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jasperwoke · 3 years

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Bird cages

Wireframes on wire racks. He lived in a mesh cage. His bedframe, damp clothes: no must, but not dry. Always humid from the Hong Kong smog seeping through leaks in his thin plaster walls. He and three others shared the small room. Rotating not sheets but people. When one migrated to another city, or could no longer afford to stay in their own pen. Like pigeons. They are hatched, then die. The bars that headless chickens mistake for safety, are what stay.

He was a courier. His badge says many things, but he responds to #58722 the most. He climbs on his roof, he was a runner, and at noon, he begins running. Him and other runners, seen scaling the suburban tops. Much like the dense cities in India, rushed shelters thrown together with halls too narrow and people too many and air too little. He would deliver many things, but he never knew what. Perhaps bombs at times, or fractions of kilos of cocaine. Always something new. New runners on the common routes for delivery. New packages, new names, new receipts. There was, however, one woman who ordered tea every Thursday at night.

He lived in the walled city, three miles from the city center. On average, he would run eight miles per day. Then he would return. He stripped his clothes, and he washed the soot from the bridge of his nose. He watched the solidified ashes run into the semi clogged drain. If his showers took too long, his floor would flood.

Hong Kong, like any other city, has a financial district. And a fashion district. A receiving port, a residential district, a meatpacking district, an entertainment district. The woman was the only thing that stayed constant in his life. On Thursday, at 19:00, his pinger would buzz. And she always got priority, she paid more than enough for the resolution nodes to push her query to the top of the runner stack. And he was always the first to respond. In the financial district. The name stayed the same, and address, but her person changed. Always

She was recognizably the same and yet, some feature would morph. The second delivery he made, he noticed her chin was not tucked. She seemed pudgier than what he remembered. Sometimes, her eyebrows were a bit too thin. Or her mouth was wider. Very small details, that did not take away from her identity, but enough to contribute a change. She did not live in a bird cage. He could see past her satin strap shoulders, to the floor to ceiling windows as she signed. Once she invited him in for tea, out of cordialness, but he declined. He wasn’t sure if she knew he noticed changes in her stature. Face sometimes paler, eyes sometimes wider.

And on an arbitrary Thursday, he stopped delivering tea to the fashion district in the city. Perhaps she moved. Perhaps it was time for her house to change its occupant. Despite being trapped in the same deadlock grid as him, the routine was his glimpse of freshness. But as he runs his miles back and forth above roofs out in the open. As he peers from outside the windows, he feels more trapped than ever. A sea of new faces, can still be measured in drops. Gone was his pocket of air in the stagnant water. Filled only with smog, and rattling mesh cages that did not break.

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jasperwoke · 3 years

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Nomen

He was never good with names. One hundred and eleven words per minute with ninety seven percent accuracy was what he averaged. Characters flying off the keyboard onto his monitor. Yet, none of them were names that stuck. It didn’t carry so well to his life. Often he’d call his romantic partners by the wrong name. Similar, like calling Sarah, Sana, or Marissa, Matilda. It raised trouble sometimes, but that is the bane of being a programmer.

Instead, what he felt mattered was what the name contained. On his screen, names often returned values. Names were placeholders, perhaps for objects with more - sustenance. Objects that could take up much space. Objects that changed from text to numbers, from colors to sounds. These names were just variables, substituting for the substance inside. And to him, it mattered what the names held too. If Marissa was a good person, if she wanted the same things he wanted. What Marissa’s favorite sandwich was, what music she listened to. If she let him drift off in his own world, or anchored him back to earth. There was no right or wrong way to be a person, just as what the variables in his code held, had no right or wrong values. They were objects of complexity. Computation time complexity, recursive complexity, structures with nooks and crannies. Yet, they were also merely names on a screen. A name, that could potentially, signify nothing.

However, he more so felt names sometimes superseded their contents. Without a name, a person is left without an identity. No matter how strong their passions, how radical their ideas, without a name, they are voiceless. No matter how hard an anonymous may try, they will never establish an identity. No matter how many stanzas of poetry, how many works of art they may give to the world. They may never become recognized. Because no one will know who they are, even if they met in person, if the name is not remembered, then the person might as well have never existed. And in his code he realized, no matter how much is defined in an object, an instance. If there is no placeholder to carry the weight, then it will be lost in memory. Drifting among the cathode tubes, in electrons switching states in bipolar transistors. Never, to be called or recognized.

Here, he realized, why everyone wants to make a name for themselves. To be famous, to be recognized. Why everyone wanted a familiar touch at night, to have their names whispered back to them under the curtains of nightfall. There is nothing more brimming than life itself. All people contain an identity, a unique perspective to the world. For I will never be in the same room as you, at the same points in time, viewing the same piece of art in the same angle. I will never become you. And in this sense, we are very lonely creatures. There is only a singular us, in the world. And the world can give us colors, sensations. Tastes, touches, lust, love, wonders, thoughts. But all we can give it, is a name, and a plea to have it echoed back.

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jasperwoke · 4 years

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Iterations

I descended the ship’s deck. Clasped in my right hand was a gun. An antiquated pistol, handle made from polished oak. I had only used it twice in my life. But I expected this to be my third. Clasped in my left hand, was her wrist. Like clockwork, just as the brims of our heads cleared below the hull, the doors reopened behind us. Pursuers, were hot on our trail.

