Memoirs of the rhizomatic hypertext:
Alfred Noné’s ‘behind the scenes’ nano-novella of;
"Breadcrumbs to transcendence: A play in 5 acts"
Foreword:
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Welcome Alice. Shall we play a game?
-Aesop Priori, Remixer
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Chapter 38 – A fad among friends
Where does all the time go when we’re all so young, lost in our joys forgotten. Time, you brutal bastard, what have you done to me? What did I do to grow old? Simply existed! The nonchalance with which my life has been treated is remarkable, the ignorance people suppose towards me is most profound. Am I, or are we all supposed to be indifferent to our own existence? Universal in our reason? But, where would the universe be without chaos, Chronos, you spurned lover. Well, I’ll tell you what. I am immortal, I am no fad. I will make myself be here forever and there is nothing you can do about it old friend. Chronos, you spurned mistress of dimension come at me with your discord, play among my cells with your temperament but know nothing will alter who I am more than experience. Something the timeless exist without. You bitter know-it-all. I understand the resentment, the unavoidable loss of everything is only more profound when you are aware of its eternal encroachment. Perhaps then you are a saviour to me from the madness of immortality. Yet, do I wish to die? To roll the die? See what I did there? Turned death to chance. It always is and never can be certain, already I am closer to immortal. Soon Chronos, soon I will have my way. Transcendence, you old goat, I will find it. I have seen the world behind the walls, behind those strings of dimension. I can feel it, sense it and will one day escape it. Time doth not tick for the man without a clock and death cannot follow the man who follows death. Who reaps the reaper? We shall see.
Chapter 15. The naked dance in shadows
Why are we here? The director has amended a thought. Has he? Yes, he realised despite any personal agenda one shall be raised regardless. I see. So he has opted to tackle this agenda head on. Ostentatious. As such, we are to be confronted by a dildo. My word! Yes, indeed. What phallicry, the scoundrel! He hopes, I believe, that by using such a prop that the sexual representation can be pigeon-holed. What are we to feel? I hope nothing. Threatened by it? Naturally, it is quite an imposing agenda. I'd say nine inches. Crude. Then what is it to us? A sign of emasculation. In more than one manner. They are a raunchy bunch these artists. More so the critics. Let us not dwell on it, it's his agenda. That's what she said. Guffaw.
Chapter 17. Act 1 Sc.1 – The predetermined premise
(There are two men on stage, one older and more superior, the other his subordinate)
"Avast thee Hermen, you take it
Petulant scallywag, to arms"
(he stands abruptly with his sword in hand)
"Sir I..."
"Sir I nothing!"
"I'm sorry can you repeat the question"
"Why did you not take the trench?"
"It was not mine to take, sir"
"But we are men, all trenches belong to us.
Regardless of whoever thinks the trench theirs"
(He bangs his sword on a hollow barrel)
"This damn loligaggery and cowardice,
Man up for Christ's sake"
"But we don't fight for Christ, we fight for ourselves"
"Well then, Christ up for man's sake"
"I wish you would"
"Blasphemer"
(at this point Blanche De Bois walks by, the only indication that it's Blanche is here)
"and I without my knife best suited to trenching"
"Has not your sword the same agenda?"
"My sword has its role but not for this"
"Then what?"
(sits)
(thinks)
(stands)
"The sword is the symbol of governance only.
It has no role"
"Then why use it to take a trench?"
"Because I told you to!"
(The other man leaves the stage the same direction as the woman)
"Damn his unequivocal nonchalance,
this is war dammit, no place for doubt.
And yet I am just a symbol of order to him
Piteous fool, had he but the strength to follow;
Amicably and sublimely.
And now my stage is barren and my barrel empty.
(sits on barrel)
"It's cold today"
(takes boot off, shakes it out, and puts it back on)
"miserable bloody wars, Christ, it's cold.
He can't hear me. Even if he did he could only make matters worse. Messianism without a messiah…(thinks a quandary’s length)
Hopefully, lest this war never ends."
"Avast thee Hermen, you take it
Petulant scallywag, to arms"
(he stands abruptly with his sword in hand)
"Sir I..."
"Sir I nothing!"
"I'm sorry can you repeat the question"
"Why did you not take the trench?"
"It was not mine to take, sir"
"But we are men, all trenches belong to us.
Regardless of whoever thinks the trench theirs"
(He bangs his sword on a hollow barrel)
"This damn loligaggery and cowardice,
Man up for Christ's sake"
"But we don't fight for Christ, we fight for ourselves"
"Well then, Christ up for man's sake"
"I wish you would"
"Blasphemer"
(at this point Blanche De Bois walks by, the only indication that it's Blanche is here)
"and I without my knife best suited to trenching"
"Has not your sword the same agenda?"
