Ecstasy as the Deepest Level of Aesthetic Purity: The 7 Levels of Aesthetic Subordination

Seven Levels of Narrative Subordination

The discussion of value of a particular narrative too often misidentifies rhetoric or realism as the sole factor placing a text at a high (or the highest) level of quality; realism, in particular, has this false association with narrative purity, and rhetoric in narrative has the mistaken association of intellectual engagement as a necessary component of artistic value. This is a narrow perspective born from the notion that rationality has a greater value than emotional/visceral reaction. A more significant problem with this perspective is that it displaces value from the text or the work of art itself. The text has no intrinsic value, only its capacity to represent something else: so-called reality, a philosophical concept, a social condition, a sociological perspective, etc.

This is the aesthetic problem of subordination which art in the twentieth century strove to and should have eliminated. William Carlos Williams and the Abstract Expressionists should have, finally and completely, highlighted the falsity in the notion that subordination is superior to aesthetic purity.

Alas, critics seem resistant to accepting what Williams should have taught the world, slow to accept that thousands of years of traditional Western concepts of artistic value have been upside down this whole time (something that Eastern concepts of artistic value have acknowledged for just as long). This is partly because there are so few systematic ways to analyze a text given the elimination of subordination. Understandably. How do you rationally analyze something that is at its core irrational? When writers say (as so many writers do) that they have no rational purpose or intention in writing a narrative other than to explore a character’s tapestry of emotions, how then do critics take that irrational but perfectly valid claim and honor it without forcing rational analysis in places it doesn’t necessarily belong?

This is why I keep attempting to make something systematic, hence the Seven Levels of Narrative Subordination.

A more effective way to approach a work of art which has greater potential to give the irrational core its due weight is to look at the various levels on the spectrum between aesthetic purity and subordination. Considering this as a spectrum better highlights the value at both ends (since critical analysis has been stuck at one of the spectrum for too long).  By “aesthetic purity,” I just mean acknowledging the text based on its own value without subordinating the value to something outside of it. The most aesthetically pure is the least subordinated; the most subordinated is the most rational/cerebral but also furthest removed from its aesthetic core, that which gives it stimulant (visceral/emotional) value.

A spectrum, however, is not the most accurate way to consider these levels since each element in the scale builds on the next, so a work of art must start with that pure, irrational core as a condition of being a work of art. Thus, one could argue the higher levels have greater value in their relative complexity. What I have identified as the “Rhetorical” level, the highest level of subordination, most likely contains the other six levels as well, thus allowing the possibility of argument for the superiority of this type of text. However, as this level is farthest removed from the aesthetic core, it is least likely to be enjoyable, beautiful, viscerally stimulating, etc. Also, this complexity is not a necessary condition of the Rhetorical level, and containing each of the previous six levels is likewise not a necessary condition. For example, most children’s narratives are Rhetorical without necessarily being complex and without necessarily containing all seven levels within them.

Also, to clarify, I focus on levels  narrative subordination particularly because the first two levels (“Ecstatic” and “Paratactic”) work well with any type of art, but the other five apply best to narrative. For example, considering the rule systems relevant to each level is a way to understand its level of subordination, a consideration that is less helpful for non-narrative art. As a more specific example, the “Mythological” level functions based on its own internal rule system, a concept that is very useful in understanding narratives but not as useful in understanding visual art. Rule systems in narratives are an important aesthetic consideration since violation of a perceived rule system may seem like a flaw. To say this is an intrinsic or universal flaw is false, but it is important for a writer to recognize that the reader is likely to perceive this as a flaw. For example, a story on the Mythological level may include imaginary creatures who must adhere to an internal rule system without necessarily adhering to the rules of the so-called real world. A violation of this internal rule system may seem like a flaw no matter how beautiful the text may be at its core. Likewise, what I identify as a Rhetorical story must adhere consistently to the premises of the argument, and failure to do so may seem like a flaw even if the story itself is beautiful and adheres to internal rules irrelevant to the argument.

Here are the seven levels:

1)Ecstatic: The direct, visceral, irrational experience that eliminates the barrier between self and other.

  • Rule System: No rule system.
  • Subordination: No distance between the work itself and the experience of the reader/viewer.
  • Analytical strategy: As this is the most irrational level based purely on individual experience, the easiest element to access and analyze is individual emotional/visceral reaction.
  • In brief: As the narrative or artistic experience requires the elimination of the barrier between self and other, this is the most basic and purest level of an artwork or narrative, and each subsequent level must contain this at its core. This level could be called “Absurd” as absurd narratives are the most characteristic examples and least likely to contain one of the other levels as well, and it’s provocative to say that all narratives must be absurd at their core, but that word contains so much baggage it may be counter-productive. Most philosophical treatments of absurdity as a concept are Rhetorical in nature, not truly and purely absurd. The Ecstatic level is the level of pure artistic absurdity where philosophy is irrelevant and unnecessary (in other words, absurdity certainly isn’t a problem to be solved). To clarify, narratives or artistic works can function on other levels, and often with more purely absurd texts critics attempt to impose order and meaning on them (the need to impose unnecessary order and meaning on things is a common and often intense desire); however, since absurdity/ecstasy is at the core of all successful narratives and art works, meaning and order are more incidental factors than necessary components. There is resistance to recognizing this as the core of all art, arguably, for two reasons: 1) artifice appears impure; 2) pleasure for its own sake engenders discomfort and seems like a frivolous, indulgent, gratuitous, or self-serving moral violation. The answer to both of these objections/misconceptions is in the nature of ecstatic engagement: it eliminates the barrier between self and other. It is artifice (and all art is artifice to a degree) only in that it has no necessary relationship with physical reality and exists primarily in the interaction between self and other free of barriers. Tangible/physical/material reality is only more pure than this if you believe science is the only authentic mechanism for discovering truth. That is a valid position to hold, but it is hardly helpful in creating or understanding art. This connects likewise with the notion that ecstasy is mere frivolity or self-pleasing immorality, but empathy (elimination of the barrier between self and other) should be the root of morality, arguably, and is the root of morality in many religions, from the “Love your neighbor as yourself” of Jesus to the compassionate non-duality of Buddha. To feel the pain and joy of another can only be immoral frivolity if your moral system is devoid of empathy as an essential component. Again, this is a valid position but hardly relevant to art.
  • Favorite Examples: Incidences by Daniil Kharms, Amedée by Eugene Ionesco, “Sorrows of a Family Man” by Franz Kafka, etc. Frank O’Hara’s “Personism: A Manifesto” is essential reading in understanding the one-to-one interaction of the ecstatic text and the irrelevance of universality.

