The Last President’s Fate; an excerpt from my novel

…[He] discovered that George W. Bush had been snatched off the deck of a shrimp trawler by an enormous purple tentacle in the Gulf of Mexico and gotten himself devoured somewhere miles beneath the ocean by a giant squid; his remains were, oddly enough, located inside the belly of a sperm whale, along with the enormous beak and the hideous tentacles of the beast which had presumably eaten the former president of the United States. This was the second modern right-wing ideologue to have been eaten alive by a wild animal in the 2010s; the astute reader will recall that Rush Limbaugh met a similar fate in the Amazon, where he was devoured and then regurgitated by a truly monstrous anaconda while doing racist impersonations of Chinese government officials. Bush was only found at all thanks to his Finnish cellphone, which was waterproof. America’s other long-since irrelevant and mostly forgotten neoconservatives (like John Podhoretz, David Frum, Ann Coulter, those infamous beneficiaries of Soviet largesse and the principal creators of the Tea Party, the Brothers Koch; Dick Cheney, Judith Miller, John Bolton, Sean Hannity, Roger Ailes, etc.) sent their condolences, took note of a new pattern in history, and wondered if the gods had not finally turned against them, after favoring their meteoric rise for so many decades.

Confession

So I was not so freaked out as you’d expect when I discovered that there was a movie being made with a premise which seemed almost identical to a book I’ve been working on for over two years. Another Earth bears a very superficial resemblance to the central justification of my existence, besides, of course, my family, and that would seem to bode ill for my masterpiece’s chances—except when you take into account the film’s low budget, limited release, lack of popularity, the fact that this idea is not new at all, and th my book has such slim chances of success to begin with that nothing from the outside world could really pose much of a threat, much as North Korea’s near-nonexistent economy has little to fear from something so catastrophic as a default on America’s debt.

I’m hesitant to talk much more about my book because I’m honestly a little superstitious. To speak its name aloud, to whisper it, would smother this little candleflame forever—to spend even a single sentence discussing this book (or to take pride in it) is to veer into the most shameless egocentrism. Like Flaubert, I doubt its qualities intensely; unlike Flaubert, I am not an artist of talent. I’m not sure if I’ve ever written about it here. I’m honestly embarrassed. I’m intensely aware of the fact that few people will notice it and that even fewer, perhaps none at all, will ever enjoy it.

I was also afraid that someone would steal my ideas, as if there is anything so special about a story of colonizing another planet with a late-medieval human civilization thriving on its surface. What gives it a unique kick is its metaphysics: this is not just a science fiction novel, but a book about the stupid absurdity of writing science fiction, or even writing at all in an age where people would rather watch movies than read books. There is also hopefully a decent literary style, an aviary of iconoclastic characters, a blockbuster plot, a melding of highbrow and lowbrow, humor, literary experimentation, ridiculousness, decadence, joy, and horror, that no other novelist could duplicate. The scifi premise is just a premise, and I hope that the book is actually a genreless piece of fiction that will attract readers as a result of its newness, its strangeness, and its formlessness.

Working cover.

So I have confessed. This is the great, or savagely stupid, and weak, laughable, boring, poorly-executed, amateur work of my life. I feel as though whatever I say about it will make you smirk, or shake your head, but it is the project I’ve been working on (at least passively) since the first moment of my conception. And its first part, a section of about a hundred pages, is nearing completion, after months of slaving away on a relentless course of honing and editing.

I hope to have it finished by the end of the week, at which point anyone who expresses interest will receive a free copy while I wait to hear back from the ibookstore.

