Today was unit’s first visit to Packard Public Repair Center. The primary  complaint was subjective dysfunction in the left arm.  

In unit’s words: “There’s like, a pain shooting up to my shoulder when I move it.” Standard cyborg mechanical testing was conducted. Functional flexibility was  achieved, though there was a clicking sound at full extension.  

From the transcript: “clack-clack-clackclackclack.” 

Unit made expressions of discomfort throughout but was compliant—thus, it was  concluded that the unit’s dysfunction is merely subjective. Follow-up visit was scheduled  at unit’s request, and unit was instructed to monitor subjective pain.  

3/15 

In today’s follow-up, unit insisted on being given a replacement arm. In unit’s  words: “You’re a repairhuman, you’re supposed to help me, aren’t you?” Standard mechanical testing was conducted. Functional results were the same,  though unit was agitated throughout assessment. To report unit’s words: “Believe me when I say it’s getting worse. I can’t even cook dinner anymore without it acting up.” Unit was asked to elaborate on the significance of cooking, specifically whether it  was a component of unit’s work responsibilities. In unit’s words: “No, it’s just for fun.

I’ve been doing it since I was a kid, so like, helping my dad. Pork chops and garlic fried  rice and all that. I try to do it every day.” 

No further action was taken. 

Supervisor.auto: Good work dissuading unit from requesting new  arm, in accordance with Cost Saving for Public Centers. 

5/10 

Unit reported experiencing arm dysfunction while at work. As such, the  Occupational Questionnaire was administered. 

Unit selected both “exclusively monitor-based” and “does not require heavy  lifting” in Q5 and Q6 respectively. Unit listed occupation as “part-time Facer for  Finerone Manufacturing.” Because repairhuman was unfamiliar with this line of work,  unit was asked to explain. 

From unit’s transcript: “So being a Facer means I sit in on these really gnarly cases where Finerone is being sued because one of their products failed. Like today, we  had a case where a cyby tried to use Finerone’s Super Duper Oil and choked to death on  it because the safety nozzle on the can was defective. Then the cyby’s kids came home  and found him that way. So yeah, gruesome.  

Anyways, my job is pretty much to listen to these cases while they film my  reaction. If I smile while hearing about a case, then like, I guess that legally means  Finerone can say that cyborgs aren’t affected by the issue because otherwise I would be  visibly upset. So yeah, that’s Facework in a nutshell. Couldn’t do it for more than 4 hours straight, which is why I’m part time. And yeah, I know I would get private  documentation through Finerone if I was staff, but you couldn’t make me do that unless  you like, took my brain out.”  

Supervisor.auto: Unnecessarily long and detailed transcript excerpt detected. Q5 and Q6 already provide adequate info for cross-checking documentation coverage. Cyborg repairwork should be thorough, but not thorough to the extent of wasting time.

During interview, unit verbally confirmed that the work was exclusively monitor based. Because the function of unit’s arm is objectively irrelevant for the completion of  their work tasks, no further action was taken. Follow-up visit was rescheduled. 

9/8 

Unit checked in to the Center at 5:24pm for a scheduled appointment at 6:00pm.  Due to a shortage of staff, wait times were longer than usual. 

Supervisor.auto: Disgruntled language detected. Avoid making written reference to “short-staffedness.” Remain productive and optimistic, Repairhuman Jess. 

Unit was finally seen at 8:42pm. Unit’s disposition was irritable, and they  reported worsening dysfunction. In unit’s words: “Nowadays, it’s not just that it hurts to move, but to hold still. I was glad they finally called my name back there because  seriously!”

Standard mechanical testing was conducted. Functional flexibility was impeded:  unit’s arm locked up involuntarily upon full 180 degree extension, followed by loud  electrical sounds. From the transcript: “snapSNAPsnap-SNAPSNAP.” Unit expressed audible discomfort throughout assessment. 

Functional impediment was graded as Level 1. As such, Rehabilitation Plan was  initiated, consisting of 10mL Finerone Canned Joint Fluid daily intake for 100 days. Unit initially disagreed with Rehabilitation Plan. In unit’s words: “Sorry, it’s just… It’s made by Finerone, and you know… Isn’t there anything else?” Unit was made aware that no alternatives were covered in unit’s documentation.  Because unit seemed unfamiliar with the implications of documentation coverage, it was  explained in simple terms that alternatives would have to be paid with unit’s own  money. 

After initial hesitation, unit provided written consent for Rehabilitation Plan. 1L  of Finerone Canned Joint Fluid was dispatched to the Supply Center in unit’s vicinity. Throughout visit, unit’s general affect was tired, likely due to the 3 hour wait  time.  

Supervisor.auto: Second instance of disgruntled language detected! Avoid making negative reference to “3 hour wait time.” It is expected of cyborg units to wait patiently and agreeably for service at Public Centers. 

Follow-up visit was scheduled after 60 days of Rehabilitation Plan. 

11/7 

Unit confirmed adherence with Rehabilitation Plan but reported new concern. In  unit’s words: “Yeah, so the fluid’s been making my whole arm feel numb, which I guess isn’t like, technically pain? But I’m not sure if it’s better to feel numb than painful,  right?” 

Standard mechanical testing was conducted. Full functional flexibility was  achieved, and the previous clicking and snapping sounds were absent upon extension.  Unit’s disposition was cautiously optimistic. In unit’s words: “I guess I’ll have to wait and see if the numbness goes away. But anyways, thanks for seeing me again,  Repairhuman Jess. I know you’re busy, but I feel like you sincerely care about me.” Unit brought a thank you gift. From unit’s transcript: “It’s homemade coconut  yam cake. I spent all night making it, so there’s that.”  

Objective measures indicated Finerone Canned Joint Fluid have provided an  improvement in arm function. No further action at this time. 

Supervisor.auto: Self-congratulatory language detected, specifically the mention of “thank you gift” and inclusion of the transcript excerpt in which unit describes feelings about repairhuman. Avoid reporting irrelevant (ie., not outcomes-based)  elements, as your time could spent better elsewhere. 

11/27

Unit showed up to the Center on own accord. Visit was unauthorized. Unit’s  disposition was confrontational, and they refused to wait to be seen. From unit’s  transcript: “So yeah, the numbness went away but then like, the pain came back worse than ever. The pain’s so bad, I’ve had to drop out of like, 11 cases just last week, and  that’s when Finerone put me on probation. You have to do something.” 

Unit was probed about the timeline of dysfunction recurrence. To report unit’s  words: “I mean, it started when I ran out of joint fluid last week.” 

Repairhuman revisited the Rehabilitation Plan, and it was deemed that unit  should not have run out of Canned Joint Fluid until 32 days later. When probed about  the discrepancy, unit admitted to taking >10mL/day Canned Joint Fluid for the last  several days. From unit’s transcript: “I found that if I took enough, the numbness spread from my arm to everywhere, and being numb made it easier to get through the day. It  was like, I no longer was really thinking about what I was seeing in my cases or what it  all meant, so I was able to do back-to-back shifts like nothing. Taking the fluid makes it  possible to cook again too! I mean, the flavor of the food doesn’t really come through to  me anymore so I don’t eat what I make these days… But my housemates do! Anyhow, all  in all everything was good and productive until I ran out of the stuff. Then things got  really bad. So can you please just get some more sent over to the Supply Center? They  can’t give me anymore without your approval.” 

Unit was informed that because of their misuse, no additional Canned Joint Fluid  would be provided to the Supply Center, as per the terms of unit’s documentation.  Unit began to cry. This became open weeping, which was disruptive to the  Center. As such, the unit had to be subdued. 

Rehabilitation Plan to be reassessed at a later date. 

11/30 

After review, it was deemed that unit’s issue with Canned Joint Fluid was one of a behavioral nature. Because Repair Center does not handle behavioral dysfunction, repairhuman sent recommendations for Behavioral Reprogramming Specialists via  remote correspondence. 

Unit replied to the message: I reached out to your recommended specialists, but  none of them are covered in my documentation, and they’re too expensive to pay for  with my own money. With all due respect, I don’t have the fucking time to go searching  the city for a specialist that’s covered. I need Joint Fluid now. My probation just ended  SO I HAVE TO DO CASES 24/7 OR I WILL LOSE MY JOB AND I AM IN PAIN. Do you  understand? I thought you were on my side, Repairhuman Jess! 

The unit’s message was deleted, due to incendiary language, and no reply was  sent. 

Supervisor.auto: Negative facial expressions were detected when  you checked unit’s message today. Remember to avoid unnecessary outbursts such as crying, as it puts a strain on staff and leads to delays. 

A follow-up visit was scheduled to re-assess unit’s arm dysfunction.

12/28

Unit informed Center that this would be their final visit, due to a change in documentation coverage. 

To report unit’s words: “Being put on probation scared me. Like I knew I had to make things work, no matter what. So anyways, I found some knock-off Joint Fluid  online and started taking it round-the-clock. My Facework performance went up once I  was numb again, and soon I went from barely managing 1 case a day to doing 30-40 no  problem. My manager saw and promoted me to full-time staff. So yeah, now I have  private documentation, courtesy of Finerone. Anyhow, they need me to close out my file  with the Center. So let’s do that?” 

Standard mechanical testing was conducted. Functional flexibility was achieved,  but upon completion of assessment, unit’s left arm fell off.  

Reattachment failed, though unit did not seem concerned. In fact, unit laughed. In unit’s words: “Well, I mean, I just don’t need it anymore. At this point, my life is pretty much round-the-clock Facework, then taking Canned Joint Fluid. Neither of  which require a left arm, really.” 

Unit was asked about cooking. 

Unit did not answer. After not saying anything for a marked period of time, unit finally commented on the fallen arm.  

From transcript: “Keep it. Maybe someone else could use it.” 

Unit left the arm behind at the Center. It was subjected to standard detached part testing, deemed to be unusable old tech, and marked for disposal. 

The post Case Study: Left Arm Dysfunction appeared first on The New Absurdist.

“It?” is all I can muster. 

The short man trembles with some strange, almost religious conviction. 

I feel as though I’ve forgotten something important. 

“You know very well what I’m talking about,” he growls, snapping me back into the moment. 

“I honestly have no clue,” I mutter, sitting down. I’ve been here one minute and I’m accused of a crime. 

The short man balls his fists, two small hams quivering with anger, and slams them on my desk with a sharp bang! 

“Don’t play dumb with me. I know you’re responsible. Thief! That is my property. That whiteboard defines my work, my legacy, and I will not be disrespected.” 

A whiteboard? There are dozens scattered throughout the office. What makes this particular whiteboard sacred? 

“I just got here. Is it possible you misplaced it?” 

“Misplaced a five-foot-tall whiteboard?” he snarls, eyes wild. “That board contains the sum total of my thinking, my diagrams, my very soul!” 

I glance around my cubicle, my desk, computer, and walls. No whiteboard. It must be exceptionally important for him to lash out like this. 

“All the information I need is on that whiteboard. It’s irreplaceable,” he says. 

“You didn’t keep copies on your computer?” I ask.

“So anyone could access my ideas on the shared drive? You’d like that, wouldn’t you? No. I won’t make it easy for you to steal everything I cherish.” 

He buries his face in his hands and exhales sharply. 

My stomach drops. Did I move a whiteboard? Maybe I touched it? Maybe I rolled it away without even realizing? I can’t remember. Why can’t I remember? 

“Pay attention! Where is your shame? You will show me respect!” he snaps. 

I look at him, puzzled. Maybe he’s confusing me with someone else. Or maybe I’ve been demoted to the office scapegoat. 

“Give it back, or I’ll escalate this to the supervisor.” 

“Go ahead! But unless I’ve been rolling whiteboards around in my sleep, I’m not your guy.” 

