Like someone popping the cork on a bottle of champagne New Year’s eve, the light came back. He didn’t bother to check on his holes anymore, he knew now that they would always be gone when he woke up. No longer did he care if he would ever make it out of this place. Since the razor episode there hadn’t been any more outbursts; he had taken comfort in the repetition. How many times have I gone through this? There was no way to count. Every time, some things were different; the tools, the material of the walls, the location of the hole, but one thing was always the same: Dig. Once it was a hammer and chisel chipping through solid white ice. Another time it was a shovel and a thick, gelatinous paste. After a while the size of the space began to change too. Sometimes it was so big he never found the letters, other times it was cramped and claustrophobic. The worst was when it was small. He remembered when the room was so small, small as a coffin, that he couldn’t even move his arms. All he could do was to stare up at those red letters, unable to move, waiting for the darkness.
Currently he had a white plastic bucket and was on his way across the space, which he estimated was the size of a football field this time, to the letters. When he arrived he put his hand out to feel them, a habit he had followed since the incident with the pick ax. The wall felt warm and gritty. Without hesitation he struck the lip of the bucket into the side of the g. A small piece of the wall fractured and thousands of grains of what looked like sand began pouring out the crack. Sand eh? Maybe I’ll build a castle. The crack that his bucket had produced began to expand, slowly at first but rapidly gaining speed. Like a pane of glass shattering in slow motion, cracks shot off in all directions, white sand issuing from the fissures at an alarming rate. Oh shit. Cave in. He spun on his heels and ran away from the approaching disaster at top speed, but before he could get far the wall exploded outward, releasing a tsunami of sand that quickly began to fill the space with a roaring hiss. He tried to keep running but the sand had already caught up with him, covering his feet and causing him to fall face first to the ground. The sand washed over him like waves on a beach. He struggled desperately to stay on top of each surge but his resistance was futile, the sand was unrelenting. He stretched his hand out, hoping to grab hold of something he knew wasn’t there. This was it, the sand now poured over his head, filling his ears and nose. He tried to hold his breath but accidentally sucked in a mouthful of the bone white grains. The deafening rush of the sand was now inaudible, blocked out by the mass that had buried him alive. Silence. Pure silence. It was almost comforting, like being surrounded in a warm, soft blanket. He welcomed the quiet and embraced the darkness, letting his eyes shut one last time. Then he saw it. He wasn’t sure how, given the lack of light underneath the pile of sand and the fact that his eyes were closed, but he still saw it. Dig. Yes, that’s it. That is what I am supposed to do, I get it now. I dig. I have always and will always dig. That is what I do. Fingers clawed through the sand involuntarily. Desperate for a breath of air and amazed he had made it this long, his hands slowly worked through the sand. But it wasn’t enough. His lungs screamed for oxygen, his blood boiled. This is it, the big sleep. His hands ceased their desperate efforts, his heart came to a stop. His final breath left his lungs and slowly snaked it’s way through the gaps between grains to the surface.
Like a shock of static electricity the light jolted his eyes open. I’m alive? He glanced around at the all too familiar surroundings. He was still in the space, still breathing, still alive. He stared deep into the white abyss searching for what he knew he would find. I’ll find you, sooner or later, I’ll find you. As he started his search he recited what would be his new mantra: “I dig. This is what I do. This is what I have and will always do. I dig.”
7.30.2008
Three
His eyelids opened like window shades, drowning his world with the light. The pain from his previous efforts was gone. He rubbed his eyes with his palm and surveyed his surrounding. There weren’t any tools around him, and when he turned around he found the letters, this time only a few feet in front of him. Dig. The letters were massive. They towered over him, easily four times his height. The size of the letters startled him, and a sense of unease jolted through his body. Panic sizzled in the back of his head as he turned in the other direction and began to flee from the letters. He hadn’t taken more than a couple of steps before his nose smashed into the opposite wall. He stumbled backwards and fell to the ground. Son of a bitch! His vision was blurred and his nose felt like it was on fire. He touched it and hollered with pain the instant contact was made. Fuck, I think it’s broken. He rolled onto his side and noticed a small weight in his shirt pocket. Curious, he reached his hand in and extracted a matte-white razor blade. Huh? He looked up and the letters on the other side of the space. “No,” he said, his voice scratchy from several days without use. “No. No, no, no, no, NO” he yelled as his voice became more clear. “I am not fucking digging anymore! I am not and I will not dig, god dammit! What the fuck is going on?” He hurled the razor blade at the giant red letters. “How in fuck do I get out of this place?” He screamed as loud as he could, until all the air had exited his lungs. Then he screamed some more. When his mouth was dry and his vocal chords felt like they had been rubbed with heavy-duty sandpaper, he slowly got to his feet and looked at the letters. He laughed softly. His laughter grew until it filled the room. “That’s great. I get it. I’ll dig myself out of this shit hole.”
