1. A famous writer talks
“Sometimes, when you're at your wit's end, you just write. Is that right? Is that what you're telling me?” I asked.
“Yes, ma'am,” Lillow, our harried suspect answered with a sullen scowl. “I'm a writer. You know, I gotta write.”
“But even when you're witless?”
She hung her head, “Yes, even then.” With a slight shrug she added, “Maybe especially then.”
“What are you saying? I mean if you've no wits what could you possibly have to say?”
“Well, hopefully the writing will tell you.”
“Huh?”
“Okay, aside from the obvious fact that people without wit have been making pronouncements since time immemorial what I'm saying is that it's in the writing that the story appears. Put down the words and a story will come.”
“Sort of a divination, would you say?” Sgt. Goat asked.
“Perhaps, or maybe you could call it a writing meditation of sorts or even a self-therapy.”
“The answer's within,” Sgt. Goat offers.
“Yes, that's right.”
“So you just start writing, nothing to say, and somehow a story develops?” I ask.
“Hmmm, uh-huh, more or less.”
“Thank you, ma’am, you've been most helpful,” I say, standing up. Sgt. Goat nods as we leave the writer's cubby and head for our squad car.
My name is Chief Detective Inspector General Rosy Gee and my partner is Detective Sergeant Brakley Goat. We operate out of the Elvenstead Metropolitan Police, Investigation Diversion. We are currently investigating the loss of ideas aka writer's block. Where do ideas go before they've even been thought of? It was a shocking situation that has come up again and again and we were tasked with finding the answer. We'd just left the closet-like cubby of the famous writer Lillow Mi who says that ideas sometimes hide in words and phrases and must be coaxed out.
“Let's go see Donald Puffup, the famous artist,” I tell Sgt. Goat.
2. A famous artist brags
We arrive at the Donald Puffup's studio, where the famous artist is currently working on a painting of a window. His shop's window to be exact and it appeared to be a remarkable resemblance.
We watched him work for a few moments before I spoke up, “Excuse me sir, if we could have just a moment of your time, we're conducting a police investigation.” He stopped painting and turned around with a surprised look on his face. I show him my badge and Sgt. Goat shows his.
Wearing a look of genuine innocence he asked, “How may I help you?”
“We're investigating the loss of ideas, especially those ideas that are lost before anyone'd even had a chance to think of them,” I told him. Sgt. Goat got out his notepad. “We're wondering if you might know anything about these ideas?”
He looked surprised, then a little bit put off, “Say, are you saying I made off with someone else's ideas?”
“No, no, nothing like that,” I quickly reassure him. “We were just asking, wondering really, if you knew, whenever you don't have any ideas that is, if you knew, well, where they went?”
“Whatya mean whenever I don't have any ideas? What makes you think I ever run out of ideas?”
Sgt. Goat and I both looked at his painting of his own window. He saw where we were looking and said, “Oh, that. Yes. Well that may seem like a lack of inspiration at first glance, but it is not. It is in fact a, well, it's a statement.”
“A statement?” I asked.
“Yes, that's exactly what it is,” he replied, beaming at his painting. “An existential statement, rather like a picture of a can or something. It just is, and there's a profoundness in that, a deeper meaning that would otherwise be lost.” He whispered, “All too often is lost.” He was looking at me sadly. I wasn't sure I understood.
“You could say it's a still life displaying a sense of life's timeless frailty, perhaps?” Sgt. Goat suggested.
“Why, yes. Yes, you could say it that way.” Puffup puffed up. “In fact, that's just what I meant.” He looked at me with a smirk, “You see Inspector, I always have ideas, so I'm afraid I can't help you find your lost ones.” He returned to his painting and Sgt. Goat and I to our squad car.
“It appears that some people never let ideas escape, Ma'am,” Sgt. Goat stated.
“Yes, it would seem so,” I concurred, reluctantly. I wondered if it were true though. “Let's visit the Bop Bop duBop and Bard Songjoy next,” I told Sgt. Goat. “Let's find out if famous musicians are ever at a loss for ideas.”
