A. Molotkov

 

 

See bio. in issue 29—otherwise Molotkov says:  “A Photocopy of My Soul contains 52 short stories, one for each week of the year.  It was started in Venice in October 2002.  It was finished in August 2006 in Portland, Oregon.  In this book, I had several goals in mind.  One is ongoing and applicable to all of my work: to present a point of view, a narrative, that does not require any special knowledge.  What I mean when I say “special knowledge” is everything we know about the infrastructure of the world around us.  The fact that there exists a place called New York City, and the fact that we use computers to store information.  The unimportant things such as nationalities and religions.  My goal is to create art that one could relate to even if they were from another planet, or the future, or the past. See also: www.AMolotkov.com” 

 

 

Two Stories from: A Photocopy of My Soul

 

 

Age to Owe

 

 

            That cliff on the edge of the horizon looks like it might be it.  Yes, it does.  It certainly does.  Behind it, most certainly there lies a narrow valley and a happy stream of clear mountain water.  The blisters on Goombeldt’s palms grow quieter, attentive to these observations.  The muscles on his back slide into a state of relaxed infallibility, like good tools they are supposed to be.  

            Croohmgorn has fallen asleep.  We have to keep rowing, trading places when one of us can no longer function.  Sometimes Zungvilda helps to row, but her hands are a bloody mess.  Whenever it’s her turn the boat crawls like a snail, a water-bound snail of despair. 

            These islands, they are greedy about their water.  After all these months on the boat, how have we been able to survive?  No storm strong enough to put an end to this unplanned adventure?  Hard to believe, as if the whole situation was made up, a mere mental exercise of a playful brain.  Whose brain?

            Even its beginning was unbelievable.  Completely unbelievable.  The collision, fat bubbly water pouring into the body of the ship.  When we came to, the three of us were in this boat, with no memories of how we got here.  No one else was in sight.  Nor our ship itself.  As if the rest of those on board, and the board itself, had been removed during an intermission. 

            Why weren’t we removed? 

            This must have some very profound, very special meaning – or maybe no meaning at all.  Perhaps the meaning will be discovered when we reach that cliff?  Any cliff that matches our hope. 

            We came to and found ourselves so miraculously saved.  But the strangeness of this discovery did not end there.  The food!  Yes, the food in the boat, carefully stashed, in geometrical perfection, a pattern made of the cylinders of canned meat, the glowing spheres of oranges, the heavy ovals of baked potatoes, the crackly squares of crackers.  And the six large flasks full of water. 

            Whoever or whatever had planned this bizarre salvation must have miscalculated: we ran out of water first.  All this food still left, and nothing to quench our thirst – not even the oranges. 

            Did our ship even have oranges on it?  We had not seen a single orange since we boarded. 

Are we dead?  If we are, what is this urge inside us to stay alive?  If we are, why do we find ourselves – still – in the middle of the sea, thirsty, suffering, on the edge of despair?   

            Well, not exactly the middle.  These islands.  All these islands, all alike, surrounded with their impenetrable walls of cliffs, greedy about their water.  We did not see them at first, but after a day or two of rowing, we saw.  There they were, a series of dark spots on a shiny horizon, an outline of a journey we were about to take.  And took. 

            Goombeldt gets tired, all at once, mind no longer in control of the body.  He wakes up Croohmgorn who is very reluctant to return to this reality: the wrong kind of water, the rowing, the dry throat, the cracking lips, the wrong kind of dreams.  Zungvilda moans – whimpers – in her sleep.  Let her sleep some more.  How many hours until we reach that cliff? 

            Goombeldt and Croohmgorn exchange places.  The blisters on Goombeldt’s palms grow quieter, co-believing in the notion of the cliff.  Water behind the cliff.  A stream of clean transparent water running down the unbearable incline of a solemn stone face. 

            “Why can't we drink the ocean water?” Zungvilda asked. 

            “You know why,” Goombeldt replied. “Too much salt.  It will make your even more thirsty.  Will kill you after a while.”

            “How do you know that?”

            “Read about it somewhere.  It’s common knowledge.”

            “Can we always trust common knowledge?” she challenged. 

            “Not always.  But I think this time we better.” Croohmgorn ventured. 

            “It looks so much like water … ” Zungvilda said. 

