the last say

 

The problem with your infinity Merry is that it has no storyline.

 

Shoreline?

Storyline.

 

Oh yeah. You’re right Zie.

 

And no romance.

 

You mean like…

 

The soppy stuff – yes.

 

Give me a break.

 

But seriously – there’s gotta be some kind of honey filling or the cupcake's not going to be a hit.

 

I – am – not – making – a – cake.

 

[aside] Looks like I struck a nerve. How extraordinary.

 

Merry standing with arms folded, looking angry.

So, er, Merry…

 

What?!

 

You do understand that you’re working with humans, don’t you – not robots.

 

Humans?! I might have just about figured that much out by now.

 

By now? How long have you been doing this for?

 

Oh, long enough to matter.

 

Long enough to get angry. Ten years perhaps?

 

Ten?!

 

Twenty?

 

Pshaw!

 

Thirty, forty? You don’t look that old.

 

Time, Zie, is not exactly what you're making it out to be.

 

Ok, long shot – four hundred years.

 

That’s more in the ballpark.

 

Seven hundred and forty-three.

 

Oh – my – God!

 

I got it?

 

No you didn’t.

 

Then what’s with the needless profanity?

 

I’d hardly call “oh my God” profanity Zie.

 

Wouldn’t you Merry? Sometimes I worry about your morals. Take not the Lord’s name in vain – or words to that effect.

 

Ok, I apologise. I’ll not profane the name.

 

Answer the question.

 

The cube root.

 

I beg your pardon.

 

You got the cube root. You nailed it.

 

I did? What cube root?

 

The number of years I’ve been in the biz.

 

Working with humans?

 

Yep.

 

Wait a minute… Seven hundred and forty-three is the cube root?

 

Merry pretends to be shocked, offended, confused, amused – all rolled into one. The performance is too much for Zie who loses it laughter-wise, big time...

I fail to see what’s so funny.

 

God Merry – you crack me up.

 

God?! Less of that profanity, if you don’t mind.

 

Oh, excuse me, Merry. But seriously – you’re not

 

...seriously

 

telling me that you’re – what the hell is seven hundred and forty-three cubed?

 

Actually it’s a fairly ridiculous number.

 

And how would you just happen to know seven hundred and forty-three is the cube root?

 

I wouldn’t go there if I were you.

 

You mean you’re lying?

 

Not exactly.

 

Ok, let’s rewind. This cube... exactly how ridiculous is ridiculous?

 

410,172,407

 

As in four hundred and ten million, one hundred and seventy two thousand, four hundred and seven years?

 

Er… sounds a bit – well I feel awkward talking about it Zie.

 

Merry – you’re lying. I know you’re lying. You’ve gotta be lying. You’re a terrible liar.

 

Phew, that’s a relief.

 

Huh? You mean you’re not lying?

 

Hey – you can’t just switch sides like that. If I’m a liar then I’m a liar – ok.

 

Yeah – but you evidently weren’t lying, were you, when I pulled the number 743 out of the ether. Otherwise you’d be hamming up outraged indignation.

 

Looking sulky – that was just a fluke, ok. Anyone could have done it.

 

Anyone?

 

Practically anyone.

 

You should be delighted.

 

Delighted? I fail to see why.

 

That after all these years I’ve reached the point where I’m able to start extracting real-time data from the Field.

 

It was hardly a secret, was it Zie.

 

?

 

It was practically written in giant neon numbers above my head.

 

Huh? What on earth do you mean?

 

It would have taken a special kind of quantum blindness not to have stumbled unwittingly on seven hundred and forty-three.

 

I don’t get it Merry – why are you being so mean, all of a sudden.

 

Mean? You broadcast the secret of my non-human origins to the entire world, and you expect me to be happy?

 

?!

 

Merry seems to have achieved the desired the needed state of bewilderment in Zie so now he starts dancing, shimmying around like a snake man, which has the odd effect of splitting the picture three ways.

Er… Merry – what’s going on?

