Devin Rogan

Alex could remember his past life. In it, he was a bird. On most days, he assumed his new life was probably a karmic upgrade. But this did not make it better. His divorce was about five years ago and he now lived in the worst part of the city. Work as a freelance journalist had slowed down considerably and he missed the boat on independent journalism by not signing up for social media when it was new. So now he made a living on a few articles at a time- often high profile ones of celebrities- that paid lump sums and were praised but were inconsistently scheduled. People looked for Alex for this type of work as he had a calming presence and a keen eye for detail that was flattering but subtle. His ex wife said it was a curse because he could also be critical and exacting. She would say his subjects got treated better than she did. He would counter that if she paid him he would heap praise upon her too.

He walked downstairs to get coffee and attend a meeting with Yassim, an old friend who was starting up a new online paper. A staff writer position would not pay much- but it would be consistent work. On the way downstairs he ran into Mina, whom he knew did OnlyFans to make ends meet. He knew this because she told him. His ex-wife would always joke he subscribed to her account- which he did- under a fake name.

“What’s up Al,” she said.

“Going to a job interview,” he said.

“Good luck,” she said.

“How are you?” he asked.

“Shit,” she said, “on the grind.”

“True,” he said.

He walked a few blocks to the café, and smoked a cigarette. He had taken up smoking when he was in a nihilistic mood. The mood had softened but he was still addicted. He was not in a position to radically self-improve. 

“Did you see the news today?” Yassim asked.

“No, what?” he said.

“Look what’s going on in Texas,” he showed Alex his phone.

It seemed bad, but Alex couldn’t really muster the energy to read more than a headline. He used to be a news junkie but had since secretly become repulsed by news. He hated journalism and its unworthy elevation of poor quality work. As a result he could barely digest news without seeing secondary layers and psychoanalytic messages about its author. It was like jealousy, he thought, but it had more nuance than that. So it was different than other people’s base jealousy. It was sophisticated and principled. Besides, he rationalized, he was political outside of his work.

“What are you working on these days?” Yassim asked.

“Nothing, I did the profile of Young Florida Purple,” he said.

“Oh, I didn’t read that.”

“He was interesting,” Alex said, “he dresses in sheep costumes, or really I guess, performs in them.”

“I’ll have to check him out,” Yassim said.

Yassim explained they were starting a new outlet for people who were sick of polarization in the news. But were also sick of having to hear about polarization in the news.

Alex accepted his offer, which would cover 25% of his rent to produce four stories a month on a news item that received middling coverage but deserved more nuanced analysis, accurate details, or a new perspective. Alex belonged to a school of philosophy (and journalism) that praised objectivity, so this wasn’t quite what he wanted. But the closest he could get to objectivity was to give new perspectives that were biased in new ways rather than old ways.

“Let’s do it,” Alex said.

“Awesome, I’ll have them send over the paperwork,” Yassim said.

After this Alex went for a walk in the park. He saw the birds in the trees and remembered what being a bird in a tree was like. He had dreams sometimes where he stretched his wings out, able to feel the air in a way that was unlike humans could feel it- he sensed in it possibilities of lifting and soaring. He would wake up and stretch his arms sometimes, unable to shake the feeling of being limited by his wingspan. He felt dead air around him. In his dreams he could sense movement that was certain and aided by the environment. In his life didn’t feel this way.

Back at his apartment he cleaned up and thought about living alone – how slowly he had become accustomed to having nobody accountable to him or him to another. He thought about if this would in some way meaningfully impact future relationships- should he have them.

Alex was raised by his aunt who was a lesbian and who refused to date on the principle that romantic relationships were historically contingent, and therefore dubious in that they might be an epiphenomena of any number of insidious social factors. Instead, she collected postcards, which she rationalized as an aggregation of cosmopolitism in so far as they made reference to extrapolated memes of global aesthetics.

He wrote as the evening got darker. He was working on a piece that he intended to pitch to editors about a Wellness Cult in Arizona that combined various interesting ideological movements into something unique- but also at the same time- were reminiscent of the 1970’s. Nothing new under the sun, he thought.

He did have a date later that evening. He had taken to going on dates in an attempt to see if by some miracle he would meet someone worth getting to know. He thought it would take a miracle since his heart was not in it. But he kept going on them because it provided a source of stimulation and novelty. It wasn’t that he disliked talking to people- but more enjoyed meeting people. If he could he would speed-date. Or perhaps speed-meet. Just to see, in the most intuitive way, who the other people who lived in the world were.

