Epiphany of Life
By
Aaron J Clarke
SMASHWORDS EDITION
* * *
PUBLISHED BY:
Aaron J Clarke on Smashwords
Epiphany of Life
Copyright © 2010 by Aaron J Clarke
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Epiphany of Life
Prologue
Dear Reader,
My intentions as a writer are to stir your emotions. I don’t want sympathy. I aim only to be understood, not to be categorized, and labeled by you the reader, or DSM IV – the holy book of psychiatry. The novel is disjointed, which is intentional on my part, to blur the line of what is real or imaginary. You will never quite know where you are in this novel.
Sincerely,
Adam Carlson
Chapter 1
Literature is one of my addictions. Like any drug, I need more when I go without for a few days. My cheeks become flushed and my voice sharp as glass. My tongue sweeps the sharp shards of wit. Time is waiting, like a panther in the inky blackness – when you least expect it, it has you in its jaws. I’m running late. No time to wait. I dress quickly and eat a bowl of weet-bix. I pop a pill. I’m now ready for the day.
The dawning of a new day and what does it have in store? I become weary at the mechanical juggernaut of moving cogs and hands of my watch, beating purely for the exactness of time; how can one define something so abstract? I open my mouth and begin reciting: Time stands by. The shifting sands of eternity wait for no one. Time is an abstract three- dimensionality – measured uncertainly. Shifting sand – an ethereal thought and deed – born, then dies. Such is time, once here and next gone. Future beholds quantum change. For the past shall be. Like a falling star. When there is no star left – there shall be no future. And the past shall be remembered – alas the poor future. For the bloody worm of time has you for his bride. When consumed – there will be none of you. Sweet innocence – rotten by time’s unyielding pleasures. I do attest to time’s increment of change – it beats for you and me.
I can’t stop myself from reciting poetry; the pill is starting to take effect. WOW WOW. As I stroll towards the English Department, an orchestra plays a symphony. Atoms of oxygen and nitrogen, invisible to the eye, stir into life upon the whim of high and low atmospheric pressure, dancing melodiously. I sense this dance of particles hitting one another. These atomic collisions animate the trees, leaves and everything. This mental dance plays in an unaccustomed manner; a manner that only I know. Oscillating sounds vibrate chaotically in my mental auditorium. Sparrows dart across the sky, like a barrage of arrowheads being fired from an ancient longbow. The branches of the Eucalyptus bow as if I were a dignitary – tossing the smallest of small flowers down upon me like a ticker-tape parade. Hibiscus radiates pink veins against bold reds. Parrots half-drunk on nectar, smash into the flyscreen on the top floor of “B” block. Stunned for a moment they recover and fly towards the English Department. Are they omens of good or bad fortune?
The day has just begun like any other. The sun rises in the east. Yet there is a lingering uncertainty, the main uncertainty being my honors project. Will I be allowed to see the Holy Grail of literature?
Under the ruffled sounds of the rainbow parrots, I begin my oration, listing the reasons why I should be allowed to read Noelene Richards’ manuscript. The manuscript has been kept hidden away, locked in a safe under the supervision of the university librarian. Its existence was unknown until my lecturer, Professor Matheson, mentioned it to one of his colleagues at a Christmas party three years ago. The novel was regarded as sacrosanct. No one, but no one, had had a chance to look at the first page – except my lecturer. He loved that manuscript as if he had written it himself, and so understandably he guarded it like any precious object.
After three years, I need to break out from my self-imposed shell; I want to do something meaningful. And I want to make a name for myself in the eyes of my superiors. That’s my problem, I always need to be reassured. My ego needs massaging. If I wrote with gusto and passion… words flowing from my head onto the screen in an unadulterated stream of consciousness, I would expose myself to the reader. Expose myself to an invisible silent audience. I wonder what the reader is thinking at this point. Are you happy or bored; do you want me to continue? So, why do I want to read Noelene Richards’ manuscript? Because I believe it will reveal an alternate side of her. It will peel away the layers of her literary soul.
