A Tomb With a View
“What does it mean to be buried? Isn’t being buried always the thought of being
buried alive?” (Royle 223).
“Just as the bee simultaneously constructs cells and fills them with honey, so
science works unceasingly on this great columbarium of concepts, the graveyard
of perceptions. It is always building new, higher stories and shoring up, cleaning,
and renovating the old cells; above all, it takes pains to fill up this monstrously
towering framework and to arrange therein the entire empirical world, which is to
say, the anthropomorphic world” (Nietzsche 120-121).
-Pause. So.
--I just don’t like crowds.
Nod.
--It’s the same thing with animals. I said. My head leaning back against the chair.
Gazing upwards, my doctor’s towering bookshelf.
--I don’t really know how to react to them. They certainly stir emotion in me, beyond
my control.
Well-organized stacks of books, quite menacing. I thought. Leatherbound and
flawless, carefully studied, they spring from the walls of the room. In the shadows of
this behemoth, I see my own archive, dog-eared and lead-marked. Yellow used
stickers highly visible. I had a sudden urge to burn them all.
--You know what I mean? I said. Hey, can I smoke in here by the way?
--Sorry, we don’t permit any smoking inside.
--That’s okay. I said, exhaling a sigh. I don’t smoke anyways. Just wanted to see.
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Just as well. The old paper and raw skin on the antique wood shelves surrounding
the room alight. The office engulfed in yellow-orange flame. A bit of black soot in the
corner, where I used to be
-- Do you feel like this with all animals? All crowds.
Names and dates of authors long dead, row after row, lining the spines of the books
on the shelf. A cemetery of thought. Word. Deed. I shivered.
--Look. I don’t even kill spiders. I leave them there. Circle of life, all that. Always
liked birds, flocking back in spirng. Wilder things, I admire from a distance. They
make no demands on you. There’s no promising them anything.
It must take hours to clean this place. I thought. Not a single speck of dust. Not a
crack in the paint. Wonderfully maintained really. Tasteful contemporary lighting
screwed tightly to the ceiling. Diplomas with elegant seals and font, framing the
entryway. Bronze door knobs and drawer handles. An idle globe, blue ocean
shimmering, countries coloured a uniform mud-brown.
--I am suspicious of dogs. I confessed. Got bit once. On the face. Just above my eye.
--It’s not just about that bad memory though, is it.
--No. I didn’t grow up around any animals except squirrels and flies. And bees in the
summer. Dogs are alien children who die when they’re teenagers. Humans have
bred these little wolves for so long. They’re instincts are so social. I feel responsible.
Sad.
--Do you feel like this every time? With every dog?
--Not once I get to know them. Look them straight in the eyes. We get to trust each
other, learn a bit. Then it’s okay.
I am welcomed into their sight and they into mine. This is our house. But come sit
beside me. Sink into the cushions. Have something to eat. Separate while together.
Caresses recall the difference between me and you. Ghosts in machines.
--Listen. I have a lot of respect for dogs. They really call out to you.
--And, of course, don’t forget. I added. Dog is god spelt backwards. You don’t have to
have faith in god or goodness to believe in that.
-- So you place no trust in others?
--No. No. I protested. It’s just that I get claustrophobic. Closed in. When people are
background noise, fields of interrupting flesh, breaking up the scenery. Strangers
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are just fiends I haven’t met. Listen. I let them be. I smile. I nod. But they vanish
before my eyes and I forget them. Sorry. I know I’m rambling.
No conflict. No story.
---I notice that you don’t ever look me in the eyes. The doctor said. You don’t trust
me.
I stayed silent. Something seemed to change in the doctor’s voice.
--I’m just part of the crowd to you. A beast in your bonnet.
--Listen. I said. I prefer one-on-one conversations. I like to evaluate what I’m dealing
with. Nothing personal. Once I face you, you will face me.
--Let’s try an experiment. Look me in the eyes right now. What do you see?
Cold and brown like grave earth. Hilarious disaster, miserable mirth. Hot as napalm
pain, Greek fire. Igniting distant sacrificial pyre. The back of my skull, etched on a
mind. Demon face in the mirror, laughing design. The authorized reflection of God
into man. Mahogany tables. Steel ceiling fan. A voice shouting Stop! Don’t kill! I’m
meek! Welcome embraces, nuzzle my cheek. Rock-filled snowballs, pounding my
head. A silent grey body, already dead. A looking-glass chessboard. Check. Match.
Mate. Gold to lead. Love of fate. The soft thump of dirt outside of my curtain. The
look I knew once, but makes me uncertain. The joy of all creatures, temperate and
mild. A snake round my shoulders. Eating a child. The water we drown in is always
opaque. Knowing not what we do, nor what we make.
Back and forth. Our irises reflect.
--I think we’ve made a real break-through. Come back when you have something to
tell us.
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