The Dialogue of Life

The Dialogue of Life

Moriarty's Dilemma:

Percussion sings into the bright, bright night. It shines all ebbishly – wazooty! I don’t though, my hair all fell out years ago. Them’s the breaks, pal. I did once, I suppose, but everyone denies it. I guess they can’t all be wrong. But, they all say the same thing; half of them are wrong. The buggy, while stirring in the mist. That’s what I like. A girl with big verbs. And smooth, long prepositional phrases …

Unrin’s Dilemma:

I want a typewriter.

Fine eyes … very nice.

Know your knowledge - wage your wages - fish your fishes – real live fishes! Write poetry ‘till half past one.

Joly Bible … make me a poet …

green grapes and turnips – make me a rat-terrier …

Moriarty’s Second Dilemma:

Scrawl some fire in the morgue. Forge some scrawling in the dead. To … to die? No! I want to be big and bourgeoning! Bludgeoning! All sold and not …

Unrin’s Second Dilemma:

I have a lima-bean now – I am happy!

Someone has been meddling with my textbook! If you want to have an original conversation go and talk to yourself!

Smoooth silky soft! – Blast! I have given ‘smooth’ three ‘o’s! Yes, I buy a scrubbing brush for everything, as my lima-bean has passed on. Now is the time to live! Slicing onions! Turn your back to the turnip!

Moriarty’s Third Dilemma:

Ironic walking style, that’s how I walk always. Unless someone is watching.

Let’s paper! Paper well. Paper poorly! But do it for the sake of the ink. It has my pity! For the ink is black or blue. Occasionally it is red. And then it is most often read. It all reads the eye.

It’s the bottom of the page now … as well, I must digress.

I want to be abused. I have come into heaven – where want is unknown! I think I shall say something wicked …

Unrin's Reply to Moriarty:

Do you? Never. Smug smiling simpletons. They think they know it some, even though they know it all. I became better, once. At alteration (42).

Then I was happy because I was no longer sad. It’s because I drink the finest chompon-yeh.

Along the road to Oblivion, one always encounters a traveler whose allegiance is not necessarily possessed by those which have been blessed with the revelation of all things almost, but not quite, entirely unlike tea …

We can try to understand such essays as these we write (though I would surmise that it isn't exactly as such) affect the universe, time, and a bottle rocket shaped strangely like a rhinoceros; but that creates some uncertainty in the matter, and ones mind ponders the shape for aeons, never fully convinced of its shape, and yet, doubting its conviction, believing that one form or another exists only in the imagination of that which may or may not be.

Unrin's poetry:*

Lo! A great yellow flutter-bug boasting goodly little purple flowery winglets singing poetic fibblery!

The state of all creatures of somnambulance,

waking and sleeping,

has its own process inverted;

the purpose is erased from a strange green Polish sausage.

Truly in times like these,

we must reflect on the ultraviolet light that

comes from this strange body we call the sun.

It’s big, it’s hot! Why doesn't it kill us all?

And then one of these may question the other,

with the other replying, this is a dialogue,

now let us document it for the sake of hypothetical posterity.

Let us consider, now, a great beast whose size exceeds that of its prey

three times over again, and who wields a battle axe twice as large as itself;

might it not massacre its prey? Oh, food chain! How cruel are ye?

*Describes the state of the universe from the perspective of a sober honeybee.

Moriarty's Speculation, and Theory of Impeding Blindness:

We must then count upon the tattered pieces of woolen scarf to which we bond our heads, to prevent the scale of the tithe from overwhelming our minuscule organs of thought. So then what we see is the meaning of the overwhelming blackness of the void in which our thoughts dwell so humbly, not to reach the outer world of dread. (Unless the one is so peculiar that he dwells in the outside, so he may spout the words of the fateful dread that hath come upon him.)

Hereby, I rest my case. Unless there is something else dwelling in the dark void of painful origin (in which we may lack) for the fact of its pureness, brightness, and light-inducing origin. For if there were such a dream of visions, life might not lack what it must lack. And that would be so painful, so painful indeed, that it would be terrifying just to know... that there was indeed not anything to speculate at all.

Unrin Scolds Moriarty:

Why do you continue to grieve for a lack of obscurity among the unpopular? Instead turn inward; question your own existence, you hypocrites, and leave me to starve, feasting on photons!

Moriarty questions Existence:

Trees, flowers, mountains, in fact, the earth in general (though not strictly speaking, of course): they are usually subject to the properties they believe themselves to possess; free to the simple lives they presume not to lead, they consider themselves inanimate. In most cases, when they can be freed from these conditions, they exhibit signs of that bouncy, fluffy feeling, that most get late on Friday afternoons. Shall we then join them in the silent celebration we presume them to hold in their hearts? Or are we to speak discordantly to them, and circumscribe them to that which is transcendental? Are they to spend their days imagining universe after universe, creating theory after theory, hypothesis after hypothesis, only to discard each one in turn, searching for the questions to the answers we think we've been given? Shall that substance which bears almost no similarity to tea, be it Earl Grey, or English Breakfast? Or is it to be some deeper, richer blend, which mere mortals cannot reach so high as to appreciate? Is that the true order of Life, Love,

and Chicken? Or is it only a small part of some larger sort of general mish-mash?

