Christopher WunderLee - Moore's Mythopoeia

* * *

A curtain. That is sad, sad business. Someone is speaking on the other side. The audience applauds. Hurray for him who can make the masses drool. There are others around him, he feels them pass when they brush against his sleeve. What am I wearing? Hands against his back, pushing him. A cloak. He is moved towards the curtain. Some sort of hat, it feels like. The curtain parts and he is on stage. I think I’m naked underneath. The audience looks at him and begins to laugh. What is this? The man at the pulpit is clapping, grinning in a sort of mock reverence. He’s gesturing for me to take my position. Is it a speech? Why are they laughing? They are rolling in aisles, what did I do? Am I a comedian? This is simple business, then. The man has stepped down. He climbs the stairs of the pulpit and looks out at the swarm of unknown faces, laughing and pointing at him. He turns to make sure it is him they are looking at. Yes, no one else.

There is paper in my pocket, ah, my speech. He pulls it from his cloak, the sides parting. The laughter rises higher. What did I do? I’m naked; my crotch is exposed. They’re laughing at my nudity. I have a vagina. Tits, too. Big ones. I bet I could suck my own tits. They’re laughing, again. Did I just have a nipple in my mouth? My fingers, I’ve got to keep them out of there until I’m done speaking. I think I have an asses ears, how is my ass? A bit flabby, I think. Nice big hips, though. Did I just flash them my ass? They’re laughing. I’ve got to focus on the speech.

I didn’t even write this, some guy from Rotterdam wrote it. There’s a cup of wine, I’ll take a sip and gain my composure. Okay, let us begin.

I’ve always preferred the lyre to the flute; I don’t know what you’re talking about. I’m modest, I didn’t even write this. It makes me sound conceited. A satire? Well, why didn’t you say that? I wasn’t masturbating in church, I was massaging it, I have a rash. I think they can hear me speaking, they seem pleased.

I’ve invented a lot of things from the sound of it. I hope it’s all true; I wouldn’t want to be brought up on charges. A god, so that’s why I’m an orphan. I don’t have earthly parents. Why don’t you just say ‘good things’, no one understands what ‘asses in lion-skins’ means for god’s sake. Where’s Flower? Can one woman rape another?

Some people might say this is slander, I’m sure those men are fine people. Should I be reading this? It seems to be going over well. God, I’m eloquent. Do you think they know I didn’t write this? I remember writing it. It sure sounds like my existence is advantageous; I’ve proven that without a doubt. Boy, there sure are a lot of people on my shit list. I hope they don’t take it personally. I don’t want to hurt anyone’s feelings.

I’ll be honest, I don’t agree with that one. I’m pretty stupid, comparatively, and I definitely don’t live a happy life. Are there really still philosophers? Now I know that this is all a joke, but really, I don’t have the right to be so irreverent. I don’t even know who Momus or Harpocrates are? I’m sure these ‘ecclesiastics’ are fine fellows. I’m going to be in real trouble when I’m done. How long is this thing? I’m a woman, though. This is strange. Have I been caressing my breasts this entire time? It’s true, I don’t like parties, nor do I have any friends to speak of, cheerio for that one. I never beat my wife, and do you really think crocodiles are capable of reason? It’s not love that binds us all; surely you know that, its tranquility. This is absurd. I’d rather be exploring this body of mine.

I’ll agree with that one, marriage, what a terrible institution. Am I still married? Would my wife accept me as a woman? That would put the fire back in the bedroom. How would I fuck her? We’d have to get some tools. Who am I?

Politics, what a boring topic. Go on, now. You can’t mix fire and water. I may very well know what is good, but that certainly doesn’t mean I’m going to do it. Think of the pear-stealing story, my man. I know I shouldn’t be touching myself on stage, even though they can’t see me, but that doesn’t stop me from doing it. That is a horrible description of me, I have donkey ears for god’s sake, and breasts. I’ve got to stop touching them; they can see that.

Ass-kissers, nature, worship, good, images, yes, the community of goods, now that sounds like folly, teachers, okay, there aren’t any more of those, this is all null and void, there’s no religion, kings, whatever, war, this is all very dated, trees bare fruit, that’s it, there hasn’t been a poem written in two-hundred years, you fool. The dream and the cock, now that sounds interesting. Just the word, makes me…

Thank you, thank you, you are too kind. Thank you, bow, bow, clap along like they all had a hand in it, thank you, thank you.

* * *

An anonymous building, just one of many, two more just like it up the street, no reason to pay it any attention, move along now, no pictures… The sign outside says: “The Department of Social Tranquility” with an emblem directly underneath. The insignia is a circle cut evenly into twelve portions (like a very well sliced pie), two olive branches border the circle and there is the silhouette of a bird of some kind that frames the insignia (probably a raptor of some sort); within each of the twelve pieces of the circle are smaller emblems, which represent the Sections. There are no guards or fences around the building; it looks, for all exhaustive purposes, like any other office building in the city. The sign that reads The Department of Social Tranquility is off the road, set very close to the building, and slightly turned away from the driveway, as if it doesn’t really need to be there. It’s not hidden, not really, not when you consider that it is out in front of the building, but it is slightly, simply, inconveniently placed. No one who doesn’t work at the department needs to really know where it is, it’s not the kind of place that people stop by or come to visit or have any business with; it’s large, but not too big, it’s just another angular silhouette in the skyline; the architecture’s utilitarian, no one would take a picture of it for its aesthetic qualities, it doesn’t really stand out amongst all the other buildings, it doesn’t appear that much really goes on there either.

Not that its uninviting, Captain Vincent feels comfortable enough there, as he strolls down the stark white hallway with the grayish blue tile floor and the clinical walls. There are no placards or posters or pictures hanging from it, none of the doors have suite numbers or people’s names etched into them, and to the passive observer, it looks like a labyrinth of halls with the same door replicated over and over and over and over again (thusly, the agents call it the Puzzle Palace). All the floors look the exact same, but in truth, every three stories are devoted to a Section, with the department head and his administration (an ingenious abstraction of sloth feigning enterprise) occupying the top six. Captain Vincent, now that he thinks about it, has never actually been on any of the other floors, or he might have been, but he didn’t know that he was, because it looks just like the floor his office is on. Sometimes he wonders if he were to get off on the wrong floor and go to his office if he’d find himself sitting there or a man that looks just like him, with the same life and the same tasks, who’d probably look up as he walked in, wondering what his twin is doing walking into his office without knocking, with the same calendar on the wall (the only thing hanging from it, in violation of department regulation we might add), the same desk, the same gray filing cabinet with the top drawer that refuses to close all the way, and the same fan hanging limply from the ceiling.