filter the snow.

filter the snow.

it was a snowy ebullience outside, and the city’s effeminate best would be shaking its hips a little slower that night, he imagined. he could see their minds in his mind: a little extra time would have to be added in tribute to the collective de-cadence as winter came to help us reflect, each raised waistline paused in contemplation, gathering silent prayers, crystallizing the zenith of a thousand relationships, as they all silently consented to fall again, together, in his icy hometown.

it was a laconic, reluctant ebullience, he thought as he tread heavily through those snowy sidewalks, and he could only give due justice to his steps’ heavy tread with penetrating, other-worldly, alice blue eyes. their gaze leaped between snowflakes falling to embrace each twig, landing in unified waves; a collective affirmation of what must go under again.

but Winter was late, and so with the heart of a lover returned from some distant land, the need to renew oneself threw itself back into reality, cutting into all of our lives. some of us were studying, some of us were fucking, and more were trying. but some of us were trying to carve something new out of the world, each to his or her own cathexis, grounded in a kind of presence free of seasons, seeking an archetype invulnerable to contingency itself.

proposition 1.1 of Wittgenstein’s Tractatus tells us that “the world is the totality of facts, not of things,” and so one might think every raised hip, each symbolizing a truth and not a fact, i.e., whether each hip is spoken for or not, would collectively constitute the world Winter wanted to come back to. and its return was not out of lust or wont of unrequited love; it needed to be visceral. it was supposed to touch and Move Us All, it was supposed to saturate our senses, send us rolling and vulnerable and scared, in secret anticipation of the awe which comes from a morning baptized in white. the word that comes to mind on such morns is the ancient Greek apeiron; the unlimited. we were supposed to feel freed by the infinite embrace of freshly fallen snow, by the power of what one does not know one does not know.

but as with any thing, the potential of life’s lived recognitions, in art, in love, in bringing the unknown into being, of the very possibility that a single magnificent day could exceed one’s capacity for absolute, total, social, sexual, financial, intellectual, spiritual satisfaction — that to even imagine fully sating the multiplicity of our pan-psychic desires, we require an imagination in view of utter absence, slumber, lack; non-being.

and so as winter consumed the city, killing foliage and filling fissures, he was supposed to be moved, he was supposed to be Touched and brought back into the social fold via a mass acquiescence to cyclical time. like the good folk of the city, he was supposed to be re-cycled.

but he was mourning that kind of time because he’d lost the sense of seasons as destination; as a place to go and stay a while. a place became a dimension, a story reduced to hypothesis, and all narration collapsed into another self-consciously Modern iteration of the fall. becoming this in-difference, he could not recycle his soul, because he was not moved by any one thing, because, when falling, no one stationary sentiment or mono-mythic recognition can claim him.

and so Winter did not embrace reality because that reality was a broken sequence of dead undulate foliage, repeating onward as intermittent substrates between which were the multiplicity of disparate ends each raised hip inevitably fell into, and the whole ordeal of the Winter’s Return took the form of a great carving up, a cuckold winter whose monochrome white arrival became an eviscerated sameness for us to defer, and to transgress and to enjoy.

in time, what the real said to winter was “filter the snow.”


some Recognitions to Workshop

A few words on recognition. The signifying chains said to constitute two discrete subjectivities in psychoanalysis are not distinct, because two subjects would otherwise never be capable of sharing a perception; of having mutual re-cognizance. May the reader not be misled by my choice of the word perception–this is not about what’s usually called the empirical world. What Locke called secondary qualities are here reformulated in the language of Lacanian psychoanalysis. Very little persists in the empirical world (what Locke would say primary qualities signify), perhaps because the question of Origin is senseless. But that’s another matter.

Too often one finds oneself mired in contrite repetition, recognizing the lack of repeating social recognition–that we can’t settle on the same thought, with the same feeling, viewpoint or perspective, one and an other. There’s the feeling of injustice in that–having already progressed through so many traumatic, vituperative, edifying, Truly Trying Times (as we all have), and having since then perhaps stood out in uniquity as one who’s become more perceptive, so much more cognizant than one once was, having become capable of tracing a multiplicity of narratives juxtaposed (or simply opposed) in one moving train that one can not only predict, but understand the temptation to bring every conversation back to oneself, one’s story; one’s “self”–that because of these accomplishments, one has earned the right to require others to reciprocate in diachronic recognition of novel objects, of alternate outcomes, of the perception of social injunction as artistic expression to help what is become more; that if I can focus enough to become what I am, you owe it to do the same, respectively.

But it’s a question of balance (or supplement), of balancing the humane with the human, (supplanting) others’ need for patience with one’s desire for another confrontation with boredom, (supplying) others’ presence to resolve an abductive economy of space.

or maybe henri bergson should be required reading in secondary schools. would this be anarchy? i put this to you.


So I’m sick for the second time in two weeks, only this time it’s been serious enough to miss work and fall way behind on my writing and reading schedule. It’s all been in my head until this week. Even when I caught that nasty stomach flu in mid-April, I was still able to fill in my remaining free time with make-up reading/writing time. But now. Fuck. I think I’m done writing for BTLG for now, sans the immaturity, it just isn’t worth it. Why would I work for a couple more concerned with forming an onanistic ouroboros, teasing one another with fading flickering images of one another’s future-perfect selves before simply stepping up and admitting “we will, or we won’t” pay me.