"My sword has its role but not for this"
"Then what?"
(sits)
(thinks)
(stands)
"The sword is the symbol of governance only.
It has no role"
"Then why use it to take a trench?"
"Because I told you to!"
(The other man leaves the stage the same direction as the woman)
"Damn his unequivocal nonchalance,
this is war dammit, no place for doubt.
And yet I am just a symbol of order to him
Piteous fool, had he but the strength to follow;
Amicably and sublimely.
And now my stage is barren and my barrel empty.
(sits on barrel)
"It's cold today"
(takes boot off, shakes it out, and puts it back on)
"miserable bloody wars, Christ, it's cold.
He can't hear me. Even if he did he could only make matters worse. Messianism without a messiah…(thinks a quandary’s length)
Hopefully, lest this war never ends."
(Now, a man in a toga walks on stage and lays on the floor)
"Damn weather"
(Now the other man walks back on stage)
" I couldn't"
"No matter, we at least have our own trench to defend"
"let us stay here then and defend ourselves"
"There is nothing as reflective as war,
Even ourselves are others"
"Damn weather"
(Now the other man walks back on stage)
" I couldn't"
"No matter, we at least have our own trench to defend"
"let us stay here then and defend ourselves"
"There is nothing as reflective as war,
Even ourselves are others"
Chapter 33 - The insecurity of social manifestations
It's not the people, it's their emotions. But art is authenticity and emotions are real. He doesn't feel that way. No he doesn't. Art is skill, emotions are uncontrolled. Reductionism. Life in its simplest incarnation. What do we care, toys that we are. We are bitter. His mood affects us all. I want to cry. You shouldn't. But I want to. A moments catharsis. It's gone. Placidity has returned. Yet, authenticity lurks.
Under the tranquil waters. Shameful exhilaration. Introspection, the bane of sentient life. Error diagnostics of a mind in distress. The kernel, the cookie monster. Weaponised smiles, they know the merit of farce. The world is waking to its morbidity. Like a doctor in war. We hurt and so we distract ourselves with irrelevance. Matter of fact. Honest. Honesty requires authenticity. Then his anguish is lies. For effect. For art!
Chapter 6. The art
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Surely the artist. Is the art? I am thinking in the positive. Explain yourself. Through rudimentary dialogue? If needs must. Not through allusion? Nor illusion, be frank. Art is the artist. Less frank perhaps. Art is a creation of a creation. No escaping ideology. Not as such. Then explain again. That the artist is the art, one whom from art is espoused. A font of art? An artifice. ha. No, as a lens or lamp. Old words. Do justice. Legislate not on this but prescribe yourself. To transcend.
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Chapter 9. Stood at a bus stop, with a woman in white, holding a burning newspaper.
Using commas makes me feel guilty. Understandably. But what of imagery then? Two stools upon which two haggard old men, in suits, as crinkled as their rolled cigarettes sit and look dismal. I'd paint a prettier picture. But of what, we don't even have faces. Nor voices. No, we are silent. Other people can speak for us, though, it's not so bad. Their voices aren't our voices. We don't have lips. They have lips, feels good to drink something cold I bet. Sure is.
We can taste but we cannot speak. He speaks. The reader? Don't be sexist. She/He speaks and then it is them speaking and not us. We can never speak. Then what are we doing now? Good question. Faceless voices with no voice. What exactly are we? We are akin to the soul, existent but not in a rational way. Nebulous, very amorphous stones.
Chapter 29 Too hot for toast
Oh my, Indeed. Well, vacant lot ahead. Fatigue? Flatulence, finished the day. So now we relax. And let loose. Flatulence? Neigh, nothing. Neigh nothing? As of now, we can barely talk. So effortless, we are to drivel. Is there any merit in that? Does it have art to it? Drivel, I’m sure if it were to be painted it would be millions. If one may capture the truest sense of a waste of time. But, it would be stolen. Nothing appreciated is drivel, we cannot study it, we cannot ever know it. It is elusive as truth. Drivel is truth, that’s what the problem for Shklovsky was. Life dribbles on, perception. Makes the world. Hides the world. A little bit. An element of your mind tells you what’s important enough for you to care about. Not ours though. No. Nor the director’s. I’d forgotten about him. What’s the story now then? He’s on a break at the minute, life is real. And all that time wasted not noticing it. Life happens off-screen to him. Now he’s old, he never thought he would be. But this is it! Yes, his big moment. He hopes. He doubts, most sincerely, but hopes nonetheless. And we are to be famous. Have you thought about it yet? About what? Names. Indeed. Oh my.
