The Nerve
During a
routine dental operation, the dentist said to me: "Look. This is part of
the nerve that was inside your rotting tooth."
I opened
my eyes, expecting to be looking through some mirrors into my mouth.
"Where, what?"
She
said: "It's hanging off the scalpel."
I saw
the nerve there, hanging off the scalpel. It was a lumpy strand, seven
millimetres all told, red with blood, as frail-looking as a strand of silk.
"That's
it?" I cried. "That's it?
Not a solid bar of steel to shine its way straight into my mind? Not a leather
strap rendered and tanned by Hephaestus on a new moon's eve? Not a chain of
diamonds glittering with the awareness that is my birthright since the creation
of the universe? Rather: can it be true?: this life of
mine--mine only true possession and profession--is
nothing but as a bloody slug tail slime trail in breadth and depth and width?
Surely there's a cosmic joke in all this somewhere.... Is that all there is to
a body?"
The
dentist smiled and said: "That's all there is, it's true. You'll never get
your nerve back. You can't go home again. True."
---
The Pageant
The
pageant play has been reborn, via Netflix. Shakespeare (and others) dragged us
out of that Medieval dramaturgy style, but now it's finally come back, via
Netflix. I can't wait for the forty-four prequels, via Netflix.
S1 E1
Christmas Day, when he gets an electric Lego train as a gift from his Auntie
Donna and Uncle Al. Certain it is that his mother gave his aunt money for the
gift.
S1 E2 He
gets Julie's pants off, but not his.
S1 E3 He
cooks Kraft Dinner in an electric frying pan on Kenilworth Avenue, and it's the
best he's ever made.
S1 E4 He
meets Mary in a classroom. "Mary?" "John?" They laugh
together, and this seems it should be the end of the story....
S1 E5 He
can no longer make out the little square boxes on the backs of the compact
disks. He has to count them to find out where he is.
S1 E6
He's looking at maps through his memories, drinking low-carb beer, about to get
a root canal, whatever that is, in just two days.
Every
King deserves a pageant play. Styles never go out of style. The medieval world
lives with us.
---
The Cyborg
"I
know what you're thinking. All my organs and parts are obviously natural,
you're thinking. You're thinking I'm just as human as a bird is aviary or a bee
apiary. You're thinking there's nothing artificial about me; I'm entirely as
the good lord made me, with no special effects or machinery added post
production.
"And
when I tell you I'm not what I appear to be and I swear to that judgement, you
can't easily tell what I'm meaning. You come to doubt yourself, and wonder: If he's a cyborg, then am I a cyborg too? My
teeth aren't entirely my own because I have some dental fillings.
"And
while you teeter with self-doubt I throw down a statement so ridiculous, not
included here, you are entirely unsettled; you cannot understand what is being
meant; you see that something has gone wrong with the programming and that that
which was inside is now outside.
"You
cannot reach the proper conclusion because, though your thoughts are your own,
your expression is made messy with artifice. In conclusion you concede uneasily
that yes I am that which I say I am, in the saying of
which you also say yes."
---
The
Parents
This
little mother loved all her children but the youngest one the best, and this
little mother liked most of her children but thought the middle girl was
trouble, and this little mother often regretted having children in the first
place yet she had the most children on her block.
This
little father worried time and again he wasn't spending enough time with the
little monsters, and this little father, when tired or in a rage, always called
one kid another kid's name, and this little father one day told another con in
the slammer that he didn't know if any of his kids were dead or alive mostly.
This
little mother didn't get worried when her children didn't call her since they
were all so busy all the time, and this little mother returned sarcasm to every
implausible excuse, and this little mother wanted her kids to call only in
emergencies.
This
little father was happy enough just seeing his kids going through their changes,
and this little father always laughed with surprise when getting a call from
the police, and this little father often lost sleep thinking about his sins
getting handed down, forever and ever....
