Fiction for Artists, presents--
Universal Particle .com
------------Book VI-------------
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The stars are tossed,
The stones are gathered.
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It was the summer of '94. We'd ransacked our attics for our flashlights
and our fathers' fatigues—our camos looked military and our balls
haven't even dropped yet. We smelled of cough syrup and disinfectant.
We were young and terrible. Our parents loved us and were scared of us
at the same time. They loved us for our innocence, playing in our backyards;
watching with wonder the hummingbirds that flew sometimes within
arm's reach; the magic of a spider catching the wind in its web,
parachuting through the sky; the utter terror of the reaper-legs
dangling below the bodies of wasps, floating through the air.
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But we lived for Manhunt. Only beyond the safety of our backyards,
beyond the demarcation of the woods' shade into the calm and
foreboding kingdom of the wood-gods, did we feel truly alive.
There was no personality in a colorful row suburban mailboxes,
in a life plugged to wall-sockets. Instead we hunted squirrels by
day with our BB-guns and drank Yoohoos by the creeks, listening
to the electricity of dragonflies whirring over the water-lilies.
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At night we truly came alive. We'd sneak out and meet by the
graveyard, our freshly showered heads a feast for the mosquitoes
but it no mattered. We lathed on insect-repellent. We divided into
teams. The losers' by rock-paper-scissors would get a six-minute
head's start and take to the field. Then we hounded them.
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Up in the trees, down with the sleeping badgers, every nook-and-
-cranny was fair game. When we found one, catching the light of
surprise in our prey's eyes with our flashlights, we'd give chase—
like a wild packing of hyenas jackalling through the night. Then,
of course, old widow Jenkins who lived by the graveyard would
freak out. The cops who came would reprimand us, threaten
us in front of our parents, and usher us back into our beds
and into our curfews. Until one time—
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It was far into the night. Just an hour or two before dawn.
Old widow Jenkins called the cops again. Third time this
month. This time, however, the sirens were wailing.
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"Wh-a—!" A woosh sound, then a thud.
Some of us screamed.
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"Johnson! are you okay!?"
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"Yeah—ow—guys, you wouldn't believe it!"
A voice issued from behind us, below ground.
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"Guys—there's a passage down
here—ack—hey, come help me out!"
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We turned and peered our flashlights into the uncovered hole
where Johnson stood mere seconds before. We roll away
the surrounding foliage with our feet, saw the broken
headstone directly over it. The sirens were blaring louder.
The headlights on the police vehicles ("there's more than one?")
cut through the overgrowth by the sidewalk, into the graveyard.
We heard the walkies-talkies. We were scared.
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"Hey Johnson!" One of us shouts—"We're coming down!"
One by one we felt our way into the dirty, black hole. Lights
were shining in and out and when it was my turn, Tim who
had gone just before me reached his hand up to pull me
down, as Bobby pushed me from behind.
"Hurry! Hurry!"
The hole was deep—six or seven feet, at least. It cut into solid
earth in a narrow path beyond which the ends could not be seen.
But the air was fresh—I'll never forget it. Down there in a single file
we rushed through the abyss with excitement, panic, adrenaline,
and giggling. The passageway stretched deeper and deeper.
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I thought suddenly about the bugs caught in festivals of blood, in
the jungles of my hair. The woodchucks who built their dams by
the creek. The methods we learned to walk through grass without
sound, from an old Indian. I hadn't even tasted coffee yet.
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Our flashlights flickered on and off. Our distances grew further
apart. We could no longer hear the sirens. I thought I heard the sound
of waterfalls. Then, all of a sudden, all the pushing, giggling, whispering,
—gone.
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The passage came into a clearing. A cool, lonely cavern that defied
all history, imagination and expectations. I shined my flashlight
in front of me, and was startled by the sight of a monolithic
stone tablet, erect and seven-feet tall. Letters were carved on it.
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"Uh, guys?"
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I inched closer. I examined the surface, and gasped.
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Across the surface, in big, bold letters,
was written my name, and the date.
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"Guys!" I shouted. "Is this a joke!?"
I checked behind the tablet, but
there was no one. I was all alone.
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"Fate"
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BOOK SIX: "Celestial Banquet."
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Upwards and onwards!
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Book VI, the saga continues:—
--?????????????????????--
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* The Life of Wilheim Gottfriëd
* Dreaming with the Lights Off
--The Politician, Part II --Idol of the Cave--
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Aphorism #96
Instead of 10,000 stone warriors to guard us against death,
We'd rather have one wise man to guard us against ourselves.
Will You Sign My Autograph?
--a night on celebrity-chef island--
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Welcome to CULINARY ISLAND! —Season Six of the latest reality TV-sensation, on the
paradise isles of Cambodia, brought to you by the exploited jungle villagers of Angkor—
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where contestants hone their craft and complete in daily cooking challenges to defend
their exclusive membership and residency on this gorgeous tropical resort, —with lush jungle habitats, ancient ruins,
temple-galleries, sandy shores, and state-of-the-art resort facilities—including,
a seven-star hotel,
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exotic
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Aphorism #248
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Our earliest ships were based
on prototypes for the sky,
passed down from the ancients.
