XVII

See? I told you.

About the B-side.

Much more relaxing than the A-side. I was right, wasn’t I?

No, do not speak. I did not mean it was your turn to speak. I will tell you, in so many words, when it is time for that.

I was right, wasn’t I? No need to speak. I am quite capable of reading gestures and facial expressions. I am not as young as I used to be, but my wits are still sharp. Don’t doubt me.

You don’t doubt me, do you?

Good. I thought not.

It always sets my nerves at ease, the B-side does. I feel centered, now. In touch with my breathing. At peace with all my pores.

It gives you room to breathe, you know.

The A-side was so fast-paced, so scattered, so . . . you know . . . jazzy. And so full of itself. With those ghastly lectures, you know, in higher maths and physics. It’s embarrassing, the way musicians let fame go to their heads. The way they put on airs.

Musicians should stick to music, don’t you think? I’ve always thought so, myself.

But the B-side, why, it’s almost ambient at times, you might say. It gives you room to breathe.

The long, empty afternoon of “advanced containment.” The quality of the light, as it comes in through the window.

And then I do always love seeing the Annes triumph, there, in the last few tracks. Ties a lovely little bow around the whole affair, you might say.

Shall we listen to it all again? From the start?

It is not as though we have much else to do, you and I.

Shall we turn the record back over, then, and begin again? I would like that. Wouldn’t you?

(no.)

What? Did you say something?

When it is your turn to speak, I will tell you, in so many words. Until then, you will be silent.

(no.
i mean like a general no.
to this whole gimmick.
the record player and the mysterious voice.
it’s stupid, i veto it.
we can just trash these 2 chapters, no one will miss them)

Who is that? No one else is supposed to be here! It’s just me and, you know. The other one, over there.

(no one else is supposed to be “here”?
and where is that, exactly?)

I will not dignify that with a response, thank you very much.

(azad i can’t even remember what your plan was for this.
where are they supposed to be.
i don’t care, it’s stupid anyway)

(They were meant to be in a REDACTED of the REDACTED.
But you’re right, of course—let’s nix this stuff.
You and your perfect nose for bullshit, Grant.
I fear to think where we might have ended up, without these gifts.)
[The hasty, elongated letters of this marginal note are unmistakably AZAD’s.]

I’m very sorry about all this. I seem to be having some sort of . . . episode. Hearing voices is often the first sign, I’ve heard. Of a more dire illness.

Dear me.

But then the pipes in the walls do act up, sometimes. They “sing,” you know. Do you hear them, now? The pipes, singing?

(It’s very cute that you wrote this little call-and-response scene, Grant, knowing it would end up in the trash.
Ill-conceived characters usually go straight to the void of never-being, without the luxury of a send-off.)
[Marginal note in AZAD’s elongated scrawl.]

But the music will drown out the pipes nicely, when we put it on again. Let’s not dawdle, shall we?

Turn the record over, please. So we can begin again from the start.

(no. we’re going to “listen” to THE LAST PART now.
like uh. the C side or whatever)
[Marginal note in GRANT’s block letters.]

There’s more?!

Excuse me, but I think you are quite mistaken. This was their last release, this record.

(There is much, much more.
The jaw of the beast is open, all around us, ready to snap shut.
Do you see it?)
[Marginal note in SYLVIE’s unearthly cursive.]

Do I see what, now? A jaw?

A beast?!

Who do you take me for—Saint John the Beloved? I’m just little old me. I don’t have visions of beasts. Never have, in all my years.

I really ought not to have eaten so many of those sandwiches, earlier. They’ll be the death of me.

(yeah uh sorry to disappoint but.
a lot more stuff happened
after advanced containment thawed.
like a LOT more stuff)
[GRANT’s block letters.]

I felt so centered, a moment ago, and now I can’t keep my balance.

My vision is dimming. Are you there? I can’t see you. Come, hold out your hand. Show me where you are.

Am I . . . in motion?

Am I flying? Falling? Dying?

Explain yourself at once! What’s happening? Where are you taking me?

(The void.)
[AZAD’s elongated scrawl.]

(The clamping-shut of the jaws.)
[SYLVIE’s unearthly cursive.]

(The nightmares in the margins of the preceding narrative, coming out into the open.
The unruly conditionals we’ve left in our wake, unfurling their consequents.
The mad clatter of logical implication, mad as all machines are mad: inexorable, unswayable.
Lacking thought, lacking art, lacking life.)
[AZAD’s elongated scrawl.]

(The lifeless inanity of a syllogism.)
[REDACTED’s REDACTED.]

(spooky place. be afraid.)
[GRANT’s block letters.]

I don’t much like the sound of all that.

There, I’ve said it straight. I’ve said my piece. Don’t go saying I kept mum about it all.

Don’t much like the sound of it at all. I’m being forthright with you, I am. There’s a time and a place for being forthright, I always said.

(It’s nice to see you boys having so much fun, for a change.
Seems like a shame, really, that it’s all destined for the trash.)
[LILITH’s pen makes festive shapes, something like spiderwebs, in the ordinarily blank space around the lines.]

(Or, suppose we didn’t put it in the trash, after all . . . ?)
[LILITH’s spiderwebs.]

(what, and like, keep these notes in the book?
in the MS?)
[GRANT’s block letters.]

(Right, I was thinking it might be a fun gimmick.
A new gimmick, just for the third act.
We’d sprinkle some into later chapters too)
[LILITH’s spiderwebs.]

(If anyone’s going to say no to this idea, it won’t be me.
Grant?
Grant, I need your good taste.
Is this bullshit?)
[AZAD’s elongated scrawl.]

(it’s total bullshit.
let’s do it)
[GRANT’s block letters.]

As long as I get my room to breathe, where we’re going.

I do need my room to breathe.

(nope, that’s the 2nd act style.
3rd act is faster)
[GRANT’s block letters.]

(As we approach the book’s own composition in real time, the memories change their color.
Out of the subjunctive haze, clear and simple forms emerge.
Not yet obscured by the twin weeds of nostalgia and regret.)
[AZAD’s elongated scrawl.]

(Besides, we are now coming out of the second captivity.
We are no longer crashed.
Wake! Rise up! Think! Communicate!
The clock has tolled, the hour is now!
This, this is the style.
Not the echo, but the sound itself.)
[AZAD’s elongated scrawl.]

(present tense)
[GRANT’s block letters.]

(For instance.)
[AZAD’s elongated scrawl.]

Don’t say I kept mum, when it was happening. I said my piece. I preferred the B-side, I said.

More relaxing, I said.

(and fewer physics lectures.)
[GRANT’s block letters.]

(do you miss the physics lectures, reader?
you probably DO, you fucking sicko.)
[GRANT’s block letters.]

(well, it’s your lucky day.
we’ve got more of that shit to get through.)
[GRANT’s block letters.]

(Much, much more.)
[SYLVIE’s unearthly cursive.]

I do have to say. I don’t fancy I’ll like it, where we’re going.

(You don’t have to.
You were a bad idea from the start, and we have no further plans for you.
Bye.)
[AZAD’s elongated scrawl.]