Fiction for Artists, presents--
Universal Particle .com
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>>>>>>>>>
from: the Gang <universalpurrticle@gmail.com>
to: Washington, G.
subject: Dude where'd you go
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I found the key!
to immortality.
Gone!—
beyond the doors
you seek—
THAT'S WHAT HE LEFT US.
THEN HE LEFT US.
Will you help us find our friend, Washington?
------------Book I-------------
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Deep below the charcoal waves
– crystal vaults – velvet caves, –
Retrieve at once the simple stone
shining forth a world, -—alone.
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--with great powers, come great responsibilities.--
--archetype suspense-thriller--
* Standing on Shoulders of Giants, and Falling
--season-finale to Book I, starring @YoursFrankly and Jeff--
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Aphorism #26
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Mistake not—
ambition, for Greatness,
sensuality, for Art,
ingenuity, —for Poetry!
Superpowers?
--with great powers, come great responsibilities.--
A meteor swerves into collision with Earth, disintegrating upon its surface—
all except one fragment, which survives the atmosphere and lands in their backyard.
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"Hey, what the—?"
Cole was grilling seaweed on the BBQ, when smoke-fizzing rock lands by his feet.
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"Franky!" he shouts.
"What?"
"Never mind. Natural reaction."
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The Gang gathers round the meteorite, watching it steam and fizz and hiss,
unaware that the meteorite had awakened in each of them their dormant power—
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"Franky." says Jeff.
"What?" asks Franky.
"Did you eat pancakes for breakfast?"
"Yeah. Why?"
"I don't know. I can... I can sense it."
"You can what?"
"The flour told me."
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Maddie raises an eyebrow; Franky snortles.
"You mean, you can talk to flowers?"
"No, I mean flour—processed, manufactured."
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They hear grasshoppers chirping.
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"Wow," says Franky. "How... impressive."
He asks about butter and jam, if they got sour 'sizzling' with bacon, lol.
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So Jeff makes Franky's stomach churn and spin. That shuts him up good.
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"But that doesn't make sense," says Maddie. "It's inanimate. How can you control it—much less,—share its feelings?"
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"It's not impossible," says Cole. "The zen monks say, the mind fills between the arrow and its tar—"
"Golly, Jesus," says Maddie. "Something... it's got me, too."
She closes her eyes. She rubs them with her knuckles. Then she opens them again, squinting.
"I see colors," she says. "—As if I can sense, the spirit of things."
She looks at Jeff. —"Hm. A deep, rich yellow."
She looks at Franky. —"Red, tinged with orange."
Finally, she examines Cole. Twice. "Cole..." she says, —
"Where'd you go?"
"Hmph." says Cole.
It's a power near as obscure as empathy with baked goods—but Jeff doesn't say anything, because he is quite fond of yellow,
and Franky doesn't either, because, uncertain the terms of her power, didn't want to turn into a big, orange balloon. When—
Ringgg.
No-one answers.
Ringggg.
"Franky, aren't you gonna get that?"
"Oh no worries. That's just my—"
They stare at him. No way. Had Franky developed some sort of psychic-link with
electronic equipment? —Why, yes, he has. Albeit, exclusive to his iPhone.
"Pf. More useful than your skills," says he.
They grudgingly agree; but they are hopeful, for Cole.
"Well?" asks Jeff.
"Hm," says Cole. "It appears I have developed some sort of full-body awareness over the kinesiological,
neuroanatomical, psychophysiological, and binary-systematical dimensions of my body's motor skills—"
"Meaning," interrupts Maddie. "You move... slower than usual?"
Cole tests his powers. Then— "Yes," he says. "Yes, I believe so."
They groan. All except Franky. ("I don't see a difference," he says.)
"These gifts," says Jeff, "can be dangerous, in the wrong hands."
"Aw, c'mon," says Franky. "don't be a poop. What's the harm?"
He begins surfing Tinder, 9Gag, Facebook feeds and watering his catcus on Meowville, simultaneously in his mind.
"No, he's right," Maddie says. "What if the stone awakens in others things of a more sinister nature? like, ability to control snakes, opening blackholes or --gasp-- access to personal search histories!?"
