Posted on May 6, 2017
There’s something strange at work in your soul (presuming its existence) if your only take on the upheavals of the new millennium, to date, has been that democracy and freedom are mutually exclusive. Then again, I guess that’s to be expected when the alternative you offer is to build a floating city adrift in international waters. Almost like an enormously expensive life-preserver for every dickhead that buys a yacht for more than the worth of a third world country.
I am, of course, talking about tech billionaire Peter Thiel, who at least has since admitted that Rapture is probably not so practical of an idea. I am now left wondering how he felt about Fyre Fest, Ja Rule’s music festival turned impromptu gulag. Alas, I’ll never know. And, alas, it’s not important. Thiel himself is not important, but what Thiel represents. Let me take you on a little trip down crazy lane.
An anhedonic ooze is burbling to the right of the far right that has no coherent belief structure. It’s comprised of a glut of toads that subscribe to a set of beliefs philosopher Nick Land has characterized as the Dark Enlightenment, which he covers in full here. I won’t do his work twice, but in sum they reject the advances of and the causes put forth by modern liberalism. Democracy was a mistake; identity politics have failed to change society in a meaningful way; and the Great Experiment has amounted to the conclusion that we’re all just hyper-aware beasts in service to the market.
And this isn’t really anything new. It’s the same ideology that has been prevaricated through the mouthpiece of Western political thinking for the past 50 years. Just with the mask ripped away, revealing a runaway system of consumptive self-destruction that can only be tinkered with or the whole thing will implode.
At their core, this describes most of the day’s establishment political movements. Some tinker more heavily than others, but they still recognize the system presented by the market and worship at its altar. What’s interesting are the stand-outs. The Peter Thiel’s, the Paul Ryan’s. Those who see the forest for the trees, but are bald in their desire to burn them all down. They don’t subscribe to any other kind of thinking. Just numbers without any moral argument to clothe them.
While some on the Left and the Right see themselves as a ship in a storm, looking for the lighthouse to show the way into port, these guys don’t see a ship or a sea or a storm. Just a point of black on the horizon that gets bigger every time a child enrolls in a public school or an elderly chap starts drawing on his social security. The image circumscribes the absurd hilarity of their priorities, but the heart of it is much darker.
The line of thinking that our growth has outmatched our capacity to govern, that we are a churlish mob which needs guiding by the austere hand of the free market, amounts to the admission that the future has died with the past. We’ve been thirsting for the end of history since history began, and there was no end of self-congratulatory dicksucking to that effect after the fall of the Soviet Union. All without considering what that would mean in its present context. If you’ve peaked, all that there is left to do is decay – and, of course, manage the collapse. I don’t have to tell you what that means for all the dead weight.
Posted on May 3, 2017
James held off from his descent to stare, again, at the city’s towers looming beyond the glass wall of the stairwell. The phalanx of silver spires rose so high that they scraped the stars, festooned with umbilicals and trestles as if strung together by a spider of glass and metal. Antennae bristled, solar arrays glinted. This was the world, the true world, of which his own was a destitute reflection.
The walls of windows shined back at him, blank and obtuse and dark. There was a boardroom somewhere inside of them and an empty chair. Empty or filled up again with another petitioner for meaning, presenting the pages of their lives to the priests of syntax and monetary returns. His heart lived and died in that moment, while his eyes were dreaming for him. Then the hand that did not clutch his manuscript found the cold steel rail again. He looked down, started down, back into the purgatory he had risen from.
He followed the steps spiraling around the lift shaft, watching through its translucent polymer the inner workings of the electromagnets that operated the interchange below. If he craned his neck, he could see the battery of elevators waiting there, dormant, for the end of the day. The architects of the future would be ferried with magnetic force down into the substrata of the city or up into the echelons that built it, that he descended from. Trams would glide above the oceans of cloud the city sat upon. Everything was quiet there in the morning, glittering clean in the uninterrupted sun. He could almost see it, but would not.
Another turn around the stair and it terminated in a walkway that wrapped around the shaft, onto which gave a series of doors that lay shut against him. James took the first that opened, empty and quiet but for the voice asking him where he wanted to go. He could not say where that was. He had already been there and was told to turn back. His work was not equitable to the thirsts of the cities above the clouds, to those who peopled the highways that strung them together. Instead he contemplated letting his roughly-bound litany fall from the side of the platform outside the elevator – not throw, but let go. Just like his grandfather told him to do with bad writing. The lift’s intelligence asked again. James asked to be taken to the tram station.
The doors slid open with a wheeze and without any physical indication that the lift had moved at all. James took the long walkway that waited outside, one that he knew more than he wanted. He had grown and changed since first taking it when he was a boy, holding his father’s hand, but it remained the same. The translucent polymer of the interior wall looked down onto the station of the big people.
A tram waited at the edge of the platform, figures hustling in and out of its doors. Most of them were bound for other platform-cities or the little splinter colonies along the highways in between, quaint reminders of worlds without walls. A pretty girl looked up at him, done up in white as some kind of neo-Cossack, standing with her family dozens of feet below. She laughed him away. The glass was for them, the barrier for him, and he hated that.
The car for the others, those not of the highways or the cities, rattled down its track dim and broken. It screeched on its way. No one spoke inside and stood before they sat beside one another. In his father’s suit, he wished he had more to clutch than the pages of his life. The faces he saw were too tired, anyway, to take what might be got from him.
