Cosmogony

And the cosmos, which was born first in shades of bright red, then darker red, then purple, then near-black, finally fawn buried under layers of atmosphere, was split in two, because it wouldn't fit pretty on a map all at once;

and each half bled from a great stone pot filled with matchsticks and potent roots;

and they say, if one overturns the pot from which the stars of two skies flow, each half will invert itself, and the cosmos will take the form of a giant cuttlefish, and all its parts and processes will be that of the cuttlefish.

I

Sometimes I think I want this smell to linger on me forever. In context, this though is so absurd that I must laugh. Maybe that is why I do it. Maybe that is why it is so absurdly beautiful to me. "Before it had a name"--that is the phrase of interest.

II

Every time I try to use words like 'health,' 'normal,' or 'truth,' something goes wrong. Something bitters in their speaking--or yelling, as I sometimes do before I can remember not-to-do. I think I will stop trying to use them, as if they are things that existed in this world.

III

There are many songs in my Grooveshark I no longer listen to, or cannot, at least, without infecting the organs with a certain strangeness. In Morel, the recording of his hand cost the criminal his original limb; perhaps, unintentionally, I have left too much beat in another sort of beat, and now the sound, played over, confuses and confounds the original.

The point of interest for me is that this has never happened with a classical piece. It is only songs of vox that confound the fox.

Or dog.

IV

It is not that it is any better here than there; it is just that...that my dreams are fuller. What is a zombie there is allowed to be a vampire, or a ghost--something whole--here. There are dreams that are so pleasant that one wakes unsatisfied; there are dreams so terrible that to wake is pleasure. And there are, between these, leaning toward the first, dreams that are quite impossibly pleasurable by every rule of the waking world (that is, the same arrangement of artifacts would not evoke the same response), so that one wakes with a strange, concave satisfaction--the knowledge that these are the closest one will come to living such things, and so one may count them as close to living as they should like, and it is no trouble at all if you are the only one to believe in whatever distance is chosen. I am not afraid to let these things live on. Not at all.

V

I am a competitor. I am a sore looser. I am sick of my lack of critical rigor lately. SLUGGISH FIRE ROOT: I have grown old and young again and am determined now to do everything by your hungry laws. I am sick of stupid shit and I want a godfucking drink.

Wait

In the corner of the enclosure there is a hole.

We cannot say how long it has been here, because we have until now mistaken it for one of the entrances to the tunnel system.

It is wandered to and stared into; we are sure it is not a well--there is not enough water here for that. The occasional flash flood may fill it, but whatever gathers soaks quickly back into the thirsty dirt.

Whatever it is, it has lost its function. Or else, this is its function, though we cannot possibly see how. No--we are certain there must be some part withheld. It is in the tensing of the limbs, and then the resting of them when they stiffen. There is a waiting. Sometimes, hands clasped at the edge, it almost seems as if the wait is for a nonexistent (or endlessly patient) god. Accounts vary as to whether the hands are clasped in prayer or wrung together, but these gestures (and their attributed meanings) exist outside of quarantine. Well aware of the distortions that occur within the test field, we try to avoid such quick connections and remember that we are foreigners here. What is initially recognizable are remnants, only, here, and from there, our study must build blindly.

CONFI%#@&^D ENT%!

17.17

F i v e 7 C h o r d

S w e a t b r o w n f r u i t

[ s i c ][sic]

Behavior #21

She abruptly abandons whatever she is doing, wherever she is doing it, and walks fourteen measured paces forward. At the end of fourteen paces, if she is able to complete them, she begins again, from scratch, the task she'd left behind.

But this only when she completes the steps, and this only a meager 30% of the instances we have observed; it should be noted that since observation of this particular behavior began, this percentage has decreased substantially. More often than not, given the point of origin, she will run into the desk or a wall before completing the set. This is when the behavior we are most interested in emerges.

Rather than turning to redirect or retrace her steps that way, she will walk backwards, exactly as she came. Her pace is still measured, but quicker, and she exceeds fourteen paces almost every time--indeed, the only things that stop her are the cell walls or, in those cases when less than fourteen paces are recorded, the tunnel outlets. Often, in this backtracking, she steps on and damages the task she departed from. Once stopped, by wall or outlet, she sits and, rather than restarting her task, sits only. This goes on for some time. On those occasions when she faces the camp, it has been observed that her eyes are closed; the only sign that she is both alive and awake is the sound of her breath, which is too pronounced for sleep.

In these instances, the task that was abandoned is rarely taken up ever again, perhaps suggesting (very tentatively) that the link between the task behaviors and the pacing behaviors is not arbitrary. If this is true, then those tasks that are abandoned are those that do not function; those that are returned to must be those that prove worthy of further investment and work. It is possible that these same tasks have later been tracked over and scrapped when their potential has been exhausted; as the pacing was expressed to be the behavior of interest, records pertaining to the tasks have been kept brief. Perhaps this fledgling link will encourage more study in that direction.

CONFISCATED ENTRY

12.12.

i t i s l i k e b r e a t h i n g i n t i m e

e a c h b r e a t h

a c e n t u r y

Bets

Private journal

My colleagues have begun taking bets on which part of some poor animal will be found first here in Quarantine. The head of a hare? Slashed coyote ribs? They are good men, really, and I know none of them would let such trivial thoughts interfere with their work. They are bored; that is all. Still, their conduct makes me uneasy. Boredom leads to a strange sort of desperation; have they not observed this themselves?

