Stories

[incomplete]

λέγει αὐτῷ ὁ Πιλᾶτος - τί ἐστιν ἀλήθεια;
Pilate said to him, "What is truth?"

My mother used to read faerie tales to me before I fell asleep. They had rich illustrations, that gave my young eyes something to look at as she read. I know now looking back at the books they were very short, but as a child they seemed like epic sagas. The cast always consisted of some trope: prince saves princess, children verse beast, or one cunning and talking animal outwits another. They didn't always end happily, and even the happy endings were marred by the circumstances by which happiness was found.

Likewise, my father used to tell my brother and I ghost stories. These almost always took place in the same world with one central character, Old Joe. I got to see Old Joe in a variety of circumstances, got to see him inhabit many stories, many versions of the same story, and learned much about the world of St. Joe, both historical and non-historical.

Although I enjoyed stories I drew a hard line somewhere as to how they effected me. In school I studied objective things through objective methods. But now I see the error.

Behind every human action is a story. Our calculations, research, papers, etc. all must answer the question, "Why are we doing this?" And the best answer the 20th and 21st c. had was "to better humanity" or "for progress."

What is better?
"Better is when you do things more efficiently."
"Better means its greater than anything else."

What is humanity?
"Humanity is a group of beasts pretending to have meaning."
"Humanity is beautiful phenomenon."

What is progress?
"It is the future."
"It is a chicken in every pot and a car in every garage."

You see - for every thing we do, we give purpose, reason, a goal. And as objective as some of our sciences, i.e. physics, can be, one must be honest with themselves when they lay down at night. Most of us don't know the 'why.' Our brains might like studying such things, but we also like many other things. We might be good at some things, but we're good at other things as well. You have to buy into your own reason or someone else's reason, as to why we act at all. And these reasons have a context, for no ideas come out of a vacuum. This context is the story.

So it occurs to me, we're all just telling stories. For example...

The American Dream. Ah, back then a person could travel to the US and make something of himself. Family values were alive, churches were full, and everyone had a piece of the pie. Why can't we get back to that?
Conservative politicians love to use this story.

The American Ghetto. Married couple with eight kids, all of which work fourteen hour shifts in factories, and are on the brink of starvation. Ethnic ghettos and ethnic churches keep Americans separated. The old stock are weary and afraid of the new stock taking over, and the new stock are struggling to survive.
Liberal politicians love this story.

Through humanity's collective knowledge we will build a new world, one with medicines to cure every ailment, farming technology to put food into every belly - we will live longer and stronger. Through the power of mathematics and sciences we will conquer this world and have the knowledge we desire.
Mid 1800's to early 1900's story & Our Story today.

Physics has produced the atom bomb and Biology has made the gases. Or, it is more proper to say, Man has used physics and biology. Fathers will never come home to their wives and children. Countries are firebombed, laden with shrapnel, traps, collapsed economies, and corpses are all we have to show for it. Man is nothing more than a cunning beast, and all that nonsense about progress was bullshit. You can't change human nature.
Post WWI-WWII story.

It's interesting how stories circle back. Americans today have no collective memory of WWI or WWII. Those veterans are dying, and our own generation believes you write your own story.

I was raised in a suburbia. Here the common story told to my peers is education is the key to happiness. Move along the educated tiers until you get the job you desire. You have no limits. Your parents did better than their parents and you were expected to do better than your parents. Only recently we're discovering this is not the fate of our generation. The economy has collapsed on this tale. It is a dying story. There is no progressive march to more wealth and economic happiness. We will not, on the average, do better than our parents.

λέγει αὐτῷ ὁ Πιλᾶτος - τί ἐστιν ἀλήθεια;

All collective, subconscious reactions to the 20th c. wars and "intolerance" Americans perceive worldwide. Americans react to it without knowing their parents shaped their thinking, and their grandparents shaped their parents thinking. We live in a market place of ideas where we all purchase the same good and pretend it's unique to us. We do it with our clothes, our cars, and yes, even our thoughts. We are products of our environment like it or not, but to a much greater degree than I think people are willing to admit.

We have a language which is a product of our stories. Who should I vote for? In answering that what sort of language do you use?
Rights? Social? Freedom? Tolerance? Individual? Progress?
This presumes you answered my question. Some might not, instead they might put a question in my mouth and answer who I should not vote for. What sort of language then?
Intolerant? Misogynist? Racist? Anti-Christ? Extreme?

