Eternal Reincarnation

Note -- contains some concept of hell, but used for thematic effect.

-- contains a sexual reference in a single paragraph, but is used for effect.

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Click! Clack! Click! Clack! Slow at first, accelerating to a prattle. Then the strobelike countdown: 5…bleep, 4…bleep, 3…bleep, 2…bleep, 1…bleep. The sound of a vintage reel. 

My friend Jonathan and I had just finished work and thought we would catch a movie. 

And in the name of art–all in the name of art–we chose the old run-down, red-brick ‘Art House’ downtown rather than the ultra-modern AMC or Odeon in the ‘burbs. Where was the ascetic in the concrete and upscale? We preferred the rustic wooden Victorian style. So here we were in old downtown.

“What?” Jonathan said, wringing his hands. “Black and white? I was hoping for some color.”

“I thought you preferred rustic and antique,” I replied.

“But even rustic has more color than ‘black and white,” Jonathan said as he scanned the theater. There were no other silhouettes seated anywhere. “Are we the only ones here?”

“What! Are you lonely?” I said, nudging Jonathan’s arm, “you know, we are a rare breed in this age of modern art. People today don’t have the attention span for ‘Art House.’ They don’t want exposition and development–they want action, action, and more action. They want ‘Spiderman’ or ‘The Avengers.’ And the big productions can only give in to those who lack attention spans. How else could they make their money? Phony art thrives, while real art dies.”

And It was true; none of the titles on the billboard in the foyer were known to us, none were advertised, none had big budgets, and none had known actors and actresses. We had chosen a title for the sake of art–and the art alone. And despite not knowing what our chosen flick was about, we weren’t discerning what the next couple of hours would entail; We wouldn’t find any reviews online or any information at all. But to both Jonathan and I, real art was never meant to be popular, scrutinized, and commercialized; Art was meant to stand on its own.

The words ‘Eternal Reincarnation’ appeared on the screen, but wasn’t centered correctly, and the title was stenciled in as if by an amateur artist. ‘Directed by Diablo’ appeared below the title. Ghastly branches of a leaf-stripped canopy set the background. The camera panned downward toward the detritus with decomposing leaves and bark. A man then appeared from nowhere, off-camera. His image faded in, showing the stetson hat adorning his head–in the mad-hatter style. He had a devious air about him. The man’s frock coat gently undulated in a slight breeze displaying a pocket watch with a glittering gold chain. The man’s walking stick had a ruby-red crook with some strange engraved creature staring outward.

“See, Jonathan, there is some color,” I said, knowing these were only isolated refractions of light.

“Welcome, my friends,” the man said, taking off his hat and bowing like a cringy showman. “My name is Diablo, and I want to show you something. I want to take you on a journey through infinity. Your world vision, in its current state, is pointless. Let me show you something more lucid. You are born, then you die; you are born, then you die; you are born, then you die, ad infinitum. And every birth and death and recycling of the soul is a different experience. Your parents were never the same each time around. You were spritely at birth but suffered in death; you were innocent at birth but blameworthy in death; you were perfect at birth but misfortuned in death; you were free at birth but enslaved in death–over and over, again and again, and again, ad infinitum.“

“Let’s get out of here,” Jonathan said, jumping, ready to race an imagined gauntlet. I yanked him back to his seat.

“It’s only a movie,” I said, “And it’s the kind of art we enjoy.” 

“If art imitates life, then this movie isn’t for me,” Jonathan said, looking so pale that he glowed in the dark and meshed with the white light from the screen.

I agreed with Jonathan’s fear, but I was ambivalent, just the same. The opening scene was creepy as hell, but ‘creepy’ was also a part of ‘avant-garde’, and Jonathan and I both loved the obnoxious and weird because those expressions countered our very own dull lives; those artistic expressions were not of the extroverted ‘Superman’ or ‘Avengers’ ilk but of the introverted, introspective and mysterious kind; however, real art doesn’t necessarily imitate life but merely expressed it through a theme. But what the hell was the theme in this movie?–you are born, then you die, ad infinitum. Creepy!

“Jonathan, let’s just watch the first ten minutes; if you are still uncomfortable, we will leave. I promise. I just don’t think art imitates life but only expresses it. Art isn’t real life.” 

Jonathan grasped both armrests. “Ok! Ok!” he said, ‘but, I’m running after ten minutes.”

Hopefully, Jonathan won’t scuttle, I thought. If I only had a joint to settle his jitters! He might even be more philosophical by the end.

