Cauldron of Thoughts: Mayor

The novel continues with Tabla (origen unknown) and the Mayor's pain and resultant resolve. This is in no way biographi . . .


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CHAPTER 6: THE CAULDRON OF THOUGHTS (THE MAYOR)
Brandon arranged tea light candles in a circle large enough to sit in. He had
shoved the mattress and strewn clothes into his walk-in closet so that no random object
could tempt the outer eye from the inner’s meditations. He held a compact disc in his
hand. Flames made a fork-tongued phantasmagoria on the silvery surface. It was the CD
that he had made, sweated over, fretted over with four months of self curses and the yank-
ing of hair--Eschatological Jumpsuit--his fourth and final. “Mayor’s musical apotheosis,”
Brandon murmured with a crooked smirk. He slid the disc into the player and skipped
ahead to track nine, Bells From the Interglacial. Brandon took his CD case and a fine-
tipped pen, and entered the circle of flames. Been neglecting the liner notes. Now’s the

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time. Eerie tones of sparsely spaced energy bars chimed amid flickers, a primitive har-
mony simultaneously enlarging and shrinking the humble range of Brandon’s room, ren-
dering it every place and no place. Tabla added its beat-keeping voice from another layer,
from another track left of heaven where the damned moan to the gods for mercy. Banging
pots, shaking sand-filled aluminum cans, and spoons tintinnabulating symphony on china
like bells echoing off the stones of an ancient monastery all contributed to the auditory
otherworldliness of Brandon’s solipsistic cosmos.
Sitting in lotus position now, Brandon removed the paper insert from the case,
admiring his choice of cover art: black and white Easter Island megaliths, blurred and
granulated. Like sentinels of the end times, Brandon thought. Waiting, waiting--holding
multi-millennial watch over our final fucking up. Not yet, they say in telepathic concert.
Not yet, but soon enough. He opened the insert amid the resonating melody of fortu-
itously struck wine bottles and glass jars of assorted sizes. A lucky sequence. Something
new and strange there--boon from an alien muse. On the insert’s right side the thirteen
song titles looped and flowed in Champ’s unique and delicate script. A man who’s
mastered two talents: penmanship and drinking.
The left half was blank. Packed with rich density, the pace of the music quickened.
A layering of squawking night crows, buzzing bees and katydids, angels whistling the
gamut of all things joyful and sad. Brandon touched pen to paper and wrote.
Eschatology is the study of the end of things: the branch of theology concerned
with the end of the world or of humankind; a belief or doctrine concerning final things.
However, as Annie sang, “the sun’ll come up tomorrow.” Brandon laughed at his wit’s

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dexterity. A bottom dollar may be the end of a stack of bills, but who can say anything
meaningful about the end of things in general? It seems to me that the universe itself is a
perpetual motion machine, & the scientific claim that perpetual motion devices don’t
exist is short-sighted and unimaginative. My view is that there are a great many
beginnings & ends to things, but in the largest possible sense, the end of existence is a
belief that one chooses.
I don’t buy the big bang theory. I am amused/irritated that scientific
“authorities” can make careers writing papers on exactly what happened 15 billion years
ago. Brandon paused, wiggling the pen tip. Should I mention Hawking and Sagan?
Brandon stretched for his smokes. Nah, those two tools are the only relevant names most
readers know. Sucking nicotine, he continued. It smacks of audacity & overweening
confidence in human intelligence. That said, this CD was begun, & one day it was fin-
ished. The use of the word eschatological expresses a desire to grow musically, to leave
some phase of development & start another one. Possibly meaningless, it provides me
with a sense of closure at this time.
Brandon hesitated. His lower lip trembled. The moon through the window was a
hermit’s lantern in a far fog. His left hand burned. He sunk his six foremost front teeth
hard into the lip’s trembling meat, and resumed writing. To be perfectly honest folks, my
hand’s fucked up, and it’s with bitter chagrin that I pen the following: I’m leaving music
behind forever. I have no idea what’s next on my cosmic platter. Any positive thoughts
you could beam my way would be appreciated.
Big thanks to Doug Hodges for his time, generosity, and knowledge. Thanks to

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Gilbert (Spaz!) for being a sounding board to my rants, to Champ for his maverick
example and cursive mastery, and to all others who cheerfully participated in the organic
mythology of the Jumpsuit project. May the gods have mercy if gods there be. I AM
Brandon Pickle, a.k.a the Mayor. With the willful flourish of signature the song con-
cluded with a frenzy of tolling bells, discordant and jarring. Brandon pushed stop, and sat
with the silence amid melting candles and heartburn. What’s next. A belch of re-tasted
sausage answered him.
Brandon tried to sleep. Smoke of cinnamon wax layered the darkness. The wicks
had spent themselves by midnight. Brandon imagined that his brain was a swollen red sun
shrinking to a point of black. One o’clock. The brain chattered ugly. Brandon Aum Mani
Padme Hummed his mantra. Two o’clock. Brandon squirmed from side to side. His toes
were cold. Behind my eyelids reality is a painting and I am the painter. Black paint: the
still point’s color. I hereby become one with the pitch-black canvas of sleep. It’s just a
painting. Green and purple serpents soon hissed and slithered all over it. Three o’clock.
Brandon lay flat on his back. I am the universe, he thought. My body contains all stars,
all times, all darkness, and all light. My reach has no limit, and I can silence all voices
because the source of all silence and voice is within me now. Brandon felt himself
expand. Galaxies and thoughts were candles within him. One by one he snuffed them out,
and when he snuffed the last he thought no more.

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