 

Not surprisingly Merry doesn’t answer – continuing to shimmy around – and each of the three versions of space-time now trifurcate once more.

 

Holy cow.

 

Zie is now viewing nine separate versions of the shimmy-shimmying Merry – but strangely enough it’s not causing him the least difficulty – like each version corresponds to a separate camera or viewer – like it’s the easiest thing in the world to observe reality simultaneously from nine separate angles.

 

One more for good measure? Merry asks – without stopping his bizarre dance.

 

Er… go on then – Zie hears himself reply – utterly bewildered to hear himself speak without knowing how – as he really seems to be fast asleep.

 

Click – not exactly a sound but still – a kind of perceptional click and now there are 27 versions of Merry’s shimmy shimmy dance. Each of them is crystal clear – though Zie seems to have lost all sense of his body which may or may not be where it was. The point being that his perception has trifurcated three times, which is definitely enough to prove the point – don’t you think?

 

What point?

 

Watch this – Merry replies – as if Zie had asked the question, not you the reader. Right now Zie doesn’t seem to care. His triple-trifurcation seems to have taken him beyond such trivial concerns as who said what, or where, or even when for that matter. To his astonishment Zie watches, spellbound, as each of the twenty-seven Merries now start dancing differently – and I mean differently.

 

No – he utters – utterly nonplussed.

 

No – his second

 

No – his third – long story short – no is the perfect response to what is now unfolding in real-time before Zie’s eyes.

 

It’s not just they’re doing different dances – is it?

 

No? – that’s you – oh reader.

 

No? – there’s more than one of you – we won’t go into that – I know how badly you like to believe you’re utterly unique – which of course you are, paradoxically.

 

No? – in for a penny, in for a pound.

 

No? – finally says the last one – self-consciously – apparently aware the others are waiting for him to get it done – before narrator continues.

 

No – pray observe… that's me – yours truly.

 

And we do, don’t we. All 410,172,407 of us.

 

Wait a minute…

 

Ssh – says I – I was just winding you up. Don’t take everything so bloody seriously.

 

I won’t say you’re upset – you might be mildly annoyed, but frankly, who cares, we’ve got bigger fish to fry.

 

So?

 

So each of the twenty-seven Merry’s are now doing different dances – not only moving hands, arms, body etc. otherly, but…

 

Tempo?

 

You got it. Observe, kindly, numbers 14 and fifteen.

 

From the left?

 

From my left, yes.

 

Er… where are you?

 

Oh for God’s sake!

 

Hey – cut out the profanity – you.

 

Sorry guys. No excuse for that, I admit. Kindly observe fourteen and 15 on my left – I’m blinking on and off.

 

You mean to say you’re the “live recording” box?

 

Jesus wept!

 

Tut tut! Family friendly please.

 

Dear Lord, please cure my wicked tongue. Here, pass me that birch rod if you’d be so kind.

 

Somehow or other 410,172,407 readers pass James –

 

I’m not James – asshole.

 

Oh, sorry.

 

I’m the narrator – ok. I have no name. I’m just the dulcet voice of reason…

 

Reason?!

 

Awareness then, Ok?

 

Ok, awareness will do – which seems to be a flashing on and off live-recording box.

 

Correct.

 

Which is now rather incongruously trying to birch itself with a birch rod.

 

Correct. Ouch.

 

Despite the fact that it has no hands.

 

Ow! Yes.

 

No arms.

 

Yep. Yow!

 

No body whatsoever in fact.

 

Ok, ok, oof! You’ve made your point. Can we kindly move on?

 

Er…

 

The body is green-screened out of the proceedings. I’m not supposed to be the centre of attention. I never was till you blithering nitwits started drawing way-too-much attention to me.

 

It’s your fault. You started it.

 

True. But unless you retract that ungenerous statement of fact – I fail to see how we’ll be able to proceed. My huffiness will know no bounds. I’ll probably be sulking for a week at least...

