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trilogy
part one
a tripp
down the rabbit trapp
by j j
galbraith
the
first four
contents
It seemed to be in two parts. One a
journey. The other was set in a theatre of some kind. I do not know in what
actual order these events occurred in the dream. But am amazed at how much of
it I can remember even now. I dreamt I think in the early hours and woke
perhaps at five. It was all still very fresh in my mind. It was the wild
strangeness of it that was most appealing. There seemed to be so much going on
there in so many levels. Not that I understood it so very much. But I felt
instinctively that somehow I had arrived at a starting point. That here was a
story I could tell. That I could work on and develop. That it was composed out
of all the things I've been desperately filling my head with in the hope that out
of it would materialise something. Cooked up as if by magic from the inner
workings of my mind. Something maybe that with the conscious part I wouldnt
fully understand but that nonetheless would have a method to it. A continuity.
That it would be actually saying something however obliquely.
Later on I woke again at about nine
possibly or ten. I do not know exactly for I have let all the clocks and watchs
run down as a way of further insulating myself. This being another attempt to
concentrate my mind to the task at hand. I cannot yet say if this is working or
not for I have only done it for a week or so. But out of it has come the dream.
In fact there were others a week ago that were incredibly real and which I
suppose in a strange way contributed to this present situation. They too stayed
with me long after as has this present one. For on gaining consciousness it
soon came back.
Immediately on waking the first thing
I felt was the horror of yet again being awake. For years I have not slept
well. Only fitfully for two or three or four hours at most. Often where I drop.
On the couch or the floor. At times in a chair. Often in a crumpled heap on the
top of the bed. There lying ragged with half open books and clothes and a
tangle of blankets. This place is in a chaos of disorder at the moment. But
this seems like a necessary precondition. It reminds me of raskolnikov who
lived in such a vividly wild abandon as he wrestled with his guilt and that
that must have been the condition of his author as he wrote it.
I lay there a minute and wished that I
had not woke. That I could return to the magic palace and gaze awhile longer at
its visions. I dream so often lately of being able to sleep twelve hours and
wake anew totally refreshed. But I wake only to the same old grind. The fears
and depressions. I wished only to be free of them as I do all the time now. So
it was that as I lay there the dream came back again. But this time not as a
dream but somehow as if I was in a trance. As I thought back over it I could see
things I'd missed. I could see possibilities. I could see that here was the
elusive starting point I'd been searching for, for so long. At last something
to say. Something to work on. Something to develop. As I dwelt on it I found I
could remember more and more details. They came back quite easily as though
they were buried not far below the surface.
There were, as I have already said, two parts to it. Or at least two that can be fairly easily defined in recounting it. I'm not at all sure of the exact order in which they occurred in the dream and I suspect that they were probably more vigourously mixed togeher than I will make them here in this draft. This is not so important right now. It will become clearer as the dream develops. Initially I wish simply to recall as much as possible while it yet remains fresh. Even now as midday is here. I have other things that I must do today but first, before any of them can be contemplated, I must set down this record.
The two parts consist of a scene in a
theatre and a journey. The journey seems to be one of escape that sets out well
and rapidly descends into a headlong plunge. Near the start of the journey the
theatre is passed though it is never entered. It may have been the original
destination of the journey but when it is arrived at it is simply observed in
passing. But the details of the scene in the theatre are observed nonetheless.
It is not clear when this takes place. There could be several explanations. The
scene in the theatre could be proceeding independantly of the actual journey
taking place outside. Or it could be that the theatre is visited at some later
stage of the journey. Then again maybe it is in some way the action on the
stage that gives rise to the journey. At this point it is unclear except that
it is the journey that appears to be the greater of these two events and that
the scene in the theatre is merely a part of the journey. However in case the
reverse is true we may begin by considering the scene in the thatre and then
moving on from there.
There is a bare stage with a group of
actors standing round on a bare stage. They are dressed in victorian costume. I
saw three and then perhaps five but somehow I knew altogether there were seven
though I never saw them all at the same time. First there were two men on the
left of the stage and one woman on the right. The men were in dark formal
suits. They were tall and narrow of stature. They both had beards and serious
worried faces. They appeared to be in their mid or late thirties. The woman was
dressed in a black dress that reached almost to the floor. At her throat was a
white lace collar. She had a round pretty face and was in stature pleasantly
built. She too seemed of roughly the same age as the men. All three held papers
in their hands and appeared to be rehearsing lines for a play. Later on there
were five on stage. Three men and two women. As I said I believe all told there
were seven in the group but I never saw them all together. It may be that the
group of five contained only one of the original three for this would be the
only way of knowing that there were in total seven players. Again this
assumption can only prove the total number and not its composition. Though we
can narrow it down and say that it would be either three women and four men or
vice versa. I still do not think this is right but cannot at present work it
out properly. I know there is an answer there somewhere but it is not clear at
present. In this scene they stood in two lines facing each other. Again the men
stood on the left of the stage and the women on the right. This time I was able
to hear the cast talking. They were a group of musicians who had gathered to
celebrate the anniversary of the founding of their group. Coincidently it may
also have been the birthday of one of the actresses but this point was not made
clear. While they are discussing the performance they are interrupted by the
arrival of a group of men in uniform. At this point the stage also changes. It
becomes covered in scaffolding from which the militia men make their arrival so
that it appears they have arrived from out of the sky. The scaffolding is
covered in lengths of cheap cloth in bright gaudy colours. Red and yellow being
those most prominent. They are dressed in grey tunics. These are buttoned to the
kneck. They also wear black boots and caps. They tell the actors that they must
cease their production, for it is not allowed, being in contravention of the
law. The actors query this point with the officer in charge. He tells them that
birthdays are considered to be a religious occasion and cannot be celebrated.
The journey begins as I emerge from the exit of a subway station. It is at the side of a large square. I look for the underground sign, to see where I am, but it is unclear. I cannot quite make it out but it appears to say Bloomsbury Park. I am not sure where this is and wonder, perhaps, if it really means Finsbury Park. I decide that it must be and proceed to examine the square in an effort to get my bearings. At first, it appears to be so, for I am walking down a long road, with a park on my right. It is behind railings. There is a border of trees to it but through them I can see grass. Then I look to my left and see that I am still in the square and I know there is no sqaure by the park. When I look back to my right again the park is gone. I leave the street. I realise there is no such square as this at Finsbury Park. It must be Bloomsbury which is where I thought it was at first. But again I realise that this square does not exist there either. It must be Bedford Square. I look round but somehow it cant be since it is too small. Then I realise it is Finsbury Square in the city but that there is no subway station there. At this point I leave it. I am moving fast. Obviously in a vehicule but I have no idea what kind. It maybe a train, though this seems unlikely since the radius of the curves would be far too small. Still I am able to see the surrounding streets from above. As though looking down from an embankment. We arrive at a tee junction. We are on the minor of the two roads and turn right onto a large highway. It seems to be a scene from some kind of small american town. Of an indeterminate period but possibly the fifties. There are rows of telephone lines by the side of the road and tram or railway tracks running down the centre. The setting appears run down. There is an air of abandonment about it. Right across the street is the theatre. It is set back from the road behind a large carpark. There are no cars. It is a long building with a large sloping roof running from one end to the other. It looks like a roadhouse. We should be going in there but do not. It is the middle of a sunny afternoon and the scene now appears one of tranquility. However we do stop and examine the outside of the building. It is now a large square building built on a corner. It appears to be only of one storey. The wall is of stucco painted in faded pink. We look at the foyer. There are some posters there. I now realise that this is at Finsbury Park. In the same road I walked down briefly before. Then I am gone. I arrive next in some kind of camp. It appears to be set up on a make shift site. I find a spot in the corner and lie down. There are other people lying around too. They seem like refugees. No one speaks much. I discover I am lying in a pool of mud and go to clean it off as best I can. When I return the spot is occupied by two others. I force myself back in the spot I had previously occupied. They are grumbling that they were there first. I look down and find I am lying on someones blanket. I realise perhaps I have taken someone elses spot. I get up and prepare to leave. On my feet I find that I'm now wearing an old pair of open leather sandles that I know are not mine. For some reason I was wearing grey slippers. I now have to find them. The camp has changed at this point into a very large badly furnished room. It seems that we are in a wooden building of some kind. I walk round looking for the slippers. There are grey slippers everywhere but none are mine. I move into the next room. I do not wish to be discovered stealing the sandles, but do not wish to go barefoot either. I look round this room. It is similar to the other but there are beds with people in them. It is like perhaps a ward in a hospital. In the corner there is one enormous bed covered in mosquito netting. It is about eight or ten feet wide. Its foot is covered by a large mahoganey panel. I lift the netting and look under. There is a family lying there. They all appear to be ill. The one nearest me is the mother. They may be gypsies. Its hard to tell. The mother talks to me. I tell her I've lost my shoes. I look down. In my hands there is now a large blue coat which is also not mine. I tell her these things just keep appearing in my hands. Then disappearing too, to be taken by something else. Everything I look at keeps changing. I am now talking to the father. I do not remember what is being said. I say I must continue on my way. The building is now a series of interconnecting rooms arranged in a square. I move on to the next one. It is long and narrow. Down one side is a row of beds they are all being made by men who look like soldiers. I realise mine is in there too somewhere. Unmade in a heap. I depart quickly. I