What makes us speak like this? Some of this language is old, some of it is new. But our thoughts on how things should operate politically is guided by the thoughts of those before us. Some of this is a product of the Enlightenment Era, the American Deists who didn't want to pay their taxes. Others are a product of the Civil Rights Era and years of struggle after. Some words come from the political pundits we've been watching since TV's populated every home.

But it's more than ideas and language. We clearly understand these are socially constructed. People formulate new ideas based off old ones by communicating with one another. But deeper still is the idea's context. This is the "older."

For instance:
If you cherish freedom and rights chances are there is a romantic story of the Forefathers who fought for equality and against tyranny. "Equality, Rights, and Freedom" have a backstory that gave them value in the mind. The idea depends on the story. On the flip side one might freedom has to do with helping everyone. So a story is told of brave pioneers who take their families to the New World to find their own little piece of happiness; enduring the wilderness and making something of themselves.

Despite basic historical education, this story still subsists in most of our minds. We seem to forget the lust of gold and the enslavement and murdering of the people who owned this land. Yes, even murder by the brave pioneer with wife and kids took a crack shot at the "savage red." So two stories exist in our minds, yet we often do not reconcile them. We'll cite history facts all day but still talk longingly for "the good ole days."
You are written into a story, you don't make one up.

There's so many stories I could turn this post into a novella. But the point is that we choose what story we want to be a part of. But some never see our ideas have a story context. What sort of myth, narrative, "historical" tale are we buying into? Even history itself is constructed bottom up, from data to theory, from people's journals, bits of broken pottery, etc. We reconstruct the past, it's not given to us. And we reconstruct it from people living in a time with ideas in a context that we read through our own context. It's a lens through a lens through a lens through...ad infinitum. This does not mean our understanding is true or false, merely that many things are at work.



Not all stories are bad. Not all make sense either. And some make better sense of the world than others still.

In my own context I live in a historical community. It has been around for some 2,000 years. I speak of course of the Church. And it is built upon a context of the Israelite community. There have been many ideas, languages, experiences, and understandings thrown into the pot. And in every generation someone brings something from outside which is subsumed into what we are. But even then we have people unaware of their own stories.

The Bible was inspired both in word and concept directly from God. I imagine either an angel whispering in someone's ear or God talking down while the great Saint Stenographer writes down as he is told. Yet this is a new idea, and it has a context, namely America, early 20th c., and it's name is fundamentalism. A response to the perceived danger of new historical data. A story made in direct contrast to the senses. This comes with an epistemology of what we know, how we know, namely something like "science is bullshit we know with the heart," and so many other absurdities. It has a limited view and can only explain the world by bracketing off much of what we learn and observe through our God-given bodies. Everything becomes literal, every sentence becomes normative, Scripture becomes a mutant.

But there are some tales told in the Church that start in the beginning and proceed throughout history. They might not explain all but they explain more. They make more sense of life than the tale that must look at the world and call it all a lie.

Thus so many questions begin to pile up, "What story have you been written into? How does it give your ideas context? And especially in this season, can it explain life, death, and why people act at all? And can it explain why we ask such questions? Or in asking questions does the tale pretend to be outside itself looking in? Or do we pretend we're so unique as to ignore common ideas, language, likes, dislikes, and so on?"

And when we tell tales they have some purpose. If we narrate our own lives, which I always recommend highly, do we tell it chronologically? Does this give a realistic understanding of your own life story? Sometimes chronology makes the purpose of telling the tale completely impossible to fulfill. If I want to understand someone I ask for their life story. We understand who we are by some periods of process, some of stillness, and some major life changing moments. So when the question is asked, what moments or seasons flash in the mind? This is where the story should begin, for the purpose is for me to understand you, not to receive the story as it was being made, ie chronologically. Sometimes you start in the conflict and move around it.

So when someone says, "Let's go to the Bible for it has all the answers," I have to laugh. For one, it is a story not a code of law. Two, there's a reason you want to start there and that's because you have been written into a story that includes the Bible. Three, the story which includes the Bible, Christianity, gives shape and meaning to the Bible, not vice versa. People wrote the texts and people worshipped God and people told stories before anyone wrote the stuff down. Four, this communal context, Christianity, has existed for some 2,000 years. A lot has happened in that time. And with a lot of change comes a lot of reworking, renarrating, and new understanding.

What voice has been whispering in your ear?

