The look of things confounds me, Doris said, rolling alongside Vern at the old folks home.
Several squirrels looked up from their acorns suspiciously.
Vern was new to the home and admired the clean lines of the walkways.
I’ve always been a fan of the English style, he offered to Doris in response. But she seemed disinterested in this line of inquiry.
The most famous philosopher once said that the way for the problem of humanity to be solved was to find a unified language. Only then could we begin to act in the harmony, which God or nature accorded.
Who? Vern answered.
Wittgenstein, Doris answered. Aren’t they reading anymore out there? I do not know what goes on beyond these walls, but I suspect it won’t come to much. From what I can see language isn’t coming together, it’s dissolving. We’re working in reverse from what Wittgenstein had hoped. He must be full of disappointment.
Vern nodded. The squirrels had gone back to their acorns. An unidentified dog loped along the hedgerows chasing the squirrels or the light or his own tail. It was honestly hard to tell from Vern’s vantage point.
I’ve been having these dreams, Doris continued, as they wheeled along the smooth walkway that was a sort of labyrinth through the gardens. It was really finely kept. The stonework was top notch. Not the kind of thing you found often these days, Vern thought.
And in those dreams I keep imagining I’ve forgotten something. And in those dreams, I search and search. And did you know that some cultures, the Navajo for instance, put great stock in dreams and think it connects people deeply to the spiritual realm. And here, where we seem to have lost the language that Ludwig was in search of, we think nothing of dreams.
Vern was confused. There was a woodpecker somewhere in the distance. It was only available as sound. He’d have to imagine the rest. There was a groundskeeper using a leaf blower out of season to blow small bits of grass into tidy rows. Vern revised his earlier judgment, though the grounds were well cared for it was perhaps because of an overallocation of resources.
I wonder what we can know of this world that we’ve lost a language for, Doris said. I stay awake long after the nurses have left thinking over my grievances. This is no way to spend a life, Vern.
There was light flooding the top half of the trees. The zinnias were neatly lined up and bees floated the air.
What time is lunch? Vern asked.
Twelve-thirty sharp, Doris answered. They’ll serve meager cutlets and less than admirable green beans. I would not put much store in the material world anyway, Vern. Life’s bamboozlements have not amounted to much spiritual or moral progress in the end.
There was a breeze visible only in the trees. They had finished circling the labyrinth but Vern felt himself no closer to understanding the inner workings of the place he’d come to spend his final days.
That’s faux Gothic architecture, Doris said, indicating the large cylindrical columns with gargoyles affixed halfway up. The craftsmanship of contemporary times is a mirror, and I don’t like what it’s showing us.
