Tents? And remind me would you, who was it forgot to pack the tents, no that’s not quite right, your first explanation was forgetting them, then it was, ‘oh no, we don’t need those, let’s travel light and anyway who the wants the bother of putting them up every evening and taking them down again every morning.’
So, let’s be clear, ‘undercover’ does not seem to be the most accurate description. A trench-coat and Bermuda shorts don’t seem enough to cover our naked ambition, though perhaps my mind has been conditioned by an earlier epoch of nuclear bunkers and hiding under the table for three thousand years until the radiation has diminished, at which time we will all be able to re-emerge into the new peace.
Then again, there is this word agent you wish to place on the agenda. It would seem to imply working on behalf of some other entity. I suppose we could start with the idea of us being God’s agents, though ‘His’ instructions are getting increasingly unclear, muddied by the plethora of narratives and discourses. What about some government’s agents? It’s possible, but wouldn’t I know something about it? Wouldn’t there be some chain of command within which I would know my place. Wouldn’t I be aware of the supposed purpose of our endeavours even if it was nonsense.
Is it possible that I have been sent along merely to keep an eye on you? But, in the confusion, in the passage of the years, it’s slipped from my mind – yet another failure of memory. It’s like arriving at the top of the stairs and not knowing the purpose of having gone up the stairs in the first place. Well, I might as well clean my teeth, now I’m here, and if I’m not careful I’ll get into bed and fall asleep even if it is the middle of the day.
The great thing about ambling along on horseback (ok, I do have to keep an eye on you too) is the slowness approximates to the speed (or non-speed might be more accurate) of reverie; of allowing anything or nothing to meander through my mind. And unlike my mind, there are some great minds amongst our party. Take Butler for instance, who is exploring the issue of ‘Who Owns Kafka?’ (This can be accessed via the London Review of Books 3 March 2011). A court battle as to who might buy Kafka’s archive (which should have been destroyed according to his will). He was a Czech who wrote in German. He was Jewish and at times showed great interest in Zionism and journeying to Palestine but never did and also expressed, what shall I say, reservations about his Jewishness. Conflicted and always in exile. Journeying by not moving?
This seems to be the territory through which we wander. I try to listen in as she chats to Uncle Wally and what‘s great is the fact that he is dead and that does not seem to get in the way – the ancestors are here amongst us. And they’ve got plenty to say – even if most of it is rather rude.