The Devil's in the Details
There is no such thing or event which can be classified as truly random. Nature is in fact a deliberate and quite an unnatural phenomenon.
Don't ask me to explain this to you fully, because I can't, nobody can, it is by design cryptic and incomprehensible. Nature possesses inbuilt security mechanisms for the eternal protection of her secrets. We meagre humans were never graced with, nor will we ever develop the required intellect or capacity of thought to decipher mother nature's unequalled masterpiece of complex code.
Throughout history various people, not necessarily recognised scholars or honoured academics, but the blessed. There are those that have been blessed with the reception of epiphany or key to revelation. If one really were to fully address the greater complexities of one's relatively insignificant existence. One may, if good fortune should shine, gain the necessary insight to enable one to place an indelible unique mark upon this globe. Although the mark will remain long after its scribe has been consumed. If you are indeed empowered, go on try! Put your little mind to it, analyse the depths. You too may realise an undeniable truth. Nature is the ultimate binary program, there is nothing natural about it. These individuals that I have mentioned, they knew! Briefly their minds undertook guided excursions and expeditions seeking insights into the divine truth. We, as rational, reasonable people, we dismiss them. Some walk the streets clad in the protection of sandwich boards claiming 'the end is nigh'. Others more cowardly rot inside a corpse'sshell or have long been burned and scattered. The academics, those people not content with their given name, Those who crave additional alpha characters to add their own. Together with the scholars, they view the enlightened with scepticism, simply because they cannot show the method or the workings of the mental journey to the solution.
The first man to ever utter in dialogue, 'in the greater scheme of things', pure genius, he knew the factors of the sum of the parts. Did I just say, the first man?I may have been in error. I think it is perhaps the female of the species, for it is they that have the best chance of unravelling the mystery of truth. Women, the fairer sex don't necessarily need perfection in method and detail of calculation, sometimes a woman need not obsess she iscontent to find solace in aspects of love. Talk of destiny and expressions such as 'it is so written.' Where do they come from? I assure you, there is nothing chaotic about the chaos theory and it contains an abundance of pattern and intricacy in design. Should we ever claim to recognise pattern by glimpse or perceived good fortune. Should we speak of it? Or should we side with the contentment of silence. In nature's vast, masterful, complex program, our lives are merely miniature obscure sub-routines
To initiate any sub-routine, one would need first, a trigger event.
As the light shone through creating a wide spectrum of colour. I admired the stained glass window of St Luke's church. The main window had been painstakingly restored since being damaged by a foreign youth; since labelled a juvenile delinquent. I stood listening to the tour-guide. Her words would eventually lead to my demise, or enlightenment. For now I shall call it my predicament as I am not entirely sure if I am cursed or blessed.
"Depicted here, St Luke and the angels is one of the world's premier examples of fifteenth century stained glass works. Renowned for it's detailing, the window has been recently restored after damage by vandals. We thank the congregation for their contributions but most of all we've God to thank." The guide recited the words as if rehearsed, or spoken on a thousand previous occasions. As she closed the door to the vestry, the bang echoed. Through the window two birds flew their perch. Maybe they were crows, or perhaps magpies I couldn't really tell through the multi-coloured glass.
Me, I can't and shouldn't complain about my work. The night-shifts at the care home are indeed the proverbial, money for old rope. I had nothing to do, ever, save for to try to stay awake. If I was ever caught asleep on the job, I'd be dismissed but who was ever going to catch me?
Officially, I was the night care assistant. The title implied a junior position, but there were no senior staff for me to assist. I was supposed to tend to the needs of the residents should they wake in the night. I was employed to return them to their beds, comfort and reassure them, that sort of thing. Yes, I was suppose to assist them, my job title does make some sense after all. Of the residents, none ever woke, none ever wandered, most were too sedated, drugged to the eyeballs. It is the way of the care industry, drugs are cheaper than staff. If cryogenics were ever perfected, we'd all unemployed. One man would check the monitors on thousands of bodies. The bodies containing the afflicted minds to be thawed then awakened at such time science had found a cure.
