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The other day I was typing away at my desk, listening to my friend draped herself listlessly across my bed spouting off about her latest date dilemma. Halfway through the conversation (which consisted of a substantial number of ‘hmmm’s’ and ‘ahhh’s’ on my part) she sat up and proclaimed, ‘what are you working at anyway Amy?!” “Oh it’s just this sonnet essay I’ve to hand into Professor Todd by tomorrow.” “Ah that one.” She resumed her draped position. “I’m wouldn’t get too caught up in that one to be honest Amy, did you know that’s the same professor who was awarded one of the highest firsts ever from Oxford, with a commendation at that?” I stopped typing. It did seem a bit fruitless when she put it like that. What could I tell him about one of Milton’s sonnet that he hadn’t heard before, nay even come up with in the first place?! Well talk about getting a mental block after that! After she had left I sat and thought about our conversation, and other thoughts began to occur to me. How much can we tell anyone about anything? I recalled my half-hearted response to my friends ‘dire’ dilemma earlier; we can tell people everything about us, but ultimately, how much do they take in? How often have we had conversations others who don’t really listen to us, they are simply waiting for their turn to talk? Then I thought how depressing it must be for God, and in turn, how futile it seems for us to pray to him. Never mind Professor Todd, God really has heard it all before. Of what possible interest could we be to him, in particular, of what interest is this fresher, lying across her bed pontificating? Quite a lot of my current work in English has touched upon the notion of predestination versus freewill, and similar perplexing concepts. If God knows what we are going to do before we do it, we must surely be the most uninteresting, unoriginal species around. He’d have more fun watching a fish tank, wouldn’t he? At dinner I sat with Tess and shared my growing concerns about this sonnet essay I had to get finished for the next day, and how I couldn’t possibly say anything, as anything would sound so drab and rehashed to the professor. Offering her worldly wisdom, she replied, “So write at the end of your conclusion, ‘I had chicken for supper yesterday.’ Hah, betcha he won’t have known that!” For once I had to admit it was a good point. It didn’t really solve the other slight dilemma I was having about how utterly boring I must be to God. However, as I was concluding my essay, and typing my name at the top, I suddenly realised that maybe it wasn’t all so predictable and tedious. Professor Todd certainly wouldn’t have heard before what ‘Amy Mulvenna’ had to say in her own words. Nor can God have heard it all before, because, to put it tritely, there certainly hasn’t been another you, or I, before to say it. |
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