The attitude present at our first meeting of scholars, doctors and scientists wasn't much more professional than the one outside. A lot of boasting, a lot of egos in the room. In looking back, it had that "too many cooks in the kitchen" feeling. For a lot of those present it was a political affair; a stab at greatness, but I guess there weren't many instances when we weren't trying to get a leg up on the competition. Some of us are better at concealing it than others, though, and those who weren't brought a real sour taste to the room. Considering the shocking nature of the occurrence, it wasn't as though someone had a blueprint developed and waiting in the wing, just waiting for the perfect scientific anomaly to come along. The whole thing just felt very cobbled together, very contentious. It was a strange feeling to be in that room with so many inflated egos and heated words and then to look up at the ceiling, seeing the child being cradled by it's mother.
That being said, the first time I saw the child was quite remarkable. I'd been able to see her on my way in, but like Dr. Kopp stated in his entry it was like seeing a bird in the sky. There was no strange aura or implied phenomenon, the child was just there, visible through the wall in the most ordinary fashion. [This part isn't finished]
Deliberation was strenuous, it's steps flirting with the outskirts of hell. I'm sure the practice is seen in politics as it is in academia all the time, but the fact that it occurs doesn't make it any less ridiculous to behold. Debutantes from our finest Universities to it upon themselves to stand up, take a brief breath of importance and then dive into a big worded, high minded diatribe that was no different from the most hollow celebrity acceptance speeches. No one had half a mind to admit that they had no idea what to do. Instead most had a course, and this plan reflected their own interests as well as it did the child's. I'll confess that there were some amongst us who maintained dignity and served up advice that was malleable as well as practical, things that showed promise for adaptability and differing opinions, but the pickings were slim. Add to this the fact that the most transparent amongst us also happened to be the most belligerent and difficult and you can see how the entire thing quickly deteriorated into a 3 ring circus. My god, what a miserable show.
Our first issue to tackle was that of the naming of the malady, and whether any known records cited a 2nd case of the affliction. Given the attention involved in the issue at hand, we near unanimously decided to go with a name that was non-scientific, something those without jargon-laden minds could understand. The rationale was that if we didn't do this the media would just name the affliction themselves, and that made certain parties in the room (myself included) nervous. Dr. Harry M. Patrick proposed the name "Hypervisibility", and though I thought the name sounded silly I assure you that the others put forward were altogether shameful in comparison. Given the sensitivity of the issue and how things left ambiguous to the masses have the tendency to take on a life of their own in the interim, we moved quickly to get our terminology announced, beating back at least part of the devastating storm that comes with hysteria.
This, from Dr. Harry M. Patrick:
"I had proposed that we call young Angelica's condition "Hypervisibility", a name simplified for the cameras that best conveyed that her condition was essentially similar to the opposite of invisibility. Amongst my peers there was fiery debate of the naming issue, but it was difficult to remain focused as the debate constantly swept toward the nature of the thing...
...and I hate to bring politics into it, but this minor triumph should bring a fair amount of attention to the Ohio State University's science programs, which I feel is attention we deserve.
For the record, Dr. Patrick is most certainly one of those I would count amongst the imbeciles, a thick, balding, sweaty man whose aura of self importance seems to have risen out a need to justify his awful taste in tweed suits. At least that's the way it appears to me. Continuing...
After we'd drown out some of the white noise with the announcement of the condition's name, it was time to hear from the nuclear physicists, contamination experts and other people specializing in whether Angelica's presence was going to cause us to die and whether any inconsistencies were present. On our various flights to San Francisco, we'd each been given a hurried-dossier filled with information on each of the parents, where they'd lived, what they'd eaten, places they'd worked, where they'd traveled. Based on that hastily thrown together information, nothing conclusive had arrived. No exposure to radiation, no harmful pesticides or chemicals, no history of defects in either family.
