Names

The kitchen was the latest in kitchens and kitchenware, there at the mid-semester mixer hosted by our newest Associate Professor and his mousy wife. They had an island of chromium steel (dark wet wood detail), a Samsung true convection range (five burners), an LG dishwasher (QuadWash), and a Bosch refrigerator (LED lighting and transparent storage). With the hand that wasn't holding the highball glass of a Cuba Libre I pulled open the fridge to look inside. I saw routine milk, butter, and cheese, plus two extra plates of store-bought finger foods, Gatorade, 7 Up and cream soda, Argentine brie, Mexican sauces, foil shaped like leftover pizza, a thin loaf (cut diagonally) of French bread, a jar of capers, hard-boiled eggs exposed in a porcelain bowl, a quart of cream, six stalks of lettuce gathered with a green rubber band, two ripening tomatoes, and a tub of strawberry yoghurt.

The host, who'd snuck up on me, said: "What's this, Pat? Stocking another story?"

I let go of the fridge door and the fridge smoothly shut itself up. "I don't know," I said. "Perhaps I am."

He grabbed my shoulder and said: "There's some friends of mine that wanna meet you."

My host‑in triple-buttoned green velvet house-shoes, black pleated pants, a white shirt, and an ash-coloured tie‑pulled me through the mambo-soaked living-room into a small office at the rear of the bungalow. Two identical men were standing at the books, the books themselves being lined up on an Ikea blonde case within reach of a desk of no special character on which a Dell computer, a Lenovo keyboard, and a Microsoft wireless mouse sat. I naturally noticed that a conspicuously unused small blue notebook was set perfectly parallel to the keyboard. One of the two men turned to look at me. He was holding a copy of my novel We'll Call It the Midwest, in paperback from Vintage (1992). He said: "Dr. Lazenby. We are pleased to make your acquaintance."

I nodded. "That was my breakthrough opus."

"And a killer one it is. Anyhoo, Larry and me want to ask you some stuff."

The man's louche gutter demotic made my hackles rise. "One must contact my agent if one wishes an interview."

The other man chucked obviously. "It's not that kind of an interview we're after. It's more of a ... national security issue."

The new Associate Professor (for the life of me I can't remember his name) pulled me closer to the two 'national security' vulgarians. "Hear them out."

I sighed. "So, what does this concern? There's blasé drinking to do. The pathetic emptiness of a college town won't very well describe itself, now will it? I'd throw a drink in the Dean's face, if only it hadn't been done before." I coughed. "Well, close enough."

The clone holding my book looked at his partner. "What should we ask?"

My unnamed host snapped his fingers. "Dr. Lazenby, you were just looking in my refrigerator, weren't you?"

"Of course I was. A Bosch."

"Tell these gentlemen what was in it."

"Succinctly?"

"I think so."

"Milk, butter, cheese, finger foods, Gatorade, 7 Up, cream soda, brie, sauces, pizza, bread, capers, eggs, cream, lettuce, tomatoes, and yoghurt."

The clone who was not holding my book stepped forward quickly, suddenly with a hypodermic needle at the ready in his hand, while my host took hold of my head and turned it to one side; the needle shot into my neck and was just as quickly removed. All this happened in about two seconds.

"You ... scoundrels!" The poison had already taken effect.

The one who had been holding my book‑I bet he'd only read the back cover‑said: "You're going to sleep now. There's nothing you can do about it. When you awake, you'll be in a different place. Look at the pretty bird.... It's got a golden wing.... How did that get in here? Milk ... butter ... cheese...."

I awoke, in warmth, in comfort, in a warm bed. The pillow seemed made of silk, and the sheets were thick, four hundred thread, maybe more. I looked around the room, which turned out to be decidedly antiseptic, with white walls, recessed illumination, a sleek white plastic chair, a plastic table. I couldn't see any branding anywhere. Everything had to have been custom-made. The place had the stink of deep pockets.

A voice said: "Good afternoon, Dr. Lazenby. Do not be alarmed. You're in a safe place. An attendant will be with you shortly."

I climbed out of the bed. I overturned the chair: no branding. What kind of a place was this? The electricity hummed. I examined the pillow. Nothing there either. I pinched myself and hurt. (I didn't know what else to do.)

As promised, an attendant came into the monastic room. She was dressed as you'd imagine a nurse in an insane asylum would dress, a lot like that woman in that film One Flew Over the Cuckoo's Nest, what's-her-name, with white shoes and white stockings, a light blue dress cut down below her knees and sleeves past her elbows, but with no cap on her head whose hair was cut in a bob and red. I was still groggy.