            Now Goombeldt and Zungvilda are sleeping.  The sun is sliding down, getting ready to take a break.  At night, it’s both harder and easier.  Harder because it’s difficult to see where we are headed.  (We try to keep moving non-stop, with one of us rowing at all times.)  Occasionally, morning finds us further from our goal, whatever the current goal might be.  The cliff this time.  This cliff!  Easier because of the touch of cool air on our skin, air finally consenting to let us be, to spare us the torture of losing those precious drops of sweat. 

            “How long do we have?” Zungvilda asks. 

            “It’s hard to say,” Goombeldt replies.  “Maybe three days, maybe five.  Not much more than that.  Maybe not even that, considering the weather.”

            How long has it been? 

            Why won't it rain?

            “How long has it been?” Croohmgorn asks, but Goombeldt has already fallen asleep, next to Zungvilda, who is restless, still moaning whimpering complaining, as if trying to convince an invisible friend enemy helper jailor. 

            Maybe we were saved just to die a slow death?  Maybe those other passengers were the lucky ones?  But we too can invent a quick death for ourselves if we so choose!  Unlikely … there is always hope – what can you do about hope? 

            The cliff is getting closer.  Another hour, maybe two.  Croohmgorn works harder, driven by a desire to prove that this time the truth we want is the truth that is going to happen.  He doesn't notice the blood on his hands, where a few blisters have broken, leaking their juice leaking liquid through the cracks of the skin.  Not too much blood, just a little, enough to tinge the oar handles red, like redwood. 

            Goombeldt is sleeping. 

            Zungvilda is sleeping. 

            The cliff is getting closer. 

            How did they manage to lose the track of time?  Goombeldt thinks it has been two days, Zungvilda thinks three.  And Croohmgorn?  He is not sure.  He seems to have slept through one night, throwing off his perception of time.  What are the signals our bodies are sending?  Those same signals as yesterday: dry mouth, dry universe.  We are still able to row.  For how much longer?  If not this cliff, then how many more are we to try? 

            “If we boiled this water, we could get rid of the salt,” Zungvilda said. 

            “Yes, but how will we boil it?” Croohmgorn replied. 

            Unfortunately, with all this food, a cooking utensil was not provided. 

            “Should we keep eating, or will it make us even more thirsty?”

            The salty ocean water all around us – it does not give an answer. 

            Finally we get so close we have to steer around the cliff to get to the other side.  Croohmgorn notices another cliff, far in the distance.  Another chance, if this one does not work.  And if not, there is always another island.  Another island greedy about its water. 

But then, there’s not always enough time, is there? 

            The final half a mile.  Croohmgorn is rowing feverishly like an oar demon.  It will be there.  It will be there, otherwise what’s the point?  What’s the point of what?  Why does there have to be a point?  Is this really the time for philosophical meanderings?  Another minute, maybe two, and we will have the answer.  The answer, the answer, the answer.  Hands oars water water the wrong kind of water outside the boat.  Sore muscles pushing the boat forward, one step at a time, one step at a time. 

            And finally there. 

            Croohmgorn is silent.  In silence, he looks at the cracked stone, a parched granite surface that has not seen water for months, for years, since the last rainy season.  When is the next one scheduled?

There is no water here. 

Not behind this cliff.  Maybe the next one?  How many next ones do we have ahead of us? 

            Croohmgorn collapses onto the boat floor.  No need to wake up the others.  It’s getting late, dark.  We all need a break.  We’ll think about it in the morning.  In the morning.  He falls asleep all too easily, a warning that one of these departures into slumber may be a one-way trip. 

            We sleep, trying to dream away the horror.  

            Zungvilda is the first to wake up.  Goombeldt and Croohmgorn are awakened by her panicked voice:

            “There is no water here!  There is no water here!  You must be joking, aren't you?”

            “Who are you talking to?” Croohmgorn asks, rubbing his eyes. 

            “I don't know.  Who is there to talk to?”

            Goombeldt, in his turn, realizes that this cliff has not fulfilled its promise.  An inflicted promise, one might say. 

            The voices mumble, verbal communication impeded by the dryness of their mouths. 

            “We must try that other cliff,” Croohmgorn points.  Of the three of us, he has had the most time to get used to the notion of further pursuit. 

            “It doesn't make sense,” Zungvilda exclaims.  She is looking at something on her side of the boat.  Goombeldt and Croohmgorn both look.  Indeed, it is incredible.  More food in the boat!  More cans.  More crackers.  More potatoes.  More dry dry dry food. 