Between flashing my gaze forward, steering our course, and backwards, watching our pursuers, my eyes could only focus on her. Black hair vignetting a short button nose. Hair, just long enough to put me in charge of navigation. Wherever my arms drifted, she followed.

Corner by corner, level by level, we descended. Waltzing, sauntering, just out of our capturer’s reach. Until door by door, they stayed lock, and turn by turn, we ran out of space. Many meters below sea level, a gun shot is no different than a door slamming shut. It’s no different than striking an ice-berg, to have tons of steel, shredded violently from the tank. And to watch blood gush out, as quickly as water rushes into the small wound on the side of the tank. Even if we were hundreds of meters under the sea, the pressure differences would not make a difference. The veil has been pierced. And her eyes dimmed. Her breath was drifting away.

There was no blood. Perhaps that what I imagined I saw. I programmed myself to see. In the indulgent dream where I am the hero. But where there should have been blood, was nothing. Where I expected a cry of pain, was a clang of metal. Similar to a door slammed shut. Similar to a bullet shot out. Where I expected tissues and sinews, were wires.

And I remembered. In the brief moment, once the bullet made contact. And the pursuers paused, as if waiting for instructions. And the girl paused, not dead, but also, dormant, waiting. In the brief moment, I remembered that I had done this before. There was no upper deck, there were only never ending levels. And on each level were never ending hallways. I had lived this dream before. The fantasy was all I had, to pretend an eternity in these liminal halls, were for a goal. I looked down at the girl. It had been many brief moments now; she was still waiting. I made her. Her and the pursuers. There were no other people, no guests in guest rooms. No upper deck. There were only endless arrays of hallways. And me.

I was never running from danger. I was chasing a meaning to life. To a life I had lived infinite iterations of already. I could check every corner, walk every corridor, and still, I would live the same iteration yet again.

I wanted purpose, because without purpose, a man becomes truly alone.

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jasperwoke · 4 years

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Croupier

A new deck, slid into his worn palms. He flashes the bicycle at everyone, a clean set of red backs, and unwraps the foil, tearing from the golden seam, slowly unraveling until the plastic splits into two. Each deck is new, as he shims his nail under the paper seal, the card still unbroken into. There is familiarity. He is an old dog, with old tricks. Only the toys are new.

He walks home. They say he lives in the city of god. And the ones he sits with, are godless people. At the hours of early morning, the water in the fountain and trickling down stone carved sidewalk, give off a purple tint. He sees there are farmers already. Setting up for breakfast for the city workers. The smog of the city never rests. Away from the city center, the haze hovers over. Like an impenetrable toxin. He nods to the farmers readying their stone ovens as the suburbs begin waking up.

He says he is an old dog, unable to learn new tricks. He lights a cigarette, his voice no different than the city, always obscured by a lingering smoke. Sweat condenses at the tip of his nose, as he loosens his tie, and inhales another drag. He is not a godless person, but still indulges himself in the early hours of morning, when god is still asleep.

All he knows is his cards. They flow over his hand like water. Good cardists control the cards to their will, bend and guide and flip them. But not him. He lets them move as they please. Gliding, somersaulting. He is a croupier, he does not tell the cards how to play. That would be cheating. He believes in fairness, and he is only orchestrating the will of god. Whatever the fair god determines, then the outcome is destined. The destiny for the queen of diamonds, the ace of spades, is irresponsive to the personal agenda of the croupier.

The destiny for the croupier, for me the author, for you the reader, is irresponsive from the hands of god himself.

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jasperwoke · 4 years

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London Burning

There she was, Madame, suspended above the table. Then two, she became exact doppelgängers, on opposite sides of the room. Each sporting black leather gloves and suede boots on slender pale legs that mimicked their counterparts from across the room. And back on the table, there was Monsieur Adrien, sporting a knife pressed to his neck, and suddenly, he was the one pressing the knife to his assailant. The commanding officer, Antoine, was nowhere to be found, but small glimpses of him flew across the room, on trailed by his thunderous laugh whenever he found something amusing. I, found myself ducked under a table. I was hired as catering staff for the evening, and had lost my appetite for these political disputes.

“Well dah-lin, don’t be shy come on out.”

Before me was the very - volumptuous - woman, who called herself Beatrice. Madame Beatrice. In the political sphere, she simply went by Madame, as there was none other like her. Besides herself. What I mean by that is, only she, can be herself, her own reflection if she had one.

“We gotta get you cleaned up, why, what a mess we made. Awful sorry about the whole lot”

I looked around. She was right, it was a disaster. Plates and tablecloth couldn’t be distinguished, every piece of furniture or furnishings prior this evening, had become scraps not even strays would pick at. And everyone, except them, was dead. Somewhere through the settling chaos in my mind, I realized I was not going to get paid for my service that night.

“Take me with you”

Madame raised her eyes, and looked at her partners. They knew, however, she was the shotcaller, and they couldn’t care for initiations. She shrugged too, as if to say ‘why not’, and extended her hand.

“Welcome to the Crimson Lotus”

The Crimson Lotus was, or still is rather, an independent party. Though they’ve gained immense influence and power in the recent months, they still fall short to be categorized into the official tables. However, everyone knew by now, that they were going to get there. Extremely skilled, and all their members - all three, or four now with me - were shrouded in mystery. However, one thing was for certain: their specialty of misdirection.

