What destroys us is often unclear and obscure. Sickness works in mysterious ways. It takes time to manifest, sometimes years. Entropy advances in a roundabout manner.
Our relations, like it or not, are part of that entropy. They sometimes contribute to the malaise in ways we’d rather not admit.
The prospect is too painful to consider in our everyday lives, so we shift the blame on the usual suspects – infection, pollution, a bad diet, addiction – even though all of these causes are the indirect result of broken relations, toxic connections, and unmitigated opportunism.
Still, for all the pain they come with, our injuries inform us, revealing who we are.
Pain is a teacher, if we choose to listen to what it has to say.
Our injuries also reveal who others are, were, and how they see/saw us. Our scars remind us what happened, who did what, where and when, and how we survived and moved on.
I wear my scars with pride, not allowing myself to forget.
*****
Hands are alien organisms attached to the body, and our fingers their creepy little legs…
*****
The painting keeps me company. It takes my mind away from the cold tick of the machines and the endless stream of carers who come and go with their fake smiles and rehearsed mannerisms, depositing pleasantries every time they enter the room to divert attention from their unsmiling eyes. Their inflexions are a cheese grater, so I dodge them. (I’m good at dodging, and getting better.) I turn to the painting and lose myself in it. The storm rages, its clouds dark, bursting with life force. Palm trees swing like catapults. Rain scours the land. The air smells of salt and seaweed. A mixture of sand-froth blasts my skin.
Navigate the arcana, I think to myself. Flow with it. Surrender control, and control will come.
And just like that, the scene shifts. The island is gone – the beach, the sea, the mountain range in the distance.
What remains is the dark outline of something rising out of a gritty mist. Something rancorous, manifesting in the wake of whispers.
*****
A swamp.
It stretches as far as I can see, the slough simmering in a rash of bubbles that betray the function of this place: to digest; each pop what’s left of absorbed life.
I move ahead with caution. The liquid is more slime than water, and my skin pulls away from its touch.
If only I could fly.
Then it hits me: the complete absence of birds and animals. Nothing stirs, at least above the surface. No insects at all.
Eerie, but also a relief.
Further in, I observe something even more bizarre. The bubbles in the slough pop with reverb, as if they’re studio produced. And they’re accompanied by a series of echoes – pop-pop-pop – that are followed by the unmistakable razzle-dazzle of commercial ads.
The swamp pulses with jingles and hooks.
I don’t want to grow up…
Just do it…
Quality never goes out of style…
Go for it red, go for it black…
The advertisements follow one another, running down a catalog of consumer items with Black-Friday-intensity. Food products, medication, sports clothes, shampoo, soda pop, toys, vacation deals, mortgage payments and grocery coupons, electric scooters, 2-4-1 spreadable cheese tubes… 30% off on all cosmetics, cigarettes and alcohol – to take the edge off – and a limited deal on compensation insurance. A free pack of candy with every ice-cream. A free pitcher of cocktails at the Big Steakhouse Wagon. A special edition makeup kit on promotion, and a coupon card for the Ur-Vegan restaurant chain with its hemp seats that were made in countries with no minimum wage, and…
The jingle-jangle of exquisite offers fills the air.
I look up to the sky but it’s tarnished. The swamp is canopied by black willows and crawling ashes. Their bark is overgrown with moss, clumps of which have peeled off and float in the gunge. I push ahead, one squishy, oily step at a time, determined to find my way through.
Step by step, the jingles fade, and for a moment my spirit lifts. I seem to have left the outlandish behind.
But then it strikes: a false note at the end of a distorted symphony; the harbinger of a second act. Ding-a-ling…
It’s the sound of slot machines and jackpots. The rotting expanse echoes with the ringing of chance and easy money, odds and happenstance.
The connotation is hard to miss.
Gambling is a cesspool.
And the modern economy – with its round-the-clock ad culture – is an elaborate form of gambling.
The end result: a rotting, pile-of-junk world.
The swamp swells, gearing up for another surprise. A feverish blister of noise rises from its bowels: car auctions, firesales, a rodeo, a political rally. The chanting of crowds. The hum of mighty engines. The click and whir of the algorithms of trade and finance, brokers and bankers whose consumer culture runs on the soundtrack of tormented enterprise.
