Sciences Participating with Arts & Culture in Education

Ramble On

With thanks to Samuel Beckett and Tom Stoppard.

“I find myself afloat on a delicate wave of euphoria. The sun’s fair rays leave heat like the whispers of a past lover tantalizingly playing over my skin. The scent of hearty pine drapes over all that lies around me. It’s as if I have the ability to halt the world’s goings-on with a single flick of my finger. Step back and watch all feeling spill over the edge of…”

“Train.”

Enter two men. The first was thin as the branch that supported the few worldly possessions he had accumulated over his lengthy journey somewhere- he had forgotten where. But it was somewhere important, he was sure of that. He wore a button-up shirt, a yellowed and wilting collar, brown leather gloves, green army surplus coat, tattered beige trousers, scuffed and cracked loafers. Balancing on a rail, he stepped absentmindedly to the quiet clanking of a train riding along in the distance. To his right walked the second man, dressed in an abused brown wool jacket two sizes too large, corduroy slacks fraying at the bottoms, holes in the knees, and heavy, industrial leather lace-up boots. His stride was shorter, more cautious, unsure. He faced away from the first, his attention caught by the impending mechanical marvel which tossed the world into efficiency.

“And come to a fierce and decisive point casting shadows over all the rest. Watch: as there is never a toe out of line, how the faint scent of salt is carried miles from the coast until it becomes one with its industrial kin. How we believe that we are removed but are merely dolls composed of fine china, painted and dressed to our doll maker’s taste. It’s all about perspective, about how far we can be…”

“Train.”

“Education aside we really should devote more time to our development. Work out the fine lines, the flaws in Mother Superior’s tablecloth. The family unit. Sometimes I wish we could chart our own progress, breakdown, our evolutionary makeup and condense it into…”

“Train.”

“Not to tango with the idea of a superior human race but to allow everyone to appreciate the intricacies of our art and music and romance. Of the splendors of the western world. To see every moment as a strand of hair placed upon their thick skulls, to isolate every event and let it resonate, tattooing experience in their wrinkles and their greying bits….”

“Train.”

“That’s a nice whistle. I would like that sort of thing more often from you. It’s cheery but with a hint of urgency. Kind of like the complexity of your being all crammed into that little quaint package. Your contribution is greatly appreciated…”

“Train.”

“Have you noticed that peculiar smell? Like the rusted underbelly of a car? And has the temperature increased? I feel this awful heat in my back that refuses to back down. In fact it may be intensifying. Afternoon sun I suppose. Couldn’t be anything else. Are you feeling anything?”

“Train.”

“Important is how we all seem to feel. Each sees himself as one strikingly individual puzzle piece and spends his time claiming to have new shine and strength beyond the abilities of our elders and of our peers. Now comes the troubling question of the ‘I’. A topic much discussed in the upper echelons of literary society. One that I find rather tedious to pick apart. Shall I launch into an ode mourning the passing of the ‘I’ or celebrate its continued success? I place one foot directly in front o’ the other in the hopes of keeping balance in accordance with these arms I hold so aloft. Fully extended wingspan. Head upright. ‘Tis no error that I form an ‘I’ with the track. With the fast track, the strong track, the iron rail. The symbol of adventure. That with the ability to transport even the poorest sucker of a man consumed by his habits and without proper protection from the elements. It is time for me, as the perhaps best suited representative of the condition of the ‘I’, to declare…”

“Train.”

“Train? Dost thou declare that we should train ourselves, good chap? Train ourselves how? There shall be no height correcting, neck lengthening, hair straightening strategy that could force us all into being redeemable human beings. No true word, no one king, or god for us to kneel to in the hopes that we will be rewarded. We walk the path alone. In the grand scheme of things of course. Because in this case you happen to be by my side. My very own Sancho Panza. My very own Fallstaff. A fop of my own creation.”

“Train.”

“Yes, yes I heard you, o’ faithful companion. Train. We must align ourselves with our goals, with our perfect ideas as a sort of training- quite right. But how to go about it? Seems as if there is no simple out from the inevitable training of our temperaments, eh old boy? Perhaps physical sensation is the key. Perhaps all we need is a quick dose of water to the face to wake us out of our perpetual state of self-involvement. And by us I mean the common folk, those of your ilk. Those who cannot see the train…”

“Tr—“

“Would you stop that chugging now? That relentless approaching noise has staunched the flow of my brilliance. For goodness sakes you sound like a train! How apropos. I knew there was a reason I brought you along.”

Actually he couldn’t remember why he brought him along. But it was important, he was sure of that.

