It's Not My Place

ALLEGRO

 

Three. Words. Random.

 

Can someone recall for this fool

An assignment given back in school?

(I think the school must be in England

Because I don't recall its Kindland.)

Each student is assigned a noun

Generical, like 'hope' or 'town'

Or 'God' or 'games' or 'Hell' or 'whist'

Plucked from a board-approvèd list,

And each and every little twit

Must write a poem based on it.

I never was assigned such chore:

In fact, I doubt it's done no more.

Now I recall the Rivoli

Once hosted such like this, you see

(Contestant three was Gary Bellamy).

We audience we drank our beers

As on the stage our braving peer

Each given them a thesaurus page

Had thirty minutes a song to sage,

And judgement followed, winner announced,

And then the drinks weren't on the house

Because they never were. So such

I here intend: three words I'll choose

To build a song, by gracie muse,

For amusement mostly mine, to youse.

But have no fear, you skepticals,

I'll do it all sans chemicals,

And if you find you're bored by it,

An out is planned, and that's to whit:

Although I'll do this all my way,

I'll stop doing it on Friday.

 

*

 

Sodium. Output. Account.

 

A glorious morning brings a glorious thing!

The deliverer didn't even have to ring

Because I knew enough to know I'd find it there!

The newspaper! Like words from heaven sent

To show me of my ways irrelevant

And guide me rightly to the proper which and where!

I read we all must watch our sodium levels

Because of passing glandular upheavals

That if not cared about can leave a proper stroke!

The symptoms listed I was sorely lacking

But what the hell I'll send my shaker packing!

(Tomorrow a bit will tell of when salt's lacking.)

Let's turn the page, forgetting what we're read,

To the latest GDP. It's said

The outputs of our northern forestry are such

That, absent they're on fire, we stand to make

A pretty penny, and plenty euros take.

(Our strongest market indicator is the Dutch.)

In entertainment news, the latest book

I certainly must read is 'bout a crook.

An honest British book, it's all non-fictional.

He broke a bank and stole away the money

And now he's in 'a land of milk and honey':

It's easier on the brain than something dictional.

All praise the careful phrasing of our national press!

Can it ever be replaced? It's anybody's quess!

 

*

 

Advice. Decoration. Good.

 

Oh home! The weary inclemented

Are at your figurative doors and gates.

Seek here! The woesome undemented

Adore your glasses and your plates.

But what? You say your nails are broke?

Your skin is peeling off in places?

Appearance fitting not for folk?

That musty are your upper spaces?

Fear not! For lo, a home remaker,

From a network tv station,

Has come upon your solemn acre

To work renewal's decoration.

The cameras on, you roof's renewed

With modern polymeric slate

And 'pon your august altitudes

Your head-dress is now up to date.

You've unsound walls, so episode two

Involves re-building strut and beam,

So carefully they make yours new

You can't recall your rents and seams.

Now good and soundly structurèd,

Attention goes interior:

Advice is sought from the not-well-read,

To make you less inferior.

The episodes run, your colours are changed,

Your kitchen now has an island;

The placement of bedrooms has been re-arranged,

You're renewed and you're rested and tanned.

The showrunner leaves with eight one-hour shows

To broadcast them over the fall;

You're sparklingly fresh, and everyone knows

You're the best in your suburban sprawl.

Your old self's entirely gone,

And nothing of you does persist;

They even upheavaled your lawn:

It's sad you no longer exist!

 

*

 

Survival. Tube. Player.

 

As Lily Tomlin said: "You're still a rat."

So: all are on the make in this my town,

The banker picks the pockets with a pat

Upon the purse, the trouser, blouse, and gown,

And where'd that doxy come from? Foreign lands?

Investments riched by subsidy? Perhaps

From bubbles built, or castles in the sands?

Strategic be, and pull out 'fore collapse!

With everyone merely trying to survive,

We take a certain care when in the bus

To not meet eyes between the nine and five

Because we'd like not to get killed; so thus

The papers sell our miseries, employing

Friends of theirs from the academies,

And journos get their Youtube shows, enjoying

The promotions of the scholars and their families.

The player's player, pulling all the strings

Is no-one you would like to ever meet;

In fact, he isn't there at all! These things

These terrors such they can't be beat

Are builded by us all, and I'm at fault,

Yes, too, I cannot get away, I pick my cash

Like everyone, by shouting from asphalt

To chimney-tops about the bones and ash.

I hear there are in China empty cities:

It cannot happen here: but what a pity!

 

*

 

Abortion. Plug. Inspector.

