An Elephant in search of answers.
Source: Goose Lane Editions
The first claw was so faint upon the door he barely raised an eye from the page. It could have been the wind – it sounded almost like the wind. Wind at other time,s and in other places, might blow such a sound – but not this night. As his thoughts returned to what lay before him, the tiny scrabble, hesitant at floor level, moved slightly to the right, aligning itself more closely to the doorknob.
****
The noise skittered up the wood, almost a metallic sound. His head swivelled toward the door. The first thought he had was for the paint. Then he could sense, by the sound alone, the movement was groping in the dark, that it was unsure of where it was. He closed the book on his lap, still keeping his place with a finger. His eyes remained fixed on the door. He thought he saw the light of his lamp glint off something through the keyhole.
****
The doorknob twitched, a slight movement counterclockwise. Then a brief turn clockwise. He let the book slide down the side of his chair as he put his hand into a pocket. He felt the key between his fingers. He held it tightly. There was more fumbling with the knob, muffled sounds as if a grip was hard to get. The knob turned once more, and then the pressure on the outside was released. He could hear shuffling against the wood. Then he saw, through the keyhole, light reflecting off a muddy iris.
****
He stared back through the keyhole, only to see the eye blink and move slowly away. He started to rise from his chair, but was stopped by a thump near the floor, as if a clumsy foot had bumped the wood by mistake. He realised that all the sounds he heard seemed fuddled and uncoordinated. The doorknob was once again twisted, but the motion seemed to lack an ability to grasp. He was wondering whether to turn out the lamp, when a hesitant, hollow knock came upon the door.
(image) http://thumbs.dreamstime.com/z/blue-door-keyhole-27445.jpg
DE
Please, Ladies and Gentlemen, I think it’s time to
– please, if you don’t mind – it really is time to begin our –
thank you, that’s much better – time for our meeting to start.
As you can see by looking around, this gathering is exclusively for Department heads. There will be no minutes taken. These projections are for your ears only. Not only would we not wish another company to get them, but there is a chance the general public may become concerned, little realising the economics of our endeavours. A brief history of colours, dyes and artificial essences will give us a place to start. Run the strawberry jam, please.
As you can see, Ladies and Gentlemen, the colours on the slide are excellent. The rich red hue of the strawberries is exactly the colour you’ll find in the jar. We spent years developing that dye. Also, the years that went into getting the artificial taste and smell to adhere to the colour is something that most people would not imagine.
Of course, even with our best efforts, there has always been a problem with that cloying, rather heavy sensation on the tongue. That has been offset by the addition of more sugar. We had complaints when the product was first introduced, but it appears these have now disappeared with new generations who know nothing different. People just accept that strawberries, strawberry ice cream, and strawberry jam all have their own tastes. Next slide, please.
Oh, yes – well, we’ll pass over this slide quickly. I just put that in to show you we finally managed to get rid of the strawberries altogether. As you can see on the close-up, the red glob is really made from compressed fibres – as one of our chemists said, more straw than berry. Even the seeds are produced and added with a gum mixture. We have found that bone meal seems to last best of all.
Now, this next lot we are very proud of. Bronson, these should be of particular interest to you, since they deal with our fast food chain. The buns are made of very porous fibre, almost like real dough. The brown colouring gives them a nice toasted look. The meat patty is still half real – we can’t seem to budge the government on that. Still, being able to advertise 100% all beef helps – as long as the fat, bone, guts etc that goes into it all comes from a cow, we’re home free. Notice the use of the black lines of dye, to make it appear the meat has just come off the grill.
Ah!
This interesting experiment has been done with some of our ever-thick milk shakes. We wanted to see how long the latex used to keep it together would hold up under the combined attacks of various strawberry, chocolate, etc. dyes, the fats and gums of the milk mixture, and the acids from the artificial flavours. You’ll be pleased to know that some of them still were thick after four months of refrigeration. It is easy to see how latex based paints can last for so many years. We are now experimenting with making our french fries out of pulped wood chips. Texture, flavour and colour have all been overcome, but there still seems to be some unfortunate reactions to the hot fat.
DE
“Out, out – out of my way!
“Don’t touch me at all, but do as I say.
“A brush on the arm can cause me harm, when it’s the Brush of Death I’m awaiting.
“Don’t breathe.
“Don’t dare breathe near me.
“Your air – from inside you – coming out at me. How very, very horrible.
“It now has pieces of you, and it will corrupt.
“No, don’t listen to me.
“Stop up your ears and turn away.
“They’re my words and my thought – not to be sold and not to be bought. Out of my mouth from between my teeth.
“Don’t you know how personal that is?
“Allow me, allow me.
“I’ll open the door.
“I’ll let you enter.
“Demand what you want – don’t be afraid to ask. Make them fill your request. I come here for bread, and I come here for cake. You can trust me. Would I lie? They don’t mind me, they’re used to my song. It’s entertainment, you see, and it’s free.