This, from the father:
"Was I surprised? You're goddamned right I was. I mean, how could I not be? I'm a coal miner, and things had been going pretty crummy so we'd left Virginia and moved in with my parents in San Francisco. I dunno, I'd been thinking about going back to school or something 'cuz the dust was killing me. My dad had been plucked from Virginia to do some corporate work for one of those green energy companies in California, so they made good money, had an extra room and coal felt like it was dying anyway. We were from simple stock and until then we hadn't had nothing too nice I wasn't planning on changing that. I've never believed in having nothing fancy and I sure as hell ain't one to go looking for unnecessary attention. Now Angelica, God bless her, she brought about both those things in our lives. The good Lord saw fit to do it for a reason, but that don't mean there wasn't a sticker shock involved. Back where I'm from there's a phrase, and they say that "It takes all kinds." Well I always held true to that, and it wasn't my place to get in between what God created and what's right and wrong. That's above my paygrade, and I like it that way. Now if you're into causin' harm, that ain't right, but Angelica was just a child, and there wasn't any way she could do anybody harm...
...Now once the news broke, we got all these folks asking about what we been up to, acting as though Kim and me's been rolling through life like simps, not noticing when people see a mealticket. I tell you, people couldn't come around fast enough. People who hadn't ever acted like they were happy to see me in their life couldn't hardly contain their excitement calling me afterwords...
..The media and naysayers can crow all they want, but I'll bet the farm that I was just as surprised as any of them at what our beautiful Angelica was capable of."
The debate on exposure and the nature of Angelica's hypervisibility soon came to center around the possible nature of it all, and whether the effect could last outside her infancy. We weren't sure whether it was a detriment to her system or to the systems of those who came into contact with her, but it seemed as though the condition wasn't contagious given the fact that no one else popped up with it's or any unusual symptoms. There were many amongst us who thought the effects radioactive in nature, but no evidence substantiated that. In running radiation tests, no abnormalities were detected, and there was little reason to disbelieve them. Still, the radiation argument continued, with some posing theories that the child possessed a half-life, and that the condition would eventually dissipate much like nuclear fallout or a common cold. A horrifying number of blood, genetic and altogether too physically-intensive tests had already been conducted on the child giving her a clean sheet of health, but the louder public opinion (not necessarily the majority opinion, though) still persisted in saying that Angelica was a threat to the public.
Amongst this contingency, Dr. Edward Albers, an Astrophysicist out of the University of Texas was amongst the most outspoken.
"I fear this situation isn't breeding a wealth of rationalized thought. There are many amongst us who feel that since the threat of this child cannot be perceived that it is perfectly safe. Lord knows why fools jump to such conclusions in the face of what could be an unimaginable danger. The whole lot of us could wake up tomorrow, hypervisible as the day is long, and how would we remedy that? That's when the dread would really settle in. Then the error of our ways would be made evident.
As it stands, I'd rather not step close to the child, but the nature of our council requires us here. I make the (ignorant as it is) sacrifice in the name of science, but the populace at large has not agreed to any such peril. Never did they agree to their possible contamination, and it's for that reason that I insist on quarantining the child. Wait, watch to see if the affliction spreads. That's when you'll find the controversy in our deeds."
Since the beginning of our meetings, there had been an increasing push to dehumanize little Angelica, to place her in a cage like a dangerous beast. Dr. Albers was not the only voice calling for this to happen, and his was far from the only perspective that sought to justify it. There were those who thought her a possible military weapon, a threat to our national security if our enemies were to capture her and harvest her extraordinary gift for use on our troops, rendering them perfect targets. All this from a simple, gooing infant, barely removed from the womb.
I was thankful that in the sea of scientific scrutiny my research as a psychiatrist and philosopher could come into play. For years, I'd been a leading voice in my field for the operation of faith and humility, the end result being that when science couldn't explain a phenomenon, we admitted to ourselves that we simply did not know. There were those amongst us who claimed my work was half-baked and dangerous, to take our investments out of the furthest reaches of science and instead invest in practicality and communal ties, hoping to build a stronger bond between us all. I felt the people trying to decry my work were similar to those trying to dehumanize Angelica; attempting to treat something as static and lifeless, ignoring it's near-blinding vibrancy.
This wasn't to say I was a strong believer in unexplainable phenomenon, conspiracy theories or a science-fiction fueled version of our universe's function. It just meant that I was more apt to question the value of certain scientific conquests, feeling our willingness to use them as mandate subtracted from an outlet humanity needed for creativity.
Thursday, February 18, 2010
Monday, February 15, 2010
Oldie but goodie pt.1
Even to this day the phenomenon is too much for me, and I'm not really sure whether that's because I view it as a headache or it's just too emotionally exhaustive. I suspect it's a combination of the two. The child was delivered 26 years ago next week, no one in the room at that point having any idea what they were in for. From what I've cobbled together of those first few moments they're pretty much what you would imagine, filled with hysteria, fascination and disbelief.
