The Flammarion Syncope

by Garret Ford

  “That’s fucked.” He said, taking the joint from me.

  “Totally, he had like lawn gnomes, horror movies, kept talking backwards- fuck- it was fucked.” I said.

  I speak- though it never sounds quite right.

  I hear- though it stops making sense.

  I taste- the flavor is off, a stranger's Christmas stuffing.

  I see- through a glass darkly.

  I feel- uncomfortably numb.

  I sense- ineffable divinity.

  I think- or maybe I don’t.

  Heisenberg’s uncertainty principle. My tools are flawed.

  Broken circuitry.

  If I hadn't used drugs would my controls work?

  Did I seek drugs because my controls were flawed?

  Post-Hoc Fallacy- breaks down my causation.

  Nor correlation. Life is chaotic- bring a tissue.

  Illusion; a warm blanket. Creature comforts that I seek.

  Super position.

  There is judgment. There is transmutation.

  There is meaning. Truth; an eternal abyss.

  Semantics and language fail to define it.

  There is nothingness and paradox.Ascension?

  There is null. There is all. The Gods are within both.

  I hit the arcade machine as the screen glitches out.

  “Mind the machine.” The man in the suit growled.

  “It glitched out and I died.” I cried.

  “You died because you suck.” He leaned against the machine.

  “I’m all out of quarters.” I pleaded. “Gimme one.”

  “Polybius isn’t for kids, try Bozo’s Adventure?” He laughed, adjusting his sunglasses.

  “Bozo’s a dumb clown.” I said, crossing my arms.

  “We are all god’s clowns.” He said, lighting a cigarette.

  “The screen went crazy and it broke.” I frowned. “Please?”

  “No can do- look.” He pointed to the screen.

  The screen was glitched out in digital rigor mortis.

  “Fucking fuck.” I cursed.

  “Don’t swear like that kid.” He said, adjusting his tie.

  “I’m not a kid, I’m plenty old.” I said.

  “Are you now?” He laughed.

  “I’m only mature for my age.” I said, trying to be cool.

  “I can see that.” He grinned.

  I held out my hand out expecting a quarter, instead he placed a single Morley cigarette in my hand.

  “If you aren’t a kid, smoke this.” He said.

  “I will, I smoke all the time.” I lied.

  “Do you. What brand.” He asked.

  “Morley’s. Duh.” I lied.

  “Do you.” He laughed and adjusted his tie.

  “Yep, I do all kinds of adult- I even drink.” I said proudly.

  “I’m 13.” I said.

  “Unlucky number- but lucky for you, it’s your lucky day; would you kindly fill out this game survey. You got the highest score ever on it.” He said, handing me a piece of paper on a heavy clipboard.

  “Will you let me play again.” I said, looking over the survey.

  “No can do, kiddo, game is totally dead.” He laughed.

  “I died, and the game died?” I whistled appreciatively.

  “Field test models do that.” He said.

  “Lucky me.” I scowled, looking down at the cigarette.

  “Only gods live forever, kid.” He shrugged.

  “Only gods?” I repeated, confused.

  “Finish the survey. I’ll be outside waiting in the black Packard with the government plates.” He said, looking over his shoulder.

  All that has come to pass.----

  All that could have come to pass..---

  All that could not come to pass…--

  The final voyage- the aleph takes hold of my soul….-

  Déjà vu. Fish swim, I am lost…..Comedy and tragedy.

  Birds flutter, I am freed-….

  Worms burrow, I am consumed--…

  Already seen, the circle is complete---..

  I am free. A withered hand cast bones----.

  Random chance. I am all. Maya dances, I watch-----

  What excruciating joy…Death..What sublime pain.-..

  Puppets enraptured by their own play---

  In this timeline; I live in the best of all possible worlds.

  Row, Row,

  Row,

  Your boat,

  G e n t l y

  D o w n

  T h e

  S t r e a m,

  Merrily, Merrily, Merrily,

  Life

  Is

  But

  A

  Dream.

