Ratmachines.com

Fiction

Drops

2
THE LAUGHTER OF WOLVES

There is nothing, and inside of each element of nothing is a burning pyre creating itself out of the fabric of forgotten memories.

But first the priorities. There are questions too numerous to answer now, so it is better to let them drop down, flowered petals on the water. You see how it is. I resort to flowers and water. Surely the signs could not be much worse. It is time to call the doctor, or at least a suitably trained expert:- to force out a little time – I am not, I hope, being greedy in asking for this small thing. But the call must go out – there is an emergency at hand; we need full life support systems, and now is already too late. No more than a sentence or two can pass before I slip. I will take the lead ball and crush it between my teeth. The matter is so much easier, after all, than repairing the hole left by a battle axe in one's skull. The shades of history wrap themselves around me; we embrace and toss aside the sheets leaving nothing more to doubt except the future and large pieces of the past. We rub our faces in impermanence, content to leave things as they are. I let my hands slip over her body once again – her shroud quivers, falling into small pieces, which in turn crumble into dust. There is, it seems, no escaping the crumbling going on all around me – it is maybe better, or would be better, to simply turn away for a while, and think of other things. There is still of course a shivering, but that can go as it will, for now as well. Also strange shooting sensations, whose source is unclear. I will investigate these further as the days go on.

Perhaps, however, the matter is quite simple. The world molds itself slowly (more slowly than I would wish) to the old walls that surround me. The connection, however, is a joke, and I the butt of this unsolicited humour. A large cosmic joke; a trifle out of which I pull rabbits and other small woodland animals. But to find myself at the receiving end, this is really too much. Maybe there has been some mistake? Perhaps I have simply not found the right authorities, or have filled out the required forms incorrectly. That must be it, I pause and reflect. Simply a misunderstanding. That much I can deal with. Anything more, however, is too much. For if there is more, then there must be forces far greater than our imagined greatness. And that would make a laughing stock out of all of us.

Very well then – the battle stations have been drawn, lines forged out of steel, blood, the mirror images of lives, fictions and assorted scraps out of which to construct a faithful representation of an item not yet catalogued. There are no chances, although sometimes it might seem otherwise. I have taken the first fruit, tasted then thrown it out, over the roads and streets. The asphalt simmers in the summer heat; the fields follow the road into an orchard. Past this there is nothing at all: only a scattered breeze, the temptations never acted out – silence, at best. I can wait as long as is needed, I tell myself, although to wait longer will drive me mad. Or so I think. It is necessary, however, to regain some ground, if only in order to have something to do. The past hovers as it will, around fields and flowers, and an always changing assortment of knick-knacks. The word itself makes me shiver. What can be of less interest; what tells, on the other hand, more about us. A collection of garbage, of no worth to anyone other than ourselves. It is with this I assemble the city walls. There will be others following; for them I leave doors wide enough to pass through the needle, to pass a needle through. There will, of course, be blood. That can only be expected. And casualties, by the car, bus, and train load. With some left by the roadside to rot, eyes picked over by falcons and buzzards. Even the noble fall when war enters the palaces. Beyond there will be nothing but carrion; the rats will feast in fellowship with vultures and other scavenging animals.

The prospect is not bright, I admit. But it is with us every day. There can be nothing outside that is not within as well. This simply because there is neither inside or out, just as there is neither is nor is not. These oppositions are nothing more than the first fiction of grammar and language. It is in this first fiction, not here (in my words), that true fiction lies. I try only to observe, to take note, to watch over unsteady truces and failed armistices. And over armies; left and right, they remain faithful to their causes. The ministers struggle for power, the troops struggle to stay alive, the generals struggle for balance between the two. Never a moments peace, anywhere. So I listen to martial beats and harmonies: the sounds of the nation, of the ranks shifting nervously, foot to foot, eyes darting first there, then here, not sure what to look for. I would, of course, have it no other way. It is the only world I see, for now at least. Maybe tomorrow, or the day after, there will be others, more pleasing to the eye, the nostrils, the senses at large, the sublime nature of which the mind can pore over, contemplating to its heart's content.