The marbled skies have now become silent. The world has become silent. Strange. Now, I’m one with life; instead of hating it and trying to destroy myself, I’m engaged in this twilight of imagination. Imagination is the mountain that a climber succeeds or fails to reach. I shall slowly reveal to you the many parts of myself that only I know. When I was naive, losing myself in the bliss of my first kiss. It wasn’t the way I expected it to be. It was dull and boring, not at all romantic. Sex wasn’t as I expected either. I had led a rather cloistered life, a shell waiting to be seeded, and no “pearl” was produced. I wanted so much to be a biochemist, yet after all these years of mediocrity in that field, I rediscover myself in the written word. Literature now fills the gaps of my soul. These are repaired with a simple story. Once I discovered Noelene Richards’ writing, her simple string of syllables and consonants whose fluidity gave life to the page, I wanted to find out as much as possible about her. To excavate her work and mind is now my mission.
Groaning with anticipation like a pubescent pupil waiting for his next encounter, I bound up the stairwell towards my lecturer’s office. I knock, then knock again. As I wait at the door for an answer, I ponder: What have I to say that hasn’t already been said before? Will I be remembered when I’m dead? These are the questions I ask myself – while I wait in the corridor – trying to answer these unfathomables. I live in hope that my life will change for the better. I thought I knew where my life was going. My ambitions and plans lay before me like words on a page. A three-year science degree majoring in biochemistry, leading on to research in cancer and one day the Nobel Prize. Yet this wasn’t to be. I abandoned these dreams, my illness scattered them, now they have been resurrected in literature. My ambitions grew anew. I began to read…. Rediscovering the classics of literature. I lived my life as if I was in a novel – travelling through time and space.
Chapter 2
I stare blank faced. As I stare at the computer screen, the weight of responsibility for the elucidation of Noelene Richards’ manuscript etches its way into my psyche. Looking for inspiration isn’t easy. Yet, as we grow ever closer to our “work”, the sentences flow, gushing forth from that most elusive and private of constructs, the literary soul. No two “literary souls” are alike, no matter how much we want to write like Dickens. This is the main point that I would like to make. Much as I might want to write like Noelene Richards – I can’t become her. Or could I? To write like another is one thing, but to become them! That’s if I could get over the fact that she was a recluse and has been dead for over fifty years. As if an electric light bulb had just been turned on, my eyes widen with the thought of something so profoundly shocking. How would I carry it off? The tiny hair on the back of my neck stands taut waiting for further orders. My mind would be a clear slate to write upon – molding myself into her idioms and syntax such that no-one could tell what was her work and what was mine. That manuscript would enable me to achieve this.
Small droplets of sweat form on my temples as I search the shelves. She, like Virginia Woolf, is an avant-garde writer who wrote about feminism and its relationship with the modern world. Yet, despite her reputation as an essayist, her novel, A Season of Reason, has remained unloved and neglected.
A Season of Reason was never published. Why? As in any expedition, we need to do our homework, and sift through mountains of books. However, there are some problems so I will list them: books on the library shelves are out of order, pages missing and the original manuscript almost unreadable.
My honors project is to write the rest of A Season of Reason, and make it into the novel she intended it to be. But how do I know her intentions? I must become her, some way or another. I must learn the way she structures her sentences. But how? She didn’t leave an outline of the events in the novel. The neon flickers, mosquitoes dance around the incandescent tube, still I see nothing but a pile of decaying books. I smell the perfume of paper slowly oxidizing, yellowing with age.
Eureka! The first few pages of the novel.
Yet, as I read them, the paragraphs become more disjointed, goes off on tangents, as if she were going crazy. How can I ever reconstruct this? What have I got myself into? Her handwriting flows like rivulets across a barren earth. After Virginia Woolf committed suicide, Noelene gave up writing and never published another book. Some see it as a sign of respect. There may be some truth to the tale. Carefully examining her biography, I open a page that shows her photograph. Her eyes beckon to me across time and space; blue pools of lucidity and willpower. I turn the page. Another picture. This time her eyes are indifferent to the world in which she once walked. A sense of apathy is present, the will to live is absent, and then I look at the date. It was the year Woolf died.