Unofficially, I got paid for sitting in the office whilst doing my Open University Degree. There was one exception to the norm, young Nicolle. Nicolle was Arabic or Iraqi or something. She looked like she came from one of those places you imagine terrorists to come from. Nicolle never slept at night, she spent the nights looking out of various windows. So far as I could tell, she took in various views of the city, depending on how she felt. Tonight, as she did from time to time. Nicolle forwent the window watching routine in favour of standing behind me, just inside the office door. She could and would stand there all night, just watching as I researched and typed. After the first few visits I became used to her presence, her hovering ceased to distract me. She stood in the corner as a standard lamp that illuminated nothing. Eventually I deduced it was the warmth of the radiator, attracted her to that corner. I never knew if Nicolle could speak. I don't know if anybody, save for Nicolle really knew. The fact was she didn't speak, and as far as most were concerned, hadn't ever. There was rumour of an incident in her country. Something to do with a wild dog that had attacked her. A priest apparently lost his life trying to save her. The girl survived unscathed but hadn't spoken since. All of this was the gossip of the day staff, therefore dismissed.
Bored with my laptop telling me 'cannot find server', I gestured to my uninvited guest she should join me, occupy the unoccupied seat.
"Why did you smash the windows in the church?" I asked, knowing full well she wouldn't answer.
"What? Did the devil make you do it?" I laughed, I was mocking her and it was cruel. "Did you see the devil in there amongst all that detail?" As expected I received no reply. Nicolle began to rock slowly back and forth. All the residents rocked from time to time. "The devil scares you does he?" I reached over and patted her head as if she were a five-year old, or Her rocking accelerated.
"Wait, if you think the devil lives in a church window, where's God?" I jested. Nicole stopped rocking and glanced briefly at my window.
"Right, I get it. The devil gets to live in the splendour of a stained glass window and God has to slumb it my double glazing!" Nicolle eyed me, a bitter scowl passed across her face. She waited for her disgust to pass before pointing a finger to her temple and then transferring it to her lips, indicating silence was to be observed, or so I initially thought.
"God lives inside your head but I'm not to tell anybody?" I guessed, she shook her head violently. In retrospect maybe I should have confirmed exactly what she had meant. First placing her palms together, Nicolle placed her hands to her left cheek, she let her head flop to one side, then closed her eyes. For some reason I felt a cold shudder as her eyes flew open. She held up four fingers and pushed them right up close to my face, before turning and leaving the room. I sighed and returned my attention to my work. Why I was playing charades in the middle of the night with a complete lunatic? Only God knew.
For the next week or so it rained a lot, it was the season for unsettled weather. After that, I had a much deserved long weekend off. During my next shift Nicolle came to me, she seemed over excited as she appeared in the office doorway. With enthusiasm and excitement she beckoned me. I didn't share the other's enthusiasm, slowly I rose from my seat. Nicolle grabbed my wrist, pulling me out of the office. I struggled to keep my feet. She took me all the way along the first floor corridor. I skidded along the highltt polished stone floor. Eventually, in the stairwell, the turn of the stairs proved to be a our final destination. Nicolle held up her index finger again before going through the ritual of pointing to her temple then touching her lips.
"You know a secret?" was the best guess I could muster. She made an okay sign and I nodded. The girl took this as my agreement, therefore she continued. Nicolle's face appeared sullen as she pointed out of the large window and into the night sky.
"God is in this window now?" My sarcastic attempt to ridicule her was wasted, she simply repeated the gesture of pointing out into the sky. I knew she wasn't pointing at the window but as I studied the heavens beyond the glass I could see nothing out there.
"Okay, so I see stars and stuff, so what?" I remarked. She pointed again, raising her eyebrows.
"There's nothing up there, just the stars and that big old moon." Nicolle nodded enthusiastically the second I mentioned the moon. She crossed her forearms making the sign of the cross.
"God lives on the moon?" I questioned. She shook her head, I sighed. I knew only one way to play this game.
"First word," I held up a single finger. "God?" I offered, she nodded.
"Second word?" I asked, she pointed directly at the moon.
"Okay, we've got God, moon. What's the next word?" Nicolle initially looked puzzled, she shook her head and waived her hand dismissively.
"No more words? God, moon, and no more words, great." I was getting annoyed, I had work to do. She made her religious sign again and returned her gaze to the moon.
"God is the moon?" I offered in desperation. To my surprise she nodded in agreement.
"You really are a lunatic, but each to their own." I returned to the office, realising Nicolle's window watching wasn't random. She stood at whatever window the moon was visible from. Also, the four fingers, meant four days before the moon returned. I hadn't realised there was method to her madness. Nicolle only came to office when there was no moon.
