Crossing Our Communication Networks
I, me,—Vincent—have returned to the past six years
of my life. And I (sadly) realize I've allowed my communication threads
to fray from yours.
In some ways I feel this dead communication to be my fault. So I've
decided to restart these free-flowing communication networks, which
have (sadly) ceased. To do this, I will wait for the communication
grids to (sadly) cross; therefore cabling into them; therefore
fortifying the various guidance sockets; therefore revitalizing our
(sadly) deceased communication networks.
Six years ago, I, me,—Vincent—killed you. I smashed
your head with an implement meant for yardwork, (frantically, sadly)
damaging our communication networks and your brain as well. Six years
passed without mention. Not once did you attempt to scrape though my
friction tubes. Not once did you surface among the minor systems. But
then, (frantically, sadly) a fragment of you returned. It was small. A
miniscule. But it helped me understand: I had done this: I had
unraveled our communication threads!
This was not something I'd planned!
Six years ago, I (violently, frantically, sadly) stripped your life
from the information grid. At the time, you were asking and asking for
knowledge of your impending termination. What I knew of your death
became friction, was friction, was communication. But what we couldn't
know was that the horrid communication networks wire us all, and, at
the same time, they (violently, frantically, sadly) clogged our
reasoning threads. What a contradiction!
This is what you didn't understand: to travel along the speech rope is
friction. To rub up against the undisguised networks is death, is death.
And for these six years, I, me,—Vincent—have often
wondered why we continue to plug our tongues into the unconscious
systems. It is, I think, the reason we (sadly, violently, frantically,
sadly) delight in maintaining our communication networks, the reason we
continue to pull and tug at our resistance cords.
So I have sent this sluggish transmission, and I will (sadly,
violently, frantically, sadly) coil it in your direction. It is my hope
that the distance that separates us may not yet be fully torn. And if
my meager calculations are correct, there is, in fact, the probability
of a somewhat reinvigorated communication network.
I believe that. Or, I want to believe.
Not so long ago, that byte of you returned. That miniscule. And it was
then that the last six years of my life were restored: friction,
friction, communication, and the death of our communication networks.
But I, me,—Vincent—think, or rather hope, that dead
transmissions can still vapor the information grid. There are rumors to
this effect, although few believe them.
Together, we will (unknowingly, sadly, violently, frantically, sadly)
continue to crash against the walls of our complex systems. We are
bound to them; therefore tied against them; therefore struggling only
as much as we can struggle!
So I send you this message in hopes of regaining what we have lost. Of
course, I fear it will not reach you. I've (unknowingly, sadly,
violently, frantically, sadly) severed the wires of our friction tubes,
and I cannot rebind them. But there is the act of speech, of death, of
communication: the act of friction.
And there is you. I suspect you must be somewhere, hiding among the
cavities that dot the information grids. Or you are (unknowingly,
sadly, violently, frantically, sadly) dissolved to pieces within the
colored striations we refer to as the speech ropes. Or you are
stretched and concave, rotating among those sharp and frightful
But if this belated message does reach you, will you answer? These last
six years, I, me,—Vincent—have begun to wonder: can
a transmission of this sort be enough to justify my actions? Can
something so simple as desire restore what we've lost? Can I satisfy
the longings of my crossed and tattered circuitry?
So I (anxiously, unknowingly, sadly, violently, frantically, sadly)
send these words in your direction. I ask again: Please reply!
Lucas Southworth has stories in or coming from Mid-American Review, Willow Springs, Web Conjunctions and others. He's
a graduate of the MFA program at Alabama.
To link to this story directly: http://wigleaf.com/201002networks.htm
Detail of drawing on main page courtesy of
w i g · l e a F