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"--Superspeed, weather control, telepathy, magnetic manipulation, energy conversion, pyrokinetics, probability warp, astral projection, adamantium bones, Spidey-sense," --(Franky's a fan of the X-MEN)-- "no, you're right," says he, "those powers are so much cooler than ours.
"We can't let that happen."
So he too sees --if, for the wrong reasons, --the merit in hiding the stone. But where?
"Obviously," says Cole, "we should look for someplace no-one would ever suspect anything of value or lasting importance--"
And they decide at once:
"The Modern Museum of Art!"
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They arrive at the entrance. Beyond the glassdoors they see sitting behind the reception counter a lone security guard, guarding a donation box, and a bowl of muffins.
Mmm. Those look delicious.
The guard reaches for a banana-nut, all the while not paying at all attention
to the four highly suspicious teenagers 'hot-potatoing' a black bag, outside.
"But I already carried it here!"
"But Maddie, it's your bag!"
"But I don't want it."
"..."
Just then the guard turns her head. She sees them.
...Luckily, her view of the bag is obstructed by the intricate display of hopscotch-terror
outside that she doesn't notice the girl -- with a sigh -- stuffing the bag under her blouse.
"Dude, act natural, natural!"
The Gang straightens up. They talk in whispers:--
"Okay. This is what we gotta do. We gotta sneak in there, undetected, with the bag, and preferably, without paying donation also."
So they enter, cross the turnstiles, and try walking through as unsuspiciously as they can, when--
"Hey!" the guard says. "You're gonna need to check that."
They pretend not to hear.
"Hey, young lady," says the guard. "Your baa-ag."
Oh god what do we do, what do we do? --thinks Maddie.
"Jeff!" she blurts out. "Use your powers!"
"I, uh, er," says Jeff.
"Damn it, Jeff!" says Franky. "The one lead we had in the story--
"Evening, miss," he coos. "As you see, my lady-friend here is not actually carrying a bag, is in fact pregnant, and the
fact that you insinuate she is carrying a bag is highly insulting -- but we'll let it slide, if you'll let it slide. All right, darling?"
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"I'm old enough to be your grandma, sonny," growls the guard. She looks more furious than ever.
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"Wait, wait!" says Franky. "Okay--"
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He tries again.
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"How about I tell you you're going to get a call tomorrow, and it's from your supervisor, and she's going to
commend you on a job so expertly handled? They way you held your ground against those obnoxious kids."
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"Huh? Well, I--" says the guard.
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"But then, actually, the next day, your supervisor calls again, but this time she says omg what did you do how could you take a bribe from those kids and now it's online, huh, you say, the what the what is online, and she says the video the video it's on YouTube, this one in fact"--
Franky pulls out his iPhone, --
"and now it's got you looking mad, looking furious at those kids --were they a disturbance? were they loitering about, menacingly? oh god, now they're even saying one of them's pregnant..."
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The guard looks stunned.
The chances are small. But anything can happen for an idiot.
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Finally, the guard sighs. Then, looks surprisingly calm.
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"You know what?" she says. "Just go. It's not worth my effort. Just go."
She starts munching on her banana-nut.
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"Alright then haul ass," says Franky.
And so they do.
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...Except Cole.
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"Dammit Cole turn off your power and haul your ass up!" shouts Franky.
"...It's off," says Cole, coldly.
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----------------------------------------
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"It was gluten-free!" Jeff was explaining.
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Whatever, dude. They are almost there. To the blackest black, the pit from whence the hellish idea spawneth --the "seed" of modern art!
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"Guys, we gotta hurry," says Maddie. "I can't stand this much longer -- all I'm seeing are running Browns and incontinent Reds,"
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But how were they going to rid the meteorite without the crowd that always gathered about the "first" piece of modern art, noticing?
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They begin pondering this, when Franky aims for a trashcan, throws, and misses a balled-up wrapper from a moist apple-cinnamon he snagged earlier, from the donation-counter. Unfortunately, right in a comedically well-positioned spot in front of Cole's next-step walking--
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"!? Frannnnnky--"
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Cole begins to fall.