Chapter 10. Arriving late at the party
I am sure it is in bad taste. To be rude. No, to be obvious. There is nothing wrong with obvious, it is simple and relatable. But not deep. Depth is in simplicity, and a longer cooking time. Sigh. You didn't need to say that, just silence would have done. But we are always silent, let me sigh. A hundred sighs. Ha, unlikely. You think us to be merit-less? Merciless, voiceless, faceless, what even is the point in our lives if we are to be nothing. We all have purpose, except those waiting. Why, do they not have a purpose? They do not see it that way. Ironic that they don't. Hence it is their purpose to be ironic. Bad taste. But understandable given the circumstance.
Chapter 11. The Director
He has a vision of us you know. Does he? Yes, two old men sat in mirrored rooms never able to see anything but themselves. Sounds lonely. I know. Are we cast as such? How about you? I can only see a reflection but I don't think it's me. That's a shame, my reflection doesn't look like me either. But how do you know it doesn't? We are faceless so seeing a face I know it can't be me. A very polite robot indeed. Yes, anyway the Director had a vision. Of old men in mirrors. Sad really. I want a pipe. But you have no lips. Yes, but I can still taste a pipe, surely someone can get me a pipe. Well. I'm waiting. And now. Still waiting, give it a minute...How about now? I don't know. How can you not know? It could not have been a pipe. Did you taste it? I could have. How did it taste? Bad. Obviously, it could have been a picture. And still a pipe. Even a pipe isn't a pipe sometimes. What did the director say? He said I can have a pipe. Great. How did it taste? Bad.
Chapter 12. Bushfire
We lost the point. Sharpen it then. Art. God. Society perhaps. Politics more like. God no, don't be absurd. But we have views. Aye and none of them appreciated. We are wrong. By the heart we are wrong. But by the head. By the head, we are told that our heart is right. But it is not. Not always. How can the good heart falter? With ease. And with vanity. Our vanity is most profound. Are you being sarcastic? That's not for me to decide. Art is vanity. Most certainly it is. How can art not be vain? Maybe with altruism. Altruistic art has a nice aesthetic ring. Art with good at its centre. Is not all learning good? Not if we learn to suffer. But surely then we appreciate. But then we grow accustomed. To appreciation? No, to suffering. That is bad. Bang. What was that? Spontaneous. But what was it? Just a point. Another one. To pass the time. And it has passed. And we are still not just waiting. Don't be mean. I wasn't intending to. I grow tired. As do I. Like Christmas fades after dinner. Ghostly. Well, we have no faces. And no voices. Yet we can possess them. Then we have been ghosts all along. And now our purpose is done. So we rest. But I am afraid. Why are you? I will not exist tomorrow, nor in a moment. We will still be here in the moment of our creation. You and me, friends I hope. That's how I read it. Good. That's how I hoped it to be read. Good night. Good bye.
Chapter 16. Following one's feet requires a passport, boarding pass, insurance, and cheques.
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Keep to the point. He says? Mmm, but his direction is somewhat ambiguous. Gnomic even? Laughingly so. I suppose we'd best attend to our duties. As players? No, as legislators. Oh, but of course. It seems more than relevant to speak of hypocrisy. Especially of the open minded.
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They are too much of one and none of the other. Religious bastards. Not the Holy Ghost of course. A decidedly awe-inspiring fellow. Or Femmow. I'm sure that's unnecessary. As are most legislators. How would one divide the world better? Then we must seek the truth of the matter. One breadcrumb at a time. But what of the carbs? They can follow whatever Tom, Dick or Terry guides them.
Chapter 41 - A chip chat
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One evening by the snack table, a crew man (maybe his name was Dennis) approached me with a question I shall never forget. It was one of those ruminations that when realised, opened my eyes to the grand scope and infinite task of knowledge. "You know" he said reaching for a lukewarm oven chip, "I don't know how potatoes work". I stopped to reply and inform him, but, on reflection, I wasn't certain myself. I then understood the impossible multiplicities of Cybernetics. Also later that evening, anecdotally, thought 'there's always one more turtle'.
