By Morris R. Pike
Arnie, my alter ego and I were sitting in the shade under my patio awning enjoying the warmth of the sun. It was one of those lazy, half-doze intervals when one’s mind is neither here nor there.
Suddenly, almost inaudibly, Arnie mumbled, “Everyone has a coach these days.”
This was from incongruent territory even for Arnie, who continually vexed me with his bizarre thoughts and comments. Nevertheless, his gross generalization caught me by surprise. Searching for meaning, my brain did some wobbly twists. After a moment of recovery, I asked, “What do you mean everyone has a coach these days? What kind of coach? I don’t have a coach.”
Arnie grinned. “Yes, you do!” he insisted in an offhand way.
“Oh yeah?” I returned trying to maintain mental balance. “Looking around with mock astonishment, I said, “I don’t seen anyone. Where are they?”
“It’s obvious,” he said laughing, “I’m your coach.”
“You?” I scoffed and with a little annoyance demanded, “And how dad blame-it are you coaching me?”
“There! You see! You said ‘Dad blame-it’. Where’d that come from?”
“Dad blame it? From the reservoir of saying stuff I’ve heard all my life . . . that’s where . . . but not from you!” And then I added with a chuckle, “Confound it.”
“Yeah, but who do you think helps you sort through everything you’ve heard and review all the experiences you’ve had?”
“They’re what I’ve heard . . .they’re . . . my experiences. I sort through them.”
“Now, that’s a laugh. You remember dad blame it and confound it, but you don’t remember what you used to be like.”
“And you do?”
“Yeah, I do. I remember when you were in school, when you were handed crayons and asked to draw something. You went bonkers if your slipped and went outside the lines. And it drove you nuts that you couldn’t spell . . . couldn’t remember whether it was ‘recieved’ or ‘received’ or ‘there’ or ‘their’.”
“Yeah, I do remember and I still struggle with spelling . . . and I’m still the slowest reader alive.”
“You don’t mind going outside lines anymore, do you? And you’ve speeded up your ability to read by trying harder . . . ”
“Yes, and for the most part I’m no longer ashamed that I can’t read laser-quick. I just stay in the moment longer than most people . . . and going outside the lines is kind ‘a like letting in new light . . . and spelling . . . machines take care of that anymore.”
“Good . . . so now your mind is free to dive into chaotic flux and see everything with fresh eyes.”
“Yeah, you are right . . . I can do those things now.”
“So now, who do you think taught you to approach life with abandonment of spirit . . . who coached you?”
“Voices in my head and experiences in my life.”
“Well, it’s about time you came to realize that the loudest of those voices was me, your alter ego shouting, Let Go! I’ve been your coach . . . I am your coach . . . I’m your Alter Ego Coach!”
“Well, I’ll be a son-of-a-gun!”
“That’s a cliché . . . you can do better than that!”
“Well, quantum level quivering wave lengths! You have helped me to taste a nanosecond of insight.”
“That’s good . . . worthy of Einstein and Niels Bohr.”
“Ah,” I mouthed. “And don’t forget Rovelli and a thousand others who plumbed the depths of random quantum flux to generate new insights into physics and the cosmic world.”
“See . . .you can do it . . .you do ring the bells of freedom for your mind and spirit.”
“You know something, you have coached me . . . helped me to break free. By Schrodinger’s Cat, you are my alter ego coach!”
“I think I will,” Arnie said emphatically.
“You’ll what?”
“Get a supply of business cards. ‘Coach.’ It will say Arnie, Alter Ego Coach. Let me help you find your creative voice and freedom.”
Photo by Morris Pike