3. A famous maestro sings
When we arrived at the Bop Bop duBop, home to the amazing Ballerina Bulls, we went right in looking for Bard Songjoy, the musical director who writes new songs and arrangements every day, just about. The Bop Bop, considered a wreck by most, nonetheless puts on several performances every week and Mr. Songjoy oversees them all. We were lucky and found the maestro during a break from his strenuous schedule of writing hit after hit, lying on the ground in the Bop Bop's driveway. We were, in fact, lucky not to've hit him as he seemed unwilling to move. Sgt. Goat helped him up anyway and we three proceeded to his office near the rubble of a collapsed wing of the Bop Bop duBop.
After he fell into a chair, he looked at me with a weary expression, and asked, “Yeah, what'ya want?”
“Thank you for taking the time to see us Mr. Songjoy,” I began, “We're conducting an investigation into the loss or even absence of ideas, new ideas, in the world.” Now he was giving me a suspicious look. “We thought that since you deal in new ideas every day, well, we thought perhaps you'd know where the others have got to, so to speak.”
Now he looked at Sgt. Goat with such intensity that Sgt. Goat began to squirm. Then he looked back at me with, well, with a scowl, also intense. “You think I got ideas?” I could only nod yes weakly. He continued to look at me then he got up and poured a stiff drink from his well-stocked side bar and turned to me, “Want one?”
“No, I'm on duty,” I answered as Sgt. Goat shook his head no.
He downed his drink in one gulp then poured another before turning back to me. “Ideas?” Now he was smiling sadly. “I haven't had an idea in twenty, uh . . .”
“Years, honey,” a voice spoke from the shadows, someone I hadn't noticed before. “It's been twenty years easy since you had an idea.” Then the person stepped into view. It was a Ballerina Bull. “Old Melvin here hasn't had an idea in twenty years, at least,” the Bull finished.
“I was sorta hoping that you'd run me over in the driveway,” Bard Songjoy muttered.
“Melvin?” Sgt. Goat asked.
“Yeah, that's me,” Bard Songjoy answered. “Bard Melvin Songjoy.”
“No ideas at all?” I was shocked. “I mean, how do you put on all these shows each week?”
“We just go do them,” the Bull answered. “Every show just sort of works itself out. We don't think about it.”
“No one notices,” Bard Songjoy said.
“I'm not so sure about that,” the Bull stated defiantly. “I think Ego is catching on.”
There was a long moment of silence. I figured I was done here since there were no ideas left to lose. Hearing Ego's name I realized I wanted to ask Ego, Sassy Fat and that Faerie manager of theirs a few questions so I thanked Bard Songjoy and the Ballerina Bull and Sgt. Goat and I left.
In the hallway Sgt. Goat turned to me and said, “It's almost like having a complete lack of ideas is an idea of its own, Ma'am.”
“Hmmm, so it would seem Sergeant.”
As we exited, I looked back at the Bop Bop duBop with affection. Somehow, they were making it work and I smiled.
In the squad car Sgt. Goat asked, “Where to, Ma'am?”
“I think we need to go to the Radio Galaxy, Sergeant.”
4. A famous talker explains
We arrived at the Radio Galaxy soon after and walked boldly into their luxurious lobby. Nothing is really as it seems here so we walked slowly, and boldly. There was a mannequin standing by a table, which seemed to be wearing an old time porter's uniform. As we approached it turned its plastic head and smiled. “Always good to see police in the foyer,” it said. I was shocked, I mean how did it know we were police?
“How did you know we were police?” Sgt. Goat asked.
“I keep a big copper penny by the door and whenever another copper walks in it signals like this.” A coppery light flashed across its face and I looked over by the door where a big penny was leaning against the wall reflecting light. “One copper knows another, eh mate?”
I never thought of myself as a copper. I looked at Sgt. Goat who was staring suspiciously at the mannequin. It seemed frozen, staring ahead with blank eyes and a plastic smile.
“So, uh, where do we find Ego and Sassy Fat?” I asked.
“You got an appointment?”
“Police business.”
“Oh dear!” a flighty voice chirped from the corner. A faerie emerged walking languidly toward us. “Whatever has he done this time?”
“Are you Ego's manager?” I ask.
“Oh, good heavens no. I'm Figgura Ta, his lawyer. How may I help you?”
“We just wanted to ask a few questions,” I answered. “No one's under suspicion or anything, we're just investigating where ideas go.”
“Where ideas go?”
“Yeah, being creative types you all must notice that sometimes there's less or even no ideas. Where do they go?”
