sam robinson – excerpt from on fire

Unyielding as Good as Dreamless

	The walk back to Brighton from J.P. usually takes an hour and a half, probably less at the clip I was moving. At that witching hour I passed by, undressed and unmolested by even the gaze of passersby— beauty of living in a desert— beauty of living in a wasteland— beauty of living in a diurnal hive— the night streets are only beset by freaks and the nominal authorities put in some effort to hygiene though I shudder to think of what Central Square is like at this hour— and Mishima forgive me this is not some cheap crepuscular trick! I aim to leave as soon as possible and return to stainless steel glistening in the light of day, but the best way out is the only way out is directly through— I hope Johnny W is okay [walking around in a dirty button-down but I’m sure he’s asleep gotta be up at the morning cockcrow, even on Saturday! Does the harvest wait? For none]— OK, not safe, he is safe— it’s not exactly a dangerous place, only feelthy.
	I walked down Market Street with my chest bared and sticky, sweat from an eventful parade and even the air is grimy so it mix in and make like a film. The Sun was rising and the world was heating up, my room soon with it. 
       Owing to the idiosyncrasy of that penthouse room, I would have to chop my only contact with the outside world in half to make home for an A/C unit— instead I resolved to cook myself in the summertime, marinate in perspiration, resorting only to a high-end tower fan (trivial expense to suffer as I please) and leaving that sacred hole whole and unsacrificed— there will be no vivisections of the sky under my watch! 
	From the fridge I grabbed two ice cold mineral waters, chugging most of one before emptying the rest onto my fig tree in the hallway— only the best for the things I love— saving the other for later, it gathered condensation immediately upon hitting domestic air— I stripped down and grabbed a towel. Just the other day the maintenance man had to disassemble the kitchen ceiling so he could remove a drain clog, and I had faith in the drain’s passage to remain free of obstruction at least that long— faith well placed, before anybody had awoken I showered for almost an hour and panta rhei away from me, slowly reducing the temperature until the faucet dial pointed straight downward, foretelling the fruits of its labor and all, and I shivered with an empty mind.
	Summiting the stairs, I set the fan on 10 and shut my door before leaning forward in front to stretch my spine, touching my toes to a count of thirty. I took more glycine and laid down nude on top of my linen duvet, as that sweet missing essential began to grace me with its blessed calm. What followed was a vivid dream in which I wrote a poem of extravagant formalism— it slipped through my fingers upon waking, and I was left gazing at my phone, sweat dripping off my forehead onto the screen— 10:57, just in time to meet the noontide. There were messages and missed calls from Margaret, recriminations, apologies, entreaties, disgust and degradation— What is love? Baby [...] hurt me [...] hurt me [...] more— I’m laughing at a stupid thing— a senseless act— governed by what we suppose are the Laws of Nature— the polarity of two particles repels and impels them into a rotating cloud, but even they can be split apart, and tear the world asunder.
	Last night, Evan told me how he had run into the Professor, who neither of us had seen in years, at the Arboretum on a walk with Laura— Yeah man, he shaved his head and beard and everything— I think he’s some kind of buddhist now, I mean he always was on that vegan pacifist thing, but this is something else, now he really looks like a monk, and he was rambling about crimes and immortality and burning shit down— anyway, he was talking crazy, kinda freaked her out— real pain in the ass when we got home— and I didn’t even do anything! but she got over it, we uh made up, haha.
	Our conversation oscillated back to his slapstick tragedy of domestic woes and foibles, as it so often did, but I didn’t forget the Professor, as I never had. Taylor and I had met in college, bonded by a band tee during freshman summer orientation— as fate would have it, we ended up as neighbors in the freshman dorm and he was the closest connection, eventually the only, that remained after I had dropped out, and even that vestigiated. He studied sociology, entering the academic rat-race [can you imagine all the broken glass underfoot? So I say— feelthy]— last I’d known the Professor had a couple taught classes under his belt and a tutoring gig tentative— the hulking lure of a PhD program always loomed over his shoulder, casting a shadow of escape on his quotidian grind. He had chosen to remain in the shadow for the time being. After a few messages back and forth, and mercifully little to no catching-up bullshit, we arranged to meet at the Museum of Fine Arts that afternoon— there was some Dali exhibition he'd been visiting since it opened, and he was too transfixed to leave. 
