Fiction with Commentary by the Author
The Wait
by Gypsy Mother
“I just want to get a little bit fatter, so I don’t have to wear a belt,” he said. The girl behind the counter stopped scooping and looked up at him. The young mother and her seven year old son, who were next in line behind him, were engrossed but the parent kept trying to distract the kid with conversation starters like, “When we get home, remind me to change the filter in the water pitcher.1”
“I don’t think that’s unreasonable,” he continued, “and winter’s approaching, so it wouldn’t hurt to have a little more insulation.” He patted his stomach.
“Huh,” the girl said. She scooped. The man, not at all disheveled2, turned to the young mother and son, spooked them in his directness.3 “What do you think, lady?” he asked. “Is it gonna be a rough winter? What about you, little man?” The boy kicked him, a good swift one that involved a step into it.
“Charles!” mother asped, “that is not acceptable behavior and you know it.” Charles scowled, glanced at the man rubbing the offended limb, then down. The girl handed the man a bag of ice and he thanked her, grinned and shook his head.4
“Now, that’s alright. It’s alright ma’am,” he said.
“What do you say Charles?”
“I’m sorry.”
“What was that?”
“I’m sorry.”
“For what?”
“I’m sorry for kicking you.”
“That’s alright Charles,” the man said. “What’d’ya say you pay for my ice cream and we’ll call it square?” The boy looked up at his mother, who was looking at the man with an expression of hardly veiled yuck.5 “Just joshin’ with ya. Tell ya what. How about, just to show there’s no hard feelings, how about I pay for you and your big sister’s ice cream? Deal?”
“Yeah!” the boy said. He raised his arms and stomped his feet.
“That’s quite alright,” the mother said.6 “This trip is actually a reward for Charles, so I’d prefer to buy it, but thank you. And sorry about him kicking you. He usually doesn’t do things like that.”
“I probably just spooked the little guy, or something. You know.” He shrugged.7 “I’m sure he didn’t mean any harm.”
“Thank you, that’s very kind of you,” she said, though it was really just a phrase and if she had thought about it, she would have found it more just reasonable than kind.8
“$4.80” the girl said, her palm upturned across the counter. The man gave her a five and dropped the two dimes in her massive tip jar.9 He turned to the mother and son, transferred his float to this left hand and extended the right to her.
“It was nice to queue with you,” he said.
She shook absentmindedly.
“I’m Guy,” he said.
“Sue.”
He bent to the boy, hand extended. “Charles, it was nice to meet you too,” he said. Charles grasped Guy’s thumb and forearm, directed the man to the floor.
“Oh gosh,” Sue said. She flattened herself against the glass of the ice cream counter.10 “I am so sorry,” she said to the crumpled suit. “Aikido. The ice cream is because he leveled in aikido, though he certainly isn’t getting any rewards now. You hear me, Charles? Not with that behavior.” The boy wailed.
Behind the counter, the girl shook her head and rinsed the scoop under hot water, banged it twice on the edge of the stainless steel sink.
“It’s fine,” Guy said, gathering himself from the black and white linoleum squares.
“And, really, he never uses it outside the dojo. At least he never has before.”
“It’s fine really. Good thing she put the lid on my float,” he said, “ha, ha!”11 He looked to the girl and waved, laughed. She gave him a thumbs up and showed her teeth briefly.
“Next!” she said, not looking away.
1 She had in fact just changed the filter the day before, which is probably why it was such a ready prop for her ruse.
2 Rather put together actually, but relaxed, not rumpled, like he was stopping in along his route home from work, tie loosened. “A little treat!” he might have said, for he was the type for exclamation, “A little treat for the hard-workin’ man.” He was also the type for apostrophation.
3 The mother thought he might be drunk. She checked her watch and thought it was probably happy hour somewhere and then thought about the tee shirts and glasses that had that wording and chuckled to herself about having chosen just the same phrasing in all seriousness. Then she tried to assess whether the man was drunk or daft.
4 “What can you do?”
5 She wondered if he was messing with the kid or if he expected her to pay for his root beer float.
6 She thought the “big sister” line was lame, but didn’t correct him, in fact unconsciously touched her ring with the tips of her right fingers.
7 “What can you say?”
8 Though, in fairness, being reasonable was sometimes an act of kindness.
9Which he guessed (correctly) had once housed pickles.
10 Behind her, behind the fog-cornered glass, rows of five gallon tubs, lids off and contents gleaming, an array of hues, creamy (dreamy) and sherbet.
11 He didn’t laugh here, he literally exclaimed, “Ha, ha!”
“I don’t think that’s unreasonable,” he continued, “and winter’s approaching, so it wouldn’t hurt to have a little more insulation.” He patted his stomach.
“Huh,” the girl said. She scooped. The man, not at all disheveled2, turned to the young mother and son, spooked them in his directness.3 “What do you think, lady?” he asked. “Is it gonna be a rough winter? What about you, little man?” The boy kicked him, a good swift one that involved a step into it.
“Charles!” mother asped, “that is not acceptable behavior and you know it.” Charles scowled, glanced at the man rubbing the offended limb, then down. The girl handed the man a bag of ice and he thanked her, grinned and shook his head.4
“Now, that’s alright. It’s alright ma’am,” he said.
“What do you say Charles?”
“I’m sorry.”
“What was that?”
“I’m sorry.”
“For what?”
“I’m sorry for kicking you.”
“That’s alright Charles,” the man said. “What’d’ya say you pay for my ice cream and we’ll call it square?” The boy looked up at his mother, who was looking at the man with an expression of hardly veiled yuck.5 “Just joshin’ with ya. Tell ya what. How about, just to show there’s no hard feelings, how about I pay for you and your big sister’s ice cream? Deal?”
“Yeah!” the boy said. He raised his arms and stomped his feet.
“That’s quite alright,” the mother said.6 “This trip is actually a reward for Charles, so I’d prefer to buy it, but thank you. And sorry about him kicking you. He usually doesn’t do things like that.”
“I probably just spooked the little guy, or something. You know.” He shrugged.7 “I’m sure he didn’t mean any harm.”
“Thank you, that’s very kind of you,” she said, though it was really just a phrase and if she had thought about it, she would have found it more just reasonable than kind.8
“$4.80” the girl said, her palm upturned across the counter. The man gave her a five and dropped the two dimes in her massive tip jar.9 He turned to the mother and son, transferred his float to this left hand and extended the right to her.
“It was nice to queue with you,” he said.
She shook absentmindedly.
“I’m Guy,” he said.
“Sue.”
He bent to the boy, hand extended. “Charles, it was nice to meet you too,” he said. Charles grasped Guy’s thumb and forearm, directed the man to the floor.
“Oh gosh,” Sue said. She flattened herself against the glass of the ice cream counter.10 “I am so sorry,” she said to the crumpled suit. “Aikido. The ice cream is because he leveled in aikido, though he certainly isn’t getting any rewards now. You hear me, Charles? Not with that behavior.” The boy wailed.
Behind the counter, the girl shook her head and rinsed the scoop under hot water, banged it twice on the edge of the stainless steel sink.
“It’s fine,” Guy said, gathering himself from the black and white linoleum squares.
“And, really, he never uses it outside the dojo. At least he never has before.”
“It’s fine really. Good thing she put the lid on my float,” he said, “ha, ha!”11 He looked to the girl and waved, laughed. She gave him a thumbs up and showed her teeth briefly.
“Next!” she said, not looking away.
1 She had in fact just changed the filter the day before, which is probably why it was such a ready prop for her ruse.
2 Rather put together actually, but relaxed, not rumpled, like he was stopping in along his route home from work, tie loosened. “A little treat!” he might have said, for he was the type for exclamation, “A little treat for the hard-workin’ man.” He was also the type for apostrophation.
3 The mother thought he might be drunk. She checked her watch and thought it was probably happy hour somewhere and then thought about the tee shirts and glasses that had that wording and chuckled to herself about having chosen just the same phrasing in all seriousness. Then she tried to assess whether the man was drunk or daft.
4 “What can you do?”
5 She wondered if he was messing with the kid or if he expected her to pay for his root beer float.
6 She thought the “big sister” line was lame, but didn’t correct him, in fact unconsciously touched her ring with the tips of her right fingers.
7 “What can you say?”
8 Though, in fairness, being reasonable was sometimes an act of kindness.
9Which he guessed (correctly) had once housed pickles.
10 Behind her, behind the fog-cornered glass, rows of five gallon tubs, lids off and contents gleaming, an array of hues, creamy (dreamy) and sherbet.
11 He didn’t laugh here, he literally exclaimed, “Ha, ha!”
Author's Commentary
"In the story “the Wait,” I used a few experimental techniques. Developing my adaptation of oral storytelling as written narrative, I used footnotes to mimic asides in a told story. I chose footnotes since they let the reader select the order in which they process the information (some might read each footnote as they go, others might read the footnotes afterward). I also used the footnotes to reference cliché phrases that voice what ubiquitous actions mean. As a meta-fictional flourish, I employed semi-homophonic words to induce the reader to connote many meanings. Additionally, I made one line of text a smaller font size to represent the low volume of voicing. Finally, in this work, as in most of my writing, I invented words that pass as real, thus widening the lexicon.
This story is dedicated to Chuck Kinder."
This story is dedicated to Chuck Kinder."
About Gypsy Mother
"I graduated from West Virginia University with a BA in English and a Creative Writing concentration. I am pursuing my MFA in Fiction at the University of Pittsburgh, where I lead the Graduate Reading Series and am a fiction reader for Hot Metal Bridge, Pitt's literary magazine."
Plush creature by Jessica King
This story was nominated by this magazine for Best of the Web
Multimedia adventure:
For your listening pleasure, it is suggested you listen to Don Campau's experimental musical piece, Through the Black Forest as you read this story. It's long, so it may become your soundtrack for perusing this magazine.
A Short Story about Things
by Kathryn Burkett
An old Oak Tree--stoic, though sometimes its leaves sway in the invisible breeze--stands outside the transparent window glass.
A pair of yellow tennis shoes on the other side of the glass standing on a creaky wooden floor made of former trees. A newspaper all pulpy and inked, sits on a white plastic chair, telling stories of things that happened yesterday. Does the white plastic chair worry about being stained by the thin, inky skin of the newspaper? Does it long for someone heavy to fill its emptiness? Or does it long for a table to hide its seat beneath, to submit to something bigger than itself? Only the chair itself might have the answers to these questions about its state of being. Or it might not.
A mirror hangs on a pale pink wall, its molecules constantly rearranging themselves as it reflects whatever hovers in front of it. A blonde pulls the dead ends of her hair into a ponytail as she looks at the mirror, but only sees herself--her face: eyes, nose, mouth, hair. Her skin constantly flakes off of her body, but she seems unconcerned about this. She smears red lipstick on her lips to add some color to her face. She thinks it makes her look more alive.
The tree outside longs to be somewhere else, or it doesn't. There's so much unknown, so much left unsaid. Or maybe the tree is speaking in a humanly inaudible frequency. Maybe you're shaking your head in disbelief, but what do you know? I mean, really, really know? Not much, I say fairly confidently, little pilgrim, not much at all.
Why did the chicken cross the road? What chicken? Where? Which road? Now it's getting a little ridiculous. Or maybe it's always been ridiculous--more than a little--and I'm just now noticing.
Many of the stars are already burnt out, but the light you see tonight still hits your eyes. You're late, you're always late. You don't really have any idea what's going on around you, do you? Don't despair, neither does anyone else. We're all in the same boat, floating in a waterless ocean lit by dying stars. And we're all sinking into something invisible.
A pair of yellow tennis shoes on the other side of the glass standing on a creaky wooden floor made of former trees. A newspaper all pulpy and inked, sits on a white plastic chair, telling stories of things that happened yesterday. Does the white plastic chair worry about being stained by the thin, inky skin of the newspaper? Does it long for someone heavy to fill its emptiness? Or does it long for a table to hide its seat beneath, to submit to something bigger than itself? Only the chair itself might have the answers to these questions about its state of being. Or it might not.
A mirror hangs on a pale pink wall, its molecules constantly rearranging themselves as it reflects whatever hovers in front of it. A blonde pulls the dead ends of her hair into a ponytail as she looks at the mirror, but only sees herself--her face: eyes, nose, mouth, hair. Her skin constantly flakes off of her body, but she seems unconcerned about this. She smears red lipstick on her lips to add some color to her face. She thinks it makes her look more alive.
The tree outside longs to be somewhere else, or it doesn't. There's so much unknown, so much left unsaid. Or maybe the tree is speaking in a humanly inaudible frequency. Maybe you're shaking your head in disbelief, but what do you know? I mean, really, really know? Not much, I say fairly confidently, little pilgrim, not much at all.
Why did the chicken cross the road? What chicken? Where? Which road? Now it's getting a little ridiculous. Or maybe it's always been ridiculous--more than a little--and I'm just now noticing.
Many of the stars are already burnt out, but the light you see tonight still hits your eyes. You're late, you're always late. You don't really have any idea what's going on around you, do you? Don't despair, neither does anyone else. We're all in the same boat, floating in a waterless ocean lit by dying stars. And we're all sinking into something invisible.
