T-E GA-NTL-T

I ra-se my fl-g a-ain an- a-ain the e-i-or ch-ps it d-wn. The ed-t-r is m- moth-r and my fl-g, y-u k-ow. The -d-tor poss-ss-s m-re auth-r-ty than the auth-r, now-days. Fl-gs are pr-duc-d by a br-nd, not cr-fted by h-nd (-r if t-ey are, we t-e p-opl- don’t kn-w wh-se).

M- lif-‘s bec-me a -ace ag-inst th-s -word, I mean w-rd, I mean – – – – -.

My editor is the light that guides me through the valleys of sense and nonsense. My editor is a bright star trained in the best colleges, while I am but a traveller with legs, pencil shaped legs that scrape the dust on all the lowly roads of the Earth. My editor h-s n- l-gs, m- e-i-or n–ds m-, or s-me-ne lik- m-, in o-der t- ma-t-r. Ma–er. M-tt-r. Th-s c-n g-t frus-ra-ing, but my editor will never tire of bettering mankind and their scripts. My editor is on a mission for the PublishLord.

In order to print properly, I need to roll my voice into the safe blanket of “S/He who Pays the Bills”. It may require discipline and the ostentatious silencing of personal expression, political aspirations, spiritual or philosophical hopes. Only a particularly smart reader would discern the irony, the oh so slight scatter of sarcasm, the secret message concealed within the Narration by its humble redact-r.

I shall subm-t, nay, I shall beg to be allowed a seat at the table; not near the Masthead (save as buffoon), no, much lower along the lines of plates where the Wealth of the Word trickles down — as it should, as it should. America, I have washed your dishes with my tongue, fed from your refuse and still felt lucky not to be cleaning your toilets. America, I am grateful for my current job as Divulger of Truth, Packager of Minced Mind, Influencer of Public and Private Opinions. I participate in the Great Replacement of blank space on the blind pages of Barbarism, drawing from traditional appearances and styles to provide line after line of parallel pawns, future soldiers in the Great War against Ideograms. I’m your Man of Letters, America, and my letters have their arms raised stiff like a billionaire upon the stage, sound and fury which shall be heard no more. (Praised be the Classics!)

I believe in One Love, One Voice; in the Fairness of the Hierarchy; in the Meeting of Great Minds; in the Sanctity of Sperm. I sing the Mind Electronic; the Wisdom of Applied Statistics; the Proper Processing of Natural Languages. May I become a cog in the Rotary Wheel; may I never lack Bread or Dough; may I invest myself in Praise only — Praise to the Big Dog. Amenable.

Today this is what writers do: anticipate trends; learn the craft of words from Mad Men; sniff under the tails that matter. You don’t want me to think anymore, for how could one person’s mind compete with rows of microprocessors? Better to give up those lofty scams of yore, when Enlightenment was deemed to grow from a single spark in your head!

And my last job, besides traffic control on the few remaining thruways of Meaning, is to tell you, Reader: give up. You should have given up at the first paragraph, honestly, but if you are still here: Give up, Now. The human mind is not anymore, the human mind not is a mystery.

About the artist

Antoine Bargel writes poetry and fiction in English and French. His stories have been published in Easy Street, Jellyfish Review, Harpang, and elsewhere. His first novel, Ma vie parfaite, is currently being translated into English. He has a Ph.D. in Romance Languages from the University of Oregon, and has translated over 30 novels from English to French. His personal website is https://antoine.bargel.eu and his ‘Romance Studies’ collection can be read at https://romance-studies.bargel.org/