       True to word, I found him rapt in front of his painting of the mausoleum at Halicarnassus— a work I had been previously unaware of and which was seemingly understated in comparison to his more famous paintings, but possessed a mythic solitude reminiscent of De Chirico’s best works. 
       It is elevated from a somewhat geometric and impressionistic representation of classical architecture by the miniscule figure in the foreground, draped in a golden shroud with back turned to the viewer. I felt it to be a woman, an oracle or supplicant upon first viewing the painting, and felt the contortions of her face in religious ecstasy. Another figure stands at a distance up colossal stairs. It was only later that I would realize this was a painting of a tomb and not a temple to the gods, and yet that intimation of her contorted face remained— was it the sorrowful countenance of a mourner, or the all-too-human awe of scale?
       Who would want to be well adjusted? This was the first time he had spoken in the ten minutes of contemplation we had shared, and who knows how many he had taken in before my arrival— Like, would you rather be well adjusted or Dali?
       I mean, I think you know my answer. It's been a while but I haven't changed that much.
       But why does yours have to be the rare one?
       Is it now?
       Oh don’t bullshit me, of course it is— he paused, his left hand rotating in midair. You know people want the, the, the cozy happiness to which they’re accustomed, or made to be accustomed to, pissed dry as it is— they receive their form of life from outside like a uniform
       Well isn’t it better for any group of people if it ends up mostly being the ones who go along to get along? Well better, maybe not, certainly not in the way we’d like, but the group can last a long time if everybody just wants to be a part— to play their role so to speak.
       The group, the group, I don’t care— I care about Dali! And he might be in here now, limping among us, castrated, and... He trailed off.
       Be that as it may, it doesn’t change the fact that a herd needs its members to get with the program. Even if the program is for a pallid nursing-home existence, most people would be content in the safeness and sameness. Everybody says "a job is good, it gives you structure." They’re not lying, you know, and in fact the cynical position is rare, but that’s another story— almost everyone now is born slaves, or domesticated, and in all likelihood we’re no exception. At the very least we’re born fucked up
       We had moved on from the mausoleum, ambling about the gallery as I stole glimpses at the paintings. The Professor was leading me, ambiently about the room. We landed at Portlligat at Sunset, with angels dancing by a red vessel at the shoreline— gray and golden mountains fluctuate in the background under a pink sky enhazed with cloud, breaking at the edge to plump tan billows nestled in lush atmospheric blues.
       I detect the purple of a gas flame behind it at every level, returning me to Collins Cove and Dead Horse Beach, where I was raised at the water's edge encircled by a cloying coastline whose embrace bore water towers, retirement communities, accreted centuries of settlement and population, coal power plants leaching into the surf where I swam with other kids. I reclined on a rock and watched a peculiar angel dancing in the Sun’s reflection, nestled in the clefts of Winter Island, until we stopped believing in each other— and we came back! But then everything broke down again, and the break was permanent. The bridge burned, leaving me the flame— I prefer that new divinity. 
       Taylor heaved a sigh and bowed his head— Feels like I’ve been here for days— why don’t we grab a bite to eat— Yeah I could use one


My Friend Suffers

        Taylor and I exited the museum, crossing the river and walking through Back Bay in relative silence— I was smoking, sweating and my lids drooped barely conscious under sunglasses— I try not to trust in my conscious too much anyway, it’s a petty thing that tyrannizes and misrules what it should carefully steward— but I am protected by a higher power. I've taken great pains to free myself from reason.
	Deciding on a burger place near Newbury Street, itself thronged with shoppers even under the towering heat [all the sweat to be wrung out of light-wash jeans, athleisure, leather-or-more-likely-pleather black pants, socks and underwear, boots tipped upside down and poured out into the street] I was surprised by how naturally he devoured a double cheeseburger given that the last I’d seen him he hadn’t eaten a piece of meat in at least half a decade. Still in silence amid a teeming din of patrons, he relished it, and I enjoyed the same along with a large vanilla milkshake— My father and I share the same hangover cure, I would later learn, not that I was hungover per se but in a liminal state between absolute and relative expenditure [I inherit Janus, that threshold god from my father as well— I descend from a line of the custodians of his temple— I have held a hallowed broom and keyring, but I put them down because I didn’t want to be a priest, even if I still ended up lying to make money.]