James breathed in the hot, coarse air of the world beneath the clouds, beneath the highways, and felt its breath on his face. The taste of something familiar kept him from hating the smell. Lost in the corridors through the door behind him, the station droned on. Trams rumbled in and out upon the track. Ghostly forms piled around his shoulders and faded off down the street, this way or that. A distant voice mumbled a schedule he knew by heart and would recite if someone would pay him to recite, but no one would. The cleaning of toilets was left to harder, sleeker hands.
His father’s building was much the same as he had left it that morning. He pretended that he could see more cracks in the foundation since the last time he looked close enough, a few more windows broken or siding panels cracked. His enthusiasm did not last long. The whole place could collapse, dilapidate into a useless shambles, and it would not matter. To James, maybe. His father. But the rest of the habitation block would go on rolling, build over their bones and rent out the new ramshackles until those fell in too. There was a perverse amount of comfort in that.
“Those goddamned rats are back,” the old man said and beat the rubber end of his cane against the old floorboards. “Hear that, you bastards!”
“They’re everywhere,” James told his father, reaching in the refrigerator. “Ought to call somebody.”
“Time was you could call somebody. Now you’d be lucky to find a couple punks to root ‘em out the old-fashioned way. Huh-uh. No way, no how.” His father shook his head as if he could dismiss the tragedy of seventy years. “Now tell me. How’d you make out up there in the big world?”
“Just fine,” he lied and pulled a couple beers out of the lightless fridge, held them in one hand by the neck and popped the caps with his other. “They want to see some more of my work next week before they make a final decision.”
“Onwards and upwards, Jimmy. I tell you, you’ll be running that place inside of ten years. They won’t know what hit ‘em.” James moved past the back of his father’s chair, setting one of the beers down on the endtable beside his ratty recliner. His father took his hand as it left the bottle. “I’m proud of you, you know that? You’re my boy, Jimmy. You’ll always be my boy.”
“Don’t let your beer get cold,” he said and sat down beside him in the other chair, must wafting up around him from the patched cushion.
“I was saving these,” his father said, studying the label on the bottle through his bifocals.
“Don’t remember, tell you the truth.”
“Then I guess we ain’t saving them.”
The Indians were playing the Cubs again, fifty years in the running. They went to the series that year, all the way to the end. James knew every pitch, the milliseconds before the sharp crack of the bat against the ball. Who caught which pop fly, threw what grounder to what base. The beer helped him to remember what it was like watching the game as a child, unaware and unknowing. He would watch the Indians lose and lose and lose, but every time he rooted for them to win, to clinch that lead. Then the game got tired, as he got tired, but the beer helped him to remember. He was glad it did. It tasted like shit, but made him stomach the smile he gave his father every time the tape wrapped up and the smile given back to him, in that way old folks have with just seeing a smile again. James got up.
“You just got in,” his father said. “Where you off to now?”
“Back to the metro,” he told him, rooting in the only closet of the studio apartment and pulling out the hard case that was heavy with his grandfather’s typewriter.
“You aiming to surprise them with something early,” he asked, hugging his son back when he did so briefly before heading back toward the door.
“Got to make the bread in the meantime, don’t I,” James said over his shoulder, opening the door, listening to the creak of the hinges as if the house could wish him off well. “The jenny’s going to need gas soon.”
He found his nook in the gloom of the tram station, cross-legged, his back against a tiled support pillar that was old when he was young. He watched the families go by with nothing to lose, receiving or seeing off fathers and mothers, brothers and sisters, who worked in some other slum, doing what jobs they could find. Seeing them, his hands found the latches of the typewriter case.
The finish was peeling, and you could see the wood underneath, but that didn’t matter. Its age transmuted the battered thing into something more than gears and springs. The weight was an anchor, the hard driving press of the letters onto the recycled paper a stamp into the stone itself. He took off the lid and set it aside.
He took the first of the empty pages stuffed inside, feeling the coarse fiber remnants beneath thumb and forefinger as he fed one down into the carriage of the typewriter. A tram screeched to a stop down the track, the last for a few hours. The screen lingering above the platform flickered with the schedule through dead pixels and smears. The passengers unloaded, devolving into wool coats and surplus canvas jackets. When they had finished passing, when there was just the murmurs of those lingering or waiting with him in the station, he set his finger down heavily onto the first key of the day.
The return would ping, he would clunk the page up the feed. When the words finished coming, James hit the release and took the page out and laid it carefully down beside him. The pages had stacked up to the width his father enjoyed his whiskey when the next tram was due to arrive and the next gallery of rags and dirt and hope appeared on the platform. Most of them kept their eyes on their boots, what passed for boots. A few looked up at him, only one held his eyes.
“Where you guys headed,” James asked him.
“Try our luck at the gates,” he said and coughed. There were pox scars on his cheeks where his beard was not, but the shadow of his hood covered the rest of his face. “A guy’s brother got in that I know. They have to let you in, if you walk. Like how hospitals used to be.”
“And how would this guy know his brother got in?”
“Cause this guy’s got a computer, uplinked to their net, is how he knows.”
“Did you pay this guy at all?”
“Yeah,” he said and stepped a little closer. “Listen, what’s your problem?”
