No, no, no...
It seems the black van has disappeared after a record eleven days. And I seem to have blacked out after a few days, as I did on the previous two occasions. I must have eaten, though, as I have only lost 35 kilos, which is, if memory serves, slightly less than last time. This time I can even see, although my vision is quite blurred. I expect it will return to normal in a few days.
I was rather surprised, when I came to, to find myself in the basement with a barely living cat attached to two intravenous tubes - to which I as well was attached, naturally. I must have done it while barely conscious, for the tube which was supposed to carry blood from the cat to me was inserted the wrong way in the cat -
with the blood instead of
against it, so that no blood entered it. The tube carrying blood from me to the cat, however, was inserted correctly.
The cat was quite unappetizing, although somewhat arousing. At first I was unsettled by this, but then I asked myself who really wants to eat what is arousing.
That would have been cause for worry. I buried the cat in the garden, next to the television, which I did not consider safe to exhume. I will, perhaps, acquire another, although I am not certain that any television will be safe from their mind-control rays.
I also intend to visit the hospital - not the one I visited last time, I can assure you - for a blood transfusion. I would have done it today, but I am still weak, and I must eat and rest. I very much look forward to it.
Other than that, I am feeling quite well, having once again defeated my enemies.
However, there is no trace of the dog. I wonder where it is.
The story was not as good the second time he read it and he ate dinner in bitter silence.
The cats passed noiselessly by the window. He heard a child scream and a single gunshot. Then silence returned and thank God for that, he thought.
He read the story for the third time and it was even worse. Where was justice in this life? I'd like to know, he mumbled, and went to the bathroom. Damn indigestible slop.
He returned with a white face and with blood on his hands. Two men followed him. One said:
The story gets worse each time he reads it. The other said:
I got the last one. It is your turn.
The first took a gun out of his coat and shot himself in the head. The other took a piece of chalk out of his trouser pocket and drew a line around him.
Then he left, taking the paralyzed, blood-stenched man with him.
Suicide, the police officer said. Jesus Christ, what a loser. Look at this apartment.
The smell disappeared after a few weeks.
They think they know me. They think they see me. See me. See me? No, not me. Me? Do they see me? See? I am not to be seen. Where? Am I seen? I see. They see? Ha! Who sees? Windows to the sea. Waves of light. They see not.
So am I wake. Summer rolls slipshod straight. Rumble, crumble. My feet hurt in this rubble of crushed buildings. Towers stretch beneath me, away from the air, supported by my weight. I know who stands on their heights. They do not know me. Yet without me, they too would crumble.
Silent wings approach. I hear them not. They whisper my name, but knows it not. I rise above the horizon dressed in dead skin.
I see.
They warned me against it.
"Don't do it, Thomas," they said. But not in one voice. No, not at first. Separately, insistingly. Over and over again. They nearly convinced me. But I did it.
Did I make the right decision? Did I understand the consequences? If I did, then why these regrets? Did I not tell myself that no sacrifice was too great? Yes, I was rash. I was young.
We all live to regret our actions.
I fear I will not live much longer. How sweet life seems when it is nigh lost. What would I not do to sit motionless in my chair, staring out the window at passerbys? How peaceful it seems now, when my life is fraught with horror. Yes, horror. Horror, I tell you.
Who understands me? I have not yet met that strange person. How would I greet him? Would I nod, shake his hand, and then continue, walk by him? Yes, he would vanish behind me, never to be seen again. What good would such a meeting do? He would be no help.
Who will know? Who can see my thoughts as his? He is not here, nor will he come. I know not. Why do I not see him as me? He must be a man of few thoughts.
Thus.
The dog went out yesterday and has not come back. Fortunately, it left by the back door, and I do not think the agents in the van saw it. I hope they do not know about it, but I can not rule out that they suspect. They must certainly be suspicious of my recovery and wonder how I achieved it.
Otherwise, I am feeling surprisingly well. I am calm, considering the circumstances, and I buried the television in the back garden, as they were using it to bombard me with mind-control rays. They certainly did not expect me to become aware of that, and I was rather surprised myself. It seems my senses have sharpened considerably - I should have expected certain alterations in my nervous system.
Tap water is, of course, out of the question, so I have purchased several ten-liter containers of water and boiled it. I feel confident that I will live through this hardship, as I have done in the past.
If only they do not discover the dog...
