The boys come back late an’ loud an’ crashin’ through the front door an’ I think I’d better start on the rolls. I keep tryin’ tae get thum oaff tae bed, as much for mysel as for them. It’s almost midnight and I’d be in bed by now if Finlay hadnae said he was comin’ aeyer. They do sometimes come after a night out, if they cannae get a taxi hame or if they’re hungry or wan ae them’s been sick. Needin’ care. I don’t mind geein’ it. But it gets late and I get cauld sittin’ in just mah goonie. Sometimes they bring girls and play music and the neighbours dinnae like it but I just says tae them whit can ye dae?

Finlay is the first in, smokin’ a cigarette even though I’ve telt him that’s whit took his grandad fae me, and I wasnae losin’ him tae the same fate. I only smoke when I’m drunk, gran! He a’ways says an’ I says that’s enough to dae it lad, just wan’s enough. But I shake my heed at him and he gies me ‘at blue-eyed smile and I cannae help but gie him wan back. Who’s here the night then I ask, as I only recognise three, the others are new. Except, no they’re no, they’re the same yons, but they look older, and they don’t smile back at me when they come in. You ken ma pals gran, Finlay says. We’re meetin’ someone, we just need a place tae meet that’s safe. Well yer aways safe here, my lads. I smile and they struggle tae smile back.

How was the night out then, I ask. Kiss any girls? I poke Finlay in the ribs tae get him tae giggle. At a’ways worked when he wiz little. Now he pulls away. No that kind of night, gran, he says. Why don’t you just go tae bed? It’s late, our friend willnae be here for a wee while. Nonsense, I says. Far’s wantin’ a bacon roll? I’ve goat a full pack o smoked bacon and thon soft rolls ye like, fresh this mornin’! They’re aw silent fer a moment afore wan ae thum mumbles that aye he’d tak wan. Finlay says aye, me an aw. Wan of the lads pipes up as Ah leave the room. Nae butter in mine, thanks. Ah’m happy, happy tae be of use.

As the fat melts in the pan, I hear thum whisperin’. The clinkin’ of glass. Their phones vibratin’. When the bairns were wee, ye couldnae hear yersel think fer aw the beepin’. The crunch o’ thon downloaded tunes comin’ oot yon tiny speakers used tae make my heed split. But noo everyhin’s silent, everyhin’s a secret. He’s gettin’ aulder, ah tell masel. He’s findin’ his ayn way. Away fae you, fae his maw an da’. It’s whit he should be daein’. But it disnae mak it hurt ony less! The pan’s hot now an’ I drap three rashers in, an’ the sound drowns out mah thoughts, an’ the whisperin’, an the vibratin’.

There’s a chap at the door afore I can butter the rolls, and I move tae get it but Finlay’s up and crashin’ intae the livin’ room door afore I can get there, just barrellin’ past me mutterin’ I’ll get it gran, just leave it will ye? I shrink back intae the kitchen, and butter the rolls, all but one, and a tall lad in a dark sweatsuit lurches past the kitchen door. He turns tae look at me fer a moment, and I smile. He cannae be mare’n twenty-five but his eyes look aulder. He doesnae smile back, but turns tae Finlay, heed an shoulders shorter’n him, an says, ‘Why’s she here?’ His accent sounds strange, almost American but no quite.

‘She’s fine, don’t worry,’ Finlay says and closes the sittin’ room door behind them. This time they go even mare quiet, an’ then somewan turns mah tv oan, full blast. Noel Edmonds, Deal or No Deal. The neighbours willnae like ‘at. I’m tryin’ tae no let it affect me, I really am. But I’m worried. Whit if they’re daein’ drugs in there? Will I have tae call the polis? Whit if he ends up in prison, eatin’ that fuckin’ slop they give them! Mah Tommy was in fer five years and he came back aw skin an’ bone.

I turn and there are the rolls, without bacon in thum, so I fill thum an’ then there’s the pan wi’ the fat solidifying in it. So I’m busy noo an’ mah heed’s empty of all it was thinkin’ afore. An’ then aw the lads are awa’, filin’out past mah kitchen door lik’ wee soldiers, without their rolls. That wan is comin’ up at the end, an’ he looks me in the eye. There’s nothin’ there. Nothin’ I could see. Lik he’s behind a closed gate. Finlay comes ben the hoose, an’ looks at me and there’s the same terrible gate in his eyes. Closin’.

