FSF, April 2008

by Spilogale Authors

  "The fog will lift when the sun comes up,” Doris said.

  "Yes, and then we'll gambol about like carefree children,” Dr. O said.

  "With flowers in our hair,” Doris said, grinning.

  "I haven't got enough hair to put them in,” Mr. D said.

  "Then clench one between your teeth,” Dr. O said, “like a señorita from Barcelona."

  "I want to do that!” Doris said, clapping her pudgy hands.

  "Then you shall, Doña Doris, you shall."

  Even without the imaginary flower held between her teeth, Doris began to twirl in a pretty fair approximation of a flamenco dancer.

  Dr. O and Mr. D applauded and shouted, “Olé!"

  Laughing, Doris collapsed back onto the sanctuary of her pink bedspread. It took a moment for her to get her breath, and then she frowned and said, “I should have offered you something to drink."

  "Oh, we're fine,” said Mr. D.

  "No, really. I'm not being a very good hostess."

  "May we help ourselves to the contents of your larder?” Dr. O said, smiling wickedly.

  "Sure, in the fridge where I got the cat food."

  "What potables shall we find there?” Dr. O wondered aloud as he stooped and looked into the fridge. “Demon rum, perhaps?"

  As Dr. O rummaged, Mr. D looked up at an unlit chandelier hanging overhead. “That's really impressive."

  "Tiffany glass,” Doris said.

  "Really.”

  "No, not really.” Doris giggled.

  Mr. D laughed. “You're a fabulist, Doris."

  "I fantasize to pass the time,” she said.

  "I do that, too."

  "What else do we have but time to daydream?"

  "Or nightdream, as the case may be,” said Dr. O, whirling about dramatically with three green bottles clutched in his long fingers.

  "Here you are, my dear,” he said, handing one to Doris. “You must be exhausted after that lovely dance."

  "Thank you, Winston,” Doris said, accepting the bottle.

  Dr. O bowed and turned to hand another bottle to Mr. D.

  "It's beer,” Mr. D said, looking at the bottle. “I thought it was ginger ale."

  "Don't you drink?” Doris asked.

  "Once in a while.” Mr. D unscrewed the cap and took a swig. It went down well. He'd been walking and talking for quite a while without anything to drink.

  Doris sipped her beer delicately, while Dr. O paced the floor holding his bottle as if it were a baby bird, threading his way between the stacks. Vishnu followed him for a while and then sprawled on some loose papers to take a nap. Dr. O lit his last cigarette off the ember of the previous one, and dropped the smoldering butt and the crumpled pack into the ashtray.

  "It's nice to have friends over,” Doris said.

  "It's nice of you to have us,” Mr. D said, wondering how Doris could call someone a friend after knowing him for only a few minutes. But when he thought about it, he wanted to be her friend.

  "Doris is like us,” Dr. O said.

  "Oh?"

  "She's dead, too."

  "I am not,” Doris said, disturbed.

  "Sure you are, Dorie,” Dr. O said. “We're all dead."

  "That's not true.” Doris's eyes reddened.

  "Dr. O, come on,” said Mr. D. “Don't kid her like that."

  Dr. O lifted a hand as if to ward away evil spirits. “Phil, you're so wrapped up in mysticism you can't see it either, but it's true. We're all dead."

  "Don't be morbid."

  "I was gunned down by a madman outside my home."

  "They say you never know it's coming,” Mr. D said. “You don't know you've been shot."

  "They're wrong.” Dr. O thought about it for a moment. “Maybe it's that way if you get shot in the head, but I lived for a few minutes."

  "Oh, God! Stop it!” Doris screamed.

  "All right, Doris,” Dr. O said, seeing that he had badly upset her. “Please don't cry."

  "Winston, you're too honest for your own good,” said Mr. D.

  "Except when I lie to meself.” He looked down at Doris, who lay sobbing on the pink bedspread, staining a pillow with her tears. “I'm sorry, love."

  "No,” Doris sniffed and sat up. “You're right. I died from heart failure."

  "And you, Phil?"

  "I had a vision,” said Mr. D. “There was another world, a pink beam of light that came from a distant star."

  "Across the universe...."

  "Yes, across the universe. The beam gave me power, but the last time it came I ended up here."

  "And where the fuck is here?” Dr. O asked.