Not one of them dares to bet on the sleepers, those humans that wander outside the enclosure. I see the thought in their eyes, but it goes unspoken. Forbidden. Instead, they bet the life and limbs of the desert animals, perhaps in the hope that her tastes, at least, have retained that particular refinement we will call human.

Today, as I am sure has been recorded, blood was found. I wonder if they now curse even those thoughts that went unspoken.

Artifacts

One crumpled-up carton

Four cans, four more cans

A half-empty packet of tawny granules

Two blankets, tied together

The empty impression of an evergreen

Seven bits of foil, some smashed into a ball, some intact

These are the things we have found around the outlets of the tunnels, lately. Today we found blood near the fourth corner, where the desk is wedged. It is dark, dried, and makes a long strip from the edge of the desk leg to the center of the enclosure, about a foot in length. It is approximately four inches from the wall. The subject bears no injury, and no other source has been found. The sleepers come and go as before. We will continue watching the tunnels with special interest.

Hypodermic

The enclosure is not terribly large, but we would not call it small, either; it is the sort of average size that always grows when one feels small and shrinks when one feels large and restless. Erring on the quaint side, perhaps. You must understand how astounding it was, then, that in such a place, we should find a network of tunnels. They took her five days to make. The dirt is packed tight, but even still, they are so close to the surface it is a wonder they do not cave in. Some of them must go quite deep, and we suspect some empty into small rooms, for we have witnessed the disappearance of a good portion of the enclosure's objects and furnishings and where could they have gone but into the tunnels? We do not consider any of this too peculiar in light of the arid climate here.

But here is the strange thing:

As far as can be told, the tunnels do not seem to extend further than the walls of the enclosure. The walls are constructed above ground, so there is no reason they should hinder the underground network's extension; indeed, it would be difficult to ascertain these boundaries once one began digging, I feel. But we have only ever seen entry points within the enclosure (in the interest of variable control, we have researchers posted quite far out along the landscape), an sometimes, when it has not rained for some time and the soil grows brittle and dry, we hear her scrapping about the perimeter, as she often does, though these times, unseen.

We cannot say whether there is something that inhibits her leaving or if she chooses not to leave. These are perhaps not mutually exclusive.

Further, we cannot yet discern the purpose of the tunnels, unless it is something related to the removal of the sight of her (but we are certain she does not know she is being watched), or the shifting and moving of things in the enclosure.

ju ju be

jute lipped

weather brother

chestnut woodfur wedged against

fingernail, dried blood

rust cracked thumb,

ash pushed belly

this, your bondage

this, your season

stalwart

bridgeless

brain

hush now while I grow yah a name

The Medicine Cabinet

In the enclosure there is a medicine cabinet.

In the medicine cabinet there are: two bottles, one orange, one green; a piece of wet cloth; and a three day old mirror.

How do we know it is a three day old mirror?

Because it does not function as a one or two day mirror. But perhaps I should say, instead, 'a mirror that is at least three days old,' as I do not know that it is actually three days old. All mirrors function largely the same at and after the three-day point; the difference is so slight and negligable it is not worth mentioning, but I should at least leave this fact in the notes to avoid the chance of misleading any reader into believing that I know the exact age of the mirror in the cabinet.

The contents of both bottles have gone undisturbed since observation began, though they are occasionally handled. The cloth remains wet, and though we have often seen it removed, we can discern neither its use nor what keeps it wet. She begins fiddling with it at night, you see--the cabinet door has a very particular snap sound that cannot be confused with any other sound in the enclosure-- and so by the time she removes something and, we assume, uses it, we often do not get a glimpse of it. We do not know the strength or nature of the prescriptions, or the other objects; we do not know if those she indulges in are the strongest, or the weakest of the assortment. We keep full watch on the enclosure (it is very tiring), and yet there are still these things that are continually missed. The night observers are several and often changed (I myself have taken the shift), so it is not possible that one researcher has been slacking in their duties. Our books are numerous, but sadly lacking.

Sometimes I wonder if any of the other scientists notice this. Sometimes I wonder if this strange blank, this blind spot in our research has not somehow been crafted by some force determined to keep us from the end goal of our observations. I feel there is some intention out there, whether hers or one of my colleagues or only that of the sun itself, to keep-from-knowing.

It grows dark again. My shift is over.

Unnamed

The constant bending of the fence, as if she could not choose a direction, as if she fears the irreparable and definite damage that will come with choosing a direction, though a similar (is it more? is it less? This question is maddening, and yet, pointless) damage is caused by indecision as well--

Is it possible to wake up in such vastly altered places without realizing how one got there? We do not always remember how we fall asleep, but surely, after that moment of strangeness, we remember it is Friday, we remember, generally, what we did in the week, or what we must have done in the week, because it is what is generally done every week.

Is it possible to forget a whole week? Not the week itself, but a thready progression that runs through it like a smear--

I do not think this thought has any relevance to our subject, though I may have started with that intention. I must remember to tear this page from the study, too.

She moves, sometimes, in the enclosure, as if she intends to forget certain motions, certain actions; and we know she must, because the next day, she does them again, though each time, a little altered in order to forget. There is nothing in the actions themselves that suggest a reason for this peculiarity; it must be some motivation behind it, some thought that must constantly be acted through differently lest its origin be known; there is something disastrous in it, but it cannot be abandoned, and so these motions are cautious encounters with it, the alterations to keep it from knowing itself.

Sometimes she thinks of it as work.

Sometimes as penance.

Sometimes as sanity.

It changes from time to time, but always, it has function, whether one of the three or another to suit. That is why it persists--it is allowed to. It is given reason to, reverse ex nihilo. In return for its services, it is not named.