I do whit I can; fill the kettle, sit him doon oan the couch. Deal or No Deal’s still blastin’ so I turn it doon. I tell him it’ll all be alright, that we’ll sort it, whitever happens, whitever he’s done. But he turns tae face me an’ I see his faither there. An’ his grandad. An’ he seems so far away, even though he’s sittin’ there. Same thing happened wi’ mah Tommy when he came back. He wisnae the same. I get up and go tae the kitchen, when I don’t know whit tae dae I go tae the kitchen. And there’s the six filled rolls, wan without butter but naebody tae eat them. But I think maybe he’s hungry. Maybe he’d eat them. So I take them ben the house fer Finlay and we sit in silence and watch the telly until I get him tae eat wan, then two. And then I feel better.

Accompaniment: “1 Ghosts I” — Nine Inch Nails

The snacks were mediocre, cheese cubes on toothpicks and jug wine in plastic cups, as was the art, brown smears on white canvas. A man dressed like he belonged in a previous century spoke loud enough for all to hear.

“Pleased to meet you. My name is Count L’Esprit de l’Escalier.” He wore a dark jacket over a white vest with a bow tie. “It is an ancient name of noble heritage. The literal translation from French is ‘spirit of the stairs.’”

The recipient of the count’s attention wiped his hand on khaki slacks before shaking.

“Like, ‘Stairway to Heaven?’ I’m Art, Art Trailerhitch. What do you do for a living? Sell tickets?”

“Of course, my surname is an idiom for coming up with a witty reply too late,” the count continued as if he hadn’t heard Art’s comment. “For example, you’re leaving a party and realize a stinging comeback to some boorish salesman as you’re descending the stairs.”

“Reminds me of when someone threatened to impeach the student council president at West Paducah High. I replied, ‘I’d rather be impeached than impaired.’ Impaired as in pear.” Art punched the count’s shoulder. “Get it?”

“For a living, respiration provides my cells with oxygen and mussels in lemon-butter served with asparagus provides nutrition.”

“Yuck!” Art stuck his tongue out. “Asparagus makes my wife’s pee smell. I need a SCUBA tank just to be in the next room.”

“No doubt, that peach of a response got the student-council president out of a real jam.” The count chuckled.

“My wife avoids jam. Too much sugar. She’s an actress and has to watch her figure.”

“When diving with my lover, an eel serenades us because,” the count winked. “‘That’s Amore.’”

“Yeah, once a moray eel grabs, he never lets go.” Art muttered, “Like this conversation.”

“Sugar-free actress, huh?” The count winked. “Hope she doesn’t develop me-too diabetes.”

“It’s been a pleasure, Count Stairway, but I must go.” Art waved at a woman by the door. “My wife’s giving me that time-to-leave stare.”

Accompaniment: “The Typewriter” — Leroy Anderson

What prompted Betty’s yearning to bear twins? No doubt her experience as a lonely only child was a major factor. No number of dolls, stuffed animals, or playmates made up for the absence of a live-in, flesh-and-blood, sharing-the-same-parents sibling. She was determined that it would be different for her children. Starting in childhood, she visualized herself proudly out for a stroll with them. She would dress them the same. In her mind, the twins, sometimes boys and sometimes girls, but always identical, happily played together and grew up together. They were best friends.

As a young woman, her desire to have twins was so strong that anything roundish made her think of getting pregnant—a watermelon, a moon getting full, even a comma. The Doublemint Gum Commercial theme song periodically popped into her head, “Double your pleasure, double your fun …” In those commercials, identical twins strutted energetically and confidently, smiling broadly, having the time of their lives. Betty imagined her twins to be even happier, having at least triple the fun.

During sex, she sometimes visualized the film that she had seen in the mandatory health class at Lincoln High School in Lincoln, Nebraska. The sperm raced towards the egg. It amazed her how independent, energetic, and goal-driven they were. The fastest did not always get the prize; the thick wall of the egg cell membrane had to be penetrated. The first sperm to accomplish that feat was the winner; he got to deliver his DNA, the genetic payload, which determined 50% of the human to be. The penetration was such an aggressive act; could a woman feel it, the entry through the wall, an explosion at the moment of conception? She would have to pay close attention when her partner was coming inside of her, and her eggs were unprotected by birth control.

