Comments
Loading Dream Comments...
You must be logged in to write a comment - Log In
The Teiton and the Turma Generator I went south because north had begun to answer back. Southern Oregon lay folded like a pamphlet left on a bus seat. Everyone insisted there was a cave, and inside it a book, and inside the book a system for hoping properly. I don’t trust systems, but I distrust people more, so I went. On the way I met a man who sold maps without ink. “You fill it in as you go,” he said. I asked him where the cave was. He said, “If you knew, you wouldn’t be going.” We drank to that—him from a thermos, me from a conviction. The bus stalled, resumed, stalled again. Someone laughed at the wrong moment and was asked to leave the vehicle. Signs began to collect around me like spare change: arrows pointing at other arrows, circles enclosing apologies, equations that apologized for themselves. They arranged into sheets, then into sequences, then into reactions. One symbol met another and fizzed politely. A third precipitated. I stopped looking for rock and started carrying paper. Years later—because time is a clerk who stamps whenever it wants—I encountered a machine that did not hum. It sorted phrases by shyness, hid them behind longer phrases, and produced nothing on demand. They called it the Turma Generator. It specialized in making important things unfindable and unimportant things urgent. A crowd gathered to misunderstand it. That’s where I met the other Teiton. He wore a coat with too many pockets and no warmth. We compared notes. He said the machine wasn’t broken; it was honest. It refused to become an object for admiration. “If it worked,” he said, “they’d sell tickets.” We stood there while the generator declined requests with impeccable manners. Somewhere a cave remained undecided. Somewhere a book was relieved not to be opened. We left together, lighter by several conclusions, carrying a stack of pages that reacted only when ignored.
I went south because everyone agreed something had been left there on purpose. Southern Oregon looked innocent in the way places do when they are hiding instructions. They said there was a cave. They said there was a book. They said the book would explain what to do with the rest of your life, which immediately made me suspicious.
I did not find the cave. Instead, signs began following me. Not signs with messages—signs with posture. Arrows leaning away from responsibility. Circles refusing to close. Marks that behaved like formulas but reacted badly when examined. They multiplied into pages, then into sequences, then into mild reactions that produced heat, residue, and embarrassment. I stopped hiking and started sorting.
Years passed without consulting me. By then I encountered a machine that refused to announce itself. It stood in a warehouse and did nothing on request. When ignored, it quietly rearranged phrases so that important ones vanished and trivial ones demanded attention. This was the Turma Generator. People said it was defective. Engineers said it needed a purpose. The machine declined both diagnoses.
That’s where I met the other Triton.
He looked like someone who had arrived late to the same misunderstanding. He said he’d never gone looking either. Things had simply begun presenting themselves in the wrong order. Symbols first, instructions later, explanations never. He said the mistake people make is expecting delivery instead of recognition.
We watched the generator politely refuse usefulness. Someone asked it for answers. It produced footnotes. Someone demanded value. It generated hiding places.
The other Triton nodded. “That’s correct,” he said. “If it worked, it would already be gone.”
We left together. Somewhere a cave remained unnecessary. Somewhere a book stayed perfectly safe by not being opened. We carried a stack of pages that only assembled themselves when no one was watching, and even then, only partially.
