And let me conclude with the ever popular disclaimers-- none of the characters that I use in this story are mine. They are all Norton Juster's, from The Phantom Tollbooth. I took liberties in giving the Soundkeeper an actual name. So sue me, sue me... what can you do me...
This story can get a little heavy with graphic detail in the future... not too much, but that's just me.
Good reading to you all!
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
April 26th, 2004
Lovely joy! I've finally decided to jeep a journal. I don't know where I'll find the time to write in it, though. Perhaps I should start from the beginning or else anyone who finds this won't understand... heh, I'll probably misplace it anyway so people can walk right up and find it next to a toilet or something.
My name is Kakofonous A. Dischord. The 'A' stands for As Loud As Possible, so now you can think that my parents found some drugs right before they named me. Go ahead. You'd probably be correct.
But they were also correct in naming me. As a little kid I was always active and loud, and every waking moment was spent banging into things, speaking loudly, or breaking a particularly valuable vase/china set/lamp...
As I grew up and moved out, you can't begin to believe all of the tickets I've gotten for noise pollution and disturbing the peace. Or perhaps you can.
With all of my talking loudly, I eventually developed an extremely hoarse, croaking voice. With all of my activeness, you'd think I'd grow to be tall and look fit, but someone else in the world took my height and I'm now 5'2, and I don't seem to be the strongest guy around. Remember that--I don't seem to be. Challenge me to an arm wrestle sometime.
I wear glasses; have a little mustache going on but ended up bald, blah blah blah, I've been around since the near beginning of time, yakity yak, decently thin, bleebity boo bop bey -- oh yes, and my ears are a bit on the larger-than-average scale at nearly the size of my head. I'm not sure how that happened, but then again everyone in the Land of Wisdom has his or her quirks. Like never aging.
I'm never seen without my doctor's coat--I have to keep up appearances and besides, it's spiffy; and I'm rarely seen without about two watches on each wrist--I need to know the time in every place in the world so I can meet deadlines and such. Deadlines for what? Deadlines for the delivery of my medicine, that's what. I'm the Doctor of Dissonance, and proudly supply all of the noise in the Land Of Wisdom and on Earth. And everywhere else.
Such a task is nearly impossible on one's own, though, so I have my assistant, the Awful DYNNE (capitalized to emphasize the importance that he's loud,) to help me. He's a large smoky figure with glowing yellow eyes, a bit naive and childlike, but he's loveable all the same. So he goes around and collects the noises that I supply once they've been used up and brings them back so I can renew them. I recycle; I'm such a good citizen.
We live in a kinda small bright red carnival wagon--there isn't a lot ton of space in there, but it's pretty cozy for one person. I live in this wagon because it allows me to move from place to place to drop off my medicine, and besides, I like to travel. The inside of my house has shelves lined with all sorts of beakers and vials of various noises. There's a cabinet in the left corner with all of the foodÉ it's quite dusty in here and some bric-a-brac is lying on the floor. Home sweet home.
I always dislike giving long descriptions because it seems like I just drone on and on and on and on and on and you get the point. Maybe one day I'll become a good descriptive writer.
I'll finish the rest of this page with as much as I can, then stop.
The Land of Wisdom is a place ruled jointly but King Azaz, ruler of Dictionopolis, and the Mathemagician, king of Digitopolis. Dictionopolis is where all of the world and letters and phrases and such come from, and Digitopolis is where the numbers originate. As you might be able to deduct, sometimes the kings (might I add, they are brothers) don't always agree, so there are the Princesses Sweet Rhyme and Pure Reason to straighten things out between them, and the other conflicts in the kingdom. Or should I say kingsdom?
There is place called the Mountains of Ignorance, and that is where the demons live; demons like Insincerity, Exaggeration, and Compromise, to name a few. We people in Wisdom don't go there if we know what's good for us.
Well, that's about all I have time for before I fall asleep writing and my left eye falls into the pen and gets poked out. So I'll close and hope in the morning writing skills will magically come to me.
Until Whenever,
Kakofonous A. Dischord
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
May 1st, 2004
It's been nearly a week and nothing extravagant has happened. Just been work and blah and a monotonous routine. Such an important job like divvying out all of the noise demands a lot of time and attention, and the thing is if I were to go out into a crowd, no one would know that I'd be the one powering their shouting voices.
In any case, there's going to be some sort of a royal ball party thingamajig in three months from now, August 1st. It was the day that, 2004 years ago, the King that would rule the Land of Wisdom was born. It appears that this party happens every year, but I never really noticed as I was filling out all of the prescriptions to deliver the noise needed.
