Conversation · Joyce Messier

"Back to those basic terms of reality then."

"And if those authorities drink so hard they need help recalling the basic terms of reality -- well, I am here to help." She bows and smiles.

"...and if the law officials of our nation need help with the basic terms of reality -- well, then I am here to help." She bows.

"Thank you, ma'am."

Say nothing.

"So, permit me to conclude with this -- who you are -- to me -- is the police. The only legitimate law enforcement authority in Revachol."

"So I'm basically one of the good guys?"

"So I'm basically a thrall to foreign interests?"

"So I'm basically a lackey of capital?"

"So I'm basically a lackey of capital?"

"So I'm basically a thrall to foreign interests?"

"This abbreviation -- what does it stand for?"

"It stands for Revachol Citizens Militia."

The price of a 1.5 litre bottle of Commodore Red? The first line of the Firefighter's Code? Square root of three? I don't know what you mean by something close to you. Ask a normal question.

It remains a mystery what you mean by this something close. This isn't about you. It's about reality.

"What is that?" (Point to Cindy the SKULL.)

"The girl in the old-lady rags?"

"Yes."

"Looks like a sullen and rebellious member of a teen infraculture."

"Infra... culture?"

"Yes -- you and I belong to the supraculture. We're common, the herd. The music on the radio, the food in the chain restaurant -- those are all too popular for the girl in the old-lady rags."

"She prefers a fantasy world -- an infraculture with its own dress code and vernacular. It is an illusion, I'm afraid. There is no refuge from the supraculture."

"I understand everything. Make it more complicated somehow."

"I can't. That's how simple it is. One may dye their hair green and wear their grandma's coat all they want. Capital has the ability to subsume all critiques into itself. Even those who would critique capital end up reinforcing it instead..."

She pauses to take a long, leisurely sip of tea. "Alright, what next?"

Suddenly you're not so sure you're part of the supraculture...

Let it go.

Of course -- no time for silly infracultures. There are more pressing, reality-centric questions to be asked.

"I think I may be part of an infraculture."

Her eyes go round with surprise. "And what would that be?"

"Disco."

"Ha! I can see that, yes. I dabbled in those dark arts myself -- not so long ago." She smiles enigmatically. "I assure you, it was a thoroughly supracultural phenomenon. All-permeating. Downright mandatory."

"Nothing infra about disco, baby."

"We got this covered -- about another basic reality term."

"You're disco?"

"Those days are long behind me..." She looks inland with sarcastic wistfulness. "And even in the early Thirties I would say I was more of a New girl. Disco was a minor, but still enjoyable facet of the whole thing for me."

"The New?"

"The New, a cultural era -- and the name of the decade it ravished, the Thirties. It came out of post-revolutionary Revachol. It was... ultraliberal."

"It involved lots of partying, as you might imagine. And champagne coloured everything. By the looks of it -- that would have been when you came of age. Now..." She raises her eyebrow at you.

"Got it -- let's take it back to reality central for the next one."

"Maximum brio, officer."

"Sounds fun. I can't remember a single thing."

"Wasn't it Guillaume le Million who said: If you can remember the New, you weren't there?"

"Wait -- Guillaume le Million? I was just thinking about that guy! Whatever happened to him?"

"Ah, yes..." She looks hesitant. "This is not very central to reality, is it?"

"I still want to know."

"I can't be one hundred percent sure, but I believe he died due to complications from venereal disease."

"Which one?"

"All of them."

"So you're saying he didn't vanish in a puff of stardust?" (Conclude.)

"I'm afraid no, but then again -- one can't be entirely sure. It's all part of his mystique. Ask someone else and you may get a more champagne-coloured take..."

"Anyway," she concludes. "What other basic facets of reality should we discuss?"

"Are you sure he didn't die of auto-erotic asphyxiation?"

"You can't get a venereal disease from that, can you?"

For some reason your mind is a veritable repository of Guillaume le Million lyrics, trivia, and b-sides. But the time to explore this is when you're alone, facing a mirror perhaps? Right now it would derail the reality low-down.

"Champagne? That doesn't sound like anything I'd be into. I'm straight edge."

"Of course. You're much more grounded, a serious detective on a case called reality. Speaking of -- is there anything else?"

"Cop."

She lets out an unrestrained laugh, the crows feet stretching onto her cheeks...

"My reality-impaired colleague is not so far off..." The lieutenant wanders back into the conversation -- he's been sorting his notes.