No pride before this fall. No flies on this boy.
No nothing.
Not even a double negative.
In the beginning there was Heaven and there was Earth.
But not now.
No earth, no sun, no stars, no galaxies, no universe.
Pre big bang. Post mortem.
Hallelujah.
In the blackness Kramer fell.
His fall turning to flight, like Superman, like Icarus, but wingless and with no sun to fly near. And no wires, no Hollywood trickery, no computer aided illusion needed here. No time-wasters, no circulars, no rest for the wicked. Freedom in flight. Flight of the Phoenix. Flying and falling with no point of reference, no understanding of up or down, of east or west, of right or wrong. An aviator's dream. A swan's dream. Master of the skies and all he surveys. Master of nothing and no one, not even himself.
Alone.
Like Adam must have felt before Eve, or the serpent, or both, or neither.
You say either and I say either as well.
Kramer says nothing to no one, a vow of silence, sworn silently in the silent night. Soar silently. Rise silently. Noiseless. No wind, no turbulence, no airpockets, no jet stream, no jet lag to slow him down. No stratosphere, ionosphere or ozone layer. No cosmic thread or wormholes. No blackholes.
No! no! no! Thrice times no!
Then from the nothing everything. But slowly. Wisps and hints of stars and the Aurora Borealis. Spirits and ghosts, faces familiar and unfamiliar. Both at the same time. Time and space, strange bed-fellow. Strangers in a strange land, a universe devoid yet even of mystery. Then Pegasus, a fellow flyer, stopping to quench his thirst, drinking deep from the milky way only to then become pin points of light on the dark hood of night.
Radio and X-rays. Ultra-violet and infra-red. Spectres of dead TV heroes at the speed of light. The Range Rider surfing on the solar wind. Ultra-violence and infra-dig.
Then the Solar System with a tenth planet. Comets and asteroids. Castor and Pollux. The firmament above, the heavens below. A reversal of fortune. Hitching a ride around the rings of Saturn in a big Mack truck and a Harley Davidson. Fibre optics and optical illusions bounce off radar dishes.
Falling.
Free fall.
Drop zone: the sea of tranquillity, or the mound of Venus. Check canopy. Fall, drop, descend, down wells and mine shafts, regaining consciousness as you go.
Kramer falls. "Don't hit the bottom or you'll be sure to die" says an old wife with a tale to tell.
But Kramer doesn't, for there is no bottom. No ground to break his fall. Only half-thoughts, not making sense, faster than a speeding bullet, flashing through his brain in four-four time with no middle eight.
The rhythm of life.
A brief history of time.
