ISSUE FOUR: March, 2020

THE KINGDOM

An excerpt from In Absurdia

by GLENN WHALAN

Across the road from the riverside beach, where children once played and where dogs ran unleashed, across tilted floes of a cracked concrete path and then past a garden of wintertime waste, stood a door. And before that door stood a bear in a harness, rope coiled in a glove that reached down to her boots. Upon her hard hat, below a headlamp, was a name, which read, “Crystal-Forebear.” Scratching her ear with a leather-clad paw, she turned her attention to survey her lot. Her partner, standing right behind her with a crowbar in hand, captured her attention as though catching a fish. He then bared his teeth, one of which shone a golden red, reflecting the clouds assembled and watching from outside. Behind the door would soon lie a corpse.

Below this someone had scrawled, “The End,” and the bear was pleased. Looking up and around, she knew she had better things to do right now.

How long had this place been empty? 

Cracked mold polygons lined the pool like carpet; dunes of windblown leaves had invaded the wasteland. Smashed glass and paint flakes gave life to a garden of dead weeds; an old neon sign hung askew.

Past broken beer bottles the bear picked her way, past fallen flower pots and on through the smell of decay. Before demolition, she had to check for life, make sure there was none, nobody on site. Armed with a hardhat, gloves, and steel-capped boots, she and her partner ventured inside. Cobwebs lined the walls like cotton candy and plaster had peeled leaving holes to older colors. The elevator was jammed halfway to the basement, its scream frozen in shadows of broken bars while dead wiring forced the use of headlamps. The stairs creaked and buckled; maybe they told stories or shouted out their warnings, but the forewoman was a practical bear. In harness, roped to her mate, together they climbed carefully. Only cockroaches shifted in artificial moonlight, danced on clouds of stale mildew above. A storm must really have blasted this place; soft steps left imprints on a hard and damaging past in their wake. 

“This is no reasonable name for a hotel. Why not call the place something nice?” 

Her partner’s first urge was to shrug, but finding his voice he decided to say the next thing that entered his head. His name was Funboy, which he knew would spell all kinds of trouble. 

“This other job I’m doing, right now, you won’t believe what we’ll find. It’s one of these red-light hotels, you know, the type getting torn down all the time these days to make space for them green belts and timeshares. Anyway, inside is a real mess of endlessly deconstructed selves, the type being fashionably atomized to explain the whole, as though the parts were somehow grander and oddly more comprehensible.”

“Another one?” The bear was bored, but happy for some kind of diversion. She’d also seen what reduction could do to concrete structures.

“You bet! It’s just a regular job, right? But, sweet corn, it's not every day you find a corpse.” 

The bear saw Funboy’s eyes grow wider, old eyes, pupils rimmed with red, as red as the clouds and the blood rain beginning to stain the whole world outside. And as she looked the bear saw such redness as she'd never seen before - whirlpools of fire rotating hypnotically and drawing her in. She shook herself to be free and tried not to listen. 

“We’re picking our way through the building as we do. All rooms are empty, undone clean of everything right down to the carpets and nails. Nothing left even for us, right? We work our way up and finally get to the fourth floor, but here is this door, clean and luminous, see? That's more like it, we’re thinking! Maybe some stuff we can realize on the side in there, you know? So I grab this here crowbar and work on the lock, and finally, we break in and push the door open… like this!”

The marmot was pushing his cart, all-aluminum and shiny clear plastic with nothing inside but the stalk of an umbrella with psychedelic wings. The wings were folded, it was not yet raining, but stood as a beacon of safety. Pushing along, a small engine of muscle he was with a normal programming of intention. Umbrellas may have height and partitioned beauty ready to unfurl at any moment, he reasoned, but umbrellas couldn't navigate. The umbrella scoffed. While both she and the marmot had started out small, no amount of monsoon rain would help either to grow but her. I laughed and I laughed; laughed until the TV laughed back and wondered why I was laughing. Behind the screen, the marmot spun menacingly, not sure of who or what was laughing but being used to rhubarb he scowled, turned around and fumed along in puffs.