“TRAIN.”

“Oh, would you look at that. Quite right. Off we go.”  

And off they went.

“Aye indeed. Off we go! Where exactly? Where are we free to go? Do we go now? Is it time? Have we arrived? Will we arrive? ‘Twas you who said that this train track would lead us to our destination. Can our destination have changed? I don’t feel very free. I find it impossible to feel free with this cumbersome jacket. I feel weighty. It’s unbearable. Take my jacket.”

“No! What material is this?”

“I don’t know.”

“That explains it.”

“Explains what?”

 “The cause.”

“This is all so confusing.”

“Dearest companion, oftentimes, as I sat pensively awaiting the mellifluous, albeit thundering call of artistic wit, I found myself questioning the origin of my various states and affections.”

“I’m cold.”

“It occurred to me then that everything affects us permanently and that all interaction is indelible. Thou hast been suffused with unalterable change and should be glad for it.”  

“Jacket please!”

“Ah yes, the jacket affects you insofar as you are incapable of distinctly grasping its essence. I believe this jacket to be made of wool. A delicate, vulnerable, fluffy, wool jacket harshly separated from its owner because of its own material. You understood its essence, but did not grasp that you understood its essence. It was the enigma of your days. The mystery of your life. A simple coat.”

He scoffs, shaking his head slightly.

“Enough! Give me that!”

They struggle, pulling the limp garment back and forth while another train sounds by.

“Take me Train, for I would rather die than suffer in a cold, jacketless world.”

Almost gets hit by the train but recovers the jacket and moves out of the way.

“You babble incessantly. This coat shall be the root cause of immense unhappiness and confusion.”

Puts on the jacket.

“I feel no different. Perhaps a collision with the train would have done me well.” 

“I am an end in myself and need no train to impact me otherwise. To be hit by a train! It’s rather passionate. An end worthy of Portia’s swallowing coal.  Rusted, industrial metals rapidly…”

“You know, I also think of things. Of rails and of trains. The train rapidly approaches the track we balance on and yet we are free to jump the track. Is that freedom? I think not! I’m scared! It’s fear! Perhaps it is the train that grants us freedom. Once we’re hit, there’s no telling where we go. Well, mathematically or scientifically speaking, given the appropriate knowledge of the various causal factors surrounding the impact, we can determine where our bodies literally go, as determined by the train, but there’s nothing left to determine. You aren’t free until the train hits you.”

“Shall we then?”

“What?”

“Welcome the final impact. Deliver us to our almost certain destiny.”

“Hmm?”

“Await the unwinnable war between man and machine!”

“Sorry?”

Pair narrowly avoids getting hit.

“Wait for the train to hit us.”  

“My goodness no! I was only speculating.”

“And why avoid it?”

“Well because, because… we don’t know what follows being hit.”

“Ah yes, the unknown. Our mistress the sublime. It is one of the most distinct features of living, not knowing. To encounter the abyss of uncertainty with open arms is how we should proceed.”

“So then…”

“Yes? So we…”

“Jump?”

“Well yes, if you want to.”

“How do we know the trains will keep coming?”

“Because they must.”

“Says who?”

“Him, of course.”

“What on earth are you going on about?”

“Not on earth.”

“Where?”

“I forget.”

“That’s a shame.”

“Indeed it is. Change! I see alteration!”

Pair approaches a crossroads.

“A decision?”

“It would only be appropriate.”

“An important decision?”

“One could say life changing.”

“I’ve never done well with significance.”

“Time has come to a fierce and decisive point casting shadows over all the rest.”

“Have we been here before?”

“It escapes me at the moment.

“It all seems familiar.”

“What’s familiar?”

“The tracks.”

Bends down to stroke the rails inquisitively.

“Oh yes, I have seen these before. To walk the same path twice. ‘Tis a monstrous habit. A heart that rejoices in regression is not a heart to be envied. And yet here we are. As magnificent as the days our mothers thrust us out into the world. Perhaps in magnificence there is repetition. Equally, perhaps there is repetition in magnificence. Nietzsche would approve. As would Kundera, naturally. One foot in front of the other, one step closer to the end and the beginning of our circuit.”

“Which way of the compass strikes your fancy?”

“I know I’m headed somewhere.”

“As am I.”

“Straight on then?”

“Quite right.”

“Take a look at the horizon, ol’ chap. Drink it in. The beacon of the day has nearly put herself to bed. No more overarching happiness, no more warmth, no more hope. What is humanity, what is man, truly, without hope?”

“Train.”