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In Media Res
If this were a story that needed direction, which it is, it would direct us to read it. It would tell us that the outside is also the inside and that no matter where you enter you are also entering elsewhere. (Though some entrances, like the door to room 7, must always remain shut.) Also, and this is a very faint direction given with almost no malice whatsoever, this is not just a story. Or so you will have to believe if you want to find the directions out of here. I for one don't take direction well. Though I crave for others to take my direction, especially when driving. This is because I fear death. Or perhaps the moment right before, where I come to understand that death is imminent. Death itself, in the wonderful way it implies all directions and also none, seems, after the fact at least, fascinating. The real problem with the machine is that it has nothing to do with death. Quite the opposite.
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A TIGER
There are certainly no tigers in this story. This one was put here by the machine and I can't get rid of it. This is odd, as up until now, I thought Sarra and I were safe from the machine's further meddling. I would say more, but I don't want anyone to realize how much we know. If they find us, we need to play ignorant about what the machine can do, especially if we are no longer able to operate it. Or if--and this is not the technical language the engineers use--it is operating us. However, while this tiger seems randomly placed here, nothing at all to do with the powers of that machine, I'm starting to worry that it is real. At least metaphorically, by which I mean this: I have noticed of late, a low growl that sounds a lot like a tiger, though I've only seen big cats in zoos, and certainly this tiger sound is not the sad silence of a kept beast padding through a puddle of blood, white fur splashed in the horse meat dinner the keepers dumped from the wheelbarrow. Which reminds me: I hope Sarra isn't trying to lure Heinrich into the machine. That seems crazy. But what can I do locked in here? |
A RHINO
There was a rhino in an early version of this story. Back before anything bad had ever happened to me. Back then I complained about this and that: not having a job, not having a girlfriend, blah, blah, blah. What I would give to sit around and complain again. I sometimes think of that guy as a big, dumb rhino. Dumb but supremely happy, no idea he's got a nose that's actually a weapon sitting right on his face. But things have gotten messy since I got my clearance. It will make sense once you get yours. The handbook was six-hundred pages and I still didn't really understand until I saw the men in Room 7. Oops. I shouldn't have said that. The rhino is not just my reminiscence of a happier and dumber time in my life. It's also quite definitely Heinrich. Or at least a representation of him. I've never seen him, so it could very well be a realistic representation for all I know. Remember that famous absurd story where everyone turns into a rhino? Maybe that's what this rhino is doing here. We go down there good people and come back up like Heinrich? Heinrich forces himself in everywhere, just like a rhino, so maybe that's why this one has shown up. But don't go saying I stole this rhino from the famous story, because this is not a story at all--stories always seem to work out and, while I am still hopeful, I've been locked in here for a while and haven't heard a thing. You probably don't believe me. And I would like to leave you blissfully ignorant, but once you get the specs on the machine, hear its gears grinding inside your own brain, you will see it is no dark fantasy, and no longer will you shiver with that pleasureful shiver of delight allowed us in a movie theater where the terrible images will roll away before an onslaught of best boy grips and thank yous, and everyone gets to believe that flowers and applause mark even the most terrible catastrophe. |
A BEAR
I'm growing pretty tired of all the animals forcing their way in here. I like a puppy now and then, maybe a cat if its friendly, but these things are piling up, especially when I don't see their function. In fact, I'm getting a bit suspicious. It looks like there is someone behind the bear, holding it up. Could this all be a trick? Is someone trying to lure us in with the promise of a cozy story, a hot bowl of porridge by a roaring fire. Maybe this is just a modern version of "The Three Bears." Or is that story called Goldilocks? So much has slipped away since I went down there. In any case, even if she does get the title, I always rooted for the bears. But if this is that story, Sarra must be Goldilocks. I think as a naive child, dimple-cheeked and overly interested in lanyards and happily-ever-afters, I did at one point root for the little girl. I then went through a little bear stage, poor little guy getting all his stuff commandeered by that marauding house guest, then the momma, I mean porridge is not only more difficult to make than you think, it also tastes just horrible no matter how well you make it, then, finally, a papa bear stage, where I marched around with my shirt off, shouting out It's my turn Oedipus! It's papa's turn! Which, of course, has nothing to do with this story, because the only one here who might do the whole bare-chested yelling thing is Heinrich, and I will never let him be any bear in my house. So it must be Sarra, sneaking around, hoping to find the perfect little bear. But this means the story has to change. This means that the little bear has to come home early, wander in on Sarra as she lounges about eating his porridge in bed, and say awkwardly: maybe we can get a beer after work? |
If you have made it this far, and statistics say you have not, I am here to tell you that this is where I have put all the secret stuff. I wanted to really have your diligence pay off, so I snuck in a whole host of clues and prizes and secret handshakes and keys to kingdoms as well as lockers at the Copenhagen airport, where a very nice actress and playwright runs the tea shop--get the one called "fresh" which does actually taste fresh, though I'm still not sure what that means when applied to tea. So as you rove your faithful eyes down here to the final depths of this page, probably yawning and stroking your eyes or cursor (or, is it you, machine? have you found your way this far with your electric eye?) back up toward the next page or even eying that evil x-it and its promise of endless information, pleasure, and visibility (please don't leave me), stay here for just a second more. (My roommate just walked in and asked me what I was writing, so I better go, but let me just tell you quickly. Though I'm not writing. That's the problem. I quit all that, I tell her, huffing and grumbling like anyone else cares. All they do is look at my new paycheck and think I have finally found success. How was your day? I ask her, just to change the subject. My day? What are you talking about? It's me, Sarra. We need to go right now before Heinrich realizes what we've done.
