Undermind

Undermind

by

Martin Heavisides

Smashwords Edition

Copyright 2009 Martin Heavisides

Smashwords Edition, License Notes

This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each person you share itwith. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then you should return to Smashwords.com and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

Copyright Statement

All rights reserved. Except in the case of brief quotations used in critical articles or reviews, No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission of the publisher. Please contact: Crossing Chaos Enigmatic Ink. London, Ontario, Canada

www.crossingchaos.com

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events or locales is purely coincidental.

Ebook ISBN 978-1-926617-12-1

Print ISBN 978-0-9810117-4-5

Cover art: Captive © 2009 Jase Daniels

www.jasedaniels.com

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For

Marysia and Ula

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Acknowledgments

The lines quoted at the beginning of Real Inn are from Alice Cooper's The Second Coming.

St James Infirmary (Anon) forms the musical ground of the cabaret act in Found My Baby There.

Memo from Turner (Mick Jagger / Keith Richard) and Le Lais (Francoys Villon) are quoted in Answer, Echo.

Stray allusions elsewhere are too numerous to mention here, but happy hunting.

I had a great deal of encouragement and feedback from an online writer's workshop where I posted chapters of this for comment, and assistance on the translations in Native Lingue. My main assistance on Native Lingue came from my niece in Brussels and a French editor who's a friend of hers.

Chapters and passages from this, sometimes in somewhat different forms, have appeared in Black Cat Review, Jeremiad, Dog Oil Press, Sein Und Werden, Bannock Street Books, The Evitable, Open Salon, smokelong quarterly, monkeybicycle and The Pen Syndicated Fiction Project.

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"Each time he returned from his extraordinary travels, Marco Polo described the cities he visited to Kublai Khan. I feel a little like old Marco now, for that journey was a wonder. I saw a green cock that crowed every morning on a tower, a blind man shouting in a crowd, a lunatic talking on a tall building, cockfights that degenerated into bloodthirsty brawls, a tattooed giant and a female dwarf. I crossed the Talrus mountains, passed through Knojmo and Brno where there was a great fair. Hundreds of people buying and selling hats, firs, clothes, fish, pickled apples. The noise and the smell. The dust rose in such clouds you couldn't see the sun. But I was more concerned to meet radical groups in damp cellars and talking into the night of the great new dawning. There was one young man with white hair who spoke, I think, seven languages and had read everything, including Marx and the Babylon and Jerusalem Talmud.

. . . Have you ever noticed, Grossard, how cities are like dreams? They are made up of our desires and fears. Anything imaginable can happen in them."

~ Peter Barnes, No End of Dreaming

And if you hear vague traces of skipping reels of rhyme

To your tambourine in time,

It's just a ragged clown behind

I wouldn't pay it any mind,

It's just a shadow you're seeing that he's chasing.

~ Bob Dylan, Mr. Tambourine Man

Now a lady with a pearl-handled necktie

Tied to the driver's fence

Breathes in my face,

Bourbon and coke possessed words

& quote; haven't I seen you somewhere in hell,

Or was it just an accident?

(you know how I felt then, and so:)

Before I could ask was it the east or west side?

My feet they howled in pain

The wheels of a bandwagon cut very deep,

But not as deep in my mind as the rain

And as they pulled away I could see her words

Stagger and fall on my muddy tent

Well I picked them up, brushed them off,

To see what they say,

And you wouldn't believe:

`come around to my room, with the tooth in the middle,

And bring along the bottle and a precedent.

~ Jimi Hendrix, My Friend

The moment when: the guard blew his whistle; the fat woman in the fur coat, like a mammoth whale, bent down and with her gloved hand adjusted the plastic pants on the rear end of her miniature poodle; the passenger in the train window slid his tongue out between his lips into the left ear of the fashion mannekin in the glass case on the platform on the other side of the train carriage; the girl sitting on the platform bench, dressed completely in black, groaned, leaned forward and thrust her leather-gloved hand up the front of her sweater.

~ Ian Breakwell, Diary 1964-1985

"Part of me is staring into the depths of Hell

Part of me is looking up to Heaven

Happy hour people are thinking 'Why doesn't that guy

Lighten up?' I just hope I don't

get up one day have to look at myself in the mirror and say

'You had fifteen billion dollars blew it all flushed it down the toilet.'

