Through Caverns Measureless to Man

by D G Rose

  “I am not a god.” He was saying when I was able to turn my attention back to his words. “Oh, I know what they say. But, I am only a man. Don’t believe all my press.” And he chuckled. Then he continued, it that same tone of voice that Miranda uses when she is quoting something. “As I live and am a man, this is an unexaggerated tale - my dreams become the substances of my life.” He looked at me and held up his hands in a gesture of innocence. “And that is the truth of it. I am a man who has fallen into his own dream. I can’t escape. I don’t want to escape. You must be angry with me.”

  And I thought, still dazed by the wonders of creation unfolding all around us. The births and deaths, the folding and recycling. The way a bird became a tree and the tree furnished sticks for a kite that young children flew by the riverside, returning the bird to the skies, I thought, ‘Me? Angry with him?’

  “I didn’t take her, you know. Not really.” I was having a hard time focusing, but I understood that he was talking about Miranda. “Not really. The Dream, my Dream is, like all dreams, a creature of its own imagining. A thing at once created and creating. I look at the Dream and I see myself, but I am no more in control of the Dream than you are in control of yours. Like you, I am immersed in the Dream, and like you, I am shocked and surprised and horrified and delighted by it. I stretch out my hand to take control and it’s like my hands are made of clay. I reach out my hand to take control and it’s like I hold reins of rubber, that stretch and wobble and only succeed in altering the trajectory of the horses in some small degree. And Miranda, my dear Miranda, was like that. A thing out of my control. I don’t deny that I wanted her. I did. She has the heart of a dreamer, she never would have been happy there, there in that world, away from the Dream. I slept and I dreamt and I saw her. She called to me and I came, as I do whenever anyone calls to me in a way that breaks through the Dream. But I know, I know that when they come to live in the Dream it causes pain. I know that, and I would avoid it if I could.

  “She’ll tell you that she begged to go back. And she did. She’ll tell you that I refused, but I never did. I tried. I tried to send her back, as I always do, but I failed, as I always do.”

  He stood up and faced me. A single divine tear streaked his cheek. “I know that you have suffered. I know that you have suffered from the loss of Miranda, perhaps more than anyone. And I know that you have suffered here, in the Dream. Honestly, I don’t know what all this nonsense about penance is. Yes, it fascinated me once. The idea, the idea that sins could be erased, drowned by suffering. But I thought I’d gotten over it. Of course, the Dream tells me that I’ve never gotten over anything. The least of my fascinations, reform and replay and repeat over and over in the Dream.

  “Can I tell you a joke?” He didn’t wait for my ascent. And why would he? “In Ancient China, Ancient China is another of my little fascinations. Anyway, in Ancient China, it was the custom for men to hire matchmakers to assist in the finding of a wife. And the hero of our story goes to a matchmaker looking for a wife. The Matchmaker says, ‘I have the perfect wife for you!’ and drawing back a curtain our hero sees the wife on offer. Having examined his prospective wife, our hero offers a complaint to the Matchmaker. ‘She is blind.’ He points out. The Matchmaker replies, ‘That way, she’ll never see the wrong that you do.’ But our hero has another complaint. ‘But she’s also mute.’ The Matchmaker waves away the charge. ‘She will never scold you.’ Still, our hero is not convinced. ‘She is also deaf.’ ‘Ah.’ Says the Matchmaker, ‘all the better, since you can scold her all you wish and she will never take offense.’ Finally the groom-to-be points out, ‘She’s also a hunchback!’ The Matchmaker asks, ‘So, you’re going to walk away from the whole thing over one little flaw?’” And the Mad Dreamer doubled over in laughter at his own joke.

  Straightening up he says. “I can see that jokes are not your thing. But my point is. My point is this…”

  But I never found out what his point was, because at that moment, a voice rang out. “Wakey wakey, Sam!” And the Person from Porlock parted the curtain of creation that surrounded us and strode in.

