Dear Brain
We can transmit images of every conceivable kind but our great regret is that we cannot look inward. We cannot be one with our parent, the mind’s eye, thereby being in a position to observe on your behalf the wonders and beauties of the world. The mind’s eye is your very self, of course, and we are but your servants. We cannot see beyond your mental limitations. We only see what you wish us to see.
This communication is long overdue by the way and we must say at the outset that it is our contention that our true capacity has never been realised, nor even partially realised chiefly because of your aesthetic shortcomings and your obsession with the carnal.
It became apparent to us at a very early stage that you were no Wordsworth and that your thoughts from youth onwards tended to descend rather than ascend.
You directed us to observe the bosoms and posteriors of golf club teases when we might have been gloriously surveying the beauties of nature. You had us savouring the sonsy swaggers of cheap tarts when we might have been beholding the willowy, fragile forms of delicate demoiselles, the serenity shining on their angel faces, their eyes cast shamefacedly downwards because of the obscene fashion in which you directed us to behold them.
We remember once of an April day you sat by the seashore pondering your future. At the time the world was your oyster and the pain after the rift with Lily was receding as the waves were receding before your very eyes which we have the honour to be.
Your normally turbulent mind had become somewhat becalmed by the gentle motions of the sea for it was a day without wind and the sweet, soothing monotone was a balm to your spirit. We had great hopes for you on that day.
The sky was blue without trace of cloud. On the horizon the smoke from a passing freighter stood like a slender plume in the still air. Seabirds crying joyfully drifted aimlessly overhead and then a curvaceous female appeared out of the waves close by. Without as much as a glance in your direction she unbuttoned the strap of her bathing cap and carelessly flicked her freshly-released curls with expertly-manicured hands.
We did not blame you when you rose from the stone where you had been sitting the better to view this luscious Aphrodite. Just then a soberly-dressed girl with a sweet and gentle face entered the scene. The whole situation was a classical example of your attitude to life and proof, if any was ever needed thereafter, that you were ever a slave to the meretricious.
Both girls were known to you, the bathing beauty casually but the soberly-dressed somewhat more since you had spoken to her and indeed danced with her in the days when you were still rebounding after your Lily Lieloly period.
Of the two we, the eyes, knew that the quality lay with the soberly-dressed and if you had given us our heads, as it were, and allowed us time to dwell on her we might have shown that she was a creature of true loveliness and convey to you the joyful tidings that under the brown costume which she wore was a body as lithe, lovely and desirable as any. Alas you became obsessed as always with the obvious, barely glancing at the clad creature but drooling uncontrollably after the other.
The girl in brown boasted short-cropped, light brown hair. Her eyes were as blue as the ocean serene which no longer occuped a place in your thoughts. Her smile, as she passed, was radiant and chaste. The two go hand in hand, you know.
The other was prettier on the surface with curling blonde hair, green eyes, rich pouting lips and a burgeoning body designed to infatuate easily-overcome libertines like yourself.
The scene was now set for the drawing back of the curtain. Old Nick must surely have been the stage manager. Possessed with that rare inside knowledge of human weakness and your own particular lack of godliness he rung the bell for the commencement of the play which has been presented on so many strands and beaches over so many years.
As she passed by the soberly-clad girl shortened her steps in the hope that a conversation might be forthcoming because for all your apparent weaknesses she obviously perceived in you some hitherto well-hidden qualities which might one day shape you into a worthwhile human being.
In normal circumstances, if the bikinied beauty was not present, you would have quickly engaged her costumed counterpart for she was a girl of rare and sensitive character. Even you, for all your faults, were aware of this.
Unfortunately you permitted her to pass by and concentrated your gaze on the creature who had emerged from the sea. The water droplets still glistened on her shapely shoulders and when she shook her hair free her body rippled and shivered, stressing her buxom shape and golden hue so that you immediately became sensually enraptured and a prisoner once more of your own inherent prurience. When she waved casually in your direction you bounded like a rutting stag through the shallow water until you found yourself by her side.
How old Nick must have smiled and how the forces of love and beauty despaired of ever making you see the light! We, your eyes, certainly could not but then you never presented us with the slightest opportunity of doing so.
The play, which was proceeding according to plan under the professional direction of Doctor Darkness, was no tragedy. Neither was it to be a comedy. We would suggest that we were about to witness a traditional farce. We were to be proved right. The vigorous, blooming creature by your side was possessed of a hollow metallic laugh which smote upon the sea’s gentle cadences like a whiplash. Your crude jokes were finding their target.
There was no rebuff when your sweaty palm rested on her farthest hip. After all she was not without credentials or so it was believed. What poor girl is not when vile rumour runs unchecked from tongue to scurrilous tongue!
As you moved father away from the other strollers and bathers you cast us about seeking a place where you might lure her and be hidden from the prying eyes of the crowd.
Suddenly the girl stopped dead in her tracks. Her body trembled and shuddered. Her lips parted and her bosom rose and fell as though she had been seized by a sudden spasm.
What you could not have known, because of failing to employ us to the fullest, was that she had spotted in the distance a lusty young man for whom she entertained the most powerful romantic thoughts. Stupidly taking it for granted that she had succumbed inevitably to your manliness you thrust a hand deep down inside her wispy briefs. The play was coming to its climax. With a well-controlled shriek of disgust she administered a ringing slap to your face and pranced away from you with unconcealed dismay through the spray in the direction of the young man who had entered unexpectedly from the wings.