Author's Commentary
In this story, my aim was not to tell a linear, traditional story with plot and characters. Instead, I tried to explore objects (trees, shoes, chairs, etc.) and give them "human" qualities, or at least attempt to explore what sort of human qualities these things might possess: thoughts, feelings, etc.
When a human appears in the story, I switch gears and try to examine her through a more physical lens and on levels that are not traditionally addressed in most stories--that she is a maze of molecules, her skin flaking, the strands of hair hanging from her head are dead, etc. I strove to depersonify the person in the story--not giving her a name or any real goals or deep feelings that are expressed. In other words, objects become more "real" than the person in the story.
The end of the story switches gears again and attempts to pull the reader him/herself into the story. It both acknowledges the existence of the reader and makes the reader a character, but it also addresses the one-sided nature of writing--the writer reveals him/herself but has no idea who the person reading his/her work is. In short, A STORY ABOUT THINGS is a brief exercise that attempts to pull the reader out of his/her usual perspective and get them to approach everyday things and people in a new way.
About Kathy Burkett
"Kathy Burkett lives in Central Florida with her husband and two Dachshunds. Sometimes she howls with her dogs. She plays kazoo and Q-Chord and sings for adoring audiences of stuffed animals and weird dolls. She also makes collages and handmade books. She eats, breathes, sleeps, and does countless other mundane things, too!"
Plush creature by Jessica King
Luck of The Anger
GX Jupitter-Larsen
The violence smiled at him and he smiled right back at the severity of it all. Fiery explosions sent up huge curmudgeonly plumes of black smoke up over burning blasts of methylamine and ethylamine. The air felt prickly in his lungs
He had seen this happen all before. Electrically charged particles had been blown off wide and far. He was old and pale. He was toothless and so wore thorns in his blacken mouth. His mouth was full of such spiny protuberances. He kept rose bushes out back so as to have an inexhaustible supply. To hold them in place, he’d push each sharp spine deep into the cavity that once housed the roots of a healthy young tooth. His gums embraced each barb as if it were his very own. They were very much like fangs. He couldn’t stop chewing. He’d gnaw all day long; morning noon and night. He’d grind them even in his sleep.
From the alveolar arches of the jaw, his gums throbbed. The tar-like mucous membrane surged in and out of his mouth. In and out; thickening tissue murmured the scattered. In and out; scraping blows polished the streams.
His lungs bit down hard on every breath he took. His blood digested each breathe whole. Blurring slaps against clustered ripples, wavelengths, and the calculated in axiom gizmo.
He remembered what it was like as a younger man. Hissings dropping off across pause stumbles were blowing and knocking each frequency fleeing the ripple scuttle back and forth. Bursts of pure noise were cascading amongst the crumbling avalanches of carbon dioxide and rivers of dust. His eyes monitored about the room.
The wastes and toxins that filled his lungs were splendid incandescence slams. An involuntary spasm reached the edge of bulging bursts through scraped clenching mucous membranes.
He was lying on his bed when he noticed teeth marks on the ceiling. He hadn’t noticed them before. He stood up to try to get a better look at them. He couldn’t be sure if they were human or animal. He reached to stroke the shallow notches, remembering what it was like to be a younger man.
He could hear distant explosions crumble nearby buildings. He naturally assumed that the teeth marks had to be extraterrestrial. He had never seen such odd scratches as these before. He was chewing away; thinking. His neck was sore from leaning up so much. Through his fingertips the teeth marks tasted like butterscotch.
He actually preferred garlic to anything sweet.
He had seen this happen all before. Electrically charged particles had been blown off wide and far. He was old and pale. He was toothless and so wore thorns in his blacken mouth. His mouth was full of such spiny protuberances. He kept rose bushes out back so as to have an inexhaustible supply. To hold them in place, he’d push each sharp spine deep into the cavity that once housed the roots of a healthy young tooth. His gums embraced each barb as if it were his very own. They were very much like fangs. He couldn’t stop chewing. He’d gnaw all day long; morning noon and night. He’d grind them even in his sleep.
From the alveolar arches of the jaw, his gums throbbed. The tar-like mucous membrane surged in and out of his mouth. In and out; thickening tissue murmured the scattered. In and out; scraping blows polished the streams.
His lungs bit down hard on every breath he took. His blood digested each breathe whole. Blurring slaps against clustered ripples, wavelengths, and the calculated in axiom gizmo.
He remembered what it was like as a younger man. Hissings dropping off across pause stumbles were blowing and knocking each frequency fleeing the ripple scuttle back and forth. Bursts of pure noise were cascading amongst the crumbling avalanches of carbon dioxide and rivers of dust. His eyes monitored about the room.
The wastes and toxins that filled his lungs were splendid incandescence slams. An involuntary spasm reached the edge of bulging bursts through scraped clenching mucous membranes.
He was lying on his bed when he noticed teeth marks on the ceiling. He hadn’t noticed them before. He stood up to try to get a better look at them. He couldn’t be sure if they were human or animal. He reached to stroke the shallow notches, remembering what it was like to be a younger man.
He could hear distant explosions crumble nearby buildings. He naturally assumed that the teeth marks had to be extraterrestrial. He had never seen such odd scratches as these before. He was chewing away; thinking. His neck was sore from leaning up so much. Through his fingertips the teeth marks tasted like butterscotch.
He actually preferred garlic to anything sweet.
Author's Commentary
When I started writing, 30 years ago, I wanted a form of writing that had both the feel and sound of nothingness. Taking my cue from the noisy blank video static coming off an empty channel on a TV set, I represented vacuity in text as lines after lines of random letters; to be read one letter at a time:
ljndftddwbfxwdsdfhdwbdyrdtxyvlxhgytrdcxxtrpxctgfycytcf
hxdvctxsdvctxtyxyxttfcrtxxcthgcyxtctxtvcytttcxytcgtctt
bsdytxrfdcyndhxtwqdxdyxfwpdgbvtdgvsdxdbqlxdvqvddqxwdyt
hksbxhsvyrfxpwrqrtyttxyrtctygctxfcvxgvctygfvxtftvtcgkk
kmtdxshsxywftxywtvdtdbcvsyxdvfxtwsdvxdwsbdgsydxwpxhpdb
wkdfbhwbhwdvxwbdkwfbwxsvgwlhdgwxtfygdvjlghxgsvlgywklww
wjhdwtxypbctswygdswgxvclwsgxwykdvbtwdhxbxwdvlwdbjwdlwd
wdhwbvswldbwxgvdwdbjwhvwlbdjwhbdwtshgdxwgvdwshdjhwbdwl
wdsgvwhdvwxdvwjhdbwsvhdwjdbwjdfvwjhdbwdffdbpkjfhbxhwsd
I called these textual pieces “Static Poems” to reinforce the connection I wanted to make between video noise and the written word. In writing and performing this poetry, it seemed to me that silence could be a very loud thing.
Then, years later, I would end up smashing together whole “noise novels” by combining different writing techniques into a literary hiss, or full-spectrum text. Passages of random letters would represent nothingness, while whole sections of entirely self-invented words represented the spiritual. Regular words were reserved for the deeply physical. I wanted my books to have more opinions than words. So many in fact, that the text should seem devoid of intent while overwhelmed by impulsively heedful actions. In other words, a disposal of loosely precise jargons in a mass of meliorations predetermined by accident. Don’t underestimate the communicative potential of the soundbite. Quotation marks should be used like disembodied voices regurgitating from a scanner. One opinion after another added to form an equation that’s sum is zero.
One opinion regarding the polywave is that each individual direction is a cross section of a larger accumulative effect. The only way one could measure this polywave is by comparing unconnected entities. I try to let my shorter pieces be suggestions of emptiness between unconnected things and events. I want the reader to guess at the blanks themselves. Questions are often more important than answers.
Knowledge is the wreckage of mystery. Information is not as educational, as much as it is the textural debris of the act of communication. The use of information is not the act of stating what things are, but the act of questioning what things do.
ljndftddwbfxwdsdfhdwbdyrdtxyvlxhgytrdcxxtrpxctgfycytcf
hxdvctxsdvctxtyxyxttfcrtxxcthgcyxtctxtvcytttcxytcgtctt
bsdytxrfdcyndhxtwqdxdyxfwpdgbvtdgvsdxdbqlxdvqvddqxwdyt
hksbxhsvyrfxpwrqrtyttxyrtctygctxfcvxgvctygfvxtftvtcgkk
kmtdxshsxywftxywtvdtdbcvsyxdvfxtwsdvxdwsbdgsydxwpxhpdb
wkdfbhwbhwdvxwbdkwfbwxsvgwlhdgwxtfygdvjlghxgsvlgywklww
wjhdwtxypbctswygdswgxvclwsgxwykdvbtwdhxbxwdvlwdbjwdlwd
wdhwbvswldbwxgvdwdbjwhvwlbdjwhbdwtshgdxwgvdwshdjhwbdwl
wdsgvwhdvwxdvwjhdbwsvhdwjdbwjdfvwjhdbwdffdbpkjfhbxhwsd
I called these textual pieces “Static Poems” to reinforce the connection I wanted to make between video noise and the written word. In writing and performing this poetry, it seemed to me that silence could be a very loud thing.
Then, years later, I would end up smashing together whole “noise novels” by combining different writing techniques into a literary hiss, or full-spectrum text. Passages of random letters would represent nothingness, while whole sections of entirely self-invented words represented the spiritual. Regular words were reserved for the deeply physical. I wanted my books to have more opinions than words. So many in fact, that the text should seem devoid of intent while overwhelmed by impulsively heedful actions. In other words, a disposal of loosely precise jargons in a mass of meliorations predetermined by accident. Don’t underestimate the communicative potential of the soundbite. Quotation marks should be used like disembodied voices regurgitating from a scanner. One opinion after another added to form an equation that’s sum is zero.
One opinion regarding the polywave is that each individual direction is a cross section of a larger accumulative effect. The only way one could measure this polywave is by comparing unconnected entities. I try to let my shorter pieces be suggestions of emptiness between unconnected things and events. I want the reader to guess at the blanks themselves. Questions are often more important than answers.
Knowledge is the wreckage of mystery. Information is not as educational, as much as it is the textural debris of the act of communication. The use of information is not the act of stating what things are, but the act of questioning what things do.
About GX Jupitter-Larsen
GX Jupitter-Larsen is a writer & artist, based in Hollywood, California. He's been active in a number of underground art scenes since the late 1970s including punk rock, mail art, cassette culture, the noise music scene, and zine culture. During the 1990s he was the sound designer Mark Pauline's Survival Research Laboratories. There are three published novels written by Jupitter-Larsen. Raw Red and The Condor was published by Blood Print Press in 1992. Sometimes Never was published in 2009 by Crossing Chaos, and Adventure on The High Seas was published this year by Enigmatic Ink. A book of French translations of his essays and short fiction, entitled Saccages has been published by the Lausanne Underground Film & Music Festival and Rip on/off. Vincent Barras, who translated John Cage's Silence into French, wrote one of the book's introductions.
http://www.jupiter-larsen.com
http://ebooks.jupitter-larsen.com/
http://www.jupiter-larsen.com
http://ebooks.jupitter-larsen.com/
Victor Value and His Message to the World
by
Cosmic Breaking Wind
My twin brother and I started grabbing pillows, and making squealing sounds into them and flailing about with glee. One of us said "it's precious, and valued" in a high voice while holding the pillow in an over-the-face embrace and from this cradle of peace VICTOR VALUE emerged! Victor the prince of sleep, the Tibetan tulpa figure dancing on the edge of your awareness as you drift off to la-la land!
Victor, the master of VALUE (value = the benefits from, and the act of sleeping) had VALUE PROPS (pillows) as necessary (and quite vital) accouterments to help usher in a new age of prosperity for all of humanity. Along with VALUE PROPS, VALUE SQUEALS (a great yogic-like exhale in the highest-pitch and perhaps the loudest or softest voice you can muster, as many times as necessary until bliss fills the body and mind!), and other luminous manifestations, the Church of the Inner Spring and the Back to Bed Movement were born, and then promptly went back to sleep, squealing all the way to the higher planes.
Yes Dear Ones, each night before you rest your head, issue forth a SQUEAL and know that you, dear one, are cradled into the soft comfiness that's destined to touch all souls, usually at least once every 24 hours! From this great pool of VALUE may your soul be refreshed and may your Inner Spring always gush forth in a full-on embrace!
& <- victor side view, in full lotus (knees pulled up for Kundalini)
8=\&/ <- victor after having accidentally eaten a big pretzel
\8/
()
/ \ <- victor dancing
\8/
()
{ } <-cowboy victor
\8/
()
/ ` <- victor with one leg too short, doing yoga
\8/
()
/|\ <- victor practicing dong-fu, art of penis stretching yoga
Victor, the master of VALUE (value = the benefits from, and the act of sleeping) had VALUE PROPS (pillows) as necessary (and quite vital) accouterments to help usher in a new age of prosperity for all of humanity. Along with VALUE PROPS, VALUE SQUEALS (a great yogic-like exhale in the highest-pitch and perhaps the loudest or softest voice you can muster, as many times as necessary until bliss fills the body and mind!), and other luminous manifestations, the Church of the Inner Spring and the Back to Bed Movement were born, and then promptly went back to sleep, squealing all the way to the higher planes.
