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6. Desert/Stillness/A Baseless Hope

I apologize for my sudden disappearance. I guess I wasn’t as ready to explain as I thought.

I drove past the desert recently. At a small town right on its shimmering edges I pulled off the highway to get gas, and my pause became a stop. I looked over the top of my car, past the sandy highway, and into the hollow of a small valley. And I kept looking, past the click of the nozzle, past the trucks roaring by. Only when the sun cleared the gas station roof and hit my eyes did I blink, and pay the machine, and pull out onto the road again.

The steering wheel slid left, following my gaze. An oncoming truck blared its horn and I yelped, jerking the wheel right, distantly hearing my heartbeat. The desert sat to my left, fat, swishing its tail gently.

When I say I drove past the desert I mean it. I cleared miles upon miles of the orange space, admiring the sequoias threatening to puncture the haze built up below the sky.

When I came to the desert, I couldn’t drive any more.

I pulled over near the town’s single café. There was nothing in this town with a name, the names were all nouns – Café, General Store, Pharmacy. I took my hot coffee outside to keep an eye on the expanse of tumbled rock fallen from nowhere. The desert watched me back. My grip on my mug tried to keep me in my seat, tried to keep me from fleeing, and succeeded – I was a mouse, frozen, and the sand just across the flimsy highway was a panther. I would be obliterated with just one swipe of its paws.

The chatter started back up. I blinked in surprise, and beside me materialized three people – locals, I assumed. The last dregs of their stares swirled around me and diluted my awe, and they lifted up their cups and drank deeply, returning to their conversation.

I saw that the one who was not the speaker and not the listener was the watcher, their face turned to where my face was turned to, surveying the landscape. I saw no tightened eyes in their profiles. They weren’t afraid. It was too hot to be afraid.

I returned the mug and crept along the perimeter of the town. This side of the road was… friendlier. The brush around the buildings was just brush, concealing small animals and water. The rocks weren’t actively destroying themselves.

Near the highway again, I saw the gardens.

In various stages of desertification, small plots of land had been converted into gardens. Rich brown soil rested underneath the cabbage, carrots, and tomatoes. And sand. It was all underneath sand.

Altars.

--

I haven’t spoken to you about the two forces that are behind it all. Each and every one of our actions are dictated by only two forces. The rest of them – Endurance, Crunch, Finding – they’re all spawn, all just tertiary forces orbiting the two giants that spin the planets and the hands on the clock.

So why, out of all of that, should one choose to worship something like the desert?

Its empty, isn’t it? No force, no will, nothing but the biting wind and the small animals in the shadows of the Joshua trees. A climate that will not notice you despite its life. It is too far apart and too mindless to help you. The people here… they turned their backs on forces. And yet they belong to the desert.

I will not talk about Movement and Repetition. If there is such a thing as defecting altogether, leaving them behind and going to go look at some rocks, then you don’t deserve any explanation. I leave you to your devices.

I leave you to your petty gods.

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but the house stays still

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5. Finding

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5. Finding

Finding is a language I cannot speak. More accurately, it’s a language I am unwilling to learn. The language of rivers and wind, the whispering of something rushing forwards, alighting on each piece of sand in its way but never staying.

Something always moving forward. You find, and then you discard. If it’s not new it’s not what you’re looking for. Then you set off to find again.

Streams make me uneasy. The only thing we have in common is we follow the same path. But the river is never the same. They’re like a force themselves. A never-ending source of movement… they make me uneasy. A river turns over rocks and envelops roots and sifts through the sand when it enters the ocean, searching for something new again, and it never stops.

It never stops to look at what it has. Find and then discard.

Streams are where things are found.

I know of many small communities that worship their river. It’s interesting – I’ve noticed that many people worship what’s around them. Like the local creek, or the desert, or their mountain… I guess we really want something tangible.

And something tangible means something to hold. And Finding holds nothing.

Never stopping.

Explorers and thrill-seekers and people who are adamant about ‘no commitment’. Finders but not keepers and I don’t understand any of them.

Toddlers who drop whatever is in their hands the moment you dangle something new in front of them.

Children – Finding’s followers should know better. There’s nothing new, nothing new under the sun, searching is never useful, perpetual motion doesn’t exist. Someday Repetition will catch up to you. And you’ll cease finding.