2)Paratactic: The juxtaposition of viscerally stimulating but seemingly unrelated images without a rational, directly stated, or necessary connection.

  • Rule system: No rule system.
  • Subordination: No element is necessarily subordinated to another, by definition, but images can relate to elements or concepts outside of the text itself.
  • Analytical strategy: Determine the images that create a visceral response in juxtaposition. Do not look for a rational connection but a purely irrational resonance. If you find a rational connection, especially where one element is subordinated to the other, this likely qualifies as the Representational level and muddies the aesthetic purity with overt rationality.
  • In brief: The line between the Ecstatic and Paratactic level are blurred since both levels function quite similarly. However, the Paratactic differentiates from the Ecstatic in that images can relate to concepts or a so-called reality outside of the text. For example, a William Carlos Williams poem might relate a “red wheelbarrow” and “white chickens” without stating how they connect (a classic, basic example of parataxis), but understanding of this parataxis might relate to the reader’s own experience or concept of farming or poverty without necessarily subordinating the images to the concepts or experiences. The text, however, becomes one step away from the pure ecstatic experience in this outward-stretching web. Another example: a text might contain multiple blue objects, and the reader may yearn to find some rational connection between these blue objects. However, the yearning for connection (a type of visceral stimulation vital for this level) is far more important than an actual, rational connection, and the reader may think of traditional associations of blue and the Virgin Mary without necessarily subordinating the text to Christian concepts. In other words, the color blue does not necessarily make the text about (“about” generally implying a level of subordination) the Virgin Mary or Christianity simply because of the presence of blue, but this irrational connection could add visceral value to the text. If the weight of history aids in arguing the importance of parataxis, subordinating a text to abstractions may be the traditional Western way of understanding a narrative (thus the taken-for-granted superior position), but parataxis is the traditional Eastern way of understanding imagery in multiple art forms.

3)Mythological: This narrative level functions based on its own internal rule system.

  • Rule system: Internal rule system set by the author, genre, narrative conventions, etc.
  • Subordination: A concept of order is grafted on the irrational/visceral elements of the text, but this rule system is essentially arbitrary; it may relate to rule systems in reality/outside of the text, but this is not necessary.
  • Analytical strategy: Identify the internal rule system and how the text fulfills or violates this rule system; recognize the relationship between the imposed order and the irrational, visceral core. For example, if a character has imposed a system of order on the absurd universe, does he/she violate this imposed order, or does the universe violate/fulfill this order in some way?
  • In brief: I call this level “mythological,” not because it has a relationship to myth criticism (as most of that sort of criticism functions on the Representational or Rhetorical level) or any narrative identified as myth (which is only one of many other types of stories on the Mythological level) but because it comes from the same impulse as myth making: to impose order on the disorderly whether or not that order has any rational relationship with scientifically measurable reality. Myths, likewise, must conform only to their own ordered system and not necessarily to any system outside of themselves. I would go further and say most narratives, by the nature of being a narrative, are intrinsically mythological if they have any sense of order or conform to any rule system. The most obvious place to see this is in so-called “genre” fiction – a vampire story follows the well-established vampire rules or sets its own but follows those consistently. However, internal rule systems are as relevant to a so-called “literary” work as they are to a so-called “genre” work. The terms “literary” and “genre” are grossly inaccurate and sloppily applied in most cases, but considering their relationship with internal rule systems clarifies their basic difference more accurately: a “genre” work conforms to rule systems within its own type and a “literary” work establishes its own, supposedly (and a “literary” work becomes “genre” when it follows the rule system established by the “literary” type). However, the most egregiously applied term associated with this level is “escapism” – escapism is indeed one of the effects of works which remain more purely within the Mythological level, but this one effect is hardly its most significant value. “Escapism,” especially in its pejorative sense, inverts the value system placing so-called reality above the narrative experience. The narrative experience can as easily be considered a greater level of reality. The relationship between the mythological and the realistic level is incidental – so-called reality fills in the gaps left by mythology but is far from a necessary condition of mythology.

4)Psychological: A separation between the purer aesthetic levels and reality by attributing the contrast to an internal/external split.

  • Rule system: Two separate rule systems, internal and external. The internal rule system may function the same as the Ecstatic, Paratactic, or Mythological level, but the subordination implies that the external rule system functions the same as the Realistic level.
  • Subordination: The non-realistic or seemingly disorderly elements are subordinated to external reality because they are attributed to psychological reflections of external factors.
  • Analytical strategy: Identify the internal and external elements in the story and determine how one reflects the other; for example, how does a non-real element reflect some more realistic element within a character’s world or something psychologically significant to the character?
  • In brief: This is the transition between irrational and rational levels because it acknowledges the value of both sides. However, this dilutes the aesthetic power of the Ecstatic core because it is subordinated to so-called reality. This is not necessarily limited to psychoanalytical criticism or rules of psychology, psychoanalysis, etc. though this can be enlightening method for approaching texts on this level. Most forms of criticism hover in the Representational level, but the Psychological level can resonate in both directions as long as it remains rooted in this two-level contrast between internal and external forces. For example, elements can function by internal rules, thus making it a Mythological narrative, but function simultaneously on the Representational level if elements stand in for abstract concepts. If this resonance takes place on two levels – for example, Mythological elements take place inside a character’s mind while Representational elements are outside of the character’s mind – and the internal elements are subordinate to the external elements, this narrative exists on the Psychological level.

