A.
MOLOTKOV'S
LITERARY PROJECTS
A Reflection of Shadow's Eyes
In Counter-Retrospective
When the voice wakes up, I wake up. It is my trade. All these long centuries, and even before. The voice tells the story of silence. Those who hear it become characters of stories told by former characters. I become the character of a story told by the voice.
When everything is quiet, the voice begins to speak. It tells me the story of two people.
Only once makes sense, and maybe it may take a little time, but the Giant Turkey is already on its way, and the sun may wake up earlier than laughter. In eternal surveillance of dreams, you are a ghost of a generation that sells seeds of hope by the imaginary roadbanks. He who understandeth shall survive. Who can tell? We’ll meet at the station. Multiplied by geometry, digested by sophisticated spacethings unprepared to display preference, or convey meaning. Who can stop those one-winged eagles when air is dry like glass and steel floats high in the river, and you think about the difference between water and life. Meanwhile, the Steady Driver has arrived.
They may have known each other, or not, or yes, or maybe not, or certainly, or definitely otherwise, or who knows . . . One of those times when an audiovisual impression is distinctly proclaiming its right to be analyzed. A notion that connections may exist on an entirely different level in reality, so that our decisions within the dimensions that are exposed to us are altogether irrelevant to the general outcome of events. Yet viewed from an opposite perspective, this same situation may imply that a reality is undetachable from its host, and cannot be examined as a separate entity. Then, there is no outcome. The outcome equals the income, or else . . .
The solution may be in multiplying anything that lends itself to multiplying, without regard for race, smell, or level of radioactive intoxication. In relation to the latter, much more is to be said but for the seventeen scientists traveling on the roof of the Giant Turkey. Who can tell? Tomorrow the life and death of a single human creature may seem an exclusively terminological issue. Now, the opposite is true, and the teddy bear is waiting for the little girl at the station. He sit in his glory, only look, not move, not shake, not do anything. Maybe eagles will come, and bring energy.
These particular two people (history undocumented; possible acquaintance; perhaps ran into one another a few times, the look of an undetermined level of possibility, maybe exchanged, maybe one way, maybe none, if not entirely opposite) happen to notice each other at a party (in a general sense of the word). The investigation has provided us with some evidence. This is an excerpt from a diary of one of the two:
"The look in No17’s eyes . . . I could not keep from staring. Something so familiar, as though I were facing myself . . . Then the waiter came with the drinks, and when I turned back, No17 was gone. What was I to do?"
Maybe fly like an adrenaline dog, the dream eater, the lotus of carnivorous intentions and inspective dignity. He yell loud, and the car stop and passengers get out. "He may never return," says the witness of the future, knowing the outcome of the unpredictable, yet sophisticated like a buttersnake. The Steady Driver is back. Who can tell? He only an eel, but transparent, and with two mothers and a turmoil brain.
In No17’s interpretation, it was the voice. He heard No11’s voice, and it was like hearing himself from aside. And then the voice was gone. Maybe it is the same voice that speaks to me. Maybe not. Maybe all voices are just one voice. Speaking to me when everything else is silent.
Speaking to me when everything else is silent.
He proclaimeth the Giant Turkey. Them go outside, step in, then go outside. I wish I knew, but I don't. Who can tell? Maybe you could meet them at the station? I step inside, he travel fast like a rabbit, but my dog is not of this world, nor is it the same as the beams of meaning piercing mind. He may remember something, but I know it is not true.
Now an excerpt from another location in time – can we assume these were the same people? Can we assume otherwise? Do we even need to assume anything? Here it is:
"It took us just a couple of seconds to understand – this time. All those times before the knowledge was firmly balanced on the verge of awareness, unable to break the invisible barrier. We skated on the ice of the water of wisdom, while our reflections stared at us in awe. Now we had matured, and everything became clear . . . "
I go and do what it is I proposed I do, and beyond. Me is finished, looking down like a full Moon at the workings of the circumstance. Travel in opposite directions, then converge and converse. He do not know most, I forget sometimes, like this time, and many many others. Who can tell? He may know, I shall not reveal! Be my secret, and that of those who are I. Magnificent? Yes. Magnificent? Yes. The Steady Driver is on my side!
These two people had rejected an old truth in favor of a new one. What is to be said about this if nothing is to be said when all is said and done? Something unusual happened. To each other, they became ever-present shadows of curiosity, unmotivated attraction. Maybe it was the voice in their heads talking to them, telling them their own story, just like it is telling it now?
"I kept pondering what this bizarre sensation may be, the familiarity of a total stranger? Is it relatively common? Does it happen often? Should I be scared? Should I be excited? What should I do? Of course, I could no longer deceive myself: I had to talk to No11!"
"No17’s effect on me left me pondering. Coincidence? Maybe. But of what? Nothing to put a finger on. We should talk about it."
He transcend into my space module, looking for action. Who can tell? I know not what he wants, so I saddle the mule and set on my way. The sun may be late this morning. He is not coming back. Separate instances of claustrophobia in individuals extensively trained to resist it create an impression of a pending change of reality. We must be prepared. I’ll get some onions, and the Giant Turkey. You wait, them sit at the station, wait too. Time is like a nail, sharp on one end.
Needless to say, the conversation did take place.
"Is it true?" No17 asked (or was it No17?)
"Yes."
"Is it truly true?"
"Yes," repeated No11. But was it truly No17?
The voice keeps telling its story: it’s late, the faces of houses are dark like shadows in the land of no light, no life. The voice is always true. I know it’s on my side. The two people . . . What brought them here, into my life, the eternity of silence? There must be a reason! Or is the voice as lonely as I am?
I juggle instances of unrealized possibilities. He snap and fall, then get up like an older one. Maybe like the older old man say: no time to wait for the waiting time. He is there, I look from inside, then it is my turn. I put on the rainy coat. It smiles. Who can tell? I step on the shoulder of my dog. He may never return, all in the name of multiplication. The eagles have arrived. The car stop and passengers get out.
"It was so magnificently simple! I was No17, and No17 was I. What could make more sense? Once you step over the boundaries of common sense, it is just as real as anything else, and just as unreal too."
"All we had to do was to look at each other. No17’s eyes were like an open door. I stepped inside. No17 stepped out. The doors closed. The transfer was complete."
There must be a reason! The voice has been silent for a while. I start thinking.
The voice has been silent for a while. I start thinking.
Simple. He like the scientists, me wait, them approach. Why wait longer than this? But who may be sure, of what? Do matter, and he doth thinketh so. He proposeth, and we committed. It may no longer be so, yet me is like this. Him propose, I decline, than vice versa. Who can tell? I wait at the station, then do. I go home. The Steady Driver will be waiting there. He prepare meal. I prepare and I pass it on. The car stop and passengers get out.
"The happiness of finally being yourself, within yourself, inside and outside yourself, yourself in the full sense . . ."
I am No17. I am No11. I am the Steady Driver. I know why the story had to be told. I am the teller of the story.
When you wake up, I wake up. It is my trade. All these long centuries, and even before. I tell the story of silence. You have heard it now. You become a character of stories told by the former character of this story. I become the character of stories you will tell.
You must start right now.
I am the voice.