Aug 22, 2012

A Prologue


Call him whatever.
He spends all day sitting.
He doesn't appear to eat.
He doesn't appear to poop.
He doesn't appear to notice when he is covered in ants, when it is pouring rain, when it is 104 degrees.
Zoom out.

He is in the middle of a copse. Strong and varied trees surround him in a fractally-circular pattern. You know. The kind that appears in nature. The kind that an entire branch of art attempts to reproduce through the random application of dots to paper. The kind that screams out to you, "This happened by seeds falling off trees!"
It is strange to see so many different kinds of trees in one space. Normal groves have a limited number of different species that are optimal survivors for that particular ecosystem. Normal groves do not have an incredible variety of trees of different heights, circumferences, leaf shape, branch size, flowers, fruits, acorns, pinecones. Normal groves do not extend around a single point in a vaguely radial area for 100 meters and end abruptly. Normal groves may or may not fill you with an inexplicable but palpable feeling that life is good. Not your life, not this life, just life. It's good.
Outside of the grove is not as good, so I won't describe it.
Zoom in.

He is breathing.
You can tell this because his diaphragm expands and contracts. You can tell this because he is still alive. Maybe you can tell this by the way that the grasses around him move or maybe you are just imagining it. This style of observation can do that to a person. Like if you watch a candle flame in church for long enough you can start to believe that the movements of the wind and the growth of the fire are related intricately, complexly, and intimately to your own breath. You can begin to see that when you catch your breath the flame dies down, only to reach into the heavens when you fill once again. And in the same way your breath is dependent on the candle. When the wick catches up to the wax and sputters, you spasm in your seat and hope no one noticed you controlling this flame and this flame controlling you. Luckily, no one pays attention to anything in church.
Maybe this time, though.
Maybe his breath actually is connected to the grass around him.
Zoom in.

Wait a minute. Is he not on the ground?
He is floating above the ground. No, wait. Yes. Wait. David Blaine did this, so it's probably just an angle trick.
Circle.

Ok, so maybe he's shifting as we rotate. Or. Maybe. He's floating?
Zoom out.

Shh.

Are his eyes open? Oh yes, oh most definitely yes, oh they are open, oh man. Ok. It's ok. We already knew he was alive so what's the difference if his eyes are open or not what is he looking at? His eyes aren't moving. They're not moving at all. He's not blinking. It's ok though, he's not looking at the camera. He probably won't even know what it is. I mean, look at him, he's just a child.
A floating child.
Ok, let's get out of here, let's get out, get out.
Rapid retreat and ascent.

Status report? Good. Good.

Where's the grove?

Aug 16, 2012

It turns out this is the size of fiction that I can write


I need you to understand this: I could never live without you.

I've taken to wearing short-sleeved shirts again. It wasn't as bothersome as it could have been. People are used to the scars these days. I know when I was in high school that people would have taken notice, because they did. I didn't really mind the judging. I mean, high school is being judged. That's kind of the whole point. And I fucking loved the people who couldn't even look at me. But the fucking assholes who wanted to help me. I had a new mark everytime someone looked me in the eyes and whispered "are you ok?" But these days giving yourself scars is cool. It's in. Everyone who's anyone has been forced to take personality-destroyers (or at least turn a nice profit on them). I like it. I like that everyone knows that you're fucking trapped in there, in your body and the only reasonable thing to do is to keep track. Keep track of all the days where you thought to yourself "I'd kill myself if I wasn't worried that those crazy fucks are right and there IS an afterlife" or where you couldn't even think and you just started scratching because your skin was still there and you couldn't stop because if you stopped then you'd have to come up with some other thing to do, some way to just live and fuck that, fuck that shit, fuck fuck fuck fuck it. It's funny, isn't it? That it used to be the thing that you just suck up the fact that life is meaningless and you trudge on and you beat your kids in the privacy of your own home and they goddamn deserved it, how else were they going to learn how to grow up into the sort of person who beats the shit out of children, how will they ever learn? And now we've gone fucking soft and we've just admitted it: there is no point. There's nothing out there, and, more importantly, there's nothing in here. And it's so hard to believe because there is SO MUCH in here, it's just constant there's no way to avoid it you just fucking ARE and who could possibly come up with something worse than that. I mean that's the entire point of prison, right? You break the rules and they fucking say to you "You are the worst human being in existence. Your punishment is to continue to fucking exist."