And one orange. 

Only one, perched precariously on top of the other shapes. 

            “How did this stuff get here?” Goombeldt asks. 

            “I don't know.  I was sleeping.” Croohmgorn responds. 

            “Me too,” says Zungvilda. 

            “Someone is playing with us.”

            “Who?”

            “How should I know?”

            “Oh, come on, don't get mad!  It’s not my fault we are in this situation, is it?”

            “Yes, it is.  You were the one who convinced us to go on this journey.”

            “Was I?  I thought you both wanted to go.”

            “I hate this boat, this ocean, everything!  We never should have gone.”

            “How could we know?”

            “Never mind!  Who the hell do you think is doing this?  Why didn't they leave some water?”

            Zungvilda’s hand reaches for the orange.  In less than a second, it is peeled.  The battle in her eyes is vivid: one bite, just one bite – no, we must all share it – just one bite – no, share it!  Finally (half a second later) the civil part of her wins, she breaks it into three parts, her hands shaking as she does it. 

            A second later all the three parts are gone. 

            “If someone knows … if someone was here, then we might be able to see them, if they come again,” Goombeldt says. 

            “Yes, but will they come again?  What are they after?  What a cruel joke!”

            “An experiment?”

            “What kind of experiment?”

            “How should I know?  Just some ugly despicable experiment?”

            “If so, what is the point in even trying to get to that other cliff.  It is probably as dry as this one.”

            “Well, what do you suggest?  Just sit here and die waiting for our mysterious friend to show up again?  What if they don't?”

            “You are right.  We must keep moving.”

            It’s Zungvilda’s turn to row.  She tries, but her hands are a mess.  The boat barely moves. 

            “Let me take over,” Goombeldt offers. 

            How much longer will we be able to stay civil with each other?  This capacity is already beginning to break down. 

            Hours hours hours pass as we row towards the new cliff.  This island is the last.  It is the third we have reached.  The other two had nothing to offer.  These islands greedy about their water!  The next island in this strange archipelago is visible in the distance, far enough to be more than a lifetime away (unless our lifetimes are extended by our unscrupulous experimenter – another orange or two, maybe even a sip of water – real water – do you remember how it tastes?  how what tastes?  water!  do you remember how water tastes?  come on it doesn't have a taste that’s the whole thing about water no taste no taste at all the best of all tastes)  look who is it?  Zungvilda asks pointing in some direction, one of the directions     where?  Goombeldt is confused seeing nothing but water there     there!  who is it?     there is no one there!     no one?  ah!  i must have made a mistake  i thought someone was there     doing what?     nothing just walking     walking on water?  someone had done that once, why not do it again     Zungvilda are you ok?     ok?  how can i be ok?  what the hell are you talking about?  someone was there i saw him  or her     who?     i don't know how should i know?     why don't you sleep for a while?     i can't sleep i just woke up how can i sleep don't be ridiculous!     hey i was just trying to be nice     i’m sorry i know you were. 

            We row and row and row.  Goombeldt and Croohmgorn keep trading, leaving Zungvilda out of it.  We have no choice.  She has entered the no rowing zone, a zone of zoning out, not sleeping, not quite fainting, just fading in and out like a watermark.   

            i can't do this anymore Goombeldt says     let me try Croohmgorn replies     he tries but he cannot row anymore either too weak and the hands they feel like the skin is all gone nothing left but a sore one enormous blistering sore    wish we had some gloves maybe something to wrap around my hands     tears off a scrap of his shirt that doesn't help only makes it harder to row he finally gives up still about a mile to go to that other cliff all three of us succumb to a deadly slumber a sleep from which we don't know if we will ever wake up maybe by the time we do there will be another orange? 

            but no orange when we are awakened by Croohmgorn’s yelling     see there?  there he is!     who?     how should i know?  do you see him?     no we can't see anyone there, perhaps one more ghost walking on water     feels like we are each given to our own personal ghosts, each to our own hallucinations  are these hallucinations?  what are hallucinations?   how do we know what is real and what is not  it’s way too presumptuous to think we know, especially with all these oranges showing up from nowhere.  the sky!  what is happening to the sky?  it is bleeding, you see it bleed?  it’s not blood, my dear, it’s rain do we have something to collect the water we feverishly rush about our tiny container looking for a container but by the time we locate a couple of empty cans the rain is all gone finished like it had never happened maybe we just imagined it after all there is no more relying on our senses if there ever was. 

