Monday, 2 January 2023

PICTURE THIS

As he began to speak the room was hushed. Silence lay like layers of dust on a long-forgotten tomb — pretty quiet, huh! Those words are from a novel by writer, Auberon Waugh. When I first read that line I stopped, went back, and read it again. It was the most exquisitely descriptive image of silence I had ever read. An honour I had previously reserved for Gordon Lightfoot’s forests too silent to be real. Both writers could have said, it was silent as a grave, so quiet you could have heard a pin drop, or quiet as a mouse. None of which would have made a best-selling novel or popular song.

Those expressions are cliches, trite, overused, everyday expressions. There is a problem with using cliches in a speech. As I'm sure you've aware, only 7% of a speech's impact reaches the audience through language. This is partly because many words are repetitious, and since we speed listen, we don't register the ones we have heard before. We block them out. If there are too many cliches, then a whole sentence may be ignored. This leaves gaps where the audience may stop listening, it gives them the opportunity to tune out. Don't let them! Words should flow like sun warmed honey. Cliches interrupt that flow. It then takes something special to bring them back.

 How do you do that? By making your words more descriptive, painting pictures the audience can climb into. These pictures should be vivid but simple; remember, the spoken word, unlike the written, cannot be reread. Your listener should be able to see, hear, taste, smell, and even feel the images that you portray.

 The way to do this is using descriptive language, to make use of simile or metaphor. These structures are all linked. The example I used at the beginning of this presentation — silence lay like layers of dust on a long-forgotten tomb is a simile, it uses imagery which intensely describes silence by saying it is like something else, a direct comparison. Silence lay like layers of dust; this picture is then compounded by describing the layers of dust — on a long-forgotten tomb. How much more silent can you get than that? Can't you just visualize it.

Imagine you've entered a mausoleum, it's cold and dank, the door slams shut behind you with an aggressive thud. There's just one beam of light, it pierces the room like a shard of glass. Focusing on the tomb like an expectant spotlight waiting for the star of the show. The silence whispers your name, then, the lid on the tomb raises slowly, a stench corrupts the air of the crypt. The air around you rushes by, pulling you, forcing you forward to the open casket. Words drowning in viscous gurgling nightmares that manage to escape and reach your ears. Sorry I got a little carried away. That was a little exaggerated, but you get the idea. It's amazing what you can do with a simple thesaurus.

 Here's another simile describing how angry someone is — he was like a pit-bull with a migraine. How much angrier can a person get? Of course, the trick is they’re ones that work, for example — he was like a dog with a headache??? Doesn't quite make it, neither does bear with a sore head. That one is worn out.

Metaphor is like a simile but omits the words "like", or "as" for example: after a snowfall, silence lies on roof and road. Silence is a metaphor for snow. Like similes, metaphors link things which are dissimilar. Life again climbs above the horizon. Life being a metaphor for the sun. Beware too of mixing metaphors... They took the wind out of his sails, and he ended up with egg on his face. You see, good similes and metaphors don't come easily, it's like pulling teeth! Oh no! cliche alert! What can we use to describe something that is difficult, something fresh. Any suggestions? How about It's like getting a kitten off a blanket; or It's like getting a three-year-old into a snow suit. Anything but a cliche!

By using similes, and metaphor you can make your speeches much more vivid, more picturesque, and more interesting. You can make your words breathe life into a speech you may otherwise have died with.

 I'm going to end with a few more examples of imagery. For instance, life for many is just a cruise down the highway, (metaphor) but lately I feel as though I'm on a dirt road driving a beat up old Volkswagen and It's beginning to rain, and the windshield wipers don't work, and I really should have put some more air in that front tire, and what’s that funny noise from the engine, and oh no! Are those flashing blue lights in the rear-view mirror?  We stop, he gets out and walks towards me. He's built like a Klingon with an attitude to match. (simile) His icy stare freezes me in my seat. (metaphor) He says, "Where's the fire buddy" (Cliche!). Goodbye Have a nice day!!! (Whoops)

 As he leaves the lectern, the applause begins with a few tentative motions, then erupts into a beastlike roar of assertion, before subsiding into the silence that had greeted him. The silence of one hand clapping. It was so silent you could hear a dream breaking. It was so silent you could hear Casper's heartbeat. It was so silent You could . . .

