The Annals

by Petronius Jablonski

  THE ANNALS OF PETRONIUS JABLONSKI

  AN ODYSSEY OF HISTORIC PROPORTIONS AND PRICELESS TREASURE OF PHILOSOPHY

  Petronius Jablonski

  Contents

  Preamble

  A defense of My Preamble

  I: The Commencement of My Odyssey, a Commentary on the Point of Life, and the Attainment of Quietude

  The Anticipation of Questions Pertaining to Part I with Answers and Analysis

  II: My Bonneville is Cherished, I Discover a Box, Compose a Letter of Critique to a Hack, Introduce Petronius’ First Sensation and Petronius’ Shovel, Encounter an Enormous Bird after My Bonneville is Abducted, Dream the First of Eleven Dreams, Strike a Dubious Bargain with a Sea God, and Select the Chosen Chariot

  Part II: Addendum

  III: The Tunnel

  Part III: an Appurtenance

  A Bland and Unnecessary Addendum to the Appurtenance of Part III, Provided at the Reader’s Insistence

  A Supplement to the Bland and Unnecessary Addendum to the Appurtenance to Part III

  IV: Stool with a View

  The Anticipation and Refutation of an Utterly Incorrect Objection to Part IV

  V: A Town of Ghosts

  The Dialogues of Supernatural Individuation

  VI: A Book Party, an Infernal Nightmare, and a Refutation of Vegetarianism

  On the Needlessness of an Addendum to Part VI

  VII: An Act of Libidinous Union is Interrupted by a Pterodactyl, I Withstand the Ravages of Tetrahydrocannabinol, Critique a Monument, Expound Upon the Perfect Government, and Reflect Upon the Night I Met Sandy but Instead Summon the Fairy Gobbler

  Regarding the Non-Superfluence of My Remembrance of the Night When I Did Not Meet Sandy

  On the Persistence of My Memory: A Rebuke to the Reader’s Cruelty

  VIII: We are Joined by Hitchhikers, I Expound Upon the Significance of the Bubblegum Slayer, We Join the Rainbow Gardeners, Sandy Dissolves my Prodigious Hang-Up, I Debunk a Puerile Legend, Introduce My Unnumbered Sensation, and Dream the Worst Dream of All Time

  IX: The Ripened Fruits of the Mind

  Concerning the Reader’s Puerile Criticism of My Thunder Metaphor in Part IX

  X: We Stay at an Inn, I Introduce my Seventh Sensation, Behold Pitiful Armadillos, Dream of a Great Orange Train, and Encounter a Vicious Meat Puppet

  Preparations for Part XI

  XI: My Fleetwood is Transformed Into a Tavern, I Receive a Rebuke from Agents of the Venerable Horned One of the Lake, Consume Several Strawberry Zebras, and Introduce My Special Potation Theory

  The Essential and Non-Negotiable Preparations for Part XII

  XII: I See the Sun for the First Time

  XIII: We are Vexed by Incomprehensible Signs, I Expound Upon the Origin of the Shi Tzu; and Introduce my Tenth, Eleventh and Twelfth Sensations

  On the Felicitous Absence of Part XIV

  Preparations for Part XV

  XV: I Experience the Rapture of a Knife-Edge, Introduce Petronius Time Types I and II, and Demonstrate to Sandy the Consummate Importance of the Difference Between Denotation and Connotation

  XVI: The Panting Wall of Gloom

  How the Reader May Halt the Foredoomed Voyage of Time to Prolong His Enjoyment of My Annals

  XVII: The Introduction of My Nineteenth Sensation and Petronius’ Box

  On the Superiority of Petronius’ Box to Plato’s Much-Ballyhooed Ring

  The Prearranged Terms of Our Duel

  Essential Preparations for the Epilogue

  A Declaration of My Intentions Regarding the Reader’s Sister

  Appendix by Brian Bartul, Including a Glossary of Terms

  Acknowledgements

  Happy are they, in my opinion, to whom it is given either to do something worth writing about, or to write something worth reading; most happy, of course, are those who do both.