Existence replies to Moriarty:

An absence of reality is what of which we all strive not to accomplish the opposite. Holding two hands at equal distance from a one-eyed being, pose then the question, "which hand is closer?" Oh, that Cyclops's undoing! Wondering what to say when confronted with a confusion so grand in its minuscule stature, crying out for a greater perception of depth, it will be left to its mind's eye, that it might yet see; and then, an absence of scenery shall put its philosophy in transit, never again to discover a distaste for the profound, blinded by its by all-too-loud music.

Moriarty criticizes Existence:

Life flows through time: within and without unreal. A wise man once told me “intellect is for intelligent people”, this is why I am wise! For the time is coming when the wise (and those who pretend to be wise) will say, “Now is the time for wisdom!”.

People gather on street corners to listen to men of false religions, and the relativistic nonsense these charlatans spout is almost too much to bear! Go now, and if you would see, hear! if you would walk, run! You who walk the path of all those dirty children who came before you, gathering with every step you take a little more of their filth. You alone know the joy of disease, the infection of something called hope. And you alone may deny reality, for it transcends yesterday as though tomorrow were today; and in you, reality claims to have no meaning.

Moriarty Takes a Holiday. Moriarty is Dead:

Don’t we all dream? I dream of not dreaming. At ten ‘til midnight I greet Existence: “good morning!” Speak no more of this foolishness. Burn the parchment on which it isn’t written and let’s have a beautiful bonfire whose light shines in the faces of the endued. I’ll sell me short if you sell me long, but buy not lest this investment, too, should fall through.

I am gone now. I fear I shall be assaulted by the virus without. I must prepare tea for one, and lock myself within. A small room – a dark room – with soft wicker furniture in all the right places – yes, I must set up simultaneous chess-by-mail games.

How can one who is not all there be expected to be there all the time? Cease your incessant chattering, and quit bothering me, for I envision great cows made of clouds, and little dark-skinned midgets who eat at the cosmic McDonald’s, who comprehend the profound ‘Rock and Roll’ music.

Existence Negates Itself:

But who can truly understand? You are all lost in space... stranded without any toasted cheese, and your world has 28 grams of fat. Yet you are the master of your world... and but a thought could bring you to dietary bliss. That's why you are still lost. How can your body be free when your mind is imprisoned? You wear the chains of obesity, and but a taste of that which is apart from you would unmake your very soul. You taste cholesterol poisoning now, but only later, when thousands of lightly fried eggs descend upon your sphere will you truly know the nighttime, and how you will wish for the day!

Increase the reverb, and turn the beat up a bit. Acclimate the pitch, and cut the treble by 11%. Now your symphony has ears to hear, and that's halfway to being heard.

Unrin is Drunk:

Happy little balls of peat moss go merrily bouncing about, professional Polish exuberance explicitly states what meaning is to be found in sawdust … Alas … I remember thee well … Lo! A great portcullis lurketh nigh! We meet again … endless rivers of blood flow forth from thine, a chronic bloody gash … let us consult the Pearly Udder. I have a plan, indeed – pan-dimensional toasted cheese and beer – Hark! A great voice transcends …

The Udder Consults Unrin. Alias, Words of the Great Incandescent Pearly

Udder of Immense Knowledge:

Ahem …

Go! Go at once and spend thine hours in the sauna, so that you may lounge contentedly in the steam of living within. Now you must indeed consult the Ethereal Graffiti; commemorate yonder pretzel samples flying obstreperous holograms, calling to indignant celebrities named Don." Unwind my coagulated flank, within my girdle a crooked figure!

Moriarty Speaks From Beyond the Grave:

Not that one of whom the being has not indeed eaten of life for days been sent distraught the wit to speak at the moment present such as me. Quite the man who shall defy the stupidity of death in imagination, for it hasn't the courage to be stupid at all, shall he sure enough for all the many reasons being not at all do so, no one may have decided the light in which to step out, and say what must be said, shall one rise with the immense explicitness of non-decision, the plain knowledge shall become the truth, as present as the physicalness of the graffiti which does The Udder indeed speak of tonight. I long for the day of which the night has left behind …

Existence Contests the word of the Udder:

Before long we shall all reside in the belly of Jonah's whale; then we shall find out what tolerance really is, you fat black moslem lesbian! Ask thyself the true question; finally understood after ten million years of deliberation; behold the culmination of these past ten million years; how many licks does it take to get to the center of a tootsie pop? The answer is inside your own soul. Look around you! Forty-two, and no other! That is the answer for 800. Oh, wait, you forgot to phrase it in the form of a question – dung-eating fool! Thou hast damned us all! Now you lose an hour to daylight savings time, and an eternity to Alex Trebek. The ultimate reality is at hand; Jonah's Whale is but one interpretation of the Ethereal Graffiti; and the Udder is a myth; now let us reap the harvest of the Daily Double. Maybe we can win back those 800 dollars …

Oblivion speaks.