 

Back in the day, two cataloguers were sitting side by side, making entries for broadcast news items from the 1980s. One, named John Plug, was working on an item about the Morgentaler clinic on Harbord Street. The story detailed how women were not using the front door to get in, and that safety inspectors were concerned about it, since they were using an emergency exit.

Fortunately, John had beside him Renownèd Wit, who knew a thing or two, and could be referred to for terminology. John turned to Wit to ask: "Is 'back door' one word or two?"

Renownèd Wit asked for context, and then replied: "It's usually two words, unless you're talking about blues music. In blues music, the term can refer to a certain type of intercourse that cannot lead to a pregnancy, if you get my drift. In that case it can be one word."

John turned back to his entry and continued typing.

Then Renownèd Wit turned again. "I don't know if this statement is ironic, accurately speaking, but if the girls had used the backdoor in the first place they wouldn't have had to use the back door in the second place."

 

*

 

Primary. Beach. Cancer.

 

You're perked with chipmunk twitches,

Eyes darting, like mosquitoes,

You think you smell a moss-bank,

With green up-reaching to heaven.

You found your little heaven,

And I am yours and only,

That sun up there is shiny,

We emptied the bottle of sunscreen.

We could, all things considered,

Invent a game of rhyme-words,

But not too complicated,

Because I'd fall asleeping.

A primary action, truly,

Because a happening

Is what we're looking for now,

We'll get there soon enough, yeah.

I think I'm getting cancer,

I shouldn't joke about it,

I feel my skin is peeling,

I feel my eyeballs searing.

That sun! Burning for so long!

And long into the future

It sees us no longer here!

For time's devouring everything!

This beach is pretty small, though,

I think they truck the sand in,

And we are waiting for hunger,

It's probably past seven.

The stars'll be twinkling-winkling

In just a couple minutes,

We'll see the other people,

Inhabited, our neighbours.

I've never talked to an alien;

It's not that I haven't tried to,

But somehow they know to steer by,

Whenever I'm looking upward.

This beach, this Dover beach, this

Whole earth, we're really from it;

And don't get me started

About the sense of touching!

 

*

 

Physical. Dividend. Sail.

 

The sea, the sea, the briny sea, we sailed the briny sea

And everywhere we looked was wet, and that was enough for me

With a heigh and a ho as far as we could we cut us through the waves

And we tossed to the depths the things that we could and we didn't think to save

For we all knew how the money worked, and we knew our dividend

Would be in the form of golden doubloons, as you all apprehend

But down in earth's nethers we got caught in a storm like none seen before

A vortex of physical forces round, a round one, and what's more

We were dropping into it before we quite knew it, down and around into

It, until we were in a dinosaur land, with lizards and what-have-its

All died save me, the lucky one, to live among these birds

With scales instead of feathers, play, do research, see it's surd

They took me in and raised me up and now I'm quite superior

I am the Superman or mensch, both inside and exterior

The sea, the sea, the briny sea, we sailed the briny sea

And everywhere we looked was wet, and that was enough for me.

 

*

 

Talk. Crowd. Convenience.

 

I've programmed a departure scene.

We're going off tomorrow up north

Although not very far will we go.

My bright and shining moment here

When I tell something secret to you

Won't come to pass unless you kiss

A wish in the middle of the air.

It's kissed? Did it reciprocate?

Perhaps you're lying to me, perhaps

Convenience is driving this.

In any case, to get back to biz:

We're faces in the crowd, with not

A lot to reap. We die in droves--

Sublunar?--that's a handy word,

Describing fleshly mundanity.

I'm not a Christian, not yet!

(Augustine said it so, the best.)

We do it how? A mystery!

We see trees, in triplicate,

And only see them standing there.

But meanwhile, in another part

Of the forest, someone has died,

And they're mourning for him as you hope

Your remainders will mourn for you.

This thinking cannot last too long:

My death? I'm off to Bala in the

Morning! I can't stop time!

We must come to the same conclusion

Despite whatever we think we are:

Eliminated from the gene pool,

In forty years forgotten, a

Couple words on a stone, perhaps....

To Bala in the morning! Hurrah!

 

*

 

ANDANTE

 

Back to Business

 

Heigh-ho, heigh-ho, it's time get back to business. Enough galivanting in the woods for me! I've seen nature, and I've returned. In The Eight Mountains, the rustic character makes fun of the city-folk because they use the word nature. "It's not nature to us; it woods, mountains, water."

I have to get my engine started again somehow, and it has to be in a different mode, since I can't write doggerel forever, understand, and I don't have the patience to write like Samuel Johnson, so that's out of the question. In any case, parodies are mostly forgotten in a day.

