j.a. van wagner :: wordobject :: imagetime

Category: Story

  • Thubes and the Japanese Satirical Transportation Network, plus Notes

    Thubes and the Japanese Satirical Transportation Network; plus notes

    Going to meet X. Down into Thubes underground. Ramps this way and that. Growing uncertainty as to whether have reached the right platform.

    Signage to unfamiliar destinations; so much new construction since last was here!

    The matter of tokens: these, too, changed; what’s acceptable >> much more fluid. Barter; even livestock: kittens. These set mewling into cardboard boxes. Sets of teeth stacked on shelving at back of agent’s booth; sandwiches, snacks: dried fruit and cheese cubes. Trade. Still, have not the required.

    Search pockets. Samaritan among sparse stream of travelers offers twenty-three dollar note: crude pencil sketch amalgam of unknown political, corporate figure?, and “23”. Enough, fine, accepted by agent. Pass turnstile as travelers behind unload for offer sacks of potatoes, imported feathers, eggs, jewelry.

    • Further: ramps down, across; bridges, walkways. Through corridors. Train arrives, trains, always on opposite track, too short for platform; run, run, up stairs, down, over walkways, leap multiple steps. Once on platform, sprint to opposite end.

    Old bones, bruised ankles, accumulated strain on joints. Forget such pain; illusory!

    More signage, crossed ramps, unfamiliar destinations. On train at last, stand at pole, watch stops skim past.

    Never stop at stops: stations, only vaguely familiar, bypassed. Train on, on, through dark of tunnel, emerges in bright leafy suburb, far past.

    X forgotten. Can’t think who was, is, X. Must be still to know. Travel, might be, erases reason :: movement displaces destination.

    Though, shrink at thought of arduous return: what corridors, ramps, what stops bypassed; for X, toward X; or if not X someone as good as X; or if not someone then somewhere X; no, original place of descent, chance of reemergence just there, lies under erasure:

    • System, entire Thubes construct, engineered by Japanese corporation as entertainment genre mocking American urban transportation. Ritual occasion for polite laughter. Attempts accuracy in every aspect; or yet, possible, may be earnest simulation out of respect, curiosity; but system only gains real character as failure of replication in important details.

    • Maze-like aspect, for one, exaggerated; swinging bridges and rope catwalks, artfully obscured sight lines, unreadable signs in flickers of alien script, contorted, glossy, tile-lined corridors;

    NOTES:


    Invocation of details to make one world distinct from another; of worlds, its Words. Words, constituting description of system, accounting for, being vital to, physical architecture. Details of decay, worthy of Lebbeus Woods, architect of dissolution. Never the pristine beam but the corroded. Never the vertical but the oblique. Ever the sagging Word, and its physical correlates: telltale of dream-objects composed from descriptions, as opposed to, v.v., descriptions from prior objects. Few, now, of the latter. Poverty of, might say, texture, of description-descripted objects. Akin to scotoma-space: a void in scintillation.

    Thubes, the ghostly center, as though city replaced city. Thubes a word held in reserve, yet viral, omnipresent. When think “city”, “Thubes” displaces. Yet Thubes-word never uttered, nor ever is uttered inner-thought of Thubes. Inner lips mime “Thubes” yet these recursive lips, too, stilled. Transportation system encapsulated in “Thubes” an internecine struggle between Word and Thubes, replacing Word and word. As well, all candidate Words displaced by “Thubes”. In sum, all else stilled than Thubes.

    To speak, try; stop; try; at last stop. Catwalk, up ramp, down, corridor, too late for trains, for X, give any token to appease:

    John Van Wagner

    2024.11.14

  • The Language of Doors

    The Language of Doors

    Because the unseen have advanced so far into the neighborhood, trying doorhandles and interfering with the mail, the small, daily absences of difference he observes, where nothing has changed from the hours and days before, where what is solid was solid before and what is hollow was hollow before, and the usual drones in tones so low as to be unnoticeable, all bristle now with fraught stillness. Alterations to the air. Subtle breezes on neck napes. The neighbors confused by remarkable penumbrations where some shadows have been shifted, in the night, to allow for others.


