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Blake Butler: Sky Saw

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Blake Butler Sky Saw

Sky Saw: краткое содержание, описание и аннотация

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I could go on at what these days were but the truth is I am tired. Would you even believe me if I did or didn't? Could this paper touch your face? I've spent enough years with my face arranged in books. I've read enough to crush my sternum. In each of the books are people talking, saying the same thing, their tongues thin and white and speckled. I don't want to be here. I want to get older. I want to see my skin go folding over. Someday I plan to die. Books that reappear when you destroy them, lampshades made of skin, people named with numbers and who can't recall each other, a Universal Ceiling constructed by an otherwise faceless authority, a stairwell stuffed with birds: the terrain and populace of is packed with stroboscopic memory mirage. In dynamic sentences and image, Blake Butler crafts a post-Lynchian nightmare where space and family have deformed, leaving the human persons left in the strange wake to struggle after the shapes of both what they loved and who they were.

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Person 2030 had been 811’s, who like the mother had descended from two bodies rendered during DELETED ERA. This child — the only one of hers that had thus far survived behind its eyes, held in its cruddy back and black saliva — had been the reason the father left, she knew. Though he’d not expressed this so directly — he’d said nothing really, just been gone — she could tell he’d despised the baby for shucking off his image, for already beginning to grow old. The air had seemed to buzz between them.


The other births after 2030’s were a different matter, following a similar structure to the system of her aging, if reversed — one for each year, young and coming, if all crammed into such a short amount of time — the same spiral cut procession seen in all things, of all things one after another — new infants bloating in her as if in instants, spooling ropes on ropes of breathing cells. She tried to hold them in but they came out.


The 2nd child had burst unfurling as a smudge of scum on the black summer pavement tile while the first child crawled through the whole house calling the father’s forgotten name, already gone. The stench had been horrendous, like endless fire. 1180 had washed with bleach and light for days and still could not forget. The curd left rashes on her face.


The 3rd child had been a trembling wash of chunks that would not stop running, squashed and ransacked in the eyes. It did have eyes, at least that. 1180 took to wearing diapers or standing over buckets until she stopped caring about the carpet.


The 4th child sluiced out while 1180 stood ironing a work shirt she knew 811 would never need to wear. Even if he returned there’d be no reason. Person 811’s place of employment had been converted into pyres. The church was eaten up with acid dust and some white substance. There were no words to call the evenings. And though the counted dead would never end, the state had claimed use of the bodies to build a wall — a wall that would keep them, finally, protected. 1180 ironed anyway. She pressed her knuckles to the iron’s steaming eyes to make a memory.


The 5th child came out of the wrong hole during a shit.


The smell of the 6th child—the mother despised herself for this—reminded her of biscuit gravy, and that was all she’d eaten then for weeks.


The 7th child grew its voice first and still spoke inside her when she was most alone. The 7th child knew things about her and rose them on her skin in detailed dioramas. The 7th child was not a woman or a man.


The 8th child seemed to want to make it. This child had kept in place for two whole days. By the time it came out as stippled magma, one solid body seared to the lining from where it’d come. 1180 had swelled large as a window. It pulled and pulled at her until after some time in the sun room it did not.


The 9th through 19th child came one after another like rollercoaster cars deformed and farting, hardly gas but so much blood — and then the 20th child emerged immediately thereafter, as a glassy substance the mother could manipulate between her hands — enough to make so many bulbs to light the outside bright forever — enough to build a boat had there been anywhere to row.


The 21st child swam around 1180 and caressed her head and told her future and said that soon 1180 would feel safe and she would have what she’d always wanted, but there was still more things she had to do yet and could she hold on please, could she hold, and 1180 shook her head and tried to turn to see this child, this sweet one, this living sheet, and yet no matter how quick she turned her head or in which direction the child could not be seen.


The 22nd child was made of paper, on which Person 1180 wrote.


The 23rd child, this latest stammer swollen up inside her soon-to-come, flooded the folds inside her with its pre-forming — it felt larger than the others — it already had so many eyes, had already filled in though the sound of everything inside her where among awaiting blood the mother felt the thing she’d meant to be herself learning her veins.


Person 811, somewhere elsewhere, found himself inside a box. The box held a long low light like the kind of light birthed by machines. He could see his short arms crimped with busy muscle. He could see his gushing veins and the scratch marks where he or something else had scratched them. There were scratch marks in the box above his face, bright splinters wedged under his nails.


811 had no idea how long he’d been inside the box. The last thing he could remember was some leaning purple room. From the room he’d moved into an elevator and the elevator sealed. The elevator had descended for several hours and held no music. At times the elevator seemed to be moving to the right or left, or at an angle, or through color. The elevator’s buttons were unmarked. He’d kept on trying buttons with one sore finger till one of the buttons knocked him out.


Before the elevator, he remembered standing in a dark froth up to his neck. It’d been too dark inside the air, too, to know where exactly what made what. He’d gone for miles and not found land — though he had found, by feel, among a patch of lubricant, a tiny plastic ring that fit his finger just exactly, though it kept slipping off, a little burning, and soon he lost it back into the depth.


811 felt something else there with him in the box. Something small and fat and grousing near his feet. He could not budge. He could not think of whom to call for. His mind blanked over so many things he’d one time known — his phone number, how long or fat his dick was and how it had fit into other people, the names of any presidents of Where, or of what his insides looked like on the inside — he’d seen his insides, some technician had showed him in a picture once, gushed and brown and wound, he remembered that — he could not think which way was up.


He knew there was someone somewhere wanting, and he wanted to remember. He tried to think of things he’d thought he’d thought before in other days of other years in the idea that thinking them again would make him click back on where he’d been or what he’d done after. He felt his thoughts flop off from him like live fish:


AM I A FIRE?


HAVE I BEEN MURDERED?


WHAT WAS THAT ONE KIND OF BEER I BELIEVED I LIKED MOST?


WHICH ONE OF ME IS THIS THINKING?


HOW MANY FINGERS WOULD I HOLD UP IF I COULD MOVE MY ARM?


The box was getting smaller, longer. The heat grew with his sigh. His face itched. His veins itched. He counted backwards. The other air the box held itself around his head.


Person 811 felt his name nudge somewhere in him, thrumming upward through his lungs: a name. A name. He’d had one. He spoke his name aloud, again, again. He’d known other people had had his name before him but they were not inside him now — not that he knew. He found that in saying his name aloud in certain phrasings he could remember other people who had also said it — his father, his boss, the bank, the heads in nightmares, his wife — yes, he’d had a wife — a what? — a woman. He could almost smell her. He could not remember much else. He also found that if he said his name enough the same way it began to become another name — something much longer and more difficult to pronounce — something deformed from how his tongue went, very old.

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