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CHANGE THE PROGRAMME

There's a song by the late Harry Chapin, called Flowers are red. It's about a little boy on his first day at school. He's happily crayoning beautifully coloured pictures of flowers. His teacher notices and doesn't like what she sees. She sings: Flowers are red young man and green leaves are green, there's no need to see flowers any other way than the way they always have been seen.

The little boy replies: There are so many colours in the rainbow, so many colours in the morning sun, there are so many colours in a flower and I see each one. But the teacher insisted until the little boy conformed, and his creativity died.

One day a new teacher came to his school. She asked the little boy why he only painted flowers of green and red. He replied: Flowers are red and green leaves are green, there's no need to see flowers any other way than the way they always have been seen.

That little boy was programmed for life. Unfortunately, humans are not like computers where you can switch programs at the click of a mouse. Computers have an endless supply of software. We are limited to what's installed on our hard drive, and sometimes that has essential parts missing. The advantage that a computer has over humans is its lack of emotions. Unlike you and me it has no fear of the unknown. We fear it, afraid of change, and afraid to take chances.

This isn't really about computers. It's about beliefs, habits of mind, particularly the ones we hold so strongly about ourselves. The kind that paralyze us, that make us resistant to change.

From where do these roadblocks of the mind come? According to the 19th century philosopher William James, beliefs are fixed in us when we are quite young, usually by those in authority. Parents, teachers, the state; sometimes intentionally, sometimes inadvertently. Some are harmless — Santa Claus, others are evil — racism.

Childhood is when we are most susceptible to the programming of beliefs. A child’s mind is like a freshly tilled field awaiting a gentle rain of information to nourish it and help it grow, but sometimes the information falls too heavily or is of the wrong kind. Like rain on a freshly tilled field, puddles form, then streams which can erode the surface, creating chasms.

These chasms in the mind are where our most deeply held beliefs are stored, particularly the ones about ourselves. Consequently, these beliefs are the hardest to change. Beliefs like I can never play an instrument, I can never learn to speak another language. I could never go skydiving. They aren’t so bad, it's the ones such as:  I'm shy, I have no confidence, I have poor self-esteem, I have no personality, people don't like me, I'm ugly. Those are terrible things to believe about yourself. But you can change them. It isn't easy but it can be done. You must change the program. Little by little, one step at a time, change the easy ones first. Take a course, learn that instrument, and overcome the little lies you tell yourself and you will develop the confidence to tackle the big ones.

There are examples of people that have changed their beliefs. Historically, women were programmed to believe they were second class citizens but look at the changes made in the last twenty years. They changed their program and men have had to change theirs. Of course, there are a few around still running the Cro-Magnon program: pro sport is the meaning of life, what are women complaining about anyway, I will always leave the seat up. It may require surgery to change that one.

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PRINCE DROOL

Once upon a time there lived a prince. I can't say that he was a handsome Prince - he wasn't. He was uglier than hog with a hangover. In addition to being ugly, this prince had many unpleasant habits, the most odious of which was drooling (that's drooling, not duelling). He drooled whenever he was nervous, whenever he was excited, and he especially drooled over fair maidens.

He was known far and wide as the drooling prince, or Prince Drool. This didn't bother him in the least; he was remarkably insensitive. He also had an awful personality; he was quite simple and always broke. His father the King was rich, but he rarely indulged the prince, other than to provide him with a beautiful white charger whom the prince called Corvette.

The prince loved his horse, and would ride proudly throughout the kingdom, leaving a trail of glistening drool behind him, attempting to seduce the not especially bright maidens who were attracted to Corvette. But as they were women, they were much brighter than the prince, they'd say things like "Would you excuse me for a moment whilst I wash my tresses." and that would be the last he'd see of them. This was unfortunate because the king would have liked a grandchild, if only to skip over the prince and continue the royal line with dignity.

 One evening the king summoned the prince to the royal bed chamber. "Prince," he gasped, "I think I'll be dead before the year is out (he was only suffering from a severe case of indigestion), so I'm giving you one week to prove you are worthy of my fortune (ha ha) or it will all go to the society for the preservation of dragons. This was not a purely benevolent gesture on the King's part. The king had for years relied on dragons as the enforcement arm of his protection rackets. If villagers did not pay their taxes the king would send down a dragon to terrorise them.

