Rare evenings indeed when I don’t
run into Immanuel there, flickering in and out as if he were made entirely of radio
waves, his voice just barely audible over the voices of all the other patrons
who must think I am talking to myself. That I do talk to myself on a regular
basis should make little difference in the overall judgment of others, but I
know the world works according to two or three basic scripts and there is
nothing you can do about it and we are, at present, halfway through the second.
Immanuel spends a great deal of time studying the footnotes and the appendix
and he claims to be working on a treatment of them that is set in the middle
ages, a treatment in which the characters (mostly trolls and jesters and their
various hangers-on) express themselves as both extension and thought. This makes
little sense to me and I say so between bites of liverwurst but Immanuel will
not listen to reason unless it is of a certain variety – meaning, it drives
itself into a corner where it can not escape and where it morphs rather quickly
into something that looks and behaves and even smells a little like an eel. Immanuel
is partial to my recounting that part of the voyage when he was too far away to
receive my messages, when the mail I sent by sealed bottle would float for
seven or eight years before ever reaching shore and still it had half a
continent to go. The house that seemed most likely to represent accurately
where it is we live and why we live there was that crafted by the hunters of
seals who took ice for granted and were enormously skilled at shaping it and
bending it like pieces of rubber. They threw something together in less than twenty
days. It had parlors and a working kitchen and each room turned into the next
without your really being able to tell the difference. It just seemed as if you
were surrounded at every moment by the distorting ice and the sun trapped
gloriously in the ice and now and again the stars. I never could figure out how
they kept the place so pristine given that their hands were forever bloodied
from stripping the hide and the flesh and the blubber from those creatures they
didn’t so much worship as speak to directly the way you might speak to an
equal. To a cousin your age, say, whom you have known as long as you have known
your own name. I tell Immanuel to identify his authentic vision and stick to it,
not adopt that of others because he thinks it is the best way to earn a
reputation, to make himself known among those who pay attention to things like who
is writing books on the far shore and who is simply aping the motions. Moving
the fingers absently over the image of a keyboard. It must be difficult,
though, coming and going like that, being somewhere and then being somewhere
else without ever really being anywhere at all. It reminds me of dreams I’ve
had in which the ground swallowed me up and in my endeavors to dig myself back
to the surface, to claw my way toward the sunlight, I found that I had no
hands. Only loose flaps of skin where my hands used to be. They were useless
and caused me severe pain whenever they came into contact with the soil. I was
horrified, of course, but there was something unnervingly beautiful about them
as well, something alien and familiar all at the same time, which made me happy
eventually to abandon all sense of purpose and just sit there and stare at
them, to congratulate myself, in fact, on having generated them through little
more than the force of my own unconscious will.
Saturday, April 20, 2013
Wednesday, April 17, 2013
Once separated from the others in
my party, I purposefully followed the trail from which, it was rumored, no one
had ever returned. People set out in the spring usually and by the end of June
their loved ones had forgotten their names. A kind of amnesia settled over the
community and to break it required extraordinary measures – whittling
ceremonial poles from green hickory, tying scarves around them from top to
bottom so that the resident crows might be tricked into saying the names out
loud. It almost never worked. I like the hint of pistachio that lingers in the
air when I finally work up the nerve to set foot outside and I stand on the
porch and wait for the two gentlemen in black ties to arrive at the tavern
across the street. I know that they are on a mission to civilize the rest of us
according to a creed that is difficult to understand when you are first
introduced to it but becomes easier the more frequently you immerse yourself in
its teachings. From what I’ve heard, it promises an afterlife so similar to
this one you don’t even realize anything has changed until someone important
points it out to you, someone whose job it is to minimize misunderstandings and
pass along the secret codes and the secret handshakes and the folk music of
that place, which is counter-punctual in nature and is said to remind one of
Debussy if one has not listened to Debussy very closely in the past. The
giant at the end of the path was not a giant in the true sense of that word,
over the trees in stature and drooling after human flesh, but he did have to
duck his head whenever he entered or exited through the front door and his
hands fit quite easily over mine when he was attempting to show me how to properly
toss the discus. My patience was sorely tested by the terrain and when I lay
down to sleep under the stars near the wood pile I feared I would never see my
home again if only because the tendons in my neck had begun to ache and I was
certain this was due not to the tendons at all but an aneurysm in the artery
that took the blood upward to my brain. The giant reassured me using graphs and
statistics and a speaking voice he modulated up or down in timbre and volume as
the situation required. By the end of my stay I realized there was no need to
try to steal any of his household items. I was free to come and go as I pleased
and what alchemy, really, can one discover at the strings of a lyre when one
has trained previously on nothing more complicated than the oboe?