She said: "Mr. Lazenby, please, come with me."

"Where am I?"

"Come with me and you'll find out absolutely everything. Questions are encouraged here."

Having little else to do, 'ha-ha,' I followed her out of the room, keeping a distance of five feet. The hallway through which we walked was white like the room, with recessed lighting. We passed six white doors and entered the seventh.

This room was like some suburban gentleman's mid-century den. Oak mouldings ran horizontally and vertically along spruce walls that had hanging upon them non-representational artworks of various sizes. A eggshell-curtained window let in light through the opposite wall, and a desk was set at a slight angle in the middle of the room. Behind the desk sat a man I did not know. His right hand was resting on a pile that appeared to consist of my complete works, including my early experimental novel Sizzizzphizz.

"Dr. Lazenby, come in, sit down."

I sat down and got straight to the point. "Where am I?"

"You can call it Western Spy Central. The true name is deeply classified."

"I see. And you've chosen to abduct me."

"We prefer to say have been put into a situation in which you may volunteer."

"Ah, so I can leave now?"

"No."

"Oh."

"It's not as bad as that. You'll see." He drummed his fingers atop my volumes. "We have studied your books carefully. Care to hear some of our researcher's reviews?"

"I never read reviews."

"Have no fear. I will read them to you."

"I fail to see the distinction."

He held up his hand dismissively. "You'll see that these reviews are not literary."

He read from a sheet of letter-size. "Complex collation of the coverage of a desk.... Impressive detailing of an Iowa barn.... Nearly a catalogue, this account of a shoe factory.... Excellent capture of detailed 'mood' in a brothel." He set down the paper. "In our judgement, you have the best recollection and recall of any living American mid-list writer."

"I've dubbed it 'verisimilitude.'"

"Whatever you call it, you've got it, and we want it."

The conversation was getting, as you no doubt agree, tiresome. "So what do you want me to do? I have acolytes whose flawed though sincere stories of growing up too sensitive for words need my attention."

The man noisily riffled through one of my books, a gesture known to authors as 'waterboarding.' He said: "There's a list of covert double agents contained in a filing cabinet in the office of a high-ranking General. This General we know to be a traitor, and if he catches wind that we're onto him, he'll destroy the list. We want the names of the covert agents because they themselves are taskmasters for a greater number of covert agents at all levels of government. Honestly, sometimes I think double agents outnumber agents. Sometimes I think I may be a double agent myself."

I remained unmoved at his joke.

"So," he continued: "We require you, after you've been trained in Espionage 101, to infiltrate his office on the pretext of a fact-finding mission for a novel you would be writing that concerns a high-ranking General and his sensitive childhood in a small timeless town that maintains a hidden history of violence and bigotry."

"It's been done."

"Oh, yes: a million jillion times. Which makes it quite likely to be done again."

"And again: Do I have any choice in this process?"

"Fail, and you shall be disappeared."

That statement was enough to convince me to cooperate.

A full week of intensive training began. I was put on a Spartan diet entirely absent of alcohol (!) and I was forced to sleep eight hours a day (!). I was taught relaxation techniques to reduce my normally sweaty appearance. I was instructed on quantum probability theory to make my filing cabinet search as quick as possible.

After that week, I was considered to be a cool and calculating tool of the government. I was unflappably debonair. I'd even come up with some plot twists for the fictions of my fictional novel. My "agent" (actually a female Pfc.) arranged the interview with the General. I would come to his office at the Fort, bright and early on a Tuesday morning. I slept like a baby the night before, entirely un-medicated and stone cold sober, which was quite a novel experience.

Mission day arrived, and I, with a thoroughly empty bladder, was driven by a nondescript taxicab to the Fort. I got out and paid the driver (with money from 'Western Spy Central' petty cash). I went up to the building. Soldiers were marching in a far field prettily. I told the lovely uniformed woman at the front desk about my appointment and she telephoned deep within the building to the General.

"Your escort will be here momentarily," she said.

My escort, in a uniform different from the receptionist's, welcomed me efficiently coldly. He took me down a hall that was surprisingly not very different from any other office building's hallway. The first hallway had seven doors; the second hallway had nine doors; and the third hallway had six doors. He knocked at the sixth door.

"Come in," said a voice.

