CLOP
© Elizabeth O’Hara
His head twisted on his thin neck quite hidden below the expanse of
glossy bouffant and chattering mandibles, and this turned to me his
Indian face, its features quite stationary apart from the jabbering
jaw. It flapped as though attached by a pair of hinges of a type regularly
serviced and lubricated by officious, boiler-suited gentlemen. The eyes,
though static, projected something - a serene contentment quite at odds
with the furious motions below. There should be sounds, I reasoned,
to give purpose to the flapping. That was what was usually indicated
by movements of which this was but a rather extreme example. I listened.
The hinges themselves were far too well-maintained to squeak and the
only other thing I could hear was the clop-clop-clop of two perfectly
symmetrical horseshoes of teeth colliding together again and again.
So there were sounds. But wasn’t it also usual for these sounds
to deliver content? Information to be shared by the sound-maker to those
within earshot; the proximity of predators; the extent of his territory
and the precise sexual condition of its inhabitants; offers of undying
love; polemics on the inherent superiority of certain races of men,
codes of ethics and brands of breakfast cereal; a polite request to
move the car blocking the driveway or to bear his children. Morse code?
Some sort of binary? But the sounds came in a regular succession; there
was no discernable variance in pitch or tone or beat. Being short of
a vastly upgraded Enigma machine (one that would not be available until
Alan Turing got his nose back to the grindstone, which would of course
require both his resurrection and his being apologised to and/or forgiven,
depending upon the manner of future with which we shall find ourselves
lumbered), I decided to change epistemological tack.
It has been established that jaw movement with attendant sounds usually
convey content, but need that content be purely informational? It could
be song, poetry, religious chanting - a message that so approaches maximum
content that it gives the appearance of one lacking any. That could
explain the tranquil eyes, the scarcity of other movement. Of course,
to the general ear it would sound like none of those things, languishing
as the public are the mire of cultural bias. But an anthropologist is
trained to deal with the unknown, to postulate the unexpected, to remain
straight-faced when describing a culture in which young men regularly
conduct highly ritualised and competitive duels with their penises (a
joust between the erect penises of two young braves, rather than that
of a single young man versus his own member - the latter kind is too
well documented in all civilisations to raise much above a titter anywhere,
let alone in the professional mind of a scientist.) Holding dear my
superiority to much of the populace in these matters, I put any vestiges
of cultural bias to bed and brought out the big guns of my trade - speculation
and conjecture.
The theory of poetry, of course, suffers many of the same problems as
that of more standard models of impartation of information. After all,
poetry is but a specifically formalised type of language, albeit with
the aim of obfuscation rather than clarification. Or rather, its aim
is delayed clarification - there is information there to be conveyed,
but it must be decoded. This pleasurable process of packing and unpacking
information is the raison d’etre of the medium. Since we have
already established that we are looking for content without information,
perhaps music would be a better candidate. Of course, some music is
capable of conveying information - radio jingles that advise on the
intrinsic superiority of certain products, ballads that inform a love
object of the high regard in which they are held by their swain, works
of hip-hop that set out in no uncertain terms the wealth, power and
virility of their creators. But this all comes through the lyrics, which
are yet another linguistic form. Is there content devoid of information
in the music itself? In sounds recognisable as music, certainly, but
I have my doubts that this form of expression fits into that category.
There is no melody but there is rhythm to be sure, of a most regular
and insistent kind. But a fixed rhythm alone, one that does not shift
or deviate from its regular pattern is not like any music ever documented,
even of the most simplistic kind. No nuances. Only religious chanting,
a phenomenon that only superficially resembles music to observers from
a culture which does not indulge in the practice, tends towards such
a repetitive beat and thus, through a scientific process of elimination,
this is what I conclude it to be.
Prayer, then. A religious rite. An act of piety directed at and to gain
the favour of the higher power, whether that be a god or gods, spirits,
ancestors or even an aspect of the self. An attempt to influence the
seemingly random inexplicability of life beyond whatever level of scientific
understanding the culture has developed and thus regain mastery over
one’s own fate. An intrinsic human urge, regardless of culture.
Even if a culture existentially rejects such an aim as futile, this
is a reaction against the quest and so is still an acknowledgement of
it. There can be no atheism without theism to react against. Finding
meaning in the refusal to search for an unobtainable meaning - Camus’s
Absurd Man. Even the most secular of societies tolerates its lucky underwear.
The very nature of human intelligence, the wellspring of all our science
and rationality and logic, brings with it a need to find causal connections
and when events transcend our systems of understanding, superstition
takes hold. Religion is universal, visceral, human.
