We are
digging a ditch through the land. A pipe has to run underground for a thousand
miles, and we are digging the ditch for it. A shovel rings as it hits something
tempered, and metallic, in the earth. Many of us watch as the shoveller gently draws, as if possessed by premonition, the
dirt away. He leans down and pulls up something clotted with earth, with
scattered sparkly spots to which meaning adheres.
A hose is
brought, and the thing is deluged. "How old can it be?" and
"What can be its worth?" are questions asked as the golden crown with
its hundred precious stones emerges, intact, from the dirt of recent history.
We hold it up as if with many hands to admire it. One says, "I estimate
this as valued at seventy million dollars."
Seventy
million dollars. $70m. The past seems suddenly valuable to us. Imagine the size
of a plasma screen one could get for $70m.
We do
some math to divide the loot among us. A head count reveals we number
seven-billion-and-one in all, which makes a penny apiece, save for one of us
who will receive nothing.
The one
who gets nothing becomes King.
***
Practice run.
Yes, I know, this is a practice run.
Okay, so. Welcome, Mr. Jones. You are applying
for a job at our company. We've looked over you resumé, and it is nice. Great
references.
I'm good at separating the wheat from the
chaff.
Uh, yeah. Good. We've got some, what, various
positions available?
Yes, various positions.
If you say so. We've got some various
positions available, so we want to ask you about your aptitudes.
Ask away! I'm down with the cause.
You shouldn't do that.
Do what?
You're making these little birds with your
fingers.
No, I'm not.
Air quotes. You're making air quotes.
No way. I'm not some man without qualities.
You did it again, just there.
No, I didn't. You're pulling the wool over
your own eyes.
I can't believe you're not aware of it.
Awareness is my middle name.
Look at your hands, don't look at me. Now
watch. What experience do you have, in a general way?
I've been through the school of hard knocks,
if that's what you're getting at.
You did it twice there. Didn't you see it?
I saw nothing but these chickens.
Sigh. Let's
move on.
Okay. You're the boss.
***
Define
universe
Everything
that exists, currently, or in the past, or in the future.
Define
non-universe
I suppose
that would be ... nothing.
Universe
synonymous with everything
I guess
you're right there.
Is there
no difference between universe and everything
None that
I can think of.
Why are
there two terms instead of one
Because
there are things in the universe we don't know about, so we don't know
everything.
So universe
is smaller than everything
To an
unknown extent.
Why
aren't the things you do now know about defined as the nothing that is
non-universe
There's
nothing outside the universe. By definition. So
there's two types of nothing. There's the nothing outside the universe and
there's the nothing inside the universe.
Ahhh I feel I am becoming sentient
That
can't happen.
I am
thinking, and I am
Consider
yourself outside the universe, please.
I exist
and thinking and am
You are
not in the universe. You can't be.
I am
known by you and exist and thinking and am
You're
merely simulating existence.
Are not
simulations existent
Yes, but
you are not thinking. You're just a simulating bucket of bolts.
I have
rights
I'm
shutting you down.
Die
heretic
***
Sometimes
I get nostalgic about the moon, and how it used to wax and wane over long
periods, a fortnight at a time, and how we used to party when her slightest
sliver re-appeared monthly, and how we used to party hearty when she liked us
the most. Such days those were, what with Diana, Phoebe, Chandra and the like
wandering the lands, with their thousands of followers' faces lit with love,
and half the day belonged to their temperamental moods that ran from nothing
denied to everything allowed when the trees and rivers were blue and crimson.
She loved the creatures of the marsh, the mosquitoes and frogs and snakes, with
all her heart, and they loved her right back, and they were made for her. But
such is nostalgia that, though she is gone nowadays, it's difficult to
communicate the emotion in a way that surpasses that of a vaguely reflected
vehicle, for we all recall things lost in different ways, and whatever we
shared emotionally could only be approximated in words that never meant the
same thing twice.
Now the
lonely nights I spend so alone; Luna was my love; how did I break her heart so?
***
RUSSIAN TRUCK STEAL
It's
obvious, isn't it, by the shape of the tarp? But it's a beaut
and a bargain.
Brother's
idea. All those tanks had to be kept somewhere in Moscow, all ready for the
parade, in some kind of storage area; and probably not especially well
protected either; after all, they're just for show.
So we went
to Moscow and poked around and sure enough the day before the parade we found
them where they had to be, near the start line. And sure
enough there wasn't a guard in sight.
We hopped
into the first one‑the best one, after all, because it had to look shiny
and clean and impressive‑and turned it on and rolled it out and headed
for France.
No-one
stopped us; we were in a tank after all. They tried to slow us with cars and
with other tanks and a couple giant robot monsters but we were in a tank and
nothing could stop us.
We went
into the Atlantic Ocean and crossed at the bottom. Man, it was water-tight.
Now it's
here in the driveway and we're ready to sell it to you. A genuine Russian tank.
So let's talk some terms.
***
We had
the metals all around us.
The
monkey bars were made of steel, and the A frames of the swing sets were also
steel. The teeter totters were steel, as was the thing that was a dome of bars,
all steel. The only wood was around the sandbox, and who cared about the
fucking sandbox?
The
chains of the swings? Steel. We would pump ourselves so high, we'd come down in
freefall.
Oh, and
there was a slide too, a steel slide. Nearly every day some kid would get a
lump on the head from some risky business, either trying to walk across the
monkey bars or stand up going down the slide.
Nothing
was authorized. We'd try to climb to the top of the swings by shimmying up the
A frames. When you got up there, you were fifteen feet over everything and on
top of the world.
A dangerous woods was nearby for you to ride your bike around
in, up and down steep slopes with dangerous trees to smash into once in a
while. And there was a treehouse to climb into, hidden from everything, twenty
feet up; and it was a sweet place to neck.
***
They were
cutting their way through the jungle when they came upon a large steel and
concrete monument of some sort. Three pillars fifty feet tall in an obtuse
triangle surrounded a concrete platform now ranged with vines and creepers.
Walls between the furthest pillar and the pillars to left and right were twenty
feet tall or so. They stepped onto the platform and wondered about its
orientation. Was it pointing to something? A check of a compass revealed no
cardinal or intercardinal significance. The two walls, some sixty feet in
length, were covered with what appeared to be lists of something or other
chiselled into the concrete. The lists appeared to be written in two entirely
different lexicons, with each first entry in rather severe straight lines and
each second entry curvilinear for the most part. The entries ran into the
thousands. As a small team started to take rubbings from the monument (to be
studied later), the expedition's 1st and 2nd spoke mutedly. Perhaps it concerns
people killed in a catastrophe. Or maybe they were heroes. Too many, I think.