But yeah, last time I just cut into my sleeping hours, brought some of my writing material with me and worked through things on the 2 or the N Train, one sentence at a time, if necessary. Never thought I’d become so pragmatic, especially for something I’m doing pro bono. But so no, no more I say! I do not work without cash or networking. What am I, twenty? No way, yeesh, what’s wrong with me. All that happens there is I put way too much work into something I am internally conflicted about, so the work will just reflect this (to me, if no one else), and then it’s impossible to convince these kids to do something to improve motivation, because the former works are then their favorite post hoc reason not to pay or network me (even if it’s of a literary level of its own qua the rest of their project).

So. I was supposed to have a thesis finished for my Sadean experience in the contemporary//pop world thesis like a week ago, and I’m still only about halfway there. I need to reread Gass’ piece and finish my research. I should be able to have a topic by Saturday night, and a thesis by Sunday. That’s that. Fuck titles.

I’ve had so many writing projects since Xmas! It’s insane. I complete like half of what I begin. The ones still floating around are…hm, let’s see: there’s the one about what specifically bodies gain access to through argument, incorporating Deleuze’s BwO, micro-fascist (µF) forces, and how they interact within concrete experience, without succumbing to the frailties of nominalism. If this even makes sense. Nominalism is such a stranger boundary to set, since it can go both ways, excluding either universals, terms or predicates or abstract objects, but not necessarily all of the above. So I guess this is a good thing, though, right? Just pick some relatively inclusive metaphysical conditions, ones compatible with the sort of objectivity found in Logic of Sense, and build a fucking narrative. Probably out of that Out-With narrative essay that was much more of a maniacal narrative than an essay. Now it’s all coming back to me, ah, behold; New York, the shock and the glory…

Let’s see, what else. Ah, the Future Anterior piece. Right, that was never accepted by TNI; no response (and no surprise coming from that plutocratic syndicate, ivy league whutt). But so there must be something else I can use that concept for beyond analyzing a movie from like eight years ago. I mean, it’s, like, around you all of the time, man. Trauma. The pervading temptation to indulge the impending sense of inevitable squalor and psychological ruin. New York. Just last week I ditched work early to check up on another protest gathering at Union Square. I haven’t had a single thing to do with the movement since like January. I think. It’s been too long. But so many different groups have joined since then. Every Union I could think of, legalization organizations, anti-NRA groups, NRA groups, anti-censor groups, etc. Hell, I thought I saw a couple pushing for the 9/11 truth. I guess the hoi polloi of political praxis has thrown in for front-page exposure at this point. But hell, man. What started in Baltimore spread so quickly across the rest of the country. It doesn’t speak too well of me to consider how quickly I forgot about this serious movement as soon as my own health came under question. I mean, it wasn’t forgotten, but I just kind of assume it will be there when I get back into the city life, once I recover. So many things we take for granted, I remember thinking last week, so easily spun into revolution could we be, I remember secretly wishing. Would have blown to have caught that torque at full-illness’ pique.

But so writings. Body, sans bodies (speaking earnestly here, the sheer irony of writing this one in preterite fashion wrt my seven-month-long situ is laudible in its own right). Then there’s FiFAwhich can be so easily related to anything in this NYC-situ. Take your pick, Chuck. Then, hm, ah, yes, I did kick a redux of She Returns into being the week before last, in the days before my last sick days. BTLG probably won’t put it up, and definitely won’t pay, so why bother with them. Re-edit the falling action post-bus-allegory, sans theory, mit prose, ja? Und dann, ich denke…naja, there’s nothing to fear from the Marquis de Sade. Indeed. Except this major sickness I’m pushing through, sans words to any living human. Maybe if I’m better by Saturday I’ll hit up the library. Narrow that topic down, and write a few practice ¶s.

Now, readings. If the state to which I’ve recently discovered I last left my writing projects in is best described with the adjective disorderly, then my readings are pushing the use-mention dilemma for Deleuze’s Chaosmos. Yeah, it’s a neologism. Well it used to be. Get over it.

Let’s just have a list of things I’ve been reading over the past year. At least the ones I’ve not yet finished. Gaddis’ Recognitions, Lacan’s Écrits (although it is true what they say: one does not simply read Lacan), Borges’ Ficciones, Tabucchi’s Time Ages in a Hurry (short, but deep, so deep I can’t bear to read it unless my mind’s in minesweeper-mode), Deleuze & Guattari’s Capitalism & Schizophrenia (both parts; AΘ and 1K Plateaus), Henri Bergson’s Time and Free Will and Matter and Memory (both of which, I’m sure, I will not finish until I finish D & G’s books, or, at most, roughly the same time). More recently, I’ve picked up growing interest in Wittenberg’s Time Travel and Deleuze’s The Logic of Sense, the former of which I’m halfway through, and the latter of which I could probably spend an entire graduate school term ensconcing myself with. I’ve noticed how uncomfortably comfortable I’ve become with ending sentences in prepositions. I’m going to blame this on the homesickness not sated by my four months home last year. I still feel like a damned nomad. Wouldn’t be a big deal if I had the means to cop total alienation. It’s been a long time alone in this body.

I have also noticed how much of this city and my vocabulary fade away when I’m in this boxed-up room, where there’s no sunlight, and no friendly voices, and little to no wifi. It feels like a time machine, in a bad way. A broken vanity mirror on the door. A Chinese charm at top trying its hardest to bless me with wealth and good health, already (it would add). Several lists of old-new vocab, writing prompts and self-written synopses, note cards espousing themselves (in their own words) individually; as ARGUMENTS, collectively; a GENE POOL. A self-portrait of oneself drawing a self-portrait of oneself with a short anaphora about being a white girl in white shirt in black skirt in black light, etc, that I obviously did not draw. Taped to the wall are a few light philosophical reflections on tragedy; deception, persuasion, the spectator and the New School for Social Research. Marcionism & my first abandoned novel. That novel is the biggest long-shot of all, save the secret metaphysics I wrote and burned in the months between 2010 and 2011. So long ago…I do so miss Sophia.