The Victorian specter pointed his walking stick toward an open pathway with the naked trees exposed on each side. The camera panned beyond the man, and as he spoke, his voice was offscreen, distorted, and echoed. “Come join me, my friends, as we enter our journey into ‘Eternal Reincarnation.’ The camera panned along the forest’s pathway as leaves gently scattered in front from some supernatural breeze. The branches were so unnaturally knotted that I swear they were binding the souls of feral audience members from ages ago. And oddly, I felt the sensation of being part of the backdrop.

I glanced over at my friend and noted his fixation on the screen. He no longer looked like the quivering man he once was but absorbed, eyes straight ahead; pupils dilated, corneas cloudy as mist. I, too, wished to scuttle faster than a racehorse–not from the movie, but for Jonathan’s sake. I speared my friend with an elbow–no reaction–just a blank gaze. “Jonathan! Jonathan! Let’s go!” There was no response as he was limp in both muscle and breath. “Jonathan!” I repeated–still, no response. His focus was catatonic, his mouth agape. I would drag Jonathan to the exit if I could, but my feet and soul were numb. I thought we should just finish the movie; The lights would come back on, and then we could just leave, but the next glance at the screen ensnared me. I became embedded in the background, and Jonathan was beside me, standing in front of a rundown cabin at the end of the pathway. Mold effused the air like all that is old. A sign nailed on the rotting front door read ‘Beware! Do not enter! Go back, now! Or expect never to leave–The manager.’ Whoever wrote that sign was a trickster because, oddly, there was enough strength to move forward, but not backward.

And all I could say to Jonathan was, “unoriginal, right?”

“What’s unoriginal?” Jonathan responded, still pale and shivering.

“‘Hotel California’ by The Eagles–you remember the lyric–` You can check-out any time you like, but you can never leave’; the unoriginality is entering a place and never leaving–it’s been done many times before in the arts. ‘Saw’, ‘Silent Hill’, and ‘House on Haunted Hill.’ The same! You enter and never leave.”

“That last one doesn’t count,” Jonathan interrupted, “because they chose to get locked in the house for a night.”

“Just like us! We had a choice, too.”

“And to think, I wanted to leave, but you wanted to stay for the sake of art. It was your choice and not mine.”

“We'll wait it out, Jonathan,” I said “trust me! The lights will come back on, and we’ll exit and go next door to get our usual traditional ale. Simple as that!”

There was no unoriginal creaking of the door. No one said ‘Open Sesame’ either. The door gaped ajar with some silent supernatural whisper as It floated open on its own accord.

In the darkness beyond, Diablo held up his gleaming pocket watch. The glimmer showed his faint image in the dark. “It’s time!” he said.

Jonathan's eyes narrowed in fright. “Do we have a choice?” he said. 

“Of course you do!” Diablo said, beckoning us.

Tick! Tick! Tick! The watch was held up to our faces, not to indicate impatience but of having all the time in the world. We were the tortoise and not the hare, but still, I wasn’t sure that we could ever win any race.

“Ok! I want out!” Jonathan said, glaring into Diablo’s eyes. 

“Come on, Jonathan! I thought you liked this kind of movie. It’s an art form! It’s real art! It’s experimental! Avant-Garde! You’ve always said you liked this type of movie. And we didn’t have to pay a cent to enter.”

“If we didn’t have to pay with money, perhaps, we'd have to pay with something else. I didn’t ask to be a part of this! I want out! Diablo said I had a choice, so I want out! Now!”

”It’s intriguing! Don’t yah, worry! We’ll be drinking ale at ‘Ye Olde Victorian’ In a couple of hours. I’ll even buy you a joint from Dafyyd at the bar. And we’ll discuss the meaning of life and art.” I pushed Jonathan into the darkness, and I followed behind.

Jonathan, however, disappeared into the darkness. He simply went missing!

The door closed, and I found myself in a hospital maternity ward. My infant self was crying at the top of his lungs from a hospital crib. The name tag at the foot of the bed had my birth name. My brain was developed as my adult consciousness was aware of all the baby’s wants as if they were my own: Give me a nipple! Change my diaper! Burp me! All baby desires came from my mind, and I was lucid the whole time. Frightfully, I was alone–no doctors, no nurses, no mother, and worse, no Jonathan; he had disappeared in the darkness when we entered the cabin, yet, now all was white around me–I was alone with Diablo. 

And Diablo snickered as he leered down from the ceiling, still holding the watch with its hands up to my newborn face. Tick! Tick! Tick! Do I have a choice? Diablo shook his head.

