Gregory: Agathokakological nincompoop monk.

Dr. Ist: Is this how we’re greeting each other now? Come in. Agathaka . . .

Gregory: Agatho-kako-logical.

Dr. Ist: Agathokakological nincompoop monk to you too.

Gregory: You got it. Can I hang my wet jacket on the coat rack?

Dr. Ist: Be my guest. Put this towel under it.

Gregory: On the floor?

Dr. Ist: Yes. That word sounds familiar, what does it mean?

Gregory: Can I use your restroom?

Dr. Ist: Sure. I’ll look up the meaning in the meantime.

Gregory: I’ll be right back.

 

Dr. Ist: Hey.

Gregory: Hi. You’re almost out of paper towels.

Dr. Ist: Oh, thanks for letting me know. Would you like anything? Tea, perhaps? I have this flavorsome cinnamon and ginger tea—one of my colleagues brought it from overseas.

Gregory: No, I’m good. Thanks.

Dr. Ist: How does it feel to be an agathokakological nincompoop monk?

Gregory: I have always felt like one, except for the last missing piece, which formed relatively recently.

Dr. Ist: Mhm. Are there any rules or regulations one must follow to become an agathokakological nincompoop monk?

Gregory: Yes. One must always be willing to negotiate with the second law of thermodynamics. One mustn’t regard a fertile negotiation as an achievement. All hairstyles are welcome.

Dr. Ist: Why should one begin to negotiate? How does one know when to begin?

Gregory: No one knows until the negotiating starts.

Dr. Ist: Mhm. Well, Gregory, I know at least one organization that attempted to force its will on the second law of thermodynamics sometime around the middle of the last century.

Gregory: Oh, I didn’t . . . I was being humorous, or so I thought. I didn’t expect you to take it there. But since you went there, I know at least two organizations from the last century that bypassed negotiations and attempted to subjugate the force. I think they were crossing swords at the time. But what is your point?

Dr. Ist: My point is that not all negotiations end well. Sometimes they can lead you into the eye of the storm.

Gregory: I’m not sure I follow.

Dr. Ist: The interim mayhem as a result of, as you noted, the attempted subjugation of the force was not the final destination of those organizations, was it?

Gregory: Oh, I see. No. The final destination is ideally a well-polished, minutely controlled, and parasite-free environment.

Dr. Ist: Exactly.

Gregory: Hm. Sometimes all it takes to overcome the urge for perfection is an integration of recurring imperfection.

Dr. Ist: And are you succeeding in that?

Gregory: I’m working on it.

Dr. Ist: Keep me informed.

Gregory: Without hesitation. Do you think it is possible for a system, regardless of size, to reach a relative equilibrium as the outcome of a negotiation?

Dr. Ist: I’m afraid my futile attempts to reach it after long years of negotiations, so artfully carved on the crevices of my old face, attest to my inability to answer that question.

Gregory: What do you mean?

Dr. Ist: My father was battling with what he thought was the second law of thermodynamics during the last world war. He met my mom in the trenches of the captured. She was a young biology student turned nurse who had no choice but to root for their system’s craving for purification since it meant fewer wounded and dead soldiers on their side of the battlefield.

Gregory: I’m sorry to hear that.

Dr. Ist: She tried, and tried, and tried, but failed to forgive herself for that . . . even on her deathbed.

Gregory: Dr. Ist, I’m so sorry to have brought it up.

Dr. Ist: I brought it up myself. So how’s it going, Gregory?

Gregory: Dr. Ist, I’d like to say . . . I’d like . . . I’d like you to know that I appreciate each moment spent with you, on and off the formal part of our sessions.

Dr. Ist: I’m glad to hear that.

Gregory: I met someone on my way to the bus station today. I wrote down what happened. May I?

Dr. Ist: Yes.

Gregory: I was walking in the rain behind a middle-aged man without an umbrella who was tirelessly looking back at me and my umbrella every fifth step. The rain was merciless toward this man. He was trying to figure out my intentions while struggling to leave me far behind.

Dr. Ist: Were you running after him?

Gregory: No, but we were both walking fast. I wanted to get to the bus station as quickly as possible because of my now broken umbrella.

Dr. Ist: Hm, the wind is peculiarly vicious today.

Gregory: He turned toward me and stared at me—motionless. There was no one else around on that narrow street. I became aware of his stare as I was about to pass him by. He abruptly grabbed my jacket from the chest with both hands as I was about to leave him behind. I was startled.

Dr. Ist: Gregory, are you okay?

Gregory: My IBS symptoms were acting up, but otherwise, I was calm.

Dr. Ist: Mhm.

Gregory: He shouted at me: “Stop following me! Stop following me!” I told him I was not following him—I was hastily heading toward the bus station. He didn’t believe me. His right hand let go of my jacket and formed a loaded fist. As he was about to alter my sleep cycle, I hugged him. I hugged him tightly. With his hands unweighted below his waist, he began to weep.

Dr. Ist: Did you write this down on your way here?

Gregory: Yes, why?

Dr. Ist: Were you worried you might forget some details when you got here?

Gregory: That too.