There’s nothing new. There’s nothing to find!

So why does the wind keep blowing?

The wind rushes on, touches every face and rock and corner of the earth. Doesn’t it know the earth is round? There’s nothing new under the sun. Why does it keep blowing?

It must have found everything on this planet by now. Why does it keep going? Always moving forward. What are you looking for? Why are you moving forward? There’s nothing new it’s all the same!

You’re just repeating yourself!

Oh.

It’s doomed to repeat the same path as well!

The more things change the more they stay the same.

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what are you reaching for? how long can you keep it up?

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4. Endurance

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4. Endurance

The Sun beams down. You haven’t lifted your head for… maybe ever. Time has gone.

You’re climbing upwards, maybe by yourself, maybe with others. Their voices have either faded or ceased – maybe they are conserving their breaths just as you are. The sandy ground drags by underneath your sneakers. Ratty sneakers that you wouldn’t have trusted to carry you down the street, but now are scrambling over rocks and sand for what seems like forever.

It is so hot.

You haven’t lifted your head from the blinding sand. Maybe there’s a view, maybe you haven’t moved, maybe your entire world consists of the ground beneath you, and the trail in front. You don’t lift your head to look. All you can do is to move forward.

The sand trickles down, back the way you came, and sweat trickles down your face. It is so hot. Why do you keep moving forward?

There’s nothing at the top of the hill. Nothing waits for you there, under the scorching sun, where trees don’t grow and no shade is found. There is no end, there is no relief, there is no reward. And you’ll do it all again tomorrow.

Keep going.

It’s hard. To keep moving forward. The world has shrunk to your feet, one foot in front of the other, and no matter how you struggle, no matter how many steps you’ve taken, the only thought that matters: you can stop. Just stop. It’s hot. It’s hard. You don’t have to keep going. Nobody is forcing you. It’s too hard.

Your foot lands in front of you again. It was never an option. You can’t say why, or how, but you endure.

Under the blazing sun.

You don’t have the map. Someone else, maybe a friend you’re hiking with, calls to turn left and you do blindly. You toil with the blindness that comes from not knowing the path, or the plan, only that you must work. You must keep going. So you do, and the thought that maybe you don’t have to sprints up the hill again and waits for you like a loyal dog.

If you did have the map, you might start to think that the climb is longer than it should be. That it’s steeper than the map said it would be. You might start to resent the ground for elongating under the sun and under the god.

When you live in a world dominated by supernatural forces, it is easy to say that some god trapped you, pulled the ground like taffy to prolong your climb. It is easier to say that, than to admit that it is your weakness. Your flesh is weak and it is hard to climb up that sandy hill.

Keep going. Keep heaving yourself upward.

You could try uttering a prayer. But that would only serve to dry out your mouth. Words mean little. So keep going. Your prayer is your next step. And your next. And perhaps, if you climb for long enough, Endurance will take notice of you. Perhaps, if you climb long enough, Endurance will make it easier, or harder, or make you stronger so you’ll do it all again tomorrow.

Keep going.

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forward

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3. Connection/Break

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3. Connection/Break

My imagination fails at describing Connection. In my defense, I can hardly pull at something that isn’t there. At this point it may become obvious that I am not a creative person.

So if I’m not creative, I must be destructive, right? The opposite?

Well, I don’t think that’s how it is. I think it is wrong to say that destruction is the opposite of creation. After all, what’s the opposite of something? Nothing. Never existing in the first place.

Never having the chance.

So working backwards, the opposite of Connection is not Break. It is inaction. It is apathy.

I am belabouring this point because I do believe Break is a force. This is so that I have the excuse of talking about it, instead. It’s a weak one, but still a force. It has the capacity to drive someone forward.

Which is the nature of these forces. They’re what keep us going. Without worshipping at least one, humanity would stall and decay where we stand. They are the opposite of what the universe tends towards – which is entropy, a no energy state. We work against indifference, and we expand our world.

Some forces require more work than others. Those that do are more potent, more powerful. And I’m beginning to reconcile myself to the fact that Pulling is one of the weaker forces. But it matters little. I have something stronger.

Anyway, Break is, I think, the weakest. I had trouble deciding whether or not I should even call it a force. But sometimes it does present a good case for itself.

Is it easier to hold on or to let go?