It's going to go on in the Valley of Sound, in the Valley itself and in the Soundkeeper's fortress. The Soundkeeper is the one that supplies and then archives all of the sounds (and even the noises, I'll admit) in the world -- she archives it because then the old sounds would mix in with the new and no one would know which sound was a newly formed one and which one had been there since yesterday. Mind you, she supplies all of the soundÑnot the noise. That job is for yours truly.
Wow, I must really be proud of my job or I'm insecure about it to be mentioning it so much. I think it's the former. I also think that I'll be going to this gathering and hope business will be slow that day.
Not much else is happening, but perhaps I'll go into Dictionopolis one day soon for Market Day. Damn, where will I find the time?
Until Whenever,
Kakofonous A. Dischord
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
May 11th, 2004
The DYNNE asked me this one afternoon while I was mixing something for the city of Beijing. I was so surprised that my own assistant should ask me this, so I let slip the glass beaker full of noise from my hand and it fell with a crashing tinkle. Then an array of honking horns, screeching wheels, voices screaming, and other such beautifully horrendous noises went off. My eyes were wide and staring at my assistant as I was frozen in place.
"Thank you for reminding me," he said happily, then rushed out of the door to collect them all in his burlap bag.
Usually his cleverness would have made me proud and his question not bother me because he was only joking, but I felt thoughtful that day and decided to ponder over that question.
What made noises beautiful and important?
Well, I figured first, it alerts of danger. When you're driving on the street and a car horn honks, what do you do? Look around and make sure nothing dangerous is going on. When someone screams at you to stop, you do so to see what urgent matter there is at hand.
Volume is important. When it goes up, you lean that whom or whatever is issuing it has a problem.
That reminds me of a time when the Soundkeeper (whose real name is Ellanora, or Ellen for short) and I were discussing anything and everything. However, it turned to sound and noise and the importance thereof after awhile.
"Ellen, I don't think you quite understand..." I started to say in defense of what I worked with, but she cut me off.
"The noises you work with boggles the sense of hearing for nearly a week," she said heatedly.
"I don't work with just mixtures, but also the simple noises," I pointed out.
"Would you honestly rather hear an angry infant's cry over a happy baby's coo?" she inquired.
"Kind of a rhetorical question to ask of someone whose profession and even name implies he likes as much noise as possible. You wouldn't know the baby was angry or if anything was wrong with him unless if he cried. A happy baby could just smile.
"A fussy baby could jus screw up his face," Ellen countered, rising from her chair that was in the parlor of her fortress. She did not like to be contradicted. But as she did so to me, I had trouble keeping my raspy voice calm when I had an instantly formed retort.
"That would do loads of good when he's in his crib, alone, in the dark, when his parents are sleeping and he's nearly starving," said I, looking her directly in her turquoise eyes with my deep hazel pair.
This caused her to ponder over that for a moment.
"When you break a bone and there's no disgustingly gross crack, how do you know it's broken?
"The pain, dumbass." Ellen didn't look very happy.
"The pain would be immense, yes! And how do you tell others around you there's something wrong?
"You screÑwait, you don't need noise to clutch your leg or whatever and hop/roll around wildly while wincing, do you?
I thought. "No, but it
"Yes!" she screeched, pointing at me. "People do not need noise as much as you claim they do! Admi
It was at this point I lost my temper and rose, waved my hand in front of her face, then balled it into a fist. She continued to scream, somehow unaware for a second that no screaming was there.
Keep in mind now that in the Land of Wisdom, sounds and noises can be held and each one has its own form.
"I'm sorry, Ellanora? You know, I can't really understand your frustration without the tone and volume of your voice--it could be construed as noise. Though you look pretty angry, I cannot read lips and your voice is currently in my hand. Would you like it back?
She glared with such anger at me and I felt a tad sorry at that moment and would have let her voice go if I had not been fueled by my own rage then.
"I will admit that sound is much more present than noise, but when the latter is around, it alerts of danger--very important indeed, so do not forget that soon. And by-the-by," I added, unfurling my fist, "the next time you scream, I'm the one making it happen.
It was at this point I left her fortress, but not before hearing her reply in a deadly soft tone,"And when you speak, which you so love to do, I'm the one behind it all."
Even with that little smack in the face, remembering the actual debate instills within me a new appreciation for noise.
Noise also makes up things like rock music and extremely loud concerts. Music is noise to some people, and music can be beautiful (even though I don't like to admit it. Noise has a sort of hidden beauty that has to be found.
I feel better about the DYNNE's question now.
Until Whenever,
Kakofonous A. Dischord
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
May 15th, 2004
Sometimes I find myself involuntarily thinking of her; the blonde hair and turquoise eyes of she, her soft features but somewhat angular nose, her kind but no nonsense personality--and then I see that I become quite distracted and think of her no more. Until the next time...
