Hey, all! Yesterday I walked through the Shoreditch area of London and took in some street art. (Many thanks to K., who recommended it to me.) The best graffiti is beautiful and powerful, evocative and provocative. It’s, you know, art.

Graffiti can dispense insight. It can offer alternate ways of looking at reality. Often found in gritty urban settings, it proclaims to the world that feeling and thought and ingenuity exist everywhere humans exist (which is sometimes, sadly, contrary to popular belief!).

Here’s a sampling of what I saw yesterday in Shoreditch. Yes, I was that tourist taking photos of the street art. Well, so be it: a tourist is what I am, ain’t it?
 

TO / SPEAK SPEAK SPEAK / the truth / FEARLESSLY—

Great message. Perhaps this has meaning not just in isolation, which is cool enough, but also in combination with the message above it. Perhaps it means that we should not shy away from openly telling people when we adore them; and also we should not shy away from expressing ourselves when people encroach upon our (physical or metaphorical) space. Also, the words “adore” and “endure” both seem to imply that when we speak the truth fearlessly, we should do it with respect. I can be on board with that message!

But zoom out on these lovely messages, and we have a new message that blatantly urges us to spend money. This crude message is all the more crude in juxtaposition with the beautiful sentiments nearby. It’s a reminder of all the forces in our world that try to push us away from what’s really important (i.e., adoring and enduring each other by speaking truth fearlessly).

 

Hello, fellow residents of our beautiful planet! I am writing this blog post from a cute Danish cafe in London. Here is a photo I took from my seat in the cafe. If you know me at least a bit, and if you look closely at the photo, you may be able to guess my favorite part of it. However, as that detail is rather inconsequential, let me tell you something of greater importance. Let me tell you how I got here.

Oops! How I got here is inconsequential, too. I flew. (That last sentence was a clue, RE the detail in the photo!) It was a long flight—at least for a travelphobe like me. I finished a book. Exciting! I love finishing books. But in the scheme of things, that was not so exciting, really, so let me please get to my point. Let me tell you why I got here.

Four months ago, as I explained in my post from January 25 called Dreams, I had a dream. I dream vividly most nights; but only the rare dream manifests as a sort of lesson-cum-guidepost, express from my unconscious mind.

In the dream, I bought a flight to London. I bought the ticket amidst a group of friends, as part of a special discount rate; but each of us was traveling separately, and I would be traveling alone. Once I arrived in London, I discovered that my family was staying in nearby rooms. However, I decided to ignore them, since they wanted to do things that I didn’t. What I really wanted to do while in London was see a performance at the Paris Opera House; and that’s what I was making plans to do when I woke up.

Strangely enough, this relates to the book I finished on the plane. I’ll be writing previews of that book shortly. This story about my dream and how it influenced my life will perhaps be useful as we try to piece together the central philosophical problem laid out in that book. But I am getting off track again! So here’s what happened next.

Upon waking, I understood that the dream was important, but I wasn’t sure what it meant. In full—that is, partial—disclosure, there was also a segment of the dream that pertained to my love life. I would not like to share the details; I would merely like to note that the dream had multiple significances to me. (A multiple significance, in case you were wondering, is somewhat similar to a multiple orgasm, except that it’s not just for women; but I am getting off track again!) And so, realizing that my unconscious mind may have been trying to tell my conscious mind something, I kept thinking about the dream.

Within a few days, I was astonished to realize that I wanted to take a solo trip to London and Paris. This might not seem like such an astonishing wish to you; lots of people want to go to London and Paris. It was shocking to me, however, because I have always been a travelphobe.

There were so many things about travel that frightened me. I was scared my plane would crash. I was scared I would get irredeemably lost in trying to navigate public transportation. I was scared I would lose my passport or get beaten or harrassed or raped. I was scared I would spend a ridiculous amount of money, only to instantly get homesick for my garden and birds (that was another clue!). I was scared I would be obliged to do something touristy that I didn’t want to do.

But most of all, I was scared that the jostling and angled sunshine and lack of sleep that are inherent to travel would trigger a migraine. As I explained in my post from December 26 called Medical Mysteries (Part 2), I have suffered from periodic migraines for my whole life. They always last exactly ten days. They are debilitating, involving level-10 pain, aversion to light and noise, expulsion of stomach contents, and much moaning and rolling around amidst bedsheets.

