T. Halifax is the emperor of a kingdom comprised of mountains of discarded and forgotten manuscripts.
Like Kilgore Trout he is compelled to write, but paradoxically driven to discard the product. The trash cans and paper baskets he once filled have
long since overflowed, and the manuscripts flood the landscape. Some are completed works, some are snippets of ideas. Often the words are arranged
in stanzas with meter and rhyme. Sometimes they are different versions of the same story. Rarely are they deliberately forgotten.
The oldest of these works form rivers of ink as the words run from the weather-beaten pages. These rivers flow through mountains
of paper and graphite. The peaks of the mountains are white with fresh ideas while the bases are an earthen brown, musty with the smell of decaying
paper. T. Halifax often wanders through the land he has created, awed and somewhat perturbed at the vast fields of unrealized dreams.
He likens writing to shouting into the vaccuum of space. It is done to satisfy the urges of the individual without any expectation
of making an impression upon others. But he often contradicts himself, which is why songs, lyrics, and information are posted on the internet.
Maybe he secretly hopes for someone in the void to at least see him shouting and empathize with his efforts. Maybe he privately longs for some company
in his kingdom of forgotten manuscripts.
Hunger
By T. Halifax
The human race is exactly like the cockroach; no matter how hard we try to wipe ourselves out, when all is said and done, some of us will come crawling out of the floorboards. After an apocalyptic, earth-shattering fiasco, several people did just that. The planet is now a giant dust-bowl, yet we keep on surviving in spite of ourselves.
There is rumored to have been a time when humans hungered for many different things. We hungered for power. We hungered for money. We hungered for sex. That was a time of plenty, when our stomachs were satiated so we had to search for other needs to satisfy. That time is like a dream to me.
Now we don't have time to hunger for things we don't need. Now we are simply hungry.
I sometimes try to imagine a world that is not composed of bleak skies, sandy horizons, and withering plants. My visions are always beautiful at first, but rapidly decay. I see the crumbling cities of today restored to the bustling Cities of the past. I see people rushing about, wrapped up in trite distractions. There is often a single individual on the street corner, pining for some attention, some change, some human interaction. The flow of moving people diverts around this individual like a river around a rock. I am filled with loneliness.
I envision the lush farmland in the desert, valiantly thriving because of brilliant irrigation systems. The proud farmer lovingly cares for his plants and marvels at the beauty and mystery of modern science. But he doesn't realize that science is a double edged sword. Just north of the farm I see the power plant filling the groundwater with pollution. The crops are ultimately contaminated and unusable. I am filled with sorrow.
The rusting exoskeletons of ancient cars are suddenly rejuvenated; bright, healthy, beautiful. They carry their passengers all over the decaying streets. These vehicles are often treated as a member of the family, present for the best and worst parts of life. These machines are the great facilitators of modern life. But then I see all of the circumstances which can cause a car to become a crippled wreck. I am filled with horror.
Then the military generals, missile silos, secret technologies, and misguided intentions all enter my mind. I am filled with the desire to stop imagining. Instead I focus on my natural, physical hunger.
So I find that I prefer this way of life, this desolation. I prefer hunger over the complications of society. Hunger is honest; it is pure. It has a single minded drive which is oblivious to distraction. I don't have to worry about impressing people or securing a decent job or paying bills. I don't have to worry about how to spend my leisure time because I have none. My life is entirely encompassed by the need to eat. Rather than thousands of phantoms lingering in my mind, I have one single concern: to satiate my hunger.
Eighteen Years of Definition
By T. Halifax
She hadn't attended preschool, which is probably why she could remember the day she entered the world of demands and deadlines. Throughout the thirteen years she spent in the public education system her teachers had always said she was destined for success. Elementary school was spent building a strong foundation. Middle school was designed for gaining access to the upper level high school courses. High school was spent working towards entering a prestigious college. Life was very clear and well defined. Rules were established, so living was easy.
The goals of college were obvious: get a degree in order to obtain a decent job. She developed a sense of restlessness; an eagerness to make a difference. She entered an accelerated five year program to secure a Master's of Education. After five short years in college she was finally free. Free of the rules, free of definition.
As soon as she had that certificate in hand, everything changed. She had no goals, she had no purpose. Suddenly she wasn't so sure she could make a difference. She didn't know if she could stand before a room full of children and force them into the same mold that she had just escaped. It had never occurred to her that she may have hated her eighteen years of definition.
For a brief time she lingered in the purgatory between exiting school and entering the workforce. She asked for advice, hoping to regain the sense of purpose she had possessed in the past, but people had only vague suggestions. They told her to get a job, rent an apartment, maybe start a family.
So she got a job and rented an apartment.
The alarm clock sounds. She lights a cigarette and looks around her room. It is messy and cramped, and belies the nature of its inhabitant. There is a Master's of Education tacked to the wall, beneath which is an empty picture frame covered in dust. The certificate is frayed and warped. There is a bookshelf which sags under the weight of all the great authors. On top of the shelf is a burnt out lamp.
The room becomes hazy as she exhales a cloud of smoke. She fixates on the exhausted bulb. She can relate to it, which is probably why she doesn't replace it. Next to the lamp is a pile of newspaper clippings and awards detailing her past accomplishments. If only she hadn't grown so tired.
She rubs out her cigarette in the nearest of her collection of ash trays. The alarm clock has been sounding for nearly ten minutes, so she finally shuts it off. She drags herself to the shower. The furnace is broken again, so the water is cold. The cigarette was her breakfast. She leaves her apartment in her Burger King uniform, dwelling on her student loans and the irony of potential.
Perfection
By T. Halifax
Soft, shaking hands attached to a fragile, trembling body gently lift the pencil from the table. A brief gasp rushes through the waiting crowd. They seem humbled by the fact that she could muster the strength to lift it. Her frailty makes porcelain dolls appear robust.
She begins the display by etching her name upon the canvas. Delicate fingers wrap gingerly around the pencil with a grip so weak that the Roman characters in her name are shaky and mutated. They are stark and ugly against the pale, clean canvas. Everything is harsh and angry when juxtaposed with her impossible beauty.
The crowd around her fidgets with frustration at the site of the mar upon the canvas. She nods her head knowingly and sighs. Her eyelashes lower over her fawn-like eyes and she lifts the pencil once more. Frustration is replaced with captivation as the crowd leans in expectantly. Rumours have traveled far-and-wide about the wonderous beauty which this delicate girl can produce.
The graphite of the pencil tip contacts the canvas. Despite her tremors the tip somehow remains still. She lingers on the spot, hesitant. The milk white skin of her unsteady hand seems to flush. The crowd is silent, barely breathing. It seems that she has hesitated far too long.
Gradually a shape begins to emerge, as if from the ether. Her pale skin is lost against the near-empty canvas; the pencil appears to be floating in space. Time seems to have stopped, but the tremors that wrack her body are timeless.
A car drives down the black city street pumping black carbon filled smoke into the gray autumn sky. A small quantity of soot deposits itself upon her shoulder. She looks up from her streetside canvas. The surrounding crowd is completely silent. A bead of sweat falls from the shaky artist's forehead. A tear falls from an onlooker's eye.
Upon the canvas she has created the most perfect of circles.
