Body in Heaven, the news is coming in braille again. It’s the same old relay: “Pigeon flies at Dawn.” And we just have no idea. Maybe wind on your skin, through your hair in strings. Some twinkling starshine would send this amping beetle rigid, petrified mid-scuttle where its horns (respectively labeled + and -) would almost connect via electric shock! Oh dear, you may be thinking, what a sight for these modest eyes. Did you not already know of our union between Planes of Existence? There were thoughts your mortal brain’s mind’s eye could be filtering through this very moment, at the mere suggestion of… the Planes of E….
Body in Heaven, how did we get here—to this place in which the walls uphold a void ceiling, simply nothing, so black and tarry in this poor lamping we cannot be sure there is really anything at all, above us, in here? Maybe (and) there will be a voice beside you, which answers: You came to see Rodrick, didn’t you? And maybe you won’t be totally sure. Maybe glasses and shot-glasses of foreign liquors (liqueurs) at the table before you: a bottle of something called Dineros Prosperos, baroquely labeled, whose liquid sparkles cherry-vermillion. Maybe (and) there is music playing… from the background-audio of a VCR tape which stutters on-box-TV-set and which features a young Marlon Brando. But are we paying attention? the voice of the woman beside you might ask. And (and) where is this Rodrick, this person you’re purported to be here for? Maybe you aren’t totally sure you should look to the woman beside you on the orange chaise-lounge of if the observance itself would somehow drastically change her, “her” as for him, “him” as in you, from your limited perspective.
Body in Heaven, we are receiving what the Ancient Egyptian Spirits refer to as the “Mixed Messages” and “Bad Topical Settings” and such. Always in braille, recently. Can I just, the woman beside you might ask, make a suggestion? And maybe you respond, Yes. Maybe you say Yes and maybe she touches your arm. It would be at this point you’d be compelled beyond formal function to look. So you look and what do you see? What is she, as person? What is the nature of the creasing skin about her mouth whenever it is her speech evokes Zygomatic Joy, a beatific smile? What is the probability she will change again at any moment, expression dependent on the expressive reaction she sees in you, her interlocutor, the Constant Variable, the keenish listener who, according to the level of your liqueur’s glass and its difference from hers, doesn’t drink much? What (and) will she say when you can’t break the silence? Is there (it) something you could say to positively affect the continuation of her suggestion-making? It—is it something in the air that dries your tongue and compels you to reach for the glass? Maybe you nod. Maybe her smile intensifies; maybe it remains docile.
If it is time to die, altogether, then please—o Body in Heaven—take me now. Maybe a draft in the room, all hairs on your arm about her hand’s warmth standing at attention. But where is Rodrick? Why is he absent? Where is this mythical prospect of a person?
Rewind the tape, she says.
Maybe you notice the static snow. Maybe it’s too dim, in here. Negative-blink: open your eyes: you can’t remember.