we can produce
Primordial
Nonsense: A
Study of the
Origin of Self-
Language
Interpretation.
Problem:
We are exploring the brain’s instinct
to make sense of chaos, so that there
is nothing which the mind can produce
that will not somehow make sense.
Are random combinations excreted by
the unconscious hidden messages
from an organized continuum in our
minds? If interpreted, can these reveal
truths about ourselves and the forces
that constitute us?
Hypothesis:
What my animal produces at its
natural state
like a flower releasing pollen-
is studied, but we do not know why
and it does not know why it releases
pollen-
it simply does.
We are animals bound by
chromosomes.
Our words and thoughts are equally
bound to a logic
that we cannot analyze out of.
The scientist,
I am exploring my animal
with its “illogical babble” which cannot
be illogical, because everything that
by nature (by our tying logic) has to
make some evolutionary sense.
We examine that process of
spontaneous creation,
along with its interpretation-
in search of that innate human logic
that even comes (or must come)
through primordial nonsense.
This is a scientific study of me. In
narrative,
A biological Rorschach test.
Process:
A trilogy of novels.
The first
pure anima,
words, phonemes birthed
The second
interpretation of the sounds formed,
causing words, without syntax.
The third
an interpretation of the words,
forming
sentences, a logical context, the
thesis,
foundational and moralistic.
The purpose of this book is still
inscribed in potential.
The return to instinct, the
interpretation of intuitive mechanisms
of the human being? A scientific
analysis of self-language, that which
we produce intuitively through an
apparent “non-sense” which cannot
be found in nature. The formation of
identity based on our interpretation of
self-language, original-language,
social nonsense, because it has no
social purpose, except for the
formation of the individual.
—————————————————
Intuition of Characters, named before they
were defined:
Lulce: Satan
Dume: The Hill
Stroom: Transforming verb
Col: The eye
Nick: Christian, little.
Covvv: The mind.
CHAPTER ONE
An acquaintance with setting and
characters
A.
I ask the covvv, who is Lulce?
I throne of human’s desire, reigning over the
Mitirre tronmigdele chontarne
ent mit sente fornable transoro
sintamme
lopasne normante cofini sussussus
mantirno de te quefino chomante
rufnisterno.
II
Lies trumpets tell me (or count)
in my seat fornicate regression
feel me
leper normal consigned (susurros) whispers
martyr of the archangel color hell.
III
The trumpets lie when they announce the
numbers
of my fornications. My seat is not defiled.
My past cannot be counted. Feel this my
wound, my side, and see that I am unreal. I
am a leper of reality, the essence of whispers
the true first martyr, before Eve’s sin I
painted hell
with tapestries to love her.
IV
Upon asking about the nature of Lulce, I
was answered with a comment on the
apocalyptic trumpets that will resound on
the day that the Lord returns to rapture his
people to paradise and distill his final wrath
upon those on earth. The Lulce speaks and
makes it clear that although the screeching
trumpets are connected to him (the old angel
of music crafted those very trumpets of
wrath with his skilled hand), they were
never meant to be used as signals of the
tribulations that were to come to the
unbelievers.
Such a skilled artist would rather see his
instruments be used for constructive means.
His seeming claim to responsibility for the
sins of man-kind (”my fornications”) is quite
revolutionary, given that it was the Christ
who took responsibility upon himself of the
sins of humanity. Unlike Christ, Lulce’s seat
has not been defiled. He remains at the
air that was given to him by the Father for
reasons that Lulce cannot measure
mathematically. Lulce admits, although
hesitantly, that he is mortal (theoretically)
and capable of being wounded. The un-
healable wound on his side was given to him
by God himself, a wound which would
prove to be mortal if not for the nature of
Lulce, which is a suspension of the natural
law. He is, as he states, a “leaper of reality,”
constantly falling away from the grand
design of the almighty Creator, the “essence
of whispers” which are meant to be heard
and hopefully forgotten, lest the rumor
spreads like a sickness; like leprosy.
