The Only Architect

Dispatch
04-11-02024

We’ve entered the final 15 minutes of the continental breakfast over here at the Hebron, Kentucky 𝐂𝐨𝐦𝐟𝐨𝐫𝐭 𝐈𝐧𝐧 & 𝐒𝐮𝐢𝐭𝐞𝐬™ and it’s hard to find a table.

I’m hogging a 4 seater in the corner.

I’m projecting an dark aura that says 𝕯𝖔𝖓’𝖙-𝖆𝖘𝖐-𝖒𝖊-𝖙𝖔-𝖘𝖍𝖆𝖗𝖊.

I’m drinking coffee I brew myself with a Aero Press because I’m a snob.

I’m drinking the best coffee in the whole hotel.

I’m reading Nietzsche, but half-heartedly — learning that reading Nietzsche with anything shy of a whole heart is like gazing into word mist.

“𝙵𝚘𝚛 𝚝𝚑𝚒𝚜 𝚒𝚜 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚠𝚊𝚢 𝚛𝚎𝚕𝚒𝚐𝚒𝚘𝚗𝚜 𝚍𝚒𝚎 𝚘𝚞𝚝, 𝚗𝚊𝚖𝚎𝚕𝚢, 𝚠𝚑𝚎𝚗 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚖𝚢𝚝𝚑𝚒𝚌𝚊𝚕 𝚙𝚛𝚎-𝚌𝚘𝚗𝚍𝚒𝚝𝚒𝚘𝚗𝚜 𝚘𝚏 𝚊 𝚛𝚎𝚕𝚒𝚐𝚒𝚘𝚗, 𝚞𝚗𝚍𝚎𝚛 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚜𝚝𝚛𝚒𝚌𝚝, 𝚛𝚊𝚝𝚒𝚘𝚗𝚊𝚕 𝚎𝚢𝚎𝚜 𝚘𝚏 𝚊𝚗 𝚘𝚛𝚝𝚑𝚘𝚍𝚘𝚡 𝚍𝚘𝚐𝚖𝚊𝚝𝚒𝚜𝚖 𝚋𝚎𝚌𝚘𝚖𝚎 𝚜𝚢𝚜𝚝𝚎𝚖𝚊𝚝𝚒𝚣𝚎𝚍 𝚊𝚜 𝚊 𝚌𝚕𝚘𝚜𝚎𝚍 𝚝𝚘𝚝𝚊𝚕𝚒𝚝𝚢 𝚘𝚏 𝚑𝚒𝚜𝚝𝚘𝚛𝚒𝚌𝚊𝚕 𝚎𝚟𝚎𝚗𝚝𝚜 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚙𝚎𝚘𝚙𝚕𝚎 𝚋𝚎𝚐𝚒𝚗 𝚊𝚗𝚡𝚒𝚘𝚞𝚜𝚕𝚢 𝚍𝚎𝚏𝚎𝚗𝚍𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚌𝚛𝚎𝚍𝚒𝚋𝚒𝚕𝚒𝚝𝚢 𝚘𝚏 𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚒𝚛 𝚖𝚢𝚝𝚑𝚜 𝚋𝚞𝚝 𝚛𝚎𝚜𝚒𝚜𝚝𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚎𝚟𝚎𝚛𝚢 𝚗𝚊𝚝𝚞𝚛𝚊𝚕𝚕𝚢 𝚌𝚘𝚗𝚝𝚒𝚗𝚞𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚕𝚒𝚏𝚎 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚏𝚞𝚛𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚛 𝚐𝚛𝚘𝚠𝚝𝚑 𝚘𝚏 𝚝𝚑𝚘𝚜𝚎 𝚜𝚊𝚖𝚎 𝚖𝚢𝚝𝚑𝚜 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚠𝚑𝚎𝚗 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚏𝚎𝚎𝚕𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚏𝚘𝚛 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚖𝚢𝚝𝚑 𝚍𝚒𝚎𝚜 𝚘𝚞𝚝 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚒𝚗 𝚒𝚝𝚜 𝚙𝚕𝚊𝚌𝚎 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚌𝚕𝚊𝚒𝚖 𝚝𝚘 𝚙𝚞𝚝 𝚛𝚎𝚕𝚒𝚐𝚒𝚘𝚗 𝚘𝚗 𝚊 𝚑𝚒𝚜𝚝𝚘𝚛𝚒𝚌𝚊𝚕 𝚏𝚘𝚘𝚝𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚜𝚝𝚎𝚙𝚜 𝚏𝚘𝚛𝚠𝚊𝚛𝚍.”

I was despondent most of yesterday, and expect to be despondent most of today, but for the moment I’m content.

