@notforprint @wetransfer #resist
QUADRANTS: the stories of four
“If you scream in the mirror, and no one is listening, you are fucked.”
Chapter 09 open sores
With the stench of his wet coat remaining, this time he could make out the faint image of a figure. She was one of the four. He shouted down the alley "I WANT TO STOP!". The figure was obviously suffering but too distorted for him to understand how or why. The closer he came to her, the less clear his senses became. The drips and pangs of pipes and steam were not helping him towards gathering enough memories to recognise his place in her anguish. He was becoming acutely aware that he couldn't hurt another to ease his pain. The harder he thought this, the louder the noise became. The noise was visual, the noise was audible, the noise was cerebral and the noise was maniacal. He was in a river of noise. The four was not ready to let him go just yet.
THE MELANCHOLIC SIREN:
She couldn't sensibly convey the series of events that led her to this place. At some point we stop noticing the filth and the noises, our place in the world, our place within ourself. The stagnation of self-image through the filter of hyper criticality and a perpetually narrowing field of view fuelled a depression that left her vulnerable to herself and the world she had carefully avoided. All forward defence and no flanks. It was too late to seek help for herself, and she may be watching the same with him. Even if you trade recklessness for calculation, through cautious independence we close our own doors. She is the four.
Chapter 10 the city
He tried his best to become a conduit. He couldn't be sure the source or validity of his current thoughts, but he remembered having enjoyed the city at night and the ease of obtaining transient companionship. How he could traverse the urban landscape with ease and used his headphones to clear his mind. This was the exact opposite. The spaces were unfamiliar and the soundtrack relentlessly abrasive. The collection of motel and hotel doors racing through his mind matched the overwhelming sense of homelessness of his total being. She like him, shared this transience. The pain and uncertainty of his connection to the four and the line between beauty and horror was impossible to contain. He was on the top of a nondescript building. Hoping this was a chance to end this, he briefly contemplated the possibility of piercing the noise and sailing downward, if gravity even applied. With some trepidation, he conceded to the fighting spirit and fought to dial the noise like some evil shortwave radio searching for another door.
THE CHOLERIC SIREN:
The collection of motel and hotel doors once seemed like a badge of honour. The transience, the freedom, the power over pleasure. That is until a line was crossed. Whether psychosis or hyper acute physical perception, eventually we cross a threshold, pass through a door that shatters the mirrors and burns the curtains of temporal pleasure, and exposes the menagerie of players that have accumulated our pain. It is easier to just not think about the root of our actions or inactions, else we may be swayed to believe our empowerment is in fact manipulation. No matter what strength to bear we may possess, exhaustion is a brute force, and it is not afraid to push you through the wrong door. She is the four.
Chapter 11 portals
The hum pulsed in cycles of four. There were voices but he could not make out the words. The metallic clattering hammered his cornea from the inside like some murderous accomplice to the pounding rhythm of distorted pixels. There was an understandable voice amongst the noise. She said "open the door, release the four." Some doors you open, some are slammed in your face, others you are pushed through. There is no way of knowing whether initiative, avoidance or complacency will grant you the luxury or torture of hindsight.
THE SANGUINE SIREN:
She had a good heart, compassionate, loving, fun. Wrong place wrong time is too dismissive and the wrong crowd is an elusive concept from the inside. The sincerity of her plea was hard to discount, the reality of all our implications against the loving optimist is hard to swallow. The horror of the poison coursing through her veins was made only more piercing by the beauty she vacated. There is little protection these days for the daydreamer. If you forget to check the mechanism, sometimes the door locks behind you. She is the four.
Chapter 12 open the door part 1
He came to in front of some sort of factory or warehouse. Disused, rusted, a monument in the mist to some much better time. His distorted pixelated vision was briefly altered by the distortion of the real rain. As he reached out to grab the handle of a door he found it difficult to breathe. He was blasted again with images of her in lust and writhing in pain. Which was behind him and which was in front he could not discern.
THE PHLEGMATIC SIREN:
She was always content with her place, quietly content organising her existence and relations with a caring consistency. It was increasingly difficult to hold judgement on herself and accept the reality of a non-linear and dynamic existence that had dealt her such trauma. It was a sick twist of her nature that brought her to the noise. An indictment of our species, it took little effort to arrange a proxy. Regardless of the veneer, some doors are rotten to the core. She is the four.