The Transcriber Part 3

Feb 5, 2010, 2:29 AM |

The Transcriber Part 3

Nothing was going according to plan. Syro Ganderton hated it when his morning ritual was disturbed. But today it had been. Coffee, near asphyxiation and then turning his attention to his prized sculptures, picturing himself with them in a picturesque garden, highlighting the glories of nature for all passersby to see. His fantasies determined a moral and spiritual compass that would direct him in the course of each day, and today, it had been seriously tampered, leading to embellished exasperation and frustration. Well, that is, it would have led to such an outcome, if people could tell the difference. But Syro Ganderton was what most people would call a madman. Complete and utterly twisted, but a genius – a gifted abomination if you will. Syro Ganderton would certainly have loved to be called that – the fan of double coding that he was – in both a literal and intertextual sense.

Unfortunately, his genius extended only to the metaphysical and anti-realistic, having taught himself how to construct identities for himself and convince his psyche to alter physical characteristics because of his complete mastery of the mechanism his brain operated under. He was, in fact, the creator of a completely new branch of ‘science’ – Automodification – and all in his mind, he was composing a thesis to publish his findings and explain to the wider public how focusing one’s mind on the double helixes in one’s body to such an extent that the strands could actually be telekinetically manipulated, could actually lead to the cure for many existing diseases. Of course there were 3 main obstacles in Ganderton’s way: first, his thoughts only made sense to him because they were in some language endemic only to the realms of his mind, second, he was trapped in a room with red walls and thirdly, it was his fate to die long before it would be completed.

But right now, as he was frantically edgy, he was pacing up and down alongside his bed, glancing at the red walls he had known for quite a long time now – for Ganderton too in all his genius had not yet comprehended the nature of human time, making him either an individual that would struggle to function in any type of society or a self-proclaimed deity – and awaiting the next ‘gift’. And what a variety of objects the gifts were – they all seemed individually tailored and delivered to specifically match the cravings of his subconsciousness, because every reward would seem to refocus him on a particularly arduous and inane task – although one could question what else would be to do in a plain and initially quite unimaginatively decorated room. But now, as he turned a surveyed the room, he saw coffee beans, a pillow, a red button, some outdated regalia – but what difference would that have made anyway – and of course his prized statues, the epitome of fantastical satisfaction. Then there in the corner was a desk, with a book, a pen and a large pad of paper on it.

How Syro wished to right the haphazard course his existence had taken after the last awakening, but he knew that he would have his time with the statues later. What was he saying? He’d never been able to allow himself to be captivated by the statues ever again. Not if he was to carry out his plan. Not if he was to break free of the stranglehold of his invisible subjugators. Not if he was to save a life, perhaps many. But the time wasn’t right yet. They were watching. Always watching. He had to comply – at least for now.

He sat himself down at the desk, and picked up the pen. He put aside the 400 pages of paper he had already filled with carefully transcribed ink, and set a fresh blank sheet in front of him. Opening the book to the page he was up to, he began to write. He wasn’t sure what he was writing down. Frankly, he had no idea, he couldn’t read. But he knew it was a terribly important pursuit.

The gifts always come when I am conscientious. I must be conscientious.

His shaking hand led to frequent errors and blemishes in his transcription, forcing him to rip the sheet into shreds and scatter them like snowdrops over his raging self. Using his utterly persuasive mind, he calmed himself down – this was all very important, it was all necessary. Then, on a new sheet, he tried again. He tried until he could try no more. He tried until he could no longer stay awake.

When he awoke for the next time, the snow was gone. And in its place stood a shining marble statuette.