5)Realistic: The narrative exists to depict something in the real (material, tangible, physical) world.

  • Rule system: The narrative must follow the rules of the scientifically measurable, so-called real world.
  • Subordination: The narrative is subordinated to the real world outside of it.
  • Analytical strategy: Focus on the accuracy of the narrative within the context of the real world. For example, an element inaccurate to material existence, scientifically established rule systems, or social conventions becomes a flaw.
  • In brief: While works within the genre called “Realism” are often depicted as purer forms for their elimination of imaginative elements, they are aesthetically impure because of their dependence on a material, tangible, physical reality outside of the texts. Any consideration of the text’s basis in reality displaces value from the text and places value in elements only incidental to the text’s core Ecstatic value. This is not applicable only to texts based on real events or texts in which events are depicted as being real. More important at this level is recognition of a narrative as being dependent on reality and valuation of the accuracy of this depiction of reality. However, if a text functions to reflect some universal concept (like the “human condition,” etc.) or has non-realistic elements which stand in for universal concepts, it is more likely Representational, a step further in subordination.

6)Representational: The narrative stands in for some abstract concept such as philosophy, sociological perspective/condition, or universalized concept of humanity.

  • Rule system: The narrative may follow essentially the same rules as the Realistic level but applied universally or at least broadly to a sociological condition, or it may follow the rules or principles of a particular philosophy without necessarily making an endpoint argument.
  • Subordination: Both real and non-real elements are subordinated to universal/philosophical concepts.
  • Analytical strategy: As most criticism hovers in this or the Rhetorical level, analytical strategies are well-established elsewhere.
  • In brief: When considering narrative analysis, this and the Rhetorical level are too often considered the only relevant levels or the levels with the greatest capacity to highlight the value of a narrative – this is the limited perspective I’m attempting to correct. The concept is that a narrative has value in that it “means” something or is “about” something when this perspective separates, by several levels of subordination, the narrative from its core aesthetic value. The Representational level essentially bridges the Realistic and Rhetorical level in that realistic elements are elevated into the abstract realm by being treated as representations of universal conditions (humans aren’t humans but stand in for all of humanity, for example) or reflect one of thousands of possible philosophical perspectives without necessarily making an argument (which would qualify it as Rhetorical). The various philosophies are well-established within criticism, so I need not spend much time explaining them, but an example might be a Marxist perspective which views elements within a text as representations of class oppression, commodification, historical cycles of revolution, etc. Characters aren’t people but social forces and conditions and only have value in their capacity to represent.

7)Rhetorical: A catch all term for anything with an endpoint value based in some abstract concept, argument, lesson, etc.

  • Rule system: The narrative must consistently follow the principles of the argument or lesson.
  • Subordination: Elements within the narrative are subordinate to the argument or lesson.
  • Analytical strategy: As most criticism hovers in this or the Representational level, analytical strategies are well-established elsewhere.
  • In brief: I call this level “Rhetorical” for the sake of the catchy three R’s of rational-level narrative subordination, but this includes many types of narratives beyond the argumentative – didactic narratives, for example. The significance is that the narrative has a purpose or that the narrative is leading to a particular end. This endpoint may be open to interpretation, but the writer is proposing some rhetorical premise subject to the rules of rhetoric or a moral principle subject to the rules or designed to develop or disseminate that particular moral principle. It differs from the Representational level only in that a Representational narrative can function more purely as a portrait of an abstract or universalized concept, but the Rhetorical level further subordinates that portrait to the ultimate purpose, argument, lesson, etc.

Blockhead :oR: Leaps Away


“The Blockheads that haunt this apartment complex will kill you the worst way, worse than any other ghost,” said Sister Mary Michael (whom Eve Eeny called “Sister Mary Michael Jackson”). “But don’t worry. They’re easy to spot and leave alone.”

Eve Eeny had been in therapy for “anorexia brought on by fear of sexual assault by ghosts,” as the doctors called. She’d gotten so bad about this fixation she bolted from all court imposed therapy and all enclosed spaces and lived unhauntably out of grocery carts containing only a small number of objects she needed to live:

  • A safe full of bullets and ballet money (she still worked and showered at the city’s best ballet, and she was a very, very good dancer, so she would never lose her job, but she bought nothing but onions and bullets and batteries);
  • Onions (she’d only eaten ghost-frightening onions and garlic for years (her physical condition was more like classic malnutrition than anorexia, but doctors only called it anorexia out of ballerina stereotypes));
  • Batteries;
  • A battery-operated record player (to play her Michael Jackson records, from Off the Wall to Dangerous, because what else does anybody need?);
  • Plenty of other bauble charms she had for ages to keep the ghosts away (a particular metal might ward off a scratch ghost or there was an incense for sheet specters or any kind of charm for any kind of ghost ever, but it felt like it did little good because the closer she got to living in any walled building, the closer she felt to being hauntable).

That’s when Eve Eeny’s friend Sister Mary Michael Jackson found her chronically losing as a street person and saved her. At least that’s what Sister Mary called it to anybody else who’d listen: “I saved her from a street life, suffering and miserable,” and so on.