  Chapter 2.

  “I heard isolation makes you go crazy; but I don't believe anything my imaginary friends say.”

  Tobias H. Charles

  Soap stings. Steam. The mirror is fogged- I reach forward to clear my vision. I stop. The blurry image of myself reaching towards a mirror- forgotten but familiar. I am observing myself; through a glass darkly. A mirror reverses my features.

  A painter in their own gallery picking apart their past errors. The people in the gallery will congratulate the painter and say it is a masterpiece, but the painter knows. I am blind to my flaws. A scar on the back of my neck. Someone else needs to point it out. I pick up my green and white toothbrush and start brushing my teeth. Routine. Life is doing things between the routine necessary actions of waking, eating, shitting, and sleeping.

  I lay down on the chesterfield, naked, the perks of living alone, you can lounge around wearing as much or as little as you want. I stare at my blank television screen. My apartment is one of those long weird shaped ones, where you don’t have enough room to do much of anything except lay down and watch TV. Or stare into a mirror. Myself observing myself- I’ll watch TV thanks.

  “Well, here I am.” I mutter, almost expecting an answer.

  Ceiling fan spins, the world spins. The cool air. I close my eyes; lovely tropical resort being fanned by a glistening Latino with a palm leaf. Thunder, the fan stops spinning, darkness. I rise, grope blindly in the dark, I flick the switch. Nothing. The storm rages. The lightning illuminates the darkness for brief moments. Flickers in the darkness. To the endless eternities, the stars are flashes of lightening. Illuminating the sky for a moment, then fading as if they never were.

  “I love you.” She said, kissing me tenderly.

  “I love you too.” I said, pulling her close and smelling her hair.

  We stay there, hand in hand. Warmth in the evening chill. The first Canada Day together. There in the darkness, we are watching the fireworks explode into glorious colour, then fade into darkness. Us, embracing, two souls in the abyss of space, watching the light fade into darkness. The cabin is cold that evening as a storm rolls in after we get home. The power is out again. We sit together in candle light.

  Gloom. A blast of lightning causes the window panes to shake. A nearby bolt of lightning illuminates the sky. Thunderous rumbling in the distance. We count. Holding each other, kissing softly.

  Five- four- three- two- one-

  Godspeed. Blastoff-….

  One- two- three- four- five-

  “Take a deep breath. Come back to the room.” She commands.

  “The night took many things; my humor will not be among them. I will laugh at god, even at the end.” I said, defiant.

  “You never give me any straight answers.” She said.

  “I never deal in absolutes or hypotheticals, just reality.” I said.

  I am in the emergency room, a pale shade. The hospital room stinks like formaldehyde, death, and shit. A machine is brought into the room. It resembles a mailbox.

  “Do I have any mail?” I asked.

  The doctor didn’t laugh, maybe they didn’t get it.

  “There is a time and place for humor- my teacher told me that- but if I cannot laugh in this moment- this humiliating, disgusting, repugnant moment- why have humor?” I
thought to myself.

  Sitting in a silent examination room naked except for itchy paper clothes. Re-examining my life choices. Mostly poor ones. I stare at my feet and try to steady the spinning room by breathing.

  “Death, is that you?” I ask, drifting away.

  I am within the sky as the storm rages. Life is alright sometimes. Present in this moment. Not next week, or tomorrow, but the now. Nothing to do tonight but be in this moment. Nothing to do at any moment but be present. Blessed solitude and the curse of the lonely, after all humans are social animals. Solitude is a reprieve for some, a prison for others. Thunder crashes overhead but I remain calm. Wet bloody earth beneath my feet. Underneath the juniper bushes, terrified rabbits huddle close and shiver. A solitary figure, clinging to the spinning globe by a trick of gravity. I am at peace, despite the storm.

  “Quite quiet” The fortune teller frowns.

  I nod, silently.

  “Madness calls.” He said.

