#file under posts that are incomprehensible to literally everyone except for us

[syn4k]

these chickens are all named shit like "HELP ME" and "I REPENT MY SINS" like. come on man. it was perfectly fine poultry. look at them! theyve got catholic guilt!

[marginalgloss]

toybox mentality

The thing about Milkman by Anna Burns, if it was described in the abstract, is that it might sound a bit dour. A bit unsettling. A bit difficult. This is a book about the Troubles, sometime in the late 1970s; it's written from the perspective of a woman who is being stalked by a man who may or may not be an intelligence agent; and the prose unfolds in long paragraphs dense with clauses. It is lucid, and sometimes exacting. Is it difficult? Kind of. 

Certainly it was a surprising choice for winning the Booker Prize last year. 'Experimental' novels are sometimes nominated for that prize but frequently don't win. A Brief History of Seven Killings by Marlon James is perhaps the closest recent comparison – both are historical novels, both have a decidedly post-imperial slant, and both have a playful approach to their own textuality. But that's about where the similarities end. James’s novel was a comprehensive take on a very specific set of real events, shaped a great deal of the creative licence that we expect from historical fiction. It was a big, engrossing novel as they might have recognised it in the nineteenth century. Milkman is a very different beast. A more apt comparison might be with James Kelman's How Late it Was How Late, which won the Booker back in 1994. That, perhaps, was one of the last truly controversial prizewinners, with one of the judging committee threatening to resign if it won.

Bizarrely, wikipedia currently describes Kelman's book as belonging to the 'stream of consciousness' genre, which seems like a peculiar sort of inverse elitism. If we accept that description (though it is more or less meaningless) one might well file Milkman alongside Kelman’s book even though they are written in very different styles. What they do have in common is a certain way of thinking about life as it exists under a state of imperial power and near-constant conflict. The causes of said conflict are so far removed from the lives of ordinary people so as to be rendered incomprehensible to the reader. Clearly there is an occupation of some sorts but how it came about might as well be the stuff of legends. But for both authors, language becomes a refuge for the spirit of the individual, and a means of passive resistance.

There are a couple of mistakes it is easy to make with books of this nature. The first is the 'stream of consciousness' misconception – the idea that in scanning each line we are somehow plugged straight in to the narrator's thinking, talking, acting, being. Joyce has a good deal to answer for in this regard, but the blame oughtn't to be laid at his feet; the problem is more to do with what is done to Joyce than what he actually did, since there is a great deal more to Ulysses than Molly Bloom's chapter. Describing a thing as a 'stream of consciousness' is invariably reductive. It assumes that what we're reading is the sum total of an individual, more so perhaps than if they were telling us a story in a sort of campside voice. And it's a convenient way of treating language that might appear disorderly or unconventional as if it were a kind of aberration. 

This leads us on to the second mistake one can make with a book like Milkman – mistaking the music of the text for a written recording of speech. Rather than looking at the words as words, if one takes this approach there's a tendency to become mired in concerns about historical and cultural accuracy. We start to make judgments line-by-line about accents, class, and status. Questions of meaning become sublimated to thoughts of whether or not what we read is accurate. And in most cases the only guide we have for this kind of accuracy is our own prejudice. Language is thus reduced to a signifier of authenticity.  

Questions of authenticity sound throughout every page of Milkman. It begins with the title: the 'Milkman' himself is the aforementioned spy-stalker, and not really a milk-delivering-person at all; the narrator is careful to differentiate him from the 'real milkman', a totally different man who actually delivers the milk and maintains an active belligerence towards local partisan groups and, in fact, pretty much everyone in the community. Most of the other characters in the book aren't properly named, and are referred to only in relative terms – from 'maybe-boyfriend' to 'third brother-in-law' and all varieties of familial relations in between. The point is that in this community, naming names puts a person beyond the pale, or worse – but since gossip forms the metabolism of the community, talking about things without using their true names becomes an essential part of everyday life. 

This creates a sort of puzzle for the reader. Part of the work necessary is in unpicking the narrator's oblique references to what has come before, and what will come after; we have to work a bit to decipher, to cross-reference. A family tree would have been helpful for the reader, if dangerous for the narrator: we get the impression that all this obscuring with name-confusion is part of the point. The impression is of a text that has been coded for safety. Yet it isn't coded in such a way as to truly anonymise everything. Ireland itself is never explicitly mentioned here, but it would be impossible to mistake this for a book about anywhere else.

