

May I ask you something? Are you sure that you are the real Buddha?

Why do you ask?

You sound like me.