A Fallow Soul

Progress

2004-11-13T18:31:00.000-08:00

To the management:

I realize that I’ve not written in quite some time. Know that I have been properly chastened by your most recent response. I must speak on the matter of Mr. Stevenson’s possession of late.

While you may be concerned about Stevenson’s current plight, rest assured that this bodes naught but well for our machinations. As you know from previous attempts, this erratic behavior is a necessary side-effect of our progress. Unlike our previous attempts—and one in particular, which I’ll not mention because I know it currently weighs heavily in your thoughts—Stevenson has not taken an oppositional stance to the enabler of his delusions. Yes, he may fume and rage, and yes, he may break a glass vase over my head, yet his curses are but terms of endearment. Otherwise, he whines and blubbers and laments his sadness, all the while embracing me closer and falling further into drink. This makes him much more pliable to my task. Before this recent alcoholic apoplexy, I had to furtively dodge Mr. Stevenson’s attentions in order to find a ripe moment and an open milk carton of juice bottle. Now, I have but to offer to pour him a drink, retiring to the kitchen where I may feel free to partially disrobe and discharge my duty without threat of discovery.

Rather than pointing to the danger of Mr. Stevenson’s condition, I would argue that out current situation further cements my previous argument that this is no job for a Soldier. Had any mercenary been called in, Mr. Stevenson would have been irrevocably lost to us. This task should rest in the hands of an Actor, and does so comfortably.

A Child's argument, yet older than myself

2004-11-04T22:04:00.000-08:00

Damned sophist! He could have done better.

A Report

2004-10-23T13:31:00.000-07:00

You already know one of the unfortunate consequences of an Actor’s taking on a role for an extended period: said Actor begins to succumb to said role. This is not a weakness of one or another Actor; it is in our NATURE. Let me please remind the Management that those of you who exercised your preferment for me—that is, those of you who foresaw the inefficacy of recruiting a vile and mercenary Soldier—knew full well that this task would be made more difficult by the challenges I undertake in my presentation. For the Soldier, though, the task would be impossible. Do not think that, by stating these givens, I mean to disparage the previous efforts of The General. Rather, I plead that you not be so quick in your censure of my seeming.

My report of that day’s events--not an apology in either sense of the word--is as follows:

Stevenson had lent me several books when I saw him last. Of these books, one in particular had caught my attention: The Stranger, by one Albert Camus. I had just finished reading a scene wherein the main character takes a stroll on a beach when I myself fancied a constitutional. Or, rather, I found myself walking in the woods not far from Stevenson’s house. As I approached Rosemary Manor (now ignobly renamed Casa Stevenson), I saw a figure sitting on a stump. I approached within fifty yards of the figure, ascertaining that it was, in fact, Stevenson himself. He was sitting with his back turned to me, smoking a cigarette.

A breeze pushed me onward. I wanted to stop, but I found myself blustered along by wind. I took a few steps toward the stump. Stevenson didn’t move. The sun came out from behind the clouds, and the heavens seemed opened up. Waves of light and heat poured down on me as if a fiery demon was bathing me in anti-providential fires. I felt perspiration beading on my forehead. The zephyr still pushed me onward, but the waves of light and heat crashed down on my head and shoulders. The heat poured, the breeze pushed, the sweat stung my eyes. The sun was the same as it had been the day I’d buried Rosemary, and like then, the veins in my forehead throbbed painfully beneath my ill-fitting skin. I could stay or go. I struggled to think through my drunken fever. The rifle butt fit came to rest against my shoulder. I could shoot or not shoot. I waited. The waves crashed down on me, tongues of fire piercing and carrying me out of myself. I felt the far-off klaxons of my throbbing temples. My hands tensed as my slippery-skinned finger applied pressure. The trigger gave.

Click. There, in that noise, is where it all ends. I had left the rifle’s safety catch on. Clouds once more passed before the sun. I shook off the sun and sweat, dimly aware that Stevenson was now in the throes of an apoplectic fit. I stood for a few moments, cooling from the sun and sobering a bit, still locked in the same bodily position.

“What the fuck are you doing, Wilbur?” With these words, my surroundings came crashing back into focus, and I realized that I was still pointing my gun at Stevenson. From his movements, I ascertained the presence of Mr. Martin Pangloss. Giddy at finally seeing the extatick ruination of Stevenson, I called him by the name of Pangloss. You can read the rest on Stevenson’s blog: how I had misjudged his fit, how he reacted to the rifle, how he decided that I had been trying to kill him.

You will be happy to know that I have just now re-entered the good graces of Mr. Stevenson. I came to his door, presented him with several dead hares and a raccoon, and duly convinced him that I had been hunting when I came upon him. As for my utterance of “Pangloss,” my explanation was so rooted in the character of Wilbur that he gave no thought to any ulterior meaning. He was finally able to accept my sincere apology for leveling the rifle at him.

An Explanation

2004-10-22T15:54:00.000-07:00

You must understand that matters are not exactly as Stevenson depicted them. As is usual, he has twisted the story a bit. See my report for a full explanation.

Hunting, sans hounds

2004-10-21T16:11:00.000-07:00

I’ve spent the last week learning how to hunt. True, in previous roles I have hunted, but in those cases I hunted with nobility, only approaching game that had been pinned down, cornered, or treed by dogs. Now, I roam the hills, trying to shoot anything I see. Unfortunately, without dogs or footmen to help me in the chase, any prey worth shooting senses my presence and flees before I even set eyes upon it.