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On Friendship
--an essay, by Cole Abraham--
Friendship is like an open ray
Through the crevice of a door
Through memories of its purity
We are silently transformed.
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I am not alone when I stand alone. I abide in my own greatness. My solitude extends to those I meet, to embrace theirs as my own. But the meaning is lost; we do not stand with our brothers as fellow men, but next to them, as operators, debt collectors, traders, skinners and butchers. Our relationships are mean and paltering. We proximate ourselves to wine, and curse ourselves when the taste sours and burns our tongues. But true friendship is clear like water - it stands equidistant between all parties. It does not pander to favors or dependency; it has no taste. Yes, its bond is as thin as those between strangers, - but it is stronger than blood.
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Friendship is the sentiment, not the relations. Brothers we meet; enemies become friends. The sentiment is eternally equal, for it recognizes what was once dear can be lost through fear, insecurity, or jealousy; or gained again by patience or kindness. I treat all my associates equally, - in their best interest, - as friends. But my friends are those who are my moral equals or superiors. For true relations can only occur when its values are embodied by at least one of the two or more parties involved: we admire our friends for the potential they represent in ourselves.
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The rude, of course, see a menial, trifling advantage - assistance in time of need, influence, benefits and exchange. They want associates and confidants merely. But friendship is not an expectation on others, but the obligation we hold to ourselves. It is the all-embracing service of character that in every feature and action draws out and improves our own, paying us compliment by expecting from us all the best virtues. --On the other hand, the exposure of a serious fault by one in another will produce a misunderstanding in proportion to its heinousness.
Friendship, the sentiment, takes no sides, except the side of Truth. Therein lies its true compassion, for it is just. It associates with the deed, and not the persons. It takes virtue as its own blood - be it friend or foe's - and swims in its ideal. Because it is just, it cares not for rewards, favors, presumptions or history - and is thereby the prize of society: a grave liberty which shames us out of our nonsense. It is like the light that crusts our sinking mud, which we flick off so we can fly.
Let friendship not be profaned by cheap civility, or cheapened by familiarity. Let it remain sharp, and not dull with time. Inevitably we lose our innocence, but purity we can reclaim. Let our honest dealings with ourselves and eachother breathe new life into old bones; let it champion justice, rather than blind alliance; let it celebrate individuality, and not conformity. To tolerate and feed into the inadequacies of one another -- that is not love, but the paramount of lies. The same applies to our familial ties. To coddle our children is to leave them desolate for adulthood. Better a broken, real relation, than an unreserved but falsely grounded one. Let our relations be useful, at least, if not admirable to one another.
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In the past the words of a sage were worth more than the vote of five hundred men. In reality it counts for more, but one may never be convinced until they bear witness, firsthand, the pure power of someone entirely selfless, completely pure, devoid of prejudices and conceit, channeling Nature herself -- drawing laws instead of feelings, speaking love instead of sentimentality. I was fortunate to meet such a man myself -- his is the most valuable intercourse I've ever had. In proportion to the virtue of a good friend they are immortal, as gods. My friend Washington is gone, but he is certainly still alive. We do not see him, but by the honor we pay him, by the enduring council of his memory, he is immortal. Long after these mortal bodies perish, their virtue lives on, finding a like home in the chamber of our hearts.
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Aphorism #642
Somewhere, a bundle of cells got together
and decided to feel incomplete, confused, cold.
The Life of
Wilheim Gottfriëd
--an American folktale--
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The legend of Wilheim Gottfriëd... have you heard of it?
Why, he's the most famous of American folk-heroes!
There are as many accounts of his life as there are droplets
in the ocean—some wildly inventive, and others tragically bland.
But they all begin the same way: there once lived a sage.
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The sage owned a magnificent library. The library was
filled with books, filled with empty pages. The most prized
of his books he decided one day to give to his young
apprentice, Wilheim Gottfried. He called it, "Time."
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You see, the sage was quite certain the book would be
filled with heroic exploits, worthy histories, cutting-edge
sciences, and divine comedies. But he was much too old
to leave his mountain and find a publisher, to share its
wonders with the world. So he sends Wilheim in his stead.
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It turns out, Wilheim was the perfect candidate for the job.
He filled the gigantic leaves of Time with his travels and
experiences: page upon page of granite, slate, coal, marl
and mud, then blue streams and verdant valleys. Then
floor upon floor he filled it with names and labels, dreams
and imaginations, formulas, symbols and figures.
He divided the chapters into 365 days, the 12 months
and the 52 weeks, the 4 seasons, the sun, the moon,
the stars, and the 28,000 sounds that populate all
languages. In no time at all, the mountains took roots,
and the winds gave birth to the clouds and rain. Alas...