A silence crept between them that was ended by the arrival of the tram, whining and slamming down the track into the station. The doors opened, splitting a gulf of light across the concrete floor.
“You know, I don’t know. Got shafted on a job today, I guess I’m a little on edge.”
“Well, that’s not my problem.”
The man started off toward the tram and James looked down at the empty page in his typewriter.
“Hey,” the man said from a few dozen paces away. “Hey I’m sorry you didn’t get it.”
“It’s alright,” James called to him. “Good luck.”
“Same to you.”
He and the others that were with him melded into the dithering crowd disembarking from the tram. They became lost amid the threads of other hardluck travelers, filtering off on their own ways, but all of them broke against the same shadow that was forcing its way onto the platform. It was a butler, cradling a family in its long inarguable arms and shuffling along with them until they had cleared the loading zone. Two boys and a girl detached from its tall legs, taking their parents’ hands instead. The butler swiveled its head with perfect fluidity to scan the surrounds. The orbits of its eyes shined in the blank alloy of its face. It said something to the family that James could not hear. The tune of its words grew and diminished along the series of bulbs inside the thin slit of its mouth.
The girl caught sight of him, sitting against the far wall. She tugged on her mother’s arm and pleaded with her. The parents conferred and spoke to the butler, which took the girl’s hand. Its stiff doublet, a spot of clear blue in the thunderous dusk of the tram station, rippled across its unyielding structure. James thought of dogs in sweaters, of statues covered with sheets like funereal shrouds. The machine would not ever be, and could never not be, human. It guided the girl over to him with long, languorous steps.
“The madam would like to know what it is you are doing,” the machine said, a slight bow. It’s stiff suit hardly crimpled. The golden buttons down the front glinted, shadows slithering through their filigree.
The girl peaked out from behind its legs, towering with thin power, her parents standing a ways beyond her. She did not stand even as tall as its knee, brown locks curling out from under a knit cap. The machine placed a comforting hand on the small of her back and ushered her forth so that James could see her. Its bright eyes smiled down at her and then at him.
“I’m writing poems,” he told them, her, and looked beyond them at the parents. Their eyes wandered over the tram station, seeing what were for them wonderful things, and blithely unaware of the clean, richly woven fabrics of their clothes. “For anybody that wants one. Would the madam like one?”
“The madam would,” she said, biting her nail, coming out of hiding but only a little. “What will it be about?”
“Who can say,” James told her, starting to type, his hands working at the feed and the keys. “Poetry is like life in that way. Sometimes it’s painful, but the beauty is in not knowing whether it will be.” He hit the release and plucked the page out and handed the girl her poem. “If you know where you will be before you get to the end, what would be the point? It’d be a bad poem, definitely.” James winked, and she smiled. The mother called and the butler ushered the girl away, page crinkled and flapping in her tiny hand.
He wheeled another page into the feed and started to clack words onto the rough fabric again, but stopped at the sound of heels tapping across the platform toward him.
“Sir,” a woman said. He looked up. It was the girl’s mother. “Sir,” she said again, a shiny bit of metal held at her fingertips and as far out as she could hold it without throwing it away. “For the poem.” She glanced back nervously at her husband, who nodded and smiled and waved. His beard and hair were long, unkempt, in perfect contrast to his wealthy clothes. An eclectic, James thought, for up there anyway. He held out his hand and the woman dropped the object into it. A ring, old and unfashionable. “They said to bring something,” she said, as if apologizing, and he knew for what. “Thank you.”
“Thank you,” he told her. “Have a safe trip.”
She tried to smile at him through her pity and then turned away, hurrying to rejoin the butler and her daughter and the rest of her family. He hoped that it was pity, but James made a point not to brook those who gave him their baubles their conceits. There was already a difficulty in going to that tram station, resuming his post against the post that upheld the ceiling of it all. He did not need another. When the family had gone, he fitted the lid of the case down over the typewriter again and with a sigh redid the latches to seal it away.
The light was still on at his father’s place, the TV still blaring. His dad was asleep in the chair. Another bottle of that piss-water was sitting on the floor, overturned. The little bit that was left in the bottom was busy staining the carpet. Jimmy walked over as silent as he could and flipped the tube off, then reached for the light. Someone mumbled his name and for a second, though he did not know why, James didn’t think it was his father that had done it. But there he was, struggling upright in the worn, patched-to-hell leather of the recliner, rubbing his eyes.
“Hey, pop,” James said and left the light alone.
“It’s late,” he said and looked at the clock sitting on the endtable beside his chair. “Boy, it’s late.”
“Another beer?” Jimmy was reaching for the last one. “I’ll fill you back up tomorrow, when I go for the jenny.”
“I’ve had just about enough, I think. Might turn a corner and say to hell with the whole thing, who knows? Never too late, right, Jimmy?”
Half the bottle was gone when he stopped for a breath.
“Never,” James said and circled round his chair to sit in the other, the one that had been there when it was his father and his grandfather sitting at the TV set. Now it was theirs, but no other little Jimmy was playing on the floor behind the two thrones to carry on the mad tradition.
Say, Jimmy,” his father said and tapped his hand where it lay on the arm of the chair with the tips of his fingers. “Say, you remember that old man? When you were a boy, Baron something?”
“Baron,” James said. The chair creaked and groaned under him as he started to rock it. “Barney. Barney Baron? The jazz guy?”
