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[farmerbuju]

The Swan

I am the Milky Way.

I shed tears of asteroids and supernovas as my sequins fall, for many no longer appreciate my curling tentacles in the night sky. My stage is now a blank slate. I meticulously apply makeup to my eyelids, fluttering my lashes under a spinning disco ball, unseen. The world has moved on to gallium arsenide, neon, argon, and mercury. You may know them from Hollywood Boulevard, Times Square, or Caesar’s Palace. Places that blot my stars. I dance alone, shunned to the corner.

Some notice me crying for attention. In December of 2017, 1,416 square miles of land from a place with a gibberish name were sliced on a map and given to me. They call it the Central Idaho Dark Sky Reserve. 1,416 square miles of some of the cleanest skies on Earth. 1,416 square miles where I can smile in the spotlight for all to see. 

The gracious gift seemed to have caught the attention of those lusting for my celestial body, particularly a couple from Vancouver, Canada, named Sam and Casey. The two had each amassed a modest fortune from their successes in the arts. Sam from music, and Casey from culinary talent. Sam was the twisted lovechild of a Slinky and a tab of Ambien, who often spoke flatly of childish nonsense and moved about with liquid qualities. Casey was far more upbeat, and if we’re sticking with the toy analogies, could be compared to a wind-up monkey. The ones that smash cymbals together. She was also a cautious being, constantly wiping down countertops as a preventative measure against Sam’s anaphylactic allergies to milk products, a condition which nearly brought him to death during childhood. 

The discovery of a photographer named Thierry Cohen proved pivotal in my relationship with Sam and Casey. A photographer who superimposes me, free of light pollution, above darkened cityscapes around the world in a scientifically accurate marriage of the astral and the urban. To do so, he matches the exact angle and latitude of two places. Paris matches with Montana. Hong Kong with the Western Sahara. 

“Photography is a way of showing things that we can’t see. Photography is a way to dream. I am not showing you post-apocalyptic cities, merely cities without electricity. I am bringing back the silence.”

I miss the silence.

The day Sam and Casey brought home Cohen’s book titled Villes Éteintes, they flipped through its pages imagining what lay above the copied and pasted condos of Vancouver.

The pair lived atop Shangri-La (no really, that’s the actual name of the building) in a 360-degree penthouse overlooking the Salish Sea, a residence which reached so high yet failed to grant them access to my beauty. Like myself, they grew weary of the blinking lights which suffocated the darkness. Pacific Northwest weather didn’t help their quest to find me either. Having been urban dwellers their entire lives, Sam and Casey stared through telescopes on their balcony with great futility, and upon hearing the gold-tier designation of the Idaho Dark Sky Reserve, they declined to renew the lease for the Shangri-La and hit the road.

They developed an obsession with building a house somewhere in the reserve, or as pretentiousness led them to define, “an inhabited space.” An inhabited space which by Sam’s definition would be so joyful to behold, that one could be just as amused sitting in any given room as one would be manifesting their wildest dreams. Casey insisted that it had to be an alternative style of housing. Friendlier to the environment. Visually distinct. A treehouse. A school bus. An airplane fuselage, an airstream, a yurt. Their arguments took on the sonic appearance of a Dr. Seuss book until they finally settled on living in three 40-foot shipping containers. One for the bathroom and bedroom, one for the kitchen and living room, and one which doubled as a storage locker and a recording studio.

The search for perfection was endless. Location came first. Nestled in the Sawtooth Range, they splurged on a plot of land shadowed by alpine spires beside an emerald lake. The nearby town of Stanley, Idaho, served as a refuel station, occasionally buzzing their Lancia down the gravel road to civilization. A pretty if unreliable means of transportation. 

I remember the day Sam and Casey first laid eyes on their purchase. Sam wrapped his arms around Casey's waist, and a moose sauntered over to congratulate them. Or perhaps warn them. They gasped in glee nonetheless. Awe-struck. Progress felt slow at times, but by May of 2018 the skeleton of their ambition had formed. 

Decoration and design came next. Italian ceramics for the kitchen, bamboo minimalism for the bathroom, a touch of Roger Dean for the bedroom, a painting here, a painting there, a little bit to the right, a little bit to the left, no that’s not right, wait there. Perfect. They called their “inhabited space” (still can’t get over how pretentious that sounds) The Swan, in honor of the astronomer Henrietta Swan Leavitt. A woman who allowed you lovely folk to measure distances across the cosmos using a law that bears her name.

That summer was quite literally a blessing and a curse for Sam and Casey. They had finally achieved their vision of aesthetic paradise. Two people. Afternoons spent draped in silk, napping beneath the sun-kissed pines. Mornings spent holding one another in a glacial bath, happy to be alive, floating in the footprints of a 19,000-year-old ice sheet when I was once proud and magnificent. Sam provided the soundtrack, Casey the feast, and myself? The spectacle. 

Each night, after shutting off their lights in compliance with the U.S. Forest Service's light pollution ordinance, Sam and Casey would open the retractable skylight of the bedroom container and ogle at my outstretched arms. Each night, I smiled back at them. I waved to show my appreciation and wished them good fortune. Together the three of us celebrated fusion. The physical fusion of two bodies into one. The fusion of atomic nuclei that allows me to be seen.

With the benefit of hindsight, I sincerely apologize to Sam and Casey. I unknowingly exposed Sam to my milky glow, casting a curse upon him from which he never recovered. Sam was allergic to me. 

