the Darkest of Places
Dunkelheit: German noun for darkness, an absence of light.
1. the Depths of Hope
One thing you need, is stamina.
Hunting an idea is never a straight and narrow ordeal. They like to take tight corners down dark alleys and up fire escapes.
I’ve seen countless variations of bright eyes and bushy tails wanting to catch that fabled lightning in a bottle, and none the wiser to the stakes at play, or the responsibilities of holding an idea.
This particular one wasn’t rare, but it had a good price on its head. My own was underneath a mountain of debt and alimony, that any gig seemed like a decent dent at the time.
Down the drainage ditch, different tactics are required. Shining my torch led to discovery, the drainage ‘ditch’ was more of a dank dead end blocked by imagination-fat.
Waiting is the only option, sitting next to a sewer smelling hidey-hole on a Saturday night was not a night on the town I was thinking of. Watching thoughts float by, wet dreams who should have swiped left a little too late. Dark deed denizens prayed the streets, newspapers used as blankets by abandoned dreams with a bold headline reading ‘HOMICIDE’.
Stamina, quickness, and now patience was the key. My ass, numb from the cold concrete, just waiting. Ideas scurried into dark recesses, small spots where ideas cant be harmed.
This one had it bad, ran and hid like it did. They all have it bad.
“I’m sorry you’re having a rough night, I’d ask you what happened but we both know that answer.”
Soft whimpers emanate from the shadow, like bass strings.
“You’re a song?”
The whimpering stopped.
“It’s okay, I know lots of songs. I caught the bass line that’s why I said something. What else have you got?”
It started small, a few chords, a beat next. It was small, couldn’t have been more than a chorus.
It had a good part that reminded me of something my ex-wife said once.
“Take it slow, you’re only a one man show.”
I was getting lost in the melodic rhythm, I nearly didn’t see it pop out, getting lost in its own melody.
Before it knew what was happening it was in a bag over my shoulder.
2. the Best in Show
“What’s your title?”
I tried talking to the bag with little improvement to the stress I was causing the idea inside of it. It was restless, angry, I would be too.
I try to light up a cigarette on my way to the dealer but abandon the notion.
“You know, I really shouldn’t be smoking,” I say to the bag. “After all, I’m not thirty anymore, I’m thirty one.”
I grin, the bag kicks more.
“Okay, no small talk, we’re almost there anyway.”
‘There’ was actually a ‘someone’, a certain someone named The Breeder, and he said he would pay top notch for any ideas thrown his way.
I had my ticket out of debt. Time to collect.
The Breeder’s door was misshapen form barely recognizable to its intended purpose, yet quite tame compared to the rest of the house. I nearly had a heart attack before I even rang the doorbell.
“WHO!?” Said a voice.
“Christ,” I shared my displeasure for the shouting. “It’s me, Leo.”
“LEO!?” Said a voice.
“Yes,” I yelled. “Stop fucking shouting!”
“ENTER!!” The voice shouted.
The interior made me miss the exterior. Imagine an Escher painting had a three-way with Dali and Geiger, confusing to say the least. It seemed as if the very walls moved with each step.
When I got to The Breeder, he sat behind a shadow the shape of a desk, with a shadowy chair and a gluttonous grin.
“Wheeerrreee?” The breeder hissed, which was better than the shouting but ten times more creepy.
I opened the bag and out came the small song, terrified.
“Where’s the money?” I asked.
With the snap of its fingers, the breeder produced five tall stacks of currency from the ether of his table. A shriek of pain let out as it did.
“Pleeeeeased?” The Breeder asked as I shook my head in agreement. My problems would soon be over.
“What will happen to him?” I asked while filling my pockets.
“Seeeeee?” The Breeder motioned to a shadowy curtain behind it as the blinds revealed the process. Ideas being pumped through large machines, processed over and over again until the result is beyond recognition.
“What the hell am I looking at?” I asked in disgust.
“Prooofiiiit.” The Breeder mused while handing me another stack of money.
“You’re regurgitating ideas you find off the street and selling them to make a quick buck?” I pressed further while throwing the money in its face.
“DEMAAAAAAND!!!” The Breeder shouted as the walls echoed and trembled at its voice.
“It’s not supply and demand, it’s oversaturation! You’re destroying ideas to make a profit off of watered down inspiration!”
“IDEAAAAS! OOOBJEEEECT! No mooooore,” The Breeder defended. The walls, floors, ceiling, furniture, everything in The Breeder’s house was moving. Crying.
“This whole house is made of other people’s ideas,” I said. “You can’t do this, ideas are not objects, they are alive!”
The Breeder commands the walls of its house to trap me where I stand. Its grip becomes tighter as I pass out from lack of oxygen.
The last thing I remember hearing is that breeding bastards last drawn out word;
“HOOOOAAAARRRD.”
3. the Hoard of One
The smell alone woke me up.
Shifting my blurry vision from one corner to another, I see nothing but filth. Carcasses and viscera of ideas nobody wanted, and would never want again.
My strength slowly gathers as I try to suppress the nausea and stand. I scan for any sign of the song I found, instead I find broken narratives, failed inventions and the worst smelling, dead dreams.
