Beacons

by Gregory Norminton

  ‘Tea?’ He grimaced. ‘One of the things about England I’ve never gotten used to.’

  ‘You’re not in England,’ she said stiffly.

  ‘Wales, wherever.’ He shrugged. ‘I guess I’ll settle for the tea.’ He stepped out into the sunlight again and led the way back down the path. As he reached the house he pushed back the door and held it open, ushering her in as though she were the visitor.

  She went through the hallway to the kitchen, hearing the heavy tread of boots on the boards overhead, the murmur of voices. Maley stopped at the foot of the stairs and called out the boys’ names, brusquely authoritative, before following her in.

  She set the kettle on the stove to boil. The others were coming down; she heard the dull clump of their boots on the stairs. ‘Tell me straight,’ she said, turning to face the lieutenant. ‘Why are you here? I mean, what are you doing in my house?’

  ‘Excuse me, ma’am.’ He went to the door and thrust his head out into the hallway. One of the others spoke, low and indistinct. ‘Just the car,’ said Maley. ‘A few tools. A couple of goats out back.’ She heard the front door open and then slam shut. The lieutenant closed the kitchen door and stepped over to the far side of the room, positioning himself between the table and the window.

  ‘Well?’ she said.

  He avoided her gaze. ‘Security. Me, I’d rather be seeing action out East, but there’s work to be done here, and someone’s got to do it.’

  She opened the cupboard and reached down the teapot. ‘Why not our own soldiers? It would seem less …’ She hesitated, searching for a form of words which might convey something of her sense of outrage without unduly antagonizing him. ‘More tactful,’ she said at last. ‘I think it would be more tactful.’

  ‘That’s how it was at first – all done by the British army. It didn’t work out. There were desertions, then a kind of mutiny someplace up north. Nothing of much account, but that’s when they decided this kind of work was better left to us. It makes sense. You got no ties to a place, you do the job with a clearer mind.’

  She was only half listening. She could hear the bleating of the goats outside – the high yammering of the kid, the nanny’s deeper tones – and the two boys calling to one another across the field. Her hands busied themselves with the tea things while her thoughts strayed anxiously outward and the lieutenant talked on, insistent, monotonous.

  She had lost the thread. ‘It’s a tough call,’ Maley was saying. ‘As tough as they come. But what’s the alternative?’

  She looked up in confusion, but the question seemed not to require an answer. ‘The reason we’re out there,’ continued the lieutenant, ‘is we got a duty – a duty to protect our freedoms. Freedom to live as we want. Freedom to buy what we need. If we can’t safeguard supplies—’

  ‘Oil? I thought the idea was to have your own supplies. To open up your own lands for drilling. Making the wilderness pay its dues – wasn’t that the phrase your president used?’

  ‘That’s what she said, and that’s what she’s doing. But it won’t be enough – not the way things are going. If we want to stay in the game we’ll need all we can get our hands on.’

  ‘I’ve no sugar,’ she said. She banged a cup down on the table and poured the tea. ‘Milk’s in the jug.’

  ‘In this world,’ he said, reaching across the table and drawing the cup towards him, ‘you can’t sit back and let things happen. What you’re not ready to fight for, you don’t get to keep. That’s just the way it is.’ He lifted the jug and sniffed at it, wrinkling his nose. ‘This milk …’

  ‘Goat’s,’ she said. ‘It’s an acquired taste.’

  ‘I’ll pass.’ He put the jug back on the table, picked up the cup and sipped without relish.

  ‘It’s just a matter of what you’re used to,’ she said. ‘Try it – it won’t do you any harm.’

  But the lieutenant appeared distracted. He was leaning a little sideways, staring at the group of photographs on the table. As she watched, he leaned over and picked out the nearest of them, lifting it by the corner of its gilt frame.

  ‘Who’s this?’ he asked, turning it towards her, tapping the glass with the rim of his cup.

  Gareth in his late teens, staring defiantly at the camera, his dyed hair gelled in ragged tufts and spikes, his body taut beneath the slashed T-shirt.

  ‘My son.’

  Maley looked up sharply. ‘Where is he?’

  ‘He lives in Aberdare.’

  ‘Close by?’ He set down the cup and half turned to the window, tilting the faded image towards the light.

  ‘Aberdare’s south,’ she said. ‘Quite a way from here.’

  ‘Looks like a wild kid. Does he give you much trouble?’

