Fictocritical Innovations. Pawel Cholewa
and alien and foreign and unpredictable. Our collective selves cannot REALISE the now. It is too much of a frightening thought. As frightening as the ironic fear and timidness in which I initially approached the trajectory of this projection room. It is frightening and liberating. Simultaneously, of course. But it is reason and logic that will always be victorious. Those sinners have a firmer ‘understanding’ of the realities of perception and its rigidity as something that is ingrained and anchored and clawed into the now-frozen streams of our conscious mind. And, so, we continue to shelter our ‘selves’ in our erratic displays of angst and self-destructive peacocking portrayals of vulnerable yet violent independence—a continually restless battle between mind and matter and what actually matters in the mind.
‘Til Morning Came (2013)
There are certain times, points of the day, that instil a sparse consciousness—a recognition had many times before by many others over the course of human history. This is time, and these are times felt and to be felt by others, in obscurity or promiscuity, vanity, selflessness, or loneliness.
Last night I lay awake ‘til morning came, and the sun shone through the cracks of my drawn curtains, and I tried to ignore the slight rays. Throughout the night I kicked and churned and writhed around in bed, making an absolute mess of my doona covers, and the pillows, which I held tightly or kicked violently yet fervently, here and there. I scrunched them up and held them and punched them or pinned them down in a mangled jumble of ecstasy and softness, and pleasure. And eventually a romantic kind of calm ensued from this incensed love.
Over the course of the night and the hours that dragged by, I thought about my relationships with the various people in my life. I was sentimental, yet I pondered my interactions with these folk, these friends and family, these associates, these charming entities, in quite a detached way. I thought of ‘us’ as a whole, an organism and my place (with)in that organism, and what I actually mean, what my place is among all these collected perspectives?
A change definitely came about in me. I considered my regrets and played out the storylines and the narratives of how things would have been and could have been in some of my relationships if I’d known what I do now. I thought about how different the story would have turned out, how much closer I would have been with some that I am now estranged from, and how much more distant I could have been with the ones I am now closer to—the ones I do not need, respect or appreciate any more.
The tragedy in the matter is that it is almost impossible to reignite a flame with the people lost in plights of stupidity, or gradual, graduating, deteriorating detachment. And it is just as impossible to disconnect with the ones clamped to your lifeline or stuck like mosquitoes in the sap of a tree, oozing alongside you, until hardened and stuck in place by time, sort of like that determining scene in Jurassic Park (1993).
So, you cut yourself down and leave the broken forest, town or city from whence you came, and still that sap trails along with you, stuck to your side uncomfortably, lukewarm, despite the recognition you just do not have any fondness for it these days.
Last night my cynicism was nil.
Today I am tainted by the everyday monotony of my rambling groans, droning on as usual.
Last night I was affectionate to all. I considered the avenues and possibilities of love that I should direct outwardly. I thought about my dedications to one or the other. I considered putting my trepidations aside, and the doubt that is always there. I considered lying in bed with a multitude of partners and telling them truths, all true, but unique and individualised, personalised to all of those lovers, physical or not.
I considered kindness as a new form or brand of my personality—something that only really ever existed with traces of sarcasm that are way too ingrained to tolerate or are perhaps in the process of becoming so. I considered replacing my cold, hardened (now flabby) body with hope and a sense of fulfilment that others may intuitively recognise and take for themselves. I considered blossoming in the fecundating pool of dreariness and misery, closed off from others, looking upwards at the sky and the stars, and protected by further aggravation that others cannot see. I thought about changing superficially, and how that change might somehow lodge itself into deeper sensations, reviving them with the promise of goodness, genuine excitement and yearning.
I thought about reparations, justice, and community once again. I considered the importance of optimism and its effects on the self over time, time and time again.
I thought about these things—I considered them—I even believe in some of them now.
Normally there would be a ‘but’ in there somewhere, and even now I am searching for the problematique, but for now there is none. There is just relief.
Tears (im)practically came to my eyes as I contemplated the love I sincerely and genuinely do have to offer, but a hardened shell of contempt shields me from what I actually want. ‘Self-sabotage’ is my motto; I have nothing to gain from this but a resolute sterility that no one cares about, or that anyone wants to touch. Why bother then? It is more of an effort to hide behind this shield than to care and subsequently not have a care in the world.
Herein lies a ‘slice of (my) life’, influenced by not so much a feeling or a sensation but an attitude towards a betterness/bitterness, an attitude that can act as the driving force … an attitude that can, over time, be acted upon, fulfilling the ideals and desires I have released here.
Alter yourself, or enforce alterations, and the result will be an inevitable compromise of an attitude that could sanctify your spirit and the will to save yourself or myself (again); that is an important lesson I have learnt about myself.
Now run.
When looking into the essence or “quintessences” of human nature, perhaps experiencing enlightenment does not always necessarily have to stem from a “long” and “immense” period of time and derangement of the senses, as Rimbaud (9) insisted. The human response does not always have to be a passionate one, when confronted with ultimatums, the pinnacles, ‘fight or flight’ scenarios, radically menacing or dangerous environments and situations. How the individual reacts and copes when at the very precipice of fear or terror or anger or lust or revenge or whatever, is to find deep-seated internal precipice. And when something mundane, trivial or tedious does occur, what does that mean and what can we derive from it, symbolically and metaphorically, when one is reacting or feeling or thinking with a full heart and mind right then and there? I am not sure, but is that reversal of emotion and transcendental clarity an impossibility? In a sense, that is one of the things I am trying to realise here: the everyday, relatable or not, triggers of a soul/psyche in a consciously settled reality … in motion (walking, running, accommodating, associating, traversing, travelling).
“There’s a Road Train Going Nowhere” (2013)
When the following was written, I sporadically divided most of my time between Brisbane, Rockhampton and Melbourne, where I tended to do a lot of driving along Australia’s eastern coast and the National Highway. In doing so I frequently saw the turn-off for the town of Tarcutta in south-western New South Wales, on the M31, and I thought of Josephine Rowe. Every time I wondered if I should make the turn and try to vicariously see what she romantically saw in that rural area, inspiring her to write the short story, and the Tarcutta Wake anthology. Perhaps I’ll come across the same old broken-down and decrepit 1940s style automobile stuck in the branches of a dead (Snow Gum) tree, as is portrayed in a black and white photograph, on the cover of her book—an apt iconic portrayal (or perhaps a borrowed Americanised image). In any case, the image of the car in the tree conveys a rustic and quixotic type of imagery. I wanted to try and convey that same kind of imagery, if I could …
We begin to drive westward, departing from Townsville and into the night. A sense of energy, excitement and apprehension circulates within and around us. We grow silent, but why? Is it difficult to leave the comfort of the coast, perhaps? The coast made sense. It has always made sense. It is difficult letting go of that logic. Trees thinned, and ranges flattened into