#:: discuss void and how it is impossible to make a truly empty creature I think

[distrxst]

hollow was always impure like subscribe hit the bell for more true thoughts

[aethelflaedladyofmercia]

Irresistible/Immovable

Yesterday, the DIWS Discord server went a little feral after a discussion of handholding this was my result. As always, I’ve taken something of a soft-angst approach, after the bus ride back to London...

Also available on AO3

The bus arrived in London, rolling to a stop a block from Crowley’s flat.

“Seemed fair,” Crowley whispered. “The streets get narrower and there’s no place to turn around…”

Aziraphale wasn’t listening. Still staring out the windshield, past the driver. He hadn’t moved for at least three miles.

Crowley reached up and tapped his shoulder. No response. He tried again, pushing harder, shaking until Aziraphale finally blinked and turned, just a little. “Come on, Angel. Time to go.”

Another gentle push and Aziraphale finally slid out of his seat, standing in the aisle. Crowley clambered out after him, unfolding.

All through the long, terrifying ride they’d said hardly a word to each other. Crowley knew he should, offer some reassurance or show of courage, something to make Aziraphale feel less hopeless.

He didn’t have it in him, no strength to spare, no words, no hope. He’d offered his flat for the night. Beyond that, well, his mind buzzed with ideas. Impossible ideas. Ones that would take a being far more powerful and confident than he to enact.

This morning he’d offered to run to the stars. Perhaps that could still work, fleeing forever, across the infinite emptiness of space, never again to rest, to laugh, to enjoy the taste of food. In its own way, that was as frightening as oblivion at the hands of their former sides.

He led the way up the aisle, down the steps, but Aziraphale didn’t follow. Instead, he paused beside the bus driver, resting a hand on his shoulder. “Thank you for…” he seemed momentarily uncertain. The driver was still in a daze; in five minutes he would realize he was in London, not Oxford, and wonder why. “Yes,” Aziraphale patted his shoulder again. “Thank you.”

From the side of the street below, Crowley felt the faint tingle of a miracle echoing down. A small blessing, protection from harm, a promise of a turn of good luck in the next 24 hours.

Amazing, Crowley thought. Even after all this, he still has strength to spare. He watched Aziraphale step down, slowly, to join him on the street.

Crowley’s hand hovered – almost touching his shoulder – wishing to draw some of that infinite steadiness into himself.

“This way,” he said, pushing his hands into his pockets as he walked into the darkness. “Not far.”

After a dozen steps, he realized he was walking alone.

--

Aziraphale stood on the street corner, staring at the sky.

London at night never became truly dark, not the way that little Oxfordshire village had, or indeed the way London had a mere century before. All that new electricity, all those signs and streetlamps and 24-hour Tesco’s. The edges of his vision seemed to glow amber as the light from windows bounced off the air, reflecting down. Giving the city a halo of sorts.

Under the right circumstances, he might have found beauty in it, of a kind.

Instead, he felt lost, adrift.

“We should have stayed,” he murmured. “No stars.”

“What’s that?” Crowley’s voice was strangely distant, but it took the click of only a few quick steps across the pavement to bring him back. He hovered, almost in sight, tossing his head in that way he had.

“Just that…I’d hoped there would be stars. In the end.” He laughed a little, or at least made a sound like laughing, and wasn’t that close enough? “I might see them when they drag me back to Heaven. Some of the rooms look out on the night sky. They don’t get used as much these days but…but I could try and ask. Do you think Gabriel would allow a last request? Or would that just make him…make him angrier…”

“Hey.” Crowley’s hand pressed into his back, gently, just below his ribs. “Don’t…don’t say things like that. We’re going to figure it out.”

“Figure what out?” Aziraphale stared at the blank sky above. “There’s no one to appeal to, no higher authority, no…no clever way to get out of it…”

“Oi.” His eyes flicked down, just a little, just enough to see that Crowley stood close – very close – eyes uncovered, staring directly into Aziraphale. “We’re going be fine. Do you hear me? We’re going to walk home, we’re going to talk this through, and we’re going to figure it out.”

“How can you say that?” Aziraphale was surprised at how calm his voice sounded. “There’s…nothing to figure out.”

“There’s the prophecy,” Crowley said. How could he have so much energy? How could he still move, still shuffle his feet as if in his endless dance, everything in motion except that hand, resting on his back. “Choose your faces wisely? Playing with fire? Agnes wouldn’t have sent us that prophecy if there was nothing we could do.”

