Perandorrrr
12-08-2010, 12:00 PM
The Beheading of Norman Winchurch
“I fail to understand why pale believers, inhabited in scenes and patterns of discountenance, constantly search for a veil or distraction from their own embarrassments. Brothers – need not to ascertain an amount of esteem to fulfill the world, just enough to satisfy the person birthed by your mother” – Norman Winchurch
His apparition went something like this: he heard rumblings of conversation from voices that he shouldn’t have recognized, but I suppose congenital traits lightly pass. Not seeing himself, in or outwardly, his hands and feet travelled without him from his view; that anonymous shadow in everyone pushed him towards the indecipherable sounds. As he came upon the immaculately see-through finish of a gothic style door, he could see his reflection, not only was he seeing himself, but his future as well. The rumblings stopped gallantly as he tried to open the door…..it was locked once again.
You’ll never meet him unless through me. We should weld scrims, if we could -- until mist, in sanctity, to mulct along sidelong advances that separate the conjoining toss. I’m a man as he is, and another man should never feel deputized in accordance with stature, because after all, an honest account of one man’s life from another maybe most culpable in an age of revising embellishments; in the center of Nalpsetaf New York is where this story takes place, by the way. I wouldn’t know how to explain it to you, but when “journalists” were still allowed to go there, one described it as, “a place where in an instant you can reach the crest of existence and shortly the base of everything as a human we want to avoid…all in a moment, in the same time, in the same breath”. The best story teller is not the menial second-hand, oh, I shant be that. Without any more interruption, my dearest friends, I introduce to you, Mister Norman Winchurch.
“I was conceived, with good intention – I was told, during the nightmare as it was known, on the eve of assassination, as Nalpsetaf’s beloved mayor met with open eyes. A Hesitant born child, I never knew when to come out in that long painful labor, something that never seemed to move on. I was cared for like an heir. Although we had humble surroundings, my line was sacred. I was bathed in fruit and plant extracts from the Amazon basin -- clothed with a mix of skin from wild beasts, not slain, as to render the increase of fear in there final moment, but at a planned death -- the skin sewn by hand by free slaves, dipped in liger blood and boiled in scented water that sprang from the crossroads of our planet. The Cithara played by the Yegimx, humming in rhythm, in unison with the pulse emanating from the semi-hollow earth, Nepolodge around my neck, as I drank from a bottle, held by my own hand and milk squeezed on a Wolf Moon -- that elixir could emanate enough steam to spurn an oracle that would have said I was irresistible and invincible! A teasing ingrate of what I deserved now left on the edge to enjoy or ignore; tries rose over Khyber with wished-torn alphabets astray. Coming off as a wonder child isn’t my preferred stance. I think we all have wished to have a divine purpose, thinking we were meant for more; however, we drag, unlike prays in Merodach’s alcove as he was raised in first-sight glory only to outstand hellion appeal. As I compose and yield, nothing can change the almost impossible steps taken for our lonely planet to be properly inhabited -- there is your reason and divine purpose, how far the potential can go is left to the Self. I never would allow myself to deceive anyone but I will not divulge what brought me here. I will limn points of onus to your Dorian inquisitiveness -- if you care that is.”
