Lodestar Snicker from the Void: a Bulletin
One morning after Sunday Mass my dad carried me up to meet the priest. The sheen of his gold leaf Bible lured me in. Talking with him I got the idea that God had written it. I just about lost it. You mean the man who lives up in the sky and made everything… wrote a book?! I have to learn to read IMMEDIATELY! But my parents shrugged me off. I was only two years old at the time so unless I wanted to wait a literal lifetime and a half for school, I’d have to teach myself. Duty-bound, I grabbed my Speak & Spell and set out alone to learn to read on pilgrimage.
Today for lodestar fiction I use The Nova Trilogy. It resists being understood in the typical sense and yet still cuts straight to the quick. In intriguing, unknowable ways it raises just the questions I like. The story chronicles an ongoing struggle between the Nova Heat and the Nova Mob. The Nova Heat are a hapless group of pervert artists trying to spread the word that infinite consumption on a finite planet might not be such a bright idea. They’re up against the Nova Mob, a gang of apocalyptic forces trying to suck the world dry before they blow it up. Their main thing is snatching bodies at will; seducing everyone with all the most depraved, exciting vices. In the end the author, William S. Burroughs, doesn’t declare a winner. The struggle persists as it must.
Maybe my favorite thing about it is the way it uses the stuff of dreams: word salad, repetition, psychological refuse etc. Through these literary discards, to the patient reader The Nova Trilogy reveals itself to be a paraliterature—a literature designed to go beyond itself and take the reader along. But when it succeeds, where does art that goes “beyond” actually go? Publishers Bennett Cerf and Donald Klopfer must’ve had an idea when they snagged Ulysses, the chaotic novel that brought Random House to prominence. What did they see? Why were they right? Where does the march of the avant-garde, art’s front lines, lead?
At its best, the page can provide neutral grounds where we might encounter the sublime. Like the space that holds both the yin and yang (“the wuji”), readers can potentially meet both the terrors and miracles of life and self simultaneously. If the piece works, it does a demi-transubstantiation in its reader. It changes into something that stirs its reader’s world, even if only subtly. Hopefully, through this encounter the reader is compensated for their time with at-least slightly improved skills toward the ends of having really lived before dying. From Ulysses to The Nova Trilogy to Lincoln in the Bardo, the march of the avant-garde proves itself a heartbeat of sorts, beckoning audiences to know the world beyond the confines of themselves. In this way the avant-garde shows itself as being on its own pilgrimage, shadowing the death-defying call of life itself.
Yearning
It’s 2:40
And I felt like describing this strange feeling that I never really thought of explaining. “The Tug” I’ve been calling it lately. I know it is quite a silly name for a feeling that knows how to create and destroy me. The feeling resides at the centre of my chest. It’s like someone dipping their hand in my soul and trying to pull it out of the cage it’s been trapped in for a while. Sometimes it feels like a strong push from the inside.
Something wants to get out
Something is trying to tell me,
“What are you waiting for?”
I wonder if people around me feel the same. The feeling is rather overwhelming, but again for me every feeling is overwhelming. This ‘tug’ surfaces when I want to be heard, when I want to speak but my shyness shuts me up.
“Why don’t you speak up?”
“You want to be heard, don’t you?”
“You know a lot about this”
“How can you not articulate when your mind is full of words?”
The ‘tug’ painfully reminds me of the things I’m missing out on. The places I could have traveled, the sights I could have seen, the rush of happiness I could have felt, but here I am wallowing in self pity.
“What are you waiting for?”
I feel the ‘tug’ drive me to insanity when my toxic perfectionism chains me down. When I miss out on things I love doing because I’m scared of not being good enough, scared of failing.
“What is there to lose?”
I look at my clock, it’s 2:54. The ‘tug’ reminds me of who I miss the most. I cry, I smile.
I yearn.
-Yearning, by Aks
Dust to Dust
The house is crumbling down around me
Or am I imagining all the cracks in the walls
There is a woman's face behind the bare studs
She whispers to me the end is near
I tell her she aint seen nothin yet
Wait till the floor gives way
When it happens we are both ready
Holding hands we carelessly slip away
a blunt weapon
there was a time when he’d
fear nothing more
than the bluntness of the
empty bottle
his torment
his nightmare, his hell
The bottle would be
all right as long as it stayed full
It was like Lucifer before the fall
Oh, but once it emptied
then it would change completely
Then he’d see father’s grip
reverse on its neck
and turn it into a blunt weapon
that delivered its fair share
of bruises and scabs on the scalp
It never broke
like in the movies
but it surely hit harder than wood
But in the end
after all those years of standing
in its greenish shadow
he found himself thanking the bottle
It’s simple
What you don’t pick up
you don’t end up holding
He never touched a beer in his life
and certainly didn’t use
the bottle as a blunt weapon
against anybody
not even against his own father
as revenge
The cleaver was far
more effective
***
HEAR ME READ IT:
https://bogdandragos.com/2021/02/26/a-blunt-weapon/
Polished Oak
Martin heard the bell of his 5:30 am alarm in his head before it went off. He didn’t need it to wake up anymore. Truth be told, he hadn’t needed it in years. But, “Better safe than sorry”, his beautiful Edith would remind him. They were married for fifty-four years, so she reminded him about a lot of things.
