Odonata

conclusion

by Greg Schatz

Table of Contents
Part 1 appears
in this issue.

But he’s not really concerned with the theatrics. He simply wants his art to be as pure as possible. “I’m not your friend,” he says aloud. The face in the mirror stares back at him. He winces at the lines and folds, makes them disappear by willing them away. He has pure, white skin and wishes it to be untainted by the dread of the day. There is a show in three hours and he wants everything to be just right.

First there is a cut and green liquid leaks out onto the stage. The audience gasps. Milo is dressed up in an outfit that makes him look like the creature from the black lagoon. With his knife, he makes another incision, slicing through an imitation artery. The green liquid squirts out into the audience. Several people are coated with the sickly slime. Their friends laugh at them, turning away in disgust.

Farting noises come from the dual speakers on each end of the stage. The lights dim and something like a coffin ascends from a pit in the center of the stage. Milo opens the lid, revealing a mummy lying down. This mummy is atypical in the way that it is somewhat pretty. It smiles through its crusty teeth. It is playing games with the audience, winning people over by lifting its skirt. The skin changes and becomes smooth. Light reflects cause reflects heat. Milo takes his knife once again and cuts open the mummy’s belly with a thrust. Hundreds of butterflies fly out. The audience gasps in surprise. They begin to clap and cheer. Act one is finished.

Backstage, Odonata rests. His feet ache and his head hurts. The pleasure of this performance is so intense. He never imagined that it would be like this. Fame and fortune is not the most important thing on his mental list. What is important to him is to get people to question the things around them. It sounds silly, he thinks, but it’s true.

People need to do more that smoke and eat and work and consume and do drugs and repeat the cycle all over again. Maybe the world would be a better place if they had gone to the church like he did. Eliminate the concept of the family. He can’t remember where he read about that idea. It made sense at the time. The world is a curse, a disease that can’t be cured. Repeat cycle over again. Train yourself. No more thoughts that bother you. Make yourself disappear. Act two: the stage is full of naked flesh, nude bodies. Thousands of homeless people, cleaned up for the performance. It is a look at the nature of vitality itself: common people displaying their bodies without shame or inhibition. Flesh binds together with the steel props, almost robotic, seas of orifices, skin protruding at all angles, nothing to hide, rubbing, tasting, giving.

“This show has been shut down!” shouted a policeman. “Everyone must leave immediately! Please use both of the doors with the exit signs at the far end of the theater. I repeat. This show has been shut down! Leave immediately to avoid prosecution!” Within minutes, the theater was clear of all the spectators. People were rushing away, scared that the police would take further action. The homeless performers were taken off the stage. Some were put in handcuffs. It was a tragedy, seeing a fine performance sabotaged by meddling authorities. How could they do this?

It had nothing to do with them. It was freedom of expression. Tristan was shouting above the din of confusion. Darleen looked sad and forlorn. Taylor was complaining to a policeman, begging him to change his course of action. He shoved a painting in his face then called it a day, throwing it at the wall. It split into a thousand pieces. Outside, it started to thunder and rain. It perfectly suited the mood.

“Art begs you to follow it. If you don’t it will come back at you. If you try to stop it, it will return!” shouted Taylor. No one was listening. The room was empty: sheets covering the walls, things packed up. It was depressing to say the least. He hurried out the door. He didn’t want to look at the mess.

The whole spectacle made the papers the following day. Friends dropped by the studio, handing tabloids to Odonata, pointing out the articles where slander was used to describe the unfortunate events. It seemed that the whole thing was extremely misunderstood. The purpose (if the critics would stop to open their eyes) was lost amongst all the controversy. The accomplishment was forgotten. He felt like weeping, but could not. It was all so ridiculous.

What would happen at their next show? Would the police be watching them to make sure something like this didn’t happen again? It seemed that nothing was possible except a wanton reality that chose to oppress the man who struggled to change the fabric of society. Could that fabric be changed or mended if broken? Where did art fit into all of this? Was it a type of melee? Something like escapism, but more useful, something that changes society unintentionally.

If I watch television, am I unintentionally committing a murder? If I pass a work of art, does it make me question my station in life? If I kill myself for the sake of art, does it have any significance? Does it serve any purpose? All of these questions overwhelmed Odonata. His teeth chattered. The cold wind from the open window didn’t help. He shut it and told Taylor to shut his mouth and to stop talking about the show. He didn’t want to hear anymore. He couldn’t see through clear eyes. Everything was cloudy and distant. He put his hands to his head sat there, doing nothing, thinking about before it all began.

Young Odonata is sitting naked on the pavement in the middle of the road. The day is balmy, not too hot at all. He squints to look at the sun. It eventually hides behind a cloud. What is he doing here? They made him drink a ceremonial drug from a wooden bowl and now he is drugged and hazy, can’t seem to barely speak a word. He looks at the road that seems to twist and turn forever, winding to a sharp point. Not many cars travel on this desert road. It is used infrequently. But that’s the point. If a car comes along will the child know enough to move in time, or will he stay and get hit? The choice is up to him. It is a test of will. It is a test of endurance.

He sees it in the distance, approaching. It looks like a black speck on the horizon. Could it be a fly? The strangest thoughts were going through his head. One moment he was sitting naked on a road, the next he was on a beach feeling the waves lick at his toes. Strange birds chirp overhead. The tropical skies seem to crash down onto him. Things look double. Who is running her fingers through his hair? He can feel lips touching his neck. How many people from the church has he had sex with? What did they call it, a necessity? It was something that the church did as part of a ritual. What right did they have to do that? How was that supposed to help him? They simply did what they wanted, with no regard for his feelings. He felt trapped. It was coming closer. He could almost hear the motor, or was that just a bird? The speck was moving forward. He didn’t want to be here. Why would they put him through a trauma like this? The fear suddenly became more intense. He gasped and threw his hands in the air, grabbing at invisible limbs to pull him out of this reality into somewhere better, anywhere safe. His heart began to pound with rhythmic intensity as he watched the speck thinking about its destination.

