“A few of the guys get together once a month at this place just to, kind of keep in touch, you know. With things. Not the way things were, but things as they are now. See, we were all in the Institute together, and sometimes things out here in reality can get, uh… kinda unfamiliar, if you know what I mean.

So every Friday we come to this place and sit around awhile and just talk. And eat. And this is where the wierdness started to creep back in. See, everything was real normal for a while after they said I had been rehabilitated, and everything. I didn’t see anymore of those animal-headed people or anything, and the prescriptions helped me to sleep at night. Then I looked through the door…

See, from where I sit I can see into the kitchen when the waiters go through those batwing doors with their trays. I can see right to the back of the kitchen to where they have this tiny refrigerator up against the far wall. And every time the four of us order anything, it comes straight out of that fridge. The chef just takes out four plates, and heats them up in the microwave oven. But the thing is, see, the fridge is only big enough to hold four plates, and no more.

Then a waiter, dressed in those white shirts you always see them in, the ones with the restaurant’s logo on the front, brings us the food. I don’t eat animals anymore, not after it got so I couldn’t distinguish them from people, or was it the other way around? Anyway, the waiter brings us the food and everyone just eats it. Like they didn’t notice that it only takes ten minutes or so to get your food, no matter what you order.

So I tried to trick them. I thought I’d decide on something to eat before I got there, then just say what was on my mind when the waiter came around. Without looking at the menu. And that’s exactly what I did. I pretended to read the menu. But I really didn’t look at it at all. Then I ordered a salad. And a glass of water, instead of my usual glass of wine.

The waiter went straight through to the kitchen, and before the batwing doors stopped flapping, I saw him take our four plates out of the fridge. Then he leaned back in, and came out holding a glass of water. I could even see the ice cubes floating in it, unmelted.

It got so bad, then, sitting there and just knowing that even a waiter in a restaurant, even a waiter with one of those shirts as white as a blank sheet of paper, could know what I was thinking before I did, that I stood up and demanded in a thin voice all stretched out like this sentence, to see the owner of the restuarant. If the waiter knew so much about me, imagine what the owner knew…

Bewilderment. That’s all I saw in his eyes. They were all swirly, like a cartoon idiot’s, like the logo on his shirt. Like too much ink had been spilled on the white page of his face. Then he said, “ Don’t you know who you are, Mr ___?”

To me, he looked just like an animal.

 ...

Next time I go there, I set a trap. I  wear my white shirt. I order a glass of red wine, first. I look at the menu. I bide my time.

The waiter also wears a white shirt. That’s alright, I know who is who. Or what. I hide behind the menu, waiting. I smile, even. Just a little. Just so my teeth show.

The menu is of plain white cardboard, folded over once. In the middle, the meat of the matter. The contents of the fridge. My heart’s desire. Anything.

Eventually, I order Angel-wing Soup. Item number 4. This I do with nonchalance. It isn’t even there, but I say it like it was. I roll the words around in my mouth for a while, liking the taste of them. Then I spit them out. Four syllables.

My smile is a little wider now. I look up, wanting to see the look of confusion on the smug waiter’s face, wanting to see the quiver in his lip. The denial. I want to see that he sees that I know that he knows that there are no angels in his refrigerator.”

*

“He has his little notepad clutched in his paws before him like he always does. Looks like a squirrel looking for his nuts. Nuts? He writes on his pad. Shows me. I shake my head. Today I think I’ll have the caribou. It’s my restaurant, after all.”

The Ancient Game of Bhat

It is written that to have twelve feelings is to have life…

Within us is the demon of the Bhat, or the ‘one life’. To release the Bhat from our bodies, that we may live many lives, we must play the game of ‘The Shedding Of The Layers’.

As its hidden face may not be looked upon, the demon of the bhat needs a ‘place of substance’ to live within. It chooses to live within the wrappings of our flesh. If we hold a stone in one hand & say the ‘Words Of Displacement’, the demon will temporarily be transported into the substance of the stone.

The game, A Shedding Of Layers’, is played to keep ‘the creature of the  one life’ trapped in its new dwelling. A fabric of feelings must be embroidered for the stone to fool the Bhat. In this way the stone seems to have the potential for life, & is animated by the demon. Thus are we free to live many lives.

So it is written. So it is.

These few words are to be uttered:

“Indri li amin,

 indri lah abh,t:

Indri lahli alendrin

lalendri zin ahat.”

Translation:

“We come together,

we come apart:

we live forever

when we touch the heart.”

Thereafter, all present are in turn to shed a unique feeling in order to clothe the stone in ‘The Twelve Feelings’. To shed a feeling, one must express in as many ways possible that feeling, sharing it between all present.

