The growling man lifts head from pillow, a cognitive beast soon to be preyed upon by forces presently unknown to him—that being certain, he may not have chosen to raise his metaphysically founded crown from the bed but this is done and, as such, he cannot, would not return to sleep, even if he were to have the hypothetical knowledge—the universal foreshadowing of things to come—this is someone who deems the course to be beyond predilection—if we could counsel him, his equanimity would impress but he would follow the path already given and let’s be honest: we are no counselors, we have no sagacious capacities, witness is all we are and though we’ll witness what is soon to be: he will have more to say to us than we to him—mind you: he is no Zarathustra but will be forced, as one occasionally is, into a world: a sphere of imposed wisdom, for which this author does not, as of yet, comprehend nor judge but, truth be told, dreads somewhere deep within, almost unknown to his own person—if author, character, reader claims no abundant understanding of such—then, in a way, we may not be as disappointed as we frequently are, an author can promise little more than this—to regress slightly: I feel that I must say we are all forced into a world—some adapt, some dissolve, most settle with both—the growling man neither adapts, nor dissolves, nor does he reconcile once his decision has been made and it has been made—he will have surpassed or will have been subsumed in the world of his own making—to describe his breathing as a growling could be considered impolite but I’ve defined the breathing within its animalistic scope, so as to illuminate, further, an undeniable relationship between his creaturely being and his superior potency—I would hate if you took this to mean that I thought of him as an animal: I do not, it is for the maker and the maker alone to judge his humanity—I can only observe his strangeness or, rather, I only comprehend my own judgment of him as alien to common perception—as is often the case I’ve said too much—beginnings are like that: stuffed with minutiae—from here on out: I will plainly tell the story.
In the film, if you recall, he is a square with echo, drink, and utopian soliloquy. Lawrence would approve but the writer himself was no such thing. He was more of a jagged cube; a new breed, whether or not he was born or bred to be the writer: not the transplanted Lawrence but our growling one thought of himself as diplomat. Positioned in that in-between place betwixt the square and the other. He had always sided with, identified with him—that might simply be the way the writer confuses his role with that of the martyr, the blood, and the memorial—although, there could be something more or less to the connection. Perhaps at this point it’s best to give him a name. Anonymity has its benefits but after much exegesis and asides: he deserves one, whether or not the name is, in fact, his or if he has a name at all or if, like him, one name covers up another for the sake of tragedy. But there’s no need to presuppose misfortune. For all we know this will soon become a comic tale. I initially thought I would give him the name of the character in the film but somehow that seems cruel: God knows why. I also get the feeling that the reader is disturbed by his growl, if growl is the apt signifier. A name, wholly unlike a growl, is a respectable plateau.
A few years back, the writer made a pilgrimage—(he did not conceive his outing in this
precise way but we’ll continue to give the excursion a dramatic enunciation)—to the Western Wall, which is likely known to you as the Wailing Wall or, if of a Hebraic tendency, as Kotel. Accordingly, we’ll give him a corresponding name. I say Cody works well enough. And it just so happens, though how could you possibly believe, that his actual name is just that: Cody H. Aragon. He’s been accused too many times to mention of taking on the Aragon under false pretenses, undoubtedly due to his voiced love of the surrealist poet—in order to distance himself from an unwanted surname, which, if we are lucky enough, will be revealed to us later on in the story. The author must confess his ignorance of the name at this time. The fallacy of the omnipotent dramatist is precisely that: a fallacy, a mythos of certainty built upon hierarchical uncertainty. The author is and probability dictates this: in the blind, in a way that the reader is not. The author deceives but the deception is often obviously erected to obscure the witlessness of the one writing. The author is a lost cause.
The growling man can no longer separate himself from the author—he is somewhat baffled and captivated by the sight of a boy sleeping underneath a burning tree.
What clarity in being able to tell one thing from another. For example, did you know that I can tell the difference between a knife made from a toothbrush and a knife made from a comb and not, as you might conclude, by the color. There’s a superior feel to the toothbrush-knife that a comb-knife does not possess—perhaps, it’s something about the molding of the plastic.
Thomas, my bunkmate, can’t tell his ass from his elbow but he has other prepossessing qualities that compensate for what lacks. He often surpasses most and me especially. But his knife knowledge is sub-par at best.
Blue, the warden, hates me. There is not a whole lot I have to say about him.
Wine colored ghouls visit us nocturnally. That’s a fancy way of saying that bleeding dead men come into our cell at night. Who they are, what they’ve been through, and what they want is entirely unknown to us. In all honesty, I don’t mind the visitations. This humdrum life needs a bit of spice.
The day came when everything made perfect sense. Blue announced his cell search that morning and Thomas was feeling under the weather and was thusly in a very weakened state. My toothbrush mastery had reached its apotheosis. Normally, this would mean a good couple of wounds and a toss but today I believed the tool would do what no other had done: many, many constant plunges into many, many forms.
As the search began, my concern for the whole matter waned. As Thomas slept, I removed my scheme from its hole. The admiration had vanished. I felt only a tremendous disdain for the object and what stood objectifying it, making it fragile and quite pathetic. Then, the cell door was rowdily opened and all the meditative and distancing measures abated. There was only one thing to do and it was already done. I took no part in the play of arrangements and whatever I would prefer or would like to defer mattered not a lick.
The chanting, banging, shouting, crying, bleeding, pleading horde silenced. And we, trinity like, bound ourselves up in arms, legs, and, irrevocably, in chests. The synthetic entity disappeared and what remained was an indiscernible divinity caught in its profane ceremony.