Answers may vary.

I think this relationship is best explained by nuclear physics. Fission and fusion. You gain some energy from fission – ripping apart heavy nuclei powers our nuclear reactors, after all – but everything in the world wants to be broken anyway. You gain so much more energy from fusion. Connection is what powers stars.

It may be obvious that Connection is the stronger of the two. But, as I said, I cannot talk about Connection. If you do end up hearing about it, it won’t be from me. So I’ll speak about Break. Break, or Crunch…

Everything in the world wants to be broken. Is already broken, just held together by time. The fracturing is just helped along by his worshippers. There’s not any real power in doing something that would happen regardless. It seems kind of embarrassing to be honest. A little bit pathetic.

That’s probably why I address Crunch as ‘him’. Like, if I were to picture Crunch, I would see an old man living in the garbage dump, begging the garbagemen to let him operate the trash compactor, please, just this once, I promise I won’t get carried away… Living on scraps.

When something is broken it is broken forever. Crunch relies on those around him and breaks their hands when they reach out. The worst kind of leech.

That isn’t to say he has no worshippers. I think he does, but they’re all weak. And very angry. Lots of violence in his worship. But I don’t think Crunch really cares. I mean, I think snapping a person’s neck is as effective at drawing his attention as snapping some branches in the forest. It’s all that same tiny burst of energy. Of worship.

I think, if I was a different person, angrier and less afraid, I would be a follower of Crunch. It does have some overlap with Pulling. The roots snap under my hands. But Break… you do it once and then never again. I can’t imagine that.

Speaking of repetition, you’re probably wondering if I will circle back around to creation.

I am not optimistic about my fellow man, so I don’t believe creation is a force that we can use. It’s always some combination of Finding or Impression or, hell, even Pulling the damn thing out of us.

I just don’t believe that anyone ever creates anything just for the act. There’s always an end goal.

Although - I’ve been told I shouldn’t assume everyone thinks how I do. But, again, these forces are all so obvious.

Am I repeating myself?

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the bees don’t like them

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2. Pulling

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2. Pulling

We have about 6 metres of intestines in our gut.

I wonder – if I was never told that, would I still fixate on it so much?

Maybe our inclinations are innate. Or maybe we get to decide.

Maybe they are given to us like circumstances. If they are environmental – if we are the trees growing on the slope – do we get to choose which way we fall?

I’m not sure we do.

Outside my childhood home grows a grass, long trailing roots underneath 4 cm of soil. It grows back from the tiniest sliver of root left in the earth. So the only solution is to kneel in the soil and pull. And pull. And pull.

Do we find joy or is it given to us? The joy in grabbing hold of something and dragging it out, hand over hand. It’s… nothing comes close to it.

It’s all the same - secrets. Roots. A story. You’ve felt its unending pull.

A flap of skin on your finger that you can’t stop yourself from picking at. The story of your friend’s disastrous relationship that you ask more and more details on, dragging it out into the open. The fact that mangoworm extraction videos get tens of millions of views online is testament to the fact that people find joy in it. I’m not alone in worship.

There’s even a word for the skin around your nails unravelling – заусеница. But I always get it mixed up with the word for caterpillar. Гусеница. Which - I like mine more. It’s more… representative. Like there was an incubation period. A hint at what’s to come.

Green blades of grass erupting from the soil, betraying a vast root network hidden just beneath.

I’ve been more or less shut in at home, so I’ve been pulling at pieces of myself. I can’t spend all my time in the garden, after all. What I can do is lose large chunks of time just examining my skin for something to pick at.

The skin around my nails is a permanent bloody red. I haven’t moisturized in weeks, just waiting for it to crack in the dry desert air. Just to have something to do. I even managed to pull off one of my toenails. I like to think Pulling rotted it away as a small repayment for my prayers. It went easily, just a strip of cloudy keratin hanging from the pliers once I was done.

We’ll see if it grows back.

It was an odd sensation. Like stroking your own hair, trying to comfort yourself. Your prayer reaches your own ears. You as both the meal and the mouth. You as both the caterpillar and the chrysalis.

Anyways, with this success I return to wondering whether I should’ve gotten my wisdom teeth pulled. But I look into my dentist’s eyes and I see that he would have done it wrong. His eyes are not of Pulling. His eyes are of Take. He doesn’t care about the act. He just wants my teeth.