I could sit and laugh all day, but now I wanted a drink. Sweet corn, I wanted a Jack. The bear was out of hibernation and the marmot was burrowing through the recesses of my mind. And not only that, but too many minds were in my head, channel surfing reality, adjusting the picture, either peddling their individualities or telling me I was more than the sum of God, more than the sum of Funboy. I was losing track of the program and becoming the first person who entered my thoughts and that made for startling results. Just ask Gonzo Jack.

The other day I asked myself where this was leading. No answer came, none at all. 

No wonder they call this the Pleasure Dome. I notice I'm sitting alone and I’m talking to myself, complaining to no one in particular that the channel has changed to static. The waiter ignores me and points to the road and then it begins to rain, the first monsoon rain, first-ever rain for months. All conversation dies, all plans momentarily abandoned, even dogs raise their heads to the sky. The heat disappears, now almost forgotten and some of us shiver in disbelief. Old stains on the road are washed out of sight; dead ice cream is hosed away, buried at last. Talk is redundant, too noisy to hear; this torrent commands all attention. The scent of new rain kills all the others, puts out diesel fumes, flowers alike. A dog on the road stands alone and gets wet, head raised to a memory almost forgotten. All heads watch its thanks; base humility, a simplicity they envy and some even hope that they share. If there’s a god then he's visiting now, uniting all creatures under cloud, under sun. For if man and dog can share the same joy, perhaps we are, despite constructed layers, perhaps we are really all one. 

Flooding gutters cascade over trash, then waterfall down to blocked drains. The street floods in pockets, then the whole street, then the footpath, then the lowest-lying shops. Broom patrol waitresses fight the rising tide, fail miserably, and give up. Yet after a while, the clouds blow away; heaven has blown past within them. Faces left behind in bars drop smiles and retreat, to laughter and beer and the football. A miracle’s passed, they now call it rain; senses return from the past. The dog wanders on alone in its joy, wags, and runs to avoid a motorcycle. The road becomes stained with red mud and new trash as diesel fumes reclaim twilight.

I’m watching this out of my left eye while my mind’s eye can't decide whether to reach for the umbrella or my Jack. The umbrella has no real idea where my mind is at and she wants to be alone so she shakes with tired annoyance.

“Tired?”

“No. I've been awake all night, dreaming.” And I have, too.

“Dreaming what?”

“Dreaming you into existence.”

“Funboy, you're absurd. If everyone were like you they'd believe that the nature of reality depended entirely on the observer.” Her voice is high pitched and tinny.

It's my fault for what happens next, for watching a dog run to avoid a motorcycle. For then the motorcycle skids and crashes and separate realities explode into countless fragments in the gallery of my mind, and everything goes to rhubarb.

Friday afternoon. For a straw man with no past and an ambiguous future I guess that I can do no wrong. The motorcycle fires and teaches me how to ride, transports me along streets I've never seen and delivers me safely to the Pleasure Dome. I learn more on this trip than I've ever learned before, and I make up the rest as I go. At the Pleasure Dome, a guy named Funboy hands me a persona in an envelope, and that envelope is addressed to another guy named Gonzo Jack. Apparently, that’s me. So I enter what I now know as the men's room and do as I’m told, that is I come face to face with a marmot perched above the washbasin, hiding behind glass, and that's when we swap places, and then he changes the channel.

The man yawned as he schlepped through the village, all energy spent on his trip. Over seas and down rivers, across and through valleys, into and out of forests, up and around ridges and then to the foot of the Matterhorn, the multifaceted, alpine jewel above Zermatt. Adventures trailing like breadcrumbs, at times shining brightly; a dotted storyline, a narrative of order and predictability. A Bildungsroman.

And a conga line of faces.

