Oliver Benjamin
Jamaican whore’s ass resting next to him, he discovered that he had
lost the ability to think. But that he could not reflect on this, nor its
consequences, prevented him from the burden of caring. He had
reached total enlightenment, the state of the uncarved block. It was a
great achievement, possibly his greatest so far. He sensed that he had
truly become like a god, a particular singularity of light.
But then a leaden point appeared, a tiny black imperfection
against the white field. He blinked. It did not disappear. He tried
again. It did not go away, seemed to enlarge. The more he fought it,
the larger and more obfuscating it grew. His heart beat with greater
force. The whiteness disappeared against the edges of the spreading
hole and he looked inside at the organic imperfections of his own life
magnified before him like perfect skin mottled and broken when
examined under a microscope.
And it was in was here that Morris saw what he loathed most, his
own weak-kneed humanity, his tragic love and jealousy—phenomena
even his heroic will could not excise from his too-human heart. Love
had corrupted him, mortalized him. His love was the single organ
outside the realm of his control because it was at the very origin of his
mammal soul.
In the darkness before him now he saw Roy and Ellie lying on a
tender plot of their own making, carved out of the sandy desert by
their creative will, with no need either of him or his providence. His
best friends, his only loves, his only imperfection, his singular
mistake.
An earthquake rumbled and roared and rattled the landscape. A
crevasse opened and he found himself in the high waters alone,
exiled and liberated, solitary but perfect.
His hand fell against the smooth brown bottom of the prostitute
next to him and he slid into a coma. Chronic consumption of lead
acetate had thoroughly destroyed his brain and body. His shriveled
plums ejaculated their goodbye semantic: white ink on a black tablet,
hieroglyphics of the purest information, a signature of his altared
ego. A limited release of his real name. A final word fell from his lips.
It was not a cry of grief, but of hallowing.
Hurrah.
The young professional opened her eyes and rolled calmly around.
Peeling back his aged parchments, she peered into the stark
whiteness underneath and moved for the telephone.
309
 |
 |
 |
 |