cyborg opera research and development

ch 1

indigo

indigo children was a modern american new age myth concerning the new

cyborgs. she kissed one and he kissed her back, quickly into the

taxi, in thanks, before the fog of sleep would come over everything.

he was not indigo, but inbetween, like she. late seventies births 77,

79. they knew eachother. he was as her brother, except restricted

as she was, not to kiss her brother on the cheek, such was it meaning

so much, in the compendium of repression.

another, of mysterious age and prodigy, was not to be seen kissed or

kissing anyone in the cold town. but close she came to his red beard

and said, i want to help you. i am not well, he said. words spoken

to her, as if to reveal, to actualize her into existence. he said, i

am ill. she knew. she repeated, i want to help you. walking away

was the hardest thing, getting stuck in ambiant interiors, languages,

cultural vocabularies, social scenery.

the masculine crowd puffed their tobacco full to the brim of words and

peermanship.

for moments, in the soundscape that brought us together, it was clear,

whose crown of gold distinguished itself from others. such paralyzing

beauty stilled us.

the snarling socialites stopped caring for their criticisms. softly,

so many cold souls were silenced. the children knew every word. the

too young girls lingered, prowling. the sweetest lamb-faced boys

prowled too, mystified by the glory of fame, of public genius.

a queen strode down the nortullsgatan after coffee.

i stopped her to say, i love you, i love. it was her voice, her

radiance her thinness that i love. the starved way she clung to the

microphone, and enlisted the support of such lovely men.

my love was indifference. first coming to my view was the center

and the life. and then the voice recognized me. little was it he

might feel my presence. better it were to cling to the walls like

wallpaper, lest i affect anything. and a face. he saw me, he felt

me. i fell to the floor quite literally. and a smile and a wave. i

recall that now. and then, a refusal of aid. a refusal is dignity.

the chance to offer anything, is dignity, it is being, it is affection

and a sign of life.

the elegant one waited a sign. he refused my gift, not comprehending

it. he was elegant, besieged, indifferent. to him i said you work

too hard. he said no we don’t.

he thought the other had left. i awoke to hear his gorgeous

croon “life goes fast.”

“what to say and what to do about anything.”

“we are turning into memories”

of life on earth.

the glorious had left. and when he arrived he was smiling and took

my gifts, with such radiance. it was as though so much radiance were

the most polarizing magnetism on earth. such is charisma, mysterious

thing.
it mobilizes wars, cults, fossil fuels, money.

and its opposite, as fascinating.

the darkness was the attraction to begin the story. what mystery and

truth it holds.

there is nothing else i care for but to hear its wordless song. and

then, i will have satisfaction, to slink back into my loneliness, or

my future.

ch2

the snow

the snow covered everything, safer it was than israel. she awoke

thinking of the lotus song and “i froze up.” more could she love no,

than yes. no was honest, no was proud and self-serving. no showed

strength.

she froze up too before, and in fact had frozen up, completely towards

the whole world, more than once, and especially, this winter.

he took her to the hearth of his gentleness, warmed her briefly, when

none could. she was thereafter, cold to particulars, and warm to

universals.

she might care for the humans of guantanamo being tortured. or the

smog filled lungs of the new jersey fur coat wearing industrialists.

she cared for the cold puppy tied up outside, or the rabbit in the

snow. she cared for the fish in the tank at the sushi restaurant.

but she did not care for life itself, or others, or herself, enough
to give way to love. easy it might be to despise what technology had

done to us.
so many ghosts of shadows of internet followed us around the world

like internet perfume, and so much narcissism intrinsic to the sense

of risk or embarrassment. this was all relatively new.

the suicide bomber hit the city the day she arrived. calmly she

thought, how lucky, how bourgeois, how shielded they are, the snow

people. air so fresh, the best of her life. water so clean,

conferring unknown clarity.

clearly it arose in her mind how deeply poisoned by america she was.

torturous levels of propaganda, smog, cars, plastic. femininity

in cultural splay, as bizarre as sushi off the woman’s body. so

wonderful and bizarre. america was bubble gum and abu ghraib.

facebook was sanitizing the weirdness from the world. online dating

followed raver culture as some desperate way to feed the hunger for

other humans.

she slinked into her mummification of asexuality, haunted by the girl

who shook the hornets nest. more attracted to women than men, or

equally, or equally unattracted by humans generally. they were not to

be trusted, so selfish they are, sometimes.