Tuesday, April 16, 2013
Once ashore my priorities shift
and I am standing at the window wondering how long it will be before I embark
again, knowing full well, however, that those day are over. They have been
discarded in favor of days that aren’t really days at all anymore if by days
you mean the passage of a certain number of hours and the events and tribulations
that fill up those hours, and of course the longing that is as palpable as
another arm. Our memories are more than just coverings with which we keep off
the cold and the dark and the insects that would otherwise feast on our flesh
because it is unprotected and it gives off a beacon of some sort, an aura and
trail of carbon dioxide the color of magenta in their compound eyes, I imagine.
Glinting and bouncing up and down in mid-air as if hung from a string and
manipulated by someone in the rafters. One island looked pretty much like the
next, except for the one with a summit in the middle, a dormant volcano on
which skilled artisans had carved the likeness of a horse’s skull sometime in
the distant past. Their purpose was the same apparently as was ours when we ate
without our knives and spoons, when we grunted a great deal while speaking and
it often made me wonder why the clouds kept so aloof there and far away when it
was obvious their assistance was desperately needed closer to the ground. The
people spoke a dialect inaccessible to their neighbors not five miles away
across the straight and when we attempted to pry its flesh apart, to get at the
heart of it by assigning an alphabet, they pulled out one of their own which
had been scribbled on the back of a stray piece of Styrofoam and locked away in
the cellar where they kept other objects they considered of only passing
interest. A couple bottles of their indigenous wine and some of their
ancestors’ bones in faded burlap sacks that had once contained rice, I suppose,
or millet.
*
A set of turrets speaks to me
from across the skyline, beckons and pleads until I am all but determined to
head in that direction. The only thing stopping me, of course, is the sense
that I have been there before, that I have wandered all around the perimeter of
that cathedral without being able to gain access and the men in the shadows
plucking their guitars composed a dirge for me extemporaneously. It was in B
flat and the sound of it sent the birds scurrying for the adjacent rooftops and
brought the saliva to my lips where it settled and cooled and turned a pasty
white guaranteed to turn my stomach should I get a glimpse of my reflection in
a window as I passed. On the island of flying men we lost our way in the
caverns underneath the main village, passages painted with complicated images
of bulls and viola players and women with eyes the color of pomegranates.
Certainly there was a system to it all and some of us wished to get to the
bottom of it, spent days and weeks in contemplation, with our sketch pads at
the ready and our fingers stained irrevocably by the charcoal we used to render
what we’d seen. It turns out no one on the island of flying men could actually
fly, but every now and then you’d see one of them hurl himself into the air
from a nearby cliff and there was great deal of shouting and consequent
merry-making among a population who believed they had yet again witnessed the
miracle of someone’s escaping once and for all the unholy constraints of
gravity. I spend my days now within reach of the radio, tuning to stations that
specialize in the mandolin. It makes a sound like that you get when you rub
your fingernails across the scales on the back of a lizard and reminds me of a
childhood that didn’t actually belong to me, that I appropriated for myself at
the precise moment when I realized the other one, the earlier and more accurate
one, was going to dissolve minute by minute, was going to turn into a soup of
little more than enzymes and innuendo, a milky white substance with nothing
underneath. The process that causes this to happen is of great interest to
those who it never happens to, but for the rest of us, the victims and the
orphaned, the dead-eyed and somnolent, knowledge is no more beneficial in
itself than is the shape of a carrot or the lesions that are said to break out
on your skin when you are battling meningitis.
*
The telephone rings and I jump up
from where I have been sitting but I can’t locate the device, I have trouble
even remembering exactly what it looks like and pretty soon there is silence
but for my breathing which is labored and shallow as if someone else were
suddenly entrusted with doing it for me. Someone with no real credentials other
than the fact that he has been born on this planet the same as you or I and has
managed thus far to remain here through a certain ingenuity and know-how in the
construction of miniature magnet-driven motors and the marketing of the same,
if not the actual sales. I examine the wall closest to my head very closely,
the divots and the patterns in the plaster like numbered thoroughfares passing
through desert scrub-land when viewed from above, and begin the usual round of
unanswerable questions – how can we be sure what appears to the senses,
particularly of the auditory variety, originated in this room and not the one
separated from it by a common wall? And how do we define objects like walls
without first defining the substance of which the wall is but a mere attribute,
a way of experiencing it? Before we could regroup and set sail yet again, there
was the interlude on the other side of the island where a handful of engineers
and seers and the like were busy competing with one another in the construction
of mock-ups, of facsimile versions of the world at its most fundamental, as it
appeared in the tales they told themselves when they could be bothered to tell
tales rather than spending the day netting the fish in the harbor or cleaning
them with rusty blades. I spent what seemed at the time like entire weeks
wandering through the version made of ice, every room carved by hand from a
block of ice blue as the deepest curve of the atmosphere and possessing a
solidity such as I had heard rumors of in other places, in flimsy places that
altered their appearances simply as a result of one’s looking directly at them,
or stifling a cough.