“Yeah, yeah. Oh, I can remember when you were just a boy.” His father stopped to laugh his old man laugh, interrupted by a spell of coughs and then a wheeze. “You would wake up just to hear him play. Early in the morning he would play. Everything else would be quiet. Then you’d hear him play, and it was just the damndest thing out there in the morning.
“The damndest thing.” His eyes seeped out into the distance, trying to pick up the strings of notes straddling the course of time and hear them again. “What did you used to call it, when he played?”
“Butterfly blues,” Jimmy said.
“Butterfly blues,” his father repeated. He took his hand. It trembled. Jimmy gripped back. “You never told me how you come up with that.”
“When I was real little, I think me and some of the other kids got up early to go and watch him. He always played in that courtyard, over on Sheldon, where that old man lived until they tore his house down.”
“The one with the cats. Always smelled like the damn things’ piss.”
“That’s him. Well, we followed the music to that courtyard and there he was, just sitting on a stool. The sun was just starting to come up and he was going at that trumpet, nice and soft. Like he was convincing the day to keep on coming. Next thing we know, a butterfly just comes along and lands right on the end. And he just stops and smiles down at it and it sits there, smiling back with its wings. I can still remember his teeth, they were white as snow.”
“I tell ya, Jimmy,” his father said. “I tell ya, I’d give anything to hear some of those butterfly blues again. Just one more time. One more time is all it would take.”
Posted on April 20, 2017
No, but seriously…
Something has been working at me since seeing Logan a couple times back in March. This won’t be a review per say. I think anyone with a brain having the minimal amount of creases will agree that it’s as close to a masterpiece as comic-to-film adaptions have gotten.
What I want to talk about is the idea that the story was more than a send-off for a beloved character played by a man who saw him as more than spandex and metal and gruff machismo, who truly found the humanity of an archetype and made him come alive through his love of the role. While all those things are true (and don’t tell me they’re not, I’m warning you), that’s not at issue here. That’s the obvious thing.
My thing is that the ship which has sailed is instead the end of an era, the admittance of an error in the calculation of what the future could or would look like. But with the caveat that no age lasts forever, so you had better nurture that age in those coming after you. It’s the preservation of hope, a realignment of expectation. Just with a lot of gleeful murder. It’s kind of like the French Revolution in that way. Watch Les Mis, you’ll understand.
Logan is a different experience from Jackman’s previous appearances as the character. That’s plain straight away. The title is Logan, not Wolverine, not X-Men 9: Old Men with Normal Pants This Time. Just Logan. It’s pure comic book with all the flair dropped away, the curtain pulled back. Sure: Marvel has pulled this trick a number of times, across a number of franchises, but this time there’s just a little twist. What brings this interpretation home is the presence of Jackman himself, who’s aged with the character since taking on the mantle. Having been with him as Wolverine continuously across the X-Men film franchise, knowing this is his last round as the character, really creates and solidifies the dramatic message of the film.
We meet him as he’s trying to hold together the pieces of yesterday, a better day, then follow him as he is forced into guiding the way to another and one that he does not believe can exist. His disillusionment is our disillusionment. There is a series of small victories set against a larger backdrop of gloom. The triumph of the enemy is so thoroughly complete, we wonder what the point is and yet we keep watching, waiting to see what the old vanguard of comic book morality will do. An air of impotent frustration hovers close around every scene, infrequently dismissed by periods of stolen respite.
Leaving the theater, all of this engendered a mixture of sadness and hope. The final scene is enough to get Wolverine himself choked up, but beyond this I could not help but feel in a way that the jig was up. The old king was dead, so long live the king. It was almost an acknowledgement that the torch was being handed off and the flame was dithering, but would go out entirely if not given to a new generation.
And yet: what really bites deep is that, in the world we are presented, this is the best we can hope for. The point of no return has been reached, the old days are gone and the magic is done. That’s what hits home and hits home every time the old soldier makes his final stand, goes out on his final ride, takes the Long Walk into the wasteland. Or, in this case, a franchise dies because Fox will only let go of X-Men if Marvel pries the IP from its cold, dead fingers.
Posted on April 15, 2017
Malcolm never considered himself very brilliant, but he had a penchant for computers. That was certain down to his bones. It wasn’t Sarah or Lily on his lips at the age of 12, but Packard Bell. That was his sweetheart, and the delicacies he trained himself for were not those of love but of slipping components into place without bending the connectors. Anyone who knew him, knew this, and more, that he would go on to earn his bread this way. His start was ignominious enough – the backend problem solver of a library’s website – but his ends came well and fast.
Behind closed doors, in whirlwinds of half-hearted associations, there were feet put forward and chips laid down. Inside of six months, he and three friends were dividing the proceeds of a startup acquisition between them and Malcolm made his first purchases: a ticket from San Francisco to New York City and the first month’s deposit on an apartment in gentrified Brooklyn. There was enough need for his talents there, and enough consultants wanting to pick his brain, that he held a steady course along the top of the world. It was how he came to be at Shraedenheimer’s with the rest of the young cutthroats and fathers’ daughters.
