The Flammarion Syncope
Page 18
In that moment.
Flesh, bone- all consumed- by the atom
The shadow is left behind- the soul.
The great atom.Death.
What rapacious hunger you have?
Too sullied flesh.
Warmth.Dizzying confusion.Food.
Flower tiled ceiling.
Ancient. Goodness.
I remain trapped.Mind is my own.
Why?Why?Why?Why?
Trapped? Entomb.
Earth’s womb
Perhaps-… Torment is purgatory-
Perhaps.-I can be free.
If I choose to be-…Fasting in fires-
My crimes done in my days of nature are burnt and purged away- The fire is only burning my flesh-
I attach life to my flesh.
My flesh is only muscle, sinew, and fat.
Supported by bone.
Within I have my soul.
Burn my sweet flesh away-Free my soul-.
Sweet flame then.Burn until the flesh is aflame
Free my soul- Free my spirit
Fire.Burn
Enter..- Cleanse-
Shadow of myself.
What a rogue and peasant slave am I…?
What of the shadow now. Crown broken.
A shadow not bound to the body. Flesh flayed.
Skull shattered.A puppet cut free from their strings.
The pain that once held me gone.The chains slip from my bones.
Flesh was a burden.I am of the sky.Ephemeral.
Eternal.Light.Dark.Oblivion.
Eternal.Light.Dark.Oblivion.
Eternal.Light.Dark.Oblivion.
Eternal-Light-Dark-Oblivion-
Eternal-Light-Dark-Oblivion-
Eternal-Light-Dark-Oblivion-
Eternal.Light.Dark.Oblivion.
Eternal.Light.Dark.Oblivion.
Eternal.Light.Dark.Oblivion.
The shadow, the hollow, the hungry ghost. Seek.
Sphinx of black quartz, judge my vow…
Om
“Why are you smiling?” The doctor asks leaning down beside my hospital bed in the stark white room.
“Because. I figured it out.” I said, paper clothes itching my skin.
“What did you figure out?” The doctor asked.
“It all happened because it needed to. All is well. Even this. The misery. The horror. The atrocity. I-I had to- because I had to live to this point and realize it.” I said.
“What is your name?” The doctor asked.
“If this is it. This will have been enough. Because I have this moment. In this moment, not the next, and not the last one, I am free.” I said smiling through the pain.
“Well, I mean it looks worse than it is. I think you will be fine.” The doctor said as they examined my injuries.
“Amen?” I said.
“You will be fine.” The doctor lied.
“Good. For a second. I was. Scared. I didn’t want to die. I feel like I’ve got so much more to do see, and you know. All that.” I said.
“Don’t be scared.” The doctor lied.
“I was… out with … I don’t remember.” I said.
“Well can you tell me what day it is today?” The doctor asked.
“Day. It was… I’m sorry. What was the question?” I said.
“I am sure it will come back to you.” The doctor lied.
“Doctor. Did something happen?” I asked.
“Do you know what happened?” The doctor asked.
“…” I said.
The hospital room’s fluorescent lights once bright grew dim. My gray clammy skin was sticking to the bed. I felt pain in my chest, a crushing feeling. And then a calm. A shadowy figure stands in the corner. Familiar, but I cannot make out their face.
“Can you tell me your name?” The doctor asked.
“Name? I’m…” I stuttered for a moment in recollection.
“…” I mouthed the empty syllables of my name.
“Sorry. I couldn’t hear you…” The doctor said.
The world had gone mute. The sound went first. The lights get brighter, and foggy. The world outside the door disappears. I am floating upon an infinite white plane. I stare down upon my broken body upon the slab. The doctor toiling over my lifeless flesh. Snow falls around me and I feel icy chill- then warmth? Odd.
Chapter 21-
“Art is simply sublime sublimation.”
Chelsea N. Oppenheimer
The night is strange. Sleep. It is late. Writing. I cannot sleep. I wake. I wallow. I write. I sleep. I repeat the cycle. I realize I have written myself into a corner. The author is the dreamer. The writer. The god of the play. Reality is a prison that writing expels me from. I am thrust back each time I stop. I spend my nights alone. The light stays on and I write. I try to put myself into a writing trance like the night before. It does not come. Writing is a solitary activity I tell myself. Like all art.
“You can either be happy and in love, or you can write.” One of my professors said that.
Everything in my apartment house was falling apart. Mattress on the floor. My office chair held together with duct tape. My computer needs to be hotwired to start and the CD trays was perpetually open, a cup holder. My car had died. I had that car for ten years. I did everything in that car. I never expected it to end like that. Even machines die. Entropy sucks.