  "I don't know,” said Mr. D. “There are theories physicists have come up with, or at least hypotheses, that may explain it."

  "This isn't science fiction, Phil."

  "Isn't it?"

  Dr. O took a mouthful of beer. “Well, maybe ‘tis."

  "M-Theory says there may be universes overlapping, infinite strings connecting them through an eternal network."

  "It sounds like magic,” Doris said.

  The two men looked at her. Mr. D thought she was beautiful at that moment. She'd stopped crying, but her eyes were still moist and reflective, full of wonder and curiosity. “Yes,” he said, “like magic."

  "Science, magic. It's all bollocks,” Dr. O said. “We're here now, in Hell or Heaven, and heaven knows where the hell we are, and what difference does it make?"

  "I don't know,” Mr. D said. “Maybe none, but aren't you curious about it, Winston?"

  Dr. O looked away, chewing his gum thoughtfully. “Yeah, I am. I'm just afraid it will never end."

  "You want it to end?"

  Dr. O chewed some more. “Not really. I don't know what I want. I guess I want it all to make sense."

  "I don't know if there's any kind of sense to it, rationally speaking,” Mr. D said. “Maybe it can only be understood religiously, as a matter of faith."

  "Religion never did much for me,” Dr. O said. “I stole money from the church poor box when I was a kid, to buy me fags and gum."

  "You didn't!” Doris cried.

  "You're right.” Dr. O folded his hands as if in prayer. “I didn't."

  "I thought it was all comprehensible, that it could be explained through science or philosophy,” Mr. D said, “but after the first stroke, I knew I was wrong. I'd gained mental abilities I didn't have before."

  Dr. O stared at him. “Bollocks! The stroke made you think that, but it can't be true."

  "But it is. I was able to diagnose my son's illness. I found what the doctors had missed. And I found it because I knew something they didn't know."

  "And what's that?"

  Doris and Dr. O waited for his answer. Mr. D wanted to tell them what it was, but he couldn't. “I don't know."

  "You don't know what they didn't know? So how did you diagnose your son's illness?"

  "I can't remember. I just did."

  "That's confusing,” Doris said softly.

  "It's bollocks, Phil, and you know it."

  "No, I don't. I don't know anything. The more I read and the more I write, the less I know. I never thought it was going to be like that."

  "What did you think it would be like?” Dr. O asked, anger evident in his tone.

  "I thought I'd learn to understand the meaning of it all."

  "It all? What all?"

  "This.” Phil gestured about himself with a wide sweep on his right hand.

  "My house?” Doris asked.

  "Your house. Winston's house. The fog. The world. The galaxy. The way things are."

  "Phil, you're still talking bollocks."

  "You want to know the same things, Winston. Don't deny it."

  Winston cast his eyes down. “You're right, and I'm a fucking hypocrite. What of it?"

  "What of it? If we're dead, as you believe, we've moved on into another reality, another universe, or multiverse, or whatever you want to call it. I don't remember dying, but it could be that you're right
. Maybe we really are dead."

  "Why take my word for it?"

  "Because I remember when you died."

  "You do?” Winston said.

  "Yes, it was a couple of years before I came here."

  "The death of Dr. O'Boogie...."

  "It was all over the news,” Doris said. “It broke my heart."

  "So it proves we're dead,” Dr. O said, “and that's it."

  "Maybe."

  "Not maybe. There's nothing else."

  "What about the people you love?” Doris asked. “Your memories?"

  "I used to dwell on them. Me mum, and the missus, and the kids."

  "You don't think about them anymore?” Mr. D asked.

  "Of course I think about them!” Dr. O seemed angry enough to throw the bottle now. “But they're not here, are they? So what good is it?"

  "Maybe they will be here some day,” Doris offered.

  "No, they won't,” Dr. O said. “And do you know why?"

  Doris remained silent.

  "Because this is Hell."

  "Nor are we out of it,” Mr. D said.

  "No, you're both wrong,” Doris said. “This isn't Hell."

  "Let me guess,” Dr. O said, narrowing his eyes at her. “You think it's Heaven."

  "Oh, I don't know. I just try to make the best of it."

  "That's not my way. I make the worst, not the best."

  "That's not true. You make beautiful music, Winston."

