M: Yeah.
W: Maps have symbols, which are representations of things.
M: Yeah! That’s exactly right, that’s exactly it. That’s exactly what I’m trying to say… Yeah, it’s the map and so something else is being created up there. It really feels that way.
W: That’s so neat. I wonder what the monks think, like what the supposed theory behind the sand paintings are… if they have something like that…
M: Yeah.
W: and they’re painting the way to heaven… I don’t know what I’m trying to say.
M: as the book gets more complex, by taking the different ingredients I put into it it creates different forms itself—forms I never saw, forms I never intended—and so the words and the phrases that have already been in there become filled with so much more meaning than they had before, and they all start to finally make sense—more sense than they did, and they take on new levels of meaning, like, the way they now have—here you have this entity that’s been dipped in a totally different color paint, and now everything that it’s around takes on a different color too everything interacts, and relates to one another—and the ideas that they create spontaneously that aren’t in my mind because I don’t see them, because I can’t see them all—they must be creating forms in heaven too… The Book
W: That is so wild……………………………………
Both: [yawn] …………………………………
M: So what if we never met?
W: [sighs] … Horrible……………… [sighs] ……………………………… Impossible. Of course we would meet. The thing is, babe, that even when you were young, wandering around Europe with no food and no money and having all that stuff happen to you—you were on the path you were supposed to be on because remember you told me the part about running into that guy in Rome?
M: What guy in Rome?
W: The guy who the hotel clerk had given your passport to because he thought he was you?
M: Oh, yeah.
W: And you didn’t know you had the wrong passport until a long time later?
M: Yeah. I had to hitchhike back to Rome.
W: I mean, no food, no money, wrong passport. And then you ran into the guy who had it in the middle of some random street.
M: Yeah. That was lucky. But that happens to everyone, once in a while, I think.
W: But that sort of thing happens to you all the time.
M: Yeah.
W: Me all the time.
M: But I used to—that was—that was the aberration. Generally I had the worst luck of anyone in the world. Anything that could go wrong, it seemed to. It was almost funny. I thought that I was constantly being played tricks on, by the… well, by God… I thought demons were out to get me…
W: Terrible.
M: But um… whatever it was, I was definitely on the path. I didn’t mean to be but just, you know, I was in the… I was in the more painful part of the story…
W: So terrible. [sighs]
M: And that’s the other thing is that the… hero digs his own holes quite often, you know?
W: Poor hero…
W: Hey, you know in Rome—I mean obviously I haven’t been there, so I’ve just—I’ve just seen the postcard stuff—but where are the cast-les?
M: The cas-tles?
W: Well, like where did the emperor live? Did they have any of those things surviving?
M: Yeah, I don’t know. They have palaces, but—
W: And estates and stuff? Because you always hear about Oh, the German king, the French king—I guess they are many, many hundreds of years older. I mean that’s like two thousand years ago, right?
M: The Romans? Yeah.
W: So maybe their actual homes aren’t preserved?
M: I don’t know—what do they have left? I mean most of the Roman stuff is all ruined. I went into the Colosseum, that was free.
W: Cool. Did you see the Catacombs?
M: No, I think you had to pay. St. Peter’s was free. I paid to get into the Sistine Chapel.
W: Did you see the dome?
M: Do you mean the ceiling or the dome? The dome is in St. Peter’s.
W: Oh, yeah. Fellini. That’s where she runs up the stairs.
[yawns]
M: There were fountains everywhere. You could drink out of them. And you’d walk around and you’d see ruins of like—you see the basements—I’m thinking of one place, I remember in the middle of the city some random block where you come around the corner and you see the, the guts of an ancient building—of a Roman building…
W: Weird.
M: And there were all these cats that lived in there, these feral cats. And you see these stone columns here and there that are crumbling and, but…
W: Was it warm? Was it nice and warm like this?
M: I don’t remember. Yeah, I really don’t remember much. It was a long time ago…………… I really don’t know much about Rome…………………………………………………………………………
?
W: ………… Let’s stay in bed all night…………
M: So what do you do in the castle?
W: Remember Hearst Castle?
M: Worst Castle.
W: [laughs] What you do in the castle is you get tricked into taking a lame tour! And they force you to get your picture taken and then afterwards try to get you to pay seventeen dollars for the photograph! Remember that? Oh my gosh, Hearst Castle …Hearst Castle, and recall we just saw the ad:
A masterpiece around every corner.
No, no. Keep moving, nothing to see here.
M: An eyesore around every corner.
