Flash Fiction: The Fly

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The blinding reality of my situation is perpetual. A thousand diffuse moments scattered like flashbulb crystals in a dizzying array. Every sound is the moment of heat death at the end of the universe. No light; all light. Vibrations at the end of my blackened limbs.

I am hungry

The perpetual hum of my motors pulls me from moment to moment. No stopping; never stop. Stop is death. The loudness indicates food. The food’s transdimensional across the vectors that indicate sense. A thousand hands come to crush me; each one a broken escher rain drop about to slam. I am quick.

Cilia all around and my body will not linger. I cannot tell this object from any other object. I only know that it feels like me. It is coarse and horizonless and the colors are glaring and green and white and yellow and blue. I cannot see my own eyes, bulbous.

I announce my mating call through the timeless expanse. The loud motor of my stomach produces an earth shaking rattle. I fly always up. My wings never move. rest is death. I am the constant enemy. And my stream never moves towards or away anyone thing.

A smell.

It is deep and punctures my proboscis. It fills me with the scent I imagine peace feels like. The mosaic indicates life. My life. My food. I will mate. I will eat. I will die. There is no loneliness. My mind is the distance between a synapse.

The world is constant and I am always moving. And I land again. My mosaic is single, my heart my mind and thoughts uncoil as I taste the grains of salt on the sandwich left out. The thousand hands of death come again .

Light fractures and my wing torn. I fly staggering. A loud thwap and my encroaching demise. Why was I born into chaos?

I fly to my death, well short of my allotted month. I rest on lacquer smooth red wood, and let the sands of time fall over me, as I welcome the peace of stillness and rest.

The rest comes easy, after that.

Dream Logic

Dream logic is uncannily appealing to me.

The night, a mountain, stars of literal diamond rolling up and down the length of something that looks between a river, and a field; the time is gelid, limpid, and pellucid. A shade of green that you don’t associate with air; the textures are all wrong.

You see the light at the end of the navy darkness across the way, and it calls to you. The swaying water takes on the quality of grass, and light fluctuates lux in the in-between.

Figures of egg and sveglia and pain collide on the edges of your periphery. A swooping eagle wings outspread watches you from afar. It has legs of a baby, and its eyes see beyond.

The night air swirls around you and the moon calls its demon red into the place between those two thoughts as wide as ginnungagap. Creatures lurk in those dark shadows with eyes the color of blood.

The eagle is inconsistent in its devotion. Its legs become familiar and a Raven joins its flight, judging it’s love for logic. The wind around them is just the sound of hope.

Three men watch them from below, in a wilderness of swirling darkness. But they are lit by rubies, sapphires, garnets, and guilt. The guilt is flame incarnate, burnished orange and regretful mauve play off their faces.

They know the eagle is a herald of order. But the Raven, well, that’s something else.

The Raven is the familiar that whispers in your ears about the seductive truths of beyond. It’s the subtle curvature of the earth that you seem to fall into from the horizon line. It sings a song of savory sorrow; but its song’s sweet sultriness is too much to bear.

Below the Raven, the men argue about god, life, and violence. They each assume their position is the correct one. They are men of learning, the turbans that sprout on their heads grow successively with the mounting arguments. Their rhetoric builds escher stair ways from the soft-silk and muslin of their turbans.

Suddenly, a loud bang. The smell of patchouli ruins the effect. Then the smell of sulfur.

Brimstone leads the men into a cavern of gravity-less meanderings. They continue arguing, each walking past the other through lopsided right angles. They don’t know what they know to be true; and their too smart to acknowledge what they feel to be right.

The eagle perches silently on the top stage left, just under the lights.

–Where are we?

–Who cares…

–It’s imperative that we figure out where we are

–Why can’t we just walk, and let it take us

–Your metaphors are too on the nose

–I’m not in control here.

–Control is an illusion

–There are plenty of illusions, but control is not one.

–Control is the ultimate illusion; it preys on the belief that we hold the wheels of destiny. We are ever a passenger.

Sprouting blossoms of crystal fall out of the person’s mouth. The indeterminate sex of his existence is no crime. The Raven’s eye is a black hole. Dali doesn’t know how he ended up in some mad modernist raving about nothing, and promptly leaves the scene

–Great, now I’ve included Dali, as if I wasn’t being obvious enough.

–I could have done Bunuel, I guess.

And then, a rumbling

The world becomes a singular point on the horizon. The Eagle Bursts into Flame, the Raven screams at the light, and all of the insignificance is pulled into focus.

Just as the dream is about to get good.

I wake up.

And there is nothing more disappointing than that.

A Small Infinite Loop About Nothing

something both comforting and distressingly real about infinity.

Lamniscates hold a fascination for what seems like every great thinker of the modern day. Whether it’s David Foster Wallace, or poor Kurt Gödel (yo-de-lay-hee-hoo); from Joyce to DeLillo to why am I only thinking of writer’s.

