NOTE: I sketched this some years back, essentially writing what came to me as I listened to a piece of improv from one of my favorite bands, Phish (a rather elegant candle-lit ambient “After Midnight” jam from their Big Cypress festival). This is what I “saw” upon deep listening, and so, I sketched that scene. I should note that I’ve posted this in some form on previous incarnations of my blog/site, and I felt now was a good time to resurrect it.
Flickerlight in glass while the black backdrop fades into poor visibility. Mad scientist at the keys, bald head except for the sides, a man in front weaves six threads along a stitched thin neckboard and the flickerlight continues. Oh, they dance along to the midnight rhythms that hint at something, something’s at play, yes yes, there’s no one here to watch, they see all but none see them, and the speckled cotton shirt comforts the front man’s skin as it protects him from chafe, then to the left, another, mushroom-haired one jerks his head about along with the flickers, his fingers pop along thicker weaves, and only five threads for him, and he stands still, but the first, the six-thread weaver isn’t weaving anymore . . . he’s writing, using a short thin pen, flat and ink-less, but he’s writing nonetheless, the words printed in the void, the pageless page.
Clashing stints and light taps, almost on glass, keep a steady flow, there’s a stream of it all as it smacks into gravel and rocks, nighttime in the woods, don’t you see it’s nighttime in the woods and there are happy creatures moving about in secrecy, trying to make sure their secrecy remains secret? And forth back to the space where mad scientist creates his chemical contortions on the flat of a table with teeth both black and white, the mushroom-haired one thumps along, higher, then lower, but he’s the waves, don’t you see? He’s the waves and the glass taps are now heavier, steadier, they’re the waves breaking, and inside it’s all floating on top of the calm and rough water, because it’s rough and calm at the same time, and it’s moving steadier now. The front one no longer writes sporadically and free, he’s moving along and has caught up with the waves, the mad scientist, the glass taps, they’re all on the same page now, in full discussion, they all get what’s going on, they all understand and now they’re going to make you all understand what they see. The smoke pours in and the lab is churning, spitting out alien twists and groans, a thumping wave crashes again in a full enveloping hum, mad scientist eyes closed, the smoke hits his face, fingers now spiders, they crawl and their legs pat-pat-pat and dance-dance along those jagged teeth . . . mushroom gives his left hand a breather, now the front one is in full rhythm, he moves and jerks to and fro along with whatever else is going on. Don’t you see it? Don’t you see him as his hidden face is cloaked behind strays of hair that flow back in their own manner?
There are devices for speech, but none are used . . . they could be taken down but then the thought would never be that the are not being used, so they must be there, and now the lights dim, no smoke, no odd alien twisting groans, just a blue aura floating from overhead, deeper and more sinister than the moon, the Cheshire Cat smiles, and they all understand. Now they’re really talking, a full table discussion, late night, empty house, lights off, save for the dim broken chandelier overhead as they sit around table and say NOTHING but rather just stare at each other, looking back and forth as two sip on beer, one on wine and the front one on coffee. Is it over? No, but it’s wrapping up, they look again and, what? Yes, now they calm a little more, the front one is summarizing it all in quips and irks of his hand, and he’s back at the weave, back at the write, and the bushy one thumps again in response (“Remember?” “Yes of course!”) and so on.
The cow’s bell jutters behind them from the pasture outside the window, and flickerlights continue. They won’t fade, they’ll just move on, and then mad scientist raises a question (“Well wasn’t THIS night on?” “Yes,” they all respond, “it was on, all night the night was on.”).
They smile, they smile. It’s quiet now, and they’re just breathing, the airflow moves in succession, as if to pass it around the table like a ball or a game of cards, front one’s hair flies like a horse mane, the wind is gently calming him, he smiles slightly, his head moves side to side, but just slowly, and the blue light is gone. Now it’s black, dark, he’s tying the last knot on his weave, the glass taps are gone now, they’re gone, and mad scientist finishes with a “THANKS!”
