Dousing the Phoenix
Section One: Doubting Thomas
Thomas had heard curates and academics lecture endlessly in the corridors of the museum. Nothing had changed. The constancy irked him pleasantly. He smiled. Their words bounced off the cold walls in invisible, insubstantial waves, their rhetoric as sculpted as the marble pillars: art for another's sake is not art, art for one’s own sake is not art, divine sublimity for the sake of creation—that is art. What pretensions! Voices, windy echoing on the stone: whisper, shudder, consonant, vowel, unintelligible but for a word here and there—“definitive beauty,” “fixity,” “sublime transcendence.” Pompous blowhards. No matter. He recognized the speech: recognized, remembered, knew, ignored. These words were not Thomas’s words. He spat.
In a maze of winding hallways, Thomas slid through the exhibits. There was nothing new about the path. Familiarity stretched over his mind and sealed his passions with disinterest. Statue of David, scrotum but no rectum, constipated I’d bet. Hasn’t shat for a thousand years—friend and lover to the armless, assless Venus de Milo—fertilizer of fallow fields. He doesn’t pass like me. Thomas passed by Dave. Sling slung over the shoulder, slingslung flaccid but stony hard—marble erected in impotence. Replica, anyhow. Plaster marblemold. Not even that accurate: l'homme ridicule. Mike’s Dave stood on a raised platform, his plaster flaking.
Mockmarble crumbling plastershell behind him, Thomas pressed on to the Monet section, taking his usual seat, ready for what was coming. Beyond ready. He stared at the center painting on the West wall. Always the center, always the West; that's how things were here. It was a piece he knew—had memorized. Hazy, sunset-shadowed parliament buildings stood motionless, trapped in a moment which craves the next. Ever-approaching Night crouched on sinewy haunches, flexed to lunge, forever prepared and patient, waiting; the water which had once flowed and eddied now lay stagnant, the reflections therein unwavering. Still. But not for long.
He was just in time. Thomas listened for the familiar sounds from the back storeroom of the museum. Wall-thumping. Curator. Panting. Woman there. Thudding. Hardbreathing. Thud. Breathless bodies beat away the minutes at the usual hour against the wall behind the painting. Thomas wondered what the licentious bastard thought of himself. Hidden—virile, victorious, self-pleased—God what a curator. He’ll be finished soon. Call you? Fuck that. You’re fired. New secretary, same curator, same wall, same rattling Monet. Same Thomas. The future is the present is the past; progress laughs at itself.
Laughter, echoing up from the dim wells of memory, at first muted, finally burst in his ears. Such a long time ago. Thomas was a student then, an avid learner with a passion for the arts, his arts, his words, others' words. Going places. An old Professor smoking a pipe. Smokebillowing windwhispers — You’re going places, Thomas. How far he'd fallen since. Laughter. There she stood before him, Vanessa, brilliantfaced, ringing laugh sighing again. Bright and wonderful, she had told him of every work the museum held; wonder-full and bright he had drunk her words. So long ago. Fondly the repartee bounced in wave and particle between them, Thomas and Vanessa, Vanessa and Thomas. They communicated above the world, he remembered, in what he liked to call amorous drippings of love-touched tongues—tonetwining tenor of adoration. L'ámour des enfants. They knew well their medium, and with one ear silently listened to the Starry Night, couched in quiet awe. Vincent, mad-eyed, still-listening to his mono audio, did not know how they admired him. He had loved, they had loved, and loved she was gone, a ghost, the first phantasm flitting behind that damned Monet. First, but not last. Curator. Usurping lecher. Thomas spat.
And now the same lecher who first had stolen her hid behind his Monet-hanging wall. Every day Thomas watched, waited, and listened—ashamed, alone—hoping to hear the bodies beating as he remembered, but always knowing that only every third day would the painting shake. Penciled in by the curator; I’ll see if I can make time for you: scheduled, controlled, linear. Behind the framed painting she beds down with Procrustes. He’s protected, a son of Troy. The plaster ceiling—crumbling, flaking—dusts the marble floor. Dusting marble? Never mentioned... Who told you the floor was marble? Limestone floor, limestone pillars. I will not lie, not intentionally.
He stood, still watching the shaking masterpiece: the painting still suffering sodomy, but not stillsuffering. The painted waters now rippled rhythmically. Thomas wondered at this. Nothing immobile. All eroding. Water cutting rocks. Canyons thirty-thousand years in the making. Ground stonesits motionless and indestructible, underground walls hiding sputtering, spurting streams, the siltful waters hiding nothing—only slicing into the solid rock, gouging granite gaps and crevices. Then nothing was ever still. Thomas grinned at his own wise conclusion.
Stillwatching, Thomas listened, still-listening, to the drumming against the wall, the beating, wordless language of lust. Almost finished now. Five minutes, no endurance. Way to ride, cowboy.
In the last throes, the painting fell, marblelimestonefloorbreaking. The wooden prison lay splinterframed. Thomas ignored this. No frame. Il se casse. Unimportant. Vanessa was all that mattered. He listened to the last thud.
