Thomas K’s Dream Diary – August 7th, 2008
When coffee is no longer a tangible thing and exists only as an ethereal question, the sharp derangement of the day has not yet reached its peak.
When this question is answered…
…you will find yourself in a wood-paneled room seated in an appropriately uncomfortable chair, properly underdressed for an occasion of analytical education.
I am surrounded by the most nauseatingly, stereotypically precocious and privileged British snoblings. An extreme emotional reaction, they still illicit, but it is one of eye-rolling snickering if not immediate dismissal given the megawatt spotlight harshly illuminating their faults, powered by the very strength of their caricature. Something of a ratio that eats itself…
A very Jeremy Brett Sherlock Holmes dancingly leads the class in solving an unknown crime. People, places, things, and events that are not in and of themselves crimes, are meticulously described by the great professor. By further uncovering and connecting these island facts with the strands of one true logic, we should – no we must! – come to a single and unavoidable conclusion as to what in fact constitutes the crime, who committed it, how, and why.
Why am I here? I have so seldom cared to feign interest in any such masturbatory subject as this. I have even less patience for the presumed importance of such a discussion’s participants. And this must be clear to all…glaringly so for Sherlock himself.
But he likes me…or fears me…or hopes that by ignoring me I’ll simply cease to exist…
This could happen.
But there is a shadow on his face, likely imperceptible to others, that flickers of a fleeting and fighting guilt. The lines on his face relax for a millisecond to wordlessly communicate that he simply needed the money, awkwardly dangling a plea for forgiveness.
Or perhaps more, he knows already that I am guilty of the criminal mystery he has just put forth. This is very likely. I accept it without too much thought, pleading guilty to an indefensible and invisible act and ignoring the sentence.
In the course of a string of pandering attempts at a solution that amount to little more than an obvious, ass-kissing version of “20 Questions”, I am cooking meat in my hands.
Time flies and I am well overfed until the current sycophancy is cut short by a spontaneously possessed young girl who begins a haunting song that while not skillfully performed is nonetheless beautiful if not more so because of this slight failing. The lights dimmed and she providing her own and our only luminance, neither waiting for a well-mannered opportunity to begin nor directing this performance at anyone in particular, she hums forth a set of lyrics that perfectly detail the events of the mystery while maintaining a perfect poetry. A hypnotically appealing trance of enlightenment, we are all of us drawn to it like moths to a flame…
My friend Greggins nervously half-raises his hand and then repeats the same motion with his mouth as he seeks to jump ahead and unlock the mystery single-handedly.
“I…think…she is…onto something here.”
This shatters the trance of the young female medium. She is silent and common once more. The key to the mystery is lost, perhaps even now lost to Holmes, the original source of the day’s game. It is as though all that she had brought from the other world bonded to that which we already knew and stole away together in a frightened retreat, leaving us with nothing.
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