1.
If you were to walk the streets of the City, take a left here, a right there, and turn down a dark alley (the alley stinking of garbage, strewn with strange bones; if you happen to glimpse the quick flash of yellow eyes, don’t be alarmed; keep walking, but keep your pace brisk), you would soon come to a door painted red, propped open with a milk crate, a door from which you would smell the heady scent of jasmine incense, and hear the voice of a girl. She is telling a story.
There once was a dirt road in a soft, grassy meadow, she says. It stretched down the polite hills of tall grass, all the way to the base of the mountain in the distance…
This again, a boy says. The unmistakable sound of cigarette smoke being pulled into lungs, and let out again with a small cough. You’ve told this story a thousand times, let’s hear something different, the boy complains.
Shut up, for fuck’s sake. A new speaker; this time, a girl with a voice sharp as the edge of a knife. Let her tell it, Gabe, she says.
There, though you could not see it from the best sitting spots, it ran parallel to the stream for a while, the first girl continues. She has a soft voice, pink like cotton-candy, although there is a deepness to it when she mouths the letter ‘o’. It is quite lovely, the way she speaks, like she’s singing.
Then it began to climb the mountain, she says. She interrupts herself to giggle. We’re getting to the good part, she says. You know, the part with the children and the tree and, oh, first the seed, and the colors and everything. Do you guys think the children represent anything? she asks. I think they probably mean, um, maybe that it’s important to hold onto your youth, or…let’s see, maybe it’s the Garden and the children are the First and…something, I’m not sure. But I really do love this story, especially the part with the leaves changing color. I would love a tree with purple leaves, I would…
Fresia, the sharp-edged voice warns, though it’s softer now. Tell the story, ok?
Ok.
You could see that from anywhere in the meadow below: the road took on a gradual incline and meandered up the mountainside, making turns anytime the climb was too great, the cotton-candy voice says. Then, with a little humble triumph, it traveled over the top, and the little trail went off into eternity….
2.
There is a place they call the Borderlands. It is not advised that you walk there alone, or at night. Nightmares abound. Have you ever wondered what happens to nightmares when you wake up? Of course not. No sensible person would. It is not for us to consider.
Here is where you will find the Black Dogs. Here is where you will find the tall tree and the rope. Here is where you will find the men with the missing eyes, and the scars for mouths. Abandon all hope, ye who enter here; for here, there be dragons.
3.
Here is a story.
There is a boy ambling along the sidewalk. He holds a cigarette in his right hand, tosses a crumpled empty pack into the gutter with his left. Although he ambles, his movements are graceful and dangerous; the movements of a predator. From out the back of his jeans, the swishing of a white tail.
A man passes the boy on the sidewalk. The briefest pause. The man is wearing a shiny black suit, and his hair is white, slicked back like it’s been licked. A few more steps, and the man turns. The boy stops. The two face each other on the sidewalk, and their pose is the timeless dance of predator and prey, killer and victim. The boy flicks his cigarette, grinds it out with the heel of his boot.
If you look closely – and you will have time to look closely, as the boy and man are not moving – you will see that they have the same eyes, uncannily green like peacock feathers, and the same sharp cheekbones like warpaint across their faces.
The boy pulls back the hood of his sweater, and rubs his soft cat ears with both hands. A look of distaste crosses the man face.
Who are you? the boy asks.
The man says nothing. His green eyes move left to right, following the swish of the boy’s white tail.
You’re not me, the boy says.
I’m not, the man says.
What are you? the man asks. He spits out the words like they are bitter. The look of distaste again.
The boy says nothing. He looks at the man’s black briefcase, shiny as a beetle.
I think I’m dreaming, the man says.
You’re not, the boy answers. His ears swivel like satellites now, listening.
4.
There are some nightmares you don’t wake up from. These nightmares are called life. This is the City.
5.
If you were to look up, you would see a building reaching to the sky, so high up its silver nose hits the clouds, and, one assumes, continues for miles more. Men have given this building a name, but it does not concern us. Only a privileged few are even allowed to enter the revolving front doors. You will know you’re not invited if the doors simply turn and turn, never spitting you out onto the marble-floored and into the gleaming lobby.
There is a room in this building, hidden somewhere in the Escher hallways and Mobius folds of it, a room you will find on no blueprint, a room that is rarely spoken of by the inhabitants of the building. If they do speak of it – they do so haltingly, in the softest of whispers.
The Ladies have excellent hearing for their advanced age.
If you were to find this room, you would recognize it immediately. You have glimpsed it at the edge of every nightmare. You have smelled it in every hospital. And you’ve met the Ladies, many times.
The Ladies have many names, but they acknowledge none of them. The Ladies are fond of props, so the room is scattered with cauldrons, balls of string, fake beards. They tell stories, and every story begins like this:
Once upon on a time…
Each story is judged for its complexity, its use of metaphor and simile, its ability to move the listener. The Ladies make each other cry, and so this is deemed a successful story. Beware: the Ladies love soap operas; the Ladies love irony.
Listen closely. The Ladies are telling your story.
6.
The tree had grown again, and he could not see her, the cotton-candy voiced girl is saying. She was gone, the girl says, and there is an upward movement to her voice in the sound of the ‘g’, like a fish caught on a hook. She heaves a shaky breath, and the room is silent.
Tell another one, the sharp-voiced girl says. Tell us a story.
6.
You are here. This is the City.
Thursday, September 24, 2009
Friday, September 18, 2009
The Children
There once was a dirt road in a soft, grassy meadow. It stretched down the polite hills of tall grass, all the way to the base of the mountain in the distance. There, though you could not see it from the best sitting spots, it ran parallel to the stream for a while. Then it began to climb the mountain. You could see that from anywhere in the meadow below: the road took on a gradual incline and meandered up the mountainside, making turns anytime the climb was too great. Then, with a little humble triumph, it traveled over the top, and the little trail went off into eternity.
There were 3 good sitting spots in the meadow. But the best one of all was the one that overlooked the road on both sides of its journey. After it came up from the stream, and cut between the 3rd and 2nd best sitting spots in the meadow, it gave a soft turn to the left. And then, after a brief stretch, it disappeared into the forest; a place less traveled. There was a small hill, an antelope’s gallop from where the road turned to the left, which was perfect. The grass was always green there; soft, tall and lush. You could watch the road climb down from the mountain, or watch it disappear into the unknown. It was there that the sunrises looked the best.
Two children had discovered this sitting spot one day. Every day they came out to play in the meadow. They ran and giggled and often tripped. The boy found snakes and the girl braided grass, and they both sat in their spot when they were tired. Napping never felt so beautiful.
One day the boy woke up before the girl. And instead of a snake, he found a seed.
~~~
We are the children borne of a yesterday that never existed. And while the fathers of tomorrow call and clamour for the abortion that never happened, the smell of our carcasses pollutes their skyline. What sweet treasure is this, where devils run scared of their own handiwork? Cruel temptation. And how the sacred must reply in kind, silenced by echoes. The Becoming mute their own pleas for pity. And I am left with cigarette smoke. There is no more comfortable lie.
Bodies of long dead homeless decorated the streets below. Old abandoned buildings crammed next to one another for warmth in the chill of emptiness. The windows were all boarded up, illustrated with the graffiti of a former time. Garbage drifted in the early morning breeze. Noise was not heard, but its absence was felt. It was not the night that had sapped these slums of all their savagery; they had always been this way. In the distance, the buildings began to stretch like trees and movement started.
And so the silver spires rise to deceive the skies.
Jacob looked on from the overpass above. He stood as if to preside over the absence below. His long, black hair fell to the collar of his trench-coat. His frame was the very foundation of a man. His feet were naked and bloody. A cigarette hung between his lips.
A vehicle approached. This was an event. Cars did not travel on this bridge. It was long abandoned; the same excommunication of the slums had encouraged the barren roads. Nothing travelled on this road anymore. Jacob himself would not take this exodus.
The vehicle stopped. Someone got out. It was her.
“You really are insane, Jacob, you know that? The fucking Borderlands – I find you taking a morning stroll in the fucking Borderlands? Just once I wish you would make some kind of sense, ya know? Like normal people?”
