Nefertiti's Left Eye

Dear Boot-Lovers,

In a previous issue of Heel!, in a reader's letter which I decided to title The Museum of Time, reference was made to the vortex within the museum of the Louvre in Paris where a section of the ancient temple at Denderah, Egypt, has been installed, and which has, quite unknown to those who imported the stone structure there, provided a most convenient place for capture and transfer of the unwitting citizen, in an instant and by activation of this mobile vortex, to the sands of the distant Nile.

Perhaps it is time to confirm a fact often suspected in the content of the letter of the earnest reader, that the staff at the Paris office of Heel! possess what may best be described, in the simplest manner for the purpose of explanation, a dual nationality, having allegiance therefore to both ancient Egypt and also modern France.

It is understood even by the stooping and note-taking archaeologist who in this matter may be compared to his more elegant counterpart beside the catwalks of Paris, that the Goddesses of Ancient Egypt continued to be clothed in the sheath dress and depicted in stone in this fashion when the populace below took to wearing the practical garment. Hence we are seen by those citizens who accompany us to the temple at Denderah, tightly garbed and always polished.


Possibly, as this is to be a short issue which limits the space reserved for comment by your agony aunt, I should take this opportunity before my own imminent departure to that distant place where all has been prepared and is ready once more for the celebration of the zodiacal cycle, to furnish the reader who may in trepidation be now anticipating his selection by Heel! for participation there, with one or two answers. And by the extrapolation of the half-truth painstakingly stumbled upon by the kneeling and confused egyptologist, let me here reveal another piece of the truth, armed with which you may pretend to defend yourself from the influence of our nocturnal contacts by which you will be notified of the requirement that you attend, regardless of those demands that routine living makes upon your unimportant time.


For, as in the case of the aspiring dictator who appears on the balcony to deliver his speech, only to find that a second and then a third would-be dictator has each chosen the same hour to appear at opposite and adjacent balconies, none of your mundane activities is deemed indispensable or without substitute when weighed against the pleasure of our amusement. We are not restricted at Heel! to the chance approach of the casual citizen to the museum of the Louvre where we may be imagined to loiter impatiently, maintaining a perfection of appearance should the slave-to-be happen along that morning or afternoon, whatever time of day we guess might be most productive for the purpose of his capture, then to lead him on by the clicking of our boot-heels through so many rooms of inferior exhibits to the Denderah vortex where his progress, rapid until now, is arrested by the sudden release of a leather glove onto that precise spot which will ensure his final bondage. If this were the case, we would hardly have the time to address your concerns and weaknesses through this monthly journal.


Most contacts are made as previously stated in these pages, while the male sleeps and dreams in a process of self-selection by which the Death Goddess is alerted to the changed nature of his dreaming as he is drawn toward his new compliant existence at her feet. There are, of course, more intrusive means to enslave the free man as he ponders his lowly status in comparison to that of the living Goddess when confronted by, for example, the sculpted bust of Nefertiti in the Egyptian museum in Berlin, or the many other objects scattered about the globe in places where the viewer is afforded the time and silence to briefly contemplate his life when set against some representation of the Divine Goddess whose booted, bronzed statue peers down at him from the half-light of eternity. It should be remembered that Heel! is merely the external organisation of a society of the greatest antiquity, with origins before time itself was born. What is not clearly understood by the archaeologist who attempts, when all his logic has failed him, to explain away the untimely disappearance of his academic colleague by resorting to what he perceives to be base superstition, is that each of these artifacts possessing the power to move a man to awed despair, exists and is created as one of an identical pair.


The bust of Nefertiti at Berlin and its veiled double concealed in Egypt therefore operate as a unit in the removal of the stunned museum visitor to the chamber beneath the undisturbed sands of Denderah. The academic's conviction that the Berlin bust was unfinished and therefore no left eye was ever inserted in its socket is partially correct if we add that the omission was intentional and is duplicated in its Egyptian counterpart.

However, the second eye, unlike the third, would be clearly visible to the human eye were it not for its concealment within the gloved hand of the captress who may by the means of the second sight afforded by its touch, be seated amongst the chatter of the aviary at the Paris office of Heel!, or robed officially in the priestly chamber at Denderah. It is through the feminine energy and transmissive power of the third-eye vortex remaining within the duplicated object whether in the exhibition of the high-heeled boot that slowly rotates in the spotlit darkness above the silenced museum visitor or the long-necked bust of Nefertiti so admired by dictators as in- sane as the man Hitler, that the transfer of flesh from the crowded room where the tourists throng, to the dark place of ritual in Egypt, successfully is performed.

When, by the rubbing of leather against the smooth surface of the uninserted eye, the isolated man is then sucked into the spheroidal shape of the instep of the exhibited boot, or Nefertiti's bust, disappearing in a flash from those surroundings before re-emerging in miniature in Egypt, either within the duplicate boot or through the almond-shaped opening of the socket of the left eye, immediately he is caught in the web of the veil that is drawn across her painted face, or is imprisoned by the vertiginous wall of boot leather. There is, you understand, no need for the regular appearance of Heel! staff either at the museum of the Louvre, or in the chamber of transformation at Denderah.


So, with the periodic arrival of the officiating priestess the accumulation of dying and dead men are extracted from the webbing of Nefertiti's equestrienne's veil, and taken in- dividually, like the precious butterfly with wings clipped, within the darkness of leather gloves, away to the ritual of the gifting of his flesh for the cyclical rebirth of Isis' boots. I will not limit the imagination that I am sure runs wild in the minds of those soon to be selected readers who will offer their bodies to the Goddess, by revealing beforehand the process of their assimilation into boot leather, or the fashions to be worn by the Paris staff at Heel! who are to observe your sacrifice, except that the Goddess Isis will be clothed in a sheath dress of leather above her waiting boots, and that Nefertiti herself whose body our retarded archaeologist still seeks to find, will be presiding as high priestess.

How wonderful to have this opportunity to relate to those of my readers who will remain in Paris, that the demi-goddess Nefertiti is to visit our offices, soon afterwards, bringing in her retinue through the Denderah vortex at the Louvre, we are led to believe, some of her Egyptian birds to keep company with our own variously garbed parrots that are secured to their perches here at Heel!. Feathers together with leather; what sounds of singing and calling may then be heard! In this way, the close and ancient ties between our two offices are preserved by your generous sacrifice. Outside, of course, where the cries of flesh ripped and torn away by piercing talons are figments of imagination, the streets of Paris will be silenced, save for the clicking of heels, as these cat- walking figures of leather and rubber emerging from the Louvre, then register in the simple minds of mortal men.

Madame X