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[ 6 and a half minute read ]

The Caveman's List

One of the things I dislike about communicating, is that there are rules to it that are not written down for the unwary to, well, be ware of. Of course, anyone who writes something down is using a form of communication. The words could be written, such like, as a shopping list. The words on the paper, or perhaps papyrus in Ancient Egypt, could be purposely recorded for a number of reasons, and the reason may even change as time passes. 

The Caveman's List 

Woolly Mammoth meat the size of twenty fist-sized apples, or at least four rabbits

So many nuts that it would take seven trips to carry them from the tree to the cave using only both hands, or one crushed handful of the leaves from the plant that has purple flowers shaped like ears

Ah, shopping lists for the people who are learning what to look out for, and are easily distracted by clashing two stones together as though they are fighting, or kissing. I found the words carved in a piece of stone I found in my garden.

Hakim, the spirit avatar I created, when I was sixteen, to protect me from harm while I am sleeping had an opinion; always welcome. Wild, or more creative, but definitely always welcome. Who wouldn't consider the view of an avatar who specialises in all things spiritual?

       'No. I think... No, they are the ingredients in a recipe.'

Harrari, the abandoned alien I discovered in a wood in which I had been living in, had her say; always welcome. Ruthless, and dangerous with it, one might think that I have no choice in letting her speak; but, her reasoning comes from a blending of an alien 'hyper-technological' existence and an absorption of knowledge on the flora, fauna, and things that we humans cannot see, on earth. As I say, always welcome and never, never denied, let's just leave it at that.

        'You both think too simply. You, Martin, are practical in your approach, and you, Hakim, are creative and living in the sensual. The writing on the stone chip is a Stone-age agreement to pay.'

It is not Hakim's job to understand bartering, but he knows that you can't get something for nothing.

       'Money?'

       'A credit note? I mused, a quiz on my forehead.

       'Money and credit is now the same thing. Your money was once a piece of something valuable that had universal value in the area in which it was used. But a merchant buying a large amount of stock could be robbed of the valuable universal 'coin', before they could hand it over to the supplier. Not only that, the accumulated 'coin' might be heavy indeed. The words are a record of a negotiation at the primary stage.'

       'That is why there are alternatives...or.' I nodded, realisation undoing the crease between my eyebrows.

It is easy to decipher the words on the stone, now under lock and key in my library, as meaning any of our offered opinions, and there is still more. It could be a purchase order that a boy was tasked to take to the cave-man shop. 

       'Run all the way there, and all the way back.' There was no expectation he would be burdened with goods.

Harrari, grateful that we understood the value of my discovery in the garden concluded with, 'Further thinking could open up an understanding into whether these cave-people understood 'bundles' of goods or were offering a Best Alternative To a Negotiated Agreement (BATNA)'.

       'Marketing?' Hakim looked up from pretending to fill his imaginary pipe. He smoked it when Harrari bothered him, because he was convinced that she could not tolerate the smell. Open to a wide scope of possibilities while he was clutching his Diploma in Creativity, he now used his pipe to show that, for him, reason had reached a limit.

I smiled, but mostly inwardly. For all I knew, Harrari could smell completely rancid and could tolerate anything I might imagine. She almost never appeared in our human visual spectrum and I had to conclude that our olfactory senses were similarly limited, and work in a narrow bandwidth, because other than a, very infrequent, floral scent that seemed to originate from nowhere, I am pretty certain that I can not smell her. Even then, I might be smelling next-doors washing on the line. Yet....in Winter, in the rain?

My final pondering on how big a caveman fist, hand, or a rabbit might have been, was broken by my wife coming in. She didn't know about Harrari or Hakim; I had never told her about my past. I wasn't really sure that she even knew that she was married to me, because she spent a lot of time keeping away from me. She had some of her friends with her; even now she separated herself from me.

       'Hello, Martin' He winked at me, the one I had seen so many times with my wife, yet strangely never alone. Neither of us nodded. Social protocol loomed before us. Should we wrestle? Should I punch his perfect smiling face? Should I shake his hand? Hug? Or should I just politely say 'Good Night' and leave them all to it, whatever they thought 'it' is. I had my own idea of one version but there were too many in her group of friends to be about to play Bridge or Monopoly; four, and my wife made five in her group.

I left without responding to him, and similarly ignored the rest. They all looked remarkably familiar, as though I once knew them, but I simply could not remember their names. I knew that I once did, but they belonged to younger people; much younger.

Back home, in my own untidy mess and glad to be away from pristine neatness, I went into the library and checked that the stone was still safely stored. That guy really bothered me. In fact, I am not really sure he exists. After all, my wife has an exceptional imagination and might have invented him just to annoy me. How she could get me to perceive him was beyond me. Hakim and Harrari, between them, would help me to figure it out, if I ask them. I hoped it had nothing to do with that photograph on her wall.

Faced with a wide scope and scale of environments of interaction, we are constantly relying on our understanding of previous events for a template from which to work. It is sometimes said that when we are falling out of a window, our whole life flashes before us. Hakim would say that we are trying to send signals for help while flicking through a scrapbook of memories; memories that include spiritual help. Harrari, the perspicacious one in our group of three, with her analytical bent, would say that we are seeking a set of rules or formulas that have worked in similar circumstances to find a solution that matches not landing on the ground at a pace that would hurt us. Hakim wants an angel with wings, and Harrari needs her molecules to dissipate, and effectively become dust that is shifted by the wind.

Of course, it matters whether there are manuals for life; childhood; marriage; getting a job, or not. But I think I need to find a manual on how to read in an appropriate way. I need to understand why the writer wrote whatever it is they wrote, and what the writer left out. Unfortunately, there are no tests in the real world to be certain we have all read the same books and how we understand them, unless we write an essay that reflects back a good facsimile of the lessons to be learned, or in social environments, shake hands to say hello, or just politely say goodnight.