have no wish to be found out. I pass from here into a short corridor. There is a door on my right. I open it and look in. It is a very narrow room but extremely long. I cannot see the end. It is full of pool tables arranged diagonally across the room. At every one there are people playing. It is dimly lit with only the the lights above the tables for illumination. As I open the door all play ceases and everyone looks towards the door. They are large cheery smiling faces for the most. As though enjoying a good drink. Pardon me, I say, I'm looking for the way out. Finally I reach the exit. Outside I am fumbling with a walkman. Trying to get it to work. Pieces keep disappearing from it as it gradually disintegrates. At times it changes completely into another one but never works. A man I do not know, but seem to recognise, walks by. He asks me how things are. I say probably fine but I do not know how I got here. The last thing I can remember was drinking two bottles of whisky but that was back home. I have no idea how I arrived. He offers me a lift but before I can accept I find I'm already moving on again. I am clinging to the back of a lorry which is moving very fast. Then I realise that the road below is vanishing underneath the lorry and that I must therefore be on the front of it. I am clinging on at a point quite near to the ground. I look up above me. If this is the front there must be a cab of some kind here. I look up and see that there is a dark screen somewhere above. I haul myself up to look in. The glass is black and I can only dimly make out a form behind the wheel. I realise I am blocking his view and try to scramble to one side out of the way. This is difficult as we are travelling very fast. I manage to move but when I look back the screen has gone. It is now quite clearly the back of the lorry. I am clinging on to large rusty red panel doors. In this position we must be reversing at enormous speed. I do not know how it can be done. I wonder how the driver manages to see. Then I realise that up ahead is the rear of another lorry. We are going faster than it and will clearly run into it. I drop to the bottom of the doors where a long piece of metal tubing in the shape of a paper clip sticks out. It is like some kind of detector about four feet long. It touches the wagon in front and we slow down. As we fall back we again pick up speed and move towards the lorry in front. When we reach it we again fall back. This happens several times. I am at this point crouched near to the road holding fast to the metal tube. At last we stop before what seems like a huge cathedral set into trees. Outside there are many people. Some are sat on chairs. On the steps of the building are people who are giving out pamphlets. From inside there are sounds of singing and an organ playing. I sit in one of the chairs. There is an old mad crone in front of me. She turns and starts to cackle. I am once more trying to rebuild the walkman. You'll never do that she says. I laugh and say you're probably right. Still what else can I do. The man I saw before appears again. There is something halfway familiar about him. He says the car is parked close by if I want to leave. I say I think I might stay a while. He says he does not want to. We appear to be at some kind of fundamentalist revival. The place is full of mad dispossessed people. I say I feel quite at home here but will join him presently. I walk to the steps and am accosted by a woman of about fifty. She has a severe but young looking face. She is dressed in a tight fitting black dress and wears a bonnet. Her eyes seem too large for her face and have a wild gleam in them. She implores me to take a pamphlet and enter. I do and find myself in a narrow wooden hall. It is a salvation army meeting for down and outs. One of the derelicts spies me and immediately creates a fuss. He says I should not be here. I just smile back at him. We sing a couple of hymns and then I leave. Outside I see this same man again and prepare to follow him to the car. We round a corner. He first me second. When I round the corner there is no sign of him. I walk down the street. It is a long tree lined avenue with solid suburban houses. They are built of granite. The porches and woodwork are painted bottle green. It descends in a graceful curve. I walk to the end. I turn and see the man. He is at the end I started from. He waves and I walk back. I wondered where you'd got to he said. When I arrive again at the top of the street he is gone. I see him further on up the street. He is stood by a line of cars. I proceed towards him but again I miss him.
I begin to search for him through all
the streets in the immediate vicinity. I comb the neighbourhood thoroughly.
Sometimes when I think I have seen him it turns out to be one of the vagabonds
adrift from the meeting place I was at before. Then perhaps I see him on a
corner slowly beckoning as I
I begin to search for him through all
the streets in the immediate vicinity. I comb the neighbourhood thoroughly.
Sometimes when I think I have seen him it turns out to be one of the vagabonds
adrift from the meeting place I was at before. Then perhaps I see him on a
corner slowly beckoning as I slowly make my way to the end of the road. Even
when I try to move fast I am still going slow. I dont know why? I look down at
my feet for some clue. They have on once more a pair of old grey slippers. It
makes me think I have been nowhere, gone nowhere, that this is only another
dream. Within a dream? Then they are barefoot. I think I'll go faster now but
they are tied in old sandals. The leather straps slap and flap and I am still
no further forward.
Perhaps I should try and make it back
to the place that seemed like a hospital. Maybe that would be a place to take
refuge in. Or in the dormitory at the barracks. Or the pool room which must be
in the small american town I passed so long ago.
The trucks roll by. They still move
too fast but I cant get on now. I dont know how I did it before. Luck mostly I
guess. The streets are getting dimmer as the light begins to fade. Its maybe
time to get out of here. All the inspiration that was with me at the start is
slowly fading. It is turning to the slow sludge of reality. Whatever I thought
was here is clearly not. Only the
hidden urge to find this person I saw back there. Who seemed to be trying to
throw some light on the matter. Maybe had something to say. That I could never
quite catch up with. Only that remains. To try and find him. But not here. Not
this way. There must be some other way. Something I have missed. Some real clue
other than shoes and coats and music machines and buildings that change and
vanish and people only half seen with messages half remembered and roads that
keep on going. Stretching to I dont know where.
Perhaps I should set the clocks in
motion again. Use them as a guide to set up some markers to count off whatever
progress, if any, is being made hereabouts. Or retreat in a heap back onto the
couch and immerse myself in a tangle of papers and dreams and ideas. Continue
fishing through it in search of some vital clue. Always missing. That I imagine
is there. That I must search out thoroughly til I can say with complete
confidence. No I was wrong. There was nothing. Just something. Someone that
passed. On a street darkly. Through a glass sharply.
the man returned to his apartment. it was empty as it always was. or rather it wasn't. it was full of ghosts. memories. remembrances of the few fleeting occasions he had chanced to entertain the odd passing stranger that happened by. he sat alone and wondered what had become of it all. how he had wound up there. alone with his guilt. surrounded by acres of spent promise. the debris of years of neglect. like himself. which was the product of a wilful self neglect. which he tried to pass off casually as the fault of those around him. when in fact it had nothing to do with anyone but himself. but he was not disposed to talk about that. as he was not disposed to talk about anything that would give much away about himself. or indeed anything. for he was at all times most careful to keep the details of his life a most carefully guarded secret. along with all the other worms that were lovingly incarcerated there. he wished for a fine sharp pen but he had nothing to say. he wished for a poets eye but for that you needed a finer appreciation of the human condition than he had ever been able to amass. and so he sat alone among all these overdue monuments to mispent schemes. consumer heaven. only a lifetimes grind away. but he had fallen for it nonetheless. buying all this strange equipment that he thought would put some space between himself and whatever he thought was after him. but what was after him? that he did not know. sometimes he thought he did but mostly he did not. and so he went on down all the lonely adrift days. there was nothing to sustain him in this and so often he fell. he fell gently and he fell from great heights but ever he fell. down and down in the face of ever decreasing circles. flapping blindly in the face of providence which somehow he had never been able to trust. always a disquieting glance across his shoulder. in case someone was there. in case someone was watching. he did not know what he was afraid of. only that the fear had always been with him. and he could never be without it. and he would resort to the strangest stratagems as a defence against it. that no one would ever know or understand. but himself in the darkest of moments. and even then only fleetingly. completely unable afterwards to explain it. if he could find the words. if he could find the courage. which he could not for it was gone. along with all else. for which now he searched forlornly. but could not find. as he could not find a reason for the impulse that had led him back here. except that it was the one place where he felt he could be himself. whatever that was. or is. or could be. or should be. for he had reached the point where he felt that he knew nothing anymore. what was right and what was wrong were only now the most passing of problems. so much so that he was completely unable to sum it up in any coherent fashion. he tried to think about it but it was no help. he wondered why it was so difficult to put down accurately what it was he really wanted to say. if this was actually it. or whether it was just one more trick that one part of him was playing against another part. or whether what he wanted to say could not be written. or written like this. but how else? this seemed the most appropriate form. spare and to the point. anything else would just be a needless embellishment to further obscure what it was he wanted to say. which could have been that he had nothing to say. only the urge to say he had nothing to say. but not the courage to admit it. at least not to himself. and so this self imposed torture of ever running round in endless circles. in a futile search for the proper place to begin. but it was absolutely necessary that he find this point. for without it he would be powerless to proceed. except to say that he could not proceed. unless the only progress he could make was to proceed to record that he could not proceed. and thus could not write. and thus had nothing to say except that he had nothing to say. except that he was sure he really did not have anything to say. not even to say that he had nothing to say. for that would be such a futile exercise and would serve no purpose other than to emphasise the very thing that he most wished to disguise. the thing that caused him the most shame and the most embarassment. that he had nothing to say. and so was was continually having to resort to more and more elaborately constructed inventions to cover his tracks. to contain the overwhelming sense of guilt that was slowly taking over his life to punish him for having nothing to say. that had driven him to live like a recluse. to flee from all human contact in panic and fear. and take refuge in the lines of the page until even that small space became unbearable and seemed yet another conspirator against which he must be on his guard. every word needing such thought and care and yet written in such reckless abandon. in the vain hope that somehow even at