Chapter 3
A Season of Reason
By
Noelene Richards
From Dr. Parker’s diary dated the 24th of June 1775.
One must remember that “literature”, like fashion, is discarded once it is embraced. In short, prevailing tastes dictate its commercial worth.
Good phrase I jot it down for future reference.
The streets were lightly varnished by an evening shower that had come and gone. It was a day for ponderous contemplation, but that was not the goal of the small, disheveled mop of brownish hair. That bobbed in and out of the crowd. It was the hair of a woman of no importance hurriedly crossing this way and that. Her shoes succumbed to the filth that littered the streets; she wasn’t, in her opinion, presentable to ladies of society like Mrs. Brown whom she saw coming towards her. As she was late, she had no time to greet Mrs. Brown, who was offended by such impertinence and in due course was not a woman to be shunned. Miss Francs worked for a woman of questionable character. To say the least, one of dubious virtue. But Miss Francs did not care as long as she got paid.
Doesn’t flow properly. Needs more character info. Jumps from scene.
Dominique Dumont had not the least regret in leaving her former station as nursemaid to her younger brothers – whom she did not miss in the least. Nor did she miss the yokel atmosphere of Blackmore Hills. On the road out of town was an orchard of fruit trees that Mr. Eyre had had planted, a few at a time, to celebrate the birth of each of his many children; some were cherry trees for their children’s red hair. Dominique too had red hair – a surprise, as neither of her parents did nor did her brothers. The day she left, the wind had given life to the cherry trees, animating their branches, combing back her hair – as if to protest her leaving Blackmore Hills. But, that was a lifetime ago and she had forgotten. Now it was time to get out of bed.
Soft light glistened upon her ivory skin – the folds of her pink satin dressing gown marked her as a connoisseur of the finest fashions. Her room smelt of lavender and was decorated in an Oriental style. She opened her eyes and thought of the beauty regime that she must follow – her cleansed skin to be kept as youthful as possible – men wanted youthfulness and beauty as she knew very well, from a woman in her profession.
The tattoos of station had had an effect on her aspirations. As much as she wanted to be thought of as a fashionable woman, this was denied her due to the tattoo of her profession. A profession which, needless to say, brought her the clientele that she hoped, some day, to marry. She, the “Aspirant” had plotted and counter-plotted to engineer her way into high society, and so I shall begin with one of many narratives.
Fragmented, needs fill in paragraphs!
The “archetypes” of an Enlightened Age, many of whom created beautiful works of literature, music, and architecture – had sinned willfully. Gaining their inspiration by debasing women, judging them only on their ability to reproduce or to provide pleasure. Dominique knew quite well the lot of a woman. Could a woman like Dominique climb into the upper echelons? In short, could she be an equal to men? Their portraits gazing toward the infinity of space and time was what she remembered of the portraits along the corridor of the museum of art. Their gaze transfixed her heart – forever remembered by gracious deeds – born from the gossamer spun by studious enterprise in this fount of an age of reason. Those for whom reason was not applicable, namely, women! Was this the germ from which a great woman of state and enterprise could grow? Was it in her grasp?
Her hand erupted out from the folds of linen sheets, which caressed her pink satin under-garments, toward a brass bell that rested faithfully upon the bedside table. She shook it with an autocratic gesture. The door creaked with submission as the chambermaid entered, knowing that her mistress demanded attention to her toilet.
The chambermaid, Miss Francs, was a rather rambunctious, stocky woman in her early fifties – give or take a year. She was unsure of the date because her natural mother had abandoned her on St. Agnes steps. She presented herself as a submissive character; yet, this may not be the case?
Jumps around – speaker?
“Why are you late?” (Veins swell around her forehead) “What say you?”
“I beg your f’rgiveness my lady,” replied Miss Francs apologetically. She thought, “Stuck up cow!”
