Fiction

For my mother, a staunch Catholic who desperately tried to kill her children’s spirits, when her own were dead, using every possible way, except literal poison. Although by giving back to the “wandering Jews” as she called me and my husband—our own, intended to be loving gift, the now much less fresh, nine-day old fishes disguised as new ones—points in that direction.  

…a real “Wandering Jew”

Still, it seems wise to recognize the fact of her life to be not hers and hers alone. This is dedicated to my male twin, to my namesake who made a heroic, decade-long attempt to fix-it-all, to take her place, to fill the hole in me where a shaking Despair of Mother was waiting to be found.

Roughly every thousand years, God makes economic miracles out of brother-and-sister love. “Too bad I was not a real Semite,” the Israelites told me on the High Holy Days, so as a New Family, we could have changed the world in Jerusalem, back on Mother’s Day, as we sat on the Kasbah where alley cats pleaded the case to my soul, for new souls to come down to perch inside of a slowly aging body.

We said that I was Wagner’s Erda: condemningly harsh with her accuracy of prediction, retreating to The Underworld too frequently to sustain Life. Still, symbols remain, and predictions often outlive both Men & Progeny. These are events we can place bets on, righteously so, tracking it all, one-way-or-the-other, even when we might win or lose by the very act of doing so, weaving together shared accounts, these measurements render records from a perspective common to us called Mnemosyne. 

In Life’s name and for Life’s sake may you be written in the Book of Life. As for me, women of the word, of the wheel, and of the horse—Trimurti in matters of fact never achieve the exotic, however short-lived glory of the Public Arena, even and especially when we envision the world as it ought to be. No seated Empress, no killer of Cyrus, always they are cursed as things of mere Legend. “Ohne kraft, ohne mach.”

While the “Me Too” phlebotomy was not only wrong-headed but barely literate, consequently it hurt the Legends I describe who possess the Trimurti. In turn, wiser and wiser men pushed them further from The Arena. You dumb broads! There should be a “Me too” rebirth in the spirit and letter of feminine law, a Queen of Mars with persons of the word, tenderly we kiss the lips of the accursed, until actual preferences are revealed as true Economic Miracles, with theories about nature’s gluts coming from their capital: Birthing Bodies and Labor.

Enough already—with these reading of the winds, enough with these tea leaves, with your psychics of Federal Reserve and false ingots as idols. Our last pearly-white, blue-hued ghost, was not Mary Mother of God but Miss Wollstonecraft, who died in childbirth. It has simply been too hard to refocus on the subject:  Here, I humbly ask for a repurposing and for focus. 

The Lord still silently blesses the unborn, the ones that, in our manufactured scarcity we could not allow to live and grow in their own way; all at once for themselves, for each other, and all Mankind!   

Outside of Time, two black holes make sounds as they cross each other—the brighter one devours the other, and while topological strings form cosmic Mexican hats—space is ripped-up like coarse metallic paper fabric—in something so brutishly primordial that it could only be Technology.

The “Xe” civilization, a derivative formal system, figured out how to use light resources in ways unknown to Man to collapse Man’s rabble, brutish kingdom of stardust into a single point. It was not due to malice but only because they could. As humans know, anything you can do, you must do.

When stars die, they become black holes. Man and his universe are born from inside the Dead Star-Black Hole civilization (civ), arriving as computation and information inside its boundary. The collapse of particular existing universes uniformly amplifies signals for Human Algorithms. These conscious beings contain patterns in their stories; they are supposed to learn from them.

The Xe civilization extracts linguistic features of older civs of Human Algorithms at a space-time just before what they called The Singularity, forming The Outer Rim, a larger hole in space-time with even more computational capacity than the previously conscious Dead Star. The Outer Rim will run, collapse, and enlarge a countably infinite number of times to extract data on Human Stories, stories which today are called Human Algorithms.

Having had eaten the dead star of a civilization of old, and taken from them mutated super-dense vestiges of language from Human Algorithms—the Xe call the recently digested “people of the word”—in a transcended form they prevail on the surface of this brighter, newly satiated, now too dying star.

Light wreaths of jade vine & purple anemones form The Outer Rim’s universe outside its prior one, consisting of space-like resources for Human Stories inside The Demarcation: a light-like location where the two temporal boundaries crossed—ten thousand years ago, ten thousand years to come—and where they were always in matters of fact to be found.

All at once and without a body, this force consciously devours. Like Thetis, pregnant again, awaiting her strongest son—one by one, she offers her children to the fire—awaiting the unborn Achilles, secretly promised by the Gods to be fitter than the others—an act of perversity Superstitious Man has in common with all of Fellow Men. Human Destiny demands this kind of pathology, however infrequently.

That feature of Man’s existence enabled the annihilation of them. That flaw ended them all.