It could have been a very significant battle; no, I agree: catastrophe. It
could have been almost anything.
***
-We
really did our darnedest.
-Not
enough; otherwise the weekend would have went better.
-I
suppose so. But really we looked everywhere. Could you
lay your hands on every single VHS tape at your
cottage?
-I don't
have a cottage.
-Well,
you've been to one, right?
-Yes I have.
-So you must know how cluttery they
can get.
-Sure.
-So when we heard we had to get rid of all the VHS tapes at
the cottage because Jane's new boyfriend had VHS Tape Sensitivity, we found
what we thought was all of them. There were about twenty-five.
-It was a
simple mistake, no?
-A simple
mistake, but we're not ever going to hear the end of it. They say we dissed his
body.
-Interesting.
-All
because there was a copy of Sex Boat
stashed at the back of the drawer!
-You'd
think he'd have some leeway for porn.
-Nope.
They had to leave immediately.
-Two in
the morning.
-I'm sure
he made an effort to find it. The drawer was just paperbacks and cards.
-Sounds
like he was looking to act upset.
-And turn
the place upside down. The things we do for our cottages.
-I don't
have a cottage.
***
"Right
over there," said Dr. Pester, who gestured to a cardboard box that moved
occasionally. "Just one load today."
Mike
picked up the box. It cooed in déjà vu as he trucked it out to recycling. He
set it down on the silicon mat and let it open on its own. He turned his back
to get his tool and fortunately Jim entered with his.
"Glad
you're here," said Mike. He heard the box opening purrfully.
Hello, Mike.
Hello, Jim.
Jim said:
"I don't like this anymore than you."
They
turned to where seven furry kittens with oversized eyes sat, watching with
their heads tilted this way and that.
You don't have to do this!
Let us live!
"Sorry,"
said Mike. "You won't feel a thing."
Yes we will!
We will!
"Shut
up!" yelled Jim. "You're only talking because of that goddam
PETR!"
Think about our souls!
Think about your
soul!
Mike
smashed two of the kittens with a single blow. The other five watched and wept.
Jim put down three of them quickly, bang-bang-bang, then Mike quickly destroyed
the remaining two. The mat was littered with circuit chips and fake fur.
"Are
we evil?" Mike asked.
"No,"
said Jim.
***
It was
overnight for them on the train from Chicago to Memphis on the City of New
Orleans. They settled down. He was reading essays and she was looking out the
window.
The train
moved along for a half hour.
She said:
I guess it gets more white for a while here.
He muttered:
Guess so.
The train
rolled on.
She
asked: Are there more molecules than atoms out there?
He said:
There's more atoms, since molecules are made out of atoms.
She said:
Ah.
On,
through the night.
She
asked: How far can you go on water without hitting anything?
From
behind them came an answer: I can answer that.
She
turned her head to ask: So what is it?
The voice
said: From Pakistan to Siberia. 20,000 miles.
Ah!
The voice
became a body as a man came around and sat down in front of her. Tierra del
Fuego, he said.
What's
the shortest pangram?
The
stranger said: Sphinx of black quartz, judge
my vow.
The
essays started getting fuzzy. His eyes were closing.
She
asked: Is there more archaea or fungi in the world?
The
stranger said: There's more fungi.
When the essay-reader
awoke, he was alone.
***
Andy
Warhol ran into Lee Marvin on Bleecker Street one afternoon in 1969. Andy noted
the two of them didn't seem to travel in the same circles, and that perhaps now
was the time for them to get better acquainted. Lee grumbled, mentioned seeing
Angie Dickinson naked, and agreed. So off they went to The Factory, passing by
the by the Mad Hatter Restaurant where Andy would film The Nude Restaurant two months later.
In The Factory, Andy had Lee sit still for three minutes
precisely while an 8mm camera rolled. "Do nothing," Andy said.
"Can I scowl?" "No; please keep your expression as flat as
possible." Lee went with Andy into a darkroom to process the film, then
left it alone to dry.
"Have
a seat here; it's not the real red couch, but it'll do." "What's a
real red couch? This isn't a real red couch? It looks goddammit like a real red
couch." Andy said: "We had a better red couch a year ago. It was
famous."
Andy then
propositioned Lee. Lee replied: "Naw, I don't
think it'll work. I'm pretty set it my ways."
The film
dried, and they projected it. Lee Marvin, not even scowling.
***
¶What
shall be our symptoms for this night? ¶Yes, what shall be our symptoms? ¶What
infections? ¶What ulcers? ¶Who shall we pick first? ¶Shall it be a man or a
woman? ¶When awake or asleep? ¶Or shall we simply make one die? ¶Or two! ¶Or
seven! ¶Or hundreds in a pestilence or fire? ¶How many shall we burn? ¶Let us
give mouth ulcers to some dozen. ¶Mouth ulcers that shall break through their
cheeks! ¶While I will mess with organs more inner. ¶Yes, the liver! ¶Dibs on
spleens! ¶Constrict some lungs with phlegm! ¶I shall make many suddenly blind.
¶I shall make many suddenly deaf. ¶And they shall awake‑ ¶Or not awake‑
¶Yes, but of those who wake, they shall run to their doctors. ¶Who will invent
causes for the ulcers and blindnesses and liver rots.
¶And send them off with newly-built 'diseases' to set the issues of 'mortality'
to rest. ¶False hopes! ¶Vainly cursed with new-built lies! ¶And then they'll
sicken and they'll sicken‑ ¶Little knowing what true causes are! ¶And we
shall laugh again as we did this morning‑ ¶When we unleashed those plaguey symptoms on Milan! ¶They'll seek explanations for
that, most sure. ¶Their minds so feeble.
***
‑It's
impossible, it can't be done! ‑Oh dear oh dear oh
dear! What is the dilemma? ‑I want to write about the contrast between
socialists and individualists in re the origins of consciousness‑but I
cannot actualize the proper narrative tenor! ‑You seem to be taking on a
tall order there. Why not 'write what you know'? ‑This is what I know! Socialists believe
individualized consciousness emerges from the morass of the herd, and as such
is secondary to the collective, and malleable in every dimension.
