Nada4 33 - I See Them Slipping

N A D A

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It was a few days back that the organization asked me to give a talk on the nature of the exquisite corpse.

Of course I jumped at the chance to do so but within a couple day I had regretted my decision. There was one thing that I liked doing the most. That was sleeping. I would lie in bed for days staring at the walls and unfinished works neatly placed on my desk. This talk, which I began to write, was thrown on the pile like the rest. The pile consisted of several issues of a small zine (several months in progress), a couple half smoked spliffs, one piece of cheese still in its Lunchable's box, and a pile of dead spiders I have been keeping in a glass. Now to top it off was a word document with a brief, very brief, outline of and exquisite corpse. I didn't know what to do. I ran out of garbage bags a while back when I had to trash an immense video project involving three years worth of videos shot with the lens cap on. It was tragic and took a months of weekly trash collection days to get rid of. I dreamt last night of trip to Norway, of the hills with lights released from the tiny rooms of the houses. It was raining and the steep winding streets commanded a caution from each step. One wrong action here, one slip of physics and I would find myself at the bottom of the Byfjorden with my skull cracked open, the blood moving slowly to the North Sea. Upon waking up I steadied my resolve and decided to dismiss the talk and finish one of the zines.

The train ride began in the usual way. Wiping down the cold plastic sheet of the sleeper bunk with as many wet wipes as I am willing to spare, each ending up a dry, blackened sheet with no end in sight.

Wondering if it was worth it, how deep the grime goes. Eyeing my surroundings, attempting to discern the harmless from the potential thieves, as if my eyes had the ability to judge the men and women around me whose lives are in most ways unfathomable to me. Settling in to the bumpy and noisy ride, the chatter and passing whiffs of piss and human shit as my fellow travelers let loose their bowels straight onto the tracks below. As the daylight fades, we pull into stations that come up out of the country as if they are manifesting upon our arrival, yet each is populated fit to burst. There are no lonely country towns here. Even the most desolate surroundings reveal themselves to be thriving centers of life.

I inhale books on these train rides, and yet I couldn’t tell you what I was reading if you’d asked me on the spot. Absorbing words in my own language is more of a mental distraction than anything else. I feel more present with my nose in a book, more able to process the overwhelming stimuli around me when I don’t focus too intensely. Sometimes I wonder if foreigners get sick so often in India not because of the food, but because they try too hard to take in the atmosphere around them. It’s impossible. Your uneasy gut could be a visceral reaction in response to your mind’s inability to process what surrounds you. But maybe it’s the food.

The chaos of the stations are punctuated by the bellowing voices of the chai and samosa wallas, regardless of the time of night. Sleep is impossible, yet as soon as the sun sets and the light is too dim for reading, we say goodnight and bundle up in our sleeping sacks with our valuables tucked uncomfortably beneath our chests, and pretend for the duration of the trip that we are sound asleep. Sometimes the lull of the train rocks me into a sort of trance and my mind slips into that state of awareness that does not fully transcend reality, but instead takes the noises and smells around me and weaves them into a noncoherent stream of consciousness. On this particular trip, I drearily drifted out of this state to find three tiny Indian women sitting upright at the end of my six foot sleeping bunk, staring at me.

It is the week before the Haridwar Kumbh Mela, a pilgrimage to the confluence of three holy rivers in India. Held once every twelve years in a particular place, it is considered to be the largest religious pilgrimage in the world. Thousands upon thousands of people make their way across the country, and unbeknownst to us, their destination is on the same rail line as ours.

Bemused, I peer over the edge of my bunk to see not three, but four women on my travelling companion’s bunk. Her eyes are wide. Her smile is nervous, but not without humor. The floors of the train car are for the men, their bodies illuminated by the moonlight coming in through the doors. All of them watch us, the only white women in the car.

I dream of dark eyes until morning, when the bodies have gone and the train whistle announces our arrival in Agra.

Another settling in. Another futile wet-wipe war.