His date was with Diandre, a woman he met on the apps. She worked in media, but on the talent management side. It turned out they knew some of the same people.

“It’s nice to meet you,” he said.

“You too,” she said, the best part was now ostensibly over.

They discussed various topics such as politics, that he was campaigning for mayoral candidate Rober Barrine, some movies, and family history- which brought up his dead parents and often killed the mood. Alex wanted to mention his past life, but it would be unwise to do so. He regularly felt himself reaching for information from his past life in conversation but thought he would face social ostracization should he mention it.

The date was pleasant and very boring. She asked if he wanted kids and he said no, and she said she did but she was too old. He said she could adopt and she said ‘maybe’ in a non-committal way. If she wanted to do so why didn’t she? He wondered about how she operationalized the word “want.” Not much, then?

He decided to take the train back to his apartment since it had begun to thunder.

“I had a nice time,” she said, “text me!”

“I will” he said.

“Oh, she said, don’t forget to watch that show!”

“Okay,” he said.

The train station was hot and disgusting. The humidity seemed to get worse every year, and it may very well have been getting worse every year since as long as it existed- it might continue indefinitely until becoming unviable for life.

A man walked up to a woman on the other side of the train tracks and pushed her down. He stole her bag. She screamed: what the fuck!? Asshole! Help!

Alex ran up the stairs to go check on her and saw the thief walking with just the minimal amount of urgency.

“Hey,” he said, “give that back, man!”

The man took out a knife and stabbed him in the shoulder. Alex collapsed on the floor, unsure if it was due to pain that was being felt at some level he did not register. After a few moments he saw people gathered around him and sat up. A cop helped him up and he said he was okay, but the officer made a gesture of helping him walk up the stairs to the street, keeping pressure on the wound and asking questions Alex could not remember, find relevant, would ignore, or would answer minimally with information he knew to be wrong, and wasn’t why he was behaving this way.

Somehow an ambulance had been called, and Alex thought of refusing the ride, but he couldn’t think clearly enough to wonder about what the bill would be for it, or if it would be covered, etc.

At the hospital they patched him up. A nice nurse and doctor tended to him in a gentle way. He had not found much physical affection in his life recently and the ordeal registered as almost pleasant. After this the cops questioned him some more on the incident, and he told them with a clearer head what he remembered. His wound was cleaned, wrapped, and stitched and he had an appointment to follow-up. The police report would take more time out of his life- but they let him go and told him to go back to the station in a few days to get more information. He was more clear-headed now, but however he had responded to the officers before had perhaps given an impression he was in no position to recall things accurately at the moment.

“What the fuck?” Mina asked when she saw him.

“I got stabbed,” he said.

“That is fucked up, who stabbed you?” she asked.

“Some guy, I was trying to get back this woman’s purse.”

“He stole your lady’s purse?” she asked.

“No,” he said, “I don’t know her,” he said.

“You’re a gentlemen,” she said. She invited him in to smoke weed for the pain.

It had been a while since he had smoked weed. He couldn’t readily recall if the last time was at a bachelor party about fifteen years ago but that sounded correct.

“This shit is fire,” Mina said.

“Okay,” Alex said.

When smoking he could feel additional layers of reality becoming perceived. Images appeared delayed but static as if buffering on a lag where artifacts of previous positions were incorporated into the new position via some glitch. Likewise he experienced his thoughts on a delay- abstract sensations gave rise to language-based thoughts- but in such a way that at any given moment the thought and sensation were out of sync- which gave the impression at some points that certain emotional registers and thoughts were completely inapt (ie he checked his watch to see if he was overstaying his welcome, but his next thought was that he might very much enjoy his new job. At a particular moment this was experienced as “excitement I may be overstaying my welcome.”)

“What happened to your girl?” Mina asked.

Alex was certain he had told her about the divorce, but he supposed she wanted more details.

“We got divorced,” he said.

“Yeah but why?” she asked.

“I don’t know,” he said, “I think. . .” and he visibly thought about this, “we wanted different things.”

“What different things?” she asked.

“I think. ..  I don’t know,” he said.

“True,” she said, “Sometimes its like that.”

