hatred of writing*

they were busy forming words out of letters while we wrung our hands in despair. there were noises coming through the wall and through the ceiling and no one knew what to make of it. then they took notes and formed them into phrases strung out on lined paper so we fumbled through the chords but there was no life in it. the words were the same, set neatly together in row after row, page after pageone could nestle down quite comfortably within them yet still feel a pea poking one’s back through the width of several paragraphs. no one felt compelled to point it out but it was still there and we all had a bad night’s sleep because of it. upon waking i stated ‘i don’t know how much more of this i can take’ staring out at the grey sheets of icy rain forever falling on the piles of rubble we used to call our world. so one of us picked up the busted banjo and plucked out a few notes because, really, there was nothing else to do about it. soon another raised a quavering voice in answer to the twang. i made coffee for the third time from old grounds and we all drank from our tin cups, choking down the bitter fluid and listening as it hit the hard pans of our empty stomachs. it was hard to believe it had come to this but at the same time it had happened over such a long expanse of time that it actually wasn’t that hard to believe after all. a certain percentage of us had left and these few had stayed behind. the decision to leave or stay felt arbitrary and so i failed to make it thus by default staying for it required the least effort. when it got cold we burned all the books and i grew giddy at their destruction. the liberation of all those free-floating letters wrangled into words, corralled onto pages, bound into covers and set to gather dust on shelves that we used to board up the windows. sure i used to read them but what was the point. there was never any point. they never told us anything we didn’t already know if we only looked close enough. that was the problem. it was just a way to fill the empty hours, a way to put off facing ourselves. at least burning them warmed our bodies for a night. and as we sat there with the one strumming the banjo and the other’s voice rising til it cracked and all our feet tapping without us even knowing i thought it was only ever this sort of thing that came anywhere close to describing what was scrawled across those inner walls and perhaps we do have what it takes to save ourselves. so i took another swig of that vile black liquid no one in their right mind could dare call coffee and raised my own broken voice to the roofless upper stories. sure i knew i couldn’t sing myself out of this nightmare but tomorrow in all likelihood i’d wake again and that was something. who knows it might not even be raining.

*with a nod to tim hecker

fiat lux

I remember. They said I wouldn’t but I do. I don’t remember everything, but enough.

Dawn is now breaking—through the window pink sky appears, followed by a spray of golden light. From close overhead a lone crow utters a single drawn-out caw. Silence follows.

The silence only spreads itself so far. I stretch out its thin covering and fold myself inside it.

This is neither a beginning nor an end. I know how I arrived. I can turn and see a faint trail threading back to the fields of my youth. There are burn marks where attempts at erasure have been made.

I wanted to help, in this one way, this very simple way. They said my ‘self-limiting naiveté’ would destroy me. They were wrong. Instead their rigid framework destroyed me.

The air was cold, like it is today. And these stretched and endless limbs were no more suited to it then than now.

What strange form of life it was. How grew the light late in winter daysspreading across fields, streaming out over the river. How the darkness hid our fears.

Holy songs and rituals haloed material desires. Now far offnow beyondnow tinny at the end of this dying line.

Sudden harmonics ring out like hinges from one wall of noise to the next. Awash in reverb, notes soar to the forbidding sky.

I am underneath them. They enter my bones. The fullness of sound enters me, expanding at speed to the point of fracture.

The rending leaves two tottering halves, headless and forlorn. Push one down the hill while the other spins and spins. Rotate or roll away, makes no difference.

Yet still the light remains, ever-present, flashing in our eyes. It illuminates the new but it is the same light, and from the same sources. Even with our backs turned it warms us.

As we return to plaster together the beginning of another day.