Sliding his spindly, wrinkled legs off the edge of the bed, he touched his toes to the cold floorboards. The floor was never warm — not in July and not in January — polished oak was like that. Beautiful, but always cold. He couldn’t bring himself to wear socks to bed, and he was too cheap to buy slippers. What good was a pair of shoes you only wore to get out of bed and to get the newspaper?
Breakfast would be bran flakes. It was always bran flakes. Sometimes with raisins, if he was lucky. Martin was rarely lucky — regular, but never lucky — today was no different.
After eating his fiber, he poured a cup of freshly brewed coffee that was always waiting for him when he woke up. He enjoyed a cup of coffee or two while he read the paper. Something about the richness of it made swallowing all the bullshit he was reading go down a little easier. Thank God for coffee, there was always a lot of bullshit. Today was no different.
Edith didn’t like it when he cursed. He tried not to do it, but he did it often. Not the really foul words mind you. But, a ‘shit’ or a ‘sonufa bitch’ were regular occurrences. He reserved the ‘F’ word for special occasions, like that time he smacked his head on the cabinets when he was fixing the plumbing. His wife threatened him with a ‘curse jar’ more than once — Dear Abby recommended it in a column she read — but never followed through. It’s a good thing, too; he’d have gone broke.
After his breakfast, coffee, and the paper — Chock full o’Nuts and Chock full o’bullshit — he shuffled back to his bedroom to get dressed. Some days he would stay in his pajamas and robe. But he had to go somewhere today and needed to wear his suit. He hadn’t had a reason to wear it in a while, but today he needed it. It was neatly pressed and hanging out for him. Edith always made sure it was pressed. He chose a shirt and a nice blue tie that would match the dress he bought for Edith.
He got dressed and combed his thin gray hair. He put on a splash of Edith’s favorite aftershave. She liked Old Spice, which was fine for him because it was cheap. It didn’t have to be some expensive eau de toilette to make her happy and he liked to keep her happy; His life was easier when she was happy. A marriage doesn’t last fifty-four years if the wife isn’t happy.
Martin collected a few items from his dresser. He put on his wedding ring first, he couldn’t sleep with it on. It was right on top of his jewelry box so he would remember it every day. Since he was getting dressed up he decided to use his pocket watch. Edith always thought it was fancy when men wore them, it made them look important. Important people always had someplace to be. He had someplace to be today.
He checked the time on the pocket watch — Edith would be at the church by noon — it was nine-thirty am. St. Mary’s was across town and a few stops away by subway. He would have to leave soon if he wanted to make it on time.
Martin shuffled around the house, room to room, and made sure all the lights were off. Electricity wasn’t cheap, and he was. He paused in the foyer to have a look at himself in the mirror, hardly recognizing the man staring back at him. When did he get so old?
He didn’t care for the subway. It was crowded and always smelled like stale urine and mildew. The long dark tunnels reaching out in every direction made him uneasy, though he never knew why. Still, the subway would get him to St. Mary’s, and that’s where he needed to be today. Edith would already be there, in the blue dress he bought for her that matched his tie. The train shuddered and began to move away from the station.
St. Mary’s was a beautiful building. Edith always loved the architecture, she said it reminded her of a fairy tale. Martin wasn’t a religious man, but Edith was faithful. This place held a lot of memories for them. They got married here, and their children had been baptized here.
He checked his pocket watch — almost noon — and made his way into the cathedral. There were quite a few people here for the service today. Edith would be at the front, in the pretty blue dress he bought for her that matched his tie. He shuffled down the aisle towards the front of the church, this was a trip he had taken before so he knew the way.
Edith was already there, just as he knew she would be, and she looked beautiful. Her make-up was perfect, and her hair just so, like it always was. All their years together did not diminish the love he felt when he saw her.
He walked over to where she was and put a hand on her shoulder. He wanted her to know she was there. He leaned down and whispered in her ear, “I’m here sweetheart”, and kissed her softly on her cheek before taking his seat in the pew.
After the service, he stood up and went to her. With a tear in his eye, he said goodbye one last time. They closed the lid of the ornate wooden box where she rested, and then he wept. Resting one hand on top of the box. It felt cold. Polished oak was like that. Beautiful, but always cold.
