Prelude to 'Pseudoreality Prevails'

With the problem of 5G out of the way, the IEEE turned to their next problem: solving the problems of chronology.

"Look," said one chair, who was a simple wooden chair, in fact: "January, February, and March are really confusing. Does 3/2 mean March 2 or February 3? How is anyone to know?"

"Yes," replied the chair across from him, the red La-Z-Boy: "I can never keep it straight. What do you propose?"

"The following scheme was more-or-less used two-hundred-and-fifty years ago, and it failed, so let's try it again. Each year will have ten months, and each month will have one hundred days."

"That means a thousand days a year!" interrupted the bar stool.

"Yes, there will be up to three winters a year. But what of it? The scheme will not interrupt the passage of time; rather, it will become easier to notate."

"Yes," mused an Adirondack: "Four digits for year, three for day, two for month."

"Which could be reduced to four-two-one if we included day zero and month zero."

The simple wooden chair had overplayed her hand. Too radical! Too outré! However, the zaisu, the chesterfield, and the potty chair promoted it to the next session.

 

*

 

Brushes with Greatness 1

 

Sat down at the dirty table with the heavy stolen book in hands. Looked around guiltily, fearing someone had seen or followed. The coast looked clear. With the smell of old socks rising around, cracked open the purloined volume.

Just then, Peter Armstrong came into the room. Armstrong had all kind of interview equipment with him. He asked: "Can I set up here? This is the perfect place for an interview."

"A dorm-room?" said.

He didn't reply. Went into the bathroom to clean up a little bit, just in case it wanted to be used. While in there, heard the Great Man himself arrive. No-one else had that voice. Book was still on the table so had to go out and sit down, right beside the Great Man himself.

Ignored him, and proceeded to slowly tear out the page with the bookplate on it. Kept head down as Armstrong outlined to the Great Man the subjects to be covered in the interview.

While the crew was calibrating its equipment, the Great Man noticed the book. He said: "Good guy, that Picasso. He was a funny guy."

Closed the book. Said: "I like him too." Crept away.

 

*

 

Found the perfect house, with two floors, four bedrooms, two-and-a-half baths, a parlour, and a dining room, on a stone in the river. Carried the house to an empty parcel of land, knowing no-one could stop. There, on the porch (for of course there was a porch), waited for you to come wandering by, by chance.

Toward evening of the sixth day of vigil, saw you approaching. You'd never seen such a house. Invited you in, and you looked around. You said: "It's a very nice house--but there's no furniture."

Let you leave, promising tomorrow would find some nice furniture.

Wandered down the stream in which had found the house, and lo and behold, on little rocks, found two beds (in case you were shy), and tables, and chairs, and a grand chesterfield with plenty of room. Carried them all back to the house, and put everything in what thought to be the places for them. Then you arrived, and said: "Now it's nice."

Stayed there, now two, and went to the river every once in a while when there was something wanted. Some time later had a child, then another, and another. And lived there happily ever after.

 

*

 

"So, Bartleby," said the videophone: "The lockdown is over! So, let bygones be bygones, and stop picking at that wound about how your civil rights were trampled upon by the State! And stop with all the questions about how they profited from it all! It is now your duty to suddenly resume living, re-integrate yourself into society, undo the gargantuan psychological damage that has been inflicted upon you, and perhaps even touch a human being! The powers-that-be can't possibly repair all the damage they've done--don't expect any apologies!--and so you'll simply have to carry on as if you're not being used and abused. So, head out to a restaurant if you can find one! Shop til you drop at your favourite store if it still exists! Visit the relatives who haven't killed themselves! If you give yourself a running start, it'll be easy to jump on that carousel again, trust me. You learned to walk and talk before, so there's no reason you can't learn it all again, am I right? Of course, you have to keep in mind that the state will not accept any responsibility, nor do they promise to never abuse you again. Bartleby? Bartleby?"

 

*

 

CONFESSION

 

Sure, am drunk. But that doesn't change anything! It was years ago, agreed, but it has never been recorded.