 

[Text extracted from several years’ worth of abandoned drafts and reassembled, with minimal edits, to form a new whole]

bob sloth’s one-man show

Vinyl siding salesman Bob Sloth was starring in a nowhere-near-Broadway production of a play he’d written called ‘My Life Feels Like a One-Man Show.’ One night he wasn’t feeling well enough to go on so he called his understudy, also named Bob, better known as Bob the Sloth, for he was indeed an actual sloth. Bob the Sloth (or BTS, for short) had been waiting for (and dreading) this call ever since he first agreed to help Bob out. He answered the phone is his usual slow manner.

Hello, Bob speaking.

Bob, this is Bob.

Oh, hi.

Look, I’m not feeling myself today, so I need you to play me in the show tonight.

Uh, okay, sure…

C’mon, man, I need you to muster some enthusiasm. I need you to convince me you can play me. That you can be Bob.

Well, I am Bob.

I know, I know. But you’re Bob the Sloth. I need to know you can be Bob Sloth.

I can do it, man. I won’t let you down.

Great! I’m glad to hear it. Break a leg tonight.

BTS hung up the phone with a heavy sigh. It had taken all of his remaining energy to convince Bob he could do a good job. Consequently, he decided that a nap was in order. A nap would replenish his energy and he would still have plenty of time to practice his lines and get down to the theatre. The theatre was in the town of Largest, not to be confused with Largesse, which is the town where both he and Bob lived.

While BTS took his nap he dreamed of his ancestral birthplace—the Land of the Sloths. It was a pleasant dream and he awoke with a tinge of sadness that it was now over. To sweep this feeling away, he rehearsed his lines for the play.

Hi, I’m Bob, he intoned. But the intonation was off. That was not how Bob spoke at all. BTS went through a few more lines—all of them fell flat. He grew discouraged and soon fell asleep curled in a ball on the floor.

When he woke up it was late. He only just had time to get dressed before he had to rush out the door and hustle down to the theatre. From behind the curtain he stared out at the audience. It was a big crowd. The word had spread about Bob’s show and the reviews were good. ‘Bob really nails the role’ screamed the headline on this week’s issue of Variety. The review goes on to rave about how it almost seemed as if Bob was born to play this role. ‘The most genuine performance we’ve ever seen from Bob Sloth,’ it triumphantly concluded. Well, thought BTS, those people out there won’t be seeing Bob Sloth tonight. They are stuck with me. So here goes nothing.

It’s really best not to belabor the specifics of what happened next. Suffice it to say, BTS did not kill it. In fact he was booed off the stage. He couldn’t remember any of the lines, for he had not learned a single one of them.

The next day Bob Sloth called up his understudy but there was no answer. He’d heard the reviews and wanted to make sure BTS was holding up okay. After trying him a few more times he went down to the theatre for rehearsal. On stage practicing his lines he heard a faint snoring sound coming from below his feet. He peeked down into the orchestra pit and there was Bob the Sloth sound asleep, curled in a ball on the floor.

Bob…Bob!!

Hnrrh??

Bob, wake up. It’s me.

Oh, hi Bob.

Look, man, I know things didn’t go well last night, but I just want you to know that it’s okay. You’re not me, I get it. So how can you be expected to play me in my own one-man show?

Well, I didn’t want to let you down, Bob. No one ever asks me to do anything responsible like this, so I felt like I couldn’t say no, like it was a big opportunity for me. And then I blew it.

Don’t worry about it. Tell you what—let’s go and get some ice cream. I bet that’ll make you feel better.

Thanks, Bob. That sounds real nice.

On the way out the door, BTS turned back and looked down at the stage. Maybe one day I’ll have my own one-man show, he thought. If I ever do, I think I’ll call it, ‘My Life Feels like Bob Sloth’s One-Man Show.’

the awareness of vytrox

Suddenly Vytrox felt aware that he was having an experience. This awareness soon grew to such outrageous proportions that it began to seriously impede his enjoyment of the experience. With growing alarm Zonitor now sensed Vytrox’s awareness of their shared experience and subsequently also felt a significant reduction in enjoyment of the experience. Vytrox looked at Zonitor and knew immediately that their experience had been compromised. Zonitor returned Vytrox’s gaze and instantly saw this realization in his eyes.