The permutations of reality are endless, now of writing this sentence, an else-self simultaneously destroy the entire manuscript and quietly hangs themselves from the crossbeam of a studio apartment in New York. This city; this great, giant city. All these lives, wriggling, grasping, feeding, killing. We are the crawling chaos.
“I thought you liked video games.” He said.
“They are kids’ stuff.” I said, handing him the handheld game console box he had bought me back.
“I appreciate- the thought though.” I lied.
“I was hoping we could play together?” He said.
“I can watch, you can win for me.” I said.
To live without art, to live without our creature comforts. Grunting and sweating under the burning eyes of gods. Eking out a meager existence. Writing our chronicle of what came before. Wailing to the uncaring sky, appealing to a god that has abandoned us.
I AM
F
ALL
I
NG
AP
ART
Brilliant dazzling prose will win me wealth beyond reason.
For that I would need knowledge beyond wit.
Sing to me now muse.
Poor Faust; wretched soul in an evil play.
Veni,
Veni,
Mephistopheles.
They do not come. They must be summoned.
Light the candle. Draw the circle.
Incant the old songs.Bleed the blood.
Crow caw.Cat mew. Fire crackle.
Hot iron.Sear the flesh.
Being. Tonight.
End.Walpurgisnacht.
“Lost in the whirling ether. I ponder my fate. C'est la vie.” I sigh and drink heavily on my brandy, slowly.
It numbs the pain. The brandy.
“Other times, other selves. Others slices of myself scattered through space. The patter of the keys illustrates other lives. My reflection from a glass darkly. Darkness turns windows into mirrors.” I said to myself, then I noticed something, a presence- observing me.
“Do come in; introductions are in order? What brought you to this point in time and space?” I said to you.
You pause, decided what to say.
“
.”
I nodded with appreciation. “Tell me a about yourself.“
You stop, thinking for a moment before responding.
“
.”
“Thank you.” I said, laughing to myself. “Take care watcher.”
You decide your action, then do it.
“As you read these words, watcher, of the world- my meanin
g will be lost in the maelstrom of words. This self a suit of clothes, ideas as hats, idioms as lipstick- all to clothe my naked fear of the emptiness within and without. Naked fear. Existential dread. we were all but mayflies in the dawn, destined to die before the next evening- to live, to dance- then die.” I said to you.
You know you must continue on, I wave to you, farewell.
“If you are feeling merciful… please re-read this page, and answer it differently than last time- if you move on- I’ll cease to exist- please- help me! I don’t want to cease to exist- with your help I can exist awhile longer...” I pleaded, fading, desperately grasping towards you as you drift out of reach.
The club is lively; the flashing lights, the dancing figures, men playing pool in the back, the crowded dance floor is a crawling chaos. Smell of sweet sweat and lust. I stand on the side. Watching everyone. The music is in tongues, my ears ring. The floor is sticky and stained, pieces of errant glass waiting to prick a foot. I leaned against the railing of the dancefloor and looked down at grinding figures. The bouncers run to the pool tables in the back and break up a fight; blood stained drunks are dragged out. Dinner and a show.
“Having fun?” The stranger asked.
“Yeppers peppers.” I said.
“You could try smiling.” The stranger asked.
“Try a diner, smiles are free.” I said.
“It is easy to judge those dancing, it is hard to cease judgements and dance anyways.” The stranger said.
I turned around.
“I can’t dance, I’m not shitfaced.” I said, straining under the din of the throbbing music.
“Once you get into the music, you no longer need to be.” They said, laughing.
“I don’t see you dancing.” I laughed.
“I would like to dance with you.” The stranger smiled.
“Would you?” I rolled my eyes. “I don’t dance.”
“You choose how lonely you are.” The stranger said as they turned away and disappeared into the masses.
“Wait…” I said, turning towards them, but they were gone.
The classroom is a boring off-white, the carpet is a mash up of various grays, browns, and greens to hide the stains. My desk is a cheap veneer covered particle board, too heavy to move without serious effort.
“Elysium is enough for me.” My professor said, then they stopped and took a drink of water and cleared their throat. “Which brings me to my last topic before you leave.”
“I have a question.” I raised my hand and asked.
“…” My professor stopped to take a drink.
The guy next to me raised his hand. “...”
“I forgot, we all are living in YOUR world, not you are living in THE world...” My professor turned a shade of red and leaned over the podium acrobatically- and pointed- indicating an incoming rant.
The professor stopped as suddenly as he began.
The professor cried out, almost fearful.
Then collapsed.
The classroom gasped, and the professor grasped their chest.
“…?!”
I cried out in disbelief.
The classroom frozen in fear thawed in fervor;
All life drained from the professor.
We gasped. We scurried.We screamed.
Few ran to the front.Tried to help. With first aid.