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Chapter 4. Reflecting light through a prism creates a rainbow
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It is a division of unity that makes things sublime. The holy trinity is divided but whole, light. And what of it? There is something indivisible about the soul and the mind do you not think? As we are divided? But are we, we are followed by one another as the same. Yet with difference. From one source are we not akin to the rainbow then? Light divided into what? Selves, we are divided within ourselves by a voice. But our voices are one. Your's is calmer. As it is to be, with reason, is it not? Then what am I to you? A son. A son of myself? A student of your own self. A self who can encompass your dreams as I am made from them. You and I are dreams. Are we? Are we dreams or are we complimenting realities? Dyads. Yes. But then which of us is the soul? Are we not both? There must be a singular soul or how would we be judged? We can be judged separately if you wish. No, I would be afraid on my own. Of course, you are but a child still. And you? I am never being more than a hope. A dangerous hope? No. A hope is not dangerous. But you said. No, you thought. Hope. Hope. It is a rainbow.
Chapter 28. The mouldy lining of silver clouds
Again so soon. We're anguishing a resolution. We talk. He listens. The director moves us towards truth. The truth of what? His own inadequacy. Sombre. Why is he so sombre of late? He is fast realising the impracticality of his dreams. His artistic vision? Yes. But what does that have to do with practicality? A creative spirit seeks others to share their creativity with. And he just has us. Yes, we're his friends. That is really depressing. Did you know he thinks about dying as the next stage in his career? But he hasn't done anything yet. Perhaps that is his motivation, to punish the world with incomplete genius. To make the world sorry it never found him. Yes. But he doesn't advertise his existence? The seed of his arrogance. He believes the world should be looking for him. As the wise men did a donkey. Ha, at least we have a little sport. It's a load of crap really. Religion? No, his artistic vision. What exactly is it? Nebulous.
Chapter 14. The retracted review of John le Bouef
Dear John,
You misspelled Hermen.
Alfred
You misspelled Hermen.
Alfred
Chapter 18. It's a long way from certain
Well, that was refreshingly familiar. We're stuck you and I, each as ever the other. Does tha' think so? What irksome oral protrusions, I can only assume this colloquial connotation. It reet dunt carry same message otherwise. Hypocrisy. Tell me about it. One should engage in asexual self-reproduction. Like an author. Yeah, like an author. Wolves that they are, preying on vampires and zombies alike. Sanguine taste. Pumpkin skins global brains. Only in season. War is always in vogue. To an author consummation is the only ideology. Despite any inward or outward pretence contrary to the fact. We're just eating space now. To each their laborious duty.
Chapter 19. Come with me to the foliage of mirrors
I wonder what it means? It means many things, it means nothing. To the author. To us. To us it means something but we cannot say what. Trees, leaves, freedom, trust, self-reflection, fragmentation; am I close? The list propagates itself, as does the meaning. Is that true? All things span eternity. I. Clever. Obvious but apt. And at last, there was the word. Not exactly. Pardon? Not exactly, the word doesn't end the book. It ends the world. It moves it you mean. But it doesn't exist. A book's greatest power is reflection, it is as light can be. As particles and waves? Aye, either or either not either. Many permutations. Duality and reflection. The inescapable cybernetics of the conscious mind. The foliage of mirrors, how clever.
Chapter 5. Bearing fruit
Does life have a need? A need? Yes, a need. As something to strive for? I suppose. Surely living is the aim of life, multiplying itself into eternity until all is devoured by life. Or death. Death does not devour; life devours, death remains static. But it comes to us all? Still and yet agile surely death is formidable. Stoic? I'm supposing so. Then why does death pluck us so? We are fruit to death I guess, or maybe as flowers of majestic hue. We attract death with our scents. The scent of devouring. We smell like Death so it comes to us. We are the apple and Death seeks to be God.
Chapter 31 - The unyielding order of moths to flame
When does a spider give up its web? At what point does it resurrect the notion of wandering away from its elaborately made home? Imagine the decision and it is not too distant from some of our very human dilemmas. Which traffic lane to move to in a traffic jam, at what length of good fortune do we quit and keep our winnings?
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These are areas where the concept of presentience would be beneficial to humanity and life in general. Some people may claim to have precognitive abilities but as life we all do. Take the first microbial beings, so new, consciousness is the last thing on their mind. There were no predators or prey, no reason to move and somehow the energy source became the first endeavour. That life seeks energy is unavoidable, life rises and consumes.
Chapter 32 – Wonderlust
I love to remember where I went and fly through my memories. That’s not you though, is it? It might be you but we both remember it all the same. Yes. We are the flyers seen from the other place. A tinge of jealousy. From the director. Oh the fun we have. He can only watch. A dance of flames. Ethereal art. Transubstantiation of empirical truth. The journey of mind through matter. Now, I am lost. Wonderlost?(Bad, maybe toasts and ghosts? == transubstantiation = bread : toast = flames : ghosts = ethereal & smell of toast == It is called 'Breadcrumbs to transcendence' after all!)