Betty majored in English at the University of Illinois, but she was required to take some science classes, including Biology 101. Over 200 students crammed into the sweltering classroom in Otto Kerner Hall. Half of them were pre-med students—cutthroat, driven, adversarial. She made a good-faith effort to master the material, but the course was taught by a second-year graduate student, Paolo Tertzi. His Italian accent was delightfully musical. To Betty, it sounded like food and turned her thoughts to lovemaking. She wasn’t distracted by the course material, because the language barrier blocked any transfer of information about Biology from teacher to student. During the genetics module, she tried to concentrate on Paolo’s slides showing human cells dividing repetitively and complicated family pedigrees, but her thoughts were dominated by activities that would lead to the two of them proudly holding their twin babies while smiling for the camera.

Occasionally, she passed a pregnant co-ed on campus. She wondered about each woman’s backstory: How had they conceived? Was the pregnancy planned? Would the mother be able to continue her education? Was the father supportive and reliable?

Sometimes, Betty would imagine herself to be pregnant, very pregnant, with twins. On those occasions, she would adopt what she imagined to be the walk of a woman in that condition. Her center of gravity and bulk would be markedly altered from her non-pregnant state. She would be slow and cautious, but stable—a powerful mobile fortress. She ignored the stares of passersby, some of whom wondered what medical disorder this improbably ponderous young woman was afflicted with.

Betty married Philip (not Paolo) and started having babies when she was 25 years old. She did not get her wish for identical twins, or even paternal twins, but she did have “Irish Twins”—four children within four years, two boys and two girls. She carefully watched for it, but hadn’t felt the instant of conception any of the four times that it had occurred. Apparently, those events, monumental in consequence, had been silent, surreptitious, and imperceptible.

Accompaniment: “Avril 14th” — Aphex Twin

From May until October each year, I take the old man’s slippers off his slender feet once he is seated on the terrace. This is my only job.

His footwear changes with the weather, but it’s always expensive. Plush corduroy runs down the wales of each soft shoe, sometimes the colour of bordeaux, sometimes loam. His full-grain leather slippers come to a smooth curved point at the toe. These, he reserves for reading the New York Times, settling in on his outdoor sofa’s thick canvas cushions and sipping coffee. His Saturdays are mostly silent.

If a friend is with him on a Wednesday evening, drinking surprisingly cheap white wine while they watch the planes that circle the city before they land, he wears rubber slides, as if he’s trying to relate, as if he’s not part of the bourgeoisie. But the sandals still have the cosmopolitan air of an Adidas collab designed in Paris.

I always line the shoes up right next to him so he can easily access them when he rises. As the man grows older, much older, sometimes I gently and surreptitiously hook my finger into the heel to help him fit them around his feet. We have never spoken, but I feel his gratitude, I think. Our eyes brush gently over, and past, each other’s, as at the end of each evening I retreat into the dark of the balcony and he goes inside to his bed. His nights get longer over the years, as do mine. I always think I am at the ready before him the next day. But I never am. He spends too much of his time awake.

One August morning, when I open the glass-paned door and await his arrival toting a bowl of corn nuts, a cup of tea and a novel about Austria in the nineteenth century, he avoids my gaze. He doesn’t turn to the sofa. Instead, he bends over, removing the slippers himself like some sort of ritual, placing them, perfectly aligned, underneath the table he mounts to stand atop the railing for just a moment, gazing out before he tilts forward and lets his body fall. I don’t look over the edge. I leave his shoes where they lie and, finally, I go inside.

Accompaniment: “An Arc of Doves” — Brian Eno

The music isn’t working on the children tonight. They can’t seem to hear it and if they do their skin isn’t registering any sense of calm. The expected outcome. Her blisters are growing more bulbous, popping with every twitch, even as Mozart’s “The Magic Flute” begs for space. His most recent scar is in motion, crawling up his torn flesh, unzippering as tissue pushes out like a button to press. I’m sure their skin still smells like burning if I were to open the air vents and bend close. Which I won’t. Boundaries.

I take off my gloves and change the record, trying Stephen Glass this time, the sound of the keys a previously tested balm their bodies’ skin usually rushes to be covered in. But with every plink and plonk of delicate fingers, Her lips curl, the epidermis—yes, be specific—sizzling through its layers until I can finally document the moment the pain hits bone.