“Perhaps.” His eyes drifted up to the empty sky again. “Perhaps it was only intended to…give us a chance to…prepare ourselves, I suppose.” He tugged on his waistcoat and tried to imagine himself facing Gabriel and Michael with dignity. He might be able to muster dignity. Defiance was asking a bit much, but he could try to face his punishment standing tall.

“Out of the question.” The hand drifted from his back, brushed his elbow. “Because I already lost you. Three times, actually, and you know what? It sucked. So I’ve already decided. Not happening again.” The hand returned to Crowley’s pocket; his other lifted the glasses, pressing them back into place.

“Crowley…” he remembered a voice in the strange white darkness, as he’d scoured the Earth for a suitable body. A familiar voice, filled with pain, but still going on. A lifeline in that endless void. “I’m…I truly am sorry…”

“Nothing for you to be sorry about,” he said, turning away, voice as cool as ever. “Just. Don’t give up. I have ideas, but they won’t work if you give up. So just…don’t.”

Crowley started walking, and Aziraphale struggled to keep up. He tried, struggling to go forward, but his legs shook, he stumbled, would have fallen, but he reached out and caught Crowley’s elbow.

The demon froze.

“I’m – I’m so terribly sorry.” Aziraphale stepped back, brushing his hands against his coat furiously. “I – I – obviously, I didn’t – It won’t happen again!”

“It won’t,” Crowley said, and without quite facing Aziraphale, he held out his hand.

The angel stared at it for a long moment.

Perhaps he was misunderstanding. Perhaps Crowley intended a miracle of some kind and was – oh, warming up or some such thing. Perhaps…perhaps…perhaps…

Aziraphale brushed his fingers across the palm, uncertainly, pulling them back. He’d almost expected it to burn. It did, in a way, a tingle all across his fingertips, a jolt up his arm and directly to his heart.

He tried again, this time letting them slide until his palm was pressed against Crowley’s, and started to wrap his fingers – no, surely not—

Crowley’s long fingers closed around his hand. “Is this…better?”

“Ah. Oh. Um. Yes?”

“Don’t let me go too fast.”

All Aziraphale could do was nod. Crowley started walking again, and with a tug on his arm, the angel found himself following, pulled in his wake, as he always was, the most natural thing in the world.

Crowley was as brilliant as the stars he’d once made, and all else fell to the force of his gravity – humans, and cities, and Aziraphale.

It wasn’t a bad thing, to be in the orbit of such a marvelous creature. One foot followed the other, on and on, into the night.

--

Crowley wanted to get inside as soon as possible. They needed to talk, needed to plan, and that couldn’t be done in the open. He felt exposed here, vulnerable. Every instinct was to dart for cover, for darkness, for safety.

But as he walked, he felt the tug at his arm, and glanced back to see Aziraphale, still holding his hand, still struggling to keep up.

He slowed his pace, until the angel was beside him again. Their shoulders brushed, and just for a moment he felt anchored. Grounded.

Aziraphale’s eyes were glued to the sidewalk before them, deep in thought.

“Now what?” Crowley asked, wishing it didn’t sound so angry, but he couldn’t stop himself sometimes. He needed to move.

“Nothing,” Aziraphale said quickly. “I’m perfectly fine. Just…”

He squeezed Crowley’s hand, and it was hot, beyond anything he’d ever felt, hotter than the fires at the center of stars, hotter than the heat of Falling when everything was torn away, hotter than damnation, hotter than salvation – that little bit of pressure ignited everything in him.

Then Aziraphale pulled his hand away, and left him cold.

“I – I – I had a thought…” Aziraphale twisted his own fingers in front of him. “About the prophecy. What if…what if choosing our faces…” He stopped, illuminated in the orange-yellow light of the streetlamp. “What if it means that…that only one of us need be destroyed? That perhaps there’s some way I can…I can sacrifice myself…”

“No!” He darted over, grabbing Aziraphale’s shoulders. “Look at me, no. I told you, you – you’re not allowed to give up!”

“It’s not giving up. It’s – it’s the logical solution. Heaven would of course wish to see me punished. If they make me Fall – through the-the Fires of Creation, then Hell would have me to…to…” He swallowed. “I think both would be satisfied with this solution. And you could…”

“We’re not doing that,” Crowley growled desperately. “And I have just as much a right to – to sacrifice myself, anyway.”

“No, dear. I don’t think Gabriel would care much for your death, I’m sorry to say. This is the way that makes sense.” He looked up, and there was a strength in his eyes, the strength of all the earth, unmovable, implacable, powerful enough to outlast eternity.