Others called emergency services.
911.911.911.911.911.
Not me. I did nothing.Watching from above.
Catatonic.At first.Then I began to laugh.
And laugh. And laugh. And laugh. And cry.
Maybe the Germans have a word for it.
I had no word though. …
So sad it is funny,
So funny it is sad.
I’m here all night- try the buffet...
Chapter 22-
“The Ellipsis is perhaps the most misunderstood literary convention, meaning not silence, but something left out.”
Chelsea N. Oppenheimer
“I don't know how to end the story.” I said.
“How do you think it should end?” She said.
“So, I mean it doesn't seem fitting to end it with something made up since it is about me.” I said.
“Is there anything made up in it?” She asked.
“Fiction is far more exciting than me. My life- though weird isn’t anything to write home about- I had to make new events, create poetry, create characters, erase others.” I said.
“Sounds exactly like life. Maybe this would be a good ending, how you don't know how to end it.” She said. “I like that you are ending your book and finishing counseling with me, a good parallel.”
“Yeah, that makes sense.” I said.
“Sense.” She said.
“I feel like I'd like the reader to make their own conclusions about the characters.” I said.
“What do you think about your characters?” She said.
“Well I ended up hating the main one; but some of the other ones were actually pretty cool. I was like: What a depressing annoying edge-fuck the main character is.” I said.
“But isn’t the main one based on you?” She said.
“Based on how I was, but I changed and my perception of myself changed. You know?” I said.
“I’m not following you.” She said.
“Art, you can look at the same painting as someone else and while you might be able to appreciate the aesthetic part, but everything deeper is personal. I could be wrong though” I said.
“Like you and Faust.” She said.
“Exactly. But I haven’t figured out if I am good or evil.” I said.
“Why not both?” She said.
“But then I am evil.” I said.
“But then you are also good.” She said.
“They cancel each other out.” I said.
“Depth borne from contrast; soul and shadow.” She said.
“But I’ve done lots of shitty hurtful shit in the shade.” I said.
“Well, you had your reasons I’m sure.” She said.
“I suppose.” I said. “Everyone does. Shitty ones.”
“Hurt people, hurt people…” She said.
“I thought I would have epiphany with horns and trumpets upon reaching the end. But instead, 23 chapters later, nothing.” I said.
“Lost in the night sky, seeking the moon.” She said.
We sat in silence here.
“I think that makes the book truer to life, there is no meaning but what you make of it and how you approach it. If you had moral or just dessert at the end, then it wouldn’t be true. Life keeps going and going, doesn’t make much sense, people you love die or fade away, the closest stay, and eventually you die.” She said.
“People read literature, to escape right?” I said.
“Why do you think self-help books sell so well?” She said.
“I’m not sure anymore.” I said.
“Are you having second thoughts on the meandering through time, space, sex, and death.” She said.
“I liked the concept when I started. But it isn’t me anymore- though- editing it, here at the end, years later… ” I said, frowning.
“Well, it wasn’t you as soon as you wrote it down. When you are writing the characters, then they are alive, like you- but afterward, they become starlight. Appearing alive because of the watcher’s perspective in linear time. All your character’s fates are decided long ago, and then watcher sort through it all. Life is the same.” She said.
“I could write in an epiphany right now. I mean now-now, not when you- whoever you are, is reading this. Like, right now, as I write this sentence. This character is still alive. But soon. Once I finish this, I can’t. Kind of scary. As a character to think about.” I said.
“Trapped in amber. Forever.” She said.
“The ship that sails.” I said, smiling.
“Astute.” She said.
“Thanks. I think I’ve made sense of it.” I said.
�
�You have?” She asked. “What will you do?”
“Keep it vague, weird, and hope someone can understand me. The same I do in real life.” I laughed.
“This is the last session then?” She asked.
“Trauma symptoms gone, guilt over my friend’s death resolved, meaning from losses- checkmate, daddy issues solved, and now, I know how to end my book. I think this is the end.” I said.
“Congratulations.” My therapist smiled, handed me the bill.
She leads me through the maze of passages, all too common, but I made it out.
“Thank you.” I said, smiling standing in the entrance.
“Take care!” She gives me a hug.
I open the door, turn, and wave goodbye.
“A good ending, or a bad ending, are up to the interpretation of the audience. Audiences are audiences, if you write what you write, someone will hate it, others will love it, the nature of art. The magic of writing is you can freeze time- preserve precious thoughts, a moment, and or feelings for future generations to view.” My college instructor stopped and took a drink. “That way, even if nobody understood you in your own time, maybe one day someone might; or send messages to a future self- a primitive tachyon telephone almost.”
“I have a question. Best ending?” I asked.