hypnagogic logic

MYRA. (Warily) An author?

DAVID. A disinclined idealist.

MYRA. You don’t enjoy it?

DAVID. Oh no, I do, it’s just—

MYRA. Is it an issue of seeming pretentious? Saying you write? I mean, I guess there’s a sort of carefully calculated delusion that goes into the whole process, it’s like any art in that sense.

DAVID. I’m not sure I get what you mean.

MYRA. Well, writers need synonyms to describe their synopses and satire to dissect sadness and hyperbole to hide their happiness. It’s not at all natural—it lacks the imperfections of a life lived. And then there’s the whole image; the reclusive, nihilistic, manic-depressive—

DAVID. I’m not a good enough writer—the whole tortured genius pigeonhole, that’s not me.

MYRA. Pity. Would have been nice to be stuck with a Fitzgerald or a Foster-Wallace. To say that I once had the pleasure of meeting you at the Marriot before you went and blew your brains out.

DAVID. Romantic.

MYRA. I like to think so. There’s just a sort of morbid masochism about the whole thing, the disenfranchised white guy trope, you know? I live for transient moments like this.

"...to write a straight biography of Vali Myers would be not only impossible, but something I would find almost profane, as following the events of her life is like following the footsteps of a fox or getting lost in a labyrinth".

“13084. Tonight I came back to the hotel alone; the other has decided to return later on. The anxieties are already here, like the poison already prepared (jealousy, abandonment, restlessness); they merely wait for a little time to pass in order to be able to declare themselves with some propriety. I pick up a book and take a sleeping pill, "calmly." The silence of this huge hotel is echoing, indifferent, idiotic (the faint murmur of draining bathtubs); the furniture and the lamps are stupid; nothing friendly that might warm ("I'm cold, let's go back to Paris). Anxiety mounts; I observe its progress, like Socrates chatting (as I am reading) and feeling the cold of the hemlock rising in his body; I hear it identify itself moving up, like an inexorable figure, against the background of the things that are here.”

“The waves broke and spread their waters swiftly over the shore. One after another they massed themselves and fell; the spray tossed itself back with the energy of their fall. The waves were steeped deep-blue save for a pattern of diamond-pointed light on their backs which rippled as the backs of great horses ripple with muscles as they move. The waves fell; withdrew and fell again, like the thud of a great beast stamping.” 

“I reached the rail and clambered over it, on to the deck. Here I saw that the decks were covered, in great patches, with grey masses, some of them rising into nodules several feet in height;  but at the time I thought less of this matter than of the possibility of there being people aboard the ship. I shouted; but none answered. Then I went to the door below the aft deck. I opened it, and peered in. There was a great smell of staleness, so that I knew in a moment that nothing living was within, and with the knowledge, I shut the door quickly; for I felt suddenly lonely.”

                                                               Spelunking — Laura Veirs