Fictocritical Innovations

Mirror: invert the latitude linearity of the horizon and this regret will now proceed to pain and slay me and try me for many days to come. It will quiver and waver and defeat me as I progress or do not progress in my day-to-day, hour-to-hour, roll on and roll out and still continue to replicate fate and chance and the struggle to go on.

The opportunity was entirely there, and conscience got the better of me. That wicked demon that instils paranoia and fear and what is quite possibly wrong, on a fundamental level. What can I do now? What shall I do now? Conscience has caused me pain. Conscience has caused me regret. Conscience has ironically caused me mischievous wrong-doing of the worst kind.

Ride it out, wait, be patient, the nightmare will pass and blow over. There will be another time, another opportunity. But not like this one, not like this one (I mutter). This was the one, and it is over. And another lengthy chip has been struck and splintered away from the wooden, splayed fragmented character of my body, my being. A being or entity chipped away at until less solidity remains, until less remains, until nothing remains. Shame. It hurts me, but not because of the pain, but because there is now less of myself. A pain associated with a lacking of—of therein, of within, of nothing. Time and the timelessness of the sneaking conniving devil of regret and conscientiousness will inevitably and soulfully and meaningfully break me down. So here are the two options: you commit, fly, ride, stride in a desperate state of fluctuating mortality or morality in which the means is the end and nothing makes sense and the purposeful purposelessness of your journey is foolish but fulfilling; or you doubt, regret, let your conscience get the better of this damn thing, this situation, this mirror, this fluctuating principality that shreds at you in the dark corners of rooms and you suffer and think and ponder like a child, getting annoyed for not having leaped at these opportunities, even though the opportunities were so foolish and ridiculous to begin with. It’s silly and ironic to still think this way, and yet still be this way too—a counter intuitive paradox, yet human nature is synonymous with this type of (self) resentment and an unrighteous sense of crude entitlement; these things are worth saying too.

Coast to Coast Infrequency (Part I) (2013)

Coast to coast infrequency, continentally settled or perhaps ‘submerged’, I play the role well, but not well enough to suppress the cravings and desires to leave and situate myself on mirrored coastal plains, snow-coated peaks, to swim in torrential rivers in great seeping valleys, engage depravity and isolation amongst the mass of alienating strangers and to feed my hunger and thirst, absorbing the (dis)comfort and solace made from and in the cusped hands of an inverted host.

The plan was to seek out, find and embrace redemption, to refuel the empty, twittering gauge, to reset the cycle, bring vibrancy back to my sagging face and bring lustre back into my drooping eyes; tired but restlessly racing underneath the same and similar skies of the day-to-day and day-by-day drone, I holler (ever so quietly)! The desire was real, sincere.

Instead, I (counter) intuitively fixate myself in the overly frequented corners, dark places and strobing, conniving lights of discotheques that were made in these watering holes and the artificial oases overseas for the abuse and suppression of personal growth. But these places merely highlight the familiarity and mediocrity of my own coast.

Stagnated and alone, I feel the quaking thunder and the waves swelling and crashing. They physically manifest themselves on the beach as well as in the depths of my brain, the pressure in my skull and the conflicted pains I feel in my mind; my obsessive compulsion, my paranoia, my fatigue, my cynicism, my angst, my jealousy and my spite all bubble to the surface, swelling and crashing in a cyclical rotation that reverses and contrasts the purity and beauty of the waves before my eyes. I sabotage myself, knowingly, consciously—the pattern or patent of my youth.

I lie dejected, finally, by the seaside in the paradise that I sought out. The experience has been violated. No more sincerity spills forth. My original pure intention is all but gone. Instead mere toxicity and chemistry and a sweat tainted by an egocentric and awkward fear courses through my veins and the drains of my silent delirium and the Incan(tantory) street. I dream of the other coast, my coast, the foreign yet familiar tones—herein lies, my quiet defeat, but I will celebrate at home, and to others, nonetheless. The coast to coast infrequency will ebb and flow again.

[A]n inner compulsion to move on—it was still not clear to him where to—troubled him. (Mann 12)

Solitude produces originality, bold and astonishing beauty, poetry. But solitude also produces perverseness, the disproportionate, the absurd and the forbidden. (Mann 19)

Thomas Mann’s Death in Venice can relate to the darker side of ‘travel’, and the often superficial pretentiousness of it. We always feel compelled to convey the ‘travel’ experience to others as having been positive or revelatory, whereas this isn’t always the case. Instead we often subject ourselves to the grotesque depravity in dark places on the other side of the world whilst we formulate a fake romanticised version of what actually did or did not happen to ‘us’ over ‘there’.

Travel (for a youth) can be about pushing oneself to uncomfortable limits in order to ensure we have ventured as ‘far out’ as possible, but really all we do is destroy ourselves and forget our experiences. And all we remember is the regret and suffering and frustration, and the need for love and respect in the eyes of others to whom the exact same thing is happening (sometimes) when they are abroad. So, really it is a dishonest farce and façade that we tell ourselves and others to keep the perpetual ‘frequency’ going, to and from different coasts and shores and lands and continents.