I’m content in the spectacle of Americans fueling up on 50+ refined carb options. This room is bedlam. The waffle maker has five-person que. The 𝘽𝙚𝙩𝙩𝙚𝙧-𝘽𝙖𝙩𝙩𝙚𝙧™ dispenser is in desperate need of a top off. Its spout is splatter painting the floor with IBS abandon. An employee peeks their head out of the kitchen for a wide-eyed second, then retracts it with the panicked urgency of a spooked turtle.

Spirits seem high, though. This 𝐂𝐨𝐦𝐟𝐨𝐫𝐭 𝐈𝐧𝐧 & 𝐒𝐮𝐢𝐭𝐞𝐬™ is among the more economic options located in the center of a holy trinity of American Christian tourism, the 𝔸𝕣𝕜 𝔼𝕟𝕔𝕠𝕦𝕟𝕥𝕖𝕣 (a 120 million dollar replica of Noah’s Ark), the 𝕮𝖗𝖊𝖆𝖙𝖎𝖔𝖓 𝕸𝖚𝖘𝖊𝖚𝖒 (a creation museum), and the Cincinnati/Northern Kentucky International Airport. It’s clear that everyone here but me has the park-hopper pass.

So I’m schadenfreuding like a glutton, watching the white kids of white parents running on the dirty-burn energy of a white sugar. Everyone is embryonically white, I can almost see skulls glow as they eclipse the brilliant light of fluorescent bulbs, like a palm laid over the head of a flashlight.

Their shirts all bare Christian slogans. Not the hip subtle virtue flexes seen at third-wave coffee spots — those thick beige 100% cotton duds that say things like . . .

‘𝐻𝒾𝓈 𝒮𝑒𝓋𝑒𝓃𝓉𝒽 𝒟𝒶𝓎’ or ‘𝒩𝑜𝓉 𝓁𝓊𝒸𝓀𝓎, 𝐵𝓁𝑒𝓈𝓈𝑒𝒹’

. . . in loopy, sophisticated fonts, but the very unsubtle polyester ones that say . . .

‘𝗡𝗼𝗿𝗺𝗮𝗹 𝗶𝘀𝗻’𝘁 𝗰𝗼𝗺𝗶𝗻𝗴 𝗯𝗮𝗰𝗸 𝗝𝗘𝗦𝗨𝗦 𝗶𝘀’ or ‘𝗜𝗳 𝘆𝗼𝘂 𝗯𝗿𝗶𝗻𝗴 𝘂𝗽 𝗺𝘆 𝗽𝗮𝘀𝘁, 𝘆𝗼𝘂 𝘀𝗵𝗼𝘂𝗹𝗱 𝗸𝗻𝗼𝘄 𝗝𝗘𝗦𝗨𝗦 𝗱𝗿𝗼𝗽𝗽𝗲𝗱 𝘁𝗵𝗲 𝗰𝗵𝗮𝗿𝗴𝗲𝘀’

Shirts that make it seem like Jesus gets in a lot of bar fights.

Their kid’s tees just say ‘𝙅𝙀𝙎𝙐𝙎’, but in the brand fonts of Coca Cola, Reese’s, Mountain Dew.

What would happen if just judged these people? I mean, I’m already doing that already, but sandbagging it with a feigned sense of compassion. What if I just hate these idiots? Hate what they believe, hate their happy saved faces, hate their terrible aesthetics, and hate how fucking boring their lives seem.

𝕵𝖚𝖉𝖌𝖊 𝖓𝖔𝖙, 𝖑𝖊𝖘𝖙 𝖞𝖊 𝖇𝖊 𝖏𝖚𝖉𝖌𝖊𝖉?

What a piss poor warning. What do I care about being judged by people who are off to eat soft pretzels and learn the science behind how Noah scooped all that shit while the whole world drowned.

Fuck them. God, it feels so good to say that. Fuck them.

And how could I even write without judgment? Should I force myself to just notice and experience our collective lot from the ｓａｔｏｒｉ bliss of non-attachment — to go all ᗷE ᕼEᖇE ᑎOᗯ / TᗩT TᗩT TᗩT /ᔕᕼᗩᑎTI ᔕᕼᗩᑎTI / Yᗩᗪᗩ Yᗩᗪᗩ — but what would be left to write other than . . .

Oᗰ

To write is to take the infinite world and organize it into finite shapes — hierarchical lattices designed to make some point or create some emotion that has been made or felt 100 million times before. Because of that, writing is always a lie. I try so hard to make my lies engaging, because I don’t want to come off as a hack.

Like pointing out that — if the 𝕮𝖗𝖊𝖆𝖙𝖎𝖔𝖓 𝕸𝖚𝖘𝖊𝖚𝖒’s goal is to assert biblical truth — the whole world is a creation-sized 𝕮𝖗𝖊𝖆𝖙𝖎𝖔𝖓 𝕸𝖚𝖘𝖊𝖚𝖒. The cost of admission is one death.

