Chapter 1: The Presence of Absence

This is the first installment in a new series that I wrote about a year ago. The series will update on Mondays.

It is not a work of fiction.

January 9th, 2017

So I’ve been having fun.

Due to a combination of national holidays and related events that she has and I don’t, Mrs. A is visiting her family for the weekend.

You know what that means… Time to get crazy.

Like Friday, when I went to see “Sausage Party”. She wouldn’t have liked that film, and it was the late show, in the city. We don’t go into the city often, the train ride there and back is just a pain in the neck, but what the hell, she was otherwise occupied, it’s me time.

And then Saturday morning work, back downtown, but after confirming that she’d still be away that evening, I went nuts.

Ordered a small pizza for myself.

And paid for it from the grocery fund!

Then I went to my local bar and discussed the possible geopolitical ramifications of the upcoming Trump presidency with the owner/bartender.

In Japanese.

We didn’t agree on everything, but who knows how much of that was a result of the language barrier or not.

Rainy day today.

I thought about doing something.

I thought about exercising, but rain.

I thought about dieting, but decided to make hamburg steak (chopped steak, whatever) with red wine/homemade bacon/mushroom gravy for dinner instead, then got drunk-ish and watched both Wayne’s World movies on cable.

Took the trash out.

She’s visiting her family because her mom’s recovery is going….

I don’t know.

She didn’t join the 2016 toll, so that’s something.

But I’ve got a black suit that I’ve yet to wear, but I think that’ll change soon, and then her dad will be spending the rest of his days partying just like I have for the last three.

The title of this post is a taken from a quote from Michael Berenbaum, former project director of the US Holocaust Memorial Museum.

Hit Somebody

So I wanna fucking hit somebody get hit get beatdown lose a fight to someone who is in the wrong and I don’t even know why.

Overworked?

Oh, yeah, shit, I was on the clock for three and a half hours today.

Extenuating circumstances of twelve hours out of the house don’t count, nor do fucking lazy ass shithead boo fucking hoo the hours I spend between jobs or on public transport I just want to hit somebody get hit shit in a hole in the dirt club my dinner alpha’s dinner to death before I get it stolen sleep outside the warmth of the fire watch the engines flame out toss a hand grenade into cargo class from the fucking cargo bay we were born to be slaves, we have always been slaves we deserve to be slaves my bucket list what keeps me alive is the watching the release of nuclear weapons on a civilian population on the BBC or even better from the rooftop bedtime good night fuckit.

Covers

A song is not a dress nor a necklace nor a bracelet, not a bangle or a bauble or even a well made suit.

Some are.

Some are, it’s true. Some songwriters put the same love and care and soul into their work that a Cambodian slave-child making a pair of Nike shoes that will retail in New York or Chicago or Shanghai for a greater sum than Mother received the day they took Older Sister away.

She won’t be coming back.

Some songwriters, many songwriters, most songwriters are churning out a product to be served to the masses, a product that will go viral perhaps, a song that will have a special place in your heart because, and only because, it was the soundtrack to your first kiss, your first fuck, the last time you saw her before the drunk driver came across the centerline…

But no more. No meaning beyond what it means to you, which can be explained but never conveyed except by allegory because we all have those songs in our head, could be Madonna, could be Lady Gaga, could even be Stacey Q. It’s there, in your head, not on merits, but on the experience.

So there’s the Top 40, Trending Now on YouTube, You May Like…

They’re in my head too, and there’s nothing wrong with that.

But there are the other songs, the ones the writers thought and fought for, the ones that can take a moment like the one you remember Stacy Q because of and push that moment, that experience, that life straight into your consciousness like you lived it yourself, that can show, in two or three hundred words, in three or four minutes, the whole who and where and what and why, or as much of it as you need know, burn it right into your memory even though you weren’t there, you weren’t here, you weren’t, not yet, you didn’t even exist, and you’ve got no frame of reference but what was laid out on that page of a notebook, laid down in that studio, so many years before.

The artist has made his life a part of yours, but that doesn’t mean you own it, no matter how much you tell yourself that you’re a fellow worker in song, it’s not something that you can slip into because you think it will set off your voice nicely, the gender discongruity isn’t a clever little twist, you weren’t there, it wasn’t you, stop kidding yourself just fucking push play and enjoy.

