Concert: Meal and Self

Concert: Meal and Self

In a desert a man stands propped against an amplifier. A bass was suspended from his neck on a strap. He could play well, but was no Les Claypool. The power cord ran from the back of the amp into the sand.

All along the horizon—which was the mouth of the earth—there were many plateaus—which were the teeth. A full mouth constantly. The bass player wondered why it wouldn’t swallow, but was glad that it hadn’t.

The bass shook. He was amazed that in this desert heat it was still alive. Of course, he couldn’t remember coming here; he just knew that he was here. He had no memories before this moment, which hardly seemed important now, as he realized that the past few minutes were his entire life.

He played the scales on his bass and it flopped about on the strap aggressively. It was amplified quite loudly and produced a beautiful sound that no man would ever hear.

The man was tired of playing and so laid the bass on the ground. The land spasmed as if shaken from a bad dream. In the first few minutes of his existence he’d already made a mistake. The earth’s mouth was full of hot desert cake and any man can see that fish and cake do not mix.

The ground funneled down and the sand dragged the amplified fish—which was squealing with feedback—with it. Good Lord, he thought, am I really to be punished so harshly?

The plateaus in the north rose along with their counterparts in the south to meet, bending the plain like a secret note passed in a classroom. As the sand shifted down on him the sky seemed to go out. At his last moment, his first word met his last in the same statement.

“I am.”

And then all was well in the world.