Tag Archives: fiction

The Chronicle of Mr. Cogito

Señor C had made an informed judgement on every part of his body. He had in his possession a number of journals, encyclopaedias and compendia on the subject of anatomy and from these sources and others, he considered himself to be informed. He had judged his thighs, he had judged his kneecaps. He had judged his thighs and the kneecaps at their ends and found them not deficient, deficient as others, others whose judgements were not invested with the same accuracy of his own, not to speak of the textbooks from which they were derived, may perceive them as being. They were different, certainly. Striking? Of course. Unusual? Oh, there could be no doubt. But deformed?

One of the books Señor C had read was entitled On the Origin of Species by Means of Natural Selection, or the Preservation of Favoured Races in the Struggle for Life (1859). Well, not the whole thing, in truth, but a good heft of’t. His failure in completing the text was pathological, and not attributable to a lapse in his academic diligence. Señor C would be overcome by fits of giggling when he reached a section, just some yards wide of the half-way point. A noble vista, if only it could be reached! The unyielding paragraph described how a combination of selective breeding on the part of the tribes of sub-Saharan Africa and just a bit of individual ingenuity on behalf of each beast, could cause the neck of a giraffe to become elongated. Señor C would laugh, and his entire body would begin to curl up into itself. His backside leaned dangerously over the edge of, and then off the edge of, his chair, leaving Señor C to keel over and curl yet further, onto the floor. His resemblance to tape turning about a spool was most uncanny. There, he would endure what remained of his laughing fit, until the memory of the Serengeti, the giraffes and tribes all had passed from his mind. After havong regained his composure, Señor C would ask himself, was that truly that funny? Was it really? Señor C was a curious sort, and no less curious on the subject of himself.

All the same, by this stage in the text, Señor C had gained some familiarity with Darwin’s thesis and thusly it was possible for regard his kneecaps as an adaptation, of potential benefit to future generations. Not that Señor C was likely to ever viviparate. Though sometimes he cultivated daydreams of producing a stolon. Stretching, in order to quell an incipience in one of his arms, there would be another Señor C, moustachioed and sodden in afterbirth, just as mystified as he, the initial incarnation of Señor C, was, at the terminus of an adnexa that had them conjoined.

Señor C’s kneecaps were reversed. His knees looked to what was behind him. Señor C intermittently regretted that there was no one else in his home to witness his adaptation. He often longed for someone to collaborate with in the combing over the finer details. In order to resolve the dilemma of his solitude, Señor C apprenticed himself, with the diligence of the isolated obsessive, in the art of naively witnessing his own life. He placed himself in rooms before he arrived in them, and watched himself enter. It was, like all skills in the making, a real slippery bastard. The key was to prevent himself from forcing his efforts, lest he jump the mark and his imagination fill the gap. This is what had happened when Señor C experienced a deceptive breakthrough which had seemed at first, reliable, as far as perceptions go. There he was, maladroitly astride the doorframe, surely himself, all angular imprecision, testing the strength of his tendons by leaning in incorrect and frankly performative ways. But then, reproducing the image subsequently, he supplanted what he truly did look like with what he thought he looked like. Perhaps it had since worked, perhaps on other occasions it had not. It is difficult to say, and more difficult still to describe what it is like to see with the eyes of an empty room.

Señor C thought often about his attic. Such a strange room. A strange room in that it was valued for its capacity to take objects, from rooms where they were not wanted. Could

the attic be regarded as existing in the same category as other rooms? If the attic was a non-room, did it feel left out? If it did feel left out, did this cause jealousy, resentment? Correlatively, is it possible the other rooms felt bloated, stuffed to their fetters with objects, desperate to unload their contents somewhere, resentful in turn of the myriadminded creature that moved in them? Could the attic conspire with the other rooms, to offload their wastage? Or would the attic conspire to distribute its space within other rooms? If such a transaction of room between rooms, would they be mindful of his position at the time of transfer? Would it be possible that a corner of a room would materialise within his body as he passed through his home? Señor C began to formulate a more deliberate gait, as if ready to fend off a part of his attic that might produce itself in the middle of his chest cavity.

Señor C found himself less capable of plying the familiar in-roads of his thoughts of pursuing his regular hobbies, becoming uncertain as to whether ‘phthisic’ should indeed follow on from ‘phthirophagus’ in the dictionary. Verifying that words in his edition of the Oxford English Dictionary did indeed appear in alphabetical order was one such pastime.