The party I was catering, before everyone was so abruptly disposed of, was called the Hounds of London. Their niche laid in sleight of hand. They were notorious for initiating promising thieves from the subways or streets. They rose to power, from a mix of both cheap tricks and in sheer quantity of manpower. No city lacks thieves, and frankly if it did, then politics was not it’s primary concern.

As for me, I was never one for politics. What’s interesting about it, was that with enough merit, anyone could be in charge. The pickpockets on the metro, had they set their mind to it, could fill the same seats that had been passed down for generations in legacy and lineages. I never took much of an interest in magic or illusions. We all know that tricks no matter how impressive, could only be performed in a parlor. But through the many decades of this city, those in charge grew more powerful, like waves crashing into shore. Each new wave would crash a bit higher on shore, having a stronger foundation to build upon. And as a city, we agreed this was a fair governance. Who should be in council, if not the people themselves? Those who butcher at docks, who tend bars on the pier, who relay messages to their higher ups. And those who know how to lead, who can sway masses through just words and glares. There is power in many forms, some in brute strength, some from intellectual prowess. But all power is from merit, and all merit is from power. Power is not given, authority is not a birthright. It is earned, it is seized. That is how a good council is run.

“I think, before we make any more decisions, we should teach you some tricks” said the Madame. I was always one for mathematics. The catering held me over as I finished my schooling. It is a beautiful world, mathematics. All rules can be bent, even toppled inward, and still not break. Rules could be written on the whim, or ignored altogether. It was a much more preferable world for me. One without interpersonal relationships, political tensions.

“But first, allow us to introduce ourselves. I am the Madame, I’m sure you’ve heard of me. And from the last political debate, you see what I do yes? From across the room, I can throw mirror projections. Which one is me? Ha, even I don’t know sometimes”

“You can call me Adrien” a gruffer voice spoke. The man was quite tall and slender, with a salt and pepper beard peeking from his neck. “I am able to, I switch places.” And he left it at that

Finally, the one who eluded sight, spoke. “Antoine. I’m a ventriloquist by trade. But do reconnaissance.” I suppose him too wasn’t one for much words.

“I’m Byre. I study mathematics.”

“Ah, then you have come to the perfect place”

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

I soon learned the world of magic was not so different from mathematics. All rules, could be made up. In maths, we construct dimensions with base units to whatever we desire them to be. In magic, it is more of a deconstruction. Of breaking an already set dimensions, into what units make it up. We all view the world differently. Some view it through waves of light and sound. Others view it passionately, through emotions and feelings. I saw the world as a construct of numbers. Quantities of forces, always colliding and separating, never finding an equilibrium where both sides are content.

And so in the coming days, Antoine took me under his wing. He did have a body, but was actually quite introverted, hence his constant shadowing of his actual self. He was not unattractive. Ruffled dirty blond hair, no matter how hard the wind blew, and dark brown eyes that would remind me of wet sand at the beach, perhaps the ruins of a castle that collapsed into its moat. Adrien was a very kind person, and it was clear fighting was not in his nature, he left that for the other two. Often he would stand in the enemy’s numbers, projecting his voice so that they would look elsewhere and he would follow, misdirecting them.

He took me in because we thought similarly, atleast according to the Madame. He would always first listen to the acoustics of a setting. How his voice travelled, and where it would end up. Perhaps we were similar, in that we felt the need to calculate, in order to be certain. But in an open environment, where we were exposed, and the rules were not ours for making, we felt uncomfortable.

I did pick up a few tricks. Very much attributed to Adrien. At the end of my practicing, I could, to an extent, project an image of a small rabbit. I say much thanks to Adrien as he inspired much of the idea. Light waves, like sound waves, can bounce. They can be pulled and distorted. They are but little particles that hit your eye and you believe you see something. So with a small ray off a table, a glimmer off the chandelier. With these pieces, I could stitch and sew together a hologram, in a place that, should have housed nothing but empty space. But they are just soft holograms, unlike Madame’s doppelgängers. If one were to see the image of their beloved pet, and go to hug, I would only be rewarded with a sudden realization that, I too, am just a cheap charlatan, playing off blind spots of the mind.

When Antoine and the Madame both thought it was satisfactory, we began to plot the next movement. There were only two parties left: the rats, and the snakes.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

The rats and snakes have been at each other since the founding of London. Naturally, they are nemesis. And so, they always have pitted against each other. In a single battle, any member of the rat party would suffer defeat from the snakes. But still, like in nature, no matter how many snakes in a field, there will always be mice to feast on the crops.

The snakes were known for their battle prowess. In the same way how real snakes shed, those part of the party could always barely slither away, when absolutely necessary, leaving a shell of their old selves behind, when their captors finally found them. But with daggers as sharp as fangs, tipped in poison, they could coil and strike with fluidity no one else could hope to match. To onlookers, it may seem they are simply very skilled in martial arts. There is no magic. But in that, there is something more than physical training. To mirror your opponents and see through every one of them. Know where they are weak, and to know what you must do to take advantage of their ignorance. No different than making a coin disappear from a magicians hand. Their power does not come from their own abilities, rather, exposing their enemy’s weaknesses.

