And The Moon Is Down (unfinished Draft)

● Ygg d r a s i l

& t h e m o on is d o w n by Nicco Recasata

"Be of good comfort Master Ridley and play the man. We shall this day light such a candle by God's grace, in England, as I trust, shall never be put out." - Hugh Latimer

S

The Dragons & the Serpent

",ׁ‫ הָיְתָה תֹהוׁ וָבֹהו‬,‫וְהָארֶץ‬.‫ וְאֵת הָארֶץ‬,‫ אֵת הַשָׁׁמַיִם‬,‫ בָרָא אֱלֹהִים‬,‫בְרֵאשִׁית‬ ,‫וַיֹׁאמֶר אֱלֹהִים‬.‫פְנֵי הַמָׁיִם‬-‫מְרַחֶפֶת עַל‬,‫פְנֵי תְהום; וְרוחַ אֱלֹהִים‬-‫ עַל‬,ְ‫וְחֹשֶׁך‬ ‫אור‬-‫יְהִי אור; וַיְהִי‬." "In the beginning God created the heavens and the earth. The earth was a void and empty, and the darkness covered the deep waters. And the Spirit of the Lord was hovering over the surface of the water. Then God said, "Let there be light," and there was light." - Genesis 1:1-3

Somewhere in this city, there is a howling - a cacophony of gears shifting directions to seek movement, to seek life; infinitesimal lunges of metal pillars, intersecting, reverberating like a hungry beast, working against a single enemy. A death march that leads to nowhere rival's the sound of Genghis Khan's horde of stallions , a gushing whirlwind of smoldering ash asphyxiates the skies, and the stage is set except for the shades of gray that bathe the night in drowning. There is still much to wait for - patience. The moon is in the middle where a giant sits slumbering, waiting. The serpent, a staircase spiraling into the heavens, a ubiquitous knife stabbing the gods, taunting them. Four great pillars, stilts compared to each stair hold the monument's foundations and atop them, a steady plane, flattened and pure; the only refuge of lunar afterglow, in fact, a sanctuary. A birth, a subtle pulverizing of bone still graces this moonlit stair but when the moonlight bids farewell to the serpent's porcelain plane, there would only be death, and grinding of teeth. Two poles, both cities, epitomes of human pride and intent, stand with fanaticism. The middle, a serpent, the escorts, two dragons. These dragons,

Rome and Babylon, differ only in the type of inhabitants - twin mirrors differing only in the material they were forged from - the Left, all men, and the Right, purely women. Two cities, two sides, two dragons, two behemoths with cannons, none differing in their smoke-stained jumpsuits and gas masks, no variation in architecture, no difference in lament, both brutes, abominations carrying their malicious intent. Within their walls are hives that house drones, marionettes pull at levers and puppeteers pull at strings. These strands and strands, moving gears, breathing life into the dragons. These dragons, shifting, morphing, levers within them collapse and cascade, a river teeming, barrels filled with oil, ash, and sulphur. The smell of gunpowder lines each street, conveyor belts to drones dancing to the beat of the wardrums. These citizens, mere drones, marionettes, a taskmaster, the caretaker, signals with measured precision; all mindless zombies, with time as their master. Only the moon knows each interval, the march of each step...left, right, left, right, left. A flash of light, an applause, the dictators lost in their spectacular dance of command, and act, not as gods, but mere puppets themselves. Another flash of light, a tenuous thundering, the god's did not shelter this place from fear as you can see. There is no life in this place, a wasteland. No life, but spirits that resemble life, wraiths to the touch. This place is a prison, armed to the teeth. No freedom, no will, only sound, and dance; a pale wash of paint. Again this flash of light, another applause, the lunar glow misses the last vestige of that pure, marble plane, and bedlam starts like clocks set in place. The caretaker of the Left, signal the drones with precise gestures; a language in itself, mistaken for art, but there is no form of expression, only utility. A drone sitting on a chair embellished with crescent shapes, cracks his knuckles, then buffets a large button, ornamented with the same design,