He took a deep breath and walked towards the wall, bending over to pick up the razor blade he threw earlier. When he straightened up he saw a small flap had been peeled away from the wall where the razor hit. He firmly grabbed the flap and gave it a hefty tug, ripping a large, thin sheet off the wall. Paper? Behind the piece of wall he tore was another smooth, white surface. The piece he ripped off did not leave anymore flaps or protrusions, so he took the razor blade and ran it across this newly exposed wall. The blade sliced through several layers of the paper-like substance and he started to peel them back one by one. This is like unwrapping a giant present. What the hell? How many layers can there be? His next incision was through part of the D. He cut deep and tore off a large flap of the wall. Underneath the D was another D, each subsequent layer having the same letters emblazoned upon it. With grim determination he laid siege to the paper wall, shredding through layer after layer after layer. The pain from his nose was washed out by the sting of a thousand paper cuts. Whole chunks of flesh were hacked away from his fingertips and hands, blood soaked through the countless layers of paper in a heap on the floor. It was difficult to distinguish between the red of the letters and the red of his blood. When he started to feel lightheaded he just laughed and worked harder. Finally it began to feel like the whole room was spinning out of control and he let out a maniacal cackle before he collapsed in a mess of shredded paper and blood stains.
He took a deep breath and walked towards the wall, bending over to pick up the razor blade he threw earlier. When he straightened up he saw a small flap had been peeled away from the wall where the razor hit. He firmly grabbed the flap and gave it a hefty tug, ripping a large, thin sheet off the wall. Paper? Behind the piece of wall he tore was another smooth, white surface. The piece he ripped off did not leave anymore flaps or protrusions, so he took the razor blade and ran it across this newly exposed wall. The blade sliced through several layers of the paper-like substance and he started to peel them back one by one. This is like unwrapping a giant present. What the hell? How many layers can there be? His next incision was through part of the D. He cut deep and tore off a large flap of the wall. Underneath the D was another D, each subsequent layer having the same letters emblazoned upon it. With grim determination he laid siege to the paper wall, shredding through layer after layer after layer. The pain from his nose was washed out by the sting of a thousand paper cuts. Whole chunks of flesh were hacked away from his fingertips and hands, blood soaked through the countless layers of paper in a heap on the floor. It was difficult to distinguish between the red of the letters and the red of his blood. When he started to feel lightheaded he just laughed and worked harder. Finally it began to feel like the whole room was spinning out of control and he let out a maniacal cackle before he collapsed in a mess of shredded paper and blood stains.
Two
Like a light bulb switched back on hours after being extinguished, the room was engulfed in sterile light. His eyes burned from the light which so ruthlessly annihilated the deep darkness. Rising to his feet he glanced over to where his hole had been, eager to continue digging. It wasn’t there. He spun around, looking vainly in all directions for his hole. Where the hell is it? He looked around again. It has to be here, how could it have been filled up while I was sleeping? Who could have done it? What the hell is going on? He spun once more, this time glimpsing something off in the distance, his pupils straining to make out the blurry image. What he saw made him sick. Dig. There it was again, right there on the wall, just like it was when he first found it, only this time at eye level. What is this? There was something different though: leaning up against the wall was a pick ax, something a miner would use. Well, this is new. He picked up the metal implement, examining it. It was made out of steel, heavy and sturdy. He began to walk towards the letters, taking breaks every now and then to put down the heavy pick. Eventually he arrived and prepared to dig. All right, let’s get this show on the road. This should be a bit easier than that damned rod. Lining up the tip of the pick with the dot of the i he drew the ax back and brought it to bear on his target. Expecting the chalk to yield to his mighty blow he was astonished when the pick came to a dead stop with a loud clank. The force of the collision sent shock waves of pain through his hands and arms. He dropped the pick and crumpled up on the floor in agony. A tingling sensation worked its way from the tips of his fingers to his shoulders and back down again. When he was able to regain his composure and stand up he touched the wall where his pick had landed, inspecting it for damage. The wall felt different this time, cold and solid like ancient granite. He looked closely at the dot, eventually finding the point of impact. A breath of disappointment escaped his lungs when he saw the tiny chip that had been removed. Damn. This isn’t going to be fun.
Hours and hours of work left him completely drained. His hands felt like they were going to fall off with every pulse of blood that flowed through them. His arms seemed to be dangling from a thread in his shoulders. His head still pounded to the rhythm of his hammering long since stopped. Progress was slow; the dot of the i had been chipped away and nothing else. There was not one ounce of energy or willpower left in his body. Heart rate slows, eyes shut, darkness. Pure darkness.
Hours and hours of work left him completely drained. His hands felt like they were going to fall off with every pulse of blood that flowed through them. His arms seemed to be dangling from a thread in his shoulders. His head still pounded to the rhythm of his hammering long since stopped. Progress was slow; the dot of the i had been chipped away and nothing else. There was not one ounce of energy or willpower left in his body. Heart rate slows, eyes shut, darkness. Pure darkness.
One
As far as he could tell there was no noticeable light source, the walls themselves seemed to radiate light, brilliant, flawless white light, throughout the entire room--perhaps room is not the right word; there were no shadows, no visible features, no way to determine the size or shape of the space he now inhabited. Space. That was the word. No way to determine the size of the space he was in. He had already tried shouting, but there was neither reply nor echo. He had run as fast as he could, but had no way of knowing if he was running in any specific direction. He took off his shoes and threw them as far as he could, running to their landing spot and throwing them again and again and again and again. He quickly lost track of how many times he had thrown his shoes or how many steps he had taken, but he kept going. That is how he found it. Right there at chest level in stark contrast to the perfectly white background. Three blood red letters: Dig.