Yesterday was Market Day in Dictionopolis, and a busy time it was! The streets are very wide, so wide that about six of my wagons could sit side by sideÑand although that might not be saying much, that is saying at least something.
I was proud that the blaring voices, creaking cart wheels, and heated debates were all noise-powered by me. Even though I have only been Doctor Of Dissonance for, let's see, since the beginning of time, it still prides me somewhat to see that I've been doing well for all of it.
As I was contentedly gazing over the large gaggles of people, small stalls, and bright, flashy words, soon a hush well over the market. Knowing this could only mean that King Azaz was walking down this way, I veered my two horses, Alkali, a bright chestnut stallion, and Patchwork, a white stallion with yellow and grey splotches on his pelt, over to the right so we wouldn't all be in the king's way. Then I stepped off of the driver's seat and stood, unlike the rest of the citizens, who were bowing to Azaz.
Now, you have to be a genius to figure out that when you're the only one standing in a crown of people who are bent over (and then add to the fact you've got a bright scarlet carnival wagon behind you with bold letters that spell out your name and your profession,) you will always stand out, even on Market Day. That makes every one of you a genius, and the doctor says so.
So the king ambled over to me and stared down (though it was only an inch down) for a short while before speaking.
"Why don't you bow in the presence of a king," he focused behind me for a second because my name was just blaring out at him, "Dr. Dischord?
"If I don't live under his rule, should I have to?
He seemed to disregard my question to answer his.
"If he is partly responsible for keeping wherever you live free, you should bow to show him respect."
I shifted my weight and adjusted my half-moon glasses. "So I suppose a salute is out of the question, then. Besides, if he was my friend, I would do no such thing," came my hoarse voice.
"But he is not."
"So he is a stranger or an acquaintance, and I do not bow to them either."
"Do you have a problem with showing respect to those that have a higher rank than yourself?" he finally queried, keen on getting me to show some form of reverence that he deemed worthy.
I pondered on this for a moment. I could be stubborn and refuse people my gratitude or respect, but today was not one of those days. Today was one of those days where I was confrontational. A thought sprung out and did a wild dance in my head and I just had to share it with everyone else, for better or for worse.
" I do not, but you have an issue showing respect to those lower than yourself. Perhaps you should be the one bowing to your subjects in return for their loyalty to you; so that you keep your title of king."
Azaz and the rest of the people who could hear me (which was many) let their eyes bug out a little.
"After all," I added, "Without subjects to serve under you, you would not be king and thus would not have people to bow to you."
What a queer sight this was--I wish someone had taken a picture. A little man with a bright red wagon and huge ears looking up confidently at a king one inch taller than he, with huge eyes. And you can't forget the crowd that is trying so hard to stay bowing while getting a look at it all.
"In closing, I would ask you if you would rather me bow and not look my best for you, a king, or instead stand and put on a good physical appearance, but I must be going, so thank you for listening to me."
It was at this point that I did a small bow (to spite him) and climbed back up into the driver's seat. But I turned around and said with a grin,
"Expect to see me at your royal bash in a few months, " and then set off.
So I gained a bit of mixed publicity yesterday. I don't know what the king thought of my logic or my attitude, but I really wanted to go into the Forest of Sight (a wooded area between the realms of Dictionopolis and Digitopolis) to see my old buddy Chroma (the guy who, when he conducts his massive orchestra, provides all of the color in the universe.)
I wonder if I'll be denied entrance to the party now. I 'd consider that possibility.
The DYNNE didn't think it wise to have challenged the king, but I explained that I was challenging him to think about things the way others did instead of going around with the ideas in his head that have never been contradicted. But what I can't shake off was the glint of doubt in my assistant's yellow eyes, as if one day I'd see I wasn't as intelligent as I thought I was.
Who knows, perhaps he'll be the one to teach me that lesson.
Until Whenever,
Kakofonous A. Dischord
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
May 31st, 2004
I managed to catch him before he went off to snooze and we had a chat about feeling underappreciated.
"So there's to be a party of some sort in about two months. Are you going?" I inquired of him.
"I'll probably not be heading to wherever it is." His dark eyes were even darker than I could remember, and the nighttime didn't help much to improve. Chroma's tall and lean body seemed to be in a melancholy state of mind as well. "As you know, I'll have to conduct the color there."
This sparked a question in me, but it wasn't like Chroma to be so gloomy, so instead I asked something else.
"Feeling underappreciated?"
"You know me only too well." He shifted his weight on the large rock he happened to be sitting on during the course of this conversation. I was sitting comfortably on the ground.
"My orchestra and I provide all of the color in the entire universe, and I think it's safe to say that nearly no one gives a thought to how beautiful color really is."
His deep voice was somber. My friend was making me depressed, but I thought about his--and the rest of us in Wisdom's--problem.