Jacob shrugged, barely acknowledging his acquaintance. We all become sons to our own children.
“Faaaaaaaaaaaaack. See? This is what I mean. You can’t even talk like other people. You always gotta do the mind-thing. Tele-apathy or whatever.” She walked forward, animatedly tapping her head to emphasize her point. It was little use, however. Jacob had his back turned and continued to lean on the overpass railing. “What the hell are you doing here, anyways?”
Spiritus Mundi
~~~
“Where should we plant it – where should we plant it?” the girl asked excitedly. She had just woken up and was skipping around with glee after hearing about the seed. The grass braids in her hair bounced playfully. “I think we should plant it here, by the road. Because then people going by can enjoy it!” She smiled a big toothy smile, and her eyes were bright and cheerful.
The boy had just rolled down the hill, and was covered in grass and soil. His face was painted with dirt. He pretended to look very seriously at the area that the girl had suggested, but in truth he was just as excited as she was. “Hmm,” he said. “There aren’t too many snakes here. And we can carry water from the stream.”
“And when the sun comes over the mountains it will shower the plant in gold,” the girl said, grinning as big as her face would let her. “The sunlight always lands right here,” she said, accenting her point with a twirl. Her voice sounded like innocence.
So that’s what they did. They planted the seed a few feet from the bend in the dirt road. He dug a hole with his hands and dropped in the seed and she made sure that the lump was properly tended. Then they ran all the way down to the stream and ran all the way back up with water in their clasped hands. Not much was left after it had spilled and leaked from between their fingers, but it was enough make the soil wet. And there was plenty of laughter left over.
~~~
It started to rain. A light sprinkle fell from the thick clouds above. “What? What the hell does Spiritus Mundi mean? Now you’re not even speaking English!”
Dawns were meant to be missed. Dusks meant to be revered. It is the very spirit of the world.
“Well, listen, Jay. I don’t give a shit about dawns or dusks or the world. But I do care about spirits - do you know what they say about this place?”
This is our world, turned to stone.
“No... they say that strange spirits once lived here. Barbaric invisible things, and now they’re homeless. They’ll take revenge on anything that lingers here!” She grabbed his arm and turned him towards her. “We gotta get-“
The scars always made her flinch. “We gotta get out of here. You know, go back into the city limits.”
His eyes were two different colours – one red and the other didn’t matter. And the scars littered his face, though long since healed. He tossed his cigarette.
The fleshy fingers of fantasy wrap around reality. Their empty shells protect a growth that’s never tasted life. A death in a cage is an execution of soul. A sour rot of condemnation. Where is your conviction? Can you not hear beyond your echo? Do not stay dead there, dear child.
She drew back. “What? What are you talking about. Oh God... They don’t have you, do they? They do. Shit. Shit, shit, shit. Jacob, snap out of it. We’ve got to go. Get in the car,” she marched across the empty street hurriedly. The rain was really coming down now. He stood there and opened his hands to the weather.
“JESUS FUCKING CHRIST GET IN THE CAR!!” Her frustration burst.
The daughter of Lucifer laughs God’s tears. She scampers around her own creation. Hell would keep her out, but her ambitions are angelic. She would build wings for man in exchange for a cage. And they would build it, and never walk again.
Your Borderlands long for love. The sunlight always lands right here.
His coat was soaked.
~~~
The seed grew into a sapling, and that sapling grew into a tree. The girl was right. The location was perfect, and the dawn always struck first light on the ground where they had planted it. It grew fast and strong as a result. Its trunk was firm and before they thought it possible, its branches were reaching for the sky. In the spring the tree bloomed wonderful bright colours – wild pink and purple buds.
Passer-bys often enjoyed the shade and stopped for a while. They would eat lunch and then pack up and head into the forest. It was the perfect break for people who had just climbed over the mountain. The two children looked after the tree. When a bird made a nest, the boy always found worms for it. When visitors had left their garbage, the girl always picked it up. And in the afternoons, they would both sit in their sitting spot and call down to the tree.
“Hey tree! Can you grow orange leaves?”
“Of course it can grow orange leaves. But you have to wait until next season, silly.” They giggled and laughed.
“Hey tree! Can you reach the stars?
“Maybe it can!”
The tree never answered them, of course, but if it could have, it would have told them that it reached for the stars every day. It could turn orange, but it really preferred purple in the spring. And it would have told them that they picked a very good spot, and that it was looking forward to spending its life with them. It would have told them that it longed to be with them, and it was terrified for the day when they might move on, as all of the travellers did.
Over time, the tree began to worry more. And though the children laughed and climbed and showed no signs of age, the tree began to grow frightened that they would one day lose their love of it. It did not want to be alone. So, every time they suggested a different colour, it would change colours the very next season. And every time they were too tired to walk up their little hill, it gave them the best, thickest shade it could muster. And every time they asked it about the heavens, it grew more determined to pluck the stars from the sky. Whatever they wanted or wondered, it would give them.
And one day, it grew so tall and thick and bright, that it blocked out the sun. It blocked out the view of the mountain, and the view of the forest. And then the best sitting spot in the meadow saw no more sunrises. All the children could see was their tree.
“This is boring,” the boy complained. “The shade has made the grass wilt. And I’m cold.”
“No!” The girl ran down to the tree trunk and gave it a big hug. “We can’t leave it! It’s our baby!”
“Please? It’s boring. It’s just a lot of work. Ya can’t climb it, it’s too big! And I can’t see it, ‘cause it’s too dark! And it takes up so much room, you can’t even plant anything else!” The boy was pouting now. This wasn’t any fun.
“Fine! YOU leave,” she said, with her hands on her hips. “But I’m staying. We gotta protect it!”
“WHY? It doesn’t need protecting! Look how huge it is!! COME ON. Let’s GOOOOOO.” The boy stomped in a circle.
“No. You just don’t understand.”
“FINE!” The boy stamped away. When he reached the boarder of the forest he looked back. The tree had grown again, and he could not see her. She was gone.
~~~
“Jacob, I’m leaving.” She had to shout against the rain. She jumped inside her vehicle and slammed the door shut. Her wet fingers fumbled with the keys.
What affections do your fake forests feign?
He was at her window. She locked the door. “Please work, please work, please work.” It started. The windshield wipers started along with the engine. “Fucker can take care of himself.” Her foot pressed down on the metal pedal and the car moved forward against the rain.
All the world a spirit without a shell.
She didn’t look back.
There were 3 good sitting spots in the meadow. But the best one of all was the one that overlooked the road on both sides of its journey. After it came up from the stream, and cut between the 3rd and 2nd best sitting spots in the meadow, it gave a soft turn to the left. And then, after a brief stretch, it disappeared into the forest; a place less traveled. There was a small hill, an antelope’s gallop from where the road turned to the left, which was perfect. The grass was always green there; soft, tall and lush. You could watch the road climb down from the mountain, or watch it disappear into the unknown. It was there that the sunrises looked the best.
Two children had discovered this sitting spot one day. Every day they came out to play in the meadow. They ran and giggled and often tripped. The boy found snakes and the girl braided grass, and they both sat in their spot when they were tired. Napping never felt so beautiful.
One day the boy woke up before the girl. And instead of a snake, he found a seed.
~~~
We are the children borne of a yesterday that never existed. And while the fathers of tomorrow call and clamour for the abortion that never happened, the smell of our carcasses pollutes their skyline. What sweet treasure is this, where devils run scared of their own handiwork? Cruel temptation. And how the sacred must reply in kind, silenced by echoes. The Becoming mute their own pleas for pity. And I am left with cigarette smoke. There is no more comfortable lie.
Bodies of long dead homeless decorated the streets below. Old abandoned buildings crammed next to one another for warmth in the chill of emptiness. The windows were all boarded up, illustrated with the graffiti of a former time. Garbage drifted in the early morning breeze. Noise was not heard, but its absence was felt. It was not the night that had sapped these slums of all their savagery; they had always been this way. In the distance, the buildings began to stretch like trees and movement started.
And so the silver spires rise to deceive the skies.
Jacob looked on from the overpass above. He stood as if to preside over the absence below. His long, black hair fell to the collar of his trench-coat. His frame was the very foundation of a man. His feet were naked and bloody. A cigarette hung between his lips.