There’s something comforting about infinity because we can’t really verify it empirically – we live in a finite universe made of limited particles and atoms – but we know it’s there.

It’s sort of like the mathematical equivalent of god.

Think about it long enough, and in the right weird romantic mindset, and it makes some semblance of sense.

You can’t look at something infinite; hell, you can’t even think of something infinite; hell, you’re barely capable of perceiving 100 people in a room accurately; hell, Dante’s inferno has limits to its perceptions.

But infinity can be represented in so many ways; but only finitely, weirdly enough.

You have the lamniscate — the figure 8 doo-dad — and fractals, you have recursive loops and places that begin on the point where they end — I see you Infinite Jest/Finnegans Wake/Hand.Cannot.Erase/The Wall/Nonagon infinity. The concept of things never ending is something endlessly appealing .

Man, I saw that pun from a mile away, and I let it happen anyway. Fate has a funny way of being like that.

But back to the endless: infinity is never ending, it’s shapeless, you can’t pinpoint it, you can’t control, you can’t limit it. It just is. It goes on forever. It has no start, and no end. You can’t even think of it, but it has the enviable quality of limitlessness.

It is everything that humanity isn’t.

It’s so distressingly hard to realize that in the realm of infinite time, and space, 1 yoctosecond and a Googoldecaplex (Googol folloed by ten googols of zeroes…wrong google) are the same amount of time relative to infinity.

Infinity doesn’t have to worry about looking good. Infinity doesn’t have to keep a schedule. Infinity doesn’t have to care. It just gets to be infinite, and unknowable.

It is all that is theoretically possible. It is the best versions of me that I’m too ashamed to admit I’d actually like to be. It is elegant and so large as to be humanly non-sensical, but utterly honest.

It’s a comfort.

It renders meaningless, those things we hold most dear. It is the what next moment you keep asking yourself. It is that second where you anticipate the next moment, and the next moment.

And it’s easy to fall in love with.

When there is no end, there is no end. Life continues on its spectrum, but will never reach its terminus. You won’t have Severian the Torturer holding a big ass sword to chop off your head. It’s the limitless potential of man. And I’m waxing way too poetic tonight.

But again, I love infinity. and I like being self-referential. Self-reference is a thing of beauty, when done correctly.

When you’re self-referential and utilitarian, you make statements about you, yourself, your art, and whatever else you were trying to say. You create a sense of illusory accountability.

When you get meta, it’s like anti-inception. You’re taking everyone out of the dream river you’ve been letting them float along. You pluck them from the Dorcan softness and golden haired grandmothers; and you put them back in reality.

You get to make sense, even though making sense isn’t very fun.

I think the most appealing thing about infinity is that it is nothing. It is the essence of paradox. It is the paradox of paradoxes. It is like something that is very very very hot feeling the same sharp intensity of a dagger against your skin that something very very very cold is.

Like the Taoists: everything is nothing.

And that’s why there’s…

Experimental Screenplay: A Perfect Circle

INT. Tautology – Afternoon

ERIC (Mid-20’s) sits down at his typewriter. He stares at the screen for a long time, pondering. He rubs his chin, then his forehead.

He scans the room. He looks at the clock on the wall. He gets up. He sits down again, a new idea coming.

The sky is white and bored as the idea leaves him.

Eric
Damn it.

He stares out at the sky, fingers restless. He gets up to make tea. Just as he does so, he stops. He sighs and screams. Thoughts of infinity flash before his eyes.

The birth of the universe; the big bang; Dinosaurs eating each other; splitting cells. He shrugs at how generic that is. He sees two people talking. He see them at a cafe, having what appears to be a deep conversation.

The conversation is just beyond his hearing. Snippets of dialogue:

Man
You would say that.

Woman
You don’t know me.

He shrugs. Too generic by far. Suddenly a science-fiction story blossoms in his mind. Space Battles, ships crashing into each other. Lasers flying, death, destruction. High drama.

No Characters.

He bangs his head against the rough table. He grabs advil. He paces the wooden floor. He sees a cross form in the shade of the window. Golden. Brown. Religion?

No.

He leaves the room. The TV starts playing. He wanders in periodically. Frustrated, and tired. He stares at his watch.

Eric
Can’t miss this deadline.
Another story. Experimental. Yeah. That’s it. He stares out of his window. Reality has broken down. There are demons crossing the street. Eric shakes his head.

The teapot whistles. The monsters fly and scream and shriek. There is a tornado in the distance coming for him if he doesn’t solve this problem.

Tears form on his cheeks, salty and angry. His foot taps too loudly. Springs creak above him and he flickers disgust.

A man stares at him. His face brooks no question. Eric bows to the face and its infinite sorrow.

He’s defeated. He prepares to turn off his typewriter. Prepares to call his editor and tell him he’s done. No more. No more of this struggle. His finger hovers over the red button. His eyes no longer scrunch. He can let it go.

Finally,  an idea comes. He sits down one more time and begins typing:

INT. Tautology – Afternoon

–Fin