He sat there for quite some time, staring at those red letters. Dig? Dig what? Dig where? What the hell does this mean? He looked all around him but he could see nothing else, only white. He sat down and put his head in his hands, then he looked back at the letters. If I keep one hand on the wall those are written on and keep walking I’ll eventually come back to this spot. Then I will know how big this place is. So what? What if I take my hand off and can’t find my way back? He stood up and noticed for the first time the clothes he was wearing; white pants and a white shirt, very similar to the scrubs a doctor or surgeon would wear. The shirt had a pocket over the left breast that contained a pencil sized white metal rod. He looked over at the pair of white shoes he had thrown. Why hadn’t he noticed them when he took them off? Why hadn’t any of this registered earlier? In fact the only thing that appeared strange to him was that none of this seemed strange in any way, only frustrating and confusing. He knew this place wasn’t where he was supposed to be, yet he couldn’t remember how long he had been here or what happened before he got here. None of this makes sense, but why don’t I care?
He walked over to the letters and reached his left hand to touch them. The wall felt soft and ever-so-slightly grainy. He ran his hand across the letters and was surprised when the red coloring smeared into the white where his fingers had touched. He looked at his hand and found it covered in a fine red powder. He quickly wiped his hand on his pants leg, leaving a streak of red powder against the white fabric. Then he put his fingers to his nose and took a cautious sniff--there was no smell. Next he licked his index finger, hoping that the powder was not harmful, and noticed a bland, dry taste. When he failed to drop to the floor vomiting his liver out or bleeding through his eyes he declared the powder ‘not poison.’
Looking back at the letters he placed his finger against the dot of the i and pushed firmly. He could feel the material, whatever it was, give a bit and when he removed his finger he saw a small depression in the surface of the wall. He put his finger over the depression and pushed harder, but he could not compress the material so easily this time. He spread his hand out and leaned against the i. The wall gave only the slightest bit so he pushed harder. Eventually he found himself leaning into the wall with both hands, pushing with all his might. Still nothing. He placed his back against the wall and started pushing again. He could feel the wall give a bit more. After throwing his entire weight against the wall for some time, he slid his back down the wall and sat on the ground thoroughly frustrated. An idea flashed in his mind and he turned around and scratched the wall with his fingernail. The powder came off easily so he stood up and began scratching the letters with both hands. His fingers began carving lines in the wall, deeper and deeper. The powder got under his fingernails and cracked the skin, causing his fingers to bleed. But he kept going. When he was up to his first knuckle he stopped scratching and pinched the space between two grooves. He twisted his wrist and with a silent snap a small flake broke off the wall. Delighted, he began to break off as many pieces of the wall as he could. This worked for a while until he was left with a shallow hole devoid of any edges or protrusions to snap off. I need something hard to chisel through this stuff. The rod! He took the rod out of his shirt pocket and jammed it into the wall. Satisfaction. He pushed the end of the rod parallel to the wall, breaking a large piece off. And so he began to dig, stabbing the wall, angular chunks of the material crumbling off into a pile of rubble at his feet.
How long had he been digging? Hours, days, a week? I don’t know. The pile of rubble was now a mound of material--chalk, he decided it was--several feet in diameter and reaching to his knees. When he had dug as far into the wall as he could at the height of the letters he began to work his way down towards the floor. As he sat propped up against the mound of debris he surveyed his handywork: there was now a hole several feet taller than it was wide, reaching from the base of the wall to the bottom of his chin, and a few feet deep. He was quite tired and very thirsty. A faint cloud of chalk dust lingered around the hole and he was sure his lungs were full of the stuff. His lips were dry and cracked and his eyes were scratchy and red. His hands had become so dry that the tips of his fingers had split open, the wounds filling with chalk, stopping the bleeding but worsening the cracks. When he reached the ground he discovered that it was made of a different material that his rod was not able to break. It was at this point he decided to rest.
He hadn’t been sitting long before he felt compelled to start digging again. I had better get back to work. He wondered why he had thought of it as work and why he felt forced to continue. I have nothing else to do, might as well keep digging. And so he kept digging. When the hole was now a tunnel some three and a half feet deep he stopped. He crawled out of the tunnel and lay on his back. His body was filled with fatigue, his eyelids became stone. He could keep them open no longer and his world was immediately engulfed in blackness. It was as if he was blinked out of existence.
He sat there for quite some time, staring at those red letters. Dig? Dig what? Dig where? What the hell does this mean? He looked all around him but he could see nothing else, only white. He sat down and put his head in his hands, then he looked back at the letters. If I keep one hand on the wall those are written on and keep walking I’ll eventually come back to this spot. Then I will know how big this place is. So what? What if I take my hand off and can’t find my way back? He stood up and noticed for the first time the clothes he was wearing; white pants and a white shirt, very similar to the scrubs a doctor or surgeon would wear. The shirt had a pocket over the left breast that contained a pencil sized white metal rod. He looked over at the pair of white shoes he had thrown. Why hadn’t he noticed them when he took them off? Why hadn’t any of this registered earlier? In fact the only thing that appeared strange to him was that none of this seemed strange in any way, only frustrating and confusing. He knew this place wasn’t where he was supposed to be, yet he couldn’t remember how long he had been here or what happened before he got here. None of this makes sense, but why don’t I care?
He walked over to the letters and reached his left hand to touch them. The wall felt soft and ever-so-slightly grainy. He ran his hand across the letters and was surprised when the red coloring smeared into the white where his fingers had touched. He looked at his hand and found it covered in a fine red powder. He quickly wiped his hand on his pants leg, leaving a streak of red powder against the white fabric. Then he put his fingers to his nose and took a cautious sniff--there was no smell. Next he licked his index finger, hoping that the powder was not harmful, and noticed a bland, dry taste. When he failed to drop to the floor vomiting his liver out or bleeding through his eyes he declared the powder ‘not poison.’