Yes Dear Ones, each night before you rest your head, issue forth a SQUEAL and know that you, dear one, are cradled into the soft comfiness that's destined to touch all souls, usually at least once every 24 hours! From this great pool of VALUE may your soul be refreshed and may your Inner Spring always gush forth in a full-on embrace!
& <- victor side view, in full lotus (knees pulled up for Kundalini)
8=\&/ <- victor after having accidentally eaten a big pretzel
\8/
()
/ \ <- victor dancing
\8/
()
{ } <-cowboy victor
\8/
()
/ ` <- victor with one leg too short, doing yoga
\8/
()
/|\ <- victor practicing dong-fu, art of penis stretching yoga
Author's Commentary
Victor Value's representations as keyboard characters is simultaneously a spoof on the typical emoticon meme and a personalization of a fluid idea emerging into the modern era. One does not see emoticons in typical fiction texts however, despite their highly prominent use and display within social networks and modern communication devices. No matter the physical representation or symbology, never forget that Victor is a morphing energy being that draws near to squeals of comfort.
About Cosmic Breaking Wind
Cosmic Breaking Wind (CW) is a musician and cultural creative living in the heartland of the USA. Along with the larger web of life, he is one who has helped uncover many treats so that they can be ingested into the bodymind matrix.
In the Belly of Darkness
By Alec Bryan
They met in a cemetery. He, transfixed by the fountain. She, awed by the solemnity of a place where life and dreams decompose. Each, caught in a metaphysical moment. Together, they walked out from the rock facades representing life in a few chiseled lines, out from under the austere pines and onto the sidewalk.
Cars careened by on predestined courses, invisible strings pulling them towards their terminus. The consistent sound of rolling rubber soothed the man’s ears. Yellow leaves fluttered on the aspen, and like embers in a fire, glowed more brilliant when the light caught them at perfect angles. The woman thought of a school of silver fish twisting in unison and the lambency of light streaking across their side.
Children were playing a game of hopscotch; cacophonous noises hovered distantly. The man breathed deep, filling his lungs with the autumnal air and then exhaled. “Can you smell autumn?” The woman outstretched her hands then curled them into tiny fists. “Can you feel the brisk air brush up against you?” she exclaimed.
The bell on the door clanked as they walked inside a small convenient store. The air smelled musty, cardboard-boxish. They perused the aisles, sampling the assorted candies by picking them up and sniffing them. They read the names: Milky Way, Mars Bar, Starburst, then put them back on the shelf. They sauntered on to the next aisle, sampling the gum the same way. He, liked the way the smell permeated his nostrils. She, liked the way the peppermint, spearmint, and cinnamon burned as she breathed in.
They scurried on to the soda and slushie machines. Slush ebbed up and down like cataclysmic water in a washing machine. She put her finger under the machine and turned the knob. Red slush oozed out the way a firework snake expels itself upon being lit. “It feels so cold,” she uttered. She put the finger to her mouth, and the red slush fell and slithered down her throat. “I can feel it freeze clear into my belly,” she said. The man filled a cup to the brim, pounding it gently upon the countertop to let the contents settle, then filled it some more. He gulped down an exorbitant amount, staining his lips cherry red. “Can you taste the cool cherry?” he asked. The two took turns gulping the slushie, staining lips cherry red.
They walked up a hill, headed in the direction of the cemetery. The reflection off the Great Salt Lake cast distinct colors, causing the imposing mountains in front of them to gloam peach over rocks and agate blue over forage. Two lesser goldfinches perched high on a bare deciduous branch shown bright yellow. The passerines scuttled from branch to branch, and the male’s whistling, “Tee-yee,” coupled with the scratchier, “Deedoo, deedoo,” echoed fervently. The female coquettishly replied with her own version of the song. The two passersby stopped and listened. While the birds continued their golden hymn, the man, eyes closed, asked, “Can you hear the soft and lovely sound in each heavenly note?”
“Can you feel the harmonious tone of love?” the woman responded with eyes closed as well.
The climb tired the two. They reached the edge of the cemetery in waning sunlight and looked in the distance as the fountain’s spray spewed forth gossamer particles of iridescence. The deep pool lights wormed fluorescent through the water. The stirred water cast kaleidoscopic patterns ever outwards, ever breaking, ever returning to the center. The two stared into the coruscating pool. Each, lost in revelry as they peered at protean images. “Can you see simple beauty in moving water?” he asked.
“Can you feel the powerful tug?” she responded.
Under the austere pines and back among the marble and stone facades, the cemetery had an eerie feeling as shadows crawled over the tombstones and monuments. The man and woman stopped at two freshly dug graves. The new headstones, no birth dates, nameless, only the day of death and a fake name chiseled upon them, appeared to be two bookends minus the books between them. One plot of land looked westward, the other east. He walked west to John’s grave and laid down silently. She, walked to Jane’s and laid down. They started to sink down into the dirt.
At six feet, the two slipped back into their coffins and into their discarded bodies. Inside the coffin, only darkness existed. The man wiggled anxiously. He, asleep for the first time, was not accustomed to eviternal darkness nor to the attributes and properties it possessed. She, asleep for the first time, not accustomed to such darkness either, was not surprised. In attempts to calm himself down, the man began to speak: “Can you smell it? I can smell the putridity of it as it hovers above my nostrils.” The woman didn’t answer. The man yelled louder. “Can you taste it? It clings to the tip of my tongue and resides in my gut.” The woman did not answer. The man writhed in agony. “Can you hear it? Tell me you can hear it? It whispers something sickening and horrible in my ears.” The woman remained silent. The man groaned in pain, and nearly vanquished, screamed in complete anguish: “Can you see it? It moves about the coffin, growls above my face, opens its gaping maw to devour.” The woman remained silent. The man fathomed a new degree of agony. The man, thought to be abandoned, remained silent. Only then did the woman speak. She, with the calmness of the knowing but empathetic, moaned in susurrations: “Can you feel it? Can you feel it?” He, with the same calmness after hearing her voice, whispered, “I can feel it.” Each, tucked in by darkness, felt earth’s cold-clodded caul wrap around their faces. Together, they spent the night in agony, waiting for the breaching of the nascent sun.
Cars careened by on predestined courses, invisible strings pulling them towards their terminus. The consistent sound of rolling rubber soothed the man’s ears. Yellow leaves fluttered on the aspen, and like embers in a fire, glowed more brilliant when the light caught them at perfect angles. The woman thought of a school of silver fish twisting in unison and the lambency of light streaking across their side.
Children were playing a game of hopscotch; cacophonous noises hovered distantly. The man breathed deep, filling his lungs with the autumnal air and then exhaled. “Can you smell autumn?” The woman outstretched her hands then curled them into tiny fists. “Can you feel the brisk air brush up against you?” she exclaimed.
The bell on the door clanked as they walked inside a small convenient store. The air smelled musty, cardboard-boxish. They perused the aisles, sampling the assorted candies by picking them up and sniffing them. They read the names: Milky Way, Mars Bar, Starburst, then put them back on the shelf. They sauntered on to the next aisle, sampling the gum the same way. He, liked the way the smell permeated his nostrils. She, liked the way the peppermint, spearmint, and cinnamon burned as she breathed in.
They scurried on to the soda and slushie machines. Slush ebbed up and down like cataclysmic water in a washing machine. She put her finger under the machine and turned the knob. Red slush oozed out the way a firework snake expels itself upon being lit. “It feels so cold,” she uttered. She put the finger to her mouth, and the red slush fell and slithered down her throat. “I can feel it freeze clear into my belly,” she said. The man filled a cup to the brim, pounding it gently upon the countertop to let the contents settle, then filled it some more. He gulped down an exorbitant amount, staining his lips cherry red. “Can you taste the cool cherry?” he asked. The two took turns gulping the slushie, staining lips cherry red.
They walked up a hill, headed in the direction of the cemetery. The reflection off the Great Salt Lake cast distinct colors, causing the imposing mountains in front of them to gloam peach over rocks and agate blue over forage. Two lesser goldfinches perched high on a bare deciduous branch shown bright yellow. The passerines scuttled from branch to branch, and the male’s whistling, “Tee-yee,” coupled with the scratchier, “Deedoo, deedoo,” echoed fervently. The female coquettishly replied with her own version of the song. The two passersby stopped and listened. While the birds continued their golden hymn, the man, eyes closed, asked, “Can you hear the soft and lovely sound in each heavenly note?”
“Can you feel the harmonious tone of love?” the woman responded with eyes closed as well.
The climb tired the two. They reached the edge of the cemetery in waning sunlight and looked in the distance as the fountain’s spray spewed forth gossamer particles of iridescence. The deep pool lights wormed fluorescent through the water. The stirred water cast kaleidoscopic patterns ever outwards, ever breaking, ever returning to the center. The two stared into the coruscating pool. Each, lost in revelry as they peered at protean images. “Can you see simple beauty in moving water?” he asked.
“Can you feel the powerful tug?” she responded.
Under the austere pines and back among the marble and stone facades, the cemetery had an eerie feeling as shadows crawled over the tombstones and monuments. The man and woman stopped at two freshly dug graves. The new headstones, no birth dates, nameless, only the day of death and a fake name chiseled upon them, appeared to be two bookends minus the books between them. One plot of land looked westward, the other east. He walked west to John’s grave and laid down silently. She, walked to Jane’s and laid down. They started to sink down into the dirt.
At six feet, the two slipped back into their coffins and into their discarded bodies. Inside the coffin, only darkness existed. The man wiggled anxiously. He, asleep for the first time, was not accustomed to eviternal darkness nor to the attributes and properties it possessed. She, asleep for the first time, not accustomed to such darkness either, was not surprised. In attempts to calm himself down, the man began to speak: “Can you smell it? I can smell the putridity of it as it hovers above my nostrils.” The woman didn’t answer. The man yelled louder. “Can you taste it? It clings to the tip of my tongue and resides in my gut.” The woman did not answer. The man writhed in agony. “Can you hear it? Tell me you can hear it? It whispers something sickening and horrible in my ears.” The woman remained silent. The man groaned in pain, and nearly vanquished, screamed in complete anguish: “Can you see it? It moves about the coffin, growls above my face, opens its gaping maw to devour.” The woman remained silent. The man fathomed a new degree of agony. The man, thought to be abandoned, remained silent. Only then did the woman speak. She, with the calmness of the knowing but empathetic, moaned in susurrations: “Can you feel it? Can you feel it?” He, with the same calmness after hearing her voice, whispered, “I can feel it.” Each, tucked in by darkness, felt earth’s cold-clodded caul wrap around their faces. Together, they spent the night in agony, waiting for the breaching of the nascent sun.
Author's Commentary
In the first paragraph, I use stone and pine as images to represent the eternal nature of the cemetery, while outside of the cemetery, deciduous trees, birds in flight south, the sun setting etc to show the ephemeral world.
I worked on a certain rhythm to the prose to give it a kind of pause as it is read. Order in the first paragraph is also important because it will be switched at the end, suggesting that in the night and a world felt by more than the senses, the woman reigns supreme.
At the end of paragraph two is an important element of the experimental process. The man uses his regular senses to decipher everything. The woman is prone to feelings, deeper than sensory. This can be seen with each of the sensory organs. The third paragraph studies smell. The fourth paragraph we see the man concerned with taste while the woman likes the cool feelings. When they come across the birds, the man is impressed with the sounds, while the woman is impressed by the emotion the sounds evoke. When they make it back to the cemetery and look into the pool, sight is what captivates the man, while the woman, more like Narcissus, sees beyond the image.
I use nobodies—no character names to express that this could happen to everyone, and here the mystery that they are dead is revealed as they slip back into the earth. The woman is now in charge. That is why she went east, preparing for night and the sunrise. The man is still too trapped in his five sense world.
The man will now experience what the woman has already known and been ready for.
At the end, I repeat the rhythm of the start, only the order switches. The woman comes first in this new world beyond the regular senses.
I worked on a certain rhythm to the prose to give it a kind of pause as it is read. Order in the first paragraph is also important because it will be switched at the end, suggesting that in the night and a world felt by more than the senses, the woman reigns supreme.
At the end of paragraph two is an important element of the experimental process. The man uses his regular senses to decipher everything. The woman is prone to feelings, deeper than sensory. This can be seen with each of the sensory organs. The third paragraph studies smell. The fourth paragraph we see the man concerned with taste while the woman likes the cool feelings. When they come across the birds, the man is impressed with the sounds, while the woman is impressed by the emotion the sounds evoke. When they make it back to the cemetery and look into the pool, sight is what captivates the man, while the woman, more like Narcissus, sees beyond the image.
