II
με'
Οἱ πονηροὶ δαίμονες τοὺς πονηροτέρους αὐτῶν δαίμονας εἰς βοήθειαν ἐπισπῶνται·
καὶ κατὰ τὰς διαθέσεις ἀλλήλοις ἐναντιούμενοι͵ συμφωνοῦσιν ἐπ΄ ἀπωλείᾳ μόνον
ψυχῆς[i]
Memory is simply storytelling in its most primal
form. The events of memory are always shadowed by the Present presence of the
storyteller: an anguished ghost whispering useless warnings against words
unsaid, roads untaken, gifts unrecognized and meanings undiscerned. Life lived
is haunted by life unlived. Our every step parts a ghoulish fog of curiosities,
uncertainties, disappointments and regrets, the coulda-shoulda-woulda of a
future self looking back. And although this work is meant more as a penitential
confession than an exculpatory memoir, I cannot pretend to escape from the
claws of narrative and its dissembling requirements. My story will inevitably
be haunted by thematic phantoms and foreshadowing specters. Forgive me then, if
I choose to publish my characters’ roles on the playbill. In the story of my
summer cruise, the protagonist is played by Our Hero, Yours Truly. The
antagonist is played by Dolores Medina Villanueva.
Dolores was a recent graduate of Universidad Nacional Autónoma de México, whose pre-med biology department she had sliced
open like a pizza roller. Thrice published at the age of twenty-two, her CV
carried a florilegium of honors and awards that would shame Carmen Miranda:[ii]
on its strength, MIT was willing to offer her a full ride through their PhD in
synthetic biology[1]. Her
undergraduate research was in biminian[iii]
therapies, and I knew within hours of meeting Lola that she would probably wind
up as head of R&D at one of the Genesis firms in the Detroit Discus.[iv]
We met above the Sonoran desert, on the sun-deck in
the third day. Moby Dick’s broad back was paved in richly colored cedar, and a
round blue pool had been sunk into the planks where his blowhole ought to have
been. Thus far I had spent my afternoons circuit riding through the small list
of belowdecks diners, bars and lounges that I found acceptable, but today a
thick, greasy, disgusting lunchtime slice of “Jersey Shore Pizza” put me in
mind of a swim. So I squeezed into an ancient pair of trunks[2]
and meandered into an upward-bound elevator.
Unfortunately, it transpired that the pool was
child friendly between the hours of 12:00 and 2:00. Feeling tired and harassed
just looking at all those pink arms and hopping legs and screaming teeth, I
elected to pass the afternoon on a sun bed with a clear view of the desert,
happy to let my thoughts drift like the plastic refugees—water wings, life
preservers, neons animals—that dotted the pool so colorfully. I slipped into
another place within moments of lying down, and it was late afternoon before I
looked up again.
When I did, there she was: sitting on the pool’s
other side, splitting her pleasure between a battered paperback of Tuck Everlasting[v]
and the obvious turmoil she was producing with her toplessness[3].
The deck was demographically representative (of the cruise that is) mostly
prosperous polo-shirt professionals trying to remember where their eyes ought
to be in front of their wives and kids[4].
I had suddenly discovered a new source of afternoon amusement in charting the
socio-chemical reactions generated by the addition of this intriguing new
catalyst to what had been a tediously milky and middle-class bourgeois colloid.
I soon grew tired of scanning south of the border
for any shorts-spires or bermuda-buttes covertly accomplishing a prohibited
protuberance, but the wives, (self-consciously cosmopolitan, pointedly unthreatened,
altogether at their ease with this altogether European development), provided a much more sustainable source of
amusement. Some directed the family gaze over the railings towards cacti,
desert anemones, Gila monsters, and the expressionist snarls of sarx and
fiberglass left by downed drones. Some discussed the many merits of a more
embodied and ecological pace of travel in this frenzied age of artificiality
and overwork, to which their husbands distractedly replied that indeed, it was
entirely so, and not only that, they were getting so much more done working remotely.
But no one played tit for tat, with a single sad
exception. A heavily smudged and oiled blond blossom, sixteen at the oldest, disappeared
below-decks with her family, but took her impressions and ambitions with her.