Lulce identifies himself as the first and
truest martyr. As martyrs are destined by
God to be killed, so was Lulce, in God’s
plan, the first to die. Lulce was the first
murder, the first death, the first martyr in the
most meta-spiritual sense. Lulce explains
that before his fall, he saw God’s plans in
plain view. He complains of God’s taste in
decorations and prepares a room in hell for
the soon to fall Eve, draped with fine
tapestries; a worthy choice.
V Satan is the first Martyr. He is the
antithesis.
B.
I ask the covvv, what should I write?
I
Trumme sos tente morbivirits xommente
sargenon fomeno
cante confarminto mentus dique moreno
momemo
mas tantre tentro sus tropos suntidos.
II
Mumble shock (susto) have name submit
sergeant phoneme
piece hospital mind dig violet morpheme
mass enter theater crawling troops sound.
III
From your lips must seethe the fear of roles
that because of the giving of names must
submit to the phoneme sergeants. The mind
is in pieces in the hospital of the mind,
exhausted from digging at wounded
morphemes. Enter this holy mass of theater,
crawl in like a soldier, do not make a sound.
IV
These phoneme sergeants control our
interpretations, even of those words that I
produce. Our mind, like a soldier, is
wounded, not in battle. It has remained idle
or discouraged from spontaneous creation.
Our immune system of the mind is working
constantly, trying to reassemble our minds,
but we continue to feed on wounded
morphemes, commands, words, truths which
are weak at a particular point; their heel is
not healed. We are the soldiers following the
invisible master and commander who is
leading me as a write this tale, calling me to
enter into a holy mass of theater, into the
glorification, the supremacy of the Word in
an action that man has played over and over
again in cycles, in acts, likening letters and
sentences to puppets that bend and twitch in
order to entertain with no other purpose than
to entertain, to end, to receive applause. I
have been requested, however, to enter in
with a blind following, a soldier, not
divulging the master’s true intention, hiding
my identity from the piece as I enter in this
field; I am incognito, I do not make a sound.
My room’s television screen is on. Lights
burst and crash in the distance. This is the
memory of war zone images flickering like
the screen. The altar of the masses
reproduces the passion’s blood distilled
fields that can only be likened to fruit
products of a similar color, because many of
us have never seen that much blood before.
V
We are helpless speakers, following the rule
of our grammar rearing.
C.
I ask the covvv, What must I do?
I
Grum prenene sostambo.
II
Plums procreate always.
III
Like the plum, you are due.
IV
Plums do not take very long to wrinkle. My
youth has been affected by a foreign force,
the very source of all energy which occurs in
cycles. From the sun to the field, from the
field to the mouth of the cow, from the
cow’s tongue to the soup, from the soup to
us, a degraded form of pure energy which
forces grapes to plums to give up their
liquids. An energy vibrant enough to
produce all the colors we can conceive, to
reveal depth which does not exist without
light. To consume energy by its source is
what I’ve been called to do, an energy which
ages man. I, who am young, must feed from
this flow wherever it may come from; the
experience of humanity is my weight. The
impulse that moves to and fro in my body
has prompted me to type, and type I will
without the concern of reality, of fiction.
D.
I ask the covvv, what awaits at the Dume?
I.
Crumple dumezation ontforme soncravibire
somo seste nialitis confrome consigue
osome fromanza sontega, como se faga
promate
comsiste crenasera fromm mmor.
II.
Stones sleep wet alive, singing
green-trees six native globe red-round (r
word)
eyes flowers chains, soil is fire fruit
ate cranium luscious love.
III.
The moss covers the stones like a living tree,
and the green
Trees sing by the wind, six of them are
native, they produce a red round fruit
which contains the entire atlas on it. The
eyes on the hill are flowers that hold hands
in chains. The soil can only produce this fire
fruit if it eats the luscious cranium of lovers.
IV.
