Zak's Journal Entries
We wanted, got most of what we needed, didn't hurt anybody who couldn't take the hurt easy. We were sitting on top of the world, like the old songs say. Strange, you think about it: I don't remember anybody else doing old songs, library books, only me.
Karo did wall hanging things, like frozen videos she called "oil paintings." Arla did old music that didn't have songs in it. Zak said, "You don't always have to sing along; you can let it go by itself." We were all sitting on top of the world. Except we weren't on the top. We were on the bottom, in the abandoned basements with the junction boxes. We were shiny and glad, but the other worlds were big and mean, and the glad didn't last. I miss Arla, and I hope she wasn't wrong. I guess I'll never know.
Pentagon Days: Cutting Words
I looked over the words I cut last night. Zak said, "You're not blindly cohesive." It wasn't hard to understand. Two days in the Pentagon involved nothing to grab, waking up, eating, walking the corridors clockwise, eating, and sleeping or not. While you can't sleep, there's the net to cut words into. The first night, I wanted to break the net box, I wanted to break it all, but cooler heads prevailed. Where did I hear that? Some 20th-century videocassette, probably.
There weren't any heads but my own, and that one wasn't so cool. But I must have had enough sense not to break the place I was going to spend the rest of my life. My life. I cut the words last night, and they're cut and burned, and I can't get them back.
So I'm cutting words for the ages, or at least for the FWA, the Free World Alliance. The name might be made more accurate, and I'll try to make what I say understandable to young and old. Where did that come from? But Lancaster and Gina Lolla? Are there any circuses any more? Not in the corridors of the Pentagon. The Theory
I cut words for the ages. Maybe just for William Devlin, Mr. Devlin, sir. But I pretend the words will last, the story goes pervasive, Century 21 meets Winnie The Pooh. Not Mr. Toad, of course, Mr. Devlin, perish forbid. Oh no, Zak, your tame Sixth Worlder is completely absolutely indubitably under your control. Nothing will break, everything will be glad again. You know none of this can leak back to the Sixth World, maybe Seventh by now, or you wouldn't let me cut the words. They're for the ages.
I feel fine, never better. No problems there. I could do pushups with my left hand while I'm cutting words with my right. Not likely for a net felon locked in the Pentagon to feel so good.
I think bizarro. I'm OK now, but the words I cut the last two nights were clearly not cool-headed. Not clear-headed.
Dope. Kindly Mr. Devlin and the Eff Wubble You A are building my body and breaking my brain. Steroids, hallucinogenics, wish I knew, old Karo could tell.
Karo. Karo would have the sense to say, "Zak! You cut your nice theory flat into the net! For half an hour, you couldn't unhook your fingers from the part of your brain you found in the morning light??" Right, Karo, you're right. Erase today, breakfast's coming.
Missing People
Nothing tonight or last night. Waiting for more cooler heads to show up, then maybe we can all prevail. Like a tree that stands before the water. Where's Karo? Where's Arla?
Daddy said a friend's better than a password. Hard to believe Daddy was right, even one time. But he held some good songs, on those big black vinyl disks. "Stone cold dead in the market." Daddy hit the streets, the market, the bricks, the riot cops. I hit the tunnels, the basements, the cables. Daddy, I still hold the songs. "Delia's gone. One more round."
Arla's gone. It's dope, yeah, it must be dope, but I miss the people. I miss Daddy, he's dead. I miss Karo and Arla, they're probably dead, but that won't keep me from missing them. And I miss my BLADES. Maybe more than the people, and that's a bizarro thought, but I MISS MY BLADES!
Pentagon Farm
Sittin' down here in Pentagon Farm. No cooler heads here yet. Gettin' ready to break things here, boss. Only glad thing is I can still cut words.
No no, they can't take that away from me, but they could, and I don't know why they don't. What do they, what does Mr. Devlin, have me here for? What do they want me to do? "You got me doing what you wanna, Baby, Baby, what you want me to do?"
W. A. Devlin: Memo Fax
*17/05/27*
*From: W. A. Devlin*
*To: P. B. McGuire*
Keep a watch on the new inmates, Pete. Nice job your team did on grabbing the little spiders. Karo the tarantula, Arla the black widow