Throw in the towel

“Chapelhill, next stop Chapelhill…” The voice droned on about the diner car closing in half an hour as well as a variety of routes that were available if one was to choose the train as a primary form of transport. I was back in the train. I raised my hand to my face, getting a good look at the lines that ran down the palm and the veins that travelled up my wrist and up my arms. My legs were intact, I moved my feet that were sitting snugly in my shoes. I looked down at the manuscript that was lying on the table, most probably at the page that I left it at.

So what really happened there? Was it real? I looked out the window as the train ground to a halt. A white sign on the platform read Chapelhill. I shot up from my seat, if I was to get out at my stop I would have to get a move on it.

After my rushed departure off the train I decided that I would check into a local hotel as it was late enough and get an early start in the morning. At least I could rest my head and try to figure out what was going on. I didn’t really take much notice of the small little hotel that stood tucked away from the road. There was a small lobby with a fireplace holding centre stage, a dark teak coffee table was surrounded by dark red leather couches that resembled an aging man’s wrinkled face. I took no notice of the proprietor or even how much the room cost for the night; I just muttered the words “Single room for the night.”

He muttered back some inaudible reply which was followed by the jangle of some keys that had the number 016 on it. He pointed up the stairs after which I followed the directions. If he had told me dinner was to be served at 7:30 sharp or there was a bar on the premises I wouldn’t have heard a thing as my mind was somewhere faraway.

I crashed out on my bed as soon as I entered the small one bed room that had a tv positioned on a table opposite the bed. I didn’t even bother changing my clothes or having a look around as to where I was, or if I had accidentally stumbled upon the wrong room. I curled up on my bed and closed my eyes, I was exhausted.

I found myself standing on a large conical sphere. I did not know how I had gotten there but stood and watched the blue colour that the object was omitting splash here and there. It was strange the blue light seemed to be moving and darting. There was no movement in me, all I could do was watch. I immediately thought back to the strange episode I had on the train. Was it a vision? Was it real? It couldn’t be real. All of sudden the sphere started to shutter. I had to grab onto something, or otherwise I would fall off! Panic struck me as the object began to shake with more intensity. I had to jump off, there was nothing to hold onto. But I couldn’t I was stuck. What was I to do! I heard it then a roar and a tremor of a sound boomed through the air as the object started to move slowly, building momentum ever so gradually. I surmised by the previous jolts that I had managed to stay on so hopefully I would continue to stay on. All of a sudden it started to spin like a table-top, faster and faster in intensity. I panicked, opened my mouth and screamed for help, “Someone get me off this thing!” But no one came to help, the spinning did not stop as I continued to scream.

“Help! Help!” I opened my eyes, to find myself lying in a sweat soaked bed. I was back in the hotel. The little room that I had booked for the night was still there, my leather shoes and bag had been thrown at the foot of bed.

I tried to get my head around what was happening to me, why was I being subjected to a slew of intense visions and dreams. What was going on inside my head. I thought for a second, racked my brain for another second, and thought of slamming my head into the wall for the other. What was I to do? I decided to take a shower, and then head out for some fresh air and coffee. Maybe that would do me some good.

I found a nice little café on the outskirts of the town that brewed mugs of coffee and had fresh pies of various sorts. I decided for a traditional apple pie with a bit of cream on the side. A little gust of wind blew through the rustic café as I took another bite of the pie, finishing it off with a swig of coffee. The shower and the coffee was a good idea. I felt good. There’s nothing like a bit of a scrub, some fresh air and a bite to eat. I thought for a second, I could get used this, living in a small town where life is quieter, where the population is smaller than the amount of daily shoppers in a shopping centre. I could just disappear and forget about everything, forget about the reason why I had come here in the first place.

No! Something inside me snapped. I had to continue on, a nice little bit of pie and coffee was my treat for the day and that was it. That was it. I struggled to find the right thoughts for such a realisation that someone was probably waiting for me somewhere hoping that I would help them out. I didn’t know what to think anymore. I asked for another drop of coffee and this time went the adventurous route of a strawberry and blueberry pie. I then pulled out that all dreaded manuscript out of my bag, and started to read.