I use nobodies—no character names to express that this could happen to everyone, and here the mystery that they are dead is revealed as they slip back into the earth. The woman is now in charge. That is why she went east, preparing for night and the sunrise. The man is still too trapped in his five sense world.
The man will now experience what the woman has already known and been ready for.
At the end, I repeat the rhythm of the start, only the order switches. The woman comes first in this new world beyond the regular senses.
Stalemate
also by Alec Bryan
What was it anyways? A game—a husker-doodle-doo, I can turn a cube into six distinct colors. The man acted like the Rubik’s Cube contained the occult answer to the hereafter. And the sternness—placing me in an empty room, the cube set on the desk looking dolled-up with mysticism, or romanticism, some crowned jewels on display in the tower of London prison, and the man pulling the chair out and having me sit down to take a final exam that pass or fail would not suffice, I needed to ace the baby, or it would be kibosh, slish-slosh, my throat tied in a knot for me. I didn’t know I signed up for this. The ad, shrouded in vaguely, easy-money, testy-takey jargon, made it sound like you came in, played a game, and received a check in the mail. Ernie would be very disappointed with how this man used his cube.
The starch in my body parts man said, “Five minutes. Use your time wisely. When I close the door you may begin.” He left. I picked up the cube and ran it this way and that way and two whites together, birds of a feather, and yellow and greens working out my scheme like my hands were djins, the creator’s coloring pen, putting the chaos together piece by piece, turn by turn. What was it that made me stop? No click-clock, tick-tick, ants in your socks, anxiety banger hanger from a wall, caused the stall. How much time had passed? Couldn’t imagine what sort of fractions I had to deal with. Cruel, cruel, starchy-parchy man. I fidgeted with the cube, worked some more colors into rows then stopped again.
I had enough time to finish. I could do the puzzle in my winky-winky, way back when I sucked a binky, so I paused and examined the room. Yep, it had four white walls. I got up from the chair and examined them up close and personal, the way a white wall demands observance. Yep, the Rubik’s Cube now possessed the added quality of being a box within a box, and this blew my mind for some reason, probably to do with the season, for it did rain, rain, bats and frogs outside. I sat back down and knocked on the desk to verify if it was made of oakey-dokey or queer-veneer. Wasn’t really sure, so I looked under. Whose initials—JGR, John Galligher Rockefeller? No, no, it had to be some pretty-witty girl. I could picture Jenny Gene Ream, with yellow curls in her hair, writing it. She did it during arithmetic-bore-a-tick into sucking steel instead of red-red blood. She waited for the teacher to turn her back then kaboom-shaloom, she wrote it with ink, to never again be erased. I liked her, my Jenny, a clever girl she, but my attention required me to return to the boob-cube and make it a rainbow. Who did this man think he was anyways? Wanting grown-ups to work out his rainbow for him, silly rabbit.
The gum under the desk started to really distract me. It looked orange, like a piece of Hubba-Bubba, and you just didn’t see that anymore. A rarity required my charity. I flipped the desk over and bent to smell it. It still smelled orange, but one must taste to be sure as a Big-Mac-heartache, pass the onions and the pickles please. Yep, it was orange alright. I flipped the desk back over red rover and sent the Rubik’s Cube on over. Two minutes till midnight, I started busting through the cube, getting my whitey’s-tightey and my orange, well nothing rhymes with orange. I snoozed through the blues and had made it to my yellows when in walks the fellow and bellows, “Time’s up. Put the cube down.”
“Ah but mister, give me two more seconds and I’ll have it all done and won for you.” The man approached and took my cube from me. “I’m certainly sorry, but the time is up.”
“Yeah, but I didn’t know the time was up and one more turn and the cube is cubed, all Skittles-riddled.”
“I’m sorry, but your time is up. The game is over. Now leave and make room for the next contestant.”
I got up reluctant as an elephant, and asked the man, “What’s the prize if I had won?”
“I guess you’ll never know,” said the man all heighty and mighty. I turned my back on him and his game and closed the door, but not before, I yelled back to the boar, “Poor sport.”
Author's Commentary
This piece is much more experimental than the last. I wanted to actually fidget with words and phrases: How, for instance, did raining cats and dogs become popular and why wouldn’t any other strange phrase work as well. I also wanted my character to rhyme in an attempt to find meaning through making words rhyme. Somehow this and counting to ten are ways to existentially verify our existence. The title itself is important because if we choose to play the game of life, it’s by someone else’s rules; if we choose not to play, we never will know what the game is about.
I use the Rubik’s Cube as the game …Allegorically it can be life and the man can be the life-giver.
Time makes the game elusive. We never seem to know if we have too much or too little and it can create ridiculous outcomes.
Third Paragraph: This is the test taker stepping away from the real game to examine just how absurd his situation is. He finds himself in a cube within a cube.. a game within a game and who decides which wall (the Rubik’s or the white wall) makes more sense.
The player is overloaded with nonsensical phrases he has learned from catchy commercials and other places. This seems to be where America uses its genius more than any other area—commercials, trying to exploit the need to buy. My character is less than immune to the barrage of catchy phrases to help people remember what they should buy.
When the man makes the player put the cube down because the player’s time is up, we understand that the games rules are irrevocable—so as death at the end of our little game of life.
A sort of death-bed repentance occurs when the player realizes he is no longer part of the game, but not quite. The player is just expressing that he always had the means to figure out the cube but was distracted.
In the end, the only solace for the player is to still finds meaning through rhyme, but he feels like the man misrepresented the rules of the game, and therefore, would rather move on to other things, always wondering what the prize might have been.
I use the Rubik’s Cube as the game …Allegorically it can be life and the man can be the life-giver.
Time makes the game elusive. We never seem to know if we have too much or too little and it can create ridiculous outcomes.
Third Paragraph: This is the test taker stepping away from the real game to examine just how absurd his situation is. He finds himself in a cube within a cube.. a game within a game and who decides which wall (the Rubik’s or the white wall) makes more sense.
The player is overloaded with nonsensical phrases he has learned from catchy commercials and other places. This seems to be where America uses its genius more than any other area—commercials, trying to exploit the need to buy. My character is less than immune to the barrage of catchy phrases to help people remember what they should buy.
When the man makes the player put the cube down because the player’s time is up, we understand that the games rules are irrevocable—so as death at the end of our little game of life.
A sort of death-bed repentance occurs when the player realizes he is no longer part of the game, but not quite. The player is just expressing that he always had the means to figure out the cube but was distracted.
In the end, the only solace for the player is to still finds meaning through rhyme, but he feels like the man misrepresented the rules of the game, and therefore, would rather move on to other things, always wondering what the prize might have been.
About Alec Byran
Aqueous Books, a print publishing arm of Prick of the Spindle literary journal, is about to publish his book, Night on the Invisible Sun. This allegorical novel is the author's debut publication. Besides being a fiction writer, he is a freelance writer and editor. His work has appeared in a number of literary magazines, such as Prick of the Spindle and Corium.
Check out his webpage.
TO CONJURERS
by Tamar Hrahat Stepanyan
Who knows for how many million years in a row those colorful lights have been
turned on again and again inside the tent. From under the starlit, ever-changing
and fathomless dome, above the arena, which is the burden of Atlas’ shoulders.
There goes up the curtain again and the dream is stirred into life again. Just a
dream that is Your reality. A bygone dream of some people that is bound to
become your reality. That is what happens. Perhaps no one knows for how many
centuries it lasts. There begins the performance, your life, within this tent.
The lives of each of you determine the perpetuity of the dreams of Lords. A
ritual without end in hidden corners, in squares, in solitude and in front of
the mirror. An endless repetition oblivious of itself - Conjuration, without
harming in the best case.
Imitating the Masters of Dreams is a ritual. Your
hands play around with so many divers objects to perpetuate dreams. And
especially the most powerful instrument of all - the word that cannot be seen.
The word was bound to come into being as the Tree of Life and the fruit it bore
came before dreams. The word has a tinge of deception. The word is a deception
itself, to be exact. Red is not a color that you see, bitterness is not a flavor
you taste, love is not a feeling… The word came after red, bitterness, and love.
And even if the word did not exist, all the same there would be red, bitterness,
and love. The word was a leaf of a fig-tree, the fig-tree leaf is what you wear.
And the first one to have said he was not naked came to be the master of the
first dream.
The dream came into being only after deception. And only the
Watchmaker knows why they lied by saying “First there was the word.” So that
dreams can be conveyed and preserved, perhaps. So that they can be preserved for
the sake of the existence of the Great Wheel and its uninterrupted movement. The
ones choosing the way for the Great Wheel to pass are Masters of Dreams. And if
one of you happens to succeed in adding a particle to what there already was
while you are indulged in the innocent ritual of conjuration, then you can be
sure that you will be rewarded (?). The significance of the particle added will
prolong the life of the adder. Even though pushing the Great Wheel is in itself
a great service. Conjuration is a huge ritual of worshipping the forbidden
fruit.
Do not look at me the way they looked at the child that cried out: “The King is
naked!” To lay my eyes on You, Conjurers, I have squeezed myself in through
doors so narrow as to make me bleed. And if permitted, not only to look at You,
but to see you. I am not apt for acting at all. Do not hit me for the doors were
so very narrow. Not only do I love the fig-leaf, the beauty of the ceremony and
You, but also all the powerful light that make all the lights put on inside the
tent look pale. Your clothes vanish and melt away like candlewax, your make-up
is washed away. I love Your nakedness.
People are burned to ashes over the fire for having seen and loved Your naked
ness - at times they have to endure a storm of stones hurled at them. I plead
with you to put down the stones. Blow the torches out, if you thought that way.
I can feel pain just like all of You. The pain of fatigue and boredom.
I do not write to cause you grief. Just like You, I am one of those pushing the
Big Wheel. Simply, if there flashes a powerful light inside the tent and Your
eyes get blind, do not sag and get depressed. Drink wine. Get drunk and swear.
It is but an intermission, nothing else. The Music is just about to explode, the
colored lights are about to set them ablaze and everything will start all over
again as before.
Rip this letter to shreds. Words are not fit to convey Absolute Truths. I have
no desire to fabricate a new deceit out of the old ones, at least right now.
Why? Because I can feel that beyond the Tree of Life and the fruits it bore
something else is hidden. Some kind of passion I cannot resist.
Still better, burn this letter. Good-Bye. See you tomorrow and after tomorrow.
turned on again and again inside the tent. From under the starlit, ever-changing
and fathomless dome, above the arena, which is the burden of Atlas’ shoulders.
There goes up the curtain again and the dream is stirred into life again. Just a
dream that is Your reality. A bygone dream of some people that is bound to
become your reality. That is what happens. Perhaps no one knows for how many
centuries it lasts. There begins the performance, your life, within this tent.
The lives of each of you determine the perpetuity of the dreams of Lords. A
ritual without end in hidden corners, in squares, in solitude and in front of
the mirror. An endless repetition oblivious of itself - Conjuration, without
harming in the best case.
Imitating the Masters of Dreams is a ritual. Your
hands play around with so many divers objects to perpetuate dreams. And
especially the most powerful instrument of all - the word that cannot be seen.
The word was bound to come into being as the Tree of Life and the fruit it bore
came before dreams. The word has a tinge of deception. The word is a deception
itself, to be exact. Red is not a color that you see, bitterness is not a flavor
you taste, love is not a feeling… The word came after red, bitterness, and love.
And even if the word did not exist, all the same there would be red, bitterness,
and love. The word was a leaf of a fig-tree, the fig-tree leaf is what you wear.
And the first one to have said he was not naked came to be the master of the
first dream.
The dream came into being only after deception. And only the
Watchmaker knows why they lied by saying “First there was the word.” So that
dreams can be conveyed and preserved, perhaps. So that they can be preserved for
the sake of the existence of the Great Wheel and its uninterrupted movement. The
ones choosing the way for the Great Wheel to pass are Masters of Dreams. And if
one of you happens to succeed in adding a particle to what there already was
while you are indulged in the innocent ritual of conjuration, then you can be
sure that you will be rewarded (?). The significance of the particle added will
prolong the life of the adder. Even though pushing the Great Wheel is in itself
a great service. Conjuration is a huge ritual of worshipping the forbidden
fruit.
Do not look at me the way they looked at the child that cried out: “The King is
naked!” To lay my eyes on You, Conjurers, I have squeezed myself in through
doors so narrow as to make me bleed. And if permitted, not only to look at You,
but to see you. I am not apt for acting at all. Do not hit me for the doors were
so very narrow. Not only do I love the fig-leaf, the beauty of the ceremony and
You, but also all the powerful light that make all the lights put on inside the
tent look pale. Your clothes vanish and melt away like candlewax, your make-up
is washed away. I love Your nakedness.
People are burned to ashes over the fire for having seen and loved Your naked
ness - at times they have to endure a storm of stones hurled at them. I plead
with you to put down the stones. Blow the torches out, if you thought that way.
I can feel pain just like all of You. The pain of fatigue and boredom.
I do not write to cause you grief. Just like You, I am one of those pushing the
Big Wheel. Simply, if there flashes a powerful light inside the tent and Your
eyes get blind, do not sag and get depressed. Drink wine. Get drunk and swear.