I ignore the racket and proceed with care. The terrain, if one could call it that, is treacherous. From outcropping to islet, mud reef to driftwood dam, I advance with caution, but to what purpose? The bog is endless, and the insects have begun to surface. Midges, water bugs, mosquitoes. They move in clouds, choking the air like airborne debris with a grudge. The marsh flies are buzzing like drones, their suction legs wet and hungry.
I begin to lose hope. The mayhem closes in, livid, but then – then I hear it:
A soft, feathery rustle.
It’s a brown heron, beating its wings slowly, nobly, gliding with minimum effort above my head.
The mighty creature fades into the distance.
Its grace gives me comfort.
It endures, and so will I.
I push forward.
The flora has changed, and so has the consistency of the bog. It’s thin and watery now, and the fusty black willows have given way to a mangrove mesh. A gauntlet of root structures. Every step a trap, a possible death sentence. I sloth my way ahead, wishing I were back in the rootless swamp, in the easiness of the gunge. A moot choice, but it helps me focus.
All of a sudden, a reprieve: a bare patch of rock.
I climb up and catch my breath.
*****
The jingle-jangle of the hospital’s apparatus barely registers by now. I’ve become accustomed to healthcare’s enterprising soundtrack. The heart monitor has turned into background noise, and the hiss of the air-freshener has a soothing quality. It shouldn’t, but nonsense is the new normal. The rumbling of the gurneys, the hum inside the walls at night, the rapid footsteps, the mumbling and whispering just beyond earshot, around corners – they keep me company and feed my senses.
Erase these sounds, and my world is stripped raw.
*****
My eyes feel much better, but it’s near impossible to keep them open. I’m flesh alchemized into honey. My arms are fuzzy. Every breath resembles an orgasm. I’m either floating or flying, it’s hard to tell, passing through a cloud of wisteria, a cloud of vanilla, a trace of lemon zest in a sprinkle of rainbows, an array of wonders fueled by the rarest oxygen.
A hand reaches in. I think it’s a hand. I can barely make out its outline. It has long appendages and smells of citrus.
It touches my face and puts something in my mouth.
Then comes the stench.
It latches onto my nose and mouth. My larynx itches and my lungs erupt with a million tiny stings. Mercury flows down my limbs. My arms feel cold. The back of my throat drips with lead. It tastes like sugar, and it feeds on my cells. Hot saliva floods my mouth, and my bowels riot. I don’t want to go through this, not again.
*****
The mangrove swamp has reverted back into a rotting slimy wetland. The slough is thick and saturated with granules. I must keep them away from my eyes, ears or mouth. And I can’t get cut, not even a snick. Keep the pathogens out. Clench my asshole and scrunch my penis into putty until I’m through.
It’s hours after dawn. The sun is high and grates my face. My skin is taut over my bones. It hurts like ripping.
Patience. The sun will go out soon and it’ll be cooler, fresher, and easier to breathe.
It’ll also be dark.
I don’t want to find out what happens after dark in a swamp.
I have to reach solid ground.
Where’s the outcropping? I was standing on it a moment ago. This landscape keeps shifting.
I need a place to rest, somewhere with fresh air and a water spring to bathe in and have a drink. Perhaps a grotto in which to lay down and sleep, start a fire and cook the mushrooms and eggs I will have gathered – in the nearby woods that are bound to border my resting place – once I get my bearings.
The stench has grown, but it acts like a stimulant now, quickening my intent.
I hasten my moves, harnessing my resolve. Seize control of the flow.
Up ahead, out of nowhere, a changing scenery…
It’s something that shouldn’t be; a no-space – yet here it is, and here I am: on a lush islet overgrown with citrus trees, pines, firs, cedars, and a flush of dandy eucalypti. The area is awash with life. Butterflies, ladybirds, grasshoppers, beetles. Voles, mink, roof rats, grey squirrels that sprint from one trunk to the next. Birds, so many of them, their squeaks and skittering coming together in symphony. Ducks, thrushes, robins, sparrows, cormorants, black skimmers, white ravens, penguins, woodpeckers and swans – all of them in the shadow of thousands of albatrosses flying in formation.
I lie back on the grass and stare at the spectacle, my body tingling with anticipation.