The end

I thought about the predicament I was in. While the symbol of a tower could be translated as the tower of Babel it meant more than that, it meant that my world and everything that was in it was going to come crashing down. Not that it already hadn’t happened, the death of my father put my world in a spiral, wasn’t that enough of a violent tumble? Wasn’t the falling body a metaphor for my feelings? Wasn’t that enough of a blow? I realised that there was more to the card then predicting my present unlucky situation. The popular story surrounding such a card was that a fool who wanted to stamp his mark on the world built monuments and structures. Perhaps such an idea was a haphazard one at that, in the end his ambitions came to nothing. The false structures that were viewed as great and structurally sound were light and flimsy. The card stood for false structures and beliefs that would be crashing down and it wouldn’t be like a little scrape it would be a violent gut-wrenching crash that would change things for ever. The death of my father was a catastrophe if there ever was one, and by the looks of things more was to come.

There were different meanings –it signified change, a shake up, a surprise wake up call. It also signified a humbling, suffering a blow to the ego, falling off ones high horse, a financial downturn, a complete and utter falling down. A nervous breakdown? I never had the pleasure of experiencing one. Then there was the sudden spark of the angel, a revelation, a moment of truth where one was given the answer and everything that was unknown became known.

What was the truth? Such an in depth question required an in depth answer. I could come up with no answer for such a complex question. If I was to know the truth I probably wouldn’t have been looking at such a card or even wondering what such a card meant.

So I thought about the truth for a second and thought of the word illusion instead. What were illusions, what was real anymore? I could not think of illusions in my present unknown state because I was having problems with such a term, but I could think of my previous state when I was matter, when I was flesh and bones, when I could view my arms and legs and think of myself as an entity. I could define myself through what others saw and what I saw of me through them. Was my life an illusion? It couldn't be. It was not possible.

Nothing built on a lie, on falsehoods, can remain standing for long. A poorly built building will suddenly fall; a house built on a deck of cards will not last long. What was the truth I thought, if the structure was a lie, a building made out of falsehoods and pretenses? I looked at the scene, the falling tower, the rubble with bodies wedged here and there. The ground, the only thing that remained permanent and constant was the hill that the tower had been built on. Better to tear it all down and rebuild on the truth. It was not going to be pleasant, painless or easy, but it was all for the best. But what was I to tear down, and rebuild. It was real and what was fiction, what was the truth and what was false? It was too much to think on. I assumed that such an image was more metaphorical than a real falling down of a building though such a possibility could be likely. A literal meaning could not be ruled out.

9/11 popped into my thoughts. Such an occurrence might have been a literal interpretation on the tower card. The falling down of the towers were literal but metaphorically the falling of the towers symbolised the waning of America, the failing values, a ‘look how the mighty have fallen’ statement may have been a good caption underneath the photograph in the paper. Such an image of the twin towers was a literal, real-life tarot card if there ever was one.

Everything went white again, not even a line or a dot in my view. I felt very down all of a sudden -a toe pulling, eye scratching type of down. Maybe this was my falling down, my complete and utter end.

The Tower

On the table was laid out cards that were turned upside down. They were all in a row, it was hard to tell how many of them were there as it looked like they stretched out in all directions and the size and shape of the table surface was changing in rapid concessions. Judging by the laid out cards one was supposed to pick one. I assumed that what ever lay on the other side would contain some sort of image or detail that would help me figure out what I was doing in such a place. At least it would do no harm to take a peek, who knew it might be my way of such a place, a door back into reality. When one as no discernable hands it is difficult to pick up a card and turn it face up. I thought for a while, staring at the card that I had set my eyes on picking up. How does it work? The frame changed like when a scene is edited or the lights go dim for a second. When I looked at it again it was lying face up.

It was an image of a tower.

