Bridges

Bridges

The Eighth Bridge

Lost in the mundane, we tread on dangerous grounds.

We forget about adversity, succumbing to a cruel, merciless sin. We are lost in the everyday, and mismatch what really matters. Isn't it?

When the sun breaks through our finely constructed defences, assaulting our eyelids in the wee small hours of the morning, crushing the dream, and the castle with it, what are our first thoughts? Do we cling to the remnants of sleep or do we drive into the day at full speed? Do we yawn and rub our sleepy eyes? Do we run straight for the bathroom? Do we walk the fault line or do we regain our morning confidence?

And when we swim in the mundane of the city, walking its grimy, ugly streets - for each and every city in the world is utterly ugly - do we realise that the city does not care? Do we realise that there can't be care for something greater? Do we realise that there is nothing greater?

What is the death of one DJ in the eyes of a whole city? What is the sorrow of one cellist in the eyes of the starving, longing audience? What are the tears if shed behind the curtain? Bring them on, baby! Let us see how well you cry. Where's your artistic might? Huh? Huh? Just as I thought. A hoooooax. Next act, please!

Sure thing. Sure thing. A play's a play, and there are others with roles to play. And as I'm an honest Puck...

Raise the curtain!

***

Harpo Parish Nadermane enjoyed a good meal now and then.

What he also did enjoy was a fair pint of cider to go with the meal, or a glass of wine, or a tall beer mug. The sickly colour of alcohol enticed him. The odour intensified his longing. The swishing of the liquid bore pleasure in his gut, even prior to the consumption. In sheer narcotic rapture he sipped the sloshing booze, licking his thick, red lips, wiping off oily stains from his cheek with a napkin.

He sought salvation and relaxation at the bottom of the mug, and he received it. But it was not only the mug that soothed him. He savoured the oily pine gin, and burned his throat and gut on copious amounts of whisky, and poured vodka on neatly cut ice cubes. It mesmerised him, showed him promises of grounds zero and below, repressed longing and desire. It made him.

And the food!

He feasted on blatant rose petals and licked the topping of daisy salad, chewed on the green of spring onions, munched the fine garlic paste which he rubbed into warm rye bread with care and longing. He devoured mashed potatoes and boiled buckwheat, wrapped up his gluttonous feasts with touches of grape and orange peel.

Food was for Harpo a mode of existence. No implications, just the old good stuffing of the stomach. Will-o-the-wisp. Ineluctable modality of the visible my arse. This, here, the adiaphane that they talk about. This, here, the thing in itself. This, here, subjective materialism. Proteins, fat, carbowhatever. Energy. The quatrum of solace. For the night is dark and full of terrors.

Quantum quatrum. Solar solace. Harpo rose from his seat, the weight of his belly circumscribing him on the walk about the table, and right through the doorway, towards the bedroom. One night, spent alone, without his Beauty, had done wonders for his body. The organism: one cell, two cells, a million cells. So many zeros. So many wonders. Terra nullius, mind the stress. The one with the right to occupy. The right of occupation, along with the most generous equine rights. Give and take.

A night without sex had led to a morning of beautiful gluttony. The sin of a godless demiurge. The Los whose hammer is a sheet of paper. An artist, his portrait edged forever in the years of wet cement. A composer. Harpo performed a spectacular face-plant-freefall straight onto the bed, thee bed, sniffing in the vain scent of the covers.

Here I lay, the keeper of bees. Here I lie, the avatar of the real. Here I lied, no epic tales. Here I laid, a thinly-scented arrows of food crusts and teenage semen. Here, this one's to you. Chins up!

Chin's up. Chin's down. The weak, hollow longing inisde. The sorrow. Why does it make us so? Why does it sadden us physically, in addition to breaking us psychologically? Why the retching in my gut? Why the teeth clattering madly? By wishing me and my loved ones death, by inflicting curses on my family, why do they damage me so? Why? Is it because we, genetically, still believe in medieval make-believe? It is what we make of it yes no choose your answer the what the side of the matter that we choose on below above the matter thats a side too its this clinging to the past that broke me no definitely not and how can i believe that in that when i know that will only grant him power and how can i be so sure its him that nemesis that archmaster that in fact lets face it yes lets be real that apprentice who doesnt know when to stop is a he he may as well may well be a she maybe a she why not? Here, the sexism. The non-existent issue created to hide what matters. Societal issues, round, subordinately. Real issues, hidden, tucked away, for us to solve. To avoid.