The week came and went. Sometimes it seemed a bit boring. The lake would start out calm in the morning, then the waves would begin. Even chipmunks are only amusing for so long! And before you knew it, it was time to get cooking again.

Now it's back to work, and boy do I ever have a lot of work to do catching up! I've fallen terribly behind: this entry is called 20230805-20230806. I'm essentially a month behind. After that, it'll be another ridiculously long story I won't have the patience to plot out properly. You'll see.

 

*

 

The Lost Rambler

 

When one decides to live a life independent of patrons, who may have motives in conflict with one's own motives, one finds oneself facing a vast array of problems that have never been faced before, such as: how can I manage outside of institutional rigors and mores, how can I find somewhat like-minded souls, or at least sympathies, and what will I do to make my attitudes known when I have not recourse to paths tried and true. If you are not trembling in fear already from the enumeration I have given, you may be on your next position, which have questions of form interspaced within its Latin and Greek roots, namely: how do I make myself a journal of some regularity, how do I arrange the printing, how will I find the time to create when I am forced to be my own manager and publisher, and how will the costs be borne? By subscription? That is to say: by borrowing money with a promise to fulfill at a later date? And yet, despite these difficulties, an industrious person cannot but help be invigorated at this independence and the emotions it stirs, not just concerning liberty.

 

*

 

"Rambler" on: Collaboration

 

Music is a wonderful purpose for collaboration, and indeed historically speaking music could not quite exist without it, for the lyre and the voice work together in Greek, and small and large choirs depend on it: it creates the essence of harmony, for the individual has but one voice. I was in a band in high school, along with some thirty or forty others, each playing different parts, in band arrangements (without strings, of course, for violins and so on are expensive and personal), and we enjoyed making big noises and travelling to Sudbury and Kanata at two different times, staying with strangers in basements and so on: however, that wasn't the act of creation I was interested in, for I wasn't much of a composer: in fact, the only piece I composed was an assigned arrangement, which I arranged for percussion and French horn because I was in love with the French horn player; be that all as it may be, it wasn't the kind of art I wished to pursue. I wanted to create from scratch, using only my self to create, and so I fell into writing material for this, i.e., my sole instrument.

 

*

 

"Rasselas": Mature Student

 

In an introductory session, in "Frosh Week", we gathered to fill out questionnaires about ourselves, and even about our beliefs, which though it seemed quite irrelevant was in fact mandatory, for we had to fill out the questionnaire on tablet computers, and one could not advance to subsequent pages without completing all fields; I wisely chose the answers that seemed to fit progressive orthodoxy the best, though this may come back to haunt me.

We frosh gathered with older students for a mixer at "The Serpent's Den", an on-campus beerhall hidden away in what seemed to have been a former storage space, and, as we talked, music was playing, and "In the Air Tonight" came on. Two older students nodded away in appreciation, and I, by way of ameliorating, mentioned that I remembered having heard it the day it was released. One second-year asked, smarmily perhaps, if I'd had a clock radio. I replied, No, I'd bought the long-playing record, taken it home, and listened to it for the first time, on my record player, alone. I thought this would impress them somehow, but no such luck. It appears I have much to learn about this world.

 

*

 

Rambler: "Collaboration Two"

 

As has been said on numerous occasions, assumedly by others and not only by myself, a collaboration, of which there are so many types it would be foolish to anatomize them, and not only because it would be excessively time-consuming and not at all rewarding when you think about it, requires a division of labour into many parts, or music-sheets if you care to recall my high school band analogy from yesterday, and each part is a distinct part, with the whole, with the symphony, directed forth by a person chosen to keep the ensemble together. However, one doesn't have to imagine a full Ninth to understand the matter of the necessity of the division of labour; instead, to get down to the smallest possible experience of collaboration, we can use the idea of words and music, such as Taupin and John or Gilbert and Sullivan, or, to go further afield (and repeat what my wiser has expressed elsewhere), to consider playwriting divisions, such as in the case of The Witch of Edmonton or Sir Thomas More, the divisions of labour are more or less defined by the sense of the scene or act, in grand syntagmata.