to offer hope, with motive, to undersatnd, what is it one must do,

with life, with feeling. how to go on, what might be gained. if new

languages could be mustered with which to say, why, why.

she had found a home and a future. she would outstay her welcome.

she arose in the night, anxious to feel the eyes of curious natives

upon her. she needed technology, and had more hunger for it than
humans. it was as a child she craved picture books, and magical

stories. so she was making them in her mind.

there was another, far away. a prince of kindness. he never did

anything wrong, or slightly suspicious. he was so perfect and so

kind, that she wondered after how to become more like him, daily.

his gracefulness, was not apathetic, but constantly joyous, polite.

from the stage he called her soul sister. and the meaning of it

was confusing. the last time she saw him felt like perhaps the last

in the longest time. but the steadiness of their psychic intimacy,

had made them plainly twain two branches of the same tree. that she

might grow this way or that, could not sever the uniqueness of their

alliance, so long as life held them, or even after, as bones and

refuse on the land.

ch3

cleansing

she let the rain, the acid rain fall over her, marching into the

cool air, not cold enough to approximate the coldness of her soul.

the blithe heat and comfort of bourgeois america kept her scrubbing

salt into her skin, and facts into her mind. something flipped like

a switch in may. the tremendous heft of mortality splayed itself.

every day the earth was more full of pollution. everyday humans were

tortured with no protection. heroes were incarcerated. haunted she

was of the various ways her life was nearly robbed of her. she was

incarcerated by fools, in various professions. all the world was a

prison.

ch 4

she loved his no

ripped fingers hungry laughing shelled up in a hole fingers bleeding

into the plastic keys and popmusic. everday was a new trip to the

sweatshop for another pretty sweater. the saab grenade boys in line

ahead. as though saab did not mean swastika. she was walking with an

odd saunter, her arms dangling, slowly creepy on the identical earth.

somewhere between waking and sleep, she was vertical. it was his pain

she loved, his no, his denial, his yes and simultaneous no. he was

the end of men. she might chase him there, to the end of the world to

greet him. this time she might demand a hug. she had come all this

way.

and in his honesty he could not squeeze out another drop of energy

for her. it were better the honesty. but deep in his “i am not well”

she felt the luxury of his confidence. and then he says, its amazing

that you are here. indeed. she expect thorns and schrapnel, a

crucifixion. and left there in the middle of herself, she was nothing

again, no one. the pain of his confidence was nothing again. except

she could never hear him again the same. it was clear that the earth

held his gold presence. he played, and every night she felt him,

across the burning earth. no place was adequate to her hunger. her

eyes were growing larger and more desperate. nothing fit. she did

not belong.
the indigo spent rainboys inside her heart. he renewed her, confused

her. but the elder, he was, he was the greatest ape, with the biggest

can, the most fearsome noise. she would not be privy.

she would move down to her fiance, and soak up the smog, and vodka.

she wanted alcohol, more than anything. but found the trials of

sobriety and hunger delirious enough.

stockholm spat diesel in her face. every day the earth was more

polluted. how could this be considered life, coal pumping everywhere?

her brazil nuts rumbled through her ruinous innards. she dedicated

them to him. that she might live another two months, when so meanly

she wished to hunker down and die, and cling to the grey wall, and

starve away, motionless. her filthy skin craved acids and lies.

there was no future anymore. all that was left, was the kiss on

the streetcorner. he was doppleganger, a brother, even better than

a brother. he gathered her emotions into a song and serenaded her

arrival, he felt the passion behind it, and more the toil of love and

faith and constancy. he felt the love spit in her face, as was it to

him. and there, in her sacrifice for all, he gave her the timeliest,

kindest kiss, sorrowful out of its fashion, quick forgettable,

formula. he did not know she would chase them north. she wanted a

definitive no. no was written on every page in circles. it was the

only word in coils and print. she felt it decorate the walls.

and then he might play. and suddenly the heart would feel more

complicated than no or yes. slowly, days later, she realized, a part

of his failure to even so much as touch her or kiss her on the cheek,

was a part of their total magnetism. were it another world, or were

she a guitar, she’d let herself be consumed, or they might ravish

eachother. put pennies were tight these days, for love among slaves.

she felt money flowing in and out of her chapped lips. it was

all illusion. her fingers were numb. she was worried it was the

starvation. she was worried she had not disappeared sufficiently.

she made a way to make herself, eat or drink something. berries,

orange juice. that had been years now, the undisappearing act.