It seems the black van has returned. It is parked by the tree (I do not know what kind) on the other side of the street. It first appeared in March two years ago. I was quite nervous, as I could hear them (the agents in the van) sneaking around my house at night - and I am sure they followed me everywhere I went. Fortunately, it disappeared after twenty-four days.
Then, only eight months later, it reappeared, and stayed for a whole thirty-seven days. At that time, I was quadriplegic, following an accident, and I could only watch them from the living room window, and imagine their monitoring machines directed at my house, registering my pulse, my brainwaves and my every word. I had not yet encountered the dog, so my only conversation was with the nurse who lived with me - oh, how I miss her sweet face - and I attempted to keep the conversations to the essentials.
I do not know if they had, at that time, perfected their mind-reading machines, but I am quite certain they were able to read my emotions, and it must have been obvious to them how terrified I was. They stayed thirty-seven days, at wich point I had long since decided to take my life, but despaired as to how to achieve this with no control over my body. It was of course out of the question to require the assistance in this of my sweet Helga, so I found myself trapped in my mortal shell.
I thought I had seen the last of them. Had I known they would return I would not have taken steps to regain control of my body, certainly not at the terrible cost I was obligated to pay on that dreadful night... I still shiver in remembrance.
In any case, I am now better prepared to defend myself, but I wonder what advances they have made since last they took an interest in me. I have dispatched an inquiry to Uncle Otto, but as he is overseeing a rather important project, I do not know when he will receive it.
I hope it is soon, for I am becoming restless.
I have always been known for failure. Indeed, one could say it is my defining characteristic. One very cruel and unfeeling. Could say that. With a smirk. As I blushed and stumbled and searched desperately for some witty riposte.
Yet none came.
And now. Yes, now. Now I have failed again. Had my life been an opera I would have cursed the gods and flung myself off a cliff, screaming in triumph that they at least would be cheated of the pleasure of killing me themselves. Yes, it would have been quite dramatic, but alas - the gods are not looking.
My recent failure lies in the world of scrabble. The game favored by the true connoisseurs. Not in any way likable to such children's divertions as chess and go. There my failure lies. Dead. And I lie with it. We are two sad apparitions, motionless in a field of blue stone. And crickets.
It started with my fantasy about the intravenous tubes. I foresaw the inevitable obsession, yet I was powerless in its grip. It tortured me until I could take no more, screaming for me to attach myself to a tube leading to a sea of blood - so that I might become one with the streams and with the teeming life, so that I might feel the tide inflating me for hours and hours, so that the brightly coloured fish might swim through my bulging veins and back into the great sea from whence all came, before the moon, in her cold indifference, passed over the horizon and the tide followed, as a child follows its mother. Therein lies mystery.
However, I had not had my dinner and I was weak from a night spent outside. And this fever of desire - oh, it drained me of what little strength I had. And, of course, I did as I always do. I turned to scrabble.
It shames me to admit it. Scrabble, the greatest of my many shames. Do I not come from a family renowned for its skill in scrabble, a veritable line of masters? Yes. We were feared in the old days, there were no tournaments worthy of the great Tannenbaums, and so we graciously declined the invitations to participate, only appearing as honoured guests and watching over the proceedings with a benign gaze, offering friendly advise to winner and loser both.
None would dare challenge our superiority. The world of scrabble lay at our feet.
But I. I failed. I failed. Miserably, catastrophically. Oh, the shame never fades. It burns as hot as ever. The great line of masters - it came to an end with me. I tried. I applied myself as dilligently as any to the art of anagramming. I studied the sacred nmemonics. I pitted myself against the greatest master to be found - my own father. How he glowed with pride, and how eagerly he awaited the day when I would take my place alongside him and our esteemed ancestors. How he blinded himself to the truth of my incompetence, always making excuses for me - oh, but he is still young, we can not expect too much from him, it will come.
It never did. I am only grateful he died before he realized my shame. Yet I sometimes wonder... Did he suspect? Was that perhaps the cause of his unexplained death? Did he perhaps, in some deep recess of his labyrinthine mind, see my failure, see it and blame himself? Did he perhaps die of sorrow, and of shame that should not be his to feel?
This I will never know. Yet I will always wonder.
