La Generación del Atardecer Presenta: Post-Costello and Costello Incident, remembranzas violentas y percepciones de un nostálgico porvenir.
[Incidental spectrum]
Season's Greetings
- The Big O, Apostle
Walking down Aragon’s emergent shadows, the city’s eve entrenching backbone consumes more legroom as it invents spaces and modalities within the sun light, inside the water, canalizing the lava, molding the earth, containing the very air itself, shaping it into awfully obscure conjurations the naïveté folk call a Polis. I’m returning home from the St Claire’s hospital, my fridge pretty much empty as ever, so I decided to pick up a few articles on the way, just the compulsory med-kit for a psychological devastation/restoration. The organism’s all junked up on coffee and stims, to keep on keeping on. In order balance the neuro-chemical regulation I got the usual, apple sauce, ham, crackers, jelly doughnuts and of course two bottles of Plumstead’s spirits, liquefying selves since the days of old. These bottles here are knights, keeping me company in the city’s somber belly. The apartment-building is closing, sun fades away; the late twilight induces in my silly self a still air, tranquility… always anticipating the ever approaching thunderous storm, the lessening of the flow, the exponential shrinkage of tissue, a bizarre feeling of gravitational soberness one must explore thoroughly. We sapients usually just drive from opposite to opposite, evading all responsibility, a binary mind. “But if you’re well-groomed, you stray beyond apathy and empathy. To remain silent but not passive. To administer the poison, to swoon into the void, into the tissue” Said the mentor once.
I make my way up the stairs to my apartment, dreading the tedious and unavoidable task at hand; write in 12 size font and double space; several reports, illuminating in full detail the fruitless events of the preceding hours, “it’s company policy Ana…”. A series of words that seem to have a coherent point, a truth to express into the unexpecting sapient who scans them with its ocular apparatus. But the story on this report won’t be anything but a series of fictions, there can be no other way. I’m begging to feel the urge to soar, I fill a 12oz glass with some ice in haste, and then let the elixir ooze into the frosty glass. Gulp down some frisky whiskey as I sit at my desk over looking the Aragon harbor. Let the recollections begin. Cause nothing just happens… right? Moments are crafted in various noticeable and un-noticeable processes. That night within the corporate complex was put into motion long ago. But where? by who? “The Costello & Costello case” I write on the workstation, that’s a start at least, a gulp of muses down my throat, that may bring forth some light, some suggestions, after all the art of reminiscing is no undemanding task.
The Costello contract was a kick in the ovaries. A presage found its way into the city’s belly, declaring the date and time of Philippe Thomas Becket’s demise, who is no other than the CEO of the contractor and developer firm Costello & Costello. Exchange, my parent company was hired and I was called to join Monsieur Becket’s protective aura of lethality, preferably by eliminating the hunter prior to the point in time specified. Yet all efforts resulted in failure. Kilometric reports, chronicles, logs and even the memories in my head are most unsuccessful in capturing the rides of paranoia, the fantastic disenchantment; suspicions one must suffer and nurture in order to be an efficient Eye. The massive inclinations on the streets, on the office, every breathing space is full of possibility and therefore danger. On every case, “suspicion as a necessary dispositive on any healthy radar”, the ideal tool for survival. A mere 72 hours ago, a security guard working in the Costello & Costello firm building was found dead on his post. Authorities were called into action to protect the structures and punish the unlawful elements. At that time I was in another space, few hundred miles away, beyond the south-eastern wall. But surely enough I needed this formal procedure to revitalize from my awry tasks of vigilance, the perennial hunt within the ectoplasm.
- Slavoj Zizek