  I nod, silently, my hair gets into my eyes- I snicker.

  “Embrace this pain and laughter- you laugh because your old self is viewed with such contempt that you laugh-.” He said.

  I nod, silently.

  “I merely show you how things will play out. The next is the eighth card, your environment and your interactions within the environment. This card is your house.” He said and drew another card.

  The card he drew was an image of a gibbous moon rising above a darkened landscape. A pair of cyclopean towers loom in the distance dwarfing the environment. In the foreground a dog and wolf are baying at the moon, behind them a horrid sea creature of some kind crawls forth from the waters.

  “For foul deception and wicked treachery are afoot. In the darkness, it is difficult to know the difference from a wolf from a dog- or a dog from a wolf.” He said pointing to the images of the dog and wolf. “But take care to not miss the wicked thing crawling from the deep- true evil.”

  “You aren’t any damn good at this are you?” I sneered.

  The break up. The betrayals. I am a poor judge of character. The losses. The lies. Perhaps, because I am of poor character.

  “What…” My boyfriend said.

  I got up and started dressing. Sorting through the covers surrounding the mattress on the floor.

  I dressed in silence.

  “What.-..” He looked to me, his well-toned body half lit by the mid-day sun gleaming through the venetian blinds.

  When in doubt, lie.

  “What..-” He sat up in bed.

  He didn't dress, assuming he could get me back into his bed. I continued to dress. Disbelief. Confused beautiful man half-naked in bed or kindergarten teacher being shown violent pornography; both have the same dumb look.

  “I can’t do this.” I said angrily.

  “Wait-” He raised his voice a little.

  I didn't wait. The truth was, I didn’t care anymore. As far as odd break ups go, that one was one of the most awkward, but it was a beautiful day out- and a long walk on a lovely day heals much.

  “Fuck me, the guys with the biggest dicks are always the biggest dicks.” I muttered to myself, lighting my Morley.

  Brutality is forgettable, but humiliation is forever.

  “Can I speak to you in my office.” My boss asked.

  “Sure…” I followed, lamb to slaughter.

  “We’re all laid off, I'm sorry.” My boss said as she handed me a notice of termination and a sealed envelope.

  “Fuck me, already?” I said.

  “Severance cheque.” She said.

  She gives me a hug. My boss was much larger than me. For a moment, I was reminded of being a child. How small I felt. The mother, supporting her family, her life, her household- closed by head office. But me? I am another midnight wanderer; all I must support is my draughts of relish and revelry.

  “It was a good three years.” I said.

  “All good things...” She nodded with tears.

  We sit in the car overlooking the park where we used to walk together. It is autumn, falling leaves, drifting from each other. I wore something nice, firing squad or a break-up, I might as well look good.

  “Is this what you want?” She said.

  “..-.” I said, critically.

  “I still love you--- If..- you wanted to work things-”

  “..-” I said, firmly, foolish.

  “I need you to make a choice.” She said.

  “-.-.” I said, critical until the end.

  “But we were together for…” She cried.

  “Three years, I know.” I said, annoyed now.

  “I made ONE mistake...” She cried.

  “-.-” I said, coldly, I was never any good at forgiveness.

  “The dybbuk is an evil spirit from Jewish myth that can inhabit a person’s body and control them, when possessed by a dybbuk, all is forgiven.” The priest said.

  “Forgiveness is difficult, grudges are easy.” I said.

  “God never promised a world devoid of pain- to live without pain is to live as a sheep in the sun…” The priest said.

  The next card depicted a woman in blue sitting in a marble temple of black and white. Her face is serene and young, and her body is garbed in robes. Her hands clutch a scroll, crossed heart, crescent moon at her feet. The card reads The Priestess.

  “The priestess, how auspicious.” The fortune teller said.

  “How so…?” I asked.

