selections from The Glint of Sunlight

Who am I? – I am the unnamed god. My name is stolen in the firestorms of creation, my name is stolen eternally. I dance because I have no name; and I dance because my feet are married to the wind. I am unkind. I am vicious. I am happy. I laugh at those who weep. I sing with those who laugh. I tell stories to make mad, tell my stories to cause pain, tell my stories to fool, tell my stories in the brutal dreams of madmen and kings. I steal, kill, taint. I am the secret of all the ages; I am locked in the stone of your deepest suffering.
I am a friend to lightning; a friend to floods, to all calamity. I am the true creator. I make widows laugh at funerals; I guide the hand of death, and tip his course arbitrary. I am the friend of broken promises, the friend of forgetfulness. The friend of life. The enemy of happiness. I destroy all security, I destroy all. I am the true creator, the true path – the endless enlightenment.
Worshipped by none, I am worthy of all praise. Known by none, I am true understanding. I spit in the eyes of all that is still; I force into movement the drowsy gods; I tear the foundations of the universe to confetti, and burn them in the sizzling death of every world.

Though I perch my true identity beyond the clear apprehension of mortal mind, you may call me, if you will, a benevolent devil or a sinister god.

…

Joan understood, in a crystal moment, the contingency of the act – the innocence of it. There had been no malice in the girl, when she drove the knife into Josh. It was just a moment’s madness, the act a mere symptom of some neurological reset, some spasm in the nexus of synapses and sparks – like a branch that shudders in a sudden breeze, and then is still.

Are you conscious right now, Joan? Huh, you stupid bitch, you foolish no-one, you Buddhist! Are you conscious? Turn off! Turn off! What? Crying? Don’t you even see where you are, can’t you understand what you should do, what actions are, what sounds are, what sights are. What colour is the sky? You’re not in there! You’re nowhere

You are an epiphenomenon, you are a dream trapped within a dream trapped within a nightmare – you are flapping your wings, but you cannot fly – there is no sense in you, no centre, no ship to keep afloat your tiny will on the torrents of your body

  – try and deny it; those terrible farts of semi-consciousness insanity in the depths of night, that endless buzzing as your brain plays out its games, that sinking feeling in the consciousness of your own decay – your hatred of everything that is necessary for your own survival

; your genes will throw you away when they are done with you, hidden like the faeces you are, the detritus – the necessary, unpleasant, skin and wrapper that must be put from sight lest it cause embarrassment.

She had it now, a pure joy in her marrow – no more hatred, clear sight, pure vision – a peace of soul; lightness of limb. As she rounded the corner she came upon Olive, pinned her beneath her knees, and – with absolute certainty – plunged the knife, repeatedly, eternally, into her shuddering ribs.
The police who found them later testified that as they approached the scene they could hear Joan singing in the dead girl’s ear, singing lullabies – they could hear it from blocks away as if it passed through the laws of the world to greet them.

Lives must end, flowers must grow, rain must fall, and mountains crumble. The show must go on – the gods must dance. Rejoice detritus, desiderata, epiphenomena – the glint of sunlight in the tipping of a wave.

Encore. Encore. Encore