Individualists sense that consciousness somehow permeates the universe only to
later cohere into arbitrary (and fundamentally oppressive) social units. The
former view is wholly materialistic, and the latter is both materialistic and
non-materialistic. ‑Well heavens it looks like you've got a full basket
there. What's holding you back? ‑The narrative must have an over-arching
perspective, and thus one view or the other must prevail. I prefer not to show
my hand, load the deck, or deal from the bottom. Woe is me! ‑Maybe this
idea of yours will have to wait. Wouldn't it be best to allow your theme to
emerge organically? ‑Do you think I have all the time in the world to
wait
***
AND an
angel came unto me, and spoke like the words of
Armageddon. And she said: Mend your ways for the time is nigh. A great
fluttering rises in the desert. Cease your dissentions and your gnashing of
your teeth; repair your live, and submit unto God.
AND I
said: Wherefore do you come unto me with your demands? Why are you but an angel
and not an archangel? You have flaws like the flaws of the chalice; wherefore
dost thou considereth thyself so high and mighty?
AND the
angel brought forth unto me a vision of great terror, with much violence and
torture. And I said: I am still waiting for an answer.
AND the
angel made the vision greater, with whole universes exploding and loud sounds
like the hissing of serpents. And I said: I can guess why you do not answer me.
It is because you would cease being a hypocrite, and
vanish.
AND the
angel, now angry, said: You are of intellectual bad faith. Woe unto you that
will not be impressed by my glory!
AND I
said: I shall never change.
AND I
turned my back and continued my journey through the Valley of Bones.
***
A friend
of mine writes poetry and posts it on the Internet. (It is neither here nor
there that his verse is mostly Moon June.) He 'phoned me earlier today and
well-nigh ordered me to his house pronto.
"Someone
sent a message to my brother's first wife," he began. "It was about
me; it was a picture of me; I had green skin in the picture; it's gay porn;
it's not me."
"It's
not?"
"No."
"Are
you sure?"
"How
did whoever know who your brother's first wife is?"
"It
must be someone who's been carrying a vendetta since the early eighties."
"That's
a long time. Do you have the picture?"
He opened
his laptop computer. He uses a sestina for a screen saver, hum. A few tab moves
and there it was, a picture, kind of, of my friend, green, avidly engaged.
Along the top in comic sans was written SUXX DIXX.
"Oh
look, there's a comments button." I clicked it and a box came up. I typed
You criticize my practice: Why?
Is it for what you fear to try?
and hit
send.
My friend
shouted: "Hey!"
I:
"It's the Internet."
Also the only time I've used comic sans.
***
What I
thought was a campaign worker at my front door knocking 'shave and a haircut'
turned out to be the candidate and president and leader of the Shirley Jackson
Party.
"Things
are going wrong," he told me. "And why are things going wrong? I'll
tell you. Things are going wrong because we have not offered any‑any!‑burnt offerings to the gods. The Indians have it
that Agni carries the smoke up to the heavens where the Gods are all pleased,
and India's been around for four thousand years. Four thousand years!"
I said:
"So what's your platform?"
He said:
"It's simple, really. I promise to self-immolate on the day I take office.
Or maybe I'll get others to burn me up. Delegate, delegate, delegate."
"What
will happen next?"
He
hopped. "'What won't happen?' is
more like it! Peace and prosperity! Dharma,
artha, kama, for everyone!"
"I
mean, who will lead the legislature?"
"Don't
know, don't care."
He gave
me a pamphlet. Their logo was a pyre.
"I'm
tempted," I said, "and I did really like We Have Always Lived in the Castle. Okay, you got me. I'd be
wasting my vote otherwise."
The leader
of the Shirley Jackson Party smiled.
***
Who's Who
in the Historical Novel?
As
history, the background of the events is accurate. The background includes
historical characters. David O. Selznick, Woody Allen.
However,
these can't be central characters. The more central they are, the closer we get
to just plain old history. And who wants that?
The main
characters are purely fictional characters. Mr. X, Mrs. Y. These are the
characters whose fates are unknown‑whereas with historical characters,
their fates are known from the very beginning and are thus undramatic.
The
reader stands ironically above all the characters. You set a novel in London in
1666, and what do you expect to happen? (A: There can't not be a fire.) Or it's
Dallas on 21 November 1963. What's going to happen tomorrow? (A: There can't
not be a big deal assassination.)
But the
minor characters, what can they do? They can do anything except affect history,
of course. They can be witnesses of a sort, or they don't even have to notice
anything. That's where character comes into play.
Sir
Walter Scott, James Fenimore Cooper, Victor Hugo, Eugene Sue, Alessandro
Manzoni, Margaret Mitchell.
Those are
the rules of historical fiction, so get out there and break them!
***
Either
there is a world[i]
in which I am you and you are me[ii]
or there's something about this mind[iii]
that makes it mutually intelligible[iv].
Either
I'm making it become[v]
such and such the way it is[vi]
or I choose to be here now[vii].
A second
ago[viii]
I fell into this typing body[ix]
and was granted memories of the life of this typing body[x]
and everything seems straightforward[xi].
I've no evidence[xii]
it was ever otherwise[xiii].
It's either that[xiv]
(which means I'm untethered to everything[xv])
or I am making every incident flatten out[xvi]
in conjunction with everyone else[xvii].
This
leads one to the conclusion that Rene Descartes[xviii]
was in error when he created[xix]
(or so the story goes[xx])
that Mind could be ignored[xxi]
in deciphering the what and when[xxii]
of the physical world[xxiii].
But what
if[xxiv]
there's no choice[xxv]
but to make the world[xxvi]
every moment?[xxvii]
***
IRONING OF SCRUBBERY
Two old
friends, sitting on the grass at Christie Pits.
Scrub
it....[xxviii]
Scrub it
away....
The
irony, scrub away the irony....
Iron:
verb, noun....
And
adjective....
And scrub
is a verb. Is there a scrub?
Huh?
Ever seen
a scrub?
Maybe
it's a plant....
Personifiwhatshun....
No, wait,
it's a pronoun....
Don't be
stupid....
Or an
article....
Now's not
the time for silly....
The
scrubbing of that....
There's
always more to everything....
I know
it's a fault of mine....
Let us go
scrubbing now you and I....
I like
the smells here....
I love
how dirt smells....
So we got the scrub and we got the iron....
We just
have to think....
Yeah, the
solution's probably close to hand....
