Short Happy Stories

Volume 2 is now available! The book contains 50 stories. Order here, or inquire at a bookstore.

The Detective’s Reveal

The English countryside mansion stands resolute against the savage rain, and hasn’t once flinched at thunder.

The Detective adjusts the fire with a poker. “My dogged pursuit of Truth brought me to complexity after complexity.” He’s talking, with eyes fixed on a frustrating log, to the five people he has assembled in The Large Room—the perfect place, he believes for several reasons, to conclude this tricky whodunnit. “Of course, while each of you had a motive to commit the murder, each of you is also equipped with an ostensibly sturdy alibi.”

With unsettling slowness he hangs the poker and turns his body toward the others. Lord Hippiton, with his beloved cane between his legs, sits on the burgundy couch next to Lady Winifred, and Jasper is stretched out on the forest green chaise lounge with an air of utter indifference, while Vera and Ronnie are unmistakably attentive on burgundy spoon-back chairs. “However,” continues The Detective, “over the course of my investigation, I have gathered many, many interesting pieces of information. These pieces of information have taught me that none of your alibis is perfect, and that one of you is, indeed, a murderer.” Turning from face to face to face to face to face, The Detective’s eyes search for fear. “If this were one of those Agatha Christie murder mysteries, we would have just entered the chapter in which the questions are finally answered.”

Fleetingly, lightning makes everything in The Large Room look different; less fleetingly, thunder rolls all around—and The Detective imagines, with pleasure, that he is responsible for the storm effects; that he has transformed everything into a single intricate, sui generis instrument. Which, of course, he alone knows how to play. He turns back to the fire, now roaring thanks to his recent poker work. Vera, who has the best view of his face, sees half of a knowing smile—and a fire-gleaming eye not devoid of menace. “At long last,” he says, “Truth will be wrenched out of darkness.”

“What drama!” says Jasper. “You belong on the boards.”

“At university I played Iago—and yes, that was decades ago… Decades ago! Where have the years gone? But… yes… the matter at hand…” With astonishing speed he spins around and connects his eyes with Jasper’s—essentially eliminating the distance between them—and says “Jasper, I need you to be completely honest. Is that understood?”

“I’m always honest. I just don’t always tell the truth.”

“Is that supposed to be witty?” says Lady Winifred. “What in God’s good name does that even mean?”

“That’s a fine question, Lady Winifred,” says The Detective, “but for now we must focus on what truly matters.” While addressing Lady Winifred, he did not disconnect his eyes from Jasper’s. “I must know. Do you think I could be a good Lear?”

“Ah,” says Jasper. “So that’s your dream, is it?”

“I’m not going to be a detective forever. I will retire from this, eventually. And then… who knows?”

“Detective, I dare say you would be a fabulous Lear.” Probably intentionally, Jasper does not sound entirely sincere. “Oh, yes. Oh yes. Indeed.”

“No,” says Ronnie. “Though you are rather… engaging, you lack the requisite intensity. Lear is so… big.”

“I may be small in stature, but—”

“You know that isn’t what I meant.”

“Fine, but… I can be intense and… amplify my presence. And, remember, Lear is already a bit diminished at the beginning of the play. We never see him at the peak of his powers.”

“True. But he still has a remarkable… I suppose you’d call it a life force. And I’m afraid that isn’t something just anyone can act. It’s something a person either has or doesn’t have. And, I’m sorry to say, you don’t have it.”

“But, Ronnie, your argument omits a crucial point. Jasper, though still a fresh young man, has actually worked with The Old Vic. While you, Ronnie… Well, you’re just a gardener. A gardener. So… what’s your opinion even worth?”

The soft yet determined voice of Vera: “Gardeners can be smart, Detective.”

“Can they?”

“Smart enough for you to interview me so many times,” says Ronnie. “You seem to think I’m capable of a sophisticated murder.”

“A sophisticated murder,” says The Detective, slowly—and with apparent thoughtfulness walks, slowly, away from the fireplace. “A sophisticated murder…”

The Detective begins to whistle. Vera recognizes the tune, but can’t quite summon the words, and wonders: Is there a secret meaning in his choice of tune?

Now quite far from the others, he stops walking. In front of him stands—proudly, directly on the floor—a sizable model of a ship from the eighteenth century: the mighty Nuestra Señora de la Santísima Trinidad. Surveying the ship with his eyes near the top of the mainmast, The Detective imagines he’s God.

