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.
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