The constant moment

Each one was a constant moment, a frozen instant in time.  They were laid out like an exhibition in a gallery even though it was technically a room in Ms. Blunt’s laboratory.  And what no-one told you was that if you tried to touch one of these moments, or you accidentally brushed against it, or someone jokingly pushed into it, then you fell into the moment itself, and were held there, an invisible observer of what was happening until someone on the outside pulled you out.  Usually it was Ms. Blunt herself who pulled you out, and gave you a little lecture, admonishing you for your insensitivity to what was on display.  Then afterwards you were intercepted by a quiet little man who seemed innocuous until you tried to push past him, when he took your elbow in a grip like steel and escorted you off to another room whether you wanted to help him or not.  This room contained someone else, and it varied from day to day, week to week.  It also contained a comfortable leather chair with strong leather straps, and you weren’t allowed out of that chair until whoever was in the room with you was satisfied that you’d told them all about the constant moment.

“So you were in moment 930-C this time?”

“I don’t know, I didn’t see what it was called.  Someone just pushed me into the room, and when I tried to get out I was thrown–“

“There was no-one with you.  We have the security camera footage, it clearly shows you walking into the room, looking around the exhibits and then stepping into 930-C.”

“You don’t! You can’t have, because it didn’t happen!”

“We have.  You’ll be shown it before you leave.”

“…damn you, why are you doing this to me?  It’s persecution, you keep pushing me into these moments, these other times.  Why can’t you pick–“

“Describe moment 930-C to me.”

“Why can’t you pick on someone else for a change?”

“Describe moment 930-C to me.  Please.”

“No.”

“We’ve been here before, haven’t we?”

“…”

“Haven’t we?”

“(Yes.)”

“So will you describe moment 930-C to me?  Or do I need to persuade you?  Again.”

*

“There’s the ringing of a bell when you enter, it’s quite loud and… harsh, I suppose.  It’s a get-out-of-the-way bell, not a church bell or anything like that.  It’s a definite move-move sound.  There’s a smell like, I don’t know, an animal, something big maybe, sweaty.  What?  Yes, it could be a horse, I’ve never sniffed one of those.  There’s that, there’s the bell, and then there’s the heartrate.  Your heartrate just shoots up and you start panting for breath and sweat springs out on your head.  It was like I’d been running in a race or something.  I felt kind of terrified, but I didn’t know what I was terrified of.  There was screaming, off to my left I think.  Maybe in front of me too.  High-pitched, more like women than men I think.  Men tend to bellow when they scream don’t they?  Well I don’t know, I don’t scream.

That’s when I started looking around, and I realised that there’s this big tram-like vehicle and its bearing down on me.  It’s too close, I can’t get around it from where I am, and it’s not slowing down.  I remember looking down at the ground, wondering if there was enough room for me to lie down and have it just go over me and there wasn’t, there was this big decorative panel all the way around that would catch me up like a cow-catcher and push me along.

The bell keeps ringing the whole time you’re in there though, it’s incessant and it gave me a headache after a bit.  Then the headache pounds in time with the bells rings– What?  Oh ok, the pealing of the bells, but it doesn’t sound anything like a church bell you know?  It sounds more electric than that.  Bells can’t really buzz, can they?  Oh fine, you write whatever you want.  It’ll be just like your camera footage of me volunteering for your little experiment.

Ouch!

The bus thing, the vehicle, it gets closer while you’re in there.  Everytime I looked at it it had inched closer.  Not by much, but every time a little further.  It’s really scary, because you can’t move.  The people around are moving too, equally slowly.  They’re getting out of the way, it’s like they know what’s going to happen too. I don’t know, there’s an air of… is sacrifice too weird a word?  It’s like it’s deliberate but no-one asked me if I wanted to take part.”

*

“I would recommend that we close 930-C down for the moment.  We can reopen it later when the constant moments are better understood.  He definitely saw movement within the moment this time, and that can’t be called constant, can it?”

