The Annals

by Petronius Jablonski

  • • •

  At this point the Reader must find a quiet park bench and begin sipping the contents of his thermos while awaiting further instructions.

  • • •

  I put my lips to the edge and a portion of the vapor seeped into my mouth. Though it made no contact with my tongue, it had the Real Presence, that distinctive and divine sensation conspicuously absent in those preposterous non-alcoholic beverages. The flavor of strawberries, though undeniable, did not overwhelm, which was most peculiar since their aroma could be discerned from across the room. Cletus and the bartender watched in silence, their pupils reflecting neon splashes from the signs in the window.

  “Most impressive, and I am not a man who is tempted by drinks containing ice or fruit,” I said, licking my lips to remove a ghostly residue. “Not to imply that this contains either.”

  “It’s not like other drinks,” Cletus assured me.

  • • •

  At this point, the Reader should finish the remainder of his thermos while reading the next paragraph. Before reading the paragraph posterior to it, he should wait forty-five minutes.

  • • •

  Infused with a mystic property, Strawberry Zebras vacated the glass in favor of my mouth. I scarcely opened it a sliver and most of the arcane contents snuck in regardless of any efforts to restrain the flow. After only seven of them I found myself delightfully disabled, savoring the crux of Petronius’ Special Potation Theory: fermented drinks alter a philosopher’s outlook from dyed-in-the-wool misanthropy to near misanthropy. (The Reader will remember my General Potation Theory from Part V. My Special Theory shall be expounded upon when it will not disrupt the euphony of my narrative.)

  “Now, what lesson have I missed that I need to know?” I said, dispensing with mundane chatter in the hope of prying the Cliff Notes from Cletus.

  “Mr. Jablonski, surely you don’t think a simple summary is possible. That’s the Zebras talking. Once you’ve caught your second wind you need to carefully meditate on all you’ve seen.”

  “Can you give me a hint? How do I know if my interpretations are correct? Is there a final exam?”

  “You want to know if you’re on the right track?”

  I nodded, pleased that my persistence bore fruit, but disappointed that he had not confirmed the existence of a test. After all, even in the unlikely event of an A- I would still obtain the correct answers afterward.

  “Follow me,” he said and jumped off his stool. I followed him outside. We were in the middle of nowhere, standing outside a stately orange manor in a vast field.

  “Pssst. Over here,” he called, hiding beneath the window. Our heads went up like periscopes. The oblivious barkeep whistled while he wiped the bar with a big black rag.

  “Do you see the stools we were sitting on?” Cletus asked.

  “Yes.”

  “Now who’s on them?”

  “No one.”

  “Do you remember all that we said, all the words we spoke?”

  “The most important ones. I am a historian.”

  “Do you see them in there now?”

  “No.”

  “Where are they?”

  “What on earth are you talking about?” Not even my inebriation could compensate for the insufficiencies of this underwhelming revelation. I felt like an adolescent who sneaks into an R-rated movie only to discover it contains no nudity.

  “What’s left, Mr. Jablonski? What’s left of the rise and fall of the evening, of that whole little epoch?” The barkeep put our glasses in the sink. When he picked up our ashtray Cletus grabbed my shoulder. “Look. That’s what remains.”

  The ashtray contained a pile of debris. The barkeep dumped it out and put it back empty. Empty as though it had always been that way.

  “Did you see that?” said Cletus.

  Eyeing him with a world-weary disdain normally reserved for panhandlers and used-car salesmen, I nodded.

  “Then you’re on the right track. And remember, all the nights to come will be like that too.” He walked away into the grass.

  “And now? What is the next sign? Are you going to pick your nose?”

  He stopped but did not turn around.

  “So the Horned One is running low on funds. How does a sea god run out of money, especially with family members running hot cars?”

  “Mr. Jablonski,” Cletus sighed with characteristic exasperation. “There’s no need for insults. Your car was just transformed into a tavern. Or had you forgotten?”

  “So that’s all there is?”

  “Of course that’s not all there is. But without that you’re lost. You should sleep on it. That tree over there looks awfully cozy. Don’t worry about the bugs. They’re not too bad in these parts.”

