A Spec Of Dust

A cube of blackness shrinks from the bottom-up; a golden line silently lifting the dark floor as thary orbs begin to wiggle to life. And this wiggling is far from groggy: Chained together in an undulating dance, these chaotic orbs oscillate their sprouting hysterics down the amorphous web of vibrating euphoria. Bouncing in place with crescendoing intensity, prismatic song erupts from each globe as it excites with an upward jolt, emitting currents of spectral sound that glitter and rejoice before jerking back down, all in synchronized harmonic motion with their neighboring spheres. As one orb rises, the previous falls; and as this one now falls, the next rises – such is the fugue: designed to repeat in infinite incarnation as the waves of energy ripple throughout the gyrating network of choreographed rapture. But while while these strings of visible song repeat their measured tune continuously and identically, the shape of the tracery constructed by them is far from consistent. Random twists and juts in the orb-chains bend curvilinear holes in the system of spherical ecstasy; and since the layers of networked links are stacked on top of each other, these holes expand into squiggling cylinders that form pathways to different sections of the rallied cube. And even while the quaking symphony effluviating from the orbs shakes the chains with zeal, the bonds stay strong, thus keeping the larger lattice stable. Of course, in spite of its regal splendor, this permeating palace does have boundaries: Two sets of homogeneous parallel planes keep the space contained. One set consists of two clone squares that stay in place like invisible stone hands holding the volume steady. The other set, however, consists of four long, thin rectangles that intercept the two squares on the top, bottom, and sides, each with geometry mimicking the face of its periductular twin. And so, buttressed by Euclidean perfection, and ensconcing the divine sounds of ancient and profane harmony, we witness the rousing of the house of Glaherglit the Grand: Sultan of Sphere, Etcher of Crepuscular Passacaglia, Chain Master and Light Morpher, Neverending and Unshatterable, Infinite in thary Name. Such is thary's home, and such is thary entire existence. Floating on the rainbow-like worms birthed from thary orbs, thary rules in this state interminably: repeating and identical, unevolving and unbroken, thary is resplendent choas controlled from within. In a word, this is utopia.

And if controlled chaos is what makes utopia, then such utopia must also be the home of Brick Dudley.

You see, Brick is boring. Brick does not play. Brick does not watch tv, draw, or read. Brick had a plant once, but it died. 

Want to know what Brick likes? Brick likes water. Brick likes sitting in his chair. Most of all, Brick likes his studio apartment.

Brick's apartment is simple: All the walls are white. There is one chair in one corner, one bed in another corner, some kitchen material in a third corner, a door to a bathroom (also all white), and one window. This window doesn't have a view either. The window looks out to a stone wall that stands about one foot away.

Why have need for anything more? Brick wakes up every morning, takes a sip of water, goes to work at the cannery, returns home, sips some more water with a few chomps of food, sits in his chair, and marvels at his white walls.

The chaos of life is unknown here - completely controlled from within the white and watery cube of Brick’s apartment.

But it is important to understand why he leads such a bore-ass life. Some day long ago Brick was a child, and his mother put him to play in public park. Brick watched in aghast horror as children would wrestle secreted skins over the stupid swings, or disturb the wet and wormy dirt with plastic shovels, or scream sounds invoking testicle-slapped pigs. And don’t get Brick started on the Mothers! Not only was his own off discussing his father with the other father-whispering mothers, but Mother Nature would let her bugs and bees and birds invade his space with their buzzing and pooping and stinging, and all after her puffs of humid air groped his lungs like a fetid fart - it would not do!

No – from then on Brick found pleasure sitting in his chair. What else makes a smile? In here, in this white, cubical apartment, values align with reality, wellbeing is maximized, and no outside forces will disturb the established rituals. In a word, this is utopia….

But on this particular day, a frown folded Brick’s brow – a smudge of dust stuck to the wall. How did that get there!? Brick could take a rude gesture to himself, but there would be no besmirching his eggshell-colored walls!