The short man’s face crumples like a wrinkled mask. Sweat beads on his forehead, dripping down as if he’s standing under a spotlight. 

“Disrespectful thief!” he bellows, spittle spraying. His finger shakes, a trembling spear of accusation. 

“You’ve robbed me, and you sit there, like a fool. That board is everything, it’s my life’s work, my proof of existence. Where I’m from, rules are sacred. Break one, and the universe splits at the seams, vomiting a hell so fierce even devils scramble for shelter.” 

Turning quickly, he storms out toward the supervisor’s office. 

I stand and peer over my cubicle wall. One by one, heads poke out like meerkats on the savanna, watching for predators. 

The short man gestures wildly in the supervisor’s office. The supervisor leans forward, locking eyes with me. His sharp stare pierces my chest. I shiver. I don’t think he likes me.

The door creaks open. 

“We will get to the bottom of this,” the supervisor says gravely. 

His eyes fix on mine and they say: Here. Now. 

As I walk toward the office, the short man stomps past me, possessed by all the devils in hell. I catch a glimpse of my face in the window of the supervisor’s office and see the face of an unkempt stranger staring back. The meerkats watch silently, eyes wide, as I enter the lion’s den. 

“Please sit,” the supervisor says. His tone is flat but firm. 

I sit. His desk towers over me, littered with coffee mugs. The one facing me says: But first, coffee. 

The walls are lined with diplomas and a single photograph, a tree on a hill, barren and dead. As if a skeletal hand is reaching from the grave. A family photo sits on his desk: his wife in an orange sundress, her smile strained. His two daughters wear identical expressions, solemn and heavy, as if they understand the weight of existence. 

“Do you know why I’ve called you here?” he asks dryly. 

“It seems a whiteboard has been misplaced,” I reply in the same tone. The nagging feeling I’d forgotten something swells into a full wave of fear. 

“Misplaced? How does one misplace a whiteboard? Can you misplace a desk? A chair? How about the office itself?” 

“Of course you can,” I say. 

“Nothing happens in this office without my approval. I control the very air you breathe. Are you suggesting I authorized the removal of company property?” 

I stare. Is he serious? 

“Everything in this office is as it should be. I work day and night to maintain order in a world of chaos. Every person in my machine is meant to do one thing: produce. Until today, we held a perfect balance. Now the balance is disturbed. Disturbed balance is like a disease, leave it untreated, and the organism dies.” 

In this moment, I realize. I forgot to brush my hair this morning. What an oversight. If I can’t manage that, what else have I done without realizing? 

“All I ask is that you prove you didn’t steal the whiteboard. Simple, right? If you can prove your innocence, the matter is closed. If not, we are talking about disciplinary action. Perhaps termination.” 

I nod reluctantly. 

“Everything from this point on will determine how we proceed. Do you understand?” 

I nod again. 

“Do you know what happened to the whiteboard?” 

I shake my head. 

“Have you ever touched office equipment that didn’t belong to your section?” 

I hesitate. Of course I have. I nod. 

“So you admit it,” he snaps. 

“Admit what?” I ask, confused. 

“You admit to tampering with company property in direct violation of policy.” 

“I admit I’ve touched office equipment,” I protest. The phone rings. 

“Return to your desk,” he says, turning away. 

What just happened?

I stand, dazed, both fists clenched as I walk back to my desk. 

“Oh, and take some pride in your appearance. Coming to work disheveled reflects poorly on the company.” 

As I sink into my chair, the office is silent. Everyone stands, watching. The meerkats are on guard. The lions have caught the scent of prey. 

I stare at the blank glow of my computer screen. 

The weight of sins I never committed crushes my chest. I wish I was the culprit. At least then I could control my fate. I’d strangle this farce in its crib. 

Instead, I sit here. Innocent and guilty all at once. Schrödinger’s employee. 

A tall man appears at the edge of my cubicle. Menacing and brutal. His hands look as though they could crush the life out of me. 

“Come with me,” he says sternly. 

“Where are we going?” I manage as I grab my bag. 

“This way.” He walks with purpose, but slowly. 

We move to the back of the office. The lights are dimmer here. A dying bulb flickers; it’s near death. 

A row of doors greets us in the growing darkness. 

“Here,” the tall man gestures to an open room. “Continue your work. Someone will be along shortly to collect you.” 

The room is barren. Four walls. No window. The desk is empty except for a single chair. 

The door slams shut. 

I sit. The chair groans under me. As I lean back, its spine gives way, and I nearly topple over.

How can I work without a computer? They want me to stew in guilt. A guilt I shouldn’t feel, but it’s flooding me all the same. Did I do this? No. Of course not. I would remember. Wouldn’t I? 

I should shout at the top of my lungs, “I am innocent! I’ve done nothing!” 

Instead, I sit in silence, judged and exiled. 

Time dissolves. Minutes, hours? I can’t tell. Humans spent centuries mastering time, measuring it to feel in control. Yet here, time is meaningless. 

Soon they’ll come to walk me out like a criminal on his final march to the gas chamber. 

Will the meerkats avert their eyes when I pass? Or will they jeer and chant in unison: 

“You’ve earned this! No mercy for the wicked! Finally, his reign of terror is over!” 

The chair screeches. The walls close in. 

How much longer will I wait? 

I should storm out. Seize my fate. Preach hellfire like a Baptist minister: Sinners! Every one of you is a sinner, and only through fire can you be forgiven! 

But I don’t move. 

I lean back in the broken chair, staring at the ceiling lights. I close my eyes, letting the glow filter through my lids. I imagine golden light washing over me, purifying me. 

Grace. 

“Sleeping on the job?” 

The tall man’s voice cuts through my baptism. He stares down at me with cold contempt. Those hands balled into fists.

“He’s ready for you,” he says. 

Here we go. 

I stand and follow him. Thoughts of thick crowds, gallows, and a swinging noose swirl in my mind. 

But the office is silent. No faces. No jeers. Of course, it’s not a public execution. It’s a purge. Silent. Efficient. 

The supervisor stands with arms crossed, fire burning in his eyes. The meerkats are gone, burrowed deep underground. 

“Sit,” he commands. 

I sit, my stomach in my throat. 

“Sir, I would like to say…” 

“No.” He raises a hand. “No need to apologize to me. It is the people you should be apologizing to. The group is more important than the individual.” 

I shift unsteadily in my chair. 

“You’ll give a formal apology to the entire office,” he continues. “Additionally, you will be docked a day’s pay. You’ve been here all day and failed to even log in. You have cost this company enough with your disruptions. Any more inappropriate conduct from you, and I will replace you. Understand?” 

My face burns. Rage coils tight beneath my skin. I nod once, stiffly. 

“Good.” 

He smacks his hands together sharply. CLAP. “You’re ready, I hope.” 

We exit the office into a sea of faces. 

“Attention, everyone!” the supervisor shouts. “We don’t allow unprofessional conduct here. When a cog is out of sync, the whole machine breaks down. Now it is time to set the cog on this machine back into place.” 

He turns to me. 

“Well?” 

Blood drains from my face. Every eye pierces me like a blade. 

I should shout my innocence. Condemn the system that crushes us all. But the words won’t come. Why can’t I think of anything? 

“I apologize,” I whisper. 

The supervisor cuts me off. 

“There. The affair is over. No more interruptions, back to work.” 

He faces me. 

“No more screw-ups. And please, catch up on your hours before you leave.” 

I walk towards my cubicle and pause a moment when a familiar figure catches my eye. The short man sits at his desk, typing away, oblivious to me. 

I glance at the printer as it hums to life. A single sheet slides out: a comic strip. 

With a smug satisfaction he reaches over and clips it to a whiteboard. 

I hadn’t noticed it at first. The whiteboard stands there, whole and unremarkable, a monolith to this short man’s whole belief system. 

Multiple comic strips are clipped across its surface. I stare at the back of his head. 

“I see it’s been returned,” I say quietly.

“What? What are you talking about?” he replies, not turning around. 

“The whiteboard. It’s back.” 

He pauses. 

“Hmm… So it is,” he mutters, still turned away. 

I wait for him to say more, but he doesn’t. He’s already forgotten me.

The post The Idol appeared first on The New Absurdist.

But why? 

It’s hard for me to say that old phrase, ‘the kids are alright.’ Especially these days, where it seems that having emotions and showing them somehow equates to being weaker than your peers, or having less resolve to the pains of everyday life. And beyond that; showing positive emotions, like excitement for things to come, or even love. Why is it that we’ve decided that showing love and affection is weakness? 

‘Nonchalance,’ as the word has been assigned to this phenomenon, is something that was popularized by the mass media spread of Tik Tok. Things like this, such as ‘mewing’ or ‘clean girl aesthetic’ (you can name a few, there are thousands) become ingrained in the media that many people, young and old, are consuming. It starts as something weird and needing to be explained, creating curiosity, eventually making itself clear through thousands and thousands of people claiming to subscribe to that concept or idea. 

What’s different about Nonchalance, I think, is that it seems to affect the younger generations a lot more than the older. This is what makes it particularly harmful and even dangerous. The overwhelming damages we were left behind post-pandemic, such as the 25% increase in mental health issues (according to WHO), I believe play a role in the orientation towards the younger folks that exist online. Our world is not the same one we knew before we spent two years away from it, confined to our living rooms, watching as the shift took place. There are some people who say things didn’t change, that this was inevitable and the pandemic only made it seem this way. But the children, the young minds that knew the most important years of life as separation, plastic walls, and distance, those are the ones who would feel it the most. 

The kids, for now, aren’t alright, because what else have they known? There is so much hatred, confusion, and pain, for some it’s easier to push those things to the side, pretend as though they aren’t really there. When was there time to learn how to process the many pieces of everyday life? We were so busy doing everything we could to get the masks off the children, we forgot about the minds that hid behind them. Now, they are scrambling through the brambles of growing older with their only guides being terms that have drifted far from their original meanings, trends that push them further into the patterns of quick dopamine rushes, and coping mechanisms that do more harm than good. On top of all that, the constant horrors that are constantly taking place in our world on a global scale can become overwhelming, and many kids never learned how to regulate those fears and worries. 

I won’t claim a bias case for my own sensitivity. I have always been the kind of person who feels things very deeply — my own emotions, and the emotions of others as well. As a child I always had to be the first of my siblings to get my shots at a doctor appointment, because if I heard their cries from the needles I would be in tears almost instantly. They’d stab my tan skin and send me out to the waiting room. I have always been, and still am, the kind of person to bear all the weight of hurts, pains, loves, joys. I can’t imagine being any other way. Sure, there are times when being this way can feel almost burdensome, worn down by extremities and sorrows that can become consuming in every corner of my life. But, without those feelings, especially those good ones that come with the light parts of being human, I would not have the people in my life that I love so dearly, or the experiences that have made the person I have the opportunity to be. And even if this applies a bias to my argument, it would be unfair to say that there aren’t other people who are just the same, who feel as I feel. 

Who are we as people without feelings and emotions? Every part of being alive is about how we react to the things we see or the things that happen to us. I’ve seen people wanting to blame the kids for wanting to be ‘nonchalant,’ pinning them as soulless or lost. But how would kids know any better when they’ve barely been shown as such? To love, hurt, cry, scream, and laugh is all human, all vital to being. The slow joys of an evening spent with friends, or the prolonged blues of losing something or someone — both are two small parts of a larger whole, one that could never be replaced by nonchalance or dopamine hits that come and go seconds at a time. That is the vital difference between then and now.

So then, the question is: how do we recover from this? What will it take for the pendulum to swing back? 