            could it be that we just die here like this?  are we old enough to die?  in whose opinion?  someone is there, obviously  who the hell knows what thoughts he she it is considering  is it some type of god deity demiurge mad scientist outlaw rascal toying with lives?  die like this?  did either of us ever reflect on such a possibility?  of all possible ends, how likely is this one?  not likely when you consider it from an estranged point of view like our point of view a few weeks back when we boarded the ship, but likely enough from our current standpoint, so likely it feels unavoidable unless we find a way to reach that cliff that cliff over there about a mile away but who’s going to row now that neither of us has any energy left, no energy, no square inch on the surface of our palms intact.  unless we reach that cliff or the mad scientist demiurge asshole god takes pity on us  why should it?  and if our bodies used to be 70 80 90 whatever percent H20 then what the hell is the percentage now?  50?  is 50 enough to kill you? 

            we all fall asleep even Goombeldt who is rowing was rowing until he fell asleep  is it really sleep or more like death practicing?     are we going to die?     it’s all your fault     who is saying that?     if all of us are sleeping one of us must be awake or half-awake or just talking in her sleep in his sleep as if it really mattered whose fault we don't need to be like this can't we show some dignity at this time when it really matters does it really matter?     to whom?     someone wakes up Goombeldt Croohmgorn Zungvilda and rows, rows, rows until we get quite near very close so close it seems we could walk over but why walk what is this story with walking?     why walk if we have a boat? 

and suddenly we all wake up with a jolt as a voice says:

            “Are you ready?”

            “Ready for what?” one of us replies. 

            where is the voice coming from?  where did it come from?  did we even hear it?  there is no further response, the conversation is over  was there a conversation, can two unanswered questions be called a conversation? what does it mean?  what the hell does it mean? Zungvilda says i’m so tired of puzzles and oranges and all these cliffs and all these islands  i’m just tired        we are all tired Croohmgorn replies in a soft voice all of our voices are soft now not much energy left, crackly lips, dry mouths, headache as enormous as this sky.

            but we must make it there to that cliff that cliff probably our last cliff and we row one of us rows then another then another then another how can we be moving so slowly bloody hands without skin dry thoughts dry mouths dry universe if we had any tears left we could cry for ourselves and each other Zungvilda remember when we were young    we are not too old yet    maybe as old as we’ll ever get    don't say that this is not good right now    okay i’m sorry    remember those days?  yes, remember those days?     of course i do, we all do, who would forget those days, who can possibly forget? 

            centuries hours seconds pass we row row row to reach that cliff, getting closer and closer – does it only seem so no it must be for real Goombeldt and Croohmgorn facing the back of the boat, Zungvilda sitting on the opposite bench, looking forward, when suddenly the expression on her face changes

what does it mean this kind of expression it’s hard to read her face dry wrinkles down her cheeks, hollow sunken glazed eyes she looks like someone else, not like Zungvilda we know and she reacts like someone else what is she reacting to why this face? 

            we want to turn around, but the fear is so strong, suddenly so strong, the fear of discovery our dehydrated cells sending a clear message about the approaching end, unless – Zungvilda’s face – we should turn around – we will turn around and see what caused her face to change in that strange way, so strange it is impossible to tell if it’s a look of joy or despair what is she seeing?  after all this rowing, all this water – the wrong kind of water – is it really conceivable?  is it likely?  could it be?  is it?

 

 

 

Fading Out

 

            When I’m not here, who pretends to be me?  Who sits in my chair, wears my clothes, eats my food?  Who takes over my body? 

            Like all of us, I have to leave from time to time.  I slip out.  You don't notice anything.  You are not programmed to notice.  You keep on being yourself, running along the smooth tracks of your life, sitting in your chair, wearing your clothes, eating your food.  It’s only natural that once in a while you too escape, leaving your body behind.  I never notice either.  Should I?  Our lives would be much harder if we did. 

            We have been arguing again.  Neither of us enjoys it.  But such is life, imperfect and entropy-ridden.  I step out of myself.  I am in a cave by the seaside, a solitary place disturbed only by seagulls and an occasional cry of a distant ship.  I have all I need.  I don't need anything at all.  I’m self-sufficient.  No one’s mood or point of view affects me. 