This is where that pitiful Norman sits out the remaining time until the town gathers to witness the beheading: the uncomfortable prison cell shared with another man who practices quite impressive vulgarity against Norman. There was a growing annoyance between Norman and his roommate. Believe it or not, he was as much as a success financially as Norman, but not as popular. He would sprinkle lovely and clever alliterations such as “f---g f---t” to his live-in neighbor, causing a strange look from Norman, glancing where the wedding ring on his finger would be, instead, he would grudgingly lift the finger that fits almost every occasion. He would usually apologize later as he despised lowering himself; both men were strong, but came up differently. His roommate came from an even more humble upbringing, barely educated somehow becoming a success. Once again we should note that fiscal success is blind from reputation and genius; attracted to the one hard-headed enough to resist at the right time, beg when appropriate, but stalk endlessly. Norman was tired of hearing his babble of the past, talking about politics as if he really knew something. On top of it all Norman was sick of his view of the world. His roommate didn’t like Norman’s quiet demeanor, he couldn’t understand why he would sit and write letters to his wife all day. Whenever they did chat, it usually would start with an argument and end with enough space for a sequel to the argument. If you ask me, I think he was jealous that Norman inhaled fresher air, he was the world to many, sought after because of his expertise in money matters; jealousy my friends, jealously was what really made him want to hurt that prick of a roommate. Norman was sitting down staring at his roommate, hoping to make eye contact to at least beat him in a stare-down. Losing his patience he picked up his pencil, and after a long hesitation he threw it at his roommate, “Come on, friend. Let’s get this over with”. Both fools got up at the same time not knowing their intentions. “Come on, now. Have a say at me, I wont be here much longer,” speaks Norman. “Okay, like the other day -- you started to talk down to me when I talked about the Governor and his people. You said society isn’t to blame for what’s going on. Then you got on about some other s---, I really don’t remember,” the roommate exhaled. “I have no reason to talk down to anyone, sir. If you took it that way then I apologize. As far as your precious Mayor! I taught him how to speak! We picked that fool off the street years ago and made him! I trained him! I wrote his speeches! He can’t even talk straight if it’s not written down for him or whispered in his ear! You know what I know about him? One stretch in the wrong direction and the papers will have some very complicit pictures of him in very compromising scenarios. Forget owning him! We own his children and their children! We can down his plane in seconds with EMF waves without a trace…twenty years ago! You know what we have today?” Norman spoke with viciousness. He requested, through his dialect to eschew the mindless, instead, anticipate all of creation to attend this private meeting. “I’m not sure why you’re saying “we” looks like they ‘we’d’ without you.” Norman stared hard and broke into a laugh as did the nosey prison guard known for handing scraps to the men for lunch. “One of the oldest rules was just broken: speaking outside of myself, horrid things my friend, knowing I would regret it later -- but kept going, rooted on by that whisper. I should have napped before this outburst which only hurt the speaker”. Norman knew how to get into the mind of his roommate. He knew by showing some sort of force and legitimate prowess would beckon his roommate in some interest. His plan wasn’t eager, it was simple. The second his roommate wised a joke he knew the respect had been won without even a fight. Then, cordially apologize to the man, and as he hoped the man didn’t even mind. It seems all he wanted was to see Norman as “human”. “You’re alright Norman, my soon to be headless friend.” All three men laughed hard, even Norman. “When the **** did I give you permission to laugh?” Norman’s roommate asked the prison guard. “Keep quiet. With all this talk Norman, you ever going to say exactly why you’re in here?” It seems even the “public” didn’t know why he was in prison. “Yeah, it would help out the conversation”, his roommate said. Just when Norman was going to let it go, Arjuna gave him permission to go the nineteenth day, “In a language familiar to you gentlemen?” Both instantly replied, “Yes.” “My nuts already hang low, hop off.” HA! Even I had to laugh. Instead of scraps, the prison guard gave both men an equal and proportionate amount of food as they sat down to eat. “I made a lot of money but never could understand it, much too complex.” “That’s the exact idea we put out, so no one would ever care to investigate. It’s quite simple really. Money isn’t backed by anything of intrinsic value anymore, so now it’s a credit system slash debt system; fiat. The more money borrowed the more bills have to be made. The more bills that have to be made lessens the value of money. The lesser value of money causes inflation an a severe imbalance, as long as you’re the one lending it out you have nothing to worry about, it’s nothing more than numbers on a screen -- never tighten credit or everything will collapse. One of the ways to work debt up is through the IMF and world banks that use the dollar as the standard. They loan out money to undeveloped countries at absurd interest rates that they know can never be repaid. Most of it goes to a puppet installed government lackey who keeps the money for himself while we pillage the resources of the land”, Norman easily explained. The roommate is obviously not getting it all, he asked, “wait…what about gold and all that?” “Gold is and always will be the best hard commodity; it can be stored, graded, and so forth. Most countries are selling off their gold until the new currency arrives. Most of the gold in our country can’t even be accounted for -- most of it is fake gold, anyway. I’ve seen some of the storage of the real gold in Zurich and Rhein, usually near or on military bases for protection. We can’t do too much with the gold aside from storing it, but in parts of Asia they accept gold as currency in exchange for drugs. Our country is nothing more than the laundry mat for the world, where we clean the money through banks, casinos and trade, like diamonds. All the worthless paper buys up more property and gold and when that day comes when the paper means nothing -- will have all the property and only valuable commodity to back currency…and I challenged the red-shield.” His roommate stared down himself, acquiesced to humbleness, almost embarrassed to have ever questioned Norman.
