My God, a (sic) read a lot of dumb shit on this website, but this crap really is cringe-inducing. Isn't there some website dedicated to bad writing, where this pretentious claptrap could be posted, rather than on a site dedicated to pretentious dumbshit political "analysis"?
-- DCObserver
from a comment on Justice Putnam's TPM Blog
The Darkening World
by
Justice Putnam
A church organ sounds somewhere in the distance. A small light glows in a small corner of my brain, illuminating a man who is bloody and filthy. His shirt and pants are torn. He is barefoot and his eyes are closed as he sits on a chair. His head is tilted back as he speaks to me,
"I was in a fever the first time I imagined this; how it would be executed, how it would unfold. I knew it would be like everything else; a series of symbols and signs, a set of clues. It is for that reason I am willing to digress to the dream," he pauses momentarily and rises from his chair, his eyes still closed, "I think it was a dream!
"Now picture this; a long row of cows, slender and emaciated; ribs showing through tattered hides. The cows are walking on a Mexican road, a road that is muddy and narrow. The sky is thick with gray, sinewy clouds; the torn remnants of a retreating storm; a blazed red, sunset western sky.
"The cows glow orange and blue; steam and flies rise off their hot backs. They move beside a spare, wounded corn field. There is a man walking with them, perhaps my father. He is dressed in white linen, the cuffs of his pants are wet and stained. He is carrying a large, black leather-bound book. The dark, thick lips of the cows shape and form words. The cows are talking, speaking a language we cannot comprehend.
"Then something begins to rush through the cornstalks; something low, tight and swift! Its paws slap the red mud, taut muscles pull it forward. The cornstalks break against its pointed face; webs of saliva twist and leap from a hungry mouth full of shinning, hungry teeth. Its jaw is pushed forward; its throat is embroidered with a lace-work of veins. The cattle sense the danger and twist their giant heads back and forth. Their nervous hooves strike the ground," the man opens his eyes suddenly, "I wake up!"
The man looks about himself, I look about as well. I see that we are in a living room. The front door is open slightly, moving in a gusting wind.
"What is this place?" the man questions me, "I do not know how I got here. This place is entirely unfamiliar; nothing rings a bell or strikes a chord." The man turns about again to orientate himself, he stops and stares at the floor of a distant hallway. I follow his gaze and notice an elderly woman collapsed on the floor.
"Who is that woman there?" the man points, "is she dead? I do not wish... " the man begins to turn away, but curiosity compels him toward the motionless woman. I follow as he kneels to examine her body more closely, "She does not breathe," the man observes. He touches her cheek gently with the back of his fingers, "her skin is hard and cold."
The man raises his head and looks about the expansive Hacienda-style living room, "And who is this?" the man says as he crosses the terra cotta tiles to an area near the huge fireplace, "this man in the chair? Perhaps he is dead too." I cross the room and see a dead, elderly man sitting in a wing-backed leather chair. There are claw marks on his face and a nasty cut on his neck.
"He has developed a second red mouth," the man states as he touches his own throat, "bloody lips gaping, his esophagus smiles. I do not know these people!" the man screams as he thrusts his arms at me. He then notices his own hands, "What stain is this upon my hands? Dark as the color of blood; enunciating the lines on my palms, my lifeline runs red!" He rubs his hands together, "It is dry and crumbles, flakes away like crisp, autumn leaves."
The man then stretches his arms out and closes his eyes,
"I see a blue world! A world where silhouettes travel on roads and drink raindrops salvaged on blades of grass," he opens his eyes and gestures at the floor with a theatrical sweep of his hand. He then notices his bare feet, "Look at my feet! How uncivilized, no shoes! My feet are covered in mud, my tracks are everywhere. Look," the man points at the area between the dead couple, "they circle in this place coming from that door left ajar!"
He addresses the dead man as he moves to close the door, "Open on a night like this! You are not the wisest fellow, are you?" the man then moves swiftly to the dead man and points back at the door, "The wind has come in behind me! The wind that tortures treetops and twists itself around limbs!