Next week, the Dragonfly Collective began work on what they called “The Malediction,” an engaging look into the world of metal art. It proved to be a difficult task, particularly because of the materials needed for its creation. Odonata made up a list and handed it to every member. It looked like this.Items needed for Malediction:3 spoons from ex-junkie11 keys (bronze)silver fillings (from teeth) bell (from banana seat bike)

“This is only the first part of a longer list,” Odonata explained. “We will start with these items so we can create an initial base in which to build upon. Let’s get to work people! We haven’t got much time and the funding is lower than the norm!” “Is he crazy? Where are we going to find this stuff?” complained Darleen. She fingered her fishnets, played with her dyed black locks. She looked at the floor, raised her hand to see if anyone was watching. She took out a camera. Odonata didn’t like this. “Work on your art in your own time,” he said. He was getting a little too fussy. He was becoming a dictator. It wasn’t good. She looked around again. This time Taylor was watching, looking at her legs, smiling. She knew what he was thinking. She knew what he wanted all along.

Odonata thought of purple bandages covering his eyes. He thought of naked skin brushing against his. It had been so long since he had some sort of human contact. Who would he look to for a good time, Milo and his sweaty palms, grabbing all over, not knowing what to do? Milo adored him for his unique genius, or whatever he called it. Did Milo lie often? Did Milo lie alone in his sheets at night, wondering if things were okay between the two of them? Odonata could be difficult. It wasn’t always easy being the leader. There were responsibilities. Circumstance had brought all of them together and fate would play its part.

As the project comes closer to being finished, it forms a picture in the mind of the reader. The reader looks at it hanging there, light cascading from its corners and angles, an object of admiration. It is pleasing to the eye, this bizarre patchwork with many different particularities. The reader smiles to himself, learning the discipline that comes with admiration. He can only guess what will happen next, where the project will lead him. The beauty of art, he believes, comes from within, not the other way around.

And there is Odonata staring at the reader from a secret hiding spot. Is he human? Is he some kind of insect/human hybrid? What a strange looking fellow! What is it about him that makes your stomach churn, or your senses tighten? Do you trust your sight when you see him coming around the way? Is it worth your time to consider his mindset?

It hung there, in the far corner of the studio. There were still more objects to be collected to add to it. Darleen could count them with her fingers, which were sore from sculpting the metal. She didn’t hear Odonata coming in. She was so lost in thought that she didn’t hear the door open at all. “Do you like what you see?” said a voice from out of nowhere. It startled her. “W-where are you?” she asked the empty space around her. “I’m all around you,” it said, whispering in a creepy way. “I’m everything you’ve become, everything you want to be.” She felt a buzzing around her neck. Something was in her hair, landing on her ears. She swatted the open air, hoping to crush the bothersome insect. No luck. She threw her arms around her head, but still the thing persisted. The thing was her problem. It must be stamped out. Suddenly Odonata appeared out of thin air. “Did you see that?” she said. “See what?” he said, with a sharp grin. It was the first time she saw him smile.

It was beginning to take shape. Now everyone could see that it was a giant Dragonfly on the wall. Critics tried to light cigarettes around it. It was a no go. Most of them asked Odonata how he thought up the concept. It was a lame question, so he answered “Why else do you think we’re called the Dragonfly collective?” The critic stormed out, threatening to write a bad review. It was all a bluff though, because Odonata checked the following day in the paper and it came up in spades.

More time spent in the garden. Lustrous webs spun by spiders around them as they searched for more found objects. Darleen and Milo did most of the handiwork. They dug up plastic fingers, hands, legs and an array of colorful eyeballs. Some children must have buried the dolls. Why? No one could guess. The insects began to gather in swarms around the studio, as if they had finally found a home. It was not uncommon to see the windows full of dragonflies or damselflies. They tapped the glass, longing to come inside. The priest tapped young Odonata’s head three times. He had shaved off all of his hair, sat him down in a high-backed chair and tucked his robe. Snap...snap...snap! There was nowhere else to go, nothing to do but wait. He was left alone in the darkness to fend for himself. How many times had he been born?

Darleen, Milo and Taylor sat around sharing a cup of green tea. The students flew by them at breakneck speed. It was midday at the café close to the university. “He owes us money, hasn’t paid us in weeks. He’s a liar and a thief. Who do you think he really is? He’s so strange. I respect him as an artist, but this is simply too much. We have to do something about him.” They decided to confront him before it got any worse. He was alone in the studio that very moment. “Let’s go,” Darleen said. “Let’s give him an opportunity to set the record straight. If he doesn’t, we’ll crush him!”

They stood around him in a semicircle. They had asked him questions he didn’t want to answer. They had upset him, called him ungodly names. He glared at them. He sneered and spit. “How dare you question my authority! Damn the lot of you if you don’t want to listen!” It was impossible to describe: the dragonfly on the wall became real, metal parts clicking and tightening, skin growing over paper, antennae sprouting, making buzzing noises. Odonata leaned up against it and his flesh melded into it. His skin turned green and he became bug-eyed. “I hate all of you!” he declared. “You will pay!” His body shook violently. When they opened their eyes the room was completely empty. The work of art on the wall was gone. Everything had vanished. Milo thought he saw a tiny speck flying out the window. He swore it was saying something too low to be audible.

They never forgot that day for the rest of their lives. Never.

Milo believed he had to go, that he was misplaced, shouldn’t have been born on this planet, in this dimension.

No one really believed them, but what could they do? Their tongues were tied. They tried to remember everything, but it was all so surreal: the whole bizarre experience.