Norman leaned against the wall with his head and one foot up -- his eyes calmly raising and depressing to the sound of birds chirping. Without sweat and Gabriel, he entered what looked like a trance like state, with his eyes closed, he murmured, “They’re saying “love” over and over again, always in rhythm, always in rhythm. Those were the first words ever spoken, you know? And they’ve been repeating it ever since, so we don’t forget.” Norman glances out to see two birds, the Tana River Cisticola and Kioea, sharing pieces of boule bread, comfortably sitting on the tree of Arinze Pope. Norman has a strange thought and is about to say something profound as he is interrupted by his roommate, “I don’t know if you ever wanted to be famous, but tomorrow the world will know your name.” “Of course I will, it’s something others want. I’ll fight despair on these reasons internally and externally, that’s why I have trouble breathing now. No one will feel Naches for what I’ve done. I’ve disport my intention of solar flare. At least I know it, though. I often wonder about sudden deaths or in your sleep. How does it go on from there? Does me knowing change anything? I was always aware of the temporary stay here, I’m not sure why, though. I never understood why someone would sacrifice time in this physical existence when no real answer of the next world has ever been positively quoted. If I see you in the next world, how do I know that is you? Is that going to be you or the manifestation of what I thought was you? At least in this physical existence I know it’s “you.” If I ever hoped to see you there, will we know we are? So, yes -- let the world watch safe from afar claiming experience. In the matter of experience: a person’s words may guide you, but the full depth of understanding must be first hand, not hearsay. Or forever your sight will seem pre-natal and your aim surmised.” Norman’s roommate just stares in awe of his new friend, “If all the worlds’ ear could hear, dear Norman.” “I think that may be me at my most profound, yet no one is here to witness it,” Norman quipped. Getting Norman at this very open state his roommate asked, “Are you ashamed?” “Not really, we’re only a dot in this solar system. My wife has to live with the name I made; compulsory fawning. She won’t have much trouble, who can say “no” to Persian eyes? Ultimately, it’s owed to me, but what the versions of me over time would say, I cape for tune. I can be proud hate never inspired my deeds. A father-less point I suppose, I carried all the answers a day before, only a day before, what has transpired in only a day? ‘A state imbue, have you formerly subdued a tending switch, a sure buffoon?’ Norman laughed to himself. I traveled the world with my father. As beautiful as the man made wonders I’ve seen, the most wondrous and beautiful monuments on earth are made without hands. I clambered Taebaek Mountain; I was pulled into Kaieteur Falls all in hopes of providing me with the memory of feeling the scope of greatness, only to be let down and betrayed by myself. Consciously I was ready, but I guess sub-consciously there were doubts; the indefeasible struggle of seen and the unrecognizable chasm. How could one betray oneself? Reacting against myself thinking it was to better me, when it hurt me only to convince myself I was right because I couldn’t admit defeat. More importantly, how could I allow it to happen and allow it to stand in my history?”