Only young money could enjoy $20 cocktails on wobbly stools, sitting along brick walls and brokering exchanges in authenticity with the guy handing them their drinks. Pretending they knew and shared in the reality of the broomcloset he would go home to that night, piled on top of six other bartenders and waiters and baristas. Tomorrow they would wake and try to believe they were all still a part of the same mad play.
Most of them performed these transactions flippantly and with an air of misunderstanding. As if they could sense the disgust in the bartender’s eyes, but had no idea why it should be there. Malcolm knew, and the bartender knew that Malcolm knew, but this did not make them friends. If anything, it made them bitterer enemies. Malcolm ordered more drinks than anyone ought, as if he could put downpayments on loyalty to the cause. His was a silent struggle, and he eschewed all other conversation that he might have to overcome the bartender’s rebuff. Then Grigory appeared.
The bell above the door chimed. A blast of chill air blew in from the night outside. There he stood, the snow sucking out into the black behind him and against the wind. The newcomer unfastened the broach of his felt cloak. He took off his hat and beat the snow away before replacing it atop his head, leaning as if about to fall but never doing so. The 17th century was a long time ago, but Malcolm supposed people still wore mantles and feathered caps. No one else seemed to notice, and the bartender hardly passed a glance. It was a big city, after all, and full of life too odd to exist any place else, like lichens that hold on through the bitterest cold.
The man slipped his hand through the lanyard at the head of his cane and approached Malcolm where he sat at the bar. Some of the flakes on his cloak, or coat, fell to the floor in a whirl when he laid the thick garment down between them. He set his cane on that and then his gloves, tugging the thick leather fingers off one by one. Wisps of the winter storm outside still hung about him. His hat he left on.
“A cold night for a Coke,” he said.
“There’s rum in it,” Malcolm told him, in that way only the very drunk can speak offhandedly to persons they just met.
“Certainly,” the newcomer said and gave his order to the bartender: two White Russians and a slice of lime.
“I don’t drink White Russians.”
“Well, Malcolm,” he said. “That’s why they’re not for you.”
“Do we know each other?” Malcolm slurred. “Maybe we met at a conference or something.”
“Oh, I know everyone in this establishment. Though, admittedly, not everyone knows me. I’m Grigory.”
“Pleasure,” Malcolm said and offered his hand, but Grigory did not take it.
“I’m not so sure of that.” The bartender returned, slid the White Russians over to him across the bar. Grigory squeezed the lime juice into both, a sprinkle of it hitting Malcolm’s hand. “We’ve only just started talking.”
A calm slid over him that at first he was surprised by, but rode out into an easeful bliss. This man’s words were a warm bath, too hot at first but after a moment became just right. He had said a thing and that was all, and did not give a damn what was said after it. Malcolm remembered the heroes of his youth, the same heroes every factory-town kid learns to love if he loves books because they’re all in the literary world to rely upon. Because you understand them.
He threw different mantles onto this newcomer. Hemingway was too large for him, and Bukowski too inelegant. He tried Dickens and then Tolstoy, but he was only nearer the mark. None of them really fit. He did not open the doors of home in the same way. Those writers squared up familiar windows, lit warm fires you might see from afar. Grigory, well, Grigory was in your home all along. He had brought it with him. The doors were opening, and he was inviting you inside. He was more a Rasputin than he was a Dostoyevsky, a companionable poacher of wisdom than a grounding wire back to reality.
“I’ve seen enough poor kids in the backs of rusted-out minivans to know what you’re saying,” Grigory told him.
They were six drinks deep and had been talking about home. Rather, Malcolm had been talking about home. About smokestacks and red dust, domestic cars and porchlights left on long into the dark. Only these were words, impressions onto paper. Shadows thrown by the light of the true meaning of things, where words lived. And he tried to explain that, too, with the dribblings of philosophic phrasing he picked up in college. The upper world, the Elysium of Concepts, that a chair was merely a shadow of the one true chair. All other chairs were meaningless. A throne was the stone in the field.
“Right,” Malcolm said. “It’s all a kind of illusion, everything else, propped up with belief. But what if you don’t believe? What if you can’t believe, if that’s your life?”
“You know,” Grigory started again, spinning his feathered hat on the bar counter. “We can escape the places we’re from. The trouble is, we get so busy trying to move and move and keep moving. Keep moving, I hear everybody say. Well they only keep moving because they have nothing to say. And they have nothing to say because they keep moving.” He flipped the hat upside down, as if he expected Malcolm to toss some coins into its enveloping darkness in exchange for his advice. “True escape happens when you’re standing still.”
“Or sitting down,” Malcolm told him and shook his short, stubby glass of whiskey, spilling a little over the rim and onto the bar.
“I wish it were that easy,” Grigory said and brought the last dregs of his White Russian to his papery lips. “I know you’re trying to, Malcolm. But you and I both know what you’re really running from. Everyone knows what they’re really running from if only they’d face it.”
“It’s not the kids in poverty or the rusted minivans,” he went on. “And it’s not all these sad people, if you can call them people. At least the poor are people. Collections of cultural narrative aren’t people. That’s the whole sorry, sad show, isn’t it? Illusions are very pretty, they make you feel full. But where does it end? What’s the real thing?”
“Well,” Malcolm breathed to Grigory, the reek of whiskey washing out from behind his teeth. “Well what is it, man?”