---
The Discovery
After we
discovered the properties of the N6G6 matrix chromosomal expression, we had a serious
discussion about how we should issue our press release. We had made a serious
discovery for which we deserved some excess remuneration but we could not agree
if said remuneration should be modest or astronomical given that Nature is
observed and not invented; we all wondered: "Is scientific discovery a
form of rent-seeking upon the laws of the cosmos?" Some of us thought we
should include a brief prayer as a form of a prelude, something to the effect
of God You're Such a Clever Deity. In any case, we were collaborating on the
body of the document FOR IMMEDIATE RELEASE, crossing and dotting, in a secure
boardroom when a radical hush came over us all. We had been exercising our
matrix N6G6 imaginations to discover the source of imagination which we found
to be in the N6G6 matrix, thus we were unsure of the ultimate provenance of the
document. Wasn't it actually discovered by the N6G6? Yes. We could not take
credit. We could not benefit. We titled the release THE DISCOVERY OF THE N6G6
IMAGINATION GENE EXPRESSION, COMPOSED EXCLUSIVELY BY N6G6.
---
The Store
Buildings
seldom visited, along the railroad tracks, throughout the network, blocks of
blocks and steel, corrugated garage doors outdoors, garage doors indoors,
painted green and locked, master and minor keys, weeds blooming at the corners,
any minute a truck could drive by, central heating with climate control,
overhead fluorescent lighting, one power outlet for electricity, concrete
poured floor, two A.M. garage band digs breaking amperes, four storeys high,
massive freight elevators, the guard dogs are named Pat and Mike, office with
four rooms nearest the entrance, all insurances applicable, we will never give
out your personal information, signed waivers NO CONTRABAND, ceiling fan off,
cardboard boxes available cheap in the office, we have no reason to pry,
business is business, easy monthly payments through direct debit, no flies on
us, office windows are plastic and there's no glass on premises, start from the
back and stack, forklift and skids available, things are here for years, we
know when you've been here too long, twenty-four hour access, humidity's no
problem, perfect drainage, hermetically sealed with rubber seals, people have
tried to rent a spot intending to starve to death there but we can read minds
by utilizing customer metadata.
---
The Keys
¶Having
whistled lightly through dawn and dusk, the lad would have a dozen beauties
about him no matter what the weather day and night. The lad merely had to move
and for him it became three square meals a day. The lad didn't bother learning
the names of his playmates; he called them all you. The lad had it, and I wanted it.
¶"He
has all the keys," a rubicunt eaten berry told
me one day an hour after their vivid trysting. "He makes us happier than
he becomes himself."
¶From my
notebook:
What this sorcery? What this
magic? The cock of the walk is birthing a race of half-siblings worldwide. How
inbred can our species get? Is all law at root sexual? Sour grapes, or
legitimate concern?
¶I broke
into his palace a week ago, in quest of these keys. From empty salon to empty
boudoir, under coverlet and cushion, for keys I searched, to no avail. I
listened for the telltale hum of magical devices.... Silence met my bones.
¶So I
sit here ruminating impotently and gnashing my teeth as the chorus line gets
longer. How did he get all the keys? Can we be cured?
---
The Licence
I
punched him in the face and he fell to the floor. I shot him a couple times,
once in the head. Then I dumped his corpse in acid and stopped for a smoke
break. It wasn't long before a couple cops came knocking at my door.
"Some
shots have been reported. Oh my God!"
"C'mon
in," I said.
The
entered my bloody mess of an apartment. The second cop took off his cap and
wiped his brow as he looked over the carnage. "I guess we got you on
murder," he said.
"Not
so fast," I said. From my wallet I produced my licence to kill and handed
it over. They passed it back and forth.
"Looks
like he's got us," said the first cop.
The
second was staring at it. "I've been meaning to get one of these. Are they
hard to get?"
"They're
graduated," I said. "The whole process takes three years. First
there's your licence to assault, then your licence to maim, and finally the
licence to kill."
"How
many hours in-class?"
"Twenty-one
a semester, but they don't take attendance."
"That's
a big commitment."
I pushed
them out, saying: "It was much worth it."
---
The Boy
He
walked into my consulting room and splayed himself into a corner of my sofa. He
sighed as he looked at the little tips of his little fingers. He said: "I
don't think you can help me, doc."
"I
can try."