That’s all it took to go from constant fear of everything to give a fearless existence a chance: one person caring. It had been so long. Eve had this uncanny feeling in her gut. Could it be happiness or self-respect? It was tiny and deep, deep down below the diaphragm, so she could hardly even get access and explore it, but it was there. Sure, there was the dancing that everybody loved, mostly because Eve was very, very good at it, but this was something Jesus blessed her with and she destroyed her body over, and still most people only considered it a gift object from Jesus delivered to their eyeballs with Eve only as the conduit.

But then there was Sister Mary caring for no reason at all, and it made all the difference. “I’ll get a house if you want me to,” Eve said, “but only because you want me to.”

“I know great realtors,” Sister Mary said. “I know way more about real estate than a nun ever should.”

“Is real estate something inherently sinful?”

“Well…it can be.”

But then Eve, whose natural inclination was to doubt/escape/hate/fear/that sort of thing, said, “I doubt realtors would listen on the ghost assault phobia.”

“Well…we’ll see.” Sister Mary may be a nun, but she was an honest nun.

Later, they went together on tours of possible apartments, and Sister Mary, with her honesty and delicacy, would be the buffer between the normals and Eve’s particular issues.

The realtor might say, “This next apartment is the former waiting room of a family doctor.”

And Eve would say, “Any evil doctor ghosts?”

The realtor stumbled, attempting to avoid rudeness and not shatter the poor delicate crazy lady’s hope of getting a home: “It … depends … on your definition of ‘evil.’”

Sister Mary saved them both: “Sweetheart, houses at this budget are historically inclined to be haunted. I can find you a house with a nice ghost like a Blockhead. A Blockhead is known to be very slow and very rarely ever attack. He just shows up and hangs out. More a light bother.”

“Why is he called a Blockhead?” Eve wondered aloud.

“His head is kind of block shape.”

“That name makes a lot of sense then.”

It was only later, after Eve had chosen an officially Blockhead-haunted apartment, that Sister Mary said, “The Blockheads that haunt this apartment complex will kill you the worst way, worse than any other ghost. I just have to warn you about that. But don’t worry. They’re easy to spot and leave alone. Just do your little ballet leaps away from them, and you should be fine.”

She was inclined to do her little ballet leaps away from all of this, and this Blockhead business sounded far more terrifying than anything Sister Mary could understand, but for no dramatic reason other than Sister Mary asking and her sickness at the sameness of her homeless existence, Eve broke her long history of ghost avoidance, Eve agreed to live there. She didn’t back away out of the door and run down the open sidewalk screaming in her brain. This gave a sort of bravery she’d never known, a forgetting, a sort of bravery where anything untoward went to dark outofview places, and her dealings were with waking pleasantries. It was like peeling away black clouds to find out a sun existed when you assumed suns were only myth.

She lived alone, an out loud “I can do this” filling all the silent moments the first day and Michael Jackson records filling the rest. She only planned one weekly visit from Sister Mary on a Thursday noon, giving her four days of nobody but ghost potentials and Michael Jackson and her own echoes of “I can do this.”

“Are you sure?” said Sister Mary.

“I can do this.”

“Repeating something doesn’t make it true,” said Sister Mary with her damned honesty.

“…I can do this,” Eve said because other phrases seemed beyond her at the moment.

The truth was Eve could do this. Delighted by the new sensations of bravery, she embraced all the things that being homeless and ghostphobic robbed her of. Like dishwashing and grocery shopping. That’s about it, really, but that was huge. Eve used her surplus ballet money to buy a pot and a pan and stopped because that was overwhelming enough, but she spent a lot of time staring at her pot and pan and washing them though she hadn’t cooked anything yet. She still mostly only bought onions and garlic to eat, but now she had a place to put them. Then she decided to go wild and buy some bacon, lots and lots of bacon.

Then she saw a Blockhead.

The first time (and, honestly, there would only ever be two times) Eve saw a Blockhead, it didn’t seem exceptionally good at murdering.

It sort of hung there in the hall like any normal ghost. Both she and the Blockhead froze midmotion a long time. Both seemed to own this frozenness as a natural position.

Eve was only going out to get her mail. It was only junk mail. Nobody would be writing her. Junk mail was utterly fascinating to someone who had never received it. But then the Blockhead blocked the hall. Eve’s heart beat hard seeing it suspended there. This was the only sound, this heart beating. Once motion was finally possible again, she ducked back in her new place and slammed the door, but this door slamming hardly made more noise than her heart in her ears thumpthumping.

But wait a minute, she thought (or at least the new Eve forced this thought into the real Eve’s brain): she was strong and independent now. She had to be reasonable about the danger of some silent and still unmoved ghost. She opened the door for one more peek. Besides, she needed to get her mail someday, maybe a couple days from now.

When she opened the door in her forced bravery, the Blackhead was gone, frightened off by the smell of her courage and the whoosh of her door, like ghosts were secretly made of a smoke that would be blown away that easily.

But her courage went in the wrong direction, not bolstered by this first victory. Instead, it seemed like luck was a commodity she used up totally her first brave ghost encounter, and death in their second meeting was more certain. Soon the Blockhead haunted her dreams but only that brief uncertain glimpse hovering just in the distance, assaulting her just as she always feared but remaining impossibly always at the original distance. Soon it was all she could think about. She couldn’t walk down halls anywhere without assuming Blockheads would be waiting.

Only a few days after she moved in, she decided leaving her new home and entering that horrible hall was no longer worth it. Who needed mail? Or the world?

But then the junk mail called her. What if a furniture store had a sale she might one day, years from now, need to know about?