  She smiled. ‘Gareth’s a teacher. That was taken twenty-five years ago.’

  The lieutenant lowered his eyes, visibly embarrassed, pursed his lips and gave a low whistle. ‘Twenty-five years back, I was in diapers.’ He shook his head slowly from side to side and turned the frame over, as though some necessary confirmation of her claim might have been written on the reverse. An awkward pause; then he turned back to her, curious, appraising.

  ‘I’ll tell you this, ma’am,’ he said. ‘You’re a fine-looking woman for your years.’

  She held him with her gaze, hard and steady, watching him blush, finding a little reassurance in his discomfiture. He gave an uneasy laugh. ‘Hell,’ he said, ‘I meant nothing by it. It’s a compliment, that’s all.’

  Thinking about it later, she couldn’t be sure whether it was the sound she had noticed first – the roar and crackle as the flames took hold – or the dimming of the air beyond the window, but she knew at once what was happening and made a dash for the door. She saw the lieutenant start forward, heard the shards of glass skittering across the tiles as the picture frame hit the floor, but she was out before he could get to her, banging the front door shut behind her, running for the barn. As she rounded the corner of the house and began to climb the slope she saw Kellerman loping towards her from the far side of the field, but it was Lomax, sprinting up unexpectedly from behind, who reached her first. He hooked his hand beneath her armpit and swung her round.

  ‘You can’t go up there,’ he said. ‘You’ll get yourself killed.’ He drew her firmly towards him as a lover might. Sweat, tobacco, spearmint; the warmth of his breath on her cheek. She sensed, rather than saw, that the lieutenant had joined them.

  ‘The animals,’ she shouted, writhing in the boy’s grip. ‘There are animals there.’

  ‘They’re safe,’ said Lomax. He jutted his chin towards the corner of the field where the two goats stood tethered to a fencepost. ‘We’ve taken care of everything. The car’s down by the gate, and your tools—’

  ‘The kittens,’ she said. ‘Did you find the kittens?’

  ‘Kittens?’ He stared stupidly into her face. ‘Nobody said—’

  She gave a shrill cry and struck out ineffectually with the flat of her hand. The lieutenant stepped forward. ‘You should have told us,’ he said.

  ‘Why? How was I to know …’ She gestured helplessly towards the blazing building. ‘Tell him to let me go.’

  ‘Ma’am—’

  ‘Tell him.’

  Maley nodded. Lomax slackened his hold, allowing her to pull away. And as she stepped back, she looked up and saw the cat.

  It must have squeezed through the gap beneath the hayloft door – there was no other way onto the ledge – and now it was padding back and forth in wild agitation, one of the kittens dangling from its jaws. As she watched, it came to a stop and braced its forepaws on the wall a little below the ledge. For a second or two it hung there, peering down through the drifting smoke as if gauging the drop; then it writhed back and resumed its frantic pacing, crying out now, a throaty, staccato yowling that set her teeth on edge.

  ‘Do something,’ she said. She reached out and grabbed the lieutenant’s arm. ‘Get her down.’

  Maley shook his head. ‘There’s
nobody going up there. Too risky.’ And, as if on cue, a broad tongue of flame came licking out at the base of the loft door and began to climb the warped boards. She could feel the cat’s terror as it span away from the heat and poised itself once more above the drop, forepaws testing the weathered rendering, feeling for purchase; and then it was clear of the ledge, half falling, half running down the sheer wall. It hit the ground awkwardly, tumbling sideways as its legs buckled, and in the momentary stillness that followed it occurred to her that the impact might have killed it; but as she edged forward she saw it coming towards her across the rough grassland, the kitten still gripped in its jaws and swinging limply from side to side.

  ‘Tessie,’ she called. ‘Come on.’ The cat approached to within a few feet and laid the kitten down in front of her.

  She saw at once that it was dead. It lay on its back, its neck oddly angled and its legs splayed to reveal the pale fur of its chest and belly. She leaned down to pick up the cat but it slipped through her outstretched hands and darted sideways. Kellerman made a clumsy attempt to intercept it, but she screamed at him to let it be, to let it bloody be, and he backed off, arms raised in a theatrical gesture of surrender, while the cat streaked away and was lost to view at the field’s far edge.