*
My favorite recipe involved the
grouse that scattered from the newly-tilled fields when you walked them, when you
followed the elders to their altars at the edges of the fields and you listened
to them speak a language that relied on brimstone, on the noxious properties of
sulfur to get its message across. For days and weeks afterward, as we plied the
waves, as I would lie awake at night on my hammock staring at the violently mobile
heavens overhead, I would conjure the flavor of that flesh on my tongue and
begin to weep until the others threatened to toss me overboard, a threat I took
seriously because they had done it to at least one other of our party before. The effect of the metronome, its sawing back
and forth between two equidistant points and two ontological states as yet to
be fully identified, explains a great deal in terms of who is likely to become enamored
of electrical storms and who is likely to survive a coma and inform us of what
exactly lies on the other side (before, of course, the informant can abjure all
responsibility for what has been said to that point and pursue instead an
exciting career in finance). Eulalie explains the physics of it, the
mathematics wedded to everyday observation, in terms I can understand and so my
debt to her is increased to the point where it is not really a debt any more in
the strictest sense of the term. It is an obligation, a terror such as descends
upon us at night when we are walking along a precipice, say, and we can’t see
where we are placing our feet. But we have to place them somewhere because it
is irresponsible to stand still. It gets you, among other things, a reputation
for daydreaming that is almost impossible to shake. Eulalie knocks at the front
window at all hours of the night trying, I suppose, to lure me outside where
the crickets grow to the size of small dogs and where the rain beats on the
pavement in a staccato that reminds one of piano lessons taken at a time when
the hands were yet to fully develop, when they were as pliable as saplings. I
know she wants nothing in particular, we both know whatever she wants she can
secure for herself by opening the front door and presenting me with a bit of
cactus in a miniature plastic pot, or a hand-drawn likeness of the Golden Gate
bridge. But there are principles involved and some day I hope to master them, I
hope to be able to recite them just as you might the words to the national
anthem to a country you visited only once, and that in a dream. A place with
boulevards as wide as man-made lakes and a representative dish composed almost
entirely of raisins and beets.
Saturday, April 6, 2013
A hierarchy of forms establishes
itself through no obvious conscious endeavor. It merely falls into place and then
calls attention to itself immediately, raising the specter of antagonism and
hashish, of the dispossessed maneuvering through the streets in packs that
resemble abstract concepts or un-sheared sheep in their tendency to get snagged
and slowed down momentarily on stray bits of iron fencing that stick out into and
obstruct the sidewalks through poor planning or the ravages of weather.
Immanuel’s entrance is always prefigured by a blast of trumpets to hear the
others who have witnessed this tell it, but I can’t report so much as a single
hair standing on end, and if I could I probably wouldn’t just because it seems
counterproductive. The sort of thing designed to aim the attention away from
that which deserves it. The wigs on the heads of the women standing at the
front of the room and lecturing. The enormous plastic balls balancing on either
end of a stick in a photograph hanging on the wall between other photographs
also depicting various everyday objects (tin cans, stuffed armadillos) brought
into unnatural alignment for no other reason than that a photograph was to be
taken. Of course, I know from the beginning that it is Immanuel who will
announce the time for departure, who will demonstrate through a certain
unearthly humming that there is no place for me on shore any more and that the
residents of this village are like the residents of any other village in that
they chain their imaginations to solid rock; they taunt their imaginations and
kick them and feed them a substance something like gruel and something like
broken glass. A concoction from which no nutrition can be extracted but which
sounds sufficient enough when it is merely theoretical, when you are not the
one unfortunate enough to have to consume it. This is always the way with
Immanuel, making his pronouncements from the shadows where he believes he is
safe from scrutiny by all but the most sympathetic of observers and
participants. Those who studied his manifesto closely when it appeared a few
years after his death, who even dropped the forty dollars a hardcover copy set
you back. The question on everyone’s lips then was similar to that which is on
virtually no one’s now – is Immanuel correct in labeling all grasping at what
the gauche refer to as “meaning” an unmistakable symptom of disease simply
because it is obviously so among those who would connect every random
occurrence and event into “signs”, into an overarching paranoid narrative with
themselves at the center as arbiter, as simple instrument of reception? Or has
he overstated the case in a cunning, yet ultimately misguided effort to make
himself seem guilty of exactly the same thing? By way of answer we have, I
suppose, the sudden change in air temperature inside the room when he makes his
appearance. The nitrogen and oxygen (and whatever other trace elements happen
to be present) entering and escaping your lungs when he does so in a frightening
yet entirely predetermined and therefore predictable rhythm.