Feverish Mind

[This is an old draft, November or December 2011. Not sure. I believe I meant to write short clips, perhaps a short story but only managed a bit while sick.]

I am ill. Cold, three days. Brain spill, then write something.

A bucket, a bucket, a noir bucket.
All solemn and shadow in the corner.
There, filled with bits of paper and twine
sheets yellow with legality rise into the air
a charred piece rising into a vortex of wind
swirling higher while the air feeds the fire
a virtual pillar of flame

On the third day Pete laid down in a meadow and took to rest, for his eyelids grew heavy and his vision dimmed. And when he at least dreamed it was all scratches and thumping. The headaches came on stronger when he awoke.

Jameson bottle floating in the water with a wine cork in it. Dipping and bobbing with twice the wave frequency, just trying to keep up with the sea. Dip Bob, Dip Bob, Dip. And then the cork slides out, and there is a faint gurgling noise like a drowning animal trying to gasp for breath. And then the bottle swims its way to the bottom in a crescent motion, like the rocking of a cradle.

The bikes are always too much this time of the year, with all the reds and yellows and blues and vintage this, retro that, and all at once I want to collect them all and grind them right up. A mighty fine can of beans the lot would make.

A badger dog walking on the wasteland, sniffing.
Trotting like it's another morning.
Hunting for creatures, vermin,
and what other things may come.
A man whistles at the badger dog.
He's some twenty yards off now, in a sort of walking jog,
hustling over to the creature with a .32 partially under his right arm,
barrel facing the ground.
"What we got hear boy?"
"Looks like you found us a couple of rodents."
It wasn't much, but it'd feed 'em both that afternoon, enough to keep going that is.
A sound. Car.
"Shh," the man motioned to the badger dog, "shh, car."
There was a faint trail of dust rising up on the asphalt horizon.
Seconds after the dusty tail could be seen,
so could the vehicle.
A ripe nasty thing it was,
bulbous on all sides, four extra large rubber tires,
jetting out the sides like an overgrown go-cart.
There was hoopin' and a hollerin' as it approached.
They was likely to be trouble.
So I moseyed off real nice like 'round the next hill.
And that badger dog and rifle came and laid down next to me.
And we scoped out the land,
watchin' them wheels turning closer and closer.
This boy's got a nasty bite.
And then there's a quick, stifled thud
and the taste of blood in somebody's mouth.

Cat Scratch Fever!
Got my mind in a jumbled briar bush.
Feel the fever pushing up on me.

Daydreams Whilst Studying

four metals tokens
scratched beyond the work of polish
an eye only for blue and yellow
all the red is missing from vision
it seems dreamlike
the floorboards, like a handmade cabin
of the colonizing days
when man tried to tame the Americas,
and it cost him his life.
The boards are raw, untreated
grey and blue

my hand leans to them
one token, four in all
placed on one board,
four in all
at once the boards move
rotating like a turn of the hand
and the tokens are no more

a bear walks out on hindquarters
it moves like a son of man
snout up, snarling and sniffing
walks to my side, turns
suddenly sitting on a smaller bear
rides away slowly
jostling left to right
like a rider on a horse

a lady crouches on the boards
she has all the red
vivid and fiery like the dying flame
of a setting sun
her skirt and corset
soaked in the sun
laced with black
buttons black
black feathers adorn her hat
but her face is downturned
and I cannot gaze upon it
her hands raise,
gloved in white
one brings up an apple
a matching flame
and bites out of it
though I still cannot see,
I know it by sound

she cries out
her lips and chin visible
but for a moment
pale and cracking quickly
drying up, dying.
her clothes fall to a heap
on the blue-grey floorboards
no form to fill them
and the red sweeps over the room
as a pollen cloud over a springtime land
mixing with the color
to restore the room to fullness
And now it loses its dreamlike quality

And I snap back to,
and go back to reading.

Now I Lay Me Down to Sleep

I am a child.
Barely able to reach the countertops.
The chariot has ventured across the sky,
and a blanket of darkness has rested upon the land.
I fancy silhouettes for beings,
the proverbial prisoner in the cave,
sleep no escape,
for my dreams are surreal horrors.

My mother kneels over my bed,
lowering herself to me.
I lie under the sheets,
my mouth stitched shut,
silent dread
of the nightmares I fear will come.
She asks me if I want to learn a prayer.
I say yes.
And she tells me to repeat.

