In the Beginning, Fiction

Now you say no more words but you don’t really mean no more words, these dreams of going wordless are playthings in the air, concepts without volition. You are compelled to use words to express what it would be like to go wordless and be wordless, you are enmeshed in process and voice, without these things the experiment ends, you become voiceless void as opposed to singing void or speaking void. Except this isn’t true. There is the music of silence, within silence. Without a single word, you continue to pulse and hymn.

You say no more words because it is something to say, a way to get started on using more words to constellate yourself, to orient your innate trembling. Mapless, we wander. To wander, mapless and wordless, what would that be like? Would you improvise by the light of the moon? Here’s another way of looking at it: You are lost in a labyrinth. Would you agree that you are lost in a labyrinth? You pause, consider your situation … yes, I agree that I’m lost in a labyrinth. Okay, so now that loss inside labyrinth has been established as your circumstances, your goal is to find your way out of the labyrinth. You use words to do this. You believe words, enough words, the right words, daring sequential combinations as trail and proof, will eventually lead you out of the labyrinth. The thing is, and this is what you refuse to admit, this is the bane of denial—the very words you are using are what the labyrinth is made of. Without the words, there is no labyrinth. In other words, no words will save you. Silence is the way out. Silence will destroy the illusion of a labyrinth in which you are trapped, of walls closing in and all that existential jazz. Your greatest fear is the silence. Why? Because, without it, the labyrinth can remain labyrinth and you can remain trapped, desperate to find your way out. And you can use words, many words, found words, lost words, to engineer your escape. Beware of metaphors. They will mislead you. Words are not to be trusted. Especially when banded in groups. They say that in the beginning was the Word. But they didn’t finish the true sentence. In the beginning was the Word … and it betrayed silence. Or, to remix: In the beginning was the Word, and this was the beginning of fiction.

About John Biscello

Originally from Brooklyn, NY, writer, poet, performer, and playwright, John Biscello, has lived in the high-desert grunge-wonderland of Taos, New Mexico since 2001. He is the author of four novels, Broken Land, a Brooklyn Tale, Raking the Dust, Nocturne Variations, and No Man’s Brooklyn; a collection of stories, Freeze Tag, two poetry collections, Arclight and Moonglow on Mercy Street; and a fable, The Jackdaw and the Doll, illustrated by Izumi Yokoyama. He also adapted classic fables, which were paired with the vintage illustrations of artist, Paul Bransom, for the collection: Once Upon a Time, Classic Fables Reimagined. His produced, full-length plays include: LOBSTERS ON ICE, ADAGIO FOR STRAYS, THE BEST MEDICINE, ZEITGEIST, U.S.A., and WEREWOLVES DON’T WALTZ.
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