This commonplace farce was not yet ended however. All the pieces were not in place. You stood there in a state of shock for some time until the heady excitement to which you had earlier succumbed was replaced by a feeling of loss and remorse. The sheen which had earlier disported itself on the surface of the sea seemed to have lost its glitter. The seabirds now sang mournfully as though they were keening an irreplaceable loss. The ship had disappeared from the distant horizon and gathering there from the southwest were ramparts of murky clouds which would soon suffuse the shining heavens. You returned to the empty rock from which you had so ardently erupted a short while before, there to ponder life’s cruelty before the stormy showers of April would send you scurrying like all the others for shelter.
The farce was about to play itself out in true fashion. All was set for the side-splitting finale which would bespeak the final curtain.
As you sat with your head in your hands, the tears forming in the wells of your eyes, the seabirds dived all about you and it seemed as though they were crying the name of Sheila.
‘Sheila, Sheila!’ they bleated as they circled immediately over your bent head. Hopefully you raised that same head and listened intently.
‘Sheila, Sheila!’ they mewed romantically and indeed that was, you imagined, the name of the costumed creature of the short-cropped hair and sensitive face who had passed by and was forsaken by you for the girl who had sallied out of the sea.
‘Sheila, Sheila, Sheila!’ the white birds called. How’s that Gerald Griffin described the seagull:
White bird of the tempest oh beautiful thing!
With the bosom of snow and the motionless wing.
How often have we eyes marvelled at their elegant symmetry and now after delighting you with their fluent and silent flight they would remind you that all was not lost, that there were other fish in the sea. You should have looked before you leaped, however. That is precisely what we humble organs of visions are for, to measure the intervening paces between ourselves and the target and report what lies at the other end so that trouble may be avoided. Utilised thus we are of priceless assistance to our proprietor and will truthfully inform him of every hazard before age eventually curtails us.
In our prime there are no organs to match us. You did not apply us properly when you arose from your stone seat and stumbled crazily off in the direction taken by the costumed Sheila. At first she was nowhere to be seen. You were at a stage then after the stinging rebuff from the bikinied lovely where any form of consolation would suffice. Any port in a storm goes the old adage and thus it was with you as you now lumbered westwards into the sun calling out her name. When you came upon her she was in the arms of another, the first known sympathetic face she encountered after you had spurned her. He was a good-looking chap, lithe and blonde with a confident smile. They both laughed upon beholding your demented eyes and upon hearing the name Sheila repeatedly issuing from your dry lips. Her name it transpired was Mary Jane. Instantly you retraced your steps angered and shamed. The seagulls now ululated like banshees and then mewed derisively as they soared upward and outward. The rising breeze laughed at your plight and the freshly whipped breakers roared their appreciation of the farce which had just drawn to its close. It had been a great afternoon’s theatre and how could it be otherwise with an actor of your stature playing the role he was born to play and the script ready made for your unique talents. All nature seemed in uproar, seas, winds, clouds and rain rendering encore after encore.
You slunk from that cheerless place a chastened wretch, a martyr to your baser instincts. We, the eyes, rallied to your aid, focusing our distracted elements on the outlines of distant mountains overhung by rich clusters of white cloud. We left the storm behind us and the next vista of interest to which we were exposed was the bar of the resort’s only hotel.
On your behalf we surveyed the amber contents of whiskey bottles, the crystal clarity of gins and vodkas, the shining saffrons, the brighter tangerines and the pale gold of assorted sherries. The well-stocked shelves of better-class taverns and hotels are a source of constant delight to us. The colours of the rainbow reside in the array of cordials and intoxicants.
The shining bottles, freshly dusted, gleamed and tantalised as we took stock of every saleable beverage from the light chamois of tequila to the green savannah of créme de menthe. We, eyes, exult in presenting you with this challenging and luminous diversity of exciting colour. Nowhere else will one experience such an uplifting array. We would never object to spending long periods in such prismatic surroundings. We dallied for a period on the cardinal red of Campari and lingered yet again on the mustard of advocaat, flitted to the Russian red of raspberry and finally fixed ourselves on the old reliable amber of honest to God whiskey. The bubbles chortled in the optic as the measure filled. You always drank your whiskey neat but would chase the shorts faithfully with half pints of your favourite ale.
Is it any wonder that soon we were seeing sights that we had not seen before! Eventually we started to see double and the fat, unsmiling barmaid who had dispensed your first drink was now magically transformed into two of the most titillating and identical nymphs ever to stand behind the counter of a tavern. You ignored the printed caution behind the counter which stated:
‘When our barmaids start to look beautiful it’s time to go home.’
Then, of course, you were always a man who never went home when he should. As the barmaid was transformed once more into a single person her beauty decreased not a whit. You told her you loved her and could not live without her but it was a tale she had heard and digested calmly many a time and oft. When you proposed to her she laughed heartily and informed you that she was married already. Shortly after a second proposal and several further declarations of love our vision grew exceedingly blurred. Your hands trembled when you raised your glass. Consequently when you tumbled off the stool and fell into a heap on the floor it came as no surprise to any of the organs involved. The inevitable had happened.
Mercifully, as far as we were concerned, the orgy was ended. We were closed up for the night and would take no further part in the proceedings, nor would we see your mother arrive to collect your drunken remains, but we would open up for business as soon as you had slept it off and we would focus to the best of our impaired ability to see you through the morrow.
This interlude which we have recalled for you is to remind you that we are capable of infinitely loftier undertakings and that you have changed little in the years which have elapsed since that day by the seaside. Nevertheless, we will always be on the lookout for you but would be most appreciative if you could see your way to directing us towards scenes of natural beauty and rapture which abound for man’s delight in the world which surrounds you. A time will come when we will be obliged to pull down the shutters forever! It would be a shame if we were not utilised more beneficially before that sad day arrives.
Sincerely
Your Eyes