When she opened the door again to the Blockhead hallway, after only a day of dithering, there was the Blockhead. Of course. It was her fault really for wanting to check her mail. Why this obsession with mail? Damn you, Eve. What foolishness.

Then a strange feeling filled her up. A different resignation she hadn’t known before. The inevitability of this second meeting and oncoming death only a few minutes away allowed her to leave the door open a few extra minutes to get a good look at him.

The scariest thing was his stillness and his silence. Like a creature born from nothingness to take others into the nothingness must resist movement or speaking or any other form of certainty.

Also, his head was a giant block. This was certain. The name Blockhead was literal. A block shaped like but bigger than the cardboard box Sister Mary lent her to move her stuff in (a box she hardly filled with onions and records and a record player). Except the head of the Blockhead was covered in brown puppet felt and wide enough to nearly hit both walls of the hall. His body was long and droopy like proper ghosts, but he wore the boring brown suit of 70s insurance salesmen. What an odd and awkward and terrifying and not-so-terrifying ghost.

She slammed the door and made wind that scattered apartment renting paperwork and junk mail all about, cut her finger locking the lock too hard, got blood all over the paper. All this renter info she’d likely be making irrelevant soon as she’d likely be leaping away at the first opportunity.

She stuck her bloody finger in her mouth and sucked (a blood she seemed to need to drink in her poorly nourished condition), and she hoped the Blockhead wasn’t the sort of ghost who smelled blood. Like a halfshark halfghost. (She imagined the breeding process of sharks and ghosts, laughed half a second, then kept her mind on the business at hand.)

Sister Mary said the Blockhead murdered worse than any ghost, and Eve now had to imagine what that meant. It had to involve eating. Eve (hungry now in the weirdest way possible) cooked herself some bacon and onions, all of her bacon and all of her onions, but had to cut it all tiny with her one tiny knife and eat it one tiny piece at a time because she was weird about pretty much everything in her life. Eve hoped the Blockhead wasn’t the sort of ghost attracted to bacon smell who’d come into your house to murder you and eat all your bacon. This was no way to survive, to eat the last of one’s bacon as a murderous ghost lingered outside. She’d be without all food as soon as she wolfed this all down in her slow, slow way. The desperation to now remain inside could overpower any animalneed including eating, drinking, sleeping, company.

Eve decided after a few bites, screw this, and she step out into the hall to stare at the Blockhead. She’d never get this opportunity to stare at, contemplate, study, understand, appreciate, and love the worst thing possible while it was immobile.

Then an old neighbor lady came out of the door and saw Eve staring (she must’ve seemed crazy). “Do you need help?” said the old lady staring in her scruncheyed way at Eve.

There was no good/noncrazy answer to what she was doing: “I’m looking at this ghost to be less afraid of it”? That wouldn’t be good.

Then the Blockhead moved. It reached out a hand with its long skinny finger and touched the old lady. She folded in half at the middle. She folded the worst way to be folded: at the waist and backwards. The terribleness of this murder lived up to the hype. There’s no defense against a touch that folds you in half backwards at the waist.

“Holy crap, that was terrifying,” Eve said out loud and laughed.

Then somebody exploded out of the old lady’s apartment, looked at Eve, looked at the Blockhead. “Why didn’t you say there was a Blockhead out here, crazy bitch!” This must’ve been the lady’s son. He had an axe in his hands for hacking. “You just killed my mom!” he screamed to Eve perhaps but mostly to the Blockhead but maybe mostly to Eve. Who knows? But the fact that the axe-hacking son had an axe so easily accessible for hacking a Blockhead to pieces at a moment’s notice and that seeing his mom split in half backward had an obvious Blockhead cause indicated to Eve that this was a familiar experience. People in this apartment must’ve just known what living with a Blockhead was all about. The axe-hacking son ran screaming at the Blockhead but one touch, a surprisingly quick and graceful touch, and the son split in half backward too. The axe and the rage did little good to save him and did little good for anything at all.

“Hmm, that was horrific,” Eve said in an understatement that surprised her, considering the two split corpses in the hallway. She laughed again. A little, tiny laugh. It was entirely inappropriate and senseless to laugh in this situation, and the Blockhead likely realized she was being kind of horrible right now, so Eve ducked back in. Out of embarrassment at her laughter as much as fear at this point.

Eve assumed she should call a doctor. Maybe not the police because she never heard of arresting a ghost. Then again what could a doctor do for two people so thoroughly dead? Still, she had to do something.

Eve called 911: “I sort of have some dead people in my hall. A ghost killed them. I’m not sure who needs to know.”

“911 does not officially acknowledge the existence of ghosts,” said the operator. She sounded a little like Sister Mary, kind and honest, and this was comforting. “If this is a prank, I must remind you of the legal implications.”

“Sure. Great. Regardless, I’ve still got dead people in my hall?” She inadvertently turned this into a question as if that would be a polite way to communicate with a 911 operator.

The 911 operator said in a definite and officious tone, “Let me finish: officially 911 does not acknowledge the existence of ghosts; unofficially, can you let me know what kind of ghost you’re dealing with?”

“A Blockhead.”

“I see. Thank you. We can handle this. I’m going to get you to do a few things, and you have to do what I say as quickly and quietly as possible, and you should be safe. First, answer this question: Are the walls in your building wood, plaster, concrete, or other?”

“Other. Oh wait, wood. I think.”

“Wooden building increase the danger of Blockhead hauntings. Your realtor should have informed you of this. Has the wood gotten hotter?”

Eve put her hand against a near wall. “Yes. Weird. I mean … relatively.”

“There is a possibility that you will be trapped soon. This may last an hour or several days. If you are trapped, extraction teams are available though the official status and duration of extraction process must remain, by necessity uncertain. Do you have enough food?”