Looking back at the letters he placed his finger against the dot of the i and pushed firmly. He could feel the material, whatever it was, give a bit and when he removed his finger he saw a small depression in the surface of the wall. He put his finger over the depression and pushed harder, but he could not compress the material so easily this time. He spread his hand out and leaned against the i. The wall gave only the slightest bit so he pushed harder. Eventually he found himself leaning into the wall with both hands, pushing with all his might. Still nothing. He placed his back against the wall and started pushing again. He could feel the wall give a bit more. After throwing his entire weight against the wall for some time, he slid his back down the wall and sat on the ground thoroughly frustrated. An idea flashed in his mind and he turned around and scratched the wall with his fingernail. The powder came off easily so he stood up and began scratching the letters with both hands. His fingers began carving lines in the wall, deeper and deeper. The powder got under his fingernails and cracked the skin, causing his fingers to bleed. But he kept going. When he was up to his first knuckle he stopped scratching and pinched the space between two grooves. He twisted his wrist and with a silent snap a small flake broke off the wall. Delighted, he began to break off as many pieces of the wall as he could. This worked for a while until he was left with a shallow hole devoid of any edges or protrusions to snap off. I need something hard to chisel through this stuff. The rod! He took the rod out of his shirt pocket and jammed it into the wall. Satisfaction. He pushed the end of the rod parallel to the wall, breaking a large piece off. And so he began to dig, stabbing the wall, angular chunks of the material crumbling off into a pile of rubble at his feet.
How long had he been digging? Hours, days, a week? I don’t know. The pile of rubble was now a mound of material--chalk, he decided it was--several feet in diameter and reaching to his knees. When he had dug as far into the wall as he could at the height of the letters he began to work his way down towards the floor. As he sat propped up against the mound of debris he surveyed his handywork: there was now a hole several feet taller than it was wide, reaching from the base of the wall to the bottom of his chin, and a few feet deep. He was quite tired and very thirsty. A faint cloud of chalk dust lingered around the hole and he was sure his lungs were full of the stuff. His lips were dry and cracked and his eyes were scratchy and red. His hands had become so dry that the tips of his fingers had split open, the wounds filling with chalk, stopping the bleeding but worsening the cracks. When he reached the ground he discovered that it was made of a different material that his rod was not able to break. It was at this point he decided to rest.
He hadn’t been sitting long before he felt compelled to start digging again. I had better get back to work. He wondered why he had thought of it as work and why he felt forced to continue. I have nothing else to do, might as well keep digging. And so he kept digging. When the hole was now a tunnel some three and a half feet deep he stopped. He crawled out of the tunnel and lay on his back. His body was filled with fatigue, his eyelids became stone. He could keep them open no longer and his world was immediately engulfed in blackness. It was as if he was blinked out of existence.
The Mission pt.2
I stare down at the map. This road is much too narrow to be the road to the border. How long would it take him to notice? Good thing it’s overcast--he can’t tell direction by the sun. We’re making good time, but where are we headed? I take another tablet. Motion sickness pill, of course. He didn’t need to know it’s ingredients. Were these tablets the reason we are nearing yellow????? I lean back. No sense spoiling the fun.
I’m no longer motion sick. The clouds fight the horizon like oil and vinegar. I smell it’s putrid, acidic odor.
How much fuel do we have? I realize that once that needle hits E, death won’t be far behind. What a place to go out--flat, windy, and desolate. We’re making good time. The border should be coming up soon. Once we cross it, freedom will follow. Freedom from this brutish planet and cruel life. I watch the needle creep to the left.
What is the temperature in here? Has our precious supply of fuel been burned for needless heat? If he’s going to try to kill me than I must dispose of him first. Look! He isn’t even sweating. What substance did he soak his skin in, and when did he soak his skin? That’s his plan! He soaked his skin in a wonderful, terrifying substance and started burning our fuel to kill me.
Earlier I loosened three of the screws on the heat plate of the machinery in the cargo hold. He hasn’t revealed its purpose in our mission. If it’s disabled he can’t use it. I know the hidden purpose of this mission, and that machinery is to dispose of my soon-to-be-lifeless body. Its rattling is getting loud, but he hasn’t seemed to notice it.
He’s set to kill me even without the machinery. That retaining wall came way to close to the vehicle for me to ignore. Poor fool! He doesn’t realize that he is as close to death as I am. I stroke the pair of pliers in the right pocket midway down my pant leg. Two inch long needle-nose blades can easily fracture the piece of skull covering his temporal lobe. If he is gone then I will die shortly thereafter. As much as I hate him, I am dependent on him for survival. I’ll wait on destroying him.
---later---
We still have fuel. But from where? That bastard! He has an extra source of fuel and is intent on carrying out his evil mission, despite my interference.
The temporal lobe has far too much risk of death. I’ll separate his frontal lobe from his parietal lobe, frontal lobotomy style. Then he’ll be mine to control.
I’m no longer motion sick. The clouds fight the horizon like oil and vinegar. I smell it’s putrid, acidic odor.
How much fuel do we have? I realize that once that needle hits E, death won’t be far behind. What a place to go out--flat, windy, and desolate. We’re making good time. The border should be coming up soon. Once we cross it, freedom will follow. Freedom from this brutish planet and cruel life. I watch the needle creep to the left.