  ‘Haven’t you done enough damage?’ she shouted. Kellerman began to speak, but Maley cut across him. ‘I can see how all this looks to you, ma’am,’ he said, ‘but a little damage now can prevent a whole lot of damage in the future. That’s the principle we’re operating on.’

  ‘A little damage?’ She turned angrily towards the barn. ‘You call that a little damage?’

  The fire had taken hold of the roof timbers; she could see the flames raging under the eaves and flowering through the gaps where slates had slipped or fallen. The lieutenant barely glanced up.

  ‘You got to take account of the bigger picture,’ he said. ‘Outbuildings like this, miles from anywhere – those crazies are drawn to them like flies to shit, begging your pardon, ma’am. You don’t want to wake up some morning and find the place swarming with rebels. This way you’ll have no trouble.’

  She turned aside. ‘Where are my tools?’ she asked.

  Maley nodded towards the gate. ‘Nothing’s lost. Like I said—’

  ‘I need a spade.’ She broke away and moved off down the slope. She wondered whether he might follow her, or even try to stop her, but when she looked back she saw that he was standing where she’d left him, staring after her.

  The tools had been dumped in an untidy heap a little to one side of the gateway. She hauled out the spade, strode back to where the kitten lay and began to dig, levering up ragged tussocks, hacking furiously at the compacted soil beneath. The lieutenant watched her for a few moments, then leaned over and gripped the haft. ‘Let me do this,’ he said, but she twisted the spade free and went on working.

  Lomax tapped his wristwatch. ‘Time we left,’ he said.

  ‘I’ll tell you when it’s time.’ Maley crouched beside the kitten and gently touched the blunt muzzle with his forefinger. ‘You forget,’ he said, ‘how small they are. Look at this.’ He lifted one of the forelegs and let it fall again. ‘When I was a kid …’ He glanced up at her, but she averted her eyes, refusing the proffered intimacy, and he rose briskly to his feet. ‘That’ll be deep enough,’ he said.

  She had just laid the kitten in the grave when the roof went. She heard the ridge beam crack and looked up to see it folding inward under an avalanche of slates. The air above the building thickened and flared; she felt the heat deepen around her.

  ‘We better back off a bit,’ said Maley. Lomax and Kellerman had already turned and were walking towards the house, but she made no move to rise. Slowly, deliberately, she took up a handful of loose soil and scattered it over the body. The lieutenant leaned down and tried to raise her, but she pushed his hand away.

  ‘Let me finish,’ she said. She reached forward and drew the remainder of the soil into the grave with the edges of her palms. Then she replaced the grass-clumps, tamping them down firmly with the handle of the spade.

  By the time they rejoined the others the mood had changed. Kellerman was sitting cross-legged beside the vegetable patch, shredding a blade of grass with his thumbnail, while Lomax stood above him, smiling broadly. ‘No,’ Kellerman was saying, ‘they’re all up for it. Find their weak spot and you’re in.’ Lomax gave a high, barking laugh and took a step back, setting his heel among the carrots’ delicate leaves. She wanted to protest, but Maley was speaking to her.

  ‘What I was going to say back there is I know how you feel. When I was growing up we always had cats about the house. Anything happened to one of them, it was like it happened to family. I remember one summer my sister came back from college and the Siamese was gone – killed crossing the street a week before. I should have been there, she kept saying, though there was no way she could have saved it.’ His voice had softened. Looking up, she saw the other two exchanging glances, Lomax miming the wiping of a tear from the corner of his eye. Maley caught the gesture as he turned.

  ‘Screw you, Lomax,’ he said, his face contorting with fury. ‘And get your goddamn boots off of the lady’s flower bed.’ He lunged out and hauled the boy roughly forward, hooking a foot around his ankle so that he stumbled and fell sprawling on the path.

  Lomax rose at once, beating the dust from his jacket with savage, flapping movements of his big hands. He shot the lieutenant an angry look but said nothing. Maley turned back to her, speaking as coolly as if the interruption had never taken place.

  ‘You’re not to worry about the flowers, ma’am.’

  ‘Carrots,’ she said, glancing down at the bruised leaves. ‘They’re carrots.’

  ‘Whatever. There’ll be compensation. For all of this.’ He looked over his shoulder at the dark smoke rolling away across the fields. ‘It’ll burn itself out now. There’s no danger so long as you stay clear.’

  Kellerman had risen to his feet and was standing beside Lomax on the path. Maley jerked his head towards the jeep. ‘You two wait down there,’ he said. He watched them through the gateway before turning back to her.