As they day wore on, the uncaught stare of roommates willowed. By this point Norman looked absorbed of air, bent over, still leaning on the wall, refusing to wipe the drops of memoir from his overcast. “The greatest days of my life were cutting trees down for the city with my dad. We used axes instead of electric saws -- my dad loved nature, he said it was better if we did it the old fashioned way and respect nature. I’d cut it, pick up pieces and inhale the deepest breath of pure earth, even kiss it sometimes, squeeze it and throw it onto the drunk…I mean trunk -- ‘night bunky,’ in the trunk for the cities building projects. It was ironic because the great brush fire of that year happened -- it would of spread further if we hadn’t cut down those trees. The last day of service I donated my axe and whatever wood we cut that day. I almost cried. I felt like I left a friend. I always could keep moving, my direction was never “left” or “right” it was always forward. My entire life was ruined by others, at least this time I was the one behind it. But rules, rights, and records were all made to be broken, huh? When the ancient sun entered Sagittarius they’re salivation leaped for my top. And in my unaimed ramble I can’t conclude if all what is retained is active from its own heart or my creation of what is seldom concrete with none and every explanation to your pleasure. I lived most of my life of what seems to be noble. I’m unsure if I should have lived without a sense and draw off au courant, distancing vocation, with existence only sought afar -- to live, forever unknowing, but aware, without desire for recognition. Norman looks outside and sees guards setting up the guillotine in honor of their first real kiss. Unlike the torn Norman, its manor is regal, its health replete with nutrition, its soul blinds the lords as it has taken down many a man, some with the most powerful reputations all bowed to it counting the beats before submission to the one unspoken, but world renowned with sterling credit.” Norman considered writing on his bleached stained night. Instead he broke the eraser off his pencil and fell to the ground without saying goodnight to the top bunk that was full-toned in hush since the allure to rove.
The morning breeze swept into the room without a sound to find Norman -- not on the floor? Norman is sitting asleep with his head down at his “desk.” He must have gotten up at some point without revealing it to anyone and it also looks like he did some writing. The time had come for what we all had been waiting for. After simply nodding his head “no” to a last meal and without responding to his roommate, he was picked up and marched to the center of Nalpsetaf where a crowd had gathered, but because of indoctrination of fear not a sound was heard from them. His roommate looked at Norman’s journal and noticed something strange: He skimmed through the words and noticed towards the end the writing became less and less legible. It wasn’t that he couldn’t make it out because it was sloppy, but because it seemed like the beginning was written by an adult, but as it went on, it looked like a child had written it and then someone who had never written a word, as he couldn’t make out even a letter. It was difficult to make out what Norman was thinking, his eyes seemed disillusioned, his half-smile off by a quarter of an inch, but still perfect, was, without force, and his body was easily dragged to the guillotine. The only noticeable sound was journalists and photographers clicking away at Norman. “Have fun writing about history while I had made it,” I bet he thought. I really know what Norman was thinking. I really do. He must have noticed that the guillotine was warped and strained looking weak and tired although it didn’t rain the night before. Norman took a long look at the faces in the crowd forming one entity before his head was inserted into the lunette. The sun hit the blade in a friendly gesture and a drop of “sweat” dripped from the blade onto Norman, his face gleamed as beautiful as the star of Africa, despite the finger prints. He was placed into the guillotine, his throat was quenched, but he had no regret -- his executioner opted to leave his face without concealment, as did Norman as he felt no shame. His eyes slowly shut as he heard the yank from his executioner. He tightened his body, but the blade would not move. Norman thought to himself that the even though the tree was cut from cypress its soul was that of a Celtic boar…. “I’ll take it from here, as I, Norman Winchurch signaled my executioner to hand me the rope. I inhaled a lifetime in breath and as much as the grenouille did not want to unclasp and before I could utter or hesitate a last thought -- I yanked the rope with all cognition and skipped a pattern from my thoughts. That is for me, not you.”
Norman was back into a familiar scenario as he traveled the halls of an unfamiliar home, coming across a door that had always been locked, but tips of voices heard. Finally the voices stopped and Norman was able to open the door. The room was filled with smoke and drink with men of his astounding lineage who all stared at their descendant. Norman wanted applause from them, but the faces of anger, resentment and empathy showed among these men of men. He stood as a man should, but silence, nothing but silence overwhelmed. One of his ancestors who had the courage to go up to Norman pointed at an unfinished painting of what looked like a dolphin jumping through the loop of an ankh on the ceiling of the dimly lit room. The choice was now Norman’s; however, silence was still the moot point. Norman Winchurch -- a hero to none?
