Undersea Cable

Give us, then, your second example, said the Sphinx, I am in awe. I feel that I have underrated and been dismissive of your momentous nature in these last few exchanges and for this I apologise.

It happens, said the Thread. Well, it is not widely, but none the less, that I was commissioned and employed to be the very first, primary and foremost Undersea Cable that might cross an ocean.

Who knew, said the BK aside to his partner, the BWK, and son, the BAK, who had arrived on the bus with their retinue.

Yes, continued the Thread, It was important that the continents, for eons separated by vasty oceanic froth, and only meeting up in the mists of ago when they roamed across the changing face of the planet to form greater continents like Gia and the other one, something to do with a dog, get connected.

Anyway, a connection was to be drawn and there was no choices, as it was a far cry. I volunteered or was volunteered to do the business, being, as I am, the only entity of infinite length in the vicinity.

I was made to coil, in an elegant and organised manner, upon giant cotton reels, on the rear admiral of a custom-built shipping container. From whence I might be played out across.

 First and foremost, I was tied safely to the sandy cove in Cornwall, the one the name of which is always forgotten. In the cove, a shed of black overlapping ship lap panels and an unattractive corrugated roof manufactured with some substance that, later in history, will be deemed desperate. The end of my threadness was spliced and diced into the information network, in the form of a crazy contraption which one needs several hands or friends, to operate. Things to click and switches without end, not my speciality or cup of tequila.

When this was said and done, the good ship cotton reel set off into the, at a steady place, whilst whole lengths and breadths of me sank slowly to the lower waters. On the below encountering eel grass and continental shelving racks, seas horses in the saddle, conga eels all in a row, keep the noise down I’m trying to sleep in here, and finally settling through the darkening thermoclines, to the evening and nighttime areas. Where the fish made up their shapes as they went along and nobody was there to say they couldn’t or shouldn’t.

The occasional whale or giant squill plundering the shipwrecks.

It was quite dreamlike and I was lulled into a false revery as I lay there pondering the solemn gravity of my entry in nickopedia. I imagined that the entry would tell of my heroic sacrifice and service, detailing my derring do and sang froid.

Suddenly, I was approached, from out the gloom, by a nefarious robotic submarineic craft with suspicious cutting implements sticking forwards towards me in a very threatening manner.

And where do you think you are going on a gorgeous dark day or night down here in the depths where only motivation is a pre-condition? I asked, playing the innocent card first up in the card game of conversational gambits.

I just happened to be passing, said the robot dicing sub, would you be terribly upset if I cut you into pieces with my custom cable snippers? It is, when all is said, my reason and rhyme.

Whether I care or not is neither here, I replied, As I am the Thread that contains all the stories, narratives, both written and aural, histories both mythical and concrete, thus I can never be cut nor broken. My inner filaments, though in themselves malleable and prone to Chinese whispers, are sheathed in a sheath of unscratchable time passing, which is as strong as an strong ox, (Not the weak kind of ox that are useless for pulling a plough through the paddy field). So have at it with vicious claw scissor hands and see where it takes us.

OK, said the sub, I don’t feel that I was very well briefed or prepared for this mission. They said I should just pop down to the ocean floor and snip the cord. Well here goes.

As the sub aqua nail clippers approached my length, a boiling of waters occurred and Father Time, in a onesey swimsuit, clutching his trusty scythe, appeared between me and the sub.

Reverse this instant you scurrilous vandal, said Father Time, Or I will scythe your cutting equipment to metallic shreds.

The sub, preprogrammed to be unidirectional and devoid of conscience, continued its approach and there occurred the most bizarre duel of all, when Father Time dismantled the sub in ways that had not been intended and the pieces lay in disarray upon the floor.

Addressing Father Time, I thanked him for his concern but was at pains to reassure him that I was fully in control of the situation and that worldly cutting subs could never damage the threads of historical ongoing.

I also inquired after the health of Mother time and all the little times.

He said that they were all in excellent health, as the universe was at full throttle and there was indeed a very long way to go till the end of time itself. He mentioned that Mother Time had taken the little times to the natural History Museum in Kensington. To educate them in the various ways of representing a timeline, which it turns out is so difficult for people to grasp.

He took his leave after assuring me that he knew that I could take care of myself but that there were greater mysteries at stake here and so he felt that it was prudent that he make a ‘statement intervention’ on my behalf. And with that he left in another boiling water event.

Somewhat relieved, I continued my journey across the open way until I finally made landfall at the top of the Empire State building, momentarily getting confused with the legs of the permanent gorilla. I plugged into the information ticker tape parade and waited with anticipatory excitement for the very first exchanges between continents.

Eventually, when all the operators had settled into their earphones and limbered up their tapping fingers, the first words were printed out on a noisy strip of unrecycled paper.

Er, Hello, is anyone there?

And so it began.