How the American children outsensed their president

•September 24, 2017 • Leave a Comment

Emily was farsighted, but she could see the dirty storm water as it eddied mindlessly about her knees in the middle of their hometown street.

Jones was born almost entirely deaf. He could hear ice snapping, and manyvoiced tones of lack in the railroad rubbish slums of subcontinent cities.

Zeke had arrhythmia. He played video games with Shivani, teeball with José, cards with Mohammad. He and his friends pealed giggles together daily, because they all had human hearts.

Samantha had lost olfaction in an infection of infancy. She smelled miles of coal and chemicals, a quashing cloud hunkered over some distant eastern land.

Patrick was nearsighted, but he watched the sands as they spread and spread, giant grabby yellow hands, an unwelcome afghan of famishing particles.

Maya had astigmatism. She could see ten years into the future – it wasn’t that hard. She saw the creeping white heat, and garbage, and death; soon-tendrils of the shouting plastic man who played king of their crumbling castle world.

Exercises in style (19): à la Henry Miller

•September 3, 2017 • Leave a Comment

What a night! I’ve locked myself under the green-dream eaves of this month’s rental flat to escape the demented clutches of a madwoman and her drooling, liquescent cunt. Only three hours ago it was that we met at a seedy little dance hall in Montparnasse – the darkest one on Rue Giradon, the one that plays a particularly loud and purplish music – and after several dances during which she presses her small, serpentine body to mine and wiggles her ass devilishly and bats her eyelashes obviously, we slip into a lousy hotel and I give the poor pale whore a healthy fuck. When I try to leave she grabs my hand with weasel paws. I reason and bribe and plead and pry at her clasped fingers but she is like a grotesque sea creature, an amaranthine octopus suckered to my skin, a fleshy barnacle and me the hull of her chosen ship… I’m forced to march down the street with her like that, pretending all is normal. Just two lovers clamping their bodies together as lovers do…I pull her into a smoky bar, saying “a cognac for the mademoiselle?” Inside the café a lovely chaos reigns. Brutes fighting, unangelic tarts squinting sideways through their greasy hair, every man fried to the hat while the barman claims his ignorance. I tell the woman I just have to take a leak and will be right back! She finally releases her death-grip and I hightail it to the men’s room, climb through the dirty window and out to the freedom of the street.

The street is swampy and sordid, the street is deadly reason, the street is a microcosmic hemorrhage of leaking song and sagging buildings; I am home at once in the street. However, it is of utmost importance that I not be retrouvé, and so I hail the first cab that blazes up and demand the driver to make haste. When we arrive at the front door, her taxi is pulling behind!  Across the threshold she whorls like a drunken unicorn, and I rush to the topmost floor, whose single locked room I happen to know stands empty, and my luck is such that I’ve previously purloined its key.

Here I stand, blood popping and spitting in my ears like hot fat in a heated pan, feverishly sucking the air, staring at the full moon glowing like one half of an alabaster buttocks, like death boiled white, like the cold yet marvelous face of my ex-wife – and thinking I never should have messed with that crazy dancehall cunt. But when I hear her call my name the voice sounds so pitiful that my sinuses work themselves into a mirrored pain and each eye drips precisely one tiny diamond. And then the twisting, vine-laden jungle wallpaper begins to shimmy. Fauna two-steps and flora falls and billows into the room, everything is vibrating with chaotic, maniacal life, bromeliads, dragon lilies, strangler figs, lianas, Kapok trees, starlings, red-breasted warblers, dragonflies, killer ants, praying mantises, boas, okapis, tapirs, chimpanzees. They swarm in phantasmal flux, and I am frozen at the skylight. When an electric orange bird-of-paradise alights on my nose I inhale its heavy rich fragrance, suddenly thinking that life and death and a good piss and a good drink and a good meal and a good fuck are all one and the same, everything and nothing, and how we jump from one to the next like monomaniacs, without ever being able to take pleasure in the whole of it. Except I will be joyful, no matter what! No longer do I care about the girl. At this moment, I care about nothing at all. The moon was soft waxing gibbous cheese, now it is new. The rainforest closes in and I feel as if in the womb again – everything is warm, humid, and absolutely meaningless.

Infinite monkey theorem

•May 21, 2017 • Leave a Comment

We entered the room. Anemic winter light filtered through small windows, fingering random parts of tarnished metal thingums, the like of which I’d never seen before. The apparatuses were stacked everywhere – on the ground, on tables low and high, on chairs and shelves…chunky, all-black relics that had to have hailed from our technological infancy. The “Arcane Tours” guide shuffled ahead of us and stopped when he could move no further.

“They look like Zipfian meteorites,” my wife whispered to me. I agreed. It was hard to imagine a time when humans used things so large, so opaque and mechanical. Rows of three-dimensional buttons composed the lower half of each instrument, and each button had a mysterious marking on it. A symbol of some kind. I’d seen images of such machines before, but I couldn’t remember where or when.

“What did these do?” I asked the guide, in wonderment.