The Thoughtwriter

Hey! You! Wake up! It’s time for work! Get moving! Didn’t sleep enough last night? Well whose fault is that? You went to bed too late! Drank much more than the daily allotment of alcohol! You’ve only yourself to blame, Charlie! Now’s time for work! Good! Open those eyes and stand yourself up or else you know what! Daaaaaaaaaad! I’m huuuuuuuuuuuuuungry! Where’s breakfast? Did you know that for only $19.95 you can have a full continental breakfast waiting for you when you wake up every morning? Fluffy eggs, crisp salty bacon, hot buttered English muffins, French toast lathered in maple syrup, now that’s what I call a sweet deal! No more muss, no more fuss! Yummy! Thanks dad! Dig into your Hearty Breakfast™ before a Hearty Day™ at work—today! But wait! That’s not all! Throw in an extra $9.95 and you get a free Eating Machine™! Don’t you hate it when you have to haul yourself up out of bed and lift every heavy morsel of food up to your mouth all on your own? You’re a busy guy and you’ve got better things to do with your hands! Eating is hard, time-consuming, and annoying! So now, with Eating Machine™, you don’t have to! Just sit yourself right on in and our ergonomic Eating Machine™ does the rest, with patented hand-and-foot-to-mouth eating technology! You’ll never have tired arms or hands again! Order today! AND! Wait! Coming Soon: Food Chewer 5000™, for every mouth that’s worn out from too much food chewing! Hey! Hey you! Are you tired of the same old advertisements? Well, why not get some new ones? With Advariegator™, you can listen to brand new commercials from all over the world all day long! Only $19.95! Order today! Hey! Hey you! Did you hear me? It’s time to get up! Rise and shine! Up and at ‘em! As you prepare for another rewarding and fulfilling day of honest work today at CONSUMER ELECTRONICS LTD., please bear in mind the following errors you committed yesterday: THOUGHT OF SEXUAL INTERCOURSE WITH STRANGERS OR VIOLENT ACTS DIRECTED AGAINST COWORKERS APPROXIMATELY 371 TIMES, thank you! Let’s keep those aggressive tendencies down! Remember everyone, we’re not just men, but with Thoughtwriter™ and Thoughtreader™, we’re supermen! And that’s just super, isn’t it? Plus, if you keep it up, at this rate we’ll have to report you to the police! And we wouldn’t want that to happen, would we? Hahaha! Wow, what a beautiful day it is outside today! Looks like overcast and heavy smog for most of the day, with a chance of rainshowers in the afternoon! Remember, folks, don’t strain yourselves or breathe too much when you’re outside, and most important of all, always make sure to cover up when it rains! Hey! Are you tired of always being out of breath when you go outside? Hate the smell of pollution? Annoyed by acid rain burns? Well guess what? With EnviroSuit 10,000™, it’s not a problem anymore! With our patented rubber filtration technology, your skin and lungs stay fresh and clean all day long, even if you’re caught out on a red day! WARNING DOES NOT PROTECT AGAINST ULTRAVIOLET RADIATION. Hey! Are you hungry? Thirsty? Happy day! You’ve got approximately $312.50 in the bank, Charlie, which means you can eat as much as you want! Settle on in at the kitchen, turn on the TV, relax—it’s going to be a great day! Hey!

Ichadon, or, How Buddhism Came To Korea: A Romance of Flying Severed Heads (Part 3)

Ichadon bolted upright and shouted “I’ve got it! I’ve got it!”

The monk shouted these words involuntarily and practically unconsciously to the silent Korean night, as he had dreamed deeply of the future of Buddhism in Korea and was not yet fully awake. What am I saying?, of course it was a dream of the future, as all dreams concern times that are not yet our own, but this future was pieced together from nonsensical moments in the past. What were they?

One was the very reason he had become a monk to begin with: hearbtreak. He gave his darling flowers, and she whacked him across the face (with these same flowers). This is also why Ichadon has always been nicknamed “The Pouty And Puppy Dog-Eyed Monk”, or, “The Monk With The Face That Says ‘How Could You Do This To Me?’”

Another was the typical incontinence of the obese. A fat man laughed at a joke and, of course, shot milk out of his nose. The joke was Ichadon, who was walking by at the time with bloody thorn scratches all over his face. The fat man was also lolling on a field and sucking on purple grapes with Ichadon’s first and only love.

After this humiliation Ichadon said to himself: “Fuck this shit, I’m joining a monastery.”

Finally, he had witnessed a new sport that was favored by the tyrannical court ruling Korea at the time: it involved taking a criminal, slicing off his head at high speed, and attempting to catch the head as it flies through the air. The catchee then must weave through a number of opponents and reach the finish line at the end of a field in order to score a goal. So as to increase the rather poor aerodynamic shape of the severed human head, the players in question sometimes attached broad-brimmed hats or even wings made especially for the occasion to the heads of the executees. The game was, of course, called HeadBall. It was very popular during the Reign of Terror and is still sometimes practiced as a more patriotic alternative to football in Saudi Arabia.

These elements assembled themselves in his unconscious mind to solve the problem of How Do I Bring Buddhism To Korea?—and with the puzzle fitted together, he burst, he exploded—shouting like Archimedes splashing and spluttering naked with his screw in a bubblebath. He had seen the future of his great nation, the wisest, calmest, serenest, and most Buddhistic country under the sun, where everyone is really relaxed all the time. He had beheld the triumph of his faith and philosophy in Korea. And it all began with a flying severed head—his own.

A History Of Other Cleopatras

So few know how the last pharaoh was in possession of that unique ugliness which only belongs to the inbred.

