Bearable Parables

A Series of6 Short Tales

By A.L.R. Garlow

For Marcus andCornelius Without your inspiration, Iam nothing.

Contents
The Dream Exchange Retinal Damage Two Lattes Please, Comrade A Heart for a Hunter Stimulant, Sedative, Stupor A Cosmological Encounter

The Dream Exchange

A middle-aged bank teller visits his therapist, who he pays 45 dollars an hour for consultation, because he is having immense trouble sleeping. He tells the therapist, Ive been having a very hard time sleeping lately. I keep having the same kind of dream! The therapist asks him to describe in detail all of the dreams he has been having. This takes quite some time, but once the bank is finished she says, So, youve been having reoccurring dreams about... aliens? The man says, Yes, all sorts of aliens. Aliens of all sizes, shapes, colours, demeanours, settings. But always aliens!

The therapist suggests a few possible solutions to the tellers problems, and asks if hes ever considered looking through a dream analysis book to try to deeper understand the meaning of all of his recent dreams. Noticing that the session has continued for almost 3 hours, the man decides to finish his consultation off there. He then visits a bookstore and purchases a large dream analysis book for 50 dollars. He would have bought the cheaper one, sitting beside it on the shelf, but it is much smaller and the man is worried that it would not cover all the small details ofhis dreams. That night, our troubled bank teller is lying in bed while he opens the book. He looks through the As and finally happens upon an unfortunately rather small section titled Aliens. To dream ofaliens means that you feel alienated. Needless to say, he is a little disappointed. The man also notices that there is a very large section after the small description ofalien dreams. This section is about alligators the different settings one might encounter an alligator in their dream, descriptions about what different coloured alligators or alligators of different shapes might mean. It all offers a complex and deep psychological explanation of the subconscious mind.

He reads this for quite some time, then drifts offto sleep. That night, the bank teller dreams again of aliens. This time, the aliens understand how to speak English and are not hostile; in fact, they are working at an ice cream shop. They look like stereotypical monster-movie aliens: long limbs, greenish grey, big eyes. They are also wearing aprons with the ice cream shops logo on it: the words Scoop n Serve arch over an anthropomorphic smiling soft serve cone, followed by their slogan only the finest scoops in town! Name any flavour and well scoop it! The man approaches the counter and the alien employee asks, What would you like, sir? The man says, Got any alligators?

R etinal Damage

Before she knew it, she was at the Museum of Light Fixtures. It was late, but the museum had always stayed open until the dwindling hours ofthe night. Only one man, older and with the feel of small town contentment, worked at a desk near the entrance playing solitaire on an ancient computer. He nodded at Abigail and waved her in. She strolled along, her heels clicking lightly on the tiled floor, towards a strange lamp made sometime in the 70s, and probably also made by a hippie with a knack for electric wiring. She stared at the multicoloured twists and turns of the faintly glowing structure for a long time, thinking nothing and feeling nothing. The hum ofincandescent bulbs everywhere slowly filled her ears.

Two Lattes Please, Comrade

A coffee shop at 6PM in early winter, chandeliers hanging from brick walls, upcycled couches, music youve probably never heard of. A couple sits with empty glass mugs on dirtied plates, three tables away from the cold, open front door. The woman, 19, blonde hair in a messy bun. Beige knit scarf, beige heeled boots, vibrating with bright smiles and naivety. The man, 25, short dark brown hair. General artistic appearance. Organic fair trade hair wax. Long scarf, colour to match the womans. Police sirens interrupt the eclectic folk nu-wave jazz beats. The man has an almost disgusted look upon his face, hidden under his meticulously crafted facial hair. Still he looks pleased in a strange way. You sit too far to catch all of the