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He is grand. He is majestic. He is noble, like the Niagara, falling without speed.
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...And the crowds are upon him.
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His robotically sluggish moonfalling and noble demeanor arouses in them something oddly eerie but profoundly beautiful.
They gather round him as if he were a sizzling, fizzling meteorite--
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"--my my darling this new installation must be a critical examination of the urbane spiritual creature known as the Black American fiercely unbending in the throes of modern plutocracy nevertheless but surely on his slow descent into misidentification with media faith and pop-consumerist ideo-political ideology--"
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"no no, darling this is obviously a commentary symbolic to the silent marginalization of the lower-middle brackets in movement-based visual-visceral spiritual-analytical binary-systematical comparison between the Irish Potato Famine with New Orleans and the Bubonic Plague with Darfur, 2014, it's so obvious darling how do you not see it--"
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"Quick!" screams Maddie. "Now's our chance!"
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So they haul their asses to what is, according to Google, from Franky's iPhone, and Maddie's vision, the blackest, darkest,
most evil presence in the establishment --There! they see it. Le Fountain de Duchamp. Pardon the French. Duchamp's Fountain.
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And they knew just then what they had to do.
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Maddie tosses the meteorite into the bowl, and they quietly sneak out.
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...All except Cole, who joins them after he stops falling next week.
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Aphorism #141
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The scholar's mystery is no mystery to us at all—
Shakespeare left only his second-best bed to his wife,
knowing his best she shall share upon death: the earth.
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— the Artists —
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The Elevator
--archetype suspense-thriller--
The elevator stops on the twenty-first floor. The doors do not open.
Instead of a familiar—ding!—there is something metallic, crunching.
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Irritated, the Trickster tries steel with his left foot;
the steel is not persuaded. Then the lights go out. "Um," says he.
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It is the first time anything of the kind happened to any of them;
the Director is the first to respond. "Well," he says. "Probably just a malfunction."
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"Gee, you think?" says the Trickster, jokingly.
"Cole," the Philosopher says. "Did you press the alarm?"
"My finger's on it, but no-one's responding," the Director says.
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The Philosopher looks upset. She turns to look at the Poet, who,
with mobile lit in hand, is examining the walls of their cell, silently.
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"I wouldn't worry," the Director says. "After all, this is only, what? —the third story in? It would be
utterly incoherent—not to mention, disrespectful to our audience—to end our journey here."
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"It's a metaphor," the Poet says, suddenly. "I think we're trapped in a metaphor."
"Hm," the Director says. "Possible." He pauses. —"But, too easy."
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"No," admits the Poet. "It's not right."
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"What do you mean?" the Philosopher asks.
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"Well," says the Poet. "Children on a swing-set, careening through the air—that's an airship, in a storm.
A fly on the ceiling, hanging, upside-down—that's an angel, nosing toward Hell. Those are metaphors. But this—"
He scratches his head. "We are literally stuck in an electronic box, scrolling up and down."
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"Don't mean to be industrial, here, Jeffrey, but I fail to see
the poetry in our METAL-BOX-OF-DOOM!" says the Trickster.
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"Unless—" continues the Poet, ignoring him. "Unless, a dark,
empty cave... like a mine. And we are, all of us, truths, entrapped—"
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"Are you saying," the Philosopher asks— "to escape,
we must act outside our truths, outside our character?"
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"I don't know," the Poet admits.
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"Should I strip down like a caveman and do a rain-dance?" asks the Trickster, not jokingly.
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"But what if," says the Philosopher. "What if... what if all this was just some exercise, and"—she chokes
up—"and, there's no greater meaning at all, except someone writing... dialogue!?" She is getting hysterical.
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"No," says the Poet. "Everything has meaning. Everything."
"If you read your birds right," says the Trickster, mockingly.
"Shut up, Franky," says the Poet.
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"What's important," the Director says, "is to realize that, even if our existence ends here, God forbid,
in this elevator, who's to say it won't renew itself, like fiction in nonfiction, another time, elsewhere?"