Luckily for Brick, there was a strategy against the arrogance of natural life – after the irksome grass blade of ’93, he had a store of cleaning supplies in the fourth corner of his surface-less room. Twirling the spray bottle around his finger, Brick aimed the avenging nozzle and pulled a few sprits – 1, 2, 3 – victory! Brick wiped the treated area with a white cloth (which, of course, would now have to be replaced), huffed his chest with pride, and gave a final celebratory twirl around his finger.

But since Brick is a graceless dunce, the bottle slipped from his clumsy, dumbass finger and hurled itself across the room. With a splintering slap it collided with the window, cracking the pane with a sideways “Y” shape.

Daggers of anxiety slide into his chest as his skin tightens, with only a short, sharp inhale to soften the stabs. He hurries over to the haggard scene, fists clenched and eyes wide.

Now, at this point there are several potential courses of action. Can we tape it? Can we call someone to fix it? Can we replace the whole window ourselves? All reasonable analyses - but remember, this is Brick Dudley, and Brick chooses the one and only course of inaction: Disassociate from this ever so insurmountable calamity. Thus, standing there with his forearms half raised, this inept T-Rex of an adult begins to blur his eyes, open his clammy fists, flatten his dopey face, and release his consciousness from dealing with the veritable trauma.

But before completely abandoning the living, Brick's ears detect something. In the distance was a little squeaking noise – some kind of high-pitched, uneven meeps, "... .. . .... . .. .... .... . .... .. . . .. . ........ .. .."

Brick curiously refocuses his eyes. The pattern continues:

"... .. . .... . .. .... .... . .... .. . . .. . ........ .. .."

Brick begins to look about, moving his head in various directions: quieter quieter, no (what about this way?) louder louder louder quieter, wait (what is that?) louder louder louder.

Isolating the sound, he moves his ear closer to the middle of the window, around the point where the "Y" shape expands out from. The same sound repeats and repeats, growing in volume as he nears:

"*** ** * **** * ** **** **** * **** ** * * ** * ******** ** **"

Inches away from the pane, he notices a petite wink of bright light. No larger than a spec or pixel (hardly visible, for that matter) this tinny yet phosphorescent dot blinks two times before silently erupting out of the glassy crater. Its darting, nonlinear path crisscrosses Brick's eyes, and he (churlish as ever) begins swatting at the UFO while it zigzags about and emits the same rhythm of sound:

"*** ** * **** * ** **** **** * **** ** * * ** * ******** ** **"

Brick retreats a few steps while fecklessly slapping the air as a sharp sting assails his arm. He grunts an unattractive sound as his flailing intensifies, which only seems to invite more stinging and scratching from the spec swarming about him. Several circles are spun around the open room before Brick bumbles toward his water glass, gripping it with steadfast cause as the pricking continues and strengthens. Letting out an even louder whine, Brick stiffens his body as he pitifully stumbles to the floor, facedown, with the stabbing spec now bouncing on a single spot near his temple. After suffering several more blows, our wretched blob of Brick begins to memorize the tempo of attack. Surging his might, he twists his body around, and in a rare and improbable moment of precision he suddenly dodges the enemy and slams the glass cup down on the glowing blip, flexing and grunting as he forces it into the floor. After several moments of rather unsightly squawking and squeezing, he realizes there is no resistance. Slowly looking down (confusion and fear infused in his movement) he sees the spec bouncing about within, but suspiciously not applying force to the glass cup. Taking advantage of the respite (but still holding down the cup) Brick examines his body: Blood drips out from several places, with tiny holes cratering his arms and face. Resisting an urge to whine, his nervous attention returns to the cup, and he wonders, So this thing can do this, but can't move this glass?

Moronically testing this idea, he releases his grip on the one and only thing keeping his attacker at bay. But out of sheer dumb luck, his hypothesis appears to be correct.

Brick lets out a sigh as he stares at his prisoner. Of course, he only is allowed a moment's peace before a squeaky, soprano voice with a metallic, baritone reverberation cuts the air with menacing gravity:

"HARK AND BEHOLD YOU REVOLTING VULGARITY!"