This was far more effective than the ill-fated GST. Unfortunately, the dragons were demanding more and more from the king, and it was rumoured that they were applying for certification by the united dragon workers. Since the king had no replacement dragons his bargaining power would be limited. This could mean the downfall of the kingdom, but like most rulers with evaporating omnipotence the king was ignoring the facts and turning to more mundane things, like insisting the prince find a wife.

 "You are to go forth into the Kingdom and return with a fair maiden who is willing to marry you." said the King. "Complete this task I have set, and you will inherit my kingdom, the dragon’s contract, and the keys to the regal bathroom. Big deal!

"No problemo," said the prince. Being stupid, he had no idea how inept he was in the world at large. "First." he thought, "I'll go out and kidnap some helpless maiden. This of course was nigh impossible; the kingdom wasn't that big, and the maidens were no longer helpless having availed themselves of the courses at Eric's school of hog rearing and codpiece crunching.

The prince’s case wasn't helped by the local media who were slagging off the prince at every opportunity. In every village a crowd would gather to hear the latest on the royals from the tabloid press. Usually someone like Loid, a former bingo caller with a loud voice who had set himself up as the Town crier. He would call out, “Oh yea, oh yea, my sources tell me that Prince drool is not fit to sleep with hogs."  "Oh yes he is!" would scream the crowd. "Oh yea, oh yea, the Palace has issued a statement denying this - apparently the prince prefers sheep." 

The prince slowly realized that if he were going to find a maiden who would be willing to marry him, he would have to travel to a strange town beyond the boundaries of the kingdom, travel at night, or wear a disguise. He did all three. He even traded in his horse Corvette; it was too easily recognized. He now rode a black charger. He called it - Dodge.

Prince drool rode for many days before he came to a town that seemed, well - strange. It was dark when he reined dodge to a halt in front of the inn. "Why," said the prince, drooling profusely, "Here is a fair maiden standing in the shadows beside the Inn." (It was dark remember). The prince peered closely, maybe she would be the one he would marry. She seemed fair enough — until she smiled, then he could see she was a little long in the tooth — both of them. That didn't matter to Prince Drool, it really was true what the tabloid town crier had said.

"Fair maiden," drooled the prince, "how would you like to marry me and be my princess - and be rich too?"

"Be a princess," said the maiden, "That's the best offer I've had all evening, sure, why not". It was so easy Prince Drool couldn't believe his luck.

"We'll be married in the morning," he said. 

They did indeed marry the following morning. They then set out on the return journey to Prince drool's home, but as they drew closer, they could see that a disaster had befallen the kingdom, all the crops in the fields were burnt, the villages in smoking ruins. The prince and his new bride reached the castle to find the old King on his death bed (he was still only suffering from indigestion).

"I'm here with a wife father, where's the cash?" The prince of course was quite tactless.

"Sorry son, there is no cash. The dragon got greedy, he roared in last night with an attitude and an ultimatum. If I don't provide him with a princess, he'll incinerate us."

"No problemo," slurped the prince. "I have met your challenge, here is my new wife, she is a Princess. We can give her to the dragon then I'll be rich. Which is an option that the shrewd old king had considered all along, except for the part about the prince being rich.

Now the new princess may have led a socio-economically deprived life in a male-dominated society, but she wasn't stupid. She had her eye on the main chance. Like Princess Di she planned to be queen one day soon. She was more than a match for Prince Drool and his dad, who incidentally was already calculating gate receipts and taking side bets on the dragon.

"Better still," whispered the Princess, "why don't you challenge the dragon to a duel (that's duel, not drool), if you win, you'll be twice as rich, and still have me."

"Great idea," said the prince. Travel had not broadened his mind.

Word of the challenge was sent out and the whole kingdom gathered to watch the prince fry. The peasants, like peasants everywhere, didn't really care who ruled them. But they loved any excuse to watch simplistic displays of gratuitous violence.

The host was Lloyd. He was also providing biased media coverage.

"Oh yea, oh yea," he hollered, "On the east side of the arena is the beautiful iridescent green dragon.

"The dragon stood alone, fearless, wisps of smoke from his pilot light curling upwards into the morning air.

"And, on the west side of the arena (facing into the sun) Our Knight in rusty armour - the drooling prince."