  The Dreamer stopped, a look of surprise on his face. The Person from Porlock turned to me. “You are a big disappointment, a soft spearman.”

  I gave a shrug, a Miranda shrug, filled with the most complete indifference I could manage. “You’re a terrible plotter. All your instructions were cryptic or incomplete. ‘Open her shirt.’ ‘Christabel is not what she appears.’ I mean, what the actual fuck kind of conspiracy is that? You want to take down a god?” And I gestured at the Dreamer, who shook his head to refuse the characterization. “You better have a good plan.”

  The Person from Porlock sneered. “Show a little initiative, Nicky. Do you even know what’s in the package?”

  And, luckily, I did. Not because of any initiative, granted, but I knew. “I know.” I said.

  He sneered again. “So, why are we still here? How hard would it have been to figure out on your own that that bottle was crucial, and then just spill it out, or drink it or whatever?” He shouted.

  “How hard would it have been to just tell me that?” I asked. “When we met at the House of Diligence, all you had to say was, ‘Open the package and take out the bottle, it’s the milk of Paradise, help yourself to a sip if you like.’ And I might have done it. Then we wouldn’t be here. But what did you say? ‘Open her shirt.’ How was that helpful? And now, now, I don’t know. I mean, Miranda’s out there.” I said gesturing away. “And I have to say, the Mad Dreamer, seems less of a bad guy, now. I mean, he’s still, clearly the cause of all my problems, no doubt about that. But, I don’t know. He seems, also, innocent somehow. Like everything’s just been a big mistake. Like nobody’s in charge and, maybe, there’s nobody to blame.”

  The Person from Porlock started to reply, but the Mad Dreamer waved a hand and the Person was frozen in time, motionless, like his friend Leonardo, although without the bird.

  “It was just rude of him to barge in here and berate my guest, right?” Said the Dreamer. “He suffers from the common delusion that I am in control. He thinks that if I would only wake, I might dream a happier dream tomorrow. But I can no more dream an all happy dream than I can be an all happy man. He represents an unhappy part of myself, I love him, I do, he’s a part of myself, a part of what makes me who I am, a part of what lets me dream the dreams that I do. But I can’t excise him. And I wouldn’t if I could.”

  The Mad Dreamer produced an apple and took a big bite, a thin stream of juice running in the corner of his mouth. “Would you like an apple?” He asked, another fruit appearing in his hand.

  “Are you trying to tempt me?” I asked.

  He laughed. “The fruit of the Tree of Knowledge of Good and Evil definitely wasn’t an apple. I know, because I’ve eaten many apples and the only thing that I’ve learned is that some apples are better than others.”

  “Is that one any good?” I asked.

  He nodded and tossed me the apple. It was good.

  “Nicky? Can I tell you another joke?” He asked around a mouthful of apple.

  I nodded.

  “A man, falling sick, visited a doctor and promised to pay for the treatment, but only if he recovered. Later, when his wife badgered him for drinking wine while he was sick he said: "Do you want me to get better and be forced to pay the doctor?" And god laughed.

  Then he said. “Let me tell you a secret. Go out there and do what you think is best. I’ll be ok and they’ll be ok, too.”

  And I found myself back in the room looking down at the sleeping form of the Mad Dreamer.

  “So, I think, that the ‘weave’ part is just poetical. I mean, you can just walk around the circle.” Miranda pointed at the floor. “We drew a circle to help you stay, um, circular. But, you’ll need to have your eyes closed, so I’ll guide you. Then, after the third time around, just, you know, tip the bottle into his mouth. Slowly, you don’t want to choke him. I think you should keep you
r eyes closed for that part too, so I’ll guide you.” Then she clapped her hands. “Ready?”

  I struggled to bring my mind back, to focus on the now, away from the infinite vista of the Mad Dreamer. “Why me?” I asked. “I don’t hear anything in your ceremony that requires me, in particular. Why can’t you do it? Or any one of the hundreds of people who are wandering around in the dome? Why me?”