A vehicle approached. This was an event. Cars did not travel on this bridge. It was long abandoned; the same excommunication of the slums had encouraged the barren roads. Nothing travelled on this road anymore. Jacob himself would not take this exodus.
The vehicle stopped. Someone got out. It was her.
“You really are insane, Jacob, you know that? The fucking Borderlands – I find you taking a morning stroll in the fucking Borderlands? Just once I wish you would make some kind of sense, ya know? Like normal people?”
Jacob shrugged, barely acknowledging his acquaintance. We all become sons to our own children.
“Faaaaaaaaaaaaack. See? This is what I mean. You can’t even talk like other people. You always gotta do the mind-thing. Tele-apathy or whatever.” She walked forward, animatedly tapping her head to emphasize her point. It was little use, however. Jacob had his back turned and continued to lean on the overpass railing. “What the hell are you doing here, anyways?”
Spiritus Mundi
~~~
“Where should we plant it – where should we plant it?” the girl asked excitedly. She had just woken up and was skipping around with glee after hearing about the seed. The grass braids in her hair bounced playfully. “I think we should plant it here, by the road. Because then people going by can enjoy it!” She smiled a big toothy smile, and her eyes were bright and cheerful.
The boy had just rolled down the hill, and was covered in grass and soil. His face was painted with dirt. He pretended to look very seriously at the area that the girl had suggested, but in truth he was just as excited as she was. “Hmm,” he said. “There aren’t too many snakes here. And we can carry water from the stream.”
“And when the sun comes over the mountains it will shower the plant in gold,” the girl said, grinning as big as her face would let her. “The sunlight always lands right here,” she said, accenting her point with a twirl. Her voice sounded like innocence.
So that’s what they did. They planted the seed a few feet from the bend in the dirt road. He dug a hole with his hands and dropped in the seed and she made sure that the lump was properly tended. Then they ran all the way down to the stream and ran all the way back up with water in their clasped hands. Not much was left after it had spilled and leaked from between their fingers, but it was enough make the soil wet. And there was plenty of laughter left over.
~~~
It started to rain. A light sprinkle fell from the thick clouds above. “What? What the hell does Spiritus Mundi mean? Now you’re not even speaking English!”
Dawns were meant to be missed. Dusks meant to be revered. It is the very spirit of the world.
“Well, listen, Jay. I don’t give a shit about dawns or dusks or the world. But I do care about spirits - do you know what they say about this place?”
This is our world, turned to stone.
“No... they say that strange spirits once lived here. Barbaric invisible things, and now they’re homeless. They’ll take revenge on anything that lingers here!” She grabbed his arm and turned him towards her. “We gotta get-“
The scars always made her flinch. “We gotta get out of here. You know, go back into the city limits.”
His eyes were two different colours – one red and the other didn’t matter. And the scars littered his face, though long since healed. He tossed his cigarette.
The fleshy fingers of fantasy wrap around reality. Their empty shells protect a growth that’s never tasted life. A death in a cage is an execution of soul. A sour rot of condemnation. Where is your conviction? Can you not hear beyond your echo? Do not stay dead there, dear child.
She drew back. “What? What are you talking about. Oh God... They don’t have you, do they? They do. Shit. Shit, shit, shit. Jacob, snap out of it. We’ve got to go. Get in the car,” she marched across the empty street hurriedly. The rain was really coming down now. He stood there and opened his hands to the weather.
“JESUS FUCKING CHRIST GET IN THE CAR!!” Her frustration burst.
The daughter of Lucifer laughs God’s tears. She scampers around her own creation. Hell would keep her out, but her ambitions are angelic. She would build wings for man in exchange for a cage. And they would build it, and never walk again.
Your Borderlands long for love. The sunlight always lands right here.
His coat was soaked.
~~~
The seed grew into a sapling, and that sapling grew into a tree. The girl was right. The location was perfect, and the dawn always struck first light on the ground where they had planted it. It grew fast and strong as a result. Its trunk was firm and before they thought it possible, its branches were reaching for the sky. In the spring the tree bloomed wonderful bright colours – wild pink and purple buds.
Passer-bys often enjoyed the shade and stopped for a while. They would eat lunch and then pack up and head into the forest. It was the perfect break for people who had just climbed over the mountain. The two children looked after the tree. When a bird made a nest, the boy always found worms for it. When visitors had left their garbage, the girl always picked it up. And in the afternoons, they would both sit in their sitting spot and call down to the tree.
“Hey tree! Can you grow orange leaves?”
“Of course it can grow orange leaves. But you have to wait until next season, silly.” They giggled and laughed.
“Hey tree! Can you reach the stars?
“Maybe it can!”
The tree never answered them, of course, but if it could have, it would have told them that it reached for the stars every day. It could turn orange, but it really preferred purple in the spring. And it would have told them that they picked a very good spot, and that it was looking forward to spending its life with them. It would have told them that it longed to be with them, and it was terrified for the day when they might move on, as all of the travellers did.
Over time, the tree began to worry more. And though the children laughed and climbed and showed no signs of age, the tree began to grow frightened that they would one day lose their love of it. It did not want to be alone. So, every time they suggested a different colour, it would change colours the very next season. And every time they were too tired to walk up their little hill, it gave them the best, thickest shade it could muster. And every time they asked it about the heavens, it grew more determined to pluck the stars from the sky. Whatever they wanted or wondered, it would give them.
And one day, it grew so tall and thick and bright, that it blocked out the sun. It blocked out the view of the mountain, and the view of the forest. And then the best sitting spot in the meadow saw no more sunrises. All the children could see was their tree.
“This is boring,” the boy complained. “The shade has made the grass wilt. And I’m cold.”
“No!” The girl ran down to the tree trunk and gave it a big hug. “We can’t leave it! It’s our baby!”
“Please? It’s boring. It’s just a lot of work. Ya can’t climb it, it’s too big! And I can’t see it, ‘cause it’s too dark! And it takes up so much room, you can’t even plant anything else!” The boy was pouting now. This wasn’t any fun.
“Fine! YOU leave,” she said, with her hands on her hips. “But I’m staying. We gotta protect it!”
“WHY? It doesn’t need protecting! Look how huge it is!! COME ON. Let’s GOOOOOO.” The boy stomped in a circle.
“No. You just don’t understand.”
“FINE!” The boy stamped away. When he reached the boarder of the forest he looked back. The tree had grown again, and he could not see her. She was gone.
~~~
“Jacob, I’m leaving.” She had to shout against the rain. She jumped inside her vehicle and slammed the door shut. Her wet fingers fumbled with the keys.
What affections do your fake forests feign?
He was at her window. She locked the door. “Please work, please work, please work.” It started. The windshield wipers started along with the engine. “Fucker can take care of himself.” Her foot pressed down on the metal pedal and the car moved forward against the rain.
All the world a spirit without a shell.
She didn’t look back.
Friday, September 11, 2009
...And All The Devils Are Here
This is the story of a girl. This is the story of a girl who devours. This is the story of Fat Girl, dragging herself along, all by the fat of her white white arms.
Meet Fat Girl! Meet the girl you’ve only dreamed about, you’ve only nightmar-ed about. She speaks in grunts, sniffs your shoes with her raw shiny snout. Maggot-white, plucked chicken skin. More insect than woman, more meat than girl.
Here she is, our girl, dressed in a pretty red bow, all dolled up for the show.
'Step right up, boys - roll up, roll up! She’s a wonder, ain’t she? A natural freak, a born performer; she’s even gained the power of speech! Step up, step up.
She can recite poetry (Plath is a favorite, boys, so watch out), sing a medley of tunes (observe how her hooves tap in time!), and bite the heads off chickens. She drinks their blood, our lovely geek, she does! Step up, and see the woman-who-is-not, the Mistress of Maggots, the Queen of Corpulence, Our Lady of Immaculate Decay, the amazing-spectacular-you’ll-never-see-another-thing-like-it, Fat Girl!
This is our girl, boys. Do with her whatever you will.'
***
She lives in cages. She is filthy. She is an animal; this is what she's been told. She eats whatever they give her. They throw meat into her cage, from time to time. It's often green, seething with maggots. They call her maggot. They call her ugly. She knows what she is. She's been told.
