Sludge Utopia Read online

  first edition

  Copyright © 2018 Catherine Fatima

  Cover image: The Tower of Babel by Pieter Bruegel the Elder. Public domain.

  Inner cover photo by Amelia Ehrhardt and Alexandra Napier. Used with permission.

  The production of this book was made possible through the generous assistance of the Canada Council for the Arts and the Ontario Arts Council. BookThug also acknowledges the support of the Government of Canada through the Canada Book Fund and the Government of Ontario through the Ontario Book Publishing Tax Credit and the Ontario Book Fund.

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  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or any information storage or retrieval system, without permission in writing from the publisher.

  library and archives canada cataloguing in publication

  Fatima, Catherine, 1990-, author

  Sludge utopia / Catherine Fatima.

  Issued in print and electronic formats.

  ISBN 978-1-77166-374-8 (softcover)

  ISBN 978-1-77166-375-5 (HTML)

  ISBN 978-1-77166-376-2 (PDF)

  ISBN 978-1-77166-377-9 (Kindle)

  I. Title.

  PS8611.A81S58 2018 C813'.6 C2018-900810-5 C2018-900811-3

  Contents

  Copyright

  Stimulation

  Depression

  Utopia

  Family

  Love

  Sludge

  Sources

  Acknowledgements

  Colophon

  Stimulation

  My desires form a system of ethics, right? If I desire something, it is because I conceive of it as just—I desire what I think should be. When I demand what I desire, I put what I believe is right into action. Sometimes it does not go so well.

  * * *

  This has been a long, cold, sustained, slutty, and surprisingly even-keeled winter for me. I’ve been writing, keeping up with school. Things on paper are not difficult to formulate responses to; life is difficult to assess. I don’t know—I feel good! I feel powerful lately, but not so much that it threatens to overwhelm me. Squash, still, each day. I often stay at home in the evenings, but sometimes I am tired from school, or I have work to do, or I cannot afford more. I haven’t been falling behind on anything or feeling as though I’m on the precipice of doing so. Weight stable, skin fine, no illness. Annual review at work: positive. No drama. Few challenges, but each day I work hard.

  This week, I presented a paper in Helena’s class on Nancy’s L’Intrus that was a joy to write. It was about health (avoidance of contamination), illness (the contaminated subject working in collusion with the harmful intruding substance), and fitness, the ability, necessary for life, to seamlessly incorporate foreign objects while identifying what within the self must be extruded to make its place. Writing is revealing, and I am in a place to reveal coherent things.

  * * *

  Helena invited me, with no provocation, to be her paid research assistant through the summer. Confusing. Nothing I’ve written to her formally is of particular quality. She likes the emails, the office visits, the missives. Until now, I’d only ever wished I could capitalize on them. It’s a perfect opportunity to have fallen into.

  Trying to think of some email to write her to ensure that I still energize her. Our focus in writing is writing itself: writing as a predictive act; different forms of it: “impressionistic” vs. “structural”; trust and seduction; the point of capture; how confusion or dislocation can be used to a writer’s advantage; writing in silences, and how a reader can be provoked to complement a piece, fill in empty spaces.

  For my own benefit, I want to figure out writing. I want to master the craft of language, play it like an instrument, deploy it to get what I want from a reader.

  What brings me to a piece? What keeps me? Does theory excite me because it feels a bit incomplete, begging for my own supplement? I know I like to feel confused. I like it when the writer obscures something: I respond to this. I like when I feel the author has access to something that will be hidden from me until I’ve worked. Like Helena’s. Someone, something, I just want to get to the bottom of.

  This is difficult to achieve for oneself in undergrad. No one assumes you have access to anything.

  * * *

  Feeling odd in the world. Had a bit of a nightmare recently that I’d stopped being able to process progressive time, and every once in a while I have felt this way: out of place in time, like I can’t quite remember what I did only yesterday. I suppose it’s a feature of my lost/changing schedule. I’ve been feeling sleepy, a bit groundless, but fine.

  On Friday, I went to a translation reading programmed by Blaise and Marianne. It was wonderful. Marianne was the clear star of the night, translated two psalms from, I think, three languages at once. When she spoke of her process, she was glowing. Detailed, witty, focused. I had never seen her present work before, but she was exceptional. It’s so clear she’ll have exactly the future she desires in academia. She was a force! And I was captured. I didn’t feel I should try to compete with her, I was just excited to watch this woman present what she’d trained herself to be expert in.

  She sat back down next to Julian. Memories of him: his theoretical boundness to an uncreative sort of piety. He was too committed to ideals—external, elusive—to construct proper, present narratives. The world wasn’t enough: this was a limit. Me too. I went out in search of philosophy in distrust of myself, but also in distrust of others present to me, to have some sort of total truth revealed to me. Of course, I sought truths that I already recognized as true. This truth was still elsewhere, apart from me. Julian loved the Lord, and he loved the German Idealists. He loved the truth that would come if he only believed.

  I need to consult others regarding matters to which I am too fearful to attest. I read to think: thank goodness someone else feels this way! Thank goodness someone recognizes this. Thank goodness someone else sees value in what I see value in. I seek authority to evade authority. I need explanations for the world because I think my own do not suffice.