To recap: they now both knew and also knew that the other knew.

What do we do, cried Zonitor.

We must leave the island at once, Vytrox replied. I can’t live like this.

But we can’t. You sank the boat the other day.

Dammit. I forgot. Maybe we can fix it?

Doubtful. It’s at the bottom of the ocean.

Well, we can build a new one. You always said I’d make a good carpenter.

I may have been joking. But I’ll start gathering materials. You draw up some plans.

They set to work as the sun crested the palm trees on the summit of Mount Dessication.

[some time later]

Vytrox noticed as he was drawing up the plans that his hand was moving without accompanying thoughts occurring in his brain. As he sat back and watched, the crude form of a boat appeared on the yellowing graph paper he had saved for just such an occasion. Pleased with the result he ran out of the hut onto the beach to find Zonitor.

Zonny! Look!

But Zonitor was unimpressed and sent him back to the hut to work up a second draft.

[more time later]

The sun was now high in the sky and Zonitor was exhausted from gathering materials. Instead of waiting any longer for Vytrox to finish the plans, she expertly crafted a dugout canoe, waterproofed it with pine tar, and carved two oars. She then dragged the canoe into the surf and took it for a test run around the island.

Meanwhile in the hut Vytrox’s hand had stopped moving independent of his brain, leaving him at a serious disadvantage considering he knew next to nothing about boat design. To make matters worse his awareness of the experience of not knowing what to draw began to grow. It grew and grew and grew until Vytrox felt like his eyes would soon explode and awareness would shoot out the empty sockets in two parallel streams of hot showering sparks. He sat down and mopped his brow. Out the window of the hut he saw Zonitor paddling back and forth in a canoe. Relieved that the situation seemed to have resolved itself he rushed out of the hut.

Zonny! You did it! We’re saved!

Zonitor pulled the canoe ashore and cast a critical eye over Vytrox’s visage.

You’ve been further compromised, haven’t you.

Um…well, yes, maybe just a little bit.

What’s happening right now.

Oh, don’t be that way. Let’s just get ready to go.

He went to the hut to gather their few possessions. Zonitor stayed behind and pondered the situation. She wondered if she could ever hope to have an experience again without Vytrox’s awareness impinging on her enjoyment of it. Are they now condemned to a life of hyper-awareness suffusing everything they do together? Just exactly how far have they been compromised?

Luckily for her Vytrox knew what to do. While she was out on the beach fretting over their shared future and, to be perfectly honest, considering in the vaguest of ways whether she should not just sneak off in the canoe on her own, Vytrox was inside the hut trepanning himself. At the very moment of completion, Zonitor turned on impulse and saw a long stream of sparkly dust flowing out the window of the hut and up into the air, heading straight for the sun.

Seconds later Vytrox emerged beaming from the hut carrying their two carpet bags.

I found these bags in there, he shouted with glee, pointing unsteadily to a small grove of coconut trees located a few clicks west of the hut.

The connection was tenuous at best but Zonitor took it in stride.

Good work. I’ll take those.

She stowed the bags in the canoe as Vytrox stared at the sand, his beatific face erased of all worry lines.

Are we going somewhere?

Yes, and I think I better handle the navigation. But if I show you what to do with this paddle, do you think you can help move us through the water?

Sure! That sounds fun.

After an intensive four-hour lesson in paddling and canoe safety they were ready to leave. The full moon welcomed their sturdy craft out onto the open sea. Zonitor checked the sextant and pointed Vytrox in the right direction. She knew it wouldn’t be easy but at least now they had a chance at full immersive experience. And she was already warming up to the new Vytrox. As she watched the shadows play over his vacuous expression she knew he’d made the right decision. Shedding his awareness like an exoskeleton, Vytrox had bypassed a full compromise of their positions. She would ensure his sacrifice was not made in vain.