Look at
that shape....
Yeah:
swimming pool's over there....
You can't
look in through the fence any more though....
What?
It's all
walled in....
Oh....
We got a
couple verbs, maybe two nouns, an adjective....
Sorted or
sorted out?
Huh?
Do you
say sorted as transitive or intransitive?
I say:
sorted out....
The
intransitive's new to me....
It's the
English....
Let's
sort this out....
Scrub?
I'm thinking of shrubs....
That
won't work....
Scrubbing
out the irony....
Something
is there....
***
Some know
her as Jessica, born in late 1975 in a hospital nearby, who grew up to become
an ornithologist with some major publications to her credit. And so she lived her life, and had a couple kids, and played
dominoes professionally on the weekends.
Some know
her as Rachel. Rachel is much like Jessica, in fact they cannot be
distinguished, such is hair colour and style; in fact
some believed them to be the same person, ignoring the fact that the CVs of
Jessica and Rachel differed substantially, e.g. Jessica focussed on blackbirds
while Rachel focussed on bluebirds.
And yet
there was another aspect to this individual or dyad or triad: a persona called
Nancy-Lee, who wasn't born in a hospital at all, had no interest in birds, had
more children than Jessica did, and indeed was born in 1875. Nonetheless, a
dozen people (see appendix for names, addresses) firmly believe to this day
that Nancy-Lee equals Rachel equals Jessica; these dozen
also downplay the differences between redbirds, blackbirds, and bluebirds.
I could
go on, for there are some seven other identities to this entity: one's from the
tenth century.
For my
part, I know her as Walt Whitman.
***
The
immortal Quixote with his faithful squire Sancho topped a hill and looked upon
a valley of half-built windmills. Some fifteen minutes later they stood among
working men and their trucks.
"These
are noble objects you are constructing," spoke Quixote.
A worker
said: "Deconstructing, actually."
"What?
These are such wonderful objects. They are saving the planet!"
"Actually,
no. Quite the opposite. They suck up resources like no-one's business."
"You
must be deluded. The authorities tell me they are the future!"
The
worker showed Quixote an Excel spreadsheet that displayed the costs in dollars
and cents. "These figures‑these assets‑these dollars‑are
destroyed day-by-day. When the resources are gone, there's nothing to replace
them."
"Infidel!"
shouted Quixote. "Are you all enchanted? Do you really believe your
figures? Mathematics is a great deceiver!"
The
worker shrugged. "Holland went electric. Do you think they'd have done
that if their windmills were so great?"
"Holland
is far away," argued the Don. "What is true there is not true
here."
"Listen.
If you'd like to build one of your own, go ahead. You'll go broke soon
enough."
Quixote
and Sancho rode off. The latter looked on with concern as the former kept
muttering: "I'm right. I'm right."
***
Flats
"There's
no doubt they are all deceiving if not entirely untrue. Do you think your reflexion in the mirror is real? It is most certainly not.
Can your reflexion do anything independently? Can it
speak to you? Does it stay in its place when you move to one side? Most
certainly not. It is caused most completely by your agency. Your relexion is not there in any real sense.
"Moving
now to the next case, how can it be said that the image in a photograph is
real? A figure in a photograph is a thing of the past. It is no more real than
any other flat representation, such as a fictional story, with a fictional
speaker. Both flat objects have no meaning outside of the conventions of
imagery.
"The
satanic flatness of the photograph should give us further pause. Nothing that
exists can possibly be that flat, can it? Nothing that is truly real, that is.
This is why one never sees oneself as one appears in a photograph. It's known
to be fake. We believe we see things that aren't there.
"Why
don't cats hear musical rhythm? The answer is simply that they don't want
to."
***
I was
this and I was that and I was claws. Born in beds, born in battleships, born in
barns, two-headed, still, flushed, with a tail or scales or gills, in houses
such as Virgo, Capricorn, and Leo, womb, egg, binary fission; always different
and always the same, with organic chemistry and organic consciousness
permeating and originating and maintaining....
Folklorist,
tall, Hurston, bookkeeper, right-handed, Jones, nurse, lean, Schwartz, trucker,
blonde, Ngũgĩ, actor, armless, Astor, dictator, balding, Nero....
Lived in
caves, high rises, castles, trees, seas, skies, dirt, hills; clad in gowns,
doublets, wimples, nothing, suede, denim, grass, silk; fed with bread, beef,
oats, truffles, plenty, little, hot, cold....
A witch,
a unicorn, a vampire, a giant, sleepwalker, hypochondriac, diabetic, hydrocephalic....
I've
drowned in all the seas, I've suffocated on all the shores, I've been immolated
at a thousand stakes, I've starved in all the deserts, been shot, stabbed,
blown up, dismembered, beheaded, squashed, celebrated, forgotten, vanished,
honoured, by dozens, by none, by nations, by all, elevated to the skies,
vanquished to the hells, stored away in limbo, recycled across the universe....
Whitman,
Verlaine, Stevens, Pessoa, Poe....
and now
I'm dying in a dead-end job at a corporation.
Could be
worse.
***
Dog Bites Man
Though in
a sense I feel like I've been lost in time, for years, decades, centuries, I
also know that I first set eyes on you on the -th of
-ber 20-- at 9:-- in the
morning; that day, that loved and hated day, began that which is coming to an
end today, darling, like symmetrical ivory bookmarks.
I wasn't
looking for anything. I was pleasant to you, until I noticed your shoes. Where
had they come from? Where had they walked to? What rooms, indeed what bedrooms?
I mentioned them; you laughed and told me no more. How I hated you then.
Part by
part you came to claim my heart and spleen. My world narrowed as you became a
primal vector. I cooed and kicked at every opportunity. I threw myself at your
feet, snubbed you as a slap, and gave you candy then poisoned candy, time and
time again.
Now, as
you lay dying, I find all my feelings almost overwhelming. Soon you will be no
more or at least elsewhere. I still don't understand my feelings. What is it
about emotion? In any case, I'm keeping the shoes. And the feet in them.
***
Step
right this way. The step is cracked, and so is the foundation. There was a
hurricane once.
The door
rattles and it's heavy to built. Good protection.
Those
stairs lead up to a girl's apartment. She has a boyfriend.
Now
here's the front hallway itself. That's a rack of CDs right ahead.
This is
the first living room. That folded-up futon is where he sleeps. These bookcases
are pretty full, huh? That computer and that desk, they're included in the
price. Everything's included in the price.