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Try as he might, he could not make do with the last
remaining pages. No ink would hold upon its wet,
slithering surface. It remained stubbornly blank.
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Young Wilheim stood before its abyss, before
its shattering waves, its blind mouths easing
through to taste its own blood pulsing.
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"Do you not tire, feasting upon your own tail?"
asked Wilheim Gottfried.
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"Never!" hissed the spiraling double-helix of the
hundred-thousand, hundred-million mouths—
conspiring to one larger mouth still,—their
pink, livid tongues flickering out, hot and urgent.
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Young Wilheim catches the endless snake in his hands,
its waves still beating—he bites into it, and gets a taste of
the beast, all brine and pepper. He takes another.
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Then another.
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"Yesss," shrieks the snake, with delight.
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"Just a few more, and I've got you all figured out!" answers Wilheim,
but it was too late. For just as he felt he tasted enough, he had already
begun sinking, sinking to the endless depths below. And in a moment
like this, in the face of paralyzing defeat, he makes an incredible decision—
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He reaches behind him and plucks a single feather
from his golden wings. He reaches above the watery
rib-cage and releases it into the air, where it begins
multiplying into a hundred-thousand, and hundred-million
pieces, revealing in them what he'd found in the pages of Death—
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The one secret that, defying time, defying space,
would release the hold of the ancient beast, "Matter"...
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...to be continued
in 6.4, below.
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Aphorism #16
Passing through intellect, it becomes genius.
Passing through the will, it becomes virtue.
Passing through affections, it becomes love.
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The Day the Angels Flew
--secrets of inspiration--
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The subject of form is undefined,
—rather, -it- defines.
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COLE ABRAHAM
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Cole Abraham, a child prodigy, was nevertheless a lousy student of sorts. His career began in high school. One day a teacher had written on the blackboard two unsolvable equations of the century, —one, on the thermo-electromagnetic effect; the other, on particle theory versus Schrodinger's postulation of the superposition of mass. Arriving late to class, then fourteen-year-old Abraham copied down both equations to his notebook. As he struggled over them that evening at his desk, he fell asleep. A golden feather, blown in through the open window, landed on his forehead. The next morning, feeling refreshed, he solved both equations.
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His vital years are well-documented. In the physical fields, his achievements in architectural design and industrial engineering are considerable—introducing, for instance, insect colony-inspired urban-planning, and depressurized aquatic research facilities, based on shell designs. Of course, he is perhaps best known for re-conceptualizing the way we think about data and mass—his work on the Foam network, which utilizes quantum-memory for "spontaneous storage," allowed for the first time ever instant retrieval of over several lifetime's-worth of VR memory, within the "space" of a 4mb audio file.
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But the great mystery of Abraham's broad contributions was hidden from public scrutiny until the publication of his notebooks, in 2037. There, in the privacy of his mind, the renaissance man professed his enduring obsession with the study of his feather, which he "had found lying on his desk one day, returning from school," and had propelled and anticipated his most important works—"every morning... every night... I thought about its shape and natural beauty." His studies on the proportions, the ratios of individual fibers to the feather, its angles, lines of symmetry, and the balance of its composite parts, are published in the semi-autobiographical title, "The Golden Ratio."
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The facts surrounding his late years—his disappearance into isolation and obscurity—are well-known to anyone who has followed his brilliant career through the course of this century. Absorbed in what he self-described a "religious ecstasy," Abraham spent the majority of his time composing what he believed was his masterwork—Nuova Mathematica, a treatise which sought to reorganize all qualitative scales from the numerical tendency of 1 - 10, to 10 - 0. "0 being," Abraham conjectured, "the shared and insurmountable potential of all categorization." The work, published after his death, remains controversial to this day.
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MADISON JAMES
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It had been tradition, and now it was hers. She opened the gilded-box her father handed her the morning of her eighteenth birthday. Inside atop the soft, purple velvet laid a single, golden feather—their family's trade-insignia. Passed down for over five generations, its invisible ink was used to stamp all but the most trivial documents. But it was more than an emblem of their success. It was a symbol of a larger idea.
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The idea embedded in her soul, flowing through all her actions as the natural forces of equity and trade. It was the same idea that helped her intuitively grasp her role as a meliorating agent in the world, to see labor and compensation in right relations. She understood, for instance, the full weight of a handshake. The time and place to say, "No." And she knew that true art is about creating value that uplifts the human condition; and business, as art, is the means of allocating value to where it's needed: the very definition of ingenuity.
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Simple, conniving minds confused her. Hers was a deep and subtle nature; perhaps this possibility of one, large wholesome idea—occurring all at once—as opposed to a sequential line of reasoning, explains the impetus behind our describing a well-thought-out argument as "getting the larger picture." She believed, most importantly, that one dream shared by every artist, —to refine their art to its most primordial, fundamental beauty so that they can be generous with it and still create anew. The artist must be sacrificed to the art.
