[Preface: so this was apparently written on 25/09/16. I remember nothing about that particular day, or for that matter, that week as a whole. It was…a week that happened. Probably. But on reading, I do remember writing this. It was a direct effort to uncensor my own expectation. (In short, my base state is that I dislike writing badly so much, that I write nothing. I am aware this is entirely stupid, and counterproductive). So this entire thing was written almost as stream-of-conciousness-fiction. An attempt to conjure up a snippet of…something, developing it as it came, without editing or allowing my own sense of ‘norm’. Much like trying to sprint with numb legs – you technically know how to do it, but you have limited sensory feedback so you aim yourself forward and hope that if you just tank that fucker, you’ll manage to constantly collapse yourself forward without actually going over.
Looking back, it went pretty well.
As a technical note, I wrote the entire thing with my eyes closed, and then went back an spell-corrected it (which was pretty hard to do without actually reading/understanding what I was correcting. On the whole I managed it. For your enjoyement (possibly), the last few paragraphs are written as they originally were, with a translation beneath.]
rutting rotting triptych of agony and noise that takes and gives nothing to no one and leaves all that is gone where it is, nothing but chocolate and lemon acid dripped on the tongue, bleeding through the gums and lungs until the air is all encompassing noise and mist, left sitting alone in the clouds you exhale. The tyrant rules on high atop the hills of bone and crushed cars, the forges neverending in their hunger and rage. We sit in the foothills and wait for judgement, or blessing. The saints walk among us and give communion. The rust is gritty between my teeth, the oil is choking. We accept this gracefully, as we should. The lone madwoman stands a the cliff, keeping her council, refusing her evening rust. She wears no clothes but the jagged chains she has fashioned. She does not sleep. Merely gazes at the imaginary speck that could be the tyrant on high.. Night falls. The howling begins and we take our turns. A mockery of pain to end the day, it pleases the tyrant, we are told. In the pitch of night, a tremor is felt. The tyrant is coming. The madwoman is gone, and no one saw her depart. Her chains remain, half fused to the panels and rooftops she stood upon. Her defiance has been tamed, the saints say. I do not sleep again.
The ground is shifting. Not the tremor of the tyrant, no cause for celebration this. A deep shifting. Like glass, piled into a a heap like the children do, but on a slope of slow collapse. The sound grows and is unbearable. The screech reaches into the stomach and spleen and tears them apart, constricting them open and shut and open again. It does away. Something is wrong. The saints say all is well. In a quiet moment I see one waste water from their eyes, and she does not pick it up. I am afraid. The saints are uncertain. And we cannot see the tyrant.
The howl is slow at dusk.not a thing of terror and pain as should be, but uncertain. Frail. Old. We dp pir dity/ Bit we cammpt see tjetyramt/ Je wo;; retirm. Saomts sau. Je wo;; retirm/ O s;ee[ bad;y. Amd we;;/ Dee[ om the [otcj O cam sto;; taste the po; om ,y tjrpat. Ot tastes pf berroes amd ;eaf/ Pf salt amd old stone. I must be asleep. But drea,inmg os not a time for fancy, there is work to be done.
In the night, the ground tears again. We cling together, subsumed by the wash and wail. The floor tils and is gone. Or no. It is there, and we are no longer. O awale om the ,prmomg, face presed to the steel of mmy favourite chevrolet. The hills are different / Tje eartj jas ,pved/ A cru goes uup, the tyrant is there! The imagined speck of half-sight is againamong us. To the est now. A new throne! The saints are excstatinc.
[The howl is slow at dusk not a thing of terror and pain as should be, but uncertain. Frail. Old. We do our duty. But we cannot see the tyrant. He will return, saints say. He will return. I sleep badly. And well. Deep in the pitch I can still taste the oil on my tongue. It tastes of berries and lead. Of salt and old stone. I must be asleep. But dreaming is not a time for fancy, there is work to be done.
In the night, the ground tears again. We cling together, subsumed by the wash and wail. The floor tilts and is gone. Or no. It is there, and we are no longer. I awake in the morning, face pressed to the steel of my favourite Chevrolet. The hills are different. The earth has moved. A cry goes up, the tyrant is there! The imagined speck of half-sight is again among us. To the east now. A new throne! The saints are ecstatic.]