Archive for the ‘Fiction’ Category

A Cog of God

Tuesday, March 22nd, 2011

If I were a whirling dervish, first I'd attach crayons to the ends of two long poles, which would in turn be fastened to my wrists, and as I whirled I'd make spirographic patterns on large sheets of butcher's paper laid out on the floor. I'd sell the paper to tourists, or to crackpots intent on developing some kind of sacred dervish geometry.

I'd save up the money, and after a little while, I'd buy a furry mouse toy, probably one that squeaked on impact. I'd sew the mouse's tail to the hem of my dervish skirt. I'd also buy an elaborate crazy straw. With the rest of the money I'd buy two turbines; one fairly small with only a few long, thin blades, with a flat nose at the center, and one fairly large, with a very long nose, attached on the other end to the ceiling of my dervish temple. The very long nose would have a special end cut to fit perfectly into my hollow fez.

With the turbines in place, I'd find a stray cat. The cat's hind legs would be tied, loosely, to one of the blades of the small turbine, which would be laid only slightly above the floor. I would probably give him some catnip before placing the straw in my mouth and starting to go into my trance. Then I would stand on the flat nose of the small turbine, and connect my fez with the long nose of the large turbine, and I would spin, the toy mouse flying around in a circle and prompting the cat to pull the blade attached to its legs while the long nose nestled in my hat would spin with me.

I would, of course, before all of this, connect the turbines to proper gearboxes and generators, feeding into a transformer which would power a set of small electric burners strategically placed beneath a number of beakers, these items having also been purchased with the money earned from tourists and crackpots. The fluid from the beakers would slowly drip into a glass canal connecting each, the mixture producing a steady supply of dimenhydrinate, the active ingredient in Dramamine. Every hour, marked by the familiar sound of my mahogany cuckoo clock, which I would not have to purchase separately, it being the treasured and only relic of my pre-religious foray into antiquing, I would tilt my head slightly and catch the end of my straw in a pool of dimenhydrinate leaked by an outlet in the glass canal, making contact for just a moment mid-spin to suck down a tiny dose. And I would spin, then, and spin, free and not the slightest bit dizzy, a cog of god.

Sadly, though, I don't think I'd ever get the cat to also use a crazy straw.