Dr. Tesseract enters the vivarium. We could imagine that he is Daniel Cockburn, had Daniel never given up cocaine (nor never not started it in the first place), and after 15 further years of apathetic days and earthshaking night terrors. The glass walls are alive with fish. Tangerine on steel on neon blue. Above, birds shriek and shit, fighting the bats for dominance of the pittance of rude mealworms which infest the root-filthy vivarium floor. A baboon leaps, unbidden, to Dr. Tesseract’s shoulder. The baboon asks: “Where is the hypercube?”
A couple of martinis after work makes me feel like one of the Mad Men. Whatever those are. I’ve never watched that show. But if I did, I bet it would be like that. The martinis were celebratory: we are declaring an end to the rough days, the all-or-nothing days, and going forward into the new thing, glad to have survived Workplace Survivor. Monday night, getting home before sundown for the first time since the fall, I sat on the couch in the gloaming and thought about the world, and then my lady came over and we got dim sums and watched Let the Right One In on shiny blu, every gently falling snowflake a distinct entity. The ultimate quiet Monday night movie, and it felt pretty good after all the noisy Monday nights (and every other nights) of the recent past.
Dr. Tesseract frowns. We could imagine that he is Chris MacLean, were Chris confronted once again by aesthetic inequity and the disturbingly imprecise vagaries of True Chaos. Memory and anger collide in Dr. Tesseract’s forelobe, and he smells bacon; being a staunch vegan and living in a tube under the sea, he has no language to articulate what he smells, and begins to become unsettled. He stares into the baboon’s ageless, midnight-black eyes. No words are needed. “Well, then,” the baboon says, “we’re fucked.”
Today I am working from home, building up a strategy for the big project that will take me into the fall, contemplating burritos or comic books or any of the other things I normally contemplate. I’ve got a bit of a cold coming on, but I’m not too fussed about it. The heating system in my apartment is doing its best to keep up with the shifting weather, and I am the same. In March, I only need a few days of sunshine to go back to appreciating how nice the grey ones are. Today will be drizzly, and springtime music, and getting shit done.
Dr. Tesseract panics. We could imagine that he is Jeff Szpirglas, were Jeff limbless (and on fire). In gracelessly attempting to gain the console platform he instead launches himself brain-first into the power supply bay. Arcs of light dance and play; the bats advantage themselves in the momentary distraction and decimate their avian counterparts. In the center of the firestorm, body rigid with current and immobile in the certainty of death, Dr. Tesseract sees with the pure sight for the first time in his life, just before the vivarium walls crack and shard, admitting the Pacific. With the pure sight, Dr. Tesseract sees Life — and it is so unbelievably angry.