Her teeth hurt.
She bites the heads off chickens. Their blood is salty and warm. She’s learned to like it. She’s learned to pretend to like it. The crowd likes it when she laps up the blood. From the chicken to the sawdusty floor to her hands to her mouth.
She’s forgotten the words for many things.
What’s the word for the thing you eat, the red thing that shines and tastes like summer? She can’t remember what it’s called. She forgot that one awhile ago. She’s lost more words recently. That animal that’s like a horse but isn’t. The color before purple. The days of the week, except for Sunday and sometimes, when she concentrates very hard, Thursday.
She knows other words:
'Herr God, Herr Lucifer
Beware
Beware.
Out of the ash
I rise with my red hair
And I eat men like air.'
The men like that one. They nudge each other with their elbows when she recites it, and cackle out a smile. Their eyes devour her.
Sometimes, when the crowd is restless, she will take a deep breath and recite:
'Full fathom five thy father lies;
Of his bones are coral made;
Those are pearls that were his eyes;
Nothing of him that does fade,
But doth suffer a sea-change
Into something rich and strange.
Sea-nymphs hourly ring his knell:
Ding-dong,
Hark! Now I hear them – Ding-dong, bell.'
She knows to enunciate like a good girl, but in this one she sings. These are good words. Sometimes the men cry.
She doesn’t remember what coral is.
***
Dreaming.
She is in a room. A bedroom. There is a bed, big and pink, covered in pillows, and a ledge runs round the room. So many books. Stuffed animals: a beaver that looks like a doctor, a chicken in an apron, a cat wearing a pink dress. Some kind of altar on the dresser. A Buddha, Jesus, Kali, candles, a soapstone polar bear.
She knows the names of everything. This does not feel unusual. Everything is familiar. She’s been in this room before.
She walks out of the room into a hallway that smells like blueberries. Bathroom, bedroom, laundry room, kitchen. Living room. She lives here. She is at home. Cats at her ankles. One black, one grey. They purr at her feet. She reaches down to scratch behind the grey cat’s ears, and – in the abrupt way of dreams - she is in a different room now.
An office. The clackity-clack of keyboards, phones ringing, the low murmur of voices. She works here. As she walks towards a desk that she knows is hers, faces look up from their screens and smile. Someone says her name.
She recognizes her name, and knows – in the strange way of dreams - that if she turns her head and responds, she will…
‘Wake up!’
She’s forgotten the dream by the time she opens her eyes.
***
Tonight, she is performing in the City. They have told her that this is her Big Break. This is the City that will make her a Star. Her many names are on the lips of all the men in the City.
She is pulled along in her cage, atop a flatbed truck. Canvas covers the cage; no one will see her for free. It’s cold. She stamps her hooves and wraps her white white arms around herself, but she can’t get warm. The sounds of the City surround her: car horns, the belch and burp of exhaust, prophets shouting on every corner. Or so she assumes. She can’t hear much, not really, and she’s forgotten the words for most of the things she thinks she might hear. Some kind of bird that one finds in cities. Grey and purple and silver and shiny, with a funny whooping call. What are they called? She might hear something like that, maybe.
She practices:
'Empty, I echo to the least footfall,
Museum without statues, grand with pillars, porticoes, rotundas.
In my courtyard a fountain leaps and sinks back into itself,
Nun-hearted and blind to the world. Marble lilies
Exhale their pallor like scent.
I imagine myself with a great public,
Mother of a white Nike and several bald-eyed Apollos.
Instead, the dead injure me attentions, and nothing can happen.
Blank-faced and mum as a nurse.'
They haven’t described the place where she is performing to her, but she has overheard the men talking about it. A building that reaches to the sky, they’ve said.
She chose the poem all by herself. She doesn’t know what it means.
She thinks she will snort at the end, when she says the word ‘nurse’. It will get a laugh.
***
The first time she performed she was awkward, all stutters and pauses; when she was quiet she could hear the men breathing, and working their zippers down. The second time she performed her white skin was pink from the lash, and though she still stuttered, she knew not to pause this time. She took to grunting to cover the silence and the sound of men panting and fumbling clumsily in their pants. The grunts made sense, she thought. They got a laugh.
She could still think clearly back then. She hadn’t forgotten so many words.
The third time she performed someone threw a live chicken on stage. She didn’t know what to do, but the men shouting out her names – by that time she was already the Lady Lump, Fat Girl, the Real Medusa – seemed to be calling for her blood, and so to sate them she grabbed the terrified chicken, bit into its thin neck, and lets its blood spill down her own fat neck.
It worked. The fourth time she performed they wanted only the chicken’s blood, and were content to watch her dance (tapping her hooves like an expert) and listen to her recite her poems.
By the hundredth performance she has forgotten what most of the poems mean.
***
Dreaming again.
She is in a hallway, dragging herself along by her white white arms. Her legs are useless; her feet twitch like maggots, her hooves have been sliced off. Her tongue flicks its pink self up at her from the floor. Her fat fingers scrabble at the stone floor.
There are men in the hallway, but they are still. Their eyes are open, they are smiling at her. Their mouths don’t move, but she hears them whisper.
‘Turning and turning in the widening gyre, the falcon cannot hear the falconer’, they murmur. ‘Things fall apart; the centre cannot hold’, and their voices are sibilant. Once upon a time she used snakes in her act, and when they spoke to her they spoke in these very voices. ‘Mere anarchy’, they say breathlessly, ‘Mere anarchy is loosed upon the world’, they lisp and hiss. ‘Mere anarchy,’ and they get louder and louder, and she looks up, then, at the mirrored ceiling, and the men up there are moving. Reaching down to her with hands gone to paws, fingers gone to claws. They are not smiling, although their lips pull back from their teeth in something almost like smiles.
‘The blood-dimmer tide is loosed’, they say (and here the figures in the mirror seem to grow bigger and the not-smiles get wider) ‘and everywhere the ceremony of innocence is drowned’, they say (and now she is pulling herself along the floor, bloody from her useless legs and open mouth which seem to be bleeding even more, soaking her dress and red ribbon even redder), ‘the best lack all conviction, while the worst are full of passionate intensity’, they say (and the claws are reaching down down down through the mirrored ceiling to scratch at her, and she’s left her tongue behind her so she can’t even finish the poem for them) ‘surely some’…
‘That is e-fucking-nough! Some fucking revelation, yeah, I think we’ve both heard it before. Spiritus Mundi, and all that. Whatever that means.’
A girl standing above her, staring down with ferocious blue eyes. Black black hair. The distinct impression of hooves in her boots. ‘I won’t ask you to get up, that’s probably not an option . But you need to leave this place now. You have no idea what these men have planned for you. I don’t either, to be honest, but if I know anything about men it won’t be a fucking square dance sweetheart. I can’t do it for you, but you have to leave.’
The men are speaking around her, still. The figures in the mirror are reaching down, desperately. ‘Troubles my sight,’ they whisper, ‘troubles my sight, troubles my sight’. The blood has not stopped. She cannot feel her legs.
The girl in the purple dress tells her, again, that she has to leave. Now. She tries to ask ‘How?’, but the word is lost in the useless wet flesh of her mouth.
‘I don’t fucking know!’ the girl says. ‘Do you think I asked for this? All I know is, you can’t be here, and I think you need to fucking wake up, right now!’
Hands are reaching, and the girl with the ferocious blue eyes is screaming at the men, something about shadows and bird and lions, and finally Fat Girl - the Baroness of Beasts, the Princess of Piss, the monster with a thousand different names – in all the din of noise and commotion, knows exactly how she will do it…
***
Wake up.
Wake up.
It’s finally time to wake up.
Meet Fat Girl! Meet the girl you’ve only dreamed about, you’ve only nightmar-ed about. She speaks in grunts, sniffs your shoes with her raw shiny snout. Maggot-white, plucked chicken skin. More insect than woman, more meat than girl.
Here she is, our girl, dressed in a pretty red bow, all dolled up for the show.
'Step right up, boys - roll up, roll up! She’s a wonder, ain’t she? A natural freak, a born performer; she’s even gained the power of speech! Step up, step up.
