House of Leaves (51 page)

You see emptiness here is the purported familiar and your house is endlessly familiar, endlessly repetitive. Hallways, corridors, rooms, over and over again. A bit like Dante’s house after a good spring cleaning. It’s a lifeless objectless place. Cicero said “A room without books is like a body without a soul.” So add souls to the list. A lifeless, objectless, soulless place. Godless too. Milton’s abyss pre-god or in a Nietzschean universe post-god.

It is so pointedly against symbol, the house requires a symbol destroyer. But that lightless fire leaving the walls permanently ashen and, to my eye, obsidian smooth is still nothing more than the artist’s Procrustean way of combating influence: to create a featureless golem, a universal eclipse, Jacob’s angel, Maiy’s Frankenstein, the great eradicator of all that is and ever was and thus through this trope succeed in securing poetic independence no matter how lonely, empty, and agonizing the final result may be.

My dear girl, is it that you are so lonely that you had to create this?

A Poe t. 21 years old. No tattoos. No piercings.

Setting: In front of a giant transformer.

Poe t: No capitals. [She takes out a paper napkin and reads from it] i was on line. i had no recollection of how i got there. of how I got sucked in there. it was pitch black. i suspected the power had failed. i started moving. I had no idea which direction i was headed. i kept moving. i had the feeling i was being watched. i asked “who’s there?” the echoes created a passage and disappeared. i followed them

Douglas R. Hofstadter.

Hofstadter: Similar to Zeno’s arrow, consider the following equation: 1/a =0 EMBED “Equation” \* mergeformat 000 where 1/co = 0.

If we apply this to your friend Bloom’s poetics we get an interesting perspective on the monster.

Let 1 mean the artist, then let “a” equal 1 which stands for one influence and we get 1 for an answer, =1, or a level of one influence which I take to mean 11 influence.

If however we divide by 2 then the influence level drops to 1/2 and so on. Take the number of influences to infinity, where a = 00, and voilà you have an influence level of zero, A=O.

Now let’s take this formula into account as we consider your monster. It has cleared the walls and corridors of everything. In other words, it has been influenced by infinity and therefore not influenced at all. But then look at the result: it’s lightless, featureless, and empty.

I don’t know maybe a little influence is a good thing.

Byron Baleworth.

Baleworth: You need to refine how the house itself serves as a symbol
—

Stephen King. Novelist.

Setting: P.S. 6 playground.

King: Symbols shmimbols. Sure they’re important but… Well look at Ahab’s whale. Now there’s a great symbol. Some say it stands for god, meaning, and purpose. Others say it stands for purposelessness and the void. But what we sometimes forget is that Ahab’s whale was also just a whale.

Steve Wozniak. Inventor & Philanthropist.

Setting: The Golden Gate Bridge.

Woz: Sure I agree with King. An icon for a bridge game, it’s a symbol for the program, the data, and more. But in some respects, it can also be looked at as that bridge game. The same is true with this house you created. It could represent plenty of things but ft also is nothing more than itself, a house—albeit a pretty weird house.

Jennifer
Antipala
.

Antipala: I look at Hadrian’s Pantheon, Justinian’s Hagia Sophia, Suger’s St. Denis, the roof of Westminster Hall, thanks to Herland, or Wren’s dome for St. Paul’s, and anything else that is seemingly above and beyond this world, and by the way, in my mind, those places I just mentioned really are above and beyond this world, and first it sparks awe, maybe disbelief, and then, after doing the math, tracing the lines, studying the construction, though it’s still awesome, it also makes sense. Consequently it’s unforgettable. Weil that house of yours in your movie definitely sparks awe and all the disbelief, but in my mind it never makes sense. I trace the lines, do the math, study the construction, and all I come up with is well the whole thing’s just a hopeless, structural impossibility. And therefore substanceless and forgettable. Despite its weight, its magnitude, its mass. . in the end it adds up to nothing.

[Moving away]

Jacques Derrida. French philosopher.

Setting: Artaud exhibit.

Derrida: Well that which is inside, which is to say, if I may say, that which infinitely patterns itself without the outside, without the other, though where then is the other?

Finished? Good.

[Pause]

Hold my hand. We stroll.

Andrew Ross.

Karen: Anything else?

Ross: The house was windowless. I loved that.

Byron Baleworth.

Baleworth: [Defensive] It’s very sloppy. Why that type of house? Why in Virginia? These questions should have answers. There would be more cohesion. Mind you there is promise. [Pause] I hope you don’t think I just made a pass at you.

Camille Paglia.

Paglia: [Laughing] Baleworth said that? You should have asked him why Dante’s entrance to hell was in Tuscany? Why Young Goodman Brown’s path was in New England? Baleworth’s just jealous and besides he can’t write a screenplay to save his pecker. [Pause] And incidentally I’m not afraid to tell you that I did make a pass at you.

So are you free this afternoon?

Walter Mosley. Novelist.

Setting: Fresh Kills Park

Mosley: Strange place. The wails changing all the time. Everything’s similar, familiar, and yet without signposts or friends. Plenty of clues but no solutions. Just mystery. Strange, very strange. [He looks up, genuinely baffled] I don’t know. I sure would hate to be stuck there.

Leslie Stern, M.D.

Karen: What else do you think about the film?

Stern: I’m no Siskel and Ebert—though I’ve been called Ebert before. There’s a lot about emptiness, darkness, and distance. But since you created that world I don’t think it’s unfair to ask why you were so drawn to those themes?

Stephen King.

King: You didn’t make this up, did you? [Studying Karen] I’d like to see this house.

Kiki Smith. Figurative Artist.

Setting: The New York Hospital - Cornell Medical Center E.R.