His binary exultations had become so constant that I had almost ceased
to hear them. They had not changed in the slightest and his gaze of
serene blankness was still cast in my direction. Was he in a trance?
Is he even aware of my presence? I conclude that he is. After all, he
turned to me before beginning. These sounds, whatever they may mean,
are directed at me, even if they are not for my benefit. A form of prayer,
expelled in my direction. A field anthropologist’s hazard, to
be mistaken for God. But should an act of supplication not involve an
attempt at communication? It is possible - probable, even - that such
attempts would not be understood by their intended recipient, but I
have already established that these sounds are devoid of informational
content. I chew the end of my pencil, studying his face and noting that
he makes no attempt to either maintain or avoid eye contact. Only the
gleam from the bulk of his hair, the wide-whiteness of his unmoving
eyes and the glinting binary motion of his lower jaw is clear in the
semi-darkness. Up-down-up-down. Together-apart-together-apart. Closed-open-closed-open.
Flap-flap-flap. Clop-clop-clop. Mesmerising…
I find that I’m staring, into his eyes and beyond. Despite the
impassivity of all but his primary motion, I sense a keen intelligence
boring into me. Beyond intelligence. This display of physical motion
that could be crudely described as flapping and clopping has a transcendent
quality. I squint at my notes, straining to read my own scrawl in the
faint light. ‘A prayer may not be understood by its recipient.’
But nor would a benediction. I realise. His actions are directed at
me, but they are not for me. They are beyond me. Their content is beyond
me. He is beyond me. I am his supplicant, straining to understand a
message that is more than information and one which I am fundamentally
incapable of understanding. I have found my God and rejoice in it, losing
myself in the only real truth.
Anthropology, humanity, my
own existence - all are meaningless. All there is and shall be is contained
in that insistent rhythm. An eternal cycle of aeons in miniature. Clop-clop-clop.
Rapture. My eyes roll back in my head.
The universe is suddenly obliterated by a overwhelming expanse of light
and I am devastated by the new silence. It is presently broken, but
not by the beat of eternity. I reluctantly open my eyes.
“So,” said the top-hatted silhouette looming above me. “Did
you get what you need in there, Professor?”
I blinked a few times until my eyes adjusted to brightness of the wider
room and allowed the Great Scarletti to help me out of the trunk.
“Not an awful lot going on in there, eh? Like I said.” The
black-clad entertainer had been sceptical of my anthropological mission
from the start, so it was unsurprising that he would fail to recognize
the Godhead in his midst. A man like that would never understand. He
knew not what he did.
He lifted the figure from the box and set it upon his knee. It seemed
so small and offered no resistance. Sacrilege. Not only the forcible
displacement of an indigenous person, but the humiliation of a god.
No, cultural relativism be damned! Of my God. Of God Himself.
Scarletti grinned vapidly and reclined on the edge of the trunk. The
divine figure upon his knee seemed so strange with his divine jaw so
still and silent. My own jaw was taut as my mouth formed a stiff ‘O’
of outrage and I groped for faith. Such a being was more than capable
of smiting those who inflicted such indignities upon Him, of that I
was certain. As if in confirmation, His jaw snapped open and I felt
rapture rise in my breast. I prepared for divine retribution, rejoicing
in the renewal of the benediction and almost losing myself in it anew.
Almost. Something else could be heard - not over the clamour of divinity,
nothing could overshadow that - but an earthly intrusion was present,
as insignificant yet bothersome as a gnat. Reluctantly tearing myself
away from the incandescent pronouncements that poured forth, I noticed
that the Great Scarletti had the astonishing gall to be talking. Bland
nonsense, mostly, and an invitation to a non-existent crowd to “meet
Mr Fakir.” But he was not moving his lips. Content, information
- banal as it was - spewed out from his person and superimposed itself
over the world, but his jaws remained rigidly locked. I baulked. A Zoroastrian
nemesis! The polar opposite of the deity!
I released a cry of “Great Beast!“, moving my mouth with
exaggerated vigour as an act of supplication, a desperate effort to
prove where my loyalties lay. I smacked the Great Scarletti’s
head into the ambience of the room until the irreverent stillness of
his jaw was cracked from his skull and he could blaspheme no more. Then,
lifting the corporeal form of God with due reverence, I returned us
both to the trunk. Pulling the lid closed over us, I sealed out the
unworthy light of the human world and was filled with a joyful fervour
that I should earn a place at His right hand. In the semi-darkness of
eternity, the celestial rhythm of everlasting bliss delighted senses
beyond those of my body and I bathed in its radiance. This is the Meaning
beyond the Word. An empty vessel, overflowing with content. The palimpsest
pressed into the very parchment on which senselessness forever rewrites
itself. Clop-clop-clop. Clop. |