Harpo took up his phone. An easy life, it granted him. Communication, it gifted him with. Status, it assigned him. To him. The sender, the receiver. The juxtaposition of the two. Taking two thin layers of film, great wonders can be done. Two layers, two beings acting as one. Ego, alter ego. The I who Am, and the I who Am. Spot the difference. The hurt is the same. Or is it?

The phone rang. Vinyl.

"Uh."

"Harpo!" A foreign, scared voice. Not a criminal, that's for sure. "I need your help!"

"Who's that?" Harpo sat in bed. "And why are you using Vinyl's phone?"

"It's Vinyl! She jumped off a bridge! She- she!"

"..."

"I'm on Green Dolphin street right now, I-"

"How do you know my number?" From the contacts, obviously. Duh. Duuuuuh.

"Harpo! I really need your help! It's Vinyl we're talking about!"

What are you talking about, mysterious mare? Why do you divert me from my postbreakfast slumber? The sleep I've been planning. Looking forward to. Vinyl? Vinyl is nice. Nice, at home. Somewhere. Somewhere in Equestria. What hoax are you planning? I will come, just so you see. All gods help you if you've lied.

Harpo put down the phone and lay down on the bed, closing his eyes.

***

Imagine:

What if, by some chance - or destiny? - one DJ was given a chance to return back from the dead? Not via the dark tools of necromancy, but via a simple change of state - an ultimate cure, for the whole body. Not for the mind, though. A full restitution. Back where you began. Imagine: Vinyl Scratch dying, truly dying, for a moment - and then coming back in one piece? Coming back so soon, no injuries, no harm done, that it is seen as a miracle? That the ponies around - meaning one cellist, Octavia - think she had never died in the first place? What if the only pony who knew the truth was Vinyl Scratch herself? And what if, in her fragile mental state, she saw it a sign of approaching - or already existing - insanity?

And what a sting of despair would it be to find out that, by no miracle, the insanity she had been running from returned in full-scale? What if this realisation hit her just in a few minutes after her resurrection? What would that time be, the few minutes of oblivious happiness? Confusion?

And what would the cellist say to all of this?

(Under the bridge on Green Dolphin Street. The river is running merrily, the water is flickering in the morning sunlight. The very few passers-by look in surprise at a grey earth pony mare holding a white unicorn mare in her hooves and crying. The chilly winds assault their ears, and they move on lazily. The scent of roast apples can be well-heard.)

Octavia Philarmonica:

Vinyl! Vinyl!

Passer-by #1:

What's going on?

Octavia Philarmonica:

Shut the fuck up! (Shaking Vinyl Scratch vigorously) Vinyl!

Vinyl Scratch:

Octavia! Octavia! Oc- huh? (Looks around) Tavi?

Judge #1:

She can't hear you.

Vinyl Scratch:

You! What- what are you doing here?!

Judge #2:

Same as me. Judging.

Vinyl Scratch:

You are supposed to be dead, both of you! I am dead, for fuck's sake!

Judge #2:

Are you?

Vinyl Scratch:

You said Tavi can't hear me. That means-

Judge #1:

That means she might be deaf or you might be mute.

Vinyl Scratch:

I can see myself lying on the ground. I'm not inside my own body. Wait. (The image starts fading.) Where am I?

(Suddenly, the scenery changes. Vinyl Scratch, Judge #1 and Judge #2 find themselves in a large courtroom with no windows or doors. The seats remain empty. The Judges sit at their respective places; Vinyl Scratch is standing at the witness's place.)

Judge #1:

You're in camera. Behind closed doors.

Judge #2:

It's a very special case, you see. (Chuckles) To think! To live! The witness is the plaintiff and the defendant.

