It's nothing like opening a door,
more like, making a move in mahjongg.
Boltzmann could define
if for me; Dirac could simplify
the math; Frost would mourn
it's passing.
It's still not opening a door.
An open door is not a door.
Much like a broken window...
Plato could do this better.
They don't do anything.
We turn the knob;
exert a force.
The door has no story.
If only that door could talk...
Maybe it would lie.
Tell you a cat,
to quote Schroedinger, instead
of a tiger.
And, if they could talk, what rights
would we have?
Would we still be able
to go outside (the cat
subverting) the room by removing
the hinges?
Like most of our inventions
they're admirable and efficient,
but that which defines them
destroys them and only we
can revive them...
by choice.
It's a door's life
and it's its story,
and that fits.
Ours is nothing like opening one.
--------------------------------------------
First written in the fall of 1991, this and Escher were the first two pieces conceived after I'd sworn off writing workshops. Inspired by the layout of the Atlanta Hilton.
3 comments:
Sounds more like it was inspired by Ubik by Philip K. Dick.
That's funny you mention that, as I forgot to add the epigraph to this (I was transcribing this from memory),
which is from UBIK (and also happens to be my most favorite book).
The epigraph is:
"I'll sue you," the door cried as the first screw fell out.
"I've never been sued by a door, I guess I'll have to take my chances," said Joe Chip.
Cathline pinned my arms,her breasts, just nudging my face. Surveillance cameras show you were at the hotel inBuckhead this evening when all hell broke loose.
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Cathline pinned my arms,her breasts, just nudging my face. Surveillance cameras show you were at the hotel inBuckhead this evening when all hell broke loose.
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