What is the temperature in here? Has our precious supply of fuel been burned for needless heat? If he’s going to try to kill me than I must dispose of him first. Look! He isn’t even sweating. What substance did he soak his skin in, and when did he soak his skin? That’s his plan! He soaked his skin in a wonderful, terrifying substance and started burning our fuel to kill me.
Earlier I loosened three of the screws on the heat plate of the machinery in the cargo hold. He hasn’t revealed its purpose in our mission. If it’s disabled he can’t use it. I know the hidden purpose of this mission, and that machinery is to dispose of my soon-to-be-lifeless body. Its rattling is getting loud, but he hasn’t seemed to notice it.
He’s set to kill me even without the machinery. That retaining wall came way to close to the vehicle for me to ignore. Poor fool! He doesn’t realize that he is as close to death as I am. I stroke the pair of pliers in the right pocket midway down my pant leg. Two inch long needle-nose blades can easily fracture the piece of skull covering his temporal lobe. If he is gone then I will die shortly thereafter. As much as I hate him, I am dependent on him for survival. I’ll wait on destroying him.
---later---
We still have fuel. But from where? That bastard! He has an extra source of fuel and is intent on carrying out his evil mission, despite my interference.
The temporal lobe has far too much risk of death. I’ll separate his frontal lobe from his parietal lobe, frontal lobotomy style. Then he’ll be mine to control.
7.20.2008
The Mission pt.1
And so it begins, our White Whale at top speed through (over?) the paper folds of time, 103 antelope on the left, 87 on the right, nothing behind us but bits of tire rubber melted into the hot black asphalt, only segmented yellow lines in front, approaching cautiously then disappearing hastily under the driver’s side mirror. My co-pilot scribbles notes in the seat next to me while I, perched high in my captain’s chair, adjust the focus on my infrared driving goggles.
“We’re making good time,” I say, fiddling with one of the many knobs laid out on the control interface. That was our mission, our Primary Directive, to make good time. Not in the figurative sense, but in a serious, literal sense. My co-pilot mumbles in response to my statement, something about the majesty and splendor of this temporal plane.
I tap the glass covering of the fuel gauge and cringe as the needle lurches towards E. Such good time, I think, it’d be a shame to stop now. No, we must stay the course. My co-pilot has stopped his note taking. Now his attention is focused on the nihilistic instruction manual for the temporal alignment machinery in the back. He doesn’t have the mind for a mission like this. The consequences aren’t severe enough. Nothing short of a guaranteed express ticket to hell would ever satisfy him. I’m tempted to jerk the wheel to the right and send the Whale on a terminal trajectory toward the rapidly approaching retaining wall, but we’re making such good time.
The machinery in the back is getting loud.
“There should be some sort of sound proof divider between the crew cabin and the cargo compartment,” I say to my co-pilot. He gives me a subtle nod, almost imperceivably subtle, in response. No use talking, I think, those lines of communication had been severed some time ago. No, better to stay focused on the task at hand. The mission. My mission. But what was the mission, exactly? I couldn’t remember. Making good time? Of course, but that was the mission, not my mission. No, my mission was much more complicated, so numbingly esoteric that I could only hope to one day grasp the scope and grandeur of it all. Bask in it’s magnitude. Goddamn this machinery is loud. I can’t concentrate, and our current situation requires quite a bit of that.
---later---
I’m amazed that the needle hasn’t broken yet. I’m equally amazed that the poison I administered to my co-pilot’s drink hasn’t taken effect yet. Or maybe it has. How much cyanide did the give Rasputin? Maybe I should just push him out the air lock. I haven’t been paying attention to the road and quick movement out of the corner of my eye brings my focus back to pilot duties. A rabbit. I swerve to the left, but I turn the wheel too much and the Whale rocks violently to the side. I can hear pieces of machinery shifting in the back. Ignore it. We’re making good time.
“We’re making good time,” I say, fiddling with one of the many knobs laid out on the control interface. That was our mission, our Primary Directive, to make good time. Not in the figurative sense, but in a serious, literal sense. My co-pilot mumbles in response to my statement, something about the majesty and splendor of this temporal plane.
I tap the glass covering of the fuel gauge and cringe as the needle lurches towards E. Such good time, I think, it’d be a shame to stop now. No, we must stay the course. My co-pilot has stopped his note taking. Now his attention is focused on the nihilistic instruction manual for the temporal alignment machinery in the back. He doesn’t have the mind for a mission like this. The consequences aren’t severe enough. Nothing short of a guaranteed express ticket to hell would ever satisfy him. I’m tempted to jerk the wheel to the right and send the Whale on a terminal trajectory toward the rapidly approaching retaining wall, but we’re making such good time.
The machinery in the back is getting loud.
“There should be some sort of sound proof divider between the crew cabin and the cargo compartment,” I say to my co-pilot. He gives me a subtle nod, almost imperceivably subtle, in response. No use talking, I think, those lines of communication had been severed some time ago. No, better to stay focused on the task at hand. The mission. My mission. But what was the mission, exactly? I couldn’t remember. Making good time? Of course, but that was the mission, not my mission. No, my mission was much more complicated, so numbingly esoteric that I could only hope to one day grasp the scope and grandeur of it all. Bask in it’s magnitude. Goddamn this machinery is loud. I can’t concentrate, and our current situation requires quite a bit of that.
