The History of Writing (Part Three) Here Comes Charles Anthony

Detachment seemed to come unlocked from the interplay of what he'd understood as group-neurons. As though the momentum of select stimuli within the auditory & deeper limbic structures should choreograph a statement of Self remarkably independent and yet with immeasurable craving & yearning for inclusion to something higher yet. This embedded symmetry of a man to some cause, some fine pursuit, some hidden country without permanent flag nor border. He felt it coming down with an almost-crazy focus as surely as he felt himself, his hands wrapped upon the steeringwheel, the motor, the world looking North to New York in the late-evening blue, open canvas of possibility and the rumor of birds. 

Louisville, back there, behind him, like some scared outlaw searching its belongings for trace of a world lost with sunshine & entropy. Madness swimming in the duality of names; not money, but a thing you wouldn't give a way unless you wanted to or had been denied all other recourse. Charles Anthony Jung pushed on the gas-pedal of the rental-car and the strong engine, the thick percussion and resonance as it moaned was nothing less than music to him. Money not spent, after a time, is simply unclaimed IOUs, a book of squandered promises, forgotten journeys. Paying with the shit was like releasing a massive-murder of bats from a steel barn and they screech-whispered a truth terrible and empowering. The accounts were replenished on a tri-daily basis--a hundred dollars here, a thousand dollars there, the figures of so many pharmaceuticals, labors, debts, promises, remainders and loans, which to keep a precise count of would be to name every fish in the ocean. He'd drove all night, nourished on little more than coffee, the anticipation of insomnia and the target of Greater Brooklyn ahead. 

The faces of some 4,000 (give or take) individuals roamed and occasionally surfaced into clarity as his feelings imagined stories of them all. Men without families or families they didn't want and families, indeed, happy enough trying to hold an obligatory anchor of domesticity in the cacophonous world. No real mention of Gollander or Geary, only the invisible thumbprint of their greed and industry trembling and hiding in a million or so structures and devices. The sadness of the world reduced to a chore. 

He could only maintain a stark decision to doubt the bonds of his ancestry as he gripped a $10-quarterroll from the center console to the feed the basketed-vendingreceptor on the Newman Bridge leading to the city. It seemed in the distance time had broken, or at least partly fractured its own natural laws where some indefinite span of light blushed in dire restraint...as though something were alive there that was never meant to be visible. 

The machine popped-out his ticket, which he tore and reflexively replaced to the center console with the remainder of the coins. He was both accustomed to this fugitive oppression of atmosphere and resentful of being accustomed to it. This thing of so many words at once there was no discernible pattern to them. Some nightmare of algebra and indefinite promise of a solution. 

The gate lifted and he pulled the car into drive and went into the city and as that metropolitan-maze of concrete & glass & steel emerged into sight and overhead, Charles Anthony Jung looked at the windows as though they might be memorized and he felt braced with exhilaration to the roots of his teeth as elsewhere technology made sociopaths of the majority and technology alleviated the burden of loneliness it enabled and technology made the entirety of it grown and slide with abysmal consistency. 

In every window a story and in every story more windows yet. 

He tried to infer a difference between the devastatingly sad and ordinary grief, hearing no answer at all but the whine & cough of city-traffic in the utterly indifferent heat. 





**** 

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