And so, in times of desperation, I turn to scrabble. Why do I torture myself so? In this case, perhaps this torture was less than that of desire unfulfilled. Perhaps the pain of my loss - the loss of mastery that would be mine were I not a failure - was as balm to even greater pain.
Then why am I not relieved? Perhaps the pain was not great enough - I did, after all, play over the internet, against faceless opponents. Faceless? No, their mirth was all too obvious. These mediocrities - they beat me. And their laughs were thinly veiled. As accustomed as I am to failure, still I am not accustomed to derision.
How long did I play? It must have been days. Time disappeared in that hell of memories. What day is this?
I must sleep.
The dog returned in a foul mood and ignored my attempts at civility. Instead it ate my dinner and defecated on the living room floor.
It has never done either of those things before, and I can only conclude that it is displeased with me. Perhaps I should tell it about the dream? It might be sufficient to placate it enough so that it will behave in a civilized manner.
But no. I can not identify the source of the feeling, but I believe the dog would only be further aggrieved if I told it.
I wonder what objective it pursues. I have long believed it had become resigned to its fate. Could it be that it is attempting to return?
I would certainly not want to be a part of such a thing. But then, what choice do I have?
On a lighter note, I have become quite adept in the use of the syringe, although not yet an expert. The thought of the intravenous tubes still occupy my mind, however, and I fear the syringe might, in time, come to seem inconsequential next to such perfection. I would certainly like to realize the dream and equip myself with a set of translucent tubes carrying my blood, but I fear it would be an inconvenience in social situations.
It must become common practice sooner or later, of course - but will it happen in my lifetime?
I fear I belong to the future.
I spent the night in a hole in the ground, as the dog directed. I did not experience an epiphany - although I did have a remarkable dream. A strange and wonderful dream it was. But not an epiphany, I think.
I dreamt that all human beings were equipped with translucent intravenous tubes at birth, the tubes being connected to the major arteries and wrapped around the infant's limbs, carrying blood from one part of the body to another.
What a glorious sight! I did see this clearly in my dream - the bright red blood pulsing rhytmically through the tubes, coursing across the naked limbs of the infant, enveloping it in that most mysterious of substances - the aqua vitae of the true mystics. What more fitting apparel for one newly arrived in this world of noise and sharp edges than the warm blood that only moments earlier connected one to one's mother?
The memories linger, and the bond of blood is never broken. This, I suspect, is also the key to the mystical import of the syringe. Were we all equipped with intraveneous tubes, however, no syringes would be necessary - we would merely connect, via the tubes, to another system of fluids, whether another person or a container of fluid, and a mutual exhange would ensue.
But I ramble.
The dog bit me, of course, after being informed of my failure. I could not tell if it was disappointed. However, it left the house. My leg is hurting where it bit me so I am confined here.
The fever seems to have returned. It did not rain, but it was cold, and when I awoke I was wet from morning dew. I walked around for several hours, both for the purpose of pondering my dream though also, I am afraid, for fear of the dog. I am starting to worry about it. Did it always have this power over me? Ever since we met?
It seems I have much to ponder.
As I was eating breakfast the dog sat down next to me and said:
"I am going to tell a joke."
"I see," I said.
"Once," the dog started, "a man walked into a bar and said: 'I am the baddest motherfucker there is and none of you pussies can touch me.' There were 27 people in the bar. They gang-raped him and forced him to eat his own daughter. This man's name was Richard."
I did not find the joke very amusing but laughed so as not to seem rude. The dog then walked over to the window and stared out.
"Sometimes," it said, "I weary of this world." It looked at me and continued: "I will go outside and dig a hole in someone's garden."
I nodded.
"You are going to sleep in the hole tonight. You will experience an epiphany. Or I will bite you."
"I see," I replied.
Then the dog went outside.
I wonder if it will rain.
I was walking leisurely through the park this morning, reflecting on the futility of reflection, when I unexpectedly encountered an old acquaintance from my school years - an uncommonly obese person by the name of Siegfried.
"Thomas!" he ejaculated. "Is that really you? How
are you? It has been years since we last met!"
"Yes. Hello," I replied, affecting a debonair voice and stopping. He also stopped, and, as I was fearing, engaged me in conversation.
"So what are you doing? Oh, and that terrible epilepsy? I do hope you are better."
I nodded.
"Indeed, my old friend. I have, since our last encounter, on that fateful and terrible night that none of us will ever be able to erase from our memories, been miraculously healed of my affliction."