  Pliny the Younger

  Preamble

  I, Petronius Jablonski, here set forth a chronicle of a perilous and momentous journey. Though conclusive understanding of it eludes my grasp, by withholding all judgments I shall furnish my narrative with the goal of historians throughout the ages: a clear and spacious window overlooking great events, free from the blemishes deposited by careless scholars who forget their proper role is to describe, not decipher.

  As a consequence, I vouchsafe the Reader no small responsibility. The purity of this vantage confers upon his shoulders a noble yoke: interpreting the meaning of this wondrous quest by his own lights. It is possible that one who has not witnessed the marvels that bedazzled me will be in a superior position to untangle and assess their significance, as my heart and mind remain too inflamed for temperate discernment.

  In Defense of My Preamble

  Eager to begin the fantastic voyage, the Reader finds himself restive, the hesitant vessel of dissenting inquiries. He is to be commended on his scrutinous nature. The surest gauge of a student’s health is inquisitiveness; the first symptom of illness, apathy. Neither presumption nor the antennae of prudence attune me to his enviable perplexities, but an extrasensory third ear pressed against the wall separating present and future, permitting me to anticipate his questions and respond before he needs to raise them. Be not jealous, for this prescience, the gift of foreknowledge, is more often a curse than a blessing.

  “Scholar,” he says, “no doubt it was an intoxicating side-effect of your divine prose, but it is all one can do to desist the impression that you promise pure objectivity. While the symphonic splendor of your preamble is above all praise, it induces the vision of a mythic creature. Such declarations are as mislaid in serious scholarship as the story of a unicorn. Furthermore, given the authority you convey it is easy to ignore the implied denigration of past historians, but should you not at least explain yourself?”

  I avow nothing short of Objectivity and with this question I am more than a little concerned with the caliber of the man bumbling through my annals. Dear Reader, I mean no offense. Each man is, to no small degree, raised by his culture. After suckling at the withered teats of folly and nihilism, a child’s preconceptions are skewed, his worldview a jagged montage. Do not despair, for great is he who pulls himself from this sewer. In the melancholy dusk of civilization we forget that Truth is not a harlot whose favors can be purchased by every Johnny-come-lately waving a degree. Rather, she is a chaste maiden who must be wooed. Come, let us woo her together.

  The Reader needs to differentiate metaphorical promises from actual ones. A “threesome with a chaste maiden” is not what I had in mind. And his comparison of Objectivity to unicorns cries out to the gods for reproof. What does it insinuate about my intentions? Does he suggest that my preamble is a sonorous formality, that since I could not clash cymbals when he opened the book I had to settle for one? Make no mistake: out of the 250,000 words in common usage, and the additional 50,000 I use, I painstakingly selected those. In the same key, out of the innumerable combinations I could have formed with my lovingly selected words, I chose the precise order presented, not even tempted by others.

  Regarding the belittlement of my peers: despite their innumerable shortcomings, Herodotus, Plutarch, Tacitus, Gibbon, Spengler, Wells, and Ferguson represent stages in the perfection of a science. I had hoped to avoid the threadbare expression, “standing on the shoulders of giants,” but it seems the Reader has forced my hand. (If it gratifies his vanity, he may highlight the following sentence.)

  While composing my annals, I, Petronius Jablonski, stood atop the shoulders of giants.

  Now, with these disagreeable accounts settled we can proceed. Ever solicitous of his welfare, I fear the Reader’s approach lacks the requisite gravitas. His informality is scarcely appropriate for the task at hand. A suit and tie would attune his attenti
on far better than a mustard-splattered undershirt. Likewise, a seated posture in a sturdy chair is preferable to sprawling across a soiled and dilapidated mattress. I beseech him to close the book now and not reopen it until he has enjoyed a full night of rest (the contents of Part I are rather heady). He may wish to read my preamble again, reverently, in a suit and tie, before proceeding.

  I:

  The Commencement of My Odyssey, a Commentary on the Point of Life, and the Attainment of Quietude

  An authentic voodoo doll prowled the dashboard, glaring at me with bulbous eyes as I took the helm. Ferocious claws ensured his adhesion and an ear-to-ear grin revealed shark-like teeth. I summoned the engine, its silent presence conspicuous like a warm body in a dark room, and drove into the fog.