Now I lay me down to sleep,
I pray the Lord my soul to keep,
And if I die before I wake,
I pray the Lord my soul to take.
And God bless...

and she looks at me and asks,
"Who do you want to bless?"
And explains to me
that I'm wishing well for others,
And guides me through it--
as a good mother does,
teaching me to pray for family and friends,
and others in the world,
who are in need.

And we say amen.
I sit watching the shadows,
move across a bookshelf.
One I could not even yet reach,
that still sits in my room today,
crafted by my father's hands,
gifted to me,
holding now what has become dear to me.

Because I Am A Fool...

I launch myself into my punching bag. With every several punches I leap back, switch footing, and jump back into the oncoming enemy, adjusting myself carefully to ensure first blow. There is grunting, panting, and a popping noise with melodic frequency. I never know when to stop a song.

I play it over and over until there is nothing enjoyable in the melody anymore. It sits on repeat, one, two, three times. It drags on and on, far past the point of enjoyment, and into pain. And then my knuckles bleed.

The skin comes off with glazing blows, repetitious hits tear at the finger joints. After I stop I take four giant breathes, exhaling slowly, and go about my activities. The skin is pink like puppy paws for a few days, vibrant with color, reactive to every touch. Eventually they scab over and begin to itch.

And then I find myself scratching the itches. But I'm careful not to injure them further, contemplating all my actions so as to ensure no further damage. Eventually they become red with hardened blood like the scales of a dragon. I note how similar Acario is to his brothers, he models them in many ways.

I find papers in my hand, commentary on Song of Songs as allegory, interpreted by so many patristic authors. Some of their ideas destroy the metaphor, others build it up. I'm not in the down at my hands.

I believe they are ready for another go at the punching bag because they have become so hardened from their last experience. Yet only after a few hits I am bleeding again. Doesn't take much does it?

I reopen the wounds on my own accord -- because I am a fool.

Tale of the Cooper's Daughters

"Erastus," the man called. "Erastus," he said a second time notably louder. "What are you doing?"
"Why I'm creating of course."
"Out of what exactly?"
"Well, they keep giving me newspapers, and leaving about read books. We mustn't let the illustrations go to waste."

Erastus had taken to making collages out of paper. Paper from books, magazines, newspapers, shaping them into something reminiscent of old cosmological and astrological maps. Strange creatures littered a Frankenstein night sky pieced together haphazardly.

"Why do you order them like that?"
"It comes to me."

The man stood over Erastus, breathing deeply, as if he might inhale whatever it was that had been "coming to Erastus" so he might better understand. Erastus sat in the center of a pile of cut out papers lying around him like an oriental fan. The man stood over his shoulder watching with a mix of contemplation and interest.

"And what exactly is going on in this picture?"
"Well I don't very well know, it's not done yet."
"Yes but you have an idea of where you're going."
"I most certainly do not. I said it comes to me, not that it has come to me."
"True," the man thought. "Well then do you think you see the whole picture yet?" he asked.
"How can I see it if it's not done yet?"
The man sighed out of irritation.
"Erastus are you ready to have our daily talk?"
"If we must, I would hope to continue my work while we do it though."
"That's fine. How are you doing today?"
"I'm doing it well."
"Doing what?"
"Art."
"How are you feeling I mean?"
"Creative."
The man sighed yet again.

The floor is rolling in newspapers, cut out figures, small excerpts, colored paper, and peoples' pictures. It's as if Erastus had searched through every man and woman's room and brought back all their tokens of memory. He had taken to cutting out pictures from advertisements, letters, and pasting them around a giant canvas he had made from other papers. Sometimes he would paste over the paper, other times he used what was already there as a base and used it in the work. Several sections had grown to five layers, with bits cut out here and there to make some overarching image using the different levels, others remained untouched. It appeared chaotic, but had an underlining structure, though the man was unsure if Erastus was consciously aware of it.

"Why do you do this Erastus?"
"It pleases me."
"How does it do that?"
"I suppose I think I've already seen everything the world has to offer. Art seems the only way to see something new or exciting."
"So you do it to feel excited."
"No, I said it makes me excited."
"Then why do you do it?"
"Because it pleases me. Are we going to talk like this all day?"
"I apologize, I'm just trying to talk to you in a way we can understand one another."
"Fine," he mumbled, while snapping off a lion. He placed them next to an ox and an eagle.
"Can we start over?" the man asked, the pen's tip pointed at Erastus as if asking too.
"Fine," he said while cutting out a man.
"Ok then. How are you?"
"I want to tell you a story."
"Very well then, begin when you are ready."

here once lived a cooper in a small German town. He worked from sun up to sun down making fine barrels for ales and drinks from all the sturdiest woods in the land. He raised three beautiful daughters who each were exceptional at one craft.

heir house had a small kitchen, only large enough for a four person table, lined with handmade wooden chairs. There was a cabinet on one end of the kitchen, and a long, thin table on the other that had supported seven corked jars since before the girls were born. Within each jar there were seven fireflies. Each jar contained a different subspecies known only to the cooper, distinguished according to the color they glowed. And "My! How lustrous they glow!" he would say to the girls every night before bed.

