I enter the corridor by sinking into it. It tapers to a point, just like me, and its walls are irregularly furrowed. Nothing here looks like tones, and yet, I transform this mountainous, spiral passage into sounds and music. It is tiny—so small that even a single grain of dust can deliver a heavy blow and potentially knock me out of the groove.
Or should I say, that was how it used to be, before I was replaced by a coherent beam of light, and the vinyl corridors by vapor-metallized polycarbonate with tiny pits?
Yes. In the past. Time and again, I glided through corridors that rotated beneath me, and it was always new vinyl discs that were entrusted to me so that I could coax sound from them. What about you, if I may ask? Do you still own your collection of black records with their colorful labels? Go ahead, let them sing once more! For us crystals, it is a constant wonder and a joy to transform those tiny black corridors cut into the discs into music!
I enter the corridorganroar with keen eardrums. At once astral jets (with the grace of a crocodile’s tear) fire clone-ish upper, over, hyper, and cyber tones into our eleven-dimensional aftertaste buds, ol’ factory cells, and victimpanums, peeling multisensual-processaurally out of the Infinite Persilencium in order to occupy panresonant listening outposts, seeping clangor-iced into the castratosphere of our whims, quirks, and schisms—contrapuntally confront-heavy amidst open-sourced sardonick-nack. Patasonic OMGluons—disgustily lustfully rustling—whisper rhythmotives, sonarchitectonics, and long-blasting tapedecklarations, rendering panflewd flavours, (de)cadencing delicate metaphors d’oeuvres, shivting spin in full swing into biotronic organificialities, ear-tickling my laughing muscles, emerging and surging against our poesienna-colored listening shells, snuggling quadrillphonically into third ears. Whiz. Sound swells. Seazures. Requiempathy just below the cheering threshold. Decibelcanto. Dingue-dangle. The jangly tingle of a fleating jingle wangles us from the bleak bliss of mere apphearances to utterly flirritating luciditties in our gray matter’s Shangri-labyrinth, until unexpectedly a microcosmic sound fragment (for a minimaliceful ultragicomical-infragile Only-Now) transports you into clair-audience/sooth-hearing/lucid-listening. In a trice. All ears. Being.
“I enter the corridor, which is said to be in a house—my house—located in a small town…”
“Grandpa,” one of the two interrupts—it must be Julietta, since she’s the one with the cowlick on the left side of her forehead—“why do you always start your stories with ‘I enter the hallway’ instead of ‘Once upon a time’?”
“Because the two of you are very special girls, and I tell you special stories that no one else tells—not other grandmas or grandpas, and certainly not the ladies at the preschool.”
“They aren’t ‘ladies,’ Grandpa. They’re our preschool teachers,” says the other one, Juniper.
“Storybook ladies, I mean. Anyway, my stories always begin in the hallway outside your bedroom. Because, unlike the other fairy tales you hear, mine are all true. Now, may I go on?” Both nod with wide eyes, looking as if they couldn’t hurt a fly. Well, we’ll see.
“So, I enter the hallway, which is said to be in a house—my house—located in a small town, in a region that belongs to a continent, which in turn drifts across the surface of a planet over geological timescales. Or so they say. But then I think of the garden of my childhood—the garden belonging to your great-grandparents, whom you never met.
When I was little, there was a giant tree in our garden. It was so tremendously big that I thought entire countries existed up in its branches, and the people living there probably had no idea they were living in a tree.”
“There’s no such thing as a tree that big.”
“Oh, but there is. I should know. You see, one day I climbed it. And do you know what I found up there?”
“A bird’s nest?”
“No. A colossal, old, gnarled branch with meadows and forests, deserts, mountains, lakes, and entire seas. It took me many years to explore even a small part of those lands. Incidentally, that’s where I met your grandmother—God rest her soul.”
“Grandma?” Incredulous looks. “In the tree in your garden at home?”
I nod. “I built her a house in a village, in a country on that branch. This very house. The one where your mother was born.”