    The door, by some fluke, some terrible accident, is open. The door, is open, a tall man there. A great apprehension clamps the small veins of his neck; sudden audible pumping hoists the rack of his ribs. In a neighboring street hidden bellows drive a church bell  clanging. He sees, on the verge of a faint, perishing halos of pinched light, fallen purple pinpricks: crystalline, like snow. 
    At the sight of the man by the squeezed-flat vision of the entryway his eyes shrink to pins and himself comes untethered from him, floating above; not at a great distance, a trivial distance, as though he’s been colored just over his own red margins.


    The order of this is that the man is at the door then arrives at the door, shuts with some deference the open door, steps on one heel back, preparing himself to arrive at the door. 
    Jiggling the dented brass knob that rests loose on its spindle, the man peers through the pane of the once-open door, lips pressed, eyes through the pane meet furtive eyes standing three feet off the tile: a man, the man of the door, nods now toward the knob in query.


    He insists on other worlds: In these some say fine weather. All said, some say, tender greens do somewhere unfurl. Sun’s smile, imagine too a sun. A blue bloom, a blousy sky, and on the litter fledged chicks peck. Sleek cats fattened merely on afternoons. All said. 
    And but, there’s always—he grips his tether— that ringed round every thing, between the thing and every other thing and within the thing the things that fall between it, that short tall long dark gasp preceding every breath.


    He finds no comfort in a closed-door-once-open. Hello the tall man through the doorpane says politely tapping. The tall man does not know? Cannot see? The unseen, held at edges of the doorframe, drift in dozens, wheel lighter than puffed parachutes of seeded dandelions. Lightly bob at the thin pane!
    It is your father I want to see says the man. I want to see your father. The man inhales long, the kind of breath the unseen stalk.


    Inside, much mail sprawls across countertops, tables, rests on the toaster oven. Letters, brochures, newspaper pages are spread open to tile the floor, open to air and light that wafts across, scrubbing them with time in doses of seconds and minutes and hours: back, forth, in slow, cleansing currents. 
    In the flat cartoon from which now his body dangles over the collapse of the universe he observes the tall man at the door and feels the thump of the father moving through the dark house soon to arrive.  


    The father comes; the door, the door is open!
    Air passes outside to inside. The tall man says some words and the father says some. The man smiles at him then and places his hand low, so he can shake it.  What do you say says the father. 
    But to say, his mouth must open. Nothing stills the high whine and flurry of pinwheels.


    Advancing around the edges of shadows, past all outlines and borders, the unseen settle on roofs of houses and hoods of cars and on windows and the broad-brimmed hats of gardeners. They whirl off, torn away by wind gusts, and come to rest on the handlebars of bicycles and bare wrists of teenage girls. He rubs some more spit in his eye, like they told him, so he can see them coming.

    j.a. van wagner's avatar

    j.a. van wagner

    2020.04.18

  • Collateral

    collateral

    A dobel-doppel or treble-tripfel cobra, or copper-wrapped package, is how it was described to us — or how we heard it — which is, the cartridge for a gun placed in a mortise doorlock, fitting precisely in its place, for which it is intended. A cartridge containing bullets of the nuclear kind. And what is the place we are headed for? A sort of resort? Or farm, in the country? Which country?

    We had been there often, with father, long ago. We were required now to get back, with the new nuclear assembly, that had been placed on order after such an undisturbed silence. This, coming at an inconvenient time for us, certainly, after we had just got back home. But now, had to go out again. Out, driving or walking or taking a bus, some form of public transportation: a bicycle, a scooter; back into that landscape, so familiar from our childhood. While they all, there, knew our father, they might have remembered us only from the time we were a small boy at our father’s side, secure in the grip he had on us, accompanying him on trips all over. All over that countryside, for the purpose of deliveries.