It has to start small. In the ways that we not only treat the ones who are already pushing it all down, locking away the feelings and shutting off — but all the people around us. There is always time to spend loving, learning, showing, crying, laughing, and there shouldn’t be any shame in those things, no matter how daunting the world around us may be.

The post Vulnerability in the Time of Indifference appeared first on The New Absurdist.

If he were to look up, he might see his own reflection in the mirrored ceiling of the elevator. An anonymous dark head, an anonymous gray suit. But Virgil is not the type of person to look up. Instead, he tilts his wrist so that the face of his watch blinks on. Six minutes early. Perfectly on schedule. 

Virgil is headed to the third floor. In fact, the elevator will only deliver him to the third floor. What actually lies on the floors above, the land of vision and dental and paid vacation time and conference calls with the CEO, he does not know. And however splendid floors four-through-seven are in reality, Virgil’s imagination is constantly concocting something much, much greater. 

The elevator doors glide open. Already the office is dotted with faces, eyes that twitch up when they hear the mechanical thunk of cogs sliding into place. Across the rat-maze sprawl of cubicles, Jude Esperanza is standing in a cluster of employees, waiting for his turn to speak. Jude, too, looks up when he hears the elevator. Jude’s eyes land on Virgil’s face, and stay there. 

Virgil imagines the office as a slaughterhouse. Meathooks swinging from heavy wrought-iron chains. Bodies pale and doughy, strung up by the ankles. Featureless masses of skin and sinew, strawberry-red muscle and cauliflower-white fat. Nail gun, bone saw, twine. Bodies heavy and ripe for the picking. 

Virgil blinks when he hears the elevator doors start to drift shut. The office is normal again, clean and white. No hooks, no white hanging bodies. He slides his foot forward into the doors’ path. For a second they just hang there, nameless hunks of machinery. Then, a groan as they slide open again. Shaking his head like he is trying to dislodge a stubborn shard of shrapnel, he shoulders his messenger bag and walks to his desk. 

Floor-to-ceiling windows colonize the west wall. Outside, the smoggy sky, easy fodder for habitual daydreamers. Past the asphalt parking lot a smudge of black against the snow, high-rises compete for dominance over the skyline. It is a bitter, brisk day. Comparatively, the inside of the office is sterile and warm, an incubator. 

The sound of a completely superfluous briefcase being slammed on a desk makes Virgil look over. Darcy, sliding her rolling chair over the linoleum, waves. 

All of the cubicles in CronosTech offices are made entirely of glass. It is supposed to symbolize something, Virgil reasons, but he can never quite figure out what. It makes him feel like an object on display. At any rate, Darcy can always see him through their shared wall, and seizes onto any moment of accidental eye contact as an invitation to chat. 

“Hey, you!” she chirps. “How’re you holding up?” Six weeks since the operation, and Darcy is still perpetually interested in Virgil’s health. 

“Fine. You?” 

“Oh, alright. My knee’s been bugging me again.” 

Virgil frowns, an appropriate facsimile of sympathy. “Sorry to hear that.” His hand twitches toward his mouse. Darcy, not finished, inches her chair towards him. “Did you hear,” her voice the stage-whisper of the unrepentant workplace gossiper, “That 

Jude got the implant?” When she says implant she points to her temple, although Virgil knows the implant is located at the back of the skull. 

“Isn’t that confidential?” Fragments of light glint off of Darcy’s round glasses. Virgil feels a headache coming on. 

Darcy ignores him. “I mean, I’m not totally certain, but it makes sense, right? I always got the impression that Jude would do anything to get a…competitive edge.” The implant, as it is colloquially known, does not yet have an official name. Still officially in testing, the offer to install it had been cordially extended to select employees at CronosTech. When one really considers it, the name feels like a misnomer. The unassuming little chip does not truly implant something new inside its host, but takes something away. The idea for the implant is this: humans, in modern day, developed countries, no longer have any need for the sensation of hunger. Certain innovators and entrepreneurs, funded and championed by CronosTech, consider hunger an evolutionary excess, as useless as the vestigial tail, and a nuisance. So, they began developing a procedure that could eliminate it. Virgil, of course, eagerly went under the knife. 

When someone is hungry, they are uncomfortable, and therefore less productive. Since the operation, Virgil’s focus has hardened, sharp as the edge of a scythe. He’s at the top of his game. He finishes work quicker. Completes extra tasks. All the while, he feels lighter, buoyant. It’s like a tiny but impossibly heavy rock in his stomach has been extracted. 

Darcy huffs at his lack of reaction to the news. “I just thought you’d like to know.” Jude is the only person on the floor who Virgil considers his direct competitor. He had been promoted to the second floor only a few weeks after Virgil, and was mere days behind in the ascent to the third. And now the (alleged) implant. Virgil has the sinister impression that the man is gaining on him. 

He realizes he’s been staring out the window. A powdery white cloud speared on the spire of a high-rise, a car backing out of a parking space. He turns back to his computer, and gets to work. 

Lunch break still hasn’t stopped feeling strange. Each day watching his coworkers take their meals from the fridge, food smells mingling together: leftover half of a burrito, BLT on sourdough, kimchi fried rice. Sitting around the break-room table, sidelong glances, everyone pretending they don’t know or haven’t guessed. Making small talk: weather, layoffs, weekend plans. The rational part of Virgil knows that he does still need to eat, despite the lack of hunger signals to his brain, but that doesn’t stop him from feeling like he’s faking it. 

Today he extracts a deli sandwich from the fridge, ham and cheese, with his name scrawled across the side of the packaging. The break room is curiously empty for the time of day. The coffeemaker burbles diligently in the corner. 

The door swings open as Virgil unwraps his sandwich, background chatter and keyboard clacks seeping in from outside. It’s Jude. 

Partially stooped and awash with the bluish light of the fridge. Jude’s long hand wrapped around a tupperware container. 

The whir of the microwave settles into the otherwise quiet room. Virgil’s sandwich tastes of nothing. Jude is staring intently at the microwave like it contains the answer to an essential question. He is an unreasonably tall man, almost Muppet-esque with his oversized, gangly limbs. The wispy ends of his hair cover the nape of his neck, where the incision scar would be. If it were true. 

The microwave beeps, and Jude sits opposite Virgil. He avoids eye contact in a way which Virgil considers a purposeful slight against him, as he pries off the lid of the tupperware. Steam rises languidly off the liquid within. Who in their right mind brings soup to work? 

“How are the reports coming?” Jude has the low sort of voice that hums in your chest. “Fine.” 

“Anya says she wants them done by Tuesday, did you get that email?” 

“They’ll be done.”

To watch Jude dip his plastic spoon into the soup, blow on it, and bring the spoon to his lips, is almost unbearable. Something about it repulses Virgil. He yearns desperately to avert his eyes. Yet, he does not, and instead watches Jude’s Adam’s apple bob as he swallows. Something passes in his expression, his mouth tightens and his nose crinkles almost imperceptibly, which Virgil recognizes. His suspicions confirmed: Jude has gotten the implant. 

The loading symbol is an ouroboros, never satisfied. Virgil clicks the mouse impatiently, although he knows that will only slow the machine down more. FUTURE IMPROVEMENTS: functional computers. 

The weekend had passed uneventfully. Virgil spent Friday night watching old sitcom reruns, went grocery shopping on Saturday (shopping expenses lowered since getting the implant; no use splurging on on pricey ingredients when it all tastes the same), and on Sunday called his mother. She chided him for not going to church, and interrogated him about his mental health. She was convinced that the implant was bad for him, and monitored carefully for adverse side effects. Throughout the weekend, the image of Jude bringing the spoon to his lips and swallowing painfully would suddenly appear, unbidden, in his mind, which he stamped down with the vehemence of a cowboy crushing a snake beneath his boot. 

The document loads at last, and Virgil is once again free to insert figures into his spreadsheet: numbers upon numbers. Dollar signs, expenditures, profits, slotted neatly into the green and red checkerboard. Everything in its rightful place. 

There is a tapping on the glass of his cubicle, like a bird pecking at a window. When he looks up, Virgil expects to see Darcy’s owl-eyes peering at him through the fishbowl of her cubicle. Instead, he is met with Jude’s cool dark stare.

“Sorry, it looked like you were in the zone there.” In the zone sounds stilted, almost ironic, coming out of Jude’s mouth. 

“Yeah, well.” Virgil rubs at a sore spot on his neck, which continually reappears despite CronosTech’s patented ergonomic chairs and keyboards. “What’s going on?” “The reports? I’m supposed to pass them onto Anya, and you said on Friday—” “Oh, right.” Virgil had finished them, in what some might consider a frenzy, after his and Jude’s lunch conversation. Then he had promptly forgotten about them. “I just need to print them out. Give me a second.” 

Virgil opens the document, and the ouroboros returns. His mouse hovers over the print button. Jude taps a bony finger against the top of the cubicle. 

Virgil presses PRINT. He rises from his chair at the same time that Jude starts to move towards the printer. 

“I got it—”, “It’s fine—” 

Their voices overlap each other. Eyes track them across the room, their buzz of adrenaline. Virgil and Jude plant themselves on either side of the printer, as it hacks and shudders like a cat coughing up a hairball. Over the plastic hull of the machine, Jude’s jaw is set and his eyes are hard stones. He looks wildly uncomfortable. Is he sweating? The printer spits out a sheet of paper, then another. Something unfamiliar churns in Virgil’s stomach as he watches Jude pull at the collar of his button-up, exposing a narrow strip of collarbone. 

Virgil imagines a butcher’s shop. Dull thud of knife hitting cutting board. Thick strong hands knuckling slabs of meat tender and pliant. Cleaver glinting, silver-toothed smile. Pool of red bleeding pink at the edges as it glugs down the drain. Raw crimson scent that settles at the back of the throat. Intoxicatingly sweet. Virgil takes a deep breath in.

The printer sighs, and the third sheet of paper is released. Virgil darts his hand out and grabs the stack. Jude tries to do the same, too late. His hand jerks out and slams against the printer with a thunk. 

“I’ll take these to Anya myself,” Virgil says coolly. 

When he returns at last to his cubicle, Darcy is, as usual, not working. “Jesus, Virgil, what was that?” 

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.” 

It is not until he sighs and clicks open the spreadsheet document again, the blue light washing over his face, that he realizes what the strange churning feeling had been. It was hunger.

The hold music is a rendition of one of Beethoven’s concertos, distorted and fuzzy over the phone. Virgil stands under the awning of the bus stop, watching the rain pour. A car rolls by, spraying up a sheet of water. A single bulbous drop lands on the patent leather of Virgil’s shoe. 

Beethoven comes to a stop. A laconic voice on the other end says, “How can I help you?” “Hi, yes, I’m calling to get in contact with Dr. R—?” 

“This is his office. What is this regarding?” 

“He implanted the CronosTech, uh, thing in me, and it’s malfunctioning.” “Are you experiencing any of the following symptoms: swelling, fever, dizziness, fatigue, memory loss, hearing loss,” The voice rattles off. 

“Well, it’s just that I’m hungry again. But it’s not a normal hunger, it’s stronger, it feels… weird. Bad.” Virgil takes a gulping breath. “I’m not myself. I’m thinking strange things.” “So.” The word is heavy, drawn-out. A shuffling of paper, a sigh. “Dr. R—’s earliest appointment slot is in February. We can have you come in then, if it works for you?”

Virgil leans his head against the cold metal of the pole, feeling slightly faint. “Hello?” comes the voice. “Are you still there?” 

“Yes,” Virgil says. “February works fine.” 

The receptionist confirms the details of the appointment, and Virgil resuscitates frozen fingers to add the date to his phone calendar. He is shoving his hands in the pockets of his coat when someone ducks under the awning beside him. 