 

*

 

Rasselas: "On" Education

 

At the end of the term, a general invitation was received, by the entire student body, or so it seemed, for some may have been left out due to political differences, to the effect that a facility with a decently-sized swimming-pool had been hired for our use, paid for by the shadowy Student Association, and that all were welcome, and BYOB, a term which I had to look up on the school Internet; we were furthermore warned not to come 'if you are bashful'. I am generally a bashful person, but this was an opportunity not to be missed, even if only for general anthropological or voyeuristic purposes: a chance to see the cohort behaving badly, as badly as could be, with or without swim costumes, I could go either way, oh dear I've lost the verb. When I walked in, music was playing, but the music that was playing seemed to be barely music: it sounded like the idle noodling of someone warming up a Hammond organ. Around the pool I was welcomed warmly, almost enthusiastically, and I watched, and listened, and talked, and six people swam, and we drank beer, and that was about it.

 

*

 

"Rambler on End"

 

A few moments ago, I was sitting on our front porch on Logan Street, reading a number of The Rambler, as contained in the new Oxford volume of Johnson's works (selected), when I heard, from across the street and thru a second-storey window, a little girl give out two piercing screams- those screams that little girls can accomplish. Laughter followed, indicating it was all play amongst girls: mother and daughters.... However, as I ruminated in the moment, is it not the case that there is a certain pitch, a certain tenor, and volume, to the scream of a little girl? I wondered, at that moment, if adult women can scream in the same way--(though, at this moment, I recognize that: yes, they can scream, though not with the same volume, tenor, or pitch.) On the porch, i.e., earlier, I considered compiling an anthology of the screams of little girls, from all around the world, with all the various screams of all the little girls, of every continent and region, perhaps to be released by Bear Family Records--but I immediately realized that if I searched for "LITTLE GIRLS SCREAMING" on the Internet, I'd be instantly brown-listed.

 

*

 

SCHERZO

 

Look Out Below

 

The following notice concerns that which is to come. Discretion is advised.

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A warning which may be called a 'trigger warning' follows. Viewer discretion is advised.

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A series of trigger warnings follow, if that's the term I'm after. Maybe I should have called them just 'alerts' in what follows. However, they've already been vetted so they're not going anywhere. Viewer discretion is advised.

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Actually, there isn't that much research concerning trigger warnings. It's merely a matter of policy. It seemed like it made sense to include them. That said: The following board contains a trigger warning. Viewer discretion is advised.

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It may seem like we are warning you about warnings, or the lack thereof. However, it is our studio's current policy to include them. Thus: the following warning warns of a subsequent warning. Viewer discretion is advised.

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Warning. It has come to our attention that trigger warnings may be counter-productive. Thus: We warn you. A trigger warning follows. (I promise we will get to the artwork soon.) Viewer discretion is advised.

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Warning. A trigger warning follows that board. Viewer discretion advised.

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Warning. The following artwork contains cuss. Viewer discretion advised.

 

*

 

The Ear Block

 

An introduction is in order, since you have never heard me speak before, and I'm not interested in playing a guessing game. I am the stuff in his ear, his left ear, that's not letting him hear things distinctly, even with headphones playing Scarlatti.

It's bothersome to him, and I'm the cause of it. Tee-hee! I'm driving him over the edge. I've got him imagining music in some distant underground cavern, when really he's only hearing the pulse of his heart and the flow of his blood. And he has to make it make sense, and so he imagines he's hearing loud techno from five blocks away!

Ah, but my life is limited. He's putting stuff in his ear, hydrogen peroxide, and he's chasing that hydrogen peroxide with olive oil, so I know I'll soon be gone, just a memory, just a tale, not even with a proper name even though I've lived intimately with his for a little over a week.

I know how habits and his weaknesses. I know what he does in the toilet and the shower. Nothing has escaped me. I've seen and heard it all. And yet, soon I will be nothing!

 

*

 

Tailurism is Failurism

 

Mr. and Mrs. Smith, good citizens were such, they put a flat concrete wall on the north side of their property. From street-side, a smooth grey façade faced the sidewalk. It was for vandalism. It was for the kids with nothing else to do. Mrs. Smith started that particular ball rolling by quickly painting a 'Killroy was here' glyph in the upper middle, slightly to the left.

Over the next year, the young good-for-nothings painted senseless things all over; they did it with the feeling they were being bad. Every week would be some new piece of idiocy, and Mr. Taylor would paint over the stupidest things.

Some of the kids, however, had more education, and they would paint mysterious images and words. "Tailurism is Failurism" took a bit of research to interpret, and why anyone would write HAPAX LEGOMENON was anyone's guess. However, over all, it seemed the little savages were developing a kind of intelligence.

It came to a bad pass, though: The city declared the wall a Cultural Heritage Site, and the Smiths found their property diminished in value. Mrs. Smith wrote SMASH THE STATE on the wall; then they moved to the suburbs.

 

*

 

This Takes Discipline!