The door was opened for me, and I entered the General's office.

Naturally, I had never been in a General's office before. Nor on a military base. Nor within 10 feet of a projectile weapon such as the pistol the General had strapped across his chest. The General himself was about fifty years of age, which I thought was well advanced for a traitor. His close-cropped hair was black, though grey at the temples. I was impressed by his dress uniform, with its shined brass buttons and its flattering fit. I introduced myself and he said: "I've been expecting you. Please sit down. What would you like to know? I hope you're planning an appealing portrait."

I described what I hoped to do in my 'novel.' "It will be a full portrait of a fictional general. I will not use any of your personal details. I am rather in search of the telling detail, the mot juste, that will bring my character to life."

The General smiled. "Very well. What would you like to know?"

"Coffee?" I gestured to a full pot nearby.

"Thank you."

I brought the pot within his arm's reach. I poured him a cup, and I poured myself a cup: which I did not drink.

I asked him to describe his job in full, about his diet, his routine, his meetings, his place in the chain of command, his hobbies and pastimes, his enthusiasms, his career, his education, his parentage, his friendships, his sport likings, his aspirations, his family.

This all took two hours. He was fidgeting. Finally he said: "I'm sorry, but may I be excused for a moment?"

"Certainly. I'll wait right here."

He left the room.

The steel filing cabinet had three drawers. I opened the middle one, which had a resistance that bespoke frequent use. I started flipping through the files. They were arranged idiosyncratically. The seventh manila was entitled: Contacts, and I pulled it out. It was what I was after. I looked down the list of names, remembering what I could. Then I returned the envelope to the cabinet, closed it, and sat right back down, crossing my legs exactly.

The General returned. I said: "Actually, I think I have plenty of information. You have been extraordinarily kind to allow me these hours of research."

"It's my pleasure," he said, rising.

We shook hands, and I left the Fort in a wholly casual manner.

Soon I was back at Western Spy Central. My abductor and three of his cohort sat me down in an office.

"Did you find the names?"

"I found the names quite readily."

One of them sat down, pad and pen in hand. "What are they?"

I said: "Now, let me see. One of them was a Steve. Or maybe it was Steven. We'll get back to that. Mike? Mark? Maybe I should start with last names. Um. Ah. Let's see. I'm terribly sorry, gentlemen. You see, I'm very bad with proper names."

The Book of Food

"From a million, we get a hundred thousand; and from a hundred thousand, we get ten; from ten we get eight and from eight we get four; from four to two to one. This is why everything is, contrary to appearances, one, and of one dimension. Wine steward!"

"Your highness?"

"Wine, steward!"

"Coming right up."

The King's Secretary's quill held fast in the air. "Anything more to add?"

"No, simply etcetera etcetera etcetera, Your King." The King sighed self-pityingly. "Why do they all come to me? Can't my subjects consult with one another to solve their problems or satisfy their idle curiosities?"

The secretary said: "That's what you get for calling yourself King, King."

"Yes; perhaps having the last name Lonelyhearts doesn't help much either. Next!"

"'Dear King Lonelyhearts, I am a collector of tongue twisters. What is your favorite?'"

The King exploded. "How can I be expected to run my Kingdom when I am obliged to respond to such inane requests?"

"Easily, your highness. Your Kingdom is nine hundred square feet in expanse. What else have you got to do?"

"That should have been obvious to me. 'Six sleek swans swam swiftly southwards.'"

The wine steward returned. Merlot.

 

*

 

We had everything anyone could ever want stocked high on our shelves but we had no customers. How did a company get the customers we lacked? We read all the business management books and put out a sign reading Hot Girls Cheap Drinks but still no-one came; so we tried the other tack and our sign we changed to Cute Guys Cheap Drinks but that didn't work either. Did this mean our business would go bust? We sold our goods to one another as a kind of practice but we ran out of money and were drowning in things we didn't want. There was something we were missing. We did a telephone survey to find out what people really wanted but our data got corrupted a little and after a month we were worse off than before. We tried again with various signs but no-one darkened our double doors. I look back and ask: Where'd we get such deep pockets from? Our expenses were high, and stock was infinite, but no-one came. We figured we were in a kind of wormhole of space and time. We experimented with physics. We couldn't come to any conclusion. But at least we tried.

 

*

 

He forgot it. One day, he forgot his grandfather's words of advice: "Don't mess with drug dealers." For only one day, he forgot it. He knew it before that day, forgot it for a day, and remembered it again next day. That's how accidents happen.