This, from delivering physician Walter Kopp's personal notes:
"9-28-83: Child born today to parents Roger and Kim Denton, name Angelica. Birth normal, child of consistent weight and measure, initially no physical abnormalities. I was startled when several colleagues burst into the room, doing little more than standing and staring with their jaws agape. The child, Angelica Denton, is visible through walls. I wouldn't believe it had I not stepped down the hall and verified myself. The child is visible to the furthest distances of human sight, like a bird flying in clear blue sky. A panic immediately ensued, the police being called in to protect the child's well-being. It's now 8 hours past delivery; I'm exhausted. I've no doubts about the media circus that will soon arrive."
Charles Watson, patient, in interview:
"I was down a couple rooms from them, pointed directly at the delivery room. I was watching TV, something about sports. I'd broken my leg real damned bad on the job and was watching all the sports I could, pissed as hell at the news that I couldn't play softball that season. All of a sudden I see a baby popping through the goddamned wall, body covered in blood and fluids like some sort of little demon. I fucking lost it man. Pure hysteria. Do you know what that's like? Have you ever seen how ugly a baby is after birth? Shit, man. I thought it was the living end. I've never been the most religious guy, but seeing something like that is like a lightning bolt to your core, you start thinking of all them stories they tell you as a kid about the devil and think you may have screwed the pooch by not going to church a couple times more...
...and the quality of my stay really went downhill after that; good thing I wasn't there for very long. All the staff seemed pissed and overworked, I'm sure it wasn't an easy scene."
Cheryl Rollins, nurse:
"It was the weirdest thing, I can't imagine anything weirder. I don't want to imagine anything weirder. The staff was frazzled for Angelica's stay, but I think it's what happened afterwords that had the impact. As time passed, we realized that this was what would define us. For Dr. Kopps, me, the other people in the room, this event would make it's way into our obituaries. For the people who were in the Hospital at the time, it ruled our social lives for such a long time. The interviews, the TV appearances. People wanted to know us just so they could get close to the phenomenon, get close to the story.
To be honest, it was hell. A lot of the people liked the attention, but I got worn out so quick. You can't imagine the media scrutiny, that feeling you get after being asked the same question over and over and over and over again. Your life becomes a broken record. I applied for a transfer after about 6 months, I couldn't take it. Of course I got it. I wanted out of San Francisco, out of that big city media network, so I applied at __________ hospital in ________, Iowa. They flew me out for the interview, and I could tell from the second I looked them in the eye that they wer just waiting to ask me about Angelica.
I know a lot of people who transferred to other hospitals, none of them lateral moves. There was this magic that surrounded anyone at San Francisco General that day, it gave them this air of medical accomplishment or celebrity for what was essentially a fluke. I'm not saying it wasn't a miracle, but we played no part in what was so amazing about it. It was pure chance. The sensationalism that surrounded it, I suppose it was warranted but I don't think the celebrity by association was. Lord knows none of it ever stopped, though."
Within hours of the birth, notables in various applicable fields were called in for consultation and to determine the degree of research the child was to be subjected to. I'll confess that I had a strong desire to examine and contemplate the nature of the child, but it was more an effort of the academic institution I was at getting me onto that initial list than it was my own expressed desire.
I arrived on the 2nd day, and the scene outside the Hospital was absurd. Media vans and personal vehicles were everywhere, to the point of it affecting the safety of incoming patients. You can't just shut down a hospital overnight, and so the zoo outside just had to be weathered until we, the academically blessed, could go in and figure out a course of action. Police vehicles were stopped in the street with their lights on as the officers stood wherever traffic could flow, trying to direct the circus. Antennae rose up from the broadcast vans like totems to the Gods, all manner of artificial light surrounding an event which was quite real.
Tents were set up for personal use, tropes of the religious coming out in support and condemnation of the child. Their signs bobbed and weaved like the heartbeat of a living cancer, ranging from calling Angelica the "Second coming" and "proof of God's work" to a lecherous satanic creature, proof that God hated "fags", minorities, the federal government, etc. The various groups represented there would scuffle at times, but the police would quickly break them up.
