Streams of self-consciousness: I was raised Mormon, so I already live in an authoritarian surveillance state (my mind)
In my last post,
I quoted Ursula K. Le Guin quoting and riffing on Virgina Wolf. In this post, I pick up where they left off:
It's 50 years later now. The imagination has indeed brought the reason some very queer knowledge. As predicted, it was all too much. Or was it not enough? There's a data center drinking water from the lake with a straw. The reason has left. She's inside the data center, looking for the correct term to describe the fish, which the imagination saw deep in the lake. Meanwhile, the imagination splashes at the shore. The child pretends her stick people are phones. As the waterline slides from the bank, the data center offers a term: bottom-feeders.
Clearly, I'm still brooding. So what's new?
I left Substack at the end of August, which marked approximately one year since joining the platform and of pretending to be off social media. Again, I had to escape the feed—it devouring us devouring it. Here feels like a nostalgic hiding spot from the rest of the internet. Thank you for visiting my digital bunker.
I also had my first job interview with a robot. Yet, my usual AI-induced panic didn't hit. I was raised Mormon, so I already live an authoritarian surveillance state (my mind). The halls of my church had eyes. Now, they form a square of neural pathways in my brain—thoughts trained on a loop with angles sharp enough to keep me in line, even 22 years after leaving the flock.
The job search has me ruminating about being a psychotherapist, still. I loved being a therapist. I hated being a therapist on an assembly line. Let a robot take that job.
It also has me hypervigilant of the regime's punition of feminism and civil society. Funds drain, if they weren't yanked.
Clearly, not much is new, except some writing on the girl gaze:
Paint and plaster flake off the wall like dandruff on Father Ben’s head. I scratch the wall between folding tablecloths and bedsheets.
By day three, after ironing and folding the shirts, I get to a screw. I stick my fingernail into its ridge and twist. I twist for an afternoon until I wrap my fingers around its head and twist harder. The screw slides out of the wall. It’s two or three inches long.
I glide its sharp end across the paint, up and down like waves in the lake at the end of summer. The sound is piercing and delicate. I move closer. I imagine swallowing the screw—the scratch down my throat like a key across a car door. To get to a hospital, we'd take the road into town.
Near a corner, the screw punctures the wall. I press the area with my fingers. It’s soft and gives in. The door behind me remains shut.
I’m going to get into trouble.
A thin layer of wall caves. There’s a hole the size of a couple of fists. Light shines through cracks on the other side. The smell is obvious—fish. As is the humming—"Break thou the bread of life."
When I squint, I see the top of a table through one of the cracks. Flesh and hair, a Father—naked—walks past. I jump backward.
I’m going to get into trouble.
I lean forward. Three butts, small but thick with little red bumps, line up facing the table. The Father walks to the head. For the first time, I see a full penis. A sock drying on the line. He instructs the boys.
"Lay the belly toward you. Hold the head with your other hand. The vent is by the tail, there. Insert your knife."
Blood drips down the leg of the boy in the middle.
The one to his right mumbles, "Gnarly."
"That's how you know," says the Father. "If yours bled, you're the first to touch it."
I step back. Somehow, I return to the laundry. Undergarments need washing.
I pull a pair of men's shorts from the bucket of cold water. I stare at the upside down triangle. I grab the tip and wring the fabric.
Unburdening is tomorrow. I wish I could tell everything to Edie.
When the warmth arrives after winter, we go outside after the boys. On the blacktop, Edie and I pick up the scooters. Mine squeaks from rust.
"Skirts," she yells.
We run to the edge of the pavement. I squeeze the handlebars at my chest. Edie holds hers in front of her stomach like the boys do.
Once we're next to each other, I look in her eyes. The water in the outdoor bathtub reflecting the sky. They're glaring toward the finish line where some other girls braid hair.
"Ready, set, go," I say, and I kick.
I kick as hard as I can. I'm a dog digging until my denim skirt sends my right leg back in line with my left. I kick again. My leg ricochets. No matter how hard I kick, I only move a few feet.
"It's not fair," Edie says from behind me. "My skirt was just ironed."
"Kick faster," I yell back.
We laugh. I wobble.
My leg confronts denim, again. I manage two small kicks. The wind is all that pushes me before I land on my side. The scooter slides forward. Now the other girls are watching. From behind, the pine trees at the perimeter watch us all.
Edie lies three yards behind me. She's like a scooter herself—dropped by the boys at the bell. This means I won.
I feel a pride only from the Devil.
"Look." Edie peels her skirt from her ankle and points to a scrape across her calf. She laughs harder. I want to laugh with her, but I'm nauseous.
The clouds part for the sun. The scrape on my own arm stings. I look for my flesh inside my sleeve.
"Best of three?" asks Edie.
"Let's call it a tie," I say. It'll make the nausea go away.
The bell rings. We drag the scooters to the shed.
For more from this writing project, check out a previous post.