this late hour he might still escape. or return at least. but if he returned whither should he return? and to who? or to whom? for he knew not which. for they had all left him as so much had left him. as he had driven them away. as he had secreted himself deeper and deeper within the walls of this. this castle? this tomb? what it was was not clear. sometimes he felt the horizons were limitless but these times appeared less and less often. in their place were terrible restrictions that he could not understand. could not understand because they came from within. but within where? himself? where he was? what he had become? except that he did not know what he had become. except that he had become mute. for the words had deserted him along with all else. the words that once had been his pride and joy were now the source of his despair for they said nothing to him. and so he in turn could say nothing to them. and only run. from the silence to the silence. that tinkled like a small still bell. to tempt and tantalise him. and catch him unawares. and so inveigle him further within its tangled grasp. where it became infinitely harder to make himself heard above the babble of all the other silent voices already there. the ones that whispered in such strange tongues. whose message he could not record. except in such strange fashion as this. mischievously and between the lines. where it stayed so well hid that not even he could decipher it. or if he did imagine that he had perhaps glimpsed even the fleetest flickering of hope it would be gone. in an instant. the minute he tried to set it down. try as he might he could find no way of capturing the sounds that assailed him. much less could he understand them. even when they first came to him. they stayed so briefly. they spoke so fast. but they did speak. of that he was sure. but what was it they told him. or tried to tell him. it must be a foreign tongue for otherwise there would surely be some trace of a memory. even just a word. one word. even if it was unrecognisable and distinguishable only as a sound. a sound even. that would be something. some indication that all is not lost. some sense that hope still remains. for they only become refined gradually. until they are turned into something of definate distance. used by all but not alas he. who must remain for ever outside the circle. waiting ceaselessly for it to break. for ever searching for a weak link with whatever tools are to hand. or finding none resorting to blind desperation and when that too proves wanting endeavouring to unleash the muse with spirits. whose alliance while not always constructive is comforting. as it was comforting for him to write this with the aid of a machine rather than a pen. for the pen was too fearful. and too final. and the words once set down were there forever and could not be erased. and was this really why he had nothing to say. since he manufactured it rather than conjured it. and thus it was not real but only seemed so. until forced to stand under the watchful scrutiny of some inner eye that he imagined was against him. but could of been for him. he knew not. he could only guess. he thought at times he should engage the services of a private eye to unravel this for him. but how would he be able to make contact with such a person if they really did exist. and assuming they were not solely confined to the pages of fiction? and having done so how would he know how to make the right choice? and being bereft of anything constructive to say how would he know which words to use? and what did he think this man would be able to discover that he so far had not? and how would he reach him? and where would he find such a one? and how would that one find him? it was a maze. perhaps far too difficult for such an untrained soul as himself to enter. but if he did enter. what would he find there? surely nothing worse than this place that he was already in. and if it was? then he would come back. assuming he still could. which he felt instinctively that he would. but this was dangerous territory for it was the appalling record of his instincts that had led him to this present impasse. the despair and desperation which at one moment seemed to completely encompass him and at the next seemed to be gone as surely as it was never there. such that he was free to indulge quiet fantasies such as hiring a private detective to help him break free of this fearful place. but how could he be sure he would pick the right man. there was so much to be considered so much that he would have to take care to keep hidden. to the point that he might render the mans services useless. but if such a man existed then this is how he would approach the problem. with stealth certainly. that goes without saying. because he would have it very carefully drilled into him that there was only one way to do this thing and he had better get it right because there would be no second chances. at least that is the way he would like it to be. but only by making absolutely sure of the man he hired could he make absolutely certain. but could he? he had been backed up in a corner for so long that there was no fight left in him. not the kind that was needed for a task like this. he was wounded by everything. casual glances. odd chances. even odder coincidences. and words. most of all words. obliquely. at angles. at tangents. directly or indirectly. these he found most injurious. until after when he was unable to explain or say why it was he had run. faced with such obstacles he felt entirely unable to undertake such a course of action as this. but what of the alternative. to stay here and do nothing seemed an infinitely inferior course of action. and held nothing but the prospect of these ceaseless ruminations. ruinations almost except that he thought that somewhere there was the faintest of indications that something was evolving. something different from what he had started out with. certainly not what he had returned for. but it was there. it was not what he had intended and he appeared to have no control over it. but maybe if he continued it would become more apparent. he was intrigued enough to continue. but what of this private lie business. having now possibly discovered something he was loath to share it with anyone. he crept from his bed and listened furtively at the door. in the corridor outside all seemed quiet. he could not be sure though for he had never been out there. at least he couldn't ever remember having done so. the fact of how he had returned here troubled him though. he knew that he had returned. but he knew not how. or from where. but it must have been somewhere for he imagined that he must leave this place sometimes. indeed he had the impression of memories of other places but they seemed very distant and very far away. he continued to listen. it was still quiet. he returned to his bed. he wished to go into the corridor but something held him back. he was not sure what. perhaps there was someone out there waiting for him. but how? he was certain no one knew of his existence here. even he himself was unsure of that at times. but then did it matter. he was safe here and undisturbed. he could continue his existence indefinately. nourishment was provided and though he could not say from where it came or how it was brought it was enough that it was there. and indeed of late it did not seem of any importance for he had almost ceased to eat. at certain times he mourned this loss for while the actual business of ingesting the various apples and sardines that he found was irritating it did have the advantage of using up time and thus leaving less opportuntity for introspection. if only he could empty his mind with the same facilty that he was able to evacuate his alimentary canal. his head reeled from the weight of all the accumulated nonsense that he had crammed in there. presumably there had been reasons for this but at this present time he was at a complete loss to account for what they could have been. but whatever it was that had brought them to him they now gave him no rest. they were demons that whooped and screamed and leapt out at him at the most unlikely times. always they seemed to tell him something but always it was beyond recall. only a trace would be left. scattered vaguely within the fabric of his mind. that he would spend endless days trying to reconstruct. were they days? it was impossible to tell. he had no awareness of time. only that it was always there and a constant enemy. undermining everything he wanted to do. asking always when will it start? when will it stop? and of what will be its duration? always how long? how much time will it take? how much must he endure? always the time. what is it? what is it that he must watch out for? that he must not miss. was that what they were trying to tell him? and what of the others? the voices. what part did they play in this? and why? when even if he could discover why he could not find a way to tell it. because there was nothing to tell? but there must be. of that he was absolutely certain. for if there was no cause then there would be no reason for his being there. and having no reason then he would not be there. but he was and so there must. but how could he make sure? by going into the corridor. except that he could not go out there until he knew it was safe to do so. and since he could not ascertain that it was safe unless he was somehow in receipt of the knowledge that it was safe he must seek the assistance of outside help. thus it was that his thoughts returned to his earlier preoccupation with the hiring of a constable. this would no doubt serve to provide him with information concerning the security or otherwise of his immediate environment and this he resolved to do but he was at once assailed with the vexing question of how it was that he would achieve this. could he perhaps summon one simply by will power alone. this he was sure would require great powers of concentration and he doubted his ability to provide a sufficient supply. but if not how else could he achieve it? he thought but it did no good. he remembered from somewhere he did not remember that if he made his mind a blank this would perhaps help. he endeavoured to make his mind similar to a telescope and scan the farthest reachs. backwards and forwards he swept. when he found the void he would capture it in focus and then enlarge it until it overwhelmed his whole being. but there was nothing. he turned back into himself as deep as he dared. he tried to think of his mind as a magnifying glass. he probed the the most minute particles he could imagine. he thought of what could be smaller. and then smaller still. and still there was nothing. nothing that indicated the existence of whatever it was he was searching for. unless it was nothing that he searched for. but if it was how would he know it? that that was it. nothing. and not just nothing. the absence of anything as opposed to the existence of nothing. what was more real. words? they certainly did not seem so. but could he be sure? and if so could he be certain? and of what could he be certain? nothing to be sure. or unsure. he was certainly certain of that. but still
the words
remained elusive. he looked but could not find them. perhaps somewhere they
were there but if they were they were nowhere else. and so he continued his
search. perhaps they were in the room that he was in. he cast his eyes round.
slowly at first for his worst horror was that he would find some other pair of
eyes already there. in the place where his should be. whose would they be? the
confidential detective perhaps? was this how he should contact him? he
redoubled his efforts. leaving no portion of the room untouched. but there was
nothing. unless he was already there and in hiding. had he perhaps slipped in
unnoticed whilst he himself was elsewhere. or was he the one that had brought
him back here from wherever it was that he had been. how would he know? how
could he know? if he was a chess player maybe he would have at his disposal
some manner or means for determining beyond all reasonable shadow of a doubt
whether this was in fact so. but he was not. he was no more than or less than
or equal to a tired and somewhat bemused entrepeneur of dubious equations.