I stayed in that crib for a month, and then I was plunged into darkness for six years. And I still had my adult faculties throughout all those years. When I awoke, I was lying down in a bed and felt sudden relief from the lingering darkness. However, the horrors of Diablo returned. He stood beside me with his famous watch glowing and lighting up my night-time room. I felt the painful tug from tooth pullers; my teeth were yanked from my jaw–no Novocaine, laughing gas, or anesthesia, and still no Jonathan. Diablo placed those plucked teeth beneath my pillow. I awoke the following morning to a low glim light–orange eerie light like that from an occluded sun. Something dug at my head from beneath the pillow. I plucked at it, removing a ruby-red amulet in the shape of some strange creature. Diablo did not give my teeth to the tooth fairy but to some putrid gnome. Diablo was bellowing in laughter. Tick! Tick! Tick! The sound emerged from behind the headboard, and now, I thought that I truly had no choice. Diablo nodded his head.

I was plunged back into darkness. This time I lay there with no light and complete nothingness for another thirteen years with all my faculties still employed.

Once again, I came from the darkness in some matrimonial bed but felt no relief this time. An incubus wearing a bridal gown straddled me–a cliche from folklore, I thought, but the thing riveted itself to my pelvis, and I felt neither pleasure nor erection, yet the bride managed to suck the life from my testes. The incubus’ eyes fluttered like an ancient reptilian relic. Its tongue lolled as It felt ecstasy, not from the rape but from my horror to it. And Jonathan was nowhere in sight. He was now a distant memory. Tick! Tick! Tick! I felt it coming from my loins. Diablo sat on a throne-like chair in the corner of the room, completely glowing at the thought of a grandchild.

I was sent back to nothingness for another twenty-five years. I languished, hoping for a timely death, but faintly opined that I was already dead. 

When I was forty-four, I had awoken from the void again. I was in a cemetery digging graves for the soulless. My arms withered from the constant digging. No rest! No repose! And a whip whistled my back, calves, and ankles while a club tore at my skull, chest, and thighs. Diablo held the whip and my son had the club. They struck so hard that I thought there were not enough graves for the doomed. Both Diablo and my son nodded and administered the blows with crooked smiles. For ten years, I continued digging graves, morning to night, night to morning, until Diablo was satisfied that the quota was reached. When the quota was reached, Diablo, then swung his watch in my face, pendulum-like, one swing per second. Tick! Tick! Tick! He sent me back to emptiness. And still no Jonathan!

I spent another twenty-five years in darkness and awoke in that similar white-lit room of my birth. But this time, I was in the palliative care ward with tubes in every orifice and the constant beep…beep…beep of a heart monitor. I had no morphine given me, so the pain was excruciating. Spending a lifetime in death, I was looking forward to the end so that I could finally leave the ‘Art House’ for good. Diablo was here again but leering up from beneath the hospital bed. His golden watch was hanging on the heart monitor. It went Tick! Tick! Tick! In synchronicity with the beeping of the machine until the moment of ‘flat-line.’ I died and hoped that it was all over. I was thirsty for an ale at ‘Ye Olde Victorian’. I thought that maybe Jonathan would be there. But no!

I floated from the screen as an orb while the final credits played. The cast lines were scrolling: 

‘Director ..….……..……………….. Diablo 

Jonathan ………………………….. Himself 

The incubus ………………………. Diablo’s daughter 

Diablo’s grandson ……………….. Himself’

My name did not appear anywhere. I was some nameless ghost, an orb of white light rigid in space and time.

I glided over empty seats toward the back of the theater, where Jonathan and I sat eons ago. And there I was, a skeletonized form; shackles held my legs to the bolted-down seat, and manacles bound my wrists to the armrests. Jonathan was nowhere. I was the only one.

Didn’t Diablo say we all had a choice? Jonathan escaped a burden because he chose to. On the other hand, I was caught up, rigid, and fixed in old ideas and values that you would never find at the AMC or the Odeon. I was embedded like an old mold that grows eternally! I was caught up in rustic cliches and ‘avant-garde’ thinking. But even ‘avant-garde’ has become old. Even black and white have turned to color. And yes! Though art imitates life, life changes with time. Jonathan changed with time, also, but I did not!

My skeleton became fleshed out as my orb joined it into a single entity.

Click! Clack! Click! Clack! Slow at first, accelerating to a prattle. Then the strobelike countdown: 5…bleep, 4…bleep, 3…bleep, 2…bleep, 1…bleep. The sound of a vintage reel. 

The words ‘Eternal Reincarnation, the sequel’ appeared on the screen. I waited for Diablo.