There is a man in an eight-wheeled van made from stone. To him, this van is a castle below which the world rotates, thereby delivering to him all the nutrients he requires. The Grand Conveyor, which is what he calls it, carries painting supplies to him. It finds conversations and conversationalists for the man to engage with. It finds eyes to gaze upon his paintings and ears to hear his ideas. Most importantly, it brings people with legs to carry his ideas and mouths to spread them.
The Grand Conveyor has for a long time failed to supply this man who I call Theodore with what he requires. As a result, he is depressed. He wants desperately to escape, to join us in the real world, but cannot do. He says, “I planned to prevent my own escape but I wish I hadn’t. I enclosed myself permanently. I set traps for myself and my paintings, such that if I escape then as consequence I and more importantly my paintings would be destroyed. I did this in order to give myself the necessary inertia to be a truly novel artist, but I wish I hadn’t.”
I insisted that he give me a chance to swing my sledge, but Theodore told me “no, it will not work, it will do harm as opposed to good.”
And when I offered to use concentrated hydrochloric acid sourced from Morrill Science Center in order to dissolve the stones, Theodore said, “it would dissolve my paintings as well”
“I am hopeless,” he said. “I can only hope the Conveyor ceases to feed me so that I will die.”
I didn’t know what to say, so I pushed the sandwich that I had made for Theodore through his mail slit and I assured him “It is necessary that you consume the goods the Grand Conveyer delivers to you, for they are meant to be consumed by you.”
When he grumbled, I reminded him, “Once you refuse gifts from the Grand Conveyor that you do not wish to receive, the Grand Conveyer may cease to bring you gifts all together.”
Then I parted ways, and I begun to think about how I would save Theodore.