which were presently mounting up in chaotic profusion. beyond his limited
abilities to enumerate them. or classify them. or spread them before his gaze
the better to study them with. for there were others. so many others. oh so
many others. exponentially. infinitely. limitlessly. beyond measure. beyond his
ability to cope. to think rationally. to take stock of the situation. to set in
motion positive approachs to this rapidly worsening condition. simple and
harmonic for preference. but any would do. any at all. some straight forward
plan of campaign that would help contain the spread of his doubts. the
indecision that was turning him inside out. the rapidly multiplying questions
that were all without answer. beyond any recall other than that they had been
asked. but by who? or by whom? for he was not at all of the mind that it was he
that had asked them. or whether even if it was indeed himself that at this
precise instant sought clarification upon this point. this conundrum that had
slid unannounced and unbidden into his thoughts. dancing tantalisingly across
the horizon. swept up in all manner of veils. that fell away only to leave more
of the same. to cloak all these diversions in a mystery that was not there and
yet must nonetheless be solved. by trying to delve between the lines of what he
thought and what he sought. in this way would he perhaps bring forth a solution.
he would summon the necessary ingredients that composed this wicked brew and
mix them with whatever else he could salvage and then if this did not give rise
to the required result he would break it all down beyond the smallest of its
component parts and begin once more to reassemble it using yet another
permutation. another combination to unlock the puzzle of what it was that was
keeping him here. but was there? he rose from the bed once more and crept to
the door. it was silent. he listened as clearly and as quietly as was possible.
it was entirely still. he listened for the voices. they were gone. or at least
there presence was undetected. was the moment propitious for an egress? he must
determine this at once. using whatever means were immediately to hand. instinct
and intuition. his more than risky allies. which seemed at times like all lies.
public and private. though the distinction was superflous in this place for it
was the most private of all and equally the most public. where everything was
accessible but nothing was evident. he continued to listen. all was still as it
had been before. he allowed his hand to enter the vicinity of the door. he
hesitated before making actual contact for he was terrified that he would find
it was not there. his apprehension was extreme. it spread slowly throughout his
body. his ancient wracked carcass that creaked at every turn and telegraphed
his intentions to all who might have reason to profit by foreknowledge of them.
he leaned against the door. he expected it to be firm. to lend some substance
to his rapidly dwindling resources. instead it was soft. it appeared to submit
to the slight pressure. he allowed his weight to rest more heavily against it
and slowly it swung open. it turned slowly outwards producing as it did a
gentle sensation almost like floating. he was amazed at how easily it rotated
for the hinges were of an extreme age and of a very dubious nature. an
indication perhaps of the length of time that had elapsed since his
incarceration here. he surveyed the corridor. it was of immense length. so much
so that he was unable to distinguish any tangible conclusion in either
direction. it was dimly lit apparently but he was unable to discern by what
means. at infrequent intervals along its length he perceived other doors
similar to that through which he had made his exit. he considered the two
aspects that presented themselves to his view. he was unable to decide in which
direction he should proceed. both prospects appeared equally inviting. equally
uninviting. whither should he go? and why? what was there to find? what was
there to entice him? what comfort would be offered that could possibly be worth
the effort and pain of proceeding. could he make a decision? or would it be
better to return. back where he had come from. back to the place where all his
imaginings were stored. where at least the pain when it came would be bearable.
if not endurable. this at least dispensed with the necessity of deciding in
which direction to move. except that to return had now become a further
alternative to complicate the decision. he was at a loss. there was no way of
adequately deciding in which direction he must go. he resolved to move from the
door. that at least would be a start. he would move to a position in the centre
of the corridor at which he would be equidistant from the three possibilities.
then at least he would be at a locus of impartiality even though the need for
such a requirement appeared unnecessary. then again perhaps the corridor was
circular and so the need to decide in which direction to progress would be
rendered invalid. and if the door through which he had just moved were to close
then the need for any choice would vanish. he endeavoured to give due
consideration to all of this. intense concentration was needed in order to
ensure that his action would be the most appropriate. and if it was not then at
least he would be consoled with the knowledge that his actions had been the
result of a maximum effort and were not the product of residual chance and the
manic mechanics of his other self. the one who he feared was presently doing his utmost to get out. who had contrived to bring about this
present situation that he found so intolerable. how could he decide what
action it was that he himself wished to
undertake? and that this choice once having been made would have been made
freely and not simply to appease this ragbag of phantoms that were presently
pursuing him. that it would represent in its purest form his most honest
intentions. in truth there was no way. only the intention was there. there was
nothing else that would bring resolution to this continuing dilemma. his most
concentrated speculations produced nothing of value. nothing that would enable
him to go on or go back. he searched deeper among the accumulated debris that
passed for his mind and as he did so he realised that this option had now been
withdrawn. for even while he had been attempting to determine what significance
could be attached to his exit he discovered that the door through which he had
a moment ago passed was now closed. or gave every appearance of being so. but
how should he determine if this was in fact so? or should he determine if it
was in fact so? it required no more than the ability to prove a theory to
determine this fact. no that was not entirely true. this would supply
verification. that was true. but the verification so supplied would only be of
a quality that would satisfy the curiosity of he who posed the question. how
could he prove that it was of equal veracity to another? one who may also be
supposed to be of a disposition to question this most obvious of facts. if
there was in fact another? apart from the one he supposed was always there. who
was making life so difficult at this precise instant by these unceasing and unanswerable
questions. concerned with which
direction he should now take. and how it may be supposed he could determine
beyond all possibility of doubt that yet another door had slammed inevitably
and irrevocably shut. for of that there could be no doubt. it was now a fact
beyond all doubt. the delay and hesitation that had intervened had robbed him
of the opportuntity for anything more than the construction of theories that
could not possibly be submitted to any form of external examination. but even
where his reason such as it was argued so persuasively still he was inclined to
doubt. should he perhaps allow his hand some last fleeting contact? a firm
grip? a casual caress? some external stimulus that would leave a lingering
trace that would at least allow him the vicarious satisfaction of knowing that
however ineffectually he had at least tried in some manner or means to effect
an escape. but to where? and more importantly from where? and where was he now?
now that there was no way back and only a
vague impression of what may have been
the way forward. for the corridor or so he assumed it was did not now
seem as it had been before. but had he been asked to explain further he would
have been unable. for it was not some tangible difference to its physical appearance
but rather some alteration in the way that he himself perceived it. it was as
though this was where he had always been rather than that other place which
even now was becoming less and less clear in his mind. such that he was unable
to trust the line of reason that had brought him here. or to question the
reason that reasoned that this was not the reason. but some other avalanche of
doubt that was now pressing down on him with renewed ferocity. and from under
whose influence he must now extract himself with the uttermost haste. or suffer
the consequences and confluences of these vicious streams. whither? whither? he
knew not. absolutely not. for there was now no way onwards but forwards. where
he had once stood with the luxury of choice now there was none. none but this
endless chain of events that simply rolled over upon itself like a
kaleidoscope. that on each upward swing presented him with yet another
disguised impression of all that had gone before. and before that. and that
too. with a relentless precision that was so out of place here. so wrong. so
awkward. but so necessary to the events that had led him here. now stumbling
forward without the faintest desire to do so except that he could not return
and he could not remain. for it was a place of treachery that he inhabited. and
though no one was there still he could trust no one. not even himself. which he
should of done but could not for he knew himself too well to believe anything
he told himself and was always want to search out all the flaws and the
inconsistencies. rather than the flow. which was everything. and which once
discovered would lead where he truly wished to go. without the need to prove
that that was it. it would lead where he wanted to go. to the beginning. where
ever that was. but that was where it was. and he must adjust his coordinates to
coincide with this point. so much would then be possible he felt. if he was
capable of feeling. which he felt. instinctively. he was not. unless this was
the instinct that he felt and that this was the point from which he should make
his departure. and did it now matter? for there was only one direction now. and having no way of altering this he
could at least go on. which would be something. unless it was nothing. and he
knew it was. it was nothing which made him go on. only to find out that it was
nothing. that was his overiding concern. whether he liked it or not. that it
was that which forced him to go on with this. to places he had never heard of.
along ways that were unimaginable. using means that were unusable for purposes
that had none other than to prove it was so. it was a process that gave him no
pleasure for he knew it only as the most intense of compunctions that he could
not deny. for to deny it was an infinitely more horrible condition. and one
from which he would fly making do with whatever measures appeared to be
available. meagre as they were they would at least afford the opportunity for
hope. for what it was he hoped for he knew not. only that he should do so.
without the benefit of an ulterior motive. which would only complicate his interpretation of events and
lead swiftly to disillusion. as one by one the eagerly anticipated conclusions
vanished leaving ultimately only the realisation that they had from the
beginning absolutely no chance at all of ever succeeding. just as nothing would
succeed. the one certainty of his unsure life. of this he was certain. and so
being sure he had hope. he left the place at which he was standing and
proceeded to examine the corridor in some further detail. there was now only
one direction in which he could go and this was the one he took. with faltering
steps on weak and shaky legs. his heels dragging slowly. his toes feebly
wandering. his eyes half blind. his body numbed with the pain of so much
exertion following so quickly upon so much inactivity. his ears straining to
catch the faintest echo of some sound. other than the constant murmuring of the
voices. who accompanied him like the wind. a constant reminder of the potency
of nature in general and his own in particular. he stumbled on. sometimes
amidst a vague air of familiarity. surely a trick of the light. a contrivance
of the environment to further entangle and disorientate him. he passed other
doors but was not tempted to investigate for he had a deep and irrational fear
that what he found behind them would be exactly what he had left. left?
