84
 

At sixty thousand feet one can see our planet’s curvature. Airborne, as I am, bound for New Zealand, earth and life look round—spheroid, to be accurate—thus making sense of our personal revolutions, birth to death ellipses, stories come-full-circle. I, who was spawned in a Petri dish, am about to meet my Maker—mad though he may be, if reports hold true. Why confront a lunatic whose knowledge could be misshapen, whose memory could be faulty, whose mien could be untoward, when facts he might divulge have already been uncovered? What I am, who made me, I mostly have established. Facts are not my purpose; he is my objective—Remington Falk aka Stuyvesant Fink—if only to remind us both that acts engender consequences, that causes with effects are fatefully intertwined. Meeting him in the flesh, him meeting me, in and of itself, I predict, will suffice.

After which I embark on a whole new career. My show in Paris confirmed—the Sheik did not deceive me—opens in a fortnight. My fortune, paid in full, guarantees financial independence irrespective the art world’s reception—all my sculptures recovered thanks to the Prince and his disciples’ bloodless coup. My former peers have likewise left the Palace, I presume. Most have been invited to my recent-works’ debut—the centerpiece of which is labeled "GEMINI."

BACK

NEXT