In response to a recent and excessively tame book review—

Cleopatra I, nicknamed Syra because it was rumored that she was not born from the usual intercourse between consenting, loving, and married adults of different lineages, but actually the result of a curious concoction of the desert sands of Syria. Every now and then the elements mix together to create a human being, and the earth of the Middle East is particularly well-suited for this; Auda ibu-Tayi claimed to have been produced by a human woman and a (presumably male) scorpion. Cleopatra I Syra was a living proteus, ebbing and flowing from place to place like a sandstorm, and her voice was said to be indistinguishable from that of the gales sifting through the dunes. She was allergic to water and all liquids and was in the habit of constantly carrying a parasol in case of rain, which she would sometimes use to beat her bumbling attendants. She lost her left pinkie toe when an infatuated man, who was drooling over her, managed to kiss it; the man was executed by being drowned, Heliogabalus-style, in a sea of bloodied pinkies, which Cleopatra ordered hacked off the feet of all of her slaves.

She is the namesake of all later Cleopatras and the founder of the nomenological line; she died when she fell off the royal barge while trying to re-fasten the belt buckle of her favorite dwarf jester and sistrum-playing minstrel, Pumilio; upon striking the black waters of the Nile she melted down instantly to mud and was presumably carried out into the Mediterranean through the rich estuaries of the green, papyrus-wavering delta. It became an Egyptian aphorism to say that sand runs in the blood of the Cleopatras.

Due to this woman’s profligacy the nation of Egypt and the Hellenistic lands of the East were overrun with Cleopatras, and not just human Cleopatras, either, but the name was a favorite one for the divine black Egyptian cats up until the time of the Muslim conquest, and it was even said that a parrot with the name Cleopatra unsuccessfully warned the doomed Pompey of the unpleasant fate that awaited him in the thigh-deep waters off the Egyptian coast; the bird spoke Latin, but bad Latin, and mixed his Cassandraisms with an unbelievable string of curses, swears, and deprecations. Pompey, who left tooth marks on the marble or ebony shoulders of every woman he slept with, could not abide such profanity, and ignored it, to his great regret in the Elysian Fields, where he is forced to ride a horse through plains of sunny golden grain while carrying a severed head, perhaps his own.

Not!

There was once a widely renowned translator who was so adept at her peculiar art that it was said she could do more than merely translate one language into another—the equivalent, she said, of switching an hourglass upside down and rightside up again—but many believed this crafty creature could translate linguistically untouchable subjects like the stars, and tiger stripes, and the buzzing of a honeyed beehive, into such exquisitely pure words that these representations would outshine that which they represented. People would sooner watch, and not read, her words, rather than drink in the milky way galaxy—ekphrasis in action.

Yet at the height of her majesty her power was broken. While working on an everyday text somewhat fraught with slang she came upon an idiom she could not render into another without extensive and awkward footnoting. It was a single simple word used in a casual way that had absolutely no equivalent in the other language, and to explain the usage would ruin the effect of the word and defeat the purpose of translating it to begin with. The translator stopped all work and puzzled over this for a few days, withdrawing into herself. She could find no solution to the problem. She eventually grew convinced that it was impossible to translate this word; no matter the prowess of the greatest athletes, none but a flea can leap over the Empire State Building. Seeming collapse and ruin for this translator followed.

Not only did she give up on this simple project, and cease to publish, but she lost faith in communication entirely. It began with a conviction that it was impossible for her to translate her thoughts into words, and from that point on she only spoke with simple nods and hand motions, because it seemed to her that the ideas in her mind were too complex to transfer perfectly from one human being to another. But this wasn’t enough. Soon even the simple gestures were ineffective. Before long she ceased to respond to anyone at all and took on a placid, serene, yet glazed expression, and although most people believed that she was braindead a CAT scan revealed that her neural activity was not only normal, but rather extraordinary. Having dispensed with language entirely, her thoughts reached a purity of expression that was unencumbered by mere words, words, words, and it was generally concluded by all present that the ideas coursing through her consciousness were entirely unfathomable.

And this simple idiom that stopped her in her tracks? A phrase from teenage English slang: not!

News

I’m leaving for Indochina in a few days and won’t be able to write any more hidden connections while I’m there, but I’ll be back after three weeks, and should have more than enough grotesques and arabesques to entertain the few people who bother to read this website. In the mean time, I’m trying to complete a trio of short stories before I leave, with the intent of attempting to publish them when I get back, something I haven’t tried to do since I was fifteen, despite devoting more and more of my life, as the years wore on, to reading and writing. I’m a few pages away from finishing the last story, which is written from the perspective of a djinn—

His solemnity and his self-sacrifice concealed a terrible and childish fear of death. The king had lived enough life for ten men, and his memory alone was so rich with victories and debaucheries that he could not be blamed for losing his train of thought when a goblet of wine reminded him of the cranberry lips of a Bactrian princess or the color of the sea as the wreckage of an armada crashed on the shore of a beach tumbling with waves and bloated corpses. This memory, hazy and vague and confused, was still vibrant enough to shake him to the core of his soul, it even seemed to deepen and intensify as his senses shriveled away, and the idea that all of it would vanish like a mirage after sunset was a source of unending despair for him. I remember was his most frequent thought. But there was no one for him to talk to, since he had outlived all of his friends and loves, and there was nothing to think about except death and the Temple.