Is there nothing more, is asked again and again, until I have scream out – is this not enough? And then it is time to return. I get nothing more ever than I need, but what I need is never, at least at first, what I wanted. Then my eyes close and I settle in for a long disturbed sleep in which dreams take over the fight for a day and a night. At the sidelines agents keep careful tabs over the proceedings, checking off performance and endurance statistics against previously adjusted national averages. There will be questions of training irregularities, of course. That is only right, there having been nothing other. Which makes the irregularities regular, and so nothing to worry about, at least to my way of thinking. I realize with a start that it would be most unusual if I were to suddenly abandon these techniques in favor of the officially approved models.

But is everything as it seems? I am looking now over the deserts and canyons with my eyes, my ways, my thoughts. The notion shakes me, I quiver, afraid to see what is in front, to the left, and right, behind as well. Always the same. For I am not alone. It is not only my way of thinking in question. That much becomes clear, though little else. There are other ways as well, attached yet detached. It is fatal to forget this simple fact. Monads pour out across the heavens, scattering like weeds in the desert winds. Each carries its world within, needing nothing more to settle in for a long summer's hibernation. Dreaming dreams born out of tissued strands of nucleic acids and forgotten battles, disasters out of which were forced marches across bogs and mountains and long sea journeys with no end in sight. We call across the distant wilds, not knowing if the answer will be a spear or a handshake. Behind which, of course, can lie even worse treacheries, deceits buried so deeply no mole could ever ferret them out. As if they wanted to; they are doing better things, there is work to be done, moling of the most serious degree. I foolishly forgot that in my naive attempt to draft them and their work into my armies. The moles do not care, do not take offence, simply go on as they were, moving over when our works get in the way of theirs. Releasing perhaps a silent mole flatulence by way of disregard and farewell. The vaguest hints of which waft up through forgotten tunnels and crevices, striking our noses briefly before vaporizing further into the atmosphere.

All to put matter into their proper perspective, that is. The rain dances across the cobbled streets, like a mountain stream over the creek bed. Like a straight shot of time, warped over end against ends, stone against stone. There is little else to say, the eyes have it all this time around. The colors, shapes, and textures breath in water – earth, water, air, and fire. Nothing more is needed to remind me that there is nothing more. The stones are dry today, unfortunately. The water respirates more slowly in the plants that line the street, captured spirits forced into tiny capillaries, osmosized up to the heavens, to return in rainfalls over calm mediteranean climates. Or to simply drift away in wisps to fragile to ever fall.

But there are more serious matters at hand. I am full, and am beginning to rearrange the holds, pushing the non-essential further back, towards the center, where they will take new and different forms. There is an acceleration of processes which before went un-noted. I can not be clear about their exact nature, since the only signs are memories no longer readily available. It is, I suspect, better to leave these matters to themselves – the rearrangements, shufflings and the like, will find new fittings and patterns; no need, then, to thrust in interferences that can do nothing more than gum up the works. Whether in silence or the pounding of jack-hammers, the cost is constant, the price fluctuating madly, like the movements of the Dow, where-in nothing is made or unmade, only paper castles and the lives of thousands, millions, sometimes billions. The planet quivers, given no choice. But there has been no invasion of aliens. The residents play, cavorting around the garden they never left. Eve looks on in dismay while Adam piles up a new stack of stones, to be fenced in at a later time. The serpent, too, suffers with the strange sensation that he has finally gotten in over his head. All the while the gods sit back, laughing uproariously, wondering when those idiots down there will get the joke. But matters now are too serious for laughter, we are told again, and again, until nothing but nausea remains.

Whose face, however, has turned pasty white? Whose hands shake over the rim of the toilet, watching the remains of their last meal swirl down into the porcelain depths? Finally the bowl is clear, filled now with clear waters, waiting fresh deposits. What remains for me truly astounding is the question of why, given so much to see and do, do some persist in staring with such vivid fascination into a pool of waste? Surely there can be better ways to spend one's time. There are small objects to be examined under the eye of the microscope. And stars, and the wind breaking across a grassy ridge far over the city, and waves crashing on the beach, salt air fresh in your face, and the patterns of age in the faces on the street. None of which is more than a beginning, the start of only one day; not to hide our faces in the heart of nature, but to remember the space between the smallest divisions of time, the source of your despair. Or mine, or anybody's.