 

She was having a good time at the cook-out; dusk was all around her, and soon it would be dark except for the fire which was getting relatively brighter minute by minute. How would the night go? How would she get home? Plenty of wine there was still to drink, and not a soda in sight.

How could this be the lot? he wondered. He looked across the wide mall, from balcony to balcony and mezzanine to mezzanine. No-one striking was to be seen, not a one. Where have all the pretty girls gone? Are they all out in the countryside?

The waters weren't as cold as they looked; Bournemouth was having one of its restful periods. The smoke had cleared, and the noise had fallen away, the noise of traffic and truck. Nothing really mattered to the streets except that they were being given a respite from having to support it all.

On a distant mountain-top, Mr. Himalaya took out his freeze-dried coffee and planned to make good of the day. Still a lot to be painted, he figured; those peaks over there look like breasts. How can mountains have rounded tops such as those two?

 

*

 

Yet It Moves

 

INQUISITOR: "You are relying, so it seems, on the heresies of Adam Smith. Why do you insist on doing this?"

GALILEO: "It is because of the explanatory power of his theory. The creation, of wealth, is no longer inexplicable. Certain processes are set into play by the simply atomist exchange of goods and services."

INQUISI[]: "It runs counter to the church's teachings. Don't you understand that for the good of all, exchange must be limited and controlled, by the church itself?"

GALILE[]: "I understand the principle that is put forward by the Holy Roman and Apostolic Church; however, the church itself is an agent in exchange, whether it likes it or not."

INQUIS[]: "Never! The heresy is absent from the church. We do not even consider wealth as something wanting creation. The bounty is given, as is wealth."

GALI[]: "And yet, it is certain that wealth is created through trade, and in no other fashion."

IN[]: "Are you not familiar with the labour theory of value?"

GAL[]: "Certainly I am. However, that has been proven to be false. As the saying goes: And yet it moves."

[]: "Trial is ended. Present yourself to the reëducation camp immediately."

 

*

 

Poisoning a Dog

 

I did it entirely out of malice. Something took a hold of me, and things changed. Or: I wanted to see what would happen, and I certain saw.

A neighbourhood dog, and collection of chemicals I won't name off here, and bits of ground beef: simple in themselves, but complex in combination.

Between the first and the second poisoning, I noticed a change in the animal. He looked tired, and his eyes were red. (I watched from a window.) Nevertheless, there's nothing that'll stop a dog from gobbling away. (Maybe that's why you hate them. --Ed.)

He came back a third time, like he wanted more poison. So poison the animal a third time I did. He wobbled away, and got out of sight, and that was the last I heard of saw of him for a couple weeks.

One day, a tv station truck was outside. From what I could gather, a dog--which one do you think it was--had learned to talk. A miracle!

Before the hub-bub got too crazy, I achieved a private conference with 'Waldo'.

"You poisoned me, but I forgive you."

"Why?"

"Because, stupid. Haven't you heard of paradoxical reactions?"

 

*

 

Statute of Limitations

 

I think it's run out.

Forty years ago, in high school, 12th grade, in English class, for some reason an assignment, 'current events', do something about South African Apartheid.

And get into groups.

My group was four guys. One guy was funny. I don't remember the second. The third was kind of rougher, maturer, than me or the others.

We made a video, satirizing racist South African newscasts. It seemed amusing at the time. (All copies have been destroyed by time and her hunger.)

My point? At the end of our video, the rougher (see above) imitated an advertisement. He said: "Brought to you by Alpo. If it's good enough fer you, it's good enough fer yer friggin' dog."

A week after our presentation/'screening', an in-English-class discussion somehow got to obscenities and their dodges.

'Frig' came up. (How, I don't know.)

In front of everyone, Mrs. Jackson (for she be teacher) said to Jack or Jackson (for he be the rougher): "And you know what I told you, about the word 'frig'."

"Yes, ma'am," he replied, leaning back.

WHEN HAD THEY DISCUSSED THIS?

WHEN HAD THEY TALKED ABOUT ANAL SEX?

WHERE?

ALONE?

WHERE?

IN THE SUPPLY CLOSET!!!

 

*

 

Our Leftist Comedy!

 

(The lights come down on the stage, the sound recordist is at the ready, the commissioners have signed off on the performance, and the two comedians are dressed right. They come on, from both stages, to meet in the middle. They are wearing street clothes, and they don 't acknowledge the audience, because it 's important to have an alienation effect.)

FIRST COMEDIAN: Say, did you hear the one about the three proletarians?

SECOND COMEDIAN: Oh, about how they were all killed by capitalism?