The volcano that had slept for so many years was now threatening to extinguish all those who stood in its path. Likewise, a similar disaster awaited between servant and lady. The volcano smoldered – occasionally hiccupping plumes of smoke. The friction between opposing forces grew from spite and bitterness – the pressure within the volcano had grown to such an extent that no one could foretell the outcome. The volcanic red hair had been appeased up until now. Truth, like justice was a matter of interpretation – what she told and did not tell when hotly cross-examined by her mistress.
There should be dialogue – needs filling in.
Algorithmic in nature, a woman’s toilet started with the cleansing of skin with rose water – followed by an application of a white paste onto the skin to give a saintly glow. A virtuous woman would never apply rouge to her cheeks but instead would pinch them. She had completed the process to beautify, to rectify any sort of mistake that nature had imparted, and now she was ready to receive male company. The mirror door that led out from her lavender room was now opened – so began the festivities.
“Come Lady,” beckoned the man, whose semblance and old age would’ve suggested an ancestor of the crocodile species, due mainly to his cracked and scaly skin. He continued unabated, “My tarnished lance needs polishing by your loving hands!”
“I myself, like other gentlewomen,” in an innocent tone of voice – as if she had not known the price and so continued unabashed with the transaction, “pray that you will bestow coinage for my services?”
The very game of survival had now begun between predator and prey.
“What say your price?”
The roles had changed, due to her skilled expertise in the art of manipulation. The predator was now the prey.
“The usual customary price of a newly bedded wife – let’s say a small pension for my continued service to please you.”
After the solicitation had occurred – to which there was scarcely any intelligible conversation, except to defame a dead man whom they both knew – the client left for whence he came.
Chapter 4
Slick, thinness of the page – interesting to see a plot developing in the novel, how shall I link the disjointed fragments? I write a few notes then I continue with the narrative – I pause, thinking it strange that she had set the novel back in eighteenth century. Why is the novel heroine French? Who is Dominique Dumont? The French weren’t popular in England in those times. Dominique Dumont would have had a tough time. She obviously hasn’t thought about the consequences of a French character. Or has she?
Disassembling the plot at this point, we are left with the following: the heroine is of dubious repute in her profession and parentage. Was this true of the author? There’s a relationship between Dr Parker and Dominique. Will his wife find out? As I quickly scan through her biography, I find there was an underlying question about Noelene’s father. A man claimed by her biographer to be Richards’ father had the initials M.B, but her birth certificate has the father’s name inked out. The biographer, Samuel Green, claims that her father had gambled away the family house in Highgrove – a fashionable street in London in the early 1870’s. There are two candidates – Matthew Bloom, a literary critic (the most likely according to Green) or Max Brownness, a painter. Both knew Noelene’s mother. Both were heavy drinkers and both gambled incessantly.
A skeleton waiting to be uncovered, a skeleton that I too shall unburden. My childhood was tenuous, lacking stability due mainly to the disintegration of my parents’ marriage. This was a marriage built on the sands of deceit, not the solid rock of commitment. I escaped and withdrew into myself, never revealing any signs of my fractured soul. Noelene’s life in some respects was similar to my own. We both longed to be accepted by our lovers – their failure to meet our expectations was the sharp tip of a spear that pierced both of our hearts. As I slowly tease the interwoven strands of our lives out into the stark and cold world of the written page, I hope the reader feels a little bit of empathy for us, the writer.
Chapter 5
Fragmentary paragraph waiting to be pieced together. Beautiful imagery.
The city was surrounded by mountainous terrain cusped by pillars of rose-colored granite, the top of which was a peppered distribution of trees. Puffy curls of white clouds cast shadows upon the land. On the outskirts of the city were two parallel columns of maples, leading to the graveyard – the trees’ bowed limbs forming a tunnel through which a procession of mourners emerged into the overbearing light of day. On this miserable day for those concerned with the death of old man Jacobs, a secret was to surface about the activities of newly deceased.
