A Litany of Crows

I flip through the zine-like pamphlet and say, Yeah, this one didn’t happen. Or hasn’t happened. Whatever.

I set it down on the end table and then excuse myself to go the restroom.

You can wait for me to return, patiently, listening to music:

During that time, you can sit and think or journal—if that’s a thing you’re doing.

You can peruse my bookshelves in the room. If you do, a few titles jump out at you:

You could, of course, read my little thing, too. The one that isn’t anything yet.

If you do, first you see the cover:

Then, inside, you read the following:

1

The main doctrine of remodern peoples is a devotion to the contemporary ignorance, to carry out its ministry to the detriment of all else. It takes many forms, seeming opposites or sameness, but it is the doctrine, the litany that is the same and the one most common religion.

2

Lives recur. Thoughts aggregate into belief systems that live and fight across the ages, possessing different agents and avatars, but there are relatively few thought forms in the open at once. The recurring life is the imprint of the theme of the thought form upon the ape.

3

Uncountable. One letter after another and on like that. A sentence, then a paragraph, then another without knowable end. I wipe my eyes and put it down. Writing is supposed to give you something, not take away what you have.

“I'm not signing this.” It doesn’t matter that I say that. Eventually what the paper says will happen. I can’t stop it.

It’s no excuse. Neither am I laying blame when I say I had pisspoor examples. Yelling. That was part of it. The hysterics of a lonely household brimming with activity. I mean, I guess. I was a kid.

Now, it’s like Ninety-eight has come again. Was way into my own thoughts then. A deep fantasy from childhood and adolescence wound into some newly inspired coil, a thousand yards of character types and story tropes retypified to my adult sensibility. Much the same, though. Love. Conflict. Separation.

It’s not that I think sex is gross, but I’m not that into it right now. I don’t know who would want me. That’s part of it.

4

I get the message, and the message is, “His name is Lionel Fite. Eff. Eye. Tee, ee. Get close to him. Find out what kind of things he likes. I want those things. That’s all for now.”  I sigh. It’s not a signature, per se. I do it a lot.

Downtown it’s cold. Festive lights punctuate the urban decay of these days, at once our most prosperous and impoverished.  My footsteps make soft sounds, like ellipses in my thoughts, recurrent anxieties and intrusive obsessions commingled with memories. Memories like my dad and I talking:

“Your mom and I have this great cat litter. It doesn’t stink up the room much either because we keep it under a table and covered in the bathroom.”

“Okay. We like our brand. We have a couple now at a good price.”

“Cats are expensive,” he said.

“Yes, but what else am I going to spend my money on?”

He cocks a signature half-smile at me. Knowingly and probably lovingly condescending because I don’t see it the same way.  I’m looking, then, at my reflection in the window door,

breath clouds doubled. No one cares enough to get inside someone else’s life. If they’re obsessed with them, or hunting them, or want to fuck with them, okay. Not for pleasure or love. Only utility.

5

It feels good to walk with her, arm in arm, sad though she is, queer though I am. It feels good. Natural. Like we’re wanted. I don’t know how it is for her, but for me, it’s like it used to be. Long ago, yeah, but not so long ago in the time of trees. In the time of rocks, barely a blink.

6

I imagine us, the three of us, she and her husband on their farm, laughing by the pond. Then that night, we make love. They kiss, and I watch. Then she kisses me, and he watches. Then he and I kiss, and she watches, rubs herself. He goes down on me, while she watches. Then I go down on him, look at her looking at us. Then I mount him, take him inside me. He moans, and we stare into each other’s eyes. She kisses me quick, then licks my nipples. I moan, and guide her face to mine, cupped, kiss her passionately with her husband inside of me. I love you, I say to her. She smiles, but says nothing back. Nothing but a deeper kiss.

It stops there. That’s all I have so far. A page and a half.

“I know,” I say, having re-entered the room without your notice. “It’s not that good.”

You think whatever you think about it, and say whatever you say.

Regardless of what you say or do not, I offer you a glass of your favorite, then saunter over to the record player.

I take that disc off, place another one on, drop the needle:

I begin to sway a little with the music, sip my drink.

“You know, they say that there is an ending everywhere. It’s always within reach.”

You ask who says that, and I wave my hand around. “They,” I say.

You go, Oh, and sip your drink, if you want to.

“I could do it, I think.”

Do what? you probably wonder and maybe ask.

“The whole 65 scenes retold thing. The whole page-turner thing. The whole you-know-how-to-write thaaaang.”

You tell me I do know how to write, which is sweet of you.

“That’s very sweet of you,” I say, “but I’m talking about the mass appeal here. The audience.” I gesture outward toward an invisible crowd of some kind.

You might wonder why I would do that.

“But then why would I do that?” I ask, rhetorically. “Why would I write something like that when you can go to fucking Barnes & Noble right now and pick one off the shelf? You can download it on your Kindle. You can listen to it on Audible. Why would I do that?”

You stare at me, thinking whatever it is that you are thinking.

“See.” I point at you, not in a harsh way, but with a casual lengthy finger extended from my cup. “That’s the look. No one ever knows what I mean.”

Maybe you do, maybe you don’t, but I explain anyway.

“I’m thinking like I’m the audience. Well, not the audience, but one of the audience. In the audience, or whatever. An audience member. I don’t want to read that book. I don’t want to read another page turner. Ever maybe? I dunno. But I don’t want to read another book that is the same book reskinned. So why would I write that?”

You offer a few thoughts why someone might, if you have any, and you feel like sharing.

If so, then I say, “Sure. Those are good reasons why someone might. But I mean me. Why would I, Teresa, want to do that?”

Probably you don’t know. But again, if you have ideas and want to share them, you may.

I take another sip—this one more like a slurp—and then say, “Well … I’m not doing it. Too stubborn, I guess. Stubborn old Van Santana. Doesn’t know how to make a smart decision about books.”

Over by the fireplace, I set my cup on the mantle, look at the time, then to the drapes. I smile. You may know why, but probably not. Which is totally fine, babe, don’t sweat it.

Then I say it again, a little bit differently, “There is an ending out there. Waiting. Looking for us.”

Play procedures:

• Take a guess at three different endings. You can do it for each story path you are following, just the main one (assuming you know what that is), or for A Litany of Crows.
• Suggest another record to play, if you like. Tell us in the comments, baby.
• Review your journal, if you are keeping one. Decide which inventory items are important still and worth continuing to carry around everywhere you go. If you want to leave some of them here, you are welcome to. If you want a place you can store them—like a locker or a cabinet or something—there are many open rooms around the Brubaker in loads of hiding spots in Soma. If you want to add anything to your inventory from this scene (or any of the described scenes) you may.