---later---
I’m amazed that the needle hasn’t broken yet. I’m equally amazed that the poison I administered to my co-pilot’s drink hasn’t taken effect yet. Or maybe it has. How much cyanide did the give Rasputin? Maybe I should just push him out the air lock. I haven’t been paying attention to the road and quick movement out of the corner of my eye brings my focus back to pilot duties. A rabbit. I swerve to the left, but I turn the wheel too much and the Whale rocks violently to the side. I can hear pieces of machinery shifting in the back. Ignore it. We’re making good time.
7.08.2008
Originality
About a week ago I was thinking about time travel, the future, and fate (I may or may not have been watching Terminator 2). Connect the dots: if one were to believe in fate, or destiny, or any other sort of predestination, then it is reasonable to assume that the future is in some way set. If the future is set, then it could be argued that the future has already happened. If the future has already happened, but we are not aware of it, then one could assume that there are future incarnations of ourselves, living out future events while we live out current events. Essentially, we are catching up with our future selves. If this is the case then it would be reasonable to assume that there are past incarnations of ourselves that are catching up with our present selves, who are in turn catching up with our future selves. Therefore, it could be said that we are living our entire lives simultaneously. That is a lot of assuming, I know, but I was quite pleased with myself nonetheless. Then I started reading Slaughterhouse-Five. Vonnegut’s Tralfamadorians view life in this manner, as existing all the time at the same time. Though Vonnegut never explains how this is possible (or maybe he does? I haven’t quite finished the book yet, though it may involve the 4th dimension), I was minorly devastated that my omni-exisitential ponderings were hardly ground breaking works of staggering originality. Moral of the story: someone will always have your idea before you. And it will be better. The best you can hope to do is either a) improve on it, or b) disguise it.
In other news, here is a (failed) attempt at the perfect first sentence:
It was amazing how much blood there was, especially on the once-ivory-now-crimson-colored blades of the ceiling fan.
In other news, here is a (failed) attempt at the perfect first sentence:
It was amazing how much blood there was, especially on the once-ivory-now-crimson-colored blades of the ceiling fan.
Except on Leap Years
Craft me a riverraft for an aquatic adventure where snakes infest the rapids and rabbits roam the shoreline, all waiting for the eagle to swoop down and snatch away all their sins with talons sharp as deep space where dead souls reside in icy slumber waiting for some sun to come and thaw frozen dreams like TV dinners or maybe chicken-alfredo Hot Pockets that taste great but leave a lingering aftertaste of guilt like some lurking fear of silent windmills or orange globes of ball lightening streaking down high tension wires on the side of some deserted prairie highway that hasn’t seen traffic in a long, long time, save a lonely mail truck that carries letters to the dead every other Tuesday except on leap years or when it rains red war on the innocent grass that has been taken hostage by the guilty dirt which is undermined by millions of blue ants who dig and dig until there are so many tunnels that the ground collapses under even the softest footfalls of the fox that scampers in search of Leonard Nemoy’s decomposing corpse which is buried around here somewhere under heaps of earth and white wooden crosses that speak of the yellow human condition that brought him here in the first place, the third place on the podium is left empty out of either respect or maybe unbridled enthusiasm that the pretty girl seen in passing will somehow find her way to the vacant pedestal and receive the glory usually reserved for movie premiers and sales at The Gap where she buys most of the black underwear everyone imagines she wears when she dances alone in front of a mirror that only reflects ideas and only bad ones at that, like making wings out of wax and flying into the sun, or flying into the sun without wax or wings, just the grey remains of Paul McCartney and his troupe of naked actresses down on all fours crawling through pleasure and shame and general dislike for the kid in the back swallowing swords and thinking everything is perfect the first time around before they begin to go around the circle saying every one’s name at least seven times and one of them says “I just can’t wait to die” and another one adds “I just want to die slowly so I can really feel it and not miss anything” while they drink tea and dance toothpicks across their plum lips which have felt their share of rotten apples or overripe bananas if that is what keeps distracting them from scratching green eyelids and digging for gold, silver, or any other precious metal, perhaps even cobalt or uranium, any radioactive material is a welcome distraction from these other, less interesting, non-radioactive materials that are used as makeshift drugs to subdue those people who do not understand the simplicity of social interaction underwater or in any other low-oxygen environment, like space.
7.07.2008
Whales = Not Majestic
“What scares you? Like, top five fears of all time.”
“You want the truth?”
“Always.”
“Whales, getting hit by a foul ball, alien abduction, zombies, and being unwillingly lobotomized.”
“Are you serious?”
“Always.”
“Whales?”
“They are huge! One could swallow you whole and not even notice it.”
“Why would a whale eat you?”
“I am not saying a whale would eat you on purpose, but think about it. Say you are out on a sea kayak watching humbacks migrate and you happen to fall overboard and before you get back into your kayak you get slurped down by a seventy-five foot long aquatic mammal coming up for air.”
“Umm, right, I guess that is pretty scary.”
“Damn right.”
“Ok, I understand the foul ball business, and I really don’t want to spend another hour talking about zombies and alien abductions, but lobotomy? Those aren’t even done anymore!”
“Yeah, but it’s still terrifying! Can you imagine being straped to a table, unable to move, while some sadistic piece of shit takes and ice pick and smashes it through your tear duct with a ballpeen hammer? And after that you’re fucking Rosemary Kennedy for the rest of your life. Tell me that doesn’t scare the piss out of you.”
“Alright R.P. McMurphy, tell you what, if you ever get lobotomized I will make sure to suffocate you with a pillow, Chief Broom style.”