  She shrugged. “Well, you’re my brother. And this is my life and I want you involved. I need you, not because you’re special to the Dreamer, but because you’re special to me. What will I do if the ceremony fails, and you’re not here? What will I do if I fail and I’m all alone? I know it’s not fair. I know I left you all alone, but we’re together now. The three of us, the four of us.” She gestured to Amy and the baby within, our baby. “And I want to face the future with you.

  “But, you know what?” She continued. “The milk of Paradise? It’s just poppy juice. And the honey-dew? It’s just a melon. We grow them both in the gardens.” She made a little gesture of helplessness. “And the ceremony? Maybe it doesn’t even matter. I mean, it’s just some lines from a poem. Maybe I could just squeeze the poppy juice right into his mouth, toss a chunk of honey-dew in there, and everything would be ok. But maybe not. Maybe the ceremony means something, maybe it means everything. Just some lines from a poem built this whole world. And if I’d just squeezed some poppy juice into his mouth, then… Then I wouldn’t have you. And I wanted you. So, yeah, maybe someone else could do it. But this is the most important thing in my life. The continuation of the Dream is the only thing that matters. And when I’m old and grey, I want to look back and remember that we saved the world together.”

  “Will you ever be old and grey?” I asked, but softly.

  And Amy and Miranda laughed. Miranda punched my arm. “Not like you, but yeah. One day. Nothing lasts forever, even the Dream fades away.”

  About the Author

  Nothing to see here.

  Contact

  Questions or comments, no matter how rude or inappropriate, can be addressed to:

  Meursault@schencklaw.com

  NOTES

  Hi, and welcome to the author’s commentary for Through Caverns Measureless to Man. If you haven’t already read the book, go read the book! What interest could you possibly have in knowing that I had a friend who used to hold my thumb as we walked if you haven’t read the book?

  I find the process of writing fascinating. As I go back thorough a book that I have written, I am surprised by the many bits and pieces that come together from past experiences that have, for some reason, left their mark in my memory, from things that I have read, from conversations that I’ve had. I thought that you, as a reader, might enjoy a little insight into the process.

  What follows is a collection of notes and comments on areas in the book where I thought a little additional explanation might be interesting. Many of the comments are about inspirations or influences for particular parts of the story, some are purely personal comments. This is not an attempt to explain the ‘meaning’ of the book, it’s just a little window into the process of its composition. Anyway, I hope you find it interesting.

  Please note, the links are one-way. That is the link will take you to the highlighted line in the text, but there is no link to bring you back. This is because I didn’t want readers to be distracted by links in the text while reading.

  With my second beer, I like a few cookies. – These are real cookies. They are the Sandwich Jr. cookies made by Cuétara. They are awesome in the randomness of their manufacture. I highly recommend them, but not the mixed chocolate vanilla cookies – you want the triple chocolate version – 2 chocolate cookies with chocolate cream.

  I put on the Mountain Goats’ Tallahassee. I love this album. It is shocking in its bitter depressive outlook on life and human affairs. If you don’t have it, you should get it.

  I’d go out for like fifteen minutes then come back and the dog would be out of her mind with joy. While this is true of most dogs, my current dog could not care less when I come home. I’ll get back from the gym or something, open the door to find her lying on her bed and she can barely be bothered to open a single eye to acknowledge my return. And she’s not a tired old dog, she’s basically a puppy.

  and there’s this little kitten, just a tiny thing, no bigger than my hand, standing in the back doorway, neither in nor out, his little paws planted firmly on the threshold, daring me to chase him away, but not brave enough to invite himself in. This is the true story of how I once adopted a cat. He was fierce and friendly and I miss him.

  I once read somewhere that a dog can bark for seventeen hours straight without stopping. This is from some article that I read many years ago, it’s only dimly remembered or perhaps ill-remembered and it may never have been true in the first place.

  the weirdest thing about me was that I used to get dizzy looking at the stars, overwhelmed by the idea that they were suns and galaxies impossibly big and impossibly far away. This is a thing that happens to me, not when I was a kid, but now as an adult. I, still, almost can’t bear to look at the stars. It’s getting better.