The beauty of the girls was renown for many villages, and when they came of age many suitors came seeking out their beauty. To protect them the cooper took to playing a game with the suitors. He told them that if any man could tell him which jar of his contained the green glowing fireflies without putting them in the dark, that he would give that man any of his daughters' hands in marriage. But if the suitor guessed wrong, then he was charged to fill as many barrels with the finest ale that the cooper could make in one night.

Now a visitor came one day to court one of the girls. He was a tall, lean man, with upright stature and the air of fair raising about him. He had heard the townsfolk speak of the girls' beauty, and had ventured to see it for himself. When he arrived the cooper requested the girls make him dinner. After the meal they sat conversing until the cooper at last broached the subject, offering the man his consent to marry any of his daughters, if the man could tell the cooper which of his jars contained the fireflies which glowed green like emeralds. The man asked to observe the fireflies for himself, to which the cooper motioned towards the jars with a smile. Some time had passed and the girls were beginning to yawn with the night. The man noted the impatience in the cooper so he quickly chose one jar which had the healthiest looking fireflies and pointed proudly, "Here. This one. Surely it contains those which glow green, for they must be the pride of your collection. And these here are the largest of the bunch."

"No," said the cooper smiling. So the man humbly accepted his loss and agreed to fill as many barrels as the cooper could make in one night. The man was given lodging for the night. In the morning he arose to see the cooper still up, putting the finishing touch on his third barrel.
"You are a fine father, and an even better cooper. I'll see my end of the bargain and have these filled to your specifications."
"You do me much honor, and I respect a man who is his word. Anytime you wish to try your luck again at one of my daughters' hands in marriage you are welcome to."
"Thank you for your kindness and hospitality; I shan't forget it."

So many suitors tried their hand, and none ever guessed right. This one guessed on the speed of their flying, that one on the hue of their shell, another on their behavior, and many based on the placement of the jar. Until one dusk the first suitor returned with the same upright stature and determination in his walk. The cooper greeted him with kind familiarity and led him back into the home. The three daughters stood on alternating stairs, each watching from the corner shadow as the two men spoke. The young man ate with the family that night, had a wonderful time with them all, and left without guessing which jar had the green light fireflies, nor mentioning it.

And this went on for months. He came from a day's travel just to sit with them for one night. Till at last he had built lasting relationships with all three of the elegant ladies. The youngest loved him so that she offered to tell him the father's trick if he gave his word that he would choose her. The oldest loved him so but she respected her father's wishes, so that she said she would wait for as long as it took for him to guess the right jar. The middle daughter loved him so that she enjoyed his company and conversing and laughing with him that she never mentioned the father's game. So the man fell in love with the middle and they were wed, and lived happily ever after.

"Snip" went Erastus' scissors. He stared at the newspapers around him for a moment before picking up a picture of earth and setting it upon some animal shoulders.

The man wrote down some comments on his paper before looking back down at Erastus.
"Why didn't the man have to guess the right jar?"
"Why should he have had to?"
"Because the father made it clear he would give his assent to those who guessed it."
"Yes."
"Well don't you see the disconnect in the story?"
"No."

Scribbling and snipping was all that was heard for some time. Sunbeams shot past bars onto Erastus' work. The paper seemed to be the only living thing in the room, the only thing with intent and color and work and joy.