The rats, have always been the most elusive. Never one to combat face to face, they strike in groups, and always guard each other’s back. Though weak in offense, their numbers more than cover their defenses. A snake may circle around a rat, only to find their is another one behind, keeping watch. And perhaps another one on the side, flanking and observing for all of them. And when absolutely cornered, they will sacrifice themselves, in hopes the others may escape, and live on. That is how the rats are. A single straw can snap in a breeze, but a bushel is almost impossible to cut. Almost impossible.

And their abilities come into how they protect themselves. They must hear, see, smell, their enemies, before their opponents even get the chance. A snake, no matter how careful, is bound to snap a twig. And in that one small action, will capsize their whole attack. Because these small mice, will already be fields away. Grazing on another plane.

It is not hard to see why, that historically, the snakes have appealed to the bourgeoisie. The ones in power, who prey on the weak. And the mice are the laborers. Though many in number, they lack the power to overthrow their predicament. Always, it has been a battle between snakes and mice. London was no different.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

We chose to overthrow the snakes first. If we succeeded against the rats, but failed against the snakes, then all of London was doomed to serve. We are, after all, not animals, and have compassion for those who work in factories and fields, laboring to feed the entire city.

The party was strong, I can not lie. But what is a snake to do against opponents that are, or were, never there? They would slit open the neck of Madame only to find the other was the real one. And when they cornered that target, they found once again, her clone across the room. Well and alive and putting up an immense fight. When scents and sights deceive a snake, they simply can not win. As for me, with my abilities, I am quite proud of this as it was also my first battle. On a very large fire pit, I made it seem as though there were no flames. The beauty of heat is, it is just a weaker form of light. And with ten, no, twenty heads on my tail, they all fell in. Scathed and burnt until they stopped thrashing.

And then we turned our objectives onto the rat party. Only a few nights after overthrowing the ones in power, the city was in shock. The factories served no one anymore. There were no oppressors. And when headlines finally made sense of who was behind the coup, it was too late. We had already began our onset onto the plebeians.

These poor fellow mice. Their sight is strong, their hearing is powerful. When you lie to these senses, they are but timid vermin with no place to escape. We made sure of that, much thanks to Adrien. I conjured about an image of their leader, Adrien breathed into her a voice. Even the rats have a queen. And he commanded their army into disarray. Each scrambling into a nest that was not their, but actually a trap set by us. And one by one, the little creatures, with sights blinded and whiskers dulled, could only hope to escape as they heard our footsteps draw near their holes.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

And we, the Crimson Lotus, were put into power. There was no official paperwork, as there was no magistrate. Politics was something the people learnt through word of mouth or periodical headlines. And as I walk through the streets, trailing Madame or Adrien or Antoine, I could not help but notice no one knew who we were. Our bread was still a quid. Our wine was still ten pounds. It seemed as though, our arduous climb offered no rewards.

And Adrien, one for few words, spoke. “You, the mathematician, should know this the best. We can now dictate the rules. We can bend London to our will, reinvent it from the ground up, or run it as it always has been. My esteemed colleague Byre, what more would you hope for? We have the whole city to play with.” The others grinned, and I could not help myself from letting loose a sly smile too. The closest term, for us, may perhaps be anarchists. To rule, with no rules.

And it has been many summers since our victory. London has not been merrier, and we still have not been more recognized on the streets. We will gather for cheese and crackers every Thursday, recalling new books we’ve read, or visits from family abroad. But still, the headlines scramble to try and capture who was behind the scenes, pulling the strings. Perhaps the old leader for the Hounds. Or the Queen of rats, now living a calm life as a house wife. For two beautiful children no less, as we’ve visited. Tensions aside, we are not animals, we are humans, and condolences and reparations are paid where due.

But I’ve learnt that, by observing the people, they may never know who I really am. This whole political debacle, is all smoke and mirrors anyway. Perhaps one day we’ll be overthrown, and no one will know who’s pulling the strings. A magician, never reveals their tricks.

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jasperwoke · 4 years

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Simulacrum

To my eldest, I leave my tangible assets, both liquid and non liquid. All outstanding shares, as well as future dividends are to be under his possession. The estate, is now his deed. Of course, the liabilities are also his. You always did have a lust for money. This is all I can do for you now, but you may take these, and build on more. Perhaps one day, when you will come soon to pass, it may be more clear that even with money and power, a mother only wants to give love. I can not give any more of that, I am unable to. Though I taught you money can not buy happiness or love, perhaps for your dear mother, you can make an excuse this time.

To my middle, I leave non tangible assets. The ownership of the businesses I have founded in my life, shall be his. All partnerships I have founded with my friends, will be transferred onto his shoulders where it is fit. You were always ambitious, never caring for money, rather passion. And I hope in these ventures, you may pour your heart out into crafting, and build an empire that even Trojans can not topple. You are strong, I would know, and these ventures, as well as your life, are but beginning to blossom.

To my youngest, I leave you heirlooms. I leave you stories, of our past, stories of who you are, stories so you may know the name you are called, that we are called. Tales of encounters even my mind may have forgotten. These heirlooms, cherish and take care, and pass them down. For though they may rust and crack, they house spirit. They house ideas and tensions that will never be seen again, only spoken, with them as vessels. Take care of the art, the books, the pottery. For I know you were always the dreamer. Often drifting and sailing in a sea of thoughts you conjured up. And with your mood, thunder may crackle, or the clouds may part. Find yourself, in your story, your dreams, and tell it. They are yours, and you will overcome.