In that high school auditorium, which was a big auditorium, some 748 seats, discovered could through the catwalks two storeys above the orchestra get to the high school's central boiler room. (Had to crawl through a small aluminum passageway to get there.) Would go from there across the hall to the home economics room, wherein would feast on the stale mini marshmallows in the refrigerators, then would escape the way came, through the aluminum passageway. And no-one was any the wiser.

Sure, am drunk. It was pure and simple theft. Don't think can be prosecuted, through, since everyone who would have any interest in it is probably dead by now.

Another confession! Going out to ... don't remember his name. Kelly MacLennan's boyfriend at the time. In that hallway, passionately kissed Kelly one Sunday afternoon. Had gotten frisky, there, in the hallway, and kissed.

(In any case, as heard later, she only went with him because he had a car.)

Took marshmallows, and kissed a girl whom shouldn't have. That's all have to confess this evening. Plenty more is due.

 

*

 

"Why did I go? What for? I could have thrown the notification in the trash, but I didn't; I stared at it for a long time before deciding to go. But: Why go, you may ask? Simply put, I knew I didn't deserve an award for Librarian of the Year, and I wanted to see the process in action.

"I took a train there. Some pamphlets had come with the notification, for appropriate hotels and restaurants in the area. I should have looked at a map before booking a room at the Eastside Holiday Inn, but I didn't. I figured: How big can Columbus be?

"There was a long line at their reception desk, which I figured meant I'd come to the right place. No-one looked inappropriate; everyone was meek and quiet, freshly-bathed, and with not a hair out of place.

"I sat alone during the awards ceremony, which was held not far away from the Eastside Holiday Inn, at a dance-club. For hours I waited to hear my name announced. Then the emcee said: 'Well, thanks to all of you for coming out. Now we can have some music, and dance.'

"I got no award. I'd gone wrong somewhere."

 

*

 

What did you do next, didn't you expect to get caught, where did I put the screwdriver, who left the door open, what is the air, how many colours in the rainbow, when's the next train due, how many angels can dance on the head of a pin, why is there something instead of nothing, what's for supper, why can't you clean up more often, how fast can you type, what are your qualifications for the position, do you come here often, why can you be more like her, are we there yet, what's the square root of two, what's the capital of Bulgaria, how do you know, what, who said that, was it Spinoza, how much for a coffee, do you want to fill that cavity now or do you want to make an appointment, where does the time go, can't we all just get along, why does water flow downhill, can't you tell, does this colour become me, what are you wearing right now, what's your sign, have you ever seen Spellbound, are you under the care of a psychiatrist, would you like another round, what does she see in him, doesn't it feel like we're standing still????????????????????????????????????

 

*

 

"They were some crazy days back then," the old man said as he stirred a stick in the campfire. "Boy, when I joined up, I was looking for adventure, and howdy was it ever adventure I got. Somehow, don't know who, got us all the way down to East Texas, and whoever it was said to us: 'Take everything you can.' We all waved our hats in the air and got right down to it. We'd come across some settlement, and we'd destroy it. Burning it to the ground, murdering, raping, what have you. We'd take whatever could be sold and barter it back, quietly, of course, crookedly to D.C. We got systematic about it, with a map in grids. Up and down, north to south and east to west, we cleared out that whole area. Sometimes we'd skirmish with some dog-faced pony soldiers from the so-called 'military', but they were no match for us, with our blood-smeared faces and our hair sometimes on fire. I'm telling you, it was the greatest of adventures."

Asked: "So, who were the folks you got rid of?"

His elbow needled ribs as he said: "Never stopped to ask. Wouldn't have mattered anyway."

 

*

 

Colonizer

 

He showed up out of nowhere, when was eleven or twelve. He hopped, he jumped, he had a mind of his own. Must be alone in this, because no-one has seemed to mention it. How could such a small force take over such a large area? Don't know. It has led into some shady places, places so shady am ashamed to mention them. Dark places, with loud music, and naked women, and expensive drinks. Light places, public parks in late spring, when the coats and jackets are finally off, and everything's bare arms and legs. He doesn't let alone even in the middle of the night. He makes dreams; maybe he makes all the dreams. Also: it's like the guy has a sense of smell, always aiming for the sweetest flowers, juiced with scent. Places been, things seen: sometimes he comes down, tired-like, control-lost, when can have a moment to think about what he's made do, against will. He's violating ten or twenty times a day. Always bossy, always demanding, always distracting, always troublesome, always there there there. And all the time, whenever questioned, he comes back with the same riposte:

"I was here first! I was here first!"

