By Robert Sheckley

 

Conversation Between Mr. Body And Mr. Mind

I'm at a table in Washington Square Park. It's cold, but the sun's out and it's a beautiful day. I'm thinking of the gap between intention and performance. In my fantasy I can discourse on any subject whatsoever. If I don't know anything about it, that can be the subject. There's always the matter of my personal reaction to anything--or my character's reaction if I'm writing fiction.

In two days I return to Portland. I've spent a lot of time visiting with my family. And some time in the Museum of Natural History, and walking the streets of the West Village where I used to live. My over-all thought is about writing. It's my elective obsession.

My mind is eager to write always. But my body frequently balks. I imagined a dialogue between my mind and my body.

The body rarely ever feels like writing. It would just as soon do without it. It has to get used to doing without other things, such as its own teeth. Why not give up writing, too? Not a good idea! Mr. Mind considers himself in charge of Mr. Body, the one who looks out for his welfare. Mr. Body just lies there in all his immediacy and tells Mr. Mind how he's feeling. Mr. Mind's usual advice--or command--is to and tell it to get on with the business of the day, ignoring how Mr. Body is feeling.

Mr. Mind doesn't want to be left alongside the trail like an old Eskimo when it's time for the tribe to move to a different camp. He also doesn't want to find himself diving into dumpsters for his evening meal, or camping under a bridge for his night's lodging. He tries to impress Mr. Body with the seriousness of the general life situation.

He says, "Maybe you haven't noticed, but it's a tough world out there. People--bodies--just like yours are starving all over the world, even in America. We don't want to find you in that situation. It can be avoided by following a few simple rules which I will explain to you."

Mr. Body says, "What do you know about how things work, Mr. Mind? You're talking all very superior inside me, but you never have to lift a finger to do anything. Your heaviest exertion is the fantasy of pushing a pen, and you even get me to do the actual labor for you. You're always full of schemes and plans to avert this disaster or capture that pleasure. You demand, command and exhort, all for the sake of complicated and uncertain schemes that you should have realized haven't a chance. You know very little about the body, Mr. Mind. To sit down where you are, close your eyes against the light of the sun, slump down in relaxation--what do you know about that?"

"You're thoughts sound lax and ill-considered to me," says Mr. Mind. "Where do you get these notions? You're not supposed to be able to express things."

"I've been granted expressiveness so I can debate with you. It's called the wisdom of the body. I have several more examples in mind, including the pleasures of bathroom functions."

"Spare me! Bathrooms, public ones, at any rate, are dangerous and unsanitary places, centers of disease, and they invariably smell bad. Let's change the subject."

"I am just pointing out, Mr. Mind, that you may be very clever at stringing words together, but you know little or nothing about how to live or how to die."

"I think about these things all of the time."

"Through a smokescreen of prejudice and misinformation. You don't even know how to conduct a proper dying."

"And I suppose you're going to teach me?"

"I could, but you'd never listen. The best I can do at the moment is to quote a line from one of your favorite philosphers, Frederick Nietzsche. I believe it was his Zarathustra who advised men to die at the right time."

"And what is this right time?"

"You can know it when it comes to you. And when you know the time is here, you can surrender to it, and experience a deliciousness you have never before known."

Mr. Mind was silent for a while. At last he said, "Mr. Body, I can't imagine where the strangness of your notions comes from. Maybe something gets lost as you work to translate vague thoughts into intellectual hard goods. So let's end this discussion right now, for the time being. I will further note that this talk could not have taken place if you hadn't done the work of writing down the words. Now we have a lasting record of this discussion."

"Is that so important?" Mr. Body said. But he was smiling as he said it. For even Mr. Body liked to have a few things along on his trip through the battlefields of life. In that respect, at least, Mr. Body and Mr. Mind shared a similar interest.

"You know," says Mr. Mind. "You and I are a single entity. We interact."

"By interaction you mean you tell me how to feel, and expect me to obey."

"To be influencable, at least."

"To obey. That's what it comes to."

"How about a compromise? Work now, play later."

"There is no later. There's only now."

"It has been said," Mr. Mind said, "that writing, art in general, is the obra contra naturum. That means, the work against nature."

"I know all your Latin tags," Mr. Body muttered. "Alchemical term, isn't it?"

"Yes. The obra contra naturum is the thing you don't want to do, but have to do."

"I don't have to do it," Mr. Body said.

"I do," Mr. Mind said.

"Can we go on with this some other time?" Mr. Body said. "I need some sleep."

"And I need to get some work done."

"Hasta la vista, baby."

 

RSheckley@aol.com