Bewitched, Bothered and Bewildered am I

It was a mannered song. It was in the old style. The notes were embraced and theatrically uncoupled, by a vocalist who performed beneath the rasp of a big band. These symptoms of its disingenuity and more irked him, but he acclimatised. Once, it roused him from sleep to half-doze and he would lie there on his back, being confused, but it now relaxed him. He drifted off while grinding his teeth in rhythm with the drummer’s bemsha- plodding. He was content to allow matters stand as they were, until the song started to leave a sugary crust on the walls, which he picked at like a neurotic.

He climbed the stairs to the attic and there found a stack of clockwork phonographs, inert, corner into corner into corner, perfectly. Not one side of any phonograph was infringed upon by contact with any other side; they were all pristine hexagons in terrible sequences. Señor C saw himself in his dreams, running at them and being impaled in eighteen places, each point of incision exactly twelve inches from any other.

It was inconceivable to disturb even one of the phonographs, for fear of bringing an end to the geometry, the beauty of which would have brought tears to Señor C’s eyes if the affecting ballad had not in his mind, run the diapason entire from affecting to saccharine, to bothersome, to sickly to nauseating.

So he let it be for now, and allowed the crust to swell yet further.

Though, sometimes he did not let it be, and would return, full of the failure’s vigour for the resumed task, and found that on some quantum plane, the phonographs had begun to disembroil themselves from one another. In doing so, they excreted from themselves the colour brown, which was not brown, in truth, but a boiled brown.

This ooze was making its way across the attic floorboards. Though Señor C could not be certain that this melting, 0 wherefore melting, was not a discolouration of a more pedestrian sort, a mere stain in the attic’s floor, one that he had never before noticed. So he marked in the eye of his mind how far the stain halted before a particular grike in the floorboards and resolved to leave the room for a cluster of days, so that where the stain had progressed to could be contrasted with the stain as it is now.

In his dreams, he watched himself, inchoate with a rage he had been ignorant of in his real life, smash the phonographs to bits with a brass ear trumpet.

When the day finally came to trace the stain’s progression, Señor C pretended to have forgotten. He completed his morning ritual with a broadcast nonchalance, before allowing himself to remember to check the stain.

It had indeed advanced by a small, but indisputable margin. The gramophones from which the ooze emanated were increasingly reduced. Señor C knelt and asked the stain a question.

— What in the name of Christ is this?

They were not interested in his platitudes.

Bewitched, Bothered and Bewildered am I…

Today, Señor C was overly attendant to the process of preparing his breakfast, in order to distract himself from the man floating in his kitchen.

It was a man of ordinary height and appearance, some seven feet from the floor, and some two feet three inches from the ceiling. Apart from the general ‘wrongness’ of his manifestation (levitation, etc.), his orientation was skewed or incorrect. His front was too oriented; he looked neither upwards nor downwards, but in some 65 degree direction.

Señor C did not wish to touch the man or to address him. Or, to look at him, really. Señor C’s coping mechanism in this instance was, altogether different from the one he adopted when confronted with the loosening gramophones. Rather than generously apportioning himself periods of time during which he would pretend not to care, Señor C restrained himself from looking at the man altogether and only when in the midst of a cough, did he allow his eyes to look upwards at some glancing light off of the man’s shoe, for instance.

In spite of this austerity of glimpses, Señor C came to see that the man was slowly, slowly turning through the air, as considered and balletic as any circus acrobat. His display was far more impressive however, as he did so without the supports usually granted to the performer. One could appreciate this if one were capable of considering such things without being made to feel deeply uncomfortable, and Señor C could not.

Señor C began to wonder if there was an empirical means of verifying the man’s rotation. He supposed that the best option was to plot the angle in which his shoes were pointing at the current moment, and where they were pointing five, six days hence. He could use a measuring tape to chart this point from the shoe itself to one of the walls and mark it in pencil.

But he didn’t bother, and used the man as a clothes horse, despite the unsettling vision the man gave, swaddled in white sheets, hovering about his kitchen table like a profane and somnolent Virgin Mary, ascending body and soul to heaven, albeit at an unbearably torpid rate.

Mirrors stopped reflecting Señor C and Señor C began to reflect mirrors.

Climbing the stairs one evening, he put his foot through one of the steps.

Things that Señor C put down would disappear. Not in the quaint way that this befalls all of us, when something else confronts us as task and, oh, where did that thing I had get to, Señor C watched them, watched them, dissolve.

Señor C had placed great dependence on the constancy of the rules which governed the basic tenets of his life and did not know why they were being razed so frequently of late. He did not know why he had not left his home in many, many years. He did not know why he hadn’t seen another person in an even longer span of time. He longed to take an iron to things, to straighten out the world’s bunching wrinkles.

Advertisements