"Who are these people?" the man screams at me. He then takes a deep breath and slowly exhales. He is steady and calm as he continues the investigation. "Who are these people? There must be some evidence here, some method by which to discern the clues. Indeed, if I am wise, everything can be understood as clues."
He goes to the dead man and observes,
"He is an elderly man, Caucasian. Judging from his clothing, well-too-do. His hands, though gray and swollen with a labyrinth of blue veins, portray a Gentleman's life. They are clean and unscarred," He lifts the dead man's hands and scrutinizes the fingers before disdainfully dropping each hand over each armrest, "manicured!"
The man steps back and taps his lips with a forefinger before continuing,
"The way that he is positioned indicates there was no struggle. He is in a relaxed state; he was taken by surprise. The large book on the floor suggests he might have been reading."
Suddenly a gust of wind opens the door. The man crosses the room again and closes the heavy wood and wrought iron portal,
"What is beyond this? Pushing through the corn? Something is trying to get in here!" He stands for a moment and continues his investigation, "The woman is somewhat younger than he," the man states as he moves toward the dead woman, "she too is dressed well; conservative. Darker skin, dark hair. Perhaps she is of Spanish descent. The way that she is lying on her side, arms bent at the elbows and hands stretched in front, indicates she was carrying something. She seems to have not blocked her fall, but simply collapsed without resistance. I notice now," he points, "the tray catapulted in front of her. There was it seems, three cups of dark liquid upon it. All spilled, all broken. Alright!" he say firmly, addressing me, "now we are getting somewhere!"
The man then moves to the middle of the huge living room, turns to me and states,
"I studied philosophy not to arrive at some description of reality, not to find some artificial framework to impose on things. But to sharpen my sense; to be able to read the signs. To find what in fact, is the case. I was required to do this, in no small way, because of my own experience; but also because of my father. He was a professional man. My mother was steeped in superstition. But with his disciplined, surgical hand, he cut away at the myth; the disease of illusion. So I was not going to pursue the vague existence of my brother. I loved my brother, of course; but no reasoned mind would submit to such a life!"
The man closes his eyes once again and holds his arms outstretched,
"Photographs," he states, "photographs. Frozen, incoherent snippets of time."
He pauses and opens his eyes. He takes a deep breath. He exhales slowly as his arms drop to his sides. He then calmly resumes,
"What can we learn about the killer? First, he was swift, unbelievably swift! Perhaps he was known to these people. Perhaps one moment, he was sitting in their company. In any case, they had no time to react. It could be, yes, it could be that first, he killed the man from behind and then the woman came in bringing refreshments. She was shocked by the sight of her husband; what with the gaping slice across his throat and the claw-like marks ripped across his face, she simply fainted. The killer did his work on her while she lay unconscious.
"Claw-like, I said?" he bends over the woman and then examines the man, "indeed, the wounds are in groups of five. As if a hand fitted with a set of terribly sharp blades was dragged fiercely over the victims. As I examine more closely, I note puncture wounds; a series of small, teeth-like holes; red with blackened bruises around them. Exactly like animal bites."
The man looks up at me and states,
"This of course is impossible!"
He stands, goes to the fireplace and picks up a pewter-framed photograph from the mantle,
"My brother had photos. Images of wolf children." He pauses briefly, remembering, "When I was young, I was shown the book by Doctor Bourges, Lupine Influence On Man: a documentation of inter-specie culture. My father called it nonsense. My mother said, 'Cuidado con el perro!' But my brother pursued it. He pursued the irrational, the Carnivalesque. I studied philosophy to eliminate such things. But I knew why my brother followed the dogs. I knew why he photographed the children with the long, wolf faces and stretched spines."
The wind blows the heavy door open once again,
"Who is it?" the man questions the wind, "who else wants in here?"
The man closes the door, turns to me and continues with his dissertation,
"You would think with all my calculated reasoning, I would be spared the nightmares. Oh, I could sleep, I could sleep; but all those roads at dusk, all those tangled roads passing irrationally through the fields. Senseless patterns occasionally converging at some small village. I would always come at night, under the influence of some big moon. I would always be heading towards town looking for meat cast out a door; even rotten meat covered with flies. Then the eating and the straining pain in my spine; the tearing of flesh. I would awaken screaming. My father would appear. He would have me describe the dream. He would make a few notes and assure me it was nothing, only the subconscious. He insisted that reason would conquer the dream.