He shut out the lights and told his wife to keep quiet. A drug dealer was knocking at the front door. Husband and wife went down into the kitchen. They heard the drug dealer trying the doorknob upstairs. Drug dealers are known to be tenacious. They shut off the lights in the kitchen.

Of course, the drug dealer circled the house and was at the back door. He had a machete with him. The man-of-the-house was crouching at the door out of the drug dealer's sight. His wife was crouching near the refrigerator. He thought maybe she could roll some ketchup over to his so he could smear it all over the place and then when the drug dealer came in he'd get scared because of all the blood and simply run away.

It didn't pan out. The man-of-the-house learned something that day about the narrowness of the path. There was no need for ketchup.

 

*

 

EPITAPH

 

He was a genuine artist's artist's artist's baker's architect's factory worker's dressmaker's script girl's dye maker's miner's farmer's astrologist's canner's sailor's newspaperwoman's rigger's cook's driver's delivery boy's street vendor's pusher's bartender's astrologist's scientist's lumberjack's architect's lover's poet's lunatic's butcher's baker's candle stick maker's physicist's clerk's accountant's woodworker's electrician's plater's jeweller's miner's plaster-mixer's coder's head teacher's charitable proprietor's wise statesman's shop girl's astrologist's astronomer's miner's artist's writer's writer's writer's actuarial's farmer's dealer's pit master's wolf's chimpanzee's cat's horse's squid's giraffe's gorilla's prey's hunter's god's human's druggist's actor's actress's composer's oboist's flautist's percussionist's dye maker's cranberry picker's restaurateur's waiter's toast master's emcee's cabaret singer's busboy's waitress's visionary's horologist's audience member's evaluator's tester's artist's architect's cook's diviner's prophet's boyfriend's aunt's third uncle's daughter's raconteur's bard's singer's poet's doctor's dentist's podiatrist's paediatrician's paedophile's pervert's beet farmer's numismatist's philatelist's dredger's pimp's artisan's brewer's critic's actress's best friend's curmudgeon's baby's nurse's insurance saleswoman's cattle herder's vendor's wife's cousin's poetaster's arranger's construction worker's pig farmer's guitarist's programmer's documentary filmmaker's projectionist's troublemaker's hairdresser's long haul trucker's charwoman's chemist's bookie's photographer's photographer's piano tuner's smoker's drinker's butler's niece's stewardess's castle's food taster's queen's jack's king's fool, and woe to us all that we'll never see his likes again.

 

*

 

"It's a complicated business, doc."

"Please, tell me whatever you want to tell me. Is there something to tell me?"

"Not only is it complicated, it's a bit embarrassing."

"Don't try to shock me. Your problem is no doubt unique, but you wouldn't believe the people I see."

"What can I tell you? It all revolves around trust."

"There's a lot to unpack there, with that issue, let me tell you."

"So you see a lot of these problems?"

"Almost everyone has an issue with trust. There are whole courses in childhood trust you can take."

"But, doesn't everyone do it differently?"

"Oh, sure. Lots to go wrong there."

"It's gotten me into a certain number of ... psychological problems recently."

"And that's why you're here."

"Yeah, doc. Some problems. With women."

"Ah, cherchez les femmes."

"I suppose so."

"Tell me about your mother."

"What? No, not yet."

"Very well. Go on. You've got a trust problem, and it concerns women. Is that right?"

"That's correct. And there's been ... troubles."

"Care to give me an example?"

"Can I generalize a bit?"

"You have a hypothesis?"

"The problem is with women. You see ... I've trusted them."

"Gott im Himmel!"

 

*

 

I set down the thick reeled cylinder of unexposed film on the stainless steel countertop, beside the fluffy white bunny. It was a lovely day. The jar nearby was neatly labelled Uranium-235, and I moved it to within hands' reach, closer to the fluffy white bunny. I opened the jar and pulled out the metal and I suspended it precisely over the thick reeled cylinder of unexposed film beside the fluffy white bunny. I counted steamboats all the way to ninety, and then I put the Uranium-235 back into its neatly-labelled jar.

I took the reel of film over to my work desk, ignoring for a time the fluffy white bunny. With a blade I neatly cut through the film perpendicular to its length. Careful to keep the 'frames' in their proper order, I lay them all down in an array that represented depth vs chirality. Worthy of examination, I examined the results of my experiment. Success?

