Travels is an anonymously written Ekleipsist autobiography.
And so it begins again.
Always and only ever beginning – never arriving. There are endings, sure enough – but only temporarily as though they were an elongation of the beginning.
And oh, the horror, the impossibility, of beginning! The beginning, fraught with endless possibility, lies in utter darkness – the overwhelming blank page teeming with the chaos of every endless possibility – each anonymously pulsing strand straining towards the actualization of its very own non-arrival – endless strands composing the blanket stretching out infinitely upon us as if to ask: “What will we do to disappear?”
I who am just a rider riding. Silently traveling, seeking – a silent stranger lost in wonder with the sky and stars – a stranger who wanders apart – a ghost haunting my own life even as I live it, an exotic apparition who has made its unnoticed exit from the everyday tug-of-war world – turning away and apart from people for whom the sky and stars are unusable, ignorable happenstances.
What will I do to disappear? I will refuse to combat authority with an opposing brand of authority and choose instead to live in wonder.
What is this song now come to float my way? What magic brings it to stir such flutterings of my heart – and yet so dependably refuses my touch? It reminds one, perhaps, of a certain castle of the Pyrenees.
One must need write nonsense – indeed, I have written it here – a nonsense that I follow as the light falls upon it all day long — all day long! Perhaps some of my better thoughts will wander off to you as an unexpected answer to your unwritten letters.
I see you on occasion at the end of an alley of associations, but your name is not spoken – nor thought of. I love you because I cannot see you all day long, and I certainly could not think of you all day long.
I must now say it again before the ever-recurring again cleans the slate – and I say this to myself in a great eclipse of the world: I am a rider, a wanderer, whistling and singing on my travels.
You could say that my travels as a rider began in quite another book – in fact, another book that I have never read – but a book that, you might say, I have lived.
[I, just a rider riding – traveling – seeking – I left thinking I would be like Mr. Arkadin – I’ve arrived to find it’s more like Marienbad – but it’s like Arkadin too – except that I’ve hired myself and wound up in Marienbad instead of … – how many variations there are! I sat down to write a work called Ekleipsis – instead, I write diaristic entries into a book called Travels – but maybe it is actually Ekleipsis – it’s only called Travels. ]characters I’ve (you’ve?) created in order to investigate myself – investigations….maybe that’s what it’s called….at any rate I don’t seem to have found much, have I? But no, it is not an investigation into myself, I’m researching a writer, Von Kriege – a man who may not even have existed – a nobody who supposedly wrote a work – now lost – called Ekleipsis – one of my college professors was studying his work – for all I know, my college professor was Von Kriege, what did I know back then? I was a naive kid, thinking that I was learning important things about the world……but now I’m here…and you’re there in that upstairs room writing about me again….
But to begin, you need not postulate the history-of-all-that-ever-was-and-ever-will-be, you need not rebuild the stars, the galaxies, cells, electrons, and quarks as if consonants and vowels were a clumsy hammer and nails. You simply cannot begin with everything-that-has-come-before in mind. You cannot even begin as though the beginning is a sort of solid foundation from which you will build upward and upon which the all-encompassing-rest-that-is-yet-to-come will comfortably and securely sit.
To begin is to act, whether artfully or by pure accident, by forging a way ahead, by starting out upon an as yet untraveled pathway that emerges from those Cimmerian mists of that dark Everything leading to destinations unknown and unpredictable – a spotlight shining through the infinite black toward nowhere else but more infinite black – the spotlight and the black being nothing more than dependent upon one another for their existence.
To begin honestly is to say, “I am beginning this now,” and wherein this now necessarily invokes the adored, revered, ignored and forgotten monuments that came before this beginning from their equalizing sepulchres—and it says, “I am doing something different now.”
To begin is to open some new line of communication with this already overpopulated cemetery by shining light upon some of the dust invisibly floating in the forever-past for all the world to see. To begin is to decisively reach into the blackness at the center from which existence slowly leaks out and grope blindly around hoping to take hold of some new piece of interest that might not have otherwise freed itself. It is to say:
“I am beginning and I will begin in this manner…”
Allow me to begin again.
I am a rider and a wanderer – and these are my travels.
Yet I must confess that calling these my “travels” is misleading. One must needs write nonsense, indeed I have written it there—here—alone, so weary of my yesterdays, I had to lift them up by an effort and separate them from myself and cast them out from me into the sunshine where I was not, feeling nothing of pleasure or interest—I cannot guess the full meaning. If only I might be left alone to wander and come to rest on this paper. If I went abroad, suppose I have a kind of adventure, took interesting avenues, my whole existence flooded with—unconsciously very different and much less important—quite a new guise, all this overwhelming chatter, all day long—all day long!—what a bore!—a godsend! The truth is that my thoughts went to the bottom of my heart, at the dramatic gate of the prison—and what my life meant, all this, these words—this reading of these words—the light which fell on them: can it be meant for me? It is not possible, knowing it to be all far on the outside of me, not seeming to touch the end of my finger as when people persist in confounding one another. If so, it was done well. Perhaps my thoughts might suddenly wander off to you. I expected your unanswered letter—the conversation, the questions, every moment with a pair of eyes behind them worse than the most literary person. Your name was not spoken, not thought of. I was afraid but I was determined in no sense to answer. I saw you at the end of an alley of associations and still your name was not spoken. I love you because I cannot see you all day long—because I most certainly could not think of you all day long. Could it be? It is not possible. I must say it again before the ever-recurring again: it is something—all of it—these words—some dream of those earliest dark years—the dream between dreaming-time, lying in the brightest sunshine, returning to me—I say this to myself—in a great eclipse of the world: I am a rider and a wanderer – and these are my travels.