He
sneered: "You'll try."
I
laughed lightly to set him at ease. "Begin wherever you like."
"How
about I start with when I was four?"
"If
you'd like."
He
closed his eyes. "That was when I noticed I was forgetting things. I
didn't know what to call it at first, this forgetting
business."
"How
old are you now?"
"Five
years three months."
"That's
a bit young for melancholia, don't you think?"
He
shrugged. "I am what I am."
He
settled into the sofa a bit before he knitted his brow to say:
"How
did it happen? I was most certainly there,
when I was born; but I can't recall it! Is it senility? I can't even remember
remembering it!"
"Again:
aren't you a bit young for
this?"
He
stood, to absentmindedly pace. "Where did it go? Where did it all go?"
I said:
"I advise you to accept your condition, boy. Because it's all downhill
from here."
---
The Narrative
Head
Monk stuffed the pigeon into its receiver and unrolled the note that had been
attached to its leg. He read it quickly and cried: "Stop the quills!"
We all
stopped our copying. The scriptorium was quiet as a tomb below.
"The
holy narrative is being disturbed!"
We all
murmured silently, vows being vows and all.
Head
Monk paced, saying: "Our favourite papal candidate has been caught rigging
the Cardinal elections. He's been taking kickbacks from the Flemish and from
the Ukraine, through his son. We're talking fat stacks of guilders. This
was all above board, of course, nothing wrong in it all, diplomacy is all. But
some democrats have gotten wind of it, so we've got to go on the offensive,
narratively speaking. I see you have doubts, Brother Podesta."
Brother
Podesta stared, and dared to nod.
Head
Monk continued: "We'll get through this, you'll see. Have no fear. Drop by
my cell for a fuck tonight.
"Meanwhile,
copy down what I say. 'An anonymous source connected to a certain candidate has
revealed a pattern of bribery involving foreign elements. We cannot allow
foreign influence. If we're not careful, the serfs might start thinking for
themselves. Amen.'"
---
The Crime
We have
watched much of a television program entitled: "The Crime." It's a
Polish show, broadcast in 2015 and 2016, consisting of six episodes. I'm not
here to get into what I think of it; like with anything, I could go on
about it forever; rather, I want to use it to illuminatedly
talk about the difference between the Anglo-Saxon and the Polish attitudes to
law that have been caused by their respective politics.
Imagine
two television shows. The first is English, and the second is Polish. (This is
all based upon my perceptions of television shows. I've never been, and never
shall go, to either country.)
Cop
knocks at a residence.
English
person answers.
COP:
Sorry to disturb. Your neighbour has been murdered. Can you tell us anything?
ENGLISH
PERSON: Oh dear! His name was Geoffrey. He raised parakeets. Home on weekends,
had a girlfriend named Mabel. He worked in accounting, Tesco. No enemies I can
name. Some suspicious renovations going on in the next, though.
Cop
knocks at a residence.
Polish person
answers.
COP:
Sorry to disturb. Your neighbour has been murdered. Can you tell us anything?
POLISH
PERSON: Fuck you! I'm not telling you anything!
---
The Philosopper
Where
are we? What, now, disregarding the causes of the situation, is our situation? (We
can get into the origins later.) You and I are here, in history, in time, in
the universe, in space. (How we got here is another story.) And by any measure
or whatever-the-word-is, that universe, that history, is a lumpy history and a
lumpy universe. And to top it all off, we've got this mysterious thing called
consciousness allatime bugging us with questions,
questions, questions. So there's this question: Why is
there something instead of nothing when nothing would be far more efficient?
And this question: Why is there consciousness at all when a lack of
consciousness would be far more efficient? And then there're these whoppers of
questions: What is asking a question all about? Are all questions valid and if
not why not?
You've
got your imminence and you've got your transcendence, and how can each know
about the other, and where are you sitting today? Someone somewhere is always
writing a book stating the problem is solely with language, or perception, or
similitude. And when are you philosoppizing, you may
be wondering? Try not doing it. How
far you'll stay.
---
The Age
He takes
the elevator up and up to his tenth floor, this is
where I'll live.