Vinyl Scratch:

So... There's no prosecutor?

Judge #2:

No, it's a civil case.

Judge #1:

Just you and us. Thing is, the papers are lost. So, we can't end the case. In other words-

Vinyl Scratch:

We're stuck here forever. I get it. I'm in Hell.

Judge #2 laughs loudly, while Judge #1 chuckles.

Judge #1:

Hell is other ponies. We're not other ponies. We're different sides of you.

Vinyl Scratch:

Where's the prosecutor then? Isn't he a different side of me?

Judge #1:

He? (Suddenly teleports, standing in front of Vinyl Scratch) He's right here. (Taps Vinyl Scratch's chest.)

Vinyl Scratch:

He's supposed to be dead! (Shouting:) Dead!

Judge #2:

Are you dead?

Vinyl Scratch:

I dunno. If this isn't Hell, what is this place? Purgatory?

Judge #1:

It's Heaven, actually. The company of yourself, forever. What can be better?

Vinyl Scratch:

I dunno, sleeping with my marefriend right now?

Judge #2:

Ah, which one?

Vinyl Scratch: (panicking)

No! No. I... I had just managed to forget, and now...

Judge #2:

Calm down. Let's think rationally here. You're in Heaven, right?

Vinyl Scratch nods.

So, that means that you were good, and not evil.

Vinyl Scratch nods.

So, what you have done is not concidered a sin by the Greater Court.

Vinyl Scratch:

I consider it a sin.

Judge #1:

Well, that's not our problem.

Vinyl Scratch:

Who can help me then? I can't stay here forever with you, being eaten by guilt, every single moment!

The prosecutor's voice:

A death penalty, per chance?

Vinyl Scratch: (turning around sharply)

I knew it! Where are you? Show yourself!

Vinyl Scratch's father:

Hello, sweetie.

"Vinyl!"

Octavia collapsed in relief as her marefriend coughed up some water and rolled over. The cellist grabbed her immediately, sobbing into her fur. "Vinyl, I- I thought!" I thought you were dead. Say it. Say it out loud. Why can't I? I can't bring myself to say that because I fear that. The easy contribution to the otherwise contradictive statement. Constradictive, contradictory. The thesis and the antithesis don't immediately form the synthesis. They form a dash, is all. The drug? The drug, hehe. Funny stuff you're saying here. Hehe. See me laughing? No you don't. Remember my face from the papers? I don't read papers. Good. Good for you. Not before dinner, at least. Tasty rose petals: think about them. Consider them. Think them as a means of contribution. Think of ignorance and the unthinkable. Fathom the unnecessary and the unimportant. Transmute them to the mount. See them waiting for the sermon to be given, played upon their very sous? Very good. Now you can leave, but not for long.

Dinner's waiting.

Vinyl stared at her marefriend. Marefriend? Marefriend. Reborn. She looked at her hooves. Alive and reborn. Restitutio in integrum. Was she mature enough? Reborn. She eyed the cellist, gazing into her deep eyes, those teary pools of lavender, haunting, chilling, evocative. Reborn. She broke the embrace and stood up. Reborn. She glanced at the city. Reborn.

Reborn.

"Let's  go home, Tavi. Let's just go home."

***

(Under the bridge on Green Dolphin Street. The river is running merrily, the water is flickering in the morning sunlight. There are no passers-by. The scent of roast apples can still be well-heard.)

Harpo Parish Nadermane:

Vinyl! (Looks around) Where are you, Vinyl? (Stops) I knew this was a hoax! How can you play jokes like that? That's just- Oh, fuck you, Vinyl. Fuck you and your crazy friend.

The curtain falls.

***

Octavia gazed lovingly at her sleeping beauty. Her Vinyl. She'd dropped asleep the moment she entered the flat. Was it a sign of overstimulation? Affection? Something else entirely? And what of the talk? What of the explanation? Oh, we'll have a talk. We'll have a talk, my dear, and this time, you will tell me everything.

Or my name is not Octavia Philarmonica.