    What had it been, his mission? The eggs? No, we think it was the other business, one he conducted alongside the business of eggs, that involved packages wrapped up ahead of time so that we couldn’t see what was in them. Stowed in secret in the rear compartment of the vehicle. Packages that perhaps he did not want any others to see, either, the ones we met along the way. But surely, the traders and buyers must have known? Would have been able to see what was concealed, in the packages? Packages unwrapped right in front of them, to assure them of what they were getting. The items passed from hand to hand were so valuable, so vital, there could be no secrets of any kind. These men — presumably men — had other businesses elsewhere, in foreign lands, about which something was dark. But then again, we were involved in the same business as they. A business complementary to their business, dangerous in its way, of handling and tending to the devices.

    an odd point

    That is an odd point. We don’t recall, we did not ask — was there money involved? But threats, assuredly, if we did not supply the goods on time, if the devices did not work as designed.

    How the things were put together was a wrapping, with layers, of metallic foil over brick, coppery or golden — or it was, was it, that we traded bullets for dinners, or the bricks fit into a slot designed for cartridges, so that the whole device resembled a gun? Or then again, a loaf of bread? Or a door lock. That’s it. The devices had a way of resembling these things; we never thought to ask. How it was that this could be, was far from our mind. We think of it only now. But perhaps the appearance of these items shifted, one time to the next — or, we never looked at the devices the same way twice and they were revised, right in front of our eyes? Or later, as we tried so hard to remember, perhaps it was that our memory never ceased from shifting? Which was it? The devices themselves did give rise to doubt — that could be it — but only when we brought them to mind. Our memory is otherwise unaffected – little affected – as we find we can remember most things, though not always at the first attempt.

    It is worth noting that as we come back around, back to the task of remembering a thing, we do sometimes find the thing not to be the same thing as the time before, before it was first remembered, in the earliest reddening of itself, whatever it was, or turned out not to be, when we were in the blush and fright of first encounter. Yet also, we think no. No, we cannot go back, as before our remembering, there is only the thing. Which cannot be recalled.

    we had a family

    We had a family, now that we were grown and the old times with father were past, that we had not had before. With all of its constituents, too; a wife and three little ones, and the dog, and therefore we were seriously affected by recent threats concerning the devices, long forgotten, that might not have concerned us when we were younger, when all threats would have been levied against us, alone. While we were us ourselves alone, we would not have given threats a second thought. Frankly, it can be said we were in those days a devil-may-care sort of individual, reckless with our health and well-being. But we never, we never wanted another not ourselves, to be hurt, as collateral. Never to be injured. About the dangers of collateral we thought ourselves tidy, careful. At other times, it is true, we have had no family and were responsible for no one—how we preferred it, if we were to think about our actions. Or inaction.

    That is, there are times, there were and are times we prefer not to do anything, and go ahead and do nothing. We do not like to foist ourselves upon events — we do not respond, even, to emergencies. Whose, after all, would these be? We stay at these times in our room, a room just large enough, constraining our limbs, and move just enough, move hardly at all; only to turn around in our chair, or in our bed, or extending our neck, to look out of the window, but sometimes not even to look out of the window, as there can be nothing there that really concerns us. Since to look out of the window is, after all, to allow that something you see there might worry you, in theory.