I am alone here, in the final call. There is no sharing, although some might be slightly curious. To find the limits whose exact nature, for some reason too far back in time, eludes me. So there is here a contradiction – on the one hand, I am alone, and on the other, joined completely. I can think nothing else but that I am still unclear on the question. Perhaps I am asking the wrong thing, or in the wrong way. Or maybe, more likely, there should be no asking at all. Asking leading to no answers, whether no, or wrong, or right turning wrong before our eyes, or any of the other possible combinations – there being in the end no solution, since already once the words have left our lips the world has been reborn, cast in the mold of the old, leading towards the never been. Moments cast in the harsh recesses of time and diabolically constructed ruminations. Thoughts born of natures hidden because they are so clear. Worlds missed simply because they are ours. Fields of confusion within which are mined factories and national debts the size of unbuilt leviathons. All on borrowed time. Perhaps it might be better to enact, encode into law, freeze into the marrow of our bones, once and for all, the protestant ethic: neither a borrower or a lender be. And stop at least this one part, this phantasmagorical demon about which the papers never cease to marvel and proclaim in multi point type. First on the evening news always, of course. The place of honor shifts left to right, depending on the vagaries of public policy. And this too is not a fiction.

Within the cast iron framework of my mind there is always a shifting. Old walls are torn down to make way for the new, more durable, cheaper, in all ways better the story always goes. Anything to get the job done, as far as I am concerned. But now, there comes forth a call. Let there, it shouts out, be full notations, documentations, cataloguings, permittings and rubberstampings, approvals and revisions, zonings and rezonings. And, more importantly, the final product, which is to be turned over to the proper authorities for the most vigorous inspections and examinations. The market must be satisfied. There is no higher bidder, no holier ground. It is the first and last calling, over which no bird can fly. Those are the rules. There is no purity to which we can apply for retrial. And all is as it should be. I am content with matters as they stand. The dark forces shine more brightly, is all. That is the end of it. There can be no possible outlet, no heaven hidden just around the corner. If the times are dark, my eyes search with faint hopes, cold bodies scatter across the street, then so be it. The face of the dark angel smiles down with the rest of the gods. He was never cast aside, like the stories would have us believe, forced into a hell prison. Recall how easily he makes a jaunt into paradise, to mess with the chosen two. The story is twisted, reformed by the wishes of fools. The dark and light stand side by side, knowing each full well that the other could never exist without their opposite. Such go the oldest rules, and such are forgotten with the greatest ease. Satan and god writhe together in eternal union, like all else. As if there could ever be somewhere else to go.

Of course, these are untold, unasked, uncared for qualities, which I only bring to light now and then when a particularly nice beam of light breaks into my room – the streets and houses outside being aligned in a particular manner that lets this event come about at only certain times of the year, and then for a very short while. Making the occasion noteworthy, and meaningful. Only in one window, of course, but that is enough. Perhaps two would be too much. But the idea that I can simply cast these meanderings into the wind, letting it take them where it will, fills me with a certain sense of serenity, of carelessness in the literal sense.

I will then freeze and defreeze with the best of them, the worst, and all in-between. There is no need for closer positioning – only a careful monitoring of the moon's phases, as I noted earlier. And these observations are nothing more than rules set down for a child; the limits created expand until the children are fooled, much later, into believing themselves free. As if such an idea could ever be taken seriously, by even the most idealistically oblivious. Free for what, I ask. To work things out, I suppose. I am free to work things out as well. My life goes on, through its loops and swivels, some of which I notice, others through which I simply sleep, dreaming fitfully of dead music and soulless marches across the everglades. But always my story, my life, my thoughts. As if there could truly be any other. Which makes me unable to make the necessary tricks, or the right kind of edifice – devices, that is, to hide my face behind, and to soothe the savage and call the sheep out to pasture. Not that I find fault, mind you. A well crafted object is worthy of the highest regard, and sometimes even slips over into more profound realms, which I am reluctant to name. More wine and dead end losers; here at least I raise a last glass your way, past the waves and dawnings of half smiling virgins whose last lovers patiently wait in the wings for the sitting to end, while the artist painstakingly adds microscopic strokes to ward off the inevitable. Not my way, but better than the rest, still. Nor tales of life in dead cities, the beat of which sounds distant echoes in my ears as well, strange blue boys spouting pearls no man before could call wise. All buried (in concrete hazed virus tickings) over the end – through time itself – until time itself calls time out and the warriors reload, careful to select the right artillery for the job, which has only now begun. I light another this time around to pass back until finally the force named control has to begin to laugh, seeing the joke is on nothing more than itself – which is laughable, of course. This ticket, then, is for me. And will arrive safe and sound through the morning mails.

