We live in a towering multiplex, on a shining hill, the Alien and I. And for the last several years, we’ve enjoyed the sights and sounds here, for the most part, living so close to the heavens, able to touch the clouds on certain days.
But along with those breathtaking moments, and those white, fluffy clouds, we’ve had to, on occasion, deal with some rather obnoxious neighbors now and then. Loud, boastful, given to incessant claims without the slightest merit, these neighbors appear all too certain in their ugly wrongheadedness, which continuously puzzles and worries the Alien.
He struggles mightily to reconcile all of this with our landscapes, earthly arts and sciences, and he wishes our neighbors would read Wittgenstein, and heed the ending of his Tractatus Logico-Philosophicus:
Whereof one cannot speak thereof one must be silent.
Not long after this remembrance of Viennese wisdom, a spark of inspiration hit me. Perhaps it was the good red wine. Perhaps it was the cloudless day and the radiant sunshine that reflected the best we can be. I introduced him to the music of Ray Charles. We listened to several of his songs, and laughed merrily when we happened upon this one.
So it was settled. This would be our gift to our neighbors, when they finally leave the tower:
Ludwig Wittgenstein, who may well have been an Alien too, died in 1951, ten years before Ray Charles recorded Percy Mayfield’s song. My good friend believes that creative sparks never die, and time, as we earthlings perceive it, is an illusion. I like to think they all knew each other well, in life, in death, or in the Bardo.