And I pictured that: a black, square-shaped presence even smaller than the spindle, just in front of the spindle; directly in front of it; equidistant from the spindle and the exterior of my forehead, and…strangely familiar. Had I pictured this before? This tiny black square? It reminded me of something. I didn’t know what. The square was at a tilt, though. A very slight tilt. The top of the square was tilting toward the spindle, and the bottom of the square was tilting toward my forehead, and along both the top and bottom of the square was a line of white light; more a bracket, really, turned ninety degrees. A [ of light turned ninety degrees right, at the top of the tilted square; and another [ of light turned ninety degrees left at the bottom of the tilted square. So two sideways [s of white light, hugging a slightly tilted square at the top and the bottom. Where had I seen this? I knew I’d seen it.
Again I slowly drew my tongue along the roof of my mouth while picturing the spindle turning clockwise another quarter-revolution, which caused me to picture a sharpening of the angle of the tilt of the square, which tilting both thickened the [s of white light along the square’s top and bottom and lengthened the arms (i.e. of the [s).
Then I drew my tongue quickly along the roof of my mouth, and pictured the spindle turning and turning, rapidly turning, rapidly spinning—six revolutions, seven revolutions—which caused the black square to tilt more and more, and, soon enough, the spindle came to a halt, and the square had all but disappeared; the square was perpendicular to the position it had originally occupied, barely discernible as a thin black line horizontally bisecting the glowing white light, which was no longer two [s, but was itself a square.
||Hey, you. Well, I’ll be! It’s been forever,|| said my desk.
“Did I just—” I thought.
||What? Didn’t catch that. You gotta speak up.||
“Hello,” I said. “Did I just—”
||That’s more like it,|| the desk said. ||I’ve been wanting to talk to you for a mighty long time. It’s been hard for me lately. I don’t know if you’ve noticed the way I’ve been splintering under the drawer—have you noticed? It’s really unpleasant. Started out small, nothing a little sandpaper probably couldn’t have taken care of, but the splinters are developing into cracks, and I think it’s time you—||
The desk’s voice cut out. The split second before its voice had cut out, I, in order to confirm my suspicions, had drawn my tongue top speed along the roof of my mouth in the direction opposite that which I’d previously drawn it, and, in doing so, had rapidly spun the spindle counterclockwise til it halted, which had tilted the square back to its original position—beyond its original position, in fact; it covered all the light, now.
Suspicions confirmed, then! Not only had I, in the square, discovered my gate, but I’d also, in the spindle, found the mechanism by which I could control my gate.
Or maybe it would be more accurate to say that I’d discovered the workable representations or operable metaphorical images of my gate and the mechanism by which I could control it. I think that would be more accurate. I certainly don’t think—nor did I think at the time—that I had an actual, physical glowing-gray-spindle-and-black-tilting-square-set inside the upper-right quadrant of my skull.
But whatever’s exactly the best way to phrase what they were, I had access to them, now: my gate and the mechanism by which I could—if I pictured the latter spinning and the former tilting while I dragged my tongue along the roof of my mouth—open and close it.
I’d found my volume knob.
* * *
Except: no.
Or rather, if I’m being entirely honest: maybe. Almost certainly not. No, certainly not.
That is: I was never able to replicate my success. Not even ten seconds later, reader. I tried. Saw the glowing gray spindle, the small black square, drew my tongue back and spun the spindle, which tilted the square, letting in all the light, and the desk said nothing, and I said, “Desk. Hello. Desk!”
And the desk said nothing.
After another few failed attempts, I, unshaken, assumed that the desk was angry at me for my having shut my gate on it; assumed it was willfully ignoring me. But then I picked up my lighter, tried my volume knob out on it, and: nothing.
The lighter, however, had been on my desk, and it was possible, I thought—however unlikely—it was possible the lighter was allied with the desk, felt some affinity with it, some resentment toward me for having upset the desk. Possible, too, the lighter just didn’t like me, had no interest in talking.
So I went downstairs and made contact with inans that hadn’t ever been on or near my desk or my lighter, tried turning the volume knob up with each of them. More nothing. More failure.
Perhaps turning up the volume was more intricate an operation than I’d realized?
Maybe, I thought, it could only work if my eyes were closed? or if my eyes were closed while my head was at rest on the heels of my palms? if my elbows were at rest on a hard, flat surface while my eyes were closed and my head was at rest on the heels of my palms? None of that worked, and after none of that had worked—I’d spent hours trying, adjusting positions, changing locations—I thought maybe the trouble was that I was picturing the spindle or the square incorrectly: maybe the spindle I was picturing was actually a little bit larger than it had been when I’d opened my gate to the desk; or maybe the square was a little bit smaller. I adjusted the sizes, met with more failure. So maybe, I thought, I had the mouth part wrong: perhaps the pressure I applied to my palate with my tongue had to be lighter, or heavier, or…
I won’t bother detailing all the thousands of tiny adjustments I made toward the cause of opening my gate a second time. Suffice it to say that all attempts failed. They failed over and over, hundreds of times per day, every day for over two weeks before I began to accept the possibility that the opening of my gate at my desk had nothing to do with any volume knob; nothing to do with picturing spindles and squares and making movements with my tongue; that it had all just been a random and meaningless coincidence; that my gate had only just happened to open and close while I was vividly picturing tilting a square by spinning a spindle by moving my tongue. And then it took another week of failed attempts—fewer per day, from hundreds down to scores—before I finally did accept the meaninglessness of the coincidence, and gave up entirely.
Almost entirely. Once in a while—earlier today, for example, while I was right in the middle of writing the description of the square, this happened—a little glimmer of hope that my volume knob is real will catch me by surprise, and I’ll make an attempt. I’ll picture the spindle and picture the square, and I’ll lick at my palate, and picture the resultant movement and light, and nothing else will happen. I’ll fail every time. I’ve failed every time.