He
fumbles with his keys and after a spell gets one in, this is how I'll handle
keys.
He goes
inside and leans on the wall to remove his shoes,
these will be my shoes.
He
paddles into the kitchen and finds a cheap beer, this
will be my beverage of choice.
He's in
his living room now, where the computer will be on, I'll never turn it off.
He
lights up a cigarette after dumping butts in a paper bag, my bag it will be.
He'll
select an amusement to play, a video game, it'll be chosen by me and only me.
The sun will
go down as he plays 'til he's bored, it'll be my sun and my boredom there.
He'll be
hungry by then so he'll open a can of beans, I'll have plenty of cans handy.
Then he
goes back to the game as the clock ticks away, my old wall clock will be
hanging there.
He
climbs into bed to get into a comfortable position, my position.
He
sleeps. I'll dream of things that're no longer there.
---
The God
The
devil went down to Pandaemonium that afternoon to
consult with some of his arch-demons. He seemed pretty proud of himself that
day.
"I've
got a sweet idea," he said.
The
arch-demons responded obsequiously. "What is it, boss?"
"I'm
going to make myself a world," he began. "It'll have a balance of
plants and animals so everything runs on its own. But--here's the kicker--I'm
going to do something special with one of the animal species. Get this. I'm
going to give them the illusion of free will."
"Created
things, with free will?" cried one squeak.
The
devil raised a cunning finger. "No. The illusion of free will. I'll
program them all such that they'll believe they are acting on their own. Each
one will believe himself seemingly to be fate's master. There'll be contention
between them all, I figure: endless contention! My automaton autonomous puppets
will battle daily for their own self-importance. Not one of them will ever be
able to rest like a normal part of mature."
"That's
a great idea, boss!" cried another squeak.
"Yes,"
said the devil, who pondered thusly: "Now I just have to come up with a
clever pseudonym for myself...."
---
The Getaway
Only
then did we try to figure out what went bass-ackwards.
To the
docks where we had our warehouse hideout.
Onto the
highway and across town.
We got
to the cloverleaf but guess what? We were still going in reverse.
Now that
we were on blacktop we were going faster. We were doing ninety.
At the
main road Lou kept going backwards. What was he, a stunt driver?
Trees
went backwards by us. I felt like I was a kid on the Polar Express midway ride.
We had
to assume the cops were on the way.
Max,
sitting in the front beside Lou, said: "We're doing sixty!"
We
couldn't turn our heads to see where we were going for the first mile or so.
We
braced ourselves as the Gs pushed us forward.
So our driver Lou, a really great
driver, put it in reverse.
The long
laneway leading to the place was too narrow to turn around in.
It was
bad. We had to make out getaway ASAP.
They'd
changed one of the alarms at the gate. We'd shot the guy for no reason.
Not
every heist goes off as planned. You can only plan so much.
---
The Apocalypse
1.
Willard-as-narrator mentions it once that Kilgore's outfit is a cavalry unit,
now using helicopters instead of horses. They sweep down out of the sky to
cause chaos; thus, they can't but play over loudspeakers the Ride of the
Valkyries. They are the Valkyries, on their flying horses, descending.
(However, in the Apocalypse Now version, they are not merely sweeping up the
dead warriors but rather creating them.) This also goes pat of the way to
explaining why Kilgore offers water to an injured enemy and also why he
distributes tokens to dead enemies, perhaps to show higher powers the spirits
that should go to Valhalla.
2. Kurtz
quotes Eliot's The Hollow Men much further into the film. The Hollow Men has an
epigraph from Joseph Conrad's Heart of Darkness. Thus, Kurtz has already read:
"Mistah Kurtz – he dead." Thus, Heart of
Darkness exists in the world of the film. So why the fuckety-fuck
doesn't anyone notice they're doing stuff from Conrad's book? Why doesn't
Willard say: "Hmmm, you know, there's this famous Kurtz in British
literature, and that one went up a river and went native, too. What an amazing
co-inky-dink!" Could have saved him some time.