The more I think about it, my head feels lighter. The sight of the birds awakens something in me.
Or maybe it’s the hunger, playing tricks on my mind.
Be that as it may, I refuse to acknowledge it. There are better ways to interpret what I’m feeling.
The verdict is: the birds are here, and I’m going with them.
I’m flying high, the sea below a smooth bed sheet. (Navy-blue, fine-looking, with a thread count that would cost a fortune, and which everyone ought to enjoy. Good bedding is a necessity, not a luxury, and it would be that way for every single person on this earth if it were up to me.) I whizz down closer to the surface, and the sheet of cotton turns into a leaf of metal. Smooth, cold, with a flurry of sun diamonds across its glass veneer.
A pod of orcas rushes by, leaping into the air, smashing their way through the glittering water.
In the distance, the isle of life looms grand. Surrounded by an empty horizon, it draws me in again.
I alight on a clearing surrounded by beech trees.
It’s wonderful to be back. I can’t wait to immerse myself in its arcadian majesty.
Yet something – something isn’t right.
The animals are gone. Not a single life form.
I thread my way down the beech woodland, in search of the heavenly orchard. And check the sky for signs of albatross.
The sky is empty.
Down a gentle slope that leads to a series of earthed terraces, and from there to a staircase that traces the ridge of a hill that meanders its way down to a gorge. The vegetation is thick with shrubs. Taller than I and built like a hedge. Like a wall. The foliage stirs, as if someone behind it is watching. A faint crackle, like dry shells splintering, followed by an explosion. It sends me crashing to the ground. My breath is knocked out of me and my ears ring. I stay on the ground, waiting. Something rumbles faintly, and then nothing.
Somehow, I’m not hurt.
I walk away, not looking back.
The orchard is bound to be close.
The hedge stirs. It’s tall, dense, creeping into my path like something out of a Tarkovsky film. Is it operated by someone? Or self-conscious? I trace it with my fingers, its surface smooth and rough at the same time. Soft leaves, hard branches. I spread open the foliage with my hands, peering through. Nothing. The green screen dissolves into pitch black.
What’s behind it? I must see. My hands dig into the foliage and pull the branches apart, and something jabs me between the index and middle fingers. The sting is cold. An itch spreads down my hand, up my arm, and through my torso. The foliage around me rattles. I lash out with slaps and kicks – blink – and I’m back in the swamp. The ground has turned into gunge, and the sky flashes behind hairy willow branches. What’s happening? The torment is endless, unless you face it. Something brushes against my neck. It feels like teeth. I collapse, kicking the murky waters. Something crawls on my face. Worms? Leeches? I rip them off, but it hurts. They’re sucking at my skin. They have a granular texture and emit a buzz. I want to scream but nothing comes out. My mouth is dry, my hands sweating.
My hands.
Look at them.
They’re covered in leeches.
And running with blood.
They don’t hurt, but I can feel the flesh getting chewed.
I lash my arms around, until my limbs grow tired and my eyelids heavy.
*****
Eyes wide open.
My hands.
They’re clean.
I bring them up to my face.
They’re old.
I touch my face. I have a beard. It’s bushy. It itches. My chin is raw from scratching. Every time I move my arms, my elbows crack and the skin that covers them rustles like paper.
The hospital room is empty. The sky outside dark.
It’s calm inside the hospital. Just the clang of the background noise. Healthcare’s steady pulse.
The bedsheets are cold. And wet.
I ring the bell to have them changed.
No one comes.
I scrunch to the side of the bed, waiting.
I’m hungry.
When was the last time I ate?
I recall a feast of fruit: giant pomelos and juicy navel oranges – how I gorged on them, then wiped my mouth dry with the soft quilted interior of the rinds, which I gobbled down next, only to puke out my entrails in bed.
I also recall attempting to lean over the side of the bed, and someone or something holding me back.
I recall a chest full of lead and someone pummeling my eyeballs from the inside.
And whispering – so much whispering. Soft, yet loud enough to hear. As if those behind it were sure that their words would slide right off me.
They’re wrong. Everything stays with me, especially the stuff I don’t recall clearly. It’s the most haunting of all.