Erastus suddenly cut the silence, "The metaphor is dead."
"What metaphor?" the man's eyebrow lifted inquisitively.
"All of them."
"What makes you say that?"
"Stories too."
"And why do you think this Erastus?"
"Dead," Erastus murmured with a large slice on the belly side of a whale.
"Erastus, what do you think about your story?"
"It's fine."
"Why doesn't the suitor need to guess the jar?"
"Because the cooper never said it was the only way he'd give assent."
"And what does that mean for you?"
"It means my path might just be fine."
"What path is that?"
"Here."
"Do you enjoy being in this room all day?" the man confronted Erastus.
"Do you enjoy trying to make me pick a jar?" Erastus fired back.
"So I am the cooper then? And who are you? The suitor? What of the daughters - who are they?" the man questioned with a hint of anger.
"I don't know. It comes to me, I didn't say it had come."
"What are you really doing with this paper collage Erastus?"
Erastus sat quietly. A smile cracked his lips, slow to open, but quick to finish once it had begun.
"Fine. It's time for your shot anyways, then it's back to sleep with you."
"That's fine. The metaphor lives in my dreams anyway."
"You won't be allowed to leave until you get better Erastus. You know that don't you?"
"Doc, you have to talk to me, you don't have a choice. Even if I'm asleep my project is still here, and my story lives on in you."

A nurse entered the room flicking a needle. The man motioned for her to give the shot. Erastus sat staring at the man as his arm was pumped full of some sedative.

"Goodbye Erastus," the man said sorrowfully. Regret could be heard in his tone, regret to help or understand.
"I'll see you later Doc. Same time? Same place?" Erastus chuckled softly and fell to sleep.

Tale of the Tristitia Lunaflorum

A metal door opens.
"Ahem," echoes off white walls.
"Speak first, introductions later," came response.
"Do you know who I am?"
"Someone who wishes to speak to me."
"Do you know why?"
"If I knew we'd have already had this conversation."
"This one is going to be a handful," the entering man grumbles.
Once seated, he opens his briefcase with a waving motion from each of his fingers, pulling out a handful of papers. Eyes focused on writing, the two sit in silence for a moment.
"Name?" the guest asks.
"Does it matter?" comes the reply.
"Only if you want to talk to me," the guest calmly retorts, eyes ever steady on his paper.
"Erastus," if you insist.
"Good. Now you may tell me whatever story you have for me. I'm all ears."

"My story begins with a large illuminated letter, so as you will know it is the light of the world, and a literary classic."
"Surely."

nce upon a time, the moon hung high. He was guardian of the night, watcher of the earth, and he loved to sprinkle light and dew upon all of earth while the sun slept.

ne particular season he took special interest in a flower. It bloomed by night with many shining silver petals, each laden with beads of water provided by its delicate stem. The Latin name for it was tristitia lunaflorum and it was the most lovely thing that the moon had ever shone upon.

He enjoyed lathering the flower in moonlight, watching it blossom when his eye turned upon it. And as the nights progressed, so did his love for the flower, so much that every night he turned more and more of himself towards it, so that at last he might be fully turned, and give the flower all the light he had to offer. This phase lasted many days, the moon growing fuller, the flower growing more beauteous. The two would sing songs to one another and found company with one another.

This lasts until the day of the eclipse. The moon disappears when it moves in the wrong direction and so shadow consumes it. The flower bows down, unable to open by night, thus it begins to wilt, resting solemnly in its own petals. The stem still tries to feed the flower water, but it only succeeds in dripping out of the closed petals. So the flower sat weeping, unable to open, and the moon could not escape from shadow."

"And what of the moon and the flower and the sun? The eclipse, the water? What are these to you?"
"Is it customary where you come from to interrupt a man mid-story?"
"Well, the reason I ask is because I am here to-"
"I very well know what you think you are here to do. If you would let me finish then you might be able to do it."
"Very well then. I apologize."
"Ahem."

So went darkness for sometime. Until at last a traveling merchant came along the flower's path, having guided his ox and cart towards a stream for water, he took to rest.
"Please sir, have mercy on me," wept the flower.
The man having never seen such a thing bowed down to listen more closely to the flower.
"What manner of thing is this? That a flower should talk?" he said.
"I am but a poor flower that needs moonlight to blossom. If you should be so kind as to bring the moon back, I might once again open. If you would do this for me, that I might see the moon once again I will reward you greatly."
"And how is this?" replied the peasant.
"I am a tristitia lunaflorum," said the flower, "in all the land in all the kingdoms you will not find another of my kind. Whatever woman you should give me to, they will be taken aback by my glory, and will take your hand in marriage for such an offering as I."
"So it shall be done," said the peasant, and went his way.

The peasant is gone for many a day, and the flower grew bold and took to trying to blossom by day. She took to opening at dawn, where light is low and the mist of the wood is still heavy. The sun rising every morning cast its rays around tree and shrub, and the two would converse until, from fear of heat, the flower would close again.