sitting among a jungle of buzzing lights and creaking knobs. The sound of blades and gears, spinning in succession, accentuate the noises of iron bearings, oscillating underneath the dragon's feet. Red light, yellow, green...silence; then celebration. Three cheers for the piercing shot, three cheers for the dragon, and the cannon spewed death onto the city of the Right. The drones, looked on, standing and sitting in their respective stations. The rocket, a fireball, races through the sky and it screams of power, passing over each bit of machinery, crossing atop the staircase, and landing on its victims. A momentary lapse...then again with the signal. The drones have their places, the dragon spits its flame, and the Right town embraces each hit. Every interval is marked with each fire started. The drones looked on as the fireball, the last one for now, cuts through the sky, pitch black and divided. The day is extinguished, & the moon is down...silence. A sudden retreat, and the flame is gone. Only the fire remains. Underneath the city, there is a howling.

II The Captain

"Going to plant a weeping willow, on the banks green edge it will grow, grow, grow..." - Brokedown Palace, The Grateful Dead

"Test, test, test...is this thing on?" The Captain pulled the receiver by the neck and thumped it thrice, gripping it so tight, too tight, that it shrieked with a deafening feedback, startling every living thing from sleep. With a smooth, and mellow, tone he spoke, "The time is 4'o-clock in the morning. Rise and shine ladies and gentlemen. Again, this is your Captain speaking, and we have a special treat for your today, here in the Warehouse. This next song is something different from our normal in-house music and it fills me with joy given the privilege of presenting this song for you. To our listeners, this song is by the "Grateful Dead," called "Brokedown Palace" from their album, "American Beauty." The Grateful Dead was an American Rock and Roll band formed back in 1965, ladies and gentlemen. Who would've thought that this record would survive the Great Divide? As you may know, the Great Divide was that period of darkness for the arts back in 2099, giving rise to the 2nd Renaissance about fifty years ago. Thanks to our sponsors, who specifically asked not to mention their names on-air, we have this one and only record on set today." "Going back to our introduction for those who just tuned in, as I've said, we have a special for you today, presented by none other than yours

truly, your loving Captain. This song, as I mentioned, is from the American Rock and Roll band, the "Grateful Dead." Back in their day, they've been known for their eclectic style and fusion of various musical elements. Their musicality not only featured traces of rock, blues, and jazz, but stretched even into gospel, country, and reggae. Without further ado, we have "Brokedown Palace" by the "Grateful Dead," only here...in the Warehouse." The speakerphone scratched along with the record needle and the music began... The Captain, set the receiver down on his table and sat back lavishly in his office chair. He reached down to a wooden lever and tried to recline it, hesitated, only to shove the lever back down. He stood up feeling the pull of his hands reaching for the ceiling to stretch and rest his bones. The office was humble, not something you'd expect to be worthy enough for a respectable title such as his. A chair lined with regal blue leather and a wide marble table, etched with unintelligible ornaments worn out from the passage of time, were used as centerpieces. Only two other chairs, which pose little threat to the level of comfort the Captain's chair offered, were placed in front of the table faced perpendicularly and in opposite poles. Two chairs similar in weight and structure, only differing in color. The left chair, a tinge of maroon burnt in with a what is mistaken for black, although brown with closer inspection; and the right, dressed in purple garments, although not what you'd identify as royalty. The walls were covered with charts and graphs, that seemed too unreal, like it was never destined to be there in the first place. Every corner was filled with boxes of metallic bits and bobs, of screws in a variety of sizes, and light bulbs, others broken, in fact, crumbling and eroding. The floor that intersected the walls adjacent to the Captain's table, along with the floor intersecting the wall behind the Captain's chair, were all uncharacteristically tidy. The door was on the far end, away from the Captain's table, facing it.

