For those of you who might not have been following along, there’s been a recent hubbub over Jack’’s latest editor log and the filling of some rather arcane nodeshells. I’m not creative enough to try and fill each and every one of them but I thought I might try and take another view on it. The following story, if you can call it that, is an attempt to use the nodeshells in Jack’s post in the order that he listed them. I think I left out three or four. I told you, I'm not that creative.
Granted, at times it’s not all that cohesive and it’s subject to a fit of whimsy on my part. In the end though, for me it was kinda fun to write and maybe that’s the most important part.
I think it was on an dismal rainy Saturday morning, the kind November brings here in Ohio that I decided to shake off the doldrums. Yes, it was time I debarked on an adventure. This being the time of year when the leaves begin to turn I decided to plot my journey by sitting under the red tree and gather my thoughts.
For some odd reason though, my past kept calling me back and I couldn’t seem to concentrate. After a few moments of consternation I came to the realization that my life with her was now over. It was then that a salted moment of memories smudged across my face, and I’ve already forgiven her. It’s all over now. About the same time, a strange song echoed through my brain that I barely recognized. It was haunting and eerie and seemed to blend in with the cold November air. I determined that it was penned by that famed Icelandic composer Jón Leifs who had died way back in 1968. I thought to myself, how strange, yet how fitting.
The day was getting on and I was getting hungry and my mouth, the whore that it is, was wet with drool and willing to accept anything in the form of nourishment. My stomach rumbled and in keeping with the Icelandic theme I longed for their rendition of that country’s version of haggis. To those people from up north it’s known as slatur. For those of you who might be uninitiated, slatur is a sheep’s innards that are encased in a sheep’s stomach. Sometimes the blood of the sheep is used but for my delicate stomach, I preferred mine to be made from the liver.
Alas, with nothing but my thoughts to sustain me, I gathered to my feet and decided to continue on with my journey. Maybe it was the chill in the air or maybe it was the blood starting to flow through my veins but I thought to myself of all of the great things the winter can bring. As I crossed over the horizon I came upon a clearing and there in the corner stood a solitary tree that seemed to beckon to me. Upon closer inspection I was amazed to discover that it was the mythical long life milk tree. Since I was famished and in dire need of sustenance I decided to tap into the tree and the milk that it brought forth. To say I was pleasantly surprised that the nectar it provided tasted slightly like harira soup would be an understatement of massive proportions.
With my belly full I began to grow weary. I decided to nap for awhile under the tree and let my dreams take me away. Visions of my long lost love appeared in my sleep. I dreamed of the way I love you and as my lover drew me closer and closer the dream began to slow down. Finally, when we were about to embrace she revealed herself. Then the devil up her sleeve appeared and the beauty I had once sought had turned into something hideous.
I awoke with a start. Cold sweat had formed all over me and it took me a moment to get my bearings. I returned myself to the tree to gather some of its milk for the rest of my journey. It would give forth none and it was just as I was about to leave unfilled when I noticed the leaves on the tree had turned thick and doughy. I thought to myself “what kind of magic is this”? The bread tree, as I would later call it had come to my rescue!
Since I had never partaken of the fruit that the tree had borne, I began to wonder if something tragically tragic might occur when I ingested it. It was bland and chewy and I thought I would trade a mountain of it for a mere spoonful of some vegetable chap-chai.
As I continued my journey across the field I came across yet another vaguely familiar face. A face from my distant past and I was forced to ask myself the question “What’s her name again?” As we grew closer and were about to cross paths she whispered to me that she would give me “all you ever dream, your eyes will taste of the flowers” and I felt my will begin to fail.
I thought this message strange and the silence that ensued caused me to take pause. My knees will bend and ease into the quiet and I’ll be surrounded by nothingness. I’ll take a trip back through time when the ocean existed outside of encyclopedias and we relied on our more primitive instincts for survival.