This raises a question which I feel entirely unequipped to answer: does this process of un-naming render the book more equivocal than it would be otherwise? I found it hard to find much in the way of politics in Milkman. There's little here of the outright anti-imperialism we can find in James Kelman. Instead, the narrator maintains a sort of light contempt for both sides in the conflict. Their motivations are always obscure. History is expressed mainly in a record of tragedies, most of which seem more or less gruesome and inexplicable. The present conflict is a heap of local dogs with their throats cut by the state forces; it is the scurrilous rumours about a car part from a Bentley, which may or may not bear the British flag; it is the local agents threatening a group of second-wave feminists, before the local women calm them with a show of practical contempt for the ‘toybox mentality’ of the renouncers. 

All of this seems horrible and absurd, all the more stark because it is stripped of much of the context that would enable an understanding of how the world came to be like it is. Everyone is about as bad as everyone else, except for the few who aren't. It is all only boys playing with their toys. Another unanswerable question: is the pursuit of this literary effect only a way of side-stepping awkward questions about cause and effect, or is it a sincere representation of how it felt to grow up in such a society? Milkman isn't exactly apolitical, but it doesn't seem especially invested, or interested, in any kind of ideology outside the survival of an individual consciousness. 

Black comedy is very much the dominant tone here. At first something will happen that seems as though it's going to lead to disaster until (in most cases) the author slowly deflates the issue. There's a sort of tension between the constant aura of threat and the linguistic thicket thrown up by the narrator's incessant thinking and talking. Language becomes her only means of defense, and sometimes her means of attack. Absurdity is part of the comedy at play, but it's a very specific sort of absurdity. Flann O'Brien feels like a fair stylistic comparison: we have here the same relish in verbosity, that same arch, dilated, expansive use of language. 

And yet for all the tension there is no quietude. The narrator is not actually threatened into silence. The overwhelming presence of the text is proof of that. There is no anxiety here – quite the opposite. In life we're given to understand the narrator is bookish and somewhat solitary but in her own story she is in absolute control. This is not a surreal novel in the way of O'Brien. The narrator here is always specific. Words are used to say precisely what they mean, but the narrative could be called a literal interpretation rather than a transcription. To put it another way: we are told exactly what the characters say, think and do, but we aren't told it in their own words. The question of reliability never seems to come up. We trust her, I suppose, because we must trust her. In a meaningful sense there isn't really anyone else in this novel.

Sometimes this feels suffocating. This is a long book: a tad under 350 close-set pages in paperback. It feels its length. I have sympathy for criticisms I've read that take aim at the narrator's tendency to repeat the same adjectives under slightly different names. This kind of repetition, recollection, raking-over (for that is what she does) isn’t the literary maximalism it could be mistaken for; I think it has more in common with a certain kind of minimalism, given the focus on a relatively small, specific quadrant of human experience. 

It is exhausting to read because it attempts to be exhaustive. What we're left with is a book which tries obsessively to re-word, re-frame, re-cast a certain very specific sort of strange experience in a strange place in a strange time – a young powerless woman being followed obsessively by a powerful older man. Until eventually the sheer weight of the thing itself – the book – wrenches the situation around until this dynamic of power is neatly, effectively inverted. Would it work if the book weren't so weighty? I'm not sure. 

[pokeau]

Cinderella cage

Original post date: October 16th, 2021

Tensions are running high. OC-tober day 13/14 mixed prompt: burn/cage (which i am late for lol)

Characters: Zinnia/Aster, Cynthia/Orchid

Warnings: aster literally kills someone

Wordcount: 2,064

Vibe: Dramatic:tm:

Original AN:

idk what this is aaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaa im a bit rusty orz

i took the prompts too literally sorry

tldr aster kills a man everyone freaks out mother daughter bonding

takes place literally the night before joe stone is arrested (so like... 2010)

unrevised bc who cares

~~

"It's getting late." Orchid huffed. "Shouldn't she be back by now?"

"Dunno. Maybe she got distracted."

"That's not like her. She seems very dedicated."

Zinnia just laughed. "You've known her for like 2 weeks, I'd say she stopped in at an antique store."

Orchid didn't laugh.

It was odd. Ever since the investigation started, Orchid's spirit had been inhabiting Cynthia's body... and seeing her different reactions and mannerisms in Cynthia's face put Zinnia off for some reason - though it was easy to tell who was in control of the body at any given time because of it. Still, it was nice to spend time with both of her mothers at once, even if it wasn't quite under traditional circumstance.

Circumstance being investigating Orchid's own death - which quickly turned into a horrifying rabbit-hole of Joseph Stone's various crimes. Orchid was already aware, Steven was too, to an extent. But all of this was new to Zinnia, who didn't want to admit she wasn't taking it the best.

There was just shuffling, reading, and sorting through archives and files in silence. It was late, and they'd been doing this all day for the past two weeks, so Zinnia and Orchid had no words to exchange.

