fermisurface

Chapter 4

2004-11-28T01:14:00.000-05:00

The campus was a beautiful place. Stunning, as a matter of fact. This was something Gen had to admit. The fall foliage was resplendent in reddish hues, golden glimmers, and the occasional splash of green from those trees that still struggled against the onslaught of the seasons. The liveliness in color and temperature belied the darker undercurrents of the campus populace. There was always something darker, more sinister lurking in the shadows of the leaves.

It pleased Gen to have such dark thoughts. He enjoyed bringing out the darker side of things. He thought it added character to an otherwise simplistic and dull perspective on life. Dave thought Gen was chronically depressed. Gen insisted that wasn't depressed; just depressing.

"I have to draw a distinction between what I am and what I cause others to be, after all," Gen had said after a particularly lengthy debate. Dave had sighed and thrown his arms up in resignation. Peculiar, how most of their arguments tended to end in this manner...

Generic stopped. The large, oak doors loomed high above him, adorned by wrought-iron curls and bars. He looked up, breathtaken by the sight of looming arches and spires and gargoyles. The Chapel never ceased to amaze him. It was a massive structure that towered over him, an imposing edifice of such magnificent proportions that it seemed to say by sheer size alone, "I exist."

He pulled on the large, circular handle and stepped inside.

The sunlight abruptly disappeared, replaced by a dim orange incandescence. He moved slowly and reverently, for the first time that day, into the shadows. Past the foyer and in through another set of double doors, he entered into the vast sanctuary of the Chapel and stopped again. His eyes traced a cluster of stone pillars as they soared upwards, curving towards a central spire obscured by a set of spotlights whose radiance only barely filtered back down to him. It was only nearly silent, but the way in which his footsteps and whispered thoughts echoed in this space enhanced the feeling of isolation. Of smallness.

This was why he loved the Chapel. It wasn't the ornate stonework that drew him, and it wasn't the irridescent stretches of stained glass and their playful light, though those these things were lovely in and of themselves.

It was the sheer sense of scale.

He wanted to know that he was small. He wanted to feel his frailty. He wanted to sense the firmness of granite against his flesh, the volume of space against his small frame. He wanted to feel the congested noise of his mind diffuse away, thinning into the broad atmosphere of this enclosed space. Perhaps then it could find rest, as they gargoyles did, and room enough to ponder itself into quietness. Perhaps then the noise would stop.

Gen succumbed to the stillness. His knees bent, slowly, and touched the stone floor. His face lowered itself until it hovered just above the cold surface, his slow and labored breath resonating off the flatness. His arms pulled themselves outwards, splaying his fingers wide. They stretched towards the walls, those masses of stone that continued to rise and rise and rise above him...

"What are you doing?" a voice behind him asked, quizzical and hesitant.

Gen gave no answer. His ego had bowed, and that was reason enough to remain silent.

Chapter 3

2004-11-18T06:01:00.000-05:00

Generic crossed his arms and leaned back in the chair, the soft wood creaking and wavering precariously. Gen was not the most petite of persons. He had a largish but thin build: both stout and sallow, much like an obese friend who recently lost far too much weight. His sunken cheeks accented a set of dark and brooding eyes that shifted periodically, alternating between rapid flickering and stillness. His gray pupils were generally unnerving, though the rest of his features had a tendency to perpetuate an aura of friendliness. At least, they did when observed from a fair distance.

This is not to say that people didn't find him attractive. Though he didn't stand out when among large groups of people, he was the sort of passerby one would remember in a vague and unremarkable sort of way. It was as if he hovered about the periphery as a notable figure of momentary entertainment. Everything about him breathed of restless intensity. He possessed the sort of gravity that one admires in geniuses but hates in friends; the spirit of those kinds of cocktail party people that can weave a captivating story for the first five minutes of a conversation before degenerating into abstruse details and awkward moments.

Not that he attended cocktail parties. He had better things to do with his time.

He rose leisurely from the wooden chair, gathering the disposable lunchware and absently depositing them in the trash. Gen didn't recycle because he couldn't see the point. Even if he could recycle every scrap of disposable plastic and cardboard he used in life, as his more conscientious roommate Dave did, the beneficial environmental impact it could have simply paled in comparison to the tons of garbage the rest of this consumer-oriented culture mercilessly accrued in a single day. To Gen, it came down to the matter of scale, a principle those wretched activists never seemed to grasp. The environmentalists failed to realize that the trash they generated in advertising campaigns alone far outweighed the benign effects any inspired sporadic acts of conservation could have. They were almost as bad as the humanitarians...

"Excuse me, but do you know what time it is?"

