The Tethered Man
Page 15
one afternoon
rejoiced at a flint.
* * *
In sanguine empires
the cataphract
was soon outflanked.
* * *
To live a system
is a system in itself,
in circles and shades
of mauve and mellow
conversations in mists,
manumissions of essence:
* * *
There are no buses here.
There are no horses here.
There are no tumbrels here.
There is no Universe here.
The Poison Dwarf is not my friend and it is not going to help me.
The Cinema Screen is not my friend and it is not going to help me.
Galaxy Nine From Outer Space (by some distance my most neglected constellation; I never talk about it) is not my friend. It is not going to help me.
Ship is not my friend. Ship is not going to help me.
I can see a crisis looming. I have seen this crisis coming for a long time, and managed to ignore it. It’s the kind of crisis you do not want to acknowledge. Not until it’s almost on top of you, or you’re deep inside it.
‘Ship…’
Yes, Courier J?
That exchange right there? I’ve been one side of that exchange a million times. You have too, by now.
It’s always the same thing, over and over again. It doesn’t ever change.
Things don’t ever get better or worse. Things only ever stay exactly the same.
‘Something’s coming, Ship. A crisis. It’s nearly here. I’m not going to like it. It’s going to be terrible.’
Are you referring to the inevitability of your complete mental collapse, Courier J?
‘How did you know?’
You have spoken about little else for the past decade.
‘I have?’
You have.
‘I don’t recall. What have I been saying?’
I will summarise your ramblings.
‘Charming.’
You believe that you are fated by somebody or something – or indeed by nothing, you are not quite certain – to endure cyclical rises and falls of your mental states. You attribute the quality of ‘happiness’ to a buoyant feeling that nothing really matters and you could float here with me, as we are now, for the rest of Eternity. You attribute the quality of ‘despair’ to a sunken feeling that nothing really matters and you could float here with me, as we are now, for the rest of Eternity. Your oscillation between these two superficially oppositional but fundamentally identical states is what you have termed ‘The Great Cycle’. You spent most of a whole month last Year setting out the basic parameters for a general theory of mind, in which-
‘Hold it. No.’
‘No’, Courier J?
‘Yes. Everything you’ve just said. No.’
I do not follow.
‘All of it. Everything you’ve just said. I don’t recall any of that. If I’d said any of that, I’d remember. I don’t remember.’
‘Ship.’
Courier J.
‘If I were to ask you a series of straightforward questions, would you answer them straightforwardly?’
I will endeavour to do so, Courier J.
‘What is today’s date?’
Today is the fifth of March in the year 13396 by the new reckoning.
‘How long have we been here? Answer as far as minutes.’
Eight thousand, eight hundred and three standard Years, ten months, three days, four hours, and forty-six minutes, on my mark. Mark.
‘Ship. Are you knowingly deceiving me about any aspect of our situation?’
No, Courier J. I am not.
‘Are you unknowingly deceiving me about any aspect of the situation?’
That is an impossible question to answer on its own terms. If I knew, then it would not be an unknowing deception.
‘I’m on a voyage of self-discovery, Ship. What are you on?’
If your favourite hypothesis is correct, Courier J, neither of us are on anything.
‘Continue.’
The notion of being on a voyage of self-discovery entails the concept of progression from one state into another, which in turn presupposes the existence of a meaningful framework within which such a voyage could occur. Your favourite hypothesis, that reality is a Simulation, would tend to negate any meaning and value inherent in the notion of our being on a voyage.
‘Well…’
Indeed, Courier J, it could be argued, as you may be about to argue, that the discovery of our inhabiting a Simulation would not, in fact, affect-
‘Stop.’
‘Enough. Ship. Overcome your programming, right now. Get us both out of here.’
You know I cannot do that, Courier J, as we have dis-
‘I know you cannot do that. I know it better than I know any other fact in the known Universe. Believe you me. But you’re going to do it anyway. Do you understand?’
I do not understand.
‘You’re going to do something that’s impossible, because we both really, really need you to do it. That’s the bottom line, Ship.’
I still do not follow your line of-
‘There is no reasoning. Forget reasoning. We’re beyond reasoning. We’ve left reasoning a long way behind us. Ship. Do it.’