  ‘I’m sorry you’ve been troubled.’

  ‘Sorry?’

  ‘Truly sorry, ma’am, believe me.’ He tugged his cap from his pocket. ‘You take care now. And keep your door locked, you hear me? These are crazy times.’

  Out on the track, the engine coughed into life. Maley was settling his cap on his head but he seemed in no hurry to leave. He wants something from me, she thought: a word, perhaps, of acknowledgement or forgiveness. But she gave him nothing, and after a moment he turned on his heel and strode down to the waiting jeep. The door slammed and then they were away, bumping down the track towards the road.

  She walked slowly to the gate and pushed it shut, fastening the catch with exaggerated care. They were already out of sight, but it was easy enough to follow their progress. She stood stiffly, listening as the din receded.

  They had reached the end of the track. She heard the engine roar as the jeep swung onto the tarmac and accelerated away, and she strained after the sound, gripping the top bar of the gate with both hands. The wind was veering round now, bringing the smoke with it so that her eyes began to smart and water, but she remained where she was, staring into the distance. Over there, beyond the next line of hills and out towards the border, the green lanes smashed open for the convoys, their trees felled and their verges churned to sludge; and further off, much further, but unignorable now, the olive groves splintered to matchwood beneath lurching tanks, the blazing refineries, the black slick stilling the waters. She felt, with a dull nausea, as if some insult were being visited upon her own body, the flinch and shudder of small lives ending, and thought how it might go on like this until there was nothing left to burn.