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"Look," says the Trickster. "You and Jeff might be used to this—living in caves on
nothing but birdfeed—but I got things to do and a life to live, so, if you'll excuse me..."
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The Trickster begins to pull off his trousers when the lights turn on. Then the doors open.
And then—
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Aphorism #128
The lyric poet, he lives comfortably,
drinking wine, sipping tea,
but the epic poet gets tipsy with water.
Twice a month it rained
--hymns from the highlands--
Twice a month it rained.
In April it rained but once—a smoky, blue rain.
It is lighter than the sour, green rain of September;
and nothing like the heavy, crimson rain of July.
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Nobody wants to buy the crimson rain of July.
It tastes like rust.
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But the rain in April,
which came but once a year,
sold for a very good price—
there is never quite enough of it
to satisfy everyone's needs.
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Little Johnny bottled some
for his dear mother
to cure her of her rheumatism.
But the effects wore off by June.
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Charlie, at the bank,
saves some by his nightstand
in case it gets scary at night.
But never he feels he has quite enough.
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Lovers exchange what little they have
for special occasions, thinking that
the memories, at least, will last a lifetime.
But it reminds them only how
dismal things are, without it.
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The townspeople had built all sorts of contraptions, to predict the volume of rainfall,
to "maximize the yield," to isolate the chemical compounds for generic synthesis—etc, etc.
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But none of this seems to matter very much—
It rains when it rains. And in April, it rained but once.
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Until one April, it does not rain at all.
They scratch their heads. They check their almanacs.
"Should've been today," proclaims Old Man Jones.
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But the skies are clear:
Not a cow or manatee in sight.
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"Perhaps they gets caught up in the mountains,"
says Old Man Jones, though he knows it is unlikely.
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So they wait.
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First, an hour.
Then a week.
Then two weeks...
Until it is nearly May.
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"Curse that Washington!" cries Old Man Jones.
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And it rains. But it is already May,
and the rain is mustard and yellow.
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Then one day a traveller passes by—
"Halt! what business have you here!?"
But the guardsmen lower their spears
When they see, glancing back at them,
such clear, noble eyes.
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"I have traveled many miles,
and have many miles still to travel,"
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And he requests lodging for one night,
"any fishshack or farmhouse will do."
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"Nonsense!" say the guardsmen,
for they are eager to show, that
while highland winds blow cold,
hospitality runs deeper than gold.
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"Have him at our finest tavern!"
And they take him to their only tavern.
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An iron basket of fish & chips, —
"And some October in March,
to wash it down with!"
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"Thank you," says the traveler.
"This is wonderful," as he
graciously accepts the glass.
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"It's not much," says the innkeeper—
a little embarrassed, serving off-season rainwater.
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"And from whence do you hail?"
he asks, changing the subject.
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"New York," answers the traveler.
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"Hm," says the innkeeper—
"Never heard of it. What's it like there?"
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"It rains often, where I'm from,"
admits the traveler, "but here,
the rainwater—is the best I've had."
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Huh?
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The innkeeper is dumbstruck.
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Must be joking, thinks he—
the blend, it's nothing special:
October, always a little too sweet,
and March, a little too melancholic.
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A common mixture.
They have plenty stock.
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"It's a bad season, my friend—
if you're hoping for the April rain."
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"This glass here is just fine."
The traveller drains his glass.
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"You must be thirsty—or just awfully polite."
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"In this story, I am merely plot-device."
Then he laughs. —"Dramatic counterpoint, is all."
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The innkeeper scratches his chin.
He helps himself to a glass, too.
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"Boy, aren't we all?" says he, as
he plunges the fryer in a cold bucket
of November—electric, tough on grease.
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Early next morning,
the traveler sets about his way.
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"Wait!" cries Little Johnny. —"Here,
something to remember us by,"—
a vial of obsidian snow.
"December," says Little Johnny.
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"It reminds me of you."
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The traveler reaches down
and tousles the boy's head.
"This is very special indeed—
but what about your mother's rheumatism?"
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"Silly traveler," says Little Johnny—
"Moisture is bad for inflammation of the joints and bones."
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And off he goes.
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Charlie, at the bank,
thinks about getting a gun.
