Sunday, July 3, 2011
Saturday, July 2, 2011
My Name is Not Martin Behaim
It never was.
There is a memory that wasn't available to me before. Martin - the real Martin, whose name probably was never Martin at all - walked through a Door into the City. He walked into the City and I woke up in the house. I woke up believing I was him.
But I wasn't.
I opened the door and stepped outside. The stars shown overhead. The buildings were immobile - they were squat and gray and lined the unchanging street. The only sounds were the cars on the street, their headlights illuminating everything around them and then bringing everything back into the gloom of night as they left, the snatches of music from their radio becoming louder and then softer, creating a Doppler symphony.
I walked down the street, but heard no footsteps. Each headlight made me stand taller and thinner. Eventually, I reached a road lined with houses where the streetlamps shown brightly. The shadows of each streetlamp beckoned me. They moved and twisted, as if in the wind.
I took my rightful place with them. Once the sun rose, we moved, slipped down the pavement, across grass and sidewalk, through doors and windows and walls, into a house.
As we set the house in order, I found a computer and came here. This journal was my time spent with the memories of Martin. This was my trial, the journey I went through, coming to realize that the City is inescapable. It is disorder and chaos incarnate. Order is better.
The owner of the house came home a few hours ago. We decided to put his mind in order as well. It was so confused. He is sitting still now. His eyes are closed and I think he is still breathing. How can we lead you out of the caves if you are so jumbled and untidy and disordered? We will help you.
You have come to the end of the book now. And the monster you have been so worried about? It is me.
I am a Nightlander. Hello.
There is a memory that wasn't available to me before. Martin - the real Martin, whose name probably was never Martin at all - walked through a Door into the City. He walked into the City and I woke up in the house. I woke up believing I was him.
But I wasn't.
I opened the door and stepped outside. The stars shown overhead. The buildings were immobile - they were squat and gray and lined the unchanging street. The only sounds were the cars on the street, their headlights illuminating everything around them and then bringing everything back into the gloom of night as they left, the snatches of music from their radio becoming louder and then softer, creating a Doppler symphony.
I walked down the street, but heard no footsteps. Each headlight made me stand taller and thinner. Eventually, I reached a road lined with houses where the streetlamps shown brightly. The shadows of each streetlamp beckoned me. They moved and twisted, as if in the wind.
I took my rightful place with them. Once the sun rose, we moved, slipped down the pavement, across grass and sidewalk, through doors and windows and walls, into a house.
As we set the house in order, I found a computer and came here. This journal was my time spent with the memories of Martin. This was my trial, the journey I went through, coming to realize that the City is inescapable. It is disorder and chaos incarnate. Order is better.
The owner of the house came home a few hours ago. We decided to put his mind in order as well. It was so confused. He is sitting still now. His eyes are closed and I think he is still breathing. How can we lead you out of the caves if you are so jumbled and untidy and disordered? We will help you.
You have come to the end of the book now. And the monster you have been so worried about? It is me.
I am a Nightlander. Hello.
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