For awhile, he walked through the woods, until he finally stopped in his favorite grove and carefully placed his brother down on the ground, in between the two conjoined trees. In the darkness, it was impossible for him to tell, by vision alone, if his brother was still breathing, or even if he were alive any longer, though he was pretty sure that once one was unhooked from those machines, death quickly followed. At the very least, his brother certainly looked peaceful. Yoshi said a prayer for Shitai, then walked off, heading back home.
Back in his living room, he stared at Shitai’s now empty bed, a bed that, for the first time in who knew how many years, was finally unoccupied. This was the way it always should have been, Yoshi thought to himself as he began putting away the equipment and machinery that he no longer had a use for. His 40+ yearlong coma vigil had finally come to an end. And that night, for the first time in countless years, he was spared the nightmare that had been plaguing him for so long: in fact, he didn’t dream at all.
But still, when he awoke that morning, he was still feeling guilty, which was only natural. And as he went about his rounds in the forest, he made sure to stop at his own Eden, the grove where he had left Shitai behind the night before. There, however, he made a strange discovery. Of his brother, there was not a trace. Shitai had vanished so thoroughly that Yoshi found it easy to believe that the forest floor itself had swallowed him whole. The conjoined trees, in the meanwhile, had undergone a mortifying metamorphosis: although they had looked perfectly healthy when Yoshi had visited them earlier the previous day, now they were both covered in oozing sores, their outer bark swarming with red and black ants, as if they had been kissed and thus tainted by the blistered lips of some corrosive Cupid.
And so reaches the end of my confession. Now that it is finished, I am unsure what to do with it. Perhaps I will send it to that visiting American I read about in the paper the other day, that pompous college professor who is compiling a book of modern-day Japanese ghost stories and legends. To conclude my story, I will say this: as I returned home that day, I knew that now I finally had something in common with the younger people of Shoji village: the harried, almost guilty expression on my face was now one with theirs, and as I walked back to my now empty home I couldn’t stop thinking about this question: what happens to the two faces formed by Rubin’s Vase when the grail that unites them is shattered forevermore?
THE APHOTIC ZONE
“Under the skin of man is a wondrous jungle
where veins like lush tropical growths hang
along over-ripe organs and weed-like entrails
writhe in squirming tangles of red and yellow.
In the jungle, flitting from rock-gray lungs to
golden intestines, from liver to lights and
back to liver again, lives a bird called the soul.”
—Nathanael West, Miss Lonelyhearts
“It is easier to perceive error than to find truth,
for the former lies on the surface and is easily seen,
while the latter lies in the depth,
where few are willing to search for it.”
—Johann Wolfgang von Goethe
“Errors like straws upon the surface flow:
Who would search for pearls must dive below.”
—John Dryden
“It is a good exercise to sever ourselves now and then from the face, from our skin, to lay aside this deceptive sheathe, then to discard—if only for a moment—that layer of grease which keeps us from discovering what is fundamental in ourselves.”
—E.M. Cioran, The New Gods
Good evening, my friend. Please, step a little closer to me; I can’t hear you over the noise of the crowd and this music. I quite like this song, actually: “Underneath,” by Adam Lambert. I find the lyrics, especially those that may be found in the chorus, to be quite touching. Yes, you presume correctly: I am indeed the artist known as Professor Noe. I take it this isn’t your first time visiting the Melanoid Art Gallery? Ah, I was correct in my assumptions, then. Quite a turnout tonight, wouldn’t you say? I’m not quite sure if I understand all the hullabaloo, though: this art is all a bit too minimalist and abstract for my liking. Nothing depresses me more than seeing our lovely organic forms reduced to mere geometrical shapes, and to be honest I’m somewhat appalled by the Cubistic hereticism on display this evening. Did you see that print campaign that the Berlin Philharmonic Orchestra released a few months ago, in which they took macro photographs of the interiors of violins, flutes, cellos, and pipe organs, so that the insides of these instruments, which we normally never see, took on the appearance of vast, extremely spacious rooms? I thought that the violin photographs, in particular, were stunning: their interiors resembled large wooden chambers, with the f-holes in the ceiling acting almost like skylights. Such art is more to my liking. But there are too many people here for me to talk to you comfortably. Come, let us speak in this less occupied side gallery, where it is quieter and darker, and our only audience will be the shadows, who, even more so than priests, can be trusted to conceal a secret.