This journal – the sort ostensibly meant for recording one’s daily goings-on and journeyings out yonder – was left for me, as if in a dream, in an upstairs room by a faceless stranger! Just how this spiritual twin should have managed to track me down is as much a mystery to me as my very own tenure in that remote house with the pear tree in front. At any rate, I suppose these verbal maunderings that seek their origins and source, are travels enough to justify their placement in a book so named.
You could say that my travels began on the day of my birth. And, it so happens my birthday is on Bloomsday so you might say that I was destined for a literary life – but only if you discount all of the people born on June 16 who care not one bit about literature and go about their lives completely unaware of Bloomsday or that there is a lengthy book titled Ulysses that they would rather not allow distract them from their practical and preferred leisure activities. One day, I might even get around to reading it myself. Yes I said yes I will yes.
But you could say that my travels as the rider that I have become began with quite another book – in fact, another book I also have never read – but a book that I have lived, you might say.
University
Prof Wirrell – book on a shelf?
Blanchot: “What will we do to disappear?” (also Baudrillard, etc) Is there any better activity to perform in our time if one so wishes to disappear than to write? With so many people now writing and so few people reading, one may be so perfectly anonymous – less than anonymous – by the simple act of writing and having one’s writing open to the global public at large and remain quite unseen drowning in the boundless sea of writing available for public consumption.
Chaos is a work of fiction.
Beyond the sounds of traffic, the chimneys, the painted walls, a gray slate roof, beyond the branches of hardwood trees: the nothing I’ve never seen stirring in the stagnant, apocalyptic chasm.
Were it not for the vapor trails I ride like a parasite, I might refuse to believe in this vast void of unpredictability – its ancient anarchy bordering brick and building, yard and twilight on such a pedestrian campus. Deserted in the hot shade on this earth, I’m the only witness . . .
Except maybe if I take a walk around the scary basement no one wants to enter or acknowledge, if I share a play on words in the dark side, explanations for God’s punishment. As long as I’m not expected to repeat provocative stories that are always believed in this part of the world – certainly not the ones I constantly hear.
Dorothy says that I have to be entertaining and maybe she isn’t my real sister. I shouldn’t need to explain myself at all, but my day begins in the background where death remains unbroken in a goblet of blizzards.
Apparently, honesty is stealing vast amounts of the hopeless night and rearranging her furniture in the hope she’ll lose her photographic memory. I’m used to hearing every word of it in my head – the most dreadful slogans that end up on the coffee cups of an auditorium full of jaded policy makers, the thieving global leaders of tomorrow.
But the cops are calling on me – getting me out of bed – advising me that the more insensitive the job, the more necessary I am.
It’s a gift and a curse in this imperfect world – the science of catastrophe.
All the while . . . left to my own devices in his workshop.
Play-by-play of my life – or the mundane boring stats of my life (xx years old, born in someplace, moved to some other places, parents from somewhere or other, childhood experiences….) – but the truth of matter is that I can’t tell you these things because I don’t know them, I don’t know who I am or how I got here. If I did remember, I suppose I would now be writing a memoir – my written interpretation of my own memories – what a lot of stress that would be! – either to try to turn my mundane life experiences into an interesting, insightful, entertaining read – or else to be able to successfully translate an exciting life full of exhilarating adventures into words on a page! Certainly, there are excellent writers out there capable of such things. But since I don’t remember, I suppose I am now writing hoping that my interpretation of what I forget will offer me something fruitful in return for what I do not remember. (Blanchot!)
Mr. Arkadin: Welles film in which he hires a detective to investigate him – here, I investigate myself hoping to discover my self whilst my other does his best to remain elusive, to disappear completely while at the same time leaving clues meant to be investigated though endlessly frustrated.
Dewey: we must find the best way to avoid allowing art to be merely “the beauty salon of civilization”
Winter – and the weather… (Vlaminck bit from Good Health notebook)
???I am by no means a worldly person. I have not globetrotted to places far and wide. But neither do I lead a sedentary existence. Indeed, while there is much to be said for the simple daily pleasures each new day offers up to us unbidden, life’s hidden treasures often prove to be of even greater worth and may be experienced and fully appreciated only after committing an appropriate degree of concentrated effort upon explorations and innovations in the multiple directions of one’s interests.
What are my interests…?
[here in Travels, I may discuss VK openly and the writings associated with him – though hints may be laid that VK is my own pseudonym – I may discuss Wirrell and my introduction to VK, I discuss how the only copy of The Charlatan -the “autobiography”- that I’ve ever seen was placed inside another book, a novel by Stefen Kessel also called The Charlatan – surely chosen because VK liked the title for his autobio – and how this one copy was on Wirrell’s office desk – and also my experience with Wirrell hiding under his desk when the dept chair entered his office….]