Not a good card to pick up. Actually to pick up such a card was damn right freaky. Though I was no expert when it came to tarot cards, I knew such a card did not forebode well, and not a card that anyone with a little insight in reading the cards wished to get. It was a tower constructed with stone, turrets lined the top of the tower, two windows that were barred lay directly over each other. I saw no possible means of entry. The tower was positioned on a little hill that was surrounded by rocks and shrubbery. I couldn’t really tell what the measurement of the structure was but it looked as if it reached to the perfect wide blue sky. Nothing looked out of the ordinary, the scene seemed calm, there was nothing to warn of a coming judgement or marauding troops. All of a sudden the card came alive as a flash of lighting flew through the sky and hit the tower. The sound that followed was so deafening that it seemed like the sound was inside my mind. All of a sudden I saw the top half the tower crack off, a man with an orange beard, flew through the air, beams and bricks started to fall, as the sound of screaming people mingled in with the sound of the structure complaining as it cracked.

I did not like the sound, it seemed to have a life of it’s own as if the sound was growing, undulating into a mighty monster that would take hold and strangle everything in its way.

The scene then froze. The cracked top of the tower suspended in the air, the falling man, the sound of the scene echoing in a prolonged boom.

What did a tower signify? I went back to early civilisation and the Biblical mention of a tower called the Tower of Babel. This contains similarities to such a scene where God destroys a tower built by mankind to reach Heaven. I thought about this, about seriousness of such a card, and how it symbolizes failure, ruin and catastrophe.

I was one unhappy camper.

It's only a line

I saw a black line form, first it was squiggly but as it stretched it grew in thickness and in clarity. It stopped suddenly. All it was, was a line as if it had been drawn with a marker. It stayed stationary. I looked at it for a while, waiting for some sort of movement. Nothing.

What could one do with a black horizontal line? I thought about moving it with my mind but nothing happened. How in the world did I even get into such a state? I knew my name, it was Tom, Tom Bates, a simple first name at that. Tom was a nickname for Thomas –one of twelve apostle who was called a doubter. Tom often referred to the male animal such as tomcat or a tom turkey. Tom was also offensive and derogatory name for a Black man who was abjectly servile and deferential to Whites. I never heard such a term used before but I knew that such a term existed. I knew my age, I knew who I was, I knew I had been reading a manuscript that had been written by Charles Neville, and that I was travelling on a train. I had my memories intact, but I couldn’t clarify my present situation, how I got into such a predicament and how I was going to get out of such a place. Though I did not even know what place I was in, if one does not know where they are how will they get out of the place that they are in. If I was to get out of such a place how would I be certain that I would return to the train and be sitting in an upright position? If I was to leave my current predicament how was I to me certain that I would not be transported to worse off scenario.

I continued to stare at line, not really knowing what would come of it, or if I had lost the plot and had gone crazy. You know certain things can throw you off kilter; a close death in the family might just be enough to set one off down the road of madness. Madness, what was madness?

A little bit of brainstorming might help. Insane…mad as a hatter… fool… foolish… idiotic… silly... mental…a condition…mental illness…brain damaged…brainsickness…crazy…dementia…deranged… disturbed…lunacy…unbalanced… ‘not quite right’…absurd.

I stopped thinking watching the line grown in width and height. I stared at it, zoomed into the blackness as it filled up my view. The blackness disappeared just as quickly as it came. Now I could see something, a three-legged wooden table stood in front of me. It looked sturdy even though it was not leaning up against anything. I could see what looked like cards laid out on the table. I neared it with my eyes or what could be termed my visual perception as I was unsure if I had eyes or not.

A lesson in drawing

Now such pondering seemed to border on the absurd. Why was so much thought given to such a number and why was sixteen such significant? I could have pulled the number two out of my hat or sixty-eight. I am sure there was some significance there. Looking at the number two brought up all sorts of things significant to religion, sports, arts, mathematics and a played a significant role in ones life albeit discreetly.