Without turning away from the model ship he says “The mighty Nuestra Señora de la Santísima Trinidad. What a ship! What a history!” The Detective doesn’t actually know anything about the ship’s history, but thinks it’s important to, whenever possible, indicate that his brain contains innumerable vast fields of knowledge. “I have wondered, though, why this model ship is here. I do not mean here in this fine countryside mansion—because why shouldn’t a fine countryside mansion boast a fine model of a fine ship? No: what I have wondered is ‘Why is this fine model ship in this specific spot?’ Well, I have not failed to notice—” He stops talking. He allows silence and suspense to grow. Slowly he turns, looks at the five suspects on the other side of the distance. Slowly he smiles the smile of a cat who has just trapped a mouse—or, perhaps, mice. And, at any moment, this cat could pounce.

Finally the moment arrives: “This part of the floor is heavily scratched. For a very naughty reason, this model ship is sometimes… moved!”

The Detective has been expecting a significant reaction to this announcement. His true hope: the guilty person will try to dash out of The Large Room.

But nothing seems to be happening.

Unfortunately he’s quite far from his suspects, and can’t see them particularly clearly… He hopes he didn’t just miss a subtle yet informative reaction…

Oh well. Turning and placing his hands on the model ship’s stern, he starts to push.

The killer is either extremely strong, thinks The Detective, or in cahoots with someone. How many are guilty? This sure is a tricky whodunnit…

Annoyingly, Nuestra Señora de la Santísima Trinidad remains exactly where it was when The Detective started.

“Would you like some help?” says Vera.

“Yes!” He stands up straight, stretches a little.

“You should stay here,” says Jasper—and The Detective turns to see Jasper standing, gesturing for Vera to sit. “I’ll help him.”

How interesting, thinks The Detective. Pompous Jasper, the future Lord, is oddly nice to a housemaid. Well, Vera is, undoubtedly, fetching… What’s the full nature of their relationship? I should know that by now… Is she too tall for me?

Jasper and The Detective, with no little effort, push and push and push Nuestra Señora de la Santísima Trinidad… push it a bit more… a bit more…

Jasper stands up straight while The Detective gets lower, closely examines the wood floor. He knocks various spots with his knuckles. He slides his fingers where boards meet. He sighs: the wood floor seems to be nothing other than wood floor.

“Let me guess,” says Jasper, looking down on The Detective. “You thought there would be a trap door. Correct?”

Without answering, The Detective hurries back to the others and sits on one of the two forest green wing-back chairs that flank the fireplace. He places his elbows on his knees and his face on his hands and emits a very strange sound. It’s almost, somehow, whimper and growl.

“You mustn’t be so glum,” says Lady Winifred. “You’ve done your utmost, so you’re beyond reproach. You’ve run over creation, turned over every stone, moved every model ship… And if there were anything to find, I am certain that you, of all people, would have found it. But, my poor man, you simply can’t solve a murder that didn’t happen. A few months ago I heard a peculiar term, which I believe applies rather perfectly to our situation. The term is ‘freak accident.’ That is what we have here. What happened to Hobson was dreadful. Dreadful! Yes, indeed it was. But it was not a dreadful murder. It was a dreadful freak accident.”

The Detective lifts his face off his hands and connects his eyes with Lady Winifred’s—essentially eliminating the distance between them—and says “You’re sitting on that elegant burgundy couch. It’s elegant—but is it actually comfortable?”

“It… is. Yes, indeed it is. Quite comfortable.”

“The couch is comfortable—yet you can’t wait to get out of here. Why is that?”

“It’s because,” says Jasper, who has returned to the forest green chaise lounge, “there are things we would all like to do in life, and watching you fumble around, apparently hoping to stumble onto a solution, is decidedly not one of those things. You’ve been digging through our lives for a week. I sail to France Thursday week. Will you still be a nuisance then? I’m happy to accept that Hobson was murdered, if indeed he was. When you called us here tonight, I assumed you knew the answer—and I was looking forward to hearing it. However, after that model ship fiasco I’m guessing you actually don’t have anything worthwhile to tell us. But, if you do, please get on with it, so we can get on with our lives.”

