Tall grass wave in the arid breeze, undulating as if the land - the rolling chest-hills - itself was breathing, palpitating with an uncanny aliveness. Even the air seemed to radiate a pale yellow, the color of an early sun and onset decay. Nothing here seems to grow right. Weeds rooting fences guarding nothing, cradling signposts pointing nowhere, cicatrices of grass patching the red open wound of a road destined to oblivion. Traces of man who proselytize the biological certainty that he was distinct, something other than a grotesque animal-human that was not governed by the same instinctive nature the weeds and tall grass proliferate with.
Man should not be here, he concludes, against the belligerent stare of his reflection, insisting like everything else- like Loki’s peripheral presence does. The repetition of Rustin’s words contorts in the pronunciation of someone who seemed like a perpetual neophyte to life- to himself. I dunno..I had a teacher…, something like that…don’t know what god…. —even in his conviction there’s an echo of a question mark.
For a moment Rustin considers what Loki looked like to the rest of the CID. Quesada’s blind categorization of their partnership might as well have something to do with it.
— Who the fuck is we?
“I’m not your teacher.” it’s not a corrective distinction, but the uprooting of mundane familiarity that comes with small talk, untangling himself from the passive rhizome. “If things were closed you wouldn’t be here- just like everythin’ else is. Cause and effect exists because nothin’ that comes into existence is ever self justifyin’. ” he won’t define what things are, who Loki is, verbally dissolving definition into a nebulous, writhing everythin’ else. He keeps his distance to the window, the muted glow of the cigarette feathering parts of his face.
“People are only as much as their convictions lead them to believe, much as god is. Else someone would know what god wants and find out what nothin’ means.” a hand weighs itself against the ledger on his lap, his voice drifts on the cigarette wisps. “And realize that you can’t pray to nothin’.”
anemic. the word rises behind loki’s eyes, clouding the landscape with an even stronger sense of sickness. an image of rolling hills, green grass, and trees stretching to protect miles and miles of unexplored land melts into the squalid sight. taken for granted, shrugged off as invaluable among high rise buildings and a never ending stream of engines humming--- loki understands the error of his ways. homesickness is a fleshy mass in the pit of his stomach, eating whatever it can and growing larger with every rain ditch under their tires.
a placid silence falls over the car as loki thinks.
“God is just somebody’s ego.” half of his face crinkles in concentration as he attempts to spit out the sentiment on his tongue. it sticks with every syllable like saliva caked during desperate attempts to be heard. it manifests in a half-mumbled correction, “Everybody’s ego.”
“People make whatever they want out of it,” twist it, tear it apart, and reassemble it into a patchwork simulacrum of what used to be. frankenstein would be jealous of the deft manipulation-- words of with intent long lost among men who gnashed fat between their teeth and spat out the rest to rot, “Turn themselves into demigods so they don’t feel so bad about making it up as they go along.”
he can’t see the confessional booth so much as he can smell it. old dust and the thick scent of sweat soaked guilt. forced confessions under the pressure of further accusations, seeping out of bruised throats in small, broken voices who knew what was to come. daily torture in the form of anticipation. sharp shards of sensation like glass against concrete walls of smothered memories.
“Used to be that the pope was the only way to talk to God. You only had to deal with one guy who might be a liar. Maybe that was a better way of doing things.” he takes another turn and plunges them deeper into the starved land. the tumor grows larger, trickling acid strong enough to eat through anything with enough time.
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