The dying words of seven men, all unrelated except for expiring at the same time on the same day in the same year and in villages seven miles apart, turned out to be inexplicably the same.
When the doctors took note of this fact, they called a conference in the pleasant harbor town where one of the men, or ‘cases’ as they had become known by now, had spent most his life as an undistinguished civil servant and a ranking mason. Professores and Weltweisheitlehrer from the furthest reaches of the continent debated the seven sets of identical last words for seven days, first trying to establish wether the fact of their being identical necessitated a conclusion that they were, in fact, the same. Then they reviewed the matter of whether their utterers, the ‘cases’ so to speak, were, in fact, the same, despite being factually non-identical.
Plenary meetings crashed like mighty waves upon the rocky shores of working groups, flowing out limply on the sandy beaches of many late night gatherings in smokey sailors’ bars. A good time was, in fact, had by all.
Yet, what this Ebsû was the ‘cases’ warned for with their final aspiration was never satisfactorily resolved, even as, on the morning of the eight day, its mud-stained horns broke the surface of the ocean.
Showing posts with label BookofJob. Show all posts
Showing posts with label BookofJob. Show all posts
Tuesday, July 17, 2012
Saturday, July 7, 2012
The Greatest Epic Ever Told by Mortal Men
Angry, scratching the wet sand with a stick, he accidently wrote the greatest epic ever told by mortal men.
When the tide rose it wept as it washed the verses from the beach, carefully trying to preserve what letters it could in the hollow of its waves. The wind wailed as it blew the lines away, hurling names and battle scenes into the trees, hoping at least some would get caught on the branches. Crabs and tiny sand fleas scurried away with accents and punctuation, piling them high along the walls of their moist, narrow burrows on the flood line. Algae and seaweed tried filtering all the rhetoric and moral teachings they could from the ground swell and passed them on to the shrimp and the flounders. Seagulls flew far inland, carrying ripped topographies and lists of ships in their beaks, dropping them on isolated monasteries and villages when they got exhausted.
Orpheus in the meantime decided that all that fish was probably not gonna catch itself and if that bitch wanted to disappear so badly, good luck to her.
When the tide rose it wept as it washed the verses from the beach, carefully trying to preserve what letters it could in the hollow of its waves. The wind wailed as it blew the lines away, hurling names and battle scenes into the trees, hoping at least some would get caught on the branches. Crabs and tiny sand fleas scurried away with accents and punctuation, piling them high along the walls of their moist, narrow burrows on the flood line. Algae and seaweed tried filtering all the rhetoric and moral teachings they could from the ground swell and passed them on to the shrimp and the flounders. Seagulls flew far inland, carrying ripped topographies and lists of ships in their beaks, dropping them on isolated monasteries and villages when they got exhausted.
Orpheus in the meantime decided that all that fish was probably not gonna catch itself and if that bitch wanted to disappear so badly, good luck to her.
Saturday, June 30, 2012
The Teacher of Silence
Deep beneath the city, beneath the busy streets and the basements; beneath the foundations of office blocks and the electrical wiring and beneath the fiberglass communications cables; beneath the gargling rivers of sewage and deep below the panting subway lines, lives a tiny, velvet mole.
Unbeknownst to anyone, this mole is the main teacher of silence in the world.
As far as he’s concerned, however, his lecture hall is brimming over every day. His students are oh so eager to learn from him, shouting incomprehensible questions in just any language that springs to mind. This is something the mole likes. He appreciates enthusiasm. The mole loves questions, even if his answer is almost every time the same. Such, though, is a teacher’s fate.
The mole has never had occasion to doubt his professorial abilities. He has never seen any of his unwitting students not, in the end, just get it.
Unbeknownst to anyone, this mole is the main teacher of silence in the world.
As far as he’s concerned, however, his lecture hall is brimming over every day. His students are oh so eager to learn from him, shouting incomprehensible questions in just any language that springs to mind. This is something the mole likes. He appreciates enthusiasm. The mole loves questions, even if his answer is almost every time the same. Such, though, is a teacher’s fate.
The mole has never had occasion to doubt his professorial abilities. He has never seen any of his unwitting students not, in the end, just get it.
Tuesday, June 26, 2012
Squirrels Pushing Little Girls into Wells
I used to write stories in which squirrels pushed little girls into a well.
I wrote in bars because at home there’s just so much distraction as well as that I just looked good with my notebook and my pen and my chilly, untouched coffee. I guess I don’t know but you probably saw me before but certainly I’d seen you because well you were handsome and I like beauty but anyway you did come up to me that day and asked what I was doing.
I am writing a story in which a squirrel pushes a little girl into a well.
Why? you said.
Well, there could be many reasons. That’s what makes it a story, right? Maybe the squirrel was jealous of the little girl's pink dress. Or maybe he wanted to take revenge for her picking his favorite flower. In the story I am writing now, the squirrel is actually a witch and the well
But you were gone already. Maybe you just came up to me on a dare. Or to convert me to your religion. Or to ask for a quarter to use the pay phone. Or to get some sugar from the bowl in my booth. Or maybe it’s just that you thought I was somebody else.