conversation, and would like to appear too nonchalant to give the impression that you are listening intently. What you do catch is the man, leaning in to his female companion, saying something about the Western neo-liberal capitalist pseudoparliamentary-democracy. The female companion listens intently but, from what you can see, may either be slightly insulted or constipated. Youre not sure which. She did have the tuna melt quiche. Despite her gastric issues or her upset dignity, she attempts to retain her youthful glimmer, the plastered smile displaying small, dentally admirable teeth. She also attempts to listen as closely as possible to the mans ranting. Often the woman interjects to ask the man to clarify, or to perhaps use different terminology. He laughs and you clearly hear him mutter something about the unwashed masses and his comrades. The music dies down, the street noises soften at the same time. While still remaining too nonchalant to even care what is being said, you hear: How can you even understand the struggle of the masses if you are afraid of any language that deviates from your own? Youve clearly been stuck in a closed suburban bubble of a life, why dont you break free from that tripe? That Rob-Ford basic adherence to the conservative media? You cant spend time around these stalwart defenders of the big C Conservative

normative mediocrity. She says she doesnt disagree with him. She adds that Michael (whoever he may be) should not be framed in such a negative light; that Michael is a good friend. Michael works for charity during the summer break. Just because Michael has nice shoes and rich parents doesnt mean hes a slave to anything. Her partner disagrees, he sighs. Apparently our male patron has a certain disdain for Michael. Michael is a stalwart defender of some word you couldnt quite catch. Michael is a knight of something else you didnt quite understand. You start to wonder if Michaels casual garb is chainmail and a pair of shining golden gauntlets. You do however know that he has nice shoes. Curiously, you glance down at the upset and groomed mans shoes from behind your laptop. They also appear nice. You recollect seeing them in a shop window for an obscene price. But there is a much greater chance they are second hand, or made oforganic rice materials... right? You glean from the conversation that the mans name is Robert, and the woman is Sophia. Robert and Sophia chat about Godard for about twenty minutes before he once again lists the flaws of their dear friend Michael. Robert lists values that he is most certain our stalwart defender does not have: justice, virtue, humility, progressive egalitarian policies on the

conduct of the President of The United States. Something about Gaza and how Michael wouldnt understand. Robert presses Sophias hand lovingly, reassuring her that she is much unlike their mutual friend ofinjustice, hatred, and backstabbing. Sophia gleams with the promise of acceptance. You finish your drink. It is next Tuesday, and you have returned at 3PM for a refreshing shot of espresso on almond milk. You see Robert at the same table he had been, wearing similar clothing but a new haircut adorning his receding hairline, and you almost wave hello. But then, you remember that you and Robert had never met, that the conversation he held last week was not directed to you but to his slim, shining female companion. The bits and pieces of the conversation run through your mind often as his voice, as abrasive as he had been, was also in some ways smooth and perhaps even enticing. This week Robert has a bottle of organic lager sitting beside his tweed jacket and a male friend across the table. The male oddly resembles his previous partner - blonde, tall, slim, and an ever-shining smile adorning his smooth face above a clean-press plaid shirt. Something draws you into sitting close to their table and listening covertly once more from behind your protective screen. You pretend to play solitaire.

Surprisingly, Robert is giving the same sort of speech as he did last week. You think to yourself that it seems once something has been said at length it does not need re-saying, that there is only so much time in life to say things twice. Robert informs his friend that a woman named Sophia does not have the kind of personality that leads to the revolution they need. No justice, no virtue, he says. Michael nods, listening intently.

a Heart for a Hunter

I saw you again last night when I was walking home. It was a pleasant night for strolling and gazing, and there you were. Feeling embarrassed, I stared for just a little too long. I figured that you were so far away, and the night so black, that you would never feel the presence of my glare for a thousand years or more to come. Musing about your arms and the things they carried, I was never foolish enough to imagine they could carry me one day. Some might say that your features are not distinct enough to be recognized in that immense crowd, so why do I recognize them every night I see you? They say you go by Hunter. That isnt a terrible name by any means, but I do not quite see a hunter when I look towards