One For Many
My name is Malcolm Reynolds, and I am a bouncer. No, not that kind. I don’t stand outside popular Night Clubs admitting only the attractive ladies while denying entry to teenage boys who’s faked ID’s introduce them as Giuseppe Cordova: age 43. Especially when one can see the spirit gum holding on their fake mustachios.
I’m what they call a Body Bouncer. I can see that you’re confused, so please allow me to elaborate.
I have a special ability. I can’t tell you how I got it, that’s a secret, but it allows my consciousness access to my mitochondrial DNA at the molecular level. This particular portion of your genetic code gets transferred only from Mother to child; unlike Nuclear DNA which you get from both parents. It’s a complex process and I won’t bore you with the science of it. Essentially, it allows me to transfer my consciousness backwards in time to any ancestor on my Mother’s side. So far, the distance I can travel, and by distance I mean the number of years into the past, appears to unlimited. And it’s a damned good thing too, as you are about to find out.
“H.H. Holmes. Ever heard of him?” My handler, Lita tossed the red manila folder into my lap.
“Sounds like the name of a department store.” I grabbed the file and opened it, scanning over the details and the small photograph paper-clipped to the upper corner. I know what your thinking. They can travel back in time, but they still use paper office products. It’s a dichotomy. What can I tell you.
If you need something ‘undone’ my agency is the one you call. Well, not you so much, I doubt you’re all that important, or wealthy. And you’re also not likely a Government Office, or a Law Enforcement agency either. Those places, they call us pretty often. Think of us as a kind of ‘preventive medicine’. Our motto at the Bureau of Temporal Reclamation is: “We building a BetTeR world, one step through time.”
“Not even close.” Rosalita Vasquez rolled her eyes at me; She does that quite a bit. But don’t you call her Rosalita, She says it makes her sound too ‘ethnic’. Never mind her dark curls, even darker brown eyes and caramel-colored skin. That’s not a giveaway at all.
She continued on.
“Dr. Henry Howard Holmes, a.k.a. Herman Mudgett, Born in New Hampshire in 1861.”
“I can read you know.” I smiled at her, continuing to read the document. “This guy is a real piece of work, isn’t he? Suspected of over 200 murders...builds a house of horrors in which to murder and then dispose of his victims...Jesus Christ.”
“So, you know what you need to do on this one.” She pulled the aforementioned dark curls into a scrunchied, bushy ponytail and rolled up her shirt sleeves. “Let’s get to work, shall we?”
*****
I was barely able to control the horses despite having a firm grip on the reins; the moment of transfer is always pretty dicey. One minute you’re on a table wearing a wire harness around your head, and the next you’re in the middle of a bustling city street in control of 2600lbs of horse-and-carriage careening down a muddy street. It’s a bit jolting; every time. But, once I gain control of my faculties and get oriented to my surroundings, I’m usually alright. This time I was not so lucky.
I must have hit a bump or a rock or something, because next thing I knew I was head over heals over the front rail, face down in what had to be 3 inches of mud and horse shit. Luckily, I landed right behind the horse and between the wheels, because the carriage rolled on without crushing me.
“Dear God! Are you alright Madame?” The voice came from behind and to my left. A moment later and strong arm was pulling me up from the mire. “You went right up and over, saw the whole thing I did. Thought for sure you were a goner.”
“I’m fine, I’m fine, thank you.” I was wiping the mud away from my face and neck when It dawned on me. He called me Madame. “Ugh...not again” I muttered under my breath, but he must have heard me.
“Do you often land face first in the mud in the middle of a street?” He looked at me quizzically.
“No, no, I’m sorry, I was referring to having to chase down that horse. Again. Third time this week.”
This was one of the unfortunate side effects of accessing the Mitochondrial DNA. As it predominantly traces the mother’s lineage, my consciousness often ends up in a female host. It’s not as bad as you might think. And, after all, I am a modern man; I’m secure in my masculinity. I’m sure that would sound more convincing if I weren’t wiping the muck off of my bosom and ankle-length skirt.
Where was a paper-boy when you needed him? I looked around trying to get a lay of the land, so to speak. There was a crossroad just up ahead of where I took my spill. I figured heading in that direction was my best bet. As I continued to shake the mud from my clothes I made my way towards the street ahead, the subject of more than one sideways glance. Making eye contact with a shopkeeper that was sweeping the dust from his porch, I approached.
“Sir, could you tell me the date?” I asked him, trying not to sound as crazy as I must have looked.
“Beg pardon? The date? It’s erm...uh...” he stammered for a moment before finally spitting it out. “Why, it’s Thursday, 16th of May.”
“The year sir, what year is is it?” That always made them look at me like I was a bit of a loon.
