February 10, 2015

If there's one thing I've learned, it's that Godfrey will not come when I call. In that sense he's a bit like Fenton, the viral runaway dog whom Julie and I encountered for the first time last night. Infuriatingly exasperating to the one who needs him and delightfully disobedient to those who don't. I think what most amuses me about that clip is the sense that something so small and ordinarily innocuous could cause such chaos on a nearly global scale, as it surely looks as though his human companion will cross the horizon line, still running wildly, still shouting Fen-ton! and always uttering those profane asides even as his canine charge moves farther and farther away. In like manner, I have been more than on the lookout for old Godfrey.

"You called?" he says, as blithely and without affect as though he has been here all along. Which he surely has! How little does he recall, or perhaps did he ever even know, of what it means to be in the clutches of the creative imperative: first, you must make; second, you must not bore; third, you must be authentic. And yet even as I say that, I know this is shabby treatment, for one thing Godfrey did in life was to create in a way that was real and did not bore. One piercing gaze with those eyes nearly glowing black from the screen can tell me that.

"And so what can I do for you?" Indeed. Well, it seems that what I want more than anything this time, Godfrey, is simply to be able to hear your voice, to transcribe its not-quite-wise-guy timbre in a way that captures its unique mix of stern and tender. More than anything I want you to tell me what to do on this cold and white February noontime, and in a way that I can share that voice with others, in a way that is neither boring nor false.

"You want me to tell you what to do. I, who am almost certainly a figment of your imagination, unless you have a greater ability than I thought truly to believe in the ghostly form of William Powell guiding you and guarding you from harm. At risk of being boring or inauthentic, may I point out that my job is rather of a different nature than wresting the likes of you from what you call the creative imperative. No, my line of work is rather the prevention of physical harm, my boy, and to that end I'm hard pressed to see how giving you a sense of my voice will help one iota."

That will do, I say to Godfrey, who I just know would like me to start by getting dressed for the day, it being after noon and all. Once that is taken care of, perhaps I can imagine how I might get something done in this icebound state? Fair enough, I say to Godfrey, would you care to assist me in getting up the stairs? "I'd like nothing better," he says, and puts his hand on my elbow as I rise to my feet.