The final record (I rely on the law of threes) is a Fado album, one with a host of voices, none too famous, all probably dead. Before the first lament can take the needle, the moaning begins. He curls up like a mollusk, shaved scalp to chest, arms bubbling like soup. She runs to him. Curious. Buckling against a chair before She can reach Him, her neck splits at the jugular, a tearing open of flesh that produces a boiling black poison that twists and winks like the face of a boiling tapeworm. She crawls at me. No, don’t tap the glass! I tighten my mask around my face and avert my eyes as She cries tantrum tears. They are not children. Repeat it. They. Are. Not. Her small hand slivers down the glass. Her gym suit filled with the same dark liquid we can’t yet name, that eats Her in two upon contact, her clavicle torn open like a gutted fish. He is shivering now in seizure, His eyes wide and to the ceiling, His limbs stiff and bent in ways a human body should never know. She tilts her head, watching me watching her, and smiles, cankerous rot dripping from her gums. Don’t look her in the eye. Contorting like a crab, she spits teeth at the pane, three, no four including a molar. I sigh into my mask. Fado plays on but no one is listening, any hypothesis of the melodies working to sing the sting to sleep is disproven by His face as it peels off the cheekbones. Blackness pools in His pupils. She struggles to Him, Her head thrown back, dangling unhinged in a crooked dance, Her throat having collapsed. I click my pen, trying to keep time, my own, Hers, His, ours, as I stand behind the glass and watch two children, but not melting. 18721 and 18721 are no longer in play, I write.

Accompaniment: “All These Too, I, I Love” — William Basinski

Actually, Perch isn’t his real name. His real name is Schwartzman, but he thought, given his societal-aspirations, that Schwartzman was too ethnical ... but why Perch? To me, perch is a freshwater fish that I would catch accompanying my father and brother when I was young, before I came to love all living things having watched Brigitte Bardot in “And God Created Woman”, falling in admiration with the sex goddess and following her—par distance—as one of the most famous animal-rights activists.

As a fish, perch is quite alluring; Ed isn’t. He’s short and not good-looking. That he professed to be very rich didn’t put him in the category of being aoyb du bist genug reykh, bistu sheyn aun du kenst aoykh zingen ... handsome and can sing too (an expression I picked up from hanging around my best girlfriend’s Yiddish-speaking grandmother). While Ed wasn’t easy on the eye, his looks didn’t turn you away.

Anyway, looks aside, Ed appeared to be in dire need of a gym. I realize that being impressed by a man’s ... or a woman’s ... physique is a superficial quality; I confess to being shallow in that regard. Can I help it if I’d rather have sex with a guy with a good physique ... not that I ever had even one thought of going to bed with Ed Perch? I’ve never seen him with his clothes off, but my x-ray eyes can undress anyone, even a guy wearing a suit of armor. On a scale from 1-10, Ed’s body rates a 0.

Forget about his acne ... which he tells everyone is freckles. Really? Acne at 67? Imagine kissing someone with a teenage case of acne. Gone are the days when I did ... smooch with a kid with acne, that is. No more. I left that behind when I graduated from high school ... and fortunately didn’t catch a case of it myself! Ed uses makeup to cover it, but as I too use makeup, I know; I can tell and either Ed doesn’t know how to use makeup or he’s using a cheap brand, because his “freckles” have pumps. You can’t disguise acne with makeup and tell people they’re just freckles, because acne has bumps and freckles lie flat ... unless Ed has freckles that look like acne but are really freckles. Anyway, to my eyes, Ed has a teenage case of acne and ought to see a dermatologist.

His clothes. Ed must shop at Abercrombie & Fitch but tells everyone that he has his suits, jackets, and trousers made for him by his London bespoke tailor. What self-respected London tailor would create the clothes that Ed wears—ripped jeans, t-shirts with the letters hanging off the front, belts two inches wide that wrap around and slap Ed’s over-sized ass when he walks, jackets that appear to be stretching to reach his knees with sleeves that cover the knuckle of his thumbs ... . Enough of Ed’s wardrobe. Oh, and I’ve never seen him wear a tie ... and when were shoe buckles “in” for men? Once more, you’ll think me being superficial, but to me, clothes make the man ... and cover a mediocre physique; it’s only when they undress ready for sex ... but then I can always turn off the lights!

Don’t accept a dinner invitation knowing Ed will be seated in your proximity, and never, if you are told in advance that he will be your dinner partner. His table manners are atrocious. He talks with a mouth full of food, and if that isn’t a turn-off, then raise your napkin to prevent being rained on with whatever he has just put in and has been chewing. Years ago, I made the mistake, having recently moved to town, and I was seated across from Ed, whom I had yet to meet. I wore a rather attractive pale blue chiffon dress I had picked up at the Christian Dior boutique on rue Montaigne. By the end of the meal, I looked like I was wearing a red polka dot top. The hostess had served a beetroot salad with the main course. Her tablecloth resembled the top of my pale blue dress, too.