Zinnia felt her attention blurring, but perked up as she heard the lock on the front door turn. Spinning around with a smile, Zinnia was excited to greet the woman she expected to enter - before her expression twisted to one of horror.

"I think we've been found out." In the doorway stood Aster, her voice frustrated and tired - but that wasn't what caught Zinnia and Orchid so off guard. It was the fact that Aster's clothes were covered in fresh blood.

"ASTER?? HOLY SHIT??" Zinnia exclaimed, getting to get feet as fast as she could and running towards her girlfriend. She found herself tripping over her words trying to form a question, which was entirely incomprehensible to Orchid; but it seemed Aster knew what she was trying to say.

"It's not mine."

"THAT DOESN'T MAKE IT ANY BETTER??"

Aster wanted to calm her girlfriend down, but felt it would be inappropriate given her hands were stained with blood.

Orchid cringed for a second, then in a more familiar tone, Cynthia took her turn to speak.

"Aster, do you need a moment to wash up before explaining what... happened while you here out?" she asked, and while she attempted to keep her tone calm, it was easy to tell she was also panicking inside.

"I feel like it's too important to wait." Aster said, shaking her head and stepping inside. "I'll... spare the details, but all that's important to know is the assassin we've been referring to as 'Doctor'... found me. Needless to say, I'm fine. They are not."

Zinnia looked a little dumbfounded. "What... do you even mean by that?"

"I mean they're dead, Zinnia."

"Right..." Zinnia shuddered. "Are you sure you're fine though?"

Aster paused for a second and sighed. "I'll admit having what appeared to be an old woman pull a gun on me wasn't exactly pleasant. But I'm more worried about what this means."

"Means what?" Cynthia asked from the background.

"He wouldn't send his hit of choice on someone out of the blue. He has to have found out somehow. We need to work quickly." Aster said. "But the scene has been dealt with. There are no traces, except for this."

Aster fished a bloodstained phone out of her pocket and placed it on the nearest table.

"It's a burner, so there's not much of use on it. There's evidence of a call with Joseph's number though."

"Whatever." Zinnia sighed. "You can wash up and I'll deal with it. It's a shame though, I always thought the outfit you're wearing was cute... not sure if that's gonna wash off."

Aster playfully bapped Zinnia on the head with her clean palm before heading upstairs to the bathroom.

There was silence until Aster had gone upstairs, and a tone switch indicated Orchid was back.

"What do we do now?" she asked.

Zinnia exhaled loudly and slumped over.

"Last thing I'd want to do now is call Steven. Poor dude would have a panic attack, straight up." she said, running her hand through her hair. "I'm just glad he went for us and got Aster's wrath instead of targeting Steven. I... have enough guilt about that type of thing already."

"What?" Cynthia suddenly came back to ask.

"Nothing." Zinnia said, pausing. "We should probably gather everything together. Tomorrow's gonna be hell."

The two spent some silent moments piling together the remaining documents and journal entries together, though Zinnia's mind seemed preoccupied - as she kept glancing towards the stairs.

Eventually, Zinnia got up.

"I'm gonna check on Aster." she said, her voice an unusual tone.

Cynthia and Orchid collectively nodded, though Cynthia was curious.

'She's hiding something.' Cynthia told her wife in the headspace.

'She's probably just going to check on Aster, Cynthi.'

'There's no harm in a little eavesdropping now and then.'

Orchid yielded, and allowed Cynthia to move to the base of the stairs to see if she could overhear anything - because admittedly, Orchid was curious as well.

"I don't think it's safe."

"Dude's only got one hitman and you-"

"Do NOT recount that. Whatever. I know you're stressed out, just don't do anything more stupid than normal."

There was a pause.

"Wh... what is this? Some kind of old wicker birdcage? Where do you even get this shit?"

"It's easy to carry and it'll be quick. I don't have an endless supply of old chairs, babe."

"Fair enough! Can't see this thing properly containing any bird pokemon, anyways. I won't be gone long. I love you."

The old house creaked as Zinnia exited the bathroom, prompting Orchid and Cynthia to dash back to their seat. When Zinnia returned, she was, indeed, holding an old woven birdcage loosely. It looked worn out, and was broken in multiple spots.

"I'm gonna go for a quick walk! I'll be back." Zinnia said with a wave. When she reached the door, she backtracked to pick up the hitman's phone before leaving for real.

Neither Cynthia or Orchid had anything to say - on the exterior, at least.

'I think we need to follow her' Orchid stated.

'Agreed... this doesn't feel right.' Cynthia replied.

The two got up, put on a light jacket, and headed out the door.

Thankfully, Zinnia hadn't turned a corner and was still visible. So Orchid and Cynthia began following their daughter, illuminated by the dim streetlights.