The symptoms of his reaction were in fact quite severe. Sam began experiencing sensations of euphoria whenever his relationship with Casey faltered. A sensation which overpowered all other outlets to joy. Addicted to decay. Rotten, rotten luck that was.

---

Sam first became aware of the curse during a routine drive to Stanley for groceries. High on his new life, Sam barreled through the trees, mimicking the reckless abandon of a race car driver. Casey played along by pretending to be a Formula 1 announcer.

—He’s got to get ahead of that Ferrari on the grid! Two more corners before we know the second sector time... and he’s up by 4 tenths! Like I said, the second and third sectors are where this Lancia really flies… —Vroooom... vroooom... vroooom...

Pop. The Lancia skidded to a halt, kicking up gravel. Rasping. Broken.

Sam white-knuckled the steering wheel before letting go. Once the initial shock wore off, he glanced over at Casey, who expressed annoyance, perhaps disappointment. Lips pursed. That’s when it happened. Sam gripped the wheel again to steady himself from the overwhelming generation of supernatural happiness. Just the tiniest negative interaction caused such a payoff.

After that day, Sam tested the waters with Casey. An argument here, an argument there. Why’d you sell the Lancia? Why do you keep buying dairy? It all fed into the feeling.

Sam’s more drastic plans for a fix started in the bedroom container. The moon was new and thus I was exceptionally bright. Sam and Casey lay naked and sweaty on their mattress, reciprocating my gaze. I watched their chests rise and fall with each breath. Occasionally their exhales would align like swings on a playground. Blissful assurance of life. Many whispers passed between the sheets that cloaked them, saturated with statements of affection, of gratitude. A framed sanctuary that tightly held their shoulders.

Despite the sequence of pleasure that had just transpired, Sam knew it would pale in comparison to the dose of dopamine he was soon to receive. 

—Casey. —Mhm. —I don’t think we should have sex anymore. —What? —I just don’t feel comfortable. —You’re kidding.

Casey’s mouth opened for a split second, only to snap shut like a bear trap. I could hear her choppy breaths as she slipped past the egg-like walls of the bedroom and wept from inside the bathtub. A flood to Sam’s brain. Practically giddy at the damage that had been done. Casey slept parallel to Sam that night. Back turned, drowning in doubt.

Sam’s second advancement came in the kitchen container. Casey prepared dinner. Tomatoes and salt shuffled from glass tombs. The wheezing fan whisked away fragrant fuzz lingering in the air. Bruised copper cookware sagged over the drain, their igneous lips sighing with tired satisfaction. Adjacent monuments of oak and porcelain heard their laughter. Swirling spaghetti galaxies. 

What Casey didn’t know is while she left to use the bathroom, Sam swallowed a small amount of cheese from a bowl that was not his. Sam knew Casey would not let him die. Sam fell from his chair, sprawled across the rug, and clawed desperately at his neck. Casey returned. Horrified. Lunging for Sam’s EpiPen. Holding Sam while he seized, though not from allergies.

---

When Sam’s airways were restored, he revealed that it was an intentionally triggered reaction. That Casey’s presence drove him to this point. That existence was torture. All lies. 

There was a new kind of silence in The Swan. Sam spent most of his time in the recording studio. It was the easiest way to avoid awkwardness in such a confined space, especially as the colder months forced them to hunker down more often. Casey coped in the kitchen. She ordered ingredients from all across the globe, shaping works of art in a desperate attempt at apology, not knowing the needlessness of such measures. Caterpillar rolls. King crab. Caviar. All for Sam, who ceased to thank Casey for her work.

Mountain weather meant Sam and Casey saw me less and less as the months progressed. It was a rare night in November when we were all together. 

Sam slept. Casey sat by the lake, unable to find peace beside her partner at that hour. 

Sam woke to the sound of sobbing, wrapped in a cotton coffin, elbows tucked close to his chest. He followed lines running over his body. Scars slashed for reactions. Mute mosaics made of crisscrossing worms, embedded inward, shining dull. Nothing left to squeeze out of Casey. Not anymore. All ruined. Towed her through torment, took it too far. Rode roller coasters, rails rusted, crumbling and crashing. 

Stirred by thirst, Sam dragged himself to the kitchen, absentmindedly pouring water onto the floor. Missed the cup by a mile. His attention drew elsewhere. Outside. 

Casey’s winged bones rested snug under a sheet of skin, pinching jagged knobs, curling bare. She winced at Sam’s hand on her shoulder. Both shivering. 

—Hey, said Sam. —Hey. —I want to talk to you. About something that’s been going on with me. —Okay. —Okay? —We should swim first. Like old times. —But it’s freezing. —Please?

They disrobed, standing exposed to one another. Casey grabbed Sam’s hand, leading him to the middle of the lake. Numb. Treading water, sputtering in the black. A lunge for Sam’s neck. No resistance. Forcing him underwater till not a hint of life remained. 

---

The Nez Perce Tribe of Central Idaho tell the story of a boy who shot an arrow into the sky. A shooting star returned, bringing his people the gift of fire. Was this wrong of me?

Had I not sent fire, humanity may not have flourished for so many millennia. Cities may have never risen. My light may have never been silenced. Sam and Casey may have never been born, but Sam may have never been killed, and Casey may have never suffered. Only myself to blame. I fade from human memory with each passing day, often thinking of The Swan.