Twenty minutes later she re-emerged, alone, in all her nubile splendor, and
struck a pose four sun-beds left of Dolores (who unfortunately failed to notice
her). Massive Ray-Bans could not conceal the shattering excitement of this cosmic
act of rebellion: every fifteen to thirty seconds, her neck would jerk
spastically in the direction of the elevators in an unpleasant simulacrum of
the side effects of certain antipsychotics, but I suppose it was the principle
of the thing.
She was clearly banking on Mediterranean leers and
catcalls to reinforce her courage, but she had misjudged the income bracket of
her audience rather badly. Instead, she was quickly surrounded by an Atlantic
fog of silence and discretion, shrouding social verdicts that moved unseen in
the thickness of the mist. All eyes were politely averted for the twenty
minutes she was on display. Her emotional energy was already drained when the
elevators disgorged a maternal horseman, brandishing the missing bikini top.
The poor girl did not attempt a public scene. Harsh whispers passed below-decks
without further incident.
This minor excitement concluded, I found myself
without any further ethnographic material. Late afternoon was bursting overhead
like slow-motion stock footage of a nuclear detonation, and most people were
escaping the bleached and super-saturated frying pan of the sun-deck for an
air-conditioned meal or a poolside drink in the observatories. In the absence
of any reasonable ideas, I decided to approach the sun deck’s main attraction.
My attitude was not arachnid at the time: I had no particular designs on this new and fascinating
specimen. It was just that the arboreally enhanced cigarillos I had been
smoking were all already stubbed and slipped over the side, and there was no
prospect belowdecks that could overcome even the effort of sitting up.
So a combination of curiosity and boredom then; but
perhaps my decision contained something else: a fugitive species of desperation.
I had boarded in the hope of seclusion and self-examination. This was supposed
to be an opportunity for pruning my priority tree, a measured pause in which I
could recollect, recoup, regroup, reintegrate. That was the scotch/cognac revelation
of my Monday afternoon: it was a mark of my subjection to inertia, a sign that
I was transcendentally unmoored, drifting from surface to surface like an
ancient screensaver, ricocheting and rebounding without purpose or plan:
circumscribed within the puny horizon of a pure immanence. I needed the stillness
necessary to recite my cosmogony, to recall the parts that once upon a time,
had been formed into a whole[5].
But no solid mound had yet emerged from primordial waters. No dry and stable axis mundi had made its radiant heirophany. I was drowning in a
disaggregate stew of unscheduled aimlessness and unstructured anxiety.[vi]
The previous night had been consecrated to a
drunken, compulsive, panic-stricken binge-play of Halo: Combat Evolved.[vii]
I had applied my green thumb to a pack of Black & Milds shortly after
encountering The Flood and soon achieved Parnassan[viii]
heights. The rest of the campaign was spent dredging a condemned lake of algal
nostalgia in search of memories of the Hardy twins[6][ix].
Frank, Joe and I ran a four-legged race to high-school graduation, prevailing
over the obtuse and malign forces of turn-of-the-century adolescence through
the strength of fiercely shared obsessions. When I was thirteen and they were
fourteen, we completed the Halo co-op campaign three times in one weekend,
passing two controllers between six hands in forty-five minute rotations while
consuming twelve bags of Cool Ranch Doritos. Not once did we question the
wisdom of our decision. Amidst the austere beauties of the ring world, with the
fate of all sentient life at stake, our Presence was absolute. So perhaps my
attitude was arachnid after all. Perhaps I was spinning a web in which to catch
an anchoring obsession.
Or perhaps not. Maybe my decision was simply
aesthetic necessity. The bony soil that Moby Dick stirred below us still had
its heart in Mexico. Time may have sanctified the righteous absurdities of
Manifest Destiny in the minds of men, but not in the dust of the earth.[x]
This was still land created by Tawa, land nourished by the Corn Mother. This
was still land where pueblos stacked like cake boxes on impossible mesas, where
ancestors of the Hopi and Zuni saw bloody sun gleaming on the labial helmets of
Spanish Conquistadors, where black-robed Jesuits spread the white-washed battlements
of Mother Church over the scrubby hills: a pale and whitewashed daisy chain
placed at the feet of La Virgen Maria de los Dolores. Villanueva[xi]
was the ideal watering hole for my passage through this land.