"There are photographs!" the man interjects, "real photographs! and stories! But that is for those who look backwards at man!"
He looks about the room and points at the staircase,
"I must proceed, I must find more clues. Let us climb these stairs to that room, perhaps a child's room." We climb the stairs and the man pushes open the door,
"Perhaps a child now grown. As we can see, all the artifacts of the child's various ages are placed in an impeccable, almost chronological order. Reading from left to right, we see first a menagerie of wild animals, stuffed and crowded on the bed together; then books and toys on shelves."
He pulls a child's book off a shelf and opens it randomly,
"Mmm, a fairy tale, Once upon a time," he reads aloud, there was a moo cow. In the night it met with many animals. The goats and chickens came to hear. Rabbits and horses stood so near. Then on the night of the mighty moon, the howling beast growled and groaned. It came in packs and ran alone. From the forest deep, it tore the eve from quiet sleep. The women in the village weep, husbands dig the graves so deep."
He replaces the book and chooses another,
"Ahh, a book by Heidegger entitled, An Introduction To Metaphysics," opening the book he reads aloud again, "we have said the world is darkening. The essential episodes of this darkening are; the flight of the gods, the destruction of the Earth, the standardization of man, the pre-eminence of the mediocre."
He shuts the book with a loud echo in the large room. He looks at me and says,
"None of this is familiar. As clues related to the crime, I am struck by a sense of irrelevancy. I discern these people had a son, one son. That is all I can say. He is certainly grown now, gone," we exit the bedroom, "his room is kept in order as a sort of museum.
He closes the door and we continue down the hall to the next door,
"Here in the bathroom I am confronted with an unpredictable array of evidence; not related to the killer or victims, rather a peculiar recognition about my own adaptation."
The man begins to disrobe,
"We too indeed, are animals. Compelled by our environment to behave in certain fashions. Even our reason arises from nature. Our very capacity to transcend the beast is borne from the beast."
He turns on the water to the shower and continues,
"For instance, I have reasoned it is appropriate to bathe. I am after all, filthy; and if the couple were still alive, I am sure, I am almost certain they would wish that I cleanse myself before proceeding with the rest of my investigation."
The man steps into the shower and continues talking to me,
"The bright, white tiles, the glimmering chrome, the glowing and intense light; this is the essence of civilization, of thinking! There is nothing out of order here; no rotting leaves, no dark limbs leaning from the sky. Insects are not present. There is no fur, no feathers, no canine howl. A person can think here!"
The humidity from the shower causes the mirror to fog and large drops to fall from the ceiling. The man begins to sing in a slow, operatic baritone,
"The rhythm of the water, the falling, the shower, the rain. Mud and sticks swirl away over the bleached porcelain. The rain, the tropical rain. The rain, the tropical rain."
The man tuns off the water and steps dripping from the shower, humming his song,
"The rain!" he suddenly says, "the rain! It rains inside and out." He points out the fogged window and exclaims, "Look at that sky!"
The man leaves the bathroom and walks naked and wet to a door at the end of the hallway. He stands at the door contemplating before he finally pushes his way in,
"It is their room," he observes, "the dead people's. It is where the dead sleep."
He then moves about the room swiftly, his arms swinging wildly,
"I searched frantically for clues! I searched the drawers, the closet, under their bed! I studied their shoes, the arrangement of their photographs and paintings; the way their bed was made! I found three things, three things with meaning... "
The man stops speaking suddenly. He tilts his head as if listening. After a moment he turns towards me and answers a question I did not ask,
"I know meaning is a function of the mind, I know this! But meaning in these things the way power waits in machines!
"First, I found the books," he picks up several volumes, " clear proof the man was a physician; general catalogues on pharmaceuticals, an old, bound copy of Grey's Anatomy, a thick journal entitled, Bio Hallucination: the chemical origin of religion, and finally, a thick, worn black volume stuffed with various news clippings entitled, Scientific Treatments For Sapiens Syndrome, by a, Doctor Avernus Lucido, M.D..