It’s fortunate that Ed doesn’t talk very much, because he has halitosis, and when he does open his mouth, I’ve noticed something akin to food stuck between his teeth ... which are crooked, by the way. I was considering asking my best friend to send him a case of breath freshener ... anonymously, of course ... together with dental floss and the toothpaste that I like, Parodontax, which is made with fluoride, but reconsidered as being too forward and might give Ed the wrong impression ... that I was interested in him ... which I am, otherwise why would I be writing a story about him?

OMG, I just looked at the time. I have to dress. Ed will be here in 30 minutes. He’s taking me to the Ritz for dinner, and, guess what? I bet he’ll propose. I’m shaking, I’m so excited. He’s going to ask me to marry him.

Accompaniment: “The Book of Love” — Magnetic Fields

There were certain postulates in physics that were impossible to reconcile with one another until we realized that light was a lifeform, then everything started to make sense. Subsequent experiments proved the surprising discovery: the way sunlight warms your skin, the way it feels on your face. We were being caressed, the whole time, innumerable loving hands upon our faces and our bodies.

And then we discovered these photonic lifeforms speak to one another. Constantly. Telling each other of their source, of the path they had taken, and what shores they will crash upon at the end of their long journey.

We later learned that only sunlight could communicate.

No light generated by human means was bright enough to become fully conscious.

At first only the sun could be heard, a loud, angry wash of noise that, we later found out, drowned out a symphony of other photon-emitting phenomena in our galaxy.

With improved listening technology, and heard in harmony with its uncountable cosmic choir, the sun sang like a violin playing the most beautiful note you’ve ever heard.

It turns out that what we see as light is instead this communication between photonic lifeforms. They are in constant and ecstatic communion, rubbing themselves — in long noodle-like waves and swarming satiny particles — against the surfaces of the universe, showing them to us, and singing to one another of what they’ve seen: a rock, a meadow, a black asphalt playground, a patch of ice on a distant asteroid, the back of your legs as you lay on the warm sand of the beach.

If only you could hear the sunlight hitting the sand all around you, singing as it ends its long trek through the blackness of space — in a blast of light, and heat, and love.

Accompaniment: “Ladies and Gentlemen We Are Floating in Space” — Spiritualized

“Make sure to get a good picture,” says a woman wearing a bright yellow dress.

The next moment, I feel a warm touch around me. This is what I experience everyday. Another arm wraps around my other shoulder. Everyone wants to bask in my glory, for I am grand and beautiful.

I’m an important memory in many people’s lives. Clothes and hair fluttering in the wind are forever encapsulated on camera, but so am I.

Another moment when I can feel human.

• • •

There’s a new crowd, another typical day. On these warm summer days, everyone is running up to me. Although I’ve grown weary, I still look forward to their warmth.

A hand grips my waist. “I’ll miss her,” says a man wearing sunglasses.

Then, a warm hand rests on my chest. Though it sends a chill down the sharp edges of my form, I feel content. After all, everyone is laughing. They must be delighted to see me.

• • •

A cool breeze rattles the nearby trees. Its melody softens the ache of my lonely days.

But today, footsteps and chatter follow. A group of hardhats and bright colored vests, with tools roaring in their hands. Perhaps everyone is here to take a break and see me.

Yet, these warm thoughts instantly wash away. The world tilts to the side, and I feel the ground underneath me collapse. A loud crack and thud sound fills the air.

Did I really mean anything to anyone, if I was going to be discarded like this?

Where has everyone gone? I don’t know. For my vision is still blurry. Yet, I cannot say I hate this. It reminds me that even for just a second, I am honored they’d share a moment of their lives with me.

• • •

Lying on the ground, I hear a muffle somewhere nearby. It increasingly grows louder, until I recognize the sounds of a cry.

Huh? A hug?

Once a familiar sensation, now brings me confusion. My cold, smooth, rocky skin reacts sensitively to their touch. Maybe I’m all that people have.

Only when raindrops repeatedly fall over me, do I remember. This too, is a moment I can be alive. Though I will never know anyone’s story, I am once again experiencing what I’m so used to. I am there for everyone.