But now I
need to suppress this habit, this enthusiasm for turning the soil of past
decisions in hopes of fossilized clues to their source and significance. I have
spent enough of my life on such flattering and convenient fictions. The
important thing to note now is that I did get up, I did approach Dolores. And
as soon as I did, the entire succeeding episode was inevitable in its minutest
detail. The tyrant cumulonimbus of decision had been pierced and scattered by
the liberating rays of fascination.[xii]
[1] Contingent on her signing a fifty year contract with
Fu Lu Shou®, which had replaced Pandora® as MIT’s
prosopal patron the year before and was sniffing for Young Turks to rebrand the
institution. Lola had a number of other offers. I suspect she accepted this one
because Fu Lu Shou® had acquired Elysian Industries® as part of the same buyout
campaign: Lola already knew where she was headed. If I can be forgiven for
reflecting at greater length, it strikes me that Lola was always marked by an
extraordinary capacity for playing the long game, and an earnest impatience
with the unrealistic expectations and besetting hesitations that plague most
people in their twenties. Like many people who collide with real tragedy early
in life, she had overcompensated, rendering the Real World in all angles and no
curves. In Lola’s world, maturity was insensitivity to all the fond delusions
and wispy idealisms waiting to ambush her resolve, and virtue the capacity to
always make the serious and unsentimental decision. Ingenious as she was, she
was also strangely unimaginative. Poverty had made her political: She had devoted
herself to the art of the possible, laboring tirelessly for refried aspirations
and hand-me-down dreams on which she never really bothered to reflect. But then,
unlike most politicians, Lola never let a hard nose drag her down into cynicism,
and she never lost sight of her responsibility to a suffering humanity. Many
brilliant people become sterile by dint of over-reflection: realizing the
vertiginous arbitrariness of all our fixed points, they sink into apathy, and
float with pyramidally swollen bellies down the long languid Lethe. Lola’s
great beauty is her impatience with such nonsense: the fulcrum of her hopes
will never waver, and I have no doubt that heaven and earth will move for her
in time. This is the kernel of my fascination with her: that for her all
realism, Lola is invincible in hope.
[2] Left over from my grad school days in Georgia,
they were printed in a bright marsh scene from an Egyptian tomb relief[2],
one of those charming tableaux where the family patriarch has brought his
family on a duck hunt. The children scamper about, dangling their fingers,
toes, and braids in the fish-filled water; the wife wraps her arms around her
husband’s waist as he readies his throwing stick before a flight of spooked
waterbirds. It has been pointed out that if such rambunctious family hunting
expeditions actually took place in historical Egypt, they were highly unlikely
to have brought any birds to ground. But that’s rather the charm of the Field
of Reeds I suppose: a Hereafter where things are much the same as they were on
Earth, but stripped clean of tedium, failure, and disappointment life without
logistics.
[3] I hesitate to introduce Lola in this way. In much
of what follows I risk reducing her to an erudite serving of Latin cheesecake,
or at least leaving the door wide open for those inclined in that direction—something
I believe would leave me equally culpable. So allow me to add a brief string of
contextualizing qualifiers: Lola does not conceive of herself as a sexual
object, nor does she yoke her self-worth to any target quota of the male gaze.
She has no sympathy with those who perpetuate their psychic dependence on
salivary male attention by conflating the innocence of the desired body with an
imperative to sexual display. In her own way, Lola is quite old-fashioned: she
is devoted to the most ancient endeavor of Western Civilization: “ad fontes, ad fontes!” the project of
yanking down the gossamer walls hedging in the gynaeceum of convention to reveal a primitive singleness, an
un-constructed desire, a free and fractureless ape, liberated at last from the
ancient conflict between nature and custom. Naïve? Of course. But the vigorous youth and energy and devotion of
her was… intoxicating. Did I sin by choosing to wallow in this biminian spring?
Did I succumb to some fossilized Taoist intuition that clawed its way out of my
deeper sediments to tell me: “Here, here is renewal for you!” Perhaps, but if
that was my sin, let it not be confused with the cruder forms of fleshly
delight. My loathsomeness moves in more rarefied air. Whether this makes it
more forgivable or less is a decision I must leave to you, dear reader.