It is but an intermission, nothing else. The Music is just about to explode, the
colored lights are about to set them ablaze and everything will start all over
again as before.
Rip this letter to shreds. Words are not fit to convey Absolute Truths. I have
no desire to fabricate a new deceit out of the old ones, at least right now.
Why? Because I can feel that beyond the Tree of Life and the fruits it bore
something else is hidden. Some kind of passion I cannot resist.
Still better, burn this letter. Good-Bye. See you tomorrow and after tomorrow.
Author's Commentary
I think that the experiment is something new, and without a New
World life is so ugly, boring, monotonous … Let’s build a New World … When I
write I do not think about the literary genre, I simply put my visions and
feelings into words….
World life is so ugly, boring, monotonous … Let’s build a New World … When I
write I do not think about the literary genre, I simply put my visions and
feelings into words….
About Tamar
In 1957, in spring, exactly on the day when people celebrate Easter, I, the first child, was born to a forty-seven-year-old architect and thirty-four-year-old teacher. I was given the name Tamar to honor my grandmother. For my father, who had survived exile and prisons of the Stalin rule, my birth was a happy stroke of luck, but at the same time a daring step to take: the threat of being deported again brooded over him all his life…
Having aged parents… this is a topic of another discussion. As for what the children of aged parents are like in most cases, I believe, is also known in general.
On the whole, I was not much different from people of my age. My favourite games were those played by boys as a rule... If I was not playing football or shooting arrows from a self-made bow, or fencing, then I was sure to be found in front of our old and huge bookcase, right on the floor, reading. The only book that I was forbidden to touch was the one entitled “Amusing Chemistry,” a thin booklet. The prohibition, of course, had sound considerations to fall back on. My “experimental tests” never failed to cause harm. All the experiments I staged to understand the peculiarities of making gunpowder, combustion of substances or to observe the effect of poisonous chemicals always failed miserably and I had to relinquish my intention to become a chemist.
There was no point even in dreaming to become a chess-player: my father was always the triumphant winner. My achievements in the sphere of sewing, handwork and embroidery were quite modest, my mother’s assessment dubbed them as ‘theoretical.’ And the purpose of engaging myself in such kind of work was that of preventing me from disassembling the sewing-machine to the last tiny screw to understand the mechanism of its work... Singing dolls as well as those that could open and shut their eyes, our television-set, and the wireless promised a rich confectionery for my curiosity…
At the age of five, I watched a ballet performance for the first time in my life and made up my mind to become a ballet-dancer: alas, God had not lavished superb makings on me. I learned to dance in front of the mirror after really arduous exertions of many years. I finished the seven-year musical school in ten years, having never taken the impertinence of singing aloud: coordination between hearing and voice was non-existent… I was left with no option but becoming an actress, but... or at least a producer, quite in vain…
I never retreated but marched on... After graduating from school, I applied to become a philologist. But it turned out that my ideas on literature were in clash with the standards and even the boldest conjectures made by professors as to what a student should normally think.
I made a decision to become what seemed to be the hardest thing, a cybernetic, moreover a desire to check the truth of the famous argument that “cybernetics is a mathematical poetry” gave me no rest. As a result, I discovered an entirely new and beautiful world for myself...
My acquaintance with literature went on, and I am sure will forever do as long as I have my path of life to walk. I am sure that I am bound to discover yet other new, beautiful worlds. But I am also sure that my favourite fairy-tales, the same as in my early childhood, will be the wonderful stories of Cinderella and the Ugly Duckling (deep in my heart, I will never put up with the tragic fate of the Little Mermaid).
My “A Prayer” was a cry against the irreversible fate and powerlessness of the Mermaid, my protest against something inevitable, what they call death. “A Prayer” came to be born a few months after my mother’s death. With the death of my mother I went through my father's death anew. My pain, my feeling of powerlessness to change anything were as articulate as the lines I have submitted onto paper…
My heart cannot handle the irreversible fate that the Mermaid was doomed to. The events that have unfolded in the country of Massagetai . Is the situation of Massagetai irreversible? Is it really possible to deny that “Your hearts shall be found where your hearts are”? I think this is all…
… When anyone ask me to tell a fairy-tale, I always tell the same fairy-tale about the Victory of Kindness.
Translated from Armenian into English by Noune Aidinian.
Noune Aidinian, MA, was born in Yerevan in 1963. She is a graduate of Brusov State Institute of Foreign Languages in Yerevan, Armenia . She graduated American University of Armenia for a Master’s degree in Political Science and Foregian Affairs.
Having aged parents… this is a topic of another discussion. As for what the children of aged parents are like in most cases, I believe, is also known in general.
On the whole, I was not much different from people of my age. My favourite games were those played by boys as a rule... If I was not playing football or shooting arrows from a self-made bow, or fencing, then I was sure to be found in front of our old and huge bookcase, right on the floor, reading. The only book that I was forbidden to touch was the one entitled “Amusing Chemistry,” a thin booklet. The prohibition, of course, had sound considerations to fall back on. My “experimental tests” never failed to cause harm. All the experiments I staged to understand the peculiarities of making gunpowder, combustion of substances or to observe the effect of poisonous chemicals always failed miserably and I had to relinquish my intention to become a chemist.
There was no point even in dreaming to become a chess-player: my father was always the triumphant winner. My achievements in the sphere of sewing, handwork and embroidery were quite modest, my mother’s assessment dubbed them as ‘theoretical.’ And the purpose of engaging myself in such kind of work was that of preventing me from disassembling the sewing-machine to the last tiny screw to understand the mechanism of its work... Singing dolls as well as those that could open and shut their eyes, our television-set, and the wireless promised a rich confectionery for my curiosity…
At the age of five, I watched a ballet performance for the first time in my life and made up my mind to become a ballet-dancer: alas, God had not lavished superb makings on me. I learned to dance in front of the mirror after really arduous exertions of many years. I finished the seven-year musical school in ten years, having never taken the impertinence of singing aloud: coordination between hearing and voice was non-existent… I was left with no option but becoming an actress, but... or at least a producer, quite in vain…
I never retreated but marched on... After graduating from school, I applied to become a philologist. But it turned out that my ideas on literature were in clash with the standards and even the boldest conjectures made by professors as to what a student should normally think.
I made a decision to become what seemed to be the hardest thing, a cybernetic, moreover a desire to check the truth of the famous argument that “cybernetics is a mathematical poetry” gave me no rest. As a result, I discovered an entirely new and beautiful world for myself...
My acquaintance with literature went on, and I am sure will forever do as long as I have my path of life to walk. I am sure that I am bound to discover yet other new, beautiful worlds. But I am also sure that my favourite fairy-tales, the same as in my early childhood, will be the wonderful stories of Cinderella and the Ugly Duckling (deep in my heart, I will never put up with the tragic fate of the Little Mermaid).
My “A Prayer” was a cry against the irreversible fate and powerlessness of the Mermaid, my protest against something inevitable, what they call death. “A Prayer” came to be born a few months after my mother’s death. With the death of my mother I went through my father's death anew. My pain, my feeling of powerlessness to change anything were as articulate as the lines I have submitted onto paper…
My heart cannot handle the irreversible fate that the Mermaid was doomed to. The events that have unfolded in the country of Massagetai . Is the situation of Massagetai irreversible? Is it really possible to deny that “Your hearts shall be found where your hearts are”? I think this is all…
… When anyone ask me to tell a fairy-tale, I always tell the same fairy-tale about the Victory of Kindness.
Translated from Armenian into English by Noune Aidinian.
Noune Aidinian, MA, was born in Yerevan in 1963. She is a graduate of Brusov State Institute of Foreign Languages in Yerevan, Armenia . She graduated American University of Armenia for a Master’s degree in Political Science and Foregian Affairs.
Story Translation
"To Conjurers" was translated from Armenian into English by Anna Mkhitaryan. Anna
Mkhitaryan was born in Yerevan in 1978. She is a graduate of Brusov State
Institute of Foreign Languages in Yerevan, Armenia. She graduated at the Central
European University for a Master’s degree in Political Science and Foregian
Affairs.
Mkhitaryan was born in Yerevan in 1978. She is a graduate of Brusov State
Institute of Foreign Languages in Yerevan, Armenia. She graduated at the Central
European University for a Master’s degree in Political Science and Foregian
Affairs.
Junk of Jingralha
by Awa Loizeaux Zag
& skirgonk? Afritled chuttre, soscranius worlthwid. O tee-hee//. cass, foot, hear? / I end up smitting serecious Pongîes, freakish re-arraigning + All that. Alright pisfor KKS. simular THINGS (of this, like that) engulfed Me. carolbrides, Same sol — puaferal PFaspronese. choifvíng sqilt Reoipéne = vexated (we don’t win any other way). rupturable fathoms. stunked Ass, supra-sporeé: MARSHANU / One day, to ark a sparrer. Some of it is guainnE/ Trailerish fonks. Elze? Electronheaker stor. fake Distancingss. ALDARK arcotically. Brit marmase. Nuance navahue — sunwash + Stulk. Reen-rupriere + Quadaborrs, flet stennets. Chingala plainform. real reshreliar Make-nots/. Bilazen-monger (side-steper) take routine breaths | Harmy? bard juggestor / Koma F ko-ma F PHOS-phelco mimy-birde. Koma P koma P Re|zrae plairscaper. The hittier 7. Touché tongue-cove (as eyes roll...) I conjure Difindiom say, “kerplunk” (in & after Tides, etc.) Forcefielding (fork = Feeling) / Epciuldric sthyrrason, if that’s what u want to serrate. Microhistorics. a ¼ view of sthalmasaypE / Le Bainabaris (tokey?). The nide Excelcions. Dirty-vine polyprar - THE nev-noy Runble? FREC forrestirs. As you [wouldn’t] avoid (adult-about) Chaunce craviate, the necret Blum. EischloDîshe / malicious booking Por MIA : wheels & quiltbitter. Esbacious-elongíng. Thank Frank. & the Forgettables | (not) narlâte I C (ikoy) = Pisfenaelsoan. Arcticshrine & a selenius Micery. denisions. Rin tomasaksi, fosh-ake, Rillyumss wo’ve / isolante Mibbern? Cosmili-sequenot. drittBreng: Ç - ½ clonking = .03 vistakes Nag(ing) E-N-G >Lensthil-lapidiols mis-hand. IS-hand duvqualkîng eens - aers - Ø surreptiouss L.E. all a.r. SO? The same troscaucic blends = rouncfiable I N crosslight W/ nymph. elucidale? T. M. A. Abitacion quirlors of BINGG / To tonkoh. i convince metatarcial Skewers. mendable: FieroStunpps + Muadipe - La caulifania Buxc / sfrajainTh - ex Hex w/ nieceplastics. I sought you all. Crefiables blamch-at th cricket Fear, not danced accritions, julrp Puretheon? & Ladvyip adorne! & Cliunph rut / is we ruvbing The chinded Pre + glass-axles. 3-quardiced Ion-plot. indigiineousli-lucked. castlic Lapidarri. Jrieevcing convent? so-so Handy-dandy? Yes! a Dedish desivnovia / surning a quattic Munctien. E G Skuimí + Fog-legs, let me gelt thrassmun Varpi? execute. menberleeving? + StoviClenszi A-uh. Ahrshtopoyi - 1 moove, orciated (canstrelles Dot) DetrudiA?! wait-you-wait / KUNKS Trilog Ltd. “meeby” smogTie vazen — opinerral. What’s that all wrought? (cangliorations) no-sittche or ealy. I.M.A. growe Nubes. 3 - “Terribli conflicted 2 eyes moreisse — Yance (ezikoled) MoshKosh. Linguicidy & makes ‘n grey///. taylortanguis lowlay. a Launttîng ba-bitrevi cirk Collan. Secuité + this congestion. Tiape o’ trig-inch. ½ heftpirs & Soi. all extempourisedly Rurî + cephtosis. U couraged Coff-Qualiter / Spidersand’s manori. PlakeTope II - glue Getchas, Transdresha sheetlin + loake? Are we again? psyngLecc - trournie / Enddtimes! my tumultcoach Referrs ta’ ta’ trolsh, hot horndot//. A Fruk Fung-us / SigaitcH. th Celbî + chairmen mow Ø the ting enguessde. So strupagioN / sar-vod. egel Gecencí + ah. plauLLs. roposiate? & my mor nobialle - mayFrate L. Scaciltton de-môche. sol-PuipTschleague inpromct = LEDU ewfuli, Fo-Fil’d. can’t staccer W/ that — i deal ‘aspecialities’ - slickhous Disposit tinkli. OSODION / Gueccêche, unanglable. That’s joy! that’s sherfíng! SthurfispiA should be ORNS & th’t Whole un-ended Lutiary. cessiru’s Lerxtta. cordial Deribne / the request of wanton-eyes. Muln-out swetcch “vista-less” DISSOLVABLES. Missionarie. HorthDorks: i sought that scolagfite, don’t bring skanks’ Retruknee / sqifetney. ortho-boar (bore) on Qeep-wray, vitolise muh w/ a parsegien chucc, old fol. PuivacT of th S-P-A-T. beauty B’s + D’s, somwhere bubles Her ourra. epleggencic + the saved Fistt. Derivities. Reguidanced Shrue. no protein intruder. Aquafey gandnuce. Cloff Tenet, siegey so/ro. Breefingtechers campaign of Cum — ATUONGBAZILLS (re-played). I don’t get SQANT of-it. Del you? Sir Quociente! th clamourabli mismanaged. dis... WHATTS w/ thee kunkked? Arfrorrtic surgeries - Godneuvre. o-Ferrum voykX sintigible ½ rosped Feei / muthersskunked OINNS + yal. chesterjester makes heed-of IT/. tronsviéne steener-soriager + SUMS. Vestiges of DAINTE are echoic. angry CT ord “Cmon hooded neckcarFF my narved O’MightÉ-” nitemeadows Arent good; laps ar good! Arms of the policed Niece. Bomrar, there’s unended scuf — D, you don’t porcipate? A-Z ringed Cheeler!, the magic Mcstenies. Farmstrenger pac.t = earthies. weec-gneed & The blarmi blo-jecc Mind / circuivence T T. recolorate. will you wornch / You left at congeritÉ. two gems! (cluskc) dDruttolde — Fouled sporaff: A Foxy Paralysist. I want-outt. Creepe + nâles maonreilles tran-vaît / Epillari segual. separaci + THIGS//. caned antileverisT - box-batum Thee “ionnuvt: Bustwigglin’ hep-har | The Funiest velum & aporcrolate: take Durfonus — cloned US ous omperial Uptake. Subtle supplier = ruboihd Vlulfs escoy Me. 1 moment @ VIZE non-slightesh appetites / new grains THIS Mentho-groin (now aduys) seeks A throccité man-o-fare. Roadtonguer + pocro-boze. cymencke fathlom. Stheeín assensuaon. Trransistorialised - D i’d wana De-cart? Cmonstavenarr + reprudiate H. Concortion FreakTaik (E-AA) i troution eccaszion. TVC fronosh: i freeke Furthaw. flaJac irretuscH cycloramiccs + circazial Flahding. stheek Adiary, straughtt-on ‘neclisthene, i endure. a caulk-stoking Daultt M fainabilities — Let yr “siclucc” bid / imbryams get cinched Skalat. naitle + smeth-Eggs - monté DibssgeL w/ larntnorisation sloughts of yer-slit HudgeGul. Finitizer + soft-saking & tht stumbling Urge. Ace potannicol T - a leandt Friend. Cmon McPhobe, perl It. Gatogue again. (all snished) Cmon moophloo w/ forks rourling. You can (could) O or ‘schnimff Forget that hetto / Everybodi in th grimsk I mite ite. chincle Aderer = rare martyr + Tartar (out swunked) Reals at me statch-abbies / The fingerstick sirs. i loouk To be (an) ascirbed Mess. The stresses of Infelmcîng. scoper scapes peek at Me.