“Chew them up, enjoy them – those muffins look good. I’m a madman in a bakery, and I know how to eat.”
DE
(image) http://www.fashionspill.com/wp-content/uploads/2011/08/padaria-em-Nova-Iorque-Fashionspill-2.jpg
So it has come to this.
A mindless voice with mindless tune singing softly in the dark.
My friend, I promise you, on such a night even the sages are locked babbling in their rooms.
You think me mad?
“Well, my boyze.” (I talk in my best W.C. Fields voice).
“Well, my boyze. I had a hen who could lay a Golden Calf. And this weird guy – Moses was his name – yass. This Mo-zaz threw these stone tablets – threw, I say – these stone tablets on my hen, and killed her.
Feathers everywhere.
And I asked him – I said to him – hey, Mo-zaz, why did you flatten my hen and make the feathers fly?
And he said to me – can you believe this – he said to me:
‘W. C., I was damn hungry.’”
And I knew – my little chickadee, my little bottom-soft dumpling – I knew from that moment, that the man was not sincere.”
DE
(image) http://www.barcelonafootballblog.com/wp-content/uploads/2013/09/tablets.jpg
The stage is as bare as my lady’s ass in his lordship’s bedchamber. Rough-hewn in the most knockabout way, leaving splinters in the palace lawns of the imagination.
There’s many a dip ‘twixt the trap and the lip.
It fares little better than hastily strewn boards covering parched ground, and barely enough elevation to keep the understanding masses at bay.
Were one fool enough to come from out the wings, and at centre front begin a soliloquy about the beauty of the wretched arena upon which he stands, to fight the resulting and justified spontaneous combustion, there would not be found one drop of piss from any a thespian’s hose. For who could allow this sacrilege to be spoken? Even the flag atop the pole knows that the magic is not yet arrived.
A stage without commercial trappings: without solid doors and thick drapes; uncluttered by pillars and arches, tables and chairs, windows and fireplaces; sans orchestra, sans balcony, sans pit. A stage revealing all its secrets. Profound as emptiness.
A stage in wait.
For in this world writ small – as in the globe around – the audience has nothing to know, nothing to learn, until the actor makes an entrance, and prepares to fight past our eyes to battle with those thoughts and fears which lurk in sheltered halls.
“What’s Hecuba to him?”
“Why – nothing.
“Merely a name on a page of script,
“A cue at which to turn his profile thus.”
“It is what Hecuba becomes to we who wait,
“That turns the key upon the heavy gate.”
DE
(image) http://clios.com/cms/wp-content/uploads/globetheater.jpg
Dear Eustice:
My mind confronts so many intangible truths that you sometimes seem – or is it just hope on my part – to be my only peg of reality. Have you noticed that whenever we finally believe we know the reason for something which happens, it often occurs that the real reasons are exactly the opposite of what we supposed. Everything walks a line – as narrow as those upon this page – between profound revelation and mindless absurdity. As I look through my window, the shadows cast through the trees on the next building, take the shape of a French poodle carrying a parasol. Is even Nature absurd?
Yours,
Margot
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Dear Margot:
Nature is nothing but reality, only the intangible can be absurd. As I’ve said too many times (and why do I repeat myself yet again) you spend too much effort – and wasted effort, for how can it be other – on futile quest and query. The only truth to be found is in sour milk or pleasant fornication – these things are real, these things exist. Absurdity is kittens playing or the Prime Minister’s latest speech. These things we look at with amusement or contempt – we know not to expect much from either. Quit you silly endeavours and join the world which surrounds you, not the one which your head surrounds. All important answers can be found between someones legs.
Yours,
Eustice
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Dear Eustice:
Ideas and questions are what make us more than the rutting animals you seem to exemplify. I do not claim that I shall ever reach Plato’s perfect bed, but neither would I wish to remain in your oft-used and no doubt soiled one. We are meant (I am quite certain of this) to strive to new understanding, new revelations about ourselves and our place in this world. The sole function of our body is to be a vehicle for transporting our mind, and keeping it alive. My `quest and query’ as you put it (and, by the way, did you steal that phrase – it sounds like the title of one of those pretentious little magazines you read) is both proper and noble. I really do wish you would utilize the gifts given you, and not waste so much time in idle and – it must be said – repetitious pursuits.
Yours,
Margot
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Dear Margot:
One of life’s meaner tricks is to allow us all a different set of beliefs. Cows, cats and dragonflies are content with their uniform outlook on life. Their needs are simple (if keeping alive can be called simple), and they eat, drink, keep warm, and yes, cheerfully reproduce with little thought of anything else. If you wish to assume there are greater endevours in this existence, then you should also assume that only saints and angels can fathom them, and not spend so much time on a chore for which you are not equipped. Grand thoughts may be fine for the likes of Plato, but my perfect bed will have three beautiful partners in it, who are completely willing to whatever I suggest. I think if you study our bodies more closely, you will see what it really is their function to produce. You could do with stimulation to more than just your mind.