            When you escape, where do you go?  What dreams do you bring with you?  What do you leave behind?  These are the questions I contemplate when I’m back to being myself.  They don't interest me in my cave.  There, I lie calmly on the smooth sand, naked and content.  I’m in no hurry.  I have the rest of my life at my disposal.  I will do only the things I want to do.  I don't have to worry about your reaction, anyone’s reaction.  Other people’s opinions do not affect me.  I have nothing to prove, nor am I subjected to anyone else’s attempts to prove something.  Time is so slow it feels motionless. 

            Do you experience the same sensations when you leave your body?  Maybe it is completely different for you?  Maybe you submerge yourself in a dynamic existence filled with action, overloaded with thoughts and emotions?  I cannot ask you.  If I did, you wouldn't know how to answer. 

            After a few hours, I rise from the sand and walk out of the cave.  People are not allowed here, neither are most of their creations – things like cars, buildings, light posts.  As well as anything made of plastic.  In my state of absence, I don't require food.  My body is not with me – I can still feel it, but it’s only a placeholder, something to allow me to retain the perception of myself while being outside myself.  I walk down the beach.  Sea creatures come out of the water and talk to me.  We exchange fairy tales that have never been written down, and never will be.  They appeal directly to my emotions, they operate on the level of intuition, avoiding words.  Words are of no use here. 

            After a while, I know it is time to go back, to evict that elusive entity which has taken my place while I was away.  I’m not fully sure this eviction is justified – after all, I had left of my own free will.  But what choice do I have?  I belong in this world.  I’m not prepared to give up my place in it just because I happen to elude it from time to time.  I know that this attitude is a bit selfish: like taking up two seats on a bus instead of one.  But giving up my place in this life is more difficult than giving up a second seat.  Or does it only seem to be more difficult? 

            Do you feel the same way when you go off into the world of your own?  Do you disallow human presence?  Do you walk alone on a metaphorical beach full of wonder?  Do you talk to the forces of nature in a language not yet discovered?  Are you tormented by the need to continue this split existence?  Are you happy or disappointed to return? 

            When we are back together, sometimes we enjoy each other’s company, sometimes we hate it.  We have learned how to handle each other so that no excessive damage is done.  We avoid things that may hurt the fragile balance of our coexistence.  We follow the rules.  We respect each other’s right to our own unique idiosyncrasies.  We are careful, very careful.  Sometimes too careful.  The individual patterns of our lives have been threaded together into a delicate fabric that will hold together for as long as we want it to.

As long as we want it to. 

            But there are times when we can't avoid an argument.  The essential beliefs we hold dear may clash, or perhaps the fleeting moods of the day will mismatch, causing a storm with its own quiet thunders and miniature lightnings.  This makes us upset – and rightly so.  Our lives are short enough that an expectation of harmony should not be considered unreasonable.  It does not often materialize.  When the reality gets to be too much, we leave our bodies behind, entrusting them to their substitute tenants, whoever those tenants may be.  Oftentimes they do a much better job at being ourselves.  They succeed because they don't really care.  They know they are there only for a short time.  They know that once we are back, they will once again be evicted, deprived of the position they enjoy so much – the very same one that we find so hard to accept.  We are much more demanding than they are, therefore much more unhappy. 

            Then the day comes when something intangible changes, some inscrutable balance in our internal universe shifts, redefining everything that we had come to know.  My ocean beach is quiet as ever.  The mystical creatures of the sea are endlessly enchanting.  The fairy tales we exchange attain a depth of meaning that cannot be matched by anything else I know.  You experience an epiphany of your own, something I will never be privy to.  Maybe not.  Maybe it doesn't happen to you yet.  Our timing does not have to match.  It never matches.  I walk down the beach.  The further I go, the less desire I have to return.  I know I must go back, but this motivation is now driven by a feeling of responsibility rather than a genuine desire.  And if so, why should I obey it? 

            The creatures talk to me in their sweet voices filled with eternal wisdom.  They remind me: my life is not endless.  Half of it is already spent.  They tell me: it is up to me to define the second half.  Everything is up to me.  The decision is mine to make.  The ocean will be here forever, but I will be gone very soon.  What am I willing to do about it? 

            For the first time, I feel no fear or hesitation.  I let the slow stream of time take me away, beyond the point of no return. 

            The sea is smiling.  The sad cries of distant ships lament a reality that once was mine.  Who will seat in my chair, who will eat my food, who will wear my clothes?  Now that I have decided to stay here for the rest of my days, who is there pretending to be me?