“I’ll manage.”

“Just stay there in your apartment. Waiting is the safest option.”

“The ghost won’t come through the wall?”

“The Blockhead doesn’t go through walls. It warps walls to trap victims, but he does so only in cases of vendetta and/or family history. This is important to remember: in most cases, a Blockhead is perfectly harmless. In other words, avoid a family history of ghost murders, and avoid pissing the Blockhead off, and you should be fine. I repeat: the best way to avoid a Blockhead is to avoid vendetta and/or family history.”

“What about axe attack? There was this guy who tried to get the Blockhead with an axe while I was watching.” Eve laughed a little. “And I laughed a little at him dying. In my defense, I am fully aware that this was inappropriate, but I think the Blockhead saw me. Do you think this pissed the Blockhead off?”

The 911 operator didn’t reply. This silence was unsettling.


“Listen to me carefully,” the operator finally said. “This Blockhead may be very pissed and may be coming through your wall soon. Try not to be afraid. It feeds on fear. Remain low to the ground. That is the Blockhead’s blindspot. This is your only option. Don’t let it touch you, or you will die. Repeat: if the Blockhead touches you, you will die.”

“That’s terrifying.”

“That’s the point. But, you know, I’m sure you’ll be fine. So…yeah…good luck.” Then the 911 operator hung up.

Eve wondered if that really was Sister Mary on the phone. So typical.

But the room didn’t change. Everything was silent. “This is not so bad,” she said out loud. But of course the room really did start to change shape. Eve noticed it first when she tried to open the window to escape because Eve Eeny loved escaping and wasn’t an idiot. But the window seemed sealed shut, and soon there wasn’t a window at all. Then the wall opened. Like the weird brainwarping of the horrible medicines she’d known too long, but this was real as all this tactile stimulation told her, all the heat and splinter grain of the windows wood as it soon ceased to be a window. The whole room seemed to shift into a dozen possibilities of rooms, and soon it was only one hall, no apartments, all the apartment’s innocent residents tumbled together as the walls narrowed. It’s like the Blockhead and the building together were a single being made for consuming. Like a pitcher plant. Like the building funneled in the prey and the Blockhead delivered the killing touch, blood and flesh absorbing into wood.

The Blockhead picked off the floor’s residents one by one, a touch and split in half along the waist. Every last one. There was nothing they could do.

Eve, in her immobility and alien calm, was the most readied for survival of a ghost like this.

The calm in Eve now, the calm of realizing there was nothing left: either split in half or calm. She knew well what resignation to rockbottom felt like but always the ghostfear remained: rockbottom or this. Now she saw the Blockhead, the worst possible manifestation of ghostfear, and it was like all the fears shorted one another out. She fell to the floor, not as a surrender as she might once have done but in a pure knowledge of the Blockhead, the way it moved down the hall like she and the wood and the Blockhead were all one now. Ballet had made her movement so delicate, the living building trap and the Blockhead couldn’t see her as any separate living being. Homeless starvation had made her so thin the Blockhead would pass over without touching. Any part of him might split her, even a toe touch, but Eve was too thin for this.

Still, she had to hold her breath as he passed over. He stopped. I’m dead, she thought. Only a moment of her old self creeping in, but she was okay with dying now.

But then the Blockhead kept moving.

He’s nothing but a pitcher plant she thought, just responding to stimuli. Nothing but a creature made by evolution to eat fear and split bodies. That’s all he was. That’s all this was. I can do this.

Once he finally passed, Eve stood and tiptoed through gore. She tried to pick up the axe, but the same starvation that saved her kept her from lifting it. Hate might help. Hate might give her power. But the same realization that took away fear robbed her of hate. She cried about not caring. She cried at the loss of her old self.

This somehow unlocked a dark box inside her containing all those wasted years living on the street. For what? For a pitcher plant with a stupid looking block for a head. She couldn’t hate it, but she could hate herself. Before she realized, the axe was through the Blockhead’s right arm and ribcage.

But now the axe was stuck. She couldn’t dislodge it. The Blockhead started to turn around, finally recognizing her presence, but the axe handle caught the wall, pushed the axe head all the way through his torso, so his whole bottom half fell off. He seemed to look down though his lack of eyes and stupid block for a head made it hard to tell if he was looking anywhere.

She laughed. “You dumb ass.” Eve was easily able to duck him now. She grabbed the axe, lifted it with greater ease, and considered finishing him, splitting the remaining bits of his body to pieces. But he was floating to the ground, sinking like a wrecked ship. It was a very pathetic death. Very silent. Very slow. Eve felt sorry for him. Briefly. He was cute with his brown fuzzy face.

She used the axe to open a bottle of wine from somebody’s apartment and drank it as the Blockhead slowly died. She finished the bottle as first responders broke the wall with their own axes.

If they denied the existence of the Blockhead, what must they think of this skinny little ballet dancer holding an axe, surrounded by a dozen split-in-half corpses?

She had a good laugh, the best and biggest laugh of her life.

Summary of current #TwitterFiction, Pinterest, and Facebook stories (the Too Many Bodies edition)

Here is a brief summary of the stories I’m presently firstdrafting on Twitter, Facebook, & Pinterest. They are all great, & you should love them.


#ThisOneSummer (#TinyHotel): Angel Kamminer-Moorhead wakes up one morning to see the air is filled with thousands of tiny floating bodies seemingly frozen in time (it reminds Angel of the ecstatic moment in the middle of a bridge suicide when finality meets regret). She is staying with her family (her mother and two younger siblings) in the Glass Mountain Lodge over the summer along with the Tone family and her best friend Misery Tone. Misery only cares about expressing her disgust at everything and elevating the importance of her own secrets. Angel only wants to learn “Happiness is a Warm Gun” on her guitar alone. She secretly pretends to be a great rock star with the tiny floating bodies as her audience. She is fascinated by a wooden overlook that appears to be floating in the middle of the blue sky. She calls it The Heaven & assumes it must be very interesting & enlightening & a palliative for all that gutterally ails her.