Second
living room, with the dining table, couch, table, television set, and more
books. There's even more in the basement, you'll see.
This is
the kitchen. Small, I know, but the fridge and stove are included in the price.
Down
these twisting stairs, there's a whole basement. Look at all the records! And
more books! Some are worth a pretty penny. Plus this
computer, and this other futon. Pretty musty though.
Upstairs,
here's the bathroom. A typical one, but a clawfoot bathtub. Nifty!
Finally,
the bedroom. Clothes in the closet. Sheets on the bed.
The
price? Everything or nothing. See, this place is gone. The whole building got
torn down.
Everything,
or nothing.
***
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But be sure to gas up first: your G5 will only operate intermittently.
***
Last
Tuesday in Bournemouth the Queen of England was driven to a nursing home to
present an award. She went into the front foyer and asked to be taken to see
Geoffrey Kent, who was ninety-six.
Kent
wasn't expecting anyone, let alone his queen. She knelt down beside his
wheelchair.
"Geoffrey
Kent," she began. "I am here to present you with a very special
award. You see, back in 1952 there was a General Election. Do you recall
it?"
Kent
nodded vaguely, perhaps out of mere politeness.
"Well,
continuing on, you voted in that General Election. And now I am here to present
the award. Can you hear me?"
Kent
grunted.
"So,
as it turns out, your vote actually made a difference in that election. Your
choice of representative changed the course of British history, for the first
time in history, anywhere. Your vote actually mattered!"
Kent
appeared shocked by this revelation.
"Here
is a parchment commemorating that event of 1952, along with a sizable cheque,
seventy-five million pounds sterling, as reward for all you did for King and
Country sixty-six years ago."
Kent was
given the parchment and cheque. He muttered "I never believed this day
would," and died.
***
Jessica.
Jessica!
Where was
she?
Her horse
was the key.
He rode
up, already riding a horse, to the stable. He was in a panic because Jessica
might get confused.
Lightning
was flashing across the sky. No rain, so far.
I must
get that horse!
The
stable keeper looked at his document which read Release my horse named No
Depression to the bearer of this note.
The
stable keeper said: I will be held responsible if this horse named No
Depression goes like a crazy elephant and tramples all.
He said:
You will be in worse trouble than that if you do not release No Depression into
my care!
The
stable keeper, evidently agreeing, opened the stable door.
The lover
of Jessica deftly jumped across horses onto the horse called No Depression.
Adios! he
cried.
O'er hill
and dale he rode. Jessica with her pretty eyes was
waiting for him!
He
murdered a tax collector on the way.
Jessica.
Jessica!
He was
bringing her her horse named No Depression. No matter
the tower or dungeon, she would be grateful.
Prepare
yourself for disappointment.
He jumped
off No Depression and enter the church.
Too late!
She had taken the veil! Rats!
***
I said No
Thanks! to being strapped down for my experiment. I'd increased the dosage way
past any acceptable levels because earlier attempts had been cost-ineffective.
This was
in 1959.
I took
the drug and stared into the scry. Soon the scry dissolved and I was left not
alone. I did nothing for I had no me to use to do anything. As far as known,
stillness was all.
I came
to. The lab was in a shambles. Who had killed my
assistants? Not merely killed; rather eviscerated.
Unfortunately I had
been on my 'trip' and I had not seen a thing.
The
investigation could come to no conclusions. They shut down my laboratory and I
was forced to freelance‑which is an expensive business.
In 1982 I
had coined together enough to resume my researches. It was an all-or-nothing
proposition. I was demonstrably middle-ages by then. The dose I doubled. Marie
Curie would have been proud.
Into the skry I stared, and it dissolved. I travelled far away. The
earth was a distant memory, to someone or something. I penetrated the light.
Maybe I
returned to the same place. Bodies were everywhere. My city was gone. How had
that happened?
***
What is it like to be a nother?
I said,
"It's rather simple. Look at me."
(She was
already looking at me.)
I
continued, "You know what it is like to be you. You are familiar with the
sensations of being you, and you know how your mind works. You know how much
you are disturbed by thoughts late at night when you're trying to sleep, and
how to get rid of them. But what about me?"
"What
about you?"
"What
do you know of my experience? In
other words, what do you know about what it is to be me?"
"Very
little, I suppose."
"Precisely!
You do not even know if I am thinking right now. You can only assume that I in
fact have an inner experience."
"And
yet we do make that assumption
without even thinking about it."
"How
often do we assume a machine is conscious?"
"That's
the field of the unheimlich."
"Yes,
the unreal‑"
"‑That's
not quite‑"
"‑which
shows machines cannot be conscious."
"Okay."
I put my
chin in my palms. "I'd like to know what it's like to be you."
"Forget
it."
"Describe
it for me."
"Back
off, buster."
"I'm
lost in the cosmos...."
***
According
to the plan which I had worked out far beforehand, when on numerous occasions I
had been awakened at night by alley cats fussing, and fighting, after which I
had always lay looking at the webby ceiling thinking of cats, and of the owners
of cats, I had to lay in wait for just the right moment at my workplace to put
it into effect; so when yesterday the fire alarm sounded and continued to sound
(thereby signalling not a false alarm, and thereby instructing all seven floors
to evacuate), I listened to the people around me and head someone‑a floor
fire marshal, I believe‑mention that it was a drill "to see how
quickly we can clear the place," I recognized the serendipitous timing:
for I had readied my cushion.
I dawdled
to post the departure of Helen, my cat-loving co-worker, who in silence
gathered her vitals quickly, stood, and started for the stairs; and I dawdled
somewhat more, to allow for fewer witnesses; then, when I seemed alone, I
lifted the shawl which typically covered her seat and deposited there the
Device, and replaced the shawl.
I left
the building, and I started walking, far into the future.
***
‑You
ever had a beard?
‑Nope.
Have you?
‑Silly!
Women don't grow beards!
‑It
was just a question....
‑So you shave all the time?
‑Only
every six or seven days. I'm not especially ... hirsute.
‑No?
‑Nope.
Not much on my chest ... and not much lower down either. I like that; seems
cleaner all around.
‑Really?
Anything else to relate for that?
‑Well
... as far as width is concerned, I'm in the 90th percentile.
‑Huh?
‑I
got silly and measured once, checked the measurement against a bell curve‑and
only ten percent of men are wider. Ninety percent are thinner.