An Ugly Vibe

There’s a weird vibe on the boards lately, something in the wind that doesn’t feel right.

Not ugly.

Not yet.

Not sure where it’s going, but snark and sass seem to be the order of the day. Offenders? Dunno, nobody, everybody, somebody, somebody not new, somebody just new. Little things getting picked at, the edges of the scabs running a tad raw and everyone’s out of that grease that Gramma carried in her purse, combination lip balm scrape lotion thread loosener hinge oiler spice, none left, tube’s dry and the bits are starting to squeak where they rub up against each other, but the squeaks are turning from metal against metal to metal versus metal, small shavings falling off between the hinge plates and the pin.

Grooves, and not the groovy kind.

Is this just a phase, is this just part of the normal ebb and flow, the combined breathing and pulse and circulation of fifty thousand mostly quiescent minds bumping against each other in this little corner of the the vast consensual hallucination that Mr. Gibson and DARPA bequeathed us, or is it a sign of something larger, the growing lack of incivility that Horace noted so recently? Or is it just a figment of my imagination, is the break already starting to chafe? I need to be at work in a few hours, but here I am, tapping away, man was made for work and toil and strife, not electric light and heat and instantaneous connection with the outside world across the seas and continents, for most of our history we were prey, and then we were slaves, which amounts to the same thing but the master doesn’t kill you cleanly, he eats you day by day over decades, we aren’t cut out for this, not for freedom, not for choice, we were born to fear and lacking that fear, we grow to fear everything, which is as it should be, is that a stick or a snake, are you hungry enough to eat those new berries, was that the wind in the grass or a lion?

The Spartan helots were mandated a certain number of beatings every year, whether or not they behaved, so they didn’t forget their place.

Circular Extinction

Battlestar Galactica: The Rebootening was actually a pretty good series, but reflecting back on it, I realize that the parts that I liked best were the beginning and the end.

 

Not just the beginning showing us that an interplanetary civilization can (and will, if we get to that point) be taken down by lust, but that moment-

 

-that wonderful moment-

 

-when a hostile actor decides that things will start and end
with vernichtung.

 

 

The Cylons were pretty much carpetnuking Caprica when the traitor (Traitor? He never did run that test on himself, did he?) Gaius Baltar escaped. When the humans offered unconditional surrender, they were met with…

 

…silence, and more bombs.

 

The waters rose and increased greatly on the earth… They rose greatly on the earth, and all the high mountains under the entire heavens were covered. The waters rose and covered the mountains to a depth of more than fifteen cubits. Every living thing that moved on land perished—birds, livestock, wild animals, all the creatures that swarm over the earth, and all mankind. Everything on dry land that had the breath of life in its nostrils died. Every living thing on the face of the earth was wiped out; people and animals and the creatures that move along the ground and the birds were wiped from the earth.
 
The perfect end to an imperfect story, but not the ending we got.

 

Five or eight or seven seasons later, after squirming like an earthworm on the sidewalk under the magnifying-glass focused Cylon sun, the remaining colonists… colonize, finding another new planet to replace the scorched Earth.

 

And we know what happens when the colonizers come calling, don’t we?

 

St. Iain (not me you fucking dolt, the author. No, I’m just a writer, and not a very good one at that. Try and focus, will you?) tells us that:
An Outside Context Problem was the sort of thing most civilisations encountered just once, and which they tended to encounter rather in the same way a sentence encountered a full stop.

 

After the death of (acting) President (Education Secretary or some unlikely shit) Palin, Commander William “Hüsker Dü” Adama spends the rest of his short life jumping in and out of a lake that thinks it’s a gin and tonic. The rest of the doughty crew and survivors of the S.S. (spaceship) Minnow, who, despite having lost all their guns when the sole surviving professional athlete in the universe stole the fleet and set the controls for the heart of the sun, are still able to use their ignorance of germs and knowledge of steel to exterminate the local “missing link” autochthones, save for a raped few whose partial DNA survived long enough to confuse things for future genealogists.

 

And so it ends, with a race escaping genocide perpetrating genocide.

 

Perfect.