Another chapter of a larger composition

Here's an image of some stuff, because I just finished the next part of my textual work-in-progress.

P.S.

In other news: my Public Private Diary is fully printed; also I made a list of my latest novels that have been printed but not included in any collection.

Chapter Forty-Nine

That last stunt that we brought off was tremendously moving, and I am in the mood to lap up some praise-and-worship for it, but, before our studio audience even has time to dab their eyes with their neckerchiefs, our shot’s foreground becomes dominated by a long line of tuxedo’d humans wearing bright white gloves and holding shiny handbells, each of which has a hairline fracture upon its golden bowl.

“It’s the Capital Liberty Choir,” Myala whispers to me, in explanation.

“I know,” I say.

The instrumentalists begin to ring out a tune; and I like this music at first, but then it starts to get bothersome, so I say to Myala: “Let’s leave.”

Once we’re out in the open air and away from all the broken-liberty-bell ringers, we skulk for sev­eral hundred cubits into the woods; then mount upon two divans that are waiting in an alcove.

We stretch out and recline lazily, with our eyelids half closed, facing each other on our respective items of furniture, and just let time pass. Our appearance resembles a sophisticated pair of opium addicts.

At one point, a songbird flutters forth and lands on my snout. Myala giggles at this; then she blows at the bird with her minty breath, and the thing freezes and shatters.

“Thanks,” I say. “I really hate songbirds.”

During the next long stretch of silence, we relax so thoroughly that we actually fall into a bliss of semi-consciousness and begin to dream epic portents . . .

After 150 days of vision-packed relaxing, I open my eyes all the way and see Myala before me, still apparently asnooze. So I wait a few more weeks until, at last, she pretends to wake up too.

“Did you sleep well?” I ask.

“I guess I did,” Myala sez. (She’s a Glowing Black Panther, and I Bryan am a Burning Tyger, in case you forgot.) Then she adds: “All I know is that that last dream I had was fantastic.”

“Was it memorable enough,” I ask, “for you to be able to relay the gist of it?”

“What for?” Myala asks sincerely: “Do you mean to tell me that you didn’t experience the identical string of visions?”

I tilt my head and wonder; then I say: “Of course, I presume we’re in sync, because neither of us are false prophets; but, how can I know, until you relay the gist of your vision?”

“Good point,” sez Myala. “So, it’s clear that the final dream in my series unveiled the fate of this realm of the universe vividly. But the truth is that I’m not sure I grasped its details firmly enough to articulate even generally my portent’s contents — plus, everything was symbolic. And, the more we talk, the more I forget.”

“Well then hurry and tell whatever you still recall,” I say, “before it fades away.”

“Alright, here goes,” sez Myala: “My oracle begins with a cloaked villain holding a dagger . . .”

“Ooh,” I interrupt; “sounds just like my type of spy story—”

“Shh! Be patient,” Myala smiles; “I haven’t yet begun to tell you all the dangerous and suspenseful things that shall come to pass.”

“Sorry,” I say; “please continue. I’ll behave.”

“Now this evil man with the cloak and dagger is creeping around in the gloom, where he befriends untold reprobates. Then, one day, he comes out into the light and attends a ritzy fundraiser party at noon outside a colonial-style house, where he meets the love of his life. She is a gorgeously seductive young damsel: her dress is green, and her eyes are the shape and color of sorrow; although she is only photographed in soft-focus monochrome.”

I can’t stop myself from blurting out a question: “What type of cuisine are they serving at the barbecue? I apologize for interrupting, but my curiosity is intense. — This fundraiser party is a barbecue, am I right?”

“Um, yeah, you’re not wrong,” sez Myala; “altho the scene is obviously staged in Italy, this get-together resembles an American shindig.”

“And the food . . . ?” (Now I’m starting to pluck and eat the dandelions from the grass surrounding the divan, absentmindedly.)

“Oh, you’ll love this,” Myala’s eyes widen: “There was an entire subsection of the dream where I was able to go out on a skiff with some of the girls who were working on the set-design for our secret agent’s next propaganda film (which some­how was the same production as this improvised play-date that we were experiencing moment by moment), and they took me fishing:

“Thus, all morning, while gliding along in the lake’s clear waters, we kept on catching these delicious smallmouth bass. Then, returning to the fundraiser, we built a fire out of driftwood. (As I said, this event was taking place at an upscale residence, the backyard of which had a minor section in its corner which remained permanently night — it was just as mysterious and magical as it sounds; like something out of a fairy tale — this outlier zone resembled an office-sized snow-globe, except, instead of white flakes falling thru water, there were stars in black air: static and glimmering. So, our fire provided a romantic contrast to the darkness, without having to compete with the sunlit surroundings.) The female artists fried the fish in crackling pork fat; then served it with corn and potatoes. It was the finest meal I’ve ever dreamt.”

