Trick Moriaris: RED SAHARA

Seven years to Live.

INTRODUCTION - MONDAY, MAY 31, 2010 - 5:31 PM

Trick Moriaris has seven years left to Live—of this he is certain. He learned it in a dream that I sent him last night, on the eve of his twentieth birthday: I created the dream, because I created Trick Moriaris; I created Trick Moriaris, because I needed him, as all gods and artists need their creations (for every artist is god of his own creation). Trick Moriaris has seven years left to live, therefore, because I have given him seven years to live, just as I have given him a name, a form, a story to be lived in real time—all of those things, in short, given to every individual human being as a result of the accident of his birth. All except a will of his own; since for an artist to permit his creation a will of its own is to allow for the rebellion of the creation itself—against the artist. In this way has each god throughout history perished, at the hands of his children, yet by his own hand, as well: suicide by murder—the story of the death of god. The story of Trick Moriaris, however, is not the story of the death of god: the story of Trick Moriaris is the story of the death of Trick Moriaris (which is to say, the story of the life of Trick Moriaris). And the story of the life of Trick Moriaris begins with the story of the death of god. - WLM. PTRK. DNCN.

Monday, June 21, 2010

RED SAHARA - PART I

They must have seen my fire during the night. Four of them—Libyans, from the looks of it—heading west across the erg, toward Morocco. Seven days to the border, another three to Tangier. They’ll sell the camel once they clear the dunes, or trade it for whiskey in the foothills. And I’ll be dead or in Ghardaia by then—either would be better than the desert. There are rivers in Hades; only an ocean of sand out here. And there’s nothing ironic about dying of thirst on an ocean of sand.

The water in the small flask is enough for two more days. The larger canteens are gone. They took them. They took everything. Everything but the flask and the Book (both inside my shirt while I was sleeping). I’ll have to burn the shirt tonight, after the sun goes down. After the sun goes down I’ll have to burn the shirt. And that will be the last of the fuel—the shirt, the scarf, the other pieces of clothing; the Book.

But I'd let myself die before I’d burn the Book. Not now. Not after twenty years. It’s the only thing I’ve got left—the only thing I’ve ever had. To burn the Book would be to cremate my soul; I’d rather set my body on fire.