    In some scenarios — plausible scenarios —  not looking out of the window might fail to take into account events about which you ought, instead, and by exception, to be distressed, that might affect some other, as collateral for your doing nothing, if you knew. So what is out the window is not our business, but might be our business, if not to look is to disregard, and continuing in the room, unaware, prevents us from knowing which, falling as we have so often into the selfsame dilemma of unintended causation or benevolent harm. It is at these times, when our mind strains toward disobedience, that we are stirred into restlessness, evicted from our room by the force of such considerations.

    just as at times we do nothing

    Just as at times we do nothing, and stay in bed or in the chair, looking around the room, not looking out the window for fear — not for fear, but concern — for what might be seen and what action that might entail, now, in come complementary way, we are driving or walking or taking public transportation, a bicycle, perhaps, a scooter, to a destination we hope we will recognize — that being our only hope in all of this — that we will arrive, be relieved of our packages, and that the transition will go smoothly, these uncertain items passing out of our hands into the hands of others. Our wish is that we will return as soon as possible to rest, in the bed, in the room, to sit in the chair across from the window, or to embrace with joy the members of the family, if there is one. It is pointless to think about that now.

    In every sense we have returned, though without him, to what we did once with father.How we trusted him! now that we think about it. The odor of sweat that rose from his forearms to comfort us, the short-billed cap creased from many times taking off and putting on, sometimes in deference to others, sometimes from the heat of the sun. The questions he devised to test our knowledge! These he might put to us while braking and accelerating, to discipline our attention. Our confidence was so great, so great, we left everything in his hands. We went where he went, whenever he went, as long as we were invited. How we looked forward to his invitations, since to be with him was all we desired! As well, all he required was that, yes, we be with him. Come along, was what he said.

    We remember, we think, the vehicle we rode in, a pickup with round green fenders.  We sat, when the ways were peaceful, on the other end of the bench seat, of brown vinyl, and slouched and peered out at the rush of road, our face pressed against the glass, that was sometimes cold and sometimes not, against our cheek. And from beyond the rush of leaves interrupting the sunlight, their pattern scrubbing the truck’s hood as we passed, drumming with the pressure of feeble fingertips on our eyelids when they were closed, as often as not closed, while the road hummed and blurred, as though it sang, until he stopped.

    in this way, a pre-existing alliance of persons

    In this way, a pre-existing alliance of persons might find that an unfamiliar person has moved in with them. They may not know at the outset for how long the stranger intends to stay, until, as time goes on, the stranger is no longer such a stranger. In time everyone begins to know a little, about each other. Perhaps the stranger, as in our case, intended neither to stay nor to leave, and was innocent of any intention whatsoever. What then?

    This is how families are formed, in our experience. They move around, if they have to, and opportunities open up, or opportunities once wide open are no longer available, and in the way of trees and grasses, or cats and cities, or parking lots and automobiles, or many other things one could name, if one wished, there is a continual shifting and jostling and becoming or unbecoming, where things go along unchanged, then change abruptly. In short, our life, too, has changed, and not changed, and then it has changed; or the change has been, that all at once it is no longer changing.

    So it comes to pass we are pursuing our mission in the country, delivering the nuclear items of unclear origin, but carefully wrapped, to persons not quite known, in a place we hope we are able to find in time for the exchange. We used to go along these roads in the country, our father and, yes, we went along the dim lanes where the roads were few, and under cover of the dark trees, though it is clear to us now how little attention we paid, to where we were, or how we had got there. We did not believe we could have got back by ourselves, we put such trust in him where to turn — which our father did, impulsively and without warning — so that in our vagueness, nodding off against the vent window, we were caught off guard, knocked against the windshield, bruising a shoulder on the dashboard in more than one instance, even when no turn was likely to surprise us, when all the turns, at last, were known. Unless it was a turn we had never made together.

    our father drove

    Our father drove with great enthusiasm, or was propelled by unpredictable fears, so it made little difference whether we braced ourselves or not, or lay loose on the floorboards like a rag doll. After a few injuries it was all the same, so we learned to close our eyes and tumble in the knee well. And routes changed, and there were new deliveries, or old ones not returned to since before our time with father, in his time alone, or with some other we didn’t know.

    One of the difficulties is, where there is a place to go and you don’t know how to get there. When, according to the message, there is a time to be at that place, and it is a time likely to arrive before you are able to be there, but unfortunately, you don’t remember what time that is. Yes, the time arrives and you are not there. And yet, you have the package, which, due to its nature, you hope not to have for too long. No, it is not something that, even if you should miss the meeting entirely, you would like to keep.