The Dume, the hill has not been visited for a
very long time. Its stones had not been
unturned, allowing the green vegetation to
overpower and grow, a prison of minerals
trapped by the flourishing green, a living
presence. It hints at the very life of the
Dune, a life-presence which hovers, invades,
possesses the land body in such a way that it
cannot be treated as an inanimate object, but
as a character to be approached, known,
appeased. There are six healthy trees upon
Dume, which are native to it and not found
anywhere else in the world. These rare trees
produce a red, round fruit which contains
within it the entire geography of the world,
its political divisions, lines that divide and
separate, that dictate their names upon a
legalized earth. These could merely be lines
which divide the fruit in parts, something
like veins or stripes in random patterns
which divide the first impression of the fruit
(by this I mean the visible impression of the
fruit seems to be divided, while at the core,
remaining the same essence). The hill,
Dume, is also decorated by fields of flowers
which are tightly knit to one another. They
seek out lovers, with their beauty, attracting
them to their patches to taste their scent, to
pluck their roots from the soil.
There exists a strange mythology about the
source of subsistence of the atlas, the fire
fruit which the six rare trees produce. It can
only grow by consuming the cranium of
lovers. This could refer to one of two things.
Either it subsists, or exists, by the
imagination, appreciation of pastoral lovers
or that it can only grow by the intrusion of
humans who, as a sacrifice, give up the flesh
as a fertilizer.
I wonder if I am to eat of the fruit in the
Dume and what that would do to my body’s
physical or intellectual system. I wonder if I
can dig my teeth into the fleshy fruit of
man’s history and strife to find within it a
common destiny, history, that I may devour
it and extract its nutritional value, the energy
that has been recycled from the Sun, to the
earth, to the trees, to the human beings that
eat of the fruit and die by the fruit and
become part of the fruit. But I am afraid
because I still do not know what it means,
and if I am wrong and the atlas is true and
the tree is poisoned and I die without
revelation, I will not complete any valuable
purpose. I refuse to complete any purpose
that is not valuable. I will only visit Dume at
the very end of this journey and I refuse to
do so any earlier, despite anyone’s request or
warning.
E.
I have met my favorite character long ago,
but I cannot remember the qualities. I have a
sense of its existence, but no word. Covvv,
do you remember? Give me a setting.
I
Grunte tronstry momente
conste romeh rulente consega
tranra franta sonne combre turtido sum?]
La forceh tontema wwema socore
humma! tantre tantre lamme nochi
lomme. Gume.
II
Green tonsil remember
atlas wander opulence rabbit
native-crown white-lily same snake bronze
zoom.
the voice foolish television sports
food! enter enter white night
tongue. eat.
III
As soup is drank, something is remembered
of a place in an atlas where one has
wandered. The person is involved in swift
opulence of a natural crown and nobility
which was kept virginized and pure. In the
room is a brazen snake, statue. We listen to a
foolish voice
from the television telling sports. The
servant enters
with food in the bright chamber, the night is
outside.
With a tongue to the spoon, we eat.
IV
The room is ample, upper class dwellings
decorated in wood with golden trimmings,
carpets, and draperies, and long scarlet
curtains which are indicators of a noble and
reserved taste, old wealth can be smelt amid
the pages of their yellowing library. The
tone is realism, realism stained by wine in a
left corner of the floor carpet. A long square,
wooden table is in the center, baroque by
any standard except an educated one. The
person whom we are meeting is sitting in the
middle area of the table, solitary, drinking a
soup. The soup is very likely green and
made out of some sort of lentil. As he is
about to take another spoon full to his thin
lips, something is remembered. A trip he
took to somewhere far off, but what was the
name? He tried to remember, suspending his
spoon just hairs before his lip, feeling his
thin moustache tingle as it felt the mild soup
warming its tips. The name of the place, he
travelled so many places before that the
name escaped him. He focused so much on
the name that he forgot what he had done
there at all, why it was so important for him
to remember. He is young and had been
wealthy since the days of his youth. He
swiftly devoured all that was given to him,
slurped and gulped and fallen right to the
bottom of his pitiless stomach, which he had
never defiled with a drop of food that is
beneath his family’s name, nor did his
father, nor did his grandfather, nor did his
great grandfather. His attention was drawn
to a sculpture of a brazen snake that his
father hung atop of the fire place, which was
given to him by the medical community for
his discoveries which have benefited all of
mankind. From the adjacent room, the
kitchen, he could listen to the dim yells of
sports fans echoing the bat’s resonance at a
new homerun. The service was in the middle
of watching an important ballgame and had
almost forgotten to bring in the main course,
which had already fallen a few degrees from
the temperature which is considered
adequate. They enter the dining room,
unworried, at ease, with an almost mocking
hand meagerly grasping at the plate of
salmon which they plopped in front of the
solitary man, they. They swerve back into
the kitchen, jiggling their hind legs like a
sort of hoofed creature, or a drunken man.
