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CLOSE / Parnassiad

Peace and Other Stories

Fragments of a Formerly Active Sex Life

Going Home
by Julian X  /  fiction  /  1 Jul 2007

"Fuck and fuck and fuck and piss your shit out your fucking nose, you piece of cocksucking motherfucking shit, motherfucker motherfucker."

"You're repeating yourself, my dear.  Perhaps you'll feel more creative after your rape."

Spontaneity, spontaneity, spontaneity, spontaneity, spontaneity, spontaneity.

Take the words and write them, sky high, in neon.

When Marc Antony declared, or was seen to do so, that he would be buried in Egypt, it did not matter that he was a forgery, his forgery a forgery of a forgery, a docile admission.

Still, we write our own stories, box ourselves into corners.  It is our come on that dress, hidden in a friend's closet, waiting to be tested to see whether those squirmy little devils have sworn the Presidential oath.

I long only to stop making sentences.

I mean, I long only

Buy yourself a diamond, make yourself last forever, savor the self-love in this cult of self-esteem, in this worship of the modern god, the Self, suspicious and interrogatory, this god of disbelief in whom we place our disbelief, this negation of Negation, this deity of diets, this Ascension by way of Stairmasters.

And so we wonder at the mystery of the Sphinx, which in Arabic is called fearful, fearful, respectful, terrible, terrible.  Je ne pense pas qu'il y avait un objet trop terrible depuis le nez.

And went down to the ships…

And went down with the ships…

And went down on the ships…

Here it is, here it is, submitted for your approval.  Here, in Lancaster, in Spitalfields, at Christ's Church, the oath upon the oak, the truth upon the tree, the inscription upon the heart of Woden's Day and Thor's Day, the end of our understanding, the incantation that binds by its imperial architecture the prostitutes with their breasts exposed, feeding the infants of our imagination.

Constraining magic, terrible magic.  Terrible.

The city is laid out in circles, it architecture a ring of souls, a course of travel for the mind, circling, circling, decaying in orbit.  Sputnik is falling soon, and with it the Wall, the walls, the barriers of coral reefs exposed to suntan oil.  Let the monuments pile up in the rubble along with so many decaying Rodin sculptures, split apart in fire and in falling metal, laying amongst the stray fingers and the bones of our children.

There is no band-aid for this, save that we place over our mouths, our ears, our eyes, euthanizing the soul.  And so Carter arrived on the telly, speaking of a crisis in the American spirit, a crisis of confidence, a malaise, in the strongest nation in the world in which the majority of the people, waiting in line for gas, for their chance, for the Promise, thought that the American Dream was kaput, now that there were no great Western lands to conquer.  But we made new ones, didn't we?  New challenges for that eagle, new obstacles to soar beyond, this shining city on the hill, this beacon of democracy with bulb burned out.  Let us conquer the ghettos, make trench warfare there, fill the ghettos with the blood of our American dead in their combat fatigues and confidence.  But we shall not overcome.  We shall, lacking else to overcome, declare wars on ideas, on homosexuality, on drugs, on war itself.  The war to end all wars.  The terrorism to end all terrorism.  The threat to end all threats.

And so the weapon inspectors come in and come in and come in, while the votes come in and come in and come in, until we forget, then forget, that we once… .

Franklin Roosevelt declared the nation in a state of crisis and granted the President extra-constitutional powers that have never been rescinded.  The war's never going to end, is it?  Those bugs will kills us yet, whether in Alpha Centari or here at home.  Let us gear up for war.  What?  Do you want to live forever?  Strike some deal with a forgotten deity that he may stab you in the back, that you can live as a pile of dust two millennia hence, your idols all but forgotten?

No, no, no, no, no.

Yes, he says, gasping for breath, tongues against flesh, against the skin, the largest human organ, sensual, yes.  Flooding the mind with electricity, natural and independent of Alaska, of natural gas, of OPEC.

Wishing well at the wishing well, he fell upon his sword.

But there was nothing to return to, the mythic quest won, the torturers all but forgotten.  Having slayed all the dragons, he retired to his cave, buried as the mythic embodiment of a nation, of a more idealistic time, a John F. Kennedy just under the hills, waiting for some kiss to revive him.  Or something a bit more sincere.

And ever, in the beginning was the Once Upon a Time, the best and the worst of them, these dark and stormy epochs of tritical dismissals of discombobulated romances, the structures upon which our hearts are built.

Bandage the soul.  Gaze into the mirror and remember, dimly, a childhood with which you cannot identify, and wonder whether you were there, whether that was you or just the weather.  We have Blade Runner for this.  We know, we know, we know – and yet we do, we do, we do.

Home.  Palm trees and coconuts.  A beach, softly lapping, the sound blending into a familiar dog, the first puppy one can remember as a boy, his tongue, lick lick lick, and there was no tomorrow, no yesterday, like any good Utopian isle.  Home.

Wrapped up within a womb, there is no speech as such.  A kick, half-involuntary, constitutes all the communication one needs.  Let us revise this revision.  Let us misremember our invented memories.  Perhaps the cults put us there.  Perhaps the aliens, with their anal probes.  Or perhaps just daddy, pounding away a little too enthusiastically one dark, chilly evening, in the dark and half-light of the half-remembered image, of the door and the stuffed bear, of the sounds of monsters under the bed.  And, make no mistake, Here there Be Monsters.

Home.  Ga ga.  Run, running, ran, runned, ranning, runs, rans, are and were ranning, had been running, had been.  Goo goo.  Ha ben.  Stop – and put your feet up.

And then…

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Fiction by Julian Darius:
16 Characters, 44 Stories, and the Bird Flies Away
Going Home
Shedding Skins 1 (of 7)
Shedding Skins 2 (of 7)
Shedding Skins 3 (of 7)
Shedding Skins 4 (of 7)
Shedding Skins 5 (of 7)
Shedding Skins 6 (of 7)
Shedding Skins 7 (of 7)
@13:  Three Vignettes
The Hounding of Harold Calfe
Harsh Country
Happy Ending
Drunken Rant
Watching Alice Die
More Coming