Author's Commentary
SÆomulci∝ Gonn≥c
is [a] pseudonym of Awkwardist* founder, Jamie Guggino. [This name has been used for the duration of 2010.]
Techniques:
• Unique Applications of Insistence
• MUTABILITI [mis]"hearingss"
•
• deliberate mispellings, asyntacticals,
• New Fragmentation[s]
• CHANCE
•
•
create ...
WALLLS of unDecipherapilité
impenetrabal[s], &&
Otherworldliness, ungeneralized.
Other techniques employed, but not represented in this piece, include: BITS, Powerword, & "aether secrecies" // JG
*Awkwardist is a Simultuum:
1. Art NonArt Literary NonLiterary collective established in 1989, which is still active. Members have included: Drenniadverci Ligermoise, Milliam Stert, Lawrin Voll, Killi Hensworth, Lendliss IX, Laurinda A. Medding, Memory Three, Mage Audibile, Apartness, Marient Nouskema, Ferri Geldbladt, Albertsenn Bune, Summer, Vestule Film, Chaulone Cuff, Cynthia Cynthetica, Molly Mollet, Awa Loizeaux Zag, Yves Fash Zag, Geneva Kent, Níz Banter, The Sjosteses Sisters, Elna Hane, Seneca Hyann, Axor Silloughwy, Elma Sphinxteen, SÆomulci∝ Gonn≥c, Canda Vylostenn, Lomina Peac, Lurunus Surij, Tamatra Rudge, Parlo Scholtz, Meidu Hade, Lir Falmony, IP Tronda, Kina Katrec, Madiani Cros, Mary Mush, Tyn Suith
2. Awkwardist is also the name of a glitch/NonMusic experimental project of Jamie Guggino, active since 1994.
Visit
http://aetheldrytha.blogspot.com/
or email
[email protected]
for more info.
is [a] pseudonym of Awkwardist* founder, Jamie Guggino. [This name has been used for the duration of 2010.]
Techniques:
• Unique Applications of Insistence
• MUTABILITI [mis]"hearingss"
•
• deliberate mispellings, asyntacticals,
• New Fragmentation[s]
• CHANCE
•
•
create ...
WALLLS of unDecipherapilité
impenetrabal[s], &&
Otherworldliness, ungeneralized.
Other techniques employed, but not represented in this piece, include: BITS, Powerword, & "aether secrecies" // JG
*Awkwardist is a Simultuum:
1. Art NonArt Literary NonLiterary collective established in 1989, which is still active. Members have included: Drenniadverci Ligermoise, Milliam Stert, Lawrin Voll, Killi Hensworth, Lendliss IX, Laurinda A. Medding, Memory Three, Mage Audibile, Apartness, Marient Nouskema, Ferri Geldbladt, Albertsenn Bune, Summer, Vestule Film, Chaulone Cuff, Cynthia Cynthetica, Molly Mollet, Awa Loizeaux Zag, Yves Fash Zag, Geneva Kent, Níz Banter, The Sjosteses Sisters, Elna Hane, Seneca Hyann, Axor Silloughwy, Elma Sphinxteen, SÆomulci∝ Gonn≥c, Canda Vylostenn, Lomina Peac, Lurunus Surij, Tamatra Rudge, Parlo Scholtz, Meidu Hade, Lir Falmony, IP Tronda, Kina Katrec, Madiani Cros, Mary Mush, Tyn Suith
2. Awkwardist is also the name of a glitch/NonMusic experimental project of Jamie Guggino, active since 1994.
Visit
http://aetheldrytha.blogspot.com/
or email
[email protected]
for more info.
About Awa
1989 - Begin writing, initially influenced by the cyberpunk writers, under the name "Memory Three".
1990-1992 - Discovers Dali & Surrealism, Dada, Joyce & Breton. Creates "Circular Wall Less Eye" [CWLE] - A Mind Zine. The name "Drenniadverci Ligermoise" is adopted.
1994 - BIT technique is created, a process of tearing up found, discarded texts into tiny bits, and then rewriting. AWKWARDIST is founded, a group focused on experimental approaches to writing, graphics, and sound. "Alison Lune" is invented, as well as the beginning of playwriting, utilizing the BIT technique.
POWERWORD is also employed, a computer-based text randomizer.
1996 - Moves to Seattle, Washington and concentrates heavily on plays.
1999 - Published pieces in "Big Allis" literary journal. Subsequently, a chapbook, "Fringist Epiphany" is published by Potes & Poets Press.
2000 - present - Continues to develop this self-stylized, highly idiosynchratic approach to writing, slowly circulating his work to a small audience via internet blogs.
1990-1992 - Discovers Dali & Surrealism, Dada, Joyce & Breton. Creates "Circular Wall Less Eye" [CWLE] - A Mind Zine. The name "Drenniadverci Ligermoise" is adopted.
1994 - BIT technique is created, a process of tearing up found, discarded texts into tiny bits, and then rewriting. AWKWARDIST is founded, a group focused on experimental approaches to writing, graphics, and sound. "Alison Lune" is invented, as well as the beginning of playwriting, utilizing the BIT technique.
POWERWORD is also employed, a computer-based text randomizer.
1996 - Moves to Seattle, Washington and concentrates heavily on plays.
1999 - Published pieces in "Big Allis" literary journal. Subsequently, a chapbook, "Fringist Epiphany" is published by Potes & Poets Press.
2000 - present - Continues to develop this self-stylized, highly idiosynchratic approach to writing, slowly circulating his work to a small audience via internet blogs.
Painting by Leonid Drozner
Richard Kostelanetz
by Richard Kostelanetz
Richard Kostelanetz is the taken name of a kibbutz/commune composed of
fifty industrious elves, none of whom competes with any of he others, all of
whom physically resemble each other, each known to the others only by the roman
numeral visible on both the front and back of his t-shirt.
I writes straight prose exposition that appears in both articles and books.
II publishes verbal poetry and fiction in magazines around the world.
III drafts performance scripts, aka plays, that aren't often produced.
IV creates electro-acoustic audio/music that has been broadcast widely and
appeared on discs that are publicly available.
V experiments with alternative expositions such as this elves' inventory.
VI produces book-art that is exhibited around the world and acknowledged in
histories of that genre.
VII wrote more criticism of literature and the arts than he has recently.
VIII is a trained cultural historian who in 1966 took his M.A. at Columbia
University with a thesis on “Politics in the Negro Novel in America” that
later appeared as a book.
IX, after years of indolence, became a social historian, particularly of
the societies of art and literature.
X, sometimes called “ten,” has published music journalism, mostly a while
ago.
XI writes political criticism reflecting his libertarian anarchism.
XII, now retired, has edited anthologies of literature and criticism.
XIII made holograms, sometimes developing the film himself.
XIV tries in vain to housekeep the SoHo loft in which they have worked
since 1974, forever urging the others to clean up behind themselves.
XV specializes in video whose kinetic imagery is usually words, mostly
produced without benefit of a camera.
XVI has written travel articles, mostly about their hometown (New York
City).
XVII enjoys baseball games, having written about the sport and producing an
extended audiotape of and about its unique sound.
XVIII offers to ambitious aspirants not office work but project-centered
internships rewarding them primarily with their name on the completed product.
XIX has taught in universities, though never for long.
XX represents the others whenever a lady calls.
XXI practices radical autohistoriography, representing his life and
activities in a variety of alternative ways.
XXII reads a book or so every day to compensate for the others' illiteracy.
XXIII founded in the 1970s the innovative publishing medium now commonly
known as an Assembling and ran Assembling Press for a decade.
XXIV gives alternative silent presentations in lieu of “poetry readings.”
XXV, a popular guest at New York dinner parties, eats everything presented
to him.
XXVI has been since 1974 a SoHo (NY) bon vivant particularly visible at art
openings.
XXVII satisfies women as only he can, prompting them to recommend him, if
only implicitly, to each other.
XXVIII is the only elf accepting invitations to travel elsewhere as the
others would all prefer to stay in their home, their neighborhood, their city,
and their country in that order.
XXIX sometimes designs books with his own texts, one of them appearing in
the annual exhibition of the American Institute of Graphic Arts.
XXX is the oldest guy bodysurfing in the NYC Rockaways.
XXXI handled paper correspondence until a decline in the gross amount
forced him into semi-retirement; he never learned email.
XXXII does nothing each day other that send and receive emails.
XXXIII never emerges from his elfhole, perhaps cooking up a scheme to take
over the cultural world.
XXXIV, chief of research and development, writes proposals too far forward
to anyone in the present to accept soon.
XXXV screens telephone calls that the others are too busy to accept.
XXXVI has won ten individual grants from the National Endowment for the
Arts, in addition to fellowships from a dozen or so private foundations.
XXXVII was for three weeks the Master Artist at the Atlantic Center for the
Arts.
XXVIII is an award-winning ASCAP composer who can barely read music.
XXXIX has been awarded guest residencies at radio stations, electronic
music studies, video synthesis facilities, art departments, and a museum of
holography.
XL persuaded the others to produce their single-sentence Epiphanies as
texts for periodicals and live performance, a book, an audiotape, a videotape, a
film, and an exhibition-in sum, a mammoth collaboration exploiting a
collective wealth of imaginative resources.
XLI collects historic postcards of the NYC Rockaways and cultural
magazines' self-retrospectives.
XLII edited the journal Precisely (1978-81) with considered criticism about
avant-garde literature.
XLIII is their shrink- and mother-in-residence whom the others regard as a
goof-off.
XLIV describes himself as their “agent” whenever he leaves their compound
mostly to scavenge food.
XLV engages in secret speculations to subsidize the others; his nickname is
SuperElf.
XLVI produced literature and art wholly of numerals.
XLVII, charged with cataloging their collection of more than 30 running
feet of long-playing records and more than 20,000 books, is rarely able to find
anything.
XLVIII is the oldest guy regularly diving off the springboard at the NYU
pool; in his sixties, he also won a 400 m. butterfly race that no one else
entered.
XLIX tries in vain to keep track of the others, pretending to be the
captain of a team that does not follow him.