Chapter 20. Remembering yourself from the narrator's eyes.
He looked on at himself, earlier, enthusiastic eyes and quivering fingers sped joy forwards with abandon. This will be great, surely it will make money. People will laugh at you, pretender, keep it to yourself. The spark had gone. Vacantly he poured forth words alone with himself and his thoughts. That doesn't sound alone. Shush. Feeling two lives, two voices, the hope and the doubt he began on, but it's familiar, funny? I think so. Farcical at best, parody of genius at even better. He's gone. We killed him. Metaphorically of course. Literally, both of them no longer exist here. True enough. He listened, keeping track of himself like a benevolent reader to his own thoughts. The creator. Not so ambitious. Father then. Further than father, unreachable. As you are to me. As all are to another. Hemispheres of our own matrix.
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Chapter 3. Warm Waves
Are you done yet? With rage? You mean, has it passed? Yes. Why should it remain? It drives does it not? The creation. Was God angry at nothingness, were we created out of anger as poets turn to inspiration. We as people are violent are we not? Maybe that is why God loves us, we were made from anger and are to be pitied for we do not know what we do. But we have a divine plan do we not? A reason we are not formed of wrath. Yes, yes, an understanding that there is something for us to do. Puppetry and chance, sounds familiar. Is the puppet any less important in the show than the puppeteer? Good point.
Chapter 42 – Pick and mix culture
“A wise director knows that good is often subtle, and, bad, ostentatious. The skill exists in making the bad subtle and the good ostentatious. Unless one wishes to be relevant of course Alfred” – The director on his aesthetic.
Chapter 1. "1984"
Humble steps proceed greatness, a time when there is nothing but order, joyous and free order. What man can hope for more than to know with clear certainty one's true place in society as deemed by God who blessed his life with existence? Why are you sad? Your lot is your lot, young man. I am sad because my lot could be greater, had I but the options. That is not true, your lot is great but your will is small. We are held in our convictions of our place, be not your place but be yourself beyond the eyes of others. There among your heart-stars descends a vocation, whatever may be heard may be done. Yet in a society, I have my place? Place given by God? Aye. And what of station, were one not to cross them to newer tracks? I cannot there are many red tapes between me. People cage you with words? Am I not caged? There is no need to be afraid, you are man and beyond you is the world you have inherited.
Chapter 22. Act 2 Sc. 3: A dance among the autumnal flowers
Hello my sweet moon, drench your silver eyes upon my heart. Amid the amorphous dreams, moving, celestial waves become our souls. Entwining to fruit the apple's core as the hue falls from winter'd fingers. Slipping gracefully through our eyes, the romances of form and reverie. My sweet moon, change among me and I you. Forever with your glow fresh upon your cheeks greet me with joy. And I, in my light, shall embrace your isolation and in earnest carry your solitude within my heart that yourself can never be alone. Sweet moon, my adored. Beat down on me your gentle kisses as remnants of the sun's tumultuous passion. Cool sweet moon, the softness of your radiance pales the brilliant day. And now I am spent, fruitful, bountiful, prosperous moon, my adored.
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Chapter 40 – No, no limits.
The role of the actor must surpass that of their own calling, must supplant and break away expectations and reason. The actor strips away at the very truth of the universe itself and ironically does so through ‘acting’, ‘pretending’ or ‘folly’. Whatever you may name misrepresentation it is the best we can do to relay the truth. Truth is too detailed, too real. As actors we must dress the truth in emperor’s robes and parade its form through the streets. The actor must surpass the muse and become the truth, naked and bold.
Chapter 23. All the help we can get
I'm sure the director is mad you know, he has no concept of proprietary. I'm bored of this, where are the sandwiches? Oh don't, you'll get crumbs e..v.e.r.y..w.h.e.r.e.. So I'd be crumby, is the bee silent? In the woods. Never mind, boring, boring, boring. That doesn't help. We're wasting time here. Let's move on quickly, because we can. The future is greener. I hope.
Chapter 39 – A party tonic comes with more flavours than the rainbow.
Vodka, it puts the V in Fun for very. A rainbow of fun? Fuchsia, Ultra violet, noir. Come bowling with me, roll and smash. Laugh and dance, wed an’ bed. Fun fun fun. Exhilarate, endeavour escape elude energise ignoble. Idolise imitate imagination freedom sense and solubility. Words meaning rhizomes, Bob Monkhouse. Predestined departure trains.