- ID The End (summer, 2008)
“I fail to understand why pale believers, inhabited in scenes and patterns of discountenance, constantly search for a veil or distraction from their own embarrassments. Brothers – need not to ascertain an amount of esteem to fulfill the world, just enough to satisfy the person birthed by your mother” – Norman Winchurch
His apparition went something like this: he heard rumblings of conversation from voices that he shouldn’t have recognized, but I suppose congenital traits lightly pass. Not seeing himself, in or outwardly, his hands and feet travelled without him from his view; that anonymous shadow in everyone pushed him towards the indecipherable sounds. As he came upon the immaculately see-through finish of a gothic style door, he could see his reflection, not only was he seeing himself, but his future as well. The rumblings stopped gallantly as he tried to open the door…..it was locked once again.
You’ll never meet him unless through me. We should weld scrims, if we could -- until mist, in sanctity, to mulct along sidelong advances that separate the conjoining toss. I’m a man as he is, and another man should never feel deputized in accordance with stature, because after all, an honest account of one man’s life from another maybe most culpable in an age of revising embellishments; in the center of Nalpsetaf New York is where this story takes place, by the way. I wouldn’t know how to explain it to you, but when “journalists” were still allowed to go there, one described it as, “a place where in an instant you can reach the crest of existence and shortly the base of everything as a human we want to avoid…all in a moment, in the same time, in the same breath”. The best story teller is not the menial second-hand, oh, I shant be that. Without any more interruption, my dearest friends, I introduce to you, Mister Norman Winchurch.
“I was conceived, with good intention – I was told, during the nightmare as it was known, on the eve of assassination, as Nalpsetaf’s beloved mayor met with open eyes. A Hesitant born child, I never knew when to come out in that long painful labor, something that never seemed to move on. I was cared for like an heir. Although we had humble surroundings, my line was sacred. I was bathed in fruit and plant extracts from the Amazon basin -- clothed with a mix of skin from wild beasts, not slain, as to render the increase of fear in there final moment, but at a planned death -- the skin sewn by hand by free slaves, dipped in liger blood and boiled in scented water that sprang from the crossroads of our planet. The Cithara played by the Yegimx, humming in rhythm, in unison with the pulse emanating from the semi-hollow earth, Nepolodge around my neck, as I drank from a bottle, held by my own hand and milk squeezed on a Wolf Moon -- that elixir could emanate enough steam to spurn an oracle that would have said I was irresistible and invincible! A teasing ingrate of what I deserved now left on the edge to enjoy or ignore; tries rose over Khyber with wished-torn alphabets astray. Coming off as a wonder child isn’t my preferred stance. I think we all have wished to have a divine purpose, thinking we were meant for more; however, we drag, unlike prays in Merodach’s alcove as he was raised in first-sight glory only to outstand hellion appeal. As I compose and yield, nothing can change the almost impossible steps taken for our lonely planet to be properly inhabited -- there is your reason and divine purpose, how far the potential can go is left to the Self. I never would allow myself to deceive anyone but I will not divulge what brought me here. I will limn points of onus to your Dorian inquisitiveness -- if you care that is.”
