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Madison Scott-Clary 2021-10-19 20:40:10 -07:00
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writing/post-self/toledot/launch/launch/Codrin-castor/003.html
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<p>His name was Martin Rankin, and while Codrin had not read any of his works prior to the suggestion, ey had certainly heard the name in the various literary circles that ey trawled on occasion. A man prone to grand literary gestures, one who leaned heavily on the twisting of endless sentences, ceaseless streams of fragments, prose that bordered on florid even by Codrin’s relatively flowery standards. Ey knew that ey was prone to many of the same pitfalls, but this man took it to an extreme that they found unreasonable.</p>
<p>Codrin, to prepare for the interview, had read two of Rankin&rsquo;s books. They were not without their merit, as might any such book be that garnered so much attention, but they still took plenty of work to get through. He wrote most often about contemporary life within the system in all its deliriously boring intricacies.</p>
<p>That said, much of his work was bound up in a sense of magical realism that was, ey had to admit, enticing. This was something that Codrin had never managed to capture emself, and so ey set aside some time to study the ways in which Rankin used surrealism to enhance the story at hand without distracting.</p>
<p>Meeting Rankin was exactly as had expected. There was nothing about him that did not shout Martin Rankin. He wore his identity on his face, on his chest, in the way his hands moved across the table as they talked, there at the cafe, there sitting out on the street, there sipping their espressos.</p>
<p>&ldquo;So, you are the illustrious Codrin Bălan.&rdquo; His voice was imperious, veering dangerously close to pompous, looking over the rim of the demitasse appraisingly at em as he sipped coffee.</p>
<p>Meeting Rankin was exactly as had expected. There was nothing about him that did not shout Martin Rankin. He wore his identity on his face, on his chest, in the way his hands moved across the table as they talked, there at the cafe, there sitting out on the street, there sipping their coffees.</p>
<p>&ldquo;So, you are the illustrious Codrin Bălan.&rdquo; His voice was imperious, veering dangerously close to pompous, looking over the rim of the demitasse appraisingly at em as he sipped espresso.</p>
<p>Something about the man grated. Ey wasn&rsquo;t quite sure what it was at first, whether it was the self-assured way he spoke, or the self-aggrandizing expression he wore on his face. It was nigh intolerable.</p>
<p>All the same, ey tried eir best to keep up eir smile as ey spoke. &ldquo;And you&rsquo;re Martin Rankin. It&rsquo;s a pleasure to finally get the chance to meet you in the flesh. Thank y&ndash;&ldquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;What a curious choice of phrase, in the flesh.&rdquo; His tone was droll, bored. &ldquo;Have you stopped to think of all of the little idioms we bring with us from &lsquo;phys-side&rsquo;? Even that term! Phys-side. It spells out very plainly that we do not exist in that form any longer. We exist in <em>opposition</em> to it. &lsquo;Sys-side&rsquo; contains no such sense of our abstract existence.&rdquo;</p>
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<p><em>&ldquo;They do not need to be. They are all the same.&rdquo;</em></p>
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