Over the next few weeks I became adept at charades. If it ever becomes an Olympic sport that gold medal is so mine! This night Nicolle marched into my office and turned me around so as I faced away from her.
"Easy tiger!" I exclaimed as I felt her hand on me. She manhandled me around so as I was facing her. Without warning she pushed me backwards. I frowned at her, I couldn't understand what she was trying to say. A single finger gesture indicted I should give her a moment for thought. Her eyes surveyed the office, my bottle of water brought a smile to her face.
"Water?" she shook her head and quickly began swinging her arms, backwards over her head.
"Water, erm, swim, backstroke." Nicolle smiled broadly and made the sign for small between thumb and index finger.
"Back?" she gave me the thumbs up sign. Quickly, she took a book from my desk opening it at the first page. I gave her a another questioning look. Nicolle closed the book, reopened it and flicked backwards to the first page.
"Back in the beginning?" I beamed proudly. She ran over to the camp bed in the corner, straightening the duvet and fluffing the pillow. Her eyes flicked again to the night sky in the window.
"Back in the beginning when the moon was made. Oh right I get it, the big bang theory?" She didn't agree nor disagree, she pointed to me and them to himself.
"Back in the beginning when we were made?" I thought I had it but Nicolle made an alternating scales signal with hands whilst looking out at the moon.
"Back in the beginning the moon made us?" I felt I was grasping at straws but she clapped her hands. Next she poked her tongue into the inside of her cheek. Slowly she rolled the tip of her tongue around her mouth. From her cheek, through the gap between her upper teeth and her lips and into her other cheek. A similar movement across her lower teeth completed the circle. I couldn't help but to look puzzled. Inspired, Nicolle poured some of my water into an empty ashtray and rocked it back and forth. Immediately, I understood. The moon makes the tides, it also pulls a large bulge around the earth's surface. After possibly the longest most brain taxing night of my life. I learned from Nicolle. Life only existed on this planet because of the moon. In her opinion the moon was the creator and therefore God. After that it got a bit confusing. I think she was saying that if there were any aliens they would have to have their own moon God or whatever. I still thought the girl a lunatic, too many episodes of Star Trek perhaps.
As I slept during the day, I had night-mare. It was the first sign of Nicolle's theories taking over my brain but how was I to know? I had a vision of what I believed to be the earth and the moon, but the moon rotated too fast, and all the time I kept seeing Nicolle's initial gesture. The finger to the temple and then on to the lips.
Back on shift I was tired. The dreams interfered with my sleep. Nicolle seemed to know my dream. She made a fist at the end of a vertical forearm and rotated around it using the index finger of her other hand. Looking to the moon she dismissed it and made a sign for something smaller. I could only be confused, I was dog-tired. Again she explained using my water, she poured some out into a cup and pointed. Theatrically she counted to eight on her fingers and then gestured with her hands similar a referee counting out a felled boxer. The routine ended with her holding aloft a single finger. After repeating the routine several times, exasperated, she abandoned me. I got the message, loud if unfortunately not clear. Not eight, one. I just didn't understand it, well not for about an hour. Forget about the eight in the water, the eight would be the oxygen. As for the one, that's hydrogen, the start of the periodic table. One electron circling one proton, that's the image I saw in my dream. My night-mares and subsequent fatigue increased as more of my brain capacity was involuntarily consumed by this bizarre mystery. Ibuprofen and paracetamol became regular dietary supplements.
It was the cooking lesson that literally blew my mind, frazzling my brain completely, exposing my neural cortex to unprecedented stress. Nicolle drew an imaginary hill with her finger. With her palms outstretched she waved her hands upwards and outwards.
"Volcano, I get it." I yawned, she pointed to the floor.
"Right, yeah iron core, magma, whatever." I was a officially the charades king. In the kitchen she found a tin of soup, she pointed to the writing on the side.
"Ingredients?" I shrugged my shoulders. She smiled broadly, pointing to the list of additives."
"Additives, erm, numbers." Nicolle once again made the circle sign around her fist with her index fingers.
