In Memoriam Evelyn (who probably would have hated most of this)

In the beginning, when God began making the universe, he said, "Let the speed of light be precisely 299,792,458 metres per second, in the vacuum," and the speed of light was set at precisely 299,792,458 metres per second, in the vacuum. And God saw it, and it was good.

And God said, "Let there be five regular polyhedrons; let there be the tetrahedron, the cube, the octahedron, the dodecahedron, and the icosahedron," and lo there were five regular polygons in the universe, and God saw his geometry and God saw it was good.

And God said, "Let there be a molecule, call it deoxyribonucleic acid or what you will, and let it enclose genetic instruction for use in the development of all known living organisms; let most of them be formed in a double helix," and there came to be deoxyribonucleic acid enclosing genetic instruction, mostly formed in double helices; and God said it was good.

And God said, "Let there be conic sections in everything, revealable using the calculus; let there be hyperbola, parabola, ellipse; give the ellipse uniform in radial distance the name of circle," and there were hyperbolas, and parabolas, and ellipses, and God said, "Very good."

 

*

 

-Say, did you hear the one about the time when a Catholic Priest, a Lutheran Minister, and a Reformed Rabbi decided to all go together to Rome for an Ecumenical Council by catching at such and such an airport an airplane that in the middle of the Atlantic Ocean lost power first to one of its engines then to another of its engines then to another of its engines causing it to rapidly lose altitude and the captain to get onto the loudspeaker and tell everyone that they'd jettisoned all the baggage but still the place was too heavy so it was a life or death thing that three of the passengers by his calculation would have to jump out with parachutes and an inflatable life-raft so everyone wouldn't die and did you hear that the Priest, the Minister, and the Rabbi naturally volunteered and jumped out the plane and found themselves in the middle of the Atlantic Ocean in a life-raft that got quickly surrounded by sharks and did you hear about them running out of food and how they rationally discussed cannibalism?  

-No.

-Oh. Well, if you ever do, could you let me know what the ending is?

 

*

 

Mon: Smith as he starts out his front door in the morning, hears a voice in his head say, "It looks like rain. You'd better take your umbrella." Smith grabs his umbrella.

Tues: Smith as he starts out his front door in the morning, hears a voice in his head say, "It looks like rain. You'd better take your umbrella." Smith grabs his umbrella.

At work, he says to Jones, "A voice in my head wants me to take umbrellas when it appears rain threatens."

Jones says, "You're lucky."

Wed: The voice in Smith's head says, "You stayed up too late last night, and now look at you."

"You're right," says Smith.

Thurs: Smith is told, "You should be nicer to Jones. He means well."

Smith tells Jones, "The voice in my head has told me to be nicer to you."

"Why?"

"The voice says you mean well."

"The voice is right."

Fri: The voice says, "You thought I was gone, didn't you? I haven't gone anywhere. I've merely started addressing you in the second person instead of the first. I will speak; you will listen. I hope you know well enough to obey. You obey."

"Smith says, "Yes, mother."

 

*

 

Previous episode.

"Four hundred thousand dollars. And it's all ours, baby."

"Tremaine's onto you. And he's got your laptop."

"Stop! We're on the same side!"

"Tremaine's in a coma. A tree fell on him."

"A tree?"

"Now where did you come from?"

"Ever have a dream?"

"Oh give it to me baby!"

"Check with your pharmacist. I'm pregnant. It's triplets."

"Man, how am I gonna pay for this?"

"Fort Knox."

"Shit, man, that's only in the movies!"

"Yeah, it's only in the movies. That's 'cause no-one ever tried!"

"We got it!"

"Will you look at that. An honest to goodness witches' coven!"

"All hail Satan."

"They saw us! The witches, they saw us!"

"They'll never find us."

"Yeah, right."

"Look at this chart."

"Wha? We're brother and sister?"

"We've got to find mom!"

"This is one rockin' spaceship."

"The secret's in the rockin' fuel!"

"Let me get this straight. We can go backwards in time."

"Only one way to find out."

"You're telling me Jimbo's the murderer?"

"Opportunity, motive. It all fits."

"Jimbo murdered Helen too?"

"Part of a cover-up higher up."

"How high?"

"Ladies and gentlemen, the President of the United States."

"Open up!"

"Drop it!"

"Run!"

"Run!"

"Run!"

 

*

 

Imaginary Snakes

 

It was just like the beginning of every Hill Street Blues episode except that it involved imaginary snakes. (Many of the snakes there would have understood the metaphor, having had been at least once inside the head of some person who'd had at one time or another seen the television program Hill Street Blues.)

"Okay, snakes, settle down, your assignments," said Sgt. Gomez, dropping down on his desk a manila folder which he proceeded to open. "Lts. Fletcher, Robinson, Jones. Coil yourselves all up in the head of one ... Stanley Patterson. He's on a bender, sleeping on his couch. Scare him."