L, commonly called “El Elf” or “Elf El,” ostensibly responsible for
publicizing their activities, has conned the world, apparently successfully, into
regarding RK as really a single human entity.
fifty industrious elves, none of whom competes with any of he others, all of
whom physically resemble each other, each known to the others only by the roman
numeral visible on both the front and back of his t-shirt.
I writes straight prose exposition that appears in both articles and books.
II publishes verbal poetry and fiction in magazines around the world.
III drafts performance scripts, aka plays, that aren't often produced.
IV creates electro-acoustic audio/music that has been broadcast widely and
appeared on discs that are publicly available.
V experiments with alternative expositions such as this elves' inventory.
VI produces book-art that is exhibited around the world and acknowledged in
histories of that genre.
VII wrote more criticism of literature and the arts than he has recently.
VIII is a trained cultural historian who in 1966 took his M.A. at Columbia
University with a thesis on “Politics in the Negro Novel in America” that
later appeared as a book.
IX, after years of indolence, became a social historian, particularly of
the societies of art and literature.
X, sometimes called “ten,” has published music journalism, mostly a while
ago.
XI writes political criticism reflecting his libertarian anarchism.
XII, now retired, has edited anthologies of literature and criticism.
XIII made holograms, sometimes developing the film himself.
XIV tries in vain to housekeep the SoHo loft in which they have worked
since 1974, forever urging the others to clean up behind themselves.
XV specializes in video whose kinetic imagery is usually words, mostly
produced without benefit of a camera.
XVI has written travel articles, mostly about their hometown (New York
City).
XVII enjoys baseball games, having written about the sport and producing an
extended audiotape of and about its unique sound.
XVIII offers to ambitious aspirants not office work but project-centered
internships rewarding them primarily with their name on the completed product.
XIX has taught in universities, though never for long.
XX represents the others whenever a lady calls.
XXI practices radical autohistoriography, representing his life and
activities in a variety of alternative ways.
XXII reads a book or so every day to compensate for the others' illiteracy.
XXIII founded in the 1970s the innovative publishing medium now commonly
known as an Assembling and ran Assembling Press for a decade.
XXIV gives alternative silent presentations in lieu of “poetry readings.”
XXV, a popular guest at New York dinner parties, eats everything presented
to him.
XXVI has been since 1974 a SoHo (NY) bon vivant particularly visible at art
openings.
XXVII satisfies women as only he can, prompting them to recommend him, if
only implicitly, to each other.
XXVIII is the only elf accepting invitations to travel elsewhere as the
others would all prefer to stay in their home, their neighborhood, their city,
and their country in that order.
XXIX sometimes designs books with his own texts, one of them appearing in
the annual exhibition of the American Institute of Graphic Arts.
XXX is the oldest guy bodysurfing in the NYC Rockaways.
XXXI handled paper correspondence until a decline in the gross amount
forced him into semi-retirement; he never learned email.
XXXII does nothing each day other that send and receive emails.
XXXIII never emerges from his elfhole, perhaps cooking up a scheme to take
over the cultural world.
XXXIV, chief of research and development, writes proposals too far forward
to anyone in the present to accept soon.
XXXV screens telephone calls that the others are too busy to accept.
XXXVI has won ten individual grants from the National Endowment for the
Arts, in addition to fellowships from a dozen or so private foundations.
XXXVII was for three weeks the Master Artist at the Atlantic Center for the
Arts.
XXVIII is an award-winning ASCAP composer who can barely read music.
XXXIX has been awarded guest residencies at radio stations, electronic
music studies, video synthesis facilities, art departments, and a museum of
holography.
XL persuaded the others to produce their single-sentence Epiphanies as
texts for periodicals and live performance, a book, an audiotape, a videotape, a
film, and an exhibition-in sum, a mammoth collaboration exploiting a
collective wealth of imaginative resources.
XLI collects historic postcards of the NYC Rockaways and cultural
magazines' self-retrospectives.
XLII edited the journal Precisely (1978-81) with considered criticism about
avant-garde literature.
XLIII is their shrink- and mother-in-residence whom the others regard as a
goof-off.
XLIV describes himself as their “agent” whenever he leaves their compound
mostly to scavenge food.
XLV engages in secret speculations to subsidize the others; his nickname is
SuperElf.
XLVI produced literature and art wholly of numerals.
XLVII, charged with cataloging their collection of more than 30 running
feet of long-playing records and more than 20,000 books, is rarely able to find
anything.
XLVIII is the oldest guy regularly diving off the springboard at the NYU
pool; in his sixties, he also won a 400 m. butterfly race that no one else
entered.
XLIX tries in vain to keep track of the others, pretending to be the
captain of a team that does not follow him.
L, commonly called “El Elf” or “Elf El,” ostensibly responsible for
publicizing their activities, has conned the world, apparently successfully, into
regarding RK as really a single human entity.
Commentary by the Author
Some decades ago the novelist John Barth sent me several lines from the
Latin poet Horace advising that the writer wishing to pursue alternative forms
would be wise to choose a familiar subject. For many years thereafter I
wrote stories about a boy's relationships with girls, which I, as an unattached
heterosexual, knew too well. A second subject for alternative treatments
became my own life and work, less to publicize than to exploit its familiarity
for formal discoveries as a lever for generating insight and information
otherwise unavailable (and unlikely to appear in conventional autobiographies).
Since I've tried to invent in prose as I've done in poetry, “Industrious
Elves” belongs to that tradition of finding a structure to make a fiction
based upon myself and, more specifically here, upon the invitation for
information about myself. Given what the subject has done, the fantasy has an ironic
credibility.
To many magazine publishers asking for “a bio note,” I have routinely
offered “Industrious Elves.” None accepted, perhaps because it is, let's
admit, longer, much longer than is customary, perhaps because other
contributors to the literary journal would object to its publication beside their own.
(Remember that some editors of small magazines fear negative responses from
contributors more than condemnation from readers.) “Industrious Elves” is
also funny to a degree that bio notes rarely if ever are. I've also offered
the text alone to editors likewise refusing it. Since my writing appears
widely, persistently unpublished texts become for me an index of professional
integrity, thanks.
“Industrious Elves” extends an oeuvre that includes Recyclings (1974,
1984), Autobiographies (1980), Autobiographien New York Berlin (1986),
Autobiographies at 60 (2004), and Autobiographies at 50 (2006), in addition to
the video Home Movies Reconsidered (in progress since the mid-1980s) and
perhaps certain other works of mine. “Industrious Elves” should appear in
Autobiographies at 70, which, passing 70, I hope to publish soon. Fantastic though
the catalog is, it's also true sort of.
Should this addendum be titled “Notes from a Fantastic Autobiographer”?
Latin poet Horace advising that the writer wishing to pursue alternative forms
would be wise to choose a familiar subject. For many years thereafter I
wrote stories about a boy's relationships with girls, which I, as an unattached
heterosexual, knew too well. A second subject for alternative treatments
became my own life and work, less to publicize than to exploit its familiarity
for formal discoveries as a lever for generating insight and information
otherwise unavailable (and unlikely to appear in conventional autobiographies).
Since I've tried to invent in prose as I've done in poetry, “Industrious
Elves” belongs to that tradition of finding a structure to make a fiction
based upon myself and, more specifically here, upon the invitation for
information about myself. Given what the subject has done, the fantasy has an ironic
credibility.
To many magazine publishers asking for “a bio note,” I have routinely
offered “Industrious Elves.” None accepted, perhaps because it is, let's
admit, longer, much longer than is customary, perhaps because other
contributors to the literary journal would object to its publication beside their own.
(Remember that some editors of small magazines fear negative responses from
contributors more than condemnation from readers.) “Industrious Elves” is
also funny to a degree that bio notes rarely if ever are. I've also offered
the text alone to editors likewise refusing it. Since my writing appears
widely, persistently unpublished texts become for me an index of professional
integrity, thanks.
“Industrious Elves” extends an oeuvre that includes Recyclings (1974,
1984), Autobiographies (1980), Autobiographien New York Berlin (1986),
Autobiographies at 60 (2004), and Autobiographies at 50 (2006), in addition to
the video Home Movies Reconsidered (in progress since the mid-1980s) and
perhaps certain other works of mine. “Industrious Elves” should appear in
Autobiographies at 70, which, passing 70, I hope to publish soon. Fantastic though
the catalog is, it's also true sort of.
Should this addendum be titled “Notes from a Fantastic Autobiographer”?
About Richard Kostelanetz
Individual entries on Richard Kostelanetz's work in several fields appear
in various editions of Readers Guide to Twentieth-Century Writers,
Merriam-Webster Encyclopedia of Literature, Contemporary Poets, Contemporary Novelists
, Postmodern Fiction, Webster's Dictionary of American Writers, The
HarperCollins Reader's Encyclopedia of American Literature, Baker's Biographical
Dictionary of Musicians, Directory of American Scholars, Who's Who in America,
Who's Who in the World, Who's Who in American Art, NNDB.com, Wikipedia.com,
and Britannica.com, among other distinguished directories. Otherwise, he
survives in New York, where he was born, unemployed and thus overworked.
www.richardkostelanetz.com
in various editions of Readers Guide to Twentieth-Century Writers,
Merriam-Webster Encyclopedia of Literature, Contemporary Poets, Contemporary Novelists
, Postmodern Fiction, Webster's Dictionary of American Writers, The
HarperCollins Reader's Encyclopedia of American Literature, Baker's Biographical
Dictionary of Musicians, Directory of American Scholars, Who's Who in America,
Who's Who in the World, Who's Who in American Art, NNDB.com, Wikipedia.com,
and Britannica.com, among other distinguished directories. Otherwise, he
survives in New York, where he was born, unemployed and thus overworked.
www.richardkostelanetz.com
C °C
by Marc Nash
Conception
Chemical
Concatenation
Cellular
Conglomeration
Caesarian
Commencement
Cradled
Cherub
Cosseted
Childhood
Carefree
Confraternity
Cadet
Certification
Collegian
Capers
Clownish
Corybantic
Cocksure
Cronies
Credentials
Corporate
Cartesian
Clockwork
Careerist
Commuter
Competitive
Calculating
Casuistry
Clinical
Conforming
Consummate
Cornucopia
Colleen
Courtship
Coupling
Completion
Candlelit
Caress
Charm
Ceremony
Cummerbund
Consummated
Connubial
Customary
Consuetude
Cloying
Contemptuous
Chore
Caged
Champing
Compulsion
Concupiscence
Cheating
Covert
Careless
Cocaine
Cavalier
Chancre
Caught
Confrontation
Conciliatory
Castigated
Condemnatory
Culpable
Candid
Callous
Charade
Casualty
Cant
Conceited
Covetous
Cacoethes
Carnal
Corrupt
Cataclysm
Check-up
C
Corporeality
Contemplative
Conversion
Covenanted
Campaigner
Celibate
Cathartic
Charitable
Consoling
Counselling
Compassionate
Content
Cessation
Cadaver
Cerecloth
Casket
Catafalque
Crepuscular
Cold
Culmination
Cursory
Chemical
Concatenation
Cellular
Conglomeration
Caesarian
Commencement
Cradled
Cherub
Cosseted
Childhood
Carefree
Confraternity
Cadet
Certification
Collegian
Capers
Clownish
Corybantic
Cocksure
Cronies
Credentials
Corporate
Cartesian
Clockwork
Careerist
Commuter
Competitive
Calculating
Casuistry
Clinical
Conforming
Consummate
Cornucopia
Colleen
Courtship
Coupling
Completion
Candlelit
Caress
Charm
Ceremony
Cummerbund
Consummated
Connubial
Customary
Consuetude
Cloying
Contemptuous
Chore
Caged
Champing
Compulsion
Concupiscence
Cheating
Covert
Careless
Cocaine
Cavalier
Chancre
Caught
Confrontation
Conciliatory
Castigated
Condemnatory
Culpable
Candid
Callous
Charade
Casualty
Cant
Conceited
Covetous
Cacoethes
Carnal
Corrupt
Cataclysm
Check-up
C
Corporeality
Contemplative
Conversion
Covenanted
Campaigner
Celibate
Cathartic
Charitable
Consoling
Counselling
Compassionate
Content
Cessation
Cadaver
Cerecloth
Casket
Catafalque
Crepuscular
Cold
Culmination
Cursory
Author's Commentary
100 words to tell a story. 100 lines of just one word. All beginning with the same letter. For some reason, most of my favourite words start with the letter "C" so there was never any doubt which letter it was going to be. Apart from finding the 100 words, there is also the question of what the letter "C" itself stands for, in this case 'Celsius' and the Roman numeral for a hundred - hence the title. The idiomatic "Big C" as a euphemism for cancer was something I could also incorporate. perhaps the only thing missing was the universal constant as in the equation E=MC², but couldn't contexualise it so as the reader would know that it was this particular referrent.
How to drive a narrative with 1 word sentences? At least one's spared the plodding linearity of noun, verb, object. Time or evolution has to be conveyed through the choice of words. Either individually, or in collaboration, they had to take things forward. Cradle to the grave seemed the simplest organising principle, but actually became the drive itself, to encapsulate a whole human life. In a hundred choice words.