He'd slept badly, more strange dreams as usual, mostly based on these others he'd met. His dreams always had the same ending, though. Leaving his tired body behind, he'd fly. Out of the city, across the sea to new beaches, up hills and then alps, to the moon and the sun, and beyond. Always higher and higher, he'd look down at all life and leave new creation in his wake. And then there was Crystal.

The orderly kills my TV, wipes her hands and wheels me to reception. I leave the Matterhorn behind as surely as I leave the hospital, with three bandages, two crutches and one empty wallet. No money for a ride, I hop-hike the blocks looking for sympathy and get none as my plasters peel in the tropical sun. Taxi sharks maraud, ignore me and home in on an old guy sweating inside a cheap photojournalist vest, his guidebook and map a blood scent. A rat is squashed in their path, stingray-like; a white mongrel walks up for a sniff, wags its tail and runs off. The old guy continues to walk; he pulls a pink cardboard suitcase on wheels. One hand presses a nerve near his eye – his fingers might always be glued there. Trouser belt wrapped higher than his navel, shod in socks and crocodile sandals, he kicks at a plastic bag. Drinking a beer through a straw from a bag, his combed-over hair bobs like greasy wool in the wind. His beard is an absolute mess – his beer breasts announce every step. And his eyes are the color of urine. If you hang out where I hang out for long enough even composite people begin to look normal.

Dead ice creams litter the ground, wait like frothy marshmallows for the next rainfall resurrection. I'm tired. I leave the beach road and before the tide can touch me I stare at the sky like a dog on the sand.

Question asks answer what I'm doing lying here. Answer replies she's not sure. “Perhaps you need to ask thought.”

Thought’s none the wiser and suggests question asks body. Body replies that if it knew, it wouldn't be lying here either. “Go and ask heart,” it says. 

Heart is listening and is kind to question. “My feeling is you'd be better off asking shadow.” But heart was mistaken – shadow was just in thought’s imagination. 

Question became confused, argued with answer. Thought, body, and heart joined in and they quarreled till all were red in the face. Finally and out of the blue sky someone called, “Two teapots full of milk!”

It wasn't me, it wasn't them, so they in unison cried, “Shadow, is that you?”

That someone replied, “_______!” And with that, the others were left spinning arguments about the origin in perpetuity, in absurdia.

After some time the heat blows off and the tide licks playfully at my heels. My shadow’s still there, deeply asleep; its impression lies low in the sand. Not wanting to disturb it, I creep away silently.

My shadow. If we'd been a mile apart and had seen the same view we would have had more in common than if we'd stood side by side and looked at divergent views. Yet we did stand side by side and the gulf between our hearts was at least as wide as the gulf between our minds.

“But isn't it true we see the world the same way, but look at it from different viewpoints?” So he is awake after all.

“You and I are miles apart. Can I hold your hand?” He might be my twin but we're not identical.

“What a strange man. How can you think the way you do?”

“I’m not strange at all. It's just that you have never met a perfect person, and if you think you have, it's because you've never known them long enough to see their flaws.”

“Stop trying to project your opinions onto me. You're listening to your own thoughts, not mine.”

“Now you're sounding like a child.” And he is, too.

“I do feel like a child again. Don't mistake that for what is unaffectionately known as childishness. To be a child is to see the world with open eyes, unlimited curiosity, and abundant trust.”

“But how can you trust a world that is so wrong, so mistaken?”

“You don't trust the world, sucker. You create it.”

On my way home I almost collide with a marmot, then beg for a lift on his cart. The marmot stays surly and silent. He deliberately takes to the sidewalk, more potholed than the road; I cling till I flee to the Hotel Absurdia.

“Excuse me! Could you please take our photo?” A serious girl wearing an O’Panda’s t-shirt held up her smartphone. Running back to her group, they all smiled as the flash popped; behind them stood an old stone church. 