 

*

 

"This one is going to be the big break-through."

"Probably. You've struck out so many, many times before."

"It not something high-falutin', with weird spellings of anything like that."

"Yeah, that was all a pretty stupid idea."

"Plus, it's going to be very reader-friendly. Something that wouldn't have been out-of-place in the New Yorker in 1970."

"Sounds terribly avant-garde."

"That's exactly what I'm going for. It will be an imaginative tale, and it'll take a little work from the reader."

"Oh, see, you may be going wrong there."

"What?"

"Maybe you should stop messing with people's heads."

"And be like what?"

"I don't know.... Comfort food.... Like all those super-hero movies."

"Maybe you got something there. Maybe I could weave a super-hero into it."

"It would have to be an original creation, though."

"Why?"

"Because then the thing can be franchised, and you could net a bundle."

"Ah! Ah! Thanks for the tip! I can find room for a super-hero. The 'star' of the thing can be a super-hero. yes."

"The rest doesn't matter in the least. Donald Barthelme away with whatever it is you like. Do you have a good title?"

"'Pseudoreality Prevails.'"

"Uh...."

"I stole it from Musil."

 

More Parts for the Folly

My morning's assignment was to make another brick. All bricks look the same size, but the particular minerals going into them makes each one unique. Even if I, say, made a brick, then made another brick from the exact same materials, they wouldn't be the same, since the second was made utilizing the experience of the first.

So, the brick had to be made, and made with care, for though in the folly's architecture a brick is indistinguishable (and possibly even invisible!) still it is necessary for each brick to bear the weight of its neighbours, for if even one brick is flawed and half-baked, the survival of the entire folly is put into jeopardy.

So I toiled that morning, making the brick. Of course, I was trying not to think of any earlier bricks, nor scheming the creation of future bricks; it was this brick and this brick alone that consumed my attentions. It would be different, and new. No brick like it had ever been made, or could be re-made. I set it out to dry, then I put it in the pile with the rest. How to arrange would be decided later.

 

*

 

I was sitting on a cold wooden floor. I had the corner of my fist in my mouth, and I was drooling. The feet of my mother pointed at me, and I looked up, and there she was: the only woman I had ever known. She pulled my fist out of mouth and took me by my hands. Disappointed, I whined. She made some high noises which, oddly, appealed to me. What was she after? Why was she pulling me? She moved her feet such that they blocked mine, and she kept pulling. I buckled my knees, having no other place to go, trapped and in despair, and still wondering: Why? Why? I felt like my arms would be pulled to pieces as my butt left the floor. She was stretching me up to my height. She made a step back, and I wobbled. What did it mean? She carefully balanced my body on my feet before releasing my hands. Things looked differently, but no better. To maintain balance, I had to move one foot at a time, forward. I moved them three times before falling. Why had I been used in such a way? What had been my crime?

 

*

 

"It's built on the principle of the giant rubber band," Pete told me. "Come on down to the dock, let me give you a lift."

It was indeed a giant rubber band. He wrapped on end around my waist; the other end of the band was who knew where. "Where's the other end of this band?"

Pete handed me some binoculars. "Look way over there. There's a tower five miles that-a-way."

Infinite focus, then the tower. "Is this safe?"

"Of course it is! Here, let me wind it up."

I was held in place by metal plates as Pete started a cranking motor. "We launch when the force gets to 5x10⁴ pounds PSI."

The metal plates flew away, and I was pulled instantly to the tower (which I passed at eight hundred MPH), then beyond, high above the troposphere and into the stratosphere, which was when I could see that the continents below were actually fierce dragons, snarling and screeching. I reversed direction, and eight minutes later I was back on the dock, and captured again by the metal plates.

