David Chirot: Prosepoem "It is already written."
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It is Already Written
Walking down the long shadowy corridor, high up, on the fifth floor, permeated with the steady fall of dust and the odor of fading paint. In the distance ahead, a slanted rectangle, glowing, burnt orange, with the light of a Parisian July late morning.
The door i wanted was the very last, standing close to the wall where the hallucinatory window glowed incendiarally.
I knocked in the code i had been given; there was a heavy silence from within, all sound there being muffled in the thick fall of dust.
It's open, a voice from within said in flat monotone.
The door swung open at a slight touch. A man sat at a long table of the kind found in chemistry labs, except that it was realized in a crude wood: an imitation made by an amateur carpenter.
Without moving his thick, rough body from the chair, the man turned his eyes to me.
Marcel sent me, for the package, I replied in an equally monotone, flat voice.
Before the man on the table rested some cans and bottles of chemicals, some wiring, some transistors and a few small tools.
The Chemist they called him, the maker of plastiques to be used at selected sites around the city, most often at night when they would be emptied of human beings.
An enormous tome lay open before the Chemist. Even as i stood there, still at the door which i had closed behind me, his eyes had turned back to this tome and he slowly turned to the page following the one he had been perusing before my entrance.
What is your sense of time? the Chemist asked.
Without waiting for a reply, he gave a harsh staccato laugh and said, Perhaps what i might mean is, what is your sense of timing?
Isn't that what the timer is for? I smiled as he laughed again, though with more sparkling life in his voice.
Very good, young man, very good.
He shifted his body towards me now and removed a pair of thick reading glasses, placing them neatly in an empty space to the right of the huge book.
By time, I mean a continuum, a flow, thick and heavy as this dust, or as complex as the flow running in our veins. What we seek to do, my friend, is to make a carefully timed incision within this flow. And, by that action, to slightly divert the flow of a particular vein in time. Through this incision,and by this diversion, we open a new direction in the flow of time, in the events of a particular moment in history, and so essay to change the events subsequent to this action.
It is very important that you, entrusted to make the incision, be as both swift and sure as a surgeon. I have been told that you have a strong and accurate arm, a sure and steady hand. You will make the incision with complete accuracy, and the event will be so swift, that you, the surgeon, will be invisible. It will be as though all that has happened has been done by an invisible hand, one which leaves no trace.
He paused and continued looking at me through the rain of dust that showered down out of the sky of time.
You understand, my friend, that what might be read is a kind of writing; the signs made by this incision and its subsequent scar, is already written. What we are doing is simply retracing, with emphasis, those already inscribed words.
The fact that it is already written I have before me, in this book. Come closer and see.
Walking slowly towards the table and standing beside him, to his right, I read the words before me.
They were quatrains in the works of Nostradamus.
A strange work for one of us to be reading, eh! No Bakunin, none of the theorists or historians, one might say, to have already written our actions. Yet again, consider the role of time, of what constitutes time. Consider what writing is, my friend, a code, a DNA. A formula, perhaps, veiled, obscure, yet hidden in plain sight. A purloined letter, in effect, that one needs to go into complete darkness, at a distance, to perceive, as did the Detective Dupin.
This, then, is the letter you are to deliver, hidden in plain sight. Make sure of the delivery, my friend, for that incision is to be a birth, as well as a letter well sent.
With that, he hand me the packet and turned back to his book.
I left the room, the packet in an inside pocket, very deep, of the suit i was given for the occasion to wear.
As i walked back down the corridor, I felt the blast of a fiery, burnt orange light behind me.
It is already written, i murmured to the heavily falling dust. It is written in the color of the light, and in the thick falling dust.
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It is Already Written
Walking down the long shadowy corridor, high up, on the fifth floor, permeated with the steady fall of dust and the odor of fading paint. In the distance ahead, a slanted rectangle, glowing, burnt orange, with the light of a Parisian July late morning.
The door i wanted was the very last, standing close to the wall where the hallucinatory window glowed incendiarally.
I knocked in the code i had been given; there was a heavy silence from within, all sound there being muffled in the thick fall of dust.
It's open, a voice from within said in flat monotone.
The door swung open at a slight touch. A man sat at a long table of the kind found in chemistry labs, except that it was realized in a crude wood: an imitation made by an amateur carpenter.
Without moving his thick, rough body from the chair, the man turned his eyes to me.
Marcel sent me, for the package, I replied in an equally monotone, flat voice.
Before the man on the table rested some cans and bottles of chemicals, some wiring, some transistors and a few small tools.
The Chemist they called him, the maker of plastiques to be used at selected sites around the city, most often at night when they would be emptied of human beings.
An enormous tome lay open before the Chemist. Even as i stood there, still at the door which i had closed behind me, his eyes had turned back to this tome and he slowly turned to the page following the one he had been perusing before my entrance.
What is your sense of time? the Chemist asked.
Without waiting for a reply, he gave a harsh staccato laugh and said, Perhaps what i might mean is, what is your sense of timing?
Isn't that what the timer is for? I smiled as he laughed again, though with more sparkling life in his voice.
Very good, young man, very good.
He shifted his body towards me now and removed a pair of thick reading glasses, placing them neatly in an empty space to the right of the huge book.
By time, I mean a continuum, a flow, thick and heavy as this dust, or as complex as the flow running in our veins. What we seek to do, my friend, is to make a carefully timed incision within this flow. And, by that action, to slightly divert the flow of a particular vein in time. Through this incision,and by this diversion, we open a new direction in the flow of time, in the events of a particular moment in history, and so essay to change the events subsequent to this action.
It is very important that you, entrusted to make the incision, be as both swift and sure as a surgeon. I have been told that you have a strong and accurate arm, a sure and steady hand. You will make the incision with complete accuracy, and the event will be so swift, that you, the surgeon, will be invisible. It will be as though all that has happened has been done by an invisible hand, one which leaves no trace.
He paused and continued looking at me through the rain of dust that showered down out of the sky of time.
You understand, my friend, that what might be read is a kind of writing; the signs made by this incision and its subsequent scar, is already written. What we are doing is simply retracing, with emphasis, those already inscribed words.
The fact that it is already written I have before me, in this book. Come closer and see.
Walking slowly towards the table and standing beside him, to his right, I read the words before me.
They were quatrains in the works of Nostradamus.
A strange work for one of us to be reading, eh! No Bakunin, none of the theorists or historians, one might say, to have already written our actions. Yet again, consider the role of time, of what constitutes time. Consider what writing is, my friend, a code, a DNA. A formula, perhaps, veiled, obscure, yet hidden in plain sight. A purloined letter, in effect, that one needs to go into complete darkness, at a distance, to perceive, as did the Detective Dupin.
This, then, is the letter you are to deliver, hidden in plain sight. Make sure of the delivery, my friend, for that incision is to be a birth, as well as a letter well sent.
With that, he hand me the packet and turned back to his book.
I left the room, the packet in an inside pocket, very deep, of the suit i was given for the occasion to wear.
As i walked back down the corridor, I felt the blast of a fiery, burnt orange light behind me.
It is already written, i murmured to the heavily falling dust. It is written in the color of the light, and in the thick falling dust.
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