“We-ll, they’re called typewriters,” he said, in a voice threaded with little unintentional buzzes and burbles. The man was no spring chicken. I guessed upwards of 140.

“Their ex-tinction goes back about, uh – three centuries – to when, uh, most information and literature was writ-ten… you know, writ-ten instead of pictorialized… People of the time created texts with them.”

“No kidding,” I said. I walked up to one, tried to press a button with my right index. It barely budged.

“The keys re-quire a lot of physical exertion to dep-ress,” the guide said.

“Huh. Why are there peanut shells everywhere?” my wife asked.

“We-ll, we have monkeys,” the guide answered. “They’re, uh, gone for the day now. But they’re he-re most days.”

“Monkeys! What on this big brown earth for?”

“Uh, a small group of anach-ronistic folks – a couple scientists, a historian, a linguist – made some big stink twenty years ago, claiming it was imp-erative to ‘better preserve our text-ual past’… and be-cause the majority of text-ual artifacts were near total disint-egration, and obviously no human could interpret or re-create the writ-ten symbols, they brought in the chimp-an-zees.”

“Amazing.” I noticed stacks of white rectangular material, possibly almost as thin as our miAll screens, in the far corners.

“The chimp-ees took very quickly to the task, and had soon rewrit-ten many of the old stories. At least, the scholars concerned were pret-ty sure that the new texts were the same. Their image soft-ware analyses concluded so, anyway. And our dear prim-ates have kept at it, diligent souls – for there was an enormous lit-erature that almost became dust.”

“What an extraordinary concept,” said my wife. “Would we be able to see a bit of this – ‘writing’?”

“In fa-ct. You can,” the guide said, and he pinched out a tiny smile, genuine, the first I’d seen from him. “We’re not sup-posed to offer unprompt-ed. But if the customer asks directly… Here.” He scuttled to a side bench and retrieved a handhold of white rectangles, like the piles I’d seen, with each thin piece encased in mylar, and placed them between my open fingers.

So many tiny symbols! So tightly crammed together. No colors, no cohesion. The idea of our unsophisticated ancestry using this as their entertainment was laughable and absurd. But fitting? Life must have been impossibly dull. My curiosity waned into boredom after a second or two. I handed the sheets to my wife. She looked at them just as briefly.

“Wait,” the guide said. “We have an app that lets you read them.” And he directed his miAll at mine and my wife’s in turn, transferring the software. “Hover your screen over the sheet.”

I did, seeing with renewed interest how the unknown symbols popped to bright, instantly-readable pictorials. “Cool,” I said, and scanned the remaining pages. “Seems the old writers were more creative than I’d have expected – look: in the end monkeys are sporting golden crowns, eating peanuts in the Oval Office. And here, troops of naked men and women are building massive pyramidal structures out of trees. What’s the title of this doozie? The author?”

“Y’know, uh, I don’t know. We’re mis-sing the cover page to that one.”

“Too bad. I’d have liked to know what intellectual nutcase produced such a gem. Oh well. The mysteries of history, I suppose.”

My wife chuckled. “It’s about time to go, dear,” she said. “I only got twelve hours last night. I’m exhausted.”

“Of course,” I replied. “A pleasure,” I said to the guide, “but we must be heading home. Thank you for this fascinating peep into the past.”

“You’re wel-come,” he said, and led us out to the exit.

When the rains came

•April 24, 2017 • Leave a Comment

The rains finally came. After decades of drought, fallow fields, skin like sand, shaking fists at a bleached-out cold fish sky. Except by then, we had evolved to live without water. Suddenly we could drink to our heart’s deepest whim, and it no longer mattered. Our tissues were generating their own fluids.

Evolution kicked up her heels and began to sprint. Things started coming out of our mouths that we didn’t know had been in our bodies. Living bees, the seeds of desert plants, cysts the size of cantaloupes, palimpsests detailing each historic war. When the regurgitations finished, we became entirely self-sufficient, recyclable. Ours was a Kafka headstand. Instead of alienation, we achieved a single hive mind.

Rules kept sliding down the invisible supports of the world and forming puddles in the spaces betwixt rivers newly created by the interminable rains. Enveloped in the green-grey-blue cocoon of mist I could eventually hear an underhum of voices… indistinguishable words as unspoken thoughts as a current directly beneath the continent’s crust.

“We’re in another’s dream,” I told my lover. “Or else, we’re characters in a story. This is no reality.”

“No,” she said. “It’s our collective imagination. Our imagination was defunct, was then resurrected by the onslaught of rain, and is now utterly flooded and deranged. It was squashed under the too-ponderous weight of the earth’s dying, but toward the planet’s very end, we turned on the juice. Now our imagination creates reality. Humanity endures.”

I couldn’t tell truth from poppycock. Since it felt airy and nice, I decided to believe her, and took my belief into the fresh cold lake in our front yard, where I lay on my back, light as a buoy, eyes closed against the downpour, and listened to the subterranean buzz of my species: possibly the greatest survivors… possibly almost extinct.

