Blind.Faith 2.0.50. Tomasz Tatum

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СКАЧАТЬ semiotic void.

      A queasy feeling gnawed at his stomach for the remainder of that day as they were herded through the mind-numbing procedure of initiating naturalization. Something sinister and unspoken within him seemed to suggest that the ragged old Sonic.Cruzeiro which had so effortlessly carried him through the boundlessness of the heavens had alighted in the midst of some indescribable blur of consciousness. Charles wasn’t sure if he was the only person with this sensation or whether everyone was collectively afflicted. He was eleven years four months sixteen days old on that day. For the first time in his young life that he could ever remember, his new narrative was without any semblance of a suitable beginning. He had just arrived and the first page of this new life was already blank.

      Although he was later unsure whether it might have only been his imagination, he nonetheless thought for a fleeting instant that he could even smell the odor of burning cow dung as the doors of the airplane were opened on the tarmac after their arrival at the terminal.

MEETING THE MACHINE

      Ch.ase paused momentarily as he stood alone and in silence before the closed doors. For what seemed like a small eternity to him, he simply stood, shuffling his feet idly back and forth and glancing nervously at his watch again and again as though he were undecided what he would like to do next. No problem at all, he reassured himself–he was right on time. He took a couple of deep, deliberate breaths and briefly began examining his surroundings again. The comfort of the waiting lounge around him contrasted very noticeably with the otherwise decidedly ascetic impression the rest of the institution projected. The corridors leading into the front lobby were well-lit and airy, incorporating lots of glass and clean, modern architecture. They exuded a welcoming, even cheerful atmosphere to him as well as to any visitors in general. Decorating each of the far corners of this lobby were huge potted palms which he knew were attended for by a hideously expensive horticultural care keeping company to whom the job had been outsourced.

      “Those things must cost a bloody fortune,” he fretted to himself as he mustered the palms. He chuckled to himself: “I ought to make a mental note to check whose budget they hit for those …”

      He had to admit to himself that the palms were stunningly beautiful. Their smooth, dark green leaves sported a waxy gloss reflecting the soft sheen of the many recessed halogen lights that illuminated them from within the high ceiling above. The walls, upon which two oversized and very colorful abstract oil paintings hung, were smoothly plastered and radiated an immaculate, gleaming and very functional white. Glancing outside through the glass doors of the entrance lobby, his view fell on a small car lot lined by two even rows of meticulously-trimmed trees in front of the building, one to the left and one to the right of the parking area. The car lot was completely empty at the moment with the exception of a small three-wheeled service vehicle being driven by a landscaper.

      Ch.ase turned back again to face the wide, heavy double doors and then resolutely pushed the button mounted on a brushed aluminum panel to the right of it. An inquisitive sounding voice responded fairly quickly from a speaker that was discreetly installed directly above the door.

      “Yes?”

      “Ch.ase. Um, Lester. Actually, Warden Ch.ase Lester,” he answered blandly. He looked about in the most casual manner he could consciously muster while he wondered where exactly the concealed closed circuit camera, which he knew had to be observing him at this very moment, might actually be located.

      “OK. Right,” the tinny sounding voice responded from a speaker replied matter-of-factly. “Could you please do me a favor and run your ZipperCard through the reader for me? The, um, Spot.Check is a bit further off to your right. Do you see it?”

      Responding with a slight nod sure to be registered by the camera and a curt grunt of acknowledgement, Ch.ase fumbled the card out of one of the side pockets of his jacket. He swiped it swiftly through the card reader. With a distinct content-sounding peep signaling something that was probably electronic satisfaction, the Spot.Check confirmed the compatibility of ZipperCard and the accompanying VitaMeter, reporting to the system that the identity of the person seeking admission had been satisfactorily determined.

      A few seconds later, the access doors unlatched with a soft click.

      Ch.ase stepped quickly through the door and then stopped dead in his tracks as he entered the room. While he thought that he knew what to expect upon entering, he was nonetheless overwhelmed at first, standing in the entrance access area of the TV studio, dark right now with the exception of a fair-sized, partially lit stage located at the opposite end of the room. Standing alone in the somewhat subdued light on the entrance side of the studio, Ch.ase paused and looked across a hopeless jumble of cable drums, electrical wiring, folding chairs and several stacks of battered corrugated aluminum equipment boxes on wheels and rollers. They haphazardly lined the studio walls left and right of the door through which he had entered just a moment prior.

      Directly before him, not more than perhaps three meters away, were two slightly curved rows of very posh-looking, wide nappa leather seats. The upholstery, soft to the touch as he would quickly discover, was dyed a bright, cheerful magenta color and the seats made the appearance of being extremely comfortable. This arrangement, lovingly nicknamed the Cove among those in the know, formed a kind of wide arc that opened toward the stage ahead of him.

      There were twelve of them. They were the jury seats.

      Located only another meter or two beyond the double row of seats, the slightly elevated stage completely dominated the other side of the studio. At the center stood a single large reclining lounge chair, fairly comfortable looking but mounted on a contraption that resembled a kind of space-age monorail carriage. Bundles of electrical cables snaked across the floor on each side of the stage while others dangled ominously from the steel rafters in the semi-darkness above. Although it was fairly gloomy where he was standing, the stage itself was sharply illuminated by two long rows of spotlights mounted on metal racks that dangled on black chains suspended from the ceiling. Two further racks of lights stood mounted on steel vertical stands on wheels and another two, with lamps of varying colors, on pedestals to the left and right of the monorail. These two batteries of spotlights were switched off. At the forward end of the stage, a small flight of low stairs, consisting of three steel mesh steps, led upward and toward the monorail-mounted lounge chair. Three television cameras on dollies, all facing downward at about a forty five-degree angle with vinyl covers over the visor screens, blind and mute at this moment, were lined up on the left hand side of the studio.

      Ch.ase continued to stand pensively as he momentarily tried to absorb the feel and the emptiness of the seemingly abandoned studio. For a fleeting instant, he sensed that only few places were capable of exuding this kind of ethereal atmosphere. Although he was sure that this forlorn, longing sensation was universally recognizable–it was a feeling of void and emptiness that could only be experienced while standing center-stage and in the spotlight, probably familiar to nearly everyone at one brief instant or another in their lives–he felt certain that it was likely never committed firmly to memory by more than a few people.

      It was a sensation that was authentic and recognizable only when one was actually being subjected to it. It almost defied conscious recollection.

      It was an atmosphere that resisted description despite the inherent fleeting subconscious familiarity it possessed. It was not at all unlike the tentative aura which persists for a short instant of time, the hushed quiet after the final curtain has fallen in the theater and the lights begin to go up.

      A vacuum, an exhaustive quiet like that which envelops a stadium after the last game of the season has ended, the balls are being packed away and everyone but the gatekeeper has gone home.

      Or as people wordlessly rise to leave a cinema after the film has ended and the lighting has come on СКАЧАТЬ