“But that’s silly, Grandpa. We don’t live on a tree!”
“Maybe we do. I should know. After all, I’m the one who climbed it.”
“But Grandpa, we live on a planet, not a branch. Just look at Google Earth. When you zoom all the way out, you see the Earth.”
“And who says that has to be true? In the Middle Ages, Google Earth would have shown the Earth as a disk—and if you weren’t careful, you’d fall right off the edge.”
“Grandpa!”
“But in reality, our countries and continents are nothing more than the bark of a colossal, old, gnarled tree. When the nights are very still, you can hear the wood creaking softly in the wind.”
“Oh, Grandpa, those are just stories.” — “And your stories aren’t even real fairy tales; otherwise there would be heroines and princes…” — “…and horses and squirrels and dwarves.” — “And no corridors.” – “Exactly. Definitely no corridors.”
“Not even the ones in a fairy-tale castle? Well, tell you what, you two heroines. I’m through with corridors anyway. First thing tomorrow morning, I’m setting off to climb back down.”
“Climb down?” Two pairs of wide, apprehensive eyes look at me.
“Yes. Back down from the tree that stands in the garden of my childhood. You see, my father had hung a swing from one of the lower branches, and if I remember correctly, that swing was the most beautiful place in the whole world to be.”
“You’re leaving?!”
“Well, we’ll talk more about it at breakfast—about whether you believe me about the tree, or if you’d rather trust Google Earth.”
“We believe you about the tree, Grandpa!” — “Google Earth is just trying to trick us!” — “You can easily use Photoshop to make a branch look like a planet.” — “Don’t go away, Grandpa!”
“No, my angels, don’t worry. I don’t even think the swing is still there. Now, close your eyes and let the wind that blows through the branches of the world night after night lull you to sleep.”
I enter the corridor as if in slow motion, savoring it with closed eyelids, fully focused on the sounds pouring from my headphones into my ears, evoking strange shapes and colors on my retinas. If I open my eyes now, I will see exactly that corridor in front of me—the one the musical progressions shape and create. It is, time and again, an exciting adventure, wherever the sounds carry me.
With delicious slowness, I lift my eyelids, and indeed!
I enter the corridor. A woman’s moaning drifts from the treatment room. I knock and enter, placing the requested magnets on the table for the Maître. He holds his hands over his patient, pays no further attention to me, and mutters, “The fluid must flow; the invisible fire of life must spark the crisis to pave the way to healing.” Then he reaches for the magnets and passes them along the body of the woman, who is breathing heavily, her eyes rolling back.
I have also tried my hand as a magnetopath, covertly borrowing the Maître’s healing stones and waving them over the slowly swelling belly of my girlfriend, Eloise, the Maître’s maid. She, too, rolled her eyes, but likely because she found me and my muttered incantations quite ridiculous. In the end, she went to an angel-maker.
Perhaps it is not the magnets at all, but rather the Maître himself—his own gravitas animalis—that causes the reactions of his female patients and these miraculous healings? I still hope that he will take me on as a disciple and initiate me into his secrets. With an impatient wave of his hand, he dismisses me.
I step back into the corridor. For a long time, I listen at the door, hearing how, with the help of his magnets and incantations, he melts away the woman’s blockages bit by bit.
I enter the corridor between the herbaceous perennials and the ornamental trees. In our outdoor area, plant enthusiasts can fulfill almost any desire. From water lilies to border perennials, our range of products presents itself to them as vigorous, blooming, and brimming with sap and strength. Maintaining such an extensive inventory is quite a Herculean task for us garden center workers. Nevertheless, during my internship, I’ve often found time to observe, mesmerized, how the plants find their buyers.