Beyond this schtuff, I s’pose I’ll just resubmit some of my film reviews and essays I’d prepped for the pro bono zine to the better ones who would but they could, like i said, sans plutocracy. Here’s hoping.

Finally. Maybe I should get sick more often. I needed this break to catch up with life. Nah.

Bring it on, assholes.



More than a month has passed since my last entry here. This time, between then and now, as I hold it in my mind’s eye takes the form of a channel, or current, with more swirling eddies of retrospective questions than any yet in my time so far as a New Yorker. Questions of purpose, questions of knowledge: what kind of life have I been seeking? When have I felt things were going according to plan? When have I felt like there was a plan? It’s as if parts of me have been systematically cut from myself, and put up for board review to the crew of the ship of fools.

It’s so strange how much I’ve expected from people who are essentially strangers. Stranger still, I’ve thought over the past week, how directly I’ve transferred my own voice onto this “picayune” blog, how superlatively narcissistic these words have become. Most others who compose do so in a voice not so different than what one would find on any other social networking site, implicitly praising univocity. Of course, I have full non-consensual access to the voice of imagined dissent, too. The one which crosses oneself on the grounds of what one does not or should not possibly know, but I’ve always felt entitled to expressing my thoughts, and this tendency has only become more fastidious and inexorable as the weeks go on, because no one I live amidst is thinking about these things so directly: Time, Desire, Repression, Eros, Narrative, Psychoanalysis, Philosophy, Linguistics, Poetry. All whom I’ve personally met and carried on an extended correspondence with are more concerned with mainstream humanism, philanthropy, ideologically-ridden sentimental solace, efficiency, mental ticks, advertising, profit, drugs, modernist ethics, games of categorical denotation, decadence and unconscious hedonism.

But the strangest thing recently, since I returned to that unhappy vocation on the streets of Manhattan, is how quickly I’ve coated myself in psychosomatic, syntactic and rhetorical code. I’ve sunk into myself, embedded my own feelings in my appearance, hidden away from the daily world of capitalist-driven charity and its infinite greed. Why? I’ve not had a single real desire answered (let alone sated) in six months, and the city, in its sound and fury, has no translatable import to my real voice. What I mean is that I have not truly communicated one single word or gesture in this city yet this year.

Everything is mediated. There’s no “there” there, just a husk.

Consequently, anything resembling a real sense of identity has switched tracks from the physical, embodied space of skin, substance and dimensions to the vicissitudes of time itself; I am here, but I am not here. Most of what I think about and feel has as its object things which exist only partially, yes in memories, but also in their manifold interpretations, and the alternate relationships and manners and genders I’d persist in now as a result of them. This multiplicity of past timelines has a substantial philosophical effect; namely, an acute sense of enhanced authenticity; every quip, tick, retort, mood and voice has an entire narrative of its own, each again with another higher-order manifold in alternate origins. The greater the complexity, the more I seem like everyone else; the simpler, the more abstract, odd and exceptional I am. What this means is to be myself is to be a very strange man, indeed.

But it’s the future that completes this shift in personality to the temporal. A dandelion blown away into a gust of full wind no one else believes in, a cloud of infinite forms pausing for a moment to return my gaze.

A man named Arthur living in the upper east side, born and raised, spoke to me for twenty minutes about his temp job, how he’s losing the battle for his house against the forces of gentrification, how he’s facing early retirement, how he has survived cancer despite his family withering away. He is attractive, with gray hair peeking out of his face; vibrant, strong and experienced, yet tired, and afraid. He almost brought himself to tears. He kept repeating “it’s only getting worse, it’s only going to get worse,” looking over my shoulder all the while, addressing what I imagine is his last conversation with the present.

On the subways I read Derrida on my phone, and contemplate the ironic value of how perfectly my former college life’s socially available (and virile) narrative fits into his notion of différance; repetition within origination, the mechanism inside the singularity; the machine in the event. The train transports me between worlds, from my own homebody’d phenomenology of spirit and somber recognitions to the Sisyphean masques of the weekday; the tribal assemblies pre-sales-dissemination, the curious eyes I send away, the spiked coffee to tolerate quantitative individuation, all of it is a strange machine everyone turns into gears for, and I give thanks to myself for having even accidentally given myself a place abstracted enough from the artificial movements of others’ quotidian woes for me to at least have three hours’ physically manifested space which does not forbid melancholy, and tears are fought back on that 2 train to work, every other day, whether I know which thoughts are bringing them to bear or not.

And every night, one promises oneself that emails will be sent, signals made to other machines, other jobs, other feeds and zines and queens, and that someday, someone wrapped up in self-contemplation among the stars of all the myriad ways one’s future-perfect self could turn out will unravel, to Ravel, and appear, laying, pre-stretched and relaxed on this multiverse one was always already treading through.


It’s easier to write journal entries in portions as prescribed by blog-writing form, as something I’m obliged to portion, slicing off just enough memory to synthesize some intimation of what will be slated for short-term repression, done to process the myriad observations, recognitions, and the spectrum of narratives formed with decreasing relevance to the actual lives I live amidst, when they’re under the header of a single date. My relationship with time is one of religious devotion to a set of goals, a part of each (the ideological excess of phantasy and self-projection) drives me to bring the parts of each which I do not phantasize about, which do not in fact drive my desire, into being. These undesired things are the necessities; food, money, and the psychological growth and persona-adaptation that comes from engaging a socius, a social body.

