We found 35 scrolls. Scrolls we hadn’t seen before, scrolls which hadn’t seen the light of day. As the world’s foremost scholar, this came as a shock. I had to go through each and descern their authenticity, their quality, their worth.
He was right to leave them behind, let’s say that.
We also found 121 official video records as well as 3553.25 unofficial records. I’m still going through those. Some are unwatchable, some are good, others are mixed. That plus I’m 34 now.
Strange. 34, 35, 121, 3553.25 The numbers.
Actually, those numbers don’t mean anything. They hold no relevance to anything.
Anyway, the scrolls do. They’re the good part. What we’re here for.
Sorry, I’ve just realised I haven’t even told you where we found them. The scrolls were on the island. The island, was in the sea. Or so I thought.
The strange thing about the scrolls is the remarkable quality they hold. They’re like remnants of a living past, but they also stink of shit. You can hear his voice in them, it’s there clear as the clarion call on the crisp morning before battle. Sorry, that’s the kind of shit he comes out with in them. But then, there he is again.
How do you mean, who? Who else?
We arrived on the island to do research, but something strange kept happening. A kind of time-loop which we couldn’t account for. For all we knew it was global, everytime I called home they were an hour ahead. Anyway, the island had the curious quality of making time stand still. The light sung with wine and the trees bowed with fruit. The air was clean and the water, was also clean. Each day felt new and I felt new, but the truth was that each day I was growing older – despite my best efforts. I used the cryochamber, the spanitorium, spamitorium and the spermitorium all in a day but when I looked at myself, I looked more or less the same. Still, I felt better.
Forget about the scrolls! The scrolls were rubbish, I’ve already said that. They were discarded nonsense. Over emotional crap. They desereved to be left on the island. Unpublished drafts. There is a reason they were on the island. There is a reason they went unpublished. They said too much. Didn’t say enough. They’re still there and it won’t be me who publishes them, despite the obvious interest I have in their publication.
It’s the videos that really count for something. They’re not his. That’s the interesting thing. They’re what make him, what made him – given we don’t know if he’s…
The videos.
The first 121 are clearly defined. Clearly defined-ish. I’ve not watched them all yet. “Pedidos” The mean something somewhere, perhaps in the past. They tell of a simpler time. A time when you could cast an arab man as a terrorist with zero remorse. Where the rest of the cast are in a strange jealous chemistry which exists only in tv and high school. A pure time. A moralistic time like no other. Like Nietsche is dead and we killed him. Good and evil. Black and white. A mid-2000’s return to Kantian moral absolutism which spins in and out of control. That is what neoliberalism is and was. It’s grip is lessening, we can see that when we see an artifact like these videos.
When I saw these videos, they brought back memories I didn’t know I had. It’s strange to be totally emersed in nostalgia like that, akin to drowning. When I’m thirsty I could drink for days, neglect air completely. I don’t suppose that’s what drowning feels like at all.
The memories were accompanied by themes somehow. Themes which didn’t make sense. Inevitably there are themes of loss, being lost, lack, psychoanalysis and unfinished-ness. I was washed over by memories of friends I’d forgotten, of our patter that we’d derived from the archive. What had taken us months to reduce and simmer, occassionally misplacing batches in gleeful explosions of laughter, I could sense immediaetly. Like a bottled sauce. The island is a strange place to be. Did I mention I’ve just turned 34? That is like the island a bit in itself. I’ve been cut adrift enough to know I’m stranded. But I’m accustomed enough not to panic. I know we’re alone on the island. Usually I’ll pump out a life update at this time of the year, but I’ve had enough life updates for a few years so I’m keeping it simple.
Strangely, on the island, you are safer speaking Spanish or Catalan than you are English. Catalan is the native toungue here but Spanish is spoken widely. We made our way to a camp and by the fire I sat with the first mate discussing the days findings. We spoke in English and the conversation weaved and pulled this way and that, like a needle and thread. We came onto what we’d do when we returned home. What we might like to do in the year ahead. I noticed heads turning by the fire and thought nothing of it. Our conversation, though audible and in English, was harmless enough. I nodded to some locals passing by, they were obvlivious as we babbled in a foreign toungue.
Suddenly my first mate took it on herself loudly “…and you need to make more friends!”.
Shocked I turned round and looked at the blaze in her eye. Was this the ritual humiliation I should expect before a mutiny? Was this the preamble to my head on a stick? Or, was this some type of foreplay? I was confused.
“Alright.” I took her arm, trying to calm her.
“You need to get some more friends!” she decried once again.
The heads by the fire turned, acknowledging the lingua franca with their craning necks. I felt my face flush. “Matey, you do realise there isn’t a Spaniard amoungst them here?” I said.
Suddenly she came to. The blaze gone from her eye. A terrible misunderstanding.
“I… I… I meant that your friends are normally more fun than mine.”
It was too late. The damage was done. The Brexiteers grimaced across the fire and suddenly all went black. A bag was over my head and my hands were tied. Hog tied, I believe is the expression?
I’d always been a benevolent Captain. I wouldn’t have measured out such cruelty. To not abuse a man, hog tied and with a bag on his head is a crime. Or it should be. The bastards should go to the hague. We were returned to the camp without a scratch on our heads. Disgraceful. ~
That’s the type of thing that happens on this bloody island. It’s a farce. I ordered a full english for breakfast and it came with two tomatoes and no fried eggs. How can you have a full english with no fried eggs? It is nice having beer for breakfast though. She likes bubbles.
It’s just so bloody hot on this bloody island. Need a good pint. Pint and then a swim and then a snooze. Bloody lovely.
Beans and eggs. What don’t you understand, Diego?
Jesus. Sorry, I didn’t realise you’re name was Jesus, mate. No harm meant.
Jesus.
What’s happening?
Que paso?
Toda esta estranga. Ay algo incorrecto, verdad?
No puedo entendir! Voy a dormir un poco, y despues…
I think I’ve cracked it. It was the numbers after all. It’s like a secret to life. Not the island itself, though you may get the impulse to give up your job and move there, living an easy life in the sun, drinking citrus drinks and swimming to pontoons and riding perfect roads and trails and just living. But no. That’s not what’s at play. It’s the numbers. The island was just a distraction. A way of getting us to the numbers. His way of getting us to the numbers…
My age = 34
The unpublished drafts = 35
The videos = 121
The other videos which I didn’t get round to describing in full detail (they are unwatched youtube videos which I’ll never get round to watching. Partly because I’m thinking of coming off it and partly because that’s how youtube addiction works.) = 3553.25
What happens when you add them all up? ANswer me?!
4004.5
It doesn’t make any sense! None of it makes any sense.
Why won’t you give me an answer? Why won’t you give me a sign? I’ve done what you want.
Perhaps there is no answer, perhaps the answer is in me. Or us, together. Perhaps it’s not the singular answer that’s important. It’s the plural.
IT’S THE PLURAL
4004.5 X2…
8008.5
The answer was there along. You just didn’t know where to l(.)(.)k.
In summary. Been on holibobs to Mallorca. Also been rewatching Lost. All the best. Peace. x
Image credit: Canva AI. Search terms: Panorama over island surrounbded by checkers
MrHummels 