My past and future melt then collide viciously; the outcome will be reported on the eleven o'clock news. I am happy to be here, watching, composing flattering reports to send back to the home front, avoiding always the inevitable, warding off death until there is nothing, I dream at least, but smooth moving waters into which I can draw myself at will. And then will too falls, blending into the clear stream with only a mild twinge of doubt. The best student, after all, it was said, leaves the teachings out of which he is born behind before going on his way – words I have seen somewhere before, but which only now begin to make some sense. I am always, again, the last to know but the first to note. Which strikes me now and then, no more.

I have married many times, each for life. Now the fruits of these unions fall around me, in a strangely scented ferment of growth and decay – another couple born in the hands of time, and doomed to remain until the final moment. Of which more could be said, if words could do the job. So it is better to listen to the birds for a while, sit back, sip on some coffee, wonder on distant friends and enemies (who will never realize who or why they are) – and then sigh for the frozen decay I run from like a frantic deer (to the ends of the earth, if necessary, I tell myself). Knowing somewhere inside that there will be only more, then more again, until the light sets and the last shovel full of earth falls over my folded hands. But until that time there is no need to muse too far, or sink too deeply. The sands slip by, one after the other, then in a torrent too massive to measure, then one only, now and then, its crystal form undulating before the eye of heaven.

And today, in the light that has passed over into other avenues, I fold my hands across my chest, waiting for work and suns that will never come again, wondering how, and if, I should try to explain, and to whom. And when, if I get to that point. The affair is buried behind masses of details: paperwork to be processed at a later time, There are clerks waiting behind grim walls, order forms neatly arranged in both alphabetical and numerical order. Behind the obvious lists and categories loom far larger constructions, whose nature remains hidden until the offices have moved sufficiently to unveil their inner mechanisms. At such times there is always a flurry of activity; the cabinets are closed, papers are frantically rearranged, the brow of every functionary drips with sweat. The hoped for order is soon re-established, calm prevails again, the workers relax, allowing themselves the luxury of a brief smile before going on with their labors.

The process reverses as well; motion slows until the movements become almost indiscernible, beads of sweat lie motionless on the bridges of noses, the shuffling of the papers ceases. But there is no rest. The massive presses are operating at peak capacity; mountains of new directives are churned out in long, evenly spaced signatures. The harsh sound of gears meshing becomes a grating strain, until there is nothing to do but run – only there is nowhere to go. Each step carries the machines further into hell. Leaving the familiar leaves the machines naked, exposed to the burning notes and decaying alimentary processes. Swamp gas rises, igniting now and then into a brief jet of flame which is sometimes mistaken for inspiration, the muse, or, at worst, genius. Out of these cesspools rises the death of man. We listen to the gurgles and breaking bubbles of gas with fascination, unable to see the congestion and stoppages which underlie the day.

Slowly the cover is put back by harried bureaucrats, until the pit is no longer visible, and its sounds muffled by deep layers of filing cabinets and gently humming office equipment. The smell, however, still pervades the air, although the staff pretend not to notice. Later, the last ones leave the offices, turning the lights off one by one, until only the emergency exit signs remain, throwing off a green light that reminds us what lies beneath.