A day is an advertisement. Probably for tomorrow. But running on the promise of tomorrow is risky business because it is a teleological thing. And telos is a big tease.

(it never really comes because telos is merely the echo of your being’s possible future-perfect selves, each of which is advertising its respective future in disparate ways, waiting for your present self to stop repressing and step forward)

But about that – repression, or rather a human relationship to the binary of desire and satiation, repressing satiation // generating desire, or reneging desire // releasing subjectivity to a flow one becomes subsumed by.  These releases include acts like sex, self-deconstruction à la Sharing Feelings in a vacuum, insulating the capacity to think with micro-fascisms or mental ticks, etc, etc, and the less I enjoin myself to do the former, the more I find myself slipping into thought-habits circling round the latter. And that is both healthy and pernicious.

I mean to write soon, about a woman I have met, who appears to have mastered the art of instilling desire, and managing, guiding, keeping-dirigible the desiring object’s narratological reliance on the promise of eventual satiation. It’s like neo-teasing. And it is both unhealthy and liberating.

My current engagements keep me from becoming-monomaniacally reactive to said desire-generating femme’s refusal to sate, which is good. Clarity is very important at this juncture.

Soon I will be back on the streets, fighting authority and simulating utopos with the masses.

some deriding circles running-on around prose form and audience(s) i.e. two questions i’d like to see on the GRE

in order for short fiction to serve its function as not only a thoroughly concrete phenomenology of the real, but also an experimental journey into both signs present and as-of-yet unsignified, unentered or otherwise not-yet-triggered, and then also signs so far not even present in mainstream media, alternative indie or otherwise not yet within the scope of public discourse w/r/t mundane consciousness, the characters involved must embody already existent political standpoints, complete with old and new ideologies, each with their own individually signified utopias (i.e. the unspoken lack, the frame, the incompleteness in their theorems; the rub).

q1: T/F? Elucidate.

From here, with an a priori noncomplimentary ideological difference-in-corpus, the story, through narrative twists and vocalized synthesis (i.e. dialogue), must convey some interesting critique of what is, what’s said should be, and what-could-but-so-far-probably-isn’t-but-might-very-easily-be-via-a-modicum-of-thought, could strike the reader to interpret ways, going beyond what picayune options I may privately intend (à la mort d’auteur), but so interpret ways to bridge the growing mise en abyme all indie writers find themselves starting in contra the inevitable post-punk jump aboard the hashtag(ged) locomotive bound both for the liberal elitism found in the physical confines of manhattan and brooklyn and yes also in the virtually enclosed ivory tower of academia (now on Linkedin?!), and the neoconservative mainstream that kept them from pursuing the very same kind of sincerity-laden auteur-sentiments that got them in front of the proverbial-perfunctory typewriter in the first place. goddammit.

q2: is the last word rhetorical?


girl, ex nihilo

Hélène is a United Nations activist, organizing classes and festivals in South Africa to raise safe-sex awareness. Putatively. She’s been there for the past year. It’s a lonely job, walking down the same six corridors six or seven times a day, waiting for classes and festivals, each spaced days apart from the next. At first, she loved the solitude. She enjoyed boxing her activities into little philanthropic assembly lines. It eased her young conscience. The corridors, mirroring her latent repression, spiral inwards from their opening, several levels down to a thick, oak, blue door. Behind it is an endless wasteland of cracked, dried mud.

miss go lightly

miss go lightly

After each day of class she retraced invisible footprints to this same final exit, syncing disparate memorized standard form arguments with psychical reductions to innocence. It was a safe-guard, and she knew it. She even scheduled it in her notebook as “peripatetic therapy.” But gradually, she felt something ominous, extraneous, and ontologically Other slide its way in behind her repeated analyses. Something bigger than doubt, she thought, yet less than contradiction in toto.

One corridor brought to mind love for her family, nested in frustration at how little they understand her. Another more grandiose corridor (only so because its paint had not yet faded) conjured her deep trust in science and humanity, couched in a vehement sense that this trust was non-consensual. She tried to bring out this self-betrayal, but could only visualize images of self-legitimizing authorities littering her news feeds with euphemized headings like “scientific frontiersmen” with “ideas worth spreading.” In the final corridor, before the door to nothingness, she would retreat to the very fact of Being-There, Now, with time apart from her “self,” but even this turned against itself as a purely narcissistic sentiment.

She soon found herself hurrying down each corridor, fearful of what she might find if she walked, or thought, too slowly. After two weeks, the anxiety became asphyxiating. She regularly dashed through the corridors. These alien critiques had gained a life of their own and audibly consumed her formerly idyllic sentiments in gnashing, grinding moans. It was horrific. She just made for the desert behind that final blue door as quick as her legs could carry.

After each day of class, her community liaison (CL) gives her three tickets, each good for one beer. CL is, ostensibly, just as lonely as her, but because of what Hélène has conceded as the “cultural barrier,” he always resorts to handing these tickets to her in a self-imposed double-bind; he wants her to leave one ticket for him, implying an invitation to drink, but is not legally allowed to verbally ask her as much. She’s noticed he wears two wedding rings.

For the first few days his face is framed by over-arched eyebrows and open-mouthed smirks, lips tucked behind teeth, as if he’s trying to direct her to his tongue with his lips. These early encounters are easy for her to handle. She just tucks her head down and to the right on the nod’s descent, so as to combine the acts of reception, gratitude, and refusal into one graceful motion.