"Secondly," the man holds out a photograph for me to see, "look at this photo. Surely it is the man and woman at an earlier age. She is truly beautiful with her dark eyes and black mane of hair. He is somewhat rigid in his white suit and proper hat. Judging from the background, they are in some other country; a much poorer place. Look at that street and those huts. Note the dog that licks her palm.
"Finally, I found this leather case in the top drawer of the bureau. The case was open. It holds several surgical instruments. The five longest scalpels are missing. Beside the case, I found these leather straps and chrome clamps."
The man sits forlornly on the bed, his head in his hands,
"My mother was a Catholic and it was forbidden by my father. She is from a place where animals and people mixed. He refused to let her superstitions be hidden by the Mass and the Confessional. My father saw everything as an experiment, as science. He was right of course; the whole world is superstition. The world is stupid unless you cut into it, see what makes it breathe and speak.
"My father came home early once," the man stands, goes to the mirror and regards his reflection, "he caught my mother praying. He took her upstairs and closed the door."
I saw that the man was looking at me in the mirror,
"My brother was in his room, he heard her crying. He sneaked down the hall and peeked through the keyhole. He saw my mother naked, her hands tied together and pulled tightly upwards. My father struck her ass with a leather strap. 'Who is your god?' he would say, 'Where is your god?' She muttered something in Spanish, I think she said, 'The dog curses you! The dog is in my blood!' He whipped her harder; that caused my brother to moan. My father heard and discovered him. My brother's punishment was terrible. We had a dog, you know. A black dog. 'Your mother is insane!' my father cried as he slit the creature's throat. Blood ran down his hands. The creature trembled on its side and convulsed. When it stopped moving, something came out of it, like a puff of smoke," the man inhales deeply, "my brother inhaled it!"
The man slowly extends his arms towards his reflection and shrugs his shoulders,
"I do not know these people. It is really not up to me to decipher this event. I cannot tell who does and who does not deserve punishment.
"If you note," he says quickly, "every intelligent cosmology asserts the fundamental subjectivity of perception."
He regards himself closer in the mirror and continues with intense calmness,
"That is why the methods of reason and science are so necessary. Surely we understand that it too, is an arbitrary system; but as a collective, intellectual agreement, it is a powerful tool!
"I think it is best that we leave this place." He moves to the closet, "I am sure I can find some clothes that will fit. Perhaps some shoes; heaven fucking knows where my shoes are!"
The man throws his head back and extends his arms upwards,
"There are dark blue worlds, tattered fields where luminous beasts wander aimlessly on narrow roads. Worlds where thorns strap the backs of clouds and stiff winds torture tree tops. There is a howl in that world! A cry from out of mud and stone; from the hot breath of carnivores! It is a photo of power!" he runs to the mirror and frames his face with an intense hand gesture, "a snapshot of blood and fire!"
The man returns to the closet, chooses some clothes and a pair of shoes. I follow him downstairs to the large Hacienda-style living room. He resumes speaking to me as he gets dressed,
"I studied philosophy not to arrive at some description of reality, not to compensate for the flight of the gods or the destruction of the Earth. I studied philosophy to sharpen my sense in this darkening world, to be able to read the signs. To find what in fact, is the case. I want to expose this, develop it; bring it into sharper focus."
He opens his arms magnanimously toward me,
"Who are these dead people? With their smiling wounds and stiffening bodies; with their five cuts in perfect order," he laughs, "using their science to study werewolves!"
He then reaches behind the chair of the dead man and picks up a camera,
"I think I will capture this!" he flashes the camera on the body of the dead man, "yes, and this," he says as he turns and photographs the dead woman, "this is worth keeping!"
The wind slams the door open and the man runs to stand in the threshold,
"Look! Day is coming!" he points at the horizon, "see how the moon collapses behind the distant hills!"
I feel myself floating again. I see a small light in a small corner of my brain. I hear the distant refrain of a church organ as I howl in the fading darkness.
© 2008 by Justice Putnam
and Mechanisches-Strophe Verlagswesen
