I have dreamt of an unknown land-a land remote in ulterior time, and alien space not ascertainable; the desert of a long-completed past, upon which has settled the bleak irrevocable silence of infinitude; where all is ruined save the stone of tombs and cenotaphs: and where the sole peoples are the kingless, uncounted tribes of the subterranean dead.
Above this land of my dream, citied with tombs and cenotaphs, a red and smouldering sun maintains a spectral day, in alternation with an ashen moon through the black ether where the stars have long since perished. And through the hush of the consummation of time, above the riven monuments and crumbled records of alien history, flit in the final twilight the mysterious wings of seraphim, sent to fulfill ineffable errands, or confer with demons of the abyss: and black, gigantic angels, newly returned form missions of destruction, pause amid the sepulchers to sift from their gloomy and tremendous vans the pale ashes of annihilated stars.
Janice, I knew I wouldn’t get a chance to talk to you before you arrived at my parent’s house for the holidays. I’m certain you’ll be fine, and I think I’ve covered most of the major areas, but I thought I’d leave you this note just to cover some last-minute sorts of things and because I love you. Awwww. So anyways the big thing I didn’t say before is that you have to be super-careful not to tell Dave that his skull looks weird because he spent a lot of money on that skull and yeah so maybe it’s a little crooked, but crooked is a million times better then when you would be eating dinner and then just whoof his whole forehead would just collapse, so just say it looks good (he really likes the word “distinguished”) but don’t touch it unless he asks you to. If you find yourself trapped in the lower rec room, do not panic: there is a doorway, and you will find it as soon as you stop looking for it. If one of the kids throws you a flashlight, immediately throw it to someone else: Tuxedo the dog has been trained to attack sources of light, and if you don’t get rid of it quickly he’ll clamp onto your hand, and even though it doesn’t hurt much because of the paralyzing toxins in his saliva you’ll end up laid out on the floor for an hour, and take it from me, no one will help you up, that’s part of the game. Oh! there’s a hiding room behind the fridge where you can go if you need to cry or do any drugs; I built it when I was in high school. Sheelee will borrow things from you in order to cast curses, but they’re good curses (unless you get on her bad side, which you really can only do if you fuck up her car), and the glow around you from her spells will get you special seating at the adult’s table, while those lacking the halo end up at the kids and midgets and dogs table. She might also try to sell you used diapers from her latest baby but that baby is not the messiah any more than her other six children were, their spirits all broken, their careers as potential children of god over before they could even get into Menudo. You might think about bringing up the election fiasco as well, but you probably shouldn’t, because Grampy used to challenge George Bush Sr. to a pistol duel every single day for over two years outside the White House due to some sort of obscure CIA paycheck Grampy didn’t get back in 1961 for his role in what he cryptically calls “the Skytop event” until finally one day George agreed to the duel in the Cerulean Room during which Grampy claims there were at least three additional sharpshooters hidden in the room at the time and thus there was no way for him to win the duel, so he’s still got an axe to grind, and he’s not very pleased with George’s son either, so. When the family talks about “the surface world”, they’re just talking about the surrounding suburb. The computer screens in the unused kitchen shows immediate real-time results in Vocal Copyrighting markets, the buying and selling of spoken phonemes by various children whose parents have sold their vocal patterns to advertising and design houses, who use them in different markets depending on the effects their voices have on potential clients and audiences; this is how Askhaf can afford those narcotic eggnog he’ll bust out Christmas Eve. The government did not really pay Lutis to burn his crops. Yes I won the Black Hawk County Rodeo Queen award in ‘86; no there is no Rodeo King award, and when I said Drunk Oly got his final revenge on God with his Satellite Gun, I didn’t realize your folks would get all upset about that, so don’t go all off the handle now. I mean, even if you are getting older, you still got the prettiest tits in the tri-county area and that’s no lie. Supper’s ready, so I should sign off. See you soon.
The act is only relevant so long as it continues. There will be no historical record, she knows, no later rumination on meaning or influence, no school of Actism to perpetuate her attempt beyond the boundary of her skin. Crowds gather, fascinated, each claiming to be there first, the zero witness to an event which seems the locus of identity for the hazy age of the technology of ignorability, the definition which brings everything into focus, but all this will vanish as soon as the act ceases. No one will even remember the absence of this act, the hole it left behind filled with chatter and gossip and cant. Each barb and edge and hook she sewed into the act will fall away, dew on a spiderweb, as soon as she stops.