Thus is the stone exposed. & thus is it clothed. We are free…

The Ritual of the Stone

Here I stand unshed

Upon the naked ground,

My feelings from me bled,

Gathering around

Me in the emptiness

Like the first sound

From an opened mouth.

Issued from a mother’s mound,

Swollen with growth;

Emptied once round.

As in flesh we are dressed

To live the one life alone

Like the demon in the stone 

Translated from the words

Of the First Poem Of The Shedding

By

The Fakir of the Bhat

"you do, of course, notice the acacia bayleana," said the horticulturist, twiggy growths sprouting from his gesticulating fingers, "not indigenous of course: an australian invader. the poisonous wax tree... there!" again he pointed, his voice as sombre as the progress of a ladybug over bark.

the foliage of my mind rustled as tubers, so pale & fat, distended pendulously from his breast.

"podo-carpus, which is, of course, a different species to celtis africana, is such a delightful example of floral architecture," said he, & the rustlings of my mind grew both louder & further away, like the secret movement of insects in the undergrowth.

the fleshy words of the horticulturist grew as vines, their tendrils seeking out the moist hollows of my mouth. i fed greedily on the words, & when they sprouted no longer from his lips, i fed greedily on the horticulturist. you see, i am an insect. of course.

a cadillac full of hard-eyed grannies

...the reptilian hiss of rubber rolling over rotting snow... the monotone of windscreen wipers... the smell of hot metal, ozone & age...

a menagerie of elegantly preserved old ladies in horn-rimmed glasses peer at me like bloated fish through the armour-plated-shatter-proof-safety-glass (retail price $69-99) of the cadillac. exposed in the burning glare of the steel machine's eyes, & to the dimmer fire of the eyes within, i grasp at my thin white now blood-red ankleflesh. naked & humble i partially hide myself by crouching on the verge of the road. inside the machine, i see one of the old creatures lift a fruit (an apple oh! sweet temptation) to her mouth & lasciviously sink her teeth (false they must be false at her age) into its flesh. a door clicks open...

 i slide over chiffon smelling faintly of facial powder (corruption?), adorned with pearls, heavy brooches, other trinkets of the aged. i draw the decaying musk deep into my lungs. then the embrace between the flesh-like leather seats & my own eager skin is lost. i slide down into a world of stilettoed heels & corn pads. strange, these high heels. i begin to say... but my words are timid animals trapped in my ribcage.

old, old vultures, the row of grannies in the rear seat of the cadillac, peering, leering down at me. hands folded in their laps with the polite boredom of the old. tarnished the rings on their withered, arthritic fingers shine with the lustre of cairngorm: yellowed & ageless. i attempt to raise my torso from its awkward position on the floor in order to see these creatures more closely. a stiletto to my windpipe transfixes me, ending thought & movement with needle-like finality. darkness comes like an old lover.

the breasts are flaccidly pendulous, hanging with a warmly comforting weight. not at all frightening. they are... almost... like me. & besides, it is rather hard down here on the floor. they are a gentle cushion to me. no, its not frightening at all to have breasts. it's the chiffon dress that disturbs me. not my colour at all. too green. i prefer something darker. the purple of the belladonna flower beneath the half moon. still, perhaps it is only my eyes. for it is rather dark down here. & i seem to remember having trouble with focussing of late. i must try to find my dear little horn-rimmed spectacles. they have quaint little rubies studded in the frame, you know.

"did you find what you were looking for down there, dearie?" asked the one they called agnes. the driver.

"why, yes... yes, i think i did!" rasped my own voice from somewhere underneath the gas pedal. & sucking my false teeth into what seems to be their old, accustomed place i heft my perfumed body, comfortable with wrinkles, into what seems to be its old, accustomed place next to agnes in the passenger seat. smoothing down my creased dress over my aged thighs, i feel the cadillac's engine gun powerfully, & we hiss sibilantly over the snow.

 twilight is approaching as a voice coos over my right shoulder: "there's another poor, lost creature at twelve o' clock, agnes!"

i fumble arthritically at the gleaming chrome door handle, vaguely aware of a desperate need to flee the cadillac; the elegantly preserved fossils in horn rimmed glasses & junk-shop jewelry. but i can't exactly remember why. & besides, it would be foolish to run at my age. especially seeing that i was wearing stilettos. it could be dangerous out there in the snow. i could...

the door clicks open & a bundle of snow & fear is clawing over the wrinkles & pearls & sagging flesh that is me. another boy. it slides onto the floor. young & wet & frightened. peering up from between the gas pedal & agnes' left foot at our dippity-do hairstyles & vulturine smiles. & with the delicate precision of the old & fragile i plant the heel of my shoe in the side of his neck. adjusting her pearl horn rims, aggie guns the engine. & with a reptilian hiss we move on over the snow.

"adam's apple, anyone?" i ask. overhead, the moon turns a blind eye.