Thomas could not control. How could he when. It’s perfectly excusable that. I can’t be judged if. God help. Done. A seed—denied, ignored, suppressed, unleashed—is sown in stony ground. Self-pleasing figures standing around him, marblemade, unfecal, infertile. Framed in preconception, unaware, or perhaps too aware, of the ever-cracking plaster-caste past, the voyeur slides into the shadows, vanishing without effort, knowing only the final spasm. He will return, not understanding his momentary fulfillment, jealous rage welling up in his heart, an endlessly unsatisfied, unwitting student walking into hurricane force wind—wind invisible and insubstantial, full of animosity and spiteful power.
In a maze of winding hallways, Thomas slid through the exhibits. There was nothing new about the path. Familiarity stretched over his mind and sealed his passions with disinterest. Statue of David, scrotum but no rectum, constipated I’d bet. Hasn’t shat for a thousand years—friend and lover to the armless, assless Venus de Milo—fertilizer of fallow fields. He doesn’t pass like me. Thomas passed by Dave. Sling slung over the shoulder, slingslung flaccid but stony hard—marble erected in impotence. Replica, anyhow. Plaster marblemold. Not even that accurate: l'homme ridicule. Mike’s Dave stood on a raised platform, his plaster flaking.
Mockmarble crumbling plastershell behind him, Thomas pressed on to the Monet section, taking his usual seat, ready for what was coming. Beyond ready. He stared at the center painting on the West wall. Always the center, always the West; that's how things were here. It was a piece he knew—had memorized. Hazy, sunset-shadowed parliament buildings stood motionless, trapped in a moment which craves the next. Ever-approaching Night crouched on sinewy haunches, flexed to lunge, forever prepared and patient, waiting; the water which had once flowed and eddied now lay stagnant, the reflections therein unwavering. Still. But not for long.
He was just in time. Thomas listened for the familiar sounds from the back storeroom of the museum. Wall-thumping. Curator. Panting. Woman there. Thudding. Hardbreathing. Thud. Breathless bodies beat away the minutes at the usual hour against the wall behind the painting. Thomas wondered what the licentious bastard thought of himself. Hidden—virile, victorious, self-pleased—God what a curator. He’ll be finished soon. Call you? Fuck that. You’re fired. New secretary, same curator, same wall, same rattling Monet. Same Thomas. The future is the present is the past; progress laughs at itself.
Laughter, echoing up from the dim wells of memory, at first muted, finally burst in his ears. Such a long time ago. Thomas was a student then, an avid learner with a passion for the arts, his arts, his words, others' words. Going places. An old Professor smoking a pipe. Smokebillowing windwhispers — You’re going places, Thomas. How far he'd fallen since. Laughter. There she stood before him, Vanessa, brilliantfaced, ringing laugh sighing again. Bright and wonderful, she had told him of every work the museum held; wonder-full and bright he had drunk her words. So long ago. Fondly the repartee bounced in wave and particle between them, Thomas and Vanessa, Vanessa and Thomas. They communicated above the world, he remembered, in what he liked to call amorous drippings of love-touched tongues—tonetwining tenor of adoration. L'ámour des enfants. They knew well their medium, and with one ear silently listened to the Starry Night, couched in quiet awe. Vincent, mad-eyed, still-listening to his mono audio, did not know how they admired him. He had loved, they had loved, and loved she was gone, a ghost, the first phantasm flitting behind that damned Monet. First, but not last. Curator. Usurping lecher. Thomas spat.
And now the same lecher who first had stolen her hid behind his Monet-hanging wall. Every day Thomas watched, waited, and listened—ashamed, alone—hoping to hear the bodies beating as he remembered, but always knowing that only every third day would the painting shake. Penciled in by the curator; I’ll see if I can make time for you: scheduled, controlled, linear. Behind the framed painting she beds down with Procrustes. He’s protected, a son of Troy. The plaster ceiling—crumbling, flaking—dusts the marble floor. Dusting marble? Never mentioned... Who told you the floor was marble? Limestone floor, limestone pillars. I will not lie, not intentionally.
He stood, still watching the shaking masterpiece: the painting still suffering sodomy, but not stillsuffering. The painted waters now rippled rhythmically. Thomas wondered at this. Nothing immobile. All eroding. Water cutting rocks. Canyons thirty-thousand years in the making. Ground stonesits motionless and indestructible, underground walls hiding sputtering, spurting streams, the siltful waters hiding nothing—only slicing into the solid rock, gouging granite gaps and crevices. Then nothing was ever still. Thomas grinned at his own wise conclusion.
Stillwatching, Thomas listened, still-listening, to the drumming against the wall, the beating, wordless language of lust. Almost finished now. Five minutes, no endurance. Way to ride, cowboy.
In the last throes, the painting fell, marblelimestonefloorbreaking. The wooden prison lay splinterframed. Thomas ignored this. No frame. Il se casse. Unimportant. Vanessa was all that mattered. He listened to the last thud.
Thomas could not control. How could he when. It’s perfectly excusable that. I can’t be judged if. God help. Done. A seed—denied, ignored, suppressed, unleashed—is sown in stony ground. Self-pleasing figures standing around him, marblemade, unfecal, infertile. Framed in preconception, unaware, or perhaps too aware, of the ever-cracking plaster-caste past, the voyeur slides into the shadows, vanishing without effort, knowing only the final spasm. He will return, not understanding his momentary fulfillment, jealous rage welling up in his heart, an endlessly unsatisfied, unwitting student walking into hurricane force wind—wind invisible and insubstantial, full of animosity and spiteful power.