november cut her down. he was stuck her in her throat all the time.

his eyes, his hands on her hair. the pain in her eyes was a mirror of

his own. if only he would hold her, and help her eat. who knows what

happened to his actual love. she glanced around the room, willing

to step out, she imagined a heart more broken than hers. she had no

heart to break, she was an empty vase.

she shipped the broken pieces back to him.

another musical blitz was just a hit of whippets before the spun out

opium drag.

she worried of returning penniless and near dead. she might work.

she might one day care. but likely, she imagined penury. she

imagined her gorgeous boyfriends in a match for her. she imagined

huge levels of profundity.

his love had carved the last remaining bits of her humanity away.

she was empty in her heart, her belly, her cavities up and down,

everything was so empty, gasping, disgusting. her flesh stripped

across her bones, and she vaguely felt hunger as pleasure, one of the

only. she felt her brain might work more with more food, but nothing

appealed. american gluttony destoyed her.

he would not ask her to stay forever. one might. she might go back

to stockholm. she might climb into the straw haired boys arms. she

could barely imagine it.

her los angeles love waited, all four of them.

she was busy avoiding them. she was at the end. she so many lovers

she could not say and none of them had done what he did. none of

them canceled the past, stopped time. none cost this much. none sent

her across the world, empty and foolish. no one could respond. the

cultural differences were vast. she felt a needle in his arm once.

but he might be a christian monogamist, how would she know, they never

discussed it. she was sick. he was sick too. she would hold him

across space, happier to be in the same city, exhausted by nothing.

she was sleeping her hungry life away again. why not.

she’d have coffee in the morning and read about about the government.

america seemed so meaningless suddenly. even english. she couldnt

imagine speaking with any conviction about anything. perhaps love.

love slipped out sometimes. if only he would let her spill her love

on the floor like ribbons.

he was career---he was old---he was on the mountain---genex and money-

--he had drives. perhaps he ate meat. perhaps he would again.

perhaps his real love was richer than life. perhaps he loved her

afterall.

perhaps he ruined it with her. perhaps she ran away.

perhaps he would be hideous to her, in his fragility. but it was that

that held her like glue.

this would be the last of the season. the last time.

and painfully chills overtook her to think, this would be the last

time seeing him, for months, close to a year, with luck if that. he

would not scoop her up. he wanted to be alone. sadly so did she, she

tried to think, though lately it might be killing her. she thought

so. that all she might need might be a steady hand with no drama or

glamor.

ch 5

the gods as principle characters

the taxicab dropped her off like hearse. the voice of him was aged.

what if he died driving. what if it were all over.

and what if this were the last time. what if she lost her concern.

it was now time to express the beauty of her love.

huge like an unfortunate red bloom, irritating to his gentleness.

there was no love, in their hunger. honor it was, such, that she might

feather his mind with her extravagance. not because she thought she

had any hope, but to see him, quite a miracle itself. but she wanted

it to sink into his soul for days or weeks or years, that someone

followed him to the ends of the earth for a goodbye. he was oracular.

there was a thread: reine fiske is god. indeed, she confirmed.

and so after that, after loving god, what next. she could not take

seriously any man. none held a candle.

she could smell him, taste him. she wanted no children. she wanted

to never touch a man again. she wanted to feel her body wither up

like a fly on the windowsill. in fact she was that---shipped to him:

here i am dead, dry, alive, emaciated, starving, alone, what do i do?

why were you so good to me once, when i wanted nothing and you gave.

she thought, he should not have . . . except then she would think,

but it was the most wonderful thing in her life. it was the only

actually. everything else was nothing. he was the last man near

her. and then his mate took the first brotherly kiss. the first kiss

from a man.

she had had lovers plenty, casual, distracted and confused pairings.

easily she burnt them off, their memories. he stuck in her like a

thorn. no one else could touch her. they might only then rub him in.

all of the world was a smog tank. she wanted out, but there was

nowhere to go.

every moment she felt her brain dying a little more, as the smog

worked into her cells and pores and lungs.

he was dying too.

ch6

purple shore

they were hanging on by a thread, to youth, to vitality. vitality

might chase them around the world, beyond their understanding. words

were dry as crackers crunching around them, oozing out of their pores

like smoggy fat.

words had no grip on his confused happy scared face, a face it took

days to understand. that he had smiled at her and waved. she was

paralyzed by her fear and seriousness. when she could speak, she

ellicited his honest appraisal. joy had no place there. she was so

hungry finally.