Fletcher hissed, "Coil all up? Fuck that. I'm going after his throat!"

Gomez hissed, "Just try to scare him, Fletcher. We're over-quota for cardiacs this month."

"Fine, fine."

"Tritch, Malanga, Connor: a five year old. Named ... Helen Dorsett. Kid isn't afraid of real snakes yet. Make him afraid."

Malanga hissed, "Why do I get all the kids?"

"Luck of the draw, my man. Okay, Jones, Pike, Newton: ward psychos at Huntington Institute. I want to see 'em go crazy."

"Why's that?" hissed Newton.

"Just for kicks, man. Okay, go. And let's be scary out there."

 

*

 

Synecdoche

 

Here I am, just as you see me. Just one page: one in ten thousand or so. Feel free to skip me by. I'd skip me by if I was you. Even if you look at me carefully, you'll forget me in a day or two. This is what insignificance is like. Look what's before me: a gag about imaginary snakes. Look what comes after me: a gag about a bicycle. And here I am, not saying much, just one in ten thousand or so. There I am, in a vast field of flowers taller than me. If you're not looking for me, I can't even be seen. Just another bundle of words, using the word 'just' just too often. I'm an infertile placeholder. I can't be anything more than I can be, now can I? Pass me by, or forget in a day or two. Nothing to see, folks. Just a bunch of words. I don't even know if the ten thousand are worthwhile even. It could well be that that ten thousand is just one of ten thousand ten thousands. But I shouldn't slight sight unseen the rest. It's just me. I'm the worthless one. Just me.

 

*

 

When I reached the crossroads I knew I should have stayed at my girlfriend's house that night. I might have even boinked her again. But no, I had to ride home through the driving snow down that long and lonely country road that ran the distance from her house to mine, all eleven miles of it.

Must've been midnight when my front wheel slipped. Fortunately my Schwinn was only going so fast. Into the snow I fell to sit, thinking. I had to get on! My med final was next day! I pulled my transistor radio from my pocket and turned it on.

The announcer said quite matter-of-factly that a lunatic had escaped from the state insane asylum. He was dangerous, and he had a hook instead of a right hand.

I stood quickly. The asylum was nearby. I had to get out of there! I hopped on my bicycle and rode as fast as I could, like lightning, never looking back.

Finally I was home. Home! I slipped my bike into its place in the med school rack and went around behind it to lock it up.

And there I saw, hanging from my rear fender, four bloody hooks.

 

*

 

"I've got to get the angle. I've got to get the angle."

Perry White cried, "Superman!"

Superman leapt into Mr. White's office in a single bound.

"Got some reporting for you! Press release! From the Health Institute! About young people in ERs with self-inflicted wounds! From cutting themselves!"

Superman stroked his bold chin. "Is this about ... tattoos?"

"It's up to you!"

Superman leapt out of the office before Mr. White slammed his door.

Superman leapt to the Institute. He grabbed and read the press release in half a second. "These numbers! It's mostly girls! The Internet must be to blame!"

The Director came out to see him. "You want to interview me?"

"Yes! These numbers: three quarters girls! Why do you think that is?"

"Actually, we're not sure."

"Could it be something that starts with the letter I?"

"Incisions?"

"No! The Internet!"

"We have no proof of anything like that."

"The Internet is destroying my newspaper! Please, blame the Internet!"

"Sorry, I can't misrepresent my work. We at the Institute...."

Blabbedy blabbedy blah blabbedy blah.

Superman bounded away in disappointment. "Dammit! No confession! I'll have to end my piece with, 'Some experts blame the Internet.' It's my only hope!"

 

*

 

Evelyn

 

Today was the funeral of Evelyn Faulk.

I'd known her for thirty years. She was Frank's sister.

She cried a lot back then. That is to say, she was easily moved by things.

She once told Frank I was a little too weird for her. But that was a very long time ago.

I guess it was five years ago that their mother died. I went to the reception but not the funeral. At this reception, the person I ended up talking to for the longest time was Evelyn. She'd been through cancer treatment and was pretty bald. We talked about what she was doing at York University. It all sounded pretty interesting and I could relate to it.

I don't know if I was the only person who would talk to her or if she was the only person who would talk to me. Maybe both.

And now, the cancer has done her in.

Today was the funeral of Evelyn Faulk. There was a reception afterwards to which I was invited. I didn't go to it. There are some pathetic reasons why I didn't, but I want to highlight one here.

Without Evelyn, who would I talk to?

 

*

 

O, how you've longed to be someone else!,

 

Not trapped in your personal trap

(If only for a day!)

To be lost in the world,

To be he there, to be she there,

To be anyone but yourself!

Rita Hayworth, delivering mail,

Sandra Gillespie, running the world,

Ichabod Crane, learning about fire,

X, dead in the first trimester!