The door was situated on the left half of the room with respect to the small cart of alcoholic drinks on the opposite. The room, gaudy and unimpressive, was highly contrasted by the Captain. He was an odd-looking fellow and all those who first shook his hand, wondered if he was stripped from an old cartoon back when television was still alive and on-air. He was plump and clean-shaven, wearing blue overalls, embellished with a modest fingernail-red tie. He didn't look at all uncomfortable with what he was wearing, but it made his body a little warmer than desirable. His hair was well-combed with a tinge of mud-brown. His eyes were two almonds parallel to his high, ruddy cheeks. His chin was a pain to distinguish between his neck and people just learned to neglect their itching need of ridicule. Even if he was a bit too short for his stature, he had this certain glow, not mentioning a certain magnetism to ridiculousness. His aura of lightheartedness was his only saving grace from criticism, although many of the citizens in the Warehouse find his haplessness unsettling. The Captain walked pudgily to his tray of whiskey to pour himself a glass when his secretary knocked. "What is it?" said the Captain. A largely muffled voice crept through the door but failed to register. Bent down and pouring himself some whiskey, the Captain upped and spilled his newly-poured drink, startled by a louder knock on his door. He chuckled. "Just, come in already," the Captain said cheerily. More muffled voices, and the door opened. A tall figure of a man can be traced on the office floor. The Captain looked up, wiping his overalls with tissue.

"Oh, it's you," said the Captain. The man refused to reply. He walked steadily as if every step was measured beforehand. His emaciated legs, and emaciated hands followed each other in precise proportions and he sat down on the left chair, his eyes fixated on his feet. The emaciated man, with his emaciated hands, rubbed his eyes in unison with the rhythm guitar of "Brokedown Palace" playing in the background, and he groaned mournfully like a weeping willow. "You looked bushed. What is it?" said the Captain, as he closed the door, and walked to the whiskey cart to pour himself a glass. "Want one?" asked the Captain. "Just water, please," said the man, still fixated on his feet. The Captain reached for a cylindrical metal flask, and poured his visitor a drink.

I The Voice of God

"They exist to cease..." - Anonymous

Somwhere in this city, there is a howling. A sharp noise, the veil sheathed and unscathed. The moon was in the middle, that giant, that slumbering mammoth. Winter still kissed its lips and there was peace. No life, only wasteland and frost, a stage worthy of perfection and purity. The moon was inching further in the distance, although the serpent still gleaned with clarity. Its fangs puncture the evening soil, and it waited. To disappear, to hide - a matter of circumstance and causality. The leviathan on the other side, shifter it gears and wolves cried out in the fullness of the moon, marching, celebrating for the bloodbath that was to be given. A flash of light, and an applause, a welcoming of time. The howling, grew louder. The dragon, the leviathan, the cannon drew breath from its belly and silence. The roaring came suddenly, bringing judgment. Somewhere in this city, the Right forged on. Their drones marched, in a danse macabre. Marionettes and strings, puppeteers and whim -

commanding... flourishing. The drones marched ahead, bringing with them masks. Masks to welcome, to worship. The roaring came louder, pulsating with a demonic cadence of war. A spirit flew on, a piercing belch, and the drones cheered on, raising their hands like antennas to radio waves to filter out a voice. The voice of god! A flaming bush where truth is spoken, where life, true life, is uttered and given form. The words made flesh, bones, muscle, and tendon. From darkness to light, these drones celebrated. An immense tapestry unfolded destruction, and the blood-soaked metropolis was painted burnt. A hint of sulphur in the air, a choking retch. Regurgitated air, inhaled, invading, penetrating masks and filters. The drones marched into the light, one-byone, two-by-two, all-at-once...like insects to a bulb, a process. In the light was dreaming, no despair. Only strife, these drones knew, and this was their transfiguration; a comet to Heaven's Gate, an eclipse of consciousness. The gleam surpassed gloom, and all is saved. The march continued as the light grew stronger. Blindness - the greatest Nirvana - enlightenment, infected all, and all is good. The Right caretaker signalled, her hand dexterous and domineering. The light collapsed and the drones stopped marching. The river ceased to flow. Only sighs of regret, of pain, of anger, and frustration was heard. The caretaker, signalled again. The city of the Right, shut their walls down, to welcome darkness. & the moon is down at last. The world engulfed in darkness, the serpent swallowing the light. There isn't anything here but wasteland. Only wraiths and silence. The heaps of sand shift with time, and a new day is born. Each passage of every miniscule grain, sets a new age. The flames are gone, only fires remain. No death, no rest, only silhouettes of reverie. The

Left awaits salvation, awarded to them another day. The Right awaits obligation, forced to lived and revel in their dismay. Underneath this city, there is a howling. Above, the night is gone, & the moon is down, the cycle continues to rule these two towns.