Archive for December, 2009
Chosen
Wednesday, December 9th, 2009
The mail cart wouldn’t fit through the doorway to the benighted section of accounting where Brett had to go, so he left it behind. He felt naked and suspect among the cubicles, his eyes involuntarily drawn to people’s private, personal effects: a hula dancer bobblehead, a collection of Diet Coke cans that filled an entire cubicle wall, a collage of Eric Estrada photographs.
Here was the cubicle: Wilma Dawson. Brett silently said a prayer of thanks to the Miraculous TV, a junked 19″ console model that had inexplicably started working the day his friend Ed had accidentally hit the flatscreen with a baseball bat (long story) right in the middle of the Moonlighting marathon. He and Ed had started the prayers as a joke, but they always made Brett feel better, so he hadn’t stopped.
Wilma was a fifty-something woman with a dangerously cheerful expression and a starchy magenta dress. “Here you go,” Brett said, handing her the package. He added in a whisper, “It’s a pony.” It was his standard joke.
“The Chosen One!” she whispered. Immediately, whispering spread to the adjacent cubicles, then on through Accounting and possibly as far as Compliance.
“‘He will come speaking of horses,'” she said. The whispering intensified.
“I’m chosen?” he said. The idea was crazy–but flattering. And who was he to balk at craziness? He worshipped a console TV. He was in no position to throw stones. “Chosen for what?”
Wilma spreading her arms ecstatically. “He will come speaking of horses, and he will reconcile the third quarter numbers!” she cried. Throughout Accounting, there were cheers and applause. Brett was pretty certain he heard weeping.
Wilma lifted an old-style paper ledger emblazoned with “Q3” in permanent marker and held it out to him. “Take this,” she said worshipfully, “and finally, finally bring the third quarter numbers into harmony!”
So “chosen” was potentially good–but Brett wasn’t at all sure about the accounting part. He prayed to the Miraculous TV for guidance, and where in the past he had never had gotten more a vague feeling in response to his prayers, now it was as though trumpets rang out (in mono) through his brain, and a voice like a fifties newscaster said: “My child, fulfill the prophecy and take the mantle of Great Accountant. Or if you’re not interested, you’d better run.”
Brett thought about it half a second … and ran.
Life Is for Living, Plots for Burying Things in
Tuesday, December 8th, 2009
[O]n the contrary, everything in it is both head and tail, alternately and reciprocally…. We can cut wherever we please…. Chop it into numerous pieces and you will see that each one can get along alone. — Charles Baudelaire, “To Arsene Houssaye”
It was that great modernist monk of the late fourteenth century, Baudelard, who first codified the principle of spontaneous generation. He had stowed away a porcelain saucer of skunk meat high in a cupboard where no animal–including the human kind–could reach it. In truth, he had set it aside like manna, afraid that one day the countryside would have scant meat if he and his fellow monks kept hunting as they had all that blustery fall.
A week later, as Baudelard dusted the cupboard, he rediscovered the meat, writhing with worms, and quilled his findings in a thirty-pound volume of accumulated observations.
Yet Baudelard was no one-trick pony of a natural philosopher who folds his hands and rests on laurels. He understood this principle had to be developed to its fullest, for “To understand the essence of nature,” as he was fond of informing his fellow monks spraying a sibilant mouthful of his noon meal: day-old bread, goat cheese and wine, “is to understand the mind of God.” So Baudelard cut worms at varying lengths to see if life might sprout again.
And, lo, they did grow full and wriggling blood-red with both head and tail intact, whichever was the original of which. The confusion brought him to recall a minor poet friend of his, the Englishman Geoffrey Chaucer. He had started a series of semi-bawdy, semi-humorous tales of wanderers mocking the Old English tales of heroes, using the vulgar, common English tongue. Chaucer and Baudelard both saw the stories–pale imitations of Boccaccio–as best fit for lining refuse bins.
To test just how far the principle of spontaneous generation went, they took his original manuscript, mulched it, stirred in earthworms, water, and ink, and let the rotting mass germinate for several months. Chaucer was probably over-eager and exhumed the manuscript prematurely. The Canterbury tales were still unfinished and a bit raw, but Chaucer corrected the earthworms’ grammatical errors and found ways to punch up the bawdiness.
The triumphant success of Baudelard’s literary experiment, logically lead him to human beings as his next test subject. The rest, as you know, is history–eternal glory springs from temporary gore. Even now, a century later, Baudelard’s achievements remain the high-water mark of natural philosophy and letters.