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Unamable ... or Anarchy, Sex, Drugs, and Le Guin (+18)

GERGE

Son yazan: GERGE
yeri: Karalama Defteri

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GERGE Grand Master

GERGE

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10 ay kadar önce başlamıştım öyküye, bitti sonunda. Beyenirsiniz umarım. Eleştiriler şevinçle karşılanır.

Unamable ... or Anarchy, Sex, Drugs, and Le Guin

It all started after we lost the Holy Bowl.

Drowned out night rain and she unnaturally glued to the technicolor of the hazy television set. She had a beer in her hand and although the bar was overly crowded I could hear the drumming of her thumbs as she tapped them against the glass. Excited, and nervous, her lips pursed up with a fruitful wanting, eager to cheer even though it was becoming clear that we were going to lose.

During the half time show I took to walking the streets. Anxious fingers gripping to the shaft of a cigarette butt. I leaned against a brick wall and watched it burn (slowly like dripping honey). Hair tips soggy from the rain. Hands buried in the pockets of my trench coat, I didn’t want to go back in but I could sense that she was wondering.

Torn up track marks - we lost and she burst into tears. The eyelash lining of her waterproof mascara flawless despite the bulbous tears that fell. I held her hand on the way home and cat-like she curled into the lining of my trench coat. We walked in the rain for what seemed like hours. Submarine kitty cornered across the back alleys - we were invisible flashes to the passersby; bullets in the corners of their eyes.

At midnight I had another cigarette and watched her as she mirrored the game. Throwing invisible spheres from her cupped hands and turning the motions into a dance. She had been mesmerized earlier by the blue eyes. I didn’t have the heart to tell her yet that the cash I had bet and lost would have been next months rent money. The city streets were slick and velvety - graphite and graffiti precociously stretching up to skyscrapers and rose bud moons. The later it got the greater was our fear to go home.

When I held her hand she felt empty, completely contained inside the ten fingers of our combined hands (shell like star husks).I looked at her eyes and thinked that if an angel could see them he would see the god and pray.

We started following the music - so loud that it blurred the air (chrome neon). So thick that we could taste it. The beat of it was hard, like bones forming in our bodies and she lead me to it. She always had a strange sense about these things. A pull and a trigger. The louder the noise the more persistent her whisper: come on - I couldn’t let go of her.

When we got to the doorstep she kissed me - watermelon spice - the party breathed like an animal; alive and hungry and she blended in like she had been a part of it all along. She danced barefoot on the hardwood with boys half her age. She loved it, I could tell - seventeen again and weightless - she was floating and I wanted that for her. I don’t dance, and I can’t blend into a crowd like this easily, everyone was busy with her anyway; I sat in the shadows and remained unnoticed.

At this moment they visited me – them, my visions.

My visions told me that how the sergeants could give the privates orders, how the lieutenants could give the privates and the sergeants orders, how the captains... and so on and so on up to the generals, who could give everyone else orders and need take them from none, except the commander in chief! This filled me with incredulous disgust. “You call that organization?” I had to ask. “You even call it discipline? But it is neither. It is a coercive mechanism of extraordinary inefficiency — a kind of a steam engine! With such a rigid and fragile structure what could be done that was worth doing?” This had given my visions a chance to argue the worth of warfare as the breeder of courage and manliness and weeder-out of the unfit, but the very line of their argument had forced them to concede the effectiveness of guerrillas, organized from below, self-disciplined. “But that only works when the people think they're fighting for something of their own — you know, their homes, or some notion or other,” the old god said. I dropped the argument. They now continued it. I explained to my visions that I now understood why the Army was organized as it was. It was indeed quite necessary. No rational form of organization would serve the purpose. They simply had not understood that the purpose was to enable men with machine guns to kill unarmed men and women easily and in great quantities when told to do so. Only I still could not see where courage, or manliness, or fitness entered in.

I thought to them: '' We each of us deserve everything, every luxury that was piled in the tombs of the dead kings, and we each of us deserve nothing, not a mouthful of bread in hunger. Have we not eaten while another starved? Will you punish us for that? Will you reward us for the virtue of starving while others ate? No human earns punishment, no human earns reward.''

''If we must all agree, all work together, we're no better than a machine. If an individual can't work in solidarity with his fellows, it's his duty to work alone. His duty and his right. We have been denying people that right. We've been saying, more and more often, you must work with the others, you must accept the rule of the majority. But any rule is tyranny. The duty of the individual is to accept no rule, to be the initiator of his own acts, to be responsible. Only if he does so will the society live, and change, and adapt, and survive.

''The Revolution is in the individual spirit, or it is nowhere. It is for all, or it is nothing. If it is seen as having any end, it will never truly begin. We can't stop here. We must go on. We must take the risks.''

''You cannot make the Revolution. You can only be the Revolution.''

The standart vision's world is cast in terms of a good side, and a bad side, beauty against ruthless ugliness, tyranny against kingship, moderated freedom with consent against compulsion that has long lost any object save mere power, and so on; but both sides in some degree, conservative or destructive, want a measure of control. But if you have taken 'a vow of dispossession', renounced control, and take your delight in things for themselves without reference to yourself, watching, observing, and to some extent knowing, then the questions of the rights and wrongs of power and control might become utterly meaningless to you, and the means of power quite valueless.

They fled.

Later when she was out of breath and exhausted she found me again. She smelled like smoke and men and when she kissed my cheek I got a waft of drugs. I could feel it when she touched me, pulsating across her hand - acid swimming underneath her skin - her taste was more bitter now. Stark and cold; she always whispered at night. Too quiet for me to hear but her words took shape behind my eyes - upstairs -.

I was vibrating to some inner echo and I followed her. Her shoes were on again but they made no noise - the folds of my trench coat slurred - a hissing language to all but us. Instincts prickled across flesh like a lining of thorns - I could feel hers long before I tasted my own. She clung to me underneath archways. I locked the door and she was nude underneath me. The taste of it thick on us. Filled up, and overflowed, I could see my edges blurring into hers. Baby soft hips in my hands. I was hungry for it. When I eased her onto her belly she gripped the pillowcase. White knuckles. Covered her hand over her mouth to keep quiet but she could never hold it all in.

Afterward I fell asleep, cold and black dreams that kept me quiet and easy beneath the sheets. When I woke up she was sitting on the corner of the bed, cross-legged and wearing my trench coat. She had one of my cigarettes in her hand and she puffed at it slowly. Marilyn Monroe fingertips. Her skin had always been clear, not a single freckle or blemish on it though I had searched in vain to find them.

The sun was coming up through the window in front of her. Light blue streaks that changed into purple and red, crashing into and against a black sky. The stars just starting to flicker out; invisible behind the curtain of color. She turned from it for only a moment to hand me the rest of the drag. I took it between my fingers and inhaled its leathery smell, strong and smooth down my throat like hot water.

- We should go - I dressed but she kept the trench coat on leaving her clothes in slapdash piles across the room. - I don’t wont them - she said - they’re bad luck. - We went through the window. Her naked pink toenails tip toeing across the tacks on the shingled roof. The tint of the world this early was paintbrush thin and transparent and I gulped at it like a drug. We walked until it was amber bright. Confetti and streamers wet and sticky in the crosswalks from last nights expected victory. The soles of her feet turned black but she skipped across the concrete like she didn’t care.

- Home? - I asked.

- Why bother? We’re just ganna get evicted next month anyway! -
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