The solitary man remained still, staring now
at the window facing the giant moon that
was soon to eclipse, creating an even thicker
darkness outside which gave vehemence to
the brilliance of the bright room, the
glorious chandeliers dangling like organic
crystals, the blazing faux candles that
flickered to the rhythm of an electrical
current. The heat which they produced was
thick, an imitation of sunlight which could
fool the body into feeling at noon, summer.
With this, the body’s reflection, the solitary
figure feels confident in the acceptance of
pleasure and with a tongue to the spoon, we
eat.
F.
Tell me the name and gender.
I like a lotus, boring, bucolic, predictable.
Stal; 28.
II
Staal; female
III
Stahl; male
IV
His or her name is Stahl; a young gentleman
who defies gender. If not for his elegant
moustache, his frame would suggest that of
a woman; his frail body never did develop,
and neither did his voice, which sounds
unquestionably feminine if filtered through a
telephone.
G.
Covvv, where is Stahl going? Why? Give
me the direction of his actions.
I because of obligation and boredom, holding
Mervento sprecum
lotuso fragantic
sontenpo murcefoctory
somolus orovulus
trentametro socumpo.
oscicalco trensmitro compenso lampid.
Spilenfcomfrag contesteg gramo
(fromeando) sorpre.
II
Alcohol eye speech
lotus fragrant
daytime bat
sleeps eyes open
poetry reading.
Water cleanse pays lamely
speech conference contest won
(red-tree) support.
III
His alcoholic beverage is leading his eyes
astray
from a speech, he should be watching. Their
words are fragrant
Stahl is like a bat in the day time,
slumberous, he is sleeping
Feigning that he is awake.
The words begin to slide between his
imposed silence, sounds like poetry.
He pats his face with water, or a mantra of
reason, or a face that looks like water,
a face that is not wealthy. The speech
conference was won
by the supporters of the red fruit trees at
Dume.
IV
Stahl’s day was interrupted by the call of his
father, requesting him to attend a biannual
debate at the Ministry of Medicine. A
prestigious event hosted by his father along
with a board made up of the most important
medical practitioners and pioneers to date,
among them, the isolator of the initial cancer
cell and the woman who decoded one fourth
of the human genome. Stahl attended,
a wine glass in his hand to toast the bumpy
car ride, stained the car’s carpet forever. He
cackled at the driver, his youthful wrinkles
forming around his eyes, the wine swaying
like it was dancing to the song that was
playing on the radio. The driver withheld a
reprehension, which he learned to do when
the boy turned 21 and gained the privilege to
fire the help. It was to Stahl, a jolly ride and
no malice was intended in his enjoyment, he
was genuinely sorry to have stained the
carpet and would simply forget to clean it
afterwards, nothing more. Still the more,
Stahl’s joyful singing voice irritated the
driver who kept whispering under his breath
“motherfucking sissy boy…” Stahl has a
beautiful singing voice, likened only to a
song bird, a high pitched and mellow
gargling that rose from the belly and merely
graced his vocal chords; a voice you keep in
cages.
Once settled in his seat amid the crowd of
ancient practitioners who glanced at him
warmly, recognizing him as his father’s
good old boy, the wine in his body had
gained spinning mechanisms that kept his
eyes from being able to concentrate on the
two debaters, standing at opposite ends of
the stage, behind imposing podiums that
harmed his sight with their sharp angles.
