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.

Tuesday, June 22, 2010

RED SAHARA - PART II

My body is on fire. I burnt my shirt last night, and now my body is on fire. My chest is redder than guilt. My shoulders are medium rare. There is sand in the back of my throat, or ashes—I would drink my sweat if it didn’t dry so quickly. I’ve seen Ghardaia twice, now. My eyes have seen Ghardaia twice. My feet haven’t touched Ghardaia once; I won’t trust my eyes, anymore. The lines on the horizon have started moving away from me, the closer I get. And the flask is getting heavier, somehow—every drop I drink, the flask is getting heavier. Like an anchor around my neck.

I could start digging—for water. But more likely I’d be digging a grave than a well. A shallow grave for a deep slumber. I’d sleep better than I have in weeks. Better than I have since I left Tamanrasset; since I had the Dream—I haven’t had another dream since I had the Dream. Only a dreamless sleep in the desert heat. A dreamless sleep as my camel rode off with four highwaymen in the night. A dreamless sleep beside a pile of bones this afternoon—this whole desert is a cemetery. And the waking dream of sunset in the desert, now, with a row of shapes on the horizon: the rooftops of Ghardaia, maybe—or the lines of a mirage. Tonight I’ll stake my life on the lines of a mirage. I’ve got no choice. The flask is empty. There’s nothing left to burn—and I’ve already staked my life on words in a Dream.