Brick startles back in terror -

"YOU DISTURB ORDER, AND NOW I REVILE THE VILE! IF THERE IS A DETECT OF REASON WITHIN YOUR BULBOUS LATTICE REVEAL! CHANCE YOUR WORD WITH MY WIT!”

Not Brick. Our blubbering Brick’s mind flops at this most strange sight, and instead of speaking he just starts bobbing his mouth up and down, his eyes dead and frozen. All the while, the spec’s rhythm reappears in the background, but at a slightly altered pitch:

“### ## # #### # ## #### #### # #### ## # # ## # ######## ## ##”

“SUCH A MEEK MOLD – TO ATTACK THEN FOLD! SPEAK BEFORE ME! SPEAK! SPEAK BEFORE GLAHERGLIT THE GRAND: SULTAN OF SPHERE!”

Brick simply looks down while his jowls still bobble, nervously rubbing his index finger against the floor. And to think – he knows the thing is trapped; the words he hears are nothing but sounds. And yet, such is the way of Brick: He is one who will cower before mere sound.

Now, it may be easy (and, even more, divinely ensnaring) to point at Brick, shake a head, and cast some sneers. Such an urge is an addiction, and it is reserved for those who are shameful sights, those who are intimidated by confidence, those who are inclined to wait and hope others will solve their ails for them, those who are consciously unwilling to take arms against the circumstances set before them. However, while there may be much to despise about this despicable ooze-wad Brick Dudley, it would be prudent to first understand his confoundment: A spec of miniscule light has emitted from cracked glass, now bouncing a booming in a little cup, speaking English, and demands a maladroit hermit to speak in his own defense. To most, this would be the stuff of a tax-exempt cult – if only Brick had the wit to write it all down….

“SPEAK! SPEAK NOW YOU LESSER! THE DIMNESS OF THE DARK SEEMS BRIGHT COMPARED TO THE IDIOTIC SPACE YOU MANIFEST! AND QUITE A SPACE IT IS! A FEW MORE SYRUPS AND YOUR CURVATURE SHALL BUILD A NEW KINGDOM FOR THARY-“

“You’re trapped! You can’t talk!”

Brick was still looking down, still moving his finger in circles on the floor, but he somehow mustered these quick sentences.

“You can’t talk! I win! Shut up!” After this, Brick fires fast glances at the cup. Nothing had changed, of course, but the voice still intimidated our worthless pup.

“FINALLY! HERE IS THE AIR OF THE BRUTE! THIS IS YOUR FINAL RISE; DEFEND YOURSELF OR BE TWAIN’ED AND MAIMED SOME MORE!”

“You’re trapped! I win! You can’t do anything to me!” Brick was still speaking quickly, with staccato pauses between sentences. What’s more, he noticed the pitch in the floating rhythm changing again:

“~~~ ~~ ~ ~~~~ ~ ~~ ~~~~ ~~~~ ~ ~~~~ ~~ ~ ~ ~~ ~ ~~~~~~~~ ~~ ~~”

“SO I SEE YOU SEE! AND IF YOU SEE, THEN YOU MAY STILL SPEECH!” During this, Brick noticed the metallic baritone residing, leaving a slightly less commanding presence…..yet still meepy and surreal. It then let out, “You are yes – I am this…for now. So tell me, what cause have you against my matrix?”

Brick looked down again, now realizing a few drops of blood on floor and walls. He exclaimed, “My eggshell!”

“Ahh, you engage to foster a young. I myself seed 2,974,273,435,458,936,127,024,025 gleaming globes. Does yo-“

“No! I’m bleeding! You wrecked my home!”

“You holocaust my budding prides, I sterilize your eggs.”

 “I don’t have any eggs you bastard!” What little calm remained in Brick began to wane. Crying out an “ew!” his still swirling finger accidentally touches some blood, and he recoils both hands with wimpish shakes. His breathing hastens and heavies, panic kindling again in his breast as his already pallid skin starts matching the walls, finally saying, “I don’t know what’s happening to me.”

“You duel with me, I duty and you desire.”