    What of the price to be paid? If you are to receive something in return for the package, what is the cost of accepting what you are to receive? The journey down the roads, the wait in darkness. At other times, the demeanor of the men. If there is a threat against you, or the others at home, assuming there really are others, as we are now and again more and more certain we recall, though in other ways so much less, what will be the price?

    In either case it is too much to bear, the threat of being paid, the dangers that cloud the moment of receiving, the punishment for not delivering. You cannot remember the terms entailed in the messages, but since you cannot remember whether you ever knew the terms, you are equally unsure whether you have forgotten. Nevertheless, payment for such devices entails the obligation, unstated though it may be, unstated and unspoken, to perform some similar task in the future, to receive some dreaded payment for another task as yet unnamed and unknown.

    our eyes, normally half-lidded,

    Our eyes, normally half-lidded, are jolted open when something, some stray thing, comes at us from outside. Such that we find it necessary to decide. This has been the case following the messages, written on folded slips of paper, that have appeared in the crack beneath the door. And in the mailbox downstairs. And between the pages of books we are reading.

    Is it not strange indeed, that we now find ourselves traveling through a country landscape after such a long time — an era, almost — webbed with unpaved roads, with intersections and decisions to be made about where to turn next, troubling with which are the landmarks that guide our way, and which are spurious, and where to stop, and the unaccustomed burden of going someplace in particular, to arrive at an agreed-upon time so that a piece of business may be transacted? All these circumstances, taken together, force us to acknowledge that we have been called back to the same old business we did with father.We are surprised to find ourselves somewhere other than in a chair or in our bed, somewhere other than in our home, whichever home that happens to be at the time, as every few years, or months, it might  be, we pick up and move.

    We don’t like to move, not at all, but every so often some circumstance provokes us, more often if we haven’t chosen the place carefully. Or it’s the luck of the draw, as we don’t like to choose which place, either, but it is sufficient that one becomes available, in times there is  no one to care for but ourselves. But whether there is truly no one has become doubtful, once again, as in the back of our mind we seem to remember there is a family, or a group of individuals we may have forgotten, to whom we are still attached — by their design, we suspect, we do not think it was ours — unless that was the best arrangement available. When picking among arrangements we think there is always the best one, and the best one is always the one we do not choose, but move into, or are invited into, so that movement into the arrangement is smooth and the transition is seamless. Do they that have done the inviting suspect this is the case? That we have not chosen them in the usual way, singling them out? But rather, unaware, they have simply moved over to accommodate us, as many a person will do almost without thinking, entirely without, to allow them a bit of space? As for a stranger on a park bench, or on the subway. One moves over, doesn’t one, to make a little room, as long as one is not putting oneself to too much trouble?

    and then we would be in another place


    And then we would be in another place, with little notice, which was in time easy to accept, that we would be in one place and then another, separated by little but the closing and opening of our eyes. 


    So transfers were timed with the intermittent halting of our journey and the eggs, or packages, were lifted out of the bed of the truck with great care, for which we were enlisted to help, preparing us, we believed, for the day when we alone would drive and stop and lift and transfer, with, who knows, another beside us, one day. 


    On the other side of these transactions were shapes so much darker, the receiving figures so much blurrier, than ours, while we, in our radiance, high up in the bed of the truck, gave off eggs as the sun dispenses its light, or packages, in which were things unseen; possibly guns, or bread, or nuclear locks detached from their doors, into space, and space alone swallowed them up. 
    Such was the darkness below, where the others came to take, their arms rising out of the dim of shapelessness, and such was the fury with which they clamored, that we could see how their lips held back their teeth. 


    The fear now is that we will not know when we are there, and we will carry these forever. 

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    j.a. van wagner ©2022 2022.01.12