Getting Hazel, or rather “Zelda,” to come across in the bedroom—the term
“ambivalence” didn’t begin to capture his feelings on that subject. It was all
about fingernail-on-glass sexual tension and weird time-traveling flirtation
mannerisms. There was something so irreparable about it. It was a massive
transgressive rupture in the primal fabric of human relationships.
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Not “love.” It was a different arrangement. A romance with no historical
precedent, all beta pre-release, an early-adapter thing; all shakeout, with a
million bugs and periodic crashes.
It wasn’t love, it was “evol.” It was “elvo.” Albert was in elvo with the
curvaceous bright-eyed babe who had once been the kindly senior citizen
next door.
At least he wasn’t like his dad. Stone dead of overwork on the stairsteps of
his mansion, in a monster house with a monster coronary. And with three
dead marriages: Mom One, Mom Two, and Mom Three. Mom One had the
kid and the child support. Mom Two got the first house and the alimony.
Mom Three was still trying to break the will.
How in hell had life become like this? thought Huddleston in a loud interior
voice, as he ritually peeled dead pseudoskin from a mirrored face that, even
in the dope-etched neural midnight of his posthuman soul, looked harmless
and perfectly trustworthy. He couldn’t lie to himself—because he was a
philosophy major, he formally despised all forms of cheesiness and phoniness.
He was here because he enjoyed it. It was working out for him. Because it
met his needs. He’d been a confused kid with emotional issues, but he was so
together now.
He had to give Zelda all due credit—the woman was a positive genius at
home economics. A household-maintenance whiz. Zelda was totally down
with Al’s ambitious tagging project. Everything in its place with a place for
everything. Every single shelf and windowsill was spic and span. Al and Zelda
would leaf through design catalogs together, in taut little moments of genuine
bonding.
Zelda was enthralled with the new decor scheme and clung to her household
makeover projects like a drowning woman grabbing life rings. Al had to admit
it: she’d been totally right about the stark necessity for new curtains. And the lamp thing—Zelda had amazing taste in lamps. You couldn’t ask for a better
garden-party hostess: the canapés, the Japanese lacquer trays, crystal swizzle
sticks, stackable designer porch chairs, Châteauneuf du Pape, stuff Al had
never heard of, stuff he wouldn’t have learned about for 50 years. Such great,
cool stuff.
She was his high-maintenance girl. A fixer-upper. Like a part-time wife,
sort of kind of, but requiring extensive repair work. A good-looking gal with
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a brand new wardrobe, whose calcium-depleted skeletal system was slowly
unhinging, requiring lots of hands-on foot rubs and devoted spinal adjustment.
It was a shame about her sterility thing. But let’s face it, who needed children?
Zelda had children. She couldn’t stand ’em.
What Al really wanted—what he’d give absolutely anything for—was
somebody, something, somewhere, somehow, who would give him a genuine
grip. To become a fully realized, fully authentic human being. He had this
private vision, a true philosophy almost: Albert “Owl” Huddleston, as a truly
decent person. Honest, helpful, forthright, moral. A modern philosopher. A
friend to mankind. It was that gesamtkunstwerk thing. No loose ends at all.
No ragged bleeding bits. The Total Work of Design.
Completely *put together,* Al thought, carefully flushing his face down
the toilet. A stranger in his own life, maybe, sure, granted, but so what, so
were most people. Even a lame antimaterialist like Henry Thoreau knew that
much. A tad dyslexic, didn’t read all that much, stutters a little when he
forgets his neuroceuticals, listens to books on tape about Italian design
theory, maybe a tad obsessive-compulsive about the $700 broom, and the
ultra-high-tech mop with the chemical taggant system that Displays
Household Germs in Real Time (C) (R) (TM) . . . But so what.
So what. So what is the real story here? Is Al a totally together guy, on top
and in charge, cleverly shaping his own destiny through a wise choice of
tools, concepts, and approaches? Or is Al a soulless figment of a hyperactive
market, pieced together like a shattered mirror from a million little impacts
of brute consumerism? Is Al his own man entire, or is Al a piece of flotsam in
the churning surf of techno-revolution? Probably both and neither. With the
gratifying knowledge that it’s All Completely Temporary Anyway (R).
Technological Innovation Is An Activity, Not An Achievement (SM). Living
On The Edge Is Never Comfortable (C).
What if the story wasn’t about design after all? What if it wasn’t about your
physical engagement with the manufactured world, your civilized niche in
historical development, your mastery of consumer trends, your studied
elevation of your own good taste, and your hands-on struggle with a universe
of distributed, pervasive, and ubiquitous smart objects that are choreographed
in invisible, dynamic, interactive systems. All based, with fiendish computer-
assisted human cleverness, in lightness, dematerialization, brutally rapid
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product cycles, steady iterative improvement, renewability, and fantastic
access and abundance. What if all of that was at best a passing thing. A by-
blow. A techie spin-off. A phase. What if the story was all about this, instead: What if you tried your level best to be a real-life, fully true human being, and it just plain couldn’t work? It wasn’t even possible. Period.