But the next day, the fourth day, CL follows her out of the office and calls after her, “do you have family?!” Hélène tries to hide her shock, but she’s already looking at him, motionless.

“Yes, I do, back home. And you?” CL’s smirk vanishes, and he follows her down the stairs. She resumes her tour of the corridors in his company.

“My father used to say that the skies of Africa hold all the world’s dreams.”

“So your father liked to dream, huh.” Hélène grimaces at CL’s truism’s double bind. She knows she can’t blow him off. He’s kind of her boss, in a gray, non-documented way. But she has no interest in entertaining some stranger’s nostalgia. CL lets his head fall to his shoulder.

“Why are you in Africa?”

“I guess just to travel, and do some good for other people when I can.”

They enter the first gaping corridor. Behind a missing a section of the wall is black tarp. It’s motionless, with a crypt-like discoloring of mold. “Other people.” He seems to masticate these words for a moment. “And what good can you do for the people of Africa?”

“Just minimize the damage, for those who will listen, I think.” CL chuckles at this in broken hums. He lets his hand slide along the corridor’s pulverized wall and swivels around a pillar at its end. They enter the painted corridor.  Hélène feels humanistic. “I think I’m helping people.”

“Do you know what you give to the people of Africa?”

“Well, I give them knowledge, I think. How to practice safe-sex, to prevent disease and rape so they can build some life of their own.”

“Knowledge about your sky.” CL stops. He straightens up and drags his fingernails through the wall’s blue paint. “Your sky.” Hélène turns and pushes her way out the door of that last blank corridor and into the bright African sun.

“I think I have to go soon, I have to buy groceries in town, I—” Hélène walks more briskly now, along the concrete wall, as she did when alone in the corridors. CL is still behind her.

“But there is market in our oasis. The highway takes two hours, and you never know who is on bus!” CL yells after her. He has class in one hour; he won’t follow me on the bus. He continues to stare at her while she waits at the bus stop. “Then you must go to bar tonight, I must explain something to you.” The bus arrives and shifts gears with a thick sputter of exhaust. Hélène stretches her neck. CL’s pulling blue paint chips from his fingernails.

“Keep your head low, Hélène.”

On the bus, her anxiety resurfaces. Who did this man think he was? She’d worked with him for six months, and he’d never diverted himself toward her so stubbornly. She shivers in her seat and stares out at the meaningless expanse beyond her town’s oasis. The corridors’ leering doubts seize her again, so she stays on board and returns home. Her sleep is light, and drenched in nightmares.

On the sixth evening, she meets Ester at an outdoor bar. Dozens of possibly HIV-positive locals vie for a chance to sit with them. The light shines down weakly fluorescent, reflecting off of cheap metal tables arranged in an ellipse around the wooden bar. In every direction, she sees the bar’s light fade into the violet expanse beyond. No music plays.



From the expanse she hears hyenas howl. The gravel carpet before it crunches under the nervous twitch of every other lonely man’s leg. The men with high-browed lip-arrows clank their bottles and cans on their tables. Six men circle the bar, neither committing to nor aborting their respective shots at impressing her enough for that-one-drink.

She wants to escape. Withdraw, she thinks. She’s experiencing social withdrawal, and addiction is easier to face when you aren’t surrounded by picayune triggers. She is lonely, but wants to experience being alone, to see what it is she’s forgotten since she came—what’s eating her.

“Why do you look nervous, if you’re so lonely?” asks Ester.

“It’s there, I mean I’m lonely, but it’s sort of a background emotion. When people look at me like this I feel sick.” Hélène hides her now shivering hands behind her back. A hand brushes her spine.

“You finally came.” CL says with bloodshot eyes. He smells like moonshine.

“Yes, but I just want to relax here, so—”

“No, no, I insist. Let me sit with you for a minute.” He takes a swig of clear liquid from a tin cup. His accent is much stronger, phlegmatic. Ester takes the seat behind Hélène. “For all of Africa’s history in the world, we have had everything taken from us. Do you know how this happened?”

“Uh—colonialism? I studied some world history in my university days. I know it was wrong, it’s really unfortunate that the world can be so cruel.”

“Bahahaaa!” Hélène jumps back into Ester’s arms, and some orbiting men take notice. CL clears his throat. “Unfortunate. The world. Yes. It’s good that you know these things. But do you have knowledge of our misfortune? Do you know what happened to the people of Africa?” Hélène holds her left hand with her right, trying to keep the shakes away. Why does he keep asking me about the ‘people of Africa?’ “They cheated and blackmailed us out of our land, our crops, our precious resources. They did it for their people. Your people.”

“What can I say—I’m sorry I know—”

“You know nothing! Did your father sit you down as a child and tell you how you and all of your friends will be ignored by the world for the rest of your lives? Did you ever have to watch your people fight over which of them gets to be the favorite of the west? And realize while you watch your brothers slaying one another that this is already being forgotten?!”

CL spits as he speaks. He’s moved closer, now just six inches from her face. She forces herself to match him. His wrinkles betray his age. She can smell his rancid breath. His eyes are quivering. She struggles to stare back. His gaze is piercing. She’s desperate for words.

“I am sorry Hélène, I forget myself. I have lost my family, and it’s not often I have a chance to speak with a foreigner so openly.”

“I—uh, noticed you have two rings. Did you remarry?”

“Re—marry?” CL pulls away to examine his ring finger. “In a way, yes I have.”

“I’d love to meet your wife. How did you meet her?”

