Occasionally
readers write in, complaining that my essays are abstruse. This is certainly not my intention, the difficulty lying rather in the matter at hand. And this, being deep, must not
in any way be “dumbed
down”.
Nevertheless:
Propaedeutics, Prolegomena to any future Pataphysics, Einführungen of every
sort, are more than welcome.
Accordingly, I conceived the plan of simply linking to the
classic ditty “Where is Thumbkin?” on YouTube.
We learned said song in kindergarten (there in Ridgewood,
New Jersey, back in 1955), and it pretty much determined the later course of my
life and thought.
And so I
searched on this, and it brought up several videos, but -- none of these served
the purpose!
In the worst, most
horrible instantiations, only
some of
the five fingers were treated, thus maiming the children for life and no doubt
engendering that modern scourge,
Amputee Identity Disorder.
Others treated all five, but --
under
different names from those we
had so painstakingly learned, back under nice Mister Eisenhower -- us trusting, sitting on
the floor, as Mrs. M. doggedly played the piano
and the sun shone yellowly beyond the windowpane (much as it
had shone upon King Alfred, though we children did not know that at the time).
For instance -- instead of “pinky”, one
YouTube version called the little-finger “baby” --
Tilt !!!
I failed to find a single video fit to link to.
Hence, no quick ‘n’ easy intro to Doc J’s Philosophy after all. Our mood-ring today reads: Towering Rage.
Now, this is a reasonably big deal. You are familiar with the concept “All
I Really Need to Know I Learned in Kindergarten”. Well, about all I learned in kindergarten, apart from “Oh
Where Oh Where Has My Little Dog Gone” (a tuneful ode, but one which, in later
life, I have seldom or rather never
been called upon to perform at dinner-parties) was the names of the fingers.
And even this precious ladleful of knowledge seems to have been spilt by history and lost to the world.
We have strayed into sensitive territory here.
For, proud as I was of the detailed
lore that had been vouchsafed to us as five-year-olds, it was a trauma as
severe as any that affected
Little Hans when I eventually came to learn that the generality of
mankind
does not, in fact, refer
to the index finger as “pointer”,
nor the medius or
digitus
impudicus as “tall man”.
Indeed, the only denomination that survived into adulthood was “pinky”
-- and as noted above, even that has been discarded in the bastardized
latterday lyrics of the song.
And so, as a public service,
we here present the OFFICIAL LYRICS of “Where is Thumbkin”,
as recorded in Mrs. Macguire’s kindergarten class,
wa-ay back ….. in 1955
[As you start, both hands behind
your back]
Where is Thumbkin? [bring out right hand, with closed
fist]
Where is Thumbkin? [bring out left hand, with closed fist]
-- From the standpoint of philosophy, we cannot forbear to
observe: What an excellent
question that is! Where, after
all, is Thumbkin? At this point, does he lie latent, perdu within the fist, like the statue-to-be within the as-yet-unchiseled block of marble -- subsisting rather than existing (to adopt the terminology of our later teacher Mister Meinong)?
Ahem; to
resume.
Here I am! [right thumb pops up]
Here I am! [left thumb pops up]
This time, the literary critic in me simply must interrupt.
Such freshness of expression, such right-on-target
minimalism,
was never seen by the
world until “Sumer is icumen in”;
and never equalled since, until
this poem.
Mmmyess; we
return to the topic.
-- “How are you today, sir!” [right thumb repeatedly bows]
-- “Very well I thank you.” [left
thumb repeatedly bows]
Again, the homme de
lettres cannot restrain
himself. How splendid! How purely Elizabethan! On tire sa révérence, for all the
world like Click and Clack or the Two Gentlemen of
Verona.
Truly, for our youth, this simple scene is an exemplar of
manners.
Run a- way. [right hand whisks back out of sight]
Run a- way. [left hand whisks back out of sight]
Truly, at this point, the critic is left speechless: Eulogy, beggared, hobbles kneeling, and
praises mute.
This superficially comedic, and underlyingly tragic passage, unites the childish love of “hiding”, with the memento mori, and the mystery of Death.
Directions to the teacher:
Repeat as above, but now with the names pointer;
tall-man; lame-man; pinky, and with substitution of the appropriate finger.
Philological observation:
One can well understand how, in later and degraded versions,
lame-man should have been replaced by
the more readily understandable (though not necessarily so to a preschooler)
“ring-man”. But lame-man,
in the spirit of the Bard, penetrates to the essence of our incarnated being,
whereas ring-man is a purely contingent
Eurocentric datapoint.
