finite jester

fi•nite adj.

Existing, persisting, or enduring for a limited time only; impermanent.

jest•er n.

A fool or buffoon at medieval courts.

[Middle English finit, from Latin fntus, past participle of fnre, to limit, from fnis, end.]

There he stands; the wannabe hipster. This is a man who tries very hard to believe that he doesn’t care what anyone else thinks about him. His movements are all out of synch with the music, his clothes are mostly second-hand; those jeans were found in the basement of an ex-girlfriend’s apartment, and someone at work gave him that corduroy jacket. He styles his own head with an expert inexactitude that comes from years of practice mingled with the various mind-states in which the idea of another haircut becomes an inevitability no longer to be put off.

This is where the finite jester begins, here in the harsh light known to exist only in gas-stations during the magic hour when dawn has only just begun to press its essence into the sky. Here is some sort of post-modern everyman as he sways back and forth, awash in the rhythms of intense intoxication.

He’s staring at a microwave oven, awaiting the completion of what will no doubt prove to be another poorly thought-out purchase of frozen, quasi-mexican food. The microwave is an old, industrial looking model with a door that doesn’t fit so snugly anymore, and allows the same radiation that’s working on the burrito access to his vital organs, particularly his liver.

A screaming comes across the sky. Or does it? Is that ungodly noise a bad reaction to the thus-far fascinating effects of the high-grade marijuana that a guy called Bodine smoked with him, and claimed was grown in the ridiculously fertile soil that exists on a legendary English rooftop?

Was this screaming an omen? A harbinger whose ear-splitting intensity signaled the end of the world as he knew it?

No, this screaming is merely the latest collection of sound-byte oddiments that have been assembled into a thing our culture sees fit to call song; it’s just now starting up in all its tinny majesty from cheap speakers embedded in the gas-station ceiling.

Our hero, (dare we call him such) takes a sudden, startled step backwards and brings his hands up to his ears, and it was this gesture that brought his liver into that odd position which allowed the microwave emissions to pass through its entire length, vaporizing the alcohol contained within.

Fumes of scotch and beer, remnants of a tequila shot and an unwise quantity of Jager surge up; carried on currents of radiation, they transcend their traditional molecular structure, and as the sonic vibrations of another hideous pop-song pass through, the fumes bond with his DNA.

He falls, going down backwards into a most inelegant heap, scattering a display of teen-magazines and pop-tarts. The microwave chimes, the burrito stops rotating, the clerk has his face pressed to the bullet-proof glass of his cell as his hand reaches for the phone.

With no idea of the biological changes running rampant through his body our hero scrambles to his feet. Thoughts focused only on escape, he launches himself at the door. For a moment, just a little section of instant which seemed to cull itself from the frantic scenery of his escape, he catches his reflection in the glass door as it swings open.

Epiphany hammers him to the ground, just another funny looking creature that has lost its grip on the planet.

Dawn has finally broken fully, the universal infinities overshadowed once again by the more urgent impressions of life here.

Life, whatever that means.

A carnival of alcoholic epiphanies go rollicking through his cranium, the freaks and side-shows endowed with solemn majesty as his mind distorts these images into archetypes. The calliope reverberates with a knowledge of Greek Mythology as it attempts to provide a backing song born of the fundaments of language.

Here, this galaxy, this solar system.

A scattering of stars where you might find this one tiny planet, a lovely bright marble that swings around its sun; presenting in turn each facet of its face so that right now, this too; this one small patch of ground, covered by asphalt, cigarette butts and the immensely startled figure of this one man, can receive the sun’s gift.

Light, emanations of energy without which life, whatever that means, would not be.

The planet has turned; that patch is being warmed, that man began to laugh.

- - -

How long was he there; on the ground?

Impossible to determine, irrelevant too.

Time had entered into a new space of experienced; these small, arbitrary tics of instant we’ve tried to label ‘seconds’ had no meaning whatsoever- well; there did seem to be just one of them
and it was beautiful.

- - -

At some point he figured out how to put his feet back underneath him and to the distant sounds of sirens, began to run. This planet revolved on a stationary axis that allowed his feet to caress the ground. Even the litter was lovely as he tore up the streets, heading home.

- - -

Inside. Door shut. Locked.

Porcelain beckoned. He staggered.

Hands and knees from the bathroom to the bed.

That irresistible shade of gravity known so well to the drunk shoved him onto the bed, spun him right into the sheets.

His face entered the pillow on a tilting tangent; driven down into a darkness, pure total, complete darkness where he could only float, aware of nothing but this darkness.

Is this the only place where the essence of life has the capacity to touch us? Have we become so detached from reality that our perceptions must be so deeply shattered before we experience revelation?

Laughter. Try to imagine fractals of jarring, uncomfortable sound dancing out of this darkness that had seemed so soothing.

A face, maybe, probably. Source of the laughter. Leering, grinning. Mere outline of a form that existed in its own grey light until the laughter stopped and it was gone.

In utter dark, something addressed him-

“All hail! You of unfathomable ego, of self-proclaimed prodigious intellect, lord and ruler of all these… these teeming masses of mostly-misguided over-indulgent thought-streams!

You have studied the books of bokonon, one month you read the bible- and then the qur’an, countless pages lay turned in your wake. You claim to understand the underlying oneness of all things and how individuality is that- which makes this- possible.

You stand in full knowledge of the definition, and still claim to grok!

Worse still, you claim to understand the inherent dichotomy of staking such claims.

I have been summoned from the depths of your dim understanding of archetype to tell you- one simple fact.

You are a fool.”

-jester

First posted 1/6/06
updated 2/1/06

i do hope to finish this peice… check back…
i’d also love to hear from you, any comments, critiques and of course, words of adoration can be directed to
finite_jester(at)lewdcognoscenti(dot)com