  Out of necessity, the designers had positioned tiny lights on the far corners of the hood. Without them, most occupants would be powerless to determine where the car ended and the world began. Simple notes became a melody for the eyes. Between the twinkling stars on the horizon stood the surrogate hood ornament, Shiva, god with a thousand-and-four names, guardian of the threshold separating the great orange plane from the emptiness beyond.

  In the parking lot at Sandy’s dormitory my thoughts assailed me like wasps. I closed my eyes and embraced the certainty that my future would suffer from a dearth of precedents. After she threw her bags in back, the tons on my back felt a few ounces lighter and I entered the wet lint that had settled over everything. Our paths first crossed in an algebra class two semesters earlier. Thirsting only for Truth, not the chicanery of juggling abstractions, I abstained from the odious sessions and spent the time in the student union discussing eternal questions with like-minded men of intellect. During the final exam, a beguiling vixen permitted my eyes to meander across her paper. After class I offered to buy her dinner, quid pro quo. From this simple meal all manner of carnal delights soon blossomed.

  The intersection we crept through before vanishing into the labyrinth of the highway, was it not a silver passage connecting the fabled kingdom of eternity past to the prophesied land of eternity yet to come? A sign for the on-ramp materialized out of the static. Having defied time’s attrition, my car handled the severe curve with ease. Out of the turn I tapped the gas, burying us in the depths of Corinthian leather.

  My view consisted of nothing save the little stars on the hood and Shiva charging through a curtain of gauze. Though initially troubled by this, I bested the urge to decelerate and the fear of a collision evolved into exhilaration. My spirits ascended, freeing me from the servitude of my apprehensions, exorcising the specters of what lay ahead. But soon the boarders in the rooming house of my mind returned. Second, third, and fourth guesses came and went, slamming doors and stomping their feet, their discourteous tumult the only motion in the misty stillness of the night.

  After we stopped for gas, adversity beset our path. Crossing a bridge over the highway, I felt like a mountain climber gazing at a layer of clouds from a summit, or Dante before his descent. I followed the taillights of a semi down the ramp until they disappeared. When the location of the road became subject to interpretation I hit the brakes. The speedometer said zero. I knew better. In our cherished time together, my car and I had traveled tens of thousands of miles, down each and every highway, in good times and bad. The bond between us, forged in the crucible of danger, sealed by the stamp of luxury, was deep and strong and true.

  I pumped the brakes and spun the steering wheel. Neither measure subdued my withdrawal symptoms from the opiate of normalcy. I buzzed the window down, plunged my head into the gray vortex, and saw only the uppermost portion of the tires. I sat back as though nothing were wrong and hypothesized a lack of contact with the road, tentatively conceding the validity of inferences to the best explanation. Feeling uncommonly visible, I prayed that Sandy had not noticed our difficulties. Her closed eyes and open mouth bespoke the oblivion of sleep.

  Perhaps this idiosyncrasy will abate, I hoped, and spare her from jumping to any hasty conclusions. Although wistful, this reflection was not bereft of rational elements. With the exception of a mild rising sensation, no differences earmarked our surroundings. My car normally drove with remarkable surreption and the wool fog abided. The only thing that will disclose our quandary, I thought, is my vexations becoming manifest, the dissolution of my calm demeanor. There could be only one priority: the attainment of Quietude. To fill the car with an atmosphere of normalcy and congeniality, the way one would pump oxygen into a strange and uninhabitable environment to make it safe for living creatures, I placed a CD in the deck, lit an English Oval, and reflected on the greatness of my fellow Stoic, Epictetus.

  “This is no tragedy,” said the voice of Reason. “Leaning back in this heavenly seat and listening to Sinatra while my Cadillac glides through the fog: as with all things misconstrued as hardships, it is simply a matter of becoming inured to it.”

  The Rat Pack always served as a potent tonic, infused with the ability to bandage my exposed nerves from even the most corrosive stimuli. My sanguine bearing, due in no small part to their curative styling, enabled the impeccable analysis to proceed.