#MolochtheLoveless (#MotLo): Moloch the Loveless believes he has a hate curse, meaning everyone must hate him to a murderous degree upon meeting him. Others claim it’s just because of his terrible personality. Moloch’s interlocutors often become so hatefilled they stab or beat Moloch to death, but the murder doesn’t stick. Moloch, who is nominally a scholar in Canaanite & Mesopotamian religion, is sponsored by a mysterious group called The Foundation who speak in multiple voices secret admonitions about the true mechanisms of the universe. They can also create chaos monsters.

#BodyanAcreBig (#BaAB)(#TinyHotel): Packer Seen & Eely Caballus are trying to dig up Eely’s father’s dead body which is surprisingly difficult considering the body is as big as an acre. Eely claims her father (Baab Caballus) was some sort of angelical creature called a Cathedral, but her mom (Pinkie Caballus) claims he was far from angelic. Packer is aiding Eely in this exhumation because he is in love with her, but Eely claims they are secretly half siblings–a perfect lie, Packer assumes, because this makes him functionally her labor slave in matters concerning their supposedly shared father. However, it turns out Eely (at least according to her selfperception) lacks the capacity to lie, a condition of her half angelical birth; her dedication to truth leads others to supplicate themselves in worship of her. But Eely wants to lie & have the complex variety of love that comes as a consequence. She finds the capacity to lie via dedication to theater. To now fill her days with the ecstasy of mendacity, she reshapes her whole world as a theater. She even builds a wooden replica high school next to her (relatively) real high school, & makes her supplicants lay in a grave that used to be the football field.

#Metacarpals (#BlueFingers) Asher Jacobson has worlds inside his ten fingers. He is the son of a scholar in Judaism who takes his family to the same river island every Summer. While graffitiing heroes & monsters (in a sanctioned manner–he’s a good kid mostly), he meets & instantly falls in love with a girl whose name might be Nelly (but is really Eely Caballus). She invites him to a theater across the river called the Crown. Asher can’t sneak out (the river island is accessible only by boats captained by snitchy fishermen), so he wishes for the river to freeze in the middle of Summer. When he gets his wished for miracle, he runs across the ice but falls in. In his near drowning/freezing, he develops swelling blue fingers. His whole firearm grows gigantic. He discovers his hand is made of opaque lapis lazuli & sees the civilizations inside each finger. As his cold & analytical father develops a containment unit for his continually swelling forearms, Asher realizes he can see the worlds inside his fingers if he keeps his eyes closed. Here are the ten worlds:

1)Left pinkie: a seemingly medieval world where the (truthfully kidnapped & plopped down) settlers wear white crusader cloth & live in stone hovels. Giant creatures called Cathedrals (because their upper halves are literal cathedrals) rise from the ground & gobble down settlers like nobody’s business. The settlers create a golem with a plaster & stone body covered in blue Hebrew flame letters. He also has a head made of a giant, head-sized pearl.

2)Left ring finger: a postapocalyptic world of obliterated cities where the Dreaming Ice on one end meets the Dreaming Sand on the other. In the middle is the Painted Nautilus, a giant shell as big as a museum with humanity’s artistic remnants stored on the inside. He has hundreds of tendrils like dangling seaweed, seven of which have special powers: 1)to impregnate; 2)to make plants grow; 3)to turanything it touches to water; 4)to meld; 5)to animate the inanimate; 6)to laserblast (because why not?); 7)to raise the dead.

3)Left middle finger: a suburban world full of angsty high school drama: Fader discovers his body descends into half shadow in a manner that mimics the moon’s phases. This makes Fader an outcast & a bigtime weirdo. When he prays for deliverance from his affliction, the literal moon (the size of a hot air balloon) craters down outside his bedroom window. It turns out that the literal moon is covered in giant mouths & travels around via prehensile tongues able extend several hundred feet. Whenever the literal moon snatches something up with his prehensile tongue & swallows it, Fader grows stronger.

4)Left pointer finger: a world of abandoned amusement parks where teens tackle ghosty mysteries with the aid of an entity called the Ball of Owls. He’s searching for a mysterious mirror entity called the Tail of Rings responsible for the pervasiveness of ghost activity in the abandoned amusement park world.

5)Left thumb: a clean & modern city porcupined by searchlights & patrolled by a superhero called the Messianical Chalicothere who is a literal chalicothere with the superheroical capacity to shoot blue lasers from his brain out of a sigil in his forehead (because why not?) & he’s able to enslave animals & infect them with his same superheroical laser blasting condition. Thus, an army of laser-cannon-enabled forest animals patrol the city enforcing, via merciless laser slicing, their own form of justice. The people are so terrified of this chalicotherean justice, no one dares commit a crime.

6)Right thumb: a world of moors & castles & lonely wandering maidens. These lonely wandering maidens were manufactured as living dolls by Peter Porpentine who has an addiction to refusal of affection. He’s from a species of porcupines who trained themselves to shapeshift, but physical aberrations are considered mental disorders. Peter Porpentine turned his porcupine spines into vampire teeth. But unlike the cool vampires, no one is interested in being bitten by him or scared enough to run away.