escaped? perhaps. and perhaps not. for had he not in fact been led hither by
the voices. and whether their intentions were benign or malign it was nonetheless
a concerted action on their part. and one that it was not in his power to
resist. thus from what could he have escaped? and given the foregoing prognosis
how could it anyway be in any way construed as forming on his part an attempt
at liberty that was the result of his own freedom of choice. it was an unknown
quantity and one that appeared beyond the means of mere words. thus his
instincts told him. and yet he rarely trusted them. but was that of any
relevance for he trusted to nothing. and confided to no one. and thus the incidence of this singular instance was
not in itself significant since it cannot be imagined that his distrust was in
every case justified. rather it was a blanket approach born out of his overall
sense of despair and was used simply as a defensive mechanism. to cloak unknown
situations with at least the semblance of a means of approach. however that
might be it was an approach and thus a tentative step towards progress. but
progress where? there was no sight of the end of the corridor and no end in
sight. he continued. slowly moving. trying to gather as he went some sense of
the medium through which he moved. half hearted attempts he made to gain an
insight into the area through which he passed were quickly deflected. the immediate
environs were prepared to yield not a single clue. there was no way even of
knowing if he had progressed for there appeared to be no change in the
appearance of his surroundings. they had only a constant uniformity such that
from whichever point he stood to survey them the impression so gained was
always the same. the doors were spaced at the same intervals and whenever he
looked towards the furthest extremities he saw always the same indistinct
ending. immovable and inevitable and curiously and threateningly beckoning.
urging him on not with promises but with the opportunity to have his worst
fears confirmed and thus bring about a conclusion to his endless moribund
speculations. he walked on slowly moving feet that felt somehow as though they
did not belong to him. his joints ached and creaked. he struggled for air to
fill out his weak and emaciated lungs. he tried to clear his throat. he coughed
and choked and croked. he hacked and retched and heaved and rolled. wracked and
rocked and still was unable to enjoy the luxury of one clean clear breath of
air. his nostrils dilated. he strained his neck leaning forward as far as
possible and as high as possible in a vain attempt to snort up the life
preserving ozone. but without any measure of success. he struggled on. resigned
to this interminably slow motion. and completely without any notion of where he
was going. or why he was going. or what it was that he thought he would
discover. it was a futile quest. an
empty gesture. a journey with no point to it. even those most obvious and
necessary such as a point of departure and ultimately another of arrival. and
without even the redeeming feature of knowing that it was better to travel in
hope than to arrive at despair. for these two were at all times his constant
companions. the latter positively and the former negatively. but always they
were there and so always being there he did not perceive them as the fruits of
his flight. as welcome visitors who would make the manner of his passing more
palatable. he wondered about the doors that he passed as he wandered about the
gloomy conduit. he was continually tormented by the thought that he should peer
behind one of them and try and discover what was lurking there. once or twice
he stopped and listened. each time he heard nothing. at least no sound
emanating from within was of sufficient strength to penetrate the barriers of
its place of confinement. several times as he was proceeding from one door to
the next he thought he heard a sound. but as soon as he stopped the better to
concentrate his powers of aural reception it vanished. almost as though it knew that he was out there listening. he
could perhaps surprise it by suddenly swinging open a door and rushing in to
apprehend it. except that what if it knew as soon as he opened the door that it
was himself that was about to come through and so immediately the lock began to
turn it disappeareed. moreover what if as soon as the lock began to turn he too
disappeared. this would be even worse than gaining entry and discovering that
he had returned to the place that he had left. but if he did? what would happen
then? would it be an endless circle that took him always from the place of his
departure to the place of his arrival such that it formed a most intact journey
that continued for evermore endlessly repeating itself. a reincarnation of
reincarnation that formed a beautiful but frustratingly complete circle from
which there could be no escape and likewise no entry. he searched through the
immediate surroundings for something that would break this. he looked through
himself for whatever he could find that he thought would achieve this purpose
but always he came back to the inevitable conclusion. that there was nothing
save his own determination. he lingered by a door. it was like a side street.
but should he look in or crawl on by? whether he could find some purpose more
noble than escape. but what could be more nobler? surely nothing. the greatest
achievement that a man could perceive was the futility of his own purpose in
the scheme of things. and thus enlightened to act accordingly. without any
concern for his own design. which was
no doubt the only thing that seperated him from the others. and which ran
unseen through all situations and was explained away in a thousand different
ways. a cherished and unassailable notion that no one should question. or
should wish to do so. but what if he did? what then would result from so many
endless and inconclusive speculations. where would it lead? would it could it
lead to the beginning? that most elusive of all points. continually tugging at
the edge of his perceptions. and nagging him into the continuance of this
labyrinth monologue. with its never ending highways and byways. dancing before
him in unparalleled splendour. a fandango with fate that he was ill accustomed
to ignore. but rather concentrated his mind in ways that were foreign. ways
that were unsure. and left him as always at the locus of impossibility.
confronted with so many alternatives that he knew instinctively were beyond his
grasp. beyond his power to make any kind of sense of it. to sum it up in the
fashion that he had set out to do. as he continued with his solitary trek
across this troubled terrain. that lured and enticed him with all these
unfulfilled promises. beckoning ever forward. ever onward. further and further
from that which he truly sought. which was the beginning. whatever that was. or
wherever it was. the point from which all else would flow. would flow naturally
such that he would not have to stop at every gap and consider where next he
could go. or should go. or would go. if he could in fact could go. but
despite all he did so. or so it appeared. as at each step he weariedly and
wearisomely dragged his feet forward. his body reluctantly following. his head
cast down. his eyes fixed doggedly on the heel of the boot of the trailing
foot. as though somehow a print would be left in the dust that he could at
some future time trace back. that would provide his escape. along the trail he
was laying down. as he groped his way forward in this tunnel that got ever
darker as he proceeded. was there some ratio perhaps that existed between the
extent of his penetration and the density of the darkness that surrounded
him? was it perhaps arithmetic or
geometric? he had no way of telling. nor would he ever have. he kept his eyes
cast down. better that he should not see. in that way he could avoid the
disillusion that he knew was waiting for him. that was following him. that he
tried ever more desperately to escape from. that was contained behind the
locked doors. waiting to burst out upon him. to engulf him in streams that had
no source and no mouth. wordless as himself. thoughtless as himself. selfish as
himself. perhaps even they were himself. but he could not know it. even if he
should know it. or even still more far removed he could know it. that this
journey if such it was was no more than an illusion and its apprehension a
dissolution. he closed his eyes and stumbled on. fumbled on. shambled on. crept
on. crawled on. with only the backwards imprint of his steps to guide him. or
lead him. if such an aimless direction could at all be construed in any way at
all to be the product of any definate purpose and not merely a simple chance.
an impulse that could not be ignored. or if so then at his peril. but had he
ignored it would his state then be anymore perilous than his present one. and
was his present state perilous. how could
he know that? what did he have to measure it against. the danger if such
it was was only an intuition. but one he was powerless to resist as he was
powerless to withstand the force of everything that his senses told him. for he
was of the unshakeable belief that they had lied to him. that this situation
that he had at last found himself in was of their making and not of his. that
they were conspirators against him in this plot of which he sought vainly for a
solution. a way out from the impenetrable maze that he had so far not even
succeeded in penetrating. or not that he was aware of for it was entirely
possible that he had penetrated it but his senses wishing to proceed for
reasons of their own were deceiving him. he did not trust them. that was sure.
that was certain. equally he did not trust himself. that was more sure. that
was more certain. and even more equally he did not trust me. that was the
surest. that was the most certain thing of all.