“She is already here. I found her in the sky, and she ends at the horizon. She is my queen. You don’t know it, but she is looking at you now, studying and judging. She is wondering why you are in Africa.”

Hélène looks to Ester. What am I supposed to say to this? Jesus! Ester releases a long, dull sigh. “Hélène, he’s not maudlin. People today have forgotten, but some of us know that we’re never alone on this planet.”


“Yes, Hélène, she’s right. The very idea of solitude does not exist to us. I think you will understand if you go to my wife. Here—” He pulls a keychain out of his pocket and offers it to her, pinched between fingers. “Take my jeep and drive into the salt pans. There is food and camping equipment in the backseat.”

“Wha—I can’t just take your jeep out into the middle of nowhere. How can you trust me?”

“My wife will watch you. Out there, you cannot escape her.”

“Can’t you just tell me? I know I’d understand if you didn’t speak in riddles and metapho—” CL slams his tin cup on the bar with a crunch.

“I’m sick of your knowledge! Experience, this is what teaches people. That is how we learn. Only experience can do wrong or right.”

“I can drive you. Let’s go.” Ester volunteered. “I need to see her, too.”

Very little was said over the next thirty minutes. It was dry outside, but for the first time in weeks, Hélène could feel wind. It caresses her face with a hint of gasoline and oil, and it fingers through her tangled hair. Her scalp is pulled in cyclical motions, coded up and down, overwriting her histrionic-claustrophobia with a manageable, neurotic-looking agoraphobia. She can’t push the world away.

To counter the latter she hangs her body over the door and pivots on her hip. Sand cyclones lash dried mud caressing old, rusted wheels. They rip a series of concentric arrows across the land. The jeep’s wake transforms into two horizontal spirals. Hélène’s pupils relax to take in the horizon. Their wake is a creamy pillar framed by the ever-shrinking grassy oasis. She thinks to herself, that’s home, now. She realizes that she’s stretched her arm out, and shifts her pupils’ focus to her hand, now painted with chalky cracks.

Her heart sinks, and she pulls herself back into the passenger seat. Ester calmly pulls a hand off of the steering-wheel and touches Hélène’s face. She’s careful to avoid the eyes and gazes longingly ahead, at the destitute field of fading tracks and angled road signs.

“So do you feel better yet?” Ester asks.

“I don’t—I don’t know, it’s good to be moving though. How long do we have to drive until we’re isolated?”

“Not long. Maybe thirty minutes. It would take us a day to get across the salt pans, so we can really drive as far as we want before setting up camp.” Hélène sits back in her seat and thinks.

“Hey Ester? What do you know about CL? Is he like super-religious or something?”

“CL? Hmm, no, not really. I mean everyone here is supposedly catholic, but he never goes to mass, and he’s never talked about it before.”

“Okay. But then why did he send me to this wasteland to find his wife?”

“Listen to me, he didn’t tell you to find her. She is already here. You just don’t feel her yet.” Hélène is beginning to feel like she’s wasting her time. This must be a local custom or a remnant of some pagan religion, she thinks. One of those you-feel-it-once-you-believe-it cults. Hélène’s heart slows. Her suburban mindset returns, and her doubts slowly subside. This is just a desert, and I’m going to waste a few hours in the middle of nowhere.

“Hey Ester?”


“Why don’t we spend the night out here? I feel like I can trust you. Maybe I can finally be alone. We can trade ghost stories or something.”

“I will listen to your ghost stories if you like, but we are out here for a reason. Don’t forget that. We will be awake most of the night, working hard.” Hélène scowls at this. Great, now I have to entertain this fanatic all night. Does she expect me to take this seriously? I’m no damn tourist. Why does she assume I’m at her mercy?

chao, Ra

ciao, Ra

The sun is nearly gone. Hélène looks back to the oasis, and sees the last sector of land disappearing through waves of heat. Her hair falls down, and time slows. Part of the hazing oasis is gray and fading into sage. A minute later it’s melting into the tan and barren nothingness surrounding her. The air feels empty; her breath is not enough. The sound of grinding tires fades into the sound of her heartbeat. Before long even this is lost to her. Her senses feel distant, like she’s floating inside a sphere of in-laid spikes. They could pierce her at any moment.

“Hélène!” Ester pulls her shoulder around. “I know there is nothing to hold onto out here, but focus on me. I will be with you tonight.” Hélène nods automatically, still disconnected from her senses. She manages to form a few words of reassurance, “how old are you,” but she isn’t sure in what aphasic order they emerge; “you old, are how?” Ester nods back, “Okay. We are completely isolated. Let’s stop here.”

The sky has just a hint of turquoise left, chasing the sun round the western horizon. Hélène steps out of the jeep and backs away from it, slowly, then turns and just runs as fast as she can, panting, and her boots lick up an invisible wake. The ground cracks with each step like ice. Even her heart is pumping salt. She keeps thinking just forget Ester, lose this place, I need to find what’s right, what’s real and picks out a star directly ahead. She wants to chase it down, rip it apart and push for something familiar. Then she looks down and just stops. The horizon. It’s swallowed the Earth.

Behind her, Ester and the jeep are amorphous specs; anonymous silhouettes against the darkening sky. I should stick close to the jeep, to the water. Slowly, somatically recollecting herself, Hélène paces back to Ester. She allows her doubts to resurface. The old Otherly-ones. Her thoughts turn herself into an object. An irrational body in an organless void. Ester’s silhouette hangs alone, dangling up from the earth. She’s waiting for her, stolid and expressionless. Hélène takes a bottle of water from the seat of the jeep and sits on the shattered earth.