(The pre-recorded audience goes wild, because it's an unexpected line and delivered with aplomb, plus it 's pre-recorded. The comedians bow to their imaginary audience, there in their Moscow studio, happy to have earned a hundred rubles apiece, and also to 've been seen supporting the Party, which it never hurts to do, since the party had all the rubles. As Lenin wrote: "Convert the imperialist war into civil war." Thus must we fight with might against the brainiacs who are so falsely identified as to side with our class enemy. The sooner our revolution comes, the better. Time is of the essence. If we strike this evening, we 'll get the drop!)

 

*

 

FINALE

 

1 to 200

 

We got there well after midnight, but that wasn't going to stop them. They asked: "Where are you all from?" and we replied: "We're from far away from here. Sometimes from the north, and sometimes from the south." They liked this answer; they liked it a lot.

Then and there they told us there was going to be a performance in honour of us. "What kind of a performance, and when?" "It's kind of like a circus performance," the replied: "and we want to start it right away, in about a half hour." "Isn't it kind of late?" "For guests? It's never too late."

A circus tent appeared as if out of nowhere, there in the middle of their town square. Where had it come from, and who were these people? We had a guidebook, but it didn't say anything about magic. Surely it should have mentioned magic, shouldn't it have? We figured there was no real magic going on: it was only that they had their acts together, and they were ready at a moment's notice to make something happen, no matter how late, no matter how sudden, and undoubtedly no matter how few spectators spectated.

 

*

 

201 to 400

 

We went into the tent and seated ourselves comfortably. The walls were festooned with garlands of lilacs and roses, so we could see they had spared nothing in giving us something of a treat. After a few moments, a man whom we can assume to be the emcee came out onto the floor in front of us to tell us the programme was a lengthy one, and a delightful. "First, we present a segment from our nation's favourite game show."

Out rolled a wheeled table upon which sat a number of ordinary household objects: a toaster, a set of measuring spoons joined together with an orange ring, a loaf of bread, two shoehorns, and a box of Krispy Krackers. All these objects were readily perceived as being what they were by ourselves, so we knew not what was to take place. A voice over some kind of a public address system spoke some rapid words--assumedly--in a language unknown to us; at the same time, three women and three men came out to the table and examined the goods. One woman chose the measuring spoons, while a man picked up the toaster with something of care.

 

*

 

401 to 600

 

A second woman picked up the Krispy Krackers, and a second man picked up the shoehorns. The third woman was left to pick up the loaf of bread, while the third man got nothing at all.

Bells started ringing, lights started flashing: the possessors of the toaster, the spoons, the bread, the shoehorns, and the Krackers quickly put the objects back on the table, the third man raised his hands in victory, and pushed the table off stage left, while the other five, looking dejected and cheated in some way, proceeded off stage right.

The bells stopped ringing and the lights stopped flashing. The act appeared to be over, and we didn't know the meaning of it. Something will come clear, I figured at that moment, but I did not know when.

Meanwhile, a man, strong-looking and buff, trotted into the centre of the ring and waved his arms around. An assistant of his appeared, a lithe young lady in a close-fitting garment. What were we to expect this time? She tossed a flaming torch to the strongman; he tossed it high in the air and caught it, from hand to hand, and tossed it up again.

 

*

 

601 to 800

 

From somewhere behind him, there rolled forth a bowling ball. As if it weighed almost nothing (which it seemed to, at least initially), he tossed it high in the air with his foot, and we say that he was, in fact, a juggler. The torch and the bowling ball were going around in circles over his head, and he hardly seemed to notice what he was doing, such was his sangfroid. Then his assistant, the lithe young lady, ran forward and leapt into the air, and she joined the circle of the objects being juggled! It was an astonishing thing to see, as torch, ball, and lady orbited over his head. Of course, there was more: for a lawnmower rolled onto stage from the direction the bowling ball had come, and the juggler picked it up calmly and then we saw lawnmower, lady, ball, and torch overhead.

The music--for there was a sprightly waltz quietly playing, possibly to help the juggler keep his sense of timing--started to resolve itself tonally to a centre, and we could tell the performance was coming to either an end or an interlude. We were expecting quite a climax there.