As I explained in that post from last December, I had been unexpectedly rescued by magnesium in an easily absorbable form. I had not experienced a ten-day migraine since beginning my vitamin supplement regimen; and that happy streak continues to this day.

A miracle! Was it a god of travel—perhaps Hermes, a.k.a. Mercury—who had come to my aid?! But I will stay on track with this story, I promise.

The point is, my unconscious mind had realized, long before the “I” that I’m better acquainted with did, that my recent deliverance from periodic migraine hell opened up the door for me to travel. It further realized that my dilapidated and largely nonexistent love life would be a boon to me while traveling, for I would not have to compromise on how I would spend my time. Moreover, it realized that London was a perfect destination for doing things I love to do—namely, enjoying literature and music. Finally, it realized that the Paris Opera House is not that far from London, in the global scheme of things; and what, it mused, is the point of middle age, if not to fulfill fantasies you had while 12 or 13 years old?

Yes—in my youth, I had an obsession with The Phantom of the Opera, both the book and the musical. So I am going to go see that old building where some of the events depicted really occurred (and where some, being romantic exaggerations, did not). And I’m going to do many other literary- and musical-type activities in Paris; and I’m going to attempt to say something comprehensible in the language, and to understand something someone says to me. Because my adult, conscious mind has realized that the Paris Opera House is merely a sentimental excuse to force me to venture very far outside of my comfort zone. To experience something that, sure, lots of people experienced at a much younger age, but I have not yet: to be alone in a faraway culture of people who speak a language that’s foreign to me.

Speaking of language—I have been enjoying hearing British accents all around me. This is not a “pigeon” English, but the genuine article. (That was your third and final clue! If you have not solved the puzzle by now, I fear there is no hope for you . . . though perhaps the answer will come to you in a dream.)

But back to the point. The point is that the human brain has both conscious and unconscious parts. Managing the interplay between the two of them, in my experience, is key to living wisely. To be solely led by one or the other is a grievous mistake. In conclusion, here is a view of the interior of the Danish cafe, behind me. There are no hidden secrets in this photo . . . at least not that I know of. Those are elsewhere. Has your unconscious mind spoken to you lately?

Check out my new article on the Silent Book Club blog. It’s called Where Have You Been All My Life?

Have you ever experienced a stunning moment when you felt struck by the simplicity of an idea, and instantly sure of your next move? I did, two years ago. Read all about it here!

In the meantime, as you’re reading that article, and as you and I wait for our next huge thunderbolt of a realization or discovery or unique happenstance . . . I’ll be in the air over the Atlantic Ocean! More on that next time. Meanwhile, keep on reading, folks. You never know what you might find when you open a cover and venture into strings of words. . . .

The inquisitive one was running on a treacherously winding path through the woods. Rocks and roots were—as is typical of the D.C. area—poking up and snaking everywhere. The inquisitive one, who had just passed the 5-mile mark of an 8-mile run, was thinking about lots of random things. Suddenly, a foot hit a root, and the inquisitive one flew helplessly forward, straight through the air!

Unlike the last time this happened, all four of the inquisitive one’s limbs slammed into the ground. The two knees, left palm, and right elbow skidded across the rocky and rooted ground, as the inquisitive one executed an ungraceful turn and landed hard on the back of the right shoulder. The cheekbone banged, last of all, onto the dirt.

The inquisitive one lay in stunned silence. And then, slowly, gingerly, the inquisitive one sat up.

“Wow,” thought the inquisitive one. “Am I okay?”

Testing and assessing the body parts, the inquisitive one determined that the injuries were mostly superficial, except for the right shoulder, which was mostly not.

“I’m okay,” thought the inquisitive one. “Yeah, I’m okay.”

While slowly running toward home, the inquisitive one thought, “I’m almost glad that I fell. I’ve been fearful of falling for a while now. Every time I trip on a root and almost fall, I feel afraid. Now that I’ve experienced falling, it doesn’t seem so terrible.”

While attempting to strip off the dirty, bloody clothes with an injured shoulder, and to shower with an injured shoulder, the inquisitive one thought, “I’m glad that I fell. It means that I’m tough. Everybody should be as tough as me. Look at how tough I am, trying to lift my arm to shampoo my hair!”

