Saturday, August 20, 2005

Newton’s Cradle

Breathe. Relax. Just Breathe.

And after this, there is nothingness, numb nothing wrapped around me like a skin, a thin filament across my corneas, my eyes are open but they only feel nothing. I could be as big as a planet or as small as an atom. I am everything there ever was, and nothing.
I open my mouth, and by doing so, I create inches below my chin. Undiscovered country. A fold of pink skin. Where my teeth were, there is only fresh, clean space, for the click of my jaw to echo when it closes. But I can’t hear the noise. There is no space for it to travel to my ears.
And in the distance of nothing, a distance that extends not out, but deep into myself, the bright, shining, white dot of a stranger begins its journey towards me, like in that old movie. And just like that scene, I wait out his entrance, the best in history, as there was none before him. Though, it will remain the best after many more.
When his is closer, after a long, extended millisecond of watching, a millisecond in which I have grown old and died, only to be reborn a thousand times, I can see his smile. His crooked, yellow teeth peering between his gums, the only yellow to exist is gleaming at me with natural luminescence. I lift my arm and wave, a short left-right, which creates a foot of exciting new black beside my shoulder. A new universe explodes in the space and millions of billions of new planets flash to life. They all take on the shape of the space, so that they look like pieces of a pie, with rounded tops and pointed bottoms. However, they will never support life.
The clean, old, man now approaches me with a swagger, his eyes locked to mine and I can’t look away. He wears a hat like that of Mark Twain, tilted on his head so slightly to the left, and his nose is bulbous after many years growth, to match his ears which sag at the lobes. His eyebrows hang loose and cover his eyes, which are two little full stops on his face, to stop his thoughts becoming apparent. And he speaks to me in a lazy drawl, each word leaning on the next for support.
“Are you all and nothing?”
To this I reply in the affirmative, my words coming from me visibly, so that I can see what I spoke. Y. E. S. In bright, capital letters, easy to read from a distance. They swirl in the air and dance around his head, making a show before sailing into his furry ears.
“Good.” He smiles, “Can you resurrect the dead?”
I take his withered hand and shake it.
“Only people I like. And I like you.”
When the words have sank into his brain, comprehension settling itself down, the old man twirls me in his arms as if this were a waltz and he was leading the dance.
“That’s mighty good for you.” He hugs me so tight as to turn my world white, and that is all I can see into forever and ever until I stop feeling his grip at all.
The horizon breaks, a deep line of black, a horrific crack in the perfect white of mothers milk, of dead skin. An ellipse extends from the centre of the black, arching out like a guitar string twanged, the black swimming out ahead of a rush of colours. The mousy brown of dirty hair, the perfect blue of the doctors’ eyes, the shiny silver of her medical torch and the red of her lips as she smile to see me awake.

We thought we’d lost you there.

19 comments:

  1. "To this I reply in the affirmative, my words coming from me visibly, so that I can see what I spoke."

    Full-on loved this concept.

    Although I claim to take copious amounts of hallucinogenic substances, in truth it's been far too long and my body craves even the faintest shadow.

    I have experienced this phenomenon first hand and thank you for reminding me of an instance where I truly understood what it meant to take life without a hint of seriousness; having removed myself spiritually but not physically, observing and comprehending the falsities of those around me.

    The way I see it the text isn't about that but it's comforting to know that we have an intangible idea in common.

    The fun and holidays are over for me but at least I have this site to come back to whenever inspiration is lacking in my own set of five days.

    As always, I'm left with a feeling that it's all going to be all right. ; )

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  2. Jesus...
    Thanks...
    I stole that idea unfortunatly... I would have loved for it to be my own but it's from the Get Smart movie.... They sed it in a difference context but... still, it's stolen....

    I feel like a thief.

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  3. If you vomit onto a piece of paper it's sort of the same thing.

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  4. Are you saying what I wrote is puke?
    Is that good or bad...?

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  5. Oh Christ Rob.

    I was talking about being able to see words as you speak them.

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  6. Really... I thought you were comparing puking on the page, to stealing ideas and writing them down....

    It fits as an allegory... or simile or whatever.

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  7. I don't even see how that fits. You steal an idea... and that's the same as puking your dinner onto a sheet of paper?

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  8. Yep...
    Also, I copied Jaime Lidell and I'm giving it to Dan, who is here, for you to take the next time you are at his place. Oh Yes.

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  9. Remember.
    I vomitted on the stairs once.
    The lads laughed.
    Nice story.

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  10. He is a singer... kind does modern soul. Kinda.

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  11. He could also have puked his lunch/breakfast/snack/Big Als chicken grill/Chocolate Muffin.

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  12. Hoola Hoops/Ice-cream/bran flakes/chunky chips.

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  13. Jesus, Virtual! Get the claws out and take a few swipes at bony parts of the anatomy. I was just complementing the lad for reminding me of a time when I was monumentally stoned in a public place where alcohol flowed freely to my gullet. That's all. No need to get snooty. Or snotty for that matter.

    BTW, it's your blog. Do what you want when you want and to however many people you want. Just remember to write about it.

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  14. Ah Virutal was just chatting. He is a contributor to the blog as well... I'm used to his temperment.

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  15. Everything I write is intended in jest so if it seems serious it most certainly isn't. I was aware of V's credentials 'cept this is the first time I've had the honor. All's good.

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  16. I see. I will remember that you jest and you should do the same for us... a pack of clowns.

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  17. It wasn't a dig at you bro. It was a joke, which due to a series of unfortunate events, led to it being about as funny as accidentally cutting your balls off while trying to shave your arse.

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