But he gives away his rain instead—and,
feeling a little blue,
saves just enough for a pot of stew:
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It tastes like salty mushrooms.
"Gah!" spats Charlie. "What was I thinking!?"
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And lovers came to realize,
if they cannot stand each-other
through the purple pricklies of January,
or the jalapeño poppers of August,
then perhaps they weren't made
to share an umbrella, after all.
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But, but!
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Whatever happened to the April rain?
Will April never rain, again?
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That, dear reader, lies beyond
the scope of this story, —or any story.
But the curious reader might like to know
even crimson rain can float a boat,
and September rain, vinegared,
goes great with fish & chips.
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Aphorism #75
Wars keep men young.
Love keeps them immortal.
The Face of It
--according to Him--
Her name is Truth.
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They met at a party.
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The eyes saw it first—
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the paradox of relativity, collapsed before the beam of its lights, steady, absolute, as... as...
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warm buttermilk cookies, suggests the nose, "...as fresh as... as..."
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and this is a relief because the eyes—nearly 200 million blinks old—sometimes
deserves a break when it comes to matters of perfume and affectation—no.
He knows what he saw. Eyes don't deceive their own kind.
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Meanwhile the mouth is sweating profusely.
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She had just handed him a cup of punch.
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Should he be funny, clever, clever-funny, serious, seriously-clever,
clever-somewhat-serious, not-serious-at-all—guess. He tries to smile.
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"Just be yourself!" the ears shout from above.
"Dammit easy for you to say!"
What? she asks.
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Oh, uh, I said your eyes are pretty.
Oh, she says. She smiles.
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I think I'm in love, he blurts out.
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She looks at him funny. She walks away.
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What would you do with a million dollars? she asked.
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"I'd give them all to you," he coos.
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"Dammit mouth get a hold of yourself!" shouts the ears, restraining the mouth,
but what's the use? —he is fighting it too. He is entranced by the music.
That beautiful music—
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"Tell her she has great taste in music!" says the ears.
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"Um," says the mouth. He clears his throat, pretentiously—
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How now.
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I see you got some sounds.
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Sounds, they say, are like protoplasmic amoebas...
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The ears slap his faces. He tries not to listen.
He tries to visualize a running brook, —or a single strain of dial-tone.
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That's—that's observant, she says.
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Then she tries to busy, talking to a friend.
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Her male friend.
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"Where's the heart, man?" mutters the mouth. (He learned not to say things out loud.)
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But the heart is working out in his cave, downstairs—and he is always so cryptic.
In fact the mouth isn't sure why they are always depending on him, the first place.
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"He has good judgment," says the nose.
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"What. Have you doubts?" asks the eyes.
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"No—I, I just wish he used simpler language, is all..."
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"You're listening to the wrong things," explains the ears—
"Try to listen to what he says, —before— he says it."
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"Dude, I'm —not— in the mood right now."
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Because it is his turn—
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What would you do with a million dollars? she asks, him.
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I'd I'd get a motorcycle...
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Mmmm, she nods, approvingly.
A Ducati, turbo-boost, leather-seating...
Oh, she says. She looks disappointed.
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"She thought you meant a 'moped,'" determines the eyes, shrewdly.
Every thought left its mark on the face and the eyes, having spent the greater part of the last 200 million+ 90 to 200
million + 2,800 blinks decoding that record between the angles of a nose, the creases of a mouth, the arcs of a brow...
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The nose sighs deeply and dreams about lush, earthy smells from
the side of a road, where the paddies meet "air," —light and cool,
with just a hint of exhaust-mist, after the rain, riding on a moped...
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"Tell her," the heart says suddenly, and quite clearly now:—
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And the mouth repeats:—
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...Who can say? Because nothing I say is true, unless I say—
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—"Instead of a million dollars, let's talk about freedom:
pure, unbridled freedom, freedom to pause—to listen—to discover,"—
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The life and death of a sound.
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The taste of rainfall,
fresh off the asphalt.
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The being of something invisible,
timeless,
like the majestic hymn of a mountain—
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...and totally, absolutely, —not some loud paint, over titanium,
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or the remix to a top 40's soundtrack,
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But the—"Are you sure that's what he said?" asks the nose.