She can recite poetry (Plath is a favorite, boys, so watch out), sing a medley of tunes (observe how her hooves tap in time!), and bite the heads off chickens. She drinks their blood, our lovely geek, she does! Step up, and see the woman-who-is-not, the Mistress of Maggots, the Queen of Corpulence, Our Lady of Immaculate Decay, the amazing-spectacular-you’ll-never-see-another-thing-like-it, Fat Girl!
This is our girl, boys. Do with her whatever you will.'
***
She lives in cages. She is filthy. She is an animal; this is what she's been told. She eats whatever they give her. They throw meat into her cage, from time to time. It's often green, seething with maggots. They call her maggot. They call her ugly. She knows what she is. She's been told.
Her teeth hurt.
She bites the heads off chickens. Their blood is salty and warm. She’s learned to like it. She’s learned to pretend to like it. The crowd likes it when she laps up the blood. From the chicken to the sawdusty floor to her hands to her mouth.
She’s forgotten the words for many things.
What’s the word for the thing you eat, the red thing that shines and tastes like summer? She can’t remember what it’s called. She forgot that one awhile ago. She’s lost more words recently. That animal that’s like a horse but isn’t. The color before purple. The days of the week, except for Sunday and sometimes, when she concentrates very hard, Thursday.
She knows other words:
'Herr God, Herr Lucifer
Beware
Beware.
Out of the ash
I rise with my red hair
And I eat men like air.'
The men like that one. They nudge each other with their elbows when she recites it, and cackle out a smile. Their eyes devour her.
Sometimes, when the crowd is restless, she will take a deep breath and recite:
'Full fathom five thy father lies;
Of his bones are coral made;
Those are pearls that were his eyes;
Nothing of him that does fade,
But doth suffer a sea-change
Into something rich and strange.
Sea-nymphs hourly ring his knell:
Ding-dong,
Hark! Now I hear them – Ding-dong, bell.'
She knows to enunciate like a good girl, but in this one she sings. These are good words. Sometimes the men cry.
She doesn’t remember what coral is.
***
Dreaming.
She is in a room. A bedroom. There is a bed, big and pink, covered in pillows, and a ledge runs round the room. So many books. Stuffed animals: a beaver that looks like a doctor, a chicken in an apron, a cat wearing a pink dress. Some kind of altar on the dresser. A Buddha, Jesus, Kali, candles, a soapstone polar bear.
She knows the names of everything. This does not feel unusual. Everything is familiar. She’s been in this room before.
She walks out of the room into a hallway that smells like blueberries. Bathroom, bedroom, laundry room, kitchen. Living room. She lives here. She is at home. Cats at her ankles. One black, one grey. They purr at her feet. She reaches down to scratch behind the grey cat’s ears, and – in the abrupt way of dreams - she is in a different room now.
An office. The clackity-clack of keyboards, phones ringing, the low murmur of voices. She works here. As she walks towards a desk that she knows is hers, faces look up from their screens and smile. Someone says her name.
She recognizes her name, and knows – in the strange way of dreams - that if she turns her head and responds, she will…
‘Wake up!’
She’s forgotten the dream by the time she opens her eyes.
***
Tonight, she is performing in the City. They have told her that this is her Big Break. This is the City that will make her a Star. Her many names are on the lips of all the men in the City.
She is pulled along in her cage, atop a flatbed truck. Canvas covers the cage; no one will see her for free. It’s cold. She stamps her hooves and wraps her white white arms around herself, but she can’t get warm. The sounds of the City surround her: car horns, the belch and burp of exhaust, prophets shouting on every corner. Or so she assumes. She can’t hear much, not really, and she’s forgotten the words for most of the things she thinks she might hear. Some kind of bird that one finds in cities. Grey and purple and silver and shiny, with a funny whooping call. What are they called? She might hear something like that, maybe.
She practices:
'Empty, I echo to the least footfall,
Museum without statues, grand with pillars, porticoes, rotundas.
In my courtyard a fountain leaps and sinks back into itself,
Nun-hearted and blind to the world. Marble lilies
Exhale their pallor like scent.
I imagine myself with a great public,
Mother of a white Nike and several bald-eyed Apollos.
Instead, the dead injure me attentions, and nothing can happen.
Blank-faced and mum as a nurse.'
They haven’t described the place where she is performing to her, but she has overheard the men talking about it. A building that reaches to the sky, they’ve said.
She chose the poem all by herself. She doesn’t know what it means.
She thinks she will snort at the end, when she says the word ‘nurse’. It will get a laugh.
***
The first time she performed she was awkward, all stutters and pauses; when she was quiet she could hear the men breathing, and working their zippers down. The second time she performed her white skin was pink from the lash, and though she still stuttered, she knew not to pause this time. She took to grunting to cover the silence and the sound of men panting and fumbling clumsily in their pants. The grunts made sense, she thought. They got a laugh.
She could still think clearly back then. She hadn’t forgotten so many words.
The third time she performed someone threw a live chicken on stage. She didn’t know what to do, but the men shouting out her names – by that time she was already the Lady Lump, Fat Girl, the Real Medusa – seemed to be calling for her blood, and so to sate them she grabbed the terrified chicken, bit into its thin neck, and lets its blood spill down her own fat neck.
It worked. The fourth time she performed they wanted only the chicken’s blood, and were content to watch her dance (tapping her hooves like an expert) and listen to her recite her poems.
By the hundredth performance she has forgotten what most of the poems mean.
***
Dreaming again.
She is in a hallway, dragging herself along by her white white arms. Her legs are useless; her feet twitch like maggots, her hooves have been sliced off. Her tongue flicks its pink self up at her from the floor. Her fat fingers scrabble at the stone floor.
There are men in the hallway, but they are still. Their eyes are open, they are smiling at her. Their mouths don’t move, but she hears them whisper.
‘Turning and turning in the widening gyre, the falcon cannot hear the falconer’, they murmur. ‘Things fall apart; the centre cannot hold’, and their voices are sibilant. Once upon a time she used snakes in her act, and when they spoke to her they spoke in these very voices. ‘Mere anarchy’, they say breathlessly, ‘Mere anarchy is loosed upon the world’, they lisp and hiss. ‘Mere anarchy,’ and they get louder and louder, and she looks up, then, at the mirrored ceiling, and the men up there are moving. Reaching down to her with hands gone to paws, fingers gone to claws. They are not smiling, although their lips pull back from their teeth in something almost like smiles.
‘The blood-dimmer tide is loosed’, they say (and here the figures in the mirror seem to grow bigger and the not-smiles get wider) ‘and everywhere the ceremony of innocence is drowned’, they say (and now she is pulling herself along the floor, bloody from her useless legs and open mouth which seem to be bleeding even more, soaking her dress and red ribbon even redder), ‘the best lack all conviction, while the worst are full of passionate intensity’, they say (and the claws are reaching down down down through the mirrored ceiling to scratch at her, and she’s left her tongue behind her so she can’t even finish the poem for them) ‘surely some’…
‘That is e-fucking-nough! Some fucking revelation, yeah, I think we’ve both heard it before. Spiritus Mundi, and all that. Whatever that means.’
A girl standing above her, staring down with ferocious blue eyes. Black black hair. The distinct impression of hooves in her boots. ‘I won’t ask you to get up, that’s probably not an option . But you need to leave this place now. You have no idea what these men have planned for you. I don’t either, to be honest, but if I know anything about men it won’t be a fucking square dance sweetheart. I can’t do it for you, but you have to leave.’
The men are speaking around her, still. The figures in the mirror are reaching down, desperately. ‘Troubles my sight,’ they whisper, ‘troubles my sight, troubles my sight’. The blood has not stopped. She cannot feel her legs.
The girl in the purple dress tells her, again, that she has to leave. Now. She tries to ask ‘How?’, but the word is lost in the useless wet flesh of her mouth.
‘I don’t fucking know!’ the girl says. ‘Do you think I asked for this? All I know is, you can’t be here, and I think you need to fucking wake up, right now!’
Hands are reaching, and the girl with the ferocious blue eyes is screaming at the men, something about shadows and bird and lions, and finally Fat Girl - the Baroness of Beasts, the Princess of Piss, the monster with a thousand different names – in all the din of noise and commotion, knows exactly how she will do it…
***
Wake up.