Death threats were already coming in at this point, but that was to be expected. Once the national guard arrived things were more restrained, better managed, but the wake of disbelief and shear strangeness that emanated from the hospital those first few days spread deep into the surrounding area, making it like a Hoover-town that was bereft of common decency or civility.
The bulbs that flashed as I entered the hospital were just awful, my knees knocking and my mind absolutely focused on not letting my legs give out. They'd already devised badges for those allowed entry, some fancy microchip security that went far beyond my very basic understanding of computers. The media and other interested parties (some of them dangerous and most of them untrustworthy) had already been trying to gain entry by dressing in lab coats, delivery uniforms and other predictable forms of espionage. What a scene. I imagine it's what surrounds movie stars and scandal-embroiled politicians, but I've never seen anything like it. Having lived through it's constantly mutating form ever since, I can say with absolute honesty that you have no idea the relief I'd feel if I were never forced to experience it again. It's probably better not to dwell on romantic scenarios like that.
This, from delivering physician Walter Kopp's personal notes:
"9-28-83: Child born today to parents Roger and Kim Denton, name Angelica. Birth normal, child of consistent weight and measure, initially no physical abnormalities. I was startled when several colleagues burst into the room, doing little more than standing and staring with their jaws agape. The child, Angelica Denton, is visible through walls. I wouldn't believe it had I not stepped down the hall and verified myself. The child is visible to the furthest distances of human sight, like a bird flying in clear blue sky. A panic immediately ensued, the police being called in to protect the child's well-being. It's now 8 hours past delivery; I'm exhausted. I've no doubts about the media circus that will soon arrive."
Charles Watson, patient, in interview:
"I was down a couple rooms from them, pointed directly at the delivery room. I was watching TV, something about sports. I'd broken my leg real damned bad on the job and was watching all the sports I could, pissed as hell at the news that I couldn't play softball that season. All of a sudden I see a baby popping through the goddamned wall, body covered in blood and fluids like some sort of little demon. I fucking lost it man. Pure hysteria. Do you know what that's like? Have you ever seen how ugly a baby is after birth? Shit, man. I thought it was the living end. I've never been the most religious guy, but seeing something like that is like a lightning bolt to your core, you start thinking of all them stories they tell you as a kid about the devil and think you may have screwed the pooch by not going to church a couple times more...
...and the quality of my stay really went downhill after that; good thing I wasn't there for very long. All the staff seemed pissed and overworked, I'm sure it wasn't an easy scene."
Cheryl Rollins, nurse:
"It was the weirdest thing, I can't imagine anything weirder. I don't want to imagine anything weirder. The staff was frazzled for Angelica's stay, but I think it's what happened afterwords that had the impact. As time passed, we realized that this was what would define us. For Dr. Kopps, me, the other people in the room, this event would make it's way into our obituaries. For the people who were in the Hospital at the time, it ruled our social lives for such a long time. The interviews, the TV appearances. People wanted to know us just so they could get close to the phenomenon, get close to the story.
To be honest, it was hell. A lot of the people liked the attention, but I got worn out so quick. You can't imagine the media scrutiny, that feeling you get after being asked the same question over and over and over and over again. Your life becomes a broken record. I applied for a transfer after about 6 months, I couldn't take it. Of course I got it. I wanted out of San Francisco, out of that big city media network, so I applied at __________ hospital in ________, Iowa. They flew me out for the interview, and I could tell from the second I looked them in the eye that they wer just waiting to ask me about Angelica.
I know a lot of people who transferred to other hospitals, none of them lateral moves. There was this magic that surrounded anyone at San Francisco General that day, it gave them this air of medical accomplishment or celebrity for what was essentially a fluke. I'm not saying it wasn't a miracle, but we played no part in what was so amazing about it. It was pure chance. The sensationalism that surrounded it, I suppose it was warranted but I don't think the celebrity by association was. Lord knows none of it ever stopped, though."
Within hours of the birth, notables in various applicable fields were called in for consultation and to determine the degree of research the child was to be subjected to. I'll confess that I had a strong desire to examine and contemplate the nature of the child, but it was more an effort of the academic institution I was at getting me onto that initial list than it was my own expressed desire.
I arrived on the 2nd day, and the scene outside the Hospital was absurd. Media vans and personal vehicles were everywhere, to the point of it affecting the safety of incoming patients. You can't just shut down a hospital overnight, and so the zoo outside just had to be weathered until we, the academically blessed, could go in and figure out a course of action. Police vehicles were stopped in the street with their lights on as the officers stood wherever traffic could flow, trying to direct the circus. Antennae rose up from the broadcast vans like totems to the Gods, all manner of artificial light surrounding an event which was quite real.
