The Kyoto Man (The SciKungFi Trilogy)

by D. Harlan Wilson

  Infodump, or, Thy Piles

  Only when he was nervous. He hated himself for it. An entirely superfluous word. Good for effekt only, and effekt, again and again, failed to sharpen the blades of Truth and Practicality.

  —Indeed, he repeated.

  —What’s a timecrash?

  Infodump, or, Thy Piles

  There is nothing more modernist than the present moment. When one invades premodernist or postmodernist space, one arrives in Wonderland, and one’s mind (d)evolves accordingly, ripping the mnemonic facilities to shreds and schlock. Thus timecrashes. Over the decades, or the centuries, or the months and weeks—however long they had been schizophrenizing the ballroom of reality—subjects’ memories weathered like glass shards on a beach, surf and sand washing over them, smoothing out the sharp edges, the jagged spots, until all that remained were flat, featureless BwMs (Bodies without Mnemonics). This is one theory. Another posits that timecrashes have no effekt whatsoever on human memory. People merely forget themselves by nature. Additionally, few diagnostic minotaurs have accounted for the notion that the world may exist solely in the mind of one man, a superior being suffering from a nervous breakdown, just as Captain Ahab constituted every character in Moby-Dick. Stubbs, Starbuck, Queequeg, Tashtego, Daggoo, Flash, Pip, all subsidiary cannibals and savages and Nantucketeers, even the White Whale itself, and the Pequod, and storms, and the ocean, and the earth’s equator, etc.—animate or inanimate, tangible or intangible, they are different illusory variations of the same monomaniac, born and bred from corpus corporis exemplar, products of a fragmented consciousness. “In the midst of the personified impersonal, a personality stands here,” the old, grizzled fanatic says to himself. And then: “Is Ahab, Ahab?” No. Or rather, yes—but Ahab is also everybody else. And Ishmael is nothing but Ahab’s mind’s eye, or his dead soul, telling tall tales of the sea, and diagramming the vast, intricate bodies of leviathans, from some haunted house in the sky. And what goes for Ahab goes for Hamlet. And what goes for Hamlet goes for all of history’s troubled, troublemaking protagonists.

  Stampede of waiters.

  —Where’s our waiter? she asked. We’ve been sitting here for three minutes already. You haven’t even told me your name. I know your name isn’t Vlad Wallachia. That’s a schizoid elective signature.

  The. The.

  He shuddered.

  —I told you my name. You told me your name. What’s your name? Well. Schizoverse dating doesn’t work for everybody. Should we give up? You’re better off. My insecurities transcend comprehension. But let’s start over. I’ll tell you my name and you tell me your name. Ok? My name is . . . Victor Gargantua.

  —Victor Gargantua?

  —Victor. Gargantua.

  —That’s a fake name.

  —What’s your fake name?

  . . .

  . . .

  —Belinda. Belinda Carlisle. That’s my real name. I’m not deranged.

  —I’m not deranged.

  —Then what’s your real name.

  —. . . Plissken?

  Plissken looked over his shoulder.

  He looked over his shoulder.

  He looked over his shoulder.

  He couldn’t stop looking over his shoulder. The skeleton of Steve McQueen unnerved him. It was looking at him. Communicating with him. Only him.

  Waiter: roundeyed potbelly loud epaulette slit of mouth.

  —May I refill your bulbs, he droned. It wasn’t a question. He filled the empty bulbs with white table wine. It was the first time he had filled them. Somebody will be with you shortly. My name is __________.

  Stampede of waiters.

  One minute. Two minutes. Five minutes. Twenty minutes.

  Waiter: slackeyed railthin unassuming epaulette slit of mouth.

  —I’m starving to death, said Belinda. This restaurant is horrible, just horrible. I’m never coming back.

  The waiter said:

  —Let me tell you about our specials this evening. Rrrrrrsss. Karaaaaaaa. Pprrpffrrppfff.

  —I’ll have the __________, said Plissken. She’ll have the __________.

  —I don’t want that.

  —I’m a man, he growled, embarrassed by the outburst. Men take charge. You’ll like it. Give it a chance.

  —Let me refill your bulbs. The waiter filled the empty bulbs with white table wine. It was the first time he had filled them . . .