“Thanks, I feel so much better now.”
“You want the truth?”
“Always.”
“Whales, getting hit by a foul ball, alien abduction, zombies, and being unwillingly lobotomized.”
“Are you serious?”
“Always.”
“Whales?”
“They are huge! One could swallow you whole and not even notice it.”
“Why would a whale eat you?”
“I am not saying a whale would eat you on purpose, but think about it. Say you are out on a sea kayak watching humbacks migrate and you happen to fall overboard and before you get back into your kayak you get slurped down by a seventy-five foot long aquatic mammal coming up for air.”
“Umm, right, I guess that is pretty scary.”
“Damn right.”
“Ok, I understand the foul ball business, and I really don’t want to spend another hour talking about zombies and alien abductions, but lobotomy? Those aren’t even done anymore!”
“Yeah, but it’s still terrifying! Can you imagine being straped to a table, unable to move, while some sadistic piece of shit takes and ice pick and smashes it through your tear duct with a ballpeen hammer? And after that you’re fucking Rosemary Kennedy for the rest of your life. Tell me that doesn’t scare the piss out of you.”
“Alright R.P. McMurphy, tell you what, if you ever get lobotomized I will make sure to suffocate you with a pillow, Chief Broom style.”
“Thanks, I feel so much better now.”
Bus
Crap. That is the only word that I can think of, which is more than a little frustrating. I would have liked something a bit more interesting, perhaps something deep and philosophical. I’d have settled for anything intelligent. The human brain is an ultra-complex neural network that is capable of amazing things and all mine can do is conjure up one lousy word. It isn’t even a curse, which I think would have added a bit of colour to the occasion at the very least.
I should have gotten my hair cut, too. No sense in looking like a bum, although I have been told on several occasions that my choice of hats is very bum-like. But I am not wearing a hat right now so the problem still lies with the hair. It’s too feminine when it’s long and too juvenile when it’s short. Right now it is the former, which is another disappointing circumstance. I definitely should have gotten a haircut. Probably a mohawk. They would say I was embracing the chaotic meaningless of life with a haircut like that. I think I would like that. Instead I look like an androgynous ode to late 70s David Bowie. Wonderful.
Despite the hair and lack of vocabulary, I am wearing my favorite white sneakers and a cool, white button up t-shirt that I think goes very well with my dark wash blue jeans and white belt. It is odd though that I am wearing blue jeans--I usually deplore denim. I only have one pair and they seldom see any use, but today I was feeling the need for blue pants to match the blue stripes of my button up. I am still not sure why I chose to wear so much white, I don’t think it works well with my brown eyes. Besides, I am more of an earth tones guy. But for whatever reason --maybe it was fate, maybe it was destiny, maybe it was the way my body processed the chemicals in my dinner last night-- I was wearing a lot of white. And blue jeans. The white sneakers interested me the most, however, as I had recently bought them and they were my first pair of white shoes. I am still not sure how I feel about them; I can’t put my finger on it but there is some feeling deep in my gut that is uncomfortable with white shoes. I thought about wearing my red stocking cap, but the thought of walking around wearing nothing but red, white, and blue made me feel sickly patriotic.
I wonder what my chalk outline will look like. Or do they not do that anymore? Hopefully they do and hopefully mine comes out nicely. Wait, I have had white shoes before. I bought a pair a couple of years ago, the day after I first slept with my college girlfriend. That night was something else. I remember we watched “Where the Buffalo Roam” and I wanted a pair of white Converse sneakers like Bill Murray wore so I stopped at some store in some ghetto mall on the way back to me parents’ place. They didn’t have the low tops like I wanted, so I had to settle for the high tops. I don’t think I wore them more then three times, which is ironic because we had sex three times that night. Actually I’m not sure if that is ironic, but it seems like it could be. Irony is a tricky mistress to be sure.
Anyway, for whatever reason, the theme from “Top Gun” is pounding in my head as the bus jerks up violently and comes down twice as hard. The song reaches it final, climatic arpeggio just as my seat falls through the floor and deposits me directly in the path of the dual back tires of the bus. Crap.
I should have gotten my hair cut, too. No sense in looking like a bum, although I have been told on several occasions that my choice of hats is very bum-like. But I am not wearing a hat right now so the problem still lies with the hair. It’s too feminine when it’s long and too juvenile when it’s short. Right now it is the former, which is another disappointing circumstance. I definitely should have gotten a haircut. Probably a mohawk. They would say I was embracing the chaotic meaningless of life with a haircut like that. I think I would like that. Instead I look like an androgynous ode to late 70s David Bowie. Wonderful.
Despite the hair and lack of vocabulary, I am wearing my favorite white sneakers and a cool, white button up t-shirt that I think goes very well with my dark wash blue jeans and white belt. It is odd though that I am wearing blue jeans--I usually deplore denim. I only have one pair and they seldom see any use, but today I was feeling the need for blue pants to match the blue stripes of my button up. I am still not sure why I chose to wear so much white, I don’t think it works well with my brown eyes. Besides, I am more of an earth tones guy. But for whatever reason --maybe it was fate, maybe it was destiny, maybe it was the way my body processed the chemicals in my dinner last night-- I was wearing a lot of white. And blue jeans. The white sneakers interested me the most, however, as I had recently bought them and they were my first pair of white shoes. I am still not sure how I feel about them; I can’t put my finger on it but there is some feeling deep in my gut that is uncomfortable with white shoes. I thought about wearing my red stocking cap, but the thought of walking around wearing nothing but red, white, and blue made me feel sickly patriotic.