So I have to leave you, because I've never met Heinrich and I hope I never do, but I saw Benveniste's face and his ribs. And I've also seen the tapes of the men in room 7.
So I have to leave you, because I've never met Heinrich and I hope I never do, but I saw Benveniste's face and his ribs. And I've also seen the tapes of the men in room 7.
OUR GOALStories are endangered. They are disappearing. We're not really changing that. But we are making disappearing stories our story. Though it's not a story really because Sarra is quite real. See her dark Tunisian hair (her father's side) and her strong (and fast, which really matters right about now) Norwegian legs (her mother's side). She is whispering to me that we must hurry. The tiger to your right may look cute about the eyes, or in that wet pink nose, but she does not represent Sarra, or even me. Please know that whatever non-violence and/or huggability you see in that wild thing is quite lost in the real side of the metaphor (and here I'm talking about Heinrich). So when you see this tiger, or any tiger except a real one, it doesn't mirror anything but the part of a tiger that can eat a human like they are nothing more than a wheelbarrow of horse meat brought in by the zookeeper. So close your eyes if you want to hug this tiger. Close your eyes and run. |
First let's
Run
Some days a motivational quote can provide a quick pick-me-up for employees and even management. They however do absolutely nothing for real people. In fact, if anyone even whispers some inane claptrap about everything turning out alright or remembering that what comes around goes around and karma is an evil bitch who eats her babies--though, I have yet to see that one anywhere near my cubicle and would welcome it for its really data-driven effectiveness and the accountability it basically throws right in the office dumpster along with all those files Sarra and I shredded--I will say, while that certainly is so depressing I wish I had a gun--which would also help with Heinrich--at least you are trying to stay peppy, something that considering what the machine has already done, is admirable in that stupid sort of, hey the plane is out of gas but I got a good feeling about gliding and aerodynamics and the soft nest of the earth where we can lay this baby down. And once we have laid ourselves down, though now we are way out in the middle of the story, maybe we will be able to forget all this and just take a breath of fresh air and admire the drab afternoon. I mean I'll take drab over dead any day. Though laying this plane down may mean the deadly kind of settling into the earth, the six-foot under if you get my glide. Yes, I know it's a bit much to be making jokes at this moment. It's one of my panic reflexes. If we do survive, I think this will be a great way to jazz up a newsletter or memo. Sorry. It's a panic thing. When we get below five thousand feet, I might also start making a sound like a paper shredder. The tiger sound? No that's not me. I think that's the sound of the wing tearing.
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Then let's
Get to the Machine
Some days after work Sarra and I would walk around after work trying to do a quick pick-me-up for the employees. This was our cover at least.
I want you to like me, so I would like to say we were actually just good-hearted workmates who wanted to provide a breath of fresh air on a drab afternoon. The problem is that there are only three kinds of people at our work. Those who know nothing, those who know about the machine's existence but don't know what it does, and those who know enough to want desperately not to know anything more. I think trying to tell everyone about the machine would be a great way to jazz up the office, but by jazz up here I mean send the place into complete chaos. I guess the philosophical question here really is, how much do you need to know to be considered evil. Sarra and I know enough to think we can answer this question. And it's not a kind answer for any of us, even the ones wandering around pretending to know zero and still collecting that paycheck every week. The funny thing is that we will all pay in the end. I guess the poster that doesn't exist is right: karma is a rather hungry beast. We should think about putting that in a newsletter or memo. The truth about Building 13. I'll bet most of these people would just close their eyes and plug their ears and say, give me this months rent please. I don't blame them. Until you actually see the machine working, it's easy to believe such things are impossible, or at least unimaginable, which is just as good when one is trying not to imagine something. |
It's up to us
To Survive
Some days I think about really running away. Don't tell Sarra. If she knew that i was even considering it, I think this would break her heart. The great thing about fiction is that it allows us to consider two things which are mutually exclusive at the same time. In a story, I could both run away, and also save Sarra. Or at least run away with her. Unfortunately, that is impossible. This is the end of this page, and if you have made it here, I really do think we have a chance. You see, you are key in our plan. I didn't want to tell you right away for fear you might slip away. If you already have, that's okay. You don't have to feel bad. You didn't know. Or so you can tell yourself. You can think that your ethics, your morals, your soul are all still in tact. Of course, like those oblivious front office folks, answering the phones and chattering away by the water cooler, you will pay the consequences no matter what. But it isn't until the moment of death that we really regret anything. And, as I said before, perhaps death itself is some grand new horizon. I mean, if the machine teaches us anything, it's that things we never dreamed are actually quite possible. It is a bit of a shame that it also teaches us that some things are far worse than death. In fact, death would be a kind and calm end in comparison. But hopefully you have drifted off and will at least for a few days get to believe none of this happened. If you are still here, trodding down to the very depths of this message, please do the following: do not choose the beginning as your way in. It is a trick. Again, I'm telling you, not the beginning. This is not just
a motivational quote or some cheap attempt to pick you up. I love Sarra, if you hadn't noticed. Though I do love you also, just in a different way. I certainly don't wish you any harm. So, please, for all of our sakes, don't go in the front door. The only hint I can leave her is this: the newsletter or the memo. |