Another train, this time headed south from New Delhi.

The car fills up quickly with humans and baskets and suitcases and children and live animals and everything else. A large family joins us in our six person section.

A family of six. Two people too many.

We sit awkwardly in silence while the family argues, checks tickets, and causes a scene that draws the attention of most other people in the cabin. Soon enough, everyone is passing our tickets around, comparing, wondering where the problem lies. Finally, a boy around our age, the only English speaker of the group, hands us back our tickets.

“You’ve booked this seat, on this day, in this month, of next year.”

We’re the culprits.

The train has already left the busy station, and the sun is setting. The conductor could be by any moment to check our tickets, and if discovered, we could be left helplessly in a random town along the way.

We spend that night sitting upright at the foot of the six foot sleeper bunk that belongs to the boy who speaks English. After paying, in cash, four times the price of the original ticket, the conductor has allowed us to stay. A scam we had no leverage over.

I dream of a sleeper car in the United States, the darkness, the solitude, the air-conditioning. The silence of the Amtrak train slipping over the tracks with ease. The familiarity of the sights passing by my window. Installed plumbing. The works.

I imagine myself in the darkness, my possessions piled upon my feet as the train pulls off into the void, the unseen. I imagine the cold terror of facing a night without the comfort of my out stretched legs, without the comfort of a bed. I imagine having to repeat this night, this terror, over and over again. Its end as far as the darkness is near. The visions come unattached to place, it claims no country, no destination, only myself.

These last few days have been like a waking nightmare. The place has started to consume me, I can feel it, and I am so deep into its country, into its body, that escape seems impossible. Even if I turned to leave, turned to flee from its embrace I doubt it would let me exit. I have too long been subject to its maw, perhaps forever slave to its tastes. I have been interred here long before now, long before it has come to my notice. The collapse has snuck up on me as a creeping doom, as a slowly crawling fear and unease. I thought it was a natural thing, a normal thing: the slowing of my steps, the slurring of my speech, I thought this was a thing of age or a thing of ignorance. But I find now it was the influence of this place, the influence of this land. I find it was the influence of the work I have been going on, the goals I have been pursing, whatever they may be.

It felt now as if I were floating in the midst of a sulfurous sea, that the waves of this place were taking me to some destination far outside of my cognition, that I am being swept along by current birthed thousands of miles away and running fathoms deep, great sweeps of water far outside of my awareness and ability to control. I am but a conscious cork, bobbing along on this tide, looking for some land on which to alight, hoping that I am swept into the arms of some hopeful folk, that I am transplanted into some place of life. I know this is impossible, I know this will not be, but still I acknowledge that I have no choice, that my will is restricted, that the options open to me have closed off until now I walk along a single lane path, with no branches.

I have sinned: I have looked back. We are taught never to look back, never to eye over our trail in nostalgia or pity, that we should forge on into the day and beat down new brush and clear new land at risk of life and limb. So I have sinned. I have come to realize though that there is no escape from this place, and that forging on is my only option.

I have come to see that even if I did turn, even if I did make my fastest route for the border there was no way I would make it in time, the arms of this place have already begun to close, like the inevitable power of a whirlpool, which takes down everything into it which happens to cross it’s outer boundary, and no matter how hard I were to might fight I would be pulled in sooner or later.

I believe now that my only option is to fight out the other end, so as these men who are taken deep into the whirlpools and are dropped, sucking, heaving, half-dead into some abyssal cave where there they have enough air to rejuvenate themselves and thence launch back up through the water and to the surface.

It had finally come down to it. It had gone all the way to the Supreme Court but of course by that time President Obama had stacked the court with so many secret-Muslims that the ruling was a forgone conclusion.

The Supreme Court ruled 5-3 that Sharia Law and not the US Constitution was the highest law in the land.

At first there was outrage. There were protests across the country which in some cities conflagrated into outright riots. Qurans were burned.

Several notable southern politicians spoke openly of seceding once again from the union. But then the stonings started.