The next day, while experiencing severe soreness and pain in the shoulder with every movement, the inquisitive one thought, “I’m actually glad that I fell! I participate in this particular sport, which results in injury once in a while. Trail running is like mountain biking, snowboarding, and attempting to beat someone up in ring, as they attempt to beat you up! I chose a dangerous sport in which to participate, but I love this sport. My dedication to it is such that I will gladly suffer injuries in its name!”

The next day, while trying to turn the steering wheel and not really succeeding, the inquisitive one thought, “Do you know what? I’m like Superman! Kryptonite might get me down every once in a while, but that can’t stop me for long! Maybe I’m even like Nietzsche’s Superman, which, though I’m not one-hundred percent sure what that entails, sounds, if vaguely creepy, also vaguely sublime!”

Two or three weeks later, the inquisitive one’s shoulder was almost back to normal. Smiling at the thought of a personal über-toughness that could never be eradicated, the inquisitive one decided to go on a long run through a dense forest. And so the inquisitive one took off running, farther and deeper into the woods.

The trail upon which the inquisitive one was running was carefully selected by said superhero. County park staff had meticulously leveled and manicured this trail. It contained virtually no rocks or roots.

During the past few weeks, I attempted, with minimal success, to read two books in French. One was Olivier Bourdeaut’s playful novel Waiting for Bojangles, a recent international bestseller. The other was Samuel Beckett’s haunting play Endgame, which premiered in 1957 and is a literary classic.

And so I was surprised, and a little weirded out, to learn that my pairing of these two works is more apropos than I had realized. According to this World Literature Today article, the title Waiting for Bojangles (in French, En attendant Bojangles) is an allusion to another famous and classic play by Beckett. Here’s what the article says about Waiting for Bojangles:

“With its irreverent reference to Samuel Beckett’s En attendant Godot (1952), the novel’s title is a call to be mindful of the futility of endlessly waiting for fun, love, or fulfillment.”

Waiting for Godot is not a play I have read. However, rumor has it that Godot never arrives. If Waiting for Godot is anything like Endgame, it’s a bleak and beautiful masterpiece that is likely to shuttle one into an existential depression, if one isn’t careful.

In contrast, Mr. Bojangles does arrive in Waiting for Bojangles—in sound and spirit, if not in the actual flesh. And while the story has its sad moments, it never falls into melancholy. And it definitely never descends into grim philosophical musings about the meaningless of existence.*

In the novel, the boy’s parents love to dance to the song “Mr. Bojangles” as sung by Nina Simone. But when the song’s not on, it’s not like the characters are moping around waiting for it to play again. No, they’re finding other ways to live it up. They’re dancing to other music, making up stories, throwing parties, and doing various outlandish things, all in the name of whimsical pleasure.

In this household, there’s no waiting around for joy to magically show up. No matter how horrible their circumstances get, the characters insist on enjoying life. And they insist on altering their circumstances to make life maximally enjoyable. They even insist on enjoying life to the very detriment of living. If they were in the play Waiting for Godot, I’m pretty sure they would be calling up Godot and harassing him with jokes and enticements and crazy stories until he gave up and made an appearance. He might arrive delighted, or he might arrive enraged—but you can bet that he would arrive.

Is the title Waiting for Bojangles, then, misleading? Since the characters aren’t exactly sitting around looking at their watches, waiting for something fun to happen, is the title more paradoxical than descriptive?

Not so fast. The French phrase en attendant can be translated as “waiting for”; but that is not the only translation. Other translations include “while waiting for,” “pending the arrival of,” and “in anticipation of.”

The alternate titles While Waiting for Bojangles, Pending the Arrival of Bojangles, and In Anticipation of Bojangles strike me as more precisely true to the story. The boy’s mom and dad are always looking forward to dancing to the song. This is their best bliss. But in the meantime (which is another translation of en attendant), they are living it up in grandly wonderful ways.

Of course, the title as given is the best choice. It’s the most concise and lovely. And it refers back to Beckett’s play. But I find it fascinating that it has connotations in French that do not translate into English.

Are you sitting around looking at your watch, as you wait for Godot or Mr. Bojangles or whomever or whatever to show up? Waiting is a reality of life. The important question is, what are you doing in the meantime?

*This is merely to state a fact. I have no bias against bleak works of literature that question the meaning of existence. Actually, I like them. A lot.