[exiles — [3] seashells, hatred and death [minus] ]a homeopathic solution to ensure the big crunch happens in a billions years after after the end of everything… (final draft)
[afterwards….]
Afterwards, a few years later some years after leaving the hotel, we homeopathic particles are on the coast of the aral sea, it’s winter. snowing. for the first time since our arrival i am alone, it’s surprisingly pleasant. more than a lifetime has passed and i have forgotten more than a person could possibly remember. and i was young old before. i am well past the peaks of my psychopathic or is it sociopathic nature by now, i’ve avoided knowing the difference over the years. i was there for pavel medvedev. (a virus or a bullet) it was in t… actually that doesn’t matter. i spent a week there. after a few days of observation, i had a plan, i observed some more and then i was in a bar. it was a broken down bar in a side street of what was an overpopulated town, i think at that time half a million people lived there. through the middle of the town there was a river (reduced to a winter trickle beneath the ice,) that ran into the sea. it was snowing. snowing. freezing, it had been for days. big flakes falling, settling and freezing. the dark wood of the bar was polished, and cracks ran along the direction of the grain. the mismatched stools were all of dark varnished wood, heavy wooden tables wor=n sur(round)ed by reclaimed church pews that had been preserved and reused as the church was (de or un)sanctified and changed into a homeless shelter. the bar was well used. i was on one of the dark wooden stools. i covered one ear with my hand, leaning against it, my other hand resting on the bar counter. i was hiding behind my hands, hands, my hand. the darkest corner of the bar. the bartender asked what i was doing. “hiding, waiting, mostly waiting” i said. “you haven’t had a drink yet.” she/he/it moved down the bar and slid a menu of snacks and drinks to me. perhaps he (i decided on the basis of the visual evidence that it was a he, perhaps, i was never sure…) was hoping to anchor me to this bar. this was true, i ordered a drink, or some=thing, some snack or other and some coffee. the coffee was gritty and memorable. the dr=ink and sn=acks were not. “who are you hiding from?” the bartender asked. “ghosts, demons, my employers, assassins and the universe,” i told him. the bartender moved down the bar to another customer, a patient from the hospital. a coat around his hospital pyjamas, hospital slippers on his feet. i imagined. still i was forgettable my hand obscuring the side of my face. “i am looking for someone,” i said. “who ?” he asked pouring a tasse of local bier into a crystal glass. “a guy owes me some money, need to renegotiate the terms.” “serious amounts?” “yes, i want to ask him why he didn’t pay it back. i’ll have some of those.” i said ordering some chips. i didn’t tell him the name, the corruption perhaps. i was waiting. (the virus is singing, some songs by brecht it’s not distracting) waiting for my partner.
[… the next day…]
The next day [[irrelevant i know]] i had a brown cloth shoe bag and walking on the empty beach i collected a bagfull of seashells and small stones. the sea had recovered, was recovering since the canals connecting it with the black sea had opened. it was probably a nice coastline in summer. (the virus thinks its cold and adjusts something, i will explain the virus later. “you are doubly non-human” phil explains.) it wasn’t snowing but still the des flores promenade was deserted. there was a fancy restaurant down the street — the sort of place with obscured windows, a bell you needed to ring to be allowed in. it was open. i crunched across the long beach, picking up a collection of white and grey shells up. a mercedes pulled up outside the restaurant and pavel medvedev, the man i was watching got out, wearing in a burgundy coloured suit and a lady dressed in pink, rang the bell, or entered a code, impossible to tell which and entered the building. the sea was slightly tidal, three or four feet these days…. eventually when i had filled the bag i left the beach and went into a local tapas bar. it was lighter than the other bar, pine and beech plywood chairs, a long table running beneath the long glass sloping roof brightening up the bar. they offered me a piece of local ham. “do you like ham?” she/he/it asked. it was delicious. but a little spicy for my taste. i ordered some, i drank some yogurt. i drank a small beer. through the open door behind the bar i could see a child, perhaps two watching tv “in portugal we cure the ham beneath the mountains” i said. “never heard of such things, it snows horribly here, we dump it into the sea… in the winter festival.” she/heit said and then asked “did you find mr medvedev?” i nodded at them, (i decided it was a him. my difficulties with this are because of our non-humaness…) “yes, going to interview tomorrow or the day after…” lies trip of the tongue so easily for humans. does the universe lie or is it a problem of human language. it’s inevitable given that a word is always an ideological unit. [and what of sentences? which are always already ideological structures, with every word a singular ideological unit, every sentence is a compound and fuzzy ideological structure… but this is harsh. what remains is the sentence, over time i embellish and change the sentence adding meanings, removing meanings, cutting meanings, identifying additional ideologies referred to in the words. noise. the third appears. i have a long background in multiple epic utterences, the use value, the utility of sentences increases over time, (I miss my library)….hence…] “mr medvedev runs a photography business, world of photography…” he said. “it’s the other business i’m seeing him about, i’ll look at the photos as well. [i have a few framed monochrome and colour prints on the wall in black frames.] and so i and my bag of seashells and pebbles waited, waited, waited. The value of words and sentence increases overtime, in a text it mutates, a sentence in La Fontaines fables exists already but hasn’t it become more complex?
