Kyle Muntz - Voices

"People think I don’t know," he said, "but I know." He dribbled. "I comprehend. Just sometimes it’s better to pretend you don’t. Sometimes pretending is so easy it’s almost beautiful."

The sun beat down.

I understood.

::::::::::::::::::::

They came to me in the process of creation. There

were

two of them, one large, one small: messengers of some grander being, acolytes of the furious sun. They stood, silent, until I noticed them, though I’d noticed them already. I imagined they wore suits (the expensive kind), and wide, reflective sunglasses. In their own way, they looked some sort of cosmic secret agents. I suppose, in their own way, they probably were.

"Is he ready for me?" I asked. They nodded.

I left with them, and they led me through whole different realms of the city, past old pawnshops with crooked dealers, closed down

buildings, abandoned warehouses, derelict suburbs… and

then back, onto a high, industrious street I’d never seen before, where the buildings were taller than the sky, and they glinted in the afternoon, a whole rainbow of citycolor, in height… down a great flight of stairs, under archways, to a specialized, rarified void. In all things, it was absolutely, astoundingly authentic.

They told me to wait, without telling. When the Chimera was ready for me, I would know. There were other people here, in

raucous conversation,

but they didn’t seem to notice me, not sparing a glance, not seeing. Azure light sprinkled through glorious openings in the ceiling. But despite everything, the place had a touch of shabbiness about it, at odds in the real.

I tried to start conversation with statues. They ignored me. And I realized, a moment too late, that they weren’t people at all, they didn’t even move, not when you looked closely, and they didn’t talk either, it’s just

they felt like they did, two together, three, standing alone. They were an astounding kind of golem, all wreathed in magic. But I bet, sometimes, when someone came the Chimera didn’t want to see, they weren’t so intent on staying quiet. They were an excellent form of torture. A few, most likely, would

grow

fangs.

::::::::::::::::::::

I made passage across a

gigantic, shimmering ocean, for myself, for others.

No, I traveled alone; I’d always known that, no matter

how hard I pushed for resiliency. A turquoise

mist rose from the surface. No matter what, I swore I wouldn’t fall, not giving into the mirror, not breaking cleanly in two. But it was harder now, than ever before.

It didn’t matter if I’d always been alone, if I was really going anywhere. I was here and I was really here, and there was no choice but just to

keep going.

I looked into the mirror. My image sprang up, a dualistic shadow, riding separate waves of light. I gave off my own shade, indescribable. The sky, growing to ease, was gentler now, like a real sky. And there I was, me, in the water.

Thrice above, below, entangled. I’d been wearing my clothes for a bit too long, and, ironically, very little of me had come into contact with the surface. I thought of posing for myself, to strike a grandiose figure, but it didn’t matter, I was already there. The water was a magnificent reversal:

as above, magnified

below.

:::::::::::::::::::: "You know," I said, "I don’t really feel like playing." I passed him the ball. The sun beat down. Grass folded in the heat, sweating chlorophyll, turning brown. "We have poignant conversation sometimes, you know." I turned around. "Let’s just do something else."

"Just one more game," he said.

"I think I’m going to pass out." And to make something clear: "You’re insane." Still standing there so

insanely

enthusiastic, grinning, as though he hadn’t just lost, as though there

were somewhere great to go from here. Birds flew by. Ants crawled deep underground, carrying mold in pieces to their fat, fattening queen, to make her bigger, to churn out a greasy crop of

themselves, soulless, in multiplication; so she could

spit them out, so there could be more, and better bread. I crossed my fingers, and wished we’d thought to bring something to drink, so I could drown Travis in it. We had poignant conversation sometimes, we really did, though obviously, this

wasn’t one

of them.

He passed me the ball. "Here, it’s yours first."

"I don’t think it matters," I said, "I’ll still beat you."

"Someday," he said, "that’ll change."

::::::::::::::::::::

They opened the door for me. White poured from the sanctuary beyond, cleaving a line on the floorboards, lighting fires on the wall. I stepped through, hesitating. The doors shut, too loud, not loud enough.

Strangely, the Chimera looked about like I thought he would.

We were the same height, with brown hair. He was slim, looking just a little too small for his clothes, jeans trailing on the floor, hands in pockets. Curling mist clung to him. Odd patterns, reflected from other parts of the room, hit him in every direction. He had more than one shadow, no, he had an infinite number of shadowslarger, smaller, some of them moving, leaving and walking away. When he raised an arm, molecules wavered, and, unless he didn’t want them to, glasses fell off shelves, mirrors broke. In his own way, he was the extrovert center of the universe, taking action in the chaos. Despite the acne, he had a very handsome smile.

"I like the statues," I said. "And your place."

Wherever it is.