Who was Jacobs? It seems likely that the dead man in the above paragraph was Dr Parker. Dr Parker’s character is so formal in his diary. Maybe someone else is looking at it?
An extract from Dr. Parker’s diary dated the 24th of June 1775.
AN EXERCISE
IN
AUTOWRITING
The things that were maybes or possibilities in the past are now reasons behind thought processes; the mind’s innate drive to solve and comprehend the world of tomorrow. The human condition to expedite and to mediate is quite common in a world of chaos that belittles us all. In these strata of good and evil, these qualities of consciousness are in equilibrium with the status quo of societal values.
Our moral values depend on a number of factors, particularly those that are subscribed to by religion. In Ancient Egypt, incest in the royal family was common, yet the modern world condemns this behavior as abnormal. I don’t condemn or condone incest; it is society that imparts its wishes onto the individual and not the other way around.
“I do agree with my husband’s philosophy,” said the veiled woman in a capacious room that was lit by only one candle. Golden flecks of light exposed her small, pink, rose-petal lips as she whispered to herself, “If only he knew!”
Mavis’ sin was a secret to her late husband and the family. The family looked up to her. To them she seemed like an Empress of a vast ocean empire where the waves lapped at her feet and caressed every pore of her body. The sensuality of the white foam that pulsated between her ashen thighs dissolved into an inkling desire to see and to touch his manly features. She dreamed his proboscis lapped at her gentle mound of flesh and the seed was delivered under a canopy of flickering green of seaweed that entwined the lovers in a natural seascape. Only an impressionist could capture the scene with much intensity. Nor did the lovers dream that their mind’s artist would have painted this forbidden picture.
The liquid wax cascaded down the candle shaft; drip by drip, it formed a congealed buttress that led the eye to a small porcelain vase in the corner of the room. The vase fluoresced under this acrid tainted room of lies and deceits. What was Mavis Parker hiding? Her black silk veil never could hide her contempt for her late husband. A spasmodic twitch at the upper corner of her mouth was an indication, to some degree, of her guilt. However, she now could lay all of these problems to rest in the coal blackness of the ground where the worms would feast on his body. Yet, that same decay had started to work on her soul.
Mavis grew restless for her lover’s embrace, for the soft carnal delights of the flesh. A light rap at the door brought a sudden reddening to her countenance. She was aroused by the merest speculation that the police had surmised her deadly plot.
First person narrative, I wonder if it is one of the characters or the writer herself. Could be confusing. I shall mention that my name is Adam Carlson, the honors student researching A Season of Reason.
As I delved deeper into Mavis’ mind, I encountered not a frail creature. Instead, she used men for her benefit. Mavis epitomizes the criminal Siren, who is ever weary of her foe. With calculated actions and reactions, she ensnares men for her ever-growing appetite.
Interesting development, Mavis had an affair as well. The question is with whom?
The tapping grew ever louder then it stopped. Did Mavis imagine the airy oscillations of sound? A thought lay stagnant in her consciousness, a zygote waiting to grow into a fully conceived plan. Tap; Tap … smash a cobweb-fractured glass in the window at the corner.
This doesn’t make sense. An unknown person – someone who knew her deceased husband – threw a rock through Mavis’s window. Tied to it was a piece of paper. Maybe the piece of paper was addressed to Dominique. This would give more plot to the novel. I’ll try a fill in paragraph. This will see whether I can mimic her style.
Sounds of Love’s
Divine Song
I
Nature proclaims my love for you. But
Why do you torture me so?
Sweet lavender droplets do not smell
As good – in comparison to the divine
Ruby rose of love that is in my heart for you.
II
The waves of the irradiant ocean kiss your feet.
Slivering, silver flashes of the beacon
Radiates in high pitch luminosity
Of ether glowing in your heart.
III
Rapturous, simmering of liquid qualities
Of love flowing in doves of white seen
In the bluest of blue skies.
The dazzling perplexities of bearish
Torment whose feature ensnares me so.