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Idle accumulation disgusted her. It was wasteful, she thought, to withhold from the public sphere of productivity some deadspace of value. Life was a perpetual improvement. A perennial work. She could not understand the complacency that men depended upon their titles, degrees, salaries, houses, and cars. She could not understand the long hours of menial, oppressive, passive-aggressive labor wasted as a tool, to secure an idle retirement as a vegetable, to justify the opinion of sheep and lamb. No. The weight of her lofty thought was as subtle as a feather, and carried her far beyond—she, alone, was respectable. She alone was truly free.
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JEFF THOMAS
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The feather floated down the alps, carrying with it stories spun by the winds. Over the fields it tarried until it reached the body of the youth, lying in grass, naming the different sea-creatures, machineries, and celestial fruits hidden in the clouds. The feather falls into his hands. The boy presses it against his nose to smell its memories, when it bursts suddenly into a golden flame, soaking his senses, igniting his perception of time.
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His lungs unwrapped in the milky air, like fresh cabbages. With fresh eyes he saw the world once familiar now look so strange. Colors appeared to him as kaleidoscopic specks instead of solid waves. He heard the rhythm of the hummingbird's beat-flaps, and counted the crowns on the water-droplets when it rained. When he closed his eyes he could hear the ants scream. When he flipped over his hands he could read the music written on his palms.
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He learned to measure life by counting his breaths and heartbeats, instead of his birthdays. With a will attuned to the cosmos and the movement of heavenly bodies, he knew also that when a person's allotted number of breaths and heartbeats expired, his life ends. So he strove to slow down. He was in no rush. He knew his place in the world.
A scientist lived for order. A saint, for love. A hero, freedom. And a prophet, for truth. But the poet lives for beauty. The poet makes a living conversing with the spirits of Nature, to share her secrets with others on the simplest terms. He knows that material circumstances can and will always change; but spiritual truths remain the same. They shine like the glowing sun behind lighthouse weather, a steady melody.
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His role, as every artist, is to help others read dreams in footsteps; to stand equal to a tribe of trees; to understand the military tactics of swans; and to listen to rhymes instead of words—quite simply, to find the common anchors across Time shared by the greatest minds against the ebb and flow of popular opinion, which bleats loudest. But beauty cannot be urgent. It cannot be coerced. True, his work may forever elude earthly currency, but still he waits. He waits, knowing one day it shall be redeemed in heaven's court.
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"I can't think of anything!" cries FRANKY BENJAMIN.
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"I knew I should've ended this with the Poet," mutters the feather.
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"Think, Franky. What are you good at? "
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"Well, let's see." Franky begins sucking the end of the feather. (—"Stop that.")
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He dips the point into a bottle of ink—
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"I'm good at assembling furniture."
—"This table's lop-sided."
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"I can untangle cords."
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—"Everything's wireless."
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"Oh. I can hold my breath for a really long time. Watch—"
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—"Close your mouth, son. What else?"
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"I can make a mean guacamole."
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— "..." ( The feather didn't want to brag, but he had actually came in 1st three
years in a row at the annual guacamole-making competition in Mexico. )
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"Aw, let's face it!" cries Franky, throwing up his hands—
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"I've got nothing. Deep down, I'm a nobody, just like everyone else—except everyone else."
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Did we mention the feather is golden?
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"Franky, stop." The feather begins—
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"Stop it. You're getting boogers all over me. I know why you're important."
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"Really?"
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"Yes. You are like that guy everyone knows who accidentally gave out the wrong number and gets
harassed by the woman who gets called up because of your late-night food orders. You are that
guy who has so many embarrassing stories that seeing your grandma talking to your friends is
your worst nightmare. You are that guy who relates most meaningfully to food. "
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"Okay?" Franky sniffles.
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"You're a gadfly to society and a disgrace to our conscience.
Your interests are petty, your manners vulgar, your actions profane.
You disgruntle the hardworking and frighten the elderly. And you
wake up in the mornings with glasses made of eye-booger.
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But can't you see?
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There is a life to your story that interests everyone, because you're an ogre."
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—"...Excuse me?"
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" A troll, Franky. And trolls don't give birth—they spawn like fungi, they are everywhere—
which is why you are universally relatable. Have you never wondered why you are best friends with Jeff? "
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—"...No?"
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"Because, Franky. Without you, there is no ideal. You complete the ideal, by
its negation—in jest, in passing, in its foil. You are the necessary counterpoint.
Which is why you understand Jeff better than anyone. You see the ideal represented in
your best friend, the distance between him and reality. And you point out that discrepancy,
by making it contemptible and laughable. You—Franky," says the feather, with flourish—
"—are the timelessly stupid. "
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—"I've never been so happy in my life," says Franky, wiping a tear.
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"Thank you, oh thank you, Mr. Feather, for showing me my way in life—"
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"Now get out."
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Aphorism #16
The devil warmed himself
off his cruel reflection
below the furthest freeze of Hell.