“Ester, did you notice how the salt pans look exactly like an ocean? I wanted to get lost, but now that I actually can push myself to feel what I want, the pressure is too much. Like the expectation of my liberation is itself the final unbreakable chain to the rest of the world.”

“You are thinking too much. You’re trying to hide. Stop it. I will do the thinking for you.” Ester sits down next to her, facing east. Gradually, both of them are enveloped in darkness. Their faces are nearly invisible. But Hélène isn’t looking at the ground anymore. She feels her pupils fully dilate as something begins to shine through the eastern sky.

Gradually, points of light group into blue frozen clouds, resting on what transforms from hundreds into hundreds of thousands of indiscernible eddies of every color. A mad nebulous blanket, whose luminosity is softened by an immense black maw. Its edges turn and wrap into itself. It’s self-consuming, and the resemblance is unmistakable.

“In your home what do you call this?”

“The Milky Way. But I don’t know why it has such a benign name.”

“Be-nign? Yes. Overwhelming, isn’t it. It’s been like this for billions of years, and will continue to look like this for billions more.” Ester speaks in monotone. Hélène feels something return her gaze. She turns away.

“If you put it that way, what difference do our lives make? I mean how can we say we really know we’ve overcome anything compared to the indifference of the big picture?”

“Do you think you’d feel better about it if you could live forever?”

“What do you mean?”

“Think about it. You could study every science, get a thousand PhDs, fall in and out of love to your heart’s content, and see hundreds of generations go by.”

“Sure, but you’re just indulging in dreams. We’re all gonna die.”

Hélène rubs her left heel with her right boot’s metal tip. Ester clears her throat. “Do you know there are jellyfish living deep in the ocean that have the ability to live forever?”

“How is that possible? Everything dies.”

“Yes, inevitably, but these jellyfish don’t die from old age. It’s a disease called senescence. We die because our telomeres deplete and our DNA degrades. These jellyfish don’t lose telomeres, so they don’t succumb to senescence.”

“You think death is a disease? To me, death is more real than life.”

sky maw

sky maw

“You poor girl. Look up at your Milky Way. Tell me you don’t see a universe teeming with life and mystery, baiting us to put our fear aside and take what’s ours!”

“But what about CL’s wife? Wouldn’t that be her mystery?”

“Have you read Kant?”

“Not for—”

“—He reasoned that what we experience of the external with our senses is actually a reflection of our own consciousness.”

“So you’re really a reflection of me?”

“Yes, and you of I. And what do you think that sky is to the earth?”

“I guess if we think of the earth as separate from the sky, then they are each other’s reflection.”

“Yes. And what is this planet if not a great womb, carrying us through infancy? That beautiful womb in the sky is CL’s wife.” Hélène repeats Ester’s words in a Sagan-esque voice in her mind. She laughs silently.

“And she is just regent queen to our interstellar destiny. If we could extend our lives indefinitely, we could stop fighting over precious resources, or political ideologies and amorous indulgence, you know, think things through.”

Hélène couldn’t believe what she was hearing. Sure, she thinks, immortality would be great, but she couldn’t place Ester as the eternal philanthrope. “Ester, just who could afford this genetic alteration? Who’s to say who should live forever?”

“Eventually governments would make it illegal to have children. This is inevitable. We won’t need kids in a race of adults.”

“And you’re looking forward to this? Doesn’t everything worth living for come from fresh perspectives?”

“You are naïve, Hélène. We only need children now because we accept the fact of death. We must remember that there is no limit for us. With enough time, people like us could remove every doubt, every false god. We would come to trust our origins as our rightful heritage, and leave this wandering womb behind.”

“So you believe we have access to true, objective knowledge?”

“I think it is inevitable that we already have access to some correct categories. Look what we have already accomplished, as a species. We need only to implement the right concepts and rid ourselves of fear.”

“You’re so lost in the concept of the ideal that you’ve forgotten the real.”

“What is more real than empirical data? I believe in evidence as proof of reality.”

“That’s pathetic Ester. Evidence is image given simulated life by the vote of a privileged minority. Science is a myth-generator. It’s popular because it works, because it’s popular, because—do you see the vicious circle? It feels good, but that’s what it’s made for; nothing more.”

“You’re an amusing one, Hélène. What explanation do you have for all of this, then?”

“When I look up, I don’t feel love or sense any great womb. It feels like a wound in the sky. Don’t you feel it pushing down on you? We’re just surfaces pressing into surfaces.”

“Wrong. To exist is to fight for the right to continue existing. It is a privilege to be among the stars. Why waste time with dark sentiments?”

“Because, Ester, I can choose to. This existence is a curse. If there is such a thing as nature, then we exist separate from it. Existence is unbalance.”tumblr_mmqp9vxce71rwgw6to1_400

“Do you hear what you are saying? Don’t you enjoy life? Why rebuke yourself for using what is given to you by our cosmic mother?”


“Yes—CL is my father, by blood and by faith.”

“It’s good you admit to your faith, but this mother of yours is no friend to trust. She is a dying entity, if anything. Anyone so old would exude only the last cycling thoughts of loss, humiliation, abandonment and self-loathing, swirling round the drain of her pupils. What would you do with eternity? Do you even know? How long until your thoughts fade into the background static noise of this murderous universe?”

“Murderous? Yes, this is true. But my Will can never fail me. It will only grow. Think Hélène, how much has your mind grown since you were a child? Project that forward a hundred more years, a thousand, a million! Can’t you feel it? Our destiny?”