Tents were set up for personal use, tropes of the religious coming out in support and condemnation of the child. Their signs bobbed and weaved like the heartbeat of a living cancer, ranging from calling Angelica the "Second coming" and "proof of God's work" to a lecherous satanic creature, proof that God hated "fags", minorities, the federal government, etc. The various groups represented there would scuffle at times, but the police would quickly break them up.
Death threats were already coming in at this point, but that was to be expected. Once the national guard arrived things were more restrained, better managed, but the wake of disbelief and shear strangeness that emanated from the hospital those first few days spread deep into the surrounding area, making it like a Hoover-town that was bereft of common decency or civility.
The bulbs that flashed as I entered the hospital were just awful, my knees knocking and my mind absolutely focused on not letting my legs give out. They'd already devised badges for those allowed entry, some fancy microchip security that went far beyond my very basic understanding of computers. The media and other interested parties (some of them dangerous and most of them untrustworthy) had already been trying to gain entry by dressing in lab coats, delivery uniforms and other predictable forms of espionage. What a scene. I imagine it's what surrounds movie stars and scandal-embroiled politicians, but I've never seen anything like it. Having lived through it's constantly mutating form ever since, I can say with absolute honesty that you have no idea the relief I'd feel if I were never forced to experience it again. It's probably better not to dwell on romantic scenarios like that.
Friday, February 12, 2010
2-9-10
It wasn't something I could hide. It wasn't one of those emotions that bent over backwards for the world, the real world, the social world, knowing that it's presence brought with it difficulties to put it lightly, searing pains in the ass to put it realistically. Regardless of my internal struggle against it's manifestation, the emotion ran within me like a wildfire long past the point of control. This was it. I could feel it in every beat of my motherfucking heart and playing at the prickliest points of my veins, begging me to dig my fingernails in and tear it out like a savage fucking beast.
It got worse the more he spoke, each heartbeat a damning premonition for the call to war. I tried to keep it in, bottle it up, but it was there, boiling over the top and my face must've read it like a fucking children's story. I could hear the narrator of my actions, that man who stood outside my experience and judged me how I wished to be judged, his running commentary devoted to me ruining everything. Think of Luke Skywalker, I thought. He was right! I'm endangering the mission, I shouldn't have come here. At that moment, I could see biblical sized flames rising up between me and the press corps, my anger seething and their eyes locked on Jance like children watching their father do something he's good at.
Astronaut Jance Sanders. The motherfucker. The prick who wouldn't go away from me, the one who invoked and fanned this desperate flame of hatred within me. To tabulate or express how my hatres for Sanders existed in this realm, how such an all-consuming passion couldn't bleed through onto a metaphysical or eternal realm better suited for it's epic nature is an impossibility. I'd early found that any attempt to express the emotion in relative terms fell woefully short, to the point where I'm honestly embarrassed at what I've laid out here and how it's lacking. Touching on it felt like a broken record and a record that intended to stay that way, so I'd never invested much more into it outside of that. All that happened was this emotional throb which would activate once touched upon, driving me nuts and calling forth some very creative uses of obscenities.
Other people told me I was overreacting -which was a point so obvious that I hated it, too- and would try to outline some of his finer points. Yea, Jance is arrogant but he's also ______. You shouldn't be so rough on him, he's very ________ once you get to know him. Utter bullshit. Complete and utter bullshit. I knew Jance Sanders, and the man was a handsome, lily-sweet tounged pile of fucking dogshit. Whoever the idiot was who thought that "just talking it out" would work needed to go back to the realm of hell that hope and equality had been brought from to distract from getting real work done. This was well beyond the pale, and in that moment it was set in stone: one of us had to die.
And so as my fist cruised toward his face, an underhanded technique whose deviance brough a smile to my face, I thought of these and other things, the fabled epic that was Jance v. Clark, an operetta whose notes would imminently be played out as grizzed grunts and pain, oohs and aahs from the peanut gallery, and that everlasting stunned silence by those most surprised by the fracas.