        Vitally nourished, we exited onto the street and a warm energy coursed through me to counter the heat outside, and they clashed on both sides of my skin. Buoyant now, I suggested we head to the Commonwealth Ave. Mall and take solace in the shade— I strode ahead as the Professor moped along behind me— he suggested we stop at a liquor store, and grab a few nips as had been our pastime and I assented willingly— each with a brown bag in hand, we made our way to the mall, and sat on down on a bench. Looking side to side, I cracked one open and downed it whole, the vodka sliding down my throat and entering its own warmth into the fray against the Sun and my meal— it was a flop sweat at the front line and I leaned back smiling, feeling each drip slide down my skin— Some collecting on my shirt, soaking through the cheap cotton button-down, others slinking further down my back or simply leaving me, falling to meet the bench slats or finding their zenith of distance from origin landing in the gray, gravelly sand upon which our seat was sat. 
       I opened my eyes halfway to take in our surroundings, and saw the Professor was leaned forward with his head in hands— the thought crossed my mind to ask if he was alright— eh, why disturb this glittering afternoon? I laid back to drink in the Sun and another nip, then another— halfway through my half dozen and my head was swimming, my nostrils flaring and constricting around that clear alcoholic burn— if he felt bad enough he could tell me, or hold his pain as men tend to do— I would prefer the latter— miserable people are such a drag, sick ones lamenting O woe is me, my burdensome life, without even the energy for an exclamation point when they could simply choose to Love It, to wake up for the first time, open their eyes and stretch, feel beyond their pathetic selves and the filthy sickbeds in which they lay as if already in a casket, as if to say "this is my spot and I'm sticking to it. Just put the boards up around me when the end finally comes."
       It’s a goddamn glorious day out! My skin is bronzed beyond the point it was this morning— semi-precious metal become a sign of very precious flesh— vital in the heat, and even redness in the cold shows your willingness to suffer it— the winter has its rare sights too, and beautiful, those being so interrelated as to be inseparable.
       So I ignored the suffering of my friend— peering over my sunglasses like a total sleaze, I watch people walk past with my hands deep in my pockets— I do not deny my voyeurism even if I have to hide it— my peculiar sight in plain sight, I’m a visual person, an aesthete, I like to watch and evaluate life forms and their forms of life— you are what you act— and how you look doing it! So much only appears to us, and tells us all we need to know— Nature is the oldest of old masters, and its total artwork is the vivid and dynamic figure
       How could you be sad on a day like this? Beautiful people are walking all around here, so quickly shorn of the layers in which they remain encumbered by New England weather from September to May. 
       Office sirens ditch blazers for bare shoulders, and some let down their hair— stretching and resting in skintight athleisure, exhibiting slender glamour and delicatesse, the height of the female of the species, we sweat the same, dripping down the back and sliding through fabric to meet an end. 
       Fit, muscled men from the financial district go running nearly nude still bearing manes of winter-grown hair, flowing locks of black and blond, tank tops stripped and jammed into the waistband of athletic shorts, stopping and laughing together, leaned against benches to catch breath amid subtle flexing. 
        Taylor and I are seated in a cloud of dripping sex, ablaze in the Sun, and I am pondering true justice, Nature’s justice, of rare and beautiful things constantly trampled underfoot in a stream of common bovine misery, but still their power overrules and can never be denied, even if their fate is tragic. It was always worth it for Icarus to fly as he did— for a glittering moment he saw more of the world than any other man— when he died he was taut and tan.
        —so I’ll never live forever, just die like everybody else, and the paintings remain unburned. It was never a good plan anyway— The Professor had been holding a lecture on the coordinates of his sorrows for who knows how long, I had missed it almost entirely, and was now forced to spray shots into the dark, hoping a single round would land in the target so obscured to me.
        Is it really as bad as all that? I mean you don’t have to just die like everybody else— and you can’t— our lives may not be our own, they may be owned, but death is still our ownmost, never to be exchanged with another’s— but yeah not in a hospital bed, not an old fucking man,  the way is up to you, at least it still is as long as you’re alive, you just have to be towards it. 