Simultaneously, I felt like I was in an attic, an alleyway, an entrance hall, and a whole number of nameless, overlapping places. There were no details. A chair became a table, became a lamppost, became a very large TV. Myriad bursts of energy, curtailing, turned the room to a cesspool of the baroque, in itself, with the complexity of good music. Despite everything, it was startlingly familiar.

"The gargoyles can be dangerous," he said. "If you aren’t careful, or if you bug them too much. Some of them

grow

fangs."

"I think they scared me." I said.

"They can do that."

Electricity cackled as he blinked an eye. Whole dimensions grew thin. For some reason he was slightly less intimidating then I figured he’d be. It definitely wasn’t the blue lighting that flashed in my mind, or the crazy, crazy vibrations, all in and down, playing games with rules, possibly suspending gravity. A few feet to my right, a teacup, floating in the air, became a small animal. He had the power to create life. He had the head of a lion, the tail of a snake, and the body of goat. With every breath, he unleashed an outpour of fire. I’m not sure why he didn’t scare me.

"Just so you know," he said, "I owe you a favor. For running with James."

"You knew him?"

"I knew of him," he said, "though that doesn’t really matter, as so did everything else."

"But why didn’t you help him yourself?"

"I didn’t owe him a favor."

::::::::::::::::::::

"Did I ever tell you," Travis asked, "about the first time I experienced the game? And why I like it. "

I asked if he meant the first time he watched it, but

"No, it wasn’t like that, I didn’t watch anything." He dribbled. "It was spiritual. It was pure deepness and immersion. The game," (I’d always thought it was funny how he called it that, all dignified, as though it possessed some vilified significance, which, to him, it probably did) "it has its own life, it’s own ebb and flow. Every moment is glory, every flicker in movement, bead of sweat, turn of the eyes. And when the crowd cheers, they really cheer, because you’re living for them, playing the game. When you’re on the court, you can be their unquestionable God, their anchor to praise, and they’ll raise their hands for you, and love you, and lift you up, until you aren’t human anymore, you’re at the absolute center of everything that is (heart, mind, sacrifice). Basketball is the only way in the world to escape anonymity, to stop being just a person and become you . It makes you matter. It makes you real. None of us understand what it means to be real- not like you would understand what I mean, being an artist. The game makes us real, in its perfect, perfect embrace, lifted up, in the very center, when we make the perfect jump. It’s a flash of cameras, a parade onto living rooms, corner streets, doctors’ offices. Everyone screams, lifting furious voices, the announcers, the fans. I heard it from the other room. I’d been playing videogames, but what were videogames to this? Absolute proudness, a latex rhythm, sole swiping sole… he’d made a shot from half court, you understand, from half court, and they stood for him, they clapped for him, they cheered for him. And I came out, and I watched. It was over so fast. And then I watched again the next day, and the next. There’s nothing like the thrill of renewal, of another game. Basketball is our only form of infinitude, in repetition. Every year it comes again, season upon season, each expansive in themselves, branching out like causeways in dimension, spangled fingers in the social pathos. Basketball is a microchasm of society; in size, all function. It epitomizes humanity, in all we are. Our need to compete, our need to make better. It chronicles history, moving backwards, past emperors and sultans, new rules, the current generation, and like history it has its heroes, its points of diversion. And maybe you don’t understand," Travis went on, because apparently he was good at that, going on, "but basketball is everything in the world, altogether. And it doesn’t matter that I’m not any good- because I know that, I comprehend, I really do, even though everyone makes fun of me when I lose. But it doesn’t matter, I’m touching something better, something perfect, and, through that, it makes me perfect, and I feel like I matter. And it doesn’t matter if I really do, or if other people understand, because fuck other people. They don’t understand basketball, and because of that, they don’t understand life, or self-awareness, or whatever you want to call this, here and now, in the time and place, reaching out with body and mind, spirit and fortitude, to overcome everything in this concrete crashing, this temple of cacophonous quiet, all wrapped up in a multitude of layering voices, blending until they’re nothing but a stagnant, staggering silence, canceling itself, and crawling, pitifully, all through the narrowing tunnel that is time, as though it were really taking us somewhere, to some vortex way in outer space, where heaven is, if we can even really talk about such a place. Heaven doesn’t exist, not on a human level, and you know that too, even better than I do." He looked at me, and he shook his fist, and he was a ridiculous fire of overflowing passion, red bands crawling in his face, flushing him different colors, making him bloat. "This world is a goddamn map of telephone poles, a flat, papery town, like in the old movies, where no one's noticed yet that the walls are falling down. We need something to hold onto, a beacon rising in the sky, luminous in bright colors, painted orange and black, so the world can see; a monument for all that is human in the anonymous age; a marker leading us to transcendence, or deliverance, or whatever you want to call it. Basketball is the skeleton key to identity, the latex doorway to the very deepest recesses of the soul."