Dreaming in Spectre-vision
Whenever it was that the was was, the I-thing received the everything through lovely little lenses. Sweatervests went one by one, “bye onsies and twosies, green eyed Lucies, and brown eyed floozies,” into the ground before the I-thing followed them down. They were nice while they lasted; the eye lashes but never entirely unpleasantly as provided by the nature of the I-thing. It had eyes all over its body. Eyes on its nose, eyes on its tongue, eyes on its toes, eyes on everyone.
What was its name again? I am sure that it was Jack at one time or another, but not at all times or by all mothers.
At one point, the I-thing that once was was thinking, and thinking very clearly, that there were mystics that it had never learned that knew than were often given credit for. Dr. Octagon was one of them. The alchemists were of a nother sort. They evidenced this by respecting the death of parts of the everything by their hands. In order to control their hands, they controlled their sciences through knowledge kept hidden but revealed at precise moments. Had that Jack known this, his will would have felt less distressed at death and, moreover, impressed.
The wish of the will was to will itself willingly without hesitation towards, but never away. It wasn’t sure if it would ever accomplish this but felt that it would if “thy will be done” was invoked at precise moments.
The I-thing had had family members too, but the names of those members were forgotten as soon as the I-thing resigned from the club and from all living things, willing instead towards the center due to centrifugal force. Interestingly enough, it was a centrifuge and not a crucible which ended one form of the I-thing and directed it towards the center, bringing the “days without accident” from seventy two to the just plain zero.
“The” was an interesting one too, designating many things like the alchemists did, at a respectful distance and hidden amongst everything, only raising attention when necessary to raise attention.
It forgot to mention the names, however. They might have been Kathy? Surely, one of them was named Kathy wasn’t it? But Kathy didn’t feel the name was pretty enough so maybe it wasn’t a girl at all, but a boy at birth. In that case, it might have been Jack too. But two Jacks now seem impossible. Not impossible for their to have been two Jacks, because there has always been at least two Jacks, but for their to have been two in the I-thing’s immediate family. If this was once the case, then one Jack would have been separated from the other by the roman numeral two: Jack II, Jack the second, or, more plainly, Jack Junior. Now this does not seem entirely impossible. This never seemed impossible, but that did.
That was only impossible because the I-thing had not foreseen it, but as it has already mentioned, it was through lovely little lenses that the I-thing received information. Information regarding its demise would surely be a surprise, to put less lucidly, loose lips sink ships. For it to wonder at this point seems pointless because jealousy or ambition or, allow it to say, a couple in cahoots cavorting and snorting at the death of Jack bears no relevance on the current situation. That what was was and forever shall be. If Jack was the I-thing’s name. If the I-thing were not Jack, then it might have gone into the ground by different means. But, sometimes, I can be sure that they were sweatervests that went onesie by onesie into the cold dead ground before the I-thing did. It was by the centrifuge that it did it. And it was by some floosie and his ambitious wife that pulled the knife and the bait and the switch. I am almost sure of it!
Is this cause for resurrection? It has never been sure if it was worth it to pursue anything in the first place, but revenge is one of the last reasons on anything’s mind to be pursued by. And if the name Kathy does not ring a bell, then she is hardly a reason too, which in retrospect is unfortunate for Kathy. If Kathy does ring a bell though, it will be heard throughout.
Based on the information it has at its fingertips, Jack doesn’t think that it was that he was a scientist or an alchemist, but some sort of technician. And he has a strong feeling to feel like a Jack. He wasn’t a pawn, mind you; he just stumbled upon certain information. Allow all of us to put it that way because, although a man cannot die twice as far as anyone with lovely little lenses knows, a man does not want to make the same mistake twice. Which is: to reveal privileged information that one was not aware was privileged and then to be murdered in cold cold blood. Cold blood is, obviously, a figure of speech. Their blood was not cold, Jack is now remembering, but their intentions were without compassion and rich with passion. Rich, who was completely uninvolved in the murder, was not presently present and had no passions at all.
Lucy was the mastermind, Jack thought once. Infinite times later, when infinity had rolled around again, Jack thought it again. It repeated itself until the dawn of time while the I-thing made up its mind to rise from that table, at 5:11 in the morning! of all the ungodly hours, and shout, in front of so many ER doctors,
“I’m alive! I live!”
Three minutes passed. They had not expected him to rise because he had been dead. They had not, in their rosy little eyes and silliest of dreams, expected a dead man to not be dead, by the very fact that a dead man can not be both dead and not dead at the same time. It was not the dead man’s fault. It was their fault for calling him dead in the first place because his name was Jack, but names are often hard to remember. Jack Jr. or whatever its name was was not present because family members were not allowed into places like operating rooms while operations were operating. He would be happy to know that his father was alive and well for three minutes. The three minutes, which could have taken place millions of years ago decided to take place today just because it made sense for them to happen that way.
Jack looked around, saw no one that he recognized, and collapsed back into what the doctors would pronounce as “death” and also “5:14 am”. Lucy and floozy are currently doing the watoosie scott free. Not that there’s anything wrong with Scott, but that that’s a different I-thing all together.