In Μεγάλη Ἑλλάς, the Spartan and John C
Have become stranded onto a space islet.
The comet currents are strong, the rocks are
Edgy. Strict Catonian dialogue between the
Two itinerant soldiers, who are now
measuring up to the faults of their forefathers.
The echo of their bones is Beckettian.
A fool’s errand, the search of the White Whale.
Lost in the sea of time and space, they watch
Ariadne’s dreams floating by, a long night of
Forrader stars, past present and future ideas
Howling in the galaxy, longing. Aliens, viruses.
Memes waiting in the shadows, their shape
Unknown. History is unchained, the unbridled
Phaeton ride, Icarus flight, Leander swim.
Ripped up old stories, rehash’d vision-spectres.
‘Now as I was young and easy’, quotes John C
‘A lifetime away, a good night’s sleep. Spirits
came and went. Methought a serpent ate my
heart away.’ Spartan smiles: ‘Look at Ursa Minor,
now we know how those stars are arranged. A
moment’s illusion. Any coordinate system will
do.’ John C is not satified: ‘ Thus, cocoa needs
cooking in the saucepan. I shan’t die a naturalist.’
‘Let me tell you a story, John C. I shall be a reliable
Narraror. Maybe. This feels very much like the
Endgame. There once was a silver mine, and you
Were privy to its treasures. You were king of the
Castle.’ The Spartan; telling unreliable stories,
Weeping like a panther-knight, impervious to
History. ‘History is bunk. That is the beginning
Of the tale. After all your walks, and key-boards
Your cats, your dogs, your myths and Dogs,
You have come to shore up your ruins onto
This rock in the ocean, sharing your fate with
Me. I pity you, John C. Your memory is befudged.’
‘But more of that later. I have read the stars,
And it doesn’t look good for you. You’ve lost
Ground. The upper balance of your Psyche is
Besmirched with confusion. Let me set it straight.’
‘We shall begin with the tale of your origin.
Whence have you sprung from? Froth? Licked
Out of salt stone? Do you know anything at all?
I tell you, your spirits are off the chart. It is time
To redefine your course, to trace the illusion
Of your identity, so as to cure yourself of the
Sickness of ignorance, confounded conscious
Ness. Your lake is deep and cold. Now, swim.’