Aphorism #96
Instead of 10,000 stone warriors to guard us against death,
We'd rather have one wise man to guard us against ourselves.
The Floating Fortress of Ideals
--Evil has a name.--
Two boys sat under a waterfall, indifferent to the world.
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The torrents of pale, frigid water splash over their bare backs as they drift in and out of a faraway dream—
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"Fools! That is not meditating," shouts an elderly man, sitting across from them—
"you are merely asleep—and men expose themselves most in their dreams. Tell me,
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"Which is the more important: the heart, or the mind?"
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"The heart," says one.
"The mind," answers the other.
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"Wrong!" screams the old man. "To those awake, the heart and mind are one and the same."
He gets up from his seat—an oversized lotus flower,—and hobbles over to the boys.
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"It's no use," says the old man, sadly. "You two are still not ready. Of course, it's not your fault—
"It's the times. How can anyone expect to walk barefoot across these muddy waters, without getting soiled?"
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At this, the boys open their eyes to make signs of protest, but their mouths are silenced by their teacher's kindly gaze.
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"Even these icy waters cannot quench the fires of your youth, and you are merely wasting my time. Go out and discover, then—
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Examine yourself! ...extirpate yourself! ...make yourself useful to the world!
...and come back, when you are ready."
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The boys walk side by side down the familiar hills of the Catskill mountains.
Between the two of them, they carry no more than a briefcase of belongings,
...the heaviest of which are their dreams.
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They are not like those who danced with the superficial thoughts of
the multitude, instead abiding by particular truths as it holds for them—
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the one, for the harmony of the universe: cosmology,
the other, for the harmony of society: politics.
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They reminisce fondly over their first encounter up these paths—
("Which way are we going," asks the old man. "Up or down?")
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"Going down!" shouts one, suddenly. They both laugh.
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"Well, where to?" asks the one.
The other does not answer, but merely looks to him, grinning—
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for there are seven lost treasures of the musical world, known to every dreamer,
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1. The Rhapsody of Death, a string quartet, written on the deathbed by famed eighteenth-century composer, Beethoven—the product of a
desperate pact made with the Devil in the face of the artist's loosening grip on his faculties of inspiration: a dangerous composition with
four movements, —"Fear," "Anger," "Denial," —and, "Release," —the last of which is, believed, responsible for the artist's euphoric passing,
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2. Panis Angelicus xii —or, Bread of Angels, —a recording of sacred mass written by the levitating saint, Francis of Assisi, adapted by the
hermetic nuns of the Altai Mountains, who, legend has, descend upon the world from their cloud-hidden monastery once every twelve
years to sing—with voices of such unworldly beauty, —rich as snow, sweet as light—as if drawn from the chisel of Michelangelo, himself,
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3. Volume XIII of the infamous rap-artist Notorious BIG, —Brooklyn's prophet of "The Everyday Struggle." Produced shortly prior to his
assassination outside the Vegas strip in 1996, it is believed by many to be the culmination of an era. A briefcase holding these tracks
was reported stolen during the assassin's arrest—though reproductions, —mostly fake, —are still found today on illegal networks at
an initial bidding price of 1.3 million dollars,
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and,
4. —"The lost speech of Lincoln," utters the first.
He laughs.
"What makes you think you can recover it, when so many others have failed?"
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That speech of 1856.
The North, divided from the South. Standing on the corner of Mayor's Hall in downtown Bloomington, former president
Lincoln delivers an extemporaneous address to the Union of such flowing vigor and eloquence that of the 40 reporters,
270 delegates, and the thousand electrified eyewitnesses present, not one was able to recapture or break pen to paper the words—
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"I have a lead," replies the other.
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"How?" asks the first. "Surely, not the old man...?"
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"No," answers the other. "But the training has helped.
" A work of such beauty must transcend time,
a sort of quantum entanglement every moment.
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" I have an idea where it might be. "
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The first boy smirks.
"Well," he says.
"What have we got to lose?"
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------------------"Both, wrong! there only is to be, or without."--------------------------
What is freedom? —Faith! —Honor.
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Lincoln.
There is evidence to suggest that prior to, or after his famous speech, the President rallied for secret support from
the Transcendentalists, —New England's mystical champions of moral freedom. Records from his journals indicate
the President took many long walks with the rebellious hermit, Thoreau, during his visits in Concord, passing by the
site of his well-known years of solitude, Walden Pond—
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"...And that's the cave Thoreau used for hiding runaway slaves. It's perfect, considering its accessibility to town."
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They peel back the curtain of foliage into the clearing below—
a solemn cave, behind a wide body of water, frozen over.
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"Jeff, I'm just gonna state the obvious. If there's anything actually in there,
in such a public site, how come nothing has ever been discovered?
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"Not that I mind soaking in the cold waters," the boy added, smirking.
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" I don't know," Jeff admits. "But it's true there is a dense knot of
unresolved energy in that direction. Why don't we take a look? "
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They slide down through the mossy hills, guided by the
silver branches of firs and water-maples, and the subtle
tracks of the moose, the bear, caribou, wolf, and beaver.