The Westborough Baptist Church took advantage of the situation with its “Cast the First Stone” campaign which began as a lynchmob-caravan trekking the hour and a half from Topeka to Leavenworth to the ancestral home of Melissa Etheridge on Christmas Day 201X. The mob surrounded the house at dawn, set fire to it and as the Etheridge family hastily evacuated into the front yard, WBC leader Shirley Phelps denounced Etheridge as “an adulteress and fornicator of the utmost depravity” while her congregation salivated, awaiting with bated breath for the first stone to be cast - that their secondary and tertiary stones could be cast without compunction.

Etheridge collapsed from the hail of stones and as her last breath despaired from her battered, scattered face, Phelps led the congregation marching to the banks of the Missouri singing “Glory Halleluiah.” Although Phelps was arrested by Leavenworth PD she was able to post bail and ultimately went on to win her day in court.

*** Corey White had sat himself on the cigarette-burn-peppered fold-out couch in his mother’s trailer.

“Yo Billy, you gotta come in here and see this shit on the TV.” Billy White pulled the tab on his tall boy can and shuffled from the kitchen; beer can in his left hand and in his right a Marlborough Red which induced a plume of smoke that eternally wound its way towards the firmament. On the television flashed images of the encindered house followed by Shirley Phelps shrieking about sins and abominations living in our very midst and finally to a photo of the deceased with a caption reading, “Melissa Etheridge 1961-201X.” There was a solemn pause as the two digested the information and as Corey was swilling long from his can of beer Billy finally broke the silence, remarking, “That dyke had it comin’.”

Despite his best attempts to hold his mouthful of beer, Corey could not forbear laughing and his face erupted into a fountain, rivulets of beer trickling down his chin and onto the cigarette-burned couch. Corey wiped his face with his bare forearm and continued laughing uproariously while his brother continued, “I don’t know why it took somebody this long to do it.”

The following day Corey and Billy jump-started the family Oldsmobile and pilgrimaged the 200 miles from Joplin to Topeka to join the Westborough Baptist Church. Billy commanded the wheel and chain smoked his Marlboroughs while Corey sipped a tall boy and plied the lower end of the FM dial.

Garbled static flitted in and out and pierced higher frequencies of the human ear register.

Frank Sinatra crooned, “fly me to the moon,” for an instant preceding a whine of static. “… the doctor’s body was found dumped on the grounds of a Sioux Falls Planned Parenthood…” more static

“… the victim was a 27-year-old transgender female. The main perpetrator, Dr James Dobson had assembled some thirty of his followers outside the Karuna Kollective Kafe in Denver’s River North neighborhood…”

Billy: I said put on some music, not that boring-ass shit. static snapped and hissed, “California knows how to party… ” Goddammit Corey, not that shit! static again stuttered between weak signals “… the accused, Alan Holt of Baton Rouge, refused to enter a plea, claiming the victim - his wife in this case - was an apostate…” further static “…but don’t tell my heart, my achy breaky heart…”

Goddammit Corey, gimme that shit! *** The two arrived at the WBC in Topeka to find virtual pandemonium. At a distance of 100 yards were a few hundred protesters cordoned off by the police.

“Well, how the fuck do we get into this place?” wondered Corey aloud as they assessed the police cordon.

The two brothers approached the police line and Billy demanded of the one of the officers, “Hey, how do we get in?

We wanna go to church.”

The officer eyed Billy reproachfully and replied, “you boys are going to church with an open container at 3pm on a Tuesday?”

Billy: Goddammit Corey, didn’t I tell you to leave that shit in the car?

Officer: You boys been drivin'?

Billy: Just me sir. Little guy here doesn’t got a license.

Officer: The protesters have a permit until 6. why don’t you come back after that?

*** After killing three hours at a bar, Billy and Corey returned prepared for baptism.

A kindly elder gentleman greeted them at the congregation’s entrance.

Usher: How can we help you gentlemen?