Grigory only smiled at him and slipped a stylus from a pocket lost inside his vest and a bottle of ink from another. Screwing off the cap, he took a napkin from the pile on the bar. “I want you to come to a thing I’m putting together,” he told Malcolm and started to write something on the wispy fabric.
Malcolm did not look, did not even breathe. A frustration built in him that he could not be sure of ascribing to the alcohol, but the little voice of something else to which he could put no name.
“Instead of stumbling over here to Schraedenheimer’s tomorrow night, I want you to come here. And maybe we’ll find you an answer.”
Grigory slid the napkin across the bar, and Malcolm took it in hand without looking.
“What is it,” he asked him, not wanting to look and see for himself. It was a feeling that reminded him of basements, woods at twilight, and parking lots with no lights. But Grigory didn’t answer, and he had to look down at the napkin to find the answer for himself.
There was a number written on the frail piece of paper, a little string of digits, and then a name. 5467 Lavarette, and beneath it: 9 o’clock.
“Lavarette,” Malcolm whispered to himself. “I’ve never-“
Grigory was gone when he looked up. The bell above the door had not rung, but the door stood open. The wind blew in, but the snow blew out. A heady blackness walled the bar from the world and made the flakes disappearing into it look like stars, the night like the void that most astronomers agree lies at the heart of everything. There were no streetlamps. The door whined closed.
“You going to pay for his too?” the bartender asked him, a great bush of beard stabbing out of his jowls. He leaned on the counter. There were anchors tattooed along his arms.
“Yeah,” Malcolm told him and looked back at the note and slid his card blind across the bar. “Thanks.”
Today and tomorrow stood like signposts on either side of an empty road, pointing different directions but to the same place. Sleepless hours passed in a grey limbo of random trips to random places. He ordered an old latte at a new cafe and paid no attention to the young college thing ringing him out at the register, black lipstick spread over full lips and the slightest cleave of breasts appearing from under her apron. These were often his delights, and he tipped well for them. But the coffee washed over his tongue like oil, and the day bled itself dry.
A mist had fallen over him since meeting Grigory the night before, and though he passed much of the intervening hours wandering from one cold Wi-Fi hotspot to another, bartering over job offers and job postings he never intended to take or toying with ideas for other startups, other passions, they were muted transgressions against a larger, brooding calm. The kind of swell that builds just behind the eyes, growing with every internal proclamation that there was no need for worry and worry should disperse. But Malcolm counted the seconds.
It was only half past 8:00 when he decided to step out onto the sidewalk in front of the crude brick building he had tried to call home for the past eight years, so different from the beachside broomcloset his money came from and hemorrhaged back to the memory of. The sidewalk was slick with ice and snow and cigarettes, dropped and stamped out. Malcolm nursed his flask, burning hot with $200 a bottle scotch. He checked his watch and let the cabs go, so as not to appear anxious, not even to himself. At 8:45, he stowed the little metal canteen after a final swig and raised his hand.
A little drift of snow followed him into the cab. The sweet, smoky smell of incense floored him. Something else sulked beneath it, sour and filled with loathsome nights of work. He was recalled to those nights in the labs at Stanford and smiled to think of those dark hours again. His friends, so they had been, still kicked around in the business. Malcolm had hung up his hat on that and took his coat from their doors. That often made him feel heavy, but he felt light in the backseat of the musty cab. His bones weighed nothing.
“Where to, boyar,” the driver said, leaning back and craning his neck. A pipe puffed like a beaten to shit train, cradled in dry lips half-hidden by the man’s salt-and-pepper beard. His hair wrestled with his knit cap, shot through with holes. It came out in curls, like his father’s did in old pictures when he was young.
“Do you know this place?” Malcolm showed him the napkin. The driver squinted.
“Yeah, yeah. I know it, boyar. Plenty. I will take you there.”
They entered the labyrinth of streets. Neon signs and tired faces. Storefront windows still stained with the residue of last winter’s salt trucks. Dead hobos, frozen to death on the stoop of a god that took everyone in on the cost of owing them nothing. The world outside was darker than the nights in the city allowed it to be, and Malcolm did not remember seeing that the windows were tinted.
“You’re Russian,” he called ahead to the cabbie, leaning forward a little on the seat. He saw the incense sticks burning in the cupholders. A subtle beat thrummed out of the speakers, too low to hear clearly but enough that the smoke buoyed according to the rhythm. “Your accent, I mean. Is it Russian?”
“You boyars ask too much in this country.” The stiff puffs of smoke from his pipe stalled long enough for him to laugh. “What does it matter? Just enjoy the ride. You never learn anything here.” He waved his pipe brazenly at the leaning fathers of skyscrapers that flitted by outside the dirty windows. “I haven’t.”
The taxi cut through the hills that lingered above the city, swerving along the highways until Malcolm was sick and wanted to vomit up his scotch. But, out of respect for the man, he did not. The city, a vast demon of light and steel amid plains of white ice, stretched out winking and throbbing below him. The road took him around another bend and it was gone, then reappeared again beyond a stand of writhing rime-soaked trees. Another curve, another dry heave.
“That’s it, boyar,” the cabbie said.
Malcolm looked up from between his knees, out the window at the tall hedge rows, the gate, the dusty gravel drive. His driver leaned back over his seat, the patched elbow of his coat thrust through the opening in the glass and into the passenger’s compartment. He looked at Malcolm expectantly. Something about that breach of peace called the happening of the situation home to him.