After a few moments of my embrace, he looked at me and said he was a good person—a misunderstood person. And that he was attempting to make things right all the while resisting the urge to empty the bottle. He told me his family had abandoned him. There was no one left to witness his attempts. The glass of the empty bottle he left behind distorted their perception of him.

I was holding his shoulders tight and attempting to find him beyond his drowning-in-blood-and-tears eyes. I was also saying some words. He was nodding back and looking for hope in humanity in these words—struggling to keep his shoulders straight.

I hugged him again, and he hugged me back this time. We parted ways thereafter. He looked back at me from across the street and shouted that he’d keep trying.

Dr. Ist: How are you feeling now?

Gregory: I don’t know. I need time to process what happened.

Dr. Ist: Gregory . . . I don’t mind spending each moment on and off our sessions with you either.

Gregory: Are you trying to make me laugh or cry?

Dr. Ist: Maybe both. Would you like us to deconstruct what happened?

Gregory: No, I just wanted to tell . . . I guess about another failing negotiator. That’s all.

Dr. Ist: Okay. What else is on your mind?

Gregory: The rain. I’m afraid my umbrella could no longer hold this inundation back.

Dr. Ist: I’ll give you my umbrella. I have a spare one here somewhere.

Gregory: I doubt anything but Noah’s Ark would help me get home safely, but thank you.

Dr. Ist: Let’s discuss your worry about forgetting details of your day-to-day life, shall we?

Gregory: I remember them fine . . . I guess. But retelling them aloud seems unnatural.

Dr. Ist: Why is that?

Gregory: Well, for one, for the past five years, I have gradually become less social due to my, for the most part, secluded existence. But you know this already.

Dr. Ist: How about Observatorium interviews?

Gregory: That’s different. This may sound paradoxical, and I don’t mean I suddenly obtain Pericles’s oratory mastery, but there’s a switch in my brain that turns on when I’m communicating in Observatorium’s realm. Or whenever I’m asking questions—whenever I’m in control of the terrain. I don’t know how to explain it. I still make mistakes, but—

Dr. Ist: Regardless of the guest?

Gregory: Regardless. My brain doesn’t retain or learn information in a standard manner. It disposes of words, facts, phrases, or historical events as soon as I put them to use in writing.

Dr. Ist: Mhm.

Gregory: No, wait, I said it wrong. It compiles . . . It’s difficult to explain how . . . Okay, it’s more like each piece of learned knowledge on any subject turns into a piece of a jigsaw puzzle. Then, a completed jigsaw puzzle turns into a piece and finds its place in the nearest jigsaw puzzle, and so forth, until the pattern reaches the root jigsaw puzzle. I hope this makes sense. I don’t know how else to explain it.

Dr. Ist: Are you vaguely aware of what each root jigsaw puzzle represents?

Gregory: Not vaguely. Very much distinctly.

Dr. Ist: Mhm. Now, how does this relate to my looking at you?

Gregory: All I know is in the layers of the jigsaw puzzles. And I obviously also take notes.

Dr. Ist: When did you begin taking notes?

Gregory: I think about eight years ago.

Dr. Ist: Mhm.

Gregory: Retrieving information from layers of data has become increasingly difficult in social settings. If I don’t check certain boxes, you make notes about me in your notebook, and others make notes in their psyche.

Dr. Ist: Gregory, my notes are nonjudgmental, and they are an integral part of my professional services.

Gregory: Oh, of course. My reactions have nothing to do with the reasoning behind it. But if it can happen here, where I feel safe, imagine how obtrusive this inability to express my thoughts becomes in public.

Dr. Ist: Let’s work on it in the next few sessions then.

Gregory: Okay. I know exactly the mistakes I make when I speak. I play them over and over in my head—in the background. Ironically, I’m observant of others’ mistakes too.

Dr. Ist: I think the social setting stumbles your speech, not necessarily the latency in retrieving information. The lack of exposure to social situations untrains your brain from promptly outputting information.

Gregory: The bottom line is that a slow speaker can make the person on the other end either annoyed or late to wherever they were supposed to attend.

Dr. Ist: Hm.

Gregory: Hm.

Dr. Ist: Gregory, are you stupid?

Gregory: I’m sorr . . . Yes, I am. Of course!

Dr. Ist: Then why are you worried about making mistakes when speaking? Isn’t it the natural state of an agathokakological nincompoop monk?

Gregory: Indubitably! You’re right. I only wish to make eye contact while saying something stupid to solidify my stance.

Dr. Ist: We’ll work on that too. Look, throw yourself out there, engage with people, and make mistakes. Some may take notes and be late to their destinations. Don’t worry about them. Do not be ashamed of your mistakes. Your verbal communication will improve with more exposure.

Gregory: Mhm.

Dr. Ist: What happens when you speak to yourself aloud? Are you making the same number of mistakes? Do words become more accessible to you?

Gregory: I wish I could record my eloquent wording when I’m all by myself. However, my outstanding private verbal skills become intermittent even when recording voice notes on my phone. As if someone’s listening.

Dr. Ist: Yes, it makes sense. Well—

Gregory: Will you please look for that spare umbrella of yours?

Dr. Ist: Oh, yes, yes. Let me look in the wardrobe.