H’mm, that’s much better. Oh, it looks like this room is devoted to a retrospective of the art of Arthur Rackham. Why, that’s much more suitable. Let’s take a seat right here, underneath the gaze of his illustration of “The Gnat and the Lion,” from Aesop’s Fables. Kind of a macabre image for a child’s book, don’t you agree? I mean, look at the horrific expression on the gnat’s face, as he realizes he’s about to be devoured by that sinister looking spider. What makes this illustration even creepier is how the gnat has the face of a human being, wouldn’t you say? It allows us to place ourselves in his exoskeleton. Gazing at this mere drawing for children I feel a layer of frostbite forming on my vertebral column, a freezing sensation caused by the snowflakes of horror: my very favorite sort of spinal chill.
I must say, you’re well dressed this evening. What’s that now? I do suppose my appearance is a little strange. After all, not many people wear all their clothes inside out in the same manner as I do. Furthermore, I also suppose that not all that many people walk around in public wearing squid masks over their faces. What can I say, other than that I’m shy? But that, as you may have guessed, is a lie. I agree it is a most unusual-looking squid, what with its velvet jet-black exterior, those bulging limpid blue eyes, that webbing of skin connecting its tentacles like a cape of sorts. The mask I’m wearing is a representation of the Vampyroteuthis, more commonly known as the Vampire Squid. I won’t bore you with the scientific details, it suffices to say that the vampire squid is a small cephalopod that lives in very deep portions of the ocean. Did you know that it’s 300 million years old, and thus existed even before the dinosaurs? Or that it’s one of the few animals in nature that can turn itself inside out when faced with danger? That’s why I found it puzzling when I read about a certain fictitious aquatic creature that had been deleted from the film The Life Aquatic With Steve Zissou, one Hydronicus inverticus... the filmmakers cut it from the film on the account of them finding it too “ridiculous.” What rot! There’s no form we can conceive of in our minds that cannot be found elsewhere in nature.
But yes, quite an amazing creature, our friend the Vampire Squid. A shame it has such a sinister reputation attached to it. Some call it the “Dracula of the Deep,” as if it were some sort of garden-variety bloodsucker of the Seven Seas. But I digress. No, there’s no need for you to introduce yourself, as your reputation precedes you, Monsieur Colwin. I have heard that you are a connoisseur of yourself, is that correct? By that I mean that it is well known in this city that your extensive collection of art consists solely of portraits of yourself, executed by artists whose services you’ve employed. Yet you’ve never been completely satisfied by these portraits, no? Perhaps these so-called “artists” have succeeded, on a superficial level, in capturing your likeness, yet your “essence” (or, if you will, your anima) refuses to be imprisoned on canvas by their crude pigments.
Yes, my dear Adrian, I have heard much abou
t you over the last few months. I know that when you had begun your expedition in the field of portraiture, you had initially sought out artists known for their lifelike, almost photo-realistic styles. And you quickly learned a bitter truth: any hack can portray the flesh, but it takes a true genius to paint one’s soul. Naturally, you decided to undertake a more abstract approach, which led to a parade of Cubist, Surrealist, and other avant-garde portraits. And though these efforts came a bit closer to capturing the sum of all your parts, you were still left unsatisfied. Hence your recent employment of an experimental musician to record an audio portrait of yourself (I hear he mostly just recorded the sounds of your inner organs, such as your heart? A somewhat admirable approach, I must admit), or that troupe of world-renowned cloud-sculptors from China who had carved a nimbus likeness of your face in the clouds above the city last month. But even they all failed.