Wake up.
It’s finally time to wake up.
Friday, September 4, 2009
On the Backs of Giants
The Courtyard
“Welcome! Welcome! I’m so glad you could make it. Did you have an enjoyable trip? I hope the drivers did not bore you with their babble. They are forever going on about butterflies and horses and hospital beds. Most recently they have taken to horror stories about the Edge. Can you imagine? Really not my thing. Please, allow me to get the door.” The man’s smile was exquisitely transparent. The kind of thing that you see in a used car lot the day before Jim Pattison lets the lowest seller go.
“I see your sideways glance - don’t let the garb mislead: I may look casual, but I’ve been running the Skye Building my whole life. It’s been the most successful building in the City for just under a quarter century.” Nostalgia. Quaint. “You know, back then when it started, it was only one floor, and the foundations were terrible. Contractors got it all wrong. Now look at it. The clouds themselves only mark the mid-way point. Breathtaking, no?”
The courtyard’s long and perfectly manicured stone walkway led to the doors of the massive building. An ideal example of a post-modern picture, the tower twisted and turned, the form at once obvious and yet elusive, intimate and familiar and simply impersonal. It disappeared beyond the floating white boundaries which lazily patrolled the skyline.
“I must say, we are most welcome to have your interest. I am, as I mentioned, the Manager, and I’ve been instructed to show you around; give you a complete tour, if you’d like. I must confess, we’ve not received such direct orders from my Employer like this in quite some time. It’s quite unprecedented. And quite exciting.
“This way, then.” With a sweeping gesture, the Manager moved down the deceptively comfortable walkway. “Made with only the best of intentions, of course!” He stopped a moment, hiding a breath of hesitation.
“Welcome to the Skye.”
The Basement
“We start in the basement. A somewhat inauspicious beginning, but I assure you the only way to truly understand our natural success.” A pride on his tongue lit the grungy room as he held the door open at the bottom of the stairs.
“Mind the mess, my Employer has decided to do a bit of remodelling. A new design he is convinced will improve the place. Nothing’s wrong with the previous foundations, I assure you, but progress is progress, he says. You’d think he’d learn from his past attempts, but who am I to say, right?”
Explain.
“Oh, I’ve said too much already, to be honest. Not exactly my place you understand. The building’s fine and sturdy, no damage beyond normal wear and tear. But a couple of times in the past...” and here his words were whispers, “there were a couple of incidents with my Employer’s remodelling plans. A lot of mess and bitterness. Best to let sleeping dogs lie, as they say.”
The subject was changed like lovers’ whims.
“The magnificence of the Skye Building foundations is that each one of these giant supports is individually capable of holding up the entire building. You know the old saying: if they’re working together, then they’re not working! Well, we live by that here. Each foundation is built to keep to itself. As a result, the cement lasts unchanged for an entire lifetime.
“Where the engineers could not help the supports from crossing, they used the state-of-the-art Discretion technology. Fantastic, that. It ensures that even though the cement may mix, one support will never attempt to check or balance the other. We’ve found that if they do, they have a much greater risk of crumbling.”
Silence reigned. Voices would surely echo here, and then they would be judged.
“Best be off. No questions about this, of course. I’ll take you back upstairs to the main floor now.”
Ground Floor
“As you saw on the way in, the main floor is the central hub for all the resources, needs, and wants of the building. But I pray,” and here he did, “that you do not think of it as a bureaucracy. This is not a location of pencil pushers and line ups. This is what sustains the building in all its magnificence.
“It was the building site’s location, on soil and dirt, which made it such a success. Where other buildings imported their needs, we appropriated them. After much toil, restrictions and proper harnessing of the earth, we were able to ensure that it would never be used for anything other than our purposes again. Smartest move we ever made, if you ask me.”
The floor was well populated and well lit. Everything could be seen under the fake light of the overhead lamps, which dangled from the roof every 7 meters. The floor felt like a flea and farmer’s market in a warehouse. The line ups were obvious.
“Of course, administration takes place elsewhere.” A sense of familiarity in his tone. “One doesn’t enter the building without already having its place and function. Everything is handled well before tenancy or business is granted. Another of our advantages – nothing here is clogged with reflection or reorganization. I assure it.” For three words, the Manager was serious: a glance into the salesman’s soul.
Many stairwells. One set of elevators.
“But let’s continue, shall we? The best has yet to come, and I don’t want to bore you any further with this. I’m sure you see it in the media all the time. What are they calling it now? Sustainability? Globalism? Back in my day it was Environmentalism. Incredible how the media uses our success.”
Ding. The doors opened. That smile again. “After you.”
The Elevator
It was empty. Despite the crowded stairwells outside, not a single person came off the elevator when it opened. Not a single person joined them.
The hint of music well muffled.
No buttons.
“Nothing to worry about. Another one of the Skye’s particularly enchanting facilities. The elevator will take people wherever they want to go. Because, obviously, where one is taken is where one wants to be.”
The doors closed quietly.
No buttons.
The elevator moved.
Floor A
“Here we are.”
The doors opened to reveal a vast expanse.
The room was empty and removed; cold on the skin. And yet, it was somehow alive. The room, empty, smiled. It did not invite, but it respected. All the world could be housed here, and it would find pleasant sanctuary. It would be welcomed with those appropriately frigid arms, happily.
The floor was soft. The strange plush carpeting could be felt between your toes.
But this room was something else too... Lonely. That was it: it was lonely! Woe was this place, for it would have all the world but could still not touch a soul. This place and everything in it was safely removed from itself. Safely removed from ever knowing anything, holding any responsibilities for any feelings or thoughts or happenstance. Safely away. Safe.
Ding.
The elevator was closing. The Manager was still inside. But how did it get so far? It was now in the distance, though only a couple of steps away. The distance stretched unimaginably: suddenly an impossible length to cross. And the floor sucked in the futile efforts – a thirsty sand-dune.
It was too late. Two steps too late. The doors closed.
Things were not so bad here. It was quiet, but full of promise. The building faded away, and a new and separate life offered itself. No more needless worries or responsibilities. No more effort. No more attachment. This place felt safe – an arm’s reach away from the world.
...
No.
No, this was not right. The world was not supposed to be this cold. This was artifice.
Stairs, over there. An eternity of effort for only a hope. But better a warm hope and sore feet, than an icy blanket and false slumber.
With a thought, the stairs were there. With an effort, the room was gone.
The Lane
A long way down or a short way up. The stairs were a perfect spiral, made of marble, and the door one floor above was ajar. The climb took very little effort.
And through the door, was a hall. The hall stretched long and wide, and was made of museum stone. Carved pillars decorated at every appropriate interval. The roof was a mirror, and the place smelled of yesterday.
At every pace was a person. Upon silent inspection, they stood or sat in statuesque poses, making wax envious. But with the echo of steps, they became alive. The sounds were like coins to street performers – each of their movements brought certain life. Their bodies told tales and weaved promises and each was in its own way different and delightful.
A glance to the material heavens showed a different story. There, in the reflection, their figures were paralyzed. No motion above as below. Each of their images were frozen in various poses. Some were crying, others angry. Others still, seemed to be mocking onlookers in mid-laughter. The most disturbing were those images that were reaching down towards the floor: yearning.
Hurriedly now, to the end of the hall. A parade of celebration echoed behind. Swiftly, swiftly, the elevator awaited. The choice was made.
Ding.
The Penultimate
“Isn’t it beautiful?”
The elevator’s climb ended to reveal a fully furnished suite and a smiling Manager. Anger. But his tone brought strange solace.
“Welcome, welcome! I’m so glad you could make it! Did you have an enjoyable trip? I knew that the Below-Limit was no place for you. I knew it the moment I laid eyes on you. That *must* have been what my Employer was thinking, too, when he invited you. To think, he and I to be of one mind – it’s unprecedented! But enough of my babble. Come over here, never mind the leather couches and nice carpeting, all imports I might add, the view is the best part!”
The gigantic bay windows revealed the cloud-line outside was a mere meter above the room. A breathtaking view and a hundred floors of fall.