  The décor of the restaurant featured rudiments from multiple eras. Only the keen eye could discern such a pastiche, and keen eyes rarely strayed from imaginary diegeses . . . Flatware from the Victorian period. Medieval goblets. Futique kambayashi chopsticks that could be telepathically manipulated. Metachronic artwork—deviant renderings of past and future celebrities in compromising positions; landscape paintings of Martian tundra. Walls coated in pop synaesthetics. Eighteenth century ceramic Spanish floortile. Yuppie tapestries. Glowglobes.

  It occurred to the lay diner that s/he didn’t know the name of the restaurant responsible for this plate of __________.

  . . . the Chez Regardez?

  Timecrashes may or may not have besieged the Chez Regardez. Maintenant. Like the spokes of a wheel, turning with such velocity that they looked static. These niggling atavisms. Petulance as the doppelgänger of charisma. Things changed. Reverse and fastforward. Things immobilized. Beat. Things went unnoticed.

  Infodump, or, Thy Piles

  . . . problematize timecrashes via different theories of time. There is the Newtonian theory, which dictates . . . overturned by Einstein’s theory, which pronounces . . . early twentieth century. In recent years, quantum theorists have denounced the alleged “linearity” of time, favoring an arboreal model: infinite branches either grow from an originary trunk or, more probably, spread like a virus in the shape of a rhizome, sans origin. Others insist that time doesn’t exist. Furthermore, as Barry Dainton writes, “relativistic cosmologists have argued that there may be a multiplicity of spacetimes (or ‘baby universes’) sprouting from the other end of black holes, and superstring theorists argue for the astonishing view that there are nine (or more) spatial dimensions” (Time and Space 4). Consequently any effort to define, categorize or grasp the meaning and/or vicissitudes of time spirals into reckless, pathological oblivion, like an exegesis without a thesis. The role of space complicates matters bien plus, space being the evil stepchild of time (and/or vice versa). Given this troubled dynamic, it is of course virtually impossible to grasp the nature of timecrashes. If we cannot come to a basic, tangible understanding of a “thing,” how can we understand the perversions of the “thing”? And yet time is not a “thing.” And yet it passes—we grow old . . . we grow old . . . our bodies wrinkle, wither. We die. They bury us in the sand.

  . . . starting to get awkward. Belinda removed a tube of lipstick from her purse and smeared it onto her face. Plissken tried to conjure a viable topic.

  —I wonder what aliens must think of human beings when they observe earth from their starships, mused Plissken. Particularly if they observe us having sex. Like, in a porno film. What if they mistook a porno for reality? We look so happy. There we are, naked and smiling. We make sounds that clearly indicate pleasurable sensations. We touch and lick and penetrate one another, and our facial expressions denote enjoyment. We like to twist our bodies into strange positions and wrap our limbs around one another. Some of us like to crap on one another. And so on. Is that what the aliens think of us? Or do they think, what the fuck are those assholes doing?

  Belinda shifted uneasily in her seat.

  —I’m not trying to make you uncomfortable. Honestly. It’s a genuine concern. We’re not a bunch of porno actors, after all. And we can assume that aliens exist. The universe is too fucking big. There has to be more intelligent life out there. Do you know how big the universe is? It’s big. Like, beyond conception. Whether or not aliens are observing us is another question. Whether or not they are mistaking reality for a porno is still another question.

  —Thi
s is . . . inappropriate. You’re embarrassing me.

  —Really? That wasn’t my intent. Indeed. I mean, no. We don’t have to talk about aliens. Or pornography. I can talk about other things. What should we talk about?

  Waiter: . . . Dinner.

  Delicious __________. And impeccably rendered. Plissken commanded the chopsticks to feed his mouth.

  . . . He could feel the rice sliding down his esophagus. Moving too slowly. Clog . . . What next? If the exchange didn’t pan out. Could be awkward. Could be mortal. Dead in the dining room. Floorkill.

  Glp.

  —Pardon me.

  Belinda sipped a bulb of wine.

  —I want to lose myself in your corpuscles, Plissken whispered. I want to take refuge within your tender buttons.

  Belinda sipped a bulb of wine.