My punch connected and his head lunged back crooked, like one of those doors in a restaurant that snaps back with vigor. There was blood on my face and stars in my eyes and it hit me: Jance had headbutted me. The motherfucker had headbutted me! Whatever composure I'd had left was quickly gone, replaced by a carnal instinct to win no matter what. We tumbled, we fumbled, we screamed until our eyes wanted to pop our of our faces. There was blood everywhere, blood and a crowd that looked like it wasn't very sure it actually wanted to be witnessing this. I panted heavy, my head resting back on the linoleum.
* * *
The Chief slapped the newspaper down on his desk hard, a predictable response.
"I don't know if it's possible for me to express my disappointment right now" he began, sinking into that comfy leather chair.
"Jesus Boss," Sanders chimed in "You're not going to give us one of these 'Dad' moments, are you?" I laughed.
"A 'Dad' moment, Sanders? Are you aware of the clusterfuck we're in here? A month out from our mission to Mars and fighting in a fucking press conference? Could you have possibly picked a worse time or place? And Clark, a sucker punch? Was there a more underhanded, unstoic way you could've conveyed to Sanders that you were tired of hearing him talk?"
"I don't know what to say," I began "The opportunity presented itself, and I had to take it."
"Don't give me that shit, Clark"
"I'm serious. The conflict between Sanders and me has graduated to another level, one in which only the most spectacular setting will do."
"It's true sir"
"There's no fighting it, it's like a distant storm always on the horizon. There no rhyme or reason to it, it simply has to be dealt with once it reaches a certain magnitude. Sanders will agree with me."
"Again, that's true."
"You boys were going after each other like this life wasn't enough; you wanted to make sure the other was dead for the afterlife too. How am I supposed to reconcile this with the public, the press, the investors, the billions of dollars I've frittered away on you two pieces of shit?"
"Boss, the problems between Clark and me were well documented long before we were chosen for the Mars mission. It wasn't our fault you guys chose us as guinea pigs to demonstrate how well the program was operating now."
"The problem, Sanders, is that the program is not operating well right now. You and Clark just drove a hyper-thrusted, diamond tipped titanium nail into the coffin of that discussion. Now we have to find some way to run damage control and convince everyone and their mother that this 'enemies' bullshit doesn't spell the end of the mission."
"Oh but sir, Sanders and I aren't enemies. We know each other far too well to just be enemies. We're nemeses. To call us anything less cheapens the conflict." Sanders chuckled.
"You laugh at that, Sanders? You sick fuck?"
"A conflict like the one between Clark and me operates beyond the confines of simple animosity. I laugh because it's true, and I want to see his reaction. I want to see his reactions to everything, to perfectly understand them and his mannerisms. Those are the moments where his defenses are at their lowest, and I can see who he really is. Clark is like an emotional jungle gym that I want to crawl through every last square inch of so I can best destroy him. To be standoffish is to waste my opportunities for his complete and utter destruction. Take the papers, for instance. Every cover photo proudly displays the cheap-shot. No one could think the insult of this will sit lightly with me."
Maybe the Chief's anger subsided, but I suspect he actually felt it insignificant compared to the rivalry between Sanders and me. Shortly thereafter we shook his hand and left him stewing in his own juices, the hallway outside his office opening up like the dawning of a brand new day.
Yea, so maybe I was somewhat melodramatic in my previous comments on Sanders, but I'd say that more than anything they just needed some fine tuning. It was a struggle worthy of nemesesdom, but maybe not like a wildfire and more like an earthquake. Much more unpredictable, much more powerful. A wildfire is potent, but it has it's parameters, areas where it can't strike, a slowness which brings about dread but not necessarily outright shock.
An earthquake, however, possesses a terror and ability to rend the Earth in it's image that better satiated my feelings toward Jance. It wasn't that I wanted his forest burnt down, I wanted it wholly consumed, pulled into the maw of the Earth and ripped and tortured in painful and permanent ways which a wildfire couldn't imagine. Maybe after he was consumed I'd leave a nice memorial to commemorate the conquest, but that's beside the point. To find an outlet who can so fully accommodate one's hatred, dark passions and creative genius is a gift, and the appreciation floats somewhere outside the animosity involved. It's like an alcoholic finding the perfect beer mug: You appreciate it being around even though it plays such a central role in what destroys you. Jance Sanders is merely a vessel, it's his ideas I want to eradicate.