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Around them, the temples of evergreens are filled by
the immortal life of the loon, chickadee, and woodpeckers.
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"Truth will always preserve itself for the audience it was meant to reach,"
says Jeff, as they hit solid ground.
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He smells the air, taking in the
tenderness of the cold forest.
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" The ice is thin. It will probably hold if we stick to the center,"
gauges his companion.
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"But we best stay from the shallow edges."
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They inch along the shores until they must at last
step on the thin crust to reach the entrance of the cave.
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"Damn it!"
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The water's surface had not been so forgiving for the heavier of
the two boys, and he finds his feet soaked, as he wades ashore.
But, being the more military of the two, he takes it in stride.
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"Well?" says he, taking of his shoes and socks to dry.
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"I... I can't see anything."
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The other walks into the cave.
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"Jeff," he says. "This cave could barely fit a family of wolves."
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" I know, but..."
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Jeff's voice drowns out, as he plunges deep into concentration.
The other remains idly by, in thought. Their natural tendencies are
almost opposites, —he, of the understanding, and his friend, of the soul,—
and though he prides himself on the practicality and precision of his action,
he nevertheless respects the vastness and intuition of his friend's mind.
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But right now he is having doubts.
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The cave is no more than ten yards-deep.
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"If it were that easy, I'm sure the secret would be found by now," he rationalizes finally.
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----"What is the hallmark of civilization?"---- —"Music!" ----- —"Ritual."----
​
​
They spend the evening camped out by the side of the cave,
deciding it was prudent not to start uphill after sunset.
Jeff had dug a two-feet well in the mud by the side of
the lake, from which the fish-hawks and loon drank also, as
his companion sat by the fire, whittling a wooden spoon.
​
It is early November. Winter is coming, bringing
with him the great snow. In the silence of night,
watching the smoke of their breath in the cold air,
they wondered if they were chasing Spring, unlike
the few birds that had stayed behind.
​
"What would you do, if we had found the treasure?"
​
His companion is silent for a while.
"Use it for the Good," he says, finally.
​
They feed the flames—
"True beauty is naturally good," says Jeff.
​
His companion laughs.
​
"To be inspired, to be islands unto ourselves" he says, "is noble—
"but idealistic. How many people can implement it with insight
and courage? Just look at the corruption and lies of our dual-party system—
​
"Power needs to be organized to be effective."
​
"Music can only inspire," says Jeff.
"A government is of people, not laws.
"Even if you use it, to enact policy—"
​
"No," his companion cuts him off—
"You misunderstand me. The object of power is not the possibility to
enact policy; the object of all policy is simply to attain and retain power.
​
" Intellectual dishonesty is unavoidably attached to
partisan-politicking—I wish to eliminate it at the source. "
​
​
They are both silent for a while.
​
They had spent many evenings like this, out in the cold country,
keeping their hearts warm by the passion of their discussions—
​
"I have more faith in humanity," says Jeff, at last.
"It only takes a few, to act by example..."
​
"The more power to you," chuckles the other.
​
"The stars shine brightest when the night is dark."
​
"Unless... the smog is so thick we can't see the sky."
​
​
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----"What is the cunningest creature?"---- —"That which has eluded man." ----- —"...Man, himself."----
---"...Up or down?"---- —"Both! there is no striving without straying." — "Neither; physically, only in or out."---------
—"Both, wrong! There is only to be, and to be without."
​
"It is probably just a myth—devised for the tourists."
The boy is examining the dimensions of the cave in the early daylight.
"This is too small to provide adequate shelter for animals, much less runaway slaves."
​
His voice echoes through the cave, resounding through the frigid air
with a hollow, metallic ring—like the birds that stayed behind,
thinks Jeff—in this winter, with no place to go.
Like us.
​
He thinks about Thoreau, who, in his preferred state living
as a hermit, rejoiced in the echoes, which he found endearing—
​
"A grave sincerity," he had told his friend Emerson.
"Almost the only kind of kindred voices I know."
​
Of course, Thoreau himself wasn't much of a poet.
But he appreciated poetic charm, and recognized in echos
the sort of celebration we associate in the rhyme of things, like
birthdays or anniversaries, or in the reflection of a stream by the
side of a road, doing for the eyes what sound does for the ears—
​
"Eric. Did you bring rope?"
Before his companion has a chance to respond,
Jeff rushes to the mouth of the cave, looks down.
Then, in a sort of excited fury, begins breaking the
thin sheets of ice surrounding the entrance to the cave.
​
"Yeah, of course—hey, what are you doing?"
​
Jeff does not respond. He takes the rope, unravels an end,
and walks toward a sturdy elm by the side of the cave;
he wraps the end around its trunk, then tests the rope for its hold.