  “In time this will seem no stranger than driving down the street in the fog. The only reason no one questions the latter is due to its attainment of the humdrum status of familiarity, which hardly renders it comprehensible. According to Zeno of Elea motion is not even possible. (To travel from X to Y, one must first arrive at a point halfway between them; to reach that point one must first reach a halfway point, ad infinitum.) Unless I am prepared to refute him and provide a full discourse explicating the nature of motion I have no reason to disparage our present state.”

  From the starry dome of Reason I gazed into the valley of Quietude, basking in my soothing meditations. I assessed the prudence of putting the car in park, but rejected the idea. If it returned to the ground while moving (assuming the existence, comprehensibility, and occurrence of “motion”), the transmission could be injured. Though my faithful mechanic had informed me that my Fleetwood contained the finest one ever made, risks without recompense are foolish.

  I flicked my cigarette out the window, lit another, raised the volume a notch, and sat back so my eyes were level with the dash. Midway through the fourth song, Sandy awoke. I turned to her with the guileless conviction that my unperturbed state would prove contagious.

  “How can you possibly drive in this?” she said, jerking her head like a rotary sprinkler. Quizzical furrows scarred her soft Asian features.

  “After a while you become inured to it.”

  “How fast are we going?” After checking the speedometer, she disemboweled me with her eyes, rupturing my precious Quietude and initiating an investigation I had to terminate posthaste. It was crucial that she remain sequestered from the Gordian theory regarding my tires and their relationship to the road. A few trifling details about our journey were not shared with her. Preoccupied during the elaborate preparations, I awaited a more sedate period for briefing.

  Before I could respond, she put on her seatbelt: a resounding vote of no confidence, a damning indictment. Something inside me died. I turned the music down and fortified myself against the indignities that might charge. “The sheer density of the fog poses unique challenges to even the greatest driver,” I said. “Are you familiar with the teachings of Zeno?”

  “What’s happening?” she said, digging her fingers into the armrest and clutching the door.

  “I am waiting for it to clear.”

  “Why does it feel like we’re moving?” Her words tore into me like harpoons.

  “As the fog whisks past it departs an unsettling illusion, and you should not forget that a real car feels different in repose. This is not a Honda.”

  I buzzed the window down and dipped my head in the mothball soup. Assuming a disengagement between my tires and the road, the extent of the rift foiled visual estimates. I conceived an experiment to resolve this question. By dropping Sandy’s CDs out of the window I
would not only escape the agony of listening to them, the clarity of their union with the road would allow me to gauge the distance. The possibility of hearing nothing, which would block all paths to Quietude, hindered my research.

  The density of the fog seemed greater at this altitude. Only Shiva’s outline could be discerned in the ethereal haze. While smoky tentacles floated over the windshield, I distracted myself by discerning shapes in them, the way one might amuse himself on a cloudy day. Soon it was no diversion. The Rorschach looked back. Faces formed, existed for an instant, and returned to a blur. Their expressions bespoke unbearable sorrow, as though grieving the oblivion stolen from them.

  Centipedes of panic crawled up and down my back. “This is serious,” I said, my voice not rising above a marvelous duet between Sammy Davis Jr. and Dean Martin. I prayed that Sandy had not witnessed this dreadful procession and turned to her. She continued to brace herself, eyes closed. Seeking fortitude, I focused on the sublime crest of Antoine de la Mothe Cadillac (1658-1730) and imagined brandishing the steering wheel as a talisman, running out on the hood to smite the ghastly faces.

  “Like all things, they will eventually be buried by the sands of time,” said Reason, healing my wounded spirit with the inimitable balm of wisdom.

  I studied the merlettes on the shield beneath the crown and Sinatra started “My Way,” a Stoic hymn to the virtue of constancy in the face of adversity. When the brilliant star of Quietude shone its gracious face upon me, I renounced my cowering posture and looked up: nothing but fuzz, amorphous and inert. As I exhaled, a mammoth face appeared and emitted a moan that shook the car.

  “What was that?”

  “What was what?” I said, awaiting salvation from my steadfast muse. “Oh, that? The bass on this stereo reverberates. The woofers cannot handle the lower end of equivocal frequencies.”