Continuum Six

Incompleteness

White walls, and white, flickering, fluorescent light. The walls are soft and high, with no marks or indentations. I tried, at the beginning, to tear the walls away. And then merely to mark the passage of time upon them. But the walls do not give in. Will never give in.

The light ticks, occasionally. Even when it’s off, for indescribably dark periods of I-can’t-tell-how-long, it ticks, as if taunting me with some semblance of pattern. Here, within these walls, there is no passage of time. At any moment, it is either dark and will be light, or light and will be dark. The alternation of these is a sickening repetition — the future mimics the past and present — a cycle, not a passage.

When it is dark, I do not sleep. I can hear the walls listening. The slow blink of ear-lids. I defy their guile — for in the light, the ears hide. This way, they can never listen to me sleep.

In the darkness, my being collapses to a point, within walls. 

I cannot find anything outside my consciousness, except the walls. I long for them to also be a figment, as is everything else. But I know they are not. The walls are all that is real.

In the darkness, I hear rustlings and patterings and swishings and sometimes voices. I feel pricks in my skin and hands that reach for my body as I pull away. I find gaps in my memory, once the light flicks back on, expanses of life which I know must have existed but which I cannot describe.

I can see marks on my arms.

When I dream, I dream the past. The walls close in around me. Gates clank shut. Men in white lab-coats look at me with disgust behind their eyes. Handcuffs click into place, cold metal against my wrists. I am startled by the barking of dogs and the splintering of wood. Thrilling pleasure, sickening fear. Stifled screams. Her eyes, no longer pleading, press closed. Just like the ones before.

Flowers grow in the dark, and I press them back into the plastic.

My mind fills the empty space, stretching into the corners of my enclosure. I have come to understand the cell in its entirety. I know the subtleties of texture and presence and motivation. For all I know, these six panels are all that is left of the world I barely remember. For all I know, my vague memories are just another illusion.

The human body is fragile. Fingers snap or dislocate so easily, hot pain which drives away visions of greater terrors. Over two hundred and thirty joints in the human body: over two hundred and thirty escapes from the reality of my imagination.

Sometimes, the roof springs a leak. It’s always gone by the morning.

I am well experienced with the delicacy of the upper neck. Even the softest of surfaces cannot fully absorb a well-executed collision. I prop myself upon on my arms, elbows locked, leaning my feet against the wall, and consider this. It seems too easy.

Is there a reality after death? I do not believe in God. But I’m starting to believe in hell.

The Fazoli

Louis Courtemanche combed his mustache slowly, massaging out snarls and flecks of dinner which had stood the test of the evening. His feet rested in a bath of hot water, shedding dead skin and the various tensions of his day, and a warm towel lay across his bare lap. Frank, his German Shepard, sighed in contentment, his belly full of leftover lamb steak and half a watercress sandwich, and began to doze off. The sun had finished its lazy traversal past the western window of his penthouse, and the city outside seemed to be preparing for sleep. And then, despite the tranquility and calm which in most circumstances would ward off such a disastrous occurrence, a piano fell through the ceiling.

The piano landed squarely on the television set, which let out a loud and disgruntled BANG as its vacuum tube imploded. Frank, wrested from peaceful dreams of three-legged cats, leapt to his feet and woofed loudly. Louis grunted in surprise, and stood. Plaster dust floated through the air.

Louis stepped from the bath and dried his feet. Wrapping the towel around his waist, he ambled over to the piano. He could see stars through the hole in his ceiling. Lifting the lid and brushing chalky debris from the keys, he began to play: Bach’s Minuet in G Major.

“Stop that.”

He stopped.

“Someone happens to drop their piano in your living room, you can’t just up and play it! Who do you think you are? This is a vintage Fazoli.” A small man in a plaid suit was climbing down from the ceiling. “Name’s Dart Macon, nice to meet you. Seems to have survived the drop… now how am I gonna get this out of here?”

At a loss for words, Louis turned and shuffled to the kitchen to make tea. When he returned a few minutes later, carrying a pot of steaming Lapsang Souchong, Dart was tapping at the southern wall of the living room. 

“Studs here and… here… if we cut strategically, then… say, chap, you wouldn’t happen to have a circular saw and a sledge hammer, would you?”