For reasons unimportant to the readership, I’ve taken up this new pastime in order to establish a certain authenticity with Mr. Stevenson. He expects me to be a mountain man of means, so I must oblige by delivering some game to him. So far, I’ve but one kill to my name: a jackrabbit shot at nearly point-blank range with one of Rosemary’s old shotguns. As one might expect, the rabbit was very nearly obliterated by the blast. Hardly a trophy to bring to dear Mr. Stevenson.

The disappearance of Mr. Stevenson

2004-10-18T18:53:00.000-07:00

I've not been allowed entrance into the Stevenson household for almost two weeks now. I suspect that his wife is somehow influencing his decision to ignore my visits to his door, but Stevenson has previously revealed to me in confidence that she completely withholds from speaking to him.

What strangeness lurks in the Rosemary Mansion? Mr. Pangloss Martin, are you still with us?

One thing is certain: I must find out what has happened to Mr. Stevenson.

The reappearance of Mr. Martin

2004-10-14T21:17:00.000-07:00

Ha! Good show, Mr. Stevenson. Surely, the more he marionette-mouths his posts, the less visitors will bother to read his blog. Or, when the time comes, the less anyone will bother to pay attention to his very real distress.

Welcome back, Mr. Martin! We drink to your health.

All Quiet at Stevenson Manor

2004-10-11T18:30:00.000-07:00

Quiet. Eerily quiet. I know not what to make of this. No visitation for days.

No Contact

2004-10-09T01:21:00.000-07:00

I've been unable to make contact these last few days. I can only assume that his illness is getting worse. Last night, I hid in the bushes outside the manor. I heard Stevenson screaming, but couldn't make out anything other than the word, "Montresor," repeated six or seven times.

The wife is astir. I've not seen her around the shack, but I've taken the precaution of boarding up the windows. I'll not again make the mistake of underestimating her.

Spied Upon

2004-10-05T19:06:00.000-07:00

That damn woman of his knows too much. She may act the madwoman, but she must suspect something. Last night, as I was leving my shack to relieve myself, I noticed an odd shape amidst the bushes. This odd shape was none other than our subject's odd wife, Ruthie. She stood stock-still until I called out to her by name, at which point she ran off in the direction of the Stevenson house. Or, I should say, she ran off in the direction of the former manor of Dr. Ichabod Rosemary.

In the instant before she bolted, I caught her gaze in the lantern light. She seemed as if in reverie. How long had she been standing there? What had she seen? If she had been able to look through my window, would she have seen some hint of my purpose, some untended seam in my role? Curse that woman! As if living with that bore wasn't curse enough.

As for her husband, I am in his good graces. As you've read from his post, he gave me some literature to read. I couldn't resist translating an exegesis into Wilbur-speak. It's a shame that Mr. Stevenson is such a pusillanimous worm; while my collection of books was always nearby during my luxurious exile, I now long for meaningful conversation. But Stevenson's ego must be caressed, and therefore I must wait until after this task is finished to find better company in which to act the philosophe.

Falsehoods

2004-09-27T23:22:00.000-07:00

Liar! This was HIS imprisonment in an asylum, HIS dementia. I wonder if he believes his own falsifications. No matter. If we sent him into an insane asylum once, and into a coma next, surely success awaits us at present.

Greetings, Actors

2004-09-22T20:26:00.000-07:00

You will, no doubt, have been following Mr. Stevenson’s missives for some time now. I imagine that you are the only readers of this insipid man’s internet postings beyond his so-called friends, Avram and Brian.

I eagerly await the hour I will no longer have to suffer this man’s company.

I must offer thanks to those who participated in influencing those marginal characters to our little grotesquerie: his accursed wife, the real estate agent, the employer. Our work is soon coming to fruition; moreover, he has so little knowledge of the powers at work around him as to assume that he is exerting some measure of control over his situation. With such unwary vanity in play, it promises to be a short time before our subject is our subject no more.

Until then, I must play the Friday to his Crusoe: I help him keep what he thinks is sanity by feigning ignorance to his paltry conception of “taste” and “delicacy.” Let HIM scour Europe for ancient relics and long-forgotten tomes, let HIM muster the self-discipline to willfully forego luxurious opulence to live in a hole under a corrugated iron shack, Let HIM calmly endure the daily calumnies of unforgivable condescention. Only then will he see how delicately I have regulated myself to his sentiments.

But I digress: we Actors suffer a too-subtle attachment to our roles. Let me be blunt: is certain that he will soon be effaced. For those of you wishing to see the progress of his effacement, I will bury my own links within his posts—usually in an inconspicuous punctuation mark or a short word buried in the middle of longer entries, and usually some time after he has posted his material.

This would be a dangerous game if he were not so ignorant to his own nature. He knows not himself, and therefore cannot hope to know others. Just yesterday, he showed me his little blog, instructing me in the “marvels,” as he put it, of the internet. The pedant happily told me his password, “delicacy,” in order to make himself feel as if he were the bearer of exstatick knowledge. How could he have known that when I returned to this country, my host revealed a wealth of information on all things technological. Therefore, I can happily relate that I have control over his “happy” blog.

I’ll not wax poetic about our work—we are all aware of its enormity—so I will simply say that our drama is nearing its final act.

2004-09-15T23:23:00.000-07:00

Made contact yesterday.

A Summons

2004-09-14T18:41:00.000-07:00

Wait, faithful ones, for soon shall I yet again have need of your services.