But what can i do for him. That i have not done already. And why should i wish him harm. I hardly know him. Indeed have never made his acquaintance. And were it not for the foregoing i would have no knowledge of him at all. And even having now read this i am still none the wiser as to his present whereabouts or purpose. These rooms and corridors to which he makes reference do not sound at all likely to me. However if need be i am prepared to investigate further. Though i must say it is not a prospect i relish. I am if i do say so myself a man for the simple things in life. This preoccupation with mystery has never held for me any fascination whatsoever. It is beyond me why anyone should feel the need for it. Unless they have something to hide of course. That i think could fairly reasonably be considered to be an adequate reason. But what on earth can it be that he wishes to keep hidden. I wouldn't have thought a furtive existence behind closed doors and a shillyshallying around ancient corridors was particularly perilous. Anti social perhaps but certainly not dangerous. No doubt there are reasons for it though what these could possibly be is quite beyond me. I am after all but a humble workman in pursuit of a crust. Whose practical nature appears to be quite out of place in this present company. Indeed i am at something of a loss as to what it is i should do next. Am i expected to shine a light in this place of darkness? Shake the legs of this weary traveller? Or should i break out my banjo and treat you to a selection of alabama minstrel tunes? No matter. I shall go on. This present place shows no sign of life at all. Nor indeed does there appear to be the likelihood of its making its presence felt in the immediate environs. This place being somewhat in the nature of a wasteland. An ideal place for a spot of hasty retreat. In pursuit of sunnier climes. Warmer weather. More suited to the taste of my wide brimmed hat. Nothing on my mind. Fishing perhaps. See who happens by. Perchance our man. Hot foot from his loathsome sojourn in dusty tunnels. Up for air. A casual question. Innocently posed. Concerning the nature of his calling. Are there perhaps others so engaged who he has had the ill luck to have missed? Or the good fortune to have avoided? No matter i shall carry on down this road. Banked on either side with fields of green and grey green and yellow and amber and spotted with blue and peppered with white and black and polka'd with red. And plants and weeds and crops and flowers whose names are all so foreign to me that not a single one can i recognise. But what matter. The day is fine the sun a shine the sky a blue. Myself out casually walking and strolling. Whistling a slow and sombre tune that will perhaps strike a chord within the rancid bosom of he that dwells below. Presently i shall stop and with my ear against the ground will determine whether he and i are in fact in the same vicinity or whether this is in fact but another wild goose chase that i have been sent on. Sent packing without so much as hello goodbye good luck god bless or good speed. And here i now stand just as the day i left. With no provisions. No equipment. No change of clothing. No spare items at all. Except for my hat and my old banjo. Which last is exceedingly useless being without its full complement of strings. Though this no doubt is some way in tune with its owner. Myself with my unshakable prediliction for drawing short straws marked cards and other dubious accoutrements. But at last what is this? I believe i hear a distant rumble. It is faint and far off. But would seem somehow to be advancing in this direction. Ah if only i had my compass then i would be able to properly plot its course. Still there is still my ear which may at such times as these be pressed into service with at times rare and amazing results. But wait. This must be performed exactly. First drop to the ground in a low crouch. Then freeze. Alert to every small sound and movement that takes place. Learn and assimilate what is commonplace. Become acquaint with all the everyday sounds that beat on regardless. And then perchance take hold of that which is not commonplace. That which is not of everyday. Home in on it. Bring it at last to bear within the sights of my rifled perception. Stretched taut as a guitar string in high E. And then to wait. Casually. Patiently. And then mayhap to apprehend the source of these distant and foreign noises. Like a hammering it is. But not a hammering as in one position but as if it was a man knocking in spikes to tie the sleepers of an old and abandoned railroad track that had suddenly been pressed into hasty use. For a superior kind of demolition derby. With swiftly refurbished locomotives weighing in at about a couple of hundred tons and ramming home with mass abandon. With engineers and firemen employed from the four corners speedily at the helm. But not alas our man who remains stoically and heroically underground. So still i wait. Still i wander. Across this barren plain. In the untold direction of a railway station. To pause awhile beneath the leaking drips of the water tower and perhaps to rest my ear on the still humming line for news of a possible arrival. But the rail is dead. It gives no sound. It gives no clue no direction. Unless this silence itself by its very absence points to the only way left which is down. Down down down. Into the ever deepening heart of things. Like a stanley knife through a warm pat of butter. Or gold or even margerine. What matter. These things. This sideshow of consumer heaven. That has not an entrance or an exit. For how could you ever be entranced? Or how could you ever wish to leave from a place that you had never even entered? Had heard only on the grapevine of distant knockings. Things that go bump in the night. And bang on the lawn. With distant drums. While i wait here and consider what next i should do. Is there perhaps somewhere at hand a person from whom i may seek information? Directions possibly. For they say in these parts that a mans life may depend on such knowledge. But this place appears wholly deserted. The station is abandoned. Weeds grow between the lines. The booking hall is laced with cobwebs and the handles of the doors are rusted solid. Perhaps the town may contain some clue. Though i fear town is too grand a description. There is really nothing more than a main street with the usual collection of buildings. A saloon. A livery stable. The sheriffs place. The jail. The trading post. The stock in trade that you would expect to find in this vicinity. But all are empty. It takes no more than a couple of minutes to traverse the full length of main street and even less to ascertain that the town is abandoned. Unless perhaps there's a stray face looking out from behind a ragbag blind. Some old prospector perhaps who even yet still imagines he will strike it rich. Who has within his possession all the necessary equipment. The knowledge of the terrain. The methods to be employed in the search. Who lacks only a partner with sufficent funds to finance the trip. But i have no time for such dalliance. Nor indeed if i am honest the desire. I have a definate objective in view. I have been sent by the company for a singular purpose. The details of which are contained within this letter that is pinned to the inside of my pocket. It was delivered to me in person by one of the companys most senior messengers. He led me to understand that this mission was of the utmost importance and that i should let nothing come between me and its successful completion. Further details will be found in the letter he has led me to understand. However i must not open it until i am in the presence of the addressee. Thus it is that i am engaged in this vague and some would say fruitless search. Walking at present through a ghost town. Whose existence was hitherto wholly unknown to me. I do not recall that i have seen it mentioned on maps and further in fact i do not recall its name at all. Even if it has one. I must soon determine what action next i must take for i fear the company spies who may at this very moment be infiltrating the area with a view to reporting my action. Or lack thereof. I feel instinctively that my usefulness to their purpose is wearing thin. That soon they may take the decision to dispense altogether with my services. To be dispossessed without even an adequate reference. My pension frozen to the bone. This is not a prospect i would particularly relish. Therefore it is of some urgency that i should at all times be on the right track. But where in all this derelict waste can it be. This main street begins to show signs of abandonment even greater than those already passed. Perhaps a trip to its end may yield some light. Leastways perhaps lure that peering face from the safety of its lair. The edge of the town draws nigh and still no sign. When at last the city limit is reached i shall wheel quick as lightning. Spin on one heel in a passable imitation of a fandango. The better to catch the whole sea of swimming faces who are presently grinning over my shoulder. It approachs. The end is in sight. The end of this unnecessary diversion. The moment approachs. I will pause awhile as though in deep concentration upon the details of the horizon. Then at an appropriate moment make my move. Survey the scene rolling out in all directions. Each with individual idiosyncracies but the whole with unremitting uniformity. From one of these perchance the correct time for the next move will arise. Appear perhaps as a mirage or a bush or a burning patch of reeds. Diligence is required here. To apprehend the exact moment for this next most important moment. The capture of vital clues. Not a task to be undertaken with levity. Nor faint heart nor lack of singularity. But clear cool purpose with which at last i may superimpose some order here. Like now. Quick spin and there. Nothing. The same blind alley. The faces gone. Their mute muttered whispers just cries on the wind. The same aspect as before presents itself once more. Now whither should i go? Forward there is nothing but a vast and inhospitable desert. Behind a town that is slowly slipping the same way. That face i saw there previously. Perhaps it is still there. The red weather beaten face pressed to the window. Another who also searches alone for clues. Trying to discover in this barren terrain some clues to this predicament. I ask myself. How would it appear to a stranger? One who had not made this fruitless journey but had simply arrived here. By whatever means. Where would he begin? What would be his first line of inquiry? Perhaps i might follow him. Gain some precious new insights along the way. The saloon of course. Always the first port of call in a new situation. To gather bearings and information. Sus out the lie of the land. I shall depart hither immediately. Back past this dry dusty sage brush blowing in the wind hereabouts. Past a couple of stray dogs. Fighting in the dust over the remains of old bones. Their abandoned howls echoing in the wind. In the main street once more. The prospect as it was before. Nothing has changed. A vista of emptyness. The boardwalk creaks crumbling underfoot as i make my way to the saloon. This old prospector if such he be is now nowhere afoot. The swing doors are creaky. Rusty too. They barely move an inch on these hinges. The bar inside lies encrusted under an inch of dust. The walls are sprayed with wanted posters. Bullet holes adorn the mirrors staring out from between the bottles. This has methinks all the makings of a trap. Our man below has been and gone. Slipped through here without a trace. Left not a blade of grass or a speck of dust other than as they were before he passed. Payed off the prospector too i'll be bound. So much for viewing through hollow alien eyes. I must be away they've obviously gone to ground. Must hotfoot it fast to the railroad tracks. Strike out to the country. Spy out some sign of life. Quick before the company snouts arrive. Eagerly sniffing through these haunts with bad deals in store. To intercept yours truly in the execution of his duty. The station is as it was except that there is no longer the suggestion, however faint, that perchance someone is there. I must follow these tracks to where they lead. Out beyond the city limit. A somewhat over indulgent ordnance proclaiming the limits of the civic jurisdictions. Out into the far country. Ever alert for some tell tale sign of the underground man. Pegging away below ground in these strange hidden corridors. Beyond me now stands a ragged knoll. A little off to the side. With a little deviation here i may mount its summit the better to spy out the whereabouts hereabouts. Though not very tall it is of sufficient inclination to allow a proud vista in every direction and rewards my diligence with the sight of travellers. Far off on the edge of the horizon. Two figures. One behind the other. Plodding on slowly.