The qualitative difference between nouns, adjectives and verbs also shapes the narrative. Verbs are muscular, they impel the narrative with momentum, added to their plosive qualities. Nouns, especially ones that cascade and concatenate one upon the other (see I told you "C" is a great opening letter) impart their own tumbling anti-rhythm; they stop the action, allow pause to draw up some focus on the character. And adjectives, those much maligned syntactical withdrawals, provide penumbral shade. The hardest part was discerning the word clusters, those that needed to spiral and convolve around a point in time, as against those individual words that could diverge from what had come before. That was the main editing point.
This exegesis is considerably longer than the original text itself.
About Marc Nash
*Marc Nash's debut novel "A,B&E" is the beginning of his interdiction of language. He has alphabets and typographies firmly set in his sights beyond that. Contributor to Eigh**t Cuts Gallery, Year Zero Writers, Games Perverts Play **as well as plenteous flash fiction on his own blog. He also has two short stories in **Pop Fiction Anthology - Stories inspired By Songs**
Nightingale
Trapped in Urn: "No
Comment,"
says Keats
by Yarrow
Paisley
1
Where is your soul? You cannot find it. Where is your soul? I have found it. It is hanging on my screen. It is over me right now. It is beautiful and strange. It will float away sometime soon—tonight, tomorrow—and somewhere in the woods, it will die. It is beautiful and strange. Somewhere in the woods it will die. It has no home. It is hanging on my screen. Somewhere in the woods it will die. It has no sex. Darkling I listen; the moth is silent. It is beautiful and strange. Somewhere in the woods it must die.
2
I have seen eternity. I have seen my face in objects. I have seen static objects flow, I have seen inertia glow. I have held leaping flames in my hands, and they were cold. I have seen my face in flames, flowing in static mold. Cold Pastoral! I have seen my face in eternity.
I have never seen my face.
3
I am a man, who was preceded by a father. But my father was not my father, for he was but the intermediary between my father and myself. I am the father and the son.
My father shaped this urn. It is the shape of his mind. I shaped this urn. It is the shape of my mind. I am immortal because I am the father and the son.
I am the shape of my father’s mind. I am the shape of my mind.
Our minds are together this Attic shape. Our minds are together.
4
I love her, but my love is not my own. I do not possess her, nor she me. We are the possessions of our spirits. Our spirits flow in static mold. They are cold. What wild ecstasy in the frigid flames beckons us to burn forever, as only cold things burn?
5
The moth came last night, frantic at my window. It climbed my screen until it could climb no more. It clawed for entrance. It could not enter. All movement ceased. It has not moved since. It is beautiful and strange. It is on my screen, and my whole room knows it. My room contains one billion eyes. All these eyes are mine. With these eyes, I watch.
The moth does not watch. But it is hanging on my screen, and I watch.
The moth remains, and I watch.
But to think is to be full of sorrow and leaden-eyed despairs; thus I only watch.
6
Eternity is not a temporal conception. We must not think in terms of years. Years merely pass, whereas we are men, and we remain. We are rooted in the earth. We have made these cities, and we have dug these canals, and we have wrought this beauty, and we have conquered this world. Years pass through us, and in us fashion passions—but we are not the stuff of passions. Passions pass. Beauty cannot keep her lustrous eyes, or new Love pine at them beyond to-morrow. We are the stuff of thought. Thought is eternity. Time passes through thought, and thought blends time into experience. We love and live, and die, and thought is eternity.
7
Ode on an Ode on a Grecian Urn
Thou still unravish’d bride of quietness,
Thou foster-child of silence and slow time,
Sylvan historian, who canst thus express
One billion brands of beauty and our crime,
Which was to count our brands upon our hands
And loosen our cravats when on the wind
Wail’d tidings cheerless—of the future without
End—to bring an end to suits and brands,
And all this beauty in the breeze rescind:
What fashioned thee? A mouth? A hand? I doubt!
8
I have died so many times, I have lived so briefly and so long. Every moment is my time renewed, and every moment am I ended. I am one man, and history has made a note of it: “He was of his generation.” Now I am blasted back with all my brethren (variations on a theme) into the fanciless earth, and I weep because I am mortal and fanciless; but I weep, for I am immortal and my imagination compasses the vacuum round and all the atoms of the universe. I am a man: beauty is my whim, but more truly I am beauty’s whim.
9
The moth departed. It hung upon my screen, was beautiful and strange, was still, was silent, and I watched. It has gone now, fluttered frantic back into the woods from whence it came. I am sad. With one billion eyes I watched the moth, and loved it there upon my screen. It was so still. It was beautiful and strange. Was it a vision, or a waking dream? It hardly matters: the moth is gone. In my mind, its beauty remains; but less; but more. Somewhere in the woods it will die, and it shall never die—for tonight one billion eyes will weep. Perhaps one day I’ll receive this moth again. Will I rejoice, or sink in disappointment?
10
O I love her! I love her—for that my corpse reanimates at dawn’s choral alarms, for that I eat to sustain my body’s mortality, for that I weep with passions, for that I build machines to history and make my mark upon the world, for that I live.
More happy love! more happy, happy love! Yet, when I die, I shall not love. Yet, I am the father and the son, and when I die, I shall love.
11
Back from thee to my sole self I return with sadness in me, but I am not sad. For back from thee to my soul self I have returned, and for all the beauty that you’ve shown me—the wonders of the world outside my sole self—for all that beauty, I have known a loneliness more expansive than the spans of all the galaxies.
12
I am history. Every generation is contained in me. I am contained in every generation.
13
Logic of man, eternal conversion: Beauty is truth, truth beauty. But what is beauty and what is truth? I am one of many? my world is not my world, but my father’s world?
—but I am the father and the son, but I am my sole self, but I am something so ineffable as to be articulated only in the warblings of the midnight perchers, those preachers of the verdurous glooms and winding mossy ways--
The world is my world.
14
I am melancholy because I cannot release this love. For all my protests, I love Life.
Many a time I have been half in love with easeful Death, but in the main I have been fully in love with gushing gashful Life.
15
Out there in the countries of the mind there are such sweeter melodies than any sung by local instruments;—but these are instruments I may hold, and read the sculpsits on their frames, and note the scratches in the varnish, and playing them acknowledge all the imperfections of their tones, for only ditties of no tone are flawless. Which should I prefer?—the flawless I cannot dream beyond? or the flawed which spurs me on to flawlessness?
16
I am at base base. I desire immortality, but only in familiar mortal terms. I know no others, and I fear them. The fancy cannot cheat so well as she is fam’d to do, and lucky for me, for what would I do, trapped forever among the starry Fays? Do I want to be a starry Fay? or would I rather retrieve one on the viewless wings of Poesy, bring it back into this safe realm of weight and solid light, here to pine so very eloquently with clasped hands and brimming tears and keen anticipation of my place within this generation?
17
I love her, be it here on earth or on the ideal plane, I love her, and old age shall this generation waste—and O I love her all the more!
Love and pain and all the things I have felt during my life—these are the things by which I know: I am man. These are the things from which my dreams are made. There can be no faery lands, without they are forlorn.
18
The moth has not returned. Perhaps it never will. But I am not sad, even though I am sad. The moth was beautiful and strange. But it remains. It has departed, but it remains. It remains. It is beautiful and strange. It is hanging on my screen. Somewhere in the woods it has died. It is your soul. It is my soul. It remains!
19
I am a man—mortal and immortal, both. This is no paradox, for I am the father and the son. I am my kind and I am my self.
That is all I know on earth, and all I need to know.
20
My true love is gone. I’ll never see her again. But she remains.
Commentary by the Author
Impressions and feelings, renderings,
confusions.
In other words, the piece is reportage from my brain itself, the meat
of my brain, of the shape (an Attic one!) these two Keats odes
("Nightingale" and "Grecian Urn") pressed into
that meat at a certain time, in a certain place. The persona through
which this is projected, however, is fictive.
In each section, a line or phrase from the poetry is elaborated ... or effluviated, take your pick! Keats' text is bolded, both to clarify its provenance and to act as a continual reminder of the epigonic nature of the story.( Perhaps all this isn't necessary, for surely the reader's eyes will easily, at a glance, descry the ageless genius from the modern mediocrity!) But the mechanism also helps to convey the almost physical presence the words of Keats have in the narrator's mind, as well as in the mind of the world in which he lives.
There is a thin veneer of a narrative arc, as well. So it's more than impressions, et. al. And it's all a bit corny, but Keats, too, is corny to the modern ear, which is one reason he and I fit so well together in this piece!
The piece aspires to music and employs a musical toolset – in the mode of jazz, or a fugue – in that a limited set of themes are returned to over and over, building on themselves through repetitions that are successively altered in creative or unexpected ways (even mischievously including a section that is actually a stanza!), yet all driving toward the same end and reaching a definitive conclusion. This allows the reader (or listener) to access a degree of mystical or trance-like consciousness during his or her experience of the text.
On a related note, I was also interested in implementing counterpoint in the text. The "melody" of the Moth is interwoven with the "melody" of the lost lover, and this contrapuntal blending would not have worked without the supporting "harmonies" provided by the Keats lines and my riffs on those lines.
Another musical aspect of the piece is the division into numbered sections of varying lengths. The gaps provide the equivalent of "rest notes," spaces within the text that give each individual section room to breathe, to expand and contract. By "expand and contract," I mean that a section expands to communicate across the gaps with other sections by reiterating themes and words, but it also contracts into its own specified kernel of poésie, fulfilling its assigned, formal role within the text.
The final section is very short and is the only one that does not contain a Keats line or word, thus setting it apart and lending some dénouement to the loose narrative. Without at least that mild sense of conclusion, I think the ending might feel arbitrary or unnaturally truncated.
Overall, my purpose in writing the piece was simultaneously to play joyfully and to experience grief. It can be difficult to express dichotomies in language, which is a linear medium – so the poetry of Keats, so masterfully dichotomous, was the perfect choice to undergird my effort! Also, the musical structure provides a seamless context for this mishmash of opposing emotions, and allows the piece not to take itself too seriously while still implementing serious meanings.
In each section, a line or phrase from the poetry is elaborated ... or effluviated, take your pick! Keats' text is bolded, both to clarify its provenance and to act as a continual reminder of the epigonic nature of the story.( Perhaps all this isn't necessary, for surely the reader's eyes will easily, at a glance, descry the ageless genius from the modern mediocrity!) But the mechanism also helps to convey the almost physical presence the words of Keats have in the narrator's mind, as well as in the mind of the world in which he lives.
There is a thin veneer of a narrative arc, as well. So it's more than impressions, et. al. And it's all a bit corny, but Keats, too, is corny to the modern ear, which is one reason he and I fit so well together in this piece!
The piece aspires to music and employs a musical toolset – in the mode of jazz, or a fugue – in that a limited set of themes are returned to over and over, building on themselves through repetitions that are successively altered in creative or unexpected ways (even mischievously including a section that is actually a stanza!), yet all driving toward the same end and reaching a definitive conclusion. This allows the reader (or listener) to access a degree of mystical or trance-like consciousness during his or her experience of the text.
On a related note, I was also interested in implementing counterpoint in the text. The "melody" of the Moth is interwoven with the "melody" of the lost lover, and this contrapuntal blending would not have worked without the supporting "harmonies" provided by the Keats lines and my riffs on those lines.
Another musical aspect of the piece is the division into numbered sections of varying lengths. The gaps provide the equivalent of "rest notes," spaces within the text that give each individual section room to breathe, to expand and contract. By "expand and contract," I mean that a section expands to communicate across the gaps with other sections by reiterating themes and words, but it also contracts into its own specified kernel of poésie, fulfilling its assigned, formal role within the text.
The final section is very short and is the only one that does not contain a Keats line or word, thus setting it apart and lending some dénouement to the loose narrative. Without at least that mild sense of conclusion, I think the ending might feel arbitrary or unnaturally truncated.
Overall, my purpose in writing the piece was simultaneously to play joyfully and to experience grief. It can be difficult to express dichotomies in language, which is a linear medium – so the poetry of Keats, so masterfully dichotomous, was the perfect choice to undergird my effort! Also, the musical structure provides a seamless context for this mishmash of opposing emotions, and allows the piece not to take itself too seriously while still implementing serious meanings.
About Yarrow Paisley
Yarrow Paisley lives in Western Massachusetts, 3rd Floor. He is a
graduate of Bard College, with a BA in Literature. His waking time
is given over to the following activities, in nonequal proportions
(calculated by entirely nonobjective nonmethods): toiling in the
candle factory (75%), raising his son (99%), writing (1.5%), wishing
for time travel (quiddity%). His recent and upcoming publications
include Sein
und Werden, Abjective,
Titular
(click "Please don't" on the submissions page! :), Diagonal
Proof, Barge
Journal, Clockwise
Cat, Collective Fallout,
The Other Room, Twelve
Stories, and Kerouac's
Dog Magazine. He's not ashamed of the
laundry list because he's just so darned proud of himself!