To be free, as I've said, of your traps

(I redd Tahiti is lovely this season),

To be younger, maybe even to be older,

Just to be not you, in your damn lot!

You're stuck, know, with your one life;

Tomorrow you'll have your past

Intact, on awakening, same old

Lot, boring really,

&c, &c, &c, &c, &c.

Look at that kindling there,

In that corner of your hut,

Dry and ready,

Lusty for fire,

Personified and like your simplest mind.

And all it takes is Will

To cook it all

Holocaustically

Just to become someone else!

But just as the foundation is always fetishized

By television cameras after any major farmhouse burn

So your soul will stay with you wherever.

 

Solace where?

Stuck you?

Solace in the eyes of your neighbour,

Seeing 'stuck' in her eyes,

Whether Rockefeller, whether crack whore.

 

*

 

How did we know we were in an existential film?

It wasn't something I'd dare discuss with my mechanic, but I think he wondered about it too. I could be mistaken.

I shouldn't talk about him. I don't know what went on in his head. I can't prove anything was going on in his head. (This mood of mine tells me again: we were in an existential film.)

I knew we were in an existential film because I didn't have a name. Also because I never smiled, we never discussed anything aside from our car, and the girl we had with us I had no interest in. If the mechanic needed fucking, that was his drive. It wasn't my drive at the time. Maybe it never will be.

It's all about acting, see, there in an existential film. "What's my motivation?" is the simplest question to answer from inside an existential film. My motivation was to be a driver; the mechanic's motivation was to be a mechanic. Nothing else.

It's all props, see. The cars, the roads, the bodies, my body, the car. They're all forced to exist. And existence is enough; barely enough; sufficiently enough; enough, enough for themselves.

 

*

 

A Touch of Evil

 

Are things getting better or worse?

I'd say they're staying the same, for one reason.

Humans are uniquely capable of evil.

I've never met an evil dog or an evil cat.

But what is this evil? Wherein does it rest?

I'd argue it rests with intelligence.

Evil manifests itself in trickery.

Which is why stage magicians always wear black.

And why witches make potions in the popular mind.

Evil does its deeds in the darkest of nights.

When it can jump out and yell boo.

It's a simple matter (unless it's tautological).

How to slip someone a five when they think it's a twenty.

It's all a matter of getting an unfair advantage.

As if no-one is really going to notice.

There's lots of opportunities for this behaviour.

And I don't think it increases, decreases, like fashion.

Cursed by knowledge, by knowledge that accomplishes evil.

You can make a scam out of pretty much anything.

This theory I think needs more work on it.

But everything I do could have used a little more work.

I consider it to be one of my most charming aspects.

I'm not immune. I have it too. My original sin.

 

*

 

The police and firetrucks screamed in. Neighbour birds dared down through the wind to gawp and comment in their bathrobes. Who had survived, who had died?

Sgt. Crow pushed through the crowd. A plainclothes told him, "Happened too quickly. The wind picked up the nest and they had no time to unfurl their wings."

"Casualties?"

"Just one. The daughter. Broke her neck."

"That's a shame."

Crow knew there was nothing to do; nothing but 'community outreach.' He looked for the grieving family. There they were, huddled under huge blankets that must have been well over seven inches square.

Suddenly another bird approached. Aspiring politico gadfly Al Pigeon, who immediately challenged Crow.

"You've done it this time, Crow."

"The wind was to blame."

"She didn't deserve to die!"

"It was an accident!"

Pigeon turned away in disgust. Oh, look, a television camera. He shoved through.

"There's a lot of broken lives, and hearts, this evening.

"Negligence had been done, and the powers do nothing.

"My organization will work with whoever it takes to right this injustice.

"A whole nest has been blown out of a tree! A family, shattered!"

"We need to come up with a way to conquer the wind!"

 

*

 

The New Tamburlaine: A Novel

Book Two

PART ONE

Chapter Two

2.

 

Frederick Stout, meanwhile, had travelled down to see his favourite kitchen wench Dixie Dee. He grabbed her from behind, all over, saving her behind for a more intimate touch.

"Ah, begone ye dirty dog!" she giggled.

"Come to my room."

"Once I've finished shining these 'ere chamber-pots I will!"

Stout Stout stoutly left the kitchen in a snidely twinkle. Up the stairs he hopped, stopping only at the fourth landing to remember what had happened which would lead to something happening. And that's when he heard the scratching--the scratching of his name itself.

"Stout, Stout," the scratch scratched.

"Who is it?"

"It's me."

"Who are you?"

"I'm a mystery to drive things onwards."

Stout thought. Weren't these chapters shorter before? This should be over by now. What in the world is happening?

The scratch said, "The world has changed, Stout. Where can I meet you?"

"I've kind of got a groove to plow in a couple minutes."

"How long will that take?"

"I suppose an hour."

"Cheeky monkey. I'll come to your room in an hour. Make sure you're alone."

Stout went to his bedroom and waited.