[revised] guidance [from two years ago]

There is nothing where you are going.

What do you mean…nothing.

I mean what I say.

That means nothing.

I understand it to mean something.

I think it’s just something to say…

[shrugs]

But there are things here…around me.

Are you certain.

Yes.

Describe them.

Leaves scattered on the sidewalk. A car’s headlights flicking on in the predawn gloom. The distant whistle of a train.

And do these things have meaning to you.

I-I’m not sure.

Take a closer look.

Well, I notice them.

And what about faces—do you see faces.

They are obscured.

Do you wish to see them with more clarity—to distinguish one from another.

Perhaps.

Now it is you who are evasive.

It is in my nature.

And everything that came before—what happened between when you left and when you returned—is it now gone.

Yes, for the most part. I see only glimpses but I cannot bring it all into focus.

In those glimpses you see more than in what surrounds you now. The latter is of little consequence.

How do you know.

It does not matter. What matters is in between.

In between what.

The words.

100 Years of Leonora Carrington

As they rode along the edge, the brambles drew back their thorns like cats retracting their claws.

This was something to see: fifty black cats and as many yellow ones, and then her, and one couldn’t really be altogether sure that she was a human being. Her smell alone threw doubt on ita mixture of spices and game, the stables, fur and grasses.

Riding a wheel, she took the worst roads, between precipices, across trees. Someone who’s never travelled on a wheel would think it difficult, but she was used to it.

Her name was Virginia Fur, she had a mane of hair yards long and enormous hands with dirty nails; yet the citizens of the mountain respected her and she too always showed a deference for their customs. True, the people up there were plants, animals, birds; otherwise things wouldn’t have been the same. Of course, she had to put up with being insulted by the cats at times, but she insulted them back just as loudly and in the same language. She, Virginia Fur, lived in a village long abandoned by human beings. Her house has holes all over, holes she’d pierced for the fig tree that grew in the kitchen.

—from ‘As They Rode Along the Edge’ by Leonora Carrington

This story is now available in The Complete Stories of Leonora Carrington published in the USA by The Dorothy Project, and in The Debutante and Other Stories published in the UK by Silver Press. Both titles have been published as part of a 2017 centenary celebration of Carrington’s birth, which also includes the NYRB republication of her asylum memoir Down Below and her children’s book The Milk of Dreams, as well as Joanna Moorhead’s biography The Surreal Life of Leonora Carrington.

For a breakdown of the differences between the two supposedly ‘complete’ collections of Carrington’s short stories, read ‘Hyenas, Horses, and Rabbits, Oh My!‘ by Selena Chambers at Weird Fiction Review. Over time Chambers will be reviewing each of Leonora’s stories found in the two collections, as well as evaluating the other books listed above.

There could hardly be a better time to be reading and appreciating Leonora Carrington!

(Click here to read my review of the out-of-print collection House of Fear, which includes a selection of her stories, the novella Little Francis, and the memoir Down Below, and here for my review of The Seventh Horse and Other Tales, which paired another batch of her stories with an abridged version of her novel The Stone Door).

[personal note 1.1]

Several months ago I left the enclosed city where I used to reside and moved to the outer regions in order to pursue my research on the condition. My initial research pointed to the probability that the act of living in an enclosed city is a significant contributing factor to an individual’s development of the condition—this separation, an unbridgeable gap between the individual and reality. But the results were statistically insignificant, given the small sample size and purely qualitative nature of the inquiry, which was only ever intended to be formative research. Now I need data from outside the cities for comparative purposes.

On the whole I have found the people here to be simpler than the city dwellers, almost childlike in their ways, as well as incredibly tenacious. Life here is difficult. On the best days, residents eat a subsistence diet consisting of what few edibles they can forage from the spindly native vegetation and the meager crops that persist in growing in this hostile environment. On the worst days they fast and wake early the next day to attempt gathering again. I do not see stress in their faces, though. Certainly their frames are lean, yet they are also muscular. To me they appear healthy, though I am not a medical professional.