Without realizing what he was doing, Crowley brought his head to rest against Aziraphale’s shoulder, wrapped his arms around the angel, trying to absorb that strength, wondering what it would be like to have it flow through his veins.

“Angel,” he whispered. “We can’t. I don’t…What would I do? With you gone?”

“Crowley, I’m sure you could…”

“I’m not strong enough. I don’t know…without you…” He thought of himself, sitting in that bar, waiting for the end of the world. There had still been that drive to do something deep inside, but without Aziraphale, he was adrift. Lost. “Don’t make me go through that again.”

His voice sounded weak, desperate. Crowley had never begged, not for anything, not even when they cast him out of Heaven. He begged now, pleaded, deep in his heart.

Aziraphale shifted in his arms, and he felt those soft, powerful hands settle on his back, rubbing gently as if he were precious, as if he were delicate, as if he might fall apart.

“Don’t leave me,” he whispered.

“Of course not,” Aziraphale said softly. “How foolish of me.”

Crowley stood there, leaning on him, drawing that infinite calm into himself, until he was ready to go on.

--

Very suddenly, Crowley pulled back, stepping away, fading into the darkness while Aziraphale remained in the light of the streetlamp.

Had he ever seen Crowley in such a state? It shook Aziraphale to his core.

For the first time since stepping off the bus, he looked directly at his friend – not at the sky or the earth, glancing from the corner of his eyes. Directly into those black lenses, into the heart of the being he had bound himself to, slowly, irrevocably, for millennia.

He thought they were opposites, destined to forever be pulled together and repelled, dragging each other back and forth through eternity. The light and the dark. The order and the chaos. Forever cancelling each other out.

But it wasn’t like that at all. Everything he felt – all his fear, his uncertainty, his doubt weighing him down – he could see echoed in Crowley, transformed into a limitless energy that could power them both.

Crowley stood in shadows, created by the light of the lamp; the lamp only existed, only had purpose, because of the darkness.

They weren’t opposites. They were halves of a whole, part of each other. Reflections of a sort.

Aziraphale stepped forward, his toes on the very edge of the shadow. Crowley stepped closer to meet him, light reflecting off his glasses, his tie, his fancy watch.

“Thank you, my dear,” he said, straightening his bowtie. “I don’t know what came over me.”

“Any time, Angel.”

Crowley held out his arm, offering his elbow, and Aziraphale wrapped his hands through it. Pulling close. Feeling the heat pour in along his side where they pressed together. Finding the will to keep going.

They walked together up the street, the irresistible force and the immovable object. Arm-in-arm, completing each other.

Perhaps together, they could bend even Heaven and Hell to their will.

--

Thank you for reading! Also available on AO3.

[anhed-nia]

BLOGTOBER 10/22/2019: WOUNDS (2019)

This movie came to my attention because of my old pal @heksenhaus / .sjb.'s fascinating description of it on Letterboxd. l was compelled to look over the other reviews of it, which I rarely do, and when I saw that they were so consistently and exaggeratedly negative as to border on just plain rude, I decided I had to watch it right away. I'm not saying it's an important masterpiece or anything, but I totally loved it. I think I saw it four times in the last month, and those probably won't be my last four. I can't stop thinking about it, and here's a NON-exhaustive collection of stuffy pretentious things that I have to say about it. "Enjoy!"

***

If you find yourself reading this without having seen movie, I strongly encourage you turn around and go do that right now. I say this not only because I think it’s really strong, but because I am going to have to discuss it in a lot more detail than usual. WOUNDS is so deeply strange, and so defiant of rationale, that it won’t do any good to simply describe the catalyzing events of the story as per usual. Here, let’s try it: One night after an abnormally violent barroom brawl, a bartender retrieves a lost cell phone that triggers his downward spiral into a world of eldritch horror that threatens to consume him, body and soul. See? That wasn’t very helpful at all.

British-Iranian writer-director Babak Anvari’s second feature film opens audaciously with a quote from Heart of Darkness, about how the maddening voice of the wilderness “echoed loudly within [Kurtz] because he was hollow at the core.” Associating one’s movie directly with a major work of art like this would usually form grounds for instant dismissal, but Anvari justifies this citation in bizarre and varied ways. Alcoholic bartender Will (Armie Hammer) is living out a slow motion breakup with his frosty girlfriend Carrie (Dakota Johnson), while trying to seduce spoken-for Alicia (Zazie Beetz), the closest thing he has to a friend. Always lonely and always thirsty, Will's stock in trade is perpetual dissatisfaction, teasing other people's unslakable additions from behind the bar, and pursuing his own implosion in the off-hours. In his endless exploration of emptiness, he finally finds the void staring back at him from within an opening in a human body.