(She sniffs the heart.)
"I didn't hear anything," admits the ears.
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"I think you're seeing things," says the eyes.
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Um, says the mouth.
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He lunges for a hug.
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—that the speed of light,
and thereby perception of time, bends and is distorted by shifts in gravity.
Aphorism #251
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Confucius asked Tzu-Kung,
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"Do you think I learn,
to increase my knowledge?"
—"Well, don't you?"—
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"No. I seek the one thing
that ties everything together."
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Analects, 15.2
Standing on Shoulders of Giants, and Falling
--season finale, starring Franky and Jeff--
Our voyage across la mér du knowleedge came at last to its end, the fabled obsidian Pillar of Truth.
It was decided that I - the more capable and valued member of our two-man team, onboard - shall, in the spirit of preservation for the whole - remain onboard and ensure security over our greater assets. So I send my trusted companion, Sir Jeffrey, to do field work. (I provide narrative assistance and GPS from my iPhone in the wireless cabin, so it's basically like I'm right there with him.)
We were not the first to arrive.
At its base, a sanked pit, thirty feet wide and thirty feet deep, stood huddled around the unfathomably large device a gathering of onlookers, looking up. (some looked down - but most looked up.)
It was a strange sight, for they were no ordinary onlookers - they were giants. And, stranger still - stacked neat like Tetris on one another. (A few dozen dangling arms, legs & hooves, but who's counting.) The ladder of giants reached beyond sight and was formidable even by means of elevators and search engines.
"Fools! Don't rely on your eyes from the vantage up there!" shouted someone from below the pit - it was probably Heraclitus, grouchy, or either one of his buddies, Anaxagoras or Parmenides.
"Cool it, bro," said the titan closest to the visible bottom, "they're basically doing the best they can." I recognized him immediately through FaceTime by his beautiful ugliness - it was Socrates. At his side - Master Kong, with his effectively large forehead - provided solid footing to those above them. Despite the impossible weight, the Master stood erect, unstrained.*
"Join us," he said, as Jeffrey approached, "join us, son, we need you."
"But I am small and basically useless. For what use have you me?"
Down fluttered a yellowed paper from higher up, of charcoal ink and eastern letters. Few of the giants groaned.
Aw man, I thought. Don't be a sissy.
"But, I--" Sir Jeffrey said.
"Son," a familiar voice interrupted warmly, from higher up top, "tink and you will fail - use your heart! It's allll relativ-" A rung of titans murmured along and nodded their heads in approval, a handful whom we recognized: Leibniz, Berkeley--and, Newton (a little salty) among them, less enthused.
Sir Jeffrey was reassured. He felt calm, confident. He grabbed the floating paper. He braced for the first steps.
And he climbed.
Up, up past Aesop. Past Plotinus and then Augustine, past Aquineas, then Thomas More - who, it seemed, had formed a frothy sort of bromance with Da Vinci, Dürer, and Montaigne.
He climbed past birthday buddies Galileo and Shakespeare, who were deciphering ancient sounds with Wu Cheng'en in some dead dialectic, presumably Tibarian. (--JT: "it's Chinese, jackass.") Descartes, Locke and Hume stood scoffing at their side.
As Jeffrey climbed, he passed a familiar face.
"Here, take this." The willowy giant handed something metallic and heavy as Jefferey climbed past him. "I never had the chance." he said, sadly. "Would you?"
"Of course, " said Jefferey. "But what do I do with it?"
"You'll know when the time is right," he said, "and if your friend knows what he's doing."
"Thanks, Newton."
Jeffrey climbed higher and higher - and he climbed higher still. And as he climbed - though he had not realized - his body magnified, his skin shivered and expanded, and began blending with sky. I've lost visuals at this point, past Kant and Goethe, but I hear Rousseau and Hegel cheering him on - my, they make good cheerleaders. Sir Jeffrey, I'm losing you - can you take over, on intercom?