This is where that pitiful Norman sits out the remaining time until the town gathers to witness the beheading: the uncomfortable prison cell shared with another man who practices quite impressive vulgarity against Norman. There was a growing annoyance between Norman and his roommate. Believe it or not, he was as much as a success financially as Norman, but not as popular. He would sprinkle lovely and clever alliterations such as “f---g f---t” to his live-in neighbor, causing a strange look from Norman, glancing where the wedding ring on his finger would be, instead, he would grudgingly lift the finger that fits almost every occasion. He would usually apologize later as he despised lowering himself; both men were strong, but came up differently. His roommate came from an even more humble upbringing, barely educated somehow becoming a success. Once again we should note that fiscal success is blind from reputation and genius; attracted to the one hard-headed enough to resist at the right time, beg when appropriate, but stalk endlessly. Norman was tired of hearing his babble of the past, talking about politics as if he really knew something. On top of it all Norman was sick of his view of the world. His roommate didn’t like Norman’s quiet demeanor, he couldn’t understand why he would sit and write letters to his wife all day. Whenever they did chat, it usually would start with an argument and end with enough space for a sequel to the argument. If you ask me, I think he was jealous that Norman inhaled fresher air, he was the world to many, sought after because of his expertise in money matters; jealousy my friends, jealously was what really made him want to hurt that prick of a roommate. Norman was sitting down staring at his roommate, hoping to make eye contact to at least beat him in a stare-down. Losing his patience he picked up his pencil, and after a long hesitation he threw it at his roommate, “Come on, friend. Let’s get this over with”. Both fools got up at the same time not knowing their intentions. “Come on, now. Have a say at me, I wont be here much longer,” speaks Norman. “Okay, like the other day -- you started to talk down to me when I talked about the Governor and his people. You said society isn’t to blame for what’s going on. Then you got on about some other s---, I really don’t remember,” the roommate exhaled. “I have no reason to talk down to anyone, sir. If you took it that way then I apologize. As far as your precious Mayor! I taught him how to speak! We picked that fool off the street years ago and made him! I trained him! I wrote his speeches! He can’t even talk straight if it’s not written down for him or whispered in his ear! You know what I know about him? One stretch in the wrong direction and the papers will have some very complicit pictures of him in very compromising scenarios. Forget owning him! We own his children and their children! We can down his plane in seconds with EMF waves without a trace…twenty years ago! You know what we have today?” Norman spoke with viciousness. He requested, through his dialect to eschew the mindless, instead, anticipate all of creation to attend this private meeting. “I’m not sure why you’re saying “we” looks like they ‘we’d’ without you.” Norman stared hard and broke into a laugh as did the nosey prison guard known for handing scraps to the men for lunch. “One of the oldest rules was just broken: speaking outside of myself, horrid things my friend, knowing I would regret it later -- but kept going, rooted on by that whisper. I should have napped before this outburst which only hurt the speaker”. Norman knew how to get into the mind of his roommate. He knew by showing some sort of force and legitimate prowess would beckon his roommate in some interest. His plan wasn’t eager, it was simple. The second his roommate wised a joke he knew the respect had been won without even a fight. Then, cordially apologize to the man, and as he hoped the man didn’t even mind. It seems all he wanted was to see Norman as “human”. “You’re alright Norman, my soon to be headless friend.” All three men laughed hard, even Norman. “When the **** did I give you permission to laugh?” Norman’s roommate asked the prison guard. “Keep quiet. With all this talk Norman, you ever going to say exactly why you’re in here?” It seems even the “public” didn’t know why he was in prison. “Yeah, it would help out the conversation”, his roommate said. Just when Norman was going to let it go, Arjuna gave him permission to go the nineteenth day, “In a language familiar to you gentlemen?” Both instantly replied, “Yes.” “My nuts already hang low, hop off.” HA! Even I had to laugh. Instead of scraps, the prison guard gave both men an equal and proportionate amount of food as they sat down to eat. “I made a lot of money but never could understand it, much too complex.” “That’s the exact idea we put out, so no one would ever care to investigate. It’s quite simple really. Money isn’t backed by anything of intrinsic value anymore, so now it’s a credit system slash debt system; fiat. The more money borrowed the more bills have to be made. The more bills that have to be made lessens the value of money. The lesser value of money causes inflation an a severe imbalance, as long as you’re the one lending it out you have nothing to worry about, it’s nothing more than numbers on a screen -- never tighten credit or everything will collapse. One of the ways to work debt up is through the IMF and world banks that use the dollar as the standard. They loan out money to undeveloped countries at absurd interest rates that they know can never be repaid. Most of it goes to a puppet installed government lackey who keeps the money for himself while we pillage the resources of the land”, Norman easily explained. The roommate is obviously not getting it all, he asked, “wait…what about gold and all that?” “Gold is and always will be the best hard commodity; it can be stored, graded, and so forth. Most countries are selling off their gold until the new currency arrives. Most of the gold in our country can’t even be accounted for -- most of it is fake gold, anyway. I’ve seen some of the storage of the real gold in Zurich and Rhein, usually near or on military bases for protection. We can’t do too much with the gold aside from storing it, but in parts of Asia they accept gold as currency in exchange for drugs. Our country is nothing more than the laundry mat for the world, where we clean the money through banks, casinos and trade, like diamonds. All the worthless paper buys up more property and gold and when that day comes when the paper means nothing -- will have all the property and only valuable commodity to back currency…and I challenged the red-shield.” His roommate stared down himself, acquiesced to humbleness, almost embarrassed to have ever questioned Norman.