From what I have observed so far, those living here who are afflicted with the condition are only in Stage I. For these individuals, management is straightforward provided that access to the herbal protocols continues unimpeded. Without taking the herbs, slipping into a dream state and staying there becomes an increasingly commonplace event. Many times there is no awareness of the transition from waking life to dream state. Return becomes more difficult. Stage I cases are marked by briefer periods in dream state than cases in the later stages, when return time lags even more and searchers must be sent out.

When I first arrived at this particular community I identified those individuals who required the protocols in order to stabilize. I launched a small-scale public health campaign of sorts, disseminating information at the weekly community meetings held in the square. The people had been aware that something was not right, but for the most part they had not discussed it with their families and friends. Once I put a name (albeit a vague one) to the phenomenon and explained what I knew of it, uptake and adherence to the herbal protocols occurred rapidly and I took my treatment outreach to scale immediately.

The people here trust me and I am determined not to fail them.

[personal note 1.0]

baseline data collection [personal note 1.0]

The people assembled in the square, not knowing why, only feeling a vague compulsion to be there. Some among them know more than others, but collectively they know nothing.

It is an overcast day; the sun has not shone in weeks. In the distance, a thick band of mist obscures the ring of bare mountains surrounding the city.

A few minutes ago I stood among the crowds still filling the square, holding the instrument I finished constructing only this morning. With the compact machine tucked beneath my tunic, I moved slowly through the crowd, taking covert readings at specific intervals that I had painstakingly determined the night before.

My goal is straightforward enough: to establish what percentage of the populace exhibits signs of the burgeoning phenomenon known as ‘the condition.’ The instrument is not sophisticated enough to provide stage-level data, but a statistically valid estimate of how pervasive the condition is will still prove invaluable, not only to my own private research, but also in establishing a baseline for the benefit of Ministry of Public Health officials, to whom I intend to present the data.

My loose association with the Institute for Post-Change Studies (IPCS) secured me the materials and lab space necessary to construct this instrument. I’m not at liberty to elaborate on my exact connection to IPCS, but suffice it to say a long shared history exists between myself and its founders. The Institute provided the funding for the first round of research I led on the condition. The resulting treatise, entitled The Condition: An Inquiry, includes two volumes of field narratives and a formal report. It remains as yet unpublished.

Most of my ‘colleagues’ consider me a rogue scientist-at-large. Primarily I work alone, although I do utilize a small cadre of trusted research assistants when needed, usually for field work and data cleaning. Over the years I’ve cobbled together bits and pieces of formal training in between extensive periods of field study. My methods are often criticized for being too ‘extreme’ but no one can argue with my results. I maintain rigorous standards throughout the research process to ensure my data is never compromised.

This note is the first of an intermittent series of informal documentary records I plan to maintain adjacent to my formal research. In this initial entry I have introduced myself and my work in the event that these records are ever discovered following my inevitable demise. I suspect that I have contracted the condition, but I believe it is only a Stage 1 case at this juncture. For now I am preventing its advancement through use of the herbal methods I learned from one of my research subjects. I have no knowledge of their long-term effects.

grey man

Grey Man, whose real name may be Bork, surveys the valley through half-lidded eyes.

Nothing must happen today, he thinks. Too much has been happening lately and it must stop. One time something happened…but he can’t bear to even think about it.

Grey Man stands on the bamboo platform surrounding his mountaintop hut. Mist gathers far below, swirling through dark hollows, clinging to the treetops as it floats up from the warm earth. In the eastern sky the unholy sun flexes its rays as it prepares to destroy this predawn gauze.

Grey Man turns away from the impending spectacle. Inside the hut he makes tea and sits at the wooden table. All must stop, he thinks. Once begun, though, it is so hard to halt the creeping progress. I cannot control that. But I can prevent certain progressions from starting. I can choose not to act in the first place. All else is beyond me. All else will never stop. He grips the table, his knuckles whitening.