        He chewed on that, staring off into space and I tried to judge how he found the flavor in my peripheral vision— no burger but it all came out of my mouth so sweet, and I figured he must have been deliciously puzzling, albeit in his typically buddhistic fashion— even a connoisseur of enflamed passion such as myself can appreciate a stoic every now and then, depending on how they came to it— not denial of the passions but intimacy— I love the calm tiger-riders. Sometimes I’m submerged in agitation, like the world has been inverted and the cyclone fills with hysteric screams. 
        Most people have never really gotten laid, you know what I mean? Suppose they’ve fucked, but amounting to what? Wasted energy among neurotics, and at the end of it all, virgins they remain. I know a few animal people who could drop their shame and appreciate the beauty of violent lust— does my ego count myself among them? Yes it does (and my ego always counts me first). We recognize each other remaining calm amidst hysteria. 
        Sometimes I slip on a floor slick by glistening tears and leaked drippings to hit my head, bald without a lock of protection, and walk away with a piece of skull gone and a smile hewn across my face. You can see out the other side— it’s China! I’m a boy again, can you dig it? Passing by strangers, they peer at my gray matter as I walk away. They love to see me go and watch me leave. I can hear them chattering behind me but it all slides off— I think my brain has leaked out of my head. Well, I don’t think anymore, my brain leaked out. Never-mind, my non-sense. Everything makes sense now— I’ve stopped asking questions. I’m an animal without guilt and shame, turned freely in a glass, floating fluid through the milky air and flying really. I will never know rest and don’t want to. The world is inverted again.


Uncovered Heads

	The dust and moisture starts to settle— the angle of the Sun grows obtusely away from dawn, and the Professor tells me that he has a place to be, and would I like to come? There’s a meeting at his new temple, the Diamond Gendun Sangha— I want to say "no, church is always such a drag," but what the hell else am I doing? Sliding my remaining nips into my pocket, we make for Kenmore and catch a train to Park Street, switching to the red line and disembarking at Central Square station.
	Walking down Mass Ave, we passed clubs and bars and shops, and from the corner of my eye, I catch the side-street leading away to the Gold Room, eventually coming to the door of a brick apartment building, older than most of what surrounds it— the Professor presses a button on the buzzer four times, and the electric strike unlatches allowing us free passage. We climb the stairs up to the fourth floor, going down a hallway— he gave four knocks on the door, strung across with Tibetan prayer flags. A thin old bald man answered the door wearing a linen shirt and shorts, greeting us with a look of disdain through the sagging leather that adorned his increasingly obvious skull— I didn’t blame him, we surely stunk of liquor and sweat, this perception exacerbated by the relative sterility of the building’s orderly hallways and central air, carrying the remains of our day into his clean abode.  
	Taylor, I’m disappointed— I had hoped you wouldn’t be joining us this evening.
	Forgive me, lama— I have failed you and myself.
	Failing yourself is to be expected— you are a flawed and wicked creature, unclean and defiled— and failing me should be the least of your worries— did you even consider that you failed the dharma above all?
	The Professor bowed further and left his head low and limp— evidently he had not considered that— he shuffled further into the Diamond Gendun Sangha, in silence, and I followed behind, squinting as I removed my sunglasses and hung them from my shirt where the buttons cinched it shut at my abdomen. 
	The apartment was spacious and sparsely decorated, at least this living room into which we stepped— a ring of wooden chairs, of which only five were occupied, by other bald and bowing men, dominated the center of the room. Their bodies were in various states of disrepair, flabby and scrawny at the same time. Their heads each bore the stubble of a recent shave, and I felt pride of place owing to the natural smoothness whose source was in my fateful blood. The walls were mostly bare and eggshell white, save for an enormous tapestry of a mandala, eight feet by eight, on the wall to the left of the door— a massive wheel of flames surrounded one hundred and eight buddhas sitting cross-legged in varicolored geometric cells, some with hands raised and others with arms folded, bearing expressions of calm, horror and ecstasy— a snake followed a cat followed a horse followed a lion followed a man bearing a sword repeating over and over again right inside the fiery border— beyond the flame was a border of deep blue-green, an Ocean reaching to the corners of the woven world. I sat opposite that spectacle, and Taylor sat beside me. The window behind us was open, and the faint breeze emanating from it was no match for the hot and heavy air of these environs.