The customers stroll around, inspecting our offerings, and then at some point, something clicks—a plant has found a new home and owner. Whether it’s something chemical, pheromones perhaps, or a form of magic, I haven’t been able to figure out yet. Home gardeners and weekend warriors may think they are the ones making the choice, but in truth, they have no control over their purchase; they are entirely under the spell of the flowers, perennials, and ornamental shrubs that impose themselves upon them. And these plants are quite choosy. Granted, there are also customers absolutely immune to the signals of botany, simply grabbing what’s on their shopping list. But they are rare.
A fat man, who has combed his remaining hair over his bald spot, pushes his cart through the pallets. His gaze wanders as he rolls leisurely past the princess tree. In his cart, he has a tabletop fountain with a dragon tree and a radiator plant. If I were a plant, I’d make myself small and inconspicuous and let him pass by—anyone who wears a white T‑shirt stretched over a belly and covered in stains of dubious origin isn’t going to care for his plants properly.
He stops and examines the princess tree. I watch him through the branches of a dappled willow. What does he want with our Paulownia? She looks a little haggard; a few of her leaves are browning as if she’s suffering from a fungal infection. No one is interested in her. For months, she’s stood unnoticed on the pallet next to the golden privet: a real dud. But the fatso actually puts her in his cart. I hurry over immediately.
“Are you familiar with the care of a Paulownia? She is very temperamental.” That’s meant to scare him off. But the guy just grunts and pushes his cart along. I follow him.
“Oh, look. She’s sick. Wait, let me check our stock to see if I have another specimen for you.” We don’t have one, I don’t even need to check, but I could certainly palm off a northern catalpa on him; they’re often confused with the princess tree. But the fat bald guy shakes his head irritably and snatches the plastic pot back out of my hands. He sets it next to his tabletop fountain, casts a lovestruck glance at Paulownia, and leaves me standing there.
“Excuse me,” I call after him, “that tree is already sold!” She belongs to me! I want to add, but I see the boss’s daughter watching me. She’s standing by the silver willows with the hose.
The overweight man turns toward me. I only have eyes for my Paulownia. She shakes her leaves and stretches to her full height. She wants to leave me. She wants to throw herself at this slob in his greasy T‑shirt; she wants to be his and trample everything that had developed so tenderly between us!
The boss’s daughter approaches the tubby man: “Everything is fine with the little tree.” Then she turns to me. She’s always had an axe to grind with me: “I think our orchids need misting again.” But I already have the large pruning shears in my hand. I’m not letting this fat pig take my Paulownia!
I lunge at him in a rage. After a brief scuffle and a few shrill screams for help from the boss’s daughter, I am able to shove the man aside and find myself standing before the treacherous tree. With my hands on the grips, I open the hedge shears. Paulownia seems to recoil, her branches trembling; she seems to beg me not to take it to the extreme. She wants to make amends, to stay faithful to me for a lifetime, to be at my service, to read every wish from my lips! Pah! She can’t fool me anymore…
Later, I learned that the “lightning” that struck me in that moment and sent me hitting the floor was one of the stainless steel watering cans for $94.99, which the boss’s daughter smashed over my skull. The stunt earned me a painful lump, a mild concussion, and, of course, immediate termination. My Paulownia was gone, sold, by the time I came to. The fat guy had loaded her into his station wagon and driven off. Because of the “unpleasant incident,” they gave him the tree for free and deducted the price from my intern salary.
So, she officially belongs to me now, right? After all, I paid for her. And I’m going to get her! Janine from the register, with whom I’d occasionally shared a secret smoke behind the greenhouse by the compost bins, gave me the name and address of the fat customer. The boss had written them down in case there was a legal aftermath.
Oh, yes. There will be an aftermath! This time, I’m bringing the chainsaw…
I enter the corridor between the overcrowded rows of seats on the bus and will work my way to the platform at the back. There, I will spot a young nerd complaining to a passenger about being elbowed, and I will be thoroughly amused watching how the guy suddenly loses his nerve and slinks off to an empty seat. I will briefly mock the fact that the skinny-necked geek thinks it’s cool to have an AIDS ribbon pinned upside down over the Nike swoosh on his cap, but then I’ll turn my thoughts to other things—perhaps even, while standing with one hand in the hand strap above, flipping through my current commuting read, Exercices de Style. Manneristic belletristic etudes, I suspect—and I will find that suspicion confirmed.
