Here we are again: in front of the blank screen, thinking about life, smiling and snacking peanuts. I know that I do not like the theme of the day; or rather, I deeply dislike it. But I have two options: shut up or write. The second holds back silence and helps me against boredom. Let’s go then.
There is a philosophical reflection that bothers me with amazing regularity, and can be summed up in the following question, “What is the name of my maternal great-grandfather?” It always occurs to me the same way. At first, the question takes my mind; I understand and silence. So by refusing to answer it — and I already know that I know the answer — I try to think of something else, anything. But the question turns back, restive and unbearable. I find myself obliged to replicate the obvious, “I don’t know.”
I have to admit: this reflection is of great value to me when I see my mind holding hands to stupidity, thinking my life have some importance. My mind is also cynical… I am sometimes judging, “This can be useful to someone,” but it comes and asks me, “And how is the name of your maternal great-grandfather?” Every time I answer in amazement, “I don’t know.”
And reflection always proceeds likewise. I am looking for the answer, I can not find it. I think, “It’s not possible!” And I force the memory, looking for common contacts: “Someone must have told me…” I insist until I give up, when a flash comes to me: “My great-grandfather’s name I don’t know, but certainly the name of my maternal great-grandmother is on the tip of my tongue!” I ask myself the new question, “What’s my maternal great-grandmother’s name?”. The answer delays, but it comes obvious and identical: “I don’t know.”
Then I start torturing myself, “You know what, I need a cigarette!” I get up from the chair: “Cigarette is good for memory!” I go to the window and start smoke. It is impossible that I do not know the names of my maternal great-grandparents. I must have a problem, and the cigarette will help me release him. I am smoking watching the smoke: I am fascinated by the smoke. It springs, vigorously and thick, from the tip of the cigarette; ascends to heaven as if dancing; but before the dance can entertain, can exhibit some rhythm, suddenly the smoke fades, lost, leaving itself no trace.
Cigarette take effect; I have a new idea: “Surely the problem is in my maternal family!” I articulate a new question, happy, expecting a different result: “What is the name of my paternal great-grandfather?” I reflect. In a few seconds, I lose my face smile. The brain still works, hardworking. And I put myself restless, trying to deny the obvious answer. I chew peanuts and think, “Great-grandfather is the father of my grandfather, or my grandmother’s. Of both, one I need to know!” But the answer is the same, rigid and impenetrable: “I don’t know.”
I begin to meditate that it is a matter of honor: I need to know if I descend from a priest or a thief! But I force the memory and I do not remember anything, no remnant of a relative saying my great-grandfather being a stowager, sailor, priest or brothel owner. And there is everything: I do not know my great-grandparents’ names, I just do not know and there is no solution.
Angry, I throw stones at my mind: “Why always the same question? Why the insistence?” But I know I will continue to ask myself, like a stupid, to see if I ever find a different answer. I will not find it.
Finally I sigh, powerless, losing any illusion. There are no peanuts and I reflect, prevented from chewing: “What, then, is the reason for all this?” The conclusion is obvious, and also always the same. I cling to the shards: “I hope the conscience worth, because there will not be a single sparse word about me.”
____________
Read more:
