The Chair

29 07 2010

I was at the meeting. I sat down in a comfortable chair with about ten other people, enthusiasts, students. I opened my bag and I realised that I had no books. Then as the rest of the people sat down around me, I also realised with a pang of fear that I was in fact the chair. I was supposed to chair the meeting and provide ideas and questions, on a topic I had no idea about. I didn’t even know what the topic was.

Well, the meeting progressed, and I lumbered in my chair. The avidity of my friend in conversation distracted from the fact that I was the chair, and possibly, I may have got away without saying a single word.

The meeting itself was held in a street, more or less an alleyway sided by high buildings, and the ambience was that of a warm summer night, on the edge of September, but not cold at all.

I did observe, as I hid in my chair that no-one has noticed that I was the chair. Or perhaps they knew that I was the chair and intended to please me. But in my heart it was truly as if I was invisible, although the largeness and comfort of the chair gave the feeling that hiding was in fact impossible.

In the course of my self-analysis I was able to absorb a number of vague details about the discussion of the meeting. Books were flashed, and I did realise that the titles of these books were written in what appeared to be Russian alphabet. It may have been Russian, it may have been a different form, but I am convinced that the discussion was on a literature of Russian origin and in fact written in Russian, although the discussion was held in English.

I noticed also, in my listening, that mention was made of fairy stories. It conjured up images of childhood and a general warm, feeling of well-being, which combined well with my comfortable chair, and put my thoughts and worries more or less at ease.

I realised that my friend was engaged in almost violent, passionate discussion, charming the women in the meeting. This was all well and good since it distracted from my total lack of opinion on the subject of untranslated Russian fairy stories. I neither know Russian, nor do I care for the implications of fairy stories about cakes, onions and magical enchantments.

After the meeting finished, the meeting, along with the chairs disappeared more or less in a flash, without any lingering. It was as if the meeting had been a secret gathering on a quiet and narrow street, shaded by the late summer trees.

After the meeting however, I was not entirely alone. I found to my surprise a girl with brown hair and a bookworm look about her. She appeared to want to speak to me. What she said seemed strange, and showed her to be some kind of fan of mine, even though as chair, as the all-powerful chair, I had said not one word during the entire meeting. This is what she said:

“I loved your Satanism.”