Coast to Coast Infrequency (Part II) (2013)

Coastally and inwardly focused once again

Solitary journeys, an accentuated tic of time spread out

And attempts at deprecating and appreciating the self more

Not so much needing others, and then finding that others gravitate

And circulate more easily and at ease

Jarring attempts at stinted and jolted-stagnant communication

And dialogue still exists

Trying just as hard but for only half the time

A course, of course, of plenitude:

Pick and choose your moments … better

Is there a need to?

Coughing and scoffing followed by a disarming sincerity

And a smile that could actually change you

The niceties, vice-less and true …

A casual mantra along the lines of ‘being alone, and that being okay/fine’ could be applied here in an attempt to gain a psychological stability that stems from a simple desire to be alone and be comfortable with that. Sometimes there is no need to engage and be engaging with others in social settings all of the time—the tired and restless self with an act or need to portray energy and enthusiasm.

The imagery and ‘daze’ of the coast continue to be prevalent metaphors for a state of mind, being undone.

Ghouls (2014)

The coast seems quiet today, though. Deafened, silenced—no hum. Gentle murmurs, maybe. Nothing is happening. The population has been subdued or otherwise has subsided. Everyone looks mildly suspicious, but no one will venture to voice his or her concerns. It’s a weekend weakened, but it seems more like a weak end to the plain planetary cycle. Entire systems have shut down, but maybe this is all a result of the volume being turned down for my own selfish reasons or my own reasoning, unjustifiable dystopia, with eyes reddened and sore from the sensory exposure to my ghoulish thoughtless selves ramming themselves, against the grain, outside my bedroom wall, the night before.

End of the Weekend (2014)

Intense temporary bonds and relationships. Difficult to justify? A steep ascent as opposed to a gradual climb; a disappointed overworked air carries us through to the end of the weekend. Paradise sorrows—it is a tense, terse humiliation that we choose to embrace or to ignore. Others notice it more in us. But that could also easily be the dysfunctional, ill-equipped, undisciplined, stifling goggles that we wear. Stake your future on or in these reckoned experiences, forcing the soul to expand as the dust never seems to settle, and we ignore certain choice cuts, words, shabby looks or commentaries being made, whilst continuously shedding skin.

Going Home (2014)

Canyons of thought whisper through the stillness of their depths and predicate a secondary madness.

You need time to stop, and then more time to stop again, in order to then have the free time to actually think for a while—to process everything: homogeneity. The vagabond sits and stews, desperate to get away from the slow-paced cluttered group.

Something ‘funny’ happens and some fit, clucky middle-aged women come along asking me to take photographs of them. At least they’re not taking ‘selfies’. I like this generation. I don’t think too much truly fazes (or ever fazed) them. They belonged to that whole Fleetwood Mac era, after all.

Finally, a focus comes in like a stream, and all plans come together as I sit atop this mountain, sniffling, in the sun, momentarily happy because I can see where I am, and I like it. I can also literally see where I am going, headed back down the coast this time.

I am a boy. I grow up in the southeast. I travel from east to north to west, and now I’m headed back down those southern plains, to the end, to the finish. I am “hurtling towards it” they tell me.

This is what I came here for. The end is near. The directions and the internal compass are making some chronic and chronological sense for once. As you may know, my personal compass hasn’t always been on par with my intentions, directions, focus or attempts at control.

But now we are headed on course together. There will be a detox, there will be sanctity, and there will be closure and clarity and no more destruction. It is time to climb south, downwards, back, finally, before I die.

I may not necessarily uncover a “Key self” (Woolf 397) in these meandering motions, but I may complete a cycle at least, and close a chronological loop in the form of a written …

Tiers and Towers (2014)

To reach the ultimate and final tier—a Babylonian tower, where no one sits or stands. There are but two champions on the tier beneath the final one. One old and one young, and they stand and compete against each other, drawing in/on every single game, for years, until a true victor wins and can ascend to that final highest lonely tier-podium.

To reach the second last tier, one cannot climb there but rather one must walk through its gates and up the stairs hand in hand with a lover, a soul-partner. When one does so, the world is crushed and flattened so that the tiers fold, recess and the next become accessible.

As soon as one enters the second highest level one of the two champions takes you and handles you and throws you around absent-mindedly but in a professional manner, and you swerve and fold and fall and spin back and forth, becoming a pawn in these rolling games that are being played, but/though not being an actual player.

The sky here is always dark and overcast, smoky and steamy and stewing in ominous colours of dark grey and a hellish blood orange tinted with magentas, purples and maroons.

Our visit was not long. The place was nonsensical: the inaccessibility, the foolish champions, the brooding sky, the pointless matches and games.

Though, I have all but forgotten the lowest tiers. This tower is a high one (obviously, as it reaches the skies), and a fall would certainly shock and kill and neutralise. I can’t even recall how many levels and layers there were, and what kind of games and players belonged to those lower functioning and neutralised boundaries.

What keeps me here is an intrigue and a fascination. Still, it doesn’t hold me there long, but long enough to recognise a riddle being painfully played out ad infinitum.

Конец ознакомительного фрагмента.

Текст предоставлен ООО «ЛитРес».

Прочитайте эту книгу целиком, купив полную легальную версию на ЛитРес.

Безопасно оплатить книгу можно банковской картой Visa, MasterCard, Maestro, со счета мобильного телефона, с платежного терминала, в салоне МТС или Связной, через PayPal, WebMoney, Яндекс.Деньги, QIWI Кошелек, бонусными картами или другим удобным Вам способом.