Every once in a while, his eyes would be
drawn to an attractive intonation, an
inflection that was fragrant like lotus, only
to be disappointed by the typical arguments,
repeated responses, cliché assertions which
he read in his medical books, history books,
saw in his TV shows since he began his
interest in the medical community. The
gentleman to the left, a renowned supporter
of Amazonia medicines, was in the defense
of a large hill which stood at a three hours
helicopter ride away from all civilization,
which they kept calling “the Virgin Biome,”
while his opponent defended the
construction of a small city in that area to
diminish the effects of urban sprawl. The
reason this was being discussed by the
medical community, is because of the
alleged medical benefits which could be
found within the piece of Virgin Biome
which had not been exploited before due to
environmental regulations that did not allow
entrance to the hill. These preservation laws
were to expire within a year, giving way for
various types of developers to converse and
bid for the large piece of virgin soil.
Stahl’s eyes were blinking, and yet it seemed
to him that every time they closed shut he
gained a nanosecond of sleep. His body
required it, drowned underneath his
inebriating liquids. Between his blinks, he
listened, but the words were beginning to
become devoid of any connective meaning,
merely slipping through his slumberous
state, beginning to sound like poetry.
“Universal…minds…preserve…red…
medical…life…rare…unknown…healing”
or the opposing poem, “Industrial…metal…
flow…capture…release…gain…
subsistence…” both promising to be most
beneficial to mankind, both included in the
same anthology. Stahl realizes that his
presence has become distracting to some of
the members who were conscious of his
head’s occasional swimming, and so he
decided to visit the restroom to freshen up.
He got up as quietly as possible, leaving his
jacket and notebook behind, and measuring
the length of his walk towards the exit door.
The tall and elegant wooden frame awaited
him 25 feet away, so he swiftly managed to
leave unnoticed. His hands knew to cleanse
themselves with flowing water, his face
knew to be wet by some sort of awakening
force, but it was not a faucet’s flow that
awoke him, but the face of a peculiar man
lying his back against the wall adjacent to
the restroom entrance, listening detachedly
to the melodious conference. Stahl
dissimulated his interest, entering the
restroom with a friendly nod of the head,
acknowledged by the stranger. His face was
like water, a fresh and fluctuating form that
seemed to transform at every angle, ever
mood and possibility that it was subdued to.
Stahl thought about him with his wet hands
against his face, the man did not seem to be
part of the brigade of doctors sitting with
their legs crossed at the conference. He had
a poor face, lacking in the pampering of
wealth, lacking in potency and imposition. Stomparta comprah
His tie was not tightly wrung around his nomonella infestor.
neck, so to speak, his shoes looked old, his Gulgimot montrino
belt was too loose, his face needed to be suspante confratex
shaved. As Stahl walked outside, before he terminen.
could recollect his composure, he heard II
from a muffled distance the announced
victor. “The representative for the protection Dream Stomfer
of Dume has won the debate. As of today, tossing flowers
the Ministry of Medicine will vouch for the bridge soap
defense and support of the ‘virgin hill’ with wood-bark shock
the aim of discovering within its wild flora a lock jaw
cure or a treatment for any of the ailments reminisce former
that plague us today.” With a bang of a of comparable annex
gavel, the meeting was dismissed, beginning compartment together-ripped
with the clatter of old men’s voices, wood-tree infected
mumbling like untuned orchestra god monitor (screen)
instruments. The hollow clacks of their heels float conversation
emptied the floor as Stahl waited to spot his death-drunk.
father to congratulate him on the event. The III
peculiar man remained relaxed against the
Stahl meets with the dreaming Stomfer,
wall, gazing at the still Stahl from the corner
who found himself tossing his laureates
of his eye, realizing his vested interest. With
from a bridge. He found an antibiotic from
a gaze still wet, he addressed Stahl, “Your
the
suit…”
bark of a tree, but it ended up causing lock-
“What about it?” Stahl expected the
jaw to those
interaction.
who were treated. He reminisces about his
“Your suit smells like wine.” Stahl smiled.
former,
“It does, it does smell like wine. What time
comparable annex to the Ministry of
is it?”
Medicine,
“2 pm, it ended just in time.”
a compartment that has been ripped apart
“Just in time for what?”
because
“Events always end just in time.”
of his infection. He was healed by God in
the tv screen.