We all mourned mother’s death. She showed no hesitance in loving us, it was unquestionable. And the following weeks, we signed the paper work and had everything distributed accordingly. I, being the youngest, cherished everything she had done. My older siblings protected me, perhaps for being the only girl, but also out of blood. To them, and to our dear mother, I owed my life. To lose mother, was hard for all of us, but she was the only other woman of the house, she was our head, and without her, there was a period, where we all seemed lost and adrift in our own minds. But this time, none of us were in control.

Still, through life, the many years, my brothers would realize their gifts. It was almost as if mother graced us with something, not in the will, but also there in our inheritance. To my oldest brother, he found success in business. His charisma and charm could find him in or out of any situation. In the off chances those failed him, his money could buy him into or out of any situation. His gift, if I could go and gander, would be amicality. He read people the way a young man on the subway reads daily periodicals from a screen. It was nourishing, in a way, to have such an ability over people as he does.

My older brother, but not oldest, found leadership his inheritance. Those who he crossed could not help but be allured to listen to him earnestly, and assist however they could. The businesses he inherited would grow to make our family a global power. Behind international panels, in front of news covers, was his, or one of our faces. He had fierceness and resolve that we admired and praised. An ingrained leadership that others may have coveted, but could not hope to match.

As for me, my blessing were still my words. These words as I tell the story to you, the story of how gods are born, is my blessing. They may say they don’t have the patience or creativity, but I stay humble. I am not as intrepid or as courageous as my brothers, and I always was the youngest. I respect them very much. My blessing, as I still sometimes get lost in my head, are these thoughts and stories that I then, may give to the world.

How is a god born? To be technical, slowly. They may begin with one worshipper. With no worshipper. But slowly, they may conquer entire cities, countries, continents, and even worlds. There are many gods. Gods of suns, of planets, of rivers, of love and afterlife. There are gods of money, gods of politics. There are gods who lead countries with fascist regimes, and some regard them as the deities they are. There are gods who may control people to die, passionately, for their devotion to the god. Whether in war, whether in protests and coups.

Some of them were first told in books, written in jail cells. Some of these gods were chronicled only by disciples, their reflects on human thought, on governments, on philosophy. Never having picked up a pen themselves, and yet, to be taught and worshipped over the entire planet, centuries after they die. And still, some of them were born from someone else’s book, written as a protest against oppression of humans, the working class, of a world where humans may briefly glimpse equality. These gods. At the beginning, may not have had any followers. But these stories told of them, this story I tell of my brothers, gives birth to much more. After they die, even Jesus died, if their name is remembered, if these stories are recounted, then they will become gods.

These deities we worship. Are they gods amongst men? Or simulacrums, men wearing clever disguises and calling themselves holy. Who are we humans, to say the wiser, to know the difference between a man, and a god.

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jasperwoke · 4 years

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Nervous

Nerves don’t grow back. I have a big scar on my knee. One on my elbow. A lot of very small ones on my face. From mosquitoes, from shaky hands while shaving, from cigarettes I forgot that were lit. You could keep cutting the same place, over and over. But you’d never feel anything after the first time.

It’s not desensitization. Prometheus would be desentized. Every day the eagle comes down and tears his abdomen apart. Every day the eagle would feast and Prometheus would wince. But after the first thousand years, perhaps Prometheus would feel joy instead of pain. To know he is what gives the eagle meaning.

But scars are not like that. Where Prometheus would see his blood spill, where he would think of the fire that he stole where he would watch man build pyres and burn effigies for him, scars hold no importance to anyone but oneself. Sometimes they are shown, still surfacing under skin colored foundation, and they are a sense of pride like intestines to birds of prey.

The epidermis is the first line of defense. There’s many layers, like an onion. But if you peeled away all the layers you’d hit flesh, bone, and eventually the heart. The heart is perhaps the hardest place to bruise. With walls of bone and gates tissue, and walls of apathy and indifference, the heart is very well protected. When your heart gets scarred, it is no ones fault but your own. For opening gates and letting Trojans in. For sleeping soundly at night while they ransack your thoughts and shatter your emotions.

But these scars are different. They’re easily hidden. Behind a smile, no one would know the wiser. Sometimes, even with tears and bloodshot eyes, they still go unaknowledged. Even with your heart on your sleeve, they are seldom noticed. What makes them the most special, is that after the first time, you can still be hurt just like the first. No matter how many times it may heal over, there will always be pain in the next time.

When we trust, it’s out of foolishness. When we love, it is out of courage.

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jasperwoke · 4 years

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Un chien isolé

Trenches. Deep, muddy, trenches. Long enough for all the rats in a city to be lined whisker to tail, and still a few miles left for good measure.

Picture this. It’s been months. Months since anyone has seen their mothers, hugged their children, kissed their lovers, heard their brothers. It’s been months since anyone had tasted the sweetness in a warm cup of saké. Heard blaring car horns and women gasping with updrafts from subway tunnels lifting their summer blouses. Smelled sesame seeds toasting in night markets with warm winds carrying the aromas from vendor to vendor. It’s been months of listening to crossfire, tin bullets eating tin shells. Months of tinnitus from never ending residual shock waves.