IV
Spasmodic, tensions – then relaxing
Of the musician’s string of
Sound with glorious octaves.
Praise is to you my joyful spouse.
(For my beloved D. Dumont)
The secret was out. What did this all mean? A scandal waiting to burst forth upon the world. Who was this D. Dumont? This was one of the many thoughts that Mavis had had: if a woman of lower class had committed the crime, had she, as a woman of virtue, a right to attack this insidious whore of the night? However, she too had had a liaison, waiting to be found out. So who was the virtuous one?
Death knocked on various doors around the city, collecting souls and bragging to himself. Then Death thought that he would spare one man’s life. However, he would ask a favor in return. What was the favor?
Fragmented piece – dialogue below said by Mavis Parker and Madame X (I haven’t found the name of the character yet) what is her relation with Mavis? The dialogue seems rather wooden.
“I know he loves me or does he? If only he would tell me, instead of this continual masquerade. From the pulpit of arrogance he preaches love and virtue.”
In reply, Mavis said: “Men are a weaker species, their real interest is the 3000 pounds, they’ll acquire with marriage to you. Why do men have it easy?”
She followed: “A man’s love is between his legs and the swindling of his next victim.”
With a sigh of resignation, they thought on similar lines: “Love or leave them – where would we be without them?”
The use of “cliché” to state the obvious – that women have capacity for virtue, whereas men are cracked by their lack of these qualities. Or are they?
* * *
The golden nebula of the setting sun illuminates the pages. I continue with the manuscript, Beethoven playing; I feel passion within, cocooned in these four walls of consciousness. A consciousness waiting to be born on the ethereal wings of night. Stars wink their sorry eyes at me. I imagine hearing a drunk beating his girlfriend for not cooking him dinner. She still loves him – even though he has bruised her soul, which will never quite heal. Strange way to show love. Tonight there is silence – no more yelling. Crunch. Crunch – shattering of cranium – liquid fire erupting. The hunched figure, cradling phone, speaking monosyllables to the operator. The ambulance arrives carting the body away – what a travesty of life when she is sentenced for life. She couldn’t take it anymore, being his punching bag. Poignant isn’t it? The children are left without father or mother…. Ten years later, they’re sniffing petrol or prostituting themselves in King’s Cross. The more I think about it – there’s something quite bemusing and perplexing in this microcosm. An underlying culture of alcohol and illicit drugs all littering the landscape, used needles and empty beer cans, which leads me to question a society that has little regard for the environment. A society that I as an individual am part of, should try to uphold the moral and legal consequences.
I know that I shouldn’t be cynical and pessimistic concerning human nature, as it is the minority that commits all these crimes. But a thirsty man only thinks of the taste, smell and texture of water – I know from experience – I too was thirsty, so too was my soul, it thirsts for love. Yet, I drive love away.
Chapter 6
Writers’ block, writer’s, writer’s block. W-R -I-T-E-R-’S B-L-O-C-K. I’ve suffered it in the past and will in the future. Other writers have blocks, which impede their writing. The trick is to write for ten or twenty minutes, putting pen to page – or, as is the case for me, fingers to keyboard. You’d be surprised what is seething, not yet, waiting to boil to the surface of my consciousness.
A consciousness is trying to break loose upon a landscape of full stops and question marks. I still haven’t worked out how to link the fragments of A Season of Reason. Every scene in a novel is very important. It gives details of time, location and atmosphere. Everyday life can be captured so simply with the correct choice of phrase; something as ordinary as waiting for a bus can have many images. For instance:
Spasmodic flicks, in out in out, of the ant’s proboscis as it searches and feels the coolness of the bus shelter’s concrete floor. Not a floor a work of art by Pollock – drips of ketchup, blotching of cigarette ash. I’m waiting for the bus to arrive to go somewhere, anywhere, just away from here. I sweep my hand through my hair, showering dandruff like snow onto the concrete floor – proboscis nibbling at the small parcels of dandruff – ant thinks that it has won the jackpot. A game that I too shall play some day.