  * * *

  What are some simple material things I would have in my ideal life?

  A nice apartment—not too big, but with a sunroom—shared with Ideal Boyfriend, yet unmet;

  in the light of the window of said sunroom, a medium-sized citrus tree that blossoms in the spring;

  a tabby cat, friendly but contained;

  this is it, I think.

  * * *

  I love this summer because I am always working and always moving and never have time to feel bad. Now working another day at the café, so I have five regular workdays per week between there and the library, plus off-shifts, plus the work for Helena. Depending on where I am, I may think: loneliness would be possible here, but I happen not to feel it. Seen some people around. Feel kindly toward everyone. I have had trouble sleeping. Despite how much I have been working, I have seen very little money.

  The professional feels more important than the personal. No more taking relief shifts from work. None while I’m there. None until I catch up with hours for Helena. It could mean very, very exciting things for me if I give her something she considers valuable! Time with family. My grandparen
ts left for Portugal for the summer this evening. I’ll miss them, I think. Not much feels narrative. Maybe because I’m not falling in love with anyone right now. Suits me better. I feel exhausted and good. Not stable. Not devoted to stability. Vulnerable and eager. Vulnerable and eager to fail. Or have a changed life. I’m really proud of all capacities in which I work for the university. And some friends I value more than it seems possible to. New ones each year. I guess it is compelling to be living.

  * * *

  I’ve had two seriously drunk nights over the past two weeks, but nothing feels shameful or burdening or lasting. On one, I slept with a stranger! A real, did-not-know-his-name stranger found at an after-party on the island offering free booze all afternoon and night, at which I also did a small amount of acid, invited to said after-party by one of the DJs, who had noticed my dancing. Regardless, slept with someone else—interrupted it, said, what am I doing! I have to leave and party with my friends! I remember his sense of duty in walking me to my bike. That was good. The other drunk night less notable. Julian was baptized yesterday. Not a joke. He invited his brother and parents to have them be witness to his baptism, which he orchestrated. He didn’t tell me this; Blaise did. It upset me. Julian’s burgeoning Christian faith, together with all these aspects of him, yearnings of his that I don’t understand, are things I strictly do not want to know about. Slept with Paul a few evenings ago. This was nice. He said over email that he was daydreaming he’d have fewer bad Tinder dates if we just fucked again as easily as before. I agreed, but for a few days I felt no desire at all, then we had an afternoon pastry and an afternoon beer and fucked quickly, easily, hastily. It’s always so fast with Paul. I enjoyed myself better than my qualitative assessment would suggest. I was seriously cheered up (for a half-hour). It was that his climax was so pronounced, so exaggerated, so spasmodic, so loud. I love a good, pronounced climax. Also recently had a long, long coffee with Helena. Talked about everything, family and men. She wants to publish our correspondence. I’m happy lately, I guess. Summer’s good. As long as nausea’s just a feeling and I don’t set myself up to feel it again, summer’s good.

  * * *

  Even when I try as stubbornly as possible to avoid a lovely life, it imposes itself upon me. Had sex with Paul again, and you know what? So nice. Seems like a stupid thing not to do. He is just absolutely not an insecure, shitty man. He doesn’t come with all these complications. He looks great, touches well, and we speak evenly, honestly, in laughter. I don’t want to kill him, but I like that during orgasm he behaves as though he is dying. Friendly. I told him Freida called me “the most transparent person” she knows (or one of), and he was like, really? One of the more opaque. Perhaps the most opaque. I tried to convince him otherwise. Wrote Helena a long email about ethics, vulnerability, and the self, and she loves it. Of course. Good finds me.

  * * *

  Trip away to NYC with Caroline; no personal writing; little alone time; no screens after certain hours. It was a lovely trip. We did lots. All introspection was shared outward. We: took bus; arrived to Penn Station; quick subway ride to accommodations at Bedford and Metropolitan; got coffee; walked around Brooklyn; took nap; ate Thai food; met a friend for a drink; spent some time at a midway, then by the water; good sleep in shared bed; to Manhattan for brunch at Shopsin’s; walked around Little Italy, Chinatown, SoHo, in fancy shops; went to the New Museum; finally I suggested we part for a few hours; I bought books; read them; met her and another friend for a drink back in Brooklyn; we slept again, well (ate tacos from a truck on the sidewalk at some point); got coffee; long, long subway ride out to the Cloisters; the Cloisters is the most beautiful museum imaginable; the Unicorn Room; ate Venezuelan sandwiches at restaurant in far-far-north Harlem called Cachapas y Mas (I had a yoyo—mas); subway to PS1 for exhibition and party; big line for party and we excused ourselves, unimpressed; young women gave us wristbands; we get into everything for free; we didn’t like the party but the Maria Lassnig exhibition feels to Caroline like the grace of God; crossed bridge on foot back to Brooklyn; browsed the Thing—I found an old Met postcard featuring one of the unicorn tapestries; we ate fresh foods from Polish grocer on steps of church; continued walking south until we found a bar uncool enough not to be crowded; Caroline and I read to each other, talked more, almost arguing for a moment (re: Ivan, Julian); slept well (actually, Caroline says she woke up this night—not me). Next morning, coffee on Havemeyer; subway down to Clinton Hill; Unnameable Books, more of it; walked down Vanderbilt to the Brooklyn Botanic Gardens; enrapturing; back up; tacos and fresh juice from trucks shared on front stoop; packed up; back to Manhattan; back home. Fin.

