Post by Eden Nova on Mar 14, 2024 3:11:49 GMT
In "The Library of Babel," Jorge Luis Borges conceptualizes a universe composed of a possibly infinite number of hexagonal galleries: each wall containing five bookshelves, each shelf holding thirty-two books, each book containing four hundred and ten pages, each page consisting of forty lines, each line of eighty letters. Inside these books is every possible combination of letters in every conceivable language. Every gospel, every commentary, every metacommentary, every story of every life to ever live.
Feasibly, then, somewhere in that great Library — cutting through the haze of intoxication and the technicolor light leaks from harsh fluorescent bulbs — is a tome I could consult to understand exactly how I went from sipping absinthe in my sister's SoHo loft to gazing half-aware at my own reflection in the bathroom mirror of some too-twee-for-its-own-good cocktail bar in Alphabet City, sucking on the inside of my swollen lips as my nose leaks blood down my chin.
I taste wine on the tip of my tongue, which becomes old pennies in the back of my mouth as I swallow, turning my gaze from myself to the guy I'm sorta/kinda seeing as he wipes the blood from my philtrum with a grin on his face that he eyes don't necessarily agree with. "You should see the other bitch," I mutter under my breath as he rolls his eyes. Were I in a clearer state of mind, I'd maybe interrogate such language. As it stands, however, with my eyes threatening to curl backwards into my skull at any moment and the corners of my mouth fixed upwards as in the back of my head I hear the candy rapper wax poetic about insufficient spinal fluid, the word choice feels appropriate.
"All the same," he begins, with all the patience of the saint he certainly is not, "How about you just take it from the top?"
Satisfied with his handiwork as my nose threatens another downpour but refuses to commit, he grabs me by the hand and pulls me off the seat of the toilet I'd been seated on. His grip is tight and strong — far stronger than his scrawny, effete frame would suggest. He stares down the narrow bridge of his nose at me; I screw my face into an assuredly unpleasant expression and stick the bright red tip of my tongue out at him.
"We should probably get out of here," he whispers. "I don't think 'get out' means 'squat in the men's room."
Ducking under his waiting arm, my eyes fixed on the floor, we make our way through the pomp and circumstance of the bar towards the exit. The crisp pre-spring NYC air stings my bare skin as the door opens; goosebumps rise on my forearms as the gaping maw of the night sky greets us with cold indifference. Fuck the new moon, too.
"Have I ever told you what my favorite animal is?" I offer as he drags me, half-awake and far less alert, down the sidewalk. "It's Cymothoa exigua — the tongue-eating louse."
Ask me how I remember the scientific name — I'm great at data retention. Granted, synthesis and analysis are still continual works in progress, but I can retain just about anything thrown at me (for instance, the candy rapper I mentioned earlier? Eminem — get it? like M&Ms? — the song is "Drug Ballad", I just felt like being clever). Julien (who is so graciously keeping me aloft), glances down at me, brows furrowed in something resembling confusion, frustration, or both.
"It's a parasite that enters a fish through the gills—" I continue, before his judging gaze pierces through the hazy vignette of my eyesight, ushering me to just, for once in my life, shut the fuck up.
"I thought you were going to tell me about — all that," he says, gesturing towards my face.
"Right, yeah."
He glances ahead of himself for a moment, then his eyes meet mine once more. "I got drafted tonight," I offer. He cocks an eyebrow.
"Drafted?"
"Yeah, NPWA. One of the commissioners — Howard Black if I remember correctly — saw something in my extensive ring photography catalog. Or something, he mentioned a sojourn in some other promotion — not one hundred percent sure what he meant by that — but the fact of the matter is I made it!"
The words leave my mouth with enough enthusiasm to give him pause. With his arm around the back of my neck, he pulls me up straight. The lights of bodegas and streetlights make me squint, as my eyes glance down at my hands. On some level, even if I won't admit it to my companion, I recognize what Mr. Black is referring to, though the lines on my palms make me wonder if that wasn't a completely different person.
"You're really doing this whole wrestling thing," Julien says, with almost enough underlying derision to hurt my feelings.
"I really am," I affirm, looking up towards him with a grin on my face. His eyes dart away from mine, afraid of the challenge. I can't expect someone like him to really understand it. He fancies himself a sophisticate — there's a viscerality to the urge that draws one to this business. A desire to bleed one's own blood, the way I have tonight. To experience the full weight of the human experience — good, bad, or indifferent.
"I really, really, am," I repeat, my eyes glowing with pride, my lips curled so tightly into a smile that I fear my lips will split at any moment. He smiles back at me, though I can see the trepidation in his eyes.
"Tell me all about it."