Wednesday, January 25, 2006

Manitoba

Robert held his dulled brain, separated from his skull and slippery in his fingers. The ravages of alcohol were immediately apparent in the guise of slowed pulsing and deep discoloration. His brain actually looked sick, though Robert could not be sure as his reference groups were stored in this gloopy, grey, mass. Nevertheless, he felt it was unwell, even if he didn’t quite know as much.
But now that it was out of his head – the bowl-like ‘skullcap’ tipping and twirling on the morticians’ table – what was Robert to do but hold his own mind and stare, continuing his deep enthrallment by what he considered his ‘soul’ in former times. It was not so long ago, but minutes, when he believed that a person could be summed up by what they contained behind their eyes, every other physical gesture and attribute but window dressing, the true individuality of a person contained with a couple of pounds.
“Not… special?”
He could not understand suddenly, in his present hollow state, how he could have held such an outrageous assumption without even a whisper of evidence to collaborate the idea. Should a stone grow legs and kick garden gnomes. This weight he felt in his hands, like a stomped on heart, was about as impressive a crumpled paper ball, or a cloud on the distant horizon following the wind. After all, his eyes blink and his toes curl. Is this not proof than the brain itself is just body candy, the true nature of a being contained in another form? Could this not be a sign, a man holding his own detached brain in his strong hands, of something else? Perhaps, a soul.
“Why?”
Robert shook his brain, defying it to explain itself, but it threatened to come apart in his hands, grey sludge seeping through his fingers. A brain for every man, a brain for everyman, Robert construed nothing uniquely special in this muscle which would imbue it with anything more than heat and existence, but not control and nobility. So, even without his mind contained in its proper cell, Robert could only reason that it was useless.
“Without use.”
A clenched fist, mightier than intellect, displaced his brains shape with great downward force, segmenting the flesh and dispersing it laterally. Three great thumps on heavens door.
In an empty room, walls painted with splattered brain and the faint echoes of the Destroying act still ringing, Robert held his soul in his hands, limp and weak like a dirty duvet cover. Transparent and viscous, as light as water, his soul wept, releasing particles of itself forever into the ether. Roberts’ hands felt no sensation as his Everything slid from his care onto the table, displacing his skull from its static position. In only a matter of moments his soul would all be gone, flittered away to leave but a memory of its final minutes and a awareness of loss charged emptiness. He caressed the few remnants of ephemeral truth remaining on the table, though he could only see his loving touch, his fingers numb to the dissipating spirit. So slowly and with great finality, Roberts body sank onto the table, lying along its full length, just as his soul went the way of his brain, all three sharing space in heaven.

2 comments:

  1. Dave Chappelle Bot.11:52 pm, January 25, 2006

    I'm not dangerous!

    ReplyDelete
  2. someone else bot.6:16 am, January 27, 2006

    Neither am I

    ReplyDelete