Yours,
Eustice.
P.S. Moira sends her love
DE
(image) http://www.nzeldes.com/Miscellany/images/WW1Postcards02.jpg
(image) http://images.wisegeek.com/green-lit-numbers.jpg
Green flash – nine dash – dark green in dark room, four flash – minus dash – three flash – six dash – eight then tight then eight. The operator shoves his chair back in fear, things happen too quickly to be surprised. Red left light followed by yellow left light glow beside the numbers, reflect the band of a wristwatch. Eight flash two race one plus one point – decimal moving across the board, hunting.
Fingers, hand, wristwatch reach for the never used phone.
Second and third red left lights glow off the face of the Operator as his lips open before the mouthpiece.
“Get the General and the Director down here fast.”
“But they’re both asleep.” A thin voice in his ear.
“No time – no time. Hurry.”
His hand replaces the phone, but his eyes never leave the wild numbers, doubling and now tripling. Four two flash seven one three dash six six six pause blank plus plus racing decimal three three three three. He takes a fast look around the dim room to see yellow and red lights glimmering from every corner, and the flashing green of disappearing numbers.
His eyes return to his own board. There is a constant series of tiny clicks as the green numbers race from right to left, bottom to top. He moves a sweaty palm across his leg and gapes. Minus minus minus eight zero four three eight zero four three pause eight pause plus pause zero four three three click click click click.
Quadrupoling now, simultaneous right to left and bottom to top, green numbers racing click click click click. The sound of the flicking numbers makes him think of chicken claws scratching in gravel. He notices his hands shaking.
He dimly remembers one lecture where the odds were given of such a thing happening, the smug humour of his instructor. Six six 44 flash two seven 55 click nine two 77 plus 333 point 2864 flash minus flash minus eight seven three three zero.
“My God, they’re in fives now.”
He swivels around with a start, and sees the Director peering over one shoulder, the General standing behind him.
“How long has this been happening?”
“I … I don’t know.” He is frightened and confused. “Five or six minutes – no more than ten. I called you as soon as – ”
“It’s happening with all of them,” said the General. “It’s not a mistake.” As he speaks he looks at the screen, fumbles to straighten his tie. Nine one four two four flash nine one four two 5 pause nine one four two 6 minus flash click click click.
They move like green waves across a dark sea, sextupleting in a rush from the base of the screen. Seven two 2941 flash four one 3384 pause nine zero 7766 click click minus three four 0827.
“More warning lights are on now, Sir.”
“It’s the same with every terminal,” said the Director as he looks over to the General.
“I presume you activated the breaking system.”
“Yes, Sir.” The operator does not look behind him as he answers. “When the triples started. All it did was blow out the switch lights.” His face – like the others – is bathed in a confused glow of green, yellow and red.
“The last warning lights just came on.”
“We can see that!” snapped the Director.
The room has never had so much light in it, yet the green numbers do not seem subdued. Four two 8601, nine five 7350, one one 4499 plus flash four eight 1632 click click.
Green flash, red light and yellow, number after number, 472210 flash 992136 pause 886221 race pause flash green 220011 flash click click click.
“Sounds like hens scratching,” says the General.
The Director took in his breath with a groan. “They’re turning octal,” he said.
The green numbers moved constantly now, covering the whole face of the screen. Click click flash plus 12345678 flash 87654321 pause 20199465 click minus flash 22446688 race click 11335577 green 88990011 click.
“They’re grouping,” said the Operator. “They’re forming patterns.” His voice was no longer scared, but resigned.
The red and yellow warning lights began to shatter, small pops of sound followed by falling glass. Green flickers raced 11223344 slight pause 55667788 flash green wave 99001122 minus flash 33445566 click click
“It’s turning cyclical,” said the Director.
click flash green rush 77889900 pause plus click 00000000 minus flash flash click 00000000 click click 00000000
“What a way to end,” mumbled the General.
DE
(image) http://www.artquest.org.uk/wp-content/uploads/pamphlets-shot_560_373_s_c1.jpg
Poetry From The Light Fixture is an illuminating book of verse from an electrifying author. The poet in question is a questioning poet, quarrying for answers in the rich loam of Earth’s mysteries. The instinct of a pollen-laden honeybee, coupled with the dynamic curiosity of a fluffy kitten, allow this poet to plumb the depths of inarticulate sensitivity, and give to us, grateful readers everywhere, proof positive that, yes, indeed, here is a mind that actually thinks.
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There Is No Death, you do not have to worry any longer. All these years – yes, even centuries – men have been afraid to die, and it has just been wasted time, because no one ever dies. Yes, There Is No Death, it has all been a gigantic hoax formed by various religions to make money. Death be not proud because death does not exist. You, too, can now do whatever you want: play with fire, race your car, make love to a rattlesnake – there is nothing to stop you because There Is No Death. Take that money you were saving for a casket, and join our club today.
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DE
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