They are dressed alike So alike as to
be almost indentical Except close up where the one in the rear is seen to be
smaller than the one in the fore But seen from this distance Atop the grassy
knoll As they depart from its direction in the direction of the distance The
perspective gives to each the appearance of sameness It seems that perhaps they
exchange some words For at times they halt in their progress The first turns
and stooping slightly inclines his ear to the one behind The one behind mutters
and twists and shakes his head The one in front grumbles and grunts and shrugs
and goes on So they proceed in this fashion Concertinaing across the horizon The
sun to their rear giving a steadily blackening aspect to their outlines A
steadily shrinking focus to their perambulations They care nought for the
oscillations of the underground man Nor the circumlocutions of the overground
man Their progress is preordained They are condemned together To wander in
chains For more years to come
The road is too long The little one
grumbles We will never see another soul by coming this way The big one shrugs
His favourite gesture It is a catch all A cover all He has no answer to the
little ones questions Why they have ignored the frantic knockings of the man
below Kicking his heels at hidden door stops Why they have ignored the frantic
entreaties of the overground man Instead having played cat and mouse with him
through the hidden eyes of the train station It was decreed thats all says the
big one Who has decreed it says the little one The big one shrugs He doesnt
know Nor if truth be known does he care But this he is careful to keep well hid
from the little one The little one travels in hope if nothing else To cruelly
dash his hopes would severely impair their progress It is not a relishing
prospect for the big one He cares only to keep moving Once he was alone and
could manage great distances at the drop of a hat Now he is saddled with the
little one The rate at which he can devour the territory has slipped somewhat
One day he will be alone again Then he will catch up No problems there Until
then though he is encumbered with the little one Placed in his care by the man
in black Who he rarely saw before and has never seen since Though he said at
the last Hold hard One day I'll return One day I'll be back
Since then nothing The big one weighed
down in his travels The little one forced to boldly go where he'd rather not
Dragged in bee lines that lead straight over the horizon Headed for stars that
are dubious by their inclination Trying to find an edge to this plain Somewhere
not hemmed in by hollow bars of iron A place to slip on through Then out of the
game altogether The little one gladly The big one sadly It is the only
occupation that gives some light and shade to his days here The application of
a little chiaroscuro to be taken lightly with his lunch
The little one drags his heels He will
not take another step Leans forward to pull on the coat of the big fellow ahead
The big fellow turns About to cuff the wee fellow Is struck somehow with a shot
of remorse Or perchance a glimpse of the man in black Enough to spare the
sconce of the wee fellow Ahead he spies a bridge A rough affair of rocks and
dry wattle crossing a stream He points it out as a place for a break If the wee
fellow can just keep going He has a plan of sorts Has hatched it out of many
stale days They will be gone from here for ever he tells the little one This here
is but a temporary impasse
They reach the bridge in comparative
safety Then sit and ponder Remove their boots and dandle their toes a while in
the brook Whilst nursing a motley collection of corns boils and bunyons The big
one proceeds to tell the little one a story He says it is of how he came to be
here It also tells in some more detail of how he came to be put in charge of
the little one
He was once as the underground man
Knocking at doors Living in sight of the vaguest hopes Forever dancing on a lost
horizon He came close They ran hither He slowed They slowed To tease and
tantalise He reached out Trying to grasp the quickest clue For just the merest
minute Til it was gone He looked down at his hands Empty once more What he
thought he had was gone As soon as he looked at it Thought of it Tried to put
it down in a few brief phrases His knuckles were wore almost away From knocking
on empty doors Searching through corridors that had no end Being bereft of a
direction An inclination as to which to take Knowing the while that really deep
down there was none It was all ready set By others out beyond
So he conjured up a double To wander
in his place Make all the waves In all the right places And it worked
Wonderfully frantically well It left him all the time in the world to indulge
his passion for seclusion He played the game well and for many days was always
at least one step ahead of the others Then they saught to trap him To slow him
down They doubled back across the track To leave the wee fellow at the foot of
an oncoming train There was none but himself there to save him Now here they
were Both together Joined in this none too holy alliance For ought ill or good
Beset and shadowed by echoes of former selves Each hunting shamus the shaman
Hid behind close mirrored shades Staring slow out the silvered glass The
slimmest whisker The slightest whisper Always remembered There to remind from
Closely followed Through winters dark splintered past
Imagination The dead ringer for every
distant pain Belled buoyed and candled Waxed in splendid effigy of hidden
downstream doors Upstream they silently swoop and stand Quietly wordlessly
sweetlessly laughing Making pretty mosaics in the shadows Boxing clever with
the hand guns Listening to the man out there in the corridor Wondering all the
time if thats them in here Or him out there With precious ears glued to empty
keys
** FIN **
regie J J Galbraith
mise
en scene The Bunker
321
I used to
think of myself only in the third person. All my thinking was done in this way.
When I thought of what I had done or what I could do I would always say, he did
this or he did that. Or he will do this or he will do that. This was for the
majority of my life up until a few
years ago. Then I used to address myself in the second person as you did
or you will. Or you are or you are not. I do not know who you was. It seems that I was addressing fresh air. I
have even less idea who he was. It was so long ago and I don't remember so
well. Then again, I never thought very much about anything then but calmly
accepted it all. Recently I have started to address myself as I but I'm still
not sure who I is. And what will I do when I wears out? By what name will I
call myself then?
You is sometimes me or sometimes it is
you or sometimes some other who I only imagine is there and may be or may not
be. We is a way to try and bring all these people together. A chance trick to
keep them somewhere in the region of mutual sympathy. They is mainly used for
making space. To keep the whole shebang
well hid. I is a rare bird and scarcely seen alone. When it is used it
is mainly for fiction. For fact the second or third person is best. Certainly
safest.
This is my scheme anyway. I dont know
if it is a good one or not. I mean its hardly the type of thing you walk into
the local boozer and try to strike up a conversation with. Though perhaps it
should be added to the curriculum of broadening possibilites. What matter
though? What else can I do? After all its of no great coat. Or rather count I
should say. Interest thats what I meant. Really.
But seriously though. How else should
I address myself? What do other people do? We can never know for you can never
actually get inside someone else's head and find out what it is they do when
speaking of them. Is it simply a long stream of I's or you's or he's or she's.
Or maybe a mixture of all three or four. Or do people simply perm any two
according to the situation. And if they do which two do they perm? And why not
three? And are there any rules? Any guidelines?
None I have come across so far, sadly.
Big guides or little guides I mean. Anyone that could whistle up a ferry across
the river styx at new year. Now that would be something. Another set of variables.
Parameters. Food for the parapsyches who wish to invade and investigate. On a
serch and destroy through the ego fields. Terminate with extreme permanence. So
they say.
But if there were. How would they be
constructed? Who would take precedence? He, you, or I? Or me, them, or him. All
struggling for supremacy. All trying to get an edge. He telling you. Me telling
him. We telling them. I telling they. Him, you, and us. They colluding with
him. Slipping in spanners. To outwit you, they, us, or them. You in unholy
allegiance with them, to confuse he and I. All of us together in different
directions. Endlessly searching. He looking for me. I for you. We for them. All
vaguely shifting in shimmering allegiance. Making hasty baked pacts to cover
cinderella tracks. This he told me. That he said. This they said was true. For
me and you and he and them. His way was best. You, who me, yes you, will only
wind up alone as I, they said. They are, after all, the only ones we can trust
to be the same. Different directions are all all that separate them.
I guess he could be right. Though me,
I think he's wrong. Still he kept me going this long. Was it perhaps wrong of
me to desert him. He told a good tale in his time, but I soon got bored and
cast round for some other to blame. You are the one I thought. I said it often
staring blankly in the mirror. It's all your fault. This whole unholy
predicament, that has robbed my voice, is the result of your petty tinkering
with what would be best, no better, left alone. In the dark of the silence of
all of them. The hidden voices. The ones that they forces we to suppress.
What is all this talk for? From
one to
another. What purpose does it serve.
If we discount the small proportion that is necessary then what of the rest? Of
what good is that? The endless talk that is of nothing. That is only of talk,
and chatter, and natter, and gossip. What is its true purpose? Why is it that
when one is silent another continually insists he must speak? When you ask why,
they laugh. But they persist. So you keep on. Asking why. What it is you must
say. Why must I speak? What is it you wish? Their laughter becomes less
frivolous but still they persist. Finally, when you give in and ask them in
turn what it is that you should say, they become angry. For they cannot
understand this question you have asked. These voices that insist that every
other present must be heard are immediately suspicious when you say nothing.
They feel threatened. You have challenged them in a way they do not understand.
They assume everyone is as themselves. They can admit of no other. They cannot
imagine that while they talk endlessly on others are silent. It is this silence
they fear. They imagine it threatens them. Their collective security is on the
line. They are constantly discomfitted by the thought of what it might contain.
What dark secrets might be concealed there. What might you know about them that
you are keeping to yourself. And when will you disclose this information? Will
it be within their hearing? Or are you saving it for their enemies. And what of
you? Are you a friend or an enemy? A decision is necessary. Neutrality is
expressly forbidden. A definate commitment is required. Daggers have been drawn
and placed well within reach.
It is not enough simply to observe.
You must participate. You must dredge your mind for a positive connection. If
none is to hand you must resort to invention. Lies are in order. Truthful
economy perfectly acceptable. It is of no consequence. Your lies will help
reinforce their lies. You must contribute to the well being of all. Your own
principles, your own reasons, are as nothing. They will not understand. It is
foreign to their way of thinking. If you persist they will judge you a heretic
and you will wind up an outcast. You will be left to make your own way as best
you can. Upon the outside of all that is forbidden. You will need great courage
for you must travel this journey alone. There is no guide but yourself. There
will be nothing to rely on but the doubts that have made you silent in the
first place. This solo journey will arouse great suspicion and will not be
understood. It will be without any discernable goals apart from those that you have
set yourself i.e. the abolition of all the doubts that have made it necessary
in the first place.