 

*

 

801 to 1000

 

He first caught the torch between the ring finger and the pinky of his right hand, making it effectively out-of-commission but still dangerous, leaving the bowling ball, the lady, and the lawnmower still flying about. The handle of the mower he caught between the ring finger and pinky of his left hand, and the body of the mower dropped noiselessly to the stage. What next? The music was repeating itself in a climax, and we simply couldn't take much more of it. Then, with the lady high overhead, he caught the bowling ball between his knees, let it drop gently down, rolled it slightly towards himself, at sat down upon it. He tossed the torch and the mower handle away, and caught the lady in his arms and they kissed. The musicians played the tonic, the juggler and the lady stood and bowed, then the juggler said: "Ladies and gentlemen: my bride."

She bowed, they bowed, he bowed, then they left the stage. How could this strange town top that? Were there three acts, or four? Or even more? I didn't know the time, but I guessed it was about two-thirty in the morning.

The musicians arrived.

 

*

 

1001 to 1200

 

There were some sixteen of them, ten men and six women, and they arranged themselves around a conductor, who was standing on a little platform. We applauded with appreciation and expectation, if it's possible to do both at once: otherwise, merely say: "We applauded." Then, after a pause, the conductor started waving his hands around as conductors are paid to do, and the musicians appeared to start: but when I say that, they started making the motions of sawing fiddles and blowing brass and reed, but they made no noise. It was a pantomime performance, with a design and purpose unknown.

My companion whispered, very quietly to me, "They're pretending to play the music they played to accompany the juggling." I compared my memory of the music for the juggler with what I saw before me, and I recognized he could be right about that. Thus it was possible that when we heard them, we could not see them, while when we saw them, we could not hear them.

Things got a bit frantic down there on the stage, a sure sign the performance was coming to an end, when I was convinced my companion was correct.

 

*

 

1201 to 1400

 

Now while we were all applauding, I had to think: had we seen three acts, or two? Since the juggling and the subsequent silent musical performance were intrinsically tied together, could they be considered the same act? And further than that: was there also a deep connection between the game show (if it was in fact a game show) and the second or second and third act? What exactly could that be? In any scenario, it was doubtless that the jugging act--which was either the second part of the first act or the first part of the second act or merely the second act--was the most normal part of the whole experience, no matter how impossible it appeared to be, what with a lawnmower and a wife involved.

In any case, the stage cleared, and a backdrop came down from a fly gallery (who has a fly gallery in a tent?), and we were presented with a scenario. It seemed we were in for a domestic drama of some sort, kind of a 1920's thing, a city thing, because through the window other buildings could be seen: and yet they were alien buildings, future buildings.

 

*

 

1401 to 1600

 

The lights went on, high up in the tent: the house lights, as they're called. The emcee came out to the centre of the backdrop, and he said: "Ladies and gentlemen, natives and foreigners, we will not have a fifteen-minute interval. If you choose to go outside the tent for refreshments, you will find beer and wine on a plastic table to your left. If you choose to remain and ponder what you have just seen, please feel free to do so. Fifteen minutes of freedom, fifteen minutes away from bondage."

I chose to stay, along with my companion to my left, while the rest went outside for alcoholic refreshments. We talked quietly. The tent was entirely empty. No sounds were being made. We figured the actors were out back, or behind the backdrop, thinking through their lines. We were three thousand miles away from our home town, in a tent in a place whose name we weren't entirely sure of since it contained some esoteric characters close to Glagolitic but obviously not Glagolitic. The world had turned sideways.

Our companions came back. It seemed the beer had little flavour and the wine was vinegared beyond drinking.

 

*

 

1601 to 1800

 

The lights came quietly down again, and we were once again staring closely at the backdrop of a city room, a tenement perhaps, with odd buildings showing through the window behind. From the left came a man in a business suit not very much unlike the business suits I've seen in my own town: slacks and jacket in a nonthreatening hue of blue, a while shirt, black shoes, and a grey tie. Nothing seemed out of order here: he was arriving home after a complex day in the City.

"Sam!" he called out, and an actress, dressed in a flowered skirt and a white blouse and low-heeled orange shoes, appeared on the right. She had a cloth in her hands and she was wiping them in a wonderfully phony way.

"My darling, you are home," she cried, yet kept a distance.

He pulled a chair out from behind the backdrop and sat down in it. "Something terrible has happened." He dropped his briefcase to cry into his hands.

'Sam' pulled a table and then a chair out from behind the backdrop, then a vase of fake flowers. She sat down. "It can't be as bad as that."

 

*

 

1801 to 2000

 

Sam's husband (for so he appeared to be) said: "Haven't you seen the news?"

"I haven't had the television on all day."

He sighed. "It's gone."

"What's gone?"

"The city."

"How can a city be gone?"

"An explosion."

"Just one?"

"A series of explosions, okay?"

"Well, that's terrible."

"Terrible? It's a catastrophe."