“Impatient young Jasper,” says The Detective, employing his knowing smile, “you did not allow Lady Winifred to answer my question.” Crisply crossing his legs—the movement somehow suggests that The Large Room is his domain—The Detective seems to have completely recovered from his recent dejection. “Similarly, you told Vera that you would help me move Nuestra Señora de la Santísima Trinidad—and I do thank you for that. And of course we all remember when Vera felt the need to stand up for Ronnie, and said gardeners can be smart. Rubbish, if you ask me. But that isn’t my point. My point is that these three seemingly insignificant moments throw light onto something much larger.” Pausing what promises to be a thrilling monologue, he pulls a pipe out of a pocket and—

“You mustn’t smoke in here,” says Lady Winifred.

“Are you serious?”

Lady Winifred displays a stern face.

“Respect my aunt’s wishes,” says Jasper.

With an unnecessarily loud sigh, The Detective returns the pipe to its pocket. “So… I was… Ah! Yes…” Suddenly he looks quite excited. “Something has been impossible to miss. What is it? I shall tell you. You are all quite… nice to each other. You help each other. What does this tell me? I shall tell you. You all conspired to kill Hobson!”

“May we leave now?” says Jasper.

“You do seem,” says Ronnie, “a bit adrift.”

“Of course I do,” says The Detective, crisply. “Sometimes one must do a thing not for the thing itself, but for the reaction to the thing. And I note that you, Lord Hippiton, seem unable to look me in the eyes. Lord Hippiton, I now understand that you are not an amoral man. Guilt chews your soul. Yes, you committed a murder—but you weren’t built for murder. Well, it’s all over now. Why don’t you tell me everything from your perspective?”

Lord Hippiton does not utter a syllable.

“What a gifted detective you are,” says Jasper. “My father is, of course, sleeping.”

“Sleeping!” thunders The Detective—and it’s as though all of the air has been replaced with his rage. “We’re in the middle of my process!”

“Maybe you could be a convincing Lear,” says Ronnie.

“Hippiton, you louse! Awaken! Hippiton!”

Lord Hippiton seems puzzled. “I’m right here,” he says.

“We’re aware,” says The Detective, glaring at the exhibitor of such shocking disrespect.

“I fell asleep.”

“We’re aware.”

“Has the murderer been revealed yet?”

“Yes. A few moments ago I conclusively proved that you, Lord Hippiton, killed Hobson.”

“Oh? I’m rather sorry I missed that.” Leisurely, Lord Hippiton unscrews the handle of his cane, raises the cane to his mouth, takes a sip of whatever restorative is stored therein. After swallowing with a smile, he continues: “If you hadn’t bored me to sleep, I would have pointed out your mistakes. Oh dear. What wonders did I miss? I suppose I ought to tell you that though Hobson could irritate, I certainly didn’t kill the man. I am, after all, a Lord.”

The Detective smiles. Uncrossing his legs, he stands, walks from forest green wing-back chair to forest green wing-back chair, sits, crisply crosses his legs—this time, though, right over left instead of left over right. Is there a secret meaning in his movements?

“I’m afraid I must confess that I’ve been having rather too much fun with you lot,” says The Detective—and his laughter twinkles like stars. “I enjoy conducting little… investigative experiments. But, in actuality, I need nothing more from any of you.” He glances at the grandfather clock by the Turner painting, which shows ruins in weather opposite to tonight’s weather. “Any minute now, the final piece of information I require will be conveyed to me. Any minute now, that telephone”—emphatically he points at the telephone on the little table next to him—“will ring. I will put the receiver against my ear, and my associate, who has been on a particular hunt, will tell me what he has found. And then I will be absolutely certain of the killer’s identity.”

Vera really doesn’t know if she should be scared. The Detective seems rather a dunce—but could that be a performance? Her heart is changing. Did he identify her one tiny—but obviously unforgivable—mistake? Has his associate secured that one piece of irrefutable evidence? She’s disgusted, disgusted, disgusted with herself for making that mistake. Her heart is running.

You’re going, her brain screams, to be escorted out of here in handcuffs!

Like the faint sound of a far-off church bell, a certain awareness reaches her mind: Everything—except what you’re able to do in this exact moment—is beyond your control.

Try, she thinks, to control this exact moment.

Her heart is, amazingly, slowing down.

The Detective, who has been slowly turning from face to face to face to face, turns to the final face. Vera wonders what he sees when he looks at her. Hoping to appear bashful, she smiles slightly and looks down at her hands. Then she returns her eyes to his eyes. What does he see?

