The Chronicles

It's hard to see in the dark church. She'd wanted to take the quickest route to the theatre, but when she heard that her childhood hero, Spinoza the philosopher, was buried near the hotel, she had to go and have a look.

She put on her best clothes, because she's planning to ask Conor Oberst to marry her after the Monsters of Folk performance in the Royal. She hasn't thought about what kind of life they'll have together. Perhaps she could sell her stories to accidental passersby, while Conor makes music. It's easy to tell the stories of others.

But now she's standing in the roaring silence of the church.

It's a simple gravestone: Baruch Spinoza, 1632-1677.

"Why did you come?" Spinoza asks from his grave. "I'm tired. Sleeping for eternity is such a chore."

His voice is a little hoarse, which is always the case when you've spent centuries in a grave.

"I've come to ask for advice," she says. "I want to ask a man to marry me tonight."

"Really. Do you love him?"

"Yes. From a distance maybe, but I do love him."

"Why?"

"His songs make my uterus dance."

"Sounds like an obsession," Spinoza replies. "I suggest you court him while dancing. That way you can disguise it just as movement if necessary, and you can back off if it all goes to pot. Leave your head behind as security for my counsel."

"But how can I ask him to marry me without my head?"

"I already told you - dance!"

"My head is a rather big price to pay for your advice."

"What were you thinking? That you could ask a philosopher for his counsel for nothing?"

"Fine. You can have my head."

She takes off her head and puts it on the grave. She feels a little bit sad because she always thought her eyes were her most prized assets.

It's a clear evening and she feels the freshening air tighten the veins in her neck. It seems surprisingly easy to get around without your head. And she still has her legs to walk about with and her hands to write. And her liver.

But of course, she thinks: she has a liver. Perhaps she can muster some Dutch courage with whisky. She walks into a cafe and orders a Glenfiddich. She pours the drink down the hole in her neck. Suddenly she realises that her credit card isn't working. What now? How will she be able to pay for her whisky now?

"No need to panic," the barman says. "You can pay with your liver. We always need spare livers that we can lend out under the counter to punters."

"But then I won't be able to drink anything else this evening," she says, panicking.

"You could knock a few back now," he suggests. "But that'll cost you more of course."

"Fine then," she says. "Another triple whisky and you can have my liver and my hands. I'm not at all sure how I'll be able to write. I have to write a lot at this festival. I'm part of a project called The Chronicles you know."

"You still have your heart," the barman says.

That's on hold for a marriage proposal," she says, without going in to details.

She goes outside. She feels incomplete. Maybe that's also the lack of sleep, because the night before she danced until three in the morning. She heard St. Vincent singing for the first time and was carried away by her voice. She heard Laura Marling and Grizzly Bear and quickly became giddy with happiness. From time to time, joy causes an unexpected lightness, a floating feeling.

All of a sudden she realises that she left her backstage wristband on the hand she used to pay for her whiskies. What now? How will she be able to get to the stage?

She asks the doorman at the theatre.

"We also take legs as payment," he says.

"But I have to perform here," she tries.

"Without your head, it'll be impossible for us to identify you; you could be anybody."

"Fine then," she says and takes her legs off. "I'm not at all sure how I'll be able to dance without my legs."

"You dance with your heart," the doorman says.

In the theatre entrance she meets her fellow writers.

"You seem to be all over the place today," one of them says.

"Yeah," she admits, "this festival takes it out of you."

Downstairs her little behind gets caught up in the crowd. She falls. The cool kids trample over her. Her pancreas and kidneys fall apart. Her breasts are flattened. Her nipples are like two stunned, wide eyes.

She decides to leave her useless little bum behind. She still has her heart. That'll keep her going. With some difficulty, she begins hopping over towards the Royal stage.

Monsters of Folk have already started. She finally manages to get to the stage. She pulsates to the rhythm of the music. You couldn't really call it dancing. The left chamber of her heart is thumping and the valve of her aorta starts proposing; marry me, marry me.

Oberst doesn't see her. She's lying at his feet. "Marry me," she says, full of burgeoning hope.

When his foot touches her, she is just overwhelmed by an intoxicating feeling of happiness. Conor gave me a kick!  She goes flying over the audience. They think that the airborne heart is part of the performance.

Before she hits the wall and turns to mush, she hears someone in the audience whispering: "A human heart is actually quite light - 300 grams."

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