“This is you.”
“You know this place?” Malcolm asked him, peering out the window, his face lit up by the glow of the one lamp standing at the gate, a pockmark of light that melded with the surrounding dark.
“Sure, sure. Now hand me the cash and get out.” The old Ruskie laughed on his pipe, emitting jittering puffs of acrid smoke. “Or you can give me a little more and I will take you back. Up to you, boyar,” he said and turned back around into his seat. Malcolm heard the faint scratch of a lighter. It lit up the haggard face in the rearview like a mask of brimstone, then was gone. “I have all night. You, I think, might not. The past is never far behind, no?”
The door shut with the soft cough of plastic and rubber. The muffler blatted and chucked as the cabbie drove off, gravel rasping under the tires. Malcolm stood in a cloud of dust before the gate, the threshold lit by a lamp atop an old iron post embellished with floral patterns. Inside the pure glass panes burned a soft flame. It appeared to float, to dance. His hands felt heavy on the wrought-iron bars.
The great hinges whined and a high aria assailed him, soaring on the backs of crescendo after crescendo. He was startled enough to let go. The gate clanged shut. The heavenly voice died, the strings and flutes petering out to uselessness. He took hold of the bars again and the creak of the doors bled into the keen of violins. The heavenward pitch of the voice washed over and about him like a wave.
The small stones of the drive crunched under his boots and were so round and perfect that he did not feel he walked upon the earth. Tall hedges stood to either side of him, thick with shadows, and swallowed the drive as it tapered down to a path that ran between them. Malcolm hesitated at the edge of the light stemming from the old lamppost, but saw that the illumination was not so much less farther ahead. Overhead, the night was dimpled with stars and the moon shone full and burgeoning. The music beckoned. He chose to follow the gentle curve of the hedge, taking this turn and that.
Laughter flitted down the path, behind the walls and through the gloom. The orchestra drove on. His breath was gone by the time the hedges opened, sweeping away to enfold a broad meadow. The path terminated in a portico of lofty marble columns, starkly glowing under the stars, that cut through the heart of the clearing. Paving stones, the kind he remembered seeing in old drawings detailing ancient cities, ran the length of the avenue they ensconced and ceased at the edge of a pond that bordered upon a lake.
There were rough pillars of quartz arrayed around its edges like the laurel of an emperor kneeling before the bearer of his fleeting glory. They buoyed weightless in the air, free of the earth, with only the movements of the symphony to accouter their choreography. The orchestra sat upon them, playing on undisturbed by the oscillations. The moonlight fell full and wondrous on them and, joining with the light of the lanterns set at intervals along the portico and around the lake, scintillated across the dozens, if not hundreds, of shapes that laughed and proclaimed and moaned across the manicured lawn.
Naked men ran with nymphs garbed in leaves and twirling lines that served to cover nothing. They tumbled over the grass or jumped into the pond. Their play was the chorus to the subtle murmuring that emanated from those milling about the lamplit settees and tables set near the edges of the glade. Masks covered all their faces, costumes whatever parts of their bodies they wanted left to the imagination.
Little heads, black with the night or their skin, bobbed on the surface of the water. The refracted light wavered across their faces, peeling enough of the shadows away to see their beauty but not the truth of it. Sometimes an arm emerged to splash or swim or pull another close. There was such an ease to it, to the swimmers and the loungers across the wide lawn, that Malcolm fought his hands not to strip down into the same Grecian misnomer and flee in the welcoming shadows of paradise.
He had never dreamed of such an ease, such a simple passing of confidences, of hands and minds, of laughter and such understanding that the world seemed a forgotten thing. These were the afterworldsmen of Zarathustra. And then there he appeared: Grigory. He strode across the surface of the pond upon a bridge made of the mirrored stars, bedecked in his same heavy cloak and feathered cap. The water-dancers crowded around him. His cane swung and tapped to the tune of the symphony. His white teeth flashed. Malcolm could not help but smile back. When Grigory stepped ashore at the end of the portico, the two shook hands.
“Good of you to come,” he said, and threw his arm around Malcolm’s shoulders.
“How did you manage that,” Malcolm said and thumbed over his shoulder at the lake.
“Manage what,” Grigory asked anyway.
“I managed nothing,” he laughed. “This is the garden of perfect things. Nothing needs managed. It is as it is. And here,” he said and swept off his cap to place it on Malcolm’s head. “Is where you are who you should be.”
“I don’t know that I understand you.”
“Malcolm, Malcolm,” Grigory said and lightly slapped his cheeks, reminding him how much weight he had gained since landing in New York City those years ago. “There is no knowing and no understanding. That’s what escape is, where your attempts to know and understand cease, where those attempts have no grounds and no necessity. Here you can be truly free.” He gestured slowly to the fete of youth without youth, of an ending eternity. “Go on. Talk to anyone. You will not be disappointed. No one ever is.”
“I don’t have a mask. Or a costume, isn’t that the point of the party?”
“Someone will find one for you. I would, but it’s my party after all and I haven’t been around to everyone. That would be rude, you understand? Rudeness is strictly prohibited, and being loud. Or being ugly. Don’t worry about yourself.” He waved his cane as he walked, at the rest of the secret world, the others of this perfect garden. “They all started out that way.”