[4] There were a few lesbian pairings on the deck as
well, but the habit of frank mutual appreciation that most well-calibrated
homosexual couples seem eventually to develop worked against any reactions
worthy of spectation. When Lola removed her top the Devonshire Dreadnoughts—(I had
made the acquaintance as we were shuffling up the boarding ramp—one of those
geriatric clots that forms in the artery of any population mobilized en masse—:a
delightfully English pair of ladies who had crossed the channel in 2013 to
marry in Calais; apparently Agbala® valued Kate’s work in materials engineering
so much as to offer free courses of biminian therapy to Polly and herself, but
they had chosen to turn it down and take Tier Four status[4]
instead, this was a grand tour to celebrate their retirement)—paused, made
their corporate appraisal, exchanged hushed views, cackled loudly, and went
back to their game of shuffleboard. It appeared that Hetero Americanus was to be the exclusive subject of my
recreational ethnography.
[5] Did they though? Was there a once upon a time? I
have been through this process of recitation and reorientation many times in my
life, and I begin to wonder. The presence of nostalgia is the key to the whole
procedure. Some figment of the past must be tarted and rouged, a few fragments
of memory dusted thickly with elementary school glitter (does it still cling to
fat dewy beads of Elmers Glue, encrusted in the corners and carpets of
abandoned classrooms? might it yet puff from the pages of a scrapbook project
my mother never threw away?) and exalted as What Might Be Again. How else,
after all, can you get any purchase? If all you can remember is the tempest
that blots the horizon, what dreams can you have of a clear clean band of sky?
It is the necessity of the thing that worries me. I have always lived in hope
of returning to That Time—but perhaps That Time is no time at all, a cruel
shred of ham just beyond the thin enameled bars of my eternally revolving hamster
wheel.
[6] You must forgive my choice of pseudonyms, but
there truly was something of that in
them, a sort of unaffected earnestness that drew me in as a refugee from the
gales of irony and excruciating self-consciousness that had battered me into
submission in every other social set. Admittedly this produced something not
quite healthy in our relationship: I drew on them in the same unseemly way that
parents thrust their experience-encrusted proboscises into their children’s’
holiday enthusiasm, taking advantage of that short-lived ability to embrace
reality without any interposing film to resuscitate their own holiday Presence
and joy.
[i] “Malicious demons bring
along even more malicious demons to help them. In their dispositions they are
opposed to one another, but they all agree in seeking only the destruction of
the soul.“ The Demon now draws on one
of the indispensable texts of desert solitude: the Praktikos of Evagrius Ponticus (345-399 CE.) Originally written as
an aid to the spiritual practice of the monks of the Egyptian and Syrian
deserts, the Praktikos was followed
by the Gnostikos and the Kephalaia Gnostica. Together, these three works form a kind of
“holy trinity” of monastic spirituality. The Praktikos forms a
prolegomenon to the Gnostikos and the Kephalaia Gnostica in its
concern with the practical realities of achieving a state of apatheia
(freedom from passions), which is the pre-requisite of agape (selfless
Christian love or charity). The Praktikos conceives of the quest for apatheia
as a battle against the “eight tempting logismoi (thoughts),” which
Evagrios explicitly identifies with demons. The Gnostikos and the Kephalaia
Gnostica presume that the states of apatheia and agape have
already been achieved, thereby allowing the monastic initiate to proceed to a
contemplative knowledge of the physical entities of the natural world, the
bodiless powers of the spiritual world, and the dynamic divinity of the Holy
Trinity. At the end of this upward path, the initiate’s nous (higher
mind/soul) aspires to its fulfillment in an intimate and mystical union with
God. Although Evagrius was later condemned for his association with the
doctrines of Origen of Alexandria at the Second Council of Constantinople in
553, he had a powerful influence on the practice and theory of Christian
monasticism. His “eight tempting thoughts” passed into the writings of his
student John Cassian, the essential theorist in the formation of Latin
Christian monasticism, and were later recodified by Pope Gregory I (540-604 CE)
as the famous Seven Deadly Sins. I will use the aging but excellent
translations of Luke Dysinger, O.S.B., POI: 104. The present quote is logos forty-four
in the Praktikos.
