Hide and Seek

            Good evening to you, reader. I hope you’re enjoying this little game of smoke and mirrors, this jaunty little bit of hide and seek. Tell me this reader, is there anything in this life that isn’t some more or less arcane variation of that old child’s game? We do it every day, we’re always hiding ourselves away because we’re looking to be found, we’re always putting on masks so we can have a jolly laugh at the incongruity of it all. We sometimes get so far lost out there, we sometimes hide ourselves so skillfully that we even hide from ourselves the very fact that we’re hiding. And that’s also part of the fun of the game—when we’re children, after all, we’re pretty well satisfied with a straightforward chase, but as we get older we find that complicating the game somehow enhances the enjoyment of it all. The point of any game is that it’s fun.

            But you know, reader, now that I think about it I’m beginning to see a few faint gestures at complexity in the “simple” game of hide and seek—just look at the boys and girls out there, standing under the tree they’ve all agreed is Base. There’s a bit of a scuffle here at the beginning, before the game even starts. Why, you ask? Well, naturally, because they just can’t decide who’s going to be “it” (which, incidentally, becomes a marvelously complicated game in its own right later in life, a very lucrative game in which the person who becomes “it” is immediately punished by being forced to move to Washington DC and live on Pennsylvania Avenue). After some pretty furious backbiting and name-calling in which the word “butthead” figures prominently, little Alex is eventually chosen. Of course, he had to promise to crack down on spitballs and issue a “No new homework” pledge to manage it, but at least now the game can proceed in earnest.

            He covers his eyes, leans against the tree, and begins to count as the boys and girls scatter. “One.” Take a moment, reader, and observe the ornate ritual of this child’s game: the symbolic gesture of covering the eyes with the hands, the count, the hierophantic declaration: “Ready or not, here I come!” “Two.” As adults, we employ this very same sort of count before we launch rockets roaring into the heavens… and for much the same reason. “Three.” We don’t do it because we actually want to know in advance the precise moment that the chase will begin, that the new year will begin, that the pillar of fire will light and begin its ascent—not at all! “Four.” We simply do it to increase the anticipation of the thing, to warm the blood a bit, to set our hair all prickly and the heart pumping just a little bit faster. “Five.” A thing is a thing, an event is an event, a chase is a chase, but the real fun of the thing is always the way we dramatize it, the way we strive to make it fresh and ever new. “Six.”

The children know this intuitively, because they haven’t forgotten it yet. “Seven.” They whisper amongst themselves, one of them shushes the others loudly, and a shouting match breaks out between two of them as the rest run off their separate ways. “Eight.” The offending parties grin mischievously, with an innocent guilt. “Nine.” This one hides under a car, another in the bushes, yet another in the shadow of the jungle gym. “Ten.” As always, there’s at least one quivering creature there who can’t decide where to hide, rushing about and searching all directions anxiously—perhaps this one doesn’t have too clear an idea of the game’s rules. “Eleven.” Waved along silently by a helping hand, the wide-eyed kid finds a hiding place just in time. “Twelve.”

This is the game we were born into, reader, the game we’ve spent countless eternities practicing, developing, perfecting. “Thirteen.” This is the game of writing, of hiding within and around words and phrases, the game of drawing in even while we’re drawing out. “Fourteen.” This is the game of reading, of hiding in front of a black and white screen, of seeking signs and meanings in endless rows of dark figures, listening all the while, listening to the count. “Fifteen.” Do you remember the game, reader, do you remember how much fun it can be? “Sixteen.” Would you like to play the game again? “Seventeen.” I do so hope you’d like to play. “Eighteen.” All we’ve got to decide is who’s going to be “it.” “Nineteen.” Come and play, reader… as long as you promise not to play too rough. “Twenty… Ready or not, here I come!”