"You have to remember that no one but a few know that an orchestra and a maestro provide the colors," I commented quietly. Hah, quietly--what am I coming to?
These few were children who had been terribly bored and so unappreciative of the things in life that at one point, a tollbooth had been sent to them by someone or something--not even the people in Wisdom know, unless one of us is hiding the fact that they are sending it--so that these bored kids can go through it, end up here, and just mosey around and get a fuller appreciation of everything in life (because they find that here is where they learn things don't work the way that they had assumed) and go back through the tollbooth with a whole lot more wisdom than when they began.
Now, none of us know who or what is sending it but we know it's there because these kids tell us; because it's so downright odd that a tollbooth ends up in their room and leads them to a place they've never seen or heard about.
But anyhow, back to what happened a few nights ago.
"I'm not as concerned with that as I am of people just not appreciating color. How often have you gone out this week to gaze at the azure sky and observe the emerald grass--or," he added with an inclined head and questioning eyes, "stopped to be thankful of the brightness of your wagon there?"
Involuntarily I looked back to my wagon, which even in the encroaching darkness stood out quite well. Then I noticed Alkali and Patchwork, who were dozing off, and they were beautiful in color, too.
"Not at all," I murmured, now seeing his point. "But as I think of it now, thank you Chroma."
My voice had a sincerity to it that no one could deny or not feel appreciative to; that was because I wasn't joking.
"You are most welcome."
This was when that question came back to me.
"How do you conduct the color of the whole universe with just one orchestra, even though it is so large, and yourself?"
This was when my friend smiled and I felt that he was, once again, becoming genuinely happy.
"Can you keep a secret?" he asked me quietly and with mock-shifty eyes.
"Always."
"I give a different score to a different cluster of musicians, and that way everything in the universe is covered. My conducting is encouragement to everyone."
"Everything in the universe?" I queried, with a dash of disbelief and a pinch of awe riding on my croaking voice.
"Everything," Chroma responded, looking proud and grinning.
All I could do was say 'wow,' but even that didn't come out.
"But then why don't you come to the party? The orchestra could play on in your absence," I suggested after a few minutes.
"When I'm up there conducting, everything is a lot brighter," I was told.
"So why are you going? Won't you have your hands full providing the shouting and loud uproars and everything else like that?" Chroma asked, yawning.
I found myself growing tired as well and stretching.
"I'll get everything squared away in my free time before then," I assured him. "People like me live a mostly secluded life and need the socializing. I'm sure you can relate."
"I sure can. But you must excuse me, because I also sure can do with some sleep." He got up and stretched in one fluid motion.
"I hope you don't mind that I stay in your neck of the woods tonight, because the horses and I are also sleepy."
"Make yourself at home," he said, bowing with a small smile, then turning on his heel to stride somewhere off into the woods. I always do wonder where it is he goes.
I did make myself at home--by simply falling over and sleeping right then and there on the ground. When a person is tired, it makes little difference where it is they sleep, but I can only say this for myself.
When I woke up, there were quite a few bug bites on my arms and face, but Chroma laughed when I showed him--or rather just when he caught a glimpse of my face.
Unfortunately, I am a doctor, but not the kind that fixes blemishes. Dammit.
After talking with Chroma, I realized that it's important to keep in mind that there is more than one side to everyone. He's usually so contented and happy, and for him to be gloomy is unnatural. Or perhaps he cries lonely tears when no one watches, much like I do.
It's hard to keep up just one image, and when you show another, people never see it coming and think something is wrong with you when there's also something wrong with them, because they've went all that while being narrow minded and thinking that side was the only side of you. This narrow mindedness can be said of everyone.
But then again, for people to show only one side of themselves is letting their being fall into a trap. When people make mistakes about the individual's personality because there seems to only be one side, the individual gets angry and depressed because they can't believe that people are so narrow as to think there was only that image. Then the person who made the mistake doesn't look at the wronged person the same way again; probably for the worse.
I keep myself to myself because there's a lesser chance of being hurt by others, but in the long run it hurts internally because no one knows the real me, but just the projected me; obstinate, wry, though humorous; and sorrowful, lonely tears erupt from my eyes--eyes that are windows to the soul, but that are kept foggy so no one can see in--and roll down my face --a face that longs to be touched or kissed by a friendly being that understands--and then fall to my heart--a heart that too often feels alone and anguished.
I know it is my own fault for just revealing one side of me, but now it's too hard to show everyone the other sides; I'm not ready to accept what may come when everyone knows that Dr. Dischord isn't just another crazy nut.
Well, I'm done for now pouring my heart out to a piece of paper. Perhaps the days will be better in near times.
Until Whenever,
Kakofonous A. Dischord
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
|
||||||