🏢 Things the Empire Expects
After-hours with "G. C. M."
What remains after we accomplish the mission?
The room is dark, lit only by the matching set of Tiffany lamps as they cast a warm yellow glow across the polished mahogany desk. The reflected lights of the surrounding city shine through the floor to ceiling windows.
The desk phone rings. No one is there to answer it. It routes to voicemail.
The assistant will screen all calls in the morning.
Whenever that is.
A stylized wood and brass coat tree stands in a corner. Several silk ties in shades of grey and blue hang from its arms.
A hand-cut crystal decanter filled with Scotch waits on top of the felt-backed leather desk pad, next to the marble calling-card holder and a small globe made of solid brass.
A Cartier fountain pen rests diagonally across a leather-bound journal. The cover is embossed with a simple gold monogram: “G. C. M.”
Beneath the desk, a Kashmir rug softens the polished floor.
A black-and-white photograph of a young man in the uniform of an Air Force lieutenant watches from a silver frame.
The office holds the things expected of him.
Ding.
Silver elevator doors slide apart.
Then slide back together.
The doorman has long since gone home.
Opposite the elevator, heavy glass doors swing slowly open.
No card swipe. No key.
This isn’t that kind of building.
Footsteps on tile.
Soft.
Unhurried.
Precise.
His jacket settles onto the coat tree.
Italian cut.
Bespoke.
The half-Windsor knot in his tie loosens.
Not enough.
He starts again.
Perfect.
Stay composed.
The silk slides free.
He folds it once before hanging it on the coat stand, beside the others.
Be confident.
A mini-cassette recorder sits on the desk.
Discreet.
He reaches down. Presses “record.”
His finger finds the button by memory.
The cassette comes to life with a soft hiss.
He slowly removes one diamond cuff link.
Then the other.
They come to rest on the desk beside the journal.
Never show your feelings.
His watch follows.
Don’t waste time.
He sits.
The high backed leather chair sighs beneath him.
The journal opens.
Track everything.
He picks up the fountain pen.
Sign the check.
The pen hovers above the page.
It never touches paper.
Close the deal.
He closes the journal.
Slides it aside with the pen.
The tape recorder continues its quiet hiss.
One Italian loafer slips free.
Then the other.
Silk-clad toes press into the woven silk rug.
A breath escapes him before he can stop it.
Keep working.
His eyes drift toward the lieutenant.
Don’t show emotion.
He pours a measure of Scotch. Two fingers.
Be precise.
Swirls it once.
Raises the glass.
Inhales.
Sets it back on the desk.
Be decisive.
He lifts the telephone receiver.
Listens.
Silence.
His thumb rests on the keypad.
He could call anyone.
He doesn’t.
The receiver settles gently back into its cradle.
Be present.
He aligns the fountain pen on the desk.
Squares the journal.
Centers the glass next to the decanter.
Sets the cuff links side by side.
Moves the marble calling-card holder.
Turns the small brass globe with one finger.
It spins once…
twice…
...and slowly comes to rest.
Be a man.
He smooths the leather desk pad.
Be a king.
His hand lingers on the globe.
Be a god.
He pushes the chair back.
Reaches down.
Picks up the loafers.
Slowly stands.
The city stretches out below him from the thirteenth floor.
Headlights.
Streetlights.
Traffic.
Glass.
Steel.
Shoulder it.
He slips the recorder into his shirt pocket.
The tape continues its quiet hiss.
He walks to the door.
Stops.
Turns.
His eyes travel once across the office.
The lamps.
The journal.
The decanter.
The photograph.
The ties.
The jacket.
The cuff links.
The empty chair.
He nods.
Once.
“Veni.”
A beat.
“Vidi.”
Another.
“Vici.”
He leaves the glass doors open behind him.
Sighs. Thank you. 🙏🏽 I can feel that you feel that too. In yourself and others with Dia Vantis.
May we all see those hidden and sticky phrases inside of each of us. Looping .
That translate into actions that perpetuates those thoughts, cycle that maintain itself, until a shared what?
and what other ones we could all be living by,
inviting wonder and openness,
a culture of love where Art is a way of living together, in our shared world.
Ummm I dream a world created by a majority of people in love with poetry, in love with your cabaret,
With a new way to mythologize their life, to eroticize their relating to the universe,
to be in reverence and gratitude for the divine,
Those building blocks of civilization❤️I love all you do.
What a blessing to see my dream happening here.
This feels like the companion mirror to Dia.
There, the old commands were being returned to the objects.
Here, the objects are still issuing them.
Tie.
Cuff links.
Journal.
Pen.
Scotch.
Globe.
Photograph.
Desk.
A whole room built to tell one man what shape to hold.
Naz reads this less as an office than as a shrine to performed authority
Costume, not confidence.
Containment, not victory.
The empire does not need to shout once its voice has moved into the furniture.
Mr. Boogs inspected the brass globe, found no actual world inside it, and left the door open.