What are you afraid of?

I'm afraid of missing my plane

I'm afraid I'll be outside when

There's a crime in my neighbourhood

Even if you're not afraid, the beauty is

With proper marketing, we can make you afraid

Take a suicide note Ms. Clemenceau but first

Write yourself a glowing letter of reference this cheque is for a full week's severance

No reason you should suffer oh no, company's future never looked brighter

I didn't lose fifteen billion in rash speculation, no

Even if I did I don't want a bailout no!

Probably find another slot for you here

Keep the letter of reference anyway souvenir of times gone wrong

Why did I ever think they went right's what I want to know?"

~ Wayne Blackstock, Overheard

Duchamp: You know I've always felt this need to escape myself. . .

~ Pierre Cabanne, Dialogues with Marcel Duchamp

Adante.

Penny a dream mister, missus, penny a dream!

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i

Poised to Drop Through Infinite Space

They say that when we dream all the people we meet are really ourselves. So I'm the woman with long blonde hair trailling at extravagant length down her back is that the beginning of red-gold scales at the hissing ends? with the impossibly pale complexion like a line out of a Procul Harum song except when it's impossibly ruddy and there are rumours amid thickening static on podcasts throughout the city (all cities) of heaped corpses drained of blood with puncture marks at the neck? busy night glider whose gleaming immaculate teeth sometimes show improbably sharp bladelike fangs, a trick of the light surely, is me even when I see her hungrily, one gleaming driblet of red saliva poised to drop through infinite space from each fang, eyeing what I recognize in waking life as my own true form in the mirror? I'm hungry to sink my own teeth into my neck? Not at all, I'm a demure maiden shy and trembling before her potential ravisher what's this? I didn't know I had those take that! foul seducer and bleed for your crimes I suppose it's not impossible, I've also been told the world is round because its gaping maw is firmly closed on its writhing tail. I'm not saying this is a widely disseminated theory—then again, some aspects of me are saying exactly that if my dreams are to be believed, and some of me says Hogwash! the world is round because of improbable coalescence of gasses! because of gravitational pull! because otherwise there'd be no place to put the North and South Pole! because life forms, especially intelligent life forms, crave the illusion that they're travelling in straight lines when they're really going round in circles! because a slightly irregular sphere is the ideal reflective surface! it has nothing to do with appetite at all, could you pass me a bit of the continent of Africa?

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CityPlanner

I get on the elevator at the ground floor of First Canadian Place, Toronto, press '44' and walk up the corridor to an expansive boardroom windowed on three sides in an office complex whose name I can calligraph without too much error in the brushstrokes but not pronounce, in downtown Tokyo. That might seem odd at first, but think about it: if all the people in the boardroom are me—the harridan with extensive ties, it's rumoured, to three leading Yakuza families, the board chair of impeccably charming mien who might well put 'resurgent fascism' at the head of his list of personal hobbies, the deep cover CIA agent who's had all the requisite skin darkening and eyebrow slanting but still hasn't mastered elementary school Japanese or the use of chopsticks, the Brazilian/Japanese import/export scion who I know for a fact lists throwing indigenous people off their land as his favourite pastime, the French expatriate from Kobe with the duelling scar and the cruel monocle—is that a diamond inset just off centre to the right?—whose fortune was considerably augmented a few years back by a massive earthquake insurance payout—if those and the twelve or fourteen others around the table, not to mention ancestral ghosts collecting in the shadows and two or three of the company's familiar demons are all actually me, why shouldn't every city really be all cities?

The meeting goes smoothly—good, I didn't want to be late for an important lunch in Bucharest. It's only two blocks from the ground floor lobby, pleasant walk, should make it there with time to spare. Hope they have enough tables for all of us.

We ought to get a couple of familiar demons for our Toronto office, they boost efficiency like you wouldn't believe.

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iii

Can't You Hear Them Sob?

What's behind that door? Noisy pounding. Seepage.

Don't go there! says the face in the handle as I'm about to grab it, maybe just doesn't want to be twisted. Loud drum roll, flap! rattle of cards being emphatically slapped on a table. "You know what's in there? Parents! You don't know what's going on inside their craniums and other big words. Some of them have