By mapping the brain, Leonardo Da Vinci was able to identify five distinct functional areas, each responsible for one of five attributes: common sense, imagination, fantasy, cognitive power, and memory. After several more hours of listening to the music of X-pek d’Laze, four of those five centers in Koji’s brain were in a state of hyper-sensitive lucidity. The fifth, common sense, remained impervious.
When the music stopped, Koji scanned the room, his gaze resting momentarily on each of the five alien faces. They did not appear inured to Koji’s chalky serenity, but then, he wasn’t entirely certain what that would have looked like. As it was, the aliens returned Koji’s gaze, intently, as if waiting for a cue on how to proceed from the temporal belly flop the present had landed them all in. Read the rest of this entry »
It’s possible I’m playing the wrong game. If I am, that might explain the uneasiness in my voice. The earthquakes may also be a contributing factor. I find it difficult to maintain my serenity while the walls are shaking. I admit, I occasionally resort to commercial substitutes. Or pretend to understand Neruda’s poetry. Meanwhile, cicadas grind the air, their skeletal drone jerking my emotions like an advertisement for something technically unthinkable. The sidewalks are littered with deracinated job applications and other less easily identifiable incongruities. Zombies stand at street corners handing out pamphlets on set theory. Barbershops are closed until further notice. These are not manifestations of the devil. They are just manifestations. Once you pass the barrier, you walk the universe alone.
Trapper met Spin at Ne Plus Ultra, a snack bar operated by an all-female mustache cult. The women were relatively harmless, their belligerence being for the most part formulaic. It took a while to get used to waitresses bluff-charging your table, but the food was excellent.
“I had a peculiar experience earlier today,” Trapper said, after swallowing with obvious satisfaction the first bite of his Stratosphere Wrap.
Spin had ordered a Library of Congress, and was working on it with the studied devotion appropriate to the national archives.
“A passenger in the elevator at my apartment building,” Trapper continued, “a young woman whose conduct indicated a gap in my understanding of entropy.” Read the rest of this entry »
At this point, I can’t explain the puddle on the floor. Situations like this can often be diffused through the examination of a well designed brochure. Or by gazing at the landscape. I decide on the latter strategy, which is perhaps not the better choice. The smudgy skyline brings to mind a clogged furnace. The sun is touching the horizon and appears to be stuck there in a foamy gray funk of atmospheric inertia. I begin to wheeze and abruptly turn away from the window. On the floor near the puddle I notice for the first time several large sacks of agricultural chemicals. It occurs to me that this is the sort of climax that leads people to the study of scripture. As soon as I find my keys, I intend to take the old highway out of town.
Laura was still at Spin’s apartment. Dressed ineluctably in a pair of mirror sunglasses, she was reading the notes Spin had made on a wall calendar several years out of date. The notes were a record of vitamin supplements he’d taken, interspersed with odd symbols, mandala-like and indecipherable. About half way through August, she was interrupted by a knock. She wrapped herself in Spin’s old trench coat, opened the door and was confronted once again by the only Jack in the building.
Jack stepped uninvited into the room, one arm raised as if to shield himself from objections, and began to square the circle. “Personality,” he began, “is a byproduct of the confrontation with death. Language is not a suitable tool for marking the distinction between truth and fiction. When I look at other people, I see a kind of moving container full of strange configurations of mental fluff, most of it remarkably standardized, insipid, if not downright stupid. What I don’t often see is any good reason to expose myself to that fluff. On my good days, I’m like a bold excursion into the realm of pure cinema!” Read the rest of this entry »
On my fourth birthday, my parents, hoping to get a jump on my integration into the contemporary zeitgeist, enrolled me in of the more prestigious Formula 1 driving schools. As luck would have it, most of the pit crew had made the linguistic turn and were primarily interested in talking the talk. After an intellectually stimulating morning at the track, our afternoons were spent pursuing two of St. Augustine’s three kinds of vice: carnal pleasure and curiosity. Since I was only four years old, curiosity was by far the greater temptation. Not surprisingly, by constantly asking Why? Why? Why?, I often found myself embroiled in violent altercation. I rather liked mixing it up, but at thirty-one pounds fully dressed, I was at a distinct disadvantage. This is the only plausible explanation I have for the darkness that now surrounds my life.
Meanwhile, contrary to the baroque speculations mutating throughout the city, Koji had not so much disappeared as simply been sidetracked by visitors from outer space. That, at any rate, was how these jasmine-scented malcontents had presented themselves to him: as aliens. It took some time for them to convince Koji that they were not what they appeared to be: fashion photographers. But once convinced of their extraterrestrial origin, Koji found their company strangely compelling. The aliens, on the other hand, seemed to be moving steadily toward a state of mild disenchantment, not with Koji so much as with humans in general. Apparently, they had reached the conclusion that humanity was negligent, although of what, precisely, Koji had not been able to determine. Nor did he have any idea what the consequences of this negligence might be. Read the rest of this entry »
Posted by Mel 