W: An eyesore.
M: One after another.
W: A mishmash. And it’s like with such muddled-up mazelike rooms you never got a wide expansive vista, or any feeling of spaciousness.
For such a big building it had a whole bunch of roundy-round, curved corners, and not a lot of like, long hallways.
I mean, if you’re gonna have a castle,
you gotta have some space……………………………
M: Well, yeah.
Hopefully you have some breathing room in that castle.
Otherwise…
it’s just a tenement.
W: [yawns]
M: But at the middle of the castle…
at the middle of the castle is the universe….
So you have lots of space in the center.
You have as much room as you need if you’re in the center of the universe.
But to get there, you have to crawl,
and it gets very cramped.
And you get stabbed and you have to crawl through glass,
and you have to…
[yawns]
… get trampled probably……
and…
you have to……
>BREAK
KETTLE FALLS
I am not sure who this message is directed t
o. I am lying in a hospital room. Certain traumatic events which I am having difficulty piecing together have left me in a state of terrible suffering.
I can tell you what my s physical symptoms are. That is easy enough because I can feel the actual physical symptoms are lasting and linger and do not flee like my memories.
My entire body has been burned. My skin is very hot and tingles incessantly.
Tingling is a poor word choice because it does not signify pain.
Pain is the predominat feeling, I mus say.
I also have great sensitivity to light, and the nurses often come in here to check on me and turn on the light above me, which cuases great pain in my head and eyes.
I also have a tremondous amount of mucus that I cough up from time to time, so the nurses bring me a cup and tell me to spit into it. But no matter how I try, I cannot get enough of the mucus to come up, so it stays in my throat clogging the wind passage, which makes breathing very uncomfortable.
Also every nerve on my entire body moans loudly whenever I cause it, on purpose or by accident to move even in the slightest.
Even bending so much as a finger causes great distress..
My head is very stuffy,. It feels like it is full of air or helium, and a pin prick would cause it to explode. It aches.
Everything aches. My nose is full of mucus so I cannot breathe through it.
If I would list my ailements in the order of distress they cause, I would begin with the burning skin, then move to the aching and stuffy head, linking those feelings to the aching joints, and also my throat which feels very burned as well and I did not mention before.
Actually, let’s make my aching head number one.
What is most important is that I am near death, but from what the doctors tell me, speaking loudly into my sore ears and causing blistering bolts of sound to pierce my eardrums, is that I am on the mend. I mam expected to recover.
But from what? That is the bigger problem, and one which is difficult to speak about.
Before I continue on, I should mention that this message is being written out by hand, by the kind young girl who delivers flowers to the other members of the ward. I am not sure her name. what is your name, sweetheart?
Melissa spotted me lying in this bed and came in to ask me if I needed anything at all. I had no need for flowers, but she had a kind, giving heart, full of empathy and compassion for ill-fortunate wretches such as myself.
She had to put her ear to my mouth to hear my reply because my voice is unable to escape my burning throat, and besides if I make noise it causes my head to ache more terribly.
Melissa is transcribing this message to you, whoever you are, by sitting in a chair next to my bed, leaning over to hear my barely audible words, lthen writing them down.
I give her only three or so words at a time, and am now so exhausted that I believe I will take a break and start again the next time she should visit.
Will you visit me again, Melissa? Thank you. Until then.
No, you don’t have to write this part down.
★
I believe I said yesterday that I do not know who this message is going out to. I beliee that ther eis someon it is meant for, but as to who that person is, I have no clue.I do not know who I am, and I do not know what has happened to me. All I know is that this message must somehow get through, otherwise all hope is lost. How do I know this? Why do I think it? I cannot tell you. But there is something inside me, let’s call it a little voice speaking a language I do not understand, that is adamant about attempting at least to commmunicate what is, as far as I cn tell, uncommunicateable. I have been through a lot, I know that. I have been through more than most men. How I have managed to survive this long, I have no idea. I believe I must be s spy of some sort. Possibly I have had assistance from other members of my organization, if there are other members. But what sort of spy organization would have only one member? Either the worst or the best one to ever exist, is my answer to my own question. The memories that do flicker before me from time to time also suggest that I am involved in some sort of intriguing business on the fringes of society, the kind of business one generally reads about in novels, bestselling novels, I think, because what sort of literary novel would ever be interested in the adventures of a superspy? Spy novels are of the genre action, are they not? And action novels focus on sensual exploits such as explosions, gun fights, countdowns to missile launches, and beautiful women wearing next-to-nothing beneath fur coats. Literary novels have little or no explosions. Gun fights rarely happen. Same with countdowns to missile launches. If these things do happen they do so on the periphery. Literary novels focus more on the aftermatsh than on the acts of violence themselves. They are character-driven and preoccupied with the state of the individual and his psychology and how he interacts with other individuals and how he travels the raging rapids of the society in which he lives. Raging rapids seems to have popped out of the blue into my mind. I wonder if that is a clue of some sort. Also I wonder how I became so knowledgable about novels. A clue? Melissa, that seems about good for today. I’m afraid I am exhausted. Will you come back tomorrow? Thank you.