[ii] Carmen Miranda (1909-1955) was a Portugese singer
and film actress who achieved prominence after launching a radio career in Rio
de Janeiro (where her family had emigrated shortly after she was born.) She
leveraged her success at home into a career on Broadway and in Hollywood, where
she was quickly dubbed “The Brazilian Bombshell.” She is best remembered for
the extravagant fruit hat she wore in the 1943 musical smash The Gang’s All Here, notably in the
innuendo laden number “The Lady in the Tutti Frutti Hat,” which drew the
attention of censors for its use of scantily clad dancers wielding bananas of
unusual size. The movie was initially banned in Portugal, but US censors gave
it a green light on condition that the dancers hold their bananas at the waist,
not at the hip. Miranda eventually came to resent the patina of Latina
exoticism that her producers considered essential to her continuing success in
the American market (Bialystock & Bloom, “Carmen Miranda,” in Follies and Follies: A Dictionary of the
Golden Age of American Musical Film, 1923-1968; POI:2, p. 523-528.)
[iii] Although the adjective hardly requires explanation,
it is interesting in this context to note its etymological origins in the
islands of Bimini, the westernmost district of the Bahamas, where the Spanish
conquistador Juan
Ponce de León is said to have sought
the Fountain of Youth (“biminian, a,”
The Oxford English Dictionary;
POI:5132)
[iv] Beatriz Castillo De la Cruz was appointed head of
Research and Development at Elysian Industries shortly after the first Discus
Declaration was released. She had flown out of Detroit to attend a conference
in Gothenburg on November 10th, a fact the Demon was careful to establish (see
Appendix.)
[v] An award winning 1975 children’s novel by Natalie
Babbitt. The book tells the story of the Tucks, a family that has discovered a
fountain of youth and can no longer age or die. The book’s protagonist,
10-year-old Winnie Foster, finds that immortality is less desirable than it
first seems, and not without its complications (Babbitt, N., Tuck Everlasting; POI:51.) It should
probably be taken in the context of the nascent environmentalist movement, and
the budding nostalgia for a vaguely defined reintegration with “natural
rhythms” that has since grown so explosively.
[vi] An explicit reference to the work of the Romanian
scholar of religion Mircea Eliade (1907-1986), whose work remains foundational
in the phenomenology of religion and other branches of Religious Studies,
despite a brief episode of disfashion in the late 20th and early
21st centuries. Eliade interpreted the behavior of pre-modern homo religiosus according to a
spatio-temporal analogy whereby the human being, adrift in the fractured chaos
of homogenous space and linear historical time (“the terror of history”)
desires an orienting point of center, a return to archetypal, mythic
spatio-temporality. This is accomplished by the heirophany (Greek: “manifestation of the sacred”) which discloses
an axis mundi (Latin: “center of the
world”), a point which links the chaotic spatio-temporal world of man with the
stable supra-spatio-temporal world of the immortal gods: “In the homogeneous
and infinite expanse, in which no point of reference is possible and hence no
orientation is established, the hierophany reveals an absolute fixed point, a center” (Eliade,
M., The Sacred and the Profane;
POI:56, p. 21). This point of center
is frequently linked with a cosmic mountain or world tree (sometimes embodied
in a temple structure). The axis mundi
figured prominently in the cosmogonic reenactments of Ancient Near Eastern New
Year ceremonies, which realigned Egyptian and Babylonian society with sacred
time. The desire to enter sacred time is also apparent in the practice of
mystics, in their attempts to achieve a coincidentia
oppositorum that transcends the outward dualities of pleasure and pain,
good and evil, essence and manifestation, wholeness and fracture, coherence and
contradiction (Eliade, M., Patterns in
Comparative Religion; OI:12.)
[vii] A wildly popular video game, released for the now
defunct Microsoft Corporation’s X-Box console in 2001, it established many of
the standards that would define the first person shooter in its halcyon
quarter-century. The player assumes the identity of the cybernetic
super-soldier John 117 (known as Master Chief) in the year 2531, as humanity is
locked in a battle with a theocratic coalition of alien races known as the
Covenant, who worship the artifacts left by an ancient and technologically
advanced race (the Forerunners) and seek to activate the Halo rings this
species left in order to realize their eschatological hopes for deification in
the Great Journey. Little do they know that the rings are actually meant to
exterminate all life in the galaxy, a last ditch contingency against the Flood,
an ancient hive-mind parasite that seeks to assimilate all organic life in
order to achieve universal harmony through the extinction of conflict in the
unity of the eternal Gravemind (Bungie Inc., The Halo Saga: Remastered and Reloaded; RI:93, Activision-Blizzard
Inc.)