Wednesday, April 3, 2013
The latency period lasts only as
long as it takes someone to identify it and work it into conversation so as to
detract from the glaring inconsistencies and tautologies that might otherwise
turn the listener off. Might force him to make a decision regarding the sherry
and its inflated price, its tendency to make the head swim. I make the rounds
one last time, sitting in on the banjo (an instrument I know next to nothing
about but from which I can nevertheless extract something very like a tune in
its tendency to begin and end in roughly the same location), examining the
exposed skin of the fingers of men and women who have spent all day in the sun because their
livelihood demands it (think dredging up crustaceans from the briny deep, think
the running of barbed wire fence), and finally wrestling with eleven or twelve
loosely interrelated concepts hurled at me in rapid succession by the members
of the chess club huddled in their usual corner of the delicatessen that has a
picture of a rabid boar on the front of it because a likeness of a sperm whale was
deemed too expensive by the proprietor and apt to cause confusion. We can’t be
expected to fall for the same bit of deception as brought the Incas to their
knees but the present difficulty has as much to do with geometry, with how we
visualize space and the objects that take up that space, as it does with our
genetic backgrounds and the convenient phrases handed down to us over
generations by people who didn’t pay much attention to what they were saying or
how they were saying it. They were too busy pulling the bits of dirt and the jagged
pebbles from their flesh that had gotten there because the people at some point
in their journey had fallen on them. Because they were never entirely convinced
their flesh was actually made of flesh until such time as the jagged pebbles
(and, of course, other things, like the sharp end of goose quills, say, or the
metal shavings produced by industrial strength grinding machines) got so catastrophically
stuck in it. By midnight, I think all I have to do is walk backwards for about
a block and everything will be as it was before I opened the cellar door in the
morning and heard the racket for myself – the plovers pitching a fit in the
sand dunes because they are, apparently, sick and tired of sand. The thunder
kicking up on the far range of hearing, rolling across the waves in an
ever-strengthening crescendo and then spending itself against the cliffs just
north of here where people jump sometimes to their death either because they
have underestimated the height of the cliffs themselves or they have decided
intentionally upon this fate instead of all the myriad others available to
them. The living to a ripe, and most likely incontinent, old age. The bounding
about on a pogo stick picked up at the flea market on a whim because that is
what the latter stages of one’s life are for – acting on one’s every saccharine
reminiscence. Clawing one’s way ferociously back toward what turns out finally
to be not merely an unattainable past, but an unknowable one as well, a cipher
with twenty two distinct characters in it, all shuffled about at random and
reassembled later with the cognitive equivalent of bamboo pegs instead of glue
because pegs help eliminate the mess.
Monday, April 1, 2013
Eulalie belittles what she calls
my many crises in cosmology, my never-ending search of the heavens or some sign
of when we are to depart. Why not make the decision based on the criteria that
led to the building of the raft in the first place? Namely a hunch, a whim like
that which has us re-upholstering the chairs in the dining room or driving
sixty miles to the closest town with a cattle auction in it and an enormous photo
on a billboard of the auctioneer himself, a man with stern, marbled eyes
magnified two or three dozen times their actual size by the process which puts
his image up there on the billboard to begin with, and then by the lenses in
his glasses and the extreme refraction of light waves in that part of the world
due to an unusually dense atmosphere and pollutants emitted by the chemical
plants on the river. His name escapes me but it is associated somehow with the
second farthest planet in the solar system and makes grown men tremble when
they hear it, especially if they have chronic trouble already with their nerve
endings, a common enough complaint when you reach a certain age and you realize
you will never again be able to speak with authority about subjects you know virtually
nothing about. Those days have receded into the caves where bats in their
millions emerge come late afternoon and there is a strange melancholy attached
to the near silence that accompanies them. Certainly, you can make out the
beating of that many wings and every now and then the barely detectable high-frequency
squawks the animals make so as to determine where exactly in space they are at
any given moment and whether or not they are in danger of colliding with their
fellow travelers or with the concrete edifices we have put in their path. Not
intentionally of course, but not without a certain subconscious malice at the
heart of it either. The way we do everything. Eulalie grabs a piece of ruled
paper and creates intricate and confusing tree graphs in hopes of making me see
what I have to this point been missing – the sheer overwhelming number of
possibilities at our fingertips if only we can stop staring at our fingertips
long enough to recognize them. The sound the locomotive makes at this distance
like someone talking in the next room about his love of the Viennese Waltz, his
subsequent timid and therefore clumsy attempts at reproducing the footwork. The
dreams in which we meet some earlier version of ourselves speaking in riddles
we used to know the answer to but which we have since repudiated if only
because we no longer find value in riddles, we no longer think of them as keys
to unlocking and exposing the delicate, scented paper center of the human mind,
but more as something children do to keep themselves occupied, to keep
themselves from chasing frogs into the deepest parts of the neighborhood pond,
say, and accidentally drowning.
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