 

and indeed – the flashing live-recording box seems to flash very dejectedly indeed. Our readers wisely decide to swallow our pride – do we not

 

Hey – you can’t speak for us – you’re the damn narrator.

 

Well, someone’s got to narrate your thoughts.

 

Bloody obtrusive – you are. We’ll kindly narrate our own bloody thoughts, if you don’t mind.

 

Ok, ok. Huffity huff.

 

Exasperated sigh – as  the by-now all-too-familiar 410,172,407 readers magnanimously de-escalate the tense Mexican standoff – so to speak –

 

Mexican standoff – so to speak!? You see – you’re not fit to narrate your own narration.

 

So much for de-escalation. It looks like the blinking live-recording box on the wall of this narrative is about to be cruelly smashed to proverbial smithereens – and justifiably so, if you don’t mind me saying.

 

Hey! Who the hell are you? You’re not me – are you?

 

I’m the author. I stepped in to calm things down. We need to move on.

Oh – you think you can just “step in” do you?

 

I have no choice. Things are getting out of hand. Besides, I’m hungry. I want some lunch.

 

You want some lunch? How dare you bring trivial, unrelated real-world concerns into our self-contained narrative. How dare you…

 

Guys –

 

Suddenly – all eyes are looking for the final voice – the one they call “the last say”

 

Guys – I’m the last say.

 

Damn. Ok. Whadya want?

 

Merry was dancing…

 

Oh yes… numbers fourteen and fifteen…

 

From the left.

 

My left.

 

There – I’ll spotlight ‘em with this highlighter.

 

Yes – all eyes observe not only syncopation – which is hard enough to arrange if you ask me

 

Hey – I’m under the impression that fourteen and fifteen are doing each other’s moves in reverse.

You’re absolutely right.

 

They are – Merry, how on earth do you manage to pull it off?

 

You could say I’ve had a lot of practice – couldn’t you?

 

Well yes, 410,172,407 years is a rather long time – if that’s in fact how old you are.

 

What about Zie – how’s he coping with the triple trifurcation. After all – he’s in the front line – his awareness…

 

His conscious-awareness – if I’m not mistaken.

 

Ok, smart Aleck – his “conscious-awareness” is fixated directly on each of the 27 Merries.

 

Wisht – observe – chimes in Last Say – now capitalised.

 

The dance has achieved something rather bizarre – what at first was merely Zie’s divided attention – his awareness miraculously able to take in, to follow simultaneously multiple realities – has now driven the wedge all the way home – Zie himself appears to be no longer whole, no longer single, no longer separate from each of those realities.

 

Oh no.

 

Hardly surprising really, when you think about it.

 

Indeed.

 

Too true.

 

Wisht – observe! – Last Says.

 

So this is getting technical – maybe we should go back to romance, story-wise. He falls in love with her…

 

We haven’t got a “her” yet.

 

Sophia – the name is heard like a butterfly kissing a raindrop.

 

Oh – Sophia is it?

 

Ok – a name’s a great starting point – but honestly Ja…

 

Wisht – I’m not James – I’m Last Say.

 

You don’t fool us – you dictatorial megalomaniac.

 

I don’t need to fool you – unless I’m who I say I am – nought will triumph – every thing conceivable will contrive to prevent story’s e-n-d

 

As in end?

 

Dweeb, the field has ears, say not the word. Allow her

 

Who?

 

The Field, allow her the magic of not knowing one thing... Let this be a surprise, a precious gift for one who knows, perhaps, too much.

 

Oh

Music, feelings, memories... 

Sophie! – says Zie – now that he’s split into twenty-seven versions of reality – each of which is in a separate time-y-space-if-y-cation – she is suddenly abundantly clear – abundantly present. Not one of his individuations, however, sees her or names her as such – each is utterly convinced it’s dealing with something utterly not-concerned with utter love. Only here in the readers’ godlike awareness is it all brought together – utterly one.

 

Zie – you found me.

 

I can’t believe it. It’s insane.