Then, where are their smiling faces at? Where are their tears and touches that once softened my hard body?

Even though it’s been years since my presence graced this land, the question still rings in my mind: Why am I always alone at the end of the day?

Accompaniment: “On the Nature of Daylight” — Max Richter

“Over my dead body,” my father said.

—Did he. And what prompted this outburst?

An electric-blue zoot suit in the window of Rabin’s, the local haberdashery.

—You wanted him to buy it for you?

I had to hammer away at him for ten minutes before he gave in.

—Only ten?

You’re wrong if you think he was a pushover. His many tenants all lived in terror of falling behind in their rent. But his reputation for ruthlessness was sure to suffer if I turned out to be a wimp, so my guess is he was secretly pleased I was bent on dressing like a pachuco for Blue and Gold Day.

—If that’s a holiday, I’ve never noticed it on the calendar.

It wasn’t a holiday, it was what they called the annual awards assembly at Amerigo Vespucci Junior High School.

—Am I right in deducing from your acquisition of a new suit for the occasion that you were up for one of these awards?

Not just any one, the crowning one—which was why he also let me talk him into getting me a sunshine-yellow shirt with a rolled Mr. B collar.

—In duds like that, you must have turned a lot of heads.

Unfortunately, not all of them were female—a discovery I made as soon as I took my seat among the other honorees on the stage.

“How stupid are you? You can’t wear blue or yellow today.”

“I didn’t know!”

Which, though true, only made the Knuckle Boy who’d grabbed me from behind ratchet up his bear hug while two more Knuckle Boys went to work on me from in front.

—I take it these were gang members?

Some said the name was short for Bare Knuckle Boys, others for Brass Knuckle Boys, but, whichever it was, you couldn’t go to the toilet or get on the lunch line at Vespucci without paying them tribute.

—And nobody stopped them from attacking you?

Dr. Funk, the principal, was standing not five feet away, but he didn’t lift a finger because—as I was in the process of learning the hard way—it was traditional on Blue and Gold Day for anyone caught in the school’s official colors to be stripped of the offending items. On top of that, after the Knuckle Boys finished, I wasn’t dragged off into the wings. I had to remain on the stage with my pants down around my ankles—the pegged cuffs had kept them from coming off over my blue suede shoes—till Dr. Funk called on me to rise and be recognized.

—For what?

Best hair.

—That was a category?

The most contested.

—And how did you win it?

By modeling my hairstyle on my father’s Cadillac. That is, I’d had the barber sweep the sides back into fins and the top forward into what you might call a majestic hood ornament.

—It must have been painful for you to have to accept this distinction in your underwear.

Everybody in the auditorium was laughing, but I didn’t care. What mattered to me—all that mattered, I realized—was that I had their attention.

Accompaniment: “96 Tears” — ? and the Mysterians

We used to be a practical people, we Iggnïssians.

But look at us now. Look at the desperate Iggnïssian faces hedcut into the folds of this prospectus. Look at our faces.

We are ready to receive the unworkable, chaotic results our reactive, panic-fueled state shall surely yield.

Look at us, begging for strangers to smuggle gold coins into our town.

I can hear you, future tourists huddled around this trifold, saying, “Desperation is so damn impractical. You bequeath nothingness to no one. Where’s your pragmatism? We heard that you Iggnïssians are a pragmatic people.”

Oh future tourists, undulating and tessellating on the floor of the Express, know that a mere three months ago the most common murmurs of discussion heard echoing down the corridors of our necropolis were the pragmatism of William James.

Future tourists, with ears itching to pop from the head and slither away, now the only murmurs you’ll hear buzzing in our piazzas, our coffee shops, our libraries, our strattolls, our hanging gardens, and our construct edges will be of the stagecraft and the placeholder. But this might be just the kind of excitement you’ve always been looking for.

When was the last time you took a holiday? When was the last time you stole? Have you always known that your destiny was, above all, a placeholder destiny? Have you always known that drawbacks and silver linings would happen to you, but that, in the long run, all of it would be converted into a throne barricading the Exit?

Cup your ear and listen to the murmurs of our pas: “The true is only the expedient in the way of our thinking, just as the ‘right’ is only the expedient in the way of our behavior.”

If then the construct’s etymology could be more or less, the more and the less would have to differ in kind, and then they wouldn’t be the same substance but different ones. And this is why Aristotle said substances varied in kind like numbers, by addition and subtraction.