You might say that I was destined for a literary life. I was born on Bloomsday – and my girlfriend is named Bridie Kelly….
my friend who disappeared (librarian? Echo? Oecile?)
librarian who is also a forester? born on Bloomsday – destined for literary life? Wirrell and Oecile in college? Cummington/Remington/Scotland – went to Scotland, seems so long ago now – now with all that has befallen us – VK Arkiv discovered in the library? Found VKTMWDNE books – research uncovered some listings for Ekleipsis – but no hard evidence of it.
And you – you are here now, but I envision you always here already waiting for me while you, perhaps, envision me always already here and waiting for you.
I am nobody. I may claim no merits nor credentials. I am of no consequence whatsoever to speak of. The story of my arrival here is long, primarily involving a string of happenstances out of my control but which I floated upon as one might cling to a life preserver so as to avoid the only apparent alternative. Thus, the only direction I might be said to be stumbling in is that due to worldly forces beyond my senses or comprehension. I have attempted on occasion to look deep inside of myself in hopes of finding some direction in there only to have my gaze returned by the disapproving eyes of a child I feel I once knew. That is not to say that I do not have my own thoughts or opinions on particular matters—only that choosing to act without a sort of push from the world is like writing a poem without having read a book—while having thoughts and opinions upon which one places too great a weight is like reciting a poem to an auditorium and expecting a tear from each eye.
I do not expect anything from anyone. I recognize that I am unlike “most people.” Perhaps I am unfit to be a human being—a poor example of the species—altogether inferior with no hope nor desire to be otherwise. I would cry out for help, but this would imply that I believed there to be some sort of cure for my affliction. Ha! …as though one could cure a mouse of the affliction of “being a mouse”—and yet there is a way—a way that is no cure, a way that is unlikely to change many opinions, a way that goes largely unrecognized—but it is a way that is respectable and where one might mingle with the ghosts of certain comrades—but, most of all, it is a way—a way that is poorly lit and lonely—but not yet the darkest way!
No, there are few escapes. My most frequent and, I daresay, enjoyable escape is into a hot shower! You can dream in a shower. Being alone in a shower is acceptable, expected even. Being alone in the world is frowned upon. People look at you with suspicion, disdain, and pity. Dreaming in the world is widely accepted—but only dreaming in the sense of hoping and striving toward reaching some specific goal, not actual dreaming. Why can I not bring myself to do the things that others seem to do so easily? Why should I always feel like a mouse made to live in a boundless ocean?
Why, for some, does the world fall right into their very laps without their even thinking of lifting a finger while others of us try with all our might to have one small event go our way and for which we shall wait up until death to see unfulfilled?
Writing an autobiography has always seemed to me a narcissistic endeavor performed by people who think that they know themselves all too well and intended for readers who already know something about what they want from its creator—the result of which is a strictly steered, calculated product. In itself, this is not a deplorable thing—sometimes what we want is precisely what we want. I merely point it out so as to differentiate such work from what you see here. I am not interested in being noticed or remembered. I have nothing important to tell you, and I have no idea what sorts of things you might want to read. I am indifferent toward “changing the world.” I place no hope in any revolution (which is not to say that I doubt any revolution will succeed in overthrowing the powers-that-be but that I doubt any revolution will succeed in becoming something better than that which it overthrows). And yet: sometimes revolutions will succeed and things will get better for some people for a little while until they get worse again. These age-old cycles can make a great difference to many people, but I find them tiresome, and I find their seeming inevitability horrifying.
These Lethean memoirs are probably some microcosmic document of my own tiresome cycles of thought and being. Thankfully, I can’t see that from here. I write some words down and then find myself writing some other words down after them. I am not trying to “find myself” or “figure myself out.” I am not seeking to discover previously hidden truths nor to hit upon the essence of life. I am, rather, trying to lose myself—trying to disappear more completely than my life outside of this abstract space seems to allow. Perhaps for these reasons, I do not attach my name here which is, anyway, a farce, conjured out of nothing, and I can no more remember my former name if indeed one was given to me than I can communicate to you the origin of my present one.
And wouldn’t the inclusion of my name prominently on the cover only promote in you a greater disinterest in exploring the statements herein? Aren’t you looking for a little bit of yourself here—a bit of yourself you have forgotten or ignored and that you would like to recognize or regain? Or perhaps you are looking for something that you never knew was possible, something you don’t even know you want, something that you are not yet, something that stands as an Other to you (but that you will readily and immediately assimilate into yourself as though you were made of Legos and these words and thoughts were more pieces to attach to yourself)? Either way, what good should knowing my name do you? Here, in a certain sense, I pull the curtain back a bit, but where were you to begin with and what were you looking at before? And isn’t it such a delight that neither of us should know quite where it is that we are heading?
(I should disclose to you that this is the second edition of this book. The first edition is out of print—I produced one copy for myself and promptly lost it. I am rather embarrassed to say that putting together an entirely new book has been hardly any trouble at all.)
{ } VK Arkiv 