Jude nods in greeting. Virgil forces his face into a smile. 

“I’ve never seen you take the bus,” Jude says. 

“I normally Uber.” Finances have been tight. 

Jude nods thoughtfully, like Virgil has just provided some keen insight. 

Virgil looks back at the ground. The gutter is congested with slush, gray-brown and sluggish. The churning in his stomach is back. 

“Do you ever feel,” Jude says into the thick silence, “Like you’re being compartmentalized?” 

“What? No.” 

He glances over his shoulder. “In there, I mean. At work.” 

Virgil shrugs. 

“I just…” His eyes are darting around, like he’s hunting for some secret camera or enemy agent. He looks into the headlights of oncoming traffic, pigeons resting on a telephone wire, the shuttered windows of the building across the road, but never at Virgil’s face. “I’ve been feeling claustrophobic, lately. Yesterday I nearly hyperventilated in the elevator. The third floor is so small all of the sudden. It’s like I’m a figure in a spreadsheet, and I’m stuck in my stupid rectangle. And I can’t move, even if I wanted to, until they decide it’s time to slot me into the next compartment. And maybe the next compartment will be a little bigger, but maybe it’ll be just the same as it’s always been.” 

Virgil doesn’t know what to say. He thinks he should defend CronosTech, something about the ingenuity of the company, the beauty and symmetry of it. If Jude doesn’t like being a tiny cog in an immaculate machine, that’s his problem. But the words aren’t coming, they’re stuck somewhere in his small intestine, forming a hard knot. 

“I don’t know,” Jude says. “I just feel like there’s something missing. A hole. Something like that.” 

A distant rumble. The screech of heavy, unoiled machinery. The bus is here. Jude steps towards the bus as the doors swing open. He looks back expectantly. “I’m taking the next one. This one doesn’t go to my place.” Virgil lies. The thought of 

close, humid quarters, of beads of moisture trickling down the windows, of heat and fabric and skin, of Jude’s bobbing Adam’s apple, makes him feel sick. 

The rain does not let up until the next day. Puddles in the office parking lot shimmer iridescent like the hard shells of beetles. The sun pokes reticently out from behind a fat gray cloud. Darcy is humming an infuriatingly cheery tune, breathy and soft. Virgil supposes she’s cheerful because it’s almost 5pm, when they can all pack up and go home. But Virgil will be staying late tonight. 

Anya had pulled him aside to point out a miscalculation in his most recent report. Virgil could only stand there like a chastised child, heat creeping into his face. It is unreasonably time-consuming, to fix all the incorrect dates and numbers that had spawned from the initial miscalculation. His eyes are heavy marbles in his cottony skull. Perhaps, on a brighter day, an automated solution to this problem might have found its way onto the FUTURE IMPROVEMENTS list. 

Jude is pretending their rainy conversation never happened, that he never admitted his secret seditious thoughts. He is smiling widely at everyone, baring his big chemically whitened teeth. 

All the while, the pit in Virgil’s stomach expands and expands. He had eaten his deli sandwich today, for the first time in weeks, ravenously. This did nothing to quench the hunger. It boils and palpitates within him until he is certain it will spill out in a great wave, flooding the office with a tide of want. 

Darcy says goodbye as soon as the clock strikes five, power-walking to the door with the tenacity of someone with a hot date. Virgil lacks the energy even to roll his eyes. By the time he inserts the last corrected figure onto the document, the sky outside is the color of wet charcoal. The date of his appointment with Dr. R— could not seem farther away. The printer whirrs and spits. Infernal machine, always complaining. The office is nearly deserted; the motion operated lights over every cubicle but his own have long shut off. His own, and one other, on the other side of the room. Through layer after layer of distorted glass, he can just barely make out the figure sitting behind the desk. 

Virgil takes the papers from the printer, warm like a hand, and tries to ignore the pounding that now thrums in his skull. He is ready to double over from the hunger. He lays the corrected reports down on Anya’s desk, hoping that the speedy correction might win back her favor. 

When he looks up, Jude is there. He’s breathing heavily; Virgil can almost imagine he feels the breath on his own cheek, goosebumping his skin.

The look on Virgil’s face might have registered as surprise in Jude’s mind, because he says, “Sorry to startle you.” 

When Virgil doesn’t reply, he adds, “Burning the midnight oil, you know.” “Me…too.” Virgil manages. 

“But I’m done now.” 

“Me too.” 

Virgil drags his eyes up from the floor, up Jude’s improbably tall frame. For the first time he looks, really looks, into Jude’s eyes. Inkwell black. In those eyes Virgil sees reflected the same hunger that dwells rabid and desperate in his own stomach. The wave inside him crests, foams over. 

Virgil stares. Jude stares back. 

Then, two snarling beasts, they are upon each other. A passerby glancing idly at the scene might have seen a pair of lovers, but lovers do not generally tear each other’s throats. Virgil’s teeth sink into Jude’s neck. Jude drags his nails down Virgil’s back. Blood, hot and sweet, rushes into Virgil’s mouth. The taste of iron and sweat. Jude clutches Virgil’s head, knots his bloody fingers into his hair. His face pressed to Jude’s neck, Virgil swallows to keep from choking. Jude clamps his teeth into Virgil’s shoulder, tearing away a soft chunk of flesh. 

The two dedicated CronosTech employees, locked in their embrace, crash into the nearest cubicle, which shatters into a kaleidoscope of broken glass. There is no time for efficiency, shrewdness, precision. Their work is simple. Simple as the food chain. Simple as carnivorousness. 

It is as if Virgil has been eating gravel all his life, and now he finally has tasted food. Hearty, lush, instinctual. Meanwhile, Jude writhes against him. His teeth ribbon Virgil’s flesh.

Virgil’s shoulder burns, ache laces through him, but the taste is so magnificent he does not care. He will gladly take hunger if it means such bliss.

The post Saturn Devouring His Son appeared first on The New Absurdist.

Making cloth is such a beautiful and humble practice. I am obsessed, especially because so much time and labor are involved in weaving. Within a rapidly changing world which prioritizes tech, my discipline and motivation to produce meaningful thought provoking work remains the same. I am invested in processes that are not digital, or adapted from technology, but human driven. Slow and simple traditional methods which continue to be reliable, with the use of hands instead of computers. In a capitalist world where commerce overtakes creativity for the sake of profit, my only investment is to hand produce work with commentary on what I deem neglected and important. I don’t really care about selling the clothes from my runway shows, or producing seasonal garments; my runway shows are there to tell stories, and my work is there to whisper my obsessive ideas, opinions (and sometimes secrets) to the mass public. 

A Bloodline And Their Rituals.

Growing up in East Los Angeles, we get our nutrients from the corners. East Los Angeles is where my unnamed neighbors sit next to me on the public buses and crowded mercados. It’s where artisan hand painted eyebrows became a fad and rosaries dangle from our throats. Where frightening gunshots get mistaken for fluorescent firecrackers, and add warmth to our atmosphere. Where we spill our teeth over our subhuman occupations during the heat of the summer.

The concrete is meticulously tattooed with graffiti, so pure, however its expression is often misunderstood. Our blood; it gets misplaced with a type of sticky tar. Our skin sizzles in the summer as we congregate under the sun in fields or in manufacturing factories scattered across this country. Our sweat drips and pools around our ankles, as our labor becomes someone else’s commodity. The community I was raised in, it places me under its tongue, and I’m absorbed into its gums. It’s dangerous. 

I come to realize how my Chicano identity and Latino background has become the originating genes to my body of art work and craft. The working class struggling family and community I was born into aided my drive for innovation, and a lust for “honest art” which to me, is realistic, relatable commentary on underprivileged lives. I come from a culture of people you never see featured in popular magazines or media. Our lifestyle is evident and purely valid, however I continue to find narratives of our existence to be misconstrued. I want to showcase truth and honesty. This is the significance and integrity I wish to provide through destacarse. My apparel work and runway collections have always been really personal and intimate. 

Experience From Losing Teeth

One of my first professional runway showcases featured my Fall Winter 2015 collection titled “The Boy Who Dreamt Of Losing Teeth”. This collection was inspired by my discharge from a psychiatric mental hospital. The collection focused around recovery and phototaxis organisms. The color pallet for the clothing juxtaposed dark colors such as navy blue and black, but with neon orange and faded blues. Some garments also had dead moths sewn into the linings or behind clear plastic. The models graced the stages with bloody noses and bruises (makeup, of course) and I hand constructed metal face masks that also had moths and butterflies clustered onto them. I was twenty two years old. 

Another significant collection was my Spring Summer 2017 collection titled, “Sinnerman”. This collection was really a menswear collection but had very feminine details such as hand pleated tulle ruffles and lace. Some of the male models walked down the runway in knit dresses. This collection was inspired by gender and binary oppositions regarding human sexuality My models also had their arms dyed in Japanese ink to physically represent the “illness” of being queer onto the body. This period of my life allowed the DNA for this collection to unfold willingly. 

The next collection which I feel pushed me to extend beyond personal realities and enter into political commentary was my Spring Summer 2018 collection, “Travieso”. This collection was born in the era where children were being contained at borders in cages and unmentioned presidents were specifically targeting brown immigrants. “Travieso” was a collection that drew inspiration from both the Bracero Program in the 1940’s but also the Zoot Suit Riots. I think American society heavily (and secretly) relies on immigrants for staple industries such as the garment manufacturing industry and agricultural industry. Around this time, I had gotten fired from my job for whistleblowing cruel mistreatment towards the undocumented immigrants in the company. “Travieso ” showcased garments that had hand sketched, tattoo inspired cultural imagery screen printed onto select pieces. 

The layout of this show forced the audience members to be separated by a chain link fence that ran along the runway. Audience members were seated on both sides of the fence, looking at the clothes on the models and the audience on the opposing side of the fence, as a border. This emphasis of separation was crucial to my strategy presenting a blatant division of people that I wanted to provide commentary on. It was obvious and it was cold. Lastly, the model who opened the show was wearing a hand draped chunk of metal chain link fence. This wearable piece was inspired by the reality that immigrants in America always carry the weight of the border on their shoulders.  Intersectionality is a very fascinating format, and with my work, I want to introduce narratives that allow my audience to resonate and understand immigrants, and the underprivileged. I hand construct every garment in my collections, and am hoping to showcase a new collection after I graduate from RISD. This collection will be  titled, “Dolores”, which means Pains in Spanish. My fingers are crossed. 

Left Image: From “Travieso.” Right Image from New Collection, “Dolores.”

Weaving Possibilities

I am currently developing woven textile work and learning how to weave while earning an MFA in Textiles at the Rhode Island School of Design (RISD). I got accepted into RISD with no prior weaving knowledge, and so here is where I am completing my full circle of garment development. I feel like I have enough knowledge and experience on how to produce a garment; the final link that was missing from my skill set was the ability to produce the textile for the garments. Now I am learning how to weave both by hand and machine to produce the woven structures for my garment. I learned how to use an eight shaft floor loom, and soon I will learn how to weave using a Dobby loom and industrial Jacquard loom. Making cloth is such a beautiful and humble practice. I am obsessed, especially because so much time and labor are involved in weaving. 

  My label, destacarse., was formed originally to showcase abstract garments. Since then I have been transitioning my brand to highlight Chicano culture and what I deem as “East Los Angeles realism”. Now, I am in the early stages of investigating how my brand can really produce nearly 100% hand made and housemade goods and artwork without outsourcing. I know after I graduate, I will expand my work and products on a somewhat larger scale. Slow fashion is the way to go, and I am even considering how to find a way to produce all the textiles for my garments as well. 