Exercises in style (21): à la e.e. cummings

•March 26, 2017 • Leave a Comment

deadstars a
wonder-luminous balloon
moon and
a man grimly stares window-through(eyes dull
)quite.
enclosed within the attic room slanted such-
ways,walls vined,be-petaled,deeper colOurs
crying,his lady her secret
petalmOuth sings yOu,yOu,nobody,every-
          body
he wishes weak.ly at the
defunct,crepuscular world
for a backwards tickling of time

she through yellowhair braids
death-twine,cries love-crumbs,sings
yOu,yOu,nobody.every-
          body
breathing,pale fingers dancing.sleeping(dreams)

this man moon-gazing
remembers weesomethings,the body’s hows
          her thrill-flesh,gaily
                   its pleasure,kissingly
while pink flowers,white bright
green rain colOurs and
monkey and birds;giant whistling things
curl,surge,bloat from walls
to)air

beautifully he becomes a
stupid empty clean-bOned carcass
carrying no questionmarks for history.knowing
only moon-texture
          (night sky-full and
animal silence)
far-whisked by dreamroom jungles

Garden of Sideways Delights*

•March 12, 2017 • Leave a Comment

Ranulf’s penchant for de-eyeballing owls was about to get us in the shit once again. I’d wring the dumb bastard’s neck! Our instructions could not have been more straightforward: in this particular battle between God and Mephisto, we were to parade around the central pond in which beautiful and chaste naked women bathed, balancing lustrous red apples atop their heads. Apples, and also egrets. The pond was teal as an un-nibbled raspberry. The grass was lighter in the foreground, probably from peacock piss. We were panting heavily, placed atop horses, camels, unicorns, blue leopards, white goats, giant hogs. We were to guard the ladies’ virginities against inevitable thievery attempts – essays that could reasonably come from any members of our parading ring. We were all, to a man, death-starved for cunny. Of course we knew that those who succeeded in despoilment would be zipped forthwith into the scalding lavas of Hell, and those who, instead, prevented another from proceeding with his heinous act would be zipped forthwith to the Egyptian cotton bedspreads of Heaven. Even ravenously under-laid, who would be stupid enough to venture Mephisto’s option? Many. I knew my cohort, and their thoughts were stuck present. The future was an unreality whispering amid the screams of their testicular desires.  Release from long-term imprisonment will do that – turn you animal and immediate. Every fellow was filled to the gills with both black and white (in fact, our scrambled innards were entirely grey) but a single action one way or the other pronounced us ‘good’, pronounced us ‘evil’. Destiny? Well then, make no mistake; I was destined for those infinite-threadcount sheets. Except Ranulf… Ranulf was fucking it up! His off-task removal of that enormous hooter’s ocular parts, several paces outside our ring, was distracting everybody…and moving us sideways! Neither God nor Mephisto would be too pleased. The guy had to be stopped. I quit the circular train momentarily to throw him in a translucent orb, together with a long-quilled porcupine. That ought to keep him under control. At least for the moment.

 

* Insights may be available upon viewing the middle panel of Hieronymus Bosch’s “The Garden of Earthly Delights”. Go here and click to make larger.

The awful truth (Or: The suicide)

•February 24, 2017 • 1 Comment

I’m trying to get to the core of myself. Some awful truth is trapped there, although I do not know even its faintest contours. The way is interminably long, and the terrain perilous. A journey to the earth’s core would be less fraught with hardship, the planet’s molten bowels a welcome relief. How did my body build these layers of impenetrable rock? My mind plays at civil war. If I can’t tunnel to the center, I’ll unhinge. All my life I’ve tongued flavors of foreboding, ferried constantly to my lips on the currents of a complicit wind. (That is to say: every day of my self-reflective life, which began around my fifteenth birthday). I need to have that truth cracked open, its poison made known. Even if it destroys me.

How do I get there? The layers of fluff and gauze are harder to penetrate than those made of diamond – each time I push or dig or drill or detonate, the fluff thickens and the gauze stretches to accommodate my newly-made shape. I test potential realities by guessing: abuseincestdrugsrapetorture? Persecutionabductionexperimentation by necromantic or alien powers?  Nothing clicks, and my heart grows desolate and dim. Meanwhile, my mind oozes minute psychoneurosis, and measly but habitual troubles plague my physical self: rashes, neck pain, toenail fungus, dry eye, hair loss, poor circulation, constipation, asthma.

 

A half-century later, towards the end of my life, the truth surfaces nonchalantly, like an escaped helium balloon: there was never any trauma. Period. My childhood was no-hiccups idyllic; the bland mediocrity of my adultness has reflected that dearth of early adversity. Sure, I’ve had splashes of mental and bodily strain – nothing major enough to make things interesting though. My being has meant very little to me, and less to anyone else. Existence is an astounding fact. And I think, not quite bitterly, perhaps with a tiny wry upturn of mouth corners, that its wonderment was wasted on me.