In the old days of film cameras the man had made some terrible mistakes in both time and space, problems with exposure and composition, yet he didn't know if this was because of the camera, or the photograph. You couldn't do that these days with smartphones, he sighed, as he passed it back to a wave of thanks. The church door was open; tourists came out, so in need of rest he slipped himself inside. 

Cool. He found the closest pew and sat, his leg muscles grateful. He wasn't a religious man, but he was struck by the solemn dignity of the place. The altar ahead was simple but sublime; multiple golden sections with statues of saints, probably. Stained glass brought rainbows to light hidden corners, reminded him of the iridescent tabletops at the Pleasure Dome. And then he saw the ceiling. Wow, what a wonder! He stared at it for so long that his neck began to hurt.

In Absurdia, my eyes start to play with the ceiling. The mirror tiles disjoint me a bit; I look like a sloppy jigsaw. Crucified; my arms are splayed, legs together, head in hiding, naked as can be, tiled to the floor. I wiggle my arms and legs into horizontal star jumps and I become Leonardo’s Vitruvian Man, divine and perfect, till my head jumps out in surprise. Feeling smug I look around and frown. A circus of clowns wearing brewery branded t-shirts and very short shorts are sitting around the edge of my ceiling, nodding and smiling. One waves. I wave back and then they all wave. I point to myself and they all nod again, and smile. Then a girl wearing nothing but a rainbow miniskirt walks over my head. Oh. This is no longer a mirrored ceiling. This is a clear plastic dance floor with a bonus peep into my bedroom below. I reach for the remote and press the pink button, and the ceiling becomes a mirror again. I peel off my last remaining bandage and gently stick it over the red button, and relax. Sort of. Now there’s a guy in my mirror and he definitely isn't me. He’s lying in the right position for him to be me; he looks a plaster cast of me – small, grey and round, but I know, just know he isn't really me. To prove it I give him a little wave. He doesn't wave back, just smiles and nods. I move sideways a bit but he doesn't budge. I light up a cigarette but he doesn't. I offer him one and he simply smiles again, nods the negative. I study the remote but there are no other colored buttons left to choose from. I give up, press the channel button and return to the Matterhorn.

“It's called Noah’s Ark.” A priest in a cassock was sitting beside him, blue eyes sparkling like communion crystal, yet skin like bark from years in the mountains, or forests, or on the seas. “It was painted by the Florentine artist Parente when he was only fifteen.”

No way. Most fifteen-year-olds would be chasing girls, or hating school, either adapting to or falling victim to the changes brought by adolescence, yet this kid was out painting church ceilings. Old Noah was standing in his ark, heaven above and hell below him, in stunning detail. He couldn't take his eyes off it for a long time and when he did he was alone. He'd fallen asleep, which made him grin as he woke and recalled the adage about learning more in a bar than from falling asleep in a church. Legs rested now, he started to leave when a poster in the lobby attracted his attention. A concert tonight? That ought to be fun, he thought - nothing like conventional Alpine culture from time to time. Crystal might like it, too. On his way out he met the priest again, probably feeling smug with himself, probably inwardly laughing at the indiscretion of a man sleeping in a church. Yet he surprised the man, shook his hand, his eyes reflecting stained glass as he spoke.

“Once, when the Pharisees asked when the kingdom of God would come, Jesus replied, ‘the kingdom of God does not come with your careful observation, nor will people say, “Here it is,” or, “There it is,” because the kingdom of God is within you.’”

It wasn't his thing, but he thanked the priest, whatever he meant. The rest of the afternoon was absolutely brilliant, as warm sunlight shone down through the skylight and he and Crystal blew each other's shadows, hearts, and bodies to oblivion - the best trinity of any communion he'd ever experienced.