You fools; all of you, debating our ultimate destiny, can you not see? There is no whale; there is only the Octopus's Garden, near a cave. Your eyes have not yet congealed, and you mistake the cavern of physical existence for the divine demise, Jonah's Whale. All of this is really the same thing; I eat seafood. Everything ends in Oblivion.

Unrin sees the truth.

Alas, I am undone, for I have beheld the purest, highest, greatest value never dreamed by mortal minds; each and every strand in this great temporal weave beckons to us; hinting subtly at what should have been known all along. Sitting enthroned betwixt Oblivion and Existence is the great Udder. Moriarty knew this not, and has paid the price for it. Yet now his gaze rests on the Tapestry of the Temporal; seeing it in its completion, he realizes that ultimately there will be no Udder. Threads in that eternal fabric take delight in distinguishment, 'til neutrality can no longer be. Each must opt for a side; how can one exist yet not exist?

The Udder Speaks in Its defense:

Oh, prodigal child! Did I not sing to thee, even at thy mother's breast? Even in the cradle? Have you no memory of the your childhood's lullaby?

Oh! I long to be a ruminating quadruped –

grazing on green pastures of eternity –

transcendent –

not a cow to be slaughtered, but a goat to be worshiped!

Adored and admired by all signs for all time.

Spinning confusedly, oh zodiac!

Step through the threshold of Oblivion now, and meet Moriarty.

Moriarty greets the world, for the second time:

It was an accident with a time machine and a contraceptive. As I remember, it was four hundred years ago or more, when that age began. But now those nonsense eras are over. I am reborn, and the Udder has disappeared in a poof of its own silliness. Yet mourn not for the Udder, it was but one hypocritical organ, disembodied from its bovine owner.

Unrin Sees Through Enlightened Eyes:

What is this? Indeed my friend returns to attest the blessed remains that have been disdained for oh what a hanker period, conceded yet by some such the masses of posterity, only to prove them again not quite as disgruntled as the sidereal increment before.

Now may we jubilate, and become drunk in extensive acts of virility, to partake in a receipt fit for but the optimistic parrot of a besotted joyman!

Moriarty’s Virus:

Long ago, I was very sick, but I am better now. I was attacked by the virus-without. In stark contrast to the virus-within, the virus-without does not attack from within. Everything is a virus, and nothing is within. If nothing is within, then everything is without. Therefore, everything is the virus-without.

A few glasses of cheap bar scotch are conducive to creating the kind of healthy learning environment in which everyone wants to raise their preschooler. Has your preschooler been lighting up in the playground again? I’m too toked out to care. Oh yes, I was very ill, indeed; but I downloaded the “House of Pain Penguin Seizure Remix” by Faster Pussycat and DJ Jack-In-The-Box, and I lost 27 pounds through Jenny Craig. Slim Fast is another excellent weight-loss program. A shake for breakfast, a shake for lunch, and dinner as normal. Captain Morgan and Jack Daniels were my dearest friends; through the whole thing, they were with me, helping me to forget that I was drinking nasty chocolate health food shakes instead of eating normal food.

What magnificent clairvoyance comes from ephemeral cough drops! I take two every day, in addition to Claritin. Prescription? Never! A man with a prescription for his drugs has run out of options. I like to keep my options open, and float among the pinkish-yellow clouds of opium (only, of course, for medicinal purposes.)

Food Speaks:

“O confession? You do not feel the disease of hunger? Sense no more, for I am what is your dinner!” - The Improvisational Atoned Bean and Vegetable Hodgepodge

Unrin Eats:

Endless joy – I have achieved a new comestible solicitation! No, great haggis I beseech thee. Let us, the hungry, shall we ask: "Now is the time for Mandarin?" But where are the car keys? Then the blunt will say: "Now is the time for the Metro!" But I am above all this, I ordered pizza delivery 10 minutes ago.

Moriarty Drinks:

Never the wonder of words that say wrong order in. Does the wumpus hunt you, oh sad one that is two? Tell he that is no longer infinitely prolonged, he has been prolonged forever, but I wasn't, not last you didn't check. Life flows on within you and without me. I cut my hair off and sold it to the fishmongers as bait, not ever was my ravine so clean. I am the blind man. I push trees into telephones. Dig it. Dig it. Dig it. Digit. Didge it. Digit Dig it Didge it, Bridgette! Heavy, overtaxing, burdensome, abundant, copious, hefty, weighty, bulky, momentous, cumbersome, arduous, elephantine, voluminous, grave, unwieldy, ponderous, massive, titanic, prodigious, planetary, mountainous, monumental, vast, phenomenal, stupendous, tremendous, ample, erogenous, hermaphrodite, adelomorphous camel! Androgynous lenient, forbearing llama! Ambiguous, questionable, nebulous, sibylline, equivocal dromedary! Great vague, obscure, anomalous, mystical, acromatical, metemphirical, beast of burden! I seek thine mendacity …