Thinking about numbers seemed insane, especially when I had no clue as to where I was. It wasn’t dark anymore, there was just nothing to define. It was as if I was staring at a blank page of white paper. I was confused, deeply confused and I couldn’t stop thinking. All things banal were forming in my head. How does one come to terms with a death in the family? How does one even prepare for such an event. It was head scratching stuff. I tried to lift my arm, but there was no sign of an arm. I looked down, there was no sign of feet or legs. Perhaps the only thing that existed was my subconscious, the only thing that I had now were my thoughts. Such an idea sounded insane but I was stuck in such a situation. I tried reasoning with myself, tried to come up with a logical explanation as to how I got into such a state, but such thoughts fizzled out before I could even latch onto one idea or reasonable explanation.

What was one to do, when nothing existed but ones thoughts? I could draw.

Draw…with what?

I had no hands as far as I could see no pen or pencils. Did I even have a head or a discernable face? It was all quite a struggle to get ones head around. Well if I was still thinking I should have at some container that my thoughts filled, a head is the most suitable container for thoughts. I thought about other containers like a bright red coke can, or a tin of sardines, perhaps a nice cored apple would be a good place for my thoughts to stew.

So the only option was to draw? I never learnt how to draw, of course I scribbled a stick figure here and there that was it. I thought for a second if I was to draw something what would I draw, would it have to make sense? Could a draw a horse’s head that came attached to a bicycle and had a tail as a rear. Would I draw flock of flying pumpkins who were battling it out for supremacy against their flying turnip cousins in the sky? I could give it a try. I looked into nothingness and thought, long and hard about what it meant to draw, about shapes and sizes, about colours.

What is drawing? I thought for a second and then decided that when one draws a writing tool has to be used to make marks on a certain space or apparatus. How does one teach themselves to draw when they have never learnt, it was a tiring concept, one that I could do without thinking about.

No thinking for a while. That would do some good. So I just stared into the empty space.…………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………

…………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………

…………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………

……………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………

………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………..

6teen

Bang! All of a sudden I jolted upright and found myself standing up. I glanced around expecting to be travelling on a train, expecting the chatter of the passengers, a screaming blue eyed baby would be making a poop in his nappy. A wide-eyed blonde girl would be drawing alone on a sheet of white paper her parents leaving her for the diner car. A tall man, with a bushy black-beard would be rummaging around for a bit of lettuce that he lost in his whiskers. But there was none of that, not even signs of the train seats or overhead compartments. Nothing.

I used my eyes to survey the scene. Nothing. Though I knew I was standing, that was a start, though I didn’t know what I was standing on. There was no colour, no feeling, nothing to grab onto and say: “I am standing on ground!” But I could think at least I had that. And so I decided that I would think away. What is 4x4? Sixteen. I imagined the numbers, the logic, and the equation holding together a bit of the world a bit of what was real. Sixteen must have been of some significance so I thought I’d take it further. “Sweet sixteen and never been kissed,” typical thing that pops into ones mind.

6 and 10 equals 16

8 and 8 equals 16

4x4=16 - Already done

16 follows 15 and precedes 17.

Sixteen is the minimum age for being allowed an official driver's license in many U.S. states. In Australia and Canada, it is the age one can begin to get a learner's license.

Sixteen is the minimum age for getting an adult job in most states and provinces.

Sixteen is the age of consent for many countries around the world it is also the minimum age to get married with parental consent in many countries.

Sixteen is the legal drinking age in France, Germany, Austria, The Netherlands and Portugal.

Sixteen…sixteen…the word scrambles in my head, the letter juxtaposing, twisting, like ballerinas in the air. I try to think back of memories when I was sixteen, the scent of summer mingled with the sight of giddy girls with a short little skirts running in the cool breeze. If one could employ a professional to keep ones jaw shut and stop the wet warm drool from running down the chin and neck one would. I tried to latch onto to one unique memory other than that sneak peek into the girl’s changing rooms or when I nestled into Brita’s breasts. Granny died when I was sixteen. That was significant! She died alone shacked up in some hospital bed. I was still learning what emotions were, the adolescent that I was still hadn’t come to terms with such depth, well not yet. There was the usual crowd of mourners dressed in black. I remember stifling a sob, while I secretly celebrated such a death with a slug of my grandfather’s forty year old bottle of whiskey that he kept on an upper shelf in his study. I could remember the biting taste, the oakiness of the mature malt burning my throat as it slid down into my stomach. If drink could tell of something, open up a greater understanding of a moment then the whiskey sunk into me, saddened my soul and made me weep not outwardly, but inwardly, where all was locked away. There was no time for viewing, for looking at the multi-channels to get a view of what was really going on inside. I quickly forgot about such a death, besides I had other important things to do, girls being the highest thing on my list as well as keeping up with…nothing really.

