Og Gets an Idea

Once upon a time there was a caveman named Og who had a Big Idea. It was such a Big Idea, in fact, that Og found it hard to sleep at night. Hard to sleep and hard to hunt and hard to do just about anything but think about his Big Idea. He thought, of course, about telling someone – his best friend, Ugh, perhaps, or Aargh, his devoted wife – but he just couldn't bring himself to do it, not quite sure they would actually understand.

Back then, when men were men and stones were stones, even the idea of an idea was hard to grasp. You see, for hundreds of years people had pretty much done the same thing day after day: Crouch around fires, club slow-moving animals, gorge themselves on bear meat. Most people back then didn't see the need to improve anything and those who did rarely "thought outside the cave" as Og was fond of saying.

"A pile of rocks ceases to be a rock pile when somebody contemplates it with the idea of a cathedral in mind."

— St. Exupery

But not Og. Og liked ideas. Og loved ideas.

He loved them more than anything else. More than hunting. More than bear meat. More than sitting around the fire on a cold winter night and chewing the fat. Because the way Og saw it, ideas – unlike the prey he chased day after day – came to him. And at the oddest of times. Just before sleep. Just upon waking. Even in his dreams. In fact, it was during these times – when he least expected it – that Og began to get the first clues about his Big Idea – faint clues, as if a friend, many miles away, was sending him smoke signals no one else could see.

"To accomplish great things, we must dream as well as act."

— Anatole France

"Why is it I always get my best ideas while shaving?"

— Albert Einstein

Dazed By the Possibilities

At first Og thought it was indigestion, or worse, some kind of mid-life escape from reality – a luxury no self-respecting caveman could afford, not with winter coming on. He felt dizzy Confused. Dazed by the possibilities. It wasn't long before Og became consumed with his idea. So much so, that he soon lost interest in everything else: Hunting with his best friend, Ugh, carving bear teeth for Ogle, his son – even pounding on his hairy chest.

To the rest of the tribe, Og was naramp poozka. He had "rocks in his head." While they foraged and hunted, Og "what iffed" – much to the Neanderthalic confusion of everyone else. "What if we were all like Og," they grumbled. "We would starve to death before the next big snow."

"No idea is so outlandish that it should not be considered."

— Winston Churchill

And so they ignored him, afraid to death that they might catch whatever it was he had.

Aargh!

So worried was Aargh, Og's devoted wife, that she sought the council of Morf, the local medicine woman. Morf was the wisest of women and knew how to read even the most stoic caveman's face. Tuned in as she was, Morf had already heard about Og and was intrigued – especially about his curious habit of spending his days walking in circles and drawing strange little pictures on the walls of his cave.

And so she tracked Og down, fell into step behind him, and followed. Walked and watched. Watched and walked. Trailed along behind him wherever he went – saying nothing, doing nothing, just matching his movement step by step.

One week passed. Then another. And another still.

And then, with absolutely no warning one bright Neanderthalic day as they circled round and round near the mouth of Og's cave, Morf could no longer contain herself.

"Crank — a man with a new idea before it succeeds."

— Mark Twain

"Og has an ideal" she blurted out. "And a huge one at that. A wooly mammoth of an idea!"

"What is now proved was once only imagined."

— William Blake

Aargh was dumbfounded. "Idea?" she asked, combing her hair with an armadillo quill. "What mean you, 'idea'"?

Ugh nervously tapped his club on the ground. "Is it ... contagious?"

Ogle winced. "Is my father going to be all right?"

But Morfjust laughed. "Idea good. Idea very good! I no understand it yet, but Og seems ... well ... better than usual. His eyes are brighter. He's standing tall. He's making excellent use of his opposable thumb. Frankly, I haven't seen anyone this alive since Crouch.

The Grunt of the Town

Word spread like the rumor of bad reindeer meat. Og, quite simply, had become the grunt of the town. But none of this mattered to him in the least. He was in another world, content to ponder, muse, imagine, and think. Content, indeed, to do nothing at all but stare at the moon.

And so it went, Og wandering in circles no one else was a part of, mumbling to himself, while the rest of the tribe went about their prehistoric business.

That is, until Ugh – Og's best friend – unable to bear the mystery any longer, tracked him down one cool night beneath a quarter moon.

"Where did you get it?" Ugh demanded, his brow deeply furrowed.

"Get what?" replied Og.

"Ideal" said Ugh. "Where did you get your Big Idea?"

"Imagination is more important than knowledge."

— Albert Einstein

Og shook his head. "You no understand. Me not get idea. Idea get me."

"Few people think more than two or three times a year. I've made an international reputation for myself by thinking once or twice a week."

— G.B. Shaw

Ugh just stood there. Stone-faced.

"Is true," Og went on. "Idea came to me. Like rain. Like dream. Like snake between rocks."

Ugh nodded, but didn't know why. Like the rest of the tribe, Ugh wanted to find fault with Og, but couldn't no matter how hard he tried. Maybe it was something about the look in Og's eye or the fact that the two of them had grown up in neighboring caves. Whatever it was, Ugh couldn't stop from nodding his head. Nodding and listening....