"Atomic numbers?" I was getting so good at this. She poured some water into a pan, lit the gas underneath and began wildly adding things from the cupboard all sorts, flour, rice, herbs, spices, salt, anything she could lay her hands on. I was convinced, the girl had lost her mind. We both stood watching her random recipe simmer, eventually my eyes closed. I fell asleep where I stood. A horrible pungent smell woke me and the ugly sight of her culinary expertise made me feel nauseas. The burned black paste seemed not of this world. Nicolle simply shrugged her shoulders discarded the pan and started again. The second mixture was similar to the first but she thrust a spoon in my hand, ordering I should stir. I wouldn't dare taste it but this latest soup looked at least closer to palatable. My eyes were closing again, my headed pounded akin to the stretched hide of an African tribal drum.
"How long do I have to stir this ghastly thing for?" I asked. Nicolle slapped the worktop, made some sort of exaggerated gesture, looked at the clock and disappeared. I stirred for a ten or so minutes before she returned.
"How long?" I begged in my now faint, fatigued voice. She spied an egg-timer, shot me a look charged with disdain, confiscated the timer and strode out of the kitchen.
The camp bed in the office called to me. I turned the heat off from under her bizarre concoction and returned to office. On the little bed I found the egg-timer, somehow she'd managed to remove the sand, every last grain. I brushed it aside, I slept.
More dreams tried to breach the wall surrounding reality causing my brain not to rest along with my body. I'd lost control of my mind. In my sleep I'd gotten the latest information all worked out. We didn't one day just crawl out of the sea for no particular reason. I was convinced. She was trying to say if you took all the chemicals of the earth, applied heat and mixed them constantly you would make something. From the big bang until now was 13 billion years worth of stirring. Even if I split hairs and say the earth was created 5 billion years ago, that's an awful lot of stirring. The lack of sand in the timer was her letting me know, the stirring should continue until there was no more time. That was her theory, and when awake I questioned it. Nicolle's recipe for life, put all the elements in the pot and stir like crazy. Either I was going mad or this was beginning to make sense. I recalled standing stirring the pot as the plumes of steam rose. Reaching the base of the cooker hood, the steam could rise no further. The vapour dispersed horizontally reminiscent of the clouds in the sky. I felt the gentle breeze created by warm air rising. Two droplets splashed,as the condensation fell as rain from the underside of the kitchen cabinet. This theory was lunacy, I refused to accept it. My mind raced back to chemistry at school. Bunsen burner, heat and stir, was all I could seem to remember. I struggled to think of anything, any recipe in the kitchen that didn't require you to heat and and stir. How does on make a sponge cake? It resembles neither the eggs nor the flour. New is a form created by the combination of heat and stir.
My nightmares continued, everything I saw seemed to support Nicolle's bizarre theory, my mind continued to race even faster, day and night. I took to studying the moon, wondering, thinking for hours on end. I looked to the moon and the moon just looked back, refusing to answer my questions. The throbbing pain in my head seemed aligned with the apparent pulsing the lunar mass, the beating of a heart. No, I decided, it's the sun, the sun gives life. Then I thought of my parents, my father, his greatness of character. Then on to my mother, the quiet unassuming woman. It was she that really ran things, she took care of our day to day needs. Okay, maybe there was possibility that the moon was the creator, but that dead satellite certainly wasn't God. My internal turmoil left me troubled, disturbed even. In desperation I thought to seek solace in the church. I guess the electrical impulses became too much. They found me collapsed below the stained glass window.
As I lay in my hospital bed, I realised I was at peace with myself. I'd finally accepted, Nicolle was right. Throughout the day doctors and nurses prodded and poked me. Every one of my questions, seemingly ignored. It was several hours before I realised, they couldn't actually hear me. Had I become like Nicolle? As I thought of her she appeared.
"Hi," I thought I greeted her. She didn't reply. How would she? She was mute. After a long minute spent looking into my eyes she made the sign again. It was only then I truly understood the devil and the curse of the details. The touching of the temple followed by the touching of the lips, didn't mean what I thought it did. Well actually it did, it meant exactly that. Once I knew the secret, I couldn't tell anybody, was so correct and so true. That's why we were now both mute. She rummaged in the cabinet and found one of my shoes. After examining my shoe she gave me twenty pounds, tucked it under her arm and made to walk off. She stopped after the first step. Nicolle turned, placing my upturned shoe onto the bed, she indicated she would be back later. I couldn't fathom her strange behaviour but I looked forward to her return. Our games of charades had become a habit.