After many a day the flower had become accustomed to the light, and adapted to blossoming in full at noon. However, she ventured to open for too long and was burned. Determined to try again she closed and waited for the next day.

She enjoyed the sun's company by this time and had forgotten completely about the moon and the peasant she had sent to do her bidding. On one particularly bright day when she had just taken to opening and going through her ritual greeting to the sun, the peasant returned with his same ox with cart in tow.
"Grace be unto you little flower, and peace," the peasant greeted her.
"What word do you bring of the moon?" she cried.
"He has found his way out of shadow, and shall return tonight."
So the flower waited till night.

That night she rose from slumber and dew glistened on every leaf, waiting intently, watching the moon as she rose. The moon shone full but the flower had forgotten how to bloom by moonlight. She stood only half full and she sorrowed that she could not open fully.
"It is ok little flower. You can learn to open again in time," whispered the moon.
"And if I do not wish to learn?" snapped the flower.
"I do not understand, for are you not moonflower by nature?"
But she said naught, so the two sat quietly until dawn.

At last sun peeled back the gown of night to reveal his shining form, and the flower rose again. The moon still sat out, awaiting his daily slumber, when the flower looked back at him,
"I do not wish to blossom by night anymore. From henceforth I shall be a sunflower."
"So be it," whispered the moon, and receded into the hidden night.

The flower was burned by the sun that day, and wilted away several petals. She closed for fear of death, and waited for night. When the moon rose she cried out for his light, but the moon had turned away from the flower. Closed to the light that the moon once had shone upon the hill, the flower looked up to but the dark side of the moon.

But when the night comes, and the moon sits idle, back turned to that side of the world, the moon softly whispers to the clouds, blackened and hidden by the sheets of night, to rain on the flower by day, so that it might find restoration--so that it might become whatever kind of flower it wishes to be.

"Fairytalesque," said the guest.
"Were there any fairies?" asked Erastus.
"Certainly not, but what I mea-"
"Was there a tale?"
"You know what I meant,"
"I most certainly do not."
"Must we play these games?"
"You can't do your job if you look at it like that."
"It's not just a job, I take sincere interest in the people I work with."
"Why is that? Because you want to fix us? With what? What makes you think you're so enlightened that you're going to get rid of this illness?"
"I do not look at you that way. Now seriously, calm down. I just want to ask you about your story. It's quite beautiful. And to be honest I rather enjoyed it."
"Fine."
"Fine?"
"Fine."

A guard opens the white steel door, looks first to Erastus, then speaks to the man, telling him he has thirty minutes remaining today. The man nods in ascension and awaits for the door to close behind him before continuing.

"Ok then. Let me ask you something, where did you hear this story?"
"I hear it every night, when I look out of the window, when I dream, when I write, when I think, when I pray, when I eat my lunch for fuck's sake--it's everywhere."
"Alright. Umm, how does this story appeal to you? What emotions occur when you tell it? How does it make you feel?"
"How does it make me feel?
"My my Doc, aren't we a little bit slower than the rest?"
"Please answer the question."
"Why? So you can get to the root of the feeling? So you can point out the obvious and make me think we're going somewhere other than circles? The story makes me feel something and whatever that something is you'll trace back to the story. You don't get it Doc."
"And what is it that I don't get?"
"Feelin' ain't the problem, it's just an effect. All that training and you haven't figured that one out yet?"
"So then why don't you tell me what the problem is? Perhaps I missed the true meaning of your story. What is it that I was supposed to have learned? What did you learn from it?"
"Do your job much?"
"What do you mean?"
"Isn't it you who's supposed to be analyzing me?"
"I'm just having a conversation with you. Whatever you want to talk about is why I'm here."
"Oh good, 'cause for a second there I thought it was about you asking me questions rather than me talking about what I wanted to talk about."
"No need to be hostile. We'll talk about whatever you want."
"Fine. What did you think about my story Doc?"
"I thought it was lovely, reminded me of my childhood."
"Which part?"
"All of it. I told you it was like a fairytale. Reminds me of those my mother used to read me before bed."
"Ah, now why do you suppose that is?"
"Fairytales appeal to the child's imagination. When we are young we are fascinated by possibility, but when we are older we are only concerned with what is real."
"Says the man whose job it is to deal with my imagination."
"It's my job to help you see through it."
"And how are you going to do that until you see it?"
"I asked you the meaning of it."
"And I told you I'm not doing your job for you."
"You're not trying to talk to me."
"And neither are you to me."
"Our time together is running out Erastus. I can see you're far too upset today to talk. We'll have to finish this tomorrow."

