The International Writers Magazine:Dreamscapes: Fiction and
Symbol for your Wounds
Selection from "Fort &
Da" by Kane X. Faucher
Speculation is anathema to direct action, it is said.
experiences anxiety in the face of a vacuum. I should know, as such
a vacuum of being, of culture, of experience, a suction-machine par
excellence that attracts the baggage and debris of our airport sample
society of pop culture ballyhoo flying straight through my eyes, my
cranium from all support networks of reality television blah-bland.
But this culture despises the uncoded space, and attempts to deny it
by reterritorializing its ground. There has been much talk of landmarking
the now exposed space left there by the agitation of a smashing event.
It is our narcissismlittle morethat dictates that we are
rebuilding according to our ineffable will, painted as a staunch thing
in SA grab grey or popular furniture décor pastel greens and
blues. In truth it is our anxiety and our desire to abolish all traces
of our vulnerability. Our business as usual mantra is not derived from
a stoic resolve, but rather our attempt to graft the fiction of an unbreakable
will upon a desire to forget that we are in fact quite fragile as a
people and a nation. Words of bravado, going to their limit, only going
so far, and positivity only compensate for our social hyper-nervous
cortex. The strategy has worked in the past: our fear of nature and
its seemingly untamable chaos has been paved over with our Reason
and cities. We make the earth intelligible only through our fictions.
The more we preach of our overcoming of the event, the more we expose
the delicate nerve of our lack of confidence.
What we imagine ourselves to beour cohesive unit of strong-willed
individuals who all vote, pay their taxes, eat chocolate on Christmas
and Easteris perhaps said to be strengthened by our filtering
of the imaginary into the concretely symbolic: the flag, the Constitution,
the unity of our states and the animal totems (that we ripped off from
the Greeks and aboriginals) to represent them.
But there is still a lack of signifiers to make our unity whole. What
we have as a whole is this holeone so large that others could,
say, fly a plane or two through it. A grid of symbols is not enough
to function as a net, nor is it enough to speak of a true unity. Something
is missing, and it is the people. Where did they goOr, were they
ever here at all? Symbols do not win the day
They do not win the
struggle between what we are and the things around us
open us up to the rigidity of our imposed fictions. Symbols only shackle
us to the illusory feeling of relief that our superficial wounds are
mended, but we are hemorrhaging fiercely within. The symbol, the flagjust
a Band-Aid on a wound we havent the fortitude to close, or understand
in its most profound causeswe can only cover it up. We wrap our
serious wounds with little more than a flag-shroud of national symbols
and corporate sponsorship decals and brave words which only grant false
to all of us lying here in the filth and shit of near-death. But when
we are so predisposed in trafficking and speaking in symbols, any attempt
to speak behind or beneath them runs the risk of being inaccessible,
perceived as cryptic or even unpatriotic.
If patriotism equals unquestioning faith in mere symbols of the State,
then I am no patriot. In fact, I would be an exemplar candidate of the
misuse of democracy, thereby strengthening the case for fascistic controlwhere
it seems that the symptoms of our current design and decline are leading
us. I only read the indicators and go mad with all the pretty lights
beeping like blood-pour profusion, O God, so many bulbous wounds of
blood and all of us roadkill to history, and, and, and, night sky screaming,
ripping fire, and storms across the seas, and warbling words of our
Father Who Art the Fuhrer!
We have not deviated far from the bland question of what happened and
how, which is why my stubborn question of what does it mean gains no
purchase on the ears of those obsessed with the plain metrics of Whodunit,
who died, who is culpable. Could it have been prevented? Thats
not the point. The point is: what does it mean? I really want, need
to know. A failure to respond? An election item? Even these questions
lead prematurely to answers too reflexively given, to solutions that
irresponsibly graze the surface of meaning and eventually undo the question.
Our current solutions to problems only resolve the particularities of
actionable detail, and exacerbate a global situation on the verge of
screaming itself inside out.
Speculation is anathema to direct action, it is said. I am told by reactionaries
that the event deserves an immediate response, that it is simple and
instinctual, on a level of pure violence; speculation only delays and
so has no place in something so palpable.
Check the heartbeat of a dead building. Tick tock. Tick tock.
I was handed my walking papers. My bank account drained. As we all know.
You might say that, for a time, I lost my mind somewhere in that wreckage.
"Kane X. Faucher" <firstname.lastname@example.org
Bio: My work has recently appeared in the last month in Jacobs
Ladder 3 (an anthology devoted to James Joyce), Exquisite Corpse, Ink
Magazine, Starving Arts, Me Three, Variaciones Borges, Angelaki: Journal
of the Theoretical Humanities, Azimute, 3711Atlantic, and forthcoming
in Azimute (another piece), Janus Head, Poeticinhalation, Quill and
Ink, and Zygote in My coffee #9. As well, my novel, Urdoxa, will be
out in the open courtesy of Six Gallery Press in autumn of this year.
I reside in Ottawa, Canada, am a refugee philosophy graduate, novelist,
theorist, and illustrator with interests in the works of Louis-Ferdinand
Celine, Jorge Luis Borges, Jacques Derrida, Gilles Deleuze, William
H. Gass, Wyndham Lewis, Georges Bataille, and Will Self.
From the margins, deploying streams of text,
Kane X. Faucher
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