​
"The Transcendentalists were know for secret wisdom and
old magic," says Jeff. "Especially Thoreau, who had studied
and lived with the Indians—"
​
Jeff points to the still surface of the surrounding lake—
the water so clear, reflecting like a mirror the solemn,
towering elms and pines surrounding the cave—
—and the cave itself.
"—they, too, believed in the spontaneous power of rhyme
to celebrate the meaning, rather than the words of things."
​
Eric looks down at the reflection.
​
"You're crazy," he says.
​
But Jeff had already stripped his shirt, loosed the rope
around his waist and tied it into a double-bowline—
​
"Don't be ridiculous," says Eric, again.
He walks to the elm tree, and begins untying
the rope. He rewinds the end around himself,
and then ties it back to the tree. He smiles.
​
"Listen—one hard tug, and I'll pull you out. Got it ? "
​
"Two tugs, and you follow," says Jeff, grinning.
"Trust me. I've got a good feeling about this."
​
Jeff takes a deep breath.
Then he plunges headfirst into the water,
reaching forward toward the depths below
and finds, in surprise, an underwater structure,
exactly mirroring the entrance to the cave above.
​
As he pulls closer, he feel suddenly a shift in
water-pressure, drawing him in; and then,
a strange sensation of inversion—before he
knew it, he was hoisting himself up out of a
bottomless pool, unto the slippery steps of
some subterranean cavern.
He gasps for air, crawling onto the platform.
Then looking around, he smiles. He tugs twice.
​
​
----"What is the cunningest creature?"---- —"That which has eluded man." ----- —"...Man, himself."----
​
"I still can't believe it."
​
The two companions stood by each other,
examining the walls of the midnight blue-cavern,
lit occasionally by flecks of crystals bouncing light
off the reflection of the water.
​
"I'm surprised we can see at all,"
suggests Eric. "At this depth... wherever we are."
​
"Matches?"
​
"Of course not. They're all soaked."
​
"Well, only one thing to do then."
​
They grope their way around the walls
of the cavern, each to a side, which
converges into one direction, a cool,
breezy passageway.
​
Thirty paces in, they notice the walls
expanding—then a fire flickers on.
​
They shield their eyes—adjusting, they find
the walls had broken into a open chamber—
circular and wide, with a glowing pyre lit in
the exact center, brighter and brighter.
​
A single door lies beyond the flames,
and they see they are not the first to
attempt to reach it—
Skeletal remains scattered about,
their shadows long and grotesque against
the walls, dancing with the cackling flames.
​
"Well."
​
A voice speaks directly into their heads—
or is it coming from the room itself?
​
"How many years? How many years
has it been, since my last visitors? "
​
There is a whoosh and a hiss.
​
​
Suddenly Jeff starts choking.
He holds his arms to his throat
to pull off the invisible offender.
​
It takes them a few desperate seconds to
realize what is happening: against the wall,
a snakelike tendril had wrapped itself around
the shadow of the boy's own,
—tightly around its neck.
​
Instinctively, his companion picks up a skull
and whips it against the wall—the greedy
tendril releases its grip a second before impact.
​
It's fast, thinks Eric.
​
"Are you okay?" he asks.
​
"Yeah. Fine." Jeff rubs his neck.
​
The two of them hop back to a far
corner of the room, near the entrance,
pressing their backs against the
dark-side of the wall.
​
The shadows do not give chase. Instead
they twist and flicker, sprawl and pulse
along the walls like some demon spider's web,
menacing and triumphant, its movements
utterly unpredictable.
​
"Jeff," says Eric. "We're at a disadvantage.
The enemy has total control over the space.
​
...But I have a plan. "
​
"What do you have in mind."
​
"I need you to reveal yourself and distract him."
​
"Um," says Jeff.
​
"Hey, listen!" says the other. "It's our only chance. Trust me!"
​
Jeff looks at his friend. "...All right," he says.
He takes a breath. Then, signaling his friend,
he leaps up and rushes towards the center again.
​
The fire flares up angrily, the shadows spin
and writhe in anticipation—which is just what
Eric had been waiting for, for he knew, against
insurmountable odds, the only certainty in the
enemy's position lies in the moment of—
​
"Attack!" he barks.
​
Just as a fang-like tendril launches itself with
rigid precision toward the shadow of Jeff,
Eric lunges forward to grab its tail—
​
...then, though he doesn't see them,
he feels them twitching in his hand:
four silent strings, invisible to the eye.
​
He tightens his grip and
yanks as hard as he could—
​
something flies towards him
from inside the burning pyre.
​
It is a clay puppet.
​
The flames ease
into a tame glow.
​
"Not bad—not bad at all."
The voice of the doll is calm, eerie.
​
" But heed my advice—leave here now in peace.
Let the treasure be. You're not fit to carry it.
The light burns brightest before it pops. "
​
"Shut up," says Eric.
He whips the doll against the wall—
it shatters upon impact.
​
They enter the door.
​
​
—What is the conduct of life?— —Principles!— —Circumstance.—
​
​
" Power can buy treasures, dreams, hearts, —even
people's lives. How can we leave it up to chance? "
​
" There is no such thing as chance. "
Jeff lays the manuscript flat on the wooden table.