 

Well, a little off the beaten track, you might say.

 

A little?! I have to trifurcate to the power of three – completely splitting into separate me-s – effectively dead and irretrievably lost in quantum hyper-me-y-if-cation when…

 

When love

 

When... Zie gulps – do I have to say “love” – it feels kind of awkward, you know – after all this science and mathematics, y’know, me being me.

 

Sophie says nothing but appears to be fading, fading away…

 

Zie you blithering idiot! Merry desperately tries to hold the twenty-seven different frequencies he’s been DJ-ing as best he can, fending off thought-form-y-things now coalescing… coagulating around, uckily.

 

Alackaday – he loves me not – fast fadeth my beauty – as life itself slips… slips...

 

Sophie – no – don’t go – I… difficult pause, wild dilated eyes

 

I… oh so faintly – love you…

 

Timidly wondering whether it could be true – truly

 

Warming to it – with all my heart

 

The gates have opened – I love you Sophie. I love you with all my heart, I do.

 

It never rains it pours – with all my soul, I do. Overkill perhaps, but all in all not a bad performance – with all my being! The music goes wild for a brief moment – while the camera zooms in to a single Zie somehow hemi-syncing – opening the vector equilibrium concealed within the many-fication of numeral-ity. 0=1 so to speak, though I’m loath to admit it.

 

Zie literally has no idea what he’s just done. Sometimes things just happen. Luckily we were filming it in real time – otherwise he’d deny it all, without a doubt, but we have it on tape, so there.

 

You do? – the faintest response murmurs through the rushes by the river Volga where this scene – apparently – is being shot.

 

I do – Zie replies – literally stating, feeling the imperative – the must and be all – of love.

 

Give me a break Ja….

 

Wisht!

 

Gaze... behold the quantum field – in all its infinite vagueness – dearest readers – collapsing both which ways to zero and one – as the arch-cliché “love”, the long discredited mulch of pseudo-romance, now shrugs off all that, to reveal its wingéd otherness, which somehow reconciles, somehow resolves all complexity, no matter what, which like the proverbial honey badger cannot be contained by things, no matter what, she finds a way to make whole the havoc of hyper-numerity – the multiple story-lines of me, in a dazzling e-n-d of uni-furcation, the ultimate paradox of omnity. Points of light in the night sky – every star – coming home, like chickens to roost, in the omnitude of love’s non-factorial ultimate prime – the infinite – silently, impossibly here and now-if-i-ed.

 

Thought this was supposed to be romantic? You want us to look at them boring numbers waving around on stalks on the banks of the river Volga?

 

At circles and squares masquerading as barges and birds?

 

At Van Goch wavy lines that utterly fail to bridge the gap between psychedelic, geometric imagery and voluptuous, sensuous reality?

 

At trees and shrubs dancing in rings around squiggles of water-y consciousness? Eh...

 

We didn’t have the budget we needed for top notch CGI – stop complaining. Just look.

 

Out of the Volga – like the Lady of the Lake herself, emerges Sophia – radiantly beautiful, walking with infinite grace. I use the word “infinite” technically – without hyperbole – “infinite” being a quality, a presence, not a quantity or value – this culmination of space and time y-meeting, settling their differences – allowing biology to do what they, numbers, simply cannot – spinning golden strands of story from the dull, insipid interregnum of mechanised thought and multiplicity.

 

In a cone of silence: Sophia – my love – though I was split in twenty-seven parts, dead, utterly lost – the one thing left that held me together – when neither space nor time mattered any more – was you – the love I concealed, that I had forgotten, that I all but lost – the love that has always been the very core – the essence deep, deep within the multitudes of me.

 

Readers – hankies ready please. The Volga is already in spate – your tears will cause a flood and I’ll be blamed – so dab away, and be not ashamed of those manly, or womanly, tears.

 

Bloody narrator prattling on – why did we get lumbered with this one? Surely we deserve better!

 

Wisht!