  I value handmade work. Where there is technology, there is ease and a lack of trial. The trial for error is supremely human. Technology and its abilities are a major crutch on civilization. We no longer solve math problems in our head or on paper, we use the calculator app on our iphones. We have no need to write grant proposals for non profit organizations, we now use AI. Chronic convenience suffocates human motivation. All these shortcuts diminish our ability to think creatively and independently. However, as we, a society continue to use technology to solve all our problems for us, at the same time this is happening, we are beginning to undervalue the ability of craft and handmade. There is a tremendous amount of trade and skill that goes into constructing a garment, so why are seamstresses getting paid subhuman wages? Why are there declining artisans worldwide who specialize in shoes, apparel, handbags etc. Why are there no longer special members in each family who sew clothes for the family and mend on a domestic level? I think one answer lies in the creation of the assembly line, pushed by the industrial revolution. The disassemblage of craftsmanship was caused by the expansive mass producing assembly line; where employees are forced to remove themselves from a “start to finish” process, and only perform a one step task repeated in a production line. Hand making, the skill to be able to build and make something on your own, is a weapon against capitalism and in some ways can be the most political step away from government, because you no longer require monopolizing companies to sell you goods and services. In my opinion, we have to relearn these archaic ways of life. 

 I still find myself unsatisfied by all these absurd systems. At the moment, I find myself caught in the jaw of an art school. My past and future are flashing before my eyes like a fire alarm signaled during a therapy session. I come from a community where art is labeled as “Folk Art”, instead of “Fine Art”. Beyond all this I have realized that my integrity and dedication to my craft has gotten me to where I am today. Since high school, I am doing exactly what I set out to do to my surprise. I still have so much more to learn and experience. I still want to study textiles and denim manufacturing in Okayama Japan, too. Dedicating my life and labor to design and craft has been challenging, but I have a feeling that things will eventually work out. I feel like I am in my own little golden age. 

The post Dissecting Destacarse appeared first on The New Absurdist.

Since I don’t want to be a physical girl I’d settle for being an intangible idea. A symbol of a girl. The thought that my physical form simply represents a girl, a girl that signifies some greater principle or dogma, is attractive and cathartic. A girl so singular yet all-encompassing, free from the burden of constructing a complex identity. To be treated as a religious or political symbol, rooted in the Earth and its history, would mean to be treated with the dignity and respect of a perfect representation. Whenever I pass by a mirror I think of my dog, and I don’t look myself in the eyes. I pretend I’m a universal girl, on the cover of a newspaper or a missing person’s poster. I pretend I’m a vessel for communicating the decay of society, or a new mascara brand. Only looked at for what I symbolize. 

I was reading The Name of the Rose, and found a passage that stuck out to me concerning singularity and universal ideas. Eco writes: “I found myself halfway between the perception of the concept ‘horse’ and the knowledge of an individual horse. And in any case, what I knew of the universal horse had been given to me by those traces, which were singular. I could say I was caught at that moment between the singularity of the traces and my ignorance, which assumed the quite diaphanous form of a universal idea.” I stopped to picture myself as a horse, as Adso of Melk, as a girl. My skin clasped around my bones tightly. I was caught up in the dissonance between universal symbols and individual meanings. 

I remember my trip to Istanbul, when I stepped into a mosque that was not a mosque at all, but a coalescence of holy worship. Half mosque, half church, remnants of conquest were vivid and visceral on the walls of the Hagia Sophia. Its religious purpose had always been dictated by whoever ruled over Constantinople, and to the current Turkish government it was undoubtedly a mosque. Christian and Islamic paintings blurred into each other, ending abruptly in destroyed ruins. They were erased and painted over by hand; the symbol transformed at the whim of men. On metro walls in Vienna, I saw how swastikas became grids for tic-tac-toe, passerby filling in the X’s and O’s as the symbol slowly deteriorated in form and meaning. Originally, the swastika was a cultural and religious symbol implying fortune and well-being. I somehow felt its development was buried deep within the metro walls, until it finally succumbed under a graffiti artist’s hand. 

In the dawn of Yugoslavia, my great-grandfather embraced the atheist label. An aspiring academic, he had studied theology in Sarajevo as a young man. To him, religious scripture was merely a text to be critically studied. His wife, on the other-hand, adorned the hijab; a label of staunch resistance to his intellectualism. Obviously, he could not be an intellectual with a covered wife, as these two universal ideas had no point of intersection. When friends visited their home or they attended public events, they reached a compromise: my great-grandmother would wear a wig, so that he could maintain his reputation and she could maintain her faith. Their identities meant virtually nothing in relation to each other only a few years prior. The symbols seemed stronger than the very individuals that created them. Engulfing them in false universality, strict and unforgiving. 

I believed symbols are so entrenched in history and connotation that I forgot they are so malleable. I watched them break, bend, and stretch, yet still had faith in their durability. “A cowboy rides into town on Friday, stays in town for 3 days, then leaves on Friday. How did he do it?,” my grandfather asked me when I was a child. He still loves to ask me riddles, and always the most ridiculous kind. The horse’s name was Friday. I know that now. Back then, I wouldn’t have fathomed that response. It’s instinctive to always assume the name ‘Friday’ denotes the fifth day of a week, a symbol of time passed. The riddle shows how hesitant we are to accept the fallible nature of symbols, that Friday is the fifth day of a week but it can also be the name of a horse. There is nothing essential about the name ‘Friday’ to the passing of time; ‘Friday’ can be changed by governments and drawn over with spray paint. Much like Eco’s horse, the horse in my grandfather’s riddle is far from a representation of a universal idea. It’s only our ignorance that gives it such a form. 

Perhaps becoming a symbol would not be very different to what I am already. Perhaps the vulnerable flesh of a living, breathing girl is not very different to the vulnerability of an obsolete symbol. Both require theatrical fabrication, and elaborate myths about their supposed power. I look in the mirror once more, smiling. I am not a universal girl. The horse’s name was Friday.

The post The Horse’s Name Was Friday appeared first on The New Absurdist.

Can you tell me anything about the name MAROU?

You know what, when I was younger I would always hear these names like Selena Gomez, Taylor Swift, and be like that’s a great name. These people were just born with these names? Well then they were destined to do this. Angela Peters? I can’t really see that on a marquee or anything, “Now Starring Tonight Angela Peters!” It just didn’t have that feel to it. So I was talking to my sister one day, and I thought if I really want to do this music thing I want a name. Then I can be whoever I want. I can have this new persona, I don’t have to be this shy Ang who’s too scared to even sing in her room. 

But I love that it’s not like you’ve created a persona, it’s simply that you’ve grown into who you truly are, through doing this. And it’s genuinely you, which is lovely.

Yes! So my sister was just like, “alright let’s think of a name.” And I kind of wanted it to be just one name, one word. We were at Whole Foods one day and my sister was like “what about Marou?” And I was like, “huh that kind of slaps. How’d you just think of Marou like that?” We’re in line just buying kombucha or something. And she’s like, “oh look at that chocolate bar over there, it just says Marou.” I saw it and I was just repeating the word in my head over and over like, yeah, that works. Later I was fooling around with the font and stuff, like do I want uppercase first letter, all lowercase? I figured no, I want it all caps, just MAROU. So it hits you. 

A statement.

This is MAROU. I started signing my name as that at open mics and I love it. It fits. At first it felt like this person I would step into, but now, hi what’s up I’m MAROU. I’ve really grown into it.

Before you were MAROU, do you remember what first got you into music? 

You know, I was thinking about it yesterday, it’s crazy because I remember this vivid memory of me being in first grade (laughs) and we were doing this thing of like “oh what do you want to be when you grow up?” And I was really into American Idol. I would watch it all the time with my mom, like Simon Cowel, I think it was Paula Abdul, and Randy Jackson, and I told my teacher, “I want to be a singer!” and she was like “What? No!” and I was like “Okay.. I want to be a vet”. Which is weird, because I never really had any interest in singing back then, but I was like “oh that’s cool”, you know. It wasn’t until middle school, when my brother went to the Cayman Islands, and brought me back a ukulele that I started getting serious about an instrument. But then I was like “okay I can’t just play it, I have to sing too”. 

It just felt like that was a natural combination. 

Exactly, and I think even before that I always liked singing, but I was never confident in myself, because I was like, a kid. I remember when Adele was really hitting it big, I was singing her in first grade. I did a talent show and I think I sang Rolling in the Deep. (laughs) I had no reason to be singing that song when I was that young. And oh my god there was a talent show in fourth grade, where I hula hooped for one half, and the other half I sang Who Says, by Selena Gomez. 

A classic. 

I mean it was bad, it was really bad I will admit. So then I played saxophone for a few years in school. So I had little bits and pieces growing up. But I wouldn’t say I really started getting into music until my brother bought me that ukulele when I was 12. I learned Riptide, of course. I was really into Leon Bridges, so I started singing him. And then that’s when I made a youtube channel, and was like “I want to be youtube famous, I want Ellen Degeneres to discover me”. So yeah I was really into Leon Bridges,  I played some Ariana Grande. But the thing is I was just not confident in my singing abilities. 

I would tell my mom, “Hey mom I’m going to go upstairs and record a youtube video, please stay downstairs until I come get you” And she was so cool she was like, “okay do your thing”. And sometimes it would be hours. I was too hard on myself I think, because if I messed up just even a little bit, which no one could hear but myself, I’d be like no I need to start over again. And the videos never took off or anything, but it was fun. I’d come home from school and be so excited to learn a new song.

When did you get your first guitar?

My dad had one, so I always had one in my room. I always looked at it, but I never picked it up, I was too into ukulele to try anything else. But then, the pandemic hit and I remember I was just so bored. I remember getting tired of the ukulele, at least the standard one, because it was so high pitched and it didn’t really fit my voice. I bought a baritone ukulele, and that sounded more like a guitar. So when the pandemic hit I was like, why don’t I just learn guitar, because I’m already kind of playing it. 

It was April 2020, and I told myself I was going to learn the hardest song for my level, then everything else will be easy after that. I tried learning Blackbird by The Beatles. I never finished it, because I was like nah this is too hard for me right now (laughs). I also really loved writing, and I was really impatient with trying to learn chords on the guitar. I had so many songs but I didn’t know which chords to match my lyrics up to. So I would just make up chords, and be like “yeah that sounds good, let me just go with that.” That’s what I was doing for a while, I wasn’t really learning guitar, I was just doing my own thing. But it was fun. 

Do you think the pandemic and all that time spent at home encouraged you?

Yeah definitely. I was a senior in highschool, so I’d have online classes in the morning, and then my sister and I would go on our daily run. Then I’d have the rest of the day to myself, so music is what I filled my time with, which was really nice. 

You mentioned Leon Bridges, do you want to talk a little more about your influences? 

Leon Bridges definitely influenced me. I think I liked his soulful singing. It was more of the style I wanted to get into. He was the gateway into what I later listened to, like the musicians and music I love now. My sister also influenced a lot of my music tastes. 

Hmm I also remember I listened to one song by Big Thief…

Oh, okay, actually this is about to get deep.

It was the summer after my freshman year of college and I was home. I was studying animal science so I figured I had to get an internship related to that. I started working at this wildlife refuge, like 2 hours away from my home, it was insane. I’m from Jersey, and Jersey is pretty big, and this place was on the border of Pennsylvania. I was an unpaid intern…and I was working there like six days a week, and it sucked. Anyways, I had, or have, really bad OCD, Obsessive Compulsive Disorder, where you have intrusive thoughts and then compulsions. 

My brain will be like “oh I need you to touch this” or “turn off this light switch five times or else this is gonna happen.” And the “or else” part was always a fear of mine. 

So that was just really bad for a while. 