"Pretty cool, huh?" Pete asked.

"That was extraordinary! Have you patented it?"

"Naw. Leonardo da Vinci beat me to it."

 

*

 

Do you remember when Neil Young's wife simply wouldn't believe him when he told her that "Cinnamon Girl" was entirely fictitious?

Where were you when von Ashenbach lost sight of the history of the world as it was being washed away, when he could only say: "Tadzio! Tadzio?"

Do you recall that day in 48 BC (your numbering undoubtedly differs from mine) when Julius Caesar and Cleopatra created Caesarion together?

Did you know Romeo? Did you know Juliet? Do you recall the moment they died together?

When Fulbert discovered that his niece Héloïse was playing the beast with two backs with Peter Abelard, how did you feel? They should not have been separated, I'm sure you'll agree?

When Hanuman jumped from the southern tip of India all the way to Lanka to rescue Sita for Rama, were you cheering him on?

At Babelsberg Studios, in Potsdam, Alfred Hitchcock met Alma Reville. Need I say more? I didn't think so!

Are you there now, all over the world, in every time, between every look and glance, from all men to all women and from all women to all men?

My love for you is greater than all these times multiplied together.

 

*

 

"Now children this is a very simple test. The results are going to be in your file for the rest of your life, but don't worry, because not everyone sees an X mark in the same way.

"It's a simple problem, as I've said. You have a whole bunch of coloured pieces on your desk. You're not being asked to count them, for that would take a very long time indeed! Rather, all you have to do is assemble them into a precise scale model of the International Space Station as it looked on September 22nd 2013.

"Now, as you go along, you'll notice some pieces are missing. That's because we have taken a number of pieces from your desk and put them on other desks. You'll have to sort it out amongst yourselves to get your proper pieces, and you can use whatever means necessary to get them.

"You're given two hours to complete this task. Now I understand you're probably taking this seriously, with the possibility of receiving a permanent X on your record and all, in a situation in which there is only one right answer and hence most or all of you will fail. That's life.

 

*

 

How could he have done it? Why did he do it? What was going through his head? Wasn't he worried about what others would say? Didn't he consider what his mother would think of him once she'd heard about it? Wasn't he at all concerned about what all the people (absent his mother) would think about it? Did he plan it out beforehand, or was it a spontaneous act? Did he leave any notes in his diary? Was he mentally ill? A nutcase? A fruitcake? Could things have gone differently? Had he been planning it all since he was just a little boy? Were there any traces that may have led a reasonable person to believe he would do such a thing? Has anyone checked his genes? What was his Meyers-Briggs type? What was his astrological sign? Could any of these elements have played a factor, even if via dime-store psychological reflexivity? Didn't anyone see it coming? More immediately: What did the witnesses have to say? Are they reliable witnesses? What are their histories? What's their heritage? Have they ever lied in the past? Any tell-tale vocal pauses in the recordings of their testimonies? Have they been examined through a

 

*

 

Smith, as if the worlds of fantasy and reality had changed spots, as if Julia, the most real part of his life, had become fantasy, went in to the Ministry the next morning, feeling almost fictional as he pulled out his wooden chair and, with a sigh of resignation, opened that morning's pneumo. Today, unlike the previous day, he printed out copies of the newspaper articles that were destined for the memory hole. He wanted Julia to understand, that evening and preferably in bed, what he felt was happening to the past.

"Knock knock!" It was Smith's comrade, Williams, at his cubicle's side.

"Good morning, Williams," said Smith.

"Smith! Do you know there's to be cake at noon? Arthur's being promoted."

"Yes, I've heard."

Williams nosed about on the desk and Smith barely controlled his terror when Williams picked up the print-outs and leafed through them. "These are all from four years ago, and they all concern Russia."

"Yes," coughed Smith (damn these Victory fags!). "It's all unhappened now."

Williams tossed the sheets down and appeared to forget all about it. "So, there'll be cake at noon."

"Yes, gladly."

"I'll have to note you printed these things out, you know."

 

*

 

Isn't it obvious that Music supersedes Literature?! Music can absorb Literature, but Literature can't absorb Music!