[viii] The choice of adjective is idiosyncratic and
deliberate. Mount Parnassus is a mountain in central Greece whose south-western
spur hosted the sacred precinct of Delphi, site of a renowned oracle of Apollo.
According to some Classical authors, Delphi had once been a cult site for the
Titan Gaia, who had prophesied there along with her daughter Themis, possibly
through the agency of an enormous female Python. However at some point Apollo,
god of light, knowledge, and reason in the ascendant generation of gods, invaded
from the north, slew Python, and claimed the sanctuary for himself. There he
prophesied through the agency of the Pythia,
a young girl selected from among the local peasants, whose title derives from
the Greek Pytho (Python) itself
derived from pythein (“to rot”)
which referred to the enormous Python who Apollo had cast into a cleft in the
rock after slaying her, where the fumes from her eternally rotting body
continued to rise up and inspire the ecstatic ravings of the Pythia, who sat on a bronze tripod over
the cleft while gazing into a bowl of sacred spring water and holding a branch
of laurel, symbol of Apollo (see the 1891 painting Priestess of Delphi by John Collier.) In the 1980s an
interdisciplinary team of archeologists, geologists, and toxicologists
discovered that Delphi lies at the intersection of the Kerna and Delphic
faults, and there is continuing debate over the possibility that a geologic
chasm enabled the Pythia’s prophesies
by emitting ethylene, benzene, or methane gas (“The Oracle’s Seismic Trance” in
Greatest Hits of 20th Century
Classical Archaeology; POI:67, p, 764-900.) The Pythia prophesied in the presence of another unique feature of
Delphi, a great stone surrounded by the golden eagles of Zeus: “Another very
archaic feature at Delphi also confirms the ancient associations of the place
with the Earth goddess. This was the Omphalos,
an egg-shaped stone which was situated in the innermost sanctuary of the temple
in historic times. Classical legend asserted that it marked the ‘navel’ (Omphalos) or center of the Earth and
explained that this spot was determined by Zeus who had released two eagles to fly from
opposite sides of the earth and that they had met exactly over this place” (Parke,
H. W., The Delphic Oracle; POI:45, v.1, p.6.) However Our Hero may also
have in mind the reputation of Mount Parnassus as the home of the Muses,
daughters by Zeus of the Titan Mnemosyne (“Memory”) who inspired the poet to sing the cosmogony or the glorious
deeds of ancient heroes. It is interesting in this context to note marijuana’s
much-remarked and well-studied propensity to activate dormant long-term memory
and induce nostalgic episodes (Joplin & Harner, “Short-Term Effects of
Marijuana Use on Long-Term Memory.” Tripping
Over Clarity: The Journal of Recreational and Religious Drug Use; POI:5,
145(7) p. 56-87.)
[ix] The reference here is apparently to Frank and Joe
Hardy of the Hardy Boys series. They
were created in 1926 by Edward Stratemeyer as a platform for his book-packaging
firm, the Stratemeyer Syndicate. Frank and Joe are teenaged brothers (though
not twins) who solve an extraordinary range of mysteries, nearly all of which
are hosted (or at least begin) in their small hometown of Bayport (on Barmet
Bay). The boys are more or less interchangeable, and each is a sort of
embryonic James Bond (absent the propensity for numerous and careless sexual
conquests): they are white, healthy, handsome, strong, bold, cool under
pressure, and apparently quite well off, since they can travel the world in
pursuit of international drug smugglers, foreign spies, and criminals disguised
as supernatural entities. The Hardy Boys was
one of many prewar cultural fossils (Archie
comics being another example) that continued to thrive in the wake of the
counterculture and civil rights movements of the 1960s (albeit with a new and
superficial patina of grit and social consciousness). Their persistence has
been variously explained as an outwardly blameless outlet for sexual and racial
backlash, an escape valve for white Protestants in the opening decades of their
demographic decline, and as a refuge for old-fashioned earnestness in a period
of self-consciously escalating cynicism. The Hardy Boys series (along with Archie
comics) experienced its final efflorescence in the first half of the 21st
century, riding the powerful wave of
Neo-Sentimentalism that most cultural historians date to the beginning
of the late 1990s, and whose most visible manifestation in its opening decades
was the skyrocketing popularity of the superhero movie. However when the tide
finally went out several decades later, the Hardy
Boys found themselves washed up for the last time. A short-lived attempt to
renovate them as Spanish speakers of Guatemalan descent (as well as devout
Pentecostals) drained the last of their cultural capital, and the series was
shelved indefinitely shortly thereafter (Martinez, M.E., Gee Pop, I’m Not Sure if That’s Such a Good Idea: An Impressionistic
History of Neo-Sentimentalism, 1995-2055; POI: 24). The existence of the pseudonymous Hardy twins and their
relationship with the young Demon has been authenticated, but they never
escaped the sub-biminian income bracket and are long since deceased. The family
is preserving their anonymity. However the granddaughter of “Frank” (or perhaps
“Joe”) has allowed me to examine his unpublished memoir, which includes several
highly intriguing portraits of the young Demon; I quote one of particular
interest here:
“We looked up to him a great deal, even though he
was in the grade below us, because he was always sure to know everything about
anything, which seemed to be important to him. However, he was sometimes
confusing to us, because it seemed there was a certain way that he badly needed
us to be, but what exactly it was was often changing. I have already belabored
the point, dear reader, that [Frank/Joe] and myself were probably too
“good-natured” and eager to please than was maybe totally good for us, so we
would I think try to be what he wanted us to be, but we also could not “keep
up” all the time with what that was exactly.