you don’t have to understand. one does. you came to heal. the

ground is still. deep in the the digital ticking. the earth was

spinning to knock you off your feet. you need not worry.

maybe she came to tell him, never again. stay true to her, as i am

true to you.

so true. her trueness terrified her. seventy eight days it had been

since she felt his hands near her. long, long, ugly days.

so was love. and also in his love came esteem, deep in his esteem,

and the catalogue of his collector’s mind, she felt a dusty thing, on

a shelf, somewhere in october. he had her then. she was writing a

way into framtid, zukunt. they were holding on to joy, the junglings

and the prettiest soft music, everything was cold on the train back.

she sat herself up, where her stomach hungered for him, and he had

none of her. he had nothing to give. she almost knew that he would

have nothing, less than zero. but nearness to him, in the gambit of

his orb, in the white light of his wizard call, on the mountain, he

was the elder, not the lover. he was wise and powerful, a god as a

principal character of this drama, cyborg by way of torch, technos

alight, electricity everywhere, electrocuted. a room with his sound

was the electric chair, it was the mercy seat. no i’m not afraid to

die. no.
she could pour more black coffee into her thinning existence and hope

that in one month, her skin would glow as a rose petal, all too late.

she could wish for his red whiskers, but there were so many the whole

world over. it wasn’t whiskers she wanted, but meaning, or wisdom, or

drama, or perplexity. the enigma of him, and the perfection of his “

i feel like i have known you my whole life” is yes indeed so. indeed

so, there was no mystery in her for him, or him for her. that was

whence comfort. his nakedness glowed through his clothes. she could

smell him, taste him.

his mate looked at her with the knowing look she knew would come: the

oh my gosh, voyeur look. he was so good. yes. wow. and silly sappy

love songs spilled from the poet’s fingers, in mockery of disavowed

tenderness. you could disavow all you like, dearest. that is what i

like about you, your iron curtain.

sinisterly, he gleamed in her mind of supernatural things. walking

into him was walking into a munch painting or strindberg’s inferno.

he was the seducer’s diary. he was a fassbinder dawn in the yellow

shadows of the early morn, in the horror motel. he was tuberculosis

and an early death. he was the purple shore, melancholia. he was

an empty stomach. he gleamed at her of occult surmise. his no would

give more than yes. she was not satisfied with yes. she returned for

no. no pinned her down. no spit gravel in her face.

no grit rips into her with dirt and stones.

ch7

metallic air
once more she prepared to say goodbye again. she was spent she was

hungered and tired and foolish. the earth held her tipsy. she

expected total misogyny and made off easy with indifference. that

was the better. industry kept them moving through the charcuterie.

walls of ham piled high and sliced, poisoned the auras of men. hungry

she was and near death, but not enough for this. slowly pouring food

into the consecrated wells of her love. everything she could not

have. the way she failed to embrace him. she was sorry. he made

himself such a poison. she tried and his ice was not to be overcome.

patiently she made a new way to demand something, a kind goodbye.

another kiss on her third eye. that is where first he treated her to

his boyishness. he kissed her head. she was shocked, electrified, he

moved through her. she swung into motion like an automat. nothing

else could reach her since then. that was trops bizarre. the way he

left her hanging over infinity, far longer than she suspected. he

was a spider, and she a fly in his web. she was paralyzed, waiting

for him to take a final lethal bite of her. but better it were she

pale and rot, and go back to vasagatan, soak up all the nothingness,

all the mornings of the world. and wait for next year, and the year

after. and be as a child for ever more sacred unto him, taste the

metallic smog, though he never call, or treat her as dead. and even

the exceptions seemed unfitting. unfitting they would be. they would

not do it again. love them as she could, they’d all seem an earthly

prostitution, when she had been held in the hands of god. it was not
his fault his life was shorter by the day, for his genius to work

itself out. she was only ever trying for . . .

she hoped the trek through the snow would bear fruit. any day she

feared his death. she felt his long life and feared his death, whilst

caring little for her own.

little she cared, and wished him into opium’s obscurity.

she could imagine a red glow for him, suiting his perfect warmth.

deep into that glow, she wished she could come, into the purple glow

of his winter. but it was not for her.

she felt like an odd doll, a curse, a challenge. her silence was

louder than bombs.

she might silently listen, and make him smile this time.