My jaw is on the ground as I listen to this description, some of which I recognize as being lifted from The Devil’s Chessboard (2015) by David Talbot. “And to drink?” I ask.

“Buñuel made us martinis. Luis Buñuel, the surrealist filmmaker.”

“You’re kidding . . . The great Buñuel was in your dream, too!?”

“No joke,” sez Myala. “And so was everyone else we admire.”

“This is far beyond the usual prophetic vision,” I purr. “In fact, it sounds like a revisiting of the Chankly Bore. Do you think we might have had one of those out-of-body experiences?”

“It’s possible,” sez Myala. “But I’m leaning toward deciphering the whole thing as a standard ‘Famine Warning’, because of the fundraiser. The Chankly Bore would never host a fundraiser.”

“Actually,” I say, “they host fundraisers every day.”

Myala looks down. “Hmm, true. I guess maybe it was a standard resurrection, then.”

Silence follows that last line of dialogue until later in the evening, when I perk up and say:

“Hey, what ever happened to that cloaked villain with the dagger who fell under the spell of your sad-eyed seductress? — In your dream, I mean.”

“Oh, the lead roles in my oracle?” sez Myala; then she waves her forepaw dismissively: “That memory’s so hazy, it’s practically nonexistent . . . Even if I attempt to tell it, I’m not sure what I say will be accurate.”

“Ah, c’mon; you can just ransack the ancestral memory,” I plead. “Let the collective unconscious lend you a myth.”

“Alright, well,” Myala continues her tale where she left off, “so the spy falls in love with this vixen. But she’s the gentlest vixen the world has ever known — she’s basically not a vixen but rather a sweet fawn named ‘Noli me tangere’ who happens to have been born as a human female. And this ruthless, coldhearted agent of espionage woos her.”

“But why would she fall for him,” I ask, “when it sounds like she could have her choice of any double-agent in the world?”

“That’s correct: she could,” Myala nods; “but she gets swept away by this particular spy because he grabs her by the shoulders and stares directly into her eyes and announces sternly: ‘You are mine. Do as you’re told.’ — This makes the damsel feel like she’s truly worth something, because none of her other suitors dared treat her as luggage. Most likely, they all were plotting to attempt to win her affection thru companionship and conversation.”

“So are you saying that this brute act of chattel-claiming makes her feel like she’s special, or useful?” I’m admittedly lost. “As tho her existence in the world is not purposeless, or something?”

“Exactly,” sez Myala. “It makes her feel like she’s a briefcase brimming with gems.”

“Hm,” I say. “OK, go on . . .”

“So the evil spy marries the sad-eyed seductress, and they produce a couple children. Now here’s how their domestic life unfolds:

“The father is never home — he stays away for full years at a time; and if you try to schedule a meeting with him, even if you’re legally his wife and have the paperwork to prove it, he’ll only give you ten minutes of his time before vanishing into the shadows again (just ten minutes — can you believe it!?), for he’s a master of the art of espionage. After falling steadily deeper into depression on account of her husband’s flightiness, the young mother ends up seeking out a charlatan; and she pays the fellow to feign as if he is her therapist. She also begins to keep a diary in which she records her inner life with shocking honesty. (My favorite entry, so far, is the one where she writes: ‘Last night dreamt that hubby leapt from the diving board into a pool at our hotel and lost his swimsuit in the process; then he refused to emerge from the water, lest I ogle his privy spot.’)”

After a pause, I ask: “And the kids?”

“The children are basket-cases because the parents are incapable of caring — the mother is selfish in one way, and the father is selfish in another way. The End.”

I stare at Myala: “That’s all she wrote?”

“That’s the final line of the epic.” Myala yawns. “How true do you suppose it is? Did your own prophetic dream-sequence have the same finish?”

I search my mind; then I solemnly swear: “Yeah, now that I think about it, my vision mirrored yours, point for point, all the way to the end, where, in that closing shot, our heroine shone as the amber glow from that stolen attaché case: her luster emanating from whatever treasure was secured within it. Then she sought therapy. And her kids were doomed, as human children always are.” (A fiery tear falls from my Tyger-eye.)