Surrealism.
The scene that met both detectives eyes was, it seemed at the time, quite ludicrous. It hadn’t met them simultaneously because they had walked into the room in single file. The room they had entered was obviously some form of a study which comprised shelves from floor to ceiling and a large intimidating desk.
The first detective glanced cursorily at the shelves and picked out a great deal of Shakespeare which he knew was connected with English literature because he had failed the subject at school before dropping out.
Before his eye dropped away to the desk however, his logical intuition had registered that none of the Shakespeare had been read as their spines were still uncreased. The figure slumped across the desk was not a large man and was dressed in a suit at least two maybe three sizes too big.
The incongruity of the scene was not lost on the first detective although he would not have described it as such but would have rather used a word like suspicious or unusual.
That the prone figure was dead was obvious due in no small part to the bluish tinge around his facial features but the expression on his face was odd. Neither suicide nor murder victims smile but this guy had a definite smirk on his face.
On the desk which the second detective had been examining was a chessboard with an apparently half finished game set up. The second detective was something of a chess dilettante and was trying to conjure some form of insight from the mute wooden pieces.
The television set was flickering but only just as the screen had been smashed by what looked like an empty bourbon bottle. The first detective went across to the video recorder which was on and removed the cassette. LOVE AND ETERNITY. The title meant nothing to him but the blurb on the box spoke of crazy French poets.
Whoever had smashed the TV had either been annoyed with the movie or more likely just drunk or drugged.
At that moment the owner of the house, dishevelled and still sleepy, stormed in along with the maid who seemed to think that something constructive must be done about this invasion of privacy. He screamed unintelligibly and leapt at the grinning figure slumped at his desk.
“This is not me and he is wearing my suit!” Anger changed to bewilderment as he realised that the figure could not answer for his actions. The owner was large and well built. By his own admission he contrived to be a minor academic and played a game of chess on occasion.
“My Chopin collection and he has been playing through my collection of Alekhines chess games.” The owner had recovered sufficiently to start taking stock like victims of robberies normally do. He found the destruction of the TV but also spotted a half burned and unravelled video cassette that the detectives had missed.
“My Oliver Stone original edition of The Doors and some vandalism.” This last mentioned lack of respect seemed to take all the remaining energy from the owner who slumped against the doorjamb in abject defeat.
Scrawled across the wall in lurid lipstick above the remains of the video cassette were the words ONLY VAL EMERGES WITH ANY CREDIT.
Also on the wall was a sort of poem which read:
COMPOSE. NO IDEAS
BUT IN THINGS INVENT
SAXIFRAGE IS MY FLOWER THAT SPLITS
THE ROCKS.
The detectives were excused for not recognising the origins but the owners academic mind immediately recognised William Carlos Williams who incidentally was part of a thesis he was then working on.
The detectives completed their investigation of the house but had already concluded that this was another suicide by a drugged up teenager who’s woman had left him.
The remaining clues did not affect their judgement at all in fact simply strengthened their convictions. A bath that was filled but not used, a pile of clothing in the main bedroom which included stinking leather pants as well as a Pink Floyd Dark Side of the Moon T-shirt.
The owner only discovered much later that his treasured collection of Balzac had been rifled through and read with a great deal of marginal notes left in a messy scrawl.
I, the writer have created a picture albeit a cryptic one for the attentive reader. My role is not that simple however, as I am also the owner of the house. What prompted me to write were two quotations highlighted in my poetry library, neither of which were done by me.
“The languid strings do scarcely move! The sound is forced, the notes are few!” and “The goal is oblivion. I have arrived early.” The first is from Blake and the second from Borges.
The links may be tenuous and the detectives only missed the plot because their thinking was directed forwards. Mine was opposite as Alekhine, Balzac and Chopin reside in a cemetery in Paris and I have my own conclusions.
The scene that met both detectives eyes was, it seemed at the time, quite ludicrous. It hadn’t met them simultaneously because they had walked into the room in single file. The room they had entered was obviously some form of a study which comprised shelves from floor to ceiling and a large intimidating desk.
The first detective glanced cursorily at the shelves and picked out a great deal of Shakespeare which he knew was connected with English literature because he had failed the subject at school before dropping out.
Before his eye dropped away to the desk however, his logical intuition had registered that none of the Shakespeare had been read as their spines were still uncreased. The figure slumped across the desk was not a large man and was dressed in a suit at least two maybe three sizes too big.
The incongruity of the scene was not lost on the first detective although he would not have described it as such but would have rather used a word like suspicious or unusual.
That the prone figure was dead was obvious due in no small part to the bluish tinge around his facial features but the expression on his face was odd. Neither suicide nor murder victims smile but this guy had a definite smirk on his face.
On the desk which the second detective had been examining was a chessboard with an apparently half finished game set up. The second detective was something of a chess dilettante and was trying to conjure some form of insight from the mute wooden pieces.
The television set was flickering but only just as the screen had been smashed by what looked like an empty bourbon bottle. The first detective went across to the video recorder which was on and removed the cassette. LOVE AND ETERNITY. The title meant nothing to him but the blurb on the box spoke of crazy French poets.
Whoever had smashed the TV had either been annoyed with the movie or more likely just drunk or drugged.
At that moment the owner of the house, dishevelled and still sleepy, stormed in along with the maid who seemed to think that something constructive must be done about this invasion of privacy. He screamed unintelligibly and leapt at the grinning figure slumped at his desk.
“This is not me and he is wearing my suit!” Anger changed to bewilderment as he realised that the figure could not answer for his actions. The owner was large and well built. By his own admission he contrived to be a minor academic and played a game of chess on occasion.
“My Chopin collection and he has been playing through my collection of Alekhines chess games.” The owner had recovered sufficiently to start taking stock like victims of robberies normally do. He found the destruction of the TV but also spotted a half burned and unravelled video cassette that the detectives had missed.
“My Oliver Stone original edition of The Doors and some vandalism.” This last mentioned lack of respect seemed to take all the remaining energy from the owner who slumped against the doorjamb in abject defeat.
Scrawled across the wall in lurid lipstick above the remains of the video cassette were the words ONLY VAL EMERGES WITH ANY CREDIT.
Also on the wall was a sort of poem which read:
COMPOSE. NO IDEAS
BUT IN THINGS INVENT
SAXIFRAGE IS MY FLOWER THAT SPLITS
THE ROCKS.
The detectives were excused for not recognising the origins but the owners academic mind immediately recognised William Carlos Williams who incidentally was part of a thesis he was then working on.
The detectives completed their investigation of the house but had already concluded that this was another suicide by a drugged up teenager who’s woman had left him.
The remaining clues did not affect their judgement at all in fact simply strengthened their convictions. A bath that was filled but not used, a pile of clothing in the main bedroom which included stinking leather pants as well as a Pink Floyd Dark Side of the Moon T-shirt.
The owner only discovered much later that his treasured collection of Balzac had been rifled through and read with a great deal of marginal notes left in a messy scrawl.
I, the writer have created a picture albeit a cryptic one for the attentive reader. My role is not that simple however, as I am also the owner of the house. What prompted me to write were two quotations highlighted in my poetry library, neither of which were done by me.
“The languid strings do scarcely move! The sound is forced, the notes are few!” and “The goal is oblivion. I have arrived early.” The first is from Blake and the second from Borges.
The links may be tenuous and the detectives only missed the plot because their thinking was directed forwards. Mine was opposite as Alekhine, Balzac and Chopin reside in a cemetery in Paris and I have my own conclusions.
posted by R J Clarke at 12:04 PM
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