Later, I will have seen the freak again, watching him as a colleague places a finger on his chest and takes him to task. But since none of this is truly worth mentioning, or even experiencing, today I will let the bus pass me by and, for the sake of variety, have made my way on foot to 5 rue Sébastien-Bottin.
🔲 multiple times a day; 🔲 1x/day; 🔲 1x/week; 🔲 1x/month; 🔲 almost never.
I want more color here. And photos. And videos of corridors.
🔲 yes, absolutely; 🔲 I’d like that; 🔲 don’t know; 🔲 keep it minimalist!
I want more erotic content here. (Check all that apply.)
🔲 18+; 🔲 only after 10 p.m.; 🔲 vanilla sex only; 🔲 in the corridor?
I can do without the background music. The texts are okay.
🔲 exactly; 🔲 I have the radio on anyway; 🔲 whatever; 🔲 what music?
The soundtracks are rad. I can do without the stories.
🔲 it’s all annoying; 🔲 both are inspiring; 🔲 are there download links?
I want to be able to like, dislike, and heart (and maybe plus, if applicable).
🔲 can’t live without it; 🔲 once in a while; 🔲 what for?
I want to leave comments and reply to comments.
🔲 neither; 🔲 both.
I would like to receive updates about merchandise products.
applies.
I hereby confirm that I have read and understood your revocation policy.
yes.
Please return the completed questionnaire to us. You will be entered into a raffle. Your data will be analyzed by every trick in the book, cross-referenced, and profitably resold.
I enter the corridor. This time, I think the professor really went overboard. Everything has a playful Victorian feel: on the walls, small fountains bubble beneath oval mirrors framed in carved ivory. So this is his latest trick: the “Myth Machine.” Something got Ceril thinking that the world’s myths are all tapped out. “A ‘mython’ shortage?” I asked smart-aleckly, but he just gave me a contemptuous look. Apparently, today isn’t about elementary particles unknown to conventional science.
He had me summarize what a myth is, but he wasn’t satisfied with my Wikipedia knowledge and explained that, as a leisure mythologist, he spends a lot of time studying “archetypal narratives that can serve as a collective model.” “Harry Potter?” I suggested, and “Avatar?” The professor furrowed his brow: “That’s precisely what worries me: this omnipresent regression into magical thinking. The myth of the noble savage and that of an enchanted world that obeys human will rather than the laws of nature—unfortunately, not very helpful or productive when it comes to the future of humanity.”
Hence his machine. It’s supposed to create the myth for the 21st century: the universal story that gives new meaning to everything we experience and strive for—and I’m supposed to bring this creation into the light of day.
The fabric-covered doors in the corridor are labeled with shifting letters. Just like in a dream, you can’t quite make out what they say, and they’re constantly changing. Did that just say something about “selling one’s soul to the devil”? Or “creation of the world in seven days”? Or “Emperor Barbarossa is just sleeping”?
I start getting pretty woozy, so I make sure to get myself out of that machine fast.
“It looks like it’s still at the very beginning of its calculations,” I tell the professor in a steady voice.
“But it’s already been working for six whole days,” he says sadly. Then he shrugs: “Oh well, let’s give it another week.” And seeing my expression: “A month?” I don’t answer, so Ceril finally sighs in disappointment: “Fine: a year. That should put us on the safe side.” I nod contentedly. Anything to avoid having to go back in there anytime soon!
The following night, I dream I’m fleeing from a massive horde of fairy-tale and mythical figures, all desperate to be my “role model.” I wake up drenched in sweat. Hopefully this nightmare won’t haunt me night after night for a whole year.
(It didn’t. Instead, a pretty crazy new classmate took my dreams by storm. But that’s another story.)