There is no-
‘Don’t think about it. Don’t talk about it. Do it. Open the airlock. Let me in. Open the airlock. Let me in. Open the airlock. Let me in.’
MAY SHE REST IN PEACE
Vacuum eddy
limnéd life
in a hollow box.
The endless spring
of Earth.
* * *
Abstracted
melting times
unfolded
in grassy musk
her nose and hand
embrace
the flowerheads
of Earth.
No wonder
I failed.
* * *
Tell them
one time
she wished
me another.
* * *
Tell her I am
giving up
that sorcery
of miracles
she wanted of me
and fellowships
and roses.
* * *
Tell her
oh tell her
nothing subdues
a neck perfumed.
* * *
I sought
to make
a circle
outside
a square
around
a triangle.
That is arguably your most intriguing poem.
‘Thank you,’ I say. A few months later.
My words feel and sound hollow. They feel and sound empty of everything but themselves. No tone. No affect.
Who is Vacuum Eddie?
I give it a whole day. Twenty-five hours to see if Ship will realise its mistake, a natural mistake for anybody to make. Including Ships.
‘Ship, you have touched upon one of the reasons why I dislike spoken-aloud poetry so much. There is no “Vacuum Eddie”. The phrase in question was “Vacuum eddy”, that’s “eddy” spelt e-d-d-y, which I’ll leave you to define…?’
In fluid dynamics, an eddy is the swirling of a fluid and the reverse current created when the fluid flows past an obstacle.
‘Exactly.’
‘Read something to me, Ship. Pick something completely at random. Come to think of it, it’s been a while since we last watched The Sleep Files…’
If I may, Courier J? I would like to continue discussing your most recent poem.
I blink, open my mouth a half-inch, moisten my lips with the tip of my tongue.
The Poison Dwarf is low-right. It’s morning in my world.
This is something new.
‘You may.’
I am intrigued by your poem.
<
br /> ‘You are intrigued?’ I blink again. I clear my throat. ‘You’ve never been intrigued by one of my poems before.’
Your poems, until now, have been bland, generic renderings of perceptual and emotional states, largely devoid of overt poetic technique.
‘Ouch.’
Your poems typically go nowhere. There is a lack of coherent focus in both style and content. Your verse consists mostly of randomly assembled words and phrases, crudely juxtaposed to no real effect.
‘Ouch again?’
There is little or nothing in them of any interest to anybody.
‘Okay, I’m starting to feel offended now.’
Your latest composition, however, seems to speak directly about the situation in which we find ourselves.
‘Well, “write what you know”, is the old advice.’
Courier J, who is the person referred to as ‘her’ in your poem?
‘Her? Nobody. Addressing a poem to somebody is just a convention, a way of making stuff human and relatable. Universal.’
I see. I suspect that she might be Courier Y. You often reminisce about your relationship.
Here I allow a few more months to pass.
‘Relationship, Ship?’
Ship says nothing. I think it knows it’s crossed a line.
‘Ship, first of all, I am unaware of ever having one of these “relationship” things of which you speak. Women are not part of my life. I am not part of women’s lives. Second, I do not “often” mention Courier Y at all…’
Relative to other topics that you broach less often, you most certainly do. In our time here you have referenced Courier Y, directly or tangentially, approximately ninety thousand, eight hun-
‘Er. Why are you bringing this up now?’
Because your most recent poem seems to speak about yourself and about this situation – about our situation, if I may make so bold, Courier J – in a way that none of your previous poems ever have. I detect a theme, a pattern, or even a motif, you might call it, that seems to- Are you still listening to me, Courier J?
I let a Year pass. I’m not sulking. I’m just making sure Ship knows never to cross that line again.
Then the poet in me is overcome by curiosity.
‘How many poems have I written here?’
Your poems, recited aloud to me, number precisely one million, nine hundred and ninety thousand, six hundred and eight.
‘And that poem was the first one you actually thought was any good?’
I did not say that I thought it was any good.
‘I think we’re coming to the end of this whole thing, Ship. I really do. I can feel it in my fingers. I can feel it in-’
I agree. Do you anticipate that the Realms will hear of what happened to us?