Billy: Man, you sure had a lotta faggots around this place earlier.

Usher: Well, the Lord Jesus himself was not without his detractors.

Corey: Well we think you guys are awesome. We wanna be part of the church.

Usher (smiling, grimacing somewhat in fact): You boys smell a bit like you may be acting on impulse. Why don’t you come back after taking some time for reflection?

Billy: We only had a couple of beers and we been gung ho on this shit since two days ago.

Usher: We do appreciate your zeal but the hour is late.

Pray on this tonight and, God’s will be done, call upon us tomorrow.

Billy and Corey didn’t have the money for a hotel so they had to decide if they were going to drive the 3 hours drunk back to Joplin or simply sleep in the car. They found a Walmart, bought an 18-pack and settled into the car’s front and rear seats. *** “Alright boys,” spoke a tall and thick-necked WBC congregationist, “it’s propitious that you turned up. We need muscle. Indeed, the Israelites were not without their Samson. The Missouri, which flows through that bed of sin that modern Babylon, Kansas City – is river upon which the laws of the land could not tread and perversion was free to sow its seed. But their impunity will soon be over.”

Corey and Billy stared blankly.

“And Westborough Baptist Church will tear these seeds of sin from the earth and this is where you boys come in.

This river boat is going to have security and there’ll be only two gangways that they have to keep secure to prevent us from doing the Lord’s work.

Now you boys are gonna pretend to be gambling and when the congregation shows up, you neutralize any security personnel. And try to blend in.

Now you boys’ll have an hour to settle in and case the place. At midnight we take the gangway and that’s where you come in. And we’re gonna need you sober for this operation. Am I making myself clear?

*** The WBC congregation slowly interspersed themselves amongst the throngs of riverfront goers.

Billy: Well, let’s blend in and belly-on-up.

Corey: Dude, pastor said we had to be sober.

Billy: Yeah, but he said to blend in and we can’t do that by not drinkin and gambling.

Corey: yeah but…

Billy: Here’s what we do. We order tall whisky-cokes and if anybody asks, it’s just coke. And we sit at the slot machines and pull the levers but we’re not really playing.

Corey: So we look like we’re not drinkin when we are and look like we’re gambling when we’re not.

Billy: Now you’re getting it, son. *** At the same time a not quite yet middle-aged couple had just unzipped their suitcases and were dispersing their accouterments about their room.

Aubrey: Oh my god, I’m so glad we could get a baby sitter for the whole weekend.

Jeff: We’ll have to do something nice for the Martins when we get back.

Aubrey: So what should we do first?

Jeff: Well, there’s the buffet, the craps table…

“I was thinking more along the lines of liquor up front, poker in the rear,” said Aubrey, sending a sly smile to Jeff as she undid the sash on her robe.

Suddenly the door burst in.

Shirley Phelps: Harlot! Philanderer! We knew we would find your kind here.

“Who the fuck are you people?” bellowed Jeff, grabbing the phone. “We need security in 318.”

Phelps merely nodded and two WBC guards quickly subdued Jeff and tore the phone out of the wall.

Phelps: You will be made example of: harlot, philanderer.

Aubrey: What are you talking about? We’re a couple. We have children!

Phelps: I see no rings on your fingers. This is abject debauchery and nothing more.

*** As the two ill-fated lovers were wrangled down the gangplank, Phelps mounted a black jack table and remonstrated the casino goers. Security approached with demands for her to alight from her pulpit but were rushed by Billy, Corey, and other plants in the crowd.

Billy took a swing at a security guard which was deflected but Corey followed quick with a body blow and then managed to pry the security guard’s arms behind his back. A left hook and an upper cut to the jaw from Billy and Corey was then able to wrestle the guard overboard.

Billy: Fuck yeah, bro!

Corey: Whoo!

Billy: Shots!

Billy ran to the bar and laid the bartender out with a haymaker. His spoils were a bottle of bourbon, from which he took a pull and handed it to Corey.