I’m kidding. He wants my money.

I think Pulling has the most jerks in it. Those inner-city bastards like lawyers, etc. They most likely call it Take. And they do. They bleed their clients dry then move onto the next. It isn’t about the simple joy of pulling. For them it’s about the end goal. They just take for the money or the power, take until there’s nothing left. No concept of sustainability.

Because I think Pulling, more than any force, is about power. Power to cast the intruder aside, or power in something as simple as your ability to bring it to light. To you.

Tug of war was always one of the more satisfying schoolyard games. Nothing but your body against someone else’s. You drag them towards you and they bow at your feet.

I pull the weeds out of my garden and throw them in the compost.

Pulling at something that has no right to be there. That has no right to exist.

And yet, these words appear on your screen.

I am trapped in my house so I pull at myself.

And the flesh looked as if it had healed, was uniform under inspection, but a tug at the half-buried metal bar and the ill-healed piercing rejects from the skin easily, rotted white flesh parting and releasing the pus beneath. And it leaks out of the skin along with the metal, and these words appear on your screen.

My words are a byproduct. I worry at… something like a loose tooth. I have too much of my god in me to leave it alone. But I’m too much of a coward to pull it to the surface. So the taste of blood doesn’t go away. I spit it out onto my microphone.

If I had left it alone the infection would still be under my skin, calcifying, and you wouldn’t have been able to see these words. Sometimes you don’t like what you dig up.

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it’s never enough

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1. Impression

There’s a white mottled egg in my garden. It sits, unhatched, in plain view.

I don’t believe in omens, but – come on.

I’m going to record these anyway. I’m just… having a difficult time starting. Not like there is a start.

I guess I’m having difficulties with this because this is my first time praying to Impression.

Impression or Give or however you call it. I’m using my own words, but I’m sure you recognize it. Even if, when I describe it to anyone else, all I get back is a blank stare, or something like “Oh, I’ve never thought about it like that before!” Which, how can that even be possible, we all follow something –

I visited the Musee de l’Orangerie in Paris a long time ago. Despite my non-existent memory, I remember that white room.

If you’re not familiar, the museum has a collection of impressionist paintings. Among them is a series that, apparently, took Claude Monet 3 decades to finish: his Water Lily series. Those paintings are displayed in two circular rooms. The canvases are so long that the room I’m in is devoted to only four paintings, and yet there is no space for another.

In my memory, I see a white wall, dominated by blues and purples – a painting so long it curves inward at the edges. So long is reaches out towards me.

I sat there and stared at it for as long as a 12-year-old can sit and stare at a painting. I did not spin around to trace the composition’s progression on the walls. At that point I was not yet thinking of circles. I still got queasy.

I was thinking about how violent it was.

Or, at least, that’s what I think now. As I said I don’t have a good memory.

The people around it faded away and I was left alone with the artist’s interpretation of a pond, watery and vague. Lilies and willows and water. And now I’m thinking –

How violent it is. To be convinced that your version of the world is correct, and should be seen.

To draw something so violent in its ways – in your ways, so violently you – and to hang it in a gallery. For others to stare at, and pay money to stare at. And then, from that moment on, whenever they see a certain combination of water and willows and maybe a bridge, they’ll see it in your way, at least for a second –

It’s territorial. Insidious.

And it’s the same thing with Give. Giving. It’s a kind word, but it’s the same as Impression.

You make cookies for someone, you recommend them a book or a movie, and now they are burdened with it. With it, and with the response they have to give. You make something and force it upon someone else. You trap them.

Giving is about getting even.

I avoid impressing myself on anyone. It’s not my place. You can feel how my voice presses onto your eardrums. And however uncomfortable that is for you, it is definitely more uncomfortable for me.

It hurts to talk to you.

But this time… This time I can speak. For two reasons.

One – you can click off. If you don’t want to hear this you can exit out of this tab and I won’t ever know. You are free to not be impressed by me.

Second – I can speak because this is all obvious. The forces that guide us are obvious, so I am not forcing you to look at the world through my eyes.

I’m just pulling them to the surface.

So I’m sure you recognize Impression. Probably more than I do. But I think I can give you a deeper understanding of Pulling.

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1. Impression

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the guilt is immense