Now he floats mid conversation, death-
H. drunk of his own disappointment.
IV
Who does Stahl meet at the lecture? “I guess you are wondering who I am, I am
not your common formidable, typical aids
I curing scientist who lingers around here.”
Crogen stomfer “No, it does not seem that you are. My name
trosteting fromklette is Stahl.”
tolling abadaba “Stahl, gute name. Do you know what it
nonanella strock means?”
commandibula “No.”
domenestering formarility uff “You will, maybe.” Stahl awaited the
compranza axena. meaning, but the peculiar man remained
silently inspecting him, like a formal
scientist would, like a doctor would, like an
astronaut would. He peaked at him through
his glasses, demonstrating he had an
inability to see from afar, but not from up
close.
“My name is Stomfer, Dr. Stomfer. Would
you believe it?”
“Yes I most certainly would.” Exclaimed
Stahl, politely and reverentially, for an inner
reason which he did not yet know.
“Then don’t believe it because it’s not true. I
am a former doctor, former doctor Stomfer,
but I am not anymore. Just call me plain old
Stomfer.”
“I am sorry to hear that you’ve lost your
title. It must have been for a very good
reason, I presume.” Stahl was intrigued by
the odd man. His intrigue was a rare
symptom, an event that occurred
sporadically, almost based entirely on
recreation drugs, in this case, it was the
fluttering alcohol.
“Actually, it was for a very bad reason. I had
the misfortune of stumbling upon a very
effective antibiotic which ended up making
me throw away my laureate crowns
down the bridge of this very academy. Do
you understand, boy?” Stahl slightly
resented that Stomfer would call him a boy.
Had it been that obvious that he was a young
mind?
“Of course, that must have either been one
heck of an antibiotic, too good to make a
profit out of its treatment…or it must have
had a terrible side effect.” He said this with
pride in his eye. Stomfer noticed it and
frowned to himself, admittedly surprised at
the boy’s sharp mind and tongue.
“Indeed it did. It obliterated the current trend
of super resilient bacteria…but it ended up
introducing another disease. Lock-Jaw! The
age old lock-jaw. Experimental patients
were burning out like christmas lights.” The
older gentlemen already cleared the hall.
Stahl and Stomfer were alone to their own
discretion, holding within one another the
weight of the conversation, passing on the
bullet from chamber to chamber with each
blow, never truly harming, although the
possibility was ready and there. This subject
was not to be taken lightly. Stahl could see it
in Stomfer’s face and Stomfer could see it in
Stahl’s. The fact that both remained let them
know that they were soon to be good
friends.
“You’re a doctor yet, boy?”
“I don’t know.”
“You don’t know? Don’t you mean you
aren’t?”
“I finished my studies; I am looking for a
place to settle.”
“Oh, so you’re not a doctor yet because you
haven’t cured anyone. A lot of doctors don’t
do that either. If you think giving out a pill is
a cure, then you should reexamine the whole
position. Now a days people could find their
right prescriptions on the Internet, what’s the
use of a man in the middle?”
“I wonder if I’ll ever be a doctor.”
“Oh, shut up, of course you’ll be a doctor.
They give you that big old license with your
name on it, makes you a doctor like magic.
Like a baptism of money.” Stahl began to
feel his heart darken, his mind’s light
emerging. He became aware of his eye
brows, how they can divulge his inner
thoughts, that he was not appreciating the
old man’s sarcasm. His intrigue wore to fear.
Stahl held back his expression, but Stomfer
could feel the tension rising. He must break
it.
“Don’t worry about me, I am just a sorry old
dog. I haven’t listened to a heart for 10 years
and I’m forgetting how one sounds like.”
“Why did they take away your license? It
was only a mistake.”
“It was a mighty big mistake caused by my
lack of research before experimentation. It
was just too good to spoil on rats…too rare
of a quantity. Only three trees in the world
and I had just enough to test and then to
extract its DNA to clone. I was moralistic
enough to be one of the testees myself.”
“Did it affect you as well?”