All We Know About Lysis (from Diogenes Laertius’ Lives and Opinions of Eminent Philosophers)

Harran

[In 323 BC] the Greek philosopher Lysis, who belonged to no particular school of thought but that which was most politically expedient, found himself in Zariaspa [modern Balkh], thanks in large part to the conquests of Alexander the Great. While he was staying in the city he encountered an Indian gymnosophist, perhaps an ascetic Brahminical monk or maybe even a fledgling Buddhist, and said to the man in Attic Greek that “If you can speak one word of my language to me, I will convert to your philosophy.” The monk was in the middle of a busy thoroughfare bowing and beating on a drum to a crude idol he had set up there for that purpose; when he heard the words of Lysis he looked up and said, in perfect Attic Greek, “Language is nothing, thought is everything, but you are a poor man indeed, for you have neither words nor thoughts.” And that same day Lysis shaved his head and his beard, donned the red robe, found a pillar in an empty city of ruins that was nearby, and there on its capital began his meditations in search of Enlightenment.

It was some time later [on April 18th, 316 BC] that an eclipse cast its shadow over the city of Zariaspa and the surrounding country. The people were amazed and terrified, and Lysis, having gazed deeply into the glare of light glowing around the edge of the black disk in the sky, suddenly found, upon glancing away, that he could no longer see anything at all. He rejoiced at this, saying to himself he would be less distracted by the world of illusions, and how wonderful it would be to lose the rest of his senses, that he might be allowed to contemplate the universe in peace, untroubled by the gnawing cold from the north, the sound of laughing women, the taste of warm bread dipped in olive oil.

And he followed through with this pursuit, asked a soldier to pull out his tongue, burned off his nose, and pressed his ears to the anvils of the loudest blacksmiths, thus rendering himself almost totally senseless. He never learned how to eradicate his sense of touch, and could thus be seen sitting in a shaft of sunlight in the marketplace near where he had first met the Greek-speaking monk, his eyes shut, his pursed lips smiling pleasantly. He died of natural causes [in 310]. A crystal was found in the ash of his cremated body, but this disappeared sometime after the invasion of the Tocharians.

Opening Paragraphs from Two Unnamed Stories In-The-Works

From a portrait of Erasmus by Hans Holbein the Younger

From a fictionalization of a trip to Seoul a few weeks ago (first draft finished yesterday)—

No one knows the size of the city of Seoul. And it’s even said among some people that a man familiar with the Hangul alphabet once found a live electrical wire on the far side of the planet with the word Seoul (‘서울’) printed on its gray rubber. So this is proof that the roots of the city grip the whole surface of the Earth, and that if you want to go there, all you have to do is reach into the soil, dig around with your hand, find the inevitable wire, and tear it out—if you have the strength, you can whip it up all the way to the horizon, and follow the root until you get there.

From an autobiography of a Djinn (first draft unfinished (was interrupted by the trip to Seoul and the subsequent inspiration))—

You’ve raised me up, so I’ll speak to you.

I remember my birth and I remember waking from eternity, the feel of fingers weaving me from threads of fire. It’s the same as waking from any sleep. Something pieces you together. In the bright pit under the world I was an empty memory and a flesh of wind, though the blood in my veins was a seething flame, and my legs and arms and hands (all five of them, all ten thousand of them) flashed me back and forth as fast as thought. I was thought, I was fire with neither light nor smoke nor heat, more a force—a push, a shove in the market from nowhere—than a living being, a quiet inhabitant of the inferno.

Heliad—Adventures of a Fickle Sun

…and what if the sun were more like the moon? What if it changed shape, filled with light emptying out into the dark, and what if the moon eclipsed the sun more often than not? How much more chaotic life would be if, added to the shadows of the clouds flying over the earth and flashing in our windows, we also had to contend with the mountains of the moon rushing across our splashing tides, our days turned to coronal nights. The moon at night would glow bright and then darken again, a hand mirror held to the face of the sun, and no afternoon would be safe from the fluctuations of this fingernail, this thumbnail, of fire.

(inspired by a line of Ovid’s—”moon fills four times”—and Charles Boer, as usual, from Book II of the Metamorphoses)