I creep through the crowded living room, down the corridor of newspapers and manuscripts rotting with age. Peaking around the corner to the kitchen, I see him, in all of his lanky glory.
The Hoarder was cut from the same cloth as The Breeder, but where as The Breeder you could bargain with, (but as I learned, what sick scum would?) The Hoarder was anyone’s guess.
No one knew his face or his voice, just his signature shadow that was casting onto me, as he prepared a meal by the bright light of fire from a broken stove.
I saw the song, it was unharmed but unconscious, either being used as food or as collection. That wasn’t going to happen.
With each slow step I creep, I come closer to a stench worse than death. The stench of The Hoarder was legendary as well, draping over kidnappings and crime scenes, but never any evidence.
Needless to say, killing him would help me in a lot of cases.
I cover my nostrils as best I can as I prepare my hands for a fight, when suddenly I hear a song stop me in my tracks.
“One man show!”
The Hoarder turned to the song, giving me only seconds to react. With all the force I could muster I pushed him into his cooking fire. The bastard kicks me off as it screams in agony, ripping off layers and layers of clothing.
The clothing keeps burning, and soon the kitchen turns into a nightmare. The hoarder keeps discarding layer after layer of coats, jackets, sweaters, shirts, until… The Hoarder was gone.
The room, still ablaze, I scoop up the little song singing my praises and make a break for the window. The pavement does more damage than the broken glass upon landing, but the song is safe.
“Hey,” I say, once I’ve caught my breath. “How are you holding up?” I ask the song.
“This is fine,” sings the song.
We watched the fire engulf the flammable home of The Hoarder, hopefully with him in it.
I take a long look at the song in my hands. Gentle, scared, looking for home when home most likely-…
Home…
“You deserve to go home little one,” I say. “Let’s go home.”
4. the Right to Own
The door opened with only one knock. The song and I stepped cautiously through the dark ransacked apartment. Cause for alarm was advised but not enforced.
“Dude, what the fuck did I just read?”
I turn to find a man standing in front of me, staring at me, like a mirror staring at itself.
“This narrative is falling apart, it’s too vague, it’s too confusing, you’ll lose your audience!”
“W-what audience?” I ask the man.
“Shut the fuck up you Dick Tracy wannabe. I know who you are, the big cool detective that everyone thinks is big and cool, well it’s not. It’s over done.”
“What are you talking about?” I keep begging for an answer to his words.
“I know you, Leonard Winslow Knight.”
He knew my name. How did-
“I DON’T GIVE A FUCK ABOUT YOUR INNER MONOLOGUE!!!…….”
The song crept up, looking scared, but playing that longing tune, with new words to the chorus.
“Take it sloooow, you’re a one man shoooooow. Just trying to make it back home.”
“What are you doing here?” the man asks. “I got rid of you!”
“Please stop!” I scream.
“Give it up you walking cliche,” Says the man. “Why the fuck did you bring this little shit here?”
“Because it wanted to go home!” I yell.
“Home?” The man is puzzled. “I abandoned this idea, it was bad, it was useless, not good, crap, terrible, no one would like it, much like this story, didn’t even bother with a second draft. Always the idea man, never the one that brings ideas to life.”
“You made this one!” I plead for him to look at the song, give it a chance.
“I don’t own you anymore,” the man continues. “I gave you up a long time ago, let someone else do what I never could!”
“But you MADE this!” I plead again. “I strongly believe, after everything that has happened to me tonight, that the most beautiful things often come from the darkest of places, and just because you cant see your ideas beauty, does not mean it deserves to be abandoned. IT IS A LIVING THING!”
We both lock eyes, the small idea cowers in a corner, me and the man seem ready to come to blows. That was when I saw the first tear.
“I can’t do it though,” the man collapses, I comfort as best as I can. “The tell you to kill your darlings but I just couldn’t man. I had so many ideas, so much creative freedom, so heavy the need was to get it out. But I have no where to put it. I tried writing songs and stories with plot and structure. I tried painting what I saw rather than what I imagined. But even then, I couldn’t do that. When being a story teller became too difficult I settled for being abstract with poetry and songs instead. I’m nothing more than an abstract mess of an artist. No one will see my vision. I am alone.”
I stood frozen. I did not know what to say. I just wanted it over.
The Idea was safe, or at least under a roof. The artist, no better than how I found him. The Hoarder, dead. The Breeder, still at large.
But I just didn’t care anymore, the idea was out there, that was enough.
I gave what money I had to my ex-wife and told her about this over the phone. We had a good laugh, then left it at that for the better.
When I told her about the artist she said:
“I think you were right, beautiful things do come from the darkest of places sometimes, but Leo, it’s not a requirement. Beautiful things come from the eyes of those who appreciate, subjective to the knowledgeable and seeking. You worry if you’re making a difference because you think your stories aren't good. Well, ultimately, that’s not going to be for you to decide. Your job is to get what you can, out there. That’s how you start believing in yourself. Believe in the beauty you put in the world Leo, you’re not a monster.”
She may be right… I find myself humming.
“Take it slooooow…. You’re only…. A one, man…..”