Have you ever watched a cat trying to read Proust?! They can't do it! But put on an Isley Brothers record, and you know, you can see, they're getting the idea of it!

The same is probably true for mushrooms and stuff like those, that, them! They probably respond, or at least care about, or maybe just are affected by, the raw acoustics of music!

Isn't that what Stevie was crazily going on about in 1977?!

When's the last time you saw a geranium pick up a book?! I suspect: It must have been a long time ago!

But! If they could! Lichens would crank up anything by Donny and Marie! Danielle Steele?! Regardless of her wonderful prose, they wouldn't care in the least!

Music supersedes literature! For all of life! For lichens and for everything else! This stuff here - it's silent! Find some sound! Stop it!

 

*

 

Take notes on the bad works, Kathy, and also let everyone know that Vincent Price was actually very nice, at CHCH.

Kathy Shaidle died a couple days ago, and where can I go to be shocked and surprised any more?

Although we travelled in many of the same circles, Kathedral B and so on, we never once did meet (or if we did, we didn't know).

Just twice I wrote to her. Those words, whatever they were, are dead too now.

In this small world, she was Starring.

This note has been short because she was just my Marilyn Monroe.

 

*

 

"I know all about your troubles."

"How could you? I don't know you from any random cat out the alleyway."

She arched her back to relax. "That doesn't matter in the least. That's because I know how to read your mind."

"Do you indeed?"

"I can't read your mind all the time; only early in the morning, before your infernal alarm goes off."

"I see."

"Yes. You know those times. You had one this morning."

"Did I? What was I thinking?"

"You were comparing yourself to certain, let us say, normal people of your acquaintance, and comparing your lot with theirs, and finding yours decidedly on the wanting side."

"I suppose I was, yes. What of it?"

"I am merely trying to prove to you that I know all about you."

I put my hand down upon her neck, and she twisted appreciatively. "Why not give it all up now, before you're entirely alone?"

"I like the ends of pictures, thanks."

"Oh, it's going to be awful! I pity you, with your consciousness, knowing you are to die. I'm not going to die."

Quickly I took her by the neck and squeezed. "You're not, eh?" Then, exhausted, I released her.

 

*

 

As I moved through the marketplace,

With its honest sellers, and its dishonest,

With the young girls, chaste or loose,

And the sounds of raucous trade jangling like metal money

Behind which could be heard the voice in the tower,

I found a plaza with a fountain and a well

And there I sat to contemplate the confusion of life.

A warmth came upon me then, on forehead and cheek,

For the sun had risen a watch ago

Despite the people's ignorance of its ascent.

I nearly cried, I felt like crying: "O sun!

You are the most beautiful item in the universe!

You feed the plants, you feed the people!

Your benevolent nature has been sung for centuries!

Look upon me now, and heal my discontent.

Make me know your mastery of the world."

Then, as if to me alone, a deep voice cried:

"You are poor, and you are misguided;

I am but an agent not unlike yourself!

All my powers are a gift from my beloved,

Who should naturally be your beloved, thus.

This is plain to see; cast aside your illusions!"

I rose, and walked, to a bend in the Tigris,

And prayed for more enlightenment.

 

*

 

The events are so hard to remember now....

I packed my suitcase to run away.... I had seven cents to my name.... My brother talked me out of it, and I unpacked my suitcase....

We found little golden flecks in the muddy shore of a lake.... It was gold, we were sure of it.... We filled buckets and got ready to sail upon the high seas....

There was a teenager named Walter, and he had a large hockey bag.... So, we talked about Walter's BIG BAG all summer long....

Paper route money allowed me to buy a bag of balloons.... I'd drop them, filled with water, on whomever passed below the bathroom window....

Kim down the street had a funny-looking brother.... Of course, I didn't know about Down Syndrome at the time....

The best places to play were in the houses that were under construction across the creek.... It was like our own private jungle gyms....

Once, it snowed so much, we built a network of tunnels on the bank of that creek.... About eight kids worked on it for a whole afternoon....

I dressed as a girl one Halloween, and looked good....

I can remember events, if I try.