I blasted the frames with ultraviolet light, thinking that might make the results more apparent. While waiting, I put away the jar of Uranium-235 and disposed of the dead fluffy white bunny.

And now you have the nerve to tell me I'm cancerous?

 

*

 

When he went into 'the office' (not 'the factory') he got jumped on by someone who said, "There's a meeting! There's a meeting!"

He muttered, "Oh fuck, fuck that, I'm not going to any fucking meeting. I just got here."

He sat down and wrote a story about radioactivity.

Everyone from the meeting camp stomping out all at once. They gathered at his desk (he'd finished his story) and told him, "They fired the boss, and you're now the King!"

He said, "What the fuck?"

They shouted, "You're our King! Hail, King!"

They grabbed him and pulled him up from his acceptably comfortable office chair.

"King! King!"

He got dragged down to the courtyard, and he was objecting all the time because he just wanted a smoke.

The Queen of the Universe greeted him in the Courtyard, with her vulva open and wet. "C'mon, King,"

"Where did this courtyard come from?"

"A King needs a Courtyard."

"I been working here for years, and this courtyard is a new one on me."

"King! All your subjects are waiting for you to fuck me."

He got suspicious then. "I think this is fake."

"Fuck her! fuck her!"

Then he woke up dead.

 

*

 

PORN STAR FUNNIES 5

 

PANEL ONE

Bill is in a group of people in a mid-century living room, at a party. Five bongs are on a coffeetable. Music (signified by quarter notes) is playing. A speech bubble says, "You only live once." Bill is avidly pulling some bong smoke. A topless woman is dancing in the background. Everyone looks order than they really are.

 

PANEL TWO

Bill is at an orgy. He is indistinguishable in the free-for all of organs and orifices. It's just a dirty picture, really, drawn precisely by me. Mid-century modern. The characters bleed off the sides of the frame. It's my impression of what Breugel might have done. A Pollock is on the wall, thus situating when. This cartoon is ©1985, and it is taking place in Los Angeles.

 

PANEL THREE

Bill in a doctor's office. The doctor, in a speech balloon, is saying: "I'm sorry Bill. You've got a record-breaking eighteen social diseases." Bill is wearing groovy boxer shorts.

 

PANEL FOUR

The doctor is gone and Bill is alone in his boxer shorts. He is slamming his left fist into his right hand. In his speech balloon he is saying: "God damn you, Ronald Reagan!"

 

*

 

The Parable of the Coins

 

She inherited a big pile of coins from her maritime bachelor uncle, who had saved them over many years, choosing them for their unusualness, dropping them in a plate in his bedroom. She herself kept them in a small cloth bag; she figured there were fifty coins or so, and she sometimes thought they might turn out to be very valuable. After five years she finally got down to checking out what they were worth. She looked online at some reputable numismatics sites. She found out that most of them were pretty much worthless, though two - a New Brunswick half-cent from 1861 and an American half-cent from 1832 - were worth about a hundred bucks apiece.

It was getting rather late in the evening and she was tired and disappointed. She checked her email before shutting down, and there she found an email from something called games4money. She opened it up and it informed her that five years ago she had signed up with the site and that as a starting stake she'd been given $25 in bitcoin gratis. The email was to let her know that her gaming account was now worth $10,293.25.

 

*

 

It happened.

I found myself lying down on my side on a yoga mat in a yoga studio. On the yoga mat beside me and facing me, also lying down, was Daphne, yoga instructor. We seemed comfortable.

I was saying: "Trust, and vulnerability. How do they happen? How should we cross the divide, if at all? What are the conditions that bring about the low tide?"

She said: "Some people find it easy to find low tides," and move a little closer.

I said: "There's always that draw. Of course it's got its instinctual roots, but the fruits of those roots have become complicated by a sense that we should curb the appetites to get along with third parties."

She said: "It's tough finding that balance," and moved a little closer.

I said: "But we have to cross the divide. There's richness on the other side! The chance to know someone, despite what the third parties say. What do they know anyway? They aren't here. Their opinions are worthless."

She said: "I know what you mean," and moved a little closer. Her breasts touched me.

I got up. "Oh, look at the time. I should go be with my dog."

 

*

 

Good Afternoon, Google

 

A curious event has just happened to me. Into our visual cataloguing system, I typed the words: "*// GRAPHIC photo of Syed Hussain;".