Just as quickly, Corey and Billy were seized by the other WBC soldiers, one of whom Billy threw into a slot machine.

He managed to deck another in the jaw before finally being overpowered.

Phelps: Nurturing intemperance was not the reason you were brought here. We’d hoped it wouldn’t come to this.

Billy and Corey were wrestled down the gangway and thrown into a circle along with Jeff, Aubrey and various other gamblers and sinners.

Corey: Goddammit Billy, why do you always get us into this shit? And why the fuck do I always have to go down with you? I should never listen to you! I woulda never got expelled if you hadn’ta made me carry the fireworks.

I woulda never gone to jail if you didn’t always make me drive after the bar.

Billy: well maybe if you could drive better you wouldn’ta crashed the car.

Corey: well maybe if weren’t such a dumb motherfucker…dum… . Dad would still… uh, godfuckin… fuck you Billy! and Corey picked up a glass bottle from the flotsam on the ground and delivered it squarely into Billy’s forehead.

Immediately stones rained upon Corey, Billy, Jeff, Aubrey, and the others and as Corey fell to the ground his last view was of a dazzling myriad of colors from the riverboat lights as the periphery of his vision faded to black.

It’s like, I don’t know, nigga was out here slipping, maybe we all are, one side to the other, wavy vessels, rats running under the bowels into the sun. Pale blue live death or the impossible promise of lakes. The blade still here, in the same sad veneer and even its essence remains unchanged, constituent recuperation in short gurgles through shattered hallways, puzzled grins, yuppies staring hard long into the abyss. But it was three a.m. and none of this was. Shadows in the semblance of bodies or the shadows we leave from fingertips lying sullen in dust twitching out death rattles.

* At first, everything was tranquil, the city tried to hold an aloof calm in it’s soft hands as if this was how it has always been. I remember throwing up. I had woken up crying. In a cafe on Rainier I watched the first thirty minutes of a documentary on the Moorish tribe hidden in the Americas. The barista cried during a drawn out section on Noble Ali, but all of it was subtle, I drank vodka mixed with wild berry Snapple. Rainier, simply slipping inside of worms, cancerous song cycles, wild bonfires seen in concrete by the children of death cults.

*

It wasn’t even there when I saw this nigga slip. It was Third and Pine and a desperate serenity caked over the skyline. But I’ve already said all of this. Excuse me, I’m probably slipping.

*

So long story short. I was waiting for the seven smoking a spliff and listening to Danny!’s third album, a reinterpretation of City of Angels by the Miracle's; and a man appeared; older, disheveled in a sort of hurried (can’t be bothered) type of way, as if this old ass nigga was too important to wear anything but velour tracksuits and all red Air Force Ones. We stared at each other from opposite sides of the street for an indeterminate amount of time, then, my bus came and I left. For a moment I wondered if we had communicated telepathically, or through graduations in the earth, but that's not it. As if everything had slipped around- clean slate. I was shaken through semblance- everything felt different.

*

To be honest, I don’t know now, if the old ass nigga was slipping or I was slipping, or, I don’t know, maybe it’s like I said, we all slipping now.

But, then again, on my momma, on my life, this velour wearing motherfucker got a bird.

A bird in his hand. The bird had red eyes and while the old man’s stare was impassive or disinterested, the bird seemed to express an over zealous singular focus on me, on my eyes. To be precise. The man sang in patois. Cyclical and sensual, the promise of violence, neither inflicted upon nor from, just there. It all seemed happy, not in a momentary sense, but rather, as if it were part of continuous celebration of the overcoming of bitterness and loneliness.

Victims that stalk in the dead hour, him and I. I guess that’s what I mean by all this, We slippin nigga, all of us, kiss the promise of fruition and wilt; the underworld begins dreaming of the right of return for our martyrs.

The apocalypse is eating itself I thought to myself on the bus, eyes half closed. Everything is fine because everything is over.

Š 2015 Rockwell Press Collective, Seattle, issue 33

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