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Procrustean musing 10/9/2009 8:10:56 AM
An ancient giant, lures the travelers on the road to Athens: he gets them to sleep in a copper bed, and if they are too long, he chops their heads and feet while if they are too short, he painfully stretches their bones .
I do not know if I can claim I know what I want from life. I missed targets through false and naïve enthusiasm. When left alone, I wanted to be with others. Being with others and failing to integrate myself into the atmosphere, I preferred to be alone. There is no happiness to remember without sadness. The past lives, is active, takes part in today, and influences the present.
I never had enough imagination to make up a world without me in it. Even if I took vanity to paranoiac limits and believed that the world revolves around me and is eager to hear what I have to say, I seemed to lack the intelligence and most importantly the impertinence or the power to make an impact.
About all my certainties, as I see them now, are riddled by doubt, like moth eaten clothes.
What if, one of the discoveries of man, next to fire and wheel was the Procrustean bed?
This piece of furniture, somewhat rigid, accompanied man ever since the emergence of organized humanity with the hope of making man fit in a given echelon.
Why have we not declared Procustes a precursor of aesthetics for example? Why is he considered a sadistic captor, an obsessive stalker, between Megara and Athens, stretching those too short and hacking to size those too big?
The most radical advocates of the Greek canon know how sculptors had to foster a sense of size needed to measure the neck, legs, chest, and forehead of their sculptures. Procustes, while in essence practicing the same skill, never stood a chance for empathy in antiquity and beyond. Blasphemed and feared at the crossroads of ancient and modern roads.
Let us assume that a modern Procustes exists. He is a fine observer of human character, possessing a keen sense of proportion, and came into himself while looking one night at a simple furniture accessory, the bed.
As a student in a damp building on the outskirts of the city, young Procustes faces the most denigration, ridicule, and humiliations of all kinds. But unlike those around him, he is not ashamed of his flaws and is not trying to hide them. Instead, he swears that someday, everyone will remember him.
Procustes burns the candle at both ends in his quest for one of the golden dreams of mankind, the ability to adapt within a given form. A magic bed that will adjust itself to anything could be the answer. And why not? Why monstrously make the man fit the mold and not the other way around?
Imagine this:
His invention revolutionizes the world of aesthetics. Artists compete to find the symbols for this simple cot; even the architects seek it although they never will admit.
With a little exercise of imagination, anyone could embrace the fact that, the bed is the one adjusting to the occupants and not vice versa.
Overwhelmed by the huge demand for his bed, Procustes launches an accessory line carrying his name. Essential for maximum comfort: mattresses, blankets, sheets, pillows, all bearing the Procrustean emblem. And, as a full recognition of his culminant kitschy success, a factory is immediately put in motion, so that the market becomes quickly saturated with Procrustean gaudy imitations.
Hats become the latest craze, bigger and bigger hats.
I suddenly am reminded of an obscure Darwinist and his theory that intelligence is not measured in cubic inches.
My fantasy is obviously obsolete.