"Well!" he again ejaculated. "What wonderful news! I am very happy for you, Thomas. I must admit I have on occasion thought of you and your terrible fate. You have always been an unlucky sort, so this is certainly a miracle."
"Thank you," I replied. I was truly touched. Never had I thought someone as wealthy and powerful as he would think kindly of such a wretched creature as myself.
"And... that... ehh... 'fateful and terrible night'..." He hesitated.
"Yes?" I prompted.
"You haven't
told anyone, have you?"
"None know but the five of us still in this world. I am confident that the remaining four, who have left us for the shadows of oblivion, have brought the secret with them. And there secrets are safely kept."
He attempted to conceal a smile. I never cease to be amazed at his eternal good cheer.
"Good. That is very good. And your dear Uncle Otto? How is he?"
"Deceased," I lied.
"Oh, dear."
"Yes."
Our conversation progressed slowly from that point on - one might even say it did not progress at all - and we at last took leave of each other and went our separate ways.
Oh, Siegfried! Will you never learn?
Uncle, yes. He made a definite impression.
"My little Jew," he would murmur, affectionately, and twist my limbs until I cried with pain and almost lost my carefully cultivated smile.
Uncle was very displeased on those occasions when I lost my smile. Fortunately, it only happened three times. I still dream of his outraged expression.
"My little Jew is unhappy?" he exclaimed. His face seemed to swell and become stiff, much like an erection. Of course, I did not make that association at the time - I had not yet reached puberty and did not know what an erection was.
The first time I ever witnessed an erection, however - my own, I hasten to say - I at once remembered his swollen face and felt my joints aching. I cried.
"Oh, my little Jew is crying?" I heard Uncle whisper in my ear while I twitched in terrible cramps. This has followed me ever since, and led to my false diagnosis of epilepsy - I fell to the ground and twitched uncontrollably every time I had an erection. This was quite a problem at the time, as I was going through puberty, and was a rather handsome young boy. The girls at school and at home doted on me out of sympathy and affection, and every time a nubile, firm breast brushed my arm or face I fell to the floor and spasmed for several minutes.
I was 24 years old before I could control myself sufficiently to remain standing while I suffered an erection. The pain never left me.
My Uncle, however, left long before that. Shortly after the war ended he disappeared, not even telling the family where he went. I heard them whispering at night. Some said he went to Africa, some said South America. They all seemed to agree, though, that they would never hear from him again.
If only they knew.
Silver lillies
crunchy snow
little sillies
tight-knit brow.
It does not even rhyme properly. And it certainly does not make any sense.
Oh - now I understand. It is about God's hate of immortalists. Quite clever. I hate them too.
But why did I bring this up? It eludes me at the moment, as does the identity of the writer of the poem.
Perhaps a distant memory, comparable to...
No. I have never been proficient in the art of metaphorical comparison. Just as well.
It seems I am sitting in a train at night, with sleepy voices all around me. Platitudes envelope me. Who is this person? It is not me.
Oh, I am so confused!
Tiger lillies
triplets three
filthy fillies
dead are we.
The moss is covering my mouth. My eyes are closing.
Dewy red!
I was going through some boxes that I inherited when I found a loose sheet, filled with what seems like my uncle's handwriting. I was quite intrigued, and include the intelligible part here (my translation):
Similarly, monkeys are never as mimetically gifted as they think. Oh, yes, they can trick the average person. "Monkey see, monkey do" - they have even infiltrated our very language!
I tell you again: Soon it will be too late! They are learning quickly and soon, there will be monkeys everywhere, watching us with their paper eyes, making grimaces at children and fondling our women!
I have told der Führer. He laughed in my face. I have informed Himmler. He threatened to have me incarcerated. I even had the opportunity to enlighten Goebbels at some silly concert, in the hope that he might influence others in turn. It was of course in vain.
No one will listen. I have stopped telling everyone I meet. It is obvious that they are under the influence of the monkeys. I must find others who have remained sane.
How will the war go? This business with the monkeys can only slow us down. I fear they are allied to the British. I can sometimes hear them, in my sleep, cheering that arrogant bastard Churchill. And Hitler? How can he ignore the obvious signs?
Could it be? He has, after all, taken his affection for animals to the ridiculous height of not eating meat.
No. I am making no accusations. Merely some observations.