The telephone rings and The Detective’s eyes, thankfully, move. “Perfect timing,” he says happily—and scoops the receiver off its cradle. “Pronto!”

His enthusiasm is replaced with annoyance. “This is The Detective. I told you I would answer. Proceed.” He listens. “That simply can’t be true.” He listens. “I am certain.” He listens. “Because I enjoy it. I probably answer… a third of the calls I receive with pronto. You’ve called me at home, what, at least a dozen times, so you have undoubtedly heard me answer the telephone with an elegant pronto before.” He listens. “Yes. Obviously.” He listens. “Maybe… gnocchi?” He listens. “Oh yes, that can be very good too. There’s also—”

“Excuse me,” says Lord Hippiton, “but aren’t you supposed to be receiving some important information?”

Glaring at Lord Hippiton, The Detective says “Remind me to tell you my carbonara secret later. Carbonara, yes. But now you must tell me what you’ve found.” He listens, eyes now unfocused in the direction of the harpsichord. “No. No! I’m talking about the Hobson murder mystery, not the Henham murder mystery. You just called me at Lord Hippiton’s home, so it ought to be obvious that my current concern is Hobson.” He listens. “I truly do not care. Go on.” He listens. “I told you that would work!” He listens. “Yes…” He listens. “Yes…” He listens. “Shit.”

Vera uses all of her power to not show any of her joy. The Detective looks so dejected! She loves it!

The receiver is being moved back toward its cradle—but suddenly it’s back against The Detective’s ear. “What about the stationmaster?”

Vera has stopped breathing. Somehow she completely forgot about the stationmaster!

The Detective sighs. “Shit.” He slams the receiver onto its cradle. Looking over at the five people he so dramatically assembled, he again sighs. Then he smiles. “Hobson died in a freak accident.”

Now he’s briskly moving toward the exit, pulling out his pipe and saying “I commend you all on your adherence to Law. Good night.”

The Detective is gone. Lady Winifred is talking, but Vera isn’t listening. Nuestra Señora de la Santísima Trinidad hasn’t been returned to its proper position.

The version of Vera that had, for years, perfectly performed her duties—always with immaculate attitude—would have used this moment to ask if the model ship should be pushed back; and, if so, if she could help. But that version of Vera is gone.

Because she has proved to herself that she does not have standard limitations: she’s a special creature. Through cascades of doubts and fears, she persevered—and got away with murder! She designed the whole thing, killed Hobson all on her own—and nobody will ever know!

Her housemaid days will soon be over forever. Smiling, she sees herself stepping out of this English countryside mansion, stepping into the immense, opportunity-filled world… And she’s only twenty-four years old! Who knows how much she’ll accomplish in the years to come?

Mysterious Cats

Cats move among the ruins. In and out of late afternoon shadows; on and off stones. Though no pattern has been discerned, the cats’ movements seem deeply deliberate. As though they have a specific reason for moving the specific ways they’re moving. A specific reason that has guided them for unknown centuries…

Clearly these cats are in no hurry to do anything else—and neither am I.

But… why do I find them so fascinating? They’re just walking around.

But… that really isn’t how it feels. Their silent steps—paws on crumbling stones and dirt—actually seem inevitable. And if their silent steps are inevitable, something must make them inevitable. These mysterious cats must be connected with… must be a pure expression of… the underlying and overlying mystery?

The mystery of everything.

From the base of a column that no longer supports anything, one cat walks in a straight line through the column’s long, long shadow, stops upon entering the sun, and sits. Perched atop the shadow column.

That now-still cat is—as the other cats continue their silent steps—sacrificed by the sun to the shadow column.

Colors intensify.

Colors diminish.

Stars arrive.

How long have I been standing here—accomplishing nothing—just looking at cats? What a strange waste of time.

However… I didn’t have anything planned for today… so… What better thing should I have been doing?

Turning my back on the cats and the ruins, I walk up the road, to the café. Inside, pleasantries are, as usual, exchanged; and then, outside, as I wait for my drink at my preferred table, I imagine the café workers saying mean things about me.

They can’t know—because none of them has asked—why I’m still here, in their country; but I just sense that their pleasantness toward me is fake, that they don’t really like foreigners and are certainly sick of me, the guy who…

Suddenly I access a truly disturbing possibility: my existence hardly registers with the café workers, so they don’t even consider saying mean things about me. For Olympia and the others, my whole existence is nothing more than an insignificant little chore that is, upon completion, immediately forgotten.