[he arrived…]
The other homeopathic particle, (homeopathic in the sense that we deliver death as often as life, [homeopathy is a type of alternative medicine to asteroids that’s based on the use of highly diluted substances, us, which can enable the universe to protect and heal itself.]) my partner arrived in the late afternoon driving an old short base right hand drive land rover in faded green and darkening cream with solid cream and steel wheels. dirty and dusty. it’s very mechanical, an antique. a spare tyre attached to the bonnet and another one hanging off the back door. the door panels with mostly smooth, a few dents, panes of straight flat glass. dull chrome handles on the five doors. hand horizontal sliding windows. sports seats in the front. safety harnesses rather than seatbelts. the snorkel air intake pipe had a cream coloured mushroom fitting. the engine grumbled, as it stopped. “this why this? where did you find that?” i asked. “west xhosa” he said handing me the quantum ring, and a few accessories. normality returned. afterwards as it glowed blue, it crossed my mind that phil had never experienced the things my my my hand has done. (the ring is on my left hand to enable the illusion to marriage to be made, my platinum band with its four tiny shards of rubies is on my right hand. in case anyone wants to think of my partner as a…) sometimes i wonder, when i forget to take it off, what it seems like to phil when we are making love. then though i was reflecting on the strangeness of the gestural politic of putting on the quantum ring, micro or macro, (“molecular line… quanta of deterritorialization..” he says later, (whilst cleaning the two QsW-06 with suppressors attached, he’d brought with him, checking the cartridges..) “networked, connections and and accelerations.” i said. ) still putting on the ring means that what followed is carried out by the three of us, three particles connected by good fortune i think. (“am i a particle, i thought i was a multiplicity?” phil says) determined particles, deterministically connected. i suppose its quite apart from the determinism that we homeopathic particles are maintaining, the rings connecting the three of us in a ceremony of commitment, whilst we condemn this in others. i wonder if we weren’t so old, if we’d be able to consider ourselves human rather than as phil insists non-human? (we are doubly non-human being clones and infected with the inhuman virus…) (“…eventually we’ll be the only humans left,” phil says.)
[later, how much later? the next day or in the evening perhaps, though we walked along the beach in the sunshine, so the next day probably…]
Later, not sure how much later, still nothing we can do i sat at the round white table with a single column support which quadricated just above ground level. it was a scandanavian design. i am sitting at the table sipping tea that i made in the kitchen whilst waiting for medvedev to wake up. i have been watching him asleep in the in the chair for an hour. whilst my partner restarted the wi-fi network and all the workstations in the house, and arranged for the cleaners. medvedev’s wife was unconscious from the anaesthetics they had administered. he injected the virus into her arm. they must have taped him to the chair with the white tape with the word сынғыш in red letters along it. he moaned slightly. the pain that woke medvedev was ran down his left leg, from the groin to the knee, but its cause was elsewhere, in another room and far away from here, as he woke up he knew this all too well. (and woke up and opened and closed his eyes and opened them again.) blearily he looked around. then looked at me. perhaps he knew who they were, i was never sure. he tried to move his wrists which are taped to the chair. when he tried to move the pain paralysed him. he was suspended by the tape. i had light blue latex gloves on. i threw a few seashells at him. a few small stones. the occasion suited them. asked questions, interrogated. i said to him. pausing. “tell me do you know why they wanted you dead?” “this is some mistake,” he said.”they taped you to the chair, not a friendly gesture, why?” (“don’t kill him, we don’t need to now, we will make him go to 暗物质研究所 or 暗物質研究所. “ phil said in my ear.) “i was enjoying throwing seashells at him” i said to phil. “glass of water?” i asked him. i was interested that i didn’t have to kill him now. “do you want to live or die? you probably don’t know that you can’t stay here…” “why? why not? why are you?” “this won’t stop them… “ [cut cut edit] Before he woke up i injected him with the virus which reduced his fertility to practical sterility. “no descendants” phil says in my ear. i injected him with the hormone treatment. his libido would shrink to below normal levels. gave him some water to drink. inserted the drip into his arm to put him to sleep. drip, drip driperty drip… [edit cut cut] it wasn’t him of course, but the woman upstairs that they meant to kill, (something like a a gangstress or something on the run, taking a line of flight away and staying with him) they strapped the wrong person to the chair. we came for him, phil changing medvedev’s destination and fate, as much as w did the woman…
[later an endnote]
The cleaners arrived at the house, as we were leaving, (“clean up a little carelessly” phil told them) whilst we are driving north, on the highway eastwards towards china and russia, we are taking medvedev and the woman who are asleep on the rear seats, sometimes they wake and talk, they are surprised, shocked to be escaping, sometimes they are silent looking out the windows of the car as we pass through the semi-arid landscape. once this had been grassland, i remember it from long ago. we stop and refill the fuel tanks, check the tyres, buy water, wash the windows every 160 kilometres or so…. half a day and a thousand kilometers or so later later we dropped them off at the hypermodern ecosystem of the local annex of the 暗物质研究所 building… the professor and an administrator whisked them away… they would end up in china in. a few days… we drove westwards… a cargo plane… westwards… we hid the pistols under the front seats… (“..political decision making necessarily descends in the world of microdeterminations, attractions and desires. the universe asks this of us…” phil said as drive the car into the cargo hold…) travelling westwards. exiles, taking the slow road home, westwards [cut cut, pause, stop…]