I then, in Google Chrome, opened an article - from the New York Review of Books - about Paul Robeson, and there on the page was an advertisement for Uber - seeking drivers.

So, what's the connection?

Syed Hussain is an Uber driver who has been charged with a sexual assault that happened 3 A.M Saturday morning in Toronto.

So it appears that Google invisibly recorded my keystrokes (which were not even entered into a browser, but instead into a completely different application), consulted its vector space, found an association between Syed Hussain and Uber (made by a number of newspaper articles posted in the last day), and delivered to me an advertisement concerning Uber.

I did not know they did such things. It had to have been through the keystrokes. I've never even used Uber. I have no association with them.

Oh but hey it's not like Google is the Stasi, and it's not like they're working on some kind of a self-driving system for the delivery of Zyklon C++.

That's crazy talk.

 

*

 

OLA 2018

 

1. "Due to the increase in the number of titular usages of certain non-alphabetical markings, it is incumbent upon us to codify order. We are all about order. So the proposal is &, @, ^, $, ., #, %, /, *, |."

2. "What are you basing this upon? What are the grounds for your reasoning?"

1. "It's the names of the marks, in common alphabetical order."

2. "Shouldn't it be &, *, @, ^, $, %, ., #, |, /?"

1. "You're called the / a /?"

2. "And you're calling the * a *!"

3. "Okay you two, tone it down. I have it on good Authority that # should be called # and / should be called /. Therefore, the proper order is &, @, ^, $, #, %, ., /, *, |."

1. "You're not basing your reasoning on either of our proposals. You're agreeing with me that * is * but not that . is .."

3. "I'm compromising."

2. "At least we're agreed we start with &, regardless of what you call it. Where's Pete?"

3. "He's on the subcommittee for (, ), {, }, [, and ]."

1. "Such a keener!"

 

*

 

I thirsted like a thirsting everything

When there before my drying eyes I spied

A tavern lit with August's Christmas lights

All built of blackened wood and thick bronzed rails

So in I went to feast my soul with everything.

The place was dark and jazzy music played

From whence I never learned but still it came

While in the corner table circular

Eight men were sitting quiet playing cards

Apparently a poker game they played

I reached into my pocket and produced

Two buttons from my tattered denim shirt

I set them down upon the bar and searched

Again my pocket finding there a chit

To mark the iron ore that I'd produced

So worthlessly I laughed insane

Remembering the labours I'd been through

To earn the chit that had no value there

Or anywhere I'd go around the world

And then the barkeep turned to me insane

And asked me What's your pleasure of the house

I said I want the things I want without

A cost to me and he replied You bet

We've got your order ready now you see

Desire is the cheapest thing in house

Your ship's come in, it's all upon the house

 

*

 

Biography of X

 

The boy lived up north and he took to writing. He wrote a radio play when he was fifteen and he won a writing contest. He wrote another play and it was produced. And so he went south, to where the radio stations, and the newfangled television stations, were.

He wrote. He met a girl from a known family and married her.

Her writing got more attention than his.

He decided he needed a spark, so he got into high school theatre. For fifteen years he directed high school plays.

He drank too much and got into trouble. He lied to his wife about a pile of money he had actually stolen from her. And so they divorced.

He found an apartment and later a rooming house in which to live. No was persona non grata.

Finally, he couldn't come up with the rent. He was evicted, and now he's lost to everyone and everything.

Some nights, some person he'd taught at that high school thinks about him, wonders: "Whatever happened to him? Is he still involved? That was long ago."

Once upon a time he'd been a boy, of no concern to anyone except the fates.

 

*

 

"It is meaningful that the only character in the hundred pages of the Mahabharata to be presented as a little kid is ... the god Lord Krishna."

 

"The signifier of old age: The pains that used to go away don't."

 

"Government government government good, liberty liberty liberty bad. Government government government good, liberty liberty liberty bad."

 

"A 17th-century French priest said: 'Consider the moments of genuine happiness in your life as tailor's pins, and you wouldn't have enough to fill your fist.'"

 

"Q: 'The buck stops here.' 'Pass the buck.' What is this 'buck'?

"A: Apparently, bouc émissaire, the fall guy, the scapegoat, the blame-taker, the outcaste."

 

"I don't know what to say."

 

"We're so far away from everyone. Mary was surprised to find Italy in the middle of the Mediterranean."

 

"Dramarama. Good band. Recommended. Something to say! But: a bit pessimistic.

"Next!"