“Your precious time!” roars the gruffly buoyant middle-aged man who just stepped outside with shoulders thrown back and a hand holding a drink; a few of the other tables are occupied, and I wonder whom he’s talking to. I think he’s the owner. The scattered tables make sure the line his movement draws is not straight, and I wonder where he’s going.

He places the drink on my table and says, to me, “How do you use your precious time?”

“Well,” I say—and stop, wonder what to tell him. How much information to provide. He crosses his arms. I probably shouldn’t tell him much. “Just now I was looking at those ruins down the road. The one with all the cats.”

“Ah yes,” he says. “The ruins with the cats. Very mysterious, those cats.”

“That’s what I was thinking.”

“They know something, those cats.”

“Oh? What’s that?”

“How should I know? I am not a cat.”

“Right.” I don’t say anything else because I don’t know what to say. Probably he doesn’t really want to talk with me anyway. Probably he’ll be grateful for this current silence, take this opportunity to take his leave, go back inside and talk with people he actually likes.

But, instead of going away, he turns his head and looks, with a thoughtful expression, across the old, old road—and continues: “People these days think that if they know how to get by, they don’t need to know anything else. People these days… People these days are always complaining about people these days. Have you noticed this?” With a sudden smile he turns back to me. “So you see, I am no different. But so many of these people… these nowadays people… They don’t seem to want to study the world. It’s enough for them to know that there is much science that describes much. They don’t care about understanding it for themselves. But of course they know, with certainty total, there is no God. You are a fool if you believe in God! That is what many nowadays people are saying. That is not what I am saying. What I am saying is… How can you know there’s no God when you don’t even know what the cats are thinking?”

I want to say something insightful. “This world is very… mysterious. It’s… interesting.” Feeling embarrassed, I try to think of a more intelligent—

“You will come to my very special birthday party,” he says. “The very special birthday party is two days after today. Two days hence. I will become forty-nine years old on that day.”

Something about “very special” makes me slightly uneasy. Because… how will the birthday party be very special? Forty-nine doesn’t seem like a very special age, so something else must make the birthday party very special. But… what?

“Thank you,” I say, “but I don’t want to impose.”

“No impose. Impossible to impose if I invite you. And I invited you. You heard it. It just happened.”

Maybe… Well, I just spent however long I spent watching cats do nothing… so… Maybe spending more of my free time with other humans would be good. Maybe… Maybe I have been a bit lonely here, so far from my old life. And maybe this man sensed that loneliness, and is trying to be nice. Which is… very special.

Maybe Olympia will be at the party! It seems reasonable to assume that at least a few of the café workers will be there. Or… will nobody I recognize be there? Will it be a very strange party, in a strange place with strange people? Will I be attacked?

The party could be bad, or good, or boring. Delightfully or horrendously life-changing.

I remain unable to see the future. And that makes everything… kind of exciting.

“I’ll bring a bottle of wine.”

“Good.”

An Interpretation of Eyes

Her eyes are not focused on physical reality.

Her eyes are neither eyes of despair nor eyes of delight.

Nor are her eyes eyes of acceptance.

Something about her eyes… They almost seem, somehow, to have exited time. Or… something.

They really make you wonder.

Maybe she always believed that a powerful sequence of external and internal forces could push her to a particular point—at which she would simply collapse. And it would be a profound collapse, after which no exertion could even be imagined.

But maybe just one minute ago she reached what she’d feared would be the point of collapse—and didn’t collapse. To her true astonishment, even though external and internal forces pushed her and pushed her and pushed her, she’s still standing. Somewhere beyond frustration…

My tentative conclusion: her eyes—which still seem to have no awareness of my existence—are a combination of exhaustion and stunned satisfaction.

“Hello,” I say. This is the second time I’ve said that.

Just like last time, she doesn’t react.

I want to accomplish at least two things today, so I can’t keep standing here like an idiot.

So I say—maybe, unfortunately, a bit too loudly—“Hello!”

Her eyes change: they connect with my eyes. Maybe nothing else exists.

“I’m so sorry!” she says. “Part of me knew you were there, but another part of me…” She smiles. “So. What would you like?”

Standing there, separated by a few feet and uncountable unknowns, I admire this girl because she has clearly overcome… something.

“A large coffee,” I say. “To go.”