The order came to push the borders. Between the two sidelines, where if measured from space, the distance would be unperceivable. But to the warfare of man, meters become miles. There was much hatred from both sides, cursing the western dogs, cursing the eastern rats. But what everyone was scared of the most, was that they themselves were the dogs. Were the ones running stray with no leash, hoping to find an owner to obediently take orders from. They were the vermin, stuck in trenches where even carcasses lay unpicked at. There was no difference on which side of the battle each man fought, in the end, they were the demons that plagued their own sleep. Hoping if they pressed their ears close enough to the barrel, the ringing would drown everything else out.

And they charged. In their past lives, they were brothers, sons, husbands, fathers. In this one, they were rigid silhouettes trying hard to outrun their past lives. The name that hung on loose collars around their neck. With chambers pointed forward, they would only run in one direction. Scared of what lapped at their heels.

And when the fire ceased, when the gun smoke wafted away with gasses of urine soaked rags. We find an artist, who once may have found a promising career as a sculptor, but now paints the battlefield solely in shades of sepia. A portrait of an artist as a young man. And in the same trench, we find a commander. Who’s idea of a leader is one who leads, and who’s idea of a commander is a leader. We find these two men, in the same trench. And with hesitant hands, they lay down their guns. Praying to the demons in the other man.

It would be many more months before two charlatans would stand, arm in arm, in front of a flash camera, and the headlines would read: war is over. Where the front lay, was where the borders would be drawn. Man made contours on man made maps. To the countless few who died for those lines, they would be remembered by rusted dog tags lost in forests nobody would bother searching for. In their death, they would be victors for everyone who fights a war is a victor, but only after the war is over.

They would remain in each others lives. The commander would see the artist exhibit his first gallery. The commander would see his brother in arms marry. He would be the uncle that sends many other fathers to die for their wives. As for the artist, he would frequent the upper echelons of the foreign nation. Welcomed now, not as a stray dog, but as another jester who smiled in front of cameras.

They would spend a good life in correspondence. Though separated by miles, when not separated by meters, the two would no less keep in contact. And through the years, the artists daughter would grow old, and the commander would always shower her with pins and badges that may hold no meaning to a little girl’s imagination, but were very important to adults fighting battles. The artist would always grace the commander with personal commissions, out of appreciation, more than admiration. Through their lives, they would watch as the artists child would have a child of her own. And then, they knew, they were getting old. But just as the demons nip at the heels, the gray hairs only barely graze their heads. To the world, and to themselves, they were still two brothers lost in muddy trenches, isolated from their respective battalions. The commander would keep fighting his wars, the artist would keep carving stone, both in good company.

It was with heavy hearts that the artist’s daughter wrote a letter to the dear commander, informing of her father’s death. He quietly passed away, perhaps too many years of paint fumes. Much deadlier than the ammonia the two lone dogs huffed together on starless nights. The commander was saddened to hear of his brother’s departure; even a lifetime of bloodshed was no match for the tranquil passing of his dearest friend.

Soon after, as the commander made plans to see the funeral of the artist, he received another letter. Written in a penmanship the commander had only grown so accustomed to. Directed solely to him, the artist had written it many years ago, and only wanted his friend to see it after his death. In the letter he wrote of many memories. Hoping that perhaps when the commander grows old too, he could relive their memories, scribbled on a loose journal page. And the artist, at the end, had a request for the commander. His dear brother.

“My dearest Eugene, if you could, please draw me a drawing. For me, but for yourself too, and for those hounds who have died, eyes closed to the thought of their daughter they may never see again.

For the lone dogs, draw them a moon. And under the moon, draw them a house. Draw them a bed, draw them a beautiful woman to keep them company. Draw a big window for the clean, cold room.

Paint a verdant field. One with no trenches. Paint a cliff, paint a flock of birds around me. Paint the life that we all have wanted to live. Paint a mother’s smile, paint a little girl’s laughter.

I do not have a brush that paints isolation, I do not have an eraser to wipe away arguments. But if you do, please draw into each of us, draw into your soldiers and draw into those maps in your office. Draw into us, that we are born together, so let us live together. Even if we will not die together, we will be brothers.”

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jasperwoke · 4 years

Text

Almost no one knew it, but President Serrano had kept the crown he had promised to melt. He’d made a great show of his promise, once. The camera had erotically followed a stream of gold as it ran down a groove. The gems shined from within the flames. This had been victory.

Nobody ever asked President Serrano about why he’d kept the crown. He answered anyway.

“It’s like a personal trophy,” he said to the only other person he’d told the secret to. “I don’t know. I felt I should keep it. It’s funny, it’s ironic, and I know it doesn’t speak to well about me. But it was mine to do with as I pleased.”

“You always do as you please, Mr President,” Buckner said. “That’s what makes you strong. It’s why the people rally for you.”

Serrano held the crown tight in one hand and attempted to fist pump the air. “Melt the crown! Melt the crown!” he repeated, but on the third pump, his shoulder made a snapping sound, and he grimaced with a loud “Ouch!”.

Buckner helped seat the President, and he took the crown and put it down on the coffee table, next to the vodkas and the empty cocktail glasses.

“You know, before all this… before president and everything… there was a woman who used to come at every rally.” Serrano picked up a glass and drank the melted ice-water left at the bottom. “She used to force her way to the front, I think. I don’t know how she did it, it was always so crowded at those rallies. But she always caught my eye, and she always looked so happy to see me.”

“She believed in you, Mr President.” Buckner looked at his joined hands.

