Aaron Kliger, clutching the magazine in the cold France air at night, armpits and holy mounds of flesh, passing the magazine on that kept him warm.
Margot Tenenbaum's report.
The narrator of the third part of Auster's New York Trilogy.
Tintin never returns from the new world. Marlinspike manor is never returned to.
The manorhouse that could have had our crest isn't returned to. No thank you Columbia, I'll spend time with Drew instead. No thank you, mountain of flesh, pliable souls, I'll stop that. No thank you, sex and flesh and nothing nothing nothing. No thank you. Where did it all change? Where did they pave over the rubble, so I can even find the answer?
Staring into the mirror, shaving. Aaron wrote down the poem faithfully by the tub. The wisdom, like Simon's ramblings, fail to translate. THERE IS NO FUCKING TRANSLATION. The blue ink smears, but the true believers will understand. The unspoken link, the nonverbal commands, how easy it is to sink into the old patterns, the old world, the old ways. In that tub, beyond any semblance of sanity, yet on top of it again for a brief moment. Now I'm down in... no. Cannot fall into that trite pit, as others recently have. Pull those nails out, you fools! Pull them out!
I understand it all, yet it flees through my fingertips, like when Timothy Arnold puked that clear yellow fluid through his hand, splattering the floor, so long ago.
The ego demands the possibility that the steps would be retraced. The ego prays and hopes for the penultimate goal to be realized. Will they talk to the Tiqui man, and will they find about that night in the rain? The confused vulnerable frightened red head, pounding her meaty fists against the small foreign car, while Tiqui has no explanation for what I've tasked him to do? Will they talk to Shaq, who was so friendly with her, and find out about the nights he sat at the altar playing the fugue for me over the phone? Will they find the Talespin notes? Will I?
Once I could spin the threads so well, wrapping two foolish young sacrifices who would get pierced with the unbearably light scalpel of flesh at the same time, choosing the tightest and ignoring the other. Once I could wrap reality, aligning many. If only I saved the attack on zeek. If only I saved Eponine's follies. If only I saved it all. Now I can barely put together simple Tetris blocks constructing the beauty of the creation Larsson can express. Where did it all change?
Is every single fucking sheep that Rodion saw really like this? Are the mindless fucking fields waiting for slaughter like they were in Mexico under the vampires (maybe Mario was right!) really all gems? Is the meaning of life keeping the crust off? Is that what it's all about? Why am I so good at collecting layers? Why?
You just don't understand. Do you? Fuck.
Category VI - The Strange
Though you're not quite sure why, people are drawn
to you like moths to a flame. You really
are too cool for words.
What Type of Social Entity are You?
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It's all just so pointless. Give it up. Viva! Pardon me, I must go now.