---
The Key
Certain
as I was that no-one ever had anything important to do on a Sunday afternoon, I
scheduled my department's team-building exercise for just such a time, and
though we began hesitatingly, with some silence and grumbling, only Jones
received a demerit point for tardiness.
According
to a set of rules published by the Time-Motion Division of the International
Advanced Institute for Human Relations, we co-operatively and under my
masterful direction sorted and re-sorted some hundred-and-eight coloured Zener
cards that were marked additionally with the signs of the zodiac.
While
they were all merrily scurrying around piling card upon card, I jingled the
change in my pocket then realized that I didn't have on my person the key to
the building. I looked at the coffee service; it was not there either.
I
panicked.
"I've
lost the key to this building."
Marie
said: "We're already inside it."
"We're
locked out," I said.
"So
what? We're inside."
"You
don't get it. We can't get in."
"You're
right that I don't get it."
"I'll
have to call a locksmith."
"The
key must be in here somewhere."
"Is
anyone here a locksmith?"
"I
really doubt it."
"Why
should I believe you?"
---
The Percentiles
Born
that minute, I found myself being the youngest person in the world. Nearly a
hundred per cent of the population was older than me. I was the youngest person
in the world.
Ten
years later, I noticed there were a bunch of little ones young than me. Some
fourteen per cent all told. Somehow a seventh had fallen behind me.
My
twentieth birthday! What a day! And look, I crunched the numbers and I found
that another seventh had been added. I was in the twenty-eight percentile
already.
Where
did that decade go? Who were all the younger strangers? How could it be? A
whopping forty-two per cent after me, chasing me?
And I
turned around and there they were at my heels and they were now in the
majority. How did this happen? I'm only forty! 58 per cent!
I still
feel young today, my fiftieth. Yet.... Yet.... Almost three-quarters younger
than me. Three-quarters of those living when I'd been born ... are dead. Dead.
Sixty
means something worse. I am surrounded by a sea of ignorance. The world is
eighty-four per cent more naïve than me.
Now....
Seventy, and nine-tenths outdated, obsolete, upstaged, and wise.
---
The Names
We knew
we were doing something wrong because we weren't getting anywhere. We'd all
been around for some ten thousand years but we'd made absolutely no progress.
One night,
at the side of the fire, I called out: "You there! Come here."
Two guys
and two girls turned to look at me. Together they said: "Me?"
"No;
yes. You there. The second from the left."
"Whose left?"
"My
left."
The
woman who was second from the right said: "You mean me?"
I said:
"No, the guy beside you."
The guy
to her right said: "Me, then?"
"No,
no, I mean the guy two people away from you."
The guy
two people away from that guy, who was also the second from the left, said:
"You must mean me."
"Yes,
you! Come here."
He said:
"Why should I?"
"Because
I say so."
"That
doesn't tell me much."
"I'm
the.... It doesn't matter. Come here!"
"I
still don't see why."
"I
want you to identify yourself."
"Can't
I do it from here?"
"Fine!
Identify yourself."
He
thought about this for some time. He looked to his left; he looked to his
right. He said: "I'm the second from the left?"
---
The Threads
Long and
invisible threads cut through the world every which way, and who can say where
they start and where they end?
I've the
hunch they don't have starts or ends, these invisible threads, but I can't come
up with a good proof. Yet.
The
thread you have, the thread I have, both are continuous and unbroken and they
define our lives themselves.
"Knocked
unconscious." You can't get knocked unconscious. It can't stop and start
like a light-switch's current.
We might
think that as we sleep the thread is dormant, but a bit of reflexion
shows it's the most thready then.
When the
thread pulls and twists through utterly impossible fluxions that "seem
like a good idea at the time."
"The
thread is lost," you may think, but, don't you
know it, that's the thread there, talking in its constant linearity.
So,
where does it start? It can't start where it appears to start, because that
would be insufferably atheistic in its ramifications.
So,
where does it end? Obviously nowhere, I hunch, because matter cannot be
destroyed (if we believe the thread must be carried).
Of
course, none of this is actually true.
It's a
thick ribbon, rather.