*****
I’m better now, resting on the couch, giving my bedsores a break, stretching my legs and wiggling my toes. No citrus trees in sight, no eucalypti or birds – only a vague sense of relaxation that gradually fades, the emotion giving way to abstract thought, the memory of calm. Anxiety creeps in, as it does, but I focus on something else. The painting on the wall: the beach, the storm, the buzz of knowing that I made that image, back when everything seemed possible.
*****
Anxiety. It builds, spreads like a rash across my internal organs and shoots out through my pores, turning into a haze that steams up the room.
I hear the jingle of a faraway device… the bob-a-lop of water… the subsonic crackle of rot.
Open my eyes.
The room is empty and calm.
I must have dozed off.
It’s dusk. Or dawn. There should be a commotion, but I hear nothing. As if all sound has died.
Something tickles my feet.
I jump back, glaring. The room is filled with steam. It settles on the windows and turns into slime. It spreads on the floor, moving slowly.
Something inside it wiggles.
I ladle a quart of slime with the water jug. Examine closer.
Granules.
I pour a few on my palm.
They tickle.
Look closer…
Half-cracked cocoons occupied by vestigial teratomas; with mean pellets for eyes, their heads fused with their exoskeletons, melted into their eroded pupae, shrunken and bruised, parts of them squishy like raisins.
Some of them look familiar, like grotesque caricatures from my past.
They join their voices in a hiss, whispering my name.
I drop them onto the nightstand and crush them with the water jug and wipe the jug clean with my sheets. The gunk is a deep red, the color of bloodberies. A fume rises from it. My throat stings and my breath catches.
I jump to the window. Humid air.
Outside, a world of water looms. Endless, hostile, open.
A bathtub floats next to the ledge.
I jump in.
There’s a floorboard inside, painted black.
I paddle until I keel over with exhaustion, pass out, come to, repeat, heave, repeat, till I see land.
A golden shingle ahead.
I jump out of the boat and run. The sand is alive with shells and crabs. A forest looms in the distance.
I plunge in the greenery, down the trails made by who knows. My hands sting, riddled with splinters from the plank. The forest thins out and spills onto a plain. Tall grass, all the way to the horizon. The stench from the crushed granules lingers. I cover my mouth with my elbow crook, but it makes no difference. The smell is lodged in my throat.
If only there were a breeze to clear the air.
And just like that, with the grace of fantasy, a breeze blows in, dispelling the fumes.
Something tells me I’m on the right track.
The sun is low on the horizon and my shadow stretches out to the side. The land transforms in the shimmering contrast. So beautiful. Hummocks and gullies and rolling downs as far as I can see. Life is motion. Seek out shelter. No more swamp – it’s gone! Keep the bog at bay. Just a 360-degree vista of solid earth. A massive island, maybe a continent – there’s no way to tell. The land is awash with wildlife: horses and goats, robins and jackrabbits and butterflies. A stream runs in the distance, a golden strand that gleams in the sunlight.
On my right, a field of lavender, earth’s purple sash.
Ahead, refuge awaits.
I stop to catch my breath and a chorus of pleas goes off in my head: the muttering of voices begging me to stay, to have pity on them, to love them as they’d loved me. Why am I forsaking them? they demand, howling. Have I forgotten their lifelong devotion to me, the things they did for me and gave (up for) me?
The swamp moves in, fast on my trail, gobbling up the earth. A school of chopped-off hands emerge from it, palms open, their collective chant beckoning: ‘Join us! Don’t abandon us!’
The blood rushes to my limbs and I know what must be done. Run! My curiosity disagrees, stalling me. I’m paralyzed.
Before me is land that heaves with animate life. Behind me the encroaching slough, littered with murderous disembodied hands; a flurry of devolution headed inland. They wag their fingers and point at me, shaking with anger, diving deep in the bog, gathering filth from the bottom and spraying the air with it. Blasts of wind lash my brain. Run!
I run. The bog swells, comes crashing down in waves. Where it lands the vegetation hisses. Acrid steam, singed trees, gaping craters across which the earth collapses, the orchards and lavender reduced to ruin. The swarm of hands advances on their deci-digits, grabbing birds, squirrels. Squeezing, squelching. Feathers spin in the wind, fur tufts litter the ground. Masses of dead flesh, crushed bones, cartilage. Fuel for the swamp’s growth.