Sometimes I think he needed us to be a naïve audience,
so he could be full of tough truths, and be sort of world weary in a superior
way. There were a few times when it turned out that one of us knew more than
him about something, and he got very sort of angry and almost panicky. I
remember this one time when we had an Original Trilogy party at our house for a
few friends who shared our love of Star
Wars. I had been reading some of the “Extended Universe” stories, and was
regaling people with the future history of the characters while we watched, and
[The Demon] sort of went very quiet and had a worried look because he didn’t
know any of this. We went on vacation to Florida the next day, and when we came
back about three weeks later, [Our Hero] had read every single Extended
Universe novel (and there were several dozen of them) and had even memorized
the official chronology. Needless to say, it was impossible to watch the Star Wars movies with him ever again.
However at the same time, he seemed to sort of need
to see us as purer or more good-hearted than himself. I remember he would often
talk about how “decent” we were, and he would get very insecure about himself
or uncertain about a situation, and he would weirdly sort of humble himself to
us and ask our advice about what we would do, because we were “decent” and he
wanted to know what the “decent” thing to do would be. I cannot recall any of
the particular dilemmas that he presented us with, probably because they never
quite made sense to me at the time. His parents were not abusive or anything,
but he never wanted to hang out at his house, and he was often in anxiety about
his home situation and the relationships in his house, things that sounded like
pretty normal family and sibling tension to me seemed to really affect him, and
he would worry over whether his family treated each other “decently”, and he
was always asking us about what the “decent” thing to do would be, because we
ought to know because we were “decent fellows” (he really did talk like this,
you can probably guess why he got shoved around so much in middle school and
high school). Looking back, I think he needed us more than we needed him.”
(Transcript 104; Editor’s Unpublished Files.)
[x] An obvious reference to the Mexican-American War of
1846-1848 (Primera Intervención Estadounidense En México as it is know south of the border)
which ended in a U.S. victory with the First Treaty of Guadalupe Hidalgo,
according to which Mexico ceded the Rio Grande boundary to Texas and territory
that later became the states of California, New Mexico, Arizona, Nevada, Utah,
and parts of Wyoming and Colorado. The dispute that produced the war provided
the occasion of coinage for “Manifest Destiny,” a term expressing belief in the
inevitability and desirability of U.S. territorial expansion to the Pacific coast
with the aim of civilizing the North American continent; its first use came in
an 1845 essay in the Democratic Review by
the journalist John L. O’Sullivan in which he advocated the full annexation of
Texas: “[it
is] our manifest destiny to overspread the continent allotted by Providence for the free development of our yearly
multiplying millions.” The
Southwestern air sloop route had, of course, only recently reopened at the time
Our Hero made his journey, after several years when the automated rock'em-sock'em of the War of
Jayaraman’s Ear rendered the territory too dangerous for civilian air traffic.