I am quite the child. Hiding inside the warm sunlight of the bedroom mirror I do watch my body yawn, rub its own eyes and begin to wriggle under the blanket. I do watch and wait until more awake than not my body does sit straight and stare back at me. My body does nod and I do nod back from my own bed in the mirror. A quick hand movement, a sudden poke of the tongue. But whatever my body does do, I am sure to copy it perfectly and at just the right time. I always do know what will come next. Crystal arrives, picks up my body and takes it away while I lie in the mirror and sleep. After bath time I am happy to get out of bed and watch TV and to enter a story to play. My body does watch me play from its bed and laughs, and laughs. I laugh and I do play forever.

The sky was the grey color of stale milk. As they entered the church in their zip-off trousers and plastic jackets the man laughed and noticed that although they weren't alone in their clown suits, most guests were dressed for a funeral. An ensemble was about to begin; everybody hushed. He pointed out the ceiling mural but Crystal showed little interest. As music began to fill the holy dome he looked at the program. Vivaldi was playing out the four seasons of the human condition and the man listened for the sounds of summer. This was to be followed by Pachelbel’s Canon in D and then intermission. The man yawned – this was going to be a long show and he was looking forward to champagne.

I’m interrupted when my shadow walks up the stairs and drops lazily in front of my chair to step on my toes. I stand, pick him up by collar and belt and stilt walk him gently outside to the balcony. He reeks of stale wine, possibly. Next to his head lies a large plastic bowl of dog or bear biscuits and a small metal bowl of water. A red dog or bear collar swings suspended from a yellow nylon rope, noose-like from a rafter but I know it’s only for target practice. I've seen him use it before for that purpose, after all. Lying there he doesn't move, not even his open eyes, which focus on dust. Even I can taste that. Time around him has frozen solid and even his clothes are motionless and sound crisp although the dog or bear collar sways to and fro and moans in the afternoon wind. I stare at him for a long time and after even more time I see the color of the very air around him change but only in the shape of a box. And so I reach out and tap that box, and sure enough, it is solid. Inside the box and surrounding my shadow is the warm, compelling color of afternoon light.

In the remains of a timeless summer day, I stagger downstairs past the empty pool, cross the road and push myself down the rocky path to the beach and the air feels hot, thick and humid. It’s an effort to breathe. I reach the sandy beach and it too is frozen, hard as the path above. I leave no footprints. A single soft cloud orbits overhead; there is no wind. I pick up a pebble with effort, toss it as far as I can and it clatters slowly and clumsily across a glassy wasteland. Then, venturing timidly, I step on foamy green bubbles and they crush like brittle glass. There is no other sound in the world, just the crushing, tinkling sound of breaking bubbles. And when I step onto the glassy sea itself I slip, fall and cut myself badly on sharp and vitreous wavelets. I'm on my back again. I can't move. And it's then that I look up at the motionless cloud and see a stalled gecko hanging there.

I am always the child. I totter along the waterline, gurgling and toothy, naked and carefree. The sun warms my smallness and sand cushions my feet. Breeze picks up my hair and makes it dance to the sound of breaking waves. A thin layer of salt paints my pinkening skin while seaweed scents my nostrils. One step, two steps, a wide smile, and a subtle shift. I look down upon myself in wonder, feel myself cross the empty sky and spread warmth upon my growing body. I look up and feel my sandiness tickle the dark cool soles of my feet. From sideways I dart sinuously and with grace until I blow my hair across to the other side of my face. I roll up tumbling on the beach, froth and wet my toes. Like snow, I hang there in the air then pepper my skin for amusement. And then I break off from the weed and lick my nose with fragrance.

I look up at the motionless cloud and see the stalled gecko is still hanging there and I wonder if time can be trusted. I pull myself up, wipe my face on my shirt and return to the beach steps. The gate is still open and the air is much thinner. By the time I reach the road I breathe normally again. Moths try to enter a flickering street lamp, continually bounce, burn and fail. Cats prowl below, hover over a dead rat, which stinks. If the dogs around here weren't so preoccupied with pissing out their territory at low tide these cats would be history. The flashing neon hole of the Hotel Absurdia calls me home but a power pole mosaic of overlapping wisdom calls louder. I stare at the words, try to decipher their meaning, but as words, they make no sense at all. I open my mouth, play with the syllables, form spoken sounds but that still doesn't help. At last, I can say the whole sentence; I say it aloud to the street light. It has no effect so I speak louder again, till I practically scream what I don't understand. 

