Even the buttons on these have been ground flat, featureless, by a puzzled Korean locksmith, in the Village, a week ago. A small boy's black Fruit Of The Loom T-shirt, thoroughly shrunken, a thin gray V-necked pullover purchased by the half-dozen from a supplier to New England prep schools, and a new and oversized pair of black 501's, every trademark carefully removed. She rolls over, abandoning this pointless parody of sleep. Whatever faintly lived-in feel the place now has, Cayce knows, is the work of a production assistant. Though the truth, Damien would say, is closer to allergy, a morbid and sometimes violent reactivity to the semiotics of the marketplace.ĭamien's in Russia now, avoiding renovation and claiming to be shooting a documentary. Google Cayce and you will find "coolhunter," and if you look closely you may see it suggested that she is a "sensitive" of some kind, a dowser in the world of global marketing. Google Damien and you will find a director of music videos and commercials. Both have been very good at what they've done, neither seeming to have the least idea of why. Their boy-girl Lego doesn't click, he would say.ĭamien is thirty, Cayce two years older, but there is some carefully insulated module of immaturity in him, some shy and stubborn thing that frightened the money people. Actually it's not unpleasant any physical linkage to a fellow mammal seems a plus at this point. The sheets between her skin and the weight of this industrial coverlet are silky some luxurious thread count, and they smell faintly of, she guesses,ĭamien. Numb here in the semi-dark, in Damien's bedroom, beneath a silvery thing the color of oven mitts, probably never intended by its makers to actually be slept under. She wonders if this gets gradually worse with age: the nameless hour deeper, more null, its affect at once stranger and less interesting? ![]() Souls can't move that quickly, and are left behind, and must be awaited, upon arrival, like lost luggage. She knows, now, absolutely, hearing the white noise that is London, that Damien's theory of jet lag is correct: that her mortal soul is leagues behind her, being reeled in on some ghostly umbilical down the vanished wake of the plane that brought her here, hundreds of thousands of feet above the Atlantic. Nothing at all in the German fridge, so new that its interior smells only of cold and long-chain monomers. Very clean and almost entirely empty, save for a carton containing two dry pucks of Weetabix and some loose packets of herbal tea. Very handsome, the upper cabinets faced in canary-yellow laminate, the lower with lacquered, unstained apple-ply. Not even food, as Damien's new kitchen is as devoid of edible content as its designers' display windows in Camden High Street. It is that flat and spectral non-hour, awash in limbic tides, brainstem stirring fitfully, flashing inappropriate reptilian demands for sex, food, sedation, all of the above, and none really an option now. Five hours' New York jet lag and Cayce Pollard wakes in Camden Town to the dire and ever-circling wolves of disrupted circadian rhythm.
0 Comments
Leave a Reply. |
AuthorWrite something about yourself. No need to be fancy, just an overview. ArchivesCategories |