"gradually I've come to realise that my house is haunted by the ghost of a dead astronaut"

Thursday, 24 December 2009

19. Untitled 2


"This age of no progress. This age of dead vision. This time of empty scampering around in the dirt for things that give meaning, only to find that it’s all just dirt, but we wash that dirt and sell it via international markets anyway, because what else can we do with time and space and with brains that want filling"

I shouldn’t be communicating with anyone at all – that was the promise I made to myself when I moved into this house two months ago. But everything has been changing. I’m not quite the same person I was when I entered this ramshackle, windswept wreck of a place. So my promise is discarded and I find myself communicating with you. Another personal value broken and trampled on in this modern day and age.

This age of no progress. This age of dead vision. This time of empty scampering around in the dirt for things that give meaning, only to find that it’s all just dirt, but we wash that dirt and sell it via international markets anyway, because what else can we do with time and space and with brains that want filling. This time of empty threats – religious fascists on the horizon, parading their own brand of emptiness and threatening ours, while we seek to destroy theirs, and it’s just one soft emptiness coming up against a hard one, and each seeing a different and disturbing quality to the dirt the other peddles. This age of dead science. Of stagnation. Of stagnating, pointless science. Of endless distracting fireflies and of bright and bold bravura on great flimsy boards, and of one great enormous moment nestling on a high cliff. This age of cages of the imagination, their vaporous shapes delineated by laws too founded upon other emptinesses to ever turn back, even if they saw through all the dead space. Yes. This age of dead space.

What was it exactly that I shouldn’t be doing? What was the promise I made to myself when I entered this ramshackle, windswept wreck of a place, anyway? To turn from an empty world. And what do I do? Communicate with you! Empty, dead you! I look emptiness in the eye, yet not to challenge it. No. With every word I’m more a part of it. I just mould it, in order to sell it. Oh, definitely! Who would play me in the movie? Kidman, for sure. It would have to be Kidman!

"Who would play me in the movie? Kidman, for sure. It would have to be Kidman!"

I should return to my story, emptiness demands that it have a shape in order that it can properly express itself. We’re nearly up-to-date in this tale, too – so I should definitely get back to attempting to make something out of nothing. That’s all you want from me anyhow. Nothing much, really.

Hey, reader, maybe you should try and make something out of nothing too! Or is that already everything you do in every part of your life? Your life of no progress. Your life of dead vision. Of cages of the imagination. Of endless, distracting fireflies.

2 comments:

The romantic query letter and the happy-ever-after said...

I agree, Ms. Kidman is both elegant and talented so she would be perfect. Now pack your bags and see if you can't get a hold of her agent so you may pitch to her your brilliant idea. The story would make a great screenplay I certain of it and you are just the woman to write it.

Christopher said...

I loved this part, makes me long for a different age with a little more life.