★
http://www.historylink.org/index.cfm?DisplayPage=output.cfm&file_id=7577 For thousands of years, Kettle Falls had served as the nexus for a complex trading network based on ocean-going (anadromous) fish. Huge numbers of salmon passed through the falls during spawning season, from June through October. The fish were a magnet for Native Americans from both sides of the Rocky Mountains. Plains Indians brought buffalo hides, pemmican, and pigments ground from iron oxide deposits to Kettle Falls, trading for tule mats, dentalium shells, and other goods from the Pacific Coast. Later, European trade goods were added to the mix. Up to 14 tribes met regularly at the falls to fish, trade, and socialize, in what Thompson called “a kind of general rendezvous for News, Trade and settling disputes” (Nisbet, 101).
★
The memories flit before me like impatient hummingbirds, each one darting away before I have a chance to get a good look at its markings…
★
Hi, what’s your number again please?
8-695
Oh my god, I’m on the 83rd floor!
86—86 what?
I’m on the 83rd floor!
Ma’am, calm down one moment—86 what?
8695.
8695? She at the World Trade Center, someone having trouble breathing there on the 83rd floor.
OK, ma’am, how you doing?
Is—is it—is—are they gonna be able to get somebody up here?
Of course, ma’am, we’re coming up for you.
★
…then another comes and takes its place…
★
The “falls” at Kettle Falls were a series of cascades created by enormous blocks of quartzite piled in ledges across the riverbed by prehistoric floods. Water plummeted over the falls with so much force that it seemed to boil. Rocks and boulders tumbled furiously in a gyroscope of water at the bottom, carving circular potholes and craters in the underlying rock.
★
…but leaves just as abruptly. Who am I? How have I ended up here? That is what I am trying to find. And so I will tell Melissa and she will tell you of the memories I do have, and please do not be annoyed if I relate to you unimportant details or memories that you, whoever you are, know I could not or should not possess myself—in other words, if I remember things that you know I could not possibly remember because they did not happen to me, and perhaps happened to somone else. For instance if they happened to you, or if I relate memories which should have been erased already, possibly by a machine kept in an underground
chamber where I was taken between my last lucid moment and waking up in this hospital in terrible pain, don’t be annoyed. I say these things realizing that the information which comes to me and which I will pass on to you may cause you to doubt their veracity. For if you are reading this, then most likely you know exactly who I am. Then I wonder: Who are you? And why should I trust you? How do I know that you are not my adversary? How do I know that you did not put me here, in this condition? Melissa, I am feeling very tired today. Please come back tomorrow and I will move straight into what I do remember. I have been wasting too much energy.
★
By all accounts, the falls were magnificent to look at. Kane described them as “exceedingly picturesque and grand.”
★
I remember taking a car trip with a beautiful woman. I am driving the car and she is sitting in the passenger’s seat. We are on the way to see something important. What that is, I hope to find out. It has to do with a place, an ancient place that was once something, but is now something else. And people who once occupied that ancient place, but who are now scattered and apart from it. It is a very hot day, and the black interior of the car is scorching. The windows are rolled down and a warm wind blows in, but it does not cool me. She is looking at a map. We are driving through woods, and beside us is a large lake. Why are we trying to find the place we are trying to find? It seems to have begun with information discovered by this girl in the forms of photographs. I can remember seeing the photographs. There is a hole in a rocky ground, and a man in a hat lying on his stomach, looking down into the hole. There is another photograph. The man has a spear or a lance or a measuring stick and stands beside the hole. I have the feeling that this place does not exist anymore, except underwater. There is a place where thousands of trees lie stacked up stripped of their bark and limbs. All night long you can hear the roar of machinery, the squeals of saws, and the beeping of trucks backing up. There is a fire in a fire pit, and the girl is at a picnic table cutting potatoes and mushrooms, and wrapping them in tin foil.
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