Within the death of sludge and decadence, of pure rot, there is nothing noble or praiseworthy. But there is no excuse needed or necessary. It is only a question of rates of decay, of half-lives sinking into undefined masses of protoplasmic ecstasies, quivering jello singing in the summer sun. All a matter of locks and balance. Keys one day, chains the next. There is no telling when the change comes around – only a twinge of boredom to alleviate the burden of the oncoming day. More than that I would not need to ask for, but throw instead away, not caring to hear the reasons or excuses, wanting only the right words spoken in the right way for the moment, which at the moment is only one: single, simple, undefined yet complete in its every part. The breath heaves, the diaphragm undulates, describing a graceful arch within the red and white membranes of our hearts. There is at that moment nothing else, but the moment is never ours to hold, keep, or cherish, but lingers on, an alluring wisp of fragmented time. And then I can do little else but smile, having used all other options up. There appear cracks and crevices into which only fools penetrate, so I cast off my doubts, struggling to take off at least a part of my burden – a burden on which I stand, live and breath. All of which has a deathly serious sound to it, conjuring up images of graven faced attorneys hammering out the fate of the universe before an overworked court. I rest the case, fold the briefs, unwind the hands that argue into dark nights crawling with insects and assorted barbaric customs too dark to view in polite society, but out of which we spin all our best stories.

There are also tensions, uncertainties, the undefined spaces into which we insert ourselves, thinking the work will be good, for a time at least. Not seeing that the struggle carries new faces into the dawns that wait in long lines before and after us. Nervous marches and irregular footsteps gather in mounds of doubt and step aside, to let the face of the unknown shine more brightly upon itself. I stand now in the wings, looking on, not sure what to think at all. But there is nothing more than wings as well, looking onto themselves in a twisted mobius strip: wings upon wings over the dawn the new day the peace and tranquility that tempts us on with cruel insight it laughs at our frantic scramblings and unknowing guessworks. And then the words themselves align with one side or the other. The battle is joined. I look first here, then there for hoped for reinforcements but none are apparent; they too, it seems, are waiting in the wings, for the proper time. Or maybe they have already made their choice, and are simply afraid to tell me their decision. There is then nothing to do but stand to one side, wait for the cold that wraps over me until my skin turns a frosted white, breath leaving my lips in cold clouds, blood tending always towards the center, where life is not so hard, leaving dead things behind. Arms, legs, extremities of every sort sift and arrange themselves, hoping in this way to get good seats for the funeral. And then the clocks begin to ring – slowly at first, then picking up speed until there is nothing but sound reverberating through the inner corners of the most quiet places. The gods, demons, elves, trolls, and others who come with no invitation but still find room to squeeze themselves in look with uncertain eyes at the feast arranged chronologically to their lefts and rights. When they move to feed the meal moves as well, until nothing is to be seen but a spastically marching army of the unknown spinning more and more quickly – a cat chasing a tale of good times and mirth.

But the lines have gone down; the words no longer reflect or sound true, the doubts have crept in, directed by superior forces. We are witnessing the classic flanking maneuver, but have been caught completely off-guard. The fact of the matter is that we simply did not expect the enemy to have the discipline or training to carry out an action with this degree of complexity. The wards fall, one after the other. I am weak, no longer able to muster up even the promise of reserves. And with that there seems nowhere to fall back to; moral is low, there is no more wine, and the words now sound a hollow tone. But defeat cannot be certain. I will never surrender, although hope may wane feverishly; there may be unfound stocks of explosive devices still, and the night will bring fresh fodder, dew on grass – enough for another day, I tell myself, unsure now where to send these briefs. For the telegraph has been lost, the wireless no longer functions, all major roads and traffic arteries are in the hands of the enemy.

Suddenly the thought strikes me – something so obvious I cannot believe I did not see it earlier – : I am the enemy! It is here that the final mechanism of salvation lies. The hoped for doomsday machine is in my hands, free for the taking. I press, trying to keep my hands from shaking, the detonator – nothing, only more silence, the ticking of the clock in the background, sun breaking darkness, and the eternal call for food. An evenness, however, is detectable around the outskirts; reports begin to trickle in, announcing the fall. But where was the drama, the mystery, the tension? All I see is an even surface, a field where the mines have only recently been removed, tufts of grass inserted here and there in a weak attempt at replanting. And a light breeze, coming across this plain, born in distant hills whose outline is vague, blurry, the colors shifting from greyish browns to faded purples. And in the center of this plain, give or take a few degrees, stand stick figures typing and calculating rapidly, running now and then to ticker tape machines to collate further. All of which strikes as very mundane, however. There must be some error, a miscalculation that has multiplied with every new set of calculations. The lines and solids that indicate the mathematical condition of certainty and reality, however, continue to undulate languidly, showing clearly that there is no further question possible, although more precise measurements may yield data that will force slight alterations in the general patternings, perhaps even a shift in an axis or two. But this is expected, indeed planned for. There can be no flustering of the mathematical agencies; the best that can be hoped for is a renewed interest in applied arithmetics, but even this faint hope relies only on a return to the foundations, not on any alteration in the profound sense of the word.