7)Right pointer finger: a westworld of ghost towns separated by endless stretches of unsettled frontier. Straight Razor George Pastor patrols the interstitial wastes as if born from the desert itself. He has a massive brown burlap head — or mask or whatever — proportional to his body like a balloon to a string, with stitched on eyes & nose & mouth. His left forearm is a giant straight razor & his right forearm is a giant gun that shoots exploding fish (because why not). He can’t hardly ride his horse like a proper cowboy because he can’t hold the reins, but he’s real good at blowing stuff up. He goes from town to town searching for & obliterating robots called the Circuit Riders.

8)Right middle finger: outerspace. Neptune is a dude. Future cities orbit Neptune who is a bit of a prick, but he is a planet & he’s nice enough to let future cities orbit him, so there’s that.

9)Right ring finger: a flying carpet world where everything must fly of necessity since the world is inside a column with no ground. Buildings have to be built on the world’s walls, & the primary commerce is in objects endowed magically with flight. Ali Sard is a market thief who carries with him a sentient bag of marbles named Bobble Marmalep who, when thrown, enacts a sort of Chaos Theory in Ali’s favor. Since Bobble Marmalep is silent & immobile (& hardly even qualifies as sentient), Ali has to gather him up again after every save.

10)Right pinkie: the river island where Asher met Nelly. He must witness the narrative leading up to the ice river crash over & over hoping at least once he’ll make it to the Crown & his destiny with Nelly.


#HangingViolet: the story of Evelyn Eeny, a reluctant & mostly crazy ghost hunter. In college, Evelyn & her friends Bird & Sara stay overnight in a haunted building on campus, a building where a piano teacher’s daughter (Violet) supposedly hanged herself & stuck around ghostishly to haunt folks. After having all fallen asleep, Evelyn & the others wake to find a body (a legit nonghost body) hanging in the stairwell, its lower half missing. Cut to postgraduate years & Evelyn is full on crazy. She chooses to be homeless to avoid hauntable spaces & only goes inside to do her job (she’s a ballerina & her ballerina bosses indulge this behavior because she is very, very good). While reading some newspapers from her homeless blanket, she realizes two recent news stories–a Limb Lopper on the loose & an outbreak of a new disease mimicking the symptoms of polio–might somehow be related. Since this is only a gut feeling, Evelyn goes to Bird who’s now a private detective (or just a crazy person who thinks he’s a private detective). Bird says he only takes on detective adventures in a team that must include a strongman. To find a strongman, Evelyn goes to a nunnery & meets Sister Mary Michael, a demonologist & jolly lady so jolly she decides to delight Evelyn, a Michael Jackson fan, by introducing herself as Sister Mary Michael Jackson. Sister Mary, who also happens to be brilliant, discovers one-armed copyright lawyer named Eugene Monsterpillar whose girlfriend was beheaded, just like her own piano playing father was beheaded years before. Eugene tries to distract the intrepid & mishmashed detective team by suggesting they investigate his prosthetics supplier Ken Champion. Meanwhile, Evelyn’s straight up crazy brain is spotting ghosts all over.


#CatchAlltheRadiantAnimalSouls (#CARAS)(#TinyHotel): Pinto Naroma discovers the existence of Radiant Animal Souls when his friend Buck tries to shoot him to death for no clear reason out alone in the woods but shoots a tiny tree frog named Pooja instead. Radiant Animal Souls are tiny invisible creatures, various types of real animals, trained by the angelical Salvation Wolves to take a bullet for their assigned protectees. After his little sister Phoebe kills herself, Pinto inherits her Radiant Animal Soul, an Eohippus named Sevastopol. Pinto is also in love with a girl named Melanie Gellar whose Radiant Animal Soul, a giant cave bear, bullies Sevastopol too much, so one day Sevastopol gets fed up, evolves into a Chalicothere, & kills the cave bear. So now that Pinto knows Radiant Animal Souls are transferable, he decides to steal a new one for Melanie. He & his dumb friends Gerald & Luke make a plan to rob Hyde Pastor who, according to rumor, has a whole collection of big cats.

#ColonyoftheHorizontalTree (#CoHT): Colony Colcolson in his younger days was in love with a girl named Melanie Gellar who supposedly died, but he knows she was actually kidnapped by the sky people. He goes on a quest to get her back & discovers a massive valley near the Kingdom of Jamal where Horizontal Trees can detach & become a flying mechanism by which a traveler can go anywhere. The traveler must collect the 13 Marmaleps, half squirrel/half rabbit creatures (who mostly look human) endowed with amazing powers & crippling psychological dysfunctions. Colony has gathered 8 of the 13 Marmaleps with the help of several friends (including Harlan Lime, an expert in tiny floating kingdoms). However, Unicorn God, the King of Jamal, has half the team in his dungeons. Now the Marmaleps & their golem army must plan a daring raid to free their friends (by poisoning the favorite food of the unicorn army: tiny floating kingdoms) & escape on the Horizontal Tree. Here are the 1st 8 Marmaleps:

*Apple Marmalep: A manic depressive record store clerk who causes others to grow or shrink depending on his mood.

*Bobble Marmalep: A megalomaniacal bag of marbles who manipulates chance & causes chaos.

*Cobblestone Marmalep: A socially anxious stormcloud (clearly in love with Colony).

*Dogpaddle Marmalep: A television-headed teleporter afflicted with randomness & poor communication skills.

*Epilepsy Marmalep: hummingbird who projects physicalized dream monsters.

*Far Marmalep: A clumsy matter manipulator who has the bad habit of blowing up planets (she claims she encountered Melanie Gellar in her travels & she’s presently being turned into a planet).

*Garfield Marmalep: A narcissistic disembodied lung with gravity manipulation powers (& he claims to be the leader of the Marmaleps).

*Harbinger: A future-predicting, cynical, & manipulative golem maker who is mostly kind & caring to her subordinates (& claims to be the leader of the Marmaleps).