Universe Fantasy

A red car on a black road in a red desert speeds toward a blue town on green land next to a blue sea, on which a white boat carries hopeful passengers infected with the white death, which will deliver bright lives to darkness; unless death won’t be dark but bright; we can’t yet know due to limited sight.

Looking up in the night, space sprawls, dark, so dark, vastness emphasized by infinitesimal brightnesses too big for anyone to reasonably imagine… and you wonder… whatever you wonder.

And eventually, once again, the night ends.

And somehow, for now, there is, in the exact center of absolutely everything, that red car speeding on the black road in the red desert. As anyone who has been there knows, the red desert can easily seem endless and timeless. Purely overwhelming. Like it’s chanting, in deep silence, at the speed of ages, “Compared to me, you are nothing.”

A blink of an eye divided by eternity.

But somehow, right now, between that red car’s windows, mystery human consciousness fuses with the smooth grandeur of Frank Sinatra’s voice—and the entire bright-dark-bright-dark universe feels oddly conquerable.

Thank you, Frank, for the fantasy.

Perspective

Three lines of lightning divide the strange wet sky. Rain falls at a significant slant. Wind tries to sweep the jungle away—so nothing will remain except a shiny desolate surface—but the jungle seems to say “I don’t want to go away.”

A long striped tail curves among wind-slanted plants.

The long striped tail adds danger and thrill to the jungle—because the long striped tail leads to a big tiger with pointy white teeth.

In this exact moment no part of the body touches the ground: the tiger has leapt.

The high point has already been reached: the descent is underway.

Is the tiger’s leap the result of thunder-delivered terror?

Or is the tiger actually disregarding the encompassing storm? Trying to pounce onto a creature concealed by wind-slanted plants?

Though you can see the tiger’s right eye, it’s difficult to interpret.

Maybe it’s an eye of fear.

Maybe it’s an eye of wild excitement.

Maybe it’s an eye of some other emotion.

The only thing that can be said about it with certainty: it’s the eye of a tiger.

Actually, that isn’t true: the eye isn’t an eye at all: the eye is paint. Paint put onto a canvas by Henri Rousseau in 1891.

In 1891 Henri Rousseau was still working where he’d been working for twenty years: in a toll office on an edge of Paris.

When asked about his jungle paintings, he would sometimes describe his own experiences in a jungle, back when he was a soldier in Mexico.

The almost certain truth: he never took a single breath outside of France.

But he certainly visited Paris’s Jardin des Plantes, where he would walk among intoxicating exotic plants—feeling like he was moving through a dream—and examine exotic taxidermied animals.

When he would sketch one of those dead marvelous beasts, he was maybe filled with more awe—a sense of the wondrous possibilities of the world—than someone who has actually seen those beasts in their natural habitats. Seeing something where it belongs can so easily feel… underwhelming. Oh yes, you may think upon seeing the most remarkable thing, that is that; of course it’s right there; I see it and I get it. Is there anything more interesting around here?

But if you don’t see the beast in its natural habitat… If, instead, you only see a relocated isolated version… What astonishing work your imagination will do!

You can suddenly have—despite your absence of direct experience—your own sturdy perspective.

That’s imagination regarding the unknown. There’s also imagination regarding the known. Imagination you can use to see everyday things as though you’ve never seen them before.

Year after year after year, while sitting in the toll office with an easily dull view of the toll gate and some unexotic trees and a factory, Rousseau maybe refused to succumb to boredom—and, over time, muscularized his imagination. To the point, maybe, of looking at that spectacular bizarre view of the toll gate and some unexotic trees and a factory and wondering how anyone could possibly consider it dull.

Probably not too far away—well, actually, in another of Rousseau’s paintings—four moustache men are at play. In an open space between trees. Under a sky that is mostly blue. In the distance are some grey clouds.

The moustache men are wearing silly striped outfits. Two have light blue and light grey stripes. Two have orange and yellow stripes.

There is absolutely nothing serious about these moustache men, playing whatever silly game they’re playing, clearly enjoying themselves.

One moustache man has his hands in the air—just above his head—and he is about to catch or just threw the ball—now and forever suspended in the air—and he is looking at you. Like he’s wondering, not without hope, Will you play?

Another moustache man looks like he’s punching the air or grabbing the shirt of the just-described moustache man. Though it’s hard to tell exactly what he’s doing, it’s easy to tell he’s committed to what he apparently views as his purpose in the game.