He gave me a curious look. “I don't even know where they come from,” he said.
Now I was looking at him curiously. It was like an epiphany! Where do they come from? It could be, probably is, I thought excitedly, the same place they go to.
“Thank you, Mr. Ta, you've been most helpful. We won't need to talk with Ego after all.” I was secretly pleased because Ego is difficult to deal with.
“I am the source of all ideas,” the familiar voice of Ego proclaimed, coming out from somewhere. I was confused because there hadn't seemed to be any hiding places in the room, just one set of entrance doors, the table with the frozen mannequin, and not much else. A few potted plants here and there. I turned and there was Ego, larger than life. “I am the fountain from whence ideas flow and I am the well when ere they go.”
“Good day Mr. Ego sir. Thank you that is quite useful, really I . . .”
“Oh no! My glory is blinding,” Ego interrupted. “I have left you confused and floundering, like staring into the sun, alas, how can I but dampen my brilliance?”
“No, uh, no really I'm just fine,” I said. “And we got all we needed, and really, I want to thank you Mr. Ego, sir and I hope you have a nice day. Uh Sergeant, let's be on our way.” I turned and walked out with Sgt. Goat right behind. We were silent until we were in the squad car.
“Well Ma'am,” Sgt. Goat began, “is Ego really the beginning and ending of all ideas?”
“I think for Ego perhaps,” I answered, “but probably not so much for anyone else.” I was getting hungry and I looked at my watch. “It's been a long day Sergeant, let's go back to the office and figure out what we've got.”
5. Another case is solved
Back in our office we settled in. “The case so far,” I began, thinking out loud with my feet on my desk and Sgt. Goat sipping coffee nearby, “is first that ideas can hide in words or perhaps anything and can be discerned by their application.”
“Lillow did say too that being witless, at first anyway, that being witless at the start can be beneficial,” Sgt. Goat added.
“Yes, just so,” I agreed. “Next we have the case of no ideas being the primary idea that gives birth to the rest.”
“The utter lack of ideas becomes the founding idea?” Sgt. Goat asked.
“Yes, that's right. Somehow the idea lack creates a space that is quickly filled by new ideas that everyone can then respond to. Look at how well the Bop Bop duBop is doing despite being absolutely rudderless.”
“I love that place,” Sgt. Goat commented, smiling.
“I do too, Sergeant.” I paused, thinking. “Ego may well be the complete idea source for Ego, which allows him to bloom in his own way but at the same time cuts him off from the ideas of others.”
“But he still gets ideas,” Sgt. Goat remarked.
“So it would seem,” I said. I'd heard that Ego's program of, as he puts it, unpopular views in flowery phrases, and his Dr. Snarky persona, were not that popular. His audience was decreasing, hopefully because his incendiary views were spoiling flowery language but more likely because he just didn't interest people like he used to. He'd lost his shock value. Whatever, I was glad.
I continued, “But catching only his ideas and no one else's may also be what's preventing him from receiving feedback about his abhorrent behavior, so he never changes, never gets better.”
“He probably wouldn't listen anyway,” Sgt. Goat observed.
“Not anymore,” I nodded agreement. “And Donald Puffup caught every idea he could then made them work, good or bad.”
“It's difficult to get a sense of this whole thing Ma'am,” Sgt. Goat stated.
“Maybe not,” I said. “Perhaps what we've learned is that ideas come no matter what and what is different is each person's ability to catch them.”
“Not sure I follow,” he said.
“Well Lillow caught ideas by writing words, even vacuous words, Bard Songjoy caught ideas by having none himself, Donald Puffup caught every idea he could and made them work and Ego caught Ego's ideas, but the thing they all had was a way to catch ideas.”
“So there's no shortage of ideas,” Sgt. Goat said with a smile, “just different ways of catching them.”
“That's right. Some better than others. The only difference being each person's ability.”
“And that would involve desire, training and practice,” he finished.
“That's right,” I agreed. “Catch them before they can fly off into space.”
“But then, where do they come from?” Sgt. Goat asked. “Where do ideas originate?”
“Always from within Sergeant. From the center of ourselves that is connected to the world, that's where they come from. You just gotta catch 'em.” Sgt. Goat nodded agreement with a thoughtful look. I smiled at him, “Let's write our report and go home, Sergeant. Another case is solved.”