Malcolm looked about them at the others of Grigory’s pocket of wonder outside the city and saw how that could have been. Slight sweeps where there had been bulbous noses. Bodies that had been too shapely or were not shapely enough. Every thrust of bone or lack of one was crafted. To look at them, he could not have seen it. Time flattens expression, creating beauty out of a system of extreme pressures. The kind that hammers diamonds out of coal, or oil out of bones. But there in the garden, watching them laugh and covering teeth that were no longer stained and no longer crooked, standing abashed where once they concealed some defect of the body, Malcolm saw their imperfections as surely as he saw his own standing in the mirror.
“How have you done all this,” he asked his host, watching the quartz pillars rise and fall, the orchestra playing upon them, with a wonder that mortal things could not eclipse. “How can you change me?”
“The beauty is in the question, Malcolm. Now come inside. Enjoy the party. I have your scotch, even the little cheese cubes you enjoyed at that winery when you were eleven. What else, you ask? Anything you need, anything you might imagine. Someone will find you a mask, don’t worry. I’ll find you a drink.” He snatched a tumbler deftly from the tray of a waiter that appeared from behind one of the pillars, tall and dark and blonde and smiling at the both of them. “Here you are.” The smooth gold in the glass sloshed as their hands met. “Enjoy yourself.”
Malcolm searched the faces of those watching them for an answer. He brought the scotch to his lips, his hand trembling, and felt the numbing sting.
“Once you arrive,” Grigory said, poised with a smile. “You will never wish to depart.”
“But,” Malcolm tried to say, cleared his throat and let the scotch fall from his mouth. “What if I want to leave?”
“You may,” Grigory told him and gestured behind them at the threshold of the meadow in the walls of the hedges. They leaned and writhed away from the path, then collapsed over it in a wave of shadows and leaves. “But only this once, and if you should try to find us again the cabbie will not know the number or the street. He will know no one and nothing.”
“I want to believe you’ve done all this,” Malcolm said. “Grigory, I want-“
“There will be no more foreign or different place for you to find the truth of yourself.”
“It would be a lie,” he pleaded.
“The truly perfect don’t need a garden to house them,” he told him. “Only the world harbors those things, but across rivers of peril. Beneath heaps of refuse. You will have to look for it and it might evade you and you might die without it.”
“I will,” Malcolm muttered. “And I might.”
He did not notice the light dying until all he could see of Grigory was his teeth in the dark, the wink of his bright eyes. The music faltered so that he could hear the wind in the trees and the crickets in the grass. Malcolm turned to face the orchestra and saw the columns of quartz descend one by one in their coronal attitude around the pond and disappear into the earth. His knees got weak. He reached out for the nearest pillar to steady himself and fell onto his side. It was gone. In place of the paving stones there was only damp grass, and he was alone.
Clouds rolled in overhead, across the stars and moon, and a terrible feeling of trespass came over him. The earth was soft under his feet when he got up to run for the pathway that threaded through the hedges, but hardened the nearer he came. The air breathed cold and harsh, worming deep into his bones, from the mouth of the maze. On the other side, waiting in the warmth of the same old lamppost, the cab idled. Its breaklights blinked red and perfect in the night and threw the steady snow that fell into stark contrast. Trails of pipesmoke and incense filtered out of the windows, open just a crack. When the driver saw Malcolm coming down the lane, he leaned to work the handle on the passenger door and shove it open.
“Did you find what you were looking for, boyar,” he shouted.
Malcolm took hold of the door to open it fully and then slid down into the ratty seat, burned black here and there by fallen cigarettes. The bead seatcover dug into his back. He wanted to think that he did, but could not tell the driver. To do so would be to lie.
“I don’t know if I will,” he told the cabbie.
“So maybe you did.”
The cabbie dropped the shifter into drive and wheeled out back into the road. Malcolm laid his head against the window, softly as if he might shatter it. The gate to the hedges and the meadow beyond them, the softly twinkling lake, loomed indistinct in the lamplight. The flame inside guttered in the winter wind, but did not go out. The random gusts tugged the doors of the gate open and closed. Little drifts of strings and soprano voices eased out beneath the groan of the hinges, the breath of a beast lingering in the hidden garden.
Posted on April 12, 2017
Now you might be wondering: who the fuck am I? And I don’t want you to worry. I ask myself this all the time. Never the same answer. In truth, I’m just a simple man. A simpleton, really. Nothing I say deserves any latitude. But my beard is impressive, and that entitles me to a certain amount of consideration. Alright? I think it does. So don’t bother disputing it. These are known quantities.
What’s important here is that we get to know each other. So, you know, just pull up a seat. I’ve got a warm fire going. The dogs are hot. The mallow is toasted. I promise you will not find a better time. What’s your pleasure? That’s all I’m asking. Books? My life revolves around them. I write them, I read them. Nerd shit? Got it in spades, just ask. Musings on pompous, philosophical bullshit? I live for you here, okay, not the other way around. If I ain’t got it, you don’t want it.
All of this boils down to a single point: I am yet another dickhead proffering my unproved expertise and general meandering knowledge to the world’s largest peanut gallery. Only I, too, am the peanut gallery. It’s a very complex riff on the camera obscura. A theatre of the mind where I am you, you are me, and neither of us knows what’s going to happen. I hope you stick around for the veritable ride.