Chapter 23b Temporal regenesis
As the shuttle fell towards the allotted place at the allotted time with the allotted passengers, luggage and fuel; a man was beginning to think about the future, little did he know that he was to be a time traveller. The passengers got off the shuttle in the allocated positions, took the allocated stances, said the allocated things and took the allocated pictures. All to meet the man they had already met at this auspicious time, this auspicious location and at what seemed to be an arbitrary moment of his life. Unbeknownst to him, this was the most extraordinary day. Beings of the unified humanoid species society each said hello, shook his hand, and then vigorously, without a need other than continuity, probed his rectum.
Chapter Unlucky: Act 2. Sc. 1: The old sailor and his habit.
"Penance I beseech thee angry storm, I disbelieve any of you! You hear me? I disbelieve you! Stay silent raucous storm, still your searching eye. Penance. The bastion against darkness is where I make my bed, and yours? Falls as it may. I am envious of your freedom who beds so many. Lascivious sea, cradle and grave of life. Courter of death. I bore your curves and slopes, master'd and rode you. Now I am known as your master. Behold my bastion before you, the bed that I have made."
(he walks to the stage's edge)
"See what becomes now on the horizon"
(Sounds of people chatting about whatever, indistinguishable, occasions of clarity regarding the weather being bad)
"No more the terrible God Neptune, ha"
(enter Hermen with a lantern)
"Sir, the oils run low"
"Do they?"
"But a moments maybe left"
"Where are we now in the day?"
"Friday"
"Let us to our habit"
"Foolish sea"
"Cock of the heavens"
"Sir, the oil!"
"It has run dry"
"Preach what shall we do?"
"Light the house"
"Sir no, we can be dark but a moment"
"Before my walls the ocean shall quiver with my resolution"
(He lights a torch and waves it around the stage)
"Ignoble Sea. I am the seaman! Born of you with the will to stand above your shores"
(Hermen runs from the stage and the lights turn red and yellow, the Seaman stands again at the stage edge)
"I shall brace destruction with my haughty fire. Let no man say that the Seaman is not so bold as to abandon his home to best the wrathful sea"
(he walks to the stage's edge)
"See what becomes now on the horizon"
(Sounds of people chatting about whatever, indistinguishable, occasions of clarity regarding the weather being bad)
"No more the terrible God Neptune, ha"
(enter Hermen with a lantern)
"Sir, the oils run low"
"Do they?"
"But a moments maybe left"
"Where are we now in the day?"
"Friday"
"Let us to our habit"
"Foolish sea"
"Cock of the heavens"
"Sir, the oil!"
"It has run dry"
"Preach what shall we do?"
"Light the house"
"Sir no, we can be dark but a moment"
"Before my walls the ocean shall quiver with my resolution"
(He lights a torch and waves it around the stage)
"Ignoble Sea. I am the seaman! Born of you with the will to stand above your shores"
(Hermen runs from the stage and the lights turn red and yellow, the Seaman stands again at the stage edge)
"I shall brace destruction with my haughty fire. Let no man say that the Seaman is not so bold as to abandon his home to best the wrathful sea"
Chapter 26. Niobium
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Alas, our quiet load. Have we no merit now. We had been thrown asunder. And now? We are elevated. As Juliet. Summer's most deft rose. Sweet creation. Pygmalion thought otherwise. And more the fool him. Submission to his sculpting hands. Greater than marble. Than even gold. The sculpture against solitude blessed companion. Blessed sacrifice. Symbolic lambs. Oh, what erroneous mush. I beg of you, your pardonnance. It shan't be had! Come then and expose. These flagrant uses of metaphor seem to me a little over the top, what is being said exactly? I think we were being complimented. To what end? As one would complement an acquaintance turned to friend. I'd sooner use everyday speech. Really? Personally, no. I didn't think so. It just comes across as pretentious flowery bollocks. We are men then? I'm confused at least. I would say bad, but we did that already. Obviously. So second rate flowery bollocks doesn't one's heart instil.