“We’ll think about it.  Write your recommendation up and submit it to Sheila, she’s back from holiday now.  Next, when do you think he’ll be ready for moment 940-A?”

Life is worth exploring

No don't get up.  Stay seated.  This is your office after all, and may I say what an interesting office it is?  I may?  Oh thank-you.  I particularly like the claw marks on the legs of your desk, do you perhaps have an ill-trained cat?  An ill-trained secretary?  I see.  I see.
Who am I?  I'm Buddy, of course, your existentialist guide to the solipsism of inner-things.  I'm completely qualia-qualified and I know things about your id that would make your super-ego blush.  I'm also being paid for by your Company, who feel that you could use a life-coach.  At least in part because, it says here, that you leave the office so infrequently that there are suspicions that you're living here.
What?  I believe that your company policy is to fumigate the building if that's found to be true.  No, it probably wouldn't be very good to be caught in here while that was happening.  No, I'm pretty certain all the windows are sealed, in order to protect the air-conditioning.  Well yes, it is a good job you don't live here then, isn't it?
But still, your swipe card record says you came in two weeks ago at 11am and haven't left since.  Are you not aware that life is worth exploring?
Life is very much like an African safari.  It seems initially that a good one is something that only happens to other people, generally people rich enough to be able to go to Africa and take such a safari, while you are left with the urban version where you see a fox, two badgers and a squirrel while being mugged by a thirteen year old who's trying to get more credit for their stolen pay-as-you-go mobile phone to call phone-sex numbers while their mother is getting blind-drunk in the living room and their father is screaming imprecations at the greyhounds down at the track.  But it's simply not true, everyone is on an African safari if only they'd explore life a little further.  The Big Five are out there, waiting to meet you, if only you turn the right corner at the right time.
Who?  No, the Big Five are the five large game that they have in Africa: Elephants, Rhinos, etc.  No, not ostriches, who told you that?  Well I wouldn't trust National Geographic if you got to it via Wikipedia.
Consider this: just three days ago I was on the high street out there and I decided that I could take the back roads rather than the main road.  There was no real reason to do this, it would almost certainly take longer, and the shop I intended to get to was actually located on the high road, but I wanted to take the opportunity to explore life a little, so I turned right at the roadworks instead of walking round, and took a road I'd looked at in passing many times, but had never actually ventured down.
The road went round a corner, and then round another.  It was residential, and the houses hid themselves behind privet hedges and creosoted wooden fences.  Bedroom windows curtained with nets peered cyclopeanically at me – yes, it's a word thank-you – and somewhere in the distance I heard a roar.  No, it was a motorbike starting up, there are no lions roaming the streets here.  Which is a pity, it would certainly help keep crime down in the inner cities.
The road turned again, and I saw an old Ford Cortina rusting at the kerbside like a dead hippo slowly rotting in the shallows of a river.  A little further on the road branched and again I took the side road, hoping to find somewhere else I'd not seen before.  I took a chance that it might be a dead-end, one of life's little cul-de-sacs where you can pause for a moment, breathe deep, then turn around and carry on your way.
What are you doing?  No, breathe deep was a metaphor.  I don't think the air tastes funny.  Now, where was I?
Oh yes, I took the side road, and after a short distance it was partially blocked by those little metal limbo gates they put everywhere to try and kill unsuspecting cyclists.  I jinked left and right, sashaying my hips in a way that would make a salsa dancer weep, and came back out onto the high road, just above the shop I wanted to visit.
I was delighted that I'd explored life and seen the hippo... I mean, car.  I was pleased to see that people lived beyond the high road, that there was a life out there that, with a balaclava, a knife and something to break windows, I could be part of.  As could you.
You've gone a very funny colour you know.  Hello?  Hello?
Huh.  I think they've started fumigating the office already, I was sure that wasn't due until seven.  Oh drat, I'd better leave then.  Are you coming?  No?  Oh well, suit yourself.