Norman leaned against the wall with his head and one foot up -- his eyes calmly raising and depressing to the sound of birds chirping. Without sweat and Gabriel, he entered what looked like a trance like state, with his eyes closed, he murmured, “They’re saying “love” over and over again, always in rhythm, always in rhythm. Those were the first words ever spoken, you know? And they’ve been repeating it ever since, so we don’t forget.” Norman glances out to see two birds, the Tana River Cisticola and Kioea, sharing pieces of boule bread, comfortably sitting on the tree of Arinze Pope. Norman has a strange thought and is about to say something profound as he is interrupted by his roommate, “I don’t know if you ever wanted to be famous, but tomorrow the world will know your name.” “Of course I will, it’s something others want. I’ll fight despair on these reasons internally and externally, that’s why I have trouble breathing now. No one will feel Naches for what I’ve done. I’ve disport my intention of solar flare. At least I know it, though. I often wonder about sudden deaths or in your sleep. How does it go on from there? Does me knowing change anything? I was always aware of the temporary stay here, I’m not sure why, though. I never understood why someone would sacrifice time in this physical existence when no real answer of the next world has ever been positively quoted. If I see you in the next world, how do I know that is you? Is that going to be you or the manifestation of what I thought was you? At least in this physical existence I know it’s “you.” If I ever hoped to see you there, will we know we are? So, yes -- let the world watch safe from afar claiming experience. In the matter of experience: a person’s words may guide you, but the full depth of understanding must be first hand, not hearsay. Or forever your sight will seem pre-natal and your aim surmised.” Norman’s roommate just stares in awe of his new friend, “If all the worlds’ ear could hear, dear Norman.” “I think that may be me at my most profound, yet no one is here to witness it,” Norman quipped. Getting Norman at this very open state his roommate asked, “Are you ashamed?” “Not really, we’re only a dot in this solar system. My wife has to live with the name I made; compulsory fawning. She won’t have much trouble, who can say “no” to Persian eyes? Ultimately, it’s owed to me, but what the versions of me over time would say, I cape for tune. I can be proud hate never inspired my deeds. A father-less point I suppose, I carried all the answers a day before, only a day before, what has transpired in only a day? ‘A state imbue, have you formerly subdued a tending switch, a sure buffoon?’ Norman laughed to himself. I traveled the world with my father. As beautiful as the man made wonders I’ve seen, the most wondrous and beautiful monuments on earth are made without hands. I clambered Taebaek Mountain; I was pulled into Kaieteur Falls all in hopes of providing me with the memory of feeling the scope of greatness, only to be let down and betrayed by myself. Consciously I was ready, but I guess sub-consciously there were doubts; the indefeasible struggle of seen and the unrecognizable chasm. How could one betray oneself? Reacting against myself thinking it was to better me, when it hurt me only to convince myself I was right because I couldn’t admit defeat. More importantly, how could I allow it to happen and allow it to stand in my history?”