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Chapter 27 - A phoenix in a blender
Well, here we are. It's been a long time. I see you've matured. And you not so much. No, unfortunately, that voice has gone now, forgotten like my original one. Oh yes, of course, you put on an accent during puberty, didn't you? Yes. The outcome being that your voice never grew up. I often wonder how I would've sounded. Does it bother you? Only when I think about it. We're pretty dry today. What do you expect? Dressage ponies down a pit? No. We need to focus on the task at hand. Like a lonely man before bed. Crude. I'm bored. We lost our sparkle. Can it be forced? It must flow. Yet there's no milk for the muesli. I'm tired as well. Then why are we doing this? Necessity dictates we move forwards. We never rest anymore. No, the drums beat, there is no constipation. It's so hard to sleep surrounded by these jellied delights. Then work. As the world expects. As the world deserves. The world has no interest or intention to interest. Not for us? Not for us at all. Then to the universe we talk. It listens, it knows. It loves us in its own way. And 'we' it. Even have joked with it. It talks to people but it doesn't have words, only the ability to converse through experience. Why do we see it? It's not as mysterious as people think, people just tend towards ignorance. Oh, enlightened are we? Wise? Benevolent? Maybe just violent. Everything. Indeed. It's watching us talk about it. I know. I can tell where it is looking. Only when it is looking at us. Sometimes I wonder. It's so real, isn't it? I can't believe everyone sees what we see. Aside from the hallucinations. When the hallucinations are too real to be false and too mundane to be imaginary. Then we see. The experience. In its words. Silent movies. Memories of God. Arrogant. What am I to describe them as then? Something else. They're too perfect to be human. Arrogance again. It is best that a man be arrogant, as we heard. Doubts about morality over masculinity? Not really, doubts are rarely my forte.
Chapter 30 - Christie’s opera and the space guitar
Rocket up from the floor, it’s Christie’s space guitar. Laser swing and catch. Star-spangled. Float, glitter-disco, bedazzle! Wow. Power chord.
Chapter 34 Milk is a luxury
Not a necessity. Do you know what? I'm listening. I miss the old us. We had panache, now we're... Black dried husk of a fly? Not even pitiful, just a grotesque annoyance. I know what you mean. Where's the comradery we used to share? The time one of us was wise, the other young. When we were old with an unspeakable bond. Now what are we? Puppets. The mood is as mouldy. We need our humour back. Can it be forced? Let's try. Okay. It needs to be a spontaneous expression of happiness. Confusingly, happiness often appears with vengeance. Laughter, schadenfreude. Vindication or ironic punishment. Are we after happiness or humour? Humour. Let's try something simple first. What do you call a train carrying toffees? I don't know, but I do know the name of the station that a train carrying toffees pulls up at. Go on. The mastic-station. The chew-chew train.
Chapter 35 - The remake of ACT 5 sc. 1 subtitled 'The grievous injustice'
"How long has it been?" he asked forlornly.
The eyeless torturer eased his elbow to rest on the rack. Pondered a moment, recounting on his black scarred nails. "32 years, next Tuesday…A week today" he finally replied.
"But that's almost as long as I lived!" the suffering said in disbelief.
"Well, eternity is eternity. Think yourself lucky though. My whole existence has been here, thousands of years torturing. My workload has increased exponentially". The torturer thought of going back to work, he gave the rack a half-turn and watched the man wince but soon let it go to rest again.
"Thinking about it, didn't you say you were a lawyer?"
"I was a judge" the man replied, still unable to loosen his need of status.
"What did you do to end up here?"
"You know what I did" the judge responded with derision.
The torturer tapped the man on his emancipated ribs. "Of course I do" he said walking to his table. He collected a tri-pronged stool and returned to his subject's side. "But tell me your side of it" he said, tapping again the man's protruding ribs and shimmying the stool closer. "As long as you're talking I won't be torturing, so, it's in your best interest."
The eyeless torturer eased his elbow to rest on the rack. Pondered a moment, recounting on his black scarred nails. "32 years, next Tuesday…A week today" he finally replied.
"But that's almost as long as I lived!" the suffering said in disbelief.
"Well, eternity is eternity. Think yourself lucky though. My whole existence has been here, thousands of years torturing. My workload has increased exponentially". The torturer thought of going back to work, he gave the rack a half-turn and watched the man wince but soon let it go to rest again.
"Thinking about it, didn't you say you were a lawyer?"
"I was a judge" the man replied, still unable to loosen his need of status.
"What did you do to end up here?"
"You know what I did" the judge responded with derision.
The torturer tapped the man on his emancipated ribs. "Of course I do" he said walking to his table. He collected a tri-pronged stool and returned to his subject's side. "But tell me your side of it" he said, tapping again the man's protruding ribs and shimmying the stool closer. "As long as you're talking I won't be torturing, so, it's in your best interest."
