The Bokononist View

Lunch
“Cinco de Mayo!” proclaimed the sign on the far wall. It’s ecstatic message and vibrant, ebullient coloring was not quite enough to make the drab, bleak wall it covered happy. Even the yellow paper drooped a little about the edges, as if shying away from the institutional white sullied by the even, grey smear of dust and grubby, children’s hands. I looked down to my poorly wrapped burrito, engulfed in a sea of snowy white sour cream. The edges I pulled down and set to re-wrapping, my hands bleaching as they became increasingly covered with the cream, the burrito no closer to wrapped than before. I valiantly pursued my goal for another minute, sighing as I finally allowed it to flop down. A wet sort of slap met my ears and I gazed desolately at my shirt, finding myself speckled with a fine shower of the white goo. I looked up to my fellow inmate. “Do they use sour cream in Mexico?”
No reply came as the dreamy sort of boy who sat across from me turned a churro in his hands. He took a bite and, as I reached for a napkin, he told me, “I do so love rice pudding.” I nodded in acknowledgment and proceeded to wipe my front, only aggravating the mess. I dipped the napkin in my lemonade and brought it back to my shirt to scrub harder when a sudden uncontrollable thought stayed my hand. "Rice pudding," I whispered. "Rice pudding," I exclaimed, standing and putting my hands on the table, the idea too great to contain seated, too heavy to bear on one's own.
The pinched, sallow girl to my left turned to me abruptly. “Sour cream,” she stated, “do Mexicans use it?” I shook my head. I don’t know. I looked at my hands on the table. I could no longer remember what I was thinking before. That girl was undeniably my wrang-wrang.

Assembly
“This school,” proclaimed the teacher proudly, “This school is like a family. Yes! A family, where we all respect and cherish each other as we work to the same goal: higher education.” He continued in his speech, but my ears involuntarily rejected the foma that he persisted in sharing with us, attentive and eager students all. Granfalloon. False. I turned to a contemplation of my true karass. Not these students, certainly, I thought. Maybe the churro boy though – he held promise. Across the gym from where I sat, two girls leaned against each other releasing sobbing, hiccuping, titters while braiding each other’s hair, deep in vociferous conference. I watched them a moment, but my attention was drawn by casual clap. In another section this noise was echoed a small responding applause from a boy wearing a look of undisguised vacuity. I stared blankly at his foolish grin. He clapped again, the smile spreading wider as if it was the sound itself that entertained him so. Down in the center, the teacher had reached a point of rapture, his face glowing, eyes shining and lit by some inner vision. He brought his hands together and the noise echoed across the now silent room, hitting the walls. CLAP. The sound jarred the teacher, snapping his reverie like a pencil in its grip.
Now, Bokonon tells us in The Books of Bokonon, "Do not disturb the foolish man, he has found his foma and lives by it foolishly. This man is very wise." What can one do for the wise and foolish man who lives foolishly and disturbs himself?





Schoolish ramblings. Don't mind me.