Startled, Gen stopped in mid-stride and stared straight into a pretty pair of blue eyes. For a moment, he found himself completely absorbed by their form. The eyes were wide, softened by youth and framed in an austere, academic set of eyeglasses. They were the eyes of a freshman who still remained unspoiled by the years of bitter cynicism this God-forsaken university would pound into her brain. Her pale yellow hair gently curved to follow the edges of her rounded face, whose slightly flushed complexion enhanced her impression of innocence. She was cute. Gen sighed before glancing at his watch.

"A quarter past one." It came out as a mumble. Surprised by his own voice, he shifted his weight uneasily and slowly moved the hand with the watch behind his back.

"Thank you!" She smiled brightly and strode past him, her gait bouncing lightly. The sunlight shimmered in her hair and those footsteps, which began with a sharp clacking on the hard floor, soon faded with her presence. Gen stuffed his hands into his pockets and sauntered away in what he hoped appeared to be a casual manner. He hated being caught by surprise, particularly by those of the feminine persuasion. He also hated giving out the time. That action often required that he reveal his watch, which he was somewhat embarassed to display in public. Not many people wore a Spongebob Squarepants watch. It didn't matter how accurate it was, how reliably it functioned, how cheap it was, or even how convenient the purchase seemed at the time. No self-respecting college student wore Spongebob Squarepants in public and Gen, who had the guts to keep it, didn't see the need to let anyone else know.

It was sad to think that giving her his name may have been even more humiliating than the watch, but such was life. He had resigned himself to that particular fate long ago and had gotten used to those dialogues that always began the same way:

"Hi! My name is (blank), what's yours?"

"Um... my name is Gen."

"Jen?"

"Gen."

"How do you spell that, Jen?"

"G. E. N."

"Ah."

This part would always result in an awkward silence. The more curious ones would press further.

"Er, is that... Polish, or something?"

"No. I am clearly not Polish."

"Ah... didn't think so. Is it a nickname?"

"I suppose so."

Depending on the sort of mood he was in, Generic could drag the conversation out a bit longer. It was faintly entertaining to toy with these sorts of people, whose curiosity urged one thing and social conventions another. Sooner or later, he would say that his full name was Generic, that it was spelled "just like the word is", that he had never watched Bobby's World, that his parents thought it would be cute to name him something... unique.

Depending on the amount of alcohol available at these sorts of cocktail parties, the inquisitor would either bawl in laughter or smirk contentedly. Gen's stoic expression had an unfortunate tendency to amplify either effect. At least, it did until his refusal to say anything further hinted that it was time terminate the "conversation", leaving the hapless "conversation partner" to wander off in search of more talkative game.

Needless to say, Gen did not have many friends.

His sauntering found its way to the main entrance of the campus center and he pushed it open with what he hoped appeared to be an assertive manner. The daylight washed over his face, warming him. Instinctively, he looked up at the sun and squinted, pausing to gauge the temperature. Brisk. Cold. He tucked in his thin sweater a little tighter and prepared to stroll off through the campus.

Chapter 2

2004-11-04T02:01:00.000-05:00

"'The door was beckoning?' I hate to say this Dave, but it's crap. It's all crap." Gen shook his head and passed the sheets of paper back across the table. The bottom page stained slightly on an oily residue left over from the meal.

Dave sighed and leaned back in his chair. He had hoped for a better response, but Gen simply wasn't cooperating. As usual. Lunch's inability to settle comfortably in his stomach didn't help the discussion any, but it often tried by interjecting an occasional distended rumble.

Gen tapped the wooden table impatiently with his fingers and leaned forward, his baritone rising above the ambient hubbub of the campus center cafeteria.

"Dave. I know you like to write and all, and the concept of your little narrative here certainly is intriguing. As much as I can gather, it captures the essence of what you're trying to portray: this idea of a third-but-really-more-first person perspective. It's even moderately innovative."

Dave smiled inwardly.

"I say innovative because it doesn't really resemble anything I've read before. Perhaps that's because the prospect of reading page after page after page of someone else's thoughts (especially someone as dull as yourself) makes even the prospect of snorting the ashes of my dead cat mildly attractive. There's a reason why people hate Salinger, and it has nothing to do with the fact that Holden Caulfield is an asshole and everything to do with the fact that no one really cares."

Dave frowned outwardly.

"No one. We are all far too occupied with our own lumberjacks and cereal bowls to care about yours. But even if you were able to lead an interesting thought life and captivate the nameless hordes with your writing, there's another reason you can't do this."

Gen leaned closer, the smell of his breath amplifying the uncomfortable effects of the imitation chinese food.