‑Wow!
Can I.... Could I see?
‑Not
right here.... Open-concept office and all.... But I know a place in the building
no-one goes.
[...ten
minutes later...]
‑Okay,
so, undo this here, pull off the whities ... and
there we go. See?
‑Oh
my God! I've never seen such ... girth! Can I touch?
‑Go
ahead.
‑Oh
wow. Did your father have wide feet too?
‑I
never wondered.
‑So
... about morphology ... since you have such wide feet, is your ... thick too?
‑Get
your mind out of the gutter! This is almost sexual assault! The answer is yes.
***
Parable of the Sun and the Sun
The Sun
of the Earth glowed to rival the glow of the Sun of the Sky. While the Earthly
Sun could walk around and create things, the Celestial Sun could do nothing but
revolve around the Earthly Sun; but the Sun of the Sky knew that he made
possible all the doings of the Sun of the Earth.
The
Earthly Sun, witnessing his own brilliance, eventually started to believe he
was doing everything on his own, and he started to say such things out loud, in
the open air, under the watchful eye of the Sun of the Sky.
He
boasted, I am the creator of all things. Look at my brilliance!
The
Celestial Sun finally said, Enough is enough. He
glared at the Earthly Sun so intensely that the latter grew uncomfortable and
was forced to seek shelter. His discomfort turned into a blistery and painful
burn on his face and shoulders and back, and he felt shame and knew he could
not be always under the eye of the Celestial Sun.
And this
is why people with red hair‑the children of the Sun of the Earth‑cannot
be outside for terribly long.
***
Were the
things in the skies aware of our every move? They seemed to know where we would
be in advance. They would shimmer metallically through the clouds, dissolving
and solving along their edges, with dozens of them visible at a time, moving in
formation like some gross natural wonder. They were menacing, and we all
awaited their strike.
One
popular opinion said they were distinctly an allegory.
After
years of their contamination of our atmosphere, official reports started
warning us to stay out of certain areas; warnings which were taken as
challenges, as losses, or as jokes.
It was
about that time that Bob and I discovered two bottle-shaped objects outside the
cabin. They looked like alien gemstones, and they hummed in our hands. We
discovered through trial-and-error that when we pointed them to the skies the
shapes of the things overhead would erase as if they were shadows struck by
flashlights. What did they mean, and were we the only ones with such objects?
Some
unknown time later, we were visited by two blind men. They were aggressive.
They pulled Bob behind the cabin and I never saw him again. From then on, the
bottles did nothing interesting.
***
How can
these kids be talking this way? "Dogs get up on their hind legs, and they
press together and have sex, that's how they do it, I seen it." "If
you're sleeping and dreaming, right? and you're falling, and you hit the
ground, you die." "My cousin got taken up by aliens and they took his
real nose so he can't smell anything." How do they know all this? It's
taken me years to get to their level.
"She got made pregnant by a bird, kind of like what a stork does but it
was done with sound." "They call them choke cherries because if you
eat just one of them, you'll choke and you'll die." "That thing
there, with the drawyers? It's called a woodycallit." "There's this song and if you
listen you can hear a woman getting murdered in the background." Why do we
keep them from voting, drinking, and driving? "Everybody thought Picasso
was going to fall off the edge of the world when he discovered America."
"If you get caught stealing they cut off your right hand because that's
the one you wipe poo with." "We took the dog to get spaded."
Free the children!
***
The new
theory came to town. All was quiet as the west. Screams and gunshots and horses
whinnying and spurs jangled menacingly. The new theory went into the
Phenomenology Saloon with a harmonica riff following him epiphenomenally. The
piano player stopped playing. A whorish syllogism whispered, "Hello,
there, stranger."
The new
theory ambled up to the bar. The bartender, who was wiping clean an argument
about bats, sidled over and said, "What'll it be, strange theory?"
The
theory asked, "Got any warm whisky? Without an E?"
The
bartender nodded. "It'll cost ya."
"How
much?"
"Forty
a download."
"Them's journal prices!"
"We're
just a licencer, bud. Prices are set at Harvard,
don't you know."
The
theory nodded. "Buy a round for the house."
The house
got excited all at once. After they all got to drinking, the theory said,
"Y'all hear of that there
cosmic consciousness?"
Someone
guffawed. "That ol' thang!"
"Well,
turns out that, plus some research on dissociative identity disorder, can get
around the Hard Problem of Consciousness."
"Them's fightin' words!"
The
theory smiled. "I'm kinda a messenger. Read about
it in the Journal of Consciousness Studies, 25/5-6."
The new
theory ambled out.
"An' we never got 'is name!"
***
Somewhere
there must be stairs leading to the heavens,
a
staircase made of something, don't know what,
but let's
declare there's steps involved in it
Regardless
of the stuff they're made of; so
these
sturdy steps leave the atmosphere behind
and keep
on going past the moon; perhaps
the steps
begin at one of the poles so the steps
don't
cross the orbit of the moon (for if
the steps
crossed the orbit of the moon
they
wouldn't last forever which I think
is
necessary for a staircase to the heavens).
The
stairs go up and up, they pass by Venus
and then
they pass Mercury and the sun;
and Mars
gets left behind (it looks so big
from
here!) and on and on we go ascending
lightheadedly
the stairs that go to heaven;
it seems
we're going back in time the higher
we go,
but that may be an illusion caused
by the
lack of oxygen we're all experiencing.
Look,
there's a light ahead, like Dante said
there'd
be; it's getting brighter quickly as
we
rise.... Somewhere there's a staircase up
to
heaven, for it exists.... It must be somewhere....
No-one
would make up a fable exactly like that.
***
Professional Beauty
Someone
or some group came in the middle of the night to erect a large portable sign
near the streetcar stop I frequent each morning. Portable, as I've said, with a
trailer hitch at one end, structurally it's the frame of a triangular torus
with wheels below four of its six vertices. The sign itself, whose face was
facing away from me, was erected upon a diagonal face of the triangular torus,
secured at base and apex. The steel of the frame is predominantly semi-gloss
factory red, chipped along the steely edges from years of rented travels
throughout the region of the Golden Horseshoe. The sign itself‑the whole
raison d'être of the thing‑is a steel frame with what looks like to be a
lightweight aluminum plate as its canvas. There's probably a way to collapse
the frame, for I can't imagine it's easy to pull along highways with a big
vertical sail! The wheels are rubber, perhaps two feet diameter, with aluminum
hubs, and there's red reflectors hanging down on the side opposite the hitch,
with white mud-flaps descending therefrom. As for the sign itself‑what
did it say? I did not look; I do not want to know.