you. No visible signs of aggression or malice, no evil deeds in your past. I think positively and perhaps even naively, all there can be under your belt is that wonderful and illuminating presence, able to incite awe and wisdom. What I see is humility and grace stronger than the mightiest of three kings, kinship and loyalty stronger than three sisters. What I see gives me hope and desires. It also supplies me with a never-ending stream of disgust for my own dull body, my own renown and ability (or utter lack thereof). We are two beings of completely opposing qualities, I of the lowliest and you of the highest. I look up to you, both figuratively and literally. I shall never call you by such a brutal name. Yet I am told we are composed of the same substance. How can that be? When great figures say that you and I deep down are we, what am I to make of this knowledge? For I can clearly see you shine brighter, reach farther, even live at greater heights than I. No, I shall never call you Hunter, by such a brutal name. And why should I ever need to? For you have a better name still, filled with light and sound. Filled with openness and understanding.

I gazed at you another night, another month, another season. You did not leave me and I came to imagine that you loved me, too. I would act surprised learning ofyour passion, Id look up and say,

Orion, I never knew.

Stimulant, Sedative, Stupor

A man was convinced that the drugs he had been using were giving him super-human mental capabilities; every night he used the drug he remembered having spiritual and scientific breakthroughs unparalleled to any other, but when he came out of the high, he could not properly remember any of his theories. He didnt recall what the theories were composed of, simply that they were indeed brilliant. It was precisely because of these moments of epiphany that the man ignored his doctors warnings, who had suggested that the man had no longer been in need ofthis particular prescription medication. Ofcourse, the man knew that he no longer suffered from what the drug was intended to cure, but he did not think that a good reason to stop taking it regularly.

That night, he was determined to capture these brilliant thoughts which could revolutionize humankind, he was sure of it. So he tied a pencil to his hand, and tied a string attached to a notepad to his opposite wrist. As he took the drug he had come to view as the greatest mind enhancing substance, he started writing furiously on the notepad. After, he went to sleep. The next morning, he woke up and quickly grabbed the notepad to see what he had written. Would it be the secrets to becoming one with God? Had he mastered quantum physics? Cured cancer? No. Instead, what he saw was this: a 20 page essay about how listening to slow jazz made him hungry for onion rings.

A Cosmological Encounter

Where does the human spirit reside? One might argue that the epoch of modern man is forged within the confines of the city lights, the racing traffic, the buildings that tower magnificently over a million busied minds. A true show of herculean feats carried out by mortal hands, but most importantly by mortal intellect. For others, the human spirit (if we cannot call it by any other name - the source of happiness, the good life, the seed of humanity) is something which grows naturally, not mechanically, in the vast and invaluable fields, trees, and rolling hills all collected under an amazing array of calm, seemingly immortal astral constellations. But for many, and especially those who take root in the former way of thinking and living, the stars are but a distant mystery: for the

suburban glow dims the sight of billions of stars, leaving a vast and uniformly dark ceiling of blue and grey, devoid of that which inspired the myths and legends of civilizations long deceased. There are often no clear stars in the city, except perhaps those that you will find on billboards or on television, who are only stars in namesake. Even still, if the miraculous spread of age-old constellations were to suddenly make themselves clear to the citizens of the busiest cities, few argue (and these few are often of the latter, of the natural persuasion and the mechanical aversion) that not a single ant in the whole web of technological civilization would have the interest to look upwards and gaze upon them. And so, there may come a time when the cosmos are only remembered in study, or in history, never to be thought of as a sight for the common individual. These few predict that soon the citizens ofthe world will be too caught up in their own little lives to see the bigger picture, that even space exploration will come to a grinding halt, and we will bury our heads in the sands ofour own superiority complex. As for now, there are still beings which look in awe and curiosity at the world beyond our own, there are still some who are unsure of the path they will live (if we are to reduce the paths in life to the misunderstood dichotomy of nature vs. technology). Let us, as silent viewers, examine Jack, a 27 year old man who is fresh out of his graduate university studies and