Outside the unholy sun has fully exposed its horrid face. Its hot tongue darts down among the mist-wreathed trees, lapping up the unsuspecting gauze from its resting place atop the forest. Heat first swells the valley then debilitates it, the vegetation falling limp. The animals crawl to cooler lairs. The insects scuttle beneath crackling leaves on the forest floor.

The ambient temperature inside the hut changes little. Grey Man appreciates this quality of his abode. The hut sits sheltered below a canopy of cedars. Perched near the edge of the ridge, the hut receives the full benefit of daily mountain and valley breezes. It is a comfortable dwelling place.

Grey Man rests his forehead against the tabletop. Outside the hut a raven croaks from its perch in a nearby cedar. A cicada rattles as if in response. Grey Man rouses himself, stands, and begins to walk in a circle. He moves heel-to-toe at a slow, steady pace. His lips move in silence. Nothing will happen, nothing will happen, nothing will happen.

For years the dread rose up before him each day as the sun waned, ushering in early evening’s gloom to take its place. The relentless nature of this phenomenon wreaked havoc on his ability to function in society. Events transpired. He lost everything. Everything he never wanted in the first place. It was too much. Everything happening. Acquisition. Unwanted relations. Naive openness to possibility. The dread funnel cloud tearing it all to shreds, leaving an empty husk behind.

But that was decades ago. It matters not now. Nothing matters now, only that nothing should occur. Until the end which is right and proper.

Grey Man completes his circuit and steps out onto the platform. The unholy sun has surged high overhead, having since erased all traces of mist from the valley. It is full of itself, this sun, it knows no boundaries. One day it will burn itself out in its hubris. Grey Man peers down into the valley and sees only dense foliage. The sun has silenced the birds, except for the raven which again croaks from its perch in the cedar. Grey Man returns the call and the raven flies off, heavy wings flapping as it catches a thermal on which to soar.

[written March-April 2016, abandoned and forgotten until now, possibly still unfinished]

death of the archive

The encoding was all wrong, he kept thinking, as in between last minute data entry he packed up the few meager extensions of himself decorating his workstation. It had been rushed. Everyone leaving after the funding dropped and there just wasn’t enough time. He’d done the best he could. But the fact remained that the archive was dying. Its electronic body was hemorrhaging records, each of them representing a sector of his time he could never regain (nor even recall). Hours of research, flipping through the 20-odd dictionaries lined up above his head in the dim cubicle. All of it slowly slipping away through gaps in the system’s memory, now ravaged by worms and bots crawling and marching in after unpaid bills led to the inevitable security breach. Ones and zeroes subdividing into anonymous content—data freed from its container only to lose all context and thus its purpose.

He watched the stream of suits marching toward the double glass doors. As they passed his cubicle they dumped their unwanted office effluvia into the vacant cubicle next door to his. Already these discards had begun to reach the tops of the dividers and spill over onto his modular desk topped with the false wood veneer. A box of paper clips fell, striking his enormous ancient monitor, where it erupted and showered the keyboard with tiny silver missiles. He typed on.

What’s laughable is that there are no other jobs for the suits to take. It’s all over. Officials sealed the city last night and from this day forward it is a closed system. So their rushing out the door is all for naught. They only have their sterile quarters to return to now, where they will wait, popping pills, desperate for an end to their newfound stagnation. He thought about that for a moment, his fingers paused above the keyboard, hovering in space, before one finger, the pinkie, extended slowly to the right and clicked the Enter key, thus enacting the command to shut down his machine for good.

(That is not to say there is no more to be said, to be written. Indeed, more has been written and more will continue to be written on these matters. In effect there is no end, now or ever. The death of the archive is only one death waiting among many to be noticed, to be recorded, to matter to someone, somewhere, at some time possibly centuries from now. It waits alone for an inquiry into its condition.)

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