A hack hacks the world into its crudest hunks and their writing is a landfill of cliches.

And all writers should fear being exposed as a hack, because we’re all hacks already. It’s just a matter of how elegant and surgical we are about the hacking. Can I slice the world apart without leaving a scar? Can I pulverize it to micros and spray it back into my eyes without noticing that everything it made me feel was already mine?

How many of these 𝐂𝐨𝐦𝐟𝐨𝐫𝐭 𝐈𝐧𝐧 kids clutching plastic flow-wrapped danishes will deconstruct this death cult in their mid-twenties, turning the process into trauma content for whatever social feeds the future holds? Supplanting Christianity with kinder cults like Buddhism, Wicca, and Human Design? Coming up short again and again until the middlemen towers implode and God finally falls back into God?

Words are atoms — writing binds them into elements — those elements combine into stories — stories that can’t be solid or they won’t pass through us.

And I want to write a story more beautiful than the world, but fall short every time because the world is already there. I console myself with a hope that Xerox errors add some charm.

These people are idiots, and I’m a tired cynic. I’ve spent my whole life writing my own creation myths because white people don’t have any fun ones and science is fucking boring.

I often write like a schmuck in line outside some Berlin Techno Club. I hear the bass thud-thud-thudding through the wall and see happy beautiful people laughing out the doors and into waiting 𝗨𝗯𝗲𝗿 𝗕𝗹𝗮𝗰𝗸𝘀™. I put my ear to the brick and imagine the party one word at a time until I’ve spun a self-serving story that assures I’m better off out in the street.

One day I’ll get in, and the writing will stop because no one writes in the present.

Back in Phoenix, I’m at a cafe Nietzsche’ing again . . .

— 𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚢 𝚑𝚊𝚟𝚎 𝚙𝚎𝚛𝚌𝚎𝚒𝚟𝚎𝚍, 𝚋𝚞𝚝 𝚒𝚝 𝚒𝚜 𝚒𝚛𝚔𝚜𝚘𝚖𝚎 𝚏𝚘𝚛 𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚖 𝚝𝚘 𝚊𝚌𝚝; 𝚏𝚘𝚛 𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚒𝚛 𝚊𝚌𝚝𝚒𝚘𝚗𝚜 𝚌𝚊𝚗 𝚗𝚘𝚝 𝚌𝚑𝚊𝚗𝚐𝚎 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚎𝚝𝚎𝚛𝚗𝚊𝚕 𝚗𝚊𝚝𝚞𝚛𝚎 𝚘𝚏 𝚝𝚑𝚒𝚗𝚐𝚜; 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚝𝚒𝚖𝚎 𝚒𝚜 𝚘𝚞𝚝 𝚘𝚏 𝚓𝚘𝚒𝚗𝚝 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚢 𝚛𝚎𝚐𝚊𝚛𝚍 𝚒𝚝 𝚊𝚜 𝚜𝚑𝚊𝚖𝚎𝚏𝚞𝚕 𝚘𝚛 𝚛𝚒𝚍𝚒𝚌𝚞𝚕𝚘𝚞𝚜 𝚝𝚑𝚊𝚝 𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚢 𝚜𝚑𝚘𝚞𝚕𝚍 𝚋𝚎 𝚛𝚎𝚚𝚞𝚒𝚛𝚎𝚍 𝚝𝚘 𝚜𝚎𝚝 𝚒𝚝 𝚛𝚒𝚐𝚑𝚝. 𝙺𝚗𝚘𝚠𝚕𝚎𝚍𝚐𝚎 𝚔𝚒𝚕𝚕𝚜 𝚊𝚌𝚝𝚒𝚘𝚗, 𝚊𝚌𝚝𝚒𝚘𝚗 𝚛𝚎𝚚𝚞𝚒𝚛𝚎𝚜 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚟𝚎𝚒𝚕 𝚘𝚏 𝚒𝚕𝚕𝚞𝚜𝚒𝚘𝚗.

. . . the couple at the next table talk of fellowship and the importance of asking not what you want from God, but what God has already saved you from. I roll my eyes and they lay land on a man walking by in an ocean blue shirt that says, 𝔸𝕣𝕜 𝔼𝕟𝕔𝕠𝕦𝕟𝕥𝕖𝕣: 𝔾𝕠𝕕 𝕚𝕤 𝕥𝕙𝕖 𝕠𝕟𝕝𝕪 𝔸𝕣𝕔𝕙𝕚𝕥𝕖𝕔𝕥. I would take it as a sign, but I’ve had enough signs for a lifetime. It’s time I did something with all these signs.