Thomas Helm Surreal-Absurd Sampler
The spiritual, the political, and the surreal come in the same breath. Realistic modes of expression don’t adequately represent reality. We need surrealism to show us what is psychically true, because what is literally true is incomplete.
Patterns are hidden in the chaos. Things that repeat. Weird truths in the unconscious. It’s up to the surrealist detective to seek them out. To follow the clues of dream into the heart of the mystery.
These prose-poems come from a work-in-progress collection titled 72 Names of God(ess). Inspired by the kabbalah, alchemy, and other esoteric traditions, the collection takes the doctrine of immanence to surreal extremes. If god(ess) dwells in everything, then (s)he also inhabits the absurd and the surreal and the grotesque. The stories hover between allegory and dream, shot through with humour, resonant imagery, and a sorrowful intelligence.
— Thomas Helm
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THE STATIONMASTER
Curling around supernovae, black holes, and neutron stars, the queue outside the lost-and-found office of the interdimensional train station runs for several galaxies. Tired of the constant lamenting, the stationmaster has posted signs throughout the station. Warning, the signs read, please take care of your realities while travelling, for there is no guarantee of restoration in the event of loss. But the travellers don’t understand—or if they do, they don’t care, for the line never shortens. I myself have been waiting for seven thousand years. In that time, I’ve seen many strange things: a horde of Vikings miss the last night train to Valhalla; a race of sentient frogs croak on and on about the perfect wisdom of their mother—the details of which were lost in the spawn. I once spoke to Dante Gabriel Rossetti: he cursed his double heart, said he was queuing to get his true love back. Every century or so, I catch a glimpse of the stationmaster: a tight-jawed man with a drooping moustache and beautiful, hooded eyes. Sometimes he takes the form of a luminous goldfish, soaring above our heads with the indifference of a solitary moon. I’ve been queuing so long I’ve forgotten what I want. Perhaps, like many others, I’ve nowhere left to go. Reality, for me, is what takes place inside the cracks.
THE DIGGER
Five men are digging a hole but only two of them are human. Assembled quickly and cheaply in a nearby factory, the other three are made from grease and sugar cubes. They grin and talk just like other men, but are sweeter and less concerned with themselves. The trucks that deliver them take the older ones away, free of charge. And with so many holes to dig, they’re always in demand.
THE KEY MAKER
There are infinite doors and infinite keys. In the land of ballrooms, where every mirror is a message, you’ll find the key maker. No matter the shape or size of the door, no matter its age or provenance, he’ll forge a key for you. But first you must drink wine and dance in his mirrored halls; first you must charm the ambassadors of distant worlds, who desire only to learn a secret, the touch of some reality they haven’t felt before. You may gift them fruit—apples, pomegranates, and persimmons—and make careful observations about the world. Where there is courtesy, such things are almost limitless. And then, after some days, weeks, or years, you’ll wake with a key under your pillow. And it’ll be just the key you need.
THE COLONIST
No-one knows why Moon Colony A-210 fell prey to the crying epidemic. Psychologists blame prolonged exposure to the sight of their home-world drifting in the void before them; communists cite long hours and poor working conditions in the mines as day after day the miners picked through barren rock for little gain. The overseers initially dismissed the epidemic as a ‘dangerous nuisance’ (SF News Archives, data point 242.123bg) but quickly began to warm to its benefits. At first, the tears were used to fertilise the kitchen gardens. Later, they flowed into streams and rivulets and finally a small lake, which became home to the moon’s first water park, complete with slides, jet-ski circuits, and a fleet of pleasure-crafts (see colony brochure ‘A Fun Day Out for All the Family’). So profitable was the burgeoning tear economy that miners were given tear productivity targets and participation in the weekly crying competition became mandatory. Winners received a free day pass to the water park and permission to look the governor in the eye, albeit for no longer than five seconds. Thanks to these incentives and various disciplinary measures for the dry-eyed, Moon Colony A-210 became a veritable oasis in a harsh land, a paradise of manicured lawns, immaculate flower-beds, and well-attended garden parties. If not for the sound of constant wailing, Moon Colony A-210 would be a delightful place to live.
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THOMAS HELM is a writer and journalist and editor at Mercurius. He has two surreal-absurd poetry pamphlets: “The Mountain Where Nothing Happens” and “A Pilgrimage of Donkeys”.