  “It carries foreshadowing. Bodes fortune; yet unwritten and unsaid. Secrets in the past- and particularly for you- it represents the future yet unrevealed. Finally, the card is respected by some as the most divine of the all the major arcana. Certainly, makes for an interesting spread.” The fortune teller asked.

  “I guess.” I nod, silently.

  “You guess?” The fortune teller snorted with contempt. “Make your choice, to not decide is to decide. The end is coming and that means you will have to make a choice.”

  “What do you mean?” I asked.

  “You will have to wait.” The nurse said.

  “Will my doctor be long?” I asked.

  “Don't worry.” The nurse said as I turned and sat down.

  The doctor’s office. Awkwardly avoiding eye contact with the other patients. The doctor’s office television loop playing obnoxiously in the back ground, advising me to have my flu shots, take my kids for a regular check-up, and to respect another patient’s privacy. I page through a year-old copy of a glossy magazine, advising me of the problems of the world- Deadly Virus Outbreaks, Terrorist attacks, Illuminati, Drugs, and aliens walk among us. Everyone avoids eye contact; lobsters in a supermarket. The waiting, that is what hurts.

  The nurse calls me into the doctor’s office.

  “What brings you in today?” She asks as we walk.

  “…”

  “---?” She asks.

  “…” I said.

  “The doctor will be in to see you soon.” She said.

  I walk into the back room and undress in the cold office. Goosebumps from the cold, or utter fear. I look around at the jars of swabs, tongue depressors, and at the posters advertising various medications. Down the hallway someone is sobbing, humming fluorescent lights above buzz, the air conditioning rattles idly. The doctor finally enters the office. His gray thinning hair clinging to his pale wrinkled face. The doctor doesn't say a word and goes to work examining me. I awkwardly sit while he inspects me like a bug.

  “We will need to excise a sample and send it to the lab for analysis.” The doctor finally said.

  I nod, silently.

  The doctor flipped through a calendar. “Does next Thursday work?” He asked.

  I nod, silently.

  I suppose it came down to being responsible for myself. My counselor stared at my file, it was red and bulging with papers. Sometimes I wondered what was written down in there. I was better off not knowing. I knew that much.

  “You've been making good progress.” My counsellor said.

  I no
d, silently.

  “Yes. How are the flashbacks?” She asked.

  “I get them, but I know I'm not back there.” I said.

  “How do you know you are living right now?” She asked.

  “I am living here and now because I can think.” I said.

  “And when you have a flashback?” She asked.

  “A single frame of a horror film spliced into the day, though I don’t know how long I am there. I go off. Then I come back.” I said.

  “But you know it isn't real.” She asked.

  “I mean to my senses it seems real, I don't feel my body but the smell, god the smell...” I cried.

  “The smell?” She asked.

  “Coppery repugnus.” I said.

  “Repugnus?” She repeated.

  “The worst kind of filth.” I said. “The blood, the shit, the tears of a human in pain.”

  Sing to me now muse, of the spiraling folly of humanity. Mighty works set to the torch and trampled by the boot of the conqueror. The civilizations that rose to greatness, inevitable fall. Breed, eat, die, and repeat- until the stars burn out.

  The cithern is sundered, my reflection within the sea. The flesh gives away. Bloody wings freed, crimson rivulets baptize the sky above. Hemispheres spiraling into dust. I spiral, agape at the coagulate gore. Quenchless, my spine falls to the ground. The feeding frenzy begins. My blood is awash in the frothy shoals as the dark children of the sea feast upon my body.

  The grapes crushed, fill the silver cup. Quaffing the queer concoction, the goblet is broken. I marvel at the glorious droplets. The stars do not forget though; the splintered rack stands still, hidden among the fiends.

  Our profane prayers at an immortal godhead batter the doors beyond perception. A god kissing corpses. A president kissing a baby. The celestial choir drowns us out. The old gods do not stir. Sans arms, sans eyes, sans heart, sans face, sans soul. Simplistic, a god is eternal, in her complexities, man is temporal. God creates, man destroys.