well into a position of respect and power in his career as a professor. Jack finds himself teaching in the same general location he has always lived - while he has moved from town to town seeking apartment space for a bright young person such as himself, he has never migrated outside the confines of his country. With his steady pay and security in knowing that he has chosen the right career path, he now seeks to further curate the many aspects ofhis livelihood. His current living space sits in a calm and kind suburban nook, wedged between a major city and the closest thing that his area may refer to as country side. Growing up in this sort of nook, he is accustomed to the hustle and bustle, the glamorous attractions, the friendly conversations held in a million or so coffee shops within reach. He has but only a 10 minute drive to a friend, a bar, a museum exhibit. Something new, something constantly changing in every direction. When Jack finds himself on a summer night in the middle of this metropolitan domain, he takes a moment to stare directly upwards, along the buildings which he feels immediately humbled by in comparison. How small am I, he muses. Small, but never lonely in the city. When Jack drives a few hours or more out to the cozy little town (or one may call it a village) that his parents reside in for

the holidays, he is met with fresh air, striking him like a wave of frigid ocean water. He breathes deeply, consciously, freely. The forests line the edge of the fields that ride parallel to the simple roads, shrouding whatever may lie beyond in a plethora of pine needles. And when he finally arrives, he is met with a small gathering of his kin, a warm fire, a window which looks out onto miles of natural scenery. He and his father sit on their front porch, speaking of life in the most general and most comforting terms. Small talk for small towns. They pause to stare up at the sky, upwards through the fresh air onto the most inspiring wonders of the cosmological world. They name at least 6 constellations between the two of them, recollecting the many nights they spent in Jacks youth doing the same activity. Jack has not forgotten their names, or their places, for they are never new, never changing radically or sporadically in every direction, but shifting along the axis of the Earth. In their numerous immensity, he feels humbled in comparison. How small am I, he muses. Small, and as his father has left the front porch at least an hour or so ago without him noticing, somewhat lonely in this country side. We see that Jack has made his decision to continue living near to the city, but as always he is only a few hours away from the country and his family. The new house he has migrated to inches its way slightly closer to the metropolitan lights. He

heads towards these beckoning signals, and oddly, tonight, he finds himself alone. There are many inspiring journeys that a single traveller may choose within the city, and so he flees to an art exhibition in the downtown district, holed up between new wave bars and vintage record shops. Here he arrives in the white-walled institution of creativity to a display by an upcoming youngster, as the doorman says, eager to get their work out in just about any way. Across the room, a lady, slightly younger than our Jack, stands next to an impressively large mural depicting none other than a constellation which he is able to recognize by heart. He approaches the painting, pretending to not have noticed the young lady as to not disturb her viewing pleasure. However, she is the one to make the first act ofdisturbance. What do you think of this one? she asks, with a tilt of her head in his direction. We see Jack caught somewhat off guard by the question; perhaps because he had been lost in admiration. With a shamble of words, he explains his immense adoration of the piece, his interest in the astronomical feature, and his compliments to this new artist. Also, his sincerest condolences for sounding rather scatter brained.

Its alright. You sound about as nervous of this work as I was when I agreed to display it! she notes, smiling. He now realizes that the artist, who he had just offered his admiration to, is standing beside him, with a lovely smile. I got the idea for this one when I was walking home one night - well, not one night really, she looks down and pulls at a bracelet nervously, a lot of nights. It sits right over my apartment building, Orion does. Wouldnt think you could see it out here, you know, but to my luck you can. This sparks a long conversation between the two city dwellers with an even longer tale ahead ofthem. But for now let us, as silent viewers must always do at some point in the story, be silent leavers.

Bearable Parables by A.L.R. Garlow is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-NonCommercial 3.0 Unported License. Ifyou have any comments or critique for the author, or ifyou'd like to donate, visit soycrates.tumblr.com