“I killed him.” This is a confession. He is dead and it wasn’t easy. The pressure of my V7 Pilot Pen (favored to the 0.5 Uni-ball for its keen nib, thick stokes, ease and comfort) firm against the skin,over and over, back and forth, repetitive strokes. When the skin finally broke, blood was met with black ink and tears of relief. It took months, through severed veins and arteries, through bone and marrow, through the rigor-mortis of repetition and sedative euphoria. Then there was a dead man with a stigmata-esque injury through each wrist. I contemplated mourning over him. I contemplated worshiping him. I did love him. I loved him more in his death than was ever permissible in life. I do mourn, not because of the space left empty by him, but for myself and the earth. I died too. It wasn’t easy, no it was not. Liberation is like new skin, sensitive and vulnerable to surroundings; the atmosphere more easily absorbed through painful oscillations of needle like air altering my typically jaded state to a dizzying new suprasensual. The earth softened with every step and I pulsated with the breath of the wind, totally aware of every single cell, every single molecule that amounted to universal being: myself. Every step fully combined, my mind, my body at one, all that it touched and it was as beautiful as that. But it wasn’t easy. Everything shook as I collided continuously with the ground, with the eyes of passer-bys. The tyranny of such devices. They looked and judged, how limp and 'unaware', oh how wrong their impressions. I killed him and transgressed the tyranny of the eye. I killed him and entered into constant orgasm with the Earth as phallus. I killed him. I killed him: he is earth. I took a life. I took control.
The eye. That initial pusher granted me this downer, that gave me access to this language, to the pen, to the earth. My muscles once kiln blasted clay now soft and indiscernible from earth. It’s brave of me to admit all that isn’t it, that sort of sensitivity leaves me vulnerable and you know where my weakness lies, but you must be edged by fear to know that I could take a life under my hand; under the pressure of my V7 pen. Quite a weapon.
It wasn’t easy and now everything is out of focus, and everything trembles when I touch it but nothing touches me. “I confess to you, it wasn’t easy, but now it is all over. Now we are dead, now we are earth.”
“You and I are earth,” There is an old man in the corner, he is stood on a soap box where girls once gathered around, held onto his words and collected them, wrote them in journals, savored them, revisited them, resisted them, repeated them, ruined them, lost them. He now preaches to the air. He thinks he is a wise man, he glares into his own future and reckons that this justifies his position, but his future is littered with aged memories and we have chosen to forget our memories as they deceive us, as they cause us to ignore inherent dangers whilst irrationally fearing the appearance of butterflies and moths. He directs himself at the naive, like they are idiots but a there is a new word on the street counteracting his stale air. He cannot access this word as it is uttered behind his back, outside of his generation, it breaks in the new kids who deceive their next of kin. So there is a rebellion and his words wreak of otherness and decay. He is channeling, disseminating the dead. We kill the dead. There is talk of killing the old man but we all feel so sorry for him and he happens to be someone's father (and he dares to speak of liberating ourselves from patriarchal constraints). This is the only thing that saves him, that assures his presence. We can’t bare to see her eyes stream on the news of his death as we stand in front of one long mirror, we look at ourselves. We spare him. His remains loiter ghost like in our minds, full of resentful respect, and sexual angst, ashamed at our own defiance to both him and ourselves. Regret all our actions. What must he think.
What about what?
Well, you know...
You know, her
What? What about her?
Well I haven't really given her a second thought.
Wrong her, it's a different one.
There is a silence, the kind of silence that fills the air with small needles which ferociously stab at the neck and chest; which inject small flushes of heat and emulate suffocation. It is usually indistinguishable from regular air to the person/s in the surrounding proximity. They have been twiddling with old bits of paper, flicking at lighters, finding small talk in the strangest of places. The talk is quashed. One twiddler is suspecting that the silence indicates an inappropriate use of small talk, that twiddler suspects that they have unintentionally broached on big talk. There is a sudden calmness now, the needles have finished and although she is still slightly flushed there is an urge to remain - keep the focus with the her....
I have only just began fantasising about her. A flirtation really. To be like that. Is that who I wish to be today? To emit charm and confidence and warmth and intelligence. That's who I was yesterday and the day before. But now, stifled. I fell from her shoes and when I got back to my feet... I'm a little shaky and the persona is slipping. And I'm unsure as to who it is I am fooling. But it's just a fantasy anyway. It isn't hurting anyone.
Oh. I didn't mean, her, actually I meant... Well that doesn't matter. I suppose the main thing is, well what about, him.
Him? You mean him...?
And make no mistake, this did not require contemplation. For as long as she could remember there had only been one him. That ‘him’ is a shape shifter. It does change but beyond the shell is a recurrent theme, or persona, or fiction, or thing. Him is fixed. He becomes a mark of all predecessors and stands before and remains after all, after all.
Well. I haven't thought of him for months now. Well that's a lie, since his death I mean I hadn't. Yet last night I began to fantasise about him. It seems less dangerous now. I severed several electrical wires and pulsating arteries... and yet I cannot fully heal the wounds where they had hooked themselves into my infrastructure. There was something there before. A mark of something or someone. I don't remember quite fully enough to tell it. I suppose that is why people are repulsed by this, it simultaneously reveals and conceals. Always something underneath determined by a... something else. Still at least this one isn't an open gushing wound a direct window into...
The scar itches then and there is a hypnotic glare adopted by those present. They begin to think of their fathers, but whenever anyone tried to speak they could only talk of their mothers. They all knew: the mother implicates the father too, mother is merely a concealing device as everyone fears directly the consequence of naming him. He bred them, he fed them, he allowed them to stay over on Wednesdays and every other weekend. His presence was inescapably bound to their existence. They gave up on language then and sat in silence for some time until one of them finally piped up...