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Up the Rope
A man climbing, hand over hand, up a rope, for infinity.
He had been climbing for as long as he could remember. He was tired, but not so tired that he could not go on. Around him, black. Above him, a point of light that had never grown bigger, not in a hundred thousand arm-over-arms, not waking from a half-sleep clinging. Up. It could have as well been down. Or to drop; but that was unthinkable.
man who experiences himself as a microcosmic reflection of the whole earth, and truly a part of earth, who passionately believes that his responsibility is to purify human-made industrial toxins, to cleanse the tainted land, by washing them through his own body, through his organs. Miraculously, he drinks heinous poisons by the gallon and pees clear piss. Doctors are dumbfounded. He is on a holy crusade of digestion and re-solution (soluble)
The veins are a map. “Tracks” are not junkie nodes but routes through the world. Cadavers opened with these routes maintained. One who tracks the once-riverways when the world was made, before tectonic upheaval, THIS is how the riverways of the primordial world were formed, and this is what man is for: to maintain through the generations the map of the original world. But to what end? Do i compose a madman character tracking them? A paleogeologist who comes to believe that human veins are a map of HOW THE WORLD WAS before degeneration, pre-flood, in the Golden Age or Garden. Believes he can determine where these rivers once flowed, makes his life’s career out of this, via obscure grants, misdirected university funding.