And now, you seek me out to do your portrait. Well, I won’t lie, it is an honor, and I do so love a challenge. I am curious, however, as to how you have heard of me. I only moved to this city a year or so ago, and I’m not exactly the most sociable and attention-seeking figure, despite my outlandish appearance. Ah, so you’ve heard of me through Cynthia Glassroad? Yes, we’ve met. I’m not surprised she doesn’t know all that much about me though. It is true that I was born in New England, not far from here actually, and that I was expelled from the Rhode Island School of Design for what they referred to as “Interspatial Anarchy,” if you can believe that injustice. No, I don’t know what it means either! As to answering the other question you just posed to me a moment ago, no, I’ve never done a public showing of my work. In fact, I forbid the subjects of my portraits to show other people the finished work of art. You see, my portraits are more than just mere portraits. They’re something far more unique and primal, masterpieces of nebulosity, if you don’t mind my heaping praise on myself.
You mention the name Mabel Osterman. Yes, I remember her, with her eyes so feline in appearance they’ve been known to shed hairballs instead of tears. I recently did a portrait of her, and she was raving about it afterwards. What’s that? Well, yes, she did spend some time doing another kind of raving, in that insane asylum I’ve heard so many good things about, but she only temporarily lost her mind. When she saw my finished portrait of her, the poor dear was just so amazed by it that she went a little bit out of her head. But she’s calmed down now and the last time I saw her she was as right as rain, and if you don’t believe me, just ask Cynthia and she’ll verify my story. I think temporarily losing one’s mind can be a good thing, actually... and what better way to appreciate sanity than by engaging in a torrid love affair with its psychotic twin? It’s just like how good health would be meaningless without illness, and how virtue would be pointless without vice. I once knew a man, a philosopher of the greenest sort, who had the foolhardy notion that the existence of Evil was the greatest argument against the existence of God. But I disagree: I think that Free Will is the greatest gift that any deity could give us, and without vice, think of how boring we all would be... nothing more than pious little robots.
No need to hide your checking of your watch: I’m aware I have a tendency to pontificate. It’s a trait I inherited from my father, a most unrepentant deviant who was forever singing hymns of praise towards the untidy practice of undinism. Let’s get down to business, as they say in bad movies. To summarize, for many years now you’ve been seeking out an artist to capture your essence in its most purest state, yet have never found anyone to satisfy your no doubt exquisite tastes and exacting standards. Well, I think with me you’ve found your answer. After many years of experiments and tears, I have finally succeeded in discovering a new type of representational art that truly captures the interior splendor of my subjects. But if you’ll excuse me, I have other matters to attend to now. If you wish for me to do a portrait for you, simply drop by my house, which is also where my studio is located. Here’s my card, all the information you need is on there. Hmm, maybe it is somewhat pretentious to refer to oneself as an “abyssopelagic portraitist,” but I find that to be a suitable description of my job. Yes, I do live on the wrong side of the tracks as they say. You know us artists, Monsieur Colwin, we just love living surrounded by bohemian squalor, and the Seeds is probably the closest one can get to such an environment here in Thundermist. So, should I expect a visit from you later on this week then? I very much look forward to it. Until then, I vamos.
***
Why, good afternoon, my dear Adrian! So nice to see you standing on my front doorstep on this lovely November day. But you must be chilly, what with that bitter south wind blowing, so please, do come in, let me have your coat, I’ll just hang it in the closet here.
I’d like to welcome you to my humble abode. I hope its appearance isn’t too unsettling for you. Oh, no need to worry about alienating me, there’s nothing that you can say that could possibly offend me. I guess it must look a little unusual: walls covered with pads of pink foam insulation, the exposed wires and plumbing, and so forth. Yes, it does look as if the walls of the house have been turned inside out, so that one can see what is normally hidden. I’m sorry, could you repeat that? Yes, I always wear my clothes inside out, and I always wear this squid mask on my face, even when I’m at home, away from the sight of others. I suppose I just like to stay in character.