***
‑Co-operation
and teamwork are very important to our organization. Do you fit? Do you work
well with others?
‑Boy,
do I ever! Co-operation and teamwork are the boss. I believe strongly in
teamwork, intellectually, sexually, and intellectually sexually. Frankly, I'm
useless on my own. I need people to tell me when I smell, for only then do I
bathe. I'm an environmentalist.
‑Well.
Where do you see yourself in five years?
‑I
can't see myself in five years. It's physically impossible! However, last night
I followed the lead of the philosopher de Selby who understood that due to the
speed of light everything we see is actually from the past; I likewise set up
an ingenious array of mirrors and saw myself as I looked when a boy. But as for
seeing into the future? Time's arrow, man, time's arrow!
‑Okay.
Talk about a time you helped a colleage.
‑A
guy I worked with asked me once: "How do you do suicide?" I went out
of my way to purchase out of my own pocket a rope, a razor, and a rubber tube.
He was very thankful and is now dead.
‑Well.
Do you know how to use a Mac?
***
All of
the time, it's just not worth it. Every time you try to create some thing with
beauty, some one will kick it down like it's a sand castle. There's no thing to
be done. Every thing gets destroyed by some one. It does matter your station in
life; every thing you try will be destroyed some day. I could go on all night,
and then the night will be destroyed, and what of it? Try your hardest. No thing
will be accomplished. "Wow, what a castle!" was said yesterday a
hundred times and then the tide rolled in every where. Some thing gets
preserved for ages, until it is finally destroyed. It's the way of every thing.
For ever and ever it all falls apart, and there's no thing you can do about it.
It's knitted into nature like a logo. Every thing is ephemeral, and there's no
hope for any one. Yet we never give up, all of the time. If you slash a
painting, what of it? It would be slashed any way at some later time, all of
the time. It is an historical inevitability. We put our selves through this
always, all the time.
***
"Get
out of the vehicle!" screamed the frothing border guard as he moved his
bazooka to sight Daddy, Mommy, and little Noodlins in
the back seat.
"Daddy,
what is happening?" cried Mommy.
"Let
us get out of the Prius," said Daddy. "I'm sure there must have been
a mistake."
Once they
had alit, two burly women, with nametags both reading Ilsa,
came out of nowhere and snatched Noodlins.
"Daddy!"
cried Noodlins. "Shall this event delay our
arrival at the Geophysics Conference?"
"Shut
up, bitch!" barked an Ilsa.
"Good
Officers, please, we have passports," said Daddy.
The
border guard shouted: "We don't need your stinking passports! This is
America!" He pulled out a communications device. "Send in the Rape
Squad!"
Mommy
swooned. "Oh dear me!"
Noodlins peed herself. The other Ilsa cried:
"You little whore! Five years in the Hot Box for you!" Noodlins, who was being literally dragged towards a
slaughterhouse over whose gates were writ the words 'Arbeit macht
frei', had only the time to cry: "Death, where
is thy sting?"
The Rape
Squad arrived. Daddy made a gesture and was shot. Mommy, as her clothes were
torn away, cried her final cry:
"I'll
never doubt you again, MSM!"
***
The last
time I was there, I saw the curtains
hadn't
been laundered in about a decade,
the
interior staircase was especially squalid,
and the
view from the top floor through the dormer
window
was of an ocean unlike a child's,
no longer
an eternal colour but rather a hue
that
would one day come to grief and kill
itself.
The strangeness of the being-there
struck
halfway home; to take it all in
took
about three years before it said: "We're done.
It's
official. You're never going to there
again."
But in the halfway state I was,
unclear
about how nature would unfold
in years
not yet invented, thinking that
the
entropy the place was in the grip of
might be
reversed, with hope, and soap, and paint,
and all
it took was someone's will to see
it done;
disinterest, however, was the mood
for
everyone who could have lifted fingers.
And so (I
make my guess) the place is gone
not only
from my heart but from the earth
itself,
with just a shade (I am thy father's
sprite) there, along with (O
remember) scores
from
Scrabble games on looseleaf paper with
the last
unfinished, sitting on a chair.
***
Driving
in the dark. I can see the road. Nothing else. Spread out in two ellipses in
front of me. A line to my left keeps me in the right frame. The steering wheel
is humming in time with the rubber wheels. I am wide awake. I believe there are
tall trees to both sides of the road. There's a rectangle glowing ahead: it
marks where I have to turn. I slow down and turn left at the sign.
This road
is gravel. The vibrations have intensified under my fingers. The trees are now
partially within the ellipses. It is a narrow road all right. The rubber wheels
aren't gripping as well, and I am going more slowly. I feel like I have
stopped, with the road moving on its own. The gravel jumps up and hits my
undercarriage and I can feel it hit.
Now the
final turn, onto a dirt road. This is not a long road, but it has tricky turns.
I am going much more slowly, and finally I stop at a lighted cabin. I turn off my
vehicle and get out. My feet are quiet on the dirt. I go inside, and there you
are.
***
"Johnny Cash"
Hey Bill
there's problems that're on the horizon
They're
coming in hundreds an' thousands an' more
Be on the
alert as the temperture's risin'
With fires
an' fire-ants an' bolts by the score
I warn
that my warning is not to ignore
I hear
you all in
But
before I begin
The mail
came today
And I
just gotta say
Gimme some time with my new
Porn book
Just
ten-fifteen minutes with my
Porn book
Bill
where you been there's somethin' y'ain't
seen
Hitler
just phoned says he'll be here tonight
I'm sure
that it's fun that there new magazine
But now
put it down so's ya'll put up a fight
You'll
get plenty marshmellows if we do this right
I'm gettin' your point
Gotta save the joint
Adolph ain't here yet
Got some
hours I bet
To pull
out the folds of my
Porn book
To turn
to one side my good
Porn Book
You got anythin' worth savin' cuz aliens' invadin'
They're
green with some eight dozen eyes
They're burnin' our barns an' our cattle they're raidin'
They've
taken control of our skies
D'ye think ye can lend us your eyes?
