In a previous post, I illustrated how the word spark ”moiling” led to word work that in turn led to a dream with words that rhymed with moiling but were not “real” words. I then showed how I sometimes work with a dream in using the dream itself as a “spark” to enter into fictive space and see what would be presented there. That led to a Lewis Carroll-like piece entitled, “Goiling.” When Paco responded with a continuation called, “Mr. Differently Has A Class to Teach,” I was not surprised because we have been engaged in a number of projects using alternative authorial narrative.

In the spirit of this alternating, I responded with a piece entitled, “Differently Phones Lockhart,” and Paco, in turn, sends me “Lockhart Phones Bertie.” Now this will likely be the last post on this back and forth. Whether it becomes another serious project (in spite of its whimsical character), I do not know. We never really “decided” in the usual sense to carry on these narratives, but simply responded back and forth until they grew into quite sizeable stories.

I hope these pieces will give you a sense of both the serious nature of what we are up to as well as the fun we are having. When being scribe to what presents itself in fictive space, it is not so much “our” narratives that emerge, but the narratives of something “other” responding to the warmth of our attention. This perhaps gives one an understanding of why the fictive content can weave into itself various realities.

Your comments are always welcome, wither on the blog itself or via email.

Differently Phones Lockhart (RL)

“Lockhart here. Who’s calling?”

The old Scot sat himself in his black office chair, leaned back and set his feet atop the old cedarwood desk.

“Ah, Differently, good to hear ye me good man. But how is it your a callin? I don’t recall putting phone lines in Nonamesville.What’s that you say? Things arrive of there own accord? But Differntly, wha’ about authorial control and all that jazz?

Lockhart, took his feet off the desk and leaned forward in his chair, rubbin’ at his beard, something he did when he was thinkin’ hard.

“Chalk? You need chalk? Yes, I know teachers use chalk when they teach. You think I'm a dimwit? What happened to the chalk? Pretty sure there was plenty. Blackboyd? Who the bloody moon stone is Blackboyd? No, that wasn’t me. That’s not an idea I would have, or even want to have, even after nippin’ some old Macallans.”

Lockhart stood up, reached across his desk and picked up a scratch pad. There was still some room after all the morning’s doodling.

“Differently, I think I know what’s happened. Hang up and answer the phone when it rings. By the by, what’s your number there? What do you mean you don’t care much for numbers? They won’t behave? Ok, forget the phone. There’s other ways to deal with this.”

Lockhart dialed a number.

Lockhart Phones Bertie (PM)

Buzzz. Buzzzz. Buzzzzzz.

“Come on, dammit, answer the phone, will ye?” Lockhart was about to extend this line of invective when suddenly the connection was made and a hoarse female voice, approximating an old gray mare with bronchitis, spoke on the other end:

“Who the hell is it, botherin’ me at this ungodly hour?”

Lockhart, stunned, had no ready quip with which to reply. The phone line lay flaccid, bereft of vibratory energy, filled with nothing but “dead air.”

“Well, fuck off then, if yer gonna be like that about it,” shouted Bertie—or rasped, rather—into the receiver, and was about to slam the device down in its old fashioned cradle when Lockhart recognized the raspy old voice.

“Bertie? Is that you?”

“What do you mean is it me? ‘Course it’s me. Who else can I be? Wait a minute. Is that you, Lockhart?”

“Yes, Bertie, it’s me, Lockhart, your old author, if, that is, you remember.”

“Remember? How the hell could I forget? You burned down my store, you bugger!”

“I’m sorry, Bertie, but I didn’t really do that. It had to be the nefarious agents of certain big shots in Rome. The Vatican, to be precise.”

“Well, you can be as precise as you want, Lockhart, but I still say it’s a crock a shit yer deliverin’ to this old lady. And after I brung ya the proofs, all the way to Seattle.”

“Yes, I admit, Bertie, you’re right about that. And I apologize about the fire. But, you know, authorial authority and all.”

“Yeah, I’ve heard it all, Lockhart. But now that you’ve got me all riled up, why the hell did you call in the first place?”

“I’m trying to reach Differently. Do you know his number?”

“Number? He don’t do numbers. Says they ‘don’t behave.’”

“Yes, he told me.”

“You mean you talked to him?”

“Yes.”

“Well, just call him back then.”

“I’m afraid that’s easier said than done.”

“But what about all your ‘authorial authority’ bull shit? Can’t you just dial 911 and tell ‘em you need to talk to Mr. Differently ASAP?”

“Uh, Bertie . . . “

“Oh, I see. It don’t work that way where Differently lives, right? He lives in La-La Land.”

“Something like that. But, yes, you’re correct, Bertie.”

“Well, you’re a hell of an author, you are, Mister Lockhart. But maybe I can help you out anyway—though I don’t know why I should.”

“You mean you have an idea, Bertie?”

“Of course I got an idea. I got lots of ideas, all the time. Here it is: Just call Anyone.”

“Anyone?”

“Sure. What the hell’s the difference, anyway? You’re bound to get Differently sooner or later.”

“That’s actually a good idea, Bertie. I’ll just start dialing Anyone, and sooner or later I’ll reach Differently. But there’s one more thing.”

“Yeah? Now what?”

“Differently needs some chalk.”

“Oh boy. What did I get messed up in? Just tell him to go down to the dime store and buy a box of chalk.”

“Uh, Bertie, they don’t have dime stores any more, especially where Differently is concerned.”

“Jesus, Joseph and Mary, Lockhart. Are you sure you’re writin’ this crap, or is it writin’ you?”

Bertie was losing patience and began tapping on the cradle with her fingernail.

There was a long silence, apart from the tapping.

“Lockhart? Still there?”

“You want the truth, Bertie?”

“Course I want the truth!”

“I don’t know if I’m here—or there.”

“Well, then it don’t make any difference, does it?”

And with that Bertie hung up on Lockhart, who quickly poured himself another shot of Macallan and took his cat’s cradle string out of his desk drawer, weaving it through his fingers, in hopes of calming his nerves before dialing Anyone.

[Bertie is a main character is Russ’ novel--not in alternating form--entitled, Dreams: The Final Heresy.]