“The kingdom of Funboy is within you!” My words evaporate into the night.

“Why ruminate that marmot cud?” screams a televangelist across the road in beaten-up sneakers and a dirty blue sleeveless shirt. I can tell he's a televangelist as he wears a TV over his shoulders. Pizza stains his holy book; its pink rims drip the ketchup of innocents.

“How much holiness for half an hour?” comes my shadow’s barked reply. This hushes the street, breaks the spell, sends the geckos underground. The televangelist changes his channel.

Fucking Pachelbel. As the opening movement flooded the dome the man bolted jack upright in his pew. Waves of pure energy swept over him; tears flooded down his cheeks. Crystal grabbed his arm; others turned to look. Yet instead of condemnation, their faces showed surprising gratitude, gratitude for a man who had found such a moment in the beauty of the culture of the shared history of the world. A world of both good and bad, for better or worse, a world they had all created. And as they filed out to the steps for champagne by the Kirchplatz, a hole appeared within the clouds; full moon lit the Matterhorn and blew his head away. Swaying to the ancient stone steps, he sat and bawled his eyes out.

The bathroom mirror stares numbly back as pus weeps, a radical distortion of perception that shows one reality from just a single viewpoint. New bandages stick for a minute or so, give up and slide to the sink. I peel the rest away and apply a blood-red tincture, and then I remember the cling wrap. The way to my bed is eight thousand miles long but I know that space cannot be trusted either. Sooner or later I'll find other shards of reality, I know it. What I don't know right now is how much this journey will change my life. But, for now, I settle for the middle of the floor, next to the bottle of Jack. The ceiling has changed, the mirror man has gone, but the tiles disjoint me a bit and I look like a sloppy jigsaw. Why behave like a jigsaw piece? I peel my veneer from constricting cardboard and float away to the mirror. Remaining pieces may smile or cry, or curse but what does it matter to them, or to me? There is no division, only me to see. 

The stench hit her first without warning. Paws shot reflexively to cover mouth and nose as the forewoman backed off to suppress her horror. Flies shot past through the crack in the door, just made it out before the door slammed. 

“Sweet corn! What the corn was that?” The bear shook as she stared at Funboy in disgust.

“That lump in the middle of the floor! Rhubarb! That once was Gonzo Jack, wasn't it? You and your split realities and episodic connections! Bring him back to life or I'm calling myself Crystal from now on!”

This only made Funboy laugh.

“Call yourself what you like. As you fall to the floor the mirror tiles merge, the last piece of the jigsaw in place. The picture is now clear as you see your reflection; it smiles back at you in all wisdom.”

I think I am talking with Crystal and then I realize I am talking with myself. There is nobody else, anywhere, ever. I am all alone except for my imaginary friends and enemies, the playmates I do create. I do lay Crystal down in her cot and I do say goodnight. I am not playing right now, I am resting. I do think of my last story and I do giggle. This show has gone on long enough. Now I do nap. 

Below this, someone had scrawled,

THE END

GLENN WHALAN is an Australian adventurer and nomad. He realises that exploration takes many forms, and writes to examine both the fluid nature of reality and the intrinsic oneness of existence. His work has appeared in The Blue Nib, The Wild Word and New Asian Writing.

In Absurdia will be published by Karenza Press on 31 st August and is available for pre-order from online bookstores. The story charts the seeker’s journey in a world that’s far from sane, with the tagline “Reality is a story we tell ourselves. Change the story and you change reality.”

This story includes the poem ‘Monsoon’, first published by The Blue Nib, 15 September 2019.