“All the City at your fingertips. See? Look over there, you can even see the very beginning of the Horizon.”
Golden.
“They say you can touch the clouds from this floor. It’s a pass-time of the residents here. They grab hold of the window with one hand here, and their friends hold their feet. Then they lean out the window and stretch out as far as they can. They scoop up a handful, over-season it with dreams, and gorge on it with their pals. Incredible.”
Dangerous.
“Oh yes. But they’ve got to get their kicks somehow. The place can turn into a bore otherwise. This floor is where our most esteemed clients remain who do not dare brave the threshold. They band together, actually. Often the residents here are like a family to one another. As a result, this floor is our most requested room for rent. It’s furnished with the latest habits, has suicide proof glass, and an incredible view of where renters could be if they were less fortunate. Unfortunately, it’s also where we receive the most bounced cheques from.”
Deadbeats.
“Empty rooms need renters.” And empty buildings need better managers.
“Come. I have a special treat for you. Normally, the elevator will not take us any higher. Clients have to take the stairs. But today is an exception!”
How hurriedly the scampering, like a child to candy.
“No need to hesitate! We can go back if you like.
“Ha! That’s the spirit. I thought so.”
The Threshold
“I must insist that as we travel passed these remaining floors, you stay in the elevator. The threshold through the clouds is a dangerous place. Many of our less fortunate cases live here, with reduced rent and cramped spacing. My Employer has never quite been interested in dealing with the needy, but the Skye Building must be diligent to its duty to all the City. Our success beyond the clouds is contingent on it. That’s why he pays me.”
The clamour on the other side of the doors could be heard. Each floor a new melody of noise. The elevator did not stop.
“I’m happy with the compromise that we’ve made.”
Paradise
“This is it!”
Success wafted through the open elevator doors. Heaven housing only the best of Hell.
“What do you think? Isn’t it fantastic? We had Capitalism come in and consult with us for the framework. The furnishings were bought from Achievement and Spirit did all the design. My Employer made sure that Soul was the primary tenant. The very top floor of our building, this is what is all about.
“What’s that? My Employer? No, he couldn’t make it, I’m afraid. Though I’m sure he sends his regards – else you wouldn’t be here! Please, sit down, enjoy his bounty. On the table is everything you could want; rabbit’s feet and unicorn meat, whatever your pleasure to eat.”
To eat would seem a blasphemy when the plates were set with Love. A house saved only for the worthy.
“It’s true, the meals are here every day, but few are able to make it.” Sorrow, from the same place as the smile. “I think we’ve only ever had a handful of people, over the years, and no one has ever been able to stay. It’s a pity. Here is the only place worth being. Oh well. No accounting for people, hmm?”
His breath fouled the area.
“Fresh air? A strange request. Forgive my rudeness, but there is no finer air than in this room. It takes the Freedom from outside winds and filters it with Security. There has been no better system built.
“But, your wish is my command. To the roof, then?”
The Limit
“Above the clouds, the sun never stops shining.”
The City could not buy a finer pleasure.
“You know, there was a time when the Skye Building was a target of terrorism. It’s an interesting story. The head of this terrorist organization had created biological soldiers. Gigantic half-human, half-birds. They had wings the size of regular people. They attacked from above when we started building above the clouds. They had always been around, we knew, but never in such force. Daily they assaulted us and our building crews. Perhaps you heard about it?”
The roof lost its beauty to the shadows in his speech.
“I felt quite bad for my Employer, who lost a lot of money over the issue. He wasted a lot of time and effort trying to reason with them. Can you imagine? Reasoning with those half-breeds? Finally, I convinced him that diplomacy was worthless. They would not listen to rhetoric or truth. If we were to move upward, it would have to be war.
“We disposed of them, of course. Efficiently. Fought them on this very rooftop. Their righteousness was equalled only by their single-minded ignorance, and their tactics proved it.”
Rage.
“No need for anger. I assure you we did everything we could. And now, we live in harmony with the rest of the surroundings.”
The sky was bare.
Silence.
“Listen. I know why you’re here. I don’t know how you managed to win his interest, but despite what he might think or do or say, you are not welcome here. Do you understand? You never have been, and you never will be.”
No reply was earned.
“Goodbye. Enjoy your stay.”
The door locked behind him.
“Welcome! Welcome! I’m so glad you could make it. Did you have an enjoyable trip? I hope the drivers did not bore you with their babble. They are forever going on about butterflies and horses and hospital beds. Most recently they have taken to horror stories about the Edge. Can you imagine? Really not my thing. Please, allow me to get the door.” The man’s smile was exquisitely transparent. The kind of thing that you see in a used car lot the day before Jim Pattison lets the lowest seller go.
“I see your sideways glance - don’t let the garb mislead: I may look casual, but I’ve been running the Skye Building my whole life. It’s been the most successful building in the City for just under a quarter century.” Nostalgia. Quaint. “You know, back then when it started, it was only one floor, and the foundations were terrible. Contractors got it all wrong. Now look at it. The clouds themselves only mark the mid-way point. Breathtaking, no?”
The courtyard’s long and perfectly manicured stone walkway led to the doors of the massive building. An ideal example of a post-modern picture, the tower twisted and turned, the form at once obvious and yet elusive, intimate and familiar and simply impersonal. It disappeared beyond the floating white boundaries which lazily patrolled the skyline.
“I must say, we are most welcome to have your interest. I am, as I mentioned, the Manager, and I’ve been instructed to show you around; give you a complete tour, if you’d like. I must confess, we’ve not received such direct orders from my Employer like this in quite some time. It’s quite unprecedented. And quite exciting.
“This way, then.” With a sweeping gesture, the Manager moved down the deceptively comfortable walkway. “Made with only the best of intentions, of course!” He stopped a moment, hiding a breath of hesitation.
“Welcome to the Skye.”
The Basement
“We start in the basement. A somewhat inauspicious beginning, but I assure you the only way to truly understand our natural success.” A pride on his tongue lit the grungy room as he held the door open at the bottom of the stairs.
“Mind the mess, my Employer has decided to do a bit of remodelling. A new design he is convinced will improve the place. Nothing’s wrong with the previous foundations, I assure you, but progress is progress, he says. You’d think he’d learn from his past attempts, but who am I to say, right?”
Explain.
“Oh, I’ve said too much already, to be honest. Not exactly my place you understand. The building’s fine and sturdy, no damage beyond normal wear and tear. But a couple of times in the past...” and here his words were whispers, “there were a couple of incidents with my Employer’s remodelling plans. A lot of mess and bitterness. Best to let sleeping dogs lie, as they say.”
The subject was changed like lovers’ whims.
“The magnificence of the Skye Building foundations is that each one of these giant supports is individually capable of holding up the entire building. You know the old saying: if they’re working together, then they’re not working! Well, we live by that here. Each foundation is built to keep to itself. As a result, the cement lasts unchanged for an entire lifetime.
“Where the engineers could not help the supports from crossing, they used the state-of-the-art Discretion technology. Fantastic, that. It ensures that even though the cement may mix, one support will never attempt to check or balance the other. We’ve found that if they do, they have a much greater risk of crumbling.”
Silence reigned. Voices would surely echo here, and then they would be judged.
“Best be off. No questions about this, of course. I’ll take you back upstairs to the main floor now.”
Ground Floor
“As you saw on the way in, the main floor is the central hub for all the resources, needs, and wants of the building. But I pray,” and here he did, “that you do not think of it as a bureaucracy. This is not a location of pencil pushers and line ups. This is what sustains the building in all its magnificence.
“It was the building site’s location, on soil and dirt, which made it such a success. Where other buildings imported their needs, we appropriated them. After much toil, restrictions and proper harnessing of the earth, we were able to ensure that it would never be used for anything other than our purposes again. Smartest move we ever made, if you ask me.”
The floor was well populated and well lit. Everything could be seen under the fake light of the overhead lamps, which dangled from the roof every 7 meters. The floor felt like a flea and farmer’s market in a warehouse. The line ups were obvious.
“Of course, administration takes place elsewhere.” A sense of familiarity in his tone. “One doesn’t enter the building without already having its place and function. Everything is handled well before tenancy or business is granted. Another of our advantages – nothing here is clogged with reflection or reorganization. I assure it.” For three words, the Manager was serious: a glance into the salesman’s soul.
