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She jumped out of bed, eager to see what the world would be like that day. For the past six weeks it had been a gigantic guitar, floating in the cosmic depths, humanity balanced precariously along six strings that stretched for thousands and thousands of kilometers. The moon had been a bongo drum.

World leaders had immediately grasped the nature of this particular transformation. Hundreds of nations, billions of people, quickly reshuffled to settle along fret divisions. The combined population of Poland and Rwanda, together, formed the A-chord. The Eastern Bloc began construction on the machinery with which to operate a monstrous pick. The United States and China, having the most advanced space programs, approached and landed on the bongo drum moon.

Looking for the TV remote, she reflected upon the particular trials and tribulations of that latest of Global Projects. Almost the entirety of Australia had fallen into the world's soundhole two weeks in and could not be retrieved. Not that anyone had much cared, she had noted in watching the news. It had been speculated that the Australian role was to add to acoustical resonance.

A joint operation to remove the dense foliage which had sprung up around the single coil pickups had been dispatched Below, beneath the safety of the strings. Only a fraction of the expedition returned, bearing horrible stories of the entangled jungles whose intense magneticism had, apparently, spawned the fiercest of hippopotamuses (among other beasts). Those residing on the world's strings were advised to move inland, away from the edges.

These were the top stories of the period. So the Project had not been without its casualties, but unlike many other worlds it had inspired a cooperation amongst humanity that hadn't been seen in decades. The so-called paper world, she recalled, had almost resulted in the extinction of the species once upon a time. Certain malcontents had learned how to tear holes in two-dimensional space and to push unsavory executives through them. The world's superpowers, suspicious, had taken to drawing themselves weapons of mass destruction with tremendously large sharpie markers. It had been a close call, very close indeed.

Or the dark period of time later termed Babel in history, during which interpersonal communication became impossible. Everyone had unhappily spewed sounds, but nobody understood. Canadians were able to remain one of the most cohesive nations on the planet by spontaneously developing a system of beatings, whereby the severity of a beating could connote meaning. A beating which only resulted in a black eye, for example, was usually an invitation for sex, while bludgeoning someone to death was a sign of animosity. Despite these brave breakthroughs, many of the world's foremost linguists and speech therapists had committed suicide by the time Babel was over and done with. A time of untrustworthiness in international relations followed.

She had watched the news during this period, but for the life of her couldn't understand what was happening. Just a bunch of garble. Usually the news was good for that sort of thing though, very to-the-point: "Today the world appears to be a series of inside-out vaginas," for instance, or "Top story of the day: the human race is suddenly residing on an immense guitar!" Perhaps some aeronautical pictures as evidence. The newscasters always seemed so happy. She knew why: theirs was one of the only jobs not in flux by the constantly shifting state of the world. Everyone else had to make do.

And make do they had, last night having come to the cumulation of their latest World Project. Together, humanity had played the most rocking version of the late Jimi Hendrix's "All Along the Watchtower" the universe had ever seen. Billions of people jumping up and down on strings in tandem, crushing them down to fret level. Engineers and mechanics furiously working to really nail the solo. There were some early problems with percussion, as the Americans and Chinese seemed unable to work the bongo moon quite as planned (later blamed on sabotage by militant classical music lovers), but all in all a very successful endeavor. The concert had been dedicated to AIDS awareness, everyone held hands in a chain for a while, and the world went to bed happy and eagerly awaiting its next form in the morning.

It was next morning. She finally found the remote, buried beneath a smothering of briny-smelling algae which had mysteriously enveloped her couch and, indeed, much of her home overnight. Wiping the same residue from the television screen, she pushed the power button. The news was just starting.

"Good morning, and now our top story. Nope, no time for opening pleasantries today, Dianne! Astronauts have just confirmed that humanity awakes this day astride a number of galactic lobsters... related stories: the English are livid that their lobster is apparently the runt of the tank, and Iran officials have confirmed that their military is moving to release the claws of their lobster 'for the protection of almighty Allah.' More shortly."

She sighed, hating seafood.

Posted by Chris at 03:38 PM >> Commentations (0)