Kiki: Well gosh, without color and hardly even any grey, the focus moves to the other stuff—the surfaces, the shapes, dimensions, even all that movement. I’d have to say it comes down to that. Down to the construction, the interior experience, the body-sense there, which—well gosh—what makes the whole thing so visceral, so authentic.

Hunter S. Thompson Journalist.

Setting: Giants Stadium.

Thompson: It’s been a bad morning.

Karen: What did you think of the footage?

Thompson: I’ve been staying with friends, but they kicked me out this morning.

Karen: I’m sorry.

Thompson: Your film didn’t help. It’s, well… one thing in two words: fucked up…very fucked up. Okay three words, four words, who the hell cares… very very fucked up. What I’d call a bad trip. I never thought I’d hear myself say this but lady you need to lay off the acid, the mescaline, or whatever else you’re snorting, inhaling, ingesting check yourself into rehab, something, anything because you’re gonna be in a bad way if you don’t do something fast. I’ve never seen anything so goddamn tucked up, so tucking tucked up. I broke things because of it, plates, a small jade figurine of a penguin. A glass bullfrog. I was so upset I even threw my friend’s fishtank at their china cabinet. Ugly, very ugly. Salt water, dead fish everywhere, me screaming “so very very fucked up.” Five words. They threw me out. Do you think I could spend the night at your place?

Stanley Kubrick. Filmmaker.

Setting: (on-line)

Kubrick: “What is it?” you ask. And I answer, “It’s a film. And it’s a film because it uses film (and videotape).” What matters is how that film affects us or in this case how it affects me. The quality of image is often terrible except when Will Navidson handles the camera which does not happen often enough. The sound is poor. The elision of many details contributes to insufficiently developed characters. And finally the overall structure creaks and teeters, threatening at any minute to collapse. That said (or in this case typed) I remain soberly impressed and disturbed. I even had a dream about your house. If I didn’t know better I’d say you weren’t a filmmaker at
all. I’d s
ay the whole thing really happened.

David Copperfield. Magician.

Setting: The Statue of Liberty

Copperfield: It looks like a trick but it’s a trick that constantly convinces you it’s not a trick. A levitation without wires. A hail of mirrors without mirrors. Dazzling really.

Karen: So how would you describe the house?

Copperfield: A riddle.

[Behind him the Statue of Liberty disappears.]

Camille Paglia.

Paglia: How would I describe it? The feminine void.

Douglas R. Hofstadter.

Hofstadter: A horizontal eight.

Stephen King.

King: Pretty darn scary.

Kiki Smith.

Kiki: Texture,

Harold Bloom.

Bloom: Unheimlich—of course.

Byron Baleworth.

Baleworth: Don’t care to.

Andrew Ross.

Ross: A great circuit in which individuals play the part of electrons, creating with their paths bits of information we are ultimately unable to read. Just a guess.

Anne Rice.

Rice: Dark.

Jacques Derrida.

Derrida: The other. [Pause] Or what other, which is to say then, the same thing. The other, no other. You see?

Steve Wozniak.

Woz: I like Ross’ idea. A giant chip. Or a series of them even. All interconnected. If only I could see the floor plan then I could tell you if it’s for something sexy or just a piece of hardware— like a cosmic toaster or blender.

Stanley Kubrick.

Kubrick: I’m sorry. I’ve said enough.

Leslie Stern,
M.D.

Stern: More importantly Karen, what does it mean to you?

[End Of Transcript]

[
331—So many voices. Not that I’m unfamiliar with voices. A rattle of opinion, need and compulsion but masking what? //

Thumper just called (hence the interruption; the
“//”).

A welcome voice.

Strange how that works. I’m no longer around and suddenly out of the blue she calls, for the very first time too, returning my old pages I guess, wanting to know where I’ve been, why I haven’t stopped by the Shop at all, filling my ear with all kinds of stuff. Apparently even my boss has been asking about me, acting all hurt that I haven’t dropped by to hang out or at least say hello.

“Hey Johnny,” Thumper finally purred over the phone. “Why don’t you come over to my place. I’ll even cook you dinner. I’ve got some great pumpkin pie left over from Thanksgiving.”

But I heard myself say “No, uh that’s okay. No thanks but thank you anyway,” thinking at the same time that this might very well be the closest I’ll ever come to an E ticket invite to The Happiest Place On Earth.

It’s too late. Or maybe that’s wrong. Maybe not too late, maybe it’s just not right. Beautiful as her voice is, it’s just not strong enough to draw me from this course. Where eight months ago I’d have already been out the door. Today, for whatever sad reason, Thumper no longer has any influence over me.

For a moment, I flashed on her body, imagining those beautiful round breasts with creamy brown aureolas, making saints out of nipples, her soft, full lips barely hiding her teeth, while in the deep of her eyes her Irish and Spanish heritage keep closing like oxygen and hydrogen, and will probably keep on closing until the very day she dies. And yet in spite of her shocking appeal, any longing I should have felt vanished when I saw, and accepted, how little I knew about her. The picture in my head, no matter how erotic, hardly sufficing. An unfinished portrait. A portrait never really begun. Even taking into account her daisy sunglasses, her tattoos, the dollars and fives she culls while draped around some silver pole hidden in some dark room in the shadow of the airport. A place I had still not dared to visit. had never even asked her the name of her three year old. I had never even asked her for her real name—not Thumper, not Thumper at all, but something entirely else—which I suddenly resolved to find out, to ask both questions right then and there, to start finding out who she really was, see if it was possible to mean something to her, see if it was possible she could mean something to me, a whole slew of question marks I was prepared to follow through on, which was exactly when the phone went dead.

She hadn’t hung up nor had I. The phone company had just caught up with their oversight and finally disconnected my line.

No more Thumper. No more dial tone. Not even a domed ceiling to carry a word.

Just silence and all its consequences.]