Many stairwells. One set of elevators.
“But let’s continue, shall we? The best has yet to come, and I don’t want to bore you any further with this. I’m sure you see it in the media all the time. What are they calling it now? Sustainability? Globalism? Back in my day it was Environmentalism. Incredible how the media uses our success.”
Ding. The doors opened. That smile again. “After you.”
The Elevator
It was empty. Despite the crowded stairwells outside, not a single person came off the elevator when it opened. Not a single person joined them.
The hint of music well muffled.
No buttons.
“Nothing to worry about. Another one of the Skye’s particularly enchanting facilities. The elevator will take people wherever they want to go. Because, obviously, where one is taken is where one wants to be.”
The doors closed quietly.
No buttons.
The elevator moved.
Floor A
“Here we are.”
The doors opened to reveal a vast expanse.
The room was empty and removed; cold on the skin. And yet, it was somehow alive. The room, empty, smiled. It did not invite, but it respected. All the world could be housed here, and it would find pleasant sanctuary. It would be welcomed with those appropriately frigid arms, happily.
The floor was soft. The strange plush carpeting could be felt between your toes.
But this room was something else too... Lonely. That was it: it was lonely! Woe was this place, for it would have all the world but could still not touch a soul. This place and everything in it was safely removed from itself. Safely removed from ever knowing anything, holding any responsibilities for any feelings or thoughts or happenstance. Safely away. Safe.
Ding.
The elevator was closing. The Manager was still inside. But how did it get so far? It was now in the distance, though only a couple of steps away. The distance stretched unimaginably: suddenly an impossible length to cross. And the floor sucked in the futile efforts – a thirsty sand-dune.
It was too late. Two steps too late. The doors closed.
Things were not so bad here. It was quiet, but full of promise. The building faded away, and a new and separate life offered itself. No more needless worries or responsibilities. No more effort. No more attachment. This place felt safe – an arm’s reach away from the world.
...
No.
No, this was not right. The world was not supposed to be this cold. This was artifice.
Stairs, over there. An eternity of effort for only a hope. But better a warm hope and sore feet, than an icy blanket and false slumber.
With a thought, the stairs were there. With an effort, the room was gone.
The Lane
A long way down or a short way up. The stairs were a perfect spiral, made of marble, and the door one floor above was ajar. The climb took very little effort.
And through the door, was a hall. The hall stretched long and wide, and was made of museum stone. Carved pillars decorated at every appropriate interval. The roof was a mirror, and the place smelled of yesterday.
At every pace was a person. Upon silent inspection, they stood or sat in statuesque poses, making wax envious. But with the echo of steps, they became alive. The sounds were like coins to street performers – each of their movements brought certain life. Their bodies told tales and weaved promises and each was in its own way different and delightful.
A glance to the material heavens showed a different story. There, in the reflection, their figures were paralyzed. No motion above as below. Each of their images were frozen in various poses. Some were crying, others angry. Others still, seemed to be mocking onlookers in mid-laughter. The most disturbing were those images that were reaching down towards the floor: yearning.
Hurriedly now, to the end of the hall. A parade of celebration echoed behind. Swiftly, swiftly, the elevator awaited. The choice was made.
Ding.
The Penultimate
“Isn’t it beautiful?”
The elevator’s climb ended to reveal a fully furnished suite and a smiling Manager. Anger. But his tone brought strange solace.
“Welcome, welcome! I’m so glad you could make it! Did you have an enjoyable trip? I knew that the Below-Limit was no place for you. I knew it the moment I laid eyes on you. That *must* have been what my Employer was thinking, too, when he invited you. To think, he and I to be of one mind – it’s unprecedented! But enough of my babble. Come over here, never mind the leather couches and nice carpeting, all imports I might add, the view is the best part!”
The gigantic bay windows revealed the cloud-line outside was a mere meter above the room. A breathtaking view and a hundred floors of fall.
“All the City at your fingertips. See? Look over there, you can even see the very beginning of the Horizon.”
Golden.
“They say you can touch the clouds from this floor. It’s a pass-time of the residents here. They grab hold of the window with one hand here, and their friends hold their feet. Then they lean out the window and stretch out as far as they can. They scoop up a handful, over-season it with dreams, and gorge on it with their pals. Incredible.”
Dangerous.
“Oh yes. But they’ve got to get their kicks somehow. The place can turn into a bore otherwise. This floor is where our most esteemed clients remain who do not dare brave the threshold. They band together, actually. Often the residents here are like a family to one another. As a result, this floor is our most requested room for rent. It’s furnished with the latest habits, has suicide proof glass, and an incredible view of where renters could be if they were less fortunate. Unfortunately, it’s also where we receive the most bounced cheques from.”
Deadbeats.
“Empty rooms need renters.” And empty buildings need better managers.
“Come. I have a special treat for you. Normally, the elevator will not take us any higher. Clients have to take the stairs. But today is an exception!”
How hurriedly the scampering, like a child to candy.
“No need to hesitate! We can go back if you like.
“Ha! That’s the spirit. I thought so.”
The Threshold
“I must insist that as we travel passed these remaining floors, you stay in the elevator. The threshold through the clouds is a dangerous place. Many of our less fortunate cases live here, with reduced rent and cramped spacing. My Employer has never quite been interested in dealing with the needy, but the Skye Building must be diligent to its duty to all the City. Our success beyond the clouds is contingent on it. That’s why he pays me.”
The clamour on the other side of the doors could be heard. Each floor a new melody of noise. The elevator did not stop.
“I’m happy with the compromise that we’ve made.”
Paradise
“This is it!”
Success wafted through the open elevator doors. Heaven housing only the best of Hell.
“What do you think? Isn’t it fantastic? We had Capitalism come in and consult with us for the framework. The furnishings were bought from Achievement and Spirit did all the design. My Employer made sure that Soul was the primary tenant. The very top floor of our building, this is what is all about.
“What’s that? My Employer? No, he couldn’t make it, I’m afraid. Though I’m sure he sends his regards – else you wouldn’t be here! Please, sit down, enjoy his bounty. On the table is everything you could want; rabbit’s feet and unicorn meat, whatever your pleasure to eat.”
To eat would seem a blasphemy when the plates were set with Love. A house saved only for the worthy.
“It’s true, the meals are here every day, but few are able to make it.” Sorrow, from the same place as the smile. “I think we’ve only ever had a handful of people, over the years, and no one has ever been able to stay. It’s a pity. Here is the only place worth being. Oh well. No accounting for people, hmm?”
His breath fouled the area.
“Fresh air? A strange request. Forgive my rudeness, but there is no finer air than in this room. It takes the Freedom from outside winds and filters it with Security. There has been no better system built.
“But, your wish is my command. To the roof, then?”
The Limit
“Above the clouds, the sun never stops shining.”
The City could not buy a finer pleasure.
“You know, there was a time when the Skye Building was a target of terrorism. It’s an interesting story. The head of this terrorist organization had created biological soldiers. Gigantic half-human, half-birds. They had wings the size of regular people. They attacked from above when we started building above the clouds. They had always been around, we knew, but never in such force. Daily they assaulted us and our building crews. Perhaps you heard about it?”
The roof lost its beauty to the shadows in his speech.
“I felt quite bad for my Employer, who lost a lot of money over the issue. He wasted a lot of time and effort trying to reason with them. Can you imagine? Reasoning with those half-breeds? Finally, I convinced him that diplomacy was worthless. They would not listen to rhetoric or truth. If we were to move upward, it would have to be war.
“We disposed of them, of course. Efficiently. Fought them on this very rooftop. Their righteousness was equalled only by their single-minded ignorance, and their tactics proved it.”
Rage.
“No need for anger. I assure you we did everything we could. And now, we live in harmony with the rest of the surroundings.”
The sky was bare.
Silence.
“Listen. I know why you’re here. I don’t know how you managed to win his interest, but despite what he might think or do or say, you are not welcome here. Do you understand? You never have been, and you never will be.”
No reply was earned.
“Goodbye. Enjoy your stay.”
The door locked behind him.
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