I wonder what my chalk outline will look like. Or do they not do that anymore? Hopefully they do and hopefully mine comes out nicely. Wait, I have had white shoes before. I bought a pair a couple of years ago, the day after I first slept with my college girlfriend. That night was something else. I remember we watched “Where the Buffalo Roam” and I wanted a pair of white Converse sneakers like Bill Murray wore so I stopped at some store in some ghetto mall on the way back to me parents’ place. They didn’t have the low tops like I wanted, so I had to settle for the high tops. I don’t think I wore them more then three times, which is ironic because we had sex three times that night. Actually I’m not sure if that is ironic, but it seems like it could be. Irony is a tricky mistress to be sure.
Anyway, for whatever reason, the theme from “Top Gun” is pounding in my head as the bus jerks up violently and comes down twice as hard. The song reaches it final, climatic arpeggio just as my seat falls through the floor and deposits me directly in the path of the dual back tires of the bus. Crap.
Morning Becomes Electric
eleven electric buffalo slumber and my feet
glide over their mute forms
golden lumps on grey hillside
green lightning forks from cloud to ground miles away
and no sound is made
wind tickles my neck
makes my hair stand on end
black storm comes
rolls over low and
slows
stops
glide over their mute forms
golden lumps on grey hillside
green lightning forks from cloud to ground miles away
and no sound is made
wind tickles my neck
makes my hair stand on end
black storm comes
rolls over low and
slows
stops
Revolutions Per Minute
record spins round
revolutions warm wax
and it melts
table still turns
and with bare hands
you reform wax
revolutions warm wax
and it melts
table still turns
and with bare hands
you reform wax
Light Rail
crooked rain,
crooked rain on tin
roofs of cars
exploring early morning.
crooked rain falls,
drops,
delayed by the wind it diagonally
soaks through cotton clothes.
crooked rain on tin
roofs of cars
exploring early morning.
crooked rain falls,
drops,
delayed by the wind it diagonally
soaks through cotton clothes.
One Very Old Man With a Gun
A human shape, content to remain abstract.
Mantilla and petticoats, the culpable convention
a three-masted sailing ship tattooed on the horizon.
Involuntary manifestations of spirit--
grass, the snaky flower, manuscripts of her dress,
the bright symmetry of their legs.
A deep obeisance,
conscious cigars of white chalk contraband.
That is to say,
millions might be found reckoning on a million molehills.
Poets, feasting at their revels--
this tedious cupboard is one molehill.
The pavements were bright like stalks of corn,
hungry pavements,
no trace of unscrupulous eccentricity
catching at the end pale shadow.
Lists stop, it is
is finished,
the total sum.
Leviathans are repugnant.
Propagation is over--this is the consummation,
the triumph of age,
the massive conglomeration of splendid objects.
Mantilla and petticoats, the culpable convention
a three-masted sailing ship tattooed on the horizon.
Involuntary manifestations of spirit--
grass, the snaky flower, manuscripts of her dress,
the bright symmetry of their legs.
A deep obeisance,
conscious cigars of white chalk contraband.
That is to say,
millions might be found reckoning on a million molehills.
Poets, feasting at their revels--
this tedious cupboard is one molehill.
The pavements were bright like stalks of corn,
hungry pavements,
no trace of unscrupulous eccentricity
catching at the end pale shadow.
Lists stop, it is
is finished,
the total sum.
Leviathans are repugnant.
Propagation is over--this is the consummation,
the triumph of age,
the massive conglomeration of splendid objects.
Source
The night is very dark, the air very still. Two men are standing on the side of a lonesome road. The road has no name, not even a number. Neither do the men. They do not know each other, but they have been standing there for some time. Neither one can remember how long, or who had been there first, but they are certain it has been some time. Miles and miles down the road in one direction, a faint glow marks the horizon, like the radiation of city lights off clouds on a snowy winter night. Miles and miles down the road in the other direction, staccato bursts of lightning punctuate the black night like machine gun fire.
A horse with wings but no head immerges from the gloomy abyss and follows the road past the two men. “Low on petrol” it says, before troting away into the darkness in the direction of the faint glow. The two men look at each other.
“I was never born. You were never Here.”
“So where am I?”
“Not Here, that is for certain.”
“Well, I have to be somewhere.”
“I’m sure you do, but it is not Here.”
“But if I am not here then where can I be? I can’t be anywhere but here! I am always here!”
“Hey man, I was never born. How do you think that makes me feel?”
The men look away from each other. A great deal of time passes before the horse with wings but no head appears again, out of the murky night. It walks past the two men, pauses. “Wrong way” it says, and continues into oblivion.
A horse with wings but no head immerges from the gloomy abyss and follows the road past the two men. “Low on petrol” it says, before troting away into the darkness in the direction of the faint glow. The two men look at each other.
“I was never born. You were never Here.”
“So where am I?”
“Not Here, that is for certain.”
“Well, I have to be somewhere.”
“I’m sure you do, but it is not Here.”
“But if I am not here then where can I be? I can’t be anywhere but here! I am always here!”
“Hey man, I was never born. How do you think that makes me feel?”
The men look away from each other. A great deal of time passes before the horse with wings but no head appears again, out of the murky night. It walks past the two men, pauses. “Wrong way” it says, and continues into oblivion.
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