I’d wake up and it’d be like, “Don’t get in the car today or else, you’re gonna die on your way to work.” I would be so scared on this long drive in the morning because of that. Even though I knew nothing was going to happen, that’s just the disorder I guess. So the two hours in the car to the animal refuge and back was just horrible. The whole way I was driving was just, “Don’t switch lanes or you’re going to get hit by a car”, or “Don’t do this or this will happen.”

So I was having a miserable time, and I remember Mythological Beauty by Big Thief came on. And there was something about it, because I just relaxed and I wasn’t thinking about any of the bad things that might happen. So from then on, I listened to Big Thief for the entirety of my car ride, and that just became my routine. I’d wake up and immediately start listening to them, because I was like as long as I’m listening to this, my mind isn’t thinking about anything else. That’s initially how I got into them. Adrianne Lenker’s voice was so soothing and I was starting to relate to the lyrics. I remember they were my top Spotify artist for the year because you know, two hours there, two hours back really started to add up. 

Now I would say they’re really an influence because of their writing style.

Back then I depended on their music, because it shut my brain off, but now that I’m past that stage in my life, I can appreciate them more as a band and less as a…

A lifeline? 

Yeah, yeah exactly (laughs).  

Inspiration

I wanted to talk about your writing process. Before you started playing music, was writing something that you did often? 

Well when I was playing ukulele, I wasn’t really too big into writing, I don’t think I had anything to write about honestly. I do have one embarrassing story though. I was in second grade and had a crush on a guy at my school, and I wrote a little song about him. And for some reason, I don’t know why I did this, but I set the song about my love for him as the background of the family computer! I was so embarrassed because my sister saw it and was like “what is this!!” and everyone was just laughing at me, which I probably deserved (laughs). 

How old were you? 

I was in second grade! I think that incident probably discouraged me without me knowing. When I started playing the ukulele I didn’t really write too much, it really began when I picked up the guitar.

A lot of the songs you write are about relationships right?

Yeah! (Laughs)

What kind of relationships are you often thinking about when you write, or create? 

I’d say 95 percent of my songs are about romantic relationships, about guys I’ve dated. And it always used to be about the same kind of guy. About me getting myself into these situations where I know I shouldn’t, but I do anyway.  Just things that don’t really work out, or I’m in it, and as I’m in it I know this isn’t going to work out but I stay anyways. I know I shouldn’t but I do. 

So it’s more singing about yourself, rather than these people. 

Yeah, it’s me singing about how I know I deserved better, and the ways I grew from those things. Like I’ve experienced going through all that, and yet here I am. 

I sing a lot about my relationship with myself too. The OCD, how that was tiring and lonely, and I felt like I was going insane. And then my sister, I have a song called Sister…about my sister.  Because she’s really been my best friend and has influenced a lot of the music I listen to now. She would always share her music with me. I have some lyrics, Sister, why don’t you come back home / Sister, why don’t you pick up the phone. We’re eight years apart, so she’d be in college and I’d be home, wishing I had her to talk to. So this song is just about, being the youngest sister and needing my best friend to help me through high school and stuff. Another lyric is, am I gonna be like you? Because I’ve always looked up to her. 

She went to grad school for photography, and I think if it wasn’t for her taking that path, I probably wouldn’t be as confident as I am now following my own path. Because my brother is a big science guy and pursued aerospace engineering, and when it was my sister’s turn she went to art school, and my parents were like woah. She kind of broke the ice ya know, so now with me doing music I think I’m able to just do it. Like, okay my sister did it so now I can do it. I’ve always looked up to her for that, I just think she’s the coolest person ever. 

So yeah, I tend to write songs about my romantic relationships, my sister, and myself. 

On that concise note, if you had to choose three words to describe your genre, style, content, what would they be? 

Hmm, okay you know what, I started writing my spotify bio recently and I actually really liked what I wrote there. Okay, I would say… (laughs) but I don’t want to sound like, full of myself. 

Disclaimer everyone, she’s not trying to sound full of herself!

I mean, probably haunting, introspective (laughs) wow this is good, and vulnerable I guess. 

Don’t you have a song called Haunted? 

Yeah I do! I like storytelling through my songs. I try to get people to feel like they can see what’s going on. That’s why I would say vulnerable and introspective. 

Getting Started

What has performing live been like for you so far? 

Well I knew once I went to college I was going to have to get over my fear of performing. I knew it was going to suck, but I was ready for it. I was working at this coffee shop, and everyone was just the sweetest. One of the managers was in a band and he invited me to open for them at their house show! I had never sung in front of anyone before. He was like “yeah this could be your big debut, open for us at our house show! It’ll be chill, we’ll have our friends over” and I was like “what!” And I knew I HAD to do this, this would be the start. 

So I did it. I remember I was so nervous and my voice was quaking, but I got through it! The next year I started playing at the open mics the cafe would have every week. I was getting good feedback which I really needed to boost my confidence. At one point I was like okay, I’m ready to move on to bigger open mics.

I was living down in Kingston RI, and I guess the big city was Providence. I called up this place Askew, which was the first open mic I went to here. It was January 2022, and there weren’t a lot of people there which was nice. I got some great feedback from a guy called Jake, I remember I saw him walking and he had on cowboy boots, cowboy hat. I was at the bar getting a water and he came up to me, and was like “that was awesome”. He was up next and his voice just blew me away, so I thought “well if this guy thinks I’m good I gotta keep doing this.” 

After that, any free time I had I would just practice for the open mic. Like practice, practice, practice. And every Monday night I would go back to Askew. That was definitely when I got my foot in the door. The next year I switched majors, which then took up a lot more of my time and I wasn’t able to do music as much. That destroyed me. So I was like alright, during the summer, I’m just gonna take a break from everything academia, and I was determined to move to Providence and do what makes me happy for three months. I wanted to immerse myself in music and work a job that allows me to do that and see what happens. 

So that brings us to this past summer. 

Yes! (drums on table) 2023 baby! 

MAROU takes off!

(Laughs) Thank you. Yeah, I mean I told my parents I wasn’t going to do an internship, and they’ve always been supportive. So I moved to Providence, and lo and behold, typed in “coffee shop jobs providence”,  cause that was the only thing I could think of. Pretty soon I started working as a barista which was great because I had my evenings free for music and performing. I was doing Monday nights at Askew, Wednesday nights at the Parlor, and then in between trying to book shows. Wherever I could, whenever I could. And that’s the happiest I’ve ever been, it’s been awesome. 

I remember one day sitting in my bed being like damn, if high school me could see me now, she’d be so surprised. 

And proud!

And proud! It just felt so right, everytime I stepped on stage. 

When I was 12, my sister took me to see Matt Corby, this indie singer from Australia. We were front row, and I remember standing there and his voice was so deep and rich. It stirred something inside of me, and I was like I don’t know what this feeling is, but I want to feel this all the time. I don’t know how, but I need this. I don’t know if I’ll be behind the stage or in the audience, but I know I have to be in this music thing somehow. 

So when I started doing these shows, I felt that again, which was really cool and very reassuring. Like here is that feeling I’ve been trying to figure out, this is what it’s been trying to tell me. The moment I felt that again I was like holy shit! I solved it! I solved the puzzle! It was my first show of the summer at AS220, and I went home after and just cried because I was so happy. 

Do you have any pre-show rituals?

Normally I call my mom and dad (laughs). I’ll be like “heyy I’m bouta perform.” Because they’ve always been supportive of me, so I like to let them know I’m doing this, not only because of me but because of them too, like “thanks guys, talk to you after!” So I do that. 

How has collaborating with local musicians in Providence been for you?

I will say, this guy Daniel Pond, who is part of Scaffolding, has definitely been a musical guide of sorts around here. He knows almost every musician in Providence. He was my go to this past summer. If I needed musicians for a gig, or recommendations for a  new amp, he would be my guy. Or if I was like “hey how do I go about playing a show at Red Ink” he’d be like “I’ve got a show lined up for you.” He’s been so awesome. 

The Making of an Album

Last year you released your EP There’s Time for Me, and there are some really special songs on there. 

Let’s see, all of the songs I’ve written, I’ve written after a mental breakdown. That’s the only way I’ve written songs up until now. I would try and sit down if I had extra time and write stuff but I just couldn’t. Nothing creative would come out. It would only happen after I got so worked up, I would be in my room between 11pm-2am and just start crying. Then I’d get mad at myself for it and want to channel that into something else. So I’d pick up my guitar. Sometimes I’d just strum a chord and instantly words would come out and it would work. 

One of my songs I really like, Midday Mourning, was written about my ferret Mimi. My freshman year of college I was really missing her.  One night I was crying and I told myself “I’m tired of crying, it feels like, not useless, but what am I crying for” you know? So I picked up my guitar to see if writing a song would give me something to put all that emotion into. I strummed two chords and the words came out, without writing anything down. But now I’m in a place where I haven’t had a mental breakdown in a while, cause I’m actually genuinely happy. So I’m kind of in a rut now honestly (laughs). That’s the only way I’ve known how to write songs so now I’m like “what do I do!” Which is great because I’m happy, but music-wise I don’t know what to do. 

You also released a music video alongside the EP for your song What If.  

So a year prior to making that video, I had expressed on my instagram that I was interested in recording my music but didn’t know where to start. So my friend was like hey I have all the equipment, come to my house with like five songs ready and we’ll record an EP. And I was like HUH? REAllY? So yeah, we did that. Later that year there was some delay with the release, and I was itching to keep creating and to get something done, so I was like what if I made a music video to release with the song! I had all this creative energy I wanted to do something with. I picked the song that meant the most to me, What If,  and I went looking for someone who could help me put all these ideas together.

How was the process of creating the video, and seeing one of your songs come to life in a visual sense? 

My friend Hayden Carr-Loize is a film guy in addition to being a musician, and he was super interested in the idea. We met up one day to brainstorm, and I knew how I wanted certain pieces of the video to go but not everything. A week later he sent me a storyboard and a full script. He was on that shit. I remember reading it and thinking, this is fucking perfect, I love this. So everyone got together and we recorded in New Jersey. We didn’t have specific places in mind, we sort of wandered around and certain things worked out.  At first I thought it was going to be really nerve wracking, but like I said it just felt so natural. Then we headed back to the city and ended up on Roosevelt Island.

 Oh! And there was a dance scene! This was one part that I knew I wanted in it. I wanted to choreograph a dance scene at the end. I love dancing, I won’t say I’m a great dancer but I love it. So yeah I choreographed it and I’m so proud of it. I knew I wanted it to be the ending of the video, I knew I wanted it to be sunset and I’d be doing this dance. So we’re on the island, up on a hill. I lay out this blanket and I just go for it. Again, I thought I would be nervous because I’ve never danced in front of anyone. Singing is vulnerable and dancing is a whole other thing. It felt so great.  Not the whole thing made it into the original video, but they did record a clip of the whole dance, which I actually just released as an alternative music video!

It was a very important music video, because it was about OCD. I wanted to encapsulate everything I’ve been through with it, and the video ended up doing exactly what I wanted it to. The dance scene was me releasing a lot of those feelings, and starting new. 

By the time the music was ready to be released I was going through a really hard time, I was going through a break up, and I really needed a win. This video definitely felt like it. 

This reminds me of something we were talking about earlier; the idea that art is not only what you do, it’s who you are. 

That’s exactly what I sing about. Like the OCD. That has had such a hold on my life for so long, and that’s why I sing about it. It’s who I was. These relationships too, I put them into song because they’ve had some kind of role in who I am today, they have shaped me. The music is a product of what I go through in life. Art is not only what you do, it’s also who you are. It manifests into what you create.

Reassurance

Could you tell me what you’re most proud of, music or otherwise?