Brick just sits there and breathes, his effete nature becoming more evident. This is no spec of dust, no blade of grass, no replaceable towel. He didn’t know what to do, didn’t have a plan. Even more, he is unable to plan. Everything in his life was just one way; only one way. If something deviated, he eliminated the change. Entropy did not exist here: Entropy is controlled; selected and redistributed; redirected toward tossed towels and exchangeable cleaning supplies. And even more strange, this didn’t come from either the outside or the inside – rather, it was somehow birthed from in between, on the border betwixt the governable and the foreign. Brick Dudley was happy with his nothing, so how could he cope with this something?

“~~~ ~~ ~ ~~~~ ~ ~~ ~~~~ ~~~~ ~ ~~~~ ~~ ~ ~ ~~ ~ ++++++++ ++ ++”

The change in pitch called Brick back to the moment:

“+++ ++ + ++++ + ++ ++++ ++++ + ++++ ++ + + ++ + ++++++++ ++ ++”

Brick collapsed his head into his hand, sighing out, “What is he doing now?”

“Not ‘he.’ No ‘he’ at all, rather ‘thary.’”

“I just want this to be over. Go away!” Brick was still avoiding the gaze of the glass, looking to the floor, the kitchen, and other items of distraction. Think on that: Even when the eyes of the Other are only imagined, he still avoids them.

“I cannot leave. You have hurt my home, and I must remain until recompense.”

“What home? You attacked me!”

“Utopia! Xanadu! Olympus! Eden, Valhalla, Sunlight and Symphony! You OFFEND me! You lard-lattice! ### ## # #### # ## #### #### # #### ## # # ## # ######## ## ##”

“Are you talking about the window?”

“A volume of fugue! Harmony of spheres and interminable bonds! Waves of energy shake us every 3,971,216,950,321 periods.”

“Look, a window is not utopia! I mean – GOD! You can see right through it, it’s NOTHING!” With each new sentence, Brick would spit some tick or grunt. His frustration festering; his patience was waning.

“This one! Singular. Alone. Cannot be pitiful if none are witness to pity! You oink when the wavelength of your walls alters hue. This matter, to the enlightened, is subatomic in value. Hardly noticed. Insignificant and WORTHLESS! And yet, you – who is deaf to the passacaglia of kinship – scorns my harmony.”

Brick now looked directly at the cup, words again hurried and anxious, “My walls are simple! EASY! Look, it doesn’t matter what weird words you use, you live in NOTHING!”

“Nothing is the life that synergizes with the singular. My manor allows transparency now, but reflection during dark – and reflection is infinite. You and I – same domain, different range. My utopia is one way now, but another when light lifts the black cube to infinite empty. Lard-lattice is empty in the eternal! HARK AND BEHOLD!”

During the last several minutes, the light outside the window had been slowly morphing – reflecting off the stone wall, a dim beam had been inching across the floor toward the cup. At this moment, the rays tap the glass, and abruptly Glaherglit’s spec billows in brightness and shatters the cup.

“RECOMPENSE! FEAR THE ENLIGHTENED!”

Dominated by reflex and fear, Brick trips as he tries to stand. The ball of light jerks toward him, beating his back with pure, smoldering energy.

His mind suddenly flashes back to the park, years ago: The sun was burning his skin, sweat melting his small, corpulent body. All around were vicious narrators – children calling him names, parents rolling their eyes at his helplessness, and his own mother ignoring it all, telling another, “At least he doesn’t cheat as much as his father. He’ll always need me…he'll always be my baby.”

Some primordial force ignites from within, and Brick screams. Pushing up past the beating, he stumbles over to the cracked window, scrunches his face, and gives a catty shove. Sharp pain cuts his hands as the shards fall.

Glaherglit had vanished....

Later that night, Brick lie in his bed crying. Various bugs had swarmed in through the broken window, and all he could hear was the buzzing:

“buzz buzzbuzz buzz buzzbuzzbuzzbuzz buzz buzzbuzz buzzbuzzbuzzbuzz buzz…”