“I think you’re talking about deep time. The kind of duration that sees events as something lasting billions of years. Be careful, Ester, deep time is an insatiable maw. In its gaze you’d become a monster, if you already aren’t.”

“Don’t talk to me like this. It’s disrespectful to mother.”

“Would you like me to gentrify? Is your ‘Will’ already threatened? Don’t you understand what CL was talking about when he mentioned his life’s tragedy? What it’s like to have to ask to exist?”

“I know I exist because I can doubt this truth. And I have a right to seek what I can imagine. You only let your doubts determine your future.”

“What if I held a gun to your head right now and told you to do exactly as I say, would you feel so autonomous then? And what if I tied you behind the jeep and let the salt pans rip your clothes to shreds until you called me master? What then?”

“I would die before submitting to you. That is the true nature of humanity.”

“Listen to yourself, ‘true nature of humanity?’ Nature is a euphemism for the unknown. How long can your Will stand that? An hour? What happens when your skin begins to peel off? Can you imagine that? And what if I keep you alive for days, running supplies from town, just to make sure you don’t die on me? Do you have any idea what experiencing this means?”

“I can’t believe you have such cruel intentions.”

“Can’t, or won’t? My intentions have nothing to do with this. I’m telling you that you don’t really know what it’s like to have your humanity stripped. To know that you have to continually choose, in every passing second, to be more than a thing. That’s the thing about intentions, they don’t actually determine what happens.”

“You’re saying that everything I’ve told you is just fantasy? But how could I have come this far? You’re just a wicked, cynical woman.”

“I’m saying there are things worse than death, and blindly fantasizing about infinite consciousness is nothing but hubris.”

“But there is, must be something. The universe is so big, where else can these feelings come from?”

“You are a relic! So you’ve studied some science, modernism and paganism, but you should at least keep up to date with one of them. We’re dealing with a multiverse of infinite determinations, now.” Hélène surprised herself with these thoughts. Those corridors were no good for her self-analysis, but that’s nothing to say of everything else.

“Infinite determinations? Well I want the life determined to extend to my Will.”

“You wouldn’t be the only one. And you still don’t get it. Should I redress this in scientific language? Countless duplicates of yourself are already on their way to that life, doing everything you are dreaming now, everything you aren’t considering, and are even right now in this laughable womb of your fantasies reacting to these words in more ways than you could ever hope to out-think.”

“But it’s still my choice to pursue any of these possibilities. I am the one choosing it here. In this reality.”

“Why are your choices so special? They aren’t exempt from this. And if you think you have problems being unique now, wait until your soul dies and your humanity suffocates. I’m betting after your first century or two that that palate of choices will be so limited that if you could see it from here you’d choose death now rather than fulfill such a pathetic destiny.”

“If I’m so pathetic, then what are you doing in this desert with me? You seem to have found all the answers yourself, so how dare you come out here, Hélène, you miserable fake, walking around playing the ignorant innocent virgin as if you even have a fucking right to exist!”

“Wow, this is really novel to you, isn’t it? I guess I am really lucid right now. It feels so natural, though.” Hélène drags down that particular mention of the natural to extol the wound Ester is beginning to accept. “And Ester? I’m just taking in all the myriad ways. Mapping my ideological coordinates. You’re my little reference dipper.”

“How can you just take advantage of people, hurting them just to see where you are in life? Is this why you came to Africa?”

“I don’t presume to clutch citable meta-theories of myself underlying every choice. That wouldn’t be human. You should try something besides ‘mother’ sometime. And as to how, letting go enlightens your subconscious’ reflection. Do you know what the etymology of addict is? In Greek it’s something like religious devotion. Even I want it from time to time, but I don’t need it any more than that wound in the sky needs our recognition.”

“But we all need something to hold onto. An interface with reality. Perfecting this is what I want to do.”

“What you want and what you need are two different things. This whole ‘mother’ kick of yours is just a metanarrative you’re clinging to. It’s icky.”

“You speak to me like a child.” Ester’s voice is insular; obscured. “Why would you use such uneducated words except to hide your uncertainty?”

“I’m not hiding. I’m just bored of trying to box the world with you. Congratulations, Ester, you pulled a truer me out. I’m, like, free.”

“Please…Hélène, stop. Don’t take this from—” Ester is shaking her head, and slow, gradual sobbing overtakes her words. Hélène feels fresh laughter brewing inside her. It’s nothing at all resembling some tawdry comic-villain. It’s a mad, deliberate laughter, no longer sporadic or separate from her. She rolls to her sides, glimpsing Ester’s imago-death in one turn, and the empty horizon in the next. Her hands claw at the ground, snapping fingernails.

“Is it eternal damnation, then?” Ester is barely audible. “To be crushed forever, pushing nature away in hopes of another release?” Hélène turns over to straddle her. She crumples the earth in her hands hanging over Ester’s eyes. Her laughter grows tender and more delicate. It’s almost methodical, like a surgeon narrating delicate procedures in a forgotten demonic language. “Just blind me, Hélène, I don’t want to see, it’s too heavy.”

“An anesthetic to your Sisyphus, then.” Hélène lowers her head to Ester and massages dirt into her eyes, tracing black tears into triangles across her face. Ester whimpers every minute or so until she cycles into silence. Her breathing is regular. Hélène falls back, legs tangled with her new disciple. “Hey Ester?”

“Yes, mother?”

“…all life is evil.”

“Because in life, death is all?”

“To presume a right to immortality proves our wretched nature.”

“Then I will spend this life pushing my nature away from me, until I am no more.”

“So you see, Marjorie, we must end shortly.”