So the man folded up his papers and centered them in his briefcase, both thumbs outstretched, clasping the thing shut.
"Tomorrow" Erastus echoed.
Getting up from the chair, the guard opened the door, and the man went to leave. With one foot through the door, he turned back to Erastus,
"How does the story end?"
"I told you the ending."
"No you didn't. The conflict wasn't with the moon nor the sun but with the flower."
"Some say the peasant picks the flower but the princess he presents the flower to is disgusted by it and throws it down in the mud. The man tries to pick it up but a carriage pulled by horses stomps it into the ground."
"And others?"
"That the rain brings life, and when the flower is plucked the peasant becomes king of a mighty kingdom. His queen sets the flower in a crystal vase outside her balcony, where every night she blooms until the moon slowly waxes back to full."
"And which do you believe?"
"I don't know Doc, it's just a story."
"Till tomorrow then."
"So be it."

Erastus could hear the thick plopping of the man's shoes as they touched tile floor. So he turned his back to the door and the whole conversation that had just taken place. Looking through the window, outside sat a small hill, with a meek flower, directly under the moon. He hoped night would soon fall. Perhaps then, with the nightly crying and shrieking of his neighbors, he might be able to ignore the story until morning.

[Unfinished] Compilation Effect II

Unfinished
------------------------------------------

[11 February 2010]
Thursday, Monday>>Dark:30
Subject: Fleet of Bottles
CC: D.E. Machina (demachina777@mail.com), ...


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Data Record XV
Fools. We came for fortune and knowledge, but we received disaster and fell prey to the ignorance that avarice affords the young and stupid. Now we find ourselves marooned, and all hands are at the ready to do the work we've come to do. I know not whether our fear is more of the Cap'n or what lurks within the jungle's dark heart. Either way we blister and bleed to escape something. Father, hear our cry for help.

-D.E. Machina
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POSTED
Henceforth all bilgetalk and gossiping concerning the plight current state is forbidden. Reg'lar work hours are expected. Any man caught arousing fear or concern amidst the crew will be given over to Admiral Matter and his nine-tails.
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Ship Fiddler's Notes
Motivate through the toil, draw attention away from state. Cap'n's orders to give temp. pleasure till escape possible, till then keep mind off. Feel notes through, need lyrics esp. Anyway out fine, hands dry and cracking from work.

Song Ideas:
Sweatin' blood, breathin' rum, blistered thoughts, speech gone numb, hopeless hands, battered backs, sleepless tents, fearful axe. Cut and chop and clip and cleave, to find what it is the gods did leave. Perhaps a song a map a word or track, to save our souls and bring us back, to no more feed our shovels loam, return to a dream that we call home.	Lovely lady, seductive siren, our love is in the stars like Chiron. Sing me nocturne till dreams take me away, till my fears your sweet hymn will allay. Your wish is my word, my work, my way. Your happiness my humble, hallowed hope. So work you men! Work till dusk! Work like only tooth, claw, or tusk- can drag you away from this your goal, for when it ends you can return your soul, to your well beloved lady of the dawn, to tell of the strife you have undergone, but to see her starlit eyes once more, to tell her you leave it to other men to explore.	Give it to the whip, give it to the sun, give it to the captain, let no man turn and run. Give it to your mate, give it to the sea, give it to your neighbor, let no man deny this decree. Give it to the jungle, give it to the night, give it to the gods, let no man damn the light.

Cap'n's Log; Entry XIII
My men have toiled for days now after some shadow of hope. They know not for what we seek, and I fear to tell them lest they realize they're hope be in nothing rather than something. I've instructed the fiddler to play by day rather than be another hand at the shovel. A spruce of melody by day and nocturne by night will keep their hope in place until we can find some sign of direction.
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Data Record XIX
The search continues. To the unobservant it would seem sunlight causes cheer to our men, and moonlight - hysteria. Something deep within the jungle recesses beats by dimlit starlight. Only the moonlight and the wild creatures have gazed upon whatever this thing is. As for us mortals, we sit in tents mumbling prayers from fear. We came upon a wrapped up book today which the Cap'n insisted on taking to his own quarters regardless of my claim to it as the camp scholar.





Cap'n's Log; Entry XIV