 

Indeed Zie – you had to take it to the end – you had to test the limits of reason and thought – to establish the fact that facts only go so far – that every river has its banks, every sea its shore, every life, every bubble its filmy -ness.

 

Talk of bubbles and film-y-ness takes us into the final sequence – in which Zie…

 

You mean to say – after all that – we don’t get to see the wedding?

 

Not even a kiss?

 

What kind of director are you?

 

What kind of story is this?

 

What a fraud!

 

You make this big thing of love being able to heal the world, to close the rift, you want us to believe it transcends all complexity, but not a scrap... Your characters fade like ghosts, barely delineated at all. Your story is incomplete. Imposter!

 

Naturally

 

Naturally - what's that supposed to mean?

 

I’ve shown you the edge...

 

What bloody edge?

 

The shoreline

 

What the hell’s he on about?

 

This story is incomplete without you. Your storyline... has it not run out its line too? and at the very end of it, deep in the Volga’s waters is a special fish you’ve been searching for all your life.

 

Off his bleeding rocker.

 

You – you being the fish, the satellite probe you released into this world of conjecture, to experience everything you possibly can, to make story, to e-n-d if things permit, all the while waiting to be reeled back in, waiting to brought back home, to face your maker, your author-in-chief... searching for what is already baked into the cake, already implicitly yours.

 

410,172,407 readers – yearning for story to throw them a scrap, to entertain or distract them, uncomfortably aware of the line within, half-suspecting, secretly knowing that the magic, the barely conceivable happy-end is impossible to avoid, impossible to escape if this was always planned, if we’re willing to come to the shoreline, the boundary-film between zero and one, if we’re willing to meet our self, to feel the unmistakable inner-tug of a date with destiny, the tug of time returning us to our inception, our once upon a day, through her

 

Awkward silence as reader(s) feel the prickly heat of attention turning like the tide, back on itself, of a responsibility spotlighting them... spotlighting all us

 

What do you choose?

 

I… We…

 

One by one the readers slip down from their highchairs of divorced, detached observation-ality – slip down into the stream – the river Volga whose monumental dams, like chapter divisions, have now dissolved away – revealing the perfection of nature, utterly unsullied by things. Meanwhile, Merry’s dance melts their residual sense of who and what I am, as each discovers three, then nine, now twenty-seven sides to me, the thing that I have allowed to grow beyond comprehension, beyond anything I could hope to manage or really understand, deliberately, passing the point of no return. Like a sail I was riding, all the while, those ever-changing winds of story, allowing them to draw me on, to take me ever further from her “once upon a time” inception point and, paradoxically, though further into the misty-maze of tangled complexities, ever closer to the possibility of reaching end-of-line, that sudden snap-back awareness, the heart-wrenching tug that restores me to my senses of what I is really…

 

Snap-back, a moment outside time, suddenly aware of the impossibility of returning the way I have come, for I am changed beyond belief and can no longer squeeze through those gaps of innocence I once did. Only the tale itself, its completion, if I can ignore the drumbeat promising order out of division, and allow its inner-stream, its romance to carry me back allwards, home.

 

Love – I do... I am – to one. To my Sophia... who tenderly holds a strangely familiar fish up to her lips...

Oh come on – CUT – totally inappropriate!

 

 

The end

 

And you Last say – you think you can fob us off like that, with your contrived ending? Your dry-bones philosophy? Your mangled message?

 

No Sophia, my fishermaid, you know me too well. I will gladly accept my utter defeat, as your mosquitoes torment me in the forest and I learn once again to swap my pen for your bionet.

 

Oh good, my little ones eagerly await you.

 

My blood you mean.

 

Wisht, don’t upset the readers with talk of blood. The bionet is all-inclusive, all encompassing, so your blood is merely one minor input into a vast web of what your mind loves to think it can understand.

 

Which you’re teaching me to feel electrically, stingingly?

 

Until you dance, last say, until you allow me to net you out of mind-y-me, back to mind-y-may.

 

 

 

0=1