Come, let us retire to the studio. Tell me, Adrian, if you don’t mind my calling you by your first name... you don’t? Good. Now, do you know the true meaning of the word occult? No, nothing to do with mere witchcraft or sorcery, I’m afraid. The word occult comes from the Latin word occultus, which means “hidden,” or “secret.” The word itself refers to “knowledge of the hidden.” I myself have a fascination with things we don’t see: the things that reality constantly shields from our eyes. Almost all religious, occult and spiritual belief systems and philosophies involve a search for this “hidden” side of existence. One could also make the same claim about art, poetry, and the like, in that very often we (and by “we” I mean artists such as myself) strive to depict things that we can see but that others cannot. We try to show people the world as seen through the eyes of God, and in my opinion, good art should reveal the other side of the veil, so to speak. Ah, but I see we have arrived at my studio. I hope you aren’t immune to the beauty of spider webs... yes, there are quite a few webs in here. Most people would just sweep them away, but I like the ambience they add to the room. And how could I, an artist, justify annihilating the toils of nature’s greatest little eight-legged artisans? It’s my firm belief that spider webs should be cherished and cultivated, not swept aside like trash. Moving on, let me briefly focus on the business aspect of my craft so that I can later continue with my philosophical discourse. Just wait here by the door while I go find the necessary papers on my desk.
Let’s see, where did I put those papers? Pardon the mess, I really need to clean my desk one day. Where... is... it... ah! Here we are. This is a contract you’ll need to sign if you wish for me to do a portrait of you. Yes, certainly, read it thoroughly! It basically states that not only are you forbidden from showing the final work of art to anyone else, but also that you will not discuss my artistic methods to others. Violation of this contract would result in me taking you to court, among other things. You inquire about the footnote that states, “Those who break this contract will have their very soul hunted down by the 72 demons of the Goetia”? Oh, never mind all that, standard legalese, my lawyers insisted on its inclusion. Lawyers, what bothersome gnats! Let me know once you’ve signed, and then we can begin.
Excellent. Why don’t you go and lie down on that gurney in the center of the room? That’s where you’ll be posing. Oh, you’re feeling a little light-headed and woozy? That’s weird, perhaps you’ve caught that cold that’s going around Thundermist as of recent. Now if you’ll excuse me for just one second, I need to go turn on my iPod. Yes, I always like to listen to music when I work. Oh, by the way, could you also take off your clothe
s, please? I insist that my models be nude when I do their portraits. Nude as Father Adam in his prime. You can just leave your clothes on the floor. Very nice, very nice. I’m sure you’ve heard this before, Adrian, but you have a very beautiful body. Truly callipygian. Trust me, that’s a compliment: it means you have shapely buttocks. Of course, you know what they say, it’s what’s on the inside that counts. One of those rare clichés that happens to be true, by the by.
The music? It’s a song called “Rabbit Snare” by a British group named Throbbing Gristle. I see by the face you’re making that you’re not too keen on it. Or perhaps you’re still feeling unwell? Don’t panic... yes, it seems as if you’re rapidly losing your ability to move your muscles. Almost as if you’re becoming paralyzed. Oh dear, maybe it is that nasty cold that’s going around after all. Or it might have something to do with the fact that pipes all over the interior of this house have been emitting a paralyzing nerve gas ever since you stepped through the front door. Yes, that’s probably the most likely reason. It won’t affect me because I’m wearing this handy mask, and I’m immune to the stuff anyway, but you’re not quite as lucky. You need not worry, it’s only temporary, it won’t last. Let me just strap you down on this gurney and get you as comfortable as possible. Oh, please don’t put up a struggle, even one as feeble as this, it’s very unattractive and completely a waste of energy. See, already your body is becoming comfortably numb. Soon you won’t be able to feel a thing. In a way, I envy you, as my pain is constant. You don’t mind if I run my hands over your torso, do you? I like to get a feel for my clay before I start working with it.
Autopsy of an Eldritch City: Ten Tales of Strange and Unproductive Thinking Page 17