  ‌The Gloop

  ‌Toby Litt

  One thinks one knows what one thinks about this process; one knows at least what one definitely does not think about it. A
nd one does not think, unfortunately, what one should be thinking about it – not just in this present, panicked moment, but in the very quasi-eternal epicentre of our soul. (Stick with me until the first analogy, at least.) Superadded to this inner uncertainty, one knows that one does not believe one is capable of voicing what one thinks. Or rather, one does not believe one should be permitted to express what one thinks even if one is, in fact, allowed and encouraged and instructed and ordered and given ultimatumes, to let it spew. Look! Look, those good old inward investments coming out – gut-upchuck – but we all know that’s hokey of the okey-cokey variety; if anything hits anything, it’s only essence having taken a detour round the houses so as to sneak up behind itself, to administer the smack it knows is coming. A man used, at least, to be able to slap his own face in front of the mirror, even when he couldn’t be said to lose a fight to himself. With himself, yes. Over alcohol or calories or temptation or sleep. But not physical rough-and-tumble, nor chess neither. And upon these fine distinctions was a fine society finely balanced. A glory of a one, and not an any of a many. So let’s say one did voice that which one has been able to struggle to think – what might the consequences be for …? (One does not say ‘punishment’.) (One is careful to say ‘consequences’ and not ‘punishment’.) (Sneak, smack!) (You may prepare to go now.) It’s not as if – is it? – one might be singled out. That, if one were guilty, guilty of the mental resistance likely to be imputed to one – that would surely be my wish: to be singled. Segregation rather than integration; particularity as opposed to impartiality. For I, if one may still speak of I – I am a strand of essence, slowly starting to lose my self-definition within a greater substance which is itself no longer constituted of essential strands. I am distinctive distillate becoming a bland blend amid a muzzy medium of gloopy gloop. As an example of a similarly irreversible physical process: a teaspoonful or even, in these days, a guilty half teaspoonful of sugar dissolving into a hot mug of coffee. (You may go now.) No, that analogy is not the right consistency; that is, ungloopy at both ends. As a better example: hot chocolate sauce being stirred into semi-liquid vanilla ice cream within the grander constitution of a knickerbocker glory. (Ah, I see you have decided to stay, friend.) We here are the chocolate sauce and the strawberry sauce and the vanilla ice cream and the whipped cream, flaked almonds, sliced strawberries, quartered grapes, cubed melon chunklets; we are all of these edibles equally and at once. (Friend.) But we are not the tall ice cream sundae knickerbocker glass, and not the long metal stirring spoon. This (referring back to the panicked moment) is what one is supposed to believe; this is what I am supposed to believe. Not that I want to be seen as prioritizing myself in any way, by analogizing myself as hot chocolate sauce. I am not saying, ‘Look at me, I’m the glacé cherry on the top.’ Partly because a cherry retains her form even as she sinks into the gloop; as do many of the constituent parts of a knickerbocker glory; so let’s just scale it back to a plain vanilla sundae with hot chocolate sauce but minus nuts or fruit or solids or semi-solids of any sort. What I feel right now – what, as the residue of an object, one objects to – is that at the same moment I am being stirred into the vanilla ice-cream gloop, other things are being stirred into me – and these things are (heavens!) white paint, ejaculate, paper pulp, perhaps even poison. Quick question: ‘Why are we not also the sundae glass and its sides, also the spoon and its spin?’ Slow answer: Because (we have been led to believe) the glass is the unaffected container, the loop around the gloop, and although we may engage in metaphysical speculation as to what the container might be – we might even conclude that its cupped bottom and widening walls are completely different entities or essences to ourselves – we cannot invest in the suspicion that I am part of them or it or Him or Her, or that any of these are part of me. And as for the spoon, the prime mover, that exists as an energy whose provenance is likely to remain a mystery. (I blame God.) The point is, I myself – Mr Hot Chocolate Sauce For The Sake Of Argument – am changing, am being changed, being stirred, stringing out and swinging out, into the pale gloop, thinning to a swoop, spinning to a wisp, and will soon be less than a point. The point is, I myself am being changed, to the point where I will have no point and, just beyond that, will have no I. And having spent so long as some form of distillate, one finds the idea of total dissolution (even within alleged cool, sweet deliciousness) rather objectionable – although objects are rather moot, rather punishable. With ‘moot’, of course, I underplay: ‘Aaaaaagh!’ (Here was a scream.) Maybe what I am demanding is the temporary retention of my illusory objectness. (Here is what I scream.) This is, for an admitted fluid, and a hot one, whether chocolatey or not, perverse I realize. And, yes, I remember within me the growth of the cocoa bean. And, yes, I recall the factory addition of substances to join me in making me palatable. And, yes, I realize that in becoming hot chocolate sauce I was brutalized and bastardized in countless yummy ways. And, yes, I readily admit that my atomic structure could have been converted into any number of other-objects. So, yes, of course I am in favour of the removal of artificial barriers between flavoursome entities, sub-entities and non-entities towards the creation of what we are and have been and will yet be. I am not anti-pudding. That which I cannot support, however, is the intermingling willy-nilly of substances never meant to meet. (Delighted, I’m sure.) What of a Paper Pulp, White Paint and Poisoned Sperm Sundae with Hot Chocolate Sauce? Who enjoys consuming that? Who enjoys being part of that? Doesn’t even the mere reference to it disgust? What of the ubiquitous creation of suchlike undrinkables? What of the universal tendency toward pale brownness? This whole process is being rushed through in an ill-considered and cack-handed way, despite the long-ago loss of anything resembling a hand. This whole process is being gone about in a recklessly long-spoonish manner, man. (God.) Even as we lose our hot, chocolately, saucy characteristics, we have not