Does an age really say how old you are? Does an age help create the essence of the individual. Does age really matter? At the age of 82 one could have reversed back to the state of a baby, drooling and shitting all over oneself. Age…? How does one age? The body ages overtime, like a piece of fruit we all rot away one day.

I collect my thoughts and get back to sixteen…

You can get the number sixteen with four to the power of two. The number 16 was used in weighing light objects in several cultures. I thought of the stiff upper lipped British they had 16 ounces in one pound, the Chinese, always resourceful, used to have 16 langs in one jin. Ounces and pounds I think to myself. Back in the day weighing was done with a beam balance to make equal splits. Heaps of grain was then divided into sixteen equal parts this was a more successful division than to split the grain into ten parts. Sixteen was a very practical number when it came to calculations and figures. Chinese Taoists did finger computation on the trigrams and hexagrams by counting the finger tips and joints of the fingers with the tip of the thumb. Each hand can count up to 16 in such manner. The Chinese abacus uses two upper beads to represent the 5's and 5 lower beads to represent the 1's, the 7 beads can represent from a hexadecimal digit from 0 to 15 in each column.

16 is the base of the hexadecimal number system, which is used extensively in computer science.

Previously microprocessor were 16-bit microprocessor and they ran 16-bit applications.

In tarot, card No. 16 is "the Tower".

The amount of waking hours in a day in an "8 hours of sleep" schedule, I would be lucky to get that much sleep.

There are sixteen pawns on a chessboard and each player has sixteen pieces.

No Thoughts Please

I glanced out the train's window just to get a breather. The manuscript was a real killer, actually a right pain to read. I had thought too much about what Zorg meant, what SHEEP meant, what anything really meant. What was life, what was the meaning, the purpose to existence? If everything was to eventually cease what was the point of living? Did everyone have a soul? Why were some people referred to as being soulless? Was there really a soul, and even a collective soul? What would a collective soul entail? How would it work? It sounded like some communist crap. If I have two cows and your neighbour has no cows then I would give him one of my cows so we are equal. If my cow died, why then my neighbours cow would have to die as well so collectively we remained equal. Things didn’t work like that.

I had these idyllic notions in my head, what the world should be like, how mankind should treat each other, and what laws should govern the masses. I knew my notions were likely to fail, you have to have power over the masses and yet you can't exert too much control, you had to make it look like the masses were in power through covert control. There was great complications, life was not as simple as waking up, eating, or having a shit, there were all these systems and subsets built into society, ideas and formalities that were never even thought of or considered. If one was to look at it from a cynical point of view we were controlled and manipulated to think and act a certain way and when we thought we were acting on our own initiative and using our head it was only because we had been programmed to think so. If one was think about it we were all mindless robots and that was a pretty bleak picture. Perhaps thinking outside the box was really still thinking inside the box. When one thought too much on who really had control – society or the person it made ones head hurt. Overthinking? What an odd word, my doctor had described it as a condition. It was bizzazre, though the more I thought about it the more I realised that I was afflicted with such a thing. It was driving me over the edge. It was too much -time for a little time out.

Outside flocks of sheep dotted the green, rolling hillside. I thought about the colour green, perhaps the colour had some significance - maybe it contained a memory? I shook my head as i continued to stare, only this time my eyes zoomed past the sheep over the hills and into the sea-blue sky where nothing existed in my mind only a deep empty nothingness that pulled apart body and mind, that ripped apart all I had ever known.

No thoughts, no inward struggle, no "Who am I?" questions or a childlike 'Why?"

It was dark, like I had wandered into a cave without a torch. I should have been afraid, I should have but I could not come to such a conclusion as I my mind was completely and utterly empty.

Empty...empty...empty...