  "Most of it's shite,” he said, dumping the papers from the exercise bicycle and folding his long legs as he sat down. “A few good things, but nothing much."

  "You're fishing,” Mr. D said. “You know everyone loves your music."

  "Not everyone."

  "Well, I certainly do,” Doris said. “I was just the right age when I first heard you sing."

  "We grew up together, eh, Dorie?"

  "Very quickly."

  Mr. D smiled. He understood Dr. O's rage, because he shared it in his own quiet way. He didn't express it as forcefully, but it was there just the same, all the time.

  "Has the fog lifted?” Doris said.

  "Does it ever lift?” Dr. O said.

  "No, really. Is it still foggy outside? I can't tell from here."

  Mr. D could see it hanging like a white sheet through the second story window. “It's still out there, Doris."

  "I thought it would be. Dawn will burn it away, and then we can go out and pick flowers."

  "We're back on the flowers again, are we?” Dr. O said. “Well, why not?"

  "Admit it, Winston,” said Doris, “you love beautiful things."

  "Of course I do,” he said, seeming genuinely surprised. “I'm as human as the next guy."

  "Maybe even more so,” said Mr. D.

  "Whatever that means.” Dr. O took a drag and exhaled the smoke with a deep sigh. He took the dwindling cigarette out of his mouth and looked at. “But you'd think I could quit smoking now that I've come to Heaven, or Hell, or wherever we are. Maybe in this universe smoking's not a bad habit."

  "I think it could be beneficial in moderation, a relaxant,” Mr. D said. “But you're like me, and you rarely do anything in moderation."

  "I've an oral fixation, Dr. Freud,” Dr. O said, leering. “Perhaps you prefer the anal sort?"

  Mr. D shrugged. “I've never tried smoking through my ass, although I've talked through it often enough."

  Doris put her hand over her mouth, demurely stifling laughter. “Mr. D, you're a humble man."

  "Actually, I'm an egoist of the first order,” he said. “Otherwise I wouldn't have persisted in writing all those books and stories."

  "Did you get rich writing them?"

  "No, other people made some money, but I mostly just got by."

  "That's a shame."

  "Oh, I don't know. I had my own place, people I loved and who loved me, and I did what I wanted to do."

  "And then you died,” Dr. O said.

  "I guess so."

  They were all quiet. “Want to watch TV?” Doris said after a while.

  "TV in the afterlife? I'd rather hear some music,” Mr. D said, “but I'm kind of picky about what I listen to."

  "Be careful of the company you keep, Mr. D,” said Dr. O. “The bastards can lower your standards if you don't watch out."

  "Too late,” said Mr. D.

  "I bet you have marvelous taste,” Doris said.

  "Well, I like Winston's music."

  "Thanks, Phil,” said Dr. O. For once, no sarcasm was evident in his tone.

  "I guess we've imposed on you long enough, Doris,” Mr. D said, worried that Dr. O would continue to say things that upset her.

  "Not at all."

  "I think we should shove off, don't you, Winston?"

  "Shove something."

  "You don't have to go, do you?” There was a note of desperation in Doris's voice.

  "I guess we could stay a little longer,” Mr. D said, weakening.

  "Bollocks,” Dr. O said, smoking his last cigarette down to the filter tip. He rose and dropped it into the metal ashtray. “It's time to go."

  "You'll come back, though?"

  "Of course we will, Dorie."

  "But you hadn't been over in such a long time."

  "I'm sorry."

  "Please don't be a stranger, Winston. You too, Mr. D. You're welcome any time."

  "Thank you,” Mr. D said.

  "We can find our own way out,” Dr. O said. He leaned down and tenderly kissed Doris on the cheek. “Good night, my darling."

  "Good night,” Doris said in a tiny voice.

  The two men went out the door and down the stairs, back out into the fog, which seemed thicker than ever.

  "She's lonely,” said Mr. D.

  "Aren't we all?” Dr. O pulled his collar up to keep out the damp.

  Mr. D didn't answer. He enjoyed feeling pinpoints of moisture breaking on his face. “It's almost like rain,” he said.

  "You're walking in a cloud,” Dr. O reminded him.

  "That's what my first wife said about me."

  "She thought you were a dreamer?"

  "I almost gave up my life's work because of her. She thought I'd never make enough money writing."

  "But she was wrong?"

