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Moth Writing
Tuesday, March 9th, 2010
When his time as a student ended, they arrived at last at the night for the ceremony of the book of sand. They left at nightfall, making their way through the empty markets, past the street of leatherworkers, the street of brass-makers, out through the low, white-stucco houses of the suburbs, out into scrubland and further into desert.
In the blue hour before dawn, his teacher said they’d arrived, and had him set down the canteens and bag of bread. He sat at the foot of a dune and recited the incantations they’d practiced for weeks, and the blue hour stretched out past when the sun should have risen.
Moths came, as his teacher said they would, and skimmed over the face of the dune. In the shadows cast by the low, bright moon, the lines etched by the tips of their wings looked like words. He read there everything the moths had seen throughout the nighttime city.
He tried to remember everything so that he could turn it to his advantage — everything anyone in the city had hoped darkness would hide. The wind erased the words as he read them and more moths came with more stories.
As the hours stretched on, the cramps in the small of his back subsided. He continued reading — something in the incantation prevented him from stopping. His teacher forced water and an occasional bit of bread into his mouth. His schemes turned to compassion; he saw the struggles, behind the secrets, the troubles that unraveled in their wake. He stopped looking for ways to gain and looked for ways to help.
Still he read–it felt like days had passed, even though the blue-saturated sky hadn’t changed. His eyes crusted with sand which his teacher tried to dab away with a damp cloth, but every sentence gritted. The threads of story drew together. His schemes seemed more and more ridiculous against the enormity of its grand interweaving structure. In the life of the city, he was one more moth, observing, circling this or that moment of brightness before remembering the stars he meant to steer by. For all his knowledge, it couldn’ touch anything without ruining the whole design.
Humbled, he struggled up as dawn finally turned the sand back to mere sand and the moths fluttered off to sleep the day.
The Cabal’s third anniversary is approaching, and we’re looking for help figuring out how to celebrate, so we’re holding a contest. Click here to read the details and give us your ideas!
Free Hugs in the Land of Moving Sidewalks
Monday, March 8th, 2010
So what if when the trapdoor opens the world is never the same. A tiny room with just a 3 by 2 meter window. You don’t know where or when you are, but what you can’t figure out from signage and facial features is irrelevant.
Could be a screen, resolution being what it is these days. Don’t know if it’s the real world or if there even is a real world anymore. Not that the real world seemed real last time you checked.
Kneel under the 3×2. Put your hands in the wall-mounted silicone gloves, thick and squishy. A momentary disconnect when your arms extend through the wall, weird biofeedback tingle in your fingertips. Relax into the moment, searching the world outside for something – anything – to connect with. Vehicle lights are a blur of red and white blood cells. People stream by. Everything slows, masses become individuals. Contrast suddenly is.
Pop your gloved knuckles so loudly the sound echoes. Your eyes dart around. Salarymen, schoolgirls. Two seconds of decoding signs confirm it’s Japan. It’s like watching a kaitenzushi, that great conveyor of raw fish, rotate round (singing “the wheels of fish go round and round, round and round…”) and round. So many choices. Gotta start with one.
An office lady, thumbs racing over a phone keypad. Reach out and slap her tight-skirted ass. She stops, startled, looks around, sees nothing, shrugs it off, keeps going, dreams about it that night, imagines her long-ago high school English teacher, smiles, sleeps well. You relish in the afterglow of first love.
A stuck up blond Russian model type, hair sculpted with so much gel you don’t know how she holds her head up. Ruffle her hair and splay it out in all directions. She doesn’t look around, only screams, runs directly into the nearest convenience store, hides her head, remembers losing her metro pass in Moscow, struggling home in rain, beatings that followed, running away, drowning herself in another country and culture. You keep the adrenaline and shame.
A salaryman, staggering, tie loose, face red, combover uncombed over, cheap suit unruffled thanks to permanent miracle of polyester. You wrap your arms around him and hold him fast. He tries to pull away from the hug, eyes cast down, school bullies, failed diets, fear, the one girl who took pity on him in university. You let go and he pulls away, almost reluctantly, folds himself into the crowd and gives in to the familiar feeling of security, safety, anonymity. You’ll take those too.
Safety in anonymity in numbers in distance: for you this is everything. You are perfectly safe, yet alone. Trade-off. Weak smile.
You pull your hands from the gloves, slink down the ladder and close the trapdoor, sure to latch it good and tight, curl up, dream of connecting, in some small way, with someone, anyone, in any version of reality.
It’s enough for now.
The Cabal’s third anniversary is approaching, and we’re looking for help figuring out how to celebrate, so we’re holding a contest. Click here to read the details and give us your ideas!