---
The Ferry
The
island had turned out a waste of their time. It appeared a millionfold more
insects than humans had read the glossy brochure. Cutting the vacation short
two days rather than one would have seemed rude, so they spent a day indoors
'resting' in preparation for their departure early the following morning.
The
Great Shoal Bus took them and their belongings to the muddy quay where they saw
again the ferry boat sign with its numbered upper-case rules and regulations,
but little else was to be seen. Tickets could not be purchased on the island;
every trip was a return trip, to, and from, the island.
"I
imagined the boat would be here, now, already" she said, with her eyes
fixed on the distant horizon of sea and sky.
They
guessed at the time while they watched the waters.
No-one
else came by. Their polyester luggage was growing damp and crusty with
crystallizing salt in its casters.
With all
optimism he said: "We'll be home before we know it. Trust me."
She
tipped down one bag and sat with her head in her hands. He put his back to her
and looked to where he could hear birds.
---
The Questions
"It's
just that."
"What
is your problem, what's in your heart?"
"I'm
not going to talk about my heart."
"Can
you go on?"
"I
know I'm on the right track. I know that I'm getting somewhere."
"Are
you like a choo-choo train this very minute?"
"I'm
never off-track. The destination is direct down those ribbons of rails."
"Are
there no sidings or switches?"
"The
line approaches the horizon always, a perpendicular bisector."
"When
you meet the horizon?"
"I'll
never reach the horizon."
"If
you could get there, what do you think you'd see?"
"I
would describe it as a bright light and leave it at that."
"Isn't
this a track of your own making?"
"Yes.
No."
"Which
is it?"
[...]
"If
your answer is yes, what are the consequences?"
"I'm
building it for the others. They can find the track I've made, and travel it,
from here to the horizon, and then they can witness the bright light
themselves."
"If
your answer is no, what are the consequences?"
"By
travelling the track, I push it more deeply into the ground. If I am an
imitation, let others imitate my imitation. Then the bright light."
"Is
your answer: both?"
---
The Books
Last
night I went to the Bob Millah Book Rroom again.
'Twas a busy day theah.
It appeahed theah was some
sort of sale going on. Although my rregistah skills weah a bit rrusty, I got aboahd. One gentleman asked me if we had Richahd Nixon's Profile in Courrage.
I led the gent off to the Amerrica historry section and pulled it off the shelf foah him: quite a big book! I explained its publication
history, and he made his purchase.
Latah I went into the back rroom,
wheah Anna Tikalsky and herr husband Mahk were rrapping things. Anna was pleasant, but Mahk
was not. I have no idea why. The smells of wood and papah
and papah sealing tape were everywheah.
Anna gave me a book; some sort of epic poem I was already familiah
with. It appeahed to be a rreturn
or some such an issue.
Last
night I went to an epic poem again.
The text
was heavily footnoted, with multiple cross-rreferences
rrunning every way. I heahd
as I looked the sounds of the shop and the rregistah.
I turned to the end of the book, and found theah a prrecis oah synopsis of everrything....
---
The Prrecis
The
nerve is entirely about dental surgery, and existence.
The
pageant is entirely about Netflix, and existence.
The
cyborg is entirely about human bodies, and existence.
The
parents is entirely about childhood, and existence.
The
discovery is entirely about the future of science, and existence.
The
store is entirely about Invisible Cities, and existence.
The keys
is entirely about the keys, and existence.
The
licence is entirely about self-preservation, and existence.
The boy
is entirely about the absurdity of existence, and existence.
The
narrative is entirely about politics, and existence.
The
crime is entirely about culture, and existence.
The philosopper is entirely about last question, and existence.
The age
is entirely about aging, and existence.
The god
is entirely about the devil, and existence.
The
getaway is entirely about travelling, and existence.
The
apocalypse is a fun thing, plus about existence.
The key
is entirely about proximity, and existence.
The
percentiles is entirely about math, and existence.
The
names is entirely about position, and existence.
The
threads is entirely about God's business, and
existence.
The
ferry is entirely about ennui, and existence.
The
questions is entirely about psychotherapy, and
existence.
The
books is entirely about dreams, and existence.