  “Tree? Where’s my Fleetwood?”

  “Mr. Jablonski you’re exhausted. I’m sure you’ll wake up with a fresh perspective. You can’t drive in your condition.”

  “Is my car safe? Will it be returned?”

  “Yes Mr. Jablonski, yes.”

  “And Sandy? Is she —”

  “You’ll see them both in the morning. Goodnight Mr. Jablonski.” As he merged with the night, the dragons on his shirt became glowworms and slithered away. I stumbled to the tree and everything began to spin.

  The Essential and Non-Negotiable Preparations for Part XII

  I can see it all so clearly: the Reader’s reluctance to prepare for Part XII stems from an irrational reaction to the tragic, vexatious nature of life. Yearning for permanence and something of transcendent importance in a world that seems specifically designed to frustrate these longings, he, with an impulsivity born of despair, arrives at an extreme and cantankerous position.

  “If nothing is eternal or of ultimate importance, then nothing matters. The universe itself shall fade away, so why prepare for Part XII? Why not skim through it as I would anything else?”

  But here an invidious distinction is drawn. If nothing matters, why not prepare for Part XII? The Reader’s plunge into nihilism has left him with no grounds to reject any requests. A sadistic author could now command him to court and marry an ugly cousin. And how can he refuse? Not even the hedonist’s pleasure principle will rescue him.

  “You do not feel like it?” the wicked writer says, laughing demonically. “Of what significance are your feelings if the universe itself shall vanish? In the cold night of eternity your preferences and desires have all the importance of microscopic particles on specks of dust. Now go, call Ethel or Bertha and declare your vile intentions.”

  Perhaps the Reader should take a moment to acknowledge that the world is not as tragic and vexatious as he thought, for he finds himself in the gentle hands of a benevolent author whose only concern is his welfare.

  • • •

  With the predictability of the seasons, he clings to hedonism, the last refuge of the philosophaster, and declines any “elaborate preparations” on the grounds that he would derive more pleasure without them. Dear Reader, this road is steep and anfractuous. Do not equate hedonism with staggering down the path of least resistance. Sometimes the greatest pleasure requires the greatest expenditure of effort. Oftentimes it demands no small degree of planning and analysis.

  The conscientious hedonist must assess the costs as opposed to the benefits of his intended course of behavior beneath the dim light of the pleasure principle. As applied to our present situation, begin with the question, “What is the nature of the pleasure I will derive by forsaking the prerequisites?” Then proceed through the following list of gratifications from common to sublime until a match is found.

  “Will it be akin to the humdrum contentment gained from culinary indulgence?”

  Not even this.

  “Will it compare with the mirth of driving through a curbside puddle beside a crowded bus stop?” the Reader asks hopefully.

  As remote as alpha to omega.

  “Will it approach the esoteric delight of clogging the toilet at work?”

&
nbsp; Scarcely.

  “What type of pleasure will be gained?” the Reader asks in resignation, despondent from the calculus required for robust and consistent hedonism.

  None whatsoever. The lethargy of the sluggard is not pleasure, but a pathologic condition. In supreme opposition to this effete state stands the delectation of preparing for and indulging in Part XII. The hedonist’s scale is not merely tipped in its favor, but buckled by its immeasurable, unquantifiable bliss. The pleasure involved may very well surpass all prior joys and cast a pall upon all joys to come.

  To extract the fruit from this most gravid part of my annals, the Reader must take between one-hundred and three-hundred micrograms of lysergic acid diethylamide on a sunny summer day after a good night of sleep and a hearty breakfast. Part XII involves an altered state of consciousness (Petronius’ Ninth Sensation) that can only be approximated in this manner. Note and note well: the following parameters are mandatory:

  - A steadfast friend must accompany the Reader throughout the day (concubines can prove especially enchanting on such occasions).

  - The lysergic acid diethylamide must be consumed in a pastoral setting (a quiet park will do splendidly).

  - Two hours after it is ingested, Part XII must be read to the Reader, not by him.