Continuing where I left off:
I wander back from the library. Richards’ manuscript is carefully concealed in my backpack the pieces are starting to come together, namely, the plot bubbling away in an imaginary cauldron. I can see a plot developing, but, as yet, I shall keep that a secret.
I feel the stillness and coldness of the air. No peace for me tonight – a Curlew cries. Shadows flicker under the neon streetlight. The Curlew, supported by two straws and eyes bulging from their sockets, darts across the gravel. The Aborigines once believed that when a Curlew screamed it was an omen of death.
Proposed amendment to the Constitution dated 24th of June 1775 as suggested by the Honorable Dr. Jacob Parker:
Bill of Rights
Proposed
By
Dr. Parker
We the people have inalienable rights in regards to
(A) RELIGION, (B) LANDOWNERSHIP
AND (C) VOTING RIGHTS
THE RIGHTS OF CITIZENS OF THIS COUNTRY
We, the people, have the right to free health care, legal services, accommodation, and education.
As citizens of this country we must Endeavour to promote
LOVE, UNDERSTANDING, SUPPORT FOR THOSE LESS FORTUNATE THAN OURSELVES.
EDUCATION
Under the Declaration, education shall be considered free to STUDENTS, as education brings prosperity to the country. This will result in a RENAISSANCE in the
(A) ARTS, (B) SCIENCES AND (C) OTHER FIELDS OF INQUIRING YET TO BE DISCOVERED.
ENVIRONMENT
IT SHALL BE CONSIDERED A CRIME TO HARM THE ENVIRONMENT IN ANY WAY, NAMELY,
WATERWAYS, (B) SOIL, (C) NOISE (D) THE AIR.
If a person and/or corporation violates these conditions their right to trade as a corporation will be suspended from the STOCK exchange and this person or persons will be sent for environmental education and spend money on ways to reduce pollution.
GOVERNING THE COUNTRY
IT IS THE ROLE OF THE PRESIDENT
TO NEVER MISLEAD THE CITIZENS OF HIS COUNTRY.
IF THE PRESIDENT IS CORRUPT AND FOUND GUILTY BY A COURT OF LAW, THEN HE MUST RESIGN FROM HIS OFFICE.
THE PARLIAMENT MUST BE COMPRISED OF FIFTY PER-CENT LANDOWNERS AND NONLANDOWNERS FROM EXISTING ELECTORAL AREAS. THERE SHOULD BE NO STATE RELIGION AS THERE IS NO ONE TRUE RELIGION. THE PURPOSE OF RELIGION IS TO
COMFORT PEOPLE IN THE FORM OF COUNSELLING ABOUT DEATH AND BIRTH, WHEREAS GOVERNMENT PROVIDES THE FRAMEWORK FOR SOCIAL COHESION.
ROYAL FAMILY
THE PURPOSE OF THE ROYAL FAMILY IS TO DISPLAY TO THE WORLD HOW PEOPLE SHOULD ACT:
NAMELY PURITY OF MIND, BODY AND SOUL.
THE CURRENT ROYAL FAMILY HAVE TOO MUCH
POWER, THUS THEY’RE OPEN TO CORRUPTION AND LIKE SPOILT CHILDREN, MISBEHAVE.
“Jacob’s final testament was to amend the constitution – by inserting a bill of rights,” said the senatorial Mr. Samuel Butterworth as he slowly kissed the nape of a lavender-scented woman.
“You know the parliament will never support such a radical bill,” said the lavender-scented woman. “The house will water it down. It’s a pity it will never see the light of day.”
After the solicitation was over, Mr. Butterworth promptly made his way to parliament. Born into a prominent family of lawyers, he had made his money importing silk, silver and spices from Cathay and as his wealth grew so did his appetite for women. It was quite common for men in parliament to have extramarital affairs as long as it didn’t come to the surface. Ironically, he would go to confession to air his sins and every Sunday after mass, he would go back to the red-light district for more, until he was exhausted.