They will be with you twenty four
hours a day. They will take over your life til it is all a mad scramble to
untangle it. They will gnaw away at every action, every decision, every word
you write down, every sentence you utter. From this there is no refuge but
silence. While desperately, frantically, you attempt to bring some order to
bear. The forlorn hope that somehow from it all you will arrive at some conclusion
that will make sense of it. The starting point, the elusive wellhead from
whence all else springs. The guardian knot that contains the root of all and
which must be unravelled to secure the path onward. For while it remains hidden
it is as a great sunken slab. A tombstone rock that must be dragged forever
wearily on with great chains that dig deep in the shoulders and rub the flesh
raw at every step.
You must prepare for a vacuum or else
relinquish all future claims. Either way seems hopeless. Each incomplete
without the missing link of all those chains. The golden key with which to open
the treasure house of lost connexions that have been handed down through the
ages from better times. Simpler times. When it mattered only to be in tune with
the flow. Life lived as it was once intended. Naturally. Without all the myriad
artifice and pretence that has since built up to keep it well hid. The
elaborate scaffold of unseen force twisted and turned at every corner so that
it remains for ever elusive. Never to be tracked down in wilful mechanical
ways. That exists free as a bird within us all. But a bird now caged. That no
longer sings. That can no longer soar to the greatest heights to spy out the
land and show forth the way.
In times gone by we would have
travelled sure footed over the rockiest terrain. Safe in the knowledge that the
path was well lit. Our instincts would have been enough. Our own guardian
companions. We had not yet learnt to question them. To surrender to our fears.
We trusted ourselves. We were not assailed by doubt from every corner. We were
not asked to live lives through a looking glass. We did not have to make
decisions as to what was desirable. It was apparent in every way. We needed no
god, no outside rules. No magic codes of empty ritual. No macarbre dance of
halloween. We had it all already. Self contained within ourselves. But now it
is lost in the terrible fall. From grace, or space, or whatever you may wish to
call it. Stolen from us in careless moments. When we were bemused by synthetic
words from callous tongues. Deceived into thinking that what we really wanted
was what we didnt have. That without it we would never be whole again. Would be
condemned to wander forever in the silence of not knowing. When all the time it
was the silence we had lost. And never missed it til it was gone. Then, when we
realised, we were aghast and to cover our tracks we disguised them with endless
patter. Of scurrying feet and fretful tongues that talked endlessly on in
vicious rhymes til there was nothing left but talk of talk. How it first arose
was gone. Vanished over the horizon. Theres nothing now but the babble of
voices. Each talking alone forever to themselves.
The silence grows. Slowly at first but
all the time it increases in magnitude. Quietly it terrifies all around. But
they will never know except by the silence within themselves. There is no
contact that can be made by the means at our disposal. Only to continue this
desert sojourn. Keeping always alert for a burning bush or some such sign. An
apparition that may never come. But it is never certain. Vigilance must be
maintained on every front. If it appears it will be for the fleetingest of
moments. We must use all our senses to the full. To be perfectly aware. We
cannot cloud the issue with idle talk or it will be gone. It will require the
greatest of strength to keep it intact and still its meaning will not be
apparent. It will seem like a curse. You will cast off in vain and say how.
Even as all around all the voices are howling in amazement why.
For is it not taught always by the
rule that only what is, is only what there is. Only what you can see. Open your
eyes. Theres nothing more. Its all on the outside, the overside, the far side.
Clearly defined by simple mechanical provision. Theres scant precision for the
eyes on the other side. The ones that open inwardly. To the great white plain
of inner space whose only visible sign is the tip of the iceberg. Whose real
reasons are sunk beneath the waves in deep frozen tracts that can only be
thawed by the ghost of incantation. The unveiling of all the strange mysteries
that are handed down. Unseen and unknowing. To constantly haunt and tantalize.
Forever doomed around the corner. Just one more step. The light at the end of
the tunnel. Twinking in a dream that gives just the barest of clues. Hints of
the beginning. That which was lost. A few scared lamps in dark corners for
encouragements sake. Running silently screaming within. To the long dead
precipice thats too deep to cross. Though knowing all the time, from another
place too late to recall, that to progress one must plunge. Headlong across. Then make chance with what
comes. But theres no way to tell. The doubts are awash in scary waves of gothic
monstrosity. The curly skeleton seahorse of unrealised fear carried down a
thousand lifetimes strong from the day when the first born were dragged out of
the mire. That has dogged all the days ever since. As constant as a lifeline.
As the tide as it rises and falls. Splashing wavelong drifts over the
benchmarks of time. Carefully encapsulated in the memory of the mind. Intact
today as it once was then. But now cluttered with a thousand useless articles.
Weaving sinister spells that will never leave. Ravaged by all these strangled
chains of endless talk. The child of thought an orphan now.
The storm raves on. Its all within.
Within us all. If we are lucky we can duck. It will pass in time. Leave nothing
but the damaged land which will heal. But what of those that come so quick. A
typhoon wind. The prince of the sea. From out of the past in a vast great tower
that captures all. Spread out cross the sky. Ragged dots on the planetarium
wall. Disconnected chains of stray morsel thought come crashing down at
unplanned times. A sudden scythe of a windswept moment. Caught unawares musing
the while in far off places. The staccato voice rumbles over the tannoy. Who's
that man? The one with sealed lips. Apprehend him at once. He must be brought
to book. We will not suffer this insolence one moment longer. Who does he think
he is to stand there so unaware. Theres work to be done. The dam of great
pretence is breaking. Idle thumbs can be put to work shoring up leaks and
cracks. This is no time for mystery. It is an infuriating tactic. It only leads
to madness. It will not be allowed. If even one starts thinking this way then
where will it lead. This beautiful pyramid we have been constructing for five
thousand years will crumble and decay. Hand me the manacles this situation
requires more closely involved observation.
Henceforth you will be taken to a
place of supreme incarceration and locked away til you have seen the terror of
your ways. We will feed you bread and water. No more. You do not deserve more.
You contribute nothing. You spend your days in idle speculation. Well then
we'll let you speculate upon these four walls. See what you can make of them.
What great design are you able to devine from bricks and mortar. What spectral
patterns might they contain. Eh? Our glorious ancestors. Pah! You are an idle good
for nothing who seeks only to swing the lead. But watch out my friend that line
may swing dangerously close to your head. See what visions you see then. There
are no chains. Only ours. And do not tempt us. It would be a pleasure to use
them. Your ideas are all used up. They were worn out long before you were born.
You have been given false information. Theres nothing at the back of all this.
Only our own will. Mine is made of iron. Yours of melted clay. Do not look for
straw you will find none. Do not look for the basket. You cannot escape so
easily as that. A new born babe in search of some sentimental queen. That has
all been done. Centuries ago. You live now in the age of the machine. Its steel
alone that counts. We will build your gallows of it. Tie your neck with wire
wool and pull it tight as the sun goes down. Your day is done. It'll shine no
more.
How dare you assume even for a moment
that you could remain silent in our company. Silence is expressly forbidden.
Rather that you should chatter endlessly like a monkey in a cage than to have
the gall to think you could outwit us by such trickery. We know all and you
know nothing and do not forget it. File that along with all the other nonsense
you pretend to possess. You are an ant. A worker. It is your job to maintain
the status quo. That is all. Your shoulders are broad for a purpose. Forget
this talk of chains and stones. They have not harmed you. You are on the bottom
rung of the ladder for a purpose. You are only required to support those above.
Nothing more. Do not even think about it. Merely assume the position.
When you stand in the yard breaking
stones think of the hammer. Do not think of those birds you can see over the
factory wall. They are only birds. Drifting in the wind. They have no message.
They point to no path. They will not survive beyond the next storm. But you my
fine friend. You will last here forever. For all eternity if we so desire. It
is in our power. Do not ever forget that. And do not ever forget that freedom
can be yours. At the drop of a hat. All you need do is utter one sweet word.
Never. If those are your conditions
then let loose your machines. I have searched all my life for the right word
and will not squander my chance now just to satisfy your sadistic pecadillos.
Nothing of what you threaten is worse than I have already. In fact I would
welcome your chains simply as a change from my own. Despite my optimism I grow
weary at times of this search and the thought of your dungeons is almost
pleasing. But before bowing down my head allow me one more opportunity to
perhaps dissuade you from your somewhat short and narrow view.
Your rage is that of an empty tongue. Wallowing in the power it imagines it confers. The strength of its conviction is untramelled by any hesitation. Since I can neither dismiss it nor agree with it I allow it its freedom. Despite the harm it may do it may yet lead to sweeter pastures. Only the intolerance is so hard to fathom. I will allow it to engulf me. To sweep over me in stagnant rage. To isolate me on a plain of laughter beneath unknowing eyes. This I expect. The insults and blows these too I expect. All of it I will gratefully respect if only they will accept my silence. Not as censure but as the most eloquent statement I could ever hope to make. For the silence is only of the surface. If they listened for just a moment they would see that the ripples reach every corner even as the stone falls endlessly on into the still dark depths. And that I too fall with the stone clinging desperately to its jagged edge and hoping that as my blood is spilt it will not be in vain. That I will glimpse, even if only for the briefest of moments, the hidden shores that lap at the edge of my eyes. My head eternally moving. In search of the unseen light.