Somebody famous and better.
I wrote in bars because at home there’s just so much distraction as well as that I just looked good with my notebook and my pen and my chilly, untouched coffee. I guess I don’t know but you probably saw me before but certainly I’d seen you because well you were handsome and I like beauty but anyway you did come up to me that day and asked what I was doing.
I am writing a story in which a squirrel pushes a little girl into a well.
Why? you said.
Well, there could be many reasons. That’s what makes it a story, right? Maybe the squirrel was jealous of the little girl's pink dress. Or maybe he wanted to take revenge for her picking his favorite flower. In the story I am writing now, the squirrel is actually a witch and the well
But you were gone already. Maybe you just came up to me on a dare. Or to convert me to your religion. Or to ask for a quarter to use the pay phone. Or to get some sugar from the bowl in my booth. Or maybe it’s just that you thought I was somebody else.
Somebody famous and better.
Saturday, June 23, 2012
Abandoned to God
The desert is full of blind men these days, all abandoned to God.
It started out as just a local tradition. Now, though, they come from far away. Some even put their own eyes out. They use knives and spoons. Even their own dirty fingernails.
Still others, believing such an action would be hubris, patiently stage accidents. They leave rusty canisters of acid on a shelf above their beds, robbing themselves of sight purely by chance or, if you will, by invited grace of the divine.
They’ve driven the sandy hoot-owls from the desert now with their night-long wails for succor and repentance, their filthy feet wrapped in filthy rags flattening the dunes and trampling the lizards and the spiders.
The townsfolk and the nomads fear the blind men, thinking them harbingers of judgement. They leave them packs of dates and full water-skins behind the palms that line the camel trails, especially now since every night the hoot-owls gather on the edges on the flat roofs of the huts around the caravanserai.
Anyone can tell those wide-eyed hoot-owls are bad luck and messengers from God.
It started out as just a local tradition. Now, though, they come from far away. Some even put their own eyes out. They use knives and spoons. Even their own dirty fingernails.
Still others, believing such an action would be hubris, patiently stage accidents. They leave rusty canisters of acid on a shelf above their beds, robbing themselves of sight purely by chance or, if you will, by invited grace of the divine.
They’ve driven the sandy hoot-owls from the desert now with their night-long wails for succor and repentance, their filthy feet wrapped in filthy rags flattening the dunes and trampling the lizards and the spiders.
The townsfolk and the nomads fear the blind men, thinking them harbingers of judgement. They leave them packs of dates and full water-skins behind the palms that line the camel trails, especially now since every night the hoot-owls gather on the edges on the flat roofs of the huts around the caravanserai.
Anyone can tell those wide-eyed hoot-owls are bad luck and messengers from God.
Thursday, June 21, 2012
A Platonic Solid
There was a bakelite light switch that you actually had to turn, not flick, on the left side of the attic stairs, which, when turned, would produce a solid click which I still, after all these years, imagine any button sometimes secretly makes at night, just for its own amusement.
So, yeah, it turns out the world of Platonic ideals is actually my grandparents’ house when I was six years old and it took a really long time to get there.
So, yeah, it turns out the world of Platonic ideals is actually my grandparents’ house when I was six years old and it took a really long time to get there.
Tuesday, June 19, 2012
The Book of Job
I remember a shred of a song about seeing the Devil late one afternoon, sitting crouched on a traffic sign.
Who do you come for? the singer asks.
Not for you is the Devil’s answer. Not for you, today.
But you’re the Devil! the chorus goes.
You’re the Devil and a liar and an ugly cheat!
The Devil just laughs and vanishes, leaving his tattered coat, a torn black plastic bag, flapping wildly, stuck in a nearby tree.
Friday, June 15, 2012
A Ship in the Doldrums
A man hated the house that he lived in.
He hated the doors and the bathroom. He hated the windows and the kitchen. He hated the high oak cupboard in which he kept his silverware and some paperwork. He hated the couch. He hated the coffee table and the dog-eared books he put on it, between his half-drunk coffee and the ashtray.
Whenever he went to sleep, he hated his bed and turned the light off. And just before he finally lost consciousness he would hate himself for living every day in such a place.
In his dreams he would kick his house until it cried. Then he would hold it, just hold it, like the doldrums hold a stranded ship.
Just the ship and the waves. Gently rocking each other.
He hated the doors and the bathroom. He hated the windows and the kitchen. He hated the high oak cupboard in which he kept his silverware and some paperwork. He hated the couch. He hated the coffee table and the dog-eared books he put on it, between his half-drunk coffee and the ashtray.
Whenever he went to sleep, he hated his bed and turned the light off. And just before he finally lost consciousness he would hate himself for living every day in such a place.
In his dreams he would kick his house until it cried. Then he would hold it, just hold it, like the doldrums hold a stranded ship.
Just the ship and the waves. Gently rocking each other.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)