* * *
The air was clear and silent, nothing out of place. The birds chirped merrily as the clouds cast motley shadows upon the cityscape. Not far from the city was a Baroque villa of creamy colored marble, in which there lived a very fortunate woman of high breeding. She was Mrs. Brown, whom I mentioned previously. She sat at her bureau writing a letter that would unite two of the country’s most influential families. The strokes of her handwriting flowed across the page like ice-skaters on a river. Yet, the ice may not support the weight of her ambitions, which included marrying her daughter, Kitty, to Samuel Butterworth. The fair Kitty was a silly little girl with no lucid comprehension of the world outside the villa; she would bend like plastic under the slightest pressure from her mother. Kitty’s main objective was to satisfy her mother’s desires. For Samuel there were inducements to agree to marry Kitty: she was a pleasure to the eye, but more enticing was her dowry of 3000 pounds per annum.
Chapter 7
My eyes grow tired. I take another pill and a deep breath and start where I left off – there is perfume on the neatly written page. I carefully pick up the page and inhale again, deeply, breathing in those distant years, a past I must recapture. It’s nine o’clock. With each tick of the clock I grow more tired, I close my eyes and begin to dream of birds swimming through the sky.
I knocked on the door; a voice beckoned to come in. Professor Matheson sat comfortably between two piles of marked assignments, his eyes gazed upon them. He had a gentle disposition with a portly body to match. I seated myself between those literary columns and began to list my reason for wanting to study Noelene’s manuscript. I coughed nervously. Suddenly he handed me a piece of paper.
THE SIREN
By
Noelene Richards
You were once flesh and blood, but life’s pressures and heartache have turned you into a Siren, with comely looks and a voice that sings a song of unearthly devising, to snare men and cruelly drown them.
I too am hypnotized by your song. As I draw nearer to my doom, you unfurl your arms for the deadly embrace. Beguiled by your song, I embrace you and sign our contract with a kiss.
Suddenly we plunge under the waves, and as suddenly your song is over. I’m drowning. I struggle in vain until my lungs are bursting. I know that in a few moments I shall be dead.
With one hand, I take off my heart necklace and place it around your neck. As water fills my lungs, the last things I see are your tragic eyes. I am dead. I can feel no more pain; it is the Siren who must endure the pain. Like the others before me, I would gladly go to my death again, and be once more hypnotized by her song.
“Were you aware that this poem was her last?” said Matheson. “This was Noelene Richards’ way to mourn the death of Virginia Woolf. There were rumors that the two had an affair.”
“No, I wasn’t aware of that rumor!” said I. My heart beat like a drum.
“Some things are better left undone,” he said.
“I beg to differ, understanding her motives may shed light on her soul.”
Professor Matheson’s lips tightened. “In her letter dated two weeks after the suicide of Woolf she wrote, ‘I cannot write for my will to write is gone!’ The death of Woolf caused her deep pain, so understandably she was in no state to finish A Season of Reason. It would be best if you didn’t dwell on an incomplete manuscript that is of no literary merit. Better to let things rest, and to choose another honors topic.”
I stared at him with a blank, expressionless face and replied:
“I know that you doubt that I can reconstruct the manuscript, but rest assured I won’t fail.”
“You don’t know what you’re getting yourself into.” He warned.
I fell into deep thought. Two parallel lines of thought emerged from my innermost desires. Was it time for good thoughts, or was it time for bad thoughts to percolate to the surface? I dare to be different, yet I yearn to be the same as everyone else. This was the dilemma I faced in my lecturer’s room. The stagnant air outside did not shake the palm fronds. Professor Matheson spoke to me, but I did not focus on what was being said; instead, I studied his vast library. The books spoke to me in their secret languages; the characters of these novels were expressions of the writers’ consciences. I desired very much to be a writer, what else?
I could hear the clock ticking in the background. The ticks grew fainter, until there was no sound except that of my lecturer’s voice. Then I heard a startling crash. I awoke from my daydreaming and saw Matheson flustered at my lack of attention. I apologized, and he continued.