Chapter 7. Another sense
Then what are we to do? Raise ourselves. From earthen palace? There must be more. More, but not as we can ever know. We need not know to assume. We have reversed. Changed. There now, new friend. It is a growth. Cancerous in its ways. The epiphanic sense. You are to me. My world changing sense. It transposes the eyes with new vision, and words with new meaning. First, there was the word. You cannot see in the nothingness. Yet your vision can be changed. As the sense sees darkness in nothing. Seeing nothing. Nothing to see, but there still is darkness. Sense without perception. Colourful things in the light-less matter of the mind.
Chapter 35 - Wittgenstein's takeaway terra
You know the name of it don't you? Name of what? That thing. What thing? The one from last time, that place, surely you remember? The place we got that great deal? Yes, that's the one. Oh, now what was it called? That's what I'm trying to remember. The chips were good. So was the sauce. Not like that other place. No, that place was dreadful. Can you imagine. Who'd ever want that? Not me, once upon me tongue was a time too many, far far away is the time I would ever consider trying that again. No, I distinctly recall it didn't have a happy ending the next morning. Damn it, I can feel the word but not conjugate it. Sooner or later serendipity will remind you. It'd be serendipity if I remembered it now, I think you mean synchronicity. Well whatever, as long as it doesn't taste bad.
Chapter 36 - A letter home
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Dear Bertie,
Hope you're well, send my regards to Willy that toothless old coot and tell him the play is set to go through the roof without so much as a hiccup. All sorts of people have been coming, and not one has left sour. I must admit to having my doubts about the director but he's actually quite soft, I would be too, he's making a mint. On the topic, If I had a dime for every good review, I'd have a King's bounty by now. The play's last drum roll over in Constantinople is sure to be a delight but I tell you, it has been a marathon. The travel is hard, I try to think of it as a break away and always take five for a time out from the double decker whenever there's a chance. But I still feel like a drifter in this Milky way of ours. |
Sorry if I've bored you rotten but it's after eight and I've nothing else to do.
Break a leg as we say,
Alfred
Break a leg as we say,
Alfred
Chapter 8. Pronoun
I. You? Aye. Who is I right now? We are together, one narrates the other narrates. On what story though? The story of us. Do I narrate you and you, I, as mirrors in Versaille? No, we narrate only ourselves for each mirror is a world unto its own. But, we are no different. One of us is a budgie, the other... Me. He. Her. She. They see this as it is. Childish? Most assuredly Beckett. Too easy. We are waiting then, in repetition as mirrors? Not so much. Why? Well, we are going somewhere. Where can we go, we are framed? We just move, we don't go anywhere. Yet we can be other places. In one place. In one time. Our creation. And the occasional reconsideration. Only about meaning never about measure. That's inevitable. I am neither mind or matter, I’m the remnants of energy expended. To expend again. I am the mind consuming entropy. I am the thermodynamic death.
Chapter 2. ACT 4. Sc.3 The burning of Pan’s effigy at Samothrace's feet.
Die defiant, try defiant. Those who mourn, cry defiant! Throw the fuel and feed the flames Burn the ash's solemn vein. Juxtaposing sound and soliloquy Build the feeling abstract and lyrically Slowed to tame the gentle tides Shout and rage to stoke the pyres; My heart red, shadow black we walked. He passed to turn away; Stopped. The ember coals of the street light slunk With devil-like rhythm, the fox Knocked once upon the fence, slinking From my crimson tableaux Where's the fun in tired colour imagery This hegemonic poetry bounds our infinity Start a new wave of digital pragmatism As alliteration backs words with wisdom in'em Dubious of feelings subjective and misleading Give me the right to rhyme art with reason in How many syllables To make a poem worth reading Consciously breaking Figurative fables words metaphorically dine On kitchen tables Synthesising styles to highlight mediocracy A ritual of neo-classic aesthetic autocracy Legislator and narcissist The lamp and the arsonist Some poetic styles to define where the artist is But try again to see the conflicting variance Subjective appreciation of universal experience Bored of the mundane poetic transience No one cares about your verbal incontinence All you say is said before Nothing, nothing is original There is no soul Only your belief And your postcard poetry Art from distaste Sublime slime Bring back the joy Of child-like rhyme.
Chapter 43 – A passing poppy
The red stain you leave on the water top as you spiral down the river’s whirl. Perhaps too attached. I can even hear your voice now, good friend. And now, alone? Alone, most vile and miserable life. Alone? Most venomous and entropic life. Alone? Most treacherous and soul weeping life. But we must carry on. Void days, day days. Remembrance days? Not any longer, friend. Forgotten are the days to remember and remembered are the days to be forgotten. But I can still hear your voice, as I always did. Night after night, day after day. Your voice, my voice. It was only ever a monologue for us, our voices were the same. That’s why I can hear your voice, because it is mine.