As I knelt there contemplating my fate, a tribe of dwarves appeared. The matriarch, somehow sensing my dismay gave me some encouragement. She raised up my chin in her little hand with the wisdom of the ages looked me straight in the eye. No words needed to be spoken; it was as if I could read her mind. Her kind eyes seem to say “It’s nice to be heard, dear” and I was grateful beyond belief.
As we sat there exchanging our thoughts, a little red dwarf began jumping up and down. Soon, other members of the tribe began to follow suit and I wondered what was going on. Sensing my confusion, they all began to chant in unison “We’re going on a bear hunt”
They seemed so sure of themselves, like they’d done this thousands and thousands of time before and never been disappointed. It was the thrill of the hunt and just as the cowgirl smells of soil they would return with their quarry. I found myself longing for a camera to record their actions for the ages. The way they moved and the stealth they displayed was one of those cinematic moments that Hollywood could only dream about. For sure, at the awards ceremony, I’d be giving Oscar my eyes as I held the golden statue in my hands.
Some of you by now might be wondering if I am Carson McCullers. She was the teller of tales of misfits and outcasts. In our E2 world, she might have taken on the task of randomly linking of nodeshells to try and form a story. Some of you might think her a genius, others a lunatic. It is after all, all in your hands.
I soon lost track of the merry band of dwarves and was left to fend for myself amongst the trees. As I came to the edge of the forest, I noticed it was bordered by a black brick wall that extended as far as the eye could see. I decided to follow the wall to see where it would lead. After what I think was a mile or so, I came upon a door embedded in the brick. Above it was a sign that read The Door Opens With A Plastic Card.
I fumbled through my wallet and pulled out a credit card. I slid it through the crack and I heard the click of the lock release itself. At first, I pushed gently on the door but it would not yield. Having come this far, I would not be deterred. I lowered my shoulder and gave the door a mighty shove. It flew open with a hiss and a blast of dust and dirt burst into the air.
What was revealed on the other side was not some ogre or monster. Instead, a white light shined and formed a spotlight in the surrounding darkness. In the center of the spotlight stood the most beautiful woman I had ever seen. She held an instrument in her hands and as she sat down and slowly began to spread her legs I noticed she was a cello player.
I sat down and motioned for her to play. She closed her eyes and her face took on a sensual look that seemed to say “I want to give all our smiling-bedroom-eye photographs to strangers and for awhile we had every gentle sound of the music to ourselves.
When her performance was over I felt entranced, enthralled and empowered. I called out to her”If it be your will, do it with me, now and again and as often as humanly possible and our world will be forever held on a tilt that the rest will come to envy!”
When we had spent our energy making love she led me to another room where we would feast on a meal fit for kings. Servants appeared and bowed before us. They brought us our meals and as I savored the aroma and raised my knife and fork to my plate I noticed microscopic pieces of people in my cutlery. I glanced over at my lover but she had already begun to eat. I tried to warn her but as she swallowed the perceived delicacies her once pink skin had already started to change. Her pallor, once vibrant and alive now seemed to turn a ghostly white. As the lights flickered around the table I noticed that In every shade she’s eggs.
As her color faded further she looked over to me and I told her that all I wanted to do was “to die by your side” and I raised the fork up to my mouth and ingested the poison. Her skin had now begun to crack and in places a yellow pus oozed forth. We vomited in unison in separated universes and our deaths were moments apart.
Who knows where the reel is that will tell this story? What motion picture soundtrack could provide the accompaniment that would do this tale justice? As you viewed this story through your cellophane eyes would you play the role of the critic? I’m guessing yes for beyond the veil of nothingness there exists a sea of poets, judges all.
Well, I hope this little tale of adventure and woe was fun for everyone. I know many of the outsiders won’t “get it” but we are an incestuous Everything2. Sometimes this little place that many of us call home provides us with a venue where we are like symbiotic functions dancing in tandem and at others it seems like it’s one of those good places to hide refugee children.
In either instance, someday I hope we’ll all dance together on twilight’s wings.