"So what's there instead?"

"Nothing."

"Nothing?"

"Just a crater."

"How did you survive?"

"I was close enough to the outskirts."

"Are you going to re-build?"

"I don't think it's possible. All the managers are gone."

"We can't go on without managers."

"No. I don't think so." (Beat.) "Impossible to survive. We should consume those cyanide tablets we've been saving."

"I think so. Why die of starvation or such?"

He went behind the backdrop to produce a bottle marked POISON. He opened it. He shook the contents of the bottle into his hand. He dropped the bottle. He gave a pill to her. He said: "It's been fine being married to you."

"I agree. Me being married to you, I mean."

"Farewell."

"Farewell."

Tableau.

The emcee walked onstage and addressed us. "Ladies and gentlemen, can we let this happen? No! There is a cure available, however."

 

*

 

2001 to 2200

 

We were all ears.

"We require a volunteer from the audience!" he cried. "What you have seen here take place can be entirely reversed, with the help of a volunteer, who can act as the escape-goat! Only through the submission of the escape-goat can order be restored!"

I stood up quickly, for what had I done in my life? Little more than join this expedition, and it hadn't been a terribly exciting expedition anyway.

"Sir!" cried the emcee. "Come on down to our sacred stage."

I went into what seemed to be the aisle and went up to the emcee. I was astonished to see he was very, very, old. From out of nowhere two assistants took hold of my arms and led me roughly to a spot upstage (the backdrop having flown up into the gallery) where there stood an operating or massage table. One of the assistants (they were both wearing masks) hissed at me: "Get on the table, maggot."

Not being used to this kind of address, I hopped up onto the table and sat, facing my fellow travellers who were looking on attentively. The assistants set a leather shoulder harness over my head.

 

*

 

2201 to 2400

 

That having been done, they attached four thick leather thongs to hooks in the harness, and the other ends of the thongs they hooked to the four corners of the table, thus rendering me immobile. They were cursing me at all times, saying: "You're so utterly worthless, and yet you're greedy." "You've never spent a day without sinning, have you?" "Think of the people you've hurt, hundreds and thousands." I took their words to heart, because it was all so true. (How did they know, anyway?) They cut the shirt off me; they could have removed it before the harnessing, but I suppose that could have ruined the melodrama of it all; the blades the used knicked me here and there. I looked out at my companions. They were expressionless.

A third assistant now entered, bearing a whip. He was also wearing a mask, and I thought of executioners and so forth. Was this to be my death? Surely they wouldn't kill a visitor! But only time would tell.

He raised the whip, and slashed it upon me, cursing all the while, and the pain was like wet fire, for the whip was a pinky in thickness.

 

*

 

2401 to 2600

 

Then came another lash, and another; I lost count after seven had been applied. For the sake of an entire fictional city, I suffered tremendously. I knew they were right; I knew the commissioners high above were doing the right thing by subjecting me to this; I knew the universe had gone awry and there's only one way to fix a cocky cosmos and that's to put all the miseries into one bag (such as myself) and throw it in the river (of torture). How long did my beating last? It's hard for me to judge, but considering the mannerisms of the people around me, it probably was only about five minutes in total.

You want to know how it came to an end, because they obviously didn't kill me.

A voice shouted: "Stop!" and the beating stopped.

I heard someone say: "It worked. The City has been saved."

Then I heard the male character, the husband of Sam, say: "It was a delusion, entirely. Like a waking dream. Something evil I came up with, but it's not with me anymore. I feel purified and born again. Darling, forgive me."

Sam said: "I forgive you, my darling."

 

*

 

2601 to 2800

 

"I have not ended the world after all!"

They kissed.

They snapped the thongs off my harness. The pulled the harness up over my head. I had complete mobility once more. I gasped: "So, I saved their world?"

One attendant handed me a wet sponge, because I would be needing it. He said: "Yes, you've set a world aright. You and only you."

I could hear my blood slowly dripping from the table to the floor. Drop. Drop. Drop. My arms hurt to bend, yet I managed to stand. The musicians had started up again, with a merry closing waltz. The emcee came to me. He had to bend a little.

He said: "Thank you for volunteering."

I said: "Yes, now I recall that I actually volunteered for that." I hurt like a bitch, whatever that means.

He said: "You'll tell the people in your country this is an interesting town, yes?"

My back was being gently sponged, and I could hear them squeezing the sponges. "I'll give them a full account, I promise."

The emcee raised an index finger. "Advertising!"

"Yes," I replied. Then, an epiphany: "You know, your arts are much like ours."

 

THE END