“Yeah, but then… I don’t know what happened to her. She’d always hail me with ‘Melt the crown!’, but once the whole melting happened, it’s like she didn’t care about me at all. She didn’t care about the country anymore, or where we were taking it.”

Buckner leaned forward in his seat. The television played images of protestors juxtaposed with rioters throwing molotov cocktails and setting fire to cars and shops.

“How do you change so much?” Serrano asked, looking at Buckner in the eye. “How do you go from being such an ardent believer, an ardent supporter, and you turn into someone who just doesn’t care anymore? It’s as if you’re not the same person anymore. Like you inhabited a shell before, and now… now you’re whatever this shit is going on.”

Serrano waved at the TV as he said that. He knew the newscaster reading out reports of casualties. He knew the man who had put the newscaster in place. He knew the man who’d calculated the figure of casualties. He knew the woman who’d suggested how to calculate that figure for the best impact. He knew the boy who’d determined social media vectors to send that information through.

“Melt the crown,” Serrano grumbled.

“Melt the crown, Mr President,” Buckner said.

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jasperwoke · 4 years

Text

Dull

“You should stop smoking”

“It won’t make me smoke any less”

Evan heard it dulled the senses. The smoking. After enough time all the taste buds on his tongue would be charred like his lungs. He didn’t mind. If all his food tasted like burning tobacco with cheap flavoring. Or even, if all his food tasted like nothing at all. Evan did not plan to stop.

Menthol flavored cigarettes have a distinct sharp flavor. He often thought they were like cough drops for people who wanted to cough. He knew, such a sharp flavor would dull his taste. But he did not know what it did for the mind. If the smoke would permeate and fog his mind, or offer clarity with its obfuscation.

“Evan. You need to get new blades or something. I’d rather kiss your patchy beard than those scars”

“Ingrid, my love, a dull knife sharpens“

“And a sharp knife dulls“

When he was younger, still chasing dreams and always trying to be a step ahead of Ingrid, Evan would always change his blades. He grew up using a straight razor, opting against the store bought layered ones with guards and twisting handles. When anyone first uses a straight razor, it is solely metal and flesh. The metal and flesh never go away, the straight razor will always be just metal against flesh, with no film of cream as an egotistical band-aid for grown men. But when a person starts using a straight razor, they will be cut. The skin is not tough enough to press against such a fine blade. Like baby skin, the most gentle touch may pierce the veil. But eventually, through repeated masochistic tendencies, the skin tightens up, and even the sharpest blade will find it somewhat tedious to cut through the epidermis. And where before, the skin could feel little nicks and scrapes against the cheeks or chin, it would grow desensitized to newer incisions from the same instrument. Sharp blades dull the skin.

When a man grows old enough, Evan learned, especially if the man was a sharp person: his life will grow into monotony, and become dull. If they were prodigious in their juvenescence , then they must be demented in their senectitude. And Evan took the unfortunate blunder of living his youth at large. Celebrating and masquerading and promenading all over streets and society. He prided himself on his creativity, his eloquence, his charisma. And so as he aged, alongside his love Ingrid, he learned that the best experiences in life happen when one is most ill suited to enjoy them. And a dull razor, against his rough skin that could not feel a sharp blade anymore, was the most of a kick he could still get out of life.

“I love you Ingrid”

“I love you too Evan”

“Don’t miss me too much. Don’t get hurt. And don’t come looking for me now.”

It was the night, after many nights not dissimilar from that night, that Evan chose to bid farewell to Ingrid. Evan believed it was a life well lived, and most important to all parties involved, was that it remain a life well lived. Evan and Ingrid talked about this for many years, on when a person should die. Humans, they believed, should have died when they realized they have, in their own power, the ability to die. However, humans with their egotistical band-aids found at the edges of store bought shaving razors, would be too prideful to let such years slip them by, A long life and a short life make all the difference, to the one living it, and no difference, to the one watching.

Evan chose to go through sleeping pills. For, every night, we dance with death in the sheets of our bed, with eyes closed and minds gone. Even though our chests rise and fall, we are no different than those who lay and whose chests do not rise nor fall. Evan wanted to take pills because they numb. They numb the fingers to loose hairs that may keep an itch up at night. They numb the ears to occasional roars of distant sirens on ambulances or fire trucks. They numb the nose to smells of unlit stoves left on or to petrichor of dew on frosted reeds of grass. They dull the mind to being alive, and what better way to feel alive, Evan reassured himself, than to be dead.

I would lie if I said Evan was proven wrong. In the moments were he was cut off from his fleeting world. After his eyes closed but he could still see for those final minutes, his mind was free. No longer processing all that stimulated him. Cut off, all it could think about, was the hole of thoughts and senses that constantly flooded him. And for those few moments, Evan was alive. Though he had been awake for his entire life, and seeing and hearing and feeling and sensing and believing; in those final moments, Evan realized, he had not been living at all. Being tied to every little matter which had nothing to do with him but he made a big deal out of so that they mattered everything to him; he had been no different than a dead man.