  - The remainder of the day should be devoted to readings of other portions of my annals, Frisbee, and the music of Ludwig van Beethoven. It is no exaggeration to state that until the Reader has listened to Beethoven in this condition he has not lived at all. Anterior to this point, he has been trapped in a dingy, grimy garage. This dovetails with my watershed contribution, not to philosophy so much as to Life herself.

  Petronius’ Garage is analogous to Plato’s much-ballyhooed Cave in some peripheral respects. The difference is in his appalling lack of specificity: How exactly — not in terms of mellifluous abstractions — does a man leave the Cave and enter the sunlight above? To leave the cobwebs and oil stains of Petronius’ Garage and enter the paradise of a sunny park he need only listen to Beethoven’s Sixth Symphony posterior to the ingestion of lysergic acid diethylamide. If what he experiences is not “enlightenment” then that word has no meaning and should be encased in lead and dropped into the sea. What the Reader erroneously thought of as life will be revealed as a wretched crawl across a filthy concrete floor while confined beneath a greasy monolith of steel.

  Unlike my Garage, an absurd and contemptible situation arises with other systems of enlightenment, salvation, and sundry sham vantages. The aspirant invariably wonders, “Do I really have it?” — a certain indicant he has been duped. Petronius’ Garage is unprecedented in this regard. Concurrent with listening to Beethoven’s Sixth, posterior to his ingestion of lysergic acid diethylamide, the aspirant will scarcely be second-guessing himself. On the contrary.

  Unlike Plato’s Cave, my Garage is no mere allegory but grounded firmly in experience. One fateful afternoon, after ingesting a yellow blotter hit emblazoned with a red lightning bolt, I made the grievous decision to change my oil while waiting for Sandy and Buzzcut to arrive. The effects descended with frightening celerity, expanding the straightforward operation to Homeric dimensions. The procedure is normally encapsulated by a handful of distinct steps. Cursed with the eyes of Zeno, I perceived new steps between each of the traditional steps and more steps between each of the new steps. While I rolled about in filth and cursed, steps multiplied like Irish serpents. Then a gentle summer breeze swirled through the garage: the first notes of Beethoven’s Sixth. It repeated, more pronounced as Sandy pulled into the drive. I bounded to her car and collapsed in the backseat. At my behest, she drove through Sheridan Park and Grant Park and Wilson Park until I heard the entire piece. Words run aground on this shore. Like fish thrashing on the beach, they are forever barred from the land beyond. The First Petronius Sensation burns with a longing that parries all attempts at gratification. Consequently, we shall continue with the mandatory parameters:

  Though false starts are possible, acts of fleshly congress can be uniquely rewarding.

  Tetrahydrocannabinol and fermented or caffeinated drinks are contraindicated.

  If television is unavoidable, motion pictures featuring the Marx Brothers are recommended.

  Insomnia is a distinct possibility. Again, the answer to most queries regarding lysergic acid diethylamide is Beethoven. The compatibility of other symphonies can be determined with Petronius’ Second Theorem: S/3 (for the layman, symphonies divisible by 3).

  XII:

  I See the Sun For the First Time

  In the beginning there was warmth. Evanescent sparkles dappled a muddy pond behind my eyes until I opened them. Between my shoes, tiny beings propelled by a mysterious dynamism transported granules in their mouths. Above me, at the behest of an invisible but perceptible force, a branch of green ovals quivered.

  That my perceptions were detached and convoluted did not register in the mysterious theatre inside my head. To the contrary, its sooty windows had been removed, ceding access to alien forms that failed to correspond with their previous nicknames.

  The petals, too small and sparsely allocated to offer any cover, permitted the light to warm me. My inability to connect them with their name constricted my stomach. I looked up and beheld a hovering molten ball, impossibly bright, tethered by a chain unseen. Claws of panic burrowed through me as I tried to find the appropriate label to affix. When I rubbed my eyes, white sparkles haloed a yellow circle on a brown screen. An effortless and uncontrollable process connected this to the fiery sphere, but the covert internal operation only fomented my disquietude.