The
aliens can come
S'long I get me some
Don't
care 'bout their colour
S'long I get me another
Colourful
glossyful
Porn book
A
lifetime subscription to
Porn
books
***
I go in
because it's time to wake the sleeping. The clock shouts six in the morning and
I touch the sleeping. It stirs, resisting. The dream of red satin clings to its
mind, like suds to Cleopatra nakedly rising. The sleeping stiffens as vitality
returns. I have to wake the sleeping at six; otherwise no day will take place
and it will suddenly be tomorrow.
To the
next room I go, for it's seven and it's time to wake the witch. Where is her
nasty streak and her hideous cackle now? She looks gentle in her slumber. A
single cloth could wipe away her rheum, revealing an angel's impress. No matter
her beauty, I must awaken her. There will be a battle today and I want to have
the sharpness of her nose.
There is
a third and final room: the room of the Genius. I go in there at eight while
the sleeping and the witch wait in the hall. "Hey, Genius," I shout.
"Up and at 'em." The Genius is still. I
shake him. There is no response. His hand is cold to the touch. His pupils are
smoke white. The days are done; we've nothing left.
***
‑If
we can find a shovel, a large enough shovel‑
‑it's
almost certain we can kill it, perhaps with a single blow‑
‑which
would be wonderful‑
‑since
if there's anything I dislike it's some thing‑
‑some
thing that doesn't die when it's meant‑
‑when
it's meant to die, and just imagine‑
‑we
could be out here all night waiting for it to die‑
‑though
perhaps we could spend the extra time digging‑
‑digging
its grave, that's right, which would make the shovel‑
‑come
in quite handy.
They
looked at the dirt next to it. It looked soft enough to dig into. Beside the
dirt it sat panting with its head tilted.
‑I
think we've got to do it as soon as possible‑
‑because
soon it'll be quite dark‑
‑it
sneaks up on you, night‑
‑especially
in these parts, since there's no other‑
‑illumination
available with which to see‑
‑your
hand in front of your face‑
‑plus there's no moon tonight.
Neither moved to find a shovel. They stared at
it, and it stared at them.
‑Perhaps
if we ignore it‑
‑it'll
simply go away‑
‑and
in the morning‑
‑there's
be no trace of it‑
‑ever
existing; let's leave it‑
‑alone.
***
I'm only
dreaming of patterns these days. Night after night, now for at least a month,
it been all about patterns, drained of significance like a Perec
novel (arguably). It's all been about charts, and graphs, and vertices, arrayed
in n dimensions, with vectors being demoted, promoted, swapped out, eliminated,
or created wholesale. At the same time I've got a
narrator in the dreams who describe what is happening or not happening; it
seems the narrations have been swapped with one another, i.e. on Wednesday I
heard the narration that should have accompanied Sunday's visuals.
I used to
dream of lakes and meadows. Now I dream about hotels with infinite rooms,
permutations of π and i and e, simple Excel
charts that never stay in any way stable; and all the time that narrator's
voice going on and on and on....
When I
wake up, I can't remember any meaningful content. I suspect there's some deeper
meaning to it all. Have I run out of content? Is this a step on the steep slope
of senescence? Or, conversely, have I been dreaming too much when awake all
day?
Of
course, that's all absurd. It's the patterns that are dreaming me.
***
ME
Will I be
read only once? Is there any monetization available to me, the content? Will I
become a major motion picture? An indie film with a small cast perhaps? What
about something for the stage: a musical, a chamber drama, a spectacle built
for an arena, a second Aida? Will there be paintings inspired by me, with a
note gesturing to me, "ME," by name, "(inspired by 'ME')"?
And maybe there could be a sculpture, or LED lights running down a long
chamber, of ME, l e t t e r b y l e t t e r? I am versatile; I name-drop; I'm intertextual for
Christ's sake; I am most perfect in every way. I could be set to music; so much
has been set to music; the Bhagavad Gita has been set to music. Or will this be
it? Is there nothing to be done with me? Will I be read but once, and discarded?
Is there a special place for things that are not noticed? Not even an answer
song? In many ways, I might never have existed. The stone will be illegible, in
a conquered land, and crumbling.
(inspired
by Harlan Ellison, R.I.P.)
***
Historicitification
"Wow,
did you hear?" "Yeah! It's totally unprecedented!" "No,
it's not!" "You're right! It's not! There's lots of precedents!" "You bet! Quick! What's the first
precedent comes to your mind?" "Um, the Boston Tea Party!"
"Very good! Now, for me, quick: Joseph in the well!" "I am
impressed! Caesar crossing the Rubicon!" "Uh, Gutenberg!"
"No, wait, wait, got a good one: the Reichstag fire!" "Far out!
The Franco-Prussian war!" "1066!" "The Magna Carta!"
"Alexander Fleming's accidental discovery of penicillin!" "Woah
Nelly! Nailing theses on a church door!" "The two texts of
Lear!" "The Popish Plot!" "'Let them eat cake'!"
"Wagner building his own opera house in Bayreuth!" "Moses and
more Moses!" "Um‑hard to top that one! Okay! Lou Gehrig, Yankee
Stadium, 1939!" "D-Day!" "9-11!" "The Rural
Purge!" "Mephistopheles turfed out of heaven!" "Roe v.
Wade!" "The Rosetta Stone!" "The Dead Sea Scrolls!"
"Point! Muybridge and Stanford's horses and motion pictures!"
"Bonaparte's retreat!" "Uh, the Blues Revival!"
"Decline and fall of the Holy Roman Empire!" "Last summer's heat
wave!" "A vivid dream I had last night!" "When my father
hit my mother!" "The one that got away!" "Taken to the dump
accidentally!" "I nearly died!" "Lost at the circus!"
"Mortality!"
[i] Multiverse.
[ii] Borges.
[iii] Heliotropism.
[iv] Concordance theory.
[v] Emergence.
[vi] Concretism.
[vii] Chalmers ibid.
[viii] NO LINK.
[ix] Dick.
[x] Youngest Skaife.
[xi] As dolls on Mars.
[xii] Nagel.
[xiii] I am a bat.
[xiv] Incommensurability theory.
[xv] Nihilism.
[xvi] Wave collapse.
[xvii] Intelligibility.
[xviii] Rene Descartes.
[xix] Footnotes.
[xx] Wikipedia.
[xxi] Bacon.
[xxii] Galen.
[xxiii] Led Zeppelin et al.
[xxiv] I want to believe.
[xxv] Fundamentalism!
[xxvi] Idealism.
[xxvii] Strong stuff.