“Are you alright miss? Do you need a Doctor?” He asked me, genuinely concerned.
“I’m quite alright, sir. The year. What year is it?” This part was always a bit frustrating.
“1861, Miss... It’s 1861.” He looked a bit confused, and even more so when I simply nodded, thanked him, and walked away.
I walked another block or so before reaching an intersection, Providence Rd. and High St. according to the sign. Now I knew I was in the right town and in the right time. All I needed to do was find the Hospital. You see, the plan was simple. Find the pregnant mother if the birth hadn’t occurred yet, and the infant if it had. Either way, this was not something I looked forward to. In either case, the local Hospital was my best bet.
I asked a few more passers-by for directions, each time met with the same strange look I got from the shopkeeper. But also received fingers pointing in the general direction I needed to go, and at this point, that’s all that mattered.
Oh, one thing I forgot to mention about all this time-travel business, is that you only have about three hours to complete whatever it is you intend to do before irreparably altering the timeline. All the Sci-Fi stories about time-travel got one thing right at least. I had about ninety minutes remaining, so I had to move faster.
*****
By the time I arrived at the Hospital, I had dried out. I’m sure I still looked a bit like a crazy woman, disheveled and covered in dried filth. The look I received from the Nurse in the maternity ward confirmed my suspicions.
“Can I help you Miss?” She cleared her throat and looked me up and down, trying to make sense of what she was looking at. “Do you need to see a Doctor? If you do, you’ll have to go down that hall and make a right. This is maternity, not the the general...”
I cut her off with a wave of my hand. “No, no. I’m quite alright. Bit of a spill on the road is all. Nothing broken besides my ego, I can assure you. I’m actually here to see my Sister. She should be here. Her water broke early this morning and I was told she is here?”
“Name?” She still looked at me with suspicion, but I think she bought it.
“Mudgett, Paige Mudgett. Mr. Mudgett is out of town on business, so I’m the only family she has in town at the moment.” I embellished a bit, hoping to speed this process along.
The nurse shuffled through a few charts and then pointed down the hall. “Third room on the left. You’re in luck, she’s still in the early phases of labor. She’s resting while we wait for active labor to begin.”
“Thank you. Oh, I’m so glad I didn’t miss it. I never would have forgiven myself.” I tried to sound as convincing as possible. Judging from the softening look on her face, It seemed my ruse worked.
“I’m sure she will be happy to see you” She motioned in the direction of the room, no doubt glad to be rid of me.
I wasn’t so sure she would be happy to see me. In fact, I was quite certain that she would not be. But, one life to save hundreds as the cliché goes. Fortunately, this type of mission wasn’t the norm. I’m not sure I could do it if it were.
I approached the doorway, looking around to make sure that there wasn’t anyone within earshot, and stepped into the room. Mrs. Mudgett was on the bed, resting with her eyes closed, and clearly still very pregnant. I quietly shut the door behind me and made my way to her bedside. She must have been exhausted, because she never noticed me come in. She didn’t struggle when I held the pillow over her face either. With a sudden jerk of her body she went limp. It was finished. I stood for a moment in silence, reflecting on the gravity of it all. One life for many. It was never an easy thing to take a life, and that was a good thing. The scales are balanced once again.
Sell yourself
Knowing we have had a similar background, I am wondering if you have gone to therapy and if so what did you discover about yourself. If you have not, I will fill you in on an aha moment I had in therapy.
After pointing out how a dysfunctional family (abusive parents) will damage us in immeasurable ways, he explained how we often develop ourselves in other areas as compensation. He asked me questions like,
Are you a good friend?
How have you helped your friends?
Do you like animals?
Are you a good employee?
Are you a good mother/sibling?
And when he kept asking me questions, I answered them realizing I had been feeling so bad about myself, I forgot how much I have to offer. So if sharing motivation about your personal life experiences is not coming, ask yourself some questions.
Maybe you are selling yourself short, blocked because you don't feel your self worth.
What about all the people you motivate here on Prose with your writing and kind comments? I know you are a good person, so sell yourself with your words. You got this.
With thanks
I stay alive because it's the least I can do after returning from my demise.
On the day I was born, I was cracked open like a big fat farm fresh chicken egg.
After I was cracked open I was scrambled until I was whipped up into a frenetic froth expanding beyond the limits of gravitational pull. There was so much air infused into my cells that I spontaneously evaporated.
By some stroke of luck, a Humpty Dumpty aficionado with sleeves rolled up to the armpits came along and saved me, dropping me back off into the arms of my protector along with the attached message:
This is a second chance. Don't look back to yesterday, don't look forward towards tomorrow. Take a deep breath and remember, yes it is true no one gets out of here alive, but while we are here…..
The rest of the message is unreadable.