The Illustrated Encyclopedia of an Imaginary Universe

I shouldn’t beg. I should know better. But there’s a yearning in my heart like the crying of a lone violin playing beyond the range of sight but not of hearing. I see foreign smiles and I hear speeches that move slowly but carelessly down streets rich with unusual themes. A bazaar of clashing interests, booths of intimidating possibilities, stringent desires lashed to the brink of unconsciousness but forced into an upright position. Left arm stiff at the hip, fingers fanned out along the pocket, right arm slung impossibly over the left shoulder as if to protect the vulnerable neck.

I crane my neck up and back so that I may feel all of the tendons creak with displeasure and stretch with tugging ripe and strong. My spine yawns and is deliciously alive. Droplets of rain, cold and dirty, touch my face, falling down from the hurricane fence someone had rolled out above the dingy alleyway. Tears defiled by rust.

This life of mine which was once a play, something simple and easily swallowed, cleverly divided into acts rather than chapters, has now given way to a composition of a ghastly different nature. Where dialogue was once the ruler of this pitiful and shabby demesne now marches endless parades of measures on roads of bars and staffs, all cursed with black notes that call out in some discord against the white, snowy backdrop. It refuses to refrain, not even a moment to rest; the tempo is the driving member of the body, properly located between the legs of something more despicable, and it will not let up, it will not alter course.

This is almost suitable if I were the only one damned to be swept up in this movement. But I am not so fortunate to be the sole hapless and unrehearsed musician struggling beneath the weight of the score. I have unwittingly hired innocent others and placed them in their chairs, facing the podium behind which no conductor stands. We are not so lucky to have a leader in this and the blind, crazy composer keeps churning this shit out and demands we play it, each and every note, never missing a beat, never allowed to rest any more than the rhythm and notation allows, which is not much.

And once played, I couldn’t give away the sheets upon which the notes were scribbled. Converted maybe to something more palatable, it still would not sell, but at least consumed by those whose filters are off. And they are out there, the visitors beyond the trenches who look in with a mark of sad curiosity and morbid interest, looking at symbols and finding in them no solace, no answers, and no reason to go on.