Allan keeps walking, keeps adjusting his
limbs and brushing the dust off of his corduroy trousers. He keeps walking.
Having no clue just where the fuck he is, and having little less insight on the
direction on which he is going, he continues to truck down the inside of the
school, the Skell, becoming, something more than it originally was, he thinks.
Even though he yells out in front of his shrouded limbs there still is no clue off
his brother. He can’t figure out how the two of them got separated like this to
begin with. He can’t quite piece together the fabric of where he is located. It
is like VonB’s campaign, a whole ‘nother dimension exists right in the very
midst of our own and for reasons not quite clear to us at the time we choose
not to open our eyes and see it.
Allan still thinks of the golden man, seated under
that tree, doing what Amy does to get ready before her dates with Tyler, that
sort of Yogi exercises, only Amy wears leotard and likes to smoke, pushing the
ash tray under the davenport when Mom comes into the room, usually shuffling
bills together and cursing to herself, wondering when her Albert Einstein of a
husband is going to get a job that actually puts a little pork back in the
piggy bank, so to speak, before fingering in her pocket book and screaming out
loud that she swears this house must be fraught with kleptomaniac Leprechauns
who enjoy firing up a Benson & Hedges after a long day of trashing the house
with her children’s toys.
The darkness Allan wades in reminds him of the purported beginning of
time, which according to reverend Morning Wood, happened six thousand years and
fourteen-morning bourbons ago—make that fifteen. Dad wrote a very long letter
to the reverend, stating that perhaps evolution should be taught in accordance
with scripture. He even drew an outline of the cross, the vertical plank
showing a time line of the greatest scientific achievements starting with
ancient man and his ability to mix paint and spew graffiti on the caves in
Australia and France. The Horizontal plank, Warren said, constituted religious
movements, which he said started with something written in Hindi and then God’s
covenant to Abram on the far left hand side. In the center, where the vertical
and the horizontal stems coalesce and become one color, one moment, Warren has,
on the scientific center, something about the first telegram going forward and,
on the horizontal caliber, something about some guy named Bob or something
declaring himself in front of a giant
gate or something. The whole scene greatly confused Allan and instilled Coach M
with a furor never seen outside of an all too seldom basketball lost.
The whole entire point of Warren’s
science intersects with religion cross configuration was that, as far as Allan
can tell, the cross was simply just a symbol for something deeper and more
metaphysical. Like a key hole, and, somewhere, after the genesis of the
intersection of the cross, after the moment where science and religion slaps
hands and gives each other a very Varsity elite What-up? After that moment, the
two are very much in accord with each other indeed.
Allan also thinks that, after the
meeting of the two, the east and west, both religion and science continue to go
in separate directions, yet they are now part of the same overall shape. They
grant structure to the cross and they both continue to grow in North and East
directions until they somehow meet again. Allan found this whole postulation
very exciting indeed. Coach M kept Patrick after school, again, for another
three weeks, having him write the first chapter of Matthew on the board, in Pig
Latin, stating that, if Patrick is asked in the hallway by the sniper who
guards Buck twenty four seven, he damn well better know who Rehoboam’s
great-great grandson was or else.
Allan continues to walk. Perhaps,
before Coach M bought the school from those German Lutherans overseas, Christ
Lutheran was some cool sort of Global religious academy where all were welcome
to study, pray and learn and to sprout spiritually. Perhaps Coach M. greatly
sequestered all of the other religions that once studied here into these
vectors that are only now accessible from the Skell and, even though, are
perhaps only visible to those who set out and are truly seeking answers, or at
least trying to find what exact shape or color the question mark gives at the
end of a very long run on sentence.
Allan adjusts the light on the top
of his hardhat. He continues to jaunt in darkness, seeing what appear to be
florescent purple pinwheels floating through him. Allan remembers the time
Warren chided Patrick for smoking, pulling him aside and taking him down
stairs, where Allan fortunately was hiding, trying to fire up a cigarette in
the privacy of his own chamber, in the part of the dungeon Patrick always calls
the AD&D lounge. Warren set Patrick aside and asked him to draw a question
mark on the blackboard Warren used to do math on while mixing it with letters
from the alphabet. Allan remembers his dad telling someone that, if letters
could be used to represent numbers, couldn’t something else be used to
represent letters. And what if the numbers themselves, were only letters void
of testicles, signifying something else, something old and intangible and
forgotten? Warren once got expelled from a University course for positing this
sort of arcane theorem. The fact that all of our knowledge constitutes only a
minimum of what we actual partake to be reality. The analogy Warren used was
that of the Iris, looking up on a lucid, summer night and seeing the stars and
realizing that, because of the shape of the atmosphere that conceals us,
because of the distance the stars are from us; because of the disproportional
distance of Time and Space, what we see happening right now happened long ago
and, even if we are to look up and star gaze and close our eyes and feel in
accord and dire oneness with the whole entire universe, we would only be
shoveling less than a centimeter deep in perpetual optical quicksand so to
speak.
After Patrick drew a question mark
on the board, looking at his father as if to say, ‘and your point is?’ Warren
drew the same question Mark, only opposite, facing the question mark Patrick
originally drew.
“You see Pete,” He said. “Your
problem is that you only see one side of the question. You have to see the
answer as well before you can initially inquire.” Warren the doodled what
looked like a little pot pan underneath the question mark.
“You see,’ He says. “It’s a light
bulb. Don’t just look at the question as a desperate unit; look at it like only
one tip of an iceberg. That’s all it really is, and don’t be afraid to pull
down into the deep seas of your own personal inquiries and find out what lies
before you on the other side.”
Allan moves. He feels like he has
been walking forever. It was heavily rumored that CLS was built on an ancient
Indian burial ground or something before Coach M’s relatives appropriated the
property in the earlier part of this century.
As Allan bumbles along, one hand pocketed in his corduroy trousers,
still periodically whistling the French National anthem to himself as he walks,
wondering if this is where Stetrorous Taurus Sentarious abides, within the
shell of the school, traversing back and forth like Allan is doing right now,
between all cultures, sidestepping all walks of life. Scarring the shit out of
a person looks the same in any given language.
Little bleeps and taps are now heard. The
dust that Allan was kicking over his Payless
mock Dedalus has subsided and been replaced with a long metal sheets. It
sounds to Allan like he is entering an arcade of sorts.
He continues to walk on.
No comments:
Post a Comment