Another moustache man prances with pupils turned in the ball’s direction and hands that could be ready to receive the ball—but his whole demeanor suggests that he would be just as happy to not receive the ball. Because prancing around is fun enough.

The farthest-back moustache man is not in the middle of a particular motion—but he does seem to be, like the first moustache man, looking at you. Curious about what you’ll choose to do. His own plan, if he has one, is a mystery.

The trees to the right and to the left don’t look rooted—as though some Being brought them from Elsewhere and simply set them down; and, somehow, they remain unfallen.

While the players and the bordering trees are painted with a similar degree of detail, the ground is simply a gradient: light brown to very dark brown. An odd effect of the gradient: the four moustache men almost seem to float.

All of this is quite peculiar. Unrooted-but-balanced trees. Floating moustache men. And, of course, us. Peculiarly suspended in Existence. Wherever you will ever be, there will never be nothing. And, right now, wherever you happen to be, look at all of the things all around! Isn’t this amazing?

Maybe we ought to learn from those moustache men, playing their silly game in their silly striped outfits. They look like they’re having so much fun! Maybe that—fun!—should be our approach. To life. Why not? Maybe life isn’t a game—but who the hell knows what it actually is?

What we do know: unlike the lone tiger in the rough jungle, we do not have to exert near-constant effort on basic survival. So… why are we so often so serious?

And… when considering the size of a life within seemingly infinite space… within eternity… how does seriousness help?

Well… maybe being serious is a way to trick yourself into believing that you actually matter.

Many painters and critics of Rousseau’s time were very serious. They seriously trained at Academies. They seriously talked and talked and talked about what Art should be like. They looked at Rousseau’s paintings and laughed with condescension.

Snidely they commented on how self-taught Rousseau—who only really started painting when he was about forty years old—didn’t follow rules of perspective or proportion, resulting in unusual relationships between things.

Snidely they commented on how his paintings seemed childlike.

How many of them used even a single moment to wonder if everything he was doing was actually intentional?

Immediately discounting Rousseau was easy, because they—those oh-so-serious painters and critics—understood that methods had been developed to render the world with precision, the way it objectively is; and Rousseau obviously wasn’t using those methods.

But if the world can only be perceived by individual creatures, how can it be objectively anything? And, for all we know, if there weren’t any perceivers of the world, there would be no world. In any case, each person must perceive at least somewhat differently than every other person; so to paint by using an established system—a system you did not create yourself—is ridiculous. Or, at the very least, lazy.

Rousseau says, in my imagination, An artist should express his own particular perspective as purely as possible, without using anyone else’s tricks.

Or… maybe my thinking is completely wrong.

Maybe Rousseau never painted his genuine perspective.

Maybe, instead, he labored and labored and labored to paint the way he wanted to perceive.

Maybe he believed that painting a more pleasant perspective would teach him how to live a more pleasant perspective—and the world would, effectively, transform into a better place.

But of course I don’t actually know how Rousseau was thinking.

What I do know: after he retired from the toll office, he almost never had enough money—his pension was small and his paintings didn’t sell well—so he would go out into the streets and play his violin.

And, even though his paintings didn’t sell well, he kept painting. Until death. And, while there were some people, including Pablo Picasso, who loved his paintings, many people kept laughing with condescension; snide comments kept reaching his ears. Until death.

And now I’m standing in a wonderful museum in Paris, looking at his painting of a ship at sea in a storm.

The ship is big.

The waves are also big.

The ship can’t hide from the waves—because if you’re in a storm in the middle of a sea, you’re in a storm in the middle of a sea.

Through a sky of greys, rain falls at a significant slant. Falls onto the ship and the sea and two proud French flags and three smokestacks releasing dark grey smoke. The dark grey smoke is proof that the ship is still trying to move its own way—refusing to let the big waves control what happens.

The most peculiar thing about this storm scene: though the conditions are very rough, Rousseau has managed—partly by using some bright colors, partly by doing something I can’t figure out—to achieve pure jauntiness.

Yes: this storm scene is almost unbelievably uplifting.

Rousseau has demonstrated, once again, that you can paint any subject any way you want to paint it.

You can’t stop a storm from being a storm—but you can choose how you look at the storm.

You can be grateful that you’re able to experience any storm at all; and, with airy amazement and a smile, keep moving along.

Feel free to contact me at evanpellervo@gmail.com.