It got worse the more he spoke, each heartbeat a damning premonition for the call to war. I tried to keep it in, bottle it up, but it was there, boiling over the top and my face must've read it like a fucking children's story. I could hear the narrator of my actions, that man who stood outside my experience and judged me how I wished to be judged, his running commentary devoted to me ruining everything. Think of Luke Skywalker, I thought. He was right! I'm endangering the mission, I shouldn't have come here. At that moment, I could see biblical sized flames rising up between me and the press corps, my anger seething and their eyes locked on Jance like children watching their father do something he's good at.
Astronaut Jance Sanders. The motherfucker. The prick who wouldn't go away from me, the one who invoked and fanned this desperate flame of hatred within me. To tabulate or express how my hatres for Sanders existed in this realm, how such an all-consuming passion couldn't bleed through onto a metaphysical or eternal realm better suited for it's epic nature is an impossibility. I'd early found that any attempt to express the emotion in relative terms fell woefully short, to the point where I'm honestly embarrassed at what I've laid out here and how it's lacking. Touching on it felt like a broken record and a record that intended to stay that way, so I'd never invested much more into it outside of that. All that happened was this emotional throb which would activate once touched upon, driving me nuts and calling forth some very creative uses of obscenities.
Other people told me I was overreacting -which was a point so obvious that I hated it, too- and would try to outline some of his finer points. Yea, Jance is arrogant but he's also ______. You shouldn't be so rough on him, he's very ________ once you get to know him. Utter bullshit. Complete and utter bullshit. I knew Jance Sanders, and the man was a handsome, lily-sweet tounged pile of fucking dogshit. Whoever the idiot was who thought that "just talking it out" would work needed to go back to the realm of hell that hope and equality had been brought from to distract from getting real work done. This was well beyond the pale, and in that moment it was set in stone: one of us had to die.
And so as my fist cruised toward his face, an underhanded technique whose deviance brough a smile to my face, I thought of these and other things, the fabled epic that was Jance v. Clark, an operetta whose notes would imminently be played out as grizzed grunts and pain, oohs and aahs from the peanut gallery, and that everlasting stunned silence by those most surprised by the fracas.
My punch connected and his head lunged back crooked, like one of those doors in a restaurant that snaps back with vigor. There was blood on my face and stars in my eyes and it hit me: Jance had headbutted me. The motherfucker had headbutted me! Whatever composure I'd had left was quickly gone, replaced by a carnal instinct to win no matter what. We tumbled, we fumbled, we screamed until our eyes wanted to pop our of our faces. There was blood everywhere, blood and a crowd that looked like it wasn't very sure it actually wanted to be witnessing this. I panted heavy, my head resting back on the linoleum.
* * *
The Chief slapped the newspaper down on his desk hard, a predictable response.
"I don't know if it's possible for me to express my disappointment right now" he began, sinking into that comfy leather chair.
"Jesus Boss," Sanders chimed in "You're not going to give us one of these 'Dad' moments, are you?" I laughed.
"A 'Dad' moment, Sanders? Are you aware of the clusterfuck we're in here? A month out from our mission to Mars and fighting in a fucking press conference? Could you have possibly picked a worse time or place? And Clark, a sucker punch? Was there a more underhanded, unstoic way you could've conveyed to Sanders that you were tired of hearing him talk?"
"I don't know what to say," I began "The opportunity presented itself, and I had to take it."
"Don't give me that shit, Clark"
"I'm serious. The conflict between Sanders and me has graduated to another level, one in which only the most spectacular setting will do."
"It's true sir"
"There's no fighting it, it's like a distant storm always on the horizon. There no rhyme or reason to it, it simply has to be dealt with once it reaches a certain magnitude. Sanders will agree with me."
"Again, that's true."
"You boys were going after each other like this life wasn't enough; you wanted to make sure the other was dead for the afterlife too. How am I supposed to reconcile this with the public, the press, the investors, the billions of dollars I've frittered away on you two pieces of shit?"
"Boss, the problems between Clark and me were well documented long before we were chosen for the Mars mission. It wasn't our fault you guys chose us as guinea pigs to demonstrate how well the program was operating now."
"The problem, Sanders, is that the program is not operating well right now. You and Clark just drove a hyper-thrusted, diamond tipped titanium nail into the coffin of that discussion. Now we have to find some way to run damage control and convince everyone and their mother that this 'enemies' bullshit doesn't spell the end of the mission."