The faces of the victors show no sign of jubilation, however. There is no time; the desks and tables are over-flowing with sheets of data and analysis waiting tabulations and processing. Even with the help of several new super-computers (donated by a consortium of electronics giants) the work moves painstakingly slowly. For with every advance comes a logarithmically expanding mountain of data. The primary working group has appealed repeatedly for more manpower, but the requests are bogged down in an internal power struggle in the middle level management, the outcome of which is still in doubt. I make my way slowly towards the group, hoping to find some sign of life. One member looks up, then quickly looks back down at his work. With even this brief interlude several sheets of paper fall to the ground, his desk having no room for the mounting work. He lets them lie where they have fallen, since to pick them up would entail an even greater loss of time. He is now scowling, muttering under his breath words I cannot understand but can easily imagine.

There must be a mistake, however. I turn away, searching the horizons, hoping to see the source of the error. There has been no victory at all. There can be no other explanation possible. I have been deceived. I am examining simply the cold world of logic and reason, devoid of value, frozen against the beating of my heart: a perpetual dance of ice and sleet around the moments, creating balls of cold calculation which describe and circumscribe the spheres into which are locked the spaces between the divisions, the tears and laughter that remove the dust and lint, and, finally, the belly buttons that jiggle in the warmth of an embrace that takes no time away from the advance of the clock face – or, perhaps, an explosion that detonates itself out of well calibrated mixtures of fertilizers and easily available commercial chemicals, leaving behind shards of layered ruminations, calculations, discordant datums and outmoded techniques of marginalized manipulations. The high priests of the age have no faces and hide behind cold fictions and heartless fantasies of life after death. Their victories and strategies are disguised now in the pages of scientific journals and scholarly debates. Things are as they always have been. The priests are as needed as ever, and hold on their shoulders worlds and fears and faith and the new face of god. For we cannot live without this faith, this benign, satanic (or divine) hand ruling our every step. It is only that I am bored by these new gods. That is all. They are cold and grey and carry nothing to make my heart beat more quickly, my face light with unexpected surprise, nor do they make space for doors to swing wide, onto new vistas, unimaginable within the space of my world. I want to take them into my heart, to invite them into worlds I whisper about to my friends but they shake their heads sternly, demanding proof and reproducible quantums of factored lies.

There is of course the never ending romance of discovery and innovation, but this romance is too arcane, requiring endless years of training and control to even begin to fully appreciate the marvels of. It is not then a question of bad or good. Simply of boredom, of failed romances drifting in and out of horizonless futures. I am sure the meanderings of the medieval metaphysicians carried as much fascination for the select few, and as much boredom for the uninitiated, whose faces reflect only the laughter of wine and the fruits of daily labors and bedroom dances. I wander somewhere in-between, trapped in a no-man's land of dreams and doubt. Carrying at my side a few slim volumes and cherished memories of companions now elsewhere. That too is the quiet face of man. I examine my features closely in the mirror, not wanting to see the uninvited years that will one day cloud my eyes and sap my strength, but also seeing nothing I want to preserve in its entirety.

It is all a question of balance, of reforming the tangled tissues and membranes which weigh the measures and hand over judgment. It is a question of running when afraid. There are no tears beyond the looks, no glass eye to remove when night time comes. Bathed in wine my words take on an icy silkiness, but not even wine can worry loose the memory kept clean across the day. I want to say more, to explore canyons and fields, and then I want nothing; the plain stretches before me – not an error at all, but a way station, a purgatory through which I must pass before going on. Things become more clear then: after the defeat did not come the victory, as I had thought would happen, but a transition. It is as of yet unclear where I am transiting to, although the event itself is clear enough. Across plains and fields there is nothing to raise an eyebrow or stimulate hope and wishes. The test is the forcing which is the real lie, for there is nothing unforced. Nor alone, singled out from the ranks. It is my mistake alone that carries me now into the cold glare of a never risen sun. And it is I alone who stand unsatisfied, throwing back my own accusing glares at tormentors who remain hidden. All that rose before was nothing but illusion – tricks and phantoms thrown by an ill defined series of demonic possession and smoothed over cycles. For the plain now before me was once alive, brimming with activity and pulsing with song. Rhythms flowed through the daylight and rested in great throbs at the set of night. Angels whispered strong words and looked around to find more wine. There is nothing, and inside of each element of nothing is a burning pyre creating itself out of the fabric of forgotten memories. There lie shifting glass towers and moons which never set; a world of the senses born in the mind; a harmony long lost but gone before the beginning set about its first quivering steps.