At the conclusion of the first ten minutes, which beautifully introduces the movie’s roach-infested gutters and their bottomfeeding denizens, hulking barfly Eric (Brad William Henke) receives a horrific gash to the side of his face during a sudden and unexplained bar fight. The bloody fracas is recorded by a group of preppie teenagers (themselves well-chosen representatives of hollowness) drinking illegally in the corner, who drop their phone and split when the cops are called. Will is too fascinated by what he finds on the phone to follow Carrie’s sage advice to hand it over to the cops: A snuff video of an esoteric ritual featuring what is truly one of my favorite original horror images in many years. Soon Will is engaged in a disturbing text exchange, presumably with the preppie kids, who are clearly involved with something seriously dark. When he makes the mistake of calling one of them, this identifies him to whatever grim entity they have summoned, and escape becomes impossible even after disposing of the phone. This presence visits Will through his own phone, through the internet, through the carnal doorway of Eric’s wound, and even his own.

Perhaps the oddest thing about WOUNDS is how both technology and the body are equally viable vectors for contamination from beyond the veil. A phone line or internet connection is something designed to convey information, not to contain it, and the failure to resolve one's own hollowness can make a person similarly conductive. The parasitic being first appears gestating behind Eric’s face, then it contacts Will over the phone, before peering out from within a soft opening under his arm. The creature occupies these physical voids while agitating Will’s psychological voids--his hunger for love and lack of personal substance. Ultimately, it watches him from within his mind, appearing as an unblinking sunlit eye lodged in some gory far-flung interior. It finds in him quite a luxurious dwelling with plenty of room to stretch its tentacles, for as Carrie remarks, “You know what I think you want? Nothing, because there is nothing inside to satisfy. You are a mock person. You’re just a body.”

Coincidentally, Carrie is writing a thesis on T.S. Elliot’s "The Hollow Men", which alludes to Heart of Darkness, and which is itself alluded to in APOCALYPSE NOW, so she seems to be a qualified expert on the topic of men who are driven insane by their own emptiness. Will may as well be a research subject for her degree. An intellectually curious person, unlike her boyfriend, she notices a set of volumes collectively called The Translation of Wounds in the background of the kids’ snuff video, which she identifies as gnostic texts. Their content describes a means of conveying an otherworldly being into the material realm through the medium of physical wounds. I’m not trying to assert that any of this “makes sense”. Speaking honestly, I like that it doesn’t make any sense. But what I really want to say is that it is more important for a movie to make sense philosophically, for it to be spiritually consistent, than for it to describe things that could really happen as long as certain conditions are met. And if you want to be really “realistic” about it, how could a human audience possibly understand the behavior of a demiurge in any case?

While not exactly sensible, the movie is extremely sensational. While WOUNDS exercises some economy in the dispersal of its powerful visual effects, it constantly sags under the weight of its own atmosphere. Its dark, slick photography is outshone by a fabulous soundscape that gives one the distinct impression of an invisible presence, without resorting to heavy breathing or creaking floorboards. Will inspects his increasingly haunted apartment accompanied by a subtle pulsing and rasping that could be a current of air or the churning of an internal organ. It is hard to say whether he literally hears this sound, or if it simply represents the emotional perception of an unseen presence. It works quite well on both counts, whatever the intention. All of the performances support this sense of impending doom as well, perhaps especially surprise star Dakota Johnson, who utters my favorite line of dialog of 2019:

“People look so normal on the outside...but on the inside, it’s all just...worms.”

WOUNDS may not be a heartbreaking work of staggering genius, but it gets under your skin with the intention of living there, and at that it succeeds. Its Fulci-esque sense of physical degradation and implacable doom supplants the need for any rational justification for its confounding narrative. In the usual brief research I do to prepare a writeup, I encountered irritating websites that offer to explain the endings of movies, and cringed at the thought of people who think that movies have any obligation to square with reality. If this were totally comprehensible, then surely it wouldn’t be so scary. Will does a fine job of demonstrating the movie's raison d'etre by virtue of his own existence: Idle hands may be the Devil's workshop, but a hollow heart is his home. As Will finally welcomes the thing to take him over entirely, he says to it, “MAKE ME WHOLE,” and that is naturally what happens. After all, as Joseph Conrad suggests in his own sinister way, nature abhors a vacuum.