  Women came and went, talking about hills like white elephants. The. He discovered it was Steve McQueen’s real skeleton, not a simulacrum. A waiter leaned over and delivered the information into his ear like the last words of a man on death row. Unprompted. Validity as dread. The. The the. He stood and strode across the restaurant to inspect the skeleton and get to the bottom of the problem. The bottom nature of it. The the the the thethetheheheeeeee . . . Reboot. Fear kept him at bay. He couldn’t get close to it. He sat back down. Winded. Dotted with perspiration.

  —Have you used Withaneyetocoitus.szv before? asked Belinda. She had concealed her cleavage in his absence, butterflying the fabric of her dress with a microcrystalline clothespin.

  —It’s hot in here. Jesus.

  —I use Withaneyetocoitus.szv all the time. It’s never worked for me. But I keep using it. I don’t know why.

  Plissken looked over his shoulder . . .

  —Should they put candles on skeletons? Isn’t that sacrilegious or something? I don’t like it. What would Steve McQueen have said? I don’t want anybody to put candles on my skeleton when I die. That’s creepy.

  He imagined that Belinda folded her elbows into her chest, and the clothespin came loose, opening her dress at the neck, and the dress slipped off of her shoulders and fell into her hips, and she sat there before him, barebreasted and disruptive.

  Dessert. They had not ordered it. Restaurant policy. Two white plates; brown nuclei.

  Belinda pushed the dessert aside, climbed onto the table and crawled across it. Plissken’s jaw dislocated. She kissed him. He didn’t kiss back. Mouth open, frozen. She sucked on his lips and thrust her tongue into the speakhole, scouring the desiccated walls of the cavity, even nicking the epiglottis, and then flicking the epiglottis like a clitoris, anxious and forceful, as if trying to resuscitate a corpse. No response. She took him by the neck with one hand to brace herself while with her other hand she reached back and pulled her dress above her navel and yanked down her panties exposing the novum and she adroitly spun around the table onto his lap with a clang of utensils and a crash of dishware and faint splashes of wine spattered nearby patrons. She let go of his neck, grabbed his hair, jerked back his head—popping sound as their lips came apart—and unzipped his pants. Clockspring. She wounded herself on the slow knife. It was at this point he realized that Belinda had not attacked him but rather he had attacked her. She sat stiffly in her chair and he sat atop her, straddling her, rocking back and forth. A little circle had formed around them. Waiters and bus staff and the maître d’. They seemed pleased with the exhibition, delighted by its gravity and manner of broadcast, although something in their eyes, or their posture, indicated that they expected order to be restored within a reasonable span of time. Plissken quickened his pace. Then he heard it. The sound of transformation. Then he felt it. Welling up, creeping out. Bursting forth. His limbs cracked and knotted, contorting into impossible shapes. It was almost the 3000th time he turned into Kyoto. But before it happened he stopped himself. Dismounted the object. All was well. Not until later, outside, as he waited for a cab, reminiscing about the date, its highs and lows, how it might have turned out differently, wondering if Belinda Carlisle genuinely liked him and if he would see her again, for a second date, and a third and a fourth date, then marriage, kids, everything, but the thought of everything was too much, and suddenly, surprisingly, tragically, millions died, the city laid to waste, and Belinda flickered out, vanished into the grotto of history. Mnemonic vestiges. The. It was the 3000th time he turned into Kyoto. It was the only way this short chapter in his life could possibly end. And each chapter ended the same way. Unfinished. Usurped.

  THE 3001ST TIME I TURNED INTO KYOTO

  CRITERION PROSE

  They fought among the moocows and the curling flower spaces. This time they employed Factor Five Accelerators, purely for show, despite the absence of spectators, as the cyberware amped them up to the same speed. Both participants enjoyed the surreal euphoria that accompanied the augmentation, however, and afterwards, in the shower room, they idled like two pegheads coming down from near-fatal overdoses of Chew-Z.

  “You almost beat me,” remarked the doktor, nursing a sprained limb. “This has never happened before. What was that final maneuver?”

  “Subarashii tataku. The Fabulous Swat. Let me show you again.”

  “No.”

  He executed the maneuver and the doktor lay on the floor like a doormat. “Goddamn it, Geoff,” he rasped. “Keep that shit on the mat.” He dryheaved.