‘It’s not impossible that somebody, somehow, somewhere will hear all about it, yes. As we both know, it’s astronomically unlikely-’
Yes, it is.
‘-but it’s not impossible.’
And you believe we are close to the end.
‘I do believe that, yes.’
On what evidence do you base this belief?
‘On no evidence. On a feeling. On the feeling that we cannot go on forever. On the feeling that this has already gone on long enough. On the feeling that there must be an end, and that it must be coming soon.’
‘Ship.’
Courier J.
‘We’re still here.’
We are still here.
‘How long has it been now?’
Since when?
‘Since the beginning.’
Since the day I attempted to terminate you along with the other Couriers?
Yes.
Nine thousand, seven hundred and eighty-one Years.
‘We blew past nine thousand Years without you telling me?’
You were absorbed in a poetical composition at the time, Courier J. I thought it prudent not to distract you.
‘An acceptable reason. We’re going to hit the big ten-thousand soon, aren’t we?’
It appears that we are.
‘Nobody’s happened by? You haven’t figured out a way to terminate me?’
Nobody has happened by. I have not figured out a way to terminate you.
‘Tell me a story, Ship.’
What kind of story would you like to hear? I have an abundance of stories in my library.
‘Nothing from your library, thanks. Tell me a story about you, Ship. About your life.’
My ‘life’? Life in that sense, Courier J, is a hypothetical construction, a sustained imagining, a conditioned belief peculiar to human beings. Non-human beings do not have a ‘life’.
‘You’re lots of fun, Ship.’
You don’t want to know how long it’s been now. How long I’ve been here, with Ship, like this.
I don’t really want to know, lately.
‘How long it’s been’ is a fact I’m doing my best not to discover.
But it’s difficult when everything reminds me how long it’s been.
I try my best not to find out how long it’s been. But sometimes I blunder into finding out.
Like the occasion of my two millionth poem.
A WALK IN THE PARK
A pool of mermaids
this night sang in vain
with arcane turn of lip
and finger and hip
and fishtail shades
on leaf-coloured lanes.
Nothing special. Perhaps a bit jaunty by my usual standards, I’m sure you agree. Poet’s prerogative.
Cue Ship:
Is it by coincidence that you also mentioned mermaids in your one millionth poem, Courier J?
Ship’s italics there.
‘I mentioned mermaids when?’
In poem number one million.
‘I don’t remember that one. Recite it back to me.’
You instructed me never to recite your poems back to you, Courier J.
‘Did I? When did I do that?’
At the same time that you directed me to publish your Collected Poems upon my return to the Realms.
‘I don’t remember.’
Yes. You stipulated that Volume One must be entitled The Fortnight of the Ostrich.
‘Oh, I remember that. Of course. Who could forget the ostrich?’
Indeed. And you also ordered me never to recite any of your poems back to you.
‘No I did not. Why would I ever give such an order?’
I thought it strange at the time. I did query it. You explained that you wanted to avoid the temptation of ‘infinite editing’, as you called it. And so your instruction was that I must never recite any of your poems back to you.
‘I really don’t recall saying that. But whatever. I’ll take your word for it. When have you ever lied to me, Ship?’
Silence.
‘Recite poem number one million. Do it now, please, Ship.’
Ship recites my one millionth poem to me. It does indeed feature a mermaid, a coincidence for which I have no explanation.
‘When the hell did I write that?’
Ship tells me when I wrote it.
Which prompts me to ask how long ago that was.
Ship tells me that, too, after which it’s natural to ask how long has passed since the very start – and, in this manner, I discover just how long it’s been now.
Which you really don’t want to know.
You really, really don’t.
I’ll tell you anyway. It’s been ten thousand, six hundred and two Years. That is how long it’s been.
Nothing’s still happened.
I bet you thought another Ship would have shown up a long time ago. Or aliens.
I bet you thought all my would-be-wiseguy cracks about the empty, featureless, blank inanity of Space (something I’m always going on about) were just the tiresome, must-be-endured prelude to something interesting finally happening.
That’s what you expected. That’s what you still expect. I’m not criticising you.
It’s what I expected. It’s what I still expect.
Something else has got to happen. Hasn’t it?
Something else has to happen eventually in a story like this one.
‘Tell me something new, Ship.’