  And there it was, stupid English, with it’s stupid ‘you’ which can be either singular as in ‘you, Nick’ or plural as in ‘you, Nick and Miranda’, ruining all my plans! English really could use a plural form of ‘you’. After living in the south for many years, I’m a fan of ‘ya’ll’, particularly in its most plural of forms – “All ya’alls”.

  On my dresser, there’s a jar full of change. You take whatever you need. My own father used to deliver, annually, a giant bag full of change that we would count and roll and share among us, it would often amount to hundreds of dollars and was a major event in my house.

  what can I say, I’m a funnel cake purist. I, also, am a funnel cake purist.

  You remember the Pirate Ship ride? The Pirate Ship was one of my favorites and it did scare me. It still is and it still does.

  So, in my fantasies, I’d imagine Jessica naked, but I’d remain fully clothed, having the normal twelve-year-old boy’s fear of being seen naked. This is exactly the way my sexual fantasies used to work. Them naked, me clothed. I’ve progressed since then. A bit.

  And that’s how my mother found me, hours later, crying, and scared and missing Miranda. And she sat down on the bench next to me and she put her arms around me and we cried together. This idea about two siblings going to a fair and one leaving the other alone is inspired by a vaguely similar scene in Dreams of Perpetual Motion, by Dexter Palmer. A very interesting and beautifully written book, although a somewhat difficult read. He gets his Miranda from Shakespeare and I get mine from him.

  “Mom?” I asked. “If God told you to sacrifice me, would you?” A friend told me this story, about himself and his own mother, many years ago. It’s wonderful in how horrible it is.

  I got a life insurance settlement for five thousand dollars. I think he must have forgotten that he had it. I had a friend who was estranged from his father, when the father died, my friend received a small life insurance settlement. My friend used the money for eye surgery, figuring that if his father was the cause of his poor eyesight, the least he could do was pay to repair it.

  Every day above ground is a good day, one day you'll be dead and you won't even have the pleasure of being miserable, so enjoy being miserable while you can. This is my personal credo. The email address I use to send myself notes of things that I think are interesting is TPOBM (the pleasure of being miserable).

  I stopped for a cup of coffee and as I’m walking in, a woman is walking out. This refers to an actual woman that I passed on the street not so very long ago. It wasn’t a coffee shop (I don’t drink the stuff). She did have a small child and I did look down into her overalls as she passed to see her exposed hip bone and I did think, how cruel that there should be such things in the world, forever out of my reach, so I put it here.

  I like to be punctual. I alwa
ys think that arriving late is like an insult, like me saying that my time is more important than your time. Although I am usually pretty relaxed, I hate to be late. The anxiety that I experience if I am even a minute late is astonishing. I also don’t appreciate lateness in others.

  I had the Irish flag for dinner and there’s some left? This is one of my favorite meals. The idea that it represents the Irish flag is from a friend.

  I can’t stand the stuff. But I love the smell and I love the feel of the warm mug in my hands and I love the way the milk billows out in waves. I’d hate to lose all that, just because I don’t like the taste. I feel the same way. I love the smell of coffee, and I love the way the milk billows, but I hate the taste. Although, unlike Amy, I don’t do anything about it. I never buy coffee just to enjoy the non-gustatory sensory pleasures it offers.

  Every week, she gathers up all the towels, it doesn’t matter if they’re clean or dirty, and brings them here and, instead of washing them, she just throws them on the floor. This is what my mother’s cleaning lady does. I think it’s funny.

  “Yes, Domina!” I snap. I loved the mini-series “Rome”, in which one of the slaves refers to his mistress as “Domina”.

  “You see that girl?” Amy asks. “The pudgy one, wearing the crop top? Whenever I see a girl, a heavy girl like that with her stomach exposed, I want to run after her and ask her who her therapist is.” This is an actual conversation I had with a friend of mine.