 

"Sometimes I wish my name was D.N. Resuscitate."

 

"It is meaningful that the last volume of the 'Penguin Monarchs' series‑being about Elizabeth II‑is a personal history written by a courtier."

 

"If you're interested, like Casaubon, in the structure of history, check out Zoroastrianism."

 

"John, what are you doing down there?"

"Just feeding the fan. Be up soon."

 

*

 

The King was dying, in all his majesty. His rotten brat kids were rubbing their hands in expectation. They all had big plans, and who cared if they conflicted each with the other? Everything would sort itself out after a war or two.

The King died, and his majesty vanished. His kids bundled up his body and dragged it to the morgue. They were very do-it-yourself.

Next day the funeral was held. It was a shabby affair. No-one had bothered to contract horses, so they made do with six old nags that just happened to be hanging around. The catafalque had been constructed by Kindergarten kids from recycled newsprint papier-mâché. Everyone coöperatively joined in to dig the grave in a last-minute attempt to cover up the fact that noöne had planned very much far ahead.

So the King was dead, and buried. No longer would his rotten brat kids have to suffer under his paternalistic paternalism. To celebrate, they invited jazz musicians to the palace for a party. The jazz musicians brought lots of drugs and were very liberal with them.

The King's ghost wandered around. His kids didn't care in the least. They didn't believe in ghosts or anything.

 

*

 

You've changed.

Why is that thing hanging from that wall?

The wall appears to be a different colour.

Did you change the wall itself?

Those stairs.

Weren't they on the other side of the room?

Upstairs. There's more stairs?

You know why you changed all this.

It's personal.

No-one can prevent you from doing any of this.

Maybe the house will be gone, this time next year.

Your wardrobe isn't the same.

The physical wardrobe, and its contents.

Everything is approaching a new ideal.

Newspaper says more sunshine days this year.

I wonder how you managed that.

You've brought your aunt's paintings from the cellar.

That one is recognizable. Oak tree with swing.

This redecorating must've cost a pretty penny.

Funny what accidents can do.

No matter what you change, you haven't lost it.

I, on the other hand, am like a rock.

I haven't grown. Not a millimetre.

If you remember the dog, he's still named Floyd.

Bed the same, sheets the same, frame the same.

Nancy still lives across the street. She's ageless.

It's miraculous, really.

I haven't bought a single blessed thing since then.

If you came with me, you'd be surprised.

You'd find your own museum.

 

*

 

He thought he was being followed, or following someone. It was night. He was walking somewhere. Someone was walking ahead of him. I suppose I'm following that person, he figured, if I have to be following someone or being followed by someone.

Then he thought: Both could be true. Perhaps there's someone following me, while I am following the person ahead of me, in a triad.

Then he thought: There's two relationships here, and as all relationships occur, they could be hostile, benign, or friendly. Which of these is the person following me? And what are my intentions as to the person I am apparently following?

Then he thought: That makes nine possible situations.

And he thought: On top of that, what are my intentions as to the person who is following me? And what are the intentions of the person I am following, assuming that person knows I am following her? Three and three again, which makes ... eighty-one possible situations.

Incapable of standing the pressure, he chose to stop and adjust his shoe. The person who was following passed him and caught up to the person ahead. A tap on the shoulder: a laugh: a kiss.

I'm cold.

 

*

 

 

The Adventures of Anne and Maddie,

currently incarnated as cats

 

"Hey, Maddie! I figured something out!"

"What is it, Anne?"

"You know this mouse we've been chasing around up and down stairs in one room out the other for two months?"

"And how!"

"It's not a mouse! It's a foamy blue rubber ball!"

"By Krishna, are you serious?"

"Yes! It's just a ball!"

"And we've been chasing it around, like elephants in musst! But wait: how come it moves like it's a mouse?"

"The floor! It's all about the floor! It's uneven, and the ball rolls hither and yon!"

"Well, by the god with the thousand arms, we must be pretty stupid."

"Look: I touch it with my paw, and it's rolling around like a crazy snake!"

"I really want to catch it‑"

"No, control your desires. Watch."

"Must ... catch‑"

"Look! It stopped! It's not alive at all!"

"What's wrong with us? Two months of wasted effort."

"I believe it is Brahma's will that we fruitlessly chase the ball."

"Because we are now cats. Oh, I hope our next lives are on a superior plane."

"Fruitlessly chase balls according to Brahma's will and perhaps we will."

"Yes. As squids."