Über die Autorin bzw. den Autor

Auszug. © Genehmigter Nachdruck. Alle Rechte vorbehalten.

PASSES THROUGH

By Rob Stephenson

FC2

Copyright © 2010 Rob Stephenson
All right reserved.
ISBN: 978-1-57366-155-3

Chapter One

No one could stay in the gallery for more than five minutes. The heat and humidity were merciless. I was still collecting pictures. I would look at two of the photographs and go back out into the rain. I went in and out five times. Outside, I stood on the curb. I am always standing on the edge. Never pulled in for long. I can't be pulled into the center. There were newspapers arranged by topic and tucked into folders. Everything old and reused. Lovers on a bed. Chairs everywhere. Blood and anger. The bodies completely asexual. They came from a time when sex and magic were connected in people's minds. Red. Red. Red. Circles within ellipses. Not enough thinking about thinking. The strategy of drawing in piecemeal. Even the landscapes were on a budget, as if they were wallpaper. Everything subdued. All this sits in my guts as I write, making my regimen soft. He had this rare opportunity to focus on a part of life most of the population was trying not to think about. He talked about their glorious empire of fear, the wonder of their ingenious war machines, and their gods' love of bloodshed. A drunken king reclines with his queen. Attendants fan them. The heads of his enemies are hung from nearby trees. He emitted the scent of boldness and decay. The white clothesline looked good against his skin. His balls hung so low I wound the rope seven times around the wrinkled skin above them. Rodeo horses with their testicles tied tight to make them bucking broncos. But he was quiet and adorable for a few seconds. I miss that kind of intimacy. We made a scene in the grocery store. Gummy bears. The struggle for power and identity. Spun around by the forces of attraction and repulsion. Two magnets hanging on strings. Two cats staying in separate rooms. Wary of how story and design shape each other. Not ready to get along. No one sleeps. Afterwards, a small but significant reversal. He wins by a hair. I am appalled. For a minute I thought he was going to get out his ruler. Home becomes uncomfortable. There is no air. There is no center left except for what I've imagined inside of me. Only when I'm traveling can I find that center.

Initially, I felt this story was encompassing too many ideas. I keep changing as I go. I had hoped to stay true in some sense to what I started. But then I began to wonder if a writer's instincts should be disregarded. Maybe I should let them go. These little documents of my personal moments. Should I be writing down my everyday thoughts? The ones that don't strike me as important. The invisible repetitions. The underlying pitter pats. The recollections of corresponding numbers on the face of an irrelevant clock. I continue to find beauty in unusual places. Some of which are still unspeakable. Blurry edges. Wonderful images that sit in the mind. Made rich by the variegated detail retained and amplified by review. Art should have enough layers of meaning so that you can come back to it over and over again and find new things. But muddled things are not the same as things that have depth or multiple meanings. None of this is news. Some art you can appreciate better when you've acquired a certain way of seeing. Learning another language so you can translate it back into your own. A stasis in the interval. Secrets that stay underneath. In the dark. Stay beyond the corruption of analysis. It is the hidden things that drive him on. A fuel that works in tandem with the part that is not out there in the open. A long side. Parallels make a fiction that reminds him to live. There is life beyond the rhythmic impulses of key tapping. I let a character think something he really didn't have the capacity to think. But then again, imperfect objects may become catalysts. He was high in every scene and knew where he was in the world. He returned again and again to a particular place. A calm reverie prior to traumatic experience. I disliked the oversized parrot that talks to him and runs his spaceship. He said he was into the new age religions. I said I would slap the gods right out of him. I lose interest as soon as they appear. That is my own bias. I must be the most contaminated sign in my own language. Maybe that's a shortcut to the sacred. Light bulbs in a circle behind the images. Not just an ordinary flower can take on implausible aesthetic radiance. So tall and skinny. Big fucking fingers point to the sky. Black sweatshirt with a burning skull on it. Shaved head. Wing tattoos inked on the back of it. Cryptic squiggles dip under his shirt and ride down the ridge of his spine. Taciturn features. High-tech cropped goatee. Kiss. He's too drunk. Kiss again. Damn. What is so great about not knowing what country you're in at the moment? The gods are all and everywhere he said. In that sunset over there and in your shit. They derive a peculiar pleasure when they pass through unrecognized. At the end of an episode, life has lost its ongoing character. Our perception of succession it seems is dependent on the possibilities of organization.

I sat down at a table with an older man. Macaroni and cheese. He lived nearby. A tall young man sat down next to him. Peach cobbler. The fattest thumbs I'd seen in ages. The older man spoke of how he had killed chickens at summer camp. A broom handle on the neck. A foot on either end. Jerking the body back to snap the head off. Oh ick said the young man. The old man said there was a baby calf that he named and adopted. It became dinner at some point. The young man interrupted to ask him if he'd eaten it. The old man wasn't sure, but said he should have spent more energy on the camp counselors. I said that could lead to a lifetime of cannibalism. The older man said he always enjoys what he eats and stared at the young man. I get the urge to destroy things. I bite my knuckles instead. I stuff myself into pockets of rage. The smallest movement triggers it. Walks along the boulevard. Lilacs, dogwoods, tulips. It's crucial to determine how each one manifests itself. Mostly, the voices are supportive, even witty. Occasionally, they are cruel. They swear and tell him to hurt himself. It's funny, the different ways people protect their personal space. I was never at home there in his place. One time he put on the coat his mother had sent him. Inside out. We laughed until we were sore. Some little rapture. And them some more. I dragged him outside in his underwear. Night-blooming jasmine. The first summer rain on hot pavement. Strange isolated moments. Equal children. Boys again. Enjoying the boy things together. Sweet fleeting peace. Two lilies sticking it out in a field of weeds. And then the corny way he channeled a room full of famous fucked-up women. It had a cantankerous charm. Tough bitches who've seen the wars. The inner wars. Different from mine. The pills helped him manage but he never eradicated them. He wore the wounds inside out, too. Hollow treats bounced around and burst open on our faces. The favorite old-time cosmetic covered our hands. Reeking of violets. It made us cackle. We fought and said it was the fault of the other. The part that aims too high can count the losses. He hears the voices of strangers. Chaotic and irrepressible. They told him all tears are selfish. What goes on between people anyway? I always find beauty in horrible things. The way comedians talk about mothers-in-law. An inescapable part of life and you must adjust to it. Did you get a pet? Do you think about me? Silence gets wider and wider. Safety first. Yes, an internet agreement about silence. Countersigned in silence. And then there are...