	Did you all hear that? Did you listen? Failing yourselves is to be expected, and failing me is not what you should fear— only insofar as I am bringing you the dharma, and when you fail me it is really that which you are failing— we must stay the hard path, the diamond path, until we are struck by gracious lightning, and so burn as the dry wood, to make clearings and fertile ash for new and endless life. He sat before the mandala, directly across and gestured towards me— as you see, this failure among you has taken it upon himself to bring a witness for his shame, so by his suffering he may learn something, and you may as well— and a proper witness with his head uncovered and exposed to heaven— at least there he has not failed— Now speak, stranger— tell us who you are.
	Not one to follow orders blindly, I blinked to get my bearings before opening my mouth— really it was already ajar, my nostrils dried and typically useless. I smiled and looked around, trying to meet the eyes of the acolytes around me. They were all stubbornly locked on the floor, some were even closed. Hey fellas— I’m a friend of the Pr— a friend of Taylor’s. 
	And from what temple do you join us? He looked pointedly at my head, and not my face.
	Temple— temple? Oh, none in particular— I’m not a religious man, just a bald man and a friend of one. 
	Every man follows a faith in his heart— if you cannot name yours it only means that you are lost, but by your wandering you stumble here upon the true dharma, the hard path that awaits us all.
	Huh— I mean, I can appreciate that, but the monk's life is not for me. To tell the truth, I try to be ascetic as little as possible.
	As the many, you walk and live as an ear on two legs and nothing more— hearing every rumor and nothing else, without the faculties to discern truth from lies— do not judge him for this foolishness! So you all once walked and conducted yourselves alike— and look to Taylor now— still you often do. In fact no man looked, and each maintained his humble posture. His eyes having left my head, they met min, and he never broke eye contact with me, whether addressing the group or me directly— my smile required no tension, and it never wavered with my face at rest. My eyes were nearly shut, but still I met his gaze.
	I didn’t come here to be a witness to Taylor’s shame, either, if I’m being honest— I’d rather he was rid of it.
	Your compassion for your friend would seem laudable to most, but without shame, then what will serve to chastise him away from future failure, and back to the hard path? It’s not exactly compassion— just desire to avoid a drag.
	Maybe it would be better for him to just act naturally— it’s all a waste of time and effort, trying to make a bad man good— and in any case I’m inclined to affirm his apparent failures as absolutely necessary— as everything is, and leads us through whatever bullshit vicissitudes to the redeeming and beautiful moments of life, the things that justify it. 
        Then you affirm your supposed friend in his abject weakness— what good is a man who can’t follow a path?
       As good as any animal, and maybe better, maybe closer to a wild one then something broken and domesticated— I may not like to look but I’m not going to put a saddle on him either and try and turn him into a beast of burden.
       But we are not just any animal— our link on the chain of being sits higher than the others, dependent as all else but endowed with the faculties of discernment— to know truth from lies— and just as surely that chain bends in a circle, moving in revolutions to bring us surely swiftly downward— but at the height we are called to acknowledge what we see and act on that basis— how are you affirming, but rather denying our manifest priority? You speak as if a man asleep— Now will you awake to join those of us here? There is a glittering path before you— someday the light may wake you anyway, and it is always best to go with a guide.
       Well what kind of animal needs a guide? A broken one— domesticated.
       And you resort to casuistry like any other swine. Maybe you are not an ear on two legs but a mouth instead, gobbling up every thing set before you and yapping away. Even pearls are turned to shit, or regurgitated and dribble out onto the floor in front of you. You stink of vice and lassitude, and let your supposedly dear friend become a pathetic failure. You tell me you are not yourself in need of guidance? You tell me you are not yourself broken? You yourself are not domesticated? You yourself are not a wretch? Not pathetic? You are above the dharma?
       The dharma, the dharma. It's all the same with these old insufferable priestly types. The dharma, the submission, the way, the truth, the life. What of the death? And the return, and...