He did try and think about what they wanted differently- but he became aware this was just some cliché he had picked up that would be easily understood. The more he thought about what happened it also seemed incredibly uncomplicated. They were happy, then they were content but stable, then they were bored, then they were annoyed, then they were unhappy but afraid of being more unhappy, then they were unhappy entirely. How many repeat sources of enjoyment could indefinitely yield happiness? Absolutely none. It was “fine.”

Alex had never acquired a coherent philosophical outlook on life. When he had tried, and read books like Man’s Search for Meaning, and The Power of Now, etc  he would experiment with seeing the world through that lens. But he realized these philosophical outlooks were unprovable, or rather, they were types of flavors that could resonate emotionally or spiritually only, and the same set of facts could be read in various ways. Realizing the facts were incomplete, there was no possible way to actually know if there was, or could be, a way to capture them into a useful or accurate way of thinking without making some a priori assumptions. Having grown up with his parents briefly, and then his aunt, he realized inertia was the dominant force in how people lived. He felt he had been born, told he needed a screwdriver by one guardian, then been told he needed a calculator by another, and nobody had explained for what. He thought of himself metaphorically as existing with both tools and no instructions, helplessly trying to clean a bathtub while on LSD.

Arriving back at the conclusion he had overstayed his welcome, he got up to leave and she said “you’re leaving,” as a statement, or perhaps a question and he said he had an early deadline and she asked about what and he said an article and then she said “oh, cool” and he realized he had never explained to her his job and she certainly had no idea.

The next day he woke up with a cold. He didn’t want to get out of bed, and when he did he immediately got back in. He wondered if a cold could even come on this quickly- perhaps it was worse? An infection?

He received a text from Diandre, saying she had heard he was accepting the new job and wishing him good luck. He tried to interpret if this was a conversation opener, or a relationship closer, and he felt too fuzzy headed to make any accurate predictions. Nor did he particularly feel up to talking. He just put his phone down and went to his computer to try and write an article he thought would work for his first at the new job. He thought about  how there was surprisingly little coverage of the new revisions in recommendations within the education system regarding literacy- he sensed they were somehow decreasing standards while also imposing incidental barriers that would paradoxically make standards worse and yet achievement more difficult. A lose-lose.

He then wondered if this was too boring. He had been known more and more for celebrity profiles. Should he write about something like that? With a profile of a celebrity he could get at more interesting details. At this point- was he a gossip columnist- if he just aggregated information on some celebrity? Perhaps yes. He went back and forth unsure on what to write about.

On weekends he volunteered with the mayoral campaign of Robert Barine. Robert had promised several changes in the city around public transportation, and also, importantly for Alex, to tackle insurance coverage. Alex had been on medication that was becoming more and more expensive. Nixalium was meant to help with his headaches and it was the only thing that worked and it only worked sometimes and was maybe placebo- but as far as poor options go it was by and large the best! Every Sunday he would walk around the city, calling to people asking if they had heard of Robert. He would put up Robert flyers. Sometimes he would call people on the phone and ask the same thing, or go door to door and ask the same thing. About 15% of people would curse at him as a proxy for Robert as a proxy for politics as a proxy for life sucking. They would say: he’s scum! You scumfuck!

“Hey, have you heard of Robert Barine,” he asked a woman.

“Yes,” she said, “what is that? “

“What?” Alex asked.

“On your body,” she said.

“My jacket?” he asked.

“Yes, hahah what did you call it the thing?”

“My jacket?” He reiterated.

 “Yes haha yes I like it- its called what? My friend is gonna get it. She’s gonna get it. She’s gonna fucking get it. She’s a wild bitch. Where is she? Where is Jenna?”

The woman was apparently mentally ill, unaware of jackets, and increasingly probably, not aware of Robert Barine even if she was registered to vote.

His fellow campaigner met up with him on the corner when he was putting up fliers that said “Robert Barine. For You. For Us.”

“Do you think we’re gonna win this?” He asked his fellow campaigner.

“Hell yeah,” he said.

“Do you think so?” Alex asked again.

 “People are sick of shit, man, sick of it!”

The illness was progressing that night as he went to bed. He was now certain it was the flu. In his dream he had wings again. The flu-heat was reinterpreted as flying inertia. He remembered the sensation of his bird-mom regurgitating into his mouth, and while the sensation was somewhat comparable to human-love it was less specifically directed to his bird-mom and more ambient. His very consciousness was directed in a million places that did not have a locality, and neither did his energy. This was what flight was like- and he could feel his human body overwhelmed by what crying feels like- a hot and sublime sensation of being torn asunder by existence. He felt his human body stretch out his arms and was woken up by tearing the stiches out of his shoulder.