Zelda stirred and opened her glamorous eyes. “Is everything clean?”
“Yeah.”
“Is it all put away?”
“Yep.”
“Did you have another nightmare?”
“Uh. No. Sure. Kinda. Don’t call them ‘nightmares,’ okay? I just thought
I’d . . . you know . . . boot up and check out the neighborhood.”
Zelda sat up in bed, tugging at the printed satin sheet. “There are no more
solutions,” Zelda said. “You know that, don’t you? There are no happy
endings. Because there are no endings. There are only ways to cope.”
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THE BLOG AT THE
END OF THE WORLD
By Paul Tremblay
About Becca Gilman:
I am twenty-something, living somewhere in Brooklyn, and am angry and scared like everyone else I know. Sometimes this blog helps me, sometimes it doesn’t.
I have degrees in bio and chem, but don’t use them. That’s all you really need to know. All right?
still here
Becca Gilman • June 17th, 20__
Barely. I tried calling Mom two days ago but there was no answer and
she hasn’t called me back. I’m still not over GRANT’S passing; my personal
tipping point and I hate myself for referring to Grant that way, but it’s true.
I haven’t left my apartment in over a week. The local market I use for
grocery delivery stopped answering their phone yesterday. I’ve only
seen three cabs today. They’re old and dinged up, from some independent
cab company I don’t recognize, and they just drive around City Line, circling, like they’re stuck in some loop, like the drivers don’t know what
else to do. At night I count how many windows I can see with the lights
on. The city was darker last night than it was last week, or the week before. The city is falling apart. It’s slow and subtle, but you can see it if
you look hard enough. Watch. Everything is slowing down. A wind-up
toy running down and with no one to wind it up. Everything is dying but
not quite dead yet, so people just go about their days as if nothing is
wrong and nothing bad can happen tomorrow.
I’ve had a headache for a week now, my neck hurts, and I’ve been really
sensitive to light. I’m scared, but not terrified anymore. Mostly, I’m just incredibly sad.
PAUL TREMBLAY
6 Responses to “still here”
squirrelmonkey says:
June 17, 20__ at 9:32 am
I just tried calling and left a message. I am going to stop by your place
today. Please answer your buzzer.
Jenn Parker says:
June 17, 20__ at 1:12 pm
I’m not surprised that you’re experiencing headaches and the like. You’re
so obsessed with the textbook symptoms, you’re now psychosomatically
experiencing them. I am surprised it has taken this long. I had February
2009 in the pool. Get help. Psychiatric help.
beast says:
June 28, 20__ at 4:33 am
i live in new york city to last weak i saw this guy drop dead in the street he
pressed a button at the traffic light on the corner and then died there was no
one else around just me he wasnt old probably younger than me he died
and then i saw whats really happning to everyone cause two demons fell
out of the sky and landed next to him maybe they were the gargoiles from
the buildings i dont know but they were big strong gray with muscles and
wings and large teeth the sidewalk broke under their heavyness they
growled like tigers and licked up the blood that came out of the guys ears
and mouth but that wasn’t good enough they broke his chest open and there was red everywere on the sidewalk and street corner i didnt know
there was so much blood in us but they know they took off his arms and legs
then gather him up in their big strong arms and flew away he was gone i
went back and checked the next day he was gone after i walked around the
city i saw the demons every were but noone saw them but me they fly and
climb the buildings waiting for us to die and take us just like you i am afraid and stay in my apartment but don’t look out my window any more
revelations says:
July 5, 20__ at 12:12 am
Maybe you’re “fuck heaven” comments from you’re earlier post caught
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up to you, and you’re fear mongering and lies have finally caught up with
you. GOD punishes the wicked.
Jenn Parker says:
July 5, 20__ at 2:45 pm
I like beast. I want to party with you, dude!
Hey, revelations, stick to book burning and refuting evolution.
revelations says:
July 12, 20__ at 10:09 am
I can sum it all up in three words: Evolution is a lie.
Link Roundup
Becca Gilman • May 19th, 20__
I don’t feel up to it, but here’s a link roundup, in honor of Grant
San Jose Mercury News: The Silicon Valley’s home sales continue to
tank with the number of deals at a 40-year low. The mayor of San Jose
attributes the market crisis to the glut of homes belonging to the recently
deceased.
The Burlington Free Press reports that a May 3rd session of Congress
ended with the sudden death of Missouri Representative William
Hightower and Senator Jim Billingsly from Vermont. While neither
Hightower nor Billingsly has been seen publicly since the 3rd, the offices
of both congressmen have yet to make any such announcement, and
their only official comment is to claim the story is patently false.
