Living in the Future beyond the gangplank of History
Living in the Future beyond the gangplank of History


Welcome to Ditto City, from where we are now we have calculated that we are in the year 2071, although we might be off and it hardly matters given the state of our little planet and the urgency that surrounds us. Yesterday…

Lucy made her visit to the Broadcast Intake Office. She was having recurring nightmares in her minds eye, “if a dream was a place then there had to be a geometry, a dream geometry to govern its course, vaguely remembering something hidden. Dr Attendant 74   had her lie on the crocodile skin couch, the surface could possibly help her erupt one of her three brains. Preferably her reptilian tendencies would be focused by her contact with this ancient swamp couch.

Maybe some neurological spark could uncover her button-down post nine billion neuron drain cell memory centre. “Okay Lucy lets make some historical crash decisions so we can legalize your problem”, which meant where did you come from and what are you doing here, don’t you realize that no one dreams here in Ditto City. Lucy’s eyes shut as she began to relax her limbic system fluttering and dancing for attention her cortex flashing passwords gurgling sounds of language threw a tunnel moving names places observations, on the screen flashes of light and color as thousands of random images pouring forward, being re indexed and sorted on similarity trying to re associate a story line. Postcards, forms and maps moans and screams, laughs, machines. The flash was active soon Dr Attendant 74 would get implication results to form a meta-projection. He sat flexing his hand looking down into his lap where the gel filled pad sat swirling with various colored gases.

Two small wires fixed to Lucy had transformed the iridescent fluid to the mush pad which now was busy cross-indexing all of her memories. Silence snatched the room away. The trans-lock had these two citizens of the city of no regrets locked on course through Lucy’s thought mine. Wars are fought for territory wars are fought for words setting off on the screen a hail of multiple flashes of combat, ritual and sacrifice and suffering.

War on the planet that makes it’s own gravy.

I looked across a liquid sky and there at a glance
I sank into accumulated stench of centuries of death flow
The signal came from the beacon situated across the bay
The time of sidereal aspirations and heaped concentrated focus was to begin
Attack lanes where open, I bundled up nervously for the crossing
The Holy Cross, the Iron Cross, the Cris Cross, or the Double Cross
All the Crosses where there
Awaiting in Apian transfiguration
Attendants’ rowed barges of success slated for slaughter to a distant shore
Sirens hissed in diluvium unison
Electric curent pushed my blood forward threw my tunneled corpse
Hollow visions glided past me at break neck speed
Shields of various clans rattled in the wind
in the distance nervous steeds flared and whined beneath armored heads
Lance men had their last cigarettes
A poet from the opposing camp proposed the reading of a newly penned durge
Moments into the second stanza a fireball halted his pathetic utterances
The sun left the field to take cover behind some shallow hills
The wind circled all the amassed and held us in a concentrated focus
Everyone faced forward
The earth shifted and tossed beneath our feet as if nervous in anticipation
Grinding rock  revealed a whirlpool to the centre lines of defense
The circle widened until the first line of both camps slid into the moist abyss
The second line lost their footing unable to retreat because the wind kept them from turning away
The roar of fire towered out of the earth and eliminated cries of  opposition
Torrential rain mixed with earth and flesh washed all traces of conquest into this cavity prepared for men
The sun returned and lit the valley
The wind subsided and vanished
Mealtime on the planet that makes it’s own gravy always came unannounced
Another battle to be forged by myths and tales forgotten

Will give you some back story up to this point, in the coming week. Imagine you were born dead, this will provide you some relief and from anxiety until I am able to post my next dispatch.  Save the Capitol.  Noel Opan

© napoleon brousseau 1981

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