  "No, she was right. That's why we got divorced."

  They both laughed.

  "You've got to love a bird who looks out for her own interests,” Dr. O said.

  "Oh, she definitely did that,” Mr. D agreed. “But it was harder for a woman to have a career in those days. She was dependent on my income."

  "Sure."

  Something small and dark darted ahead of them and into the fog. Vishnu.

  "If what you were saying is true, Mr. D—about the universe and all that—why are we stuck here?"

  "I don't know ... maybe we're not stuck at all."

  "Well, we've been here quite a while."

  "Yes, but we were on Earth for a while, too. Or another Earth than this one, at any rate."

  Dr. O laughed. “You must have been fun to do drugs with."

  "My friends and I had some good times."

  "Bit of a giggle, right?"

  "Right."

  "Should we go back to the house?"

  Mr. D thought about it for a moment. “No, I think we should keep going."

  "We'll follow Vishnu."

  "I can't see him."

  "Neither can I, but he'll turn up again."

  The pavement was firm beneath their feet, and they went on. Mr. D wondered why they hadn't turned back. He, for one, wasn't the outdoorsy type, and neither was Dr. O. Somewhere behind them was Dr. O's comfortable house. Ahead of them was nothing but fog. Perhaps it wasn't the wisest choice they could have made, but it was their choice.

  Vishnu called to them, a soft meow in the drifting whiteness. Had he seen something? Was he warning them about an unseen obstacle ahead? Or was he merely coaxing them along, his two companions in the night?

  Mr. D supposed they w
ould find out, in due time.

  They kept walking.

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  Films: THE APOCALYPTUS BLOOMS by Lucius Shepard

  Everything you may have heard about Richard Kelly's Southland Tales is true. Tedious, brilliant, too long, not long enough, sophomoric, hilarious, Dick-ian, Ick-ian, foul-mouthed, Chaucerian, derivative, unique, epic, a waste of two hours and twenty-four minutes, crap on a stick, the work of a burgeoning genius, nothing like his first film, Darko-esque, visionary, pretentious, angry, petulant, mesmerizing, sleep-inducing, a parody, a comedy.... Got a favorite adjective or adjectival phrase? It probably can be applied to some portion of this movie. What Kelly has given us is not so much a portrait of an alternate America, but rather his film seeks to embody the country as it has come to be after President Lower Primate and his gang of monkey-chunks have beaten on it with their ugly sticks for eight years, leaving behind a blitzed, paranoid, chaotic wreck saturated with DayGlo pop culture and violent imagery, populated by the confused, the stupefied, and the downright deluded, a runaway train of a nation heading full-out for the Lake of Fire, packed with partygoers and doomsayers whose arms and legs and heads are sticking out the windows, yelling, “Whee!” and “The end is nigh!” and so on, while an enormous boombox drowns out their cries with corporate rock anthems advertising scented panty shields and persimmon-flavored energy drinks.

  I don't know about you, but to me all that sounds like Twenty-First century naturalism, a big, nasty, sloppy joke-kiss blown by a grinning skull.

  If Kelly, whose first film, 2001's Donnie Darko, has become a cult touchstone, essaying a bittersweet portrait of pre-millennial America and its more humanistic, soulful obsessions, dealing with teenagers, time travel, and love ... if Kelly had wanted to play it safe, he would have made a lean, gritty little film with conspicuous acting and joyless bloodletting, illustrating the dark side of contemporary America, something to ponder and absorb, to meditate grimly upon, and he would have offered it up to the critical establishment, saying, “See, I am one of you. Let me in. Here. Take my child, but please don't hurt it.” And the critical establishment, composed of trivial old or old-in-spirit men and women, whose hearts are sometimes touched by such abasements, would have given that movie grudging praise and replied, “We anoint you.” For whatever reason, however, Kelly decided that managing his career was less important than making the picture he wanted, a decision both foolhardy and admirably brave. As happens with many second films (many second novels, as well), encouraged by his rookie success, he attempted to stuff everything he knew into the film and thus ended up with idiot jam on his face. That he did not succeed, that he is not yet and may never be a sufficiently fluent artist to pull off this trick, should not be held against him—or maybe it should, but it shouldn't be hung about his neck like an albatross, and the virtues of his movie should not be neglected, as they have been, in favor of dwelling on its flaws.