So we have to find some other way of maintaining the etymology of Placeholder: one which doesn’t involve total destruction of the elements but lets them exist somehow in the Placeholder.

Do you find this existence fascinating?

We Iggnïssiams must admit that we find the true etymology of the Placeholder to be rather fascinating. This truth is a murmur that happens most often in the lobby of the Hostel Iggnïs, which is where you’re more than likely to be staying when your vacation starts.

Will you vacation with us? Will you volunteer for the folk-horror sacrifice, this slow death by throne?

From what Dr. Palimpsest has conditioned us to believe, the word ‘Placeholder’ has its origins in Iggnïs. The word first appeared, within a shroud of smoke and mirrors, in the backstage of our damned stagecraft world. ‘Placeholder’ was the title given by the grandest of all known Demiurges (whose own title is Whom) to the first temporary guard of the Exit.

No one knows where Whom resides and no one knows who gave Whom this title of Whom, by the way. But that’s neither here nor there.

Every once in a while if you cup your ear just right in the center of Iggnïs, you can hear Dr. Palimpsest say, “More than likely Whom and Whom’s supervisor reside on the other side of the Exit. But who cares. The question of who made this world and where they do their conniving doesn’t matter. There is no one to confirm any of this.”

Lest we forget, as Whom is rumored to have once said, “All creatures are the utterance of the personified stagecraft.”

Sure, we could blame Dr. Palimpsest, the Placeholder, and his murmurs of the stagecraft world. We could say, “Yes, these words oozing from this Demiurge have firstly infected and subsequently morphed our Jamesian murmurs, our town flavor so to speak.”

And sure, it is very easy for the murmurs of a collective consciousness to transition from pragmatist freedom to materialist rat trap. For pragmatism begs to be corrupted and contorted.

But we the proud people of Iggnïs refuse to blame a villain, and we refuse to blame our flawed internal system.

We the proud people of Iggnïs take the full blame for the new echoes, those echoes of the stagecraft and the exposed edges of its construct.

Accompaniment: “Circulus” — Kreidler

He stamped the paper with the authority of someone who knew the stamp meant nothing. The man passed the paper to me. I folded it four times and placed it in my breast pocket. As he adjusted his glasses, I could see my reflection in them.

“That paper I gave you, that paper states what a piece of shit you are.”

I rolled up my sleeves.

“You are not only a piece of shit—you also smell like dried urine on dirty underwear,” he said. “That is the testimony of your coworkers.”

“Do I have a say in the matter?”

“You do have a say.”

In that moment, I couldn’t think of anything to say, so I paused as I considered. I came to a conclusion and gathered my composure.

“I’m not sure how to react to this. I mean—I don’t believe I am a piece of shit.” I squared my shoulders and nodded, as if what I said was unanimous in truth. “And besides—where is this coming from? Why do they believe this? This feels so—sudden. Out of the blue, you know?”

The man leaned back in his chair and looked up towards the ceiling. He seemed to be pondering something of tremendous value.

“Listen,” he grimaced. “This is what they believe. I don’t wish to go down the road of why they believe this.”

I studied him. He stared at me.

“Well, okay. I still don’t understand why, though.”

“Yes. And it doesn’t matter,” he smiled. “What you believe is important, just not always. This makes sense to you, correct?” He waved his arms, trying to remove the question mark.

I must’ve appeared quizzical. He went on: “We come into work, then we go home. We do our duties, and so on and so forth. We should always try our very best to coexist with our coworkers; we do not want to create a—how shall I put it, a chink in the armor? That doesn’t sound correct. Maybe, a kink in the hose? Hmmm. Possibly—maybe, a break in the chain? Whatever. We don’t want to disrupt our perfect system, the one we’ve worked so hard to create.”

He didn’t go on. He began writing on another sheet of paper.

“Is this because of this past Tuesday? I called Pam a ‘woman.’ She seemed to dislike that immensely. She gave me a look, do you understand? She has these huge glasses. The look in her eyes—my god, it was dramatic. I’ve learned to use that word behind her back.”

“She has experience in her field.”

“She walks around like she understands what she’s doing. One time, she couldn’t find an item from the stockroom. She couldn’t find where the printer paper was located. So, I found it for her. She became so annoyed that I found it, while she couldn’t find it. I said, ‘You’re welcome,’ as she trudged off.”

“You’re six weeks in. And these complaints are coming from your coworkers, not just Pam.”    

“So, it was from Pam.”