​
They had no trouble finding the speech—
The former President's journals are dated chronologically,
and it took no time at all before the companions found it
tucked safely between the covers of its reported years.
​
The trouble, it seems, is agreeing on what to do with it.
​
For once they had read and re-read the manuscript,
—become witness to the depth of its power—
they had each their own idea what to do with it.
​
" We should preserve it in its original state. Make it
accessible to the public—share it with the world. "
​
The other boy is silent. He examines the manuscript again.
It is, naturally, his tendency to intellectualize everything
that made it difficult for him to understand the process
of the thought mechanism, and its limitations—
​
"Don't be naïve," he says, finally.
​
"It was Lincoln's idealism that freed and united the nation."
​
"And he would be ashamed, to see our government of mass-lobbying!
​
Listen, Jeff—"
​
Eric slams his fists on the table—
how can he make his friend understand?
​
"—We should take this for ourselves. It is our right. Our duty.
We'll start a new party. Or work within the existing ones—
it doesn't matter. It's all just a facade anyway. Together,
we can educate the people ourselves, set the examples
they so desperately need—"
​
"With what, laws? Excessive policy will only make people wary
and devious, to do everything in their power to avoid them. "
​
"You don't get it—"
​
"No, Eric. I do. But power is about being—not having."
The comment stings more than it was ever intended.
​
A surge of anger fills Eric. For a brief second it seemed
to Jeff as if a flicker of a shadow appeared in his friend's
eyes, as if they were afraid to meet his own. But he is wrong.
​
The eyes are defensive. Calculating.
For the speech and now this argument had awakened
some aspect that was always dormant in the boy—
it made him into the purest type of political animal:
​
...one with no politics at all.
​
Ideas are—for him—neither right or wrong. They
are only useful or useless in the pursuit of power.
​
"You know what, Jeff. You were right all along—"
He begins folding up the manuscript—
​
"Laws won't change people. Laws can't enact change.
We must ourselves be the change we wish to see
in the world. We must be the power—"
​
Jeff feels his vision blur as he falls to his knees—
a clean hit, right at the cluster of nerves on the
back of his neck, leaves him falling to to the floor—
​
"—and I'm sorry you can't join me."
​
" You're dreaming..." mumbles Jeff.
​
In a burst of rage, the other kicks him in the stomach.
Then he turns and starts walking through the door,
with scroll in hand, toward the pyre, toward the exit.
​
The last image etched on Jeff's mind before his vision
goes out is the fire, the cackling flames—and his friend
walking towards it, —his coiling shadows sprawling
before his feet, beckoning him to its call.
​
​
​
​
it's not enough.
​
"You mean," smirks the first. "Besides legitimizing the Republican party, and launching Lincoln into a presidential candidate?"
"It was his first serious public condemnation on the evils of slavery,
​
"Jeff, we should take the power for ourselves. It is our right. We'll start a new party.
Or work within the existing ones—it doesn't matter. It's all just a facade, anyway.
Together, we can educate the people ourselves, set the examples they so desperately need.
Join me."
​
Education is about being, not having. What do you suggest we do, enact laws? Excessive
Laws only make people wary and devious, to do everything in their power to avoid them.
​
​
For an instant, Jeff seemed to catch a trace of the shadow in his friend's eyes, a treacherous intent. the passion of anger.
​
​
"It was Lincoln's idealism that freed and united the nation."
​
"And he would be ashamed, to see our government of mass-lobbying."
​
"Wait."
​
"The Transcendentalists were classical poets—they believed in the spontaneous power of rhyme to celebrate the meaning, rather than the words of things. Like an anniversary, or a
​
​
"Jeff, I know you're fond of nature... But what exactly are we doing here?"
"
This cave is a well-known hideout for runaway slaves, used by Thoreau during his years of solitude by Walden Pond. I can't help but wonder, given its accessibility to town, and the President's penchant for taking long walks with the hermit during his numerous visits in Concord, that this site is a storehouse of some missing secrets."
They both look at the cave, then at
​
"If it were that easy, I'm sure the secrets would be found by now," rationalizes the first, somewhat skeptically.
​
"True," admits Jeff. "But Lincoln's daily affairs were carefully documented by his secretaries and the press—and that has yielded scholars nothing. If there were some place or occasions that deserved a second look, I'd bet it's here, through his intercourse with the Transcendentalists, who were know for secret wisdom and old magic."
​
​
"You mean," smirks the first. "Besides legitimizing the Republican party, and launching Lincoln into a presidential candidate?"
"It was his first serious public condemnation on the evils of slavery,
They laugh.
​
​
"Jeff," says the larger boy. "This cave is no more than ten yards deep, empty. It wouldn't fit a family of wolves."
​
"Thoreau was a mystic, well-versed also in the secrets of the Native Americans. We should keep looking."
​
​
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