she might choose to reflect joy, and stop perceiving so empathically

fatigue, or fin du monde.

she might stop the storm clouds for a day.

and give in to joy.

ch8

jude

teknik magasinet had a better camera. if then get it all on film,

she could watch it throught the smog of arlanda. she could feel the

torture in his sloped shoulders, revel in the beauty of the human.

lost. in him she was lost. she was prepared to cry into the morrow.

she wished she could tell him, be my brother first. i did not deserve

so much knowledge. his love was hashem. his rejection was hashem,
and a joyous one. she was working herself free of thickets on the way

to the affianced. it made little sense, the slow love he promised in

his aries shoes. they were dapper and dancing, and the star of david

holds us up. there is no way anywhere, back into the hasidic future.

not as many bombs on beverly, new jerusalem, robertson, oh my brother.

his grey beard twirled in her fingers. she clicked him like the

trigger on the suicide gun, thinking of one more beyond. he was the

end of time. he was the end. he was power and age. she was working

through gods and incest. incest made her feel alive, love among

the brothers in the grove. but better it might be to take what was

written. unbelieving in such things she nonetheless asked, four times

into the first night, take me into your forever, let me be your third

divorce. divorced from lies, society, he set her wrong, parrot of

misogyny. the actual princes in light would never maim women with

tongues. they were birthed flowers, rare, twain bekannt. they were

brothers, good. all the other angry boys were sick in the schoolyard

waiting for language. she would find in the heavens her dream of

esteem. smiling long at lesbians, she might never again. if she

could find none so good, she might never. she felt never creep up her

leg. she felt never and her indifference. she let him love her with

indifference and in disbelief, my my how could i resist you. yes,

he was that. she was a sugar crystal cookie and he a golden boy,

everything so pretty in that morning, with his ekologiska teeth. his

blue eyes burned into her brain. she tried to forget his words and

remember his flailing arms, his haste. she was a part of him. love

had never been so sacred or profound before. that is what he does,

makes women holy.
her hunger grew in threes.

ch9

compassion

she wanted to challenge his compassion. his way was full of indolent

aristocracy. she did not imagine he could feel her suffering. she

arrived late, panting, for a last goodbye. she could tell him, she

felt violated, transgressed. he might not understand. she could

tell him it was the best thing that ever happened to her, and it was.

she could hang there, in that moment of time wondering if he were a

brother or a ghost. her satisfaction worked in planes. she had set

the stage. her faith was proven. years hence, she might be another

sister on the loose. the younger knew to trust her. he trusted the

universe. her love was knotted up like tangled catheters at the

asylum. she could not get through. he lay there, sprawled among

his wires. she asked him, where should i go, what should i do. he

was the end. she reached the end. she told him, coming in the mail

is art, do not be afraid of it. she said you can throw it away. he

said, no we will keep it.

he sent his representative to send her away. underneath her calmness

dwelled total hysteria.

she could imagine screaming, but i love you, why did you touch me?

how can i live without you? he did not feel the same. he felt

nothing. when his luxurious attention made he feel beautiful, vacka,

it was for a moment. she was a pebble on the beach. her picked her

up to toss her off, and strode on.

she barely thought she could get anywhere with him. but she hoped

she might activate his compassion. he might realize the power of his

beauty. he might seek to flee from her, and embrace life if life were

fleeing, and avoid the crazed lovers of the future. he might pick his

prey more wisely. he might stay true.

she was sorry.

maybe more than anything, she wished to find the modern day frau

fiske, and say, i am sorry!

i am sorry you love this man, and sorry my love has nearly killed me.

he wanted freedom, and we went to it together, but i returned a slave!

i did not want to meet the end of love, the everest of men, the end of

all.

then, clearly, she could see the way easy it would be to never touch

another man. they were all so far away. she could feel the no

contest of it! there was no contest. his happy mates saw it scrawled

on the walls. they knew not what to do. they were bringing out her

happiness. he was mirror of his own seriousness. his age had him

done up.

she realized about time, when he met her before, he was thick with

time and travel and excitement. by now he is weary, hopeless if even,

she could not understand.

she had been treated widely as a friend before, in the generous

american way. so it was delicate to be treated as a buzzing bee.

she had put her heartaches in a row on the shelf.

she decided he was last.

he was the last and he was the first.

she was sorry for any girl who loved deeply into the endless pool of

him.

she said, i want to take care of you. he said i have to take care of

myself, you know.