sufficiently analysed or assessed or appreciated or addressed exactly what we are losing. It’s not that I believe I am, in myself, in and of myself, as a set of qualities expressed out of a particularity – it is not that I think I am unrepeatable or irreplaceable or unimprovable or even ineffable. I merely raise the possibility that among other not-even-essences of my sort, though they may in every element be quite opposite to or other than me – that we may be losing things we will a little later on feel we lack. This is the case even when, because we are unable to point to these things, because we are unable to point, because we are about to lose the ability to refer, hence the panic, because these things are no longer there to be pointed at even were we able to point – this will be the case even when their only definition is a vague but tragic sense of lack. Here is a smear, say, of a particular form of unconditional compassion. (Perish the thought I am claiming this for myself.) Not to say, Here is the ability to distinguish the particular and to distinguish forms – perhaps that is ultimately my plea. This here smear of compassion, and equally, I admit, the form might be that of animadversion – yet who knows when all of us, collectively, might not need to turn such forces outward, or even inward, against, perhaps, other admittedly negative forms of form? If we rid ourselves of each and every smear within the general gloop of ourselves, and become the promised one which is also plural and the plural which is simultaneously one – ‘What then?’ The answer may be, as a few friendly forms have already proposed, that my question is its own misunderstanding and therefore answer. The answer may equally be, as some unfriendly forms have asserted whilst threatening me with unspecified punishments, that my question merely shows I am not far enough along in my assimilation – all I need is another stir and I will know all and be all (without being a know-all). ‘What’ (in ‘What then?’) being wrong because whatness, as a quality, will have been subsumed in total is-ness or un-ness or post-ness or sur-ness (sur-sur-ness, sur-sur-ness-ness, etc) – and ‘then’ (in ‘What then?) being even more wrong because temporality depends upon event and event depends upon change and change depends upon integrating or disintegrating forms. When
all is background, when ‘when’ (in ‘when’) is moot, all as all will continue its dissolutions into unending, even though once provably beginning, all-all-all. All compassion and animadversion will go, too – all compassion having already become all animadversion and, at the same final moment, vice (which isn’t) versa (which can’t be). Yet compassion doesn’t merely become animadversion, because this is an utter coalescence – hot (chocolate sauce) becomes cool (vanilla ice cream) becomes tepid becomes gloop. No, that is wrong: hot chocolate sauce becomes poison as ejaculate becomes ice cream as pulp becomes glass as heat becomes spoon becomes cold becomes gloop. (I defy you, God-bullies.) All becomes all. And ‘Is this not glorious?’ – even though glory, as a form, will have been lost, and one might just as well say, ‘Is not this heinous?’ And what’s more, isn’t this inevitable? Once energy began twizzling us, in our cosmic – oh dear – stir … Again, without feeling: Given that we began with an impulse of energy which both distinguished us and set us on a course toward indistinguishability, shouldn’t one just enjoy the last dawdle of I-ness, of qua-cocoa-ness, of hot chocolatey what-ness, of saucy now-ness? (Friend.) Given that the admixture will soon enough be total, am I not being ludicrously pernickety to object to the rough, sloppy manner in which my streak of dark form – curlicuing round, snickety-cut in two, hairline dissolving, gone – meets its particular surrenders? All objection is (one tells oneself) pointless, heading – as we all are, friendly and unfriendly alike – toward the pointless object. Yet even if it is lost that I made an assertion: ‘Forms are of value’ – even if that comes to be the case, it will still be a fact that I did once make that assertion, even as the form of facts is itself forever disintegrated (here’s the thing) as if it had never been. No one and nothing can sidestep the coming one-ness, because otherwise the oneness would be other – would be oneness only minus one (the sidestepper who perhaps smacks). Nothing and no one and no thing and no one – all pungent distinctions, forms I and others like me have valued, forms we will miss before we cease to miss them, forms we would have continued to miss had we been capable of missing anything. ‘Forms are of value’ – John Coltrane, say. The form of the forms which comprised the quality of the qualities which were John Coltrane – a human-jazz knickerbocker glory. O, Supreme! O, Ascended! O, skronk into sublimity! O, gospel-groan-grown OM of a blue universe! Oh, swinging truth! And yet, speaking of John Coltrane, memory-listening to John Coltrane, I almost begin to persuade myself of the contrary. Because – the very fact that we have had these extended moments of formal value, and because in their having-existedness they are indestructible, should we not now try the other moments which are the inexpressible beyond of this? Momentless moments of unlooped gloop. Subsume, says Mr Thermodynamics For The Sake Of Argument. And it is, perhaps, nothing but sentimentality to wish any moment, future or present or still present or past, or beyond or beneath or above or (Sneak …) side-stepping time (Smack!) – to wish moments unending, to wish moments not to be moments. My doubt is that we have not yet explored the infinity of possibilities presented by the integrating or disintegrating of forms. We have not yet eaten every sundae, or knickerbocker glory, including the ones in which hot chocolate sauce, undissolved, unmixed, remains on top – whilst listening to every possible Coltrane, demi-Coltrane, anti-Coltrane, Coltran, Coltra, Coltr, etc. But I suppose we have had a pretty good go, haven’t we? We have had our moment. We have made our mess. We have exhausted ourselves. (I’m tired, aren’t you? – after all this impossible opposing.) We are thinking we might be ready to be over. (Aren’t we?) When the energy necessary for the delight and responsibility of form is gone, there is no point pretending the sham of identity can be maintained. (Is there?) Encouraged entropy is more forceful than any counterforce we strands might muster. (Isn’t it?) The glass loops us and the spoon gloops us. (Don’t they?) And, at the end of the beginning of the end, we gloop. (Me, too; you, too.) We gladly gloop, sadly.