Louis poured a shallow dish of tea for Frank, who had lost interest in Dart and his piano but perked up at the smell of his favorite brew. “No, but there’s tea.”

Dart grunted in approval, still examining the wall. Louis prepared cups of tea for them both, and then returned to his chair and foot-bath. “We could just call a piano mover.”

“Hmph. Don’t trust ‘em. I’ve heard terrible stories. Snapped strings. Scratched woodwork. Broken legs. No, best to do this kind of thing yourself.”

Louis quizzically noted the scratched woodwork and broken legs of the Fazoli, and sighed in acquiescence. Dart seemed to be a man not terribly concerned by the particularities of fact. 

The piano-shaped hole in the ceiling flashed white for a moment, followed closely by a crack of thunder. Louis again drew his feet from the bath, dried them, and walked to his coatroom. He returned wearing a poncho and carrying two umbrellas, one of which he handed to Dart. “It’s supposed to rain.”

“Oh no,” exclaimed the other. “Oh no, oh no. We can’t have that. More than a little water and this finish is ruined! I’ll have to… you know what… he owes me a favor anyway.”

Dart unsheathed an ancient mobile phone from its leather holster on his belt, and punched in a number he clearly knew by heart. “Chad. Yeah it’s me, Dart. Say, you remember that time I rescued your cat? Yeah, well I’m in a bit of a pickle. You know my Fazoli? No, the baby grand. Yeah, that’s the one. Anyway, I’ve gone and dropped it in some poor bloke’s apartment, and I need a hand lifting it out. I know you mostly do tourist stuff, but you did the elephant that one time… we could probably make the same harness work, yeah. I’m at the corner of Third and Main, the one with the hole in the roof. You can’t miss it. Alright, great - and hurry up, will you? I think it’s about to rain.”

He snapped the phone shut and, as if on queue, the rain began. It was soft at first, barely misting the cover of the piano, but slowly increasing in force until puddles began to form in the carpet. 

And then, like the roar of some vindictive demon in the night, a furious chopping sound became audible over the falling rain. It became louder and louder until a harness fell through the ceiling, lowered slowly by the churning airborne machine which now hovered over Louis’ flat. Dart leapt into action, tossing the umbrella aside to fasten the harness around his piano. When he had finished securing the straps, he squinted up into the storm and gave the pilot a thumbs up, and the piano slowly began to lift from the room.

Dart, now soaked, turned to Louis and grinned. “Well that’s that. Thanks for your hospitality chap, I do appreciate it. Do you mind showing me the door?”

Louis obligingly saw him to the exit. When they reached the door, Dart offered him a business card. “In case you need help fixing up that ceiling.”

As the door closed and the sound of the helicopter faded into the distance, calm once again settled over the flat. Louis placed Dart’s card on the kitchen counter for later reference, and retired to his bedroom. Frank was already dozing at the foot of the bed, but woke to wag his tail in greeting as Louis climbed beneath the covers. The cool evening breeze and the sound of raindrops carried them both into a sound sleep.

Endings

The brushed steel of Tom’s fixed gear was no match for the unforgiving face of the city bus. Hissing and screeching, the vehicle strained at its brakes, but it was too late. Tom’s groceries, which had hung from his handlebars, erupted into colorful fireworks, and his bicycle, no longer supporting his weight, conformed neatly to the bumper of the bus. His body soared forward, away from the shocked driver of the now rapidly decelerating bus, and towards a crowd of pedestrians, who watched in horror. As Tom crumpled into the pavement, his eyes blinked open for one last glimpse of his world.

1. Consciousness

In an overwhelming rush of sensation, Tom felt. He felt the dreadful awe of the accident’s onlookers, the sickening adrenaline rush of the young woman who fumbled through her purse, found her cell, dialed 9-1-1. He felt the dispatchers resigned sorrow and the paramedics’ collected urgency. He felt his mother’s disbelief and anguish as she received the call, learning that, no, they had not been able to revive his lifeless body and yes, they had already called his father. His girlfriend’s tears streamed from her golden-brown eyes, and Tom felt these too, tasting their salt.

As night fell, he felt the wind brush the trees, moving their limbs in a slow and sensuous dance. Half-way around the earth, the rising sun bathed an ancient temple in golden light, and Tom felt the warmth of the stone. Many oceans washed upon many shores, and he felt their caress.