"Oh but sir, Sanders and I aren't enemies. We know each other far too well to just be enemies. We're nemeses. To call us anything less cheapens the conflict." Sanders chuckled.
"You laugh at that, Sanders? You sick fuck?"
"A conflict like the one between Clark and me operates beyond the confines of simple animosity. I laugh because it's true, and I want to see his reaction. I want to see his reactions to everything, to perfectly understand them and his mannerisms. Those are the moments where his defenses are at their lowest, and I can see who he really is. Clark is like an emotional jungle gym that I want to crawl through every last square inch of so I can best destroy him. To be standoffish is to waste my opportunities for his complete and utter destruction. Take the papers, for instance. Every cover photo proudly displays the cheap-shot. No one could think the insult of this will sit lightly with me."
Maybe the Chief's anger subsided, but I suspect he actually felt it insignificant compared to the rivalry between Sanders and me. Shortly thereafter we shook his hand and left him stewing in his own juices, the hallway outside his office opening up like the dawning of a brand new day.
Yea, so maybe I was somewhat melodramatic in my previous comments on Sanders, but I'd say that more than anything they just needed some fine tuning. It was a struggle worthy of nemesesdom, but maybe not like a wildfire and more like an earthquake. Much more unpredictable, much more powerful. A wildfire is potent, but it has it's parameters, areas where it can't strike, a slowness which brings about dread but not necessarily outright shock.
An earthquake, however, possesses a terror and ability to rend the Earth in it's image that better satiated my feelings toward Jance. It wasn't that I wanted his forest burnt down, I wanted it wholly consumed, pulled into the maw of the Earth and ripped and tortured in painful and permanent ways which a wildfire couldn't imagine. Maybe after he was consumed I'd leave a nice memorial to commemorate the conquest, but that's beside the point. To find an outlet who can so fully accommodate one's hatred, dark passions and creative genius is a gift, and the appreciation floats somewhere outside the animosity involved. It's like an alcoholic finding the perfect beer mug: You appreciate it being around even though it plays such a central role in what destroys you. Jance Sanders is merely a vessel, it's his ideas I want to eradicate.
A Preface
Apparently blogspot won't let me add an "about" link to this page, so I'm going to have to (very annoyingly) add this to the entries and hope that anyone actually interested in this thing (probably just myself) will read this to understand what I'm attempting here.
This plain Jane blog is an attempt for me to get more of the creative writing I do out there, and not so much as a polished work but as a congregate idea (hence the name "An Ugly Avalanche"), something I can look back on and understand through a lens of girth and example. I'm not sure how this thing's going to evolve, so at first I'm going to begin by posting what I have of ideas (titled by date) and adding to them if they suit my fancy. What I'm hoping is to develop more taut, complete short fiction, but as it stands I figure I should just make an effort to make an effort, and a public forum seems like it will better compel me to continue this if for no other reason than guilt.
Another reason I wanted to use a blog to do this rather than just typing it for my personal records is that I would really like this to be a communal effort, something where I can get multiple people contributing and have us sharing ideas, working off each others' ideas and playing games with how the fiction here turns out.
There's a period of interest, digestion and evolution in ideas, and I'm hoping to find how I reflect that by working more regularly on this blog. Whatever, I guess it's better to act than sit here and babble on, so let the great experiment begin!!!!
This plain Jane blog is an attempt for me to get more of the creative writing I do out there, and not so much as a polished work but as a congregate idea (hence the name "An Ugly Avalanche"), something I can look back on and understand through a lens of girth and example. I'm not sure how this thing's going to evolve, so at first I'm going to begin by posting what I have of ideas (titled by date) and adding to them if they suit my fancy. What I'm hoping is to develop more taut, complete short fiction, but as it stands I figure I should just make an effort to make an effort, and a public forum seems like it will better compel me to continue this if for no other reason than guilt.
Another reason I wanted to use a blog to do this rather than just typing it for my personal records is that I would really like this to be a communal effort, something where I can get multiple people contributing and have us sharing ideas, working off each others' ideas and playing games with how the fiction here turns out.
There's a period of interest, digestion and evolution in ideas, and I'm hoping to find how I reflect that by working more regularly on this blog. Whatever, I guess it's better to act than sit here and babble on, so let the great experiment begin!!!!
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