The Miami Herald reports that according to UNICEF, the populations of
children in Kenya and Ethiopia have declined by a stunning 24 percent
within the past year. The UN and United States government dispute
the findings, claiming widespread inaccuracies in the “hurried and
irresponsible” census.
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8 Responses to “Link Roundup”
Jenn Parker says:
May 24th, 20__ at 7:48 pm
Reputable sources at a quick glance, but let’s address each link:
The San Jose Mercury News has already issued a partial retraction
here. The mayor of San Jose never attributed the market crisis to the
supposed glut of homes belonging to the deceased. Honestly, other than
within the backdrop of our collective state of paranoia/hysteria, such a
claim/statement doesn’t make any economic sense. People aren’t
buying homes for a myriad of economic reasons, but too many deaths
due to an imaginary epidemic isn’t one of them.
The links to your burlington and miami papers are dead. I suppose you
could spin the dead links to bolster the conspiracy theory, but here in
reality, the dead links serve only as a representation of your desperation
to perpetuate conspiracy.
squirrelmonkey says:
May 25th, 20__ at 7:03 am
Ever heard of Google, Jenn? Those articles can still be found in the cache. It’s not a hard to find. Do you want me to show you how?
Jenn Parker says:
May 25th, 20__ at 1:23 pm
Why were the articles almost instantaneously removed? You’ll tell me
it’s due to some all-encompassing conspiracy, when the real answer is
those papers got their stories wrong so they had to pull the articles.
Happens all the time. I guarantee retractions will be published within days. Oh-master-of-Google, prove me wrong by finding another news-outlet corroboration to either story. Read carefully, please. I want a news-outlet that does not site the Burlington Free Press or Miami Herald
as their primary sources. If you try such a search, you’ll be at it for a long
time, because I can’t find any other independent reports.
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slugwentbad says:
May 25th, 20__ at 10:13 pm
I’ve called Billingsly’s office on three occasions, and I’ve been told he’s
unavailable every time.
Jenn Parker says:
May 25th, 20__ at 10:23 pm
Oh, that proves everything, then.
discostewie says:
May 26th, 20__ at 8:27 am
Bees and bats and amphibians are disappearing, mysteriously dying off
(are you going to refute that too, Jenn?). Is it so hard to believe that the
same isn’t happening to us?
batfan says:
June 25th, 20__ at 3:37 am
Hi, remember me? Come check out my new gambling site for the all the
best poker and sports action. It’s awesome. http://www.gamblor234.net
speworange says:
August 222n, 20__ at 10:46 am
Humans are harder to kill than cockroaches.
More Grant Lee
Becca Gilman • May 12th, 20__
I went to Grant’s wake today. The visiting hours were only one hour.
2pm–3pm. I got there at 2. We had some common friends but I didn’t
see anyone that I knew there. I didn’t see his sister or recognize any
family members either. I waited in a line that started on the street. No
one talked or shared eye contact. This is so hard to write. I’m trying to
be clinical. The mourners were herded inside the funeral parlor, but it
split into three different rooms. Grant’s room was small with mahogany
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moulding on the walls and a thick, soft tan carpet on the floor. There
were flowers everywhere. The smell was overpowering and made the
air thick. The family had asked for a donation to a charity in lieu of flowers. I don’t remember the charity. There was no casket. Grant
wasn’t there; he wasn’t in the room. There wasn’t a greeting line, and I
don’t know where his family was. There was only a big flat-screen TV
on the wall. The TV scrolled with images of Grant and his friends and
family. I was in one of those pictures. We were at the Pizza Joint, standing next to each other, bent over, our faces perched in our hands,
elbows on the counter. I had flour on the tip of my nose and he had his
PJ baseball hat on backwards, his long black hair tucked behind his
ears. Our smiles matched. It was one of those rare posed pictures that
still manage to capture the spirit of a candid. That picture didn’t stay on
the screen long enough. Other people’s memories of Grant crowded it
out. Also, the pictures of Grant mixed with stock photos and video clips
of blue sky and rolling clouds like some ridiculous subliminal commercial
for heaven. There was a soundtrack to the loop; the music was formless
and light, with no edges or minor chords. Aural Valium. It was awful. All
of it. The mourners walked around the room’s perimeter in an orderly
fashion. Point A to B to C to D and out the door. I didn’t follow them. I
held my ground and stayed rooted to a spot as people brushed past
me. No one asked if I was okay, not that I wanted them to. I watched
the TV long enough to see the images loop back to its beginning, or at
least the beginning that I had seen. I don’t know if there was a true
beginning and a true end. After seeing the loop once, I stared at the
other mourners’ faces. Their eyes turned red and watered when the
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