Tom felt, for the first time, the vastness of the universe.

2. Imagination

The hills were purple, with yellow polka-dots. Tom flew above them, held aloft by wings made of bedsheets. Below him, prehistoric creatures grazed on patches of orange grass, and three suns warmed his skin. No, he thought, this is too warm, three suns is too many. The largest accelerated its descent, and dropped obligingly behind the distant horizon.

Tom landed softly at the crest of a particularly colorful hill, and wished for some company. A trapdoor to his left fell away, and two large antelope clambered out. He greeted them, and they lifted their front legs, shook off their antlers, and were now his college friends from years ago. A pool table materialized, and the three played game after game until both remaining suns had set.

He floated through the night sky, adding a star here and there to complete his favorite constellations. This was an easy existence, with no concerns except for the loneliness which grew more acute every day. Should he attempt to reconstruct the life he barely remembered? He had plenty of time to decide.

3. Thoughts

All at once,  Tom was bicycling (as he had told his girlfriend), grocery shopping (as he had told his mother), and reading the Wealth of Nations (as his grandfather imagined). He was awakening from a coma and shaking his doctor’s hand, as the bus driver dearly hoped, and preparing a lawsuit, as the city’s lawyers feared. He did each of these things simultaneously, unaware of the others, and often transitioned quickly between one thing and another, or found himself doing nothing at all. 

As the various consciousnesses which maintained his identity learned of his physical death, his day-to-day activities lessened in variety, and became almost entirely things he had done before. He often brought his mother a bouquet of twelve sunflowers, made animal-shaped pancakes with his father, and returned from a three-day fishing trip with his uncles bearing the single product of his angling. Sometimes he found himself in an idealized heaven, playing tennis with his mother’s parents, or speaking politely with a bearded man in a white robe. 

As the years went on, he found himself doing less. It was often many days between events of consequence, days consumed entirely by empty darkness. Eighty-two years after the incident with the bicycle — he barely knew what exactly had happened — he gave the child with the tousled blond hair the last model train, and faded away. 

4. Nothingness

There Must Be Something Greater

Swift like the wind, flowing, descending, whistling through hallways and caves and alleyways, passing over dogs and cats and paperclips and winding its way through an infinity of moments into the mind of Mr. Phillips. He feels the passage of time through the ideas that arrive in his mind, notices the ticks of the clock, feels the subdivisions upon subdivisions that render those arbitrary demarkations by which we organize the world utterly meaningless. Then out, passing through the window, over the garden, down the path into the forest, striking birds and rats and armadillos, blue rivers and green trees and brown earth, zephyrs and gusts and billows and a lonely jazz musician who wanders alone. He stops. Listens. Feels. Wonders. Wonders why, and what, and who, and when, and whence? He knows everything but himself, and in this instant is most alone. And then, the flames leap from one limb to the next, spreading the forest and leaving, entering the fields and meadows, startling cows and sheep and whipping through the thoughts of farmhands who raise their eyebrows and exhale slowly, no longer waiting for dinner. Continuing into their homes, into the sinks and bathtubs, sinking through plumbing meant to channel only the most physical of ingredients, and down, and out, and into the oceans where puzzled octopi cease their daily maneuverings to think — and then, bursting like fireworks, nay, dolphins! out of the ocean, into the sky, through the clouds, and past the furthest reaches of atmosphere into the depths of space. And then, silence.

Overcast

He draws the hand-rolled cigarette from his lips, slowly exhaling a curling cloud towards the rafters of a small but bustling café. He is sharp, and his mind is quickened not only by nicotine and caffeine, but also by the philosophy he reads and the ambience of the coffee shop. Ideas float through the air amidst a haze of smoke and sound, and seep into the woodwork, nurturing the building’s ancient architecture. He finishes his coffee, finishes his book, smiles at the barista, and stands.

He steps through the low doorframe of the café and bounds onto the path of Seward Park, Seattle, Washington. It’s 2008 and raining lightly. The moisture returns to the atmosphere in the form of steam, which seeps from the overheated skin of the athletes all around him. Like a herd of wild animals they charge through the evergreen trees, and he is both encouraged and intimidated by the other runners.

