Work Text:
POEMS FOR MY HEAD’S COUNTRY – The book’s spine is pried open on poem number 53, most beloved among the rabble of chipped, dog-eared pages that make up this mangy paperback from a failed printing house. The poem says: bring yourself along as you journey to the Western Plain, not as baggage, but as an offer.
YOU – Sit on your ass on the floor of your freshly cleaned apartment and finally weigh the book in your hands. No bells are ringing in your head as you examine it. A deafening dearth of rung bells.
CONCEPTUALIZATION [Medium: Success] – Silent like an abandoned archaeological dig. This row of artist monographs, assorted entroponetics, and bulging barbarians with lasers was unearthed last week at the bottom of your shelf, dug out from under geological strata of empty cans, bottles and festering food wrappings. The archaeology comparison, by the way, is because you know nothing of the prehistoric man who first bought and read these books. He lived another life, in another era. All you can do is reach out through time and deduce their story from contextual clues.
EMPATHY – Once upon a time, a man lived here who needed comfort. And for a time – look at the dog ears, look at the pencilled marginalia – these books gave it to him, in the shadow of the catastrophe that would soon bury them both for an age.
POEMS FOR MY HEAD’S COUNTRY – And now, under the light again, poem 53 continues: leave your self on the threshold as the wind calls you forward. It is not for you. It never was. The next traveler will know what to make of this weary load, as you will find his down the path. These words reach you now like they reached that unknown man. He marked them for you, bent the book’s spine for you.
ESPRIT DE CORPS [Challenging: Success] – Shit. Fuck. Alright, *alright*. God. What if we felt a kinship. Hypothetically speaking.
YOU – Stay with this feeling.
PERCEPTION (Sight) [Challenging: Success] – Your eyes blissfully formulate no opinion on the fact that you once decided to underline the words “and be unborn” and write “that’s hot” next to them, with a little arrow connecting the two concepts. But they have to point out that this debacle was committed to posterity in blue ink.
INTERFACING – And you never, ever liked blue pens before.
PERCEPTION – See, Button Pusher here has been paying attention.
INTERFACING – Pens, man. You wouldn’t understand.
PERCEPTION – Try us. Anyway, get a look at this, too: the way you crossed your “t”s. Compare it with your notes from the Hanged Man case and you will find a match. But look further back and you’ll find the calligraphy of a man who struck the paper like he was trying to flee from this prison of matter. A man who could pen grocery lists desperate and furious.
YOU – “Maybe it’s very old?”
LOGIC – Now you are not even making an effort. In any way but in the broadest of existential metaphors you are not currently wavering on the threshold of the Western Plain. No porches collapsing anywhere nearby. Get a grip on yourself.
HALF LIGHT [Medium: Success] – Or don’t. You could also count down the days until these pesky concepts like “old” or that other one, what’s it called, “not in fact old at all”, stop having an effect altogether and spare yourself the effort. Getting unborn! That’s the real hot stuff. 9842… 9841…
LOGIC – Face the facts. It’s very new, Harry. The good Lieutenant helped you clean this rat trap last week. You have the curiosity of a toddler and self restraint to match. Whatever made you think that you had not touched these books until now? You already took this book into your hands, it already opened on this page you have no memory of, you already made this connection, marked it in ink. And then you lost it again. Burn a hole big enough to flush out your whole brain, stuff keeps leaking out. That’s how it works. We’re working with crumbs here. It’s scraps day every day. Or did you think you could put a band-aid on it, give it a little get-well-soon kiss and start again scot-free?
YOU – Sit on your ass on the floor of your freshly cleaned apartment and feel the lump rising in your throat. You are allowed to grit your teeth.
POEMS FOR MY HEAD’S COUNTRY – The book does not mind. The book does not judge. Its pages will always open to words that reach out to you and hold you through the worst of days. So what if it’s the fourth time or the fiftieth? Accept this present from the man you were. A kindness to yourself, a comfort for here and now: bring yourself along as you journey to the Western Plain, not as baggage, but as an offer...