Orchid moved away from Fallarbor when she was just a baby, so she had no memory of these streets - despite her family growing up in that same house for generations. It was quiet, in a combination of calm and eerie. After so many blocks and turns, all while keeping a distance, Zinnia stopped at a fenced in empty lot. She tossed the birdcage and phone over the chain-link fence, before climbing over it.

Now Orchid and Cynthia were truly lost.

'She's not... burying the body, you think?' Cynthia asked.

'...I hope not. Didn't Aster say she cleaned up?'

'How on earth do you think she could've done that with the mess on her clothes?'

'She's a god, honey.'

'Emerald couldn't do that.'

Cynthia's remark managed to get a small laugh from Orchid. Even though times were tense, Cynthia was so grateful to banter with her beloved again.

But there was no time to wait - curiosity overtook both of them. They snuck up to the empty lot, to see Zinnia sitting on the dusty ground in the middle holding something that gave off a glowing light. She tossed it towards the birdcage, which was sitting a good meter away. Almost instantly, the birdcage exploded into flame, causing Orchid and Cynthia to jump.

It seemed Zinnia was content watching it burn, and both Orchid and Cynthia were confused. While they knew climbing the fence would probably alert Zinnia, they just had to know what she was doing.

Despite the clattering of the chain links, Zinnia didn't turn around. Her gaze was fixated, even as her mothers approached her. At this point, Orchid and Cynthia could better see her outline, as well as that of a red gasoline tank.

"...What are you doing?" was all Cynthia could say.

"Isn't it obvious?" Zinnia replied, not at all surprised by their presence.

"Ok, ok, different question. Why are you burning something in an empty backlot?!"

"..." Zinnia moved her lips as if mumbling, but neither Cynthia or Orchid heard anything. "Aster didn't like me burning shit in the backyard."

Orchid tugged at the reins of the headspace, which Cynthia handed back over to her. She sat down on the ground next to Zinnia and looked on to the fire, avoiding eye contact.

"I know this investigation has been putting a lot of stress on you. What you said earlier confirms it."

Zinnia said nothing in return.

"Why didn't you say anything?" Orchid asked.

Zinnia hummed a little.

"Not like I have anyone. Renee doesn't need me weighing her down right now. Steven's already too panicked. Aster doesn't understand." she said, shifting around a little. "Man, if this isn't a shitty metaphor or what?"

"Hm?" Orchid responded curiously.

"30 fucking years. The moment I was born I was trapped. And I feel like everything I do to try and change my fate... is useless. He's going to get me too, I know it."

Orchid didn't say anything, only gave Zinnia some time to think and articulate her thoughts.

"All those people in the documents. Do you think they thought the same?"

Orchid was losing grip. The fate of those who attempted to rebel against Joseph Stone... Zinnia's words struck a nerve. Quickly, Cynthia took back control of her body.

"We're so close."

Zinnia's locked gaze of the dying fire shifted.

"All the spirits he's silenced... I don't think despair is what they'd want. I know it can be hard to see, but we've backed him into a corner."

"Until he pulls some last minute bullshit."

"I've had to deal with him ever since I got my position at the league. That old dog only knows so many tricks, and with you, he's run out." Cynthia sighed. "When you rationalize and realize he's just a human and not some kind of omnipotent overseer, you realize that defeating him is possible."

"Then why didn't you do anything?"

"I desperately wanted to do something, anything. I just didn't have the proof. The most I could do was give Steven a place where he felt he was loved." Cynthia paused, then smiled. "I'm surprised it took us so long to reunite. Steven would tell me about you a lot - he never mentioned a name, but in retrospect it definitely was you he was talking about,"

"He's the only person I can relate to with all this."

"Then think of the future we'll all have once the birdcage he's put you in burns."

"Then I'd be dead."

"No, no! You've gone through fire before! Cage is burnt, you're not. I should've clarified."

"Right."

"You said tomorrow might be hell, but... I think we can mark it as the start on a path towards a new beginning." Cynthia stopped staring at the dying fire and turned her body towards Zinnia. "No matter what - Orchid, Steven, Aster, Renee, myself... we know you can go through just like you have before."

"...I'll let Steven know it's go time." Zinnia replied, and while she did her best to hide it, her voice was a bit choked up.

"It's best to get some rest then, we'll probably have to be up early for this." Orchid said, returning to the headspace. She got up and offered a hand to her daughter, which Zinnia accepted.

Before hopping the fence, Orchid remembered something she never got to ask.

"So wait, why did you burn the birdcage again? What it just to make a metaphor?"

Zinnia stopped to laugh.

"I'm not THAT deep, mom. I just like burning shit when I'm upset, Aster just gives me whatever random old furniture she has in the dreamscape." she said, dusting off her hands on her hoodie. "Though in the end, I think I liked your metaphor better."