As they day wore on, the uncaught stare of roommates willowed. By this point Norman looked absorbed of air, bent over, still leaning on the wall, refusing to wipe the drops of memoir from his overcast. “The greatest days of my life were cutting trees down for the city with my dad. We used axes instead of electric saws -- my dad loved nature, he said it was better if we did it the old fashioned way and respect nature. I’d cut it, pick up pieces and inhale the deepest breath of pure earth, even kiss it sometimes, squeeze it and throw it onto the drunk…I mean trunk -- ‘night bunky,’ in the trunk for the cities building projects. It was ironic because the great brush fire of that year happened -- it would of spread further if we hadn’t cut down those trees. The last day of service I donated my axe and whatever wood we cut that day. I almost cried. I felt like I left a friend. I always could keep moving, my direction was never “left” or “right” it was always forward. My entire life was ruined by others, at least this time I was the one behind it. But rules, rights, and records were all made to be broken, huh? When the ancient sun entered Sagittarius they’re salivation leaped for my top. And in my unaimed ramble I can’t conclude if all what is retained is active from its own heart or my creation of what is seldom concrete with none and every explanation to your pleasure. I lived most of my life of what seems to be noble. I’m unsure if I should have lived without a sense and draw off au courant, distancing vocation, with existence only sought afar -- to live, forever unknowing, but aware, without desire for recognition. Norman looks outside and sees guards setting up the guillotine in honor of their first real kiss. Unlike the torn Norman, its manor is regal, its health replete with nutrition, its soul blinds the lords as it has taken down many a man, some with the most powerful reputations all bowed to it counting the beats before submission to the one unspoken, but world renowned with sterling credit.” Norman considered writing on his bleached stained night. Instead he broke the eraser off his pencil and fell to the ground without saying goodnight to the top bunk that was full-toned in hush since the allure to rove.
The morning breeze swept into the room without a sound to find Norman -- not on the floor? Norman is sitting asleep with his head down at his “desk.” He must have gotten up at some point without revealing it to anyone and it also looks like he did some writing. The time had come for what we all had been waiting for. After simply nodding his head “no” to a last meal and without responding to his roommate, he was picked up and marched to the center of Nalpsetaf where a crowd had gathered, but because of indoctrination of fear not a sound was heard from them. His roommate looked at Norman’s journal and noticed something strange: He skimmed through the words and noticed towards the end the writing became less and less legible. It wasn’t that he couldn’t make it out because it was sloppy, but because it seemed like the beginning was written by an adult, but as it went on, it looked like a child had written it and then someone who had never written a word, as he couldn’t make out even a letter. It was difficult to make out what Norman was thinking, his eyes seemed disillusioned, his half-smile off by a quarter of an inch, but still perfect, was, without force, and his body was easily dragged to the guillotine. The only noticeable sound was journalists and photographers clicking away at Norman. “Have fun writing about history while I had made it,” I bet he thought. I really know what Norman was thinking. I really do. He must have noticed that the guillotine was warped and strained looking weak and tired although it didn’t rain the night before. Norman took a long look at the faces in the crowd forming one entity before his head was inserted into the lunette. The sun hit the blade in a friendly gesture and a drop of “sweat” dripped from the blade onto Norman, his face gleamed as beautiful as the star of Africa, despite the finger prints. He was placed into the guillotine, his throat was quenched, but he had no regret -- his executioner opted to leave his face without concealment, as did Norman as he felt no shame. His eyes slowly shut as he heard the yank from his executioner. He tightened his body, but the blade would not move. Norman thought to himself that the even though the tree was cut from cypress its soul was that of a Celtic boar…. “I’ll take it from here, as I, Norman Winchurch signaled my executioner to hand me the rope. I inhaled a lifetime in breath and as much as the grenouille did not want to unclasp and before I could utter or hesitate a last thought -- I yanked the rope with all cognition and skipped a pattern from my thoughts. That is for me, not you.”
Norman was back into a familiar scenario as he traveled the halls of an unfamiliar home, coming across a door that had always been locked, but tips of voices heard. Finally the voices stopped and Norman was able to open the door. The room was filled with smoke and drink with men of his astounding lineage who all stared at their descendant. Norman wanted applause from them, but the faces of anger, resentment and empathy showed among these men of men. He stood as a man should, but silence, nothing but silence overwhelmed. One of his ancestors who had the courage to go up to Norman pointed at an unfinished painting of what looked like a dolphin jumping through the loop of an ankh on the ceiling of the dimly lit room. The choice was now Norman’s; however, silence was still the moot point. Norman Winchurch -- a hero to none?
- ID The End (summer, 2008)