“Not just,” he said. He was still writing on the sheet of paper. “Please, sign here.”

He pointed to a line beneath a handwritten phrase: Employee completely denies being a piece of shit.

“Also, your coworkers mentioned the way you eat your sandwich—that you’re very loud. They would like you to refrain from eating in public.”

Accompaniment: “Libet’s Delay” — The Caretaker

Watching a movie, the title of which does not, for these purposes, concern us, one realizes that it is taking place in one’s own house: one recognizes first the stairs, which have been newly recarpeted; then one recognizes the hallway, the particular rhythm of the doors that line it; one recognizes the living room, with its bare floor and the furniture which had traveled from one’s previous house to this house. The camera pauses. There is a breathlike quality to the paused frame: a very slight inhale and exhale. When one sees, at last, the actor playing the protagonist come into the frame, one feels a sudden relief: but this does not last. Though there is no physical resemblance between actor and his solitary audience member, one realizes, after several minutes, that the actions he is engaged in follow precisely the actions one took oneself earlier this morning, or perhaps yesterday morning, or the morning before that: here the camera is following him into the kitchen, here the camera is observing him grinding the beans for the coffee (a series of pulses in the handheld electronic grinder), here he deposits the ground coffee into the coffee maker, he pours water into the kettle; he walks, in his robe, to the downstairs bathroom, and the camera waits (inhale, exhale) at the closed door while he showers. Were the camera to back away, return to the hallway, make its way up the stairs, one is certain that one would find, asleep in the master bedroom, an actress bearing no resemblance to one’s wife, and yet lying in the position in which one’s wife inevitably sleeps, curled up tight around herself, facing the wall; at the foot of this bed, one would find a crib, inherited from one’s mother, containing a child who does not look like one’s own child but who is wrapped in the same swaddling one wraps one’s child in at night to prevent her from jerking herself awake; backing out again and traveling down the hallway once more, one would find another door leading to another bedroom, in which one would find another child who does not look like one’s son, but who sleeps in the same bed, with the same boat-themed sheets, his pillow held over his head, as though (one thinks) to protect himself from blows; and backing away again, once more into the hallway, moving towards the door that leads to the attic… But now the protagonist, newly showered, is leaving the bathroom; the camera observes him returning to the kitchen, pouring the now-boiling water into the coffee, gathering cups, setting the lid with its plunger on top of the coffee maker. Though the curtains cover the windows, one has the sense of darkness outside, that it is still early enough to be not-quite-morning. While waiting for the coffee to steep, he returns to the bathroom to brush his teeth, to shave, to take the small regiment of pills he takes each day; once again the door is closed; once again the camera waits outside (inhale, exhale). Offscreen, the sound of something moving; the camera backs away from the backroom door, returns to its place in the hallway. Another actor is inside the house; he is making his way up the stairs. One tries, absurdly, to think if one recognizes him. Of course one does not—whoever he is intended to represent, he is an actor, bearing no more resemblance to his referent than the actor playing the protagonist does to his. The camera, satisfied, returns to the bathroom door, to await the protagonist’s emergence. The camera follows the protagonist once more to the kitchen, where he plunges the filter into the steeped coffee and pours two cups. He takes these upstairs, unwittingly (we must assume “unwittingly”) following in the footsteps of the other actor. One watches with a growing sense of unease, certain that the other actor will appear at any moment. The protagonist sets one cup of coffee on the bedside table next to the actress playing his wife, still curled up on herself and apparently asleep; the camera hesitates for a few moments to catch the slight rise and fall of her chest, her shoulder; he takes the other cup with him to the room next to that where the actor playing his son, presumably, is sleeping; he sets the coffee on the desk next to a laptop, which he opens. The camera wavers for a moment, and then, as though exploring an idea that has occurred to it, backs out of the office containing the protagonist and into the upstairs hallway, where it passes the son’s room and advances, once again (once again?) on the door leading to the attic… But then there is a sudden cry. The son has awakened from a dream; his father goes into his room to comfort him. There was a man with a camera, the son says. It is still very early, his father tells him. Go back to sleep. He looked like you, the son says. No, the son says; he didn’t look like you, but I knew he was you. There’s no one here, the father says; go back to sleep, to sleep, my good boy, I love you. But even as he is saying this, the camera is backing away; we must strain to hear his final words; perhaps he did not say “I love you” after all, but something else.

Accompaniment: “Motion Picture Soundtrack” — Radiohead