A Division of DerekC's Dream.
A Boy’s Song (in Three Parts).

Part 1: “I call to mind the Zarathustrian ecstasies…”.
Part 2: “In certain realms, under certain spells…”.
Part 3: “And in my letters, letters left unsent…”.

A Boy’s Song (in Three Parts).

Written, recited, and recorded by Derek Cantrell (me).

A Scene (Between Floyd and Bugler).
(- A small, but open, room. The doorway lacks a door, and not a single window can be seen. Two overhead track lights illuminate parts of the room, and a tall lamp without a shade looks strategically placed off to the side, but is off at the moment. By the lamp is a chair facing a small television. Adjacent to the chair, but across the room and sunk in shadows, is a small sofa and coffee table. The table holds an ashtray, home to an abandoned, but still-burning, cigarette.-)
B: F (trails off). Smokes. Lighters. Piles of paper. And, of course, a pungent cup of coffee. (Muttering) Must be lost, looking for a little this, some of that - (sharply) whatever.
(Footsteps, fast, almost scrambling, descend from the left.)
F: (voice audible before figure is seen) Cigarette, yes, a smoke, some kind of delight, a light, I need a light... but which way? - Left or right (sharp glances shot to each side of the room)?
B: There's a little fire in the ashtray already, dear man. Don't you see it?
F: Of course, but it's off in the distance, only a little delight... (trails off, looks left). (quickly, yet casually) Any-hoo! How are you?
B: (bluntly) Can't say I'm delighted. Can I finish this smoke? before we start a fire? (sits).
F: For sure, certainly, be my good guest, help yourself to that pack. - I have plenty! (looks left, spots the lamp, flips its switch) I also have a taste for television - strange, but true - maybe a cartoon, if old ones are on. Hey, are you awake? B., buddy? Don't say it's bedtime!
B: I said nothing of the sort. I wasn't speaking. Did you fail to hear the sound of my silence (raises an eyebrow)?
F: (tuning the television) No, quite the contrary, I heard it complete with band and orchestra. (faces B. now) I even heard not one, but two, yes, two tiny violins, both belonging to the first chair.
B: Fair enough! No more foreplay! - What are we doing tonight? What do you have in that black book? Is that a planner?
F: (staring at a static-ridden cartoon on television) Oh, this? (looks at the book) I found this. It looked lonely so I put it in my pocket.
B: F., my friend, care to share?
F: Sure! Why should I care (shrugs), it's not mine, not that I know of, no, this book looks too new, either that or taken care of too well. See (holds book to the lamp)? Only a single scratch!
B: Not even a crease?
F: No, sir. Near-mint condition.
B: (stubs cigarette) Wait... where did this come from?
F: Somewhere not here.
B: Have you read it?
F: Can't say I have.
B: Looked at it?
F: Nah. Too nice to open.
B: Does it even make you curious?
F: Yes. But only a tad bit.
B: What if it's yours?
F: I doubt it. I found it on the ground, outside, on the sidewalk. - (proudly) My notebooks never leave this room.
B: What if I read it and it turned out to be a diary of your deepest yearnings? What would you do?
F: Later, much later, I would use it as a biodegradable ashtray. So I could burn its contents. But really, B., I doubt I'll have to do that. (pauses, pulls out a smoke) Damn it, man, do the deed and read it! I said I don't care. Share it with the world! I don't care!
B: Okay (opens the book, begins flipping to the center), you said so, so here we go. (pause) It's all typed! I thought it was a manuscript journal! (pause) Well (puzzled), it is... every page starts with: "Dear diary". Like this page (points emphatically), this page reads: "Dear diary, I am a mute, my fingers hurt, and the next page is the death of me, as author." And the next page says: "Dear diary, dying in the silence are the readers." Nothing more than a few lines per page. Strange.
F: (drags his smoke) Sounds like a good read, sort of cerebral. But that's only a couple pages.
B: (excitedly) A picture!
F: (hovering around B. now) What kind of picture? a drawing? a photo?
B: Here (hands book to a restless F.), look.
F: (looks closely, intently) Looks kind of like blueprints, but these aren't building plans. What's this (puzzled, peers closer)? Looks like written music! (flips to next page) Look! More notes! And under each piece of music there appears to be directions, like stage directions. How strange!
B: (eyes glued intensely to the page)... these directions call for a syringe of seconal: - Whoa, wait, these are directions for some kind of doping.
"Existence is a stage, the people are actors, their words are lines, their lives are scripts…" - and so I took note of my human, all-too-human condition two years ago. The clock ticked out of time while the story of space extended my mind either more in one direction, or less in the other, but never reaching an end point, only persisting further into that far-away stage.

"Existence is a stage, the people are actors, their words are lines, their lives are scripts…" - and so I took note of my human, all-too-human condition two years ago. The clock ticked out of time while the story of space extended my mind either more in one direction, or less in the other, but never reaching an end point, only persisting further into that far-away stage.

Lost trains of thought. Utter and absolute failure. Lost momentum. I’m in no frame of mind to speak with anyone.

Diary of a mute, log of a recluse: Write, dear recluse, write.

It was the feeling of standing on top of a mountainpeak watching the stars spin round and round my head. It wasn’t euphoria, nor ecstasy, but insight, great but terrible insight. Maybe it wasn’t terrible as much as it was overwhelming, breathtaking, a vision of movement, of motions, of notions, so I write down as much of the experience as I could, a writing exercise amounting to ten pages: Ten pages of bullshit - an excuse to not act, to not participate, to not live, to ultimately disconnect and retreat inwards, turn inside, reflect to a point of abstract existence….

But how can I say I reflected, introspected, to a point of abstract existence, abstract thought, abstract experience, and only report the experience in general terms? - Why can’t I provide the details to confirm this report? - It’s possible the experience was never a true experience, an authentic experience, and this is what is troubling me greatly.

I keep writing as an attempt to pen down this experience, but then I wonder why I am doing this: what’s the point? - It’s so vague, in such general language, it explains nothing. Where are the examples to elucidate this thought, experience, whatever it is?…

… Existence is a stage: its people are actors, their words are lines, their lives are scripts…

A slipstream of consciousness: Hypersensitivity to image, to sound, to touch, to taste, to smell. Overly keen awareness of others, even more penetrating and painful awareness of self, of mind, of body. Thoughts reel, thoughts gain momentum, thoughts grind to a halt. The thinking process is fractured, fucked, gives way to obsession, buckles under the weight of emotion.

Tunnel vision prevails, becomes the only way to see, the only way to live….

… Is this a journal of schizophrenia? a record of madness?? insanity???… Or is it a journal of recomposition, recomposure?