I tear my way ahead, past a forest of ashes and through a field of wheat. Stalks hit me in the face, gusts of wind blindside me. I trip, fumble, get up, run, run, my lungs burning. The hands! Remember! It’s always in your hands! A rocky mountain rises ahead, dominating the landscape. Steady on the incline, up, higher, swallowing the gradient – then halt to look back.
The wheat field stretches below like the foundation of the world, its crop a golden sea that undulates in the wind.
At its edge, an army of extremities moves in, eating its way through; a slimy eraser bound inland.
I turn and climb up the slope. Upon reaching the mountaintop I leap up. Get hold of a white-hot pinprick and pull myself higher. I climb from star to star, all the way to a trembling constellation from where I watch the slimy hands and their zombie armies consume the world.
And so it goes. The entire world – the universe’s miracle – is lost to entropy. The blue-green planet turns grey, its color sucked out. Just like that. Like a petri dish culture left unattended overnight.
I wonder. Could I (we) (anyone) have done something to avoid the catastrophe? What might we do next time round? Is there a next time round? Where does one go for a new start? Where do I go?
It’s just me now: a whisper of life somewhere in space, in the wake of calamity, wondering what if. Reliving the memory of what it was like to exist in a world where the sun shone on vegetation that grew tall and green, full of nutrients and oxygen. Where people occasionally smiled at one another, looking forward to better days. Making the best out of what we had, eager to undo the damage wrought upon us. Focusing on the upside, despite the pressure – pressure is a privilege – and giving each other a hand to get through the tough times. Giving ourselves a chance to survive the worst aspects of each other and construct a functioning world.
I wonder if perhaps, just maybe, I could re-create it all; bring it back somehow, from scratch, to give life another shot.
Something stirs below.
A commotion, a surge on the once-blue, now ravaged globe…
The army of hands and their zombie legions have turned their sights up, heavenward.
A terrible noise rises from the earth.
It’s the calling card of devastation leering outward, into space.
Shrieking, they grab onto the stars and crawl up the sky like crabs. The squirrel wights follow in their wake, nimble and diseased, followed by a shock of reptile-avian chaos – a tsunami of moving pieces that cut through the heavens with their sharp beaks and rattling tails.
In your hands.
In my grip rests a haft, smooth and solid and fittingly heavy. A beautiful axe. The atom-sharp blade glints in the darkness like a big curvy smile.
Always.
I put the blade to work.
When I’m done, the stars are covered with aftermath. What remains of the chaos drips into the abyss.
I lie back down to rest.
I’m floating in the void. There are no stars or celestial bodies. Just empty dark space.
My throat is dry, my arms burn.
In my grip, my trusted axe.
I stretch out my arms and the blood flows inside them, and it doesn’t burn. It feels good, like stretching after heavy exercise.
Something glints in empty space. I tap the area with my axe. It makes a sound that is more feeling than impact.
I tap again.
Something unravels and bursts open. A drop of water rises out of the void. A glinting jewel in the dark.
It falls out of sight.
I tap the fluid space until a spring gushes: ethereal water, fragrant with promise.
I drink till I feel right again. Bathe. Shower. Observe the water cascade down to Earth in a shimmering waterfall.
I follow the downpour all the way to our planet.
Land in a clearing. Smile. Feel the damp earth with my hands.
(A seed of hope. I hear it germinate.)
The sun shines on the terrain. The sky is blue and the ground rich and fertile.
I sit back and watch the sprouting buds. The shoots grow leaves, the branches froth into an overstory and a new world emerges from the ruins of the old.
Out of the remains!
And then it hits me – what’s coming.
The irony of the cycle. The cruelty of it all.
Desperate to start afresh, I disregard the ominous signs. I believe in the moment – in the off-chance that history won’t be repeated. It’s the only opportunity we have. The rebirth is real, I tell myself. A call for hope. Growth is underway – the seeding of intelligence, the foundation of communities, cities and enterprise. The rise of vast, multifarious networks, complex organization, intricate civilization. An industrial matrix that leads to super-intelligent centers of information exchange that grow into smart economies and brand-new ecosystems.
Growth is real.
It’s a miracle!
And it moves so fast, it’s almost beyond belief.
In fact, it’s happening so fast, it rattles and sways.