  “The sun,” I finally said. “That’s what it’s called.”

  After a moment of serenity an ominous realization assaulted me. “But I have no idea what the sun is. As many times as I’ve seen it or heard the name I’ve never thought to ask.”

  This is scarcely unnatural. The frequency of a man’s observation of X is proportionate to his disinclination to ask, “What is X?” Petronius’ Third Theorem: x>f(x)

  A man becomes accustomed to things. Long before adulthood, any sense of wonder or curiosity is buried. A thick layer descends, stultifying him, protecting him. A foundation of things intrinsically unfathomable becomes presupposed, humdrum, taken for granted, the standard by which other things are deemed “odd” or “normal.”

  In my brittle state I managed to compose a dossier of the monstrous blazing ball. “It has flares; it is 46,500,000 times as far as my house is from The Bear’s Lair; it has malignant spots; we revolve around it and it revolves around something else.”

  This was no help. I was not sure what I wanted to know. It was as though the name and everything I had ever heard or read about it had been blown away, leaving me without words or symbols or stories to hide behind. The countless times I had seen and felt it had been peeled off, revealing its raw essence as something beyond strange, beyond terrifying: features I had never noticed yet they had always been there.

  I looked at my car, hoping to beguile the dire spell with cheerful distractions. I recalled the night it flew through the air, the Rat Pack tunes that brought me fortitude, the horrible faces, and the penetrating meditations that revealed the illusory nature of my “strange” circumstances. These reflections prompted a premature glance toward the volcanic hole above.

  “What if it starts leaking? One drop will burn you to cinders. Run for cover,” howled the primal scream of Instinct.

  “Gradual exposure, you fool,” I said, returning my fragmented thoughts and singed eyes to my Fleetwood. “You know, gliding through the fog in an orange Cadillac while gruesome faces materialize is not one whit stranger than seeing the sun,” I said, channeling the distant but resonant voice of Reason. “The latter is every whit as weird and incomprehensible, only we see it all the time and a thick callus of familiarity grows around it, covering its strangeness, protecting us from questions that can never be answered, from questions that cannot even be sensibly asked. A man never thinks of it as
bizarre or frightening, and certainly not as something in need of any explanation. Why, were I to fly around in my car day in and day out, a callus would eventually form around that too.”

  Such wisdom bestowed an oasis of Quietude. I scooped a handful of dirt and squeezed it in my fist, marveling at its inconsistency. Most of it fell through my fingers and dispersed in the breeze in little clouds. What remained covered my palm, filling the tributaries with powder. Upon closer inspection, what had first appeared solid, then gaseous, revealed itself to be composed of individual grains. I closed my fist and scraped them across my palm.

  “What is this stuff?” I said, wiping my hands of the alien substance in disgust and fear. The surface it came from spread out beneath me in all directions, covered by green reeds. I pounded the ground in amazement before dismay descended. “And I have no idea what this is. All I have is some noise I am supposed to make when I come in contact with it, a name to call it.”

  The ground no longer felt right, not firm and stable, but soft and mutable the way one would expect trillions of particles to feel. I jerked my hands away as though I had touched a snake. “It’s everywhere. We spend our entire lives upon it. Some pull their food from it. We cover our dead with it. And we do not know what it is.”

  I leaned against the tree, unprotected by the word-shield “sun” from the orbed pyre above, undefended against the bizarre particles beneath me by the word-shields “earth,” “ground,” and “dirt.” Once composed of iron, they had been replaced with glass.

  “What is all this stuff?” I cried. But the question made no sense and there could be no satisfactory answer. It was but a groan of dismay at the absolute strangeness of things that are not supposed to be strange.

  Even I, Petronius Jablonski, with my erudition and eloquence, am unable to summon the befitting terminology to legibly impart the frantic examination I undertook. The impenetrable veil of familiarity, our steadfast protector, was raised, and the Reader must pardon me if my descriptions of that dreadful sight are less than crystalline. Verily, the First Petronius Sensation is a cruel scourge, demanding the afflicted writer share what can not be shared.