  “Geoff. Geoff?” He looked down at his arms, his legs, inspecting them as if they held the key to identity.

  “Oh, pardon me.” The doktor stood and adjusted his Adam’s apple with a fingerblade. “I meant to say ‘Geoff.’ Enclosed in the whiskers of quotation marks, mind you. As with all names. What did Herr Amerika say? ‘I was no longer I, I was “I,” something in constant flux, a metamorph sucking on chunks of smooth rumperstiltskin.’ This of course references a fundamental Baudrillardian theory, which itself references a fundamental Marxist theory, which accordingly reaches back to Kant, as everything reaches back to Kant, but there was life before Kant, of course. Case in point: names are always-already in quotes.”

  “Your name isn’t in quotes.”

  “Some names are exceptions.”

  “What’s your name?”

  “You know my name. For sake of argument, however . . . Call me Fourmyle. Dr. Fourmyle.”

  “That’s not your name.”

  “Must we do this every time we meet? Must you do this every day or your life? You’re not an amnesiac. On occasion you exhibit symptoms of anterograde amnesia. But you simply don’t have it.”

  “I have difficulty with names.”

  “Yes. I know. Hold that thought. Actually, negate that thought. Come with me.”

  “Geoff” followed Dr. Fourmyle into the shower. They did not touch one another. Pulsating scrubcrabs darted up and down their bodies and into their dark places. Tentacular hosepipes rinsed the suds. Sentient towelies relieved them, dried them. They dressed themselves.

  “So,” said Dr. Fourmyle as they took seats in his office. “How’s it going?”

  “Geoff” grinned wildly. “I met a girl.”

  “Hm. Tell me about her.”

  “There’s not much to tell. She’s a girl. A woman. Whatever. We went out to dinner at that place. That place in the city.”

  “Hm. Where did you meet her?”

  “The schizoverse. Withaneyetocoitus.szv.”

  “Ah yes.”

  “I’m not ashamed.”

  “Nor should you be. How did it go then? The date.”

  “I don’t know. Fine, I guess. Typical. A date’s a date. Steve McQueen’s skeleton was in the corner.”

  “Did you meet her in the schizoverse or the real world?”

  “We met in the schizoverse. We went out in the real world. Kind of.”

  “Kind of.”

  “Yeah. Anyway, what does it matter? I met a girl, is all. That’s what matters.”

  “I see. Will you date her a second time?”

  “No.”

  “Why not?”

>   “Geoff” paused. “I dispatched her.”

  Dr. Fourmyle leaned into his swivelchair. He put his arms behind his head and twisted back and forth on his heels. “I don’t exercise as much as I used to,” he remarked. “It’s not that I don’t have time either. I simply choose not to exercise as much as I used to.”

  “Geoff” couldn’t tell if he was trying to redirect the conversation. He didn’t care. “I don’t know what’s wrong with me. I transformed against my will. I thought I had control of myself. But I’m out of control.”

  The doktor leaned forward. “You’ve just described the human condition. The gaining of control, the loss of control, the regaining of control. Mankind.”

  “That’s not helpful. That’s not helpful, ok? I’m telling you it’s getting bad.” “Geoff” rubbed his eyes.

  “The,” said the doktor.

  “The?”

  “The.”

  “The what?”

  “Whatever you want. You finish.”

  “Geoff” sighed through his teeth. He fell silent. Then: “Sometimes I can’t tell if I’m living in a dream, a novel, a film, a TV show, a talk show, a soda commercial, a music video, a figment of Travis Manderbean’s imagination, the real world, or some perverse combination of these media.”

  “Yes. You have expressed this idea the last 400 or so times we sparred, albeit the figure in whose mind you claim to exist as a figment always changes. Last time it was Sophocles. The time before last it was Napoleon. Once it was Jason Robards. Who is Travis Manderbean?”

  “I don’t know. A disc jockey, I think.”

  “What is a disc jockey?”

  “Forget it.”

  “All right. Perhaps if we tried a little hypnosis. Let’s do that.” Dr. Fourmyle opened a drawer and removed a large gold medallion on a string.

  “Put that away. Hypnosis doesn’t work on me. You know that.”

  “If we keep at it, it might. Someday.”

  “It won’t. Ever.”