Boca

"Nature abhors a vacuum", theorists of both philosophy and         politics assure us.         What's more, the phenomena is not confined to mere         physical science given the nature of human opportunism.         Glance a map of central Europe for further insights. One         side always replaced the other when a "common," enemy         expired.         Boca might well have studied such eventualities.         Boca was a writer. More accurately, a "touch-dancer" with         the written phrase, deftly painting the catchy one-liner with         effortless ease and grace. Boca knew his craft, be it the         arena of story, poem, drama, (it didn't matter the genre).         Unfortunately, his oeuvre remained fixed and static. Boca         never progressed beyond titles.         "A right, jolly good thing, too", said Boca in his own         defense.         The short burst counted most, whether in thought, sport or         field of battle. The utterance of a single breath. That was         it! It all lay in the aside, the pun, a retort, the rcit. If this         were all to the story, there would be no doubt whatsoever;         Boca excelled.         "In the briefest expression, perhaps", said the critics. But,         as they were quick to point out, it didn't lead "anywhere".         "Where is the larger, more important fruit? His finished         verbal passion?", intoned one.         Still, this chance fortune led to the inspiration (and success)         of unusually vivid titles.         But ... titles? Just "titles", said others nervously? Yes,         proclaimed Boca. Titles. Not epithets, or rejoinders,         cat-calls even repartee.         Not even wit in the normal understanding of the term. Just         mere titles. Bushel-baskets of them. Worried looks crept         onto the onlookers' faces.         Encyclopaedic came the flowering. Ad factories should         have tapped such a larder. Any creative department could         have done worse than with Boca's dripping imagery and gift         for the keynote phrase.         "There is majesty here", said one, "and more than a little         Blake. I am reminded of the great symbolists."         "One has to be practical", cautioned still another. "What's         here is hardly epigrammatic or even purely an aphorism in         any truer sense of the word."         "I'm simply perplexed", said the man finally to his         colleague and both left without further ado or thought to         Boca's work.         Indeed Boca loved his words, tinkering with the very         essence of language.         "A great beginning", cheered a rare voice. "Let's hope one         without premature end."         Boca continued to conceive titles by the hundreds. He         didn't merely dream up a few, in snatches, he proliferated         them in vaster and vaster quantities. It was if a salmon left         to spawn could endanger a sea shelf or river bed under the         sheer quantity of her seed.         "A one-man explosion at the typewriter", chortled an         onlooker, happening to see the quantity of Boca's largesse.         That was before he stopped to inquire of the nature of         Boca's work. Then perturbed, this same man hurried away         to the utter indifference of Boca who kept a steady         pounding in spite of the interruption.         On they came. More and more titles. By the hundreds -         for scripts, larger dramas, treatises, epistles, monologues.         All. And all without a scarce concern for their ultimate use.         Are we to believe each one came to naught as the sceptics         predicted? After all, in this practical world who has use for         dreamers? We already know Boca was stymied at the title         level. Nothing ever graced his newborn creation beyond         that first utterance. It was like sending a baby into the         world without proper bedding or clothes.         One nastier commentator even alluded to Boca's work as         the equivalent of premature ejaculation. All buildup with         no satisfaction. "The promise", he chuckled, "without the         delivery".         And that is what came to pass.         Each of Boca's titles, true to prediction, came to "naught"         or, rather, nothing much. Blank. A zero. With each "title"         one ran aground on the larger abyss of its central problem.         That being, as Boca had been warned by his legion of         critics, "one of size".         What good are titles without textual description, chapters,         scenes, the "overview?" said one literary agent gruffly.         Boca, taking a respite from his typewriter, had had the         temerity to approach one such man in the comfort of his         office with reams of suggestions.         Indeed.         People shook their heads at Boca always scribbling         furiously. Always working but apparently accomplishing         precious next to nothing. "Something" was evidently being         done in the strictest sense of the word, but what? What?         "Could his ... well, problem be explained?" one vocal         opponent of Boca urged.         "What the hell is he up to?"         Strangely enough, for the seemingly longest time this did         not deter Boca. He was his own universe. His feet were         on solid ground. The air about him teemed with ideas. He         was too busy fishing for the "mot juste", he explained in         a moment of clarification.         "One man in the right is a majority", proclaimed Boca,         remembering a snippet of John Stuart Mill.         Too busy was Boca replanning the structure of the         Colosseum so it might better accommodate his label, his         notion, his re-christened version of the ideal verbal escort         to accompany that ancient edifice.         And write Boca did. Titles fell increasingly from his pen.         "The Barking Tree."         "The Leaking River."         These were but two. Boca thought he would improve on         Tolkein's efforts, at least in the direction of title. After all,         to send a work into the reader's lap without proper         introduction was like trying to get acquainted without the         proper introduction.         Maybe Boca had a point.         "Assembly without Hope" and "Nirvana without End"         touched on his mystical stage. He dropped this and         proceeded into the area of historiography. And afterwards,         dry epistemology would see him concentrate his efforts.         These forums were indeed worthy of his attention. Too         long had they been neglected. All were in need of good,         metaphoric dusting by title.         At last word, Boca was inching toward Kant's, "Critique of         Pure Reason".         "That one, in particular, has a poor ring", he was heard to         say.         On they came. Precise. Hard-hitting, or so he thought.         They made the mind's eye swell with the promise of more         and more. Indeed, that "eye" could get bloodshot reading         all of Boca's interception.         But the "more" in the sense of the follow-up, the "delivery"         or accompaniment of pages never came.         Nowhere was there to be found the Hemingway to follow         the "Moveable Feast".         Or "The Edible Woman".         Even the promise of thrillers for a scary submarine epic like         "Three Eggs on my Plate" never materialized.         Nothing. Just titles. More, then more and increasingly         more of them. Annoyingly so. Scraps of paper decorating         a table without an intended victim ever coming close.         It was as if so many salesgirls had left price tags off         matching merchandise. That's all that remained. Just the         stickers forlornly, white and detached, staring up from their         adhesiveness.         More than just a little tacky.         A woman given to comparison confronted Boca.         "Imagine a zoo where the curators had all the animal         names, but they were not paired with their owners. That's         your stuff. Everything in a weird isolation."         Boca could not be Borca and not even Carl Sagan could         rescue him. No large bottles floating in formaldehyde with         the decapitated heads from Belle Epoque sailors were         possible here.         Boca was more obscure than Gaspirilla Island. More so.         And a final verdict, if there is need for one, can be seen in         Boca's last will and testimony.         He let it be known of his intention to chisel the "ultimate"         one-liner. One to grace his own tombstone. On this he set         to work with a last burst of frenzy.         "To mirror my tragic-comic fate", as he would have said.         Perhaps Boca is still at work, either on the snappy final         wording ("the right elasticity") or in the mechanics of the         engraving itself.         Only a stone-cutter could estimate the probable expenditure         in time for the latter.         Novelists in dire need of fresh insights should enlist Boca.         He's definitely available, if difficult to reach.         Boca might have rescued many a masterpiece from the         dustbin, if not the Box Office, had his specialty been         known.         I look at Boca and hear fire bells. His plight remains the         very stuff of tragedy. By epic standards, how many Bocas         are there worthy of a balladeer and myth maker? Credible         Boca may be, but understandable?         Boca, the metaphoric equivalent of a Sisyphus chained to         his rock of obsession.         "This horrible rock", (or pebble depending on your         viewpoint), wailed Boca.         "I've become my own obstacle, my work is the         personification of my own limitation."         Worse, imprisoned in an inescapable logic and the narrow         confines of a blink of talent.