Within the nothing is an eye, a word I can doubt and question, a look and glance, a touch at last I see is the root. And from that root grows uneven speculations buried within feigned attitudes of lethargy and confusion. The mother and daughter laugh together, not seeing, not able to see, or feel the words that twist themselves into iron cables and taut strands which bind me to my fate. It is the child that sees and knows no tears who calls my name; it is the sound that chills and smoothes over the rough before me. It is the naked form of fear. Out of which, if memory can be counted on, is born the frozen limbed stares and endless sleep. The slow roll inward keeps pace with all surrounding until the world is overwhelmed; it is then sold for firewood, scrap after scrap. It is a world I think left behind, waiting for off guard moments, and untended openings.

And the battle which I thought finished has entered into only the first stage. The cycles cannot be dissuaded from their paths; the rules of combat are set in rotating columns of proteins and binding agents. I blame the past and present but find no place to place my hands. The unease is set and bound to leap but there are no others here to guide me; the days and nights burn on in silent prayers. The gods have stepped to the side, content to let matters work themselves out this time around. I think nothing and can see only with the greatest of difficulty. In time there will be new mornings; for now the day turns cold and spring is held at bay for yet a little longer. The ashes and empty bottles from last nights celebration linger only to remind me of what is not here. The face of unheard sighs is the only word, the mountains in the north nothing but shifting light and shadow. The sands and grey earth blow this way and that, covering the twitching forms of the mathematicians with a thick sheet of grime, until their outlines grow indistinct, then finally vanish, joining the featureless plain with a barely audible sigh. The battle is lost, no reports now flow, the sounds are only reflections of memories and cries across barren wastes. As I watch, the mountains plains and sky merge into a uniform platform from which are launched at routine intervals rockets and other devices, none of which are able to escape, or make a perceivable impact on this faceless, surfaceless world – featureless in every way except one: an occasional outburst of dusted air, which joins its surroundings with an inaudible gasp.

And it is then I know – the element of water has vanished, leaving behind only a primaly united mixture of earth and air. As if we were witnessing the miscarriage of a universe, or the end, where all that moves and lives has passed over into dust born in dark recesses of spaceless time. All that can be thought is here at all times. The words that do not consume themselves lead into lies and deceits, the nature of which depends only on the obsessional clinging to truth with which we are born and under which we are doomed to go on for as long as we insist on maintaining ourselves as fools and cheats, cowards and braggarts. The open plains of misspent youth lie like open sores, pumping out puss and coagulated masses of blood and life. All for the want of a single drop of water, a single spark of flame. For it is the flame that ignites and the water which feeds, and out of the flame gushes the torrents, and out of the drops burn bright fires of energized dust, atoms within atoms, spinning ever faster, ever more alive, inside and out; the universe sings songs through nights filled with shooting stars and autumnal glows. Its body exhales now breath fired and moist, in then out until the model grows into a towering creature locked hand in hand with the stars and moon, the empress of creation within the dawn of time.

Or so the cards say, and the cards, they say, cannot, by their very nature, lie. And in the character of the valley comes more movement, breath following breath followed by a torrent of things, a veritable avalanche under which we barely manage to make our way to safety – a brief shelter from the winds that now howl through to the birth of the new day. Or so it is promised, and so I run away from, terrified at the prospect of new life. Or perhaps only a mismatch, although I doubt it, if only for the sake of blind optimism. It is here I sit, waiting, holding my breath, my hands moist, nervous to see, to hear what comes.