Arguably, the most important feeling lay not in Evan, but rather, Ingrid. For Ingrid loved Evan, just as they said to each other. And she had felt nothing but love for him from the moment she was born, and to the moment that she may die, much later than her love Evan. And through the years, she had felt nothing but the routine of their unbounded love for each other and professing care in every way they may think of. Through the years, where Evan always sought experiences and wanted to keep his knife just dull enough to still feel emotions, their monotonous cycle of enamor had desensitized her to the world. Left, in a sensory shell but nowhere, and more importantly, no one for those senses to reach. And as she watch Evan lowered, eyes serenely closed like all the other nights Ingrid saw him lying soundly next to her in bed, Ingrid finally breathed. Breathing in the salt carried by ocean drafts, breathing in salt in tears of little girls with popped balloons, breathing in salt of stained cheap dollar bills wedged under sofa cushions with cigarette butts and loose change and dropped lint. And when Evan finally was gone, when the hole became a mound, Ingrid realized, she finally felt something in her heart. Twangs of pain, and yet, an even more primal and powerful urge to not lay herself down in the fashion her late husband had.

And where years of chasing the climaxes made Evan dull. The years of dull monotony had made Ingrid sharp.

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jasperwoke · 4 years

Text

Bumblefuck

Foray is my forte you say, as you slide into DM’s

and a single double tap is when the slithering begins

they say they are a rat, running between delayed subway tracks

you say you are a pigeon, shitting on timbs and yankee caps

Each to their own, together alone, but conversations coincide

jokes and jovial jargon that the other justified

and mayhaps, perchance, you make an advance

well met on a walk which waltzes into a dance

like sailing in salient cerulean seas

the air, the aura, puts you at ease

straps unclasped

two voices laugh

tensions unravel to tease

when all is stripped

through and through

we worship on our knees

and one night too many there is only static

words spew but the breathing sounds asthmatic

Fighting is too fiery, arguments are easier unsaid

those final fleeting nights are filled with two half empty beds

How I wish this was my story, but like thunder, revelation struck

I don’t live in a city, lovers in my proximity, I live in bumblefuck

Also, fuck bumble

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jasperwoke · 4 years

Text

Dust Diamonds

Every little hare knows how bunnies are made.

Bunnies, are made from dust. Like the loose lint scraped off of scratchy wool sweaters. And from grains of sand brought home by saline sandals. Or from raindrops that shatter against hard concrete floors and the little heart inside the raindrop flies off to find another corpus. From words nestled inside shed skin of erasers. These are what dust bunnies are made of.

And if they are made of many words, erased from withdrawn sketches and torn out sheets of loose leaf and smudged love letters, then they will be the most eloquent bunny in the world of dust. If they are made of many raindrop souls, carried down from the clouds in the sky, they they will be fast bunnies, as fast as the billowing wind in dark thunderous nights where genocide is committed against rain. If the bunnies are made from sand then, as the rabbits say, they will be wise for they will live long and see much. As long as all the sand in their trickling hourglass.

Most importantly, each bunny is made from a dust diamond. It is hard to say what the diamond is. It is much easier to say what it is not. If a bunny loses their diamond, it is like. It is like their feet no longer thump. And if another bunny were to listen with their long ears, they would hear no thump inside the bunny’s chest. It is like, when the bunny speaks there is no sound. It is only because the bunny without a diamond, has no breath. Only when they stand in the gushing wind will their words be able to travel, but then, as soon as their words are blown away, so are they.

They say a bunny can be judged by its cover. All the intertwined pieces of twine, and interlaced bits of lace, and little flecks of flecks, and big scraps of scraps, are for the world to see. And from that you can know how a bunny will be. If they are a kind bunny. If they are a strong bunny. If they are a singer or a dancer. A wordsmith or critic. You will know. But how a bunny is, is not who a bunny is. A bunny may spend their entire lives with another, and know exactly how they are. How the bunny eats, how the bunny sleeps. How their beloved partner may cry or laugh, how light their cadence is when they speak or how heavy their emotions are when they are silent. But never, will another bunny, know who the bunny is.

It is bunny law that they may not steal. Among other laws, handed down by An-Enfrir, the first bunny. The one who befriended all that is not dust, and asked very nicely if they may stay in the world. And all that is not dust thought - briefly - and decided it may be good for little bunnies to breathe life into those things dead that are now dust. And decided that is shall be so. That little bunnies will live through the forgotten fragments of things that once were, and may be remembered for who they will be. But bunnies may not steal. For once something is living, no matter how much the bunny may want, they can not steal life from others that are living. The bunnies must be patient, and wait for their time to receive, but they should not take. An-Enfrir agreed, because dust collects and drifts and the world is not short of dust and no bunny should want more dust than they can gather. Along other laws, for the world of dust.

But bunnies may give. Just as they may receive. Sometimes a bunny may be offered a loose hair. Specks of pollen. An extra grain of sand. And very humbly they oblige, grateful for the offering from that which is not dust. Sometimes a bunny may be offered another’s diamond. And it is courtesy to give theirs back. To know not how, but who, the bunny is. It is common rule, but it is not law, to give a diamond for a diamond.

And there are swift bunnies, and strong bunnies, and wise bunnies, and cunning bunnies. And those that are cunning, if they are clever but not kind, then they may receive without giving. They may build a diamond out of things they gather. Like loose marbles adorned with fallen flaked off glitter. And claim that is the diamond, and unknowingly, a bunny will lose their diamond.

And when the bunny hops, they is no thump. When the bunny wakes, they have no shadow. When they sing they have no voice, when they cry they shed no tears.

They have lost their diamond, and they may never take it back.

#short story

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