For future or foreign readers unaware of the details, The War of Jayaraman’s Ear was dubbed for an extremely embarrassing
episode involving U.S. ambassador Patrick A. Jayaraman. Jayaraman was heavily
involved in a pornographic subculture that revolved around successfully
performing a painful and logistically improbable sexual act of quasi-maritime
character on a young Chinese, Japanese, or Korean female, and capturing the
climax of said act from the perspective of the “victim” (according to the
fictional narrative implicit in the act) / “consenting female party” (according
to the standards of safety and consent most filmmakers insisted were always
met) using an ERD feed. Shortly after arriving in Mexico City, Jayaraman
attempted to compel an eighteen-year-old Japanese escort to perform the
aforementioned logistically improbable sexual act against her will, but instead
she bit off a large portion of his left ear and escaped with the ERD device Jayaraman
had provided for her. She eventually displayed the resulting evidence (both the
ear and the footage) before the Mexican Chamber of Deputies in San Lázaro
Legislative Palace (this incident is still considered a landmark in the
development of more robust sex-worker rights.) Jayaraman had already fled to a Chicago pluripotency clinic to regrow
his ear, and although the U.S. Congress dismissed him from service and issued a
formal apology for his behavior, the Valens Administration refused to extradite
him for trial in Mexico. This came on the heels of a series of egregious
missteps by the American Bureau of Alcohol, Tobacco and Firearms during the
course of a joint effort with the Mexican army to suppress energy smuggling.
Snowballing with the incident of Jayaraman’s ear and a high level of
pre-existing grassroots nationalism and anti-imperial resentment, these
missteps ultimately led the Mexican government to repudiate the First Treaty of
Guadalupe Hidalgo and declare war on the United States. The conflict was
conducted in accordance with the Zurich Standards, and never seriously damaging
trade relations, but the Swayze Affair, in which seven Mexican army engineers
were mistakenly killed in violation of the Zurich Standards, led to
international embarrassment for the United States. The retaliatory Infante
Coup, in which twenty-one American drone handlers were captured in Nevada and
extracted to Mexico, forced the United States into territorial concessions in
order ensure their return, albeit, only in Texan territory that the Drought
Years have already rendered largely symbolic in value. The Second Treaty of
Guadalupe Hidalgo ended the war by pushing the border back to the Pecos and
Nueces Rivers, but it was still very much an open wound at the time Our Hero
was writing (Villa, P., Tricolor Dawn:
The Complex Origins and Uncertain Legacy of the War of Jayaraman’s Ear;
POI: 3.) It is an uncharacteristically inflammatory passage for the Demon, who
generally avoids direct engagement with politics in his manuscripts.
[xi] Our Hero is toying, as he so often does, with the
possibilities of his Antagonist’s name. The name Dolores originates in the
Spanish Catholic title for the mother of Jesus, “Virgin Mary of Sorrows,” and
the surname Villanueva translates to “New Town.”
[xii] This passage had produced enormous debate in the
secondary literature. Fiona Bennett, writing in the critical tradition of
Skepto-Post—Structuralism from a Fourth Wave Feminist viewpoint, seeks to
problematize the usage of “fascination” by linking the antecedent use of “rays”
with a definition of “fascination” provided by the early modern occultist
Heinrich Cornelius Agrippa (1486-1535): “Fascination is a binding, which comes from the
spirit of the witch, through the eyes of him that is so bewitched, and entering
to his heart… Know, then, that men are most bewitched when, with often
beholding, they direct the edge of their sight to the edge of the sight of
those that bewitch them; and when their eyes are reciprocally intent one upon
the other, and when rays are joined to rays and lights to lights, the spirit of
the one is joined to the spirit of the other and fixeth its sparks” (Agrippa,
C. H., Three Books of Occult Philosophy,
trans. L. W. de Laurence; POI:38, p. 154-155.) The later episode of the “toad
sorcerer” supports her assertion (Bennett, F., “Othering Gaze or Fascinating
Rays? The Politics of Ocular Arousal in the Discus Declarations, in Living
Blood from Lifeless Ashes: Essays in Response to Vladimir Wimpleton’s Discus
Demon; OI:5, p. 171-191). The phenomenologist of
religion Roland Pycelle, however, sees a link with Rudolf Otto’s definition of
the Numinous as a mysterium tremendum et
fascinans (Pycelle, R., “Scrabbling After the Sacred: Eliade and Otto in
the Horizonal Collapse of the Discus Declarations, in Ibid; p. 430-482.)
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