  Caroline was never not speaking, and this at times alienated me. At other times, it soothed me. But so often I yearned for the quiet in my head. Until realizing, no, it’s never quiet for long—by myself, it’s always a-chatter with something, generally, that grieves me far more than whatever memory Caroline might be sharing. She seemed distractable. I learned she is more distractable in general than I had thought—it was always up to me to look to signs and guide us. Well, I always did it. Had I not, she would have, more slowly. I don’t really feel the need to talk much at all past a certain threshold of speech. I sooner hum. She is a generous friend. It matters to her to be. I am much more parsimonious.

  * * *

  Love the limited time for thought this summer. Impoverished mind allows slightly less ailing soul, I think. I think! Went to a party of Ruby’s after getting back into the city, and Helena was there. I was much too drunk. Long conversation about: being young, being quiet, being an ingenue, aging, choosing something else to be, being a mute, voicing oneself, living. Helena’s a very sweet woman and I get along smoothly with her. Then I went to a second party and, with people from my teen years and some heavily sweetened punch there, I got so wasted. Fell asleep on the couch. Threw up, first time in a while. Arrived to this second party cogent but all at once forgot everything. I felt so wound up from the earlier portion of my night—I could have said anything. Quite a lot of binge-drinking this summer. Paul and I have both had to cancel on each other for sex dates, and no upsets at all? I struggle somewhat to understand the ease of this. Reading so little. Taking an intellectual dive. Not fascinated; unfettered.

  Entirely happy with Paul’s No-Cal Intimacy Substitute. I have no reason to flirt or date or seek anything elsewhere. It’s so easy! It’s really very nice! I like sex more all the time, and with strangers always less.

  * * *

  Another nice few hours with Helena. We’ve been exchanging lots of confessional juice about desire under power differentials. I haven’t felt at all anxious about doing so. I’m so proud to be writing with Helena: I’m so proud to feel like I have something to offer the world besides myself in flesh. Personal writing is useful: we’re not talking around anything. Fewer thoughts than ever reserved for journal recently as so many of them have been shared. Little feels private to me. Little even feels like it’s better expressed in a private forum: things are best discussed. No new romantic feelings. No new feelings that I may be compromised. Perhaps the next person I fall in love with won’t make me feel compromised at all. Imagine the kind of relationships I’d be able to form without looking to verify my intelligence and power through others, because I know I have them. Imagine not needing to be told I’m irresistible, that someone is doing anything wrong by being with me.

  * * *

  Always intend for painted nails to convey glamour, but they undermine me, each time, to indicate impatience.

  Too much of a workhorse this summer. I’m losing much feeling. No leisure, no passion. Only work and rest. I feel incredibly anxious to leave the city again. Professionally, academically, yes, much is going on, but my personal life has staled. Intellectually, I feel stale, too, despite all the possible cues and calls. Need a reset button. Wish I had gotten closer to more strangers this summer: it’s already chilling, winding down. Never stopping ha
s its advantages in feeling less; it has its disadvantages, too. I haven’t felt a hint of attraction to anyone new in months. More than a week without sleeping with Paul and I forget about it, too. I value my ability, better than ever, to have strong friendships with women, but I could use a bit of an influx of men, if only for the energy boost. I am getting old. Climbing rents in Toronto are a major psychic stress. Recurring dreams in the last couple of years: planes; islands; bodies of water; crashing planes; interiors of new buildings; inability to drive motor vehicles (paired with necessity of driving motor vehicles); women (more than men): last night (dreamt) fight with Caroline. I said something like, “Actually, I don’t find the faith of others in any way fascinating,” and she, pissed, walked off, in a sort of last-straw stance, announcing our friendship over. Conscious not so magical a place as the unconscious lately (I hate my [already-]aging body). Caroline and her partner’s apartment will be torn down for development soon, too. Maurice’s parents’ house has been undergoing renovations this summer. Things are lost. Don’t want to see it. I wonder which friends my age are now having love affairs with teenagers and how little I’d care. I have taken on a whole lot of continuous responsibility to prove to myself I’m not lazy. I am bored and want new things. I don’t want to stop working for more than a moment because the luxury of stillness reminds me that it, too, requires cash. It’s unbelievable the precarity that those better cared for have to endure, put up with, manage. They’re able to lose what others just don’t have.

  It’s odd to give so much of my writing away to Helena: something like a romantic relationship in its best stage, what I write for her seems each time to better match what she anticipates and desires, in part because I’m the one writing, and in part because I’m progressively better able to know what she wants. It’s a bit depleting, though. Without her interpolation, I’m sure I’d be producing something else. Next summer: I will write something for myself, and I will do it without working twenty other jobs.