"Well, it's getting kinda frosty up here, and I'm losing visual, too - man, should've listened to Swedenborg down there - but I just passed Lincoln on his top-hat through Dickens and RLS* and it looks like I'm coming up along Verne and... Wells, on what appears to be an iron, mechan--
--Hey, kid, your narrative tense's inconsistent, someone scoffs.
"Thanks, Flaubert." says Sir Jeffrey.
What's your visual on ground, I ask.
"Wait a sec while I get past this smoke cloud - dang, Churchhill and Chesterton up there, puffing away like chimneys--"
I wait.
Sir Jeffrey was so high up, snowflakes had started falling up. He looked out into the open, tender fields and saw Borges racing about on his tiger with C.S. Lewis, on his lion.
"Well, let's see. There's Emerson, by that forest, looking... supernaturally disinterested. He's chilling with Chuang, and his camping buddies by the pond: Whitman's frolicking with Wilde, visiting, Linnaeus on his unicorn, Kierkegaard and Schopenhauer, too. Dostoevsky's holding Tolstoy's hand (like a brother, like a brother) chatting heartily, vibrantly it seems, with Nietzsche, who is... grunting, painfully."
"Listen, though - things are getting kind of weird. I saw Laotzu on a nimbus, earlier - he was pointing, laughing. When I tried to talk to him, he wouldn't acknowledge me. I saw Kafka, carapaced... carapaced. Faces are mixed up--Heine/Heinlein, Yeats/Keats, Xenophon/-phanes, Schiller/Schelling, I'm catching Deweys left and right, I'm almost certain these faces are...they're the same faces, man, again and again."
"But hey - this is important: some of the giants on realism I met on rungs #3, #34 and #46 swore they felt sound reverberate from the surface - they are convinced it's hollow; for all we know - it's a tower, not just a pillar. Something may be living inside. But the masters of the material realm were intent on testing for the wall's composition..."
It was getting cold, indeed. Sir Jeffrey could no longer feel his body - but he felt the cold - deep within his bones, but when he looked down and saw where he had just past Thomas Cleary, Yoshihiro Togashi, and Eminem, he knew. He knew he was coming to the end, his apex, and he understood--he reached inside his pocket and withdrew the yellowed paper, and tossed it below him. Thanks, guys - won't be needing this anymore, he thought. But he grew scared.
"Listen - Frank, can you hear me? Hey, listen. I think - I think I'm at the end. Shit, I can't believe - listen man. I don't know why I'm telling you this now, but you remember those times in college when you wondered who was taking your socks from the washers? It was me, man. It was me, Franky. I'm so, so sor--
And it hit him. Nothing physical - just a pure apprehension of being. he saw it, between his eyes, a swirling point of bright, white energy, in front of him, maybe a forearms reach away.
He reached; and it sucked him in.
(...)
At this point narration will take over, because narration is just a construct, anyway, and reality does not conform to strict rules of linearity -
Where am I? Sir Jeffrey thought.
You are with me.
...And you are?
I am the Other, the original face; the universe and All. The 'It', and the original 'you'.
What a load a crap, Jeffrey thought. Perfect time to throw that heavy, metallic thing from Newton - he chucked it with his mind against the "Other," that heavy, metallic thing--which turned out to be a watch; it did nothing.
Kid, don't you realize? I'm trying to help you. We're trying to help you.
Who's we, Jeffrey asked.
The crown, son, the achievement that is you and every other being. And the foolish - noble, but foolish - belief that any thing is lasting -
And Jeffrey heard them.
What he imagined all this time was wind whirled about pitifully, softly screeching - don't try to make use of it, you can't you can't, Ahh!
- don't look where I didn't intend - and even where i intended! It fadesss -
- and that dreadful art of scrummaging through notes and letters, ordering their significance to your fancies? don't you understand the meaning, "work-in-progress"? It's incomplete! Flawed! Not to mention - it lacks any sort of that key component, that sacred ingredient, that truth of truths: the completion in its negative spaceeee--
What - what must I do?
let goo -
Realization struck Jeffrey, and a sinking feeling - he let go.
It's no pillar, nor tower, he thought - it's a well - and he fell, deep, deep asunder.
* see Notes to Book I
* Robert Louis Stevenson