       My gaze was transfixed by the yellow spittle collecting at the corners of his cracked lips, the novelty of this temple faded and I was so disgusted I barely heard a word he said— this old ranting fuck, sweating and shouting in a cramped apartment–cum-oven underneath the June heat— fat, sad acolytes sweating beside him— overripe fruit in the winepress— drinking this rotgut was making me nauseous— I looked to the window— I could jump out at any time— I looked around to see they were all now staring at the lama with rapt attention. 
       The only acknowledgment of my presence came from the lama himself, with arms raised and spread wide, he looked ready to jump out of his seat and rush across the circle towards me, whether to tackle or embrace it was impossible to tell— his mouth was gaping open, his chest heaved, and his eyes consumed me with ravenous hunger. I shrugged and cocked my head to the right, giving it a lazy shake. I don't care. The lama dove across the circle, tackling me out of my chair which snapped under our combined weight.
       From the ground I saw feet scrambling towards me— tripping over each other— now surrounding me and kicking as I lay serene underneath the lama’s brittle body— so much energy coursed through that desiccated flesh— any more and it would split and splinter— I feared a shard slitting my throat more than any blunt force trauma from the tired bare feet of the acolytes. The light thud of mallets on a xylophone, bittersweet song of petty violence without nobility, all pretty bloodlust strained through a deferential and allegiant sieve. Any jewels were caught and held back. It was more of an aggressive massage than any kind of sincere beatdown— I think I even started to get hard. 
       Pain can be familiar and inviting— even death can be colonized and made a place to live, given one is oriented sufficiently towards it— descending into submission, smothering whatever vestigial urge to self-preservation I possess, I relaxed and tried to extend my limbs away from my torso— an acolyte tripped over my right shin, crashing into his fellow and bringing them both down beside the hubbub. The ones on the other side who had been haphazardly striking me found their attention predominated by the desire to help their fellows, and stepped across, some completely over and some stepping on the back of their prostate master. It was bedlam, and I was happy to feel the stomping knowing the old fart was in between— my own discomfort a fair price to pay, and barely discomfort at that— I was getting off. 
       The lama and I were now lying in parallel, and as he suddenly became rigid I gazed into his eyes to see they had almost completely rolled back into his head— the faint smell of excrement seeped into the apartment, quickly potentiated by the ungodly heat, itself amplified by the chaotic struggle within— he had voided himself in every sense— his corpse was on me like a blanket. The heat of the day, the lack of sleep, the alcohol and whatever else seized upon the moment to extract their due, and I was on the verge of pulling the blanket further over me and passing out when the Professor cried out Lama! and moved to pull the cover off me.
       The two previously fallen acolytes were now sitting up on the floor, and their fellows had each chosen a chair to sit in. All breathed heavily, and Taylor was the only one standing. I still lay on the floor next to the lama’s body. The untouchable smell of excrement and death further permeated the room moment by moment, finding no exhaust at the window as the air outside remained igneously solid. No man spoke now that his master was gone from this earth— each looked worriedly to the other hoping somebody would tell them what to do— I couldn’t take the stench or indecision for another second, and dusted myself off as I stood up. With no stain upon me, I lit a cigarette and dragged on it, leaving the lit majority on an empty chair so as to provide incense to cleanse the morbid air, taking one last look around before exiting the Diamond Gendun Sangha. The acolytes had begun to pray over the body of their fallen master, and took no notice of me.
       Two dead old men in as many days— graceless lives expired as lived— I want the world to be a more beautiful place, and some people think Real Change can only take place on the margins, and they should be proud of me for doing something I don’t believe in— I tried telling my old angel friend that Real Change can only take place, nothing else does and the margin is a perspective error— she didn’t like that and we never spoke again, leaving me alone on the beach, and at first I was sad but then I realized how much more I loved the quiet, my only company becoming seagulls and the  rhythm of lapping tides [but I can allow beautiful people whatever errors in consciousness without calling them ugly— even if an evil, an angel she remains]— I’m serious as a heart-attack when I think about beauty, even when I’m laughing— comedy should be taken as lightly as death, you get me? Tat tvam asi, right.


SAM ROBINSON is a writer from Massachusetts. He can be found on instagram @baldsinatra, and at sunworship.substack.com.


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