He realizes that he’s wearing the only green uniform upon this portion of the trail. Is he leading his teammates, or are they pulling away into the distance? He doesn’t know. He can’t remember. The surroundings blur, and all he can focus on is putting one foot in front of the other, inhaling, exhaling, inhaling, passing opponent after opponent until-

Snap. His spikes catch a root and he tumbles forward, head turning to the left, shoulder leaning in, spine curving over, ready to roll through the fall. He hits the mat cleanly, and his inertia carries him through, landing him on his bare feet, ready for the next attack. The instructor steps back, satisfied. They bow to each other, and recite a few lines of ritual prose.

In the dressing room, he unties his belt, removes his robe, runs fingers through his shoulder-length hair. Taekwondo is a kind of meditation for him, a well-rehearsed set of moves which are compiled into an ever-adapting dance with danger. “Blowing off steam”, his mother used to call it, but he prefers to imagine absorbing the positive rather than emitting the negative.

He has been attacked before, outside of the studio, by real people with real weapons. He has never fought back.

The walls of the dressing room fall away, clattering onto cold concrete, and are instantly obscured by a mass of chanting demonstrators. He’s immersed, lightheaded with a near-constant rush of adrenaline, and he thinks that he could die like this. Some have, and he knows it wouldn’t be so bad. But it’s easier to die for a reason than live for one.

He hears the distinctive thunk-hissss and observes a white cloud lifting over the crowd. The shouts of the dissidents become less coordinated, and are soon laced with screams. Gas masks can be seen atop dark figures, the unwatched watchmen. They bury their black truncheons into willing bodies that fall into their path. They do not realize they’re only helping to prove the point.

He takes a deep breath and closes his eyes. He can’t decide which way to turn.

The smoke spreads from the hissing canisters, past the masked officers with bloody hands and the protestors with bloody clothing, and across the coffee table. It’s raining again, but the air is warm and the roof of the porch shields the friends from the downpour. He passes the joint to his left, and then pensively sips his second beer. Leffe, a Belgian wheat beer, sweet and light. He savors the taste, and is momentarily caught up in a fleeting melody wafting from the open door. People are dancing, drinking, reveling in youth and the freedom of summer.

He too is young. He too revels, in his own, quiet way. He believes that the universe has a tendency to work itself out for the better, but doesn’t know why he worries so much. His thoughts intermingle as he contemplates the passage of time, wondering where it will take him next.

The smoke, unperturbed by the rain, drifts away from the porch and into the night.

Like an endless ocean, deep, dark nothingness washes away from our planet into infinity. But trillions of light years away, the waves of space splash upon shores unseen. And amongst these waves, playing about the reefs and bays of planets to which humans have assigned only numbers and vague recognition, exist tiny organisms which defy every assumption of terrestrial biologists. This is the home of the space-octopus.

Memory

The man in the faded suit sat alone on a dilapidated park bench, contemplating the rising sun. For one who had no recollection of the past twelve hours, he was remarkably calm. He shifted, deeply inhaling the sea air, and the bench creaked under his weight.

“Frank.” The deep voice was accompanied by heavy footsteps, and a hand descended upon the man’s shoulder. Even before turning, Frank knew knew who it was.

“How are you, Sam.” He rose to accept the proffered handshake, and then returned to his seat as Sam settled onto the bench next to him.

“You’re on the news,” Sam noted, adjusting his uniform. “I should really tell them that I’ve found you.”

“You always say that.”

“Maybe this time it’s true. Do you know where you’ve been? I didn’t think so. I’d never forgive myself for bringing you in, but Jesus, Frank. You should get help.”

Frank sighed. “I can’t leave all of this. You know they’d never let me see the ocean again.”

The two men sat in silence. A sailboat slowly came into view, drifting north in the gentle breeze. Sam turned to look at Frank, who was still peering into the horizon, and then shifted his gaze back to the water. “I can’t argue with that.”

After a few more minutes of quiet contemplation, Sam cleared his throat and stood. “I’ve gotta get back to the station. Try to take care of yourself, Frank.”

Frank nodded, still fixated on the ocean. Sam hesitated a moment, shook his head, and turned away.

The man in the faded suit watched the stranger walk into the distance, and then returned his attention to the sea.