Blood gushed out of his shoulder and he applied pressure. Delirious, he ordered a cab to the hospital this time. The cab driver screamed at him for getting blood everywhere and he simply laughed in response. The man may have been screaming in any number of languages, including English but he had no idea.

At the hospital he was treated for dehydration and blood loss. After 24 hours when his fever broke he received an email from Yassim with the contract, and he signed it with his finger on the touch screen. His first article was due in two weeks.

Diandre texted him saying he was a “disgusting pig asshole” and she continued insulting him for not responding, saying he thought he was some big shot but he was a hack. He blocked the number.

After three days he was able to leave and his fever had subsided and his arm was feeling much better.

His aunt called to check on him and to tell him she read a book on empathy. She recommended it so strongly she made him purchase it on the spot.

“You think I’m a sociopath or something?” He asked her.

“No, she said, we just never think of the science of these things!”

“How do you know the science is accurate? We know very little about the brain,” Alex countered.

“They did studies.”

“What sample size?”

“You’re so negative,” she said.

“You aren’t being empathetic, “he said

She gasped. “Sorry! You’re right!”

He got back to work on his article, and decided to do a profile of Mina regarding OnlyFans, which was a trendy subject, and she agreed since this would “nurture her fan base.” He knocked on her door, knowing that she would be home at this time. She would often come home noisily, everyday, around 6PM.

“How did you get into OnlyFans?” he asked.

“Money,” she said.

“Do you regret it?” he asked.

“No,” she said.

“Do you worry about people seeing it?” he asked.

“But that’s what I want?” she said confused, “the money?”

“But like family?” he asked.

“They shouldn’t look- that would be crazy,” she said.

“But they would know and be mad?” he asked.

“They’re assholes,” she said, “but I love them.”

“Do you believe in past-lives?” he asked.

“Maybe” she said.

He campaigned more for Robert that following weekend. He put up fliers. He saw someone behind him take them down and put up fliers of the other candidate, Judy Minestrone. Her stupid, soup-like name would ruin us all, he thought! She was in the pocket of all the big interests!

“Don’t tear down by flyer!” He said.

“Too bad,” the person said, “Robert would ruin this city! “

“Judy would ruin this city! She would! Really!” Alex said.

“Politics isn’t about fairness,” the person said, “it’s about doing what will work the best for everyone no matter what!”

 “So the ends justify the means?” Alex said, “really?”

“Yes! Don’t be naïve! Is this your first campaign?”

 “Yes,” Alex said.

“Naïve!”

 Alex ripped down the posters and put up his poster.

Alex acted like the crazy women from before: I have a jacket. A jaaacket my friend she’s gonna get it. She’s gonna get it hahahaha. The person ran away.

“What the fuck bro?” his fellow campaigner said. “You’re loco,” he said.

“Damn right”, Alex said, politics is about playing dirty.

“Hardcore man, hardcore.”

That day he drank eight coffees while writing up the piece on Mina. I’ve discovered the secret to all life, he thought, you just need energy. Everything flows from energy, right? I could do everything. Life is so short. I don’t need to know everything. The best I can do is have integrity. Act according to what I believe. Act such that who I am, at my deepest level, resonates with the song of the world which created me. He had diarrhea for an hour.

In his marriage he knew he would always keep his secret past life from his ex-wife. He had never mentioned he was a bird before. But the details of that were less important. What he had truly kept to himself was the real truth. The real truth is that there is no end. We collectively carry a false-impulse towards conclusion. We live unconsciously with this dissonance. But the real truth is different. There always was me, and you, and them, and us, and that, and this, and nothing can stop it. It loves to love, and loves to hate, and it makes no distinction as we do. There is this and only this.

Alex waited for the election results on the TV. The numbers would be coming in soon.

“Good work,” his campaign fellow said, “we got this.”

“Do you think so?” Alex asked.

“Yup!” He said.

“This was your first campaign, yeah?” He asked.

“Yeah,” Alex said.

“Mine too,” he said.

“I was in the Smith-Terry campaign,” someone else chimed in.

“I’m hoping Robert pulls through. We lost that one!”

It is tempting, Alex thought, to give up. But he also knew one thing about life- that he had made it through once.