I think number one, it would be that I’ve gotten myself to this place where if you told me to sing right now I’d be like “yeah alright get me by guitar and I’ll go right now.” If you asked me that back in high school, I would just freeze, and the fact that I can just do it now is pretty great. 

Okay wait actually, you know the thing I’m most proud of right now is my Red Door show I did this past summer! The Sharon Van Etten cover band that I put together. Let’s see, the venue was putting on a benefit show for Sojourner House, and it was a woman-led cover band event. There were a bunch of bands playing – they were doing Taylor Swift covers, Alanis Morrissette covers, and Blondie covers. There was an extra spot for a band and I was so fortunate enough to snag it last minute.

I had one week to put a band together. And this was going to be the biggest event I had done yet, like the streets were going to be closed off, there was going to be a stage, it was outside, insane. Sometimes the way I prepare for these things is I don’t really think too much about it until the day of, or else I freak myself out. So I was like, okay I know I need to get this done, I know I need to put a band together. I gotta practice, but I’m not gonna think about it otherwise. 

I was texting people I knew who were musicians, I needed a guitarist, bassist, drummer, maybe a keyboardist and then I’m good. I got all that together, and it was so great. I love being part of a music community where I can just be like hey, anyone want to play this gig with me? And a bunch of people are just like “Yeah totally!” So we met up to practice just three days before the show.

 Lets see, Keith Haupt was on drums, Niels Versavel on bass, and Ethan Dowding on guitar. We ran through like five Sharon Van Etten songs, and they had never really listened to her, so they were like we’ll just follow you, which was sick. And it went great! 

We ran through it again on Friday and then we just went for it! Saturday it was go time, and I remember being on stage and realizing this was the first time I had performed with a band, especially in such a large setting. I was also performing songs that weren’t my own. It was exhilarating. It was so fun, and I want to do this all the time. I thought singing by myself was great but no, I need a band! Having the crowd clap and cheer, it was just even more reassuring. 

Was it one of the larger crowds you’ve had? 

Oh yeah, it was the biggest crowd I’ve had yet. I know they didn’t just show up for me specifically, but even still being in front of that many people was great. 

So you mostly perform your own songs?

I mean at open mics I’ll do a few covers here and there, but if I’m doing shows I’ll do my own music. This was the first time I sang all covers. Not only was I playing somebody else’s songs, it was a cover band, so I was also trying to give off her energy on stage. And it just worked out, it felt so natural.

The next day I posted the performance and Sharon Van Etten saw it! And she reposted it! And she said was so honored. The fact that my idol said she was honored I sang her songs, was even more of a – I’m gonna say it again – reassurance. 

That you’re on the right path.

Exactly, that I gotta keep doing this, I gotta keep going.

Keep up with MAROU on Instagram, YouTube & Spotify

The post MAROU appeared first on The New Absurdist.

I want to search the word for suicide and find

not a helpline or seven ways to remember to

 live or prevent non-living but rather a future

within this feeling that death is a  comfortable 

fit on my body. A force eventually moves as

needed—for pain, for kindness as a pleading 

failsafe—but to pretend suicide is evacuation

and not a wish for safety against a world that

just wants you alive is a failure of empathy and it’s 

so infuriatingly tiring what wreckage you want of me.

Percocet Prescription, 11/8/23 

When there is a button to die and you press

every button and nothing ever happens

you are left to wait for a finish you have chosen,

the inevitable zero woven into your every

article: an infinite indefinite definite. Wait for 

an eruption of days QTY zero SUPPLY zero

NO REFILLS REMAINING, just a lung finished 

belching. Of course you won’t wait forever

yet each day is a refusal to explode even

as steam rises, the rock so hot to the touch.

Percocet Prescription, 11/9/23       

Fear fends for itself, devises ways to leave

when no one is watching. Look over there! 

Severance is swift and easy to mistake for a field 

a two-car garage a fatal highway accident a school 

shooting acetaminophen fifty-five tabs open—

How can I die How can I—even family miffs it. 

For pain feeds quietly upon us: large zero mouth.

Alone is never alone, it is safe here to try and no 

one will say friend you are very loved to keep

your hurt intact. Zero over zero over zero you 

see a warm tunnel of zeros leading away you

want it to catch you want so bad to catch you.

The post 3 Percocet Prescription Poems appeared first on The New Absurdist.

Welcome to the Clementine Barish Memory Clinic! We specialize in memory recall, modification,  and erasure. In order to ensure we are able to meet your memory needs, please fill out the  following form and a memory specialist will reach out to you in order to schedule a consultation. 

Please be advised that memory erasure is permanent, and cannot be undone. While there will  be several check-ins with your specialist before your final procedure, please be sure to read up  on our memory modification procedure, which may be a better fit.

Name: Alex Goodwin 

Date of Birth: 9/16/1982 

Email: Nonsenseaddress @ hootmail . net 

Are you a new or existing patient? NEW

Have you had memory recall work done before? NO 

Have you had memory modification work done before? NO 

Have you had memory erasure work done before? NO

Please list all of your viable payment options, as highlighted in our Payment Guideline:

– Bank account  

– Family inheritance (future acquisition date unknown) 

– 2017 Toyota Corolla 

– The ability to taste cilantro as something other than soap 

– The ability to see the color orange 

– All of fifth grade 

– All of sixth grade 

– All of seventh grade 

– All of freshman year of college 

– The muscle memory associated with painting 

– Enjoyment of the taste of chocolate  

– 45 decibels of hearing 

– A kidney

Please explain which memory/memories you would like erased. Please start with the least  emotionally-resonant memory first. More deep-rooted memories can be difficult to cleanly  extract, though our technicians will do their best to remove as many as possible. 

Reminder: These should be memories that you want COMPLETELY ERASED.

– That episode from that stupid kid’s sitcom when the star gets fed zucchini and blows up  like a balloon, itching and choking the entire time. (Can you get rid of all memories of  shows with this plot line? Are they all connected or do I need to list them all out?) 

– The screaming fit I threw at that coffee shop when the barista poured dairy into a cup  that clearly said “almond milk” and then the person who ordered it was like “It’s not a big  deal” and the barista got mad at me for telling him how he might have really hurt  someone. Killed someone. 

– Crying in the grocery store when the manager had to walk me to the back cause I was  freaking out the customers.  

– Crying in the middle of my board meeting when Janine was presenting on the Q3 profits.  The looks of pity were like knives in my back, brutal betrayals of the carefully built  separation of the world and work.  

– Crying at my older sister’s birthday party when I found an epipen in her kitchen drawer. I  tried so hard not to ruin her big day, but even just sitting up in her room to calm down, I  know I had made it all about me again.  

– Not picking up the phone because I was “busy” when really, I was just mad we had a  fight and I wasn’t ready to get into it. He’d be back from lunch with Paul soon enough,  we’d duke it out later. Later. There was always going to be a later.  

– Walking into the hospital room and seeing him under that sheet. They said someone  used the epipen wrong, they said they didn’t get there in time. The EMTs did everything  they could, tried to keep the airway open, said I shouldn’t look under the sheet. The  words “horror show” were used more than once. When I held his cold hand, his fingers  were so swollen.  

– Driving down to the restaurant to scream at the manager about not labeling their  desserts properly. Who expects apple pie to have peanuts? Why wouldn’t you label  that? He says he’s sorry. He says the company is sorry. He says everything he’s  supposed to say. But unless he can bring back the dead, his apologies weren’t worth jackshit.  

– Looking under the sheet. 

– Calling his mom. All of it. Every single moment of it. 

– When I let him walk out the door without giving him a kiss goodbye. 

– Looking at him after the funeral parlor had cleaned him up, in that shitty suit from the  back of the closet. All stuffed and puffed up, skin still too tight everywhere. He wasn’t  him anymore. He wasn’t my husband. Lyle was gone.  

Memory erasure is often a complicated procedure, due to the way memories are often  entangled in one another, and some memories may be erased in the process. While we cannot guarantee the preservation of all associated memories, please list all potentially associated  memories you would like us to try and preserve.

– Our first date, which was at that restaurant. It was a different menu back then, and  obviously if I had known this was going to be the place that killed him, I would have  suggested we eat somewhere else, anywhere else.  

– Lyle’s whole department coming to clean the house and help get relatives to and from  the services. Preparing food and fielding questions. Even Caleb, that massive prick, was  helpful, bringing enough cases of wine to supply a vineyard.  

– Holding his mother’s hand at the funeral. Glenda and I never saw eye-to-eye, but in that  moment, she seemed to finally get that I really loved him. I just really need this one.

– Dr. Ramirez sitting with me next to Lyle’s bedside, rubbing my back while I cried, telling  me everything I was going to need and then writing it all down and giving me her number  in case I needed anything. She shared in my anger and ire in ways I hadn’t known I  needed at the time. I have drawn on her words a hundred times now. 

– The most important of those words: “Nothing will ever be enough, but hatred is as good  a place as any to start.” 

– The fight. I was a giant ass, acting like he was definitely coming back. I want to  remember it so I always know that my words to someone could be the last. And even  though he was mad, it was the last time he said I love you to me. That’s mine, that gets  to be mine forever. 

– Lyle. He has to stay, whole and complete. Whatever happens, you can’t let me forget the  way he breathlessly ate food or wheezed when he laughed or the feel of his cold hands  after working outside or the scrunch of his nose when he got mad or how he never, ever  separated his whites no matter how often I told him or the way he used to kick the tires  of his car every time everytime he got frustrated. Even the bad parts of Lyle have to stay.  All of him. The whole of him who walked out that door and who could come back, always  just on the other side. 

Is there anything your memory specialist should know before your consultation?

I was told I needed to wait twelve months from the last memory I want erased, and I figure by  the time the procedure is scheduled, it will be about the right time. I can’t sleep, I can’t bring  myself to eat. I can see the image of him in that awful coffin burned into my eyelids. Please, I  am begging you, I can’t live like this anymore. My last memory of him cannot be him lying in the  tacky oak box in a suit a size too small for him. If the payment isn’t enough, please let me know  and I can figure out something else. I can get loans, I can clean the clinic, whatever you need,  whatever it takes.

Your memory specialist will reach out within 1 to 2 business days in order to set up a  consultation. If you have any questions in the meantime, don’t hesitate to email us or call  our office. 

Thank you for choosing the Clementine Barish Memory Clinic!

Memory management you’ll never forget!

The post We Can Forget It For You appeared first on The New Absurdist.

The day was too early and too gray to wake. I peeled the scab of the comforter away from  the raw yawning of my bare legs and grabbed the bundle of clothes that would dress me in all  shades of seriousness for work. I combed my morning straight through with the prongs of usual  routine: shower, breakfast, cup of tea. Keys that clack together as they lock the door and a car  that takes two hruffing times to start. The commute takes an hour without comment, with no  apology for the length of road or the time not given back. 

It’s odd to watch the warming start: sunrise cracks the blank-egg sky like a thumb yolking out color, and then the gray clouds trundle back in and smother it. Patchy weather. A  fidgeting indecision in the rain that would and wouldn’t fall for want of sunlight after all. But the rain came anyway. I watched the distortions of thick and heavy drops plop and bulge along the  windshield. I turned the windshield nob and watched the wiper slay the brief full-thoughts of  droplets, wet, depressing down the pane. 

The road turned, gradual, a long unwinding, and the marshy swamplands fogged the left  side of my car with low, disgruntled trees and furrowed brush. I side-eyed the landscape. There  was no one on the road so I risked distraction. The causeway I was driving on stretched over  miles of tangled wetland, and I watched the gray things blur. It felt barren, mottled. For all the  life that sprouts from such wet earth, it all looked dead. Gnarled, fetal things curling under the  thumbnail of the world. Pressed into bogs of time. Twisted, shriveled things, and the howls of  shorebirds swooping by, snapping up shimmering pulses from the mucked up womb. Womb,  tomb—what was the use? You could try and try, but what wouldn’t still goes on and simply  would not work—wouldn’t for a long time. Life doesn’t beget life alone. It begets sore tries and  failure to thrive. 