I watch in horror as the construct skids out of control. Its advance is toxic and unsustainable. The foundations crack, the structure implodes. The planet falls into disrepair, and from there, yet again, into chaos.
The cycle repeats.
It’s an atavistic loop in which I – we – all life, all of us – churn.
Is that how it goes? Life as nothing more than an ongoing death sentence sustained in irony?
There has to be a way out of this bind.
I’ve been roaming this Earth for ages, offering warning, but to no avail. I’ve been chased out of towns, branded, ostracized, on many occasions imprisoned or murdered. Nothing I say or do matters. The precursors of monstrosity are hard at work, brutalizing reason and common sense in the name of short-term profit, for the sake of their favorite -isms, abused deities, and the agencies that represent them. They serve three things above all: the lavish lining of their garments, the mean streak on their sterling tongues, and the spirit of mediocrity.
The agents of mediocrity return the favor, as prescribed. The masses are driven into a state, and from there to frenzy. They plow the earth to accelerate growth, stuffing their pockets with money, their precious lineage with privilege. They march down creaking bridges with their trusted flutes on their mouths, the world’s children at their feet, past all checkpoints. No one can stop them.
The aspiring join the circus, eager to do whatever it takes to advance along this setup. For starters, they suck their masters’ toes for a penny. Everything will work out this time, they tell themselves.
They remind each other constantly, just in case anyone has doubts.
This nightmare used to be a dream, a visionary escape…
I watch these harbingers of acrimony erect their cities, their places of worship, their centers of commerce and finance, their domes of entertainment, their houses of correction and penitence. Everything is designed to serve their interests. They target those with a mind of their own, instructing them to fall in line and do as they’re told. They monopolize resources and declare the outdoors illegal. No one is allowed to interact with nature without a license. They plug life into a grid and charge a fee for its use. They take charge of the switches, the valves, the flow of information, the right to exist.
Sometimes I can hear them at night, through the fog. They beckon like xenomorph beacons – like sirens and cyclops vomited out of a lifetime’s-worth of unfulfilled desire.
The world should be horrified, and on alert.
But it’s not.
It’s smitten and snared.
The world echoes with mantras and hooks, harnessed speech, the jingle-jangle of deception.
It keeps me up at night – has done for a million years. Or so it seems.
Let it be over.
My hands twitch.
Somewhere in the distance, a voice.
It whispers:
You’ve been here before. Many times. You know this trial.
The insight comes and goes.
There is a way out.
How to escape this loop?
My hands…
I scratch my right hand.
It twitches.
Like a fish out of water, it flaps, flounders.
And wraps its fingers round my neck.
My left hand goes for my eyes.
I jump back, throwing my body around in a self-induced fit. The spasm prevents my hands from locking in. Frenzied, I spin and thrash my way up the mountain slope, whipping my arms against the rocks, smashing the bones. The flesh dangles like a chewed-up rag. The pain is paralyzing, and I collapse. The clouds gather and a fog moves in. The rain falls. It pours until the land is no more. The continents are fractured, the coastlines redrawn. Debris and survivors float to the top, and our mountains, now the world’s only islands, are home for us all except – except those of us who’ve grown gills, and hope, despite the odds. We’re neither stranded nor destitute. With an eye for an opening, and eager to go again, we strike with a hefty hand, as necessary. Our imagination paints the world brighter. We take pills to fix what was broken. The aim is to extend the run, to go for another spin. Keep pushing, make a difference. Keep life alive. Don’t give up, not even when all seems lost. Dare to dream, engage the nightmares at will, and learn something new along the way, something that leads to a breakthrough.
It’s all about endurance. Outlast the pressure and everything is possible.
And when it’s time to go, let it be. Fall without regret, knowing you’ve given it your all, and more.
*****
There are two kinds of days.
Some are good, on occasion fantastic, blissful, extraordinary – and then there’s the bad lot.
I never know how one will turn out until it’s behind me.
What’s in my hands, provided I focus, is how to steer each day in the right direction. Past the obstacles, into a scene of beauty that holds. Cut through the pain, the haze, the doubts in my mind, the phantoms that gather in the cracks, the poison in my synapses, the racket, the stillwater – push until the way ahead is clear, the air fresh, and the day promising again.
Today is a good day.