Prince drool was out drooling himself with anxiety. A pond was forming around him. His mighty charger was trampling the ground into mud.

"Let the battle commence," cried Lloyd. The dragon by this time was already halfway down the hill snorting smoke, great blasts of flame scorching the arena, singing the eyebrows of the unwise who had mistakenly paid good money for front row seats.

Prince Drool urged his mighty charger forward, but poor old Dodge couldn't move, he was stuck in the mud. The crowd rushed forward to push, and, with a mighty slurp Dodge was free, charging towards the dragon, Prince Drool waving his sword wildly. It looked as though the prince and the dragon would collide head on, but at the last moment the dragon sidestepped as nimbly as a politician dodging a question and gave a mighty blast aimed right at Prince Drool.

Amazingly nothing happened, except for little puffs of steam arising from the post warranty perforations in the prince's armour. The dragon tried again and again but he just couldn't ignite the knight. Prince drool wasn't called the drooling prince for nothing. His armour, and especially his underwear was soaking wet. The prince was non-flammable.

The dragon was so embarrassed at his failure that he turned and ran. The crowd roared, the king had a heart attack, Loid called for a rematch, and the princess smiled her long toothed smile. Prince Drool was rich at last and a hero to his people. There was nothing left to do but for the Prince and the Princess to live happily ever after. But given their psychological profiles it didn't happen. They became a miserable dysfunctional family with three children, sisters -- two ugly, drooling ones and one who was annoyingly bubbly. Her name was Cindy, and you know the rest.

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December 1995 David Hobson

 

ORIGINS

I was born long ago on the wild moors of west Yorkshire, where my family eked out a living hunting moor mussels, a local delicacy reputed to be a powerful aphrodisiac. Hunting always took place around the time of the full moon. This was when the giant mussels would drag themselves out of the peat bogs and hide in the heather to mate. We flushed them out using a team of trained hedgehogs, on leashes of course they can be hard to control otherwise, especially when they sniff out a moor mussel.

The hardest task was getting the collar and leash on the hedgehogs, The chief hedgehog handler always did this. It wasn't a job anyone aspired to; it was usually reserved for the person most likely to reach an evolutionary dead end within the least number of generations.

Unfortunately, due to over hunting, the herds shrank drastically, to the point where we had to leave the moors and move to the town, where my dad got a job in a toast factory, a new industry financed by the ministry of foolish ventures. He worked in the Research and development dept., trying to figure out why toast always falls butter side down.

Times were hard still, so we supplemented our diet by ambushing the camel trains that passed by on their way from Scotland to the fleshpots of Wales. I'm just kidding, there were no camel trains from Scotland — they were Aberdeen Angus cattle. What a sight they were too, especially after a wet day. The Angus drovers would remove their kilts and hang them on the horns of the beasts to dry.

I'll never forget the catastrophe that occurred when one went berserk and ran amok in the town — a drover not a beast. It wouldn't have happened if he hadn't sat down in the heather after removing his kilt, inadvertently disturbing a pair of mating hedgehogs. There's nothing quite like the sight of a half-naked Scotsman running around with a pair of hedgehogs clinging to his rear end.

 After terrorizing the townsfolk, he was finally apprehended by the occupants of the Meany Rest-home for Retired Gentle Ladies. They held him until the authorities were notified, which was about four days later. It took so long because they all wanted a turn holding him. 

Life wasn't always so exciting though, at least not until the town was hooked up with electricity. This allowed everyone to experiment with different forms of mechanical stimulation, a welcome relief after having been deprived of moor mussels. Of course, this also meant the end for the toast factory since home toasters were then readily available.

This was unfortunate, as the R and D dept. were close to solving the falling toast syndrome. My father's team had somehow discovered, that by fastening the buttered toast to the back of a cat, it always stayed butter side up — 62.5% of the time (in tests that were considered accurate fourteen times out of twenty). They were on the verge of turning it over to sales when the factory closed. One fortunate side benefit was the discovery that, by using peanut butter instead of regular butter, it ensured the toast always landed butter side down.

My dad took early retirement and spends his time now helping with the Moor Mussel Conservation Movement. He has a stall at the market selling slimy tee-shirts. He also makes a little on the side working part-time for an obscure group called the flat cat fraternity. Me, I'm here!

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March 10th, 1995