My eyes detoured back to the road ahead. A few gulls were swaying in the wind,  dropping crabs that shrapneled in collision with the shoulder of the road. I wanted to get away  from those pops of life vanishing into fragmented parts. My fingers tightened around the steering  wheel as I tapped the accelerator, but a gull cut in front of my windshield, and I swerved as  another bird dropped its half-devoured meal onto the hood of my car. There were two thumps  and a slap. The slap happened first. The thumps knocked me cold. One was my headlight and  fender plummeting into the wet bog and running solidly into an idle, slanting tree. The second  was my forehead into the steering wheel. The gray behind my eyelids prickled, and I sank into a bodily sleep.

Numb, I came to. A partial fish face looked at me through the windshield. Its body had rolled up  the car as the vehicle force-braked against the tree. The mackerel sheen of the head and his  ribbed tailbone had slapped down from the sky and settled like a sweeping bruise on the skin of  my car. I felt the water of the marsh already wrapped like socks around my bloated ankles, the  water pulling itself up my pant leg hand over cold hand, and I knew I was too dizzy to seriously  move. I rested my cheek on the steering wheel and probed my forehead with my fingers feeling  for the goop of blood that was drying like oil paint to the canvas of my bleach-blind headache. I  watched the fish as my eyes dipped in and out of focus. Watched the gills flap in the wind and  the bottom lip blubber as if about to talk. The one eye, smooshed against the glass, did a curious  thing and blinked—one time, two, three. 

“My god, lady, you’re bleeding.” 

I snorted, pathetically, my weight thrown forward onto the steering wheel, my feet  stirring up tidal waves in the water that was slowly filling the car from some unseen rent in the  framework. I shifted my legs and spoke from the side of my mouth as my cheek slumped on the  bar of the steering wheel. “You should see yourself. Not too shabby, I think. The blood that is.  Me.” 

“Do you ever ask how we get like this?” The fish twisted eagerly. 

“Get like what?” I asked. 

“Falling out of the air when you least expect it. Dislodged-like. Certainly didn’t plan it.  After all, I’m a sea thing. I glub about in water. You think you could trust that staying the same, but now here.” The fish’s eye swirled, rotating in its head, as it took in the interior of my car— ripped ceiling cloth, junk tossed onto the back seat, water rising. 

“At least it’s raining.” I grumbled. 

“That’s like air bubbles in the sea—useless if you’re drowning.” 

“Do you drown in air?” 

“It’s a sort of choking—this sort of falling down into unfamiliar territory. Purged from  whatever body steadies you.” 

“Expels you,” I mumbled into my arm. 

“Hmmm?” 

I dismissed him with a slight shake of my head. “There’s water in here. You know, for  drowning or, uh, not choking.” My brain hummed. I slowly dragged my feet and felt the water  slosh around my ankles, quickly regenerating, gushing into the brief emptiness left by my legs— like tides grasping around the legs of a pier. Toppling. Humming—my brain. “I hope it doesn’t  sink any further. The car, that is. I don’t feel I can get up just yet.” 

“Yeah, don’t tell me.” The fish flashed its skeletal tail in the air behind him. I closed my eyes and breathed deeply. Pain blushed out of my forehead. I felt woozy and  tried to grip the steering wheel with my hands, but my fingers were too sore, dented with impact. The fish head called to me. “So why do you think it happens? This falling?” “What falling? I didn’t fall. Nothing fell.” My eyes flared open angrily then immediately  cringed as my head throbbed with the sudden movement. The fish blinked. “Sure you’ve fallen. You were happy and smiling and gurgling, and then a few feet into  the air of your life and whatever was buoyancy dropped you. Or maybe that’s just me or anyway… And now, you’re here poking at your rib-bones, finger painting with your blood, and  you’re wondering why? Surely the world isn’t all that different. So, something fell inside.” “Something fell inside.” 

“Quite.” The fish’s mouth gaped open and closed. 

“I feel so alone.” 

The fish’s eye twitched. “Is that what fell?” 

“No. I don’t know.” 

“Do you want a family?” 

My chest clenched, and I shrugged sharply. My whole body ached in extension of the car  wreck. “That’s not something you plan on your own. You can’t just will it into being. No.” “It isn’t?” 

“No. It’s not like you point into the crowd and say, Yup, that’s the person I want to fuck a  family out of. It comes from mutual choice and ability. Ability to… and someone who wants to  stick around. Someone who sticks, you know? Not someone so easily shaken out.” 

“Oh. Well—I guess it’s different for a fish. I had a family of a sort. A big family— huge—little swimmers. Hard to be lonely when there’s ten more just like you bumping around in  your swim. And I guess—” 

A gull flapped down on the car and stripped a ribbon of flesh from the gray-scaled fish. I  raised my hand and slapped the windshield which scared the buzzard off. My arm fell limply  back to my lap. “You were saying?” 

“Lonely: I guess I’m used to more company. So I would ask if you’ve got company?” “Oh, no. Not anymore.” 

“Well, what about a hobby?”

“I’m infertile.” 

“Infertile in dreams, you mean?” 

My palm cradled my abdomen, and I rubbed my head gently along the top of the steering  wheel. “I guess you can say that.” 

“Do you feel stalled?” 

“No, no—life doesn’t feel like that,” I pushed myself away from the steering wheel and  leaned back in my seat, lopsided with headache, eyeing the fish. “It doesn’t feel idle or stalling.  It feels like a current, and it’s rushing in a deaf static all around me, and I am bound by a—by a  fishing line, if you will, to a sunk fishing rod wedged in unbudgable rocks at the bottom of all  

that rushing, and I’m flapping around but not swimming. There’s no living. No dreaming. No  company. No one. Nothing—do you understand? It’s just me at the bottom. Nothing sticks. It’s  just me.” 

The fish blinked its eye. The skeletal tail tapped uncomfortably against the glass. “No.  No, see, I don’t understand. I think that’s very rare to find a fish tied up like that… I think  sometimes the current rushes, and there’s greater joy in spreading your fins and following.  Sometimes you look back along your spine,” the fish demonstrated by curling his head back to  look at his tail, “and what you find is that what you thought was a line was only a stroke of  sunlight that confused the water. Do you understand? That it’s just confusion? Madness to flap  around like that? Not a real line. Not a real trap. There is no bottom for a fish, only rising up. A  sinking skyward when we’re done. You see?” 

“No. No, I don’t see. I’m not a fish.” I pinched my eyes shut. 

“May I tell you a story?”

I stayed quiet. Still. Listening for the nothing moving inside of me. My hand smoothed  over my abdomen. 

“About a fisherman,” the fish continued, “who once stopped by the wave I was riding  on.” 

The fish waited a moment and then went on, “His name was Gabe. He came across me  one night when I was testing the shallows, and he told me about him and his wife. Kept me in a  bucket on his little skiff and told me he’d let me go if I only listened. So, naturally, I did. 

“He wanted to tell me about his wife, he said. How it had been a year since her death,  you see? And she was right pretty and wore her life as well as she could. Gabe wiped his nose on  the back of his hand and continued, Well, it was a night like tonight. A night like tonight, and I’ll  never forget. Never forget how she changed the tides for me. For both of us, really. See: when we  were younger, her and I, we tried to conceive. Wanted a big family. All the company our little  home could keep. He said to me, he says, They were unable to hold anything. Nights, his wife,  Martha, would take to her bed and just lay there, despondent, cribbing herself under the covers.  No more nights siting up by the fireplace, no more talking over cups of joe, nothing. She would  just go to her room with the lights off and just curl into the dark like the echo of the sea curls into  the coil of a shell. Just wouldn’t move. 

“So I started taking myself out at nights. Would row out here on the water and just watch  the stars twisting about like little minnows or some sort in the reflection of the water as it furled  off the boat. Would row real slow so as not to disturb them, but a few always spun out. 

“And one night, long after we’d given up and age was starting to fray and loosen the  waistbands of our knuckles from holding on so tight, and the skin around our eyes finally  stopped shrugging from looking so hard for the damn thing, dear Martha, my shell of a wife, 

uncoiled from her grief and, instead of remaining under the blankets, followed me outside. She  followed him right outside, he told me. Gabe said, He had already settled himself into his little  boat, was about to release the rope from the dock and shove off, and Martha done called out his  name. ‘Gabe, stop!’ He stopped. And helped her climb in and spread the blanket he kept under  his bench across their knees—a shared square of warmth—little frail and worn-down thing. And  when they were skimming along the shoreline, the man rowing and the wife dipping her fingers  in, she shivered and made a grasp for Gabe’s hand, ‘Wait, wait,’ she said. He stopped rowing  and just watched her face watching the wake. ‘Look,’ she said, ‘All these stars.’ She peered into  the water. ‘Yes,’ he said, just watching her watch the water. Didn’t look at the stars. Seen them  all before. ‘Yes,’ he continued, ‘yes, they’re quiet.’ Martha looked up at him, ‘Grief can be like  that. Quiet.’ She smiled. ‘Gabe, I can imagine each shard of star in this vast fluid dark is one of  ours. One of our tries, and maybe grief is quiet like that. And it distills all our failures and all  our tries in vastness. In waves that make them shine for the mere trying. The attempt. What we’ve  survived hasn’t been small after all.’ Not for one moment did my eyes leave her face, Mr. Fish,  and I told her, I said, ‘That’s a right pretty way of looking at them.’ Martha settled closer—her  knee touching my knee, and that dear love said, ‘I would like some tea or some coffee. Something  warm to drink. Can we go home now?’ The fisherman smiled. He told me, he knew when he was  welcome and her affair with loneliness was over. And they went back to that home of no holding  and warmed themselves to living. 

“He let me go after that. Said he wanted to be on his way, and I’d be wanting to be on  mine too. And told me to say hello to all our fallen stars—not one too many, not one too few.”  The fish fell silent and blinked at me.

“I need to go.” I swiped the wetness from my cheek and thumbed the seatbelt buckle off  of me. The lock released and unwound the restraint from my body. And I sighed with the  soreness of my being thrown about. “I can’t do this. God—so alone.” I squeezed my eyes closed  and hugged my chest. Folding in. 

“No, you’re not.” 

I opened my eyes and looked at the fish who was shifting side to side trying to get a  better look at me, and repeated, “You’re not.” 

“I’m talking to a fish.” 

“No, I mean—I saw something on the way down that you may have missed as you were  careening into that tree.” 

“What’s that?” 

“You’ll see.” 

“Mmm.” I slumped forward slightly, testing my legs by lifting them one after the other.  “I need to leave. I can’t stay here.” 

“I wish I could walk from where I land. At least you have that going for you.” The fish  nodded at me slowly. “But even in this moment it is not that bad because I’ve made a friend in  falling.” 

I shook my head and shouldered open the door. More water rushed in as the car tipped to  it. I stepped out and was up to my thighs in marsh. Looking around, I saw other cars crashed into  trees, into bog, into brush—in various stages of sinking—doors ajar where others had fallen into  the same helpless ditch. Swamped. Flooded. Cars gutted of people—real people. Others who had opened the doors of their crash and walked off. Walked from where they landed.

I nodded, feeling the warmth from my head spread down to the extremities of my body,  and turned back to my mangled companion. “So, falling is the least lonely thing about living?” The fish slapped its bony tail on the glass. “So falling is the answer, it would seem.”

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