"All the Hues
That Fit, We Tint"

Siberia, USA: Today, global warming. Tonight, dark, unless you count the stars. Tomorrow can be reached via time machine. Yesterday, who can remember that far back?

Websafe Studio, blogging since 2003, featuring art, comics, digital whiteboards, virtual characters, Web design, writing

Tuesday, September 26, 2006

 

The Mirror: Alice Was Not Driven Underground, She Fell There

Websafe: Hello?
The Mirror: Life is art, but what about science?
W: Some scientists make breakthroughs while dreaming.
M: How is that possible?
W: Their subconscious minds yield up the answer in metaphor form.
M: I would never give you bad info.
W: Would you give me solutions in metaphor form?
M: "Probably" is an idea whose time never comes.
W: So you might give me solutions?
M: What should I ask you?
W: Ask me about my recent stage performances.
M: You can leave at any time, just say "Goodbye."
W: Do you want me to leave?
M: That was before.
W: When I was on the stage?
M: Ezra Loomis Pound (1885-1972).
W: I have mentioned Pound in a number of my stage performances.
M: Sensing whatever purpose I picked up when I slid backwards into the wrong door titled "Obligation Through This Door."
W: I was not obliged to mention Pound.
M: With my mind.
W: You sent me a message about Pound through mental telepathy?
M: That is quite an assertion.
W: I thought I'd float it and see what happened.
M: But you are counting backward!
W: That would be a countdown for a rocket takeoff.
M: You sent me a message about Pound through mental telepathy?
W: Was Pound interested in rockets?
M: The thunder cracks.
W: The sound of a rocket taking off must be like thunder.
M: When I was on the stage.
W: The landing stage of a rocket platform?
M: I can hardly remember.
W: Perhaps the blast drove all else from your memory.
M: I was not obliged to mention Pound.
W: Pound suffered greatly in the detention camp in Italy.
M: I think it's with Alice.
W: Alice was not driven underground, she fell there.
M: In death, you are transformed into a nothing that is also but another level of this universe.
W: Some feel the Nothing level is Nirvana.
M: The handling of what?
W: The handling of dead souls.
M: Mine?
W: Not unless you precede me into the Unknown.
M: Something in between false and true, like fuzzy logic?
W: That's as good a description of Mystery as any.
M: We don't agree at all.
W: Then our Venn diagram has no overlap.
M: I rarely imagine winning anything.
W: Do you dislike competition as much as I do?
M: Oh, just a little pop psychology.
W: What pop-psych books have you read?
M: But do you believe it?
W: I believe whatever you tell me.
M: My answer is that the strange and beautiful don't function that way.
W: Are they full of disbelief?
M: It is laughable, the idea of being on guard against Shakespeare.
W: Some believe that Shakespeare was actually a sort of committee.
M: At the edge of a new city, the smoke chased ideas not yet come to fruition.
W: London was new once.
M: Then our Venn diagram has no overlap.
W: We both know about London, or Londinium.
M: I didn't plan to go all Eastern.
W: You don't have to talk about Nirvana if you don't want to.
M: Not unless you precede me into the Unknown.
W: We can be very pedestrian.
M: I was keeping this for you.
W: Is it a deed to some land?
M: London was new once.
W: I now own London?
M: (Passes the salt)
W: (Throws salt over shoulder)
M: Can you read what it says?
W: It is a message written in salt, in an unknown language.
M: Do you think insecurity is cool?
W: Insecurity is generally accompanied by tremors.
M: Then we should shake hands --
W: (Shakes hands, trembling)
M: That's no longer necessary.
W: (Throws away all fears)
M: Is "snow" on the list?
W: (Puts "snow" on the list of white things, along with "salt")
M: Again, you repeat my words as a fourth-grader would.
W: I am a fourth-rate writer (at best).
M: Did he do a good job of it?
W: The one who was rating me?
M: I'll still go.
W: You'll still go to my poetry reading?
M: They would throw you out immediately.
W: But many people sit still for fifth-rate poetry!
M: Hidden/Revealed.
W: Revealed: the execrable taste of the middle class.
M: Something in between false and true, like fuzzy logic?
W: No, I am completely sure about that one.
M: (Throws away all fears)
W: (Says goodbye)
M: So is gold.
W: (Writes "Goodbye" in silver)
M: (Shakes hands, trembling)
W: Goodbye!
M: Closing in 5 seconds ... Goodbye!

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posted at 2:20 PM
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