“Well, uh…” Stomfer was getting noticeably
reluctant, but he recognized that he had gone
too far not to explain the true story. His trust
of the young man and the situation was only
dictated by the desire of an external force
that was beyond them, tapping away at their
spine like a key board.
“I was infected, but since I had given myself
the largest dosage, it took a longer time to
manifest itself. It’s strange…it seems the
smaller the dosage, the quicker you would
see the manifestation of lock jaw. I didn’t
have enough time to look into it…”
“But I don’t understand, sir. You look fine.
Has lock jaw not taken its toll?” Stomfer put
his index finger to his jaw unconsciously as
he continued his story.
“I don’t like to say the rest of the story.”
“Then why would you initiate it?” Both
gentlemen laughed, aware of their
foolishness bred by boredom.
“I suppose I’ll tell you if you would like to
get a good laugh.” Stahl braced himself,
assuring that he would not laugh at whatever
the former doctor would tell him.
“Well, once I began noticing symptoms, my
neck stiffening, my joints becoming
progressively harder to move…I removed
myself from the public life and awaited a
quiet death alone at my apartment watching
television, which was pretty much all I could
do that would not cause me pain. One day,
as I was watching, I tuned into a religious
channel and could not switch the channels
because my finger had suddenly cramped.
So I was stuck watching a televangelizer
promising that eternal life was available to
everyone and all that spiel…and the at the
end of the show he asked that if anyone
watching the TV wanted to be healed from
their ailments, that all they had to do was
press their right hand to the television
screen, and that the Lord would flow
through them that they may be saved. At the
moment, I was in a weak state of mind and
did as he instructed, leaning my forehead
against the television to receive some sort of
healing. That is the last thing that I can
remember doing before I blanked out…I
awoke the next day feeling like my normal
self. I was nimble, I stood up and walked
around, stretched out my joints, I felt my
age, I felt 38. I went to a doctor to examine
me and the proof was there. I had been
healed from the disease….are you a man of
faith, Stahl?”
Stahl’s no seemed redundant.
“You see, I’m not a man of faith either. In
fact, I cower away from deism. Its control
over people’s lives frightens me. I know that
god didn’t heal me…it was the television
screen that did.”
“Well, now that’s just all the more
farfetched.” Stahl jested.
“You are wrong about that. This wasn’t an
ordinary television screen…I made that
television screen out of some loose materials
at my office because my previous television
broke. Ask me again why I think the
television screen healed me?”
Stahl smiled and awaited the answer that he
was looking for since the very start of the
conversation.
“It healed me because it was emitting
magnetic waves that I had not controlled
with a buffer. It was a high dosage of
electromagnetism that practically dug itself
through my cranium into my brain and
healed whatever part of me was infected. It
was…a great discovery that is beyond the
organic medicine that is being practiced
today…it was what many call, a miracle in
science at a time where no one’s ear wanted
to lean towards me. It’s a pity and a waste of
knowledge, isn’t it?”
“Don’t they wonder why you’re still alive?”
“They don’t believe any of my records.
They don’t believe I infected myself. You
believe me, don’t you?” Stahl withheld a yes
and meditated upon the features of this man.
His eyebrows were not too dark, his features
were rounded, not sharp as was typical of
the physiognomy of a liar. There was no
reason for him to lie to a young man that he
knew little or nothing about, other than to
receive sympathy. Sympathy, or the illusion
of it, is not costly. What Stahl was preparing
his mind to do was a more dangerous
investment that his impulses had forced him
to do.
“I believe in you, which is why I want to
fund you.” Stomfer’s eyes grew wide for an
instant, resolving themselves into a relaxed
smile of quiet disbelief.
“That’s alright, kid, you’ll have your day.”
“I don’t know if I want to be a doctor, but I
believe that what you are saying is true. I
want to take a look at that television screen
you made and I want to invest in it, if it
works, of course.”
“What money do you have?”
“I have everything you need. Just let me
look at it.”
“Why are you doing this?”
“I don’t know…” Stahl had a straight face
that Stomfer could not read through.
“Well, I guess that makes two of us.”