"You intend to tell people the story of your life. You intend to give them a real-time description of what it means to be Dave; to let them see your thoughts the way you see them; to let them understand, if only for a moment, what it means to struggle. You will realize, if you haven't already, that what you intend to do is bare the inner mechanics of your very soul to those hordes, those masses who care nothing about your arrogant breakfast substances, much less the essence your spirit. You intend to reveal intimacies reserved for the mentally insane and deities, to prostitute your very self in a display that will only end in grotesque boredom, disappointment, and shame.

The reason why you can't write this book, much less publish it, is because you won't. Any sanity left in that thick head of yours is doomed: doomed to frustrate your efforts because it realizes what must be done to achieve the effect you desire. It understands that you will have to expose and agitate your deepest insecurities and sins, every livid thing you despise and abhor in life. It understands that you will be eviscerating your soul and crucifying its bleeding remains in public for the world to scorn."

He lapsed into silence. The cafeteria would have been reasonably silent as well if it weren't for the raucous laughter of the atheletes sitting behind Gen. He threw them a disdainful look before returning his stare to the greasy table and wrinkled papers. His face was vacant with thought, as it often was these days. In most other occasions, Dave would have felt pity for his roommate, this saddened cynic holed up in the recesses of his own mind.

Not today. Dave didn't take criticism well.

Gen glanced furtively around the room, growing in discomfort and fitfulness.

"And for what end, Dave? For what purpose? So you can say you published some book? Tell me, how many words are you willing to sell your soul for? A thousand? A million? You seek to tell the truth about yourself, but how many lies will you craft to hide it? You taint your own words merely by writing them. The human mind wasn't made to bear this trial, this invasion of self. You and your retarted book are destined for failure. And I'm glad for it."

He set his elbows firmly on the table, head in hands. The squarish table was small and rocked slightly from the onslaught, plates and silverware clattering. Dave instinctively stiffened his back and pulled away from his roommate. He was caught off guard by this vicious denunciation; though he had anticipated some criticism, this was a bit much.

Gen lifted his head and hestitantly motioned for Dave to draw closer. Dave reluctantly inclined his ear, steeling his nerves against the hot and labored breath.

"You... have you seen a therapist recently? Psychological evaluation? I know several good ones..."

That was it. The last straw.

Dave promptly straightened again and stared at Gen, eyes narrowing and gauging the distance across the table. If he did it swiftly enough... roommate or not, Gen had to go.

He strangled Gen.

The atheletes' silence was overwhelming, but Dave could only hear the sharp choking noises and gasps of his soon-to-be former roommate. Gen's eyes widened, pupils contracting in shock. It was okay; they would relax soon enough.

Dave's hands gripped Gen's throat tightly, squeezing frantically in frustration at being unable to asphixiate their nemesis more quickly. Gen's aural cartilage snapped and popped in multiple directions, hastening the process and amplifying the pain. All the more fitting for such a bastar...

"Dave? A therapist, no?" Gen looked genuinely concerned.

Dave imperceptibly shook his head. His hands were gripping the edge of the table; tense, but not noticeably so. The atheletes were still laughing, the sun still shining, and Gen still alive and oblivious of Dave's little reverie. Not that it would matter if he had known anyway; the two of them weren't roommates for nothing. And Gen wasn't suggesting psychotherapy for nothing either.

Dave abruptly rose. "No, I don't need a shrink; I have you. I've got to go." He stuffed the abused and saddened pages into his pocket, grabbed his tray, and rapidly endeavored to dispose of his trash in a proper and fitting manner. Gen was momentarily startled, but less by Dave's actions than a revelation.

"You're still going to write it, aren't you?"

No reply. Dave placed the silverware in its appropriate receptacle and carefully laid the tray to rest in the indicated location. He hastened past the atheletes and towards the door, trying to escape the words he knew would come next.

"You think you're the misunderstood artist, the wounded healer, the literary savior. But you're only a fool; a damned, wretched fool!" Gen sat back and laughed. And laughed. Dave left.

The atheletes didn't care.

Chapter 1

2004-11-02T01:36:00.000-05:00

He spoke.

"Life isn’t told by way of the first person. Though my mind speaks with the ‘I’, it thinks and breathes with the ‘he’. ‘We’. Life is seen and lived with a sort of detachment, as if we were curiously watching some play or narrative skitter across the surface of our senses. Consciousness hovers just above the surface of the waters, breathing ripples but never entering the depths.

After all, how can we see life in anything but the third person? So much of it is boring. Fluff. The dead space between high-impact commercials and interludes, which themselves are merely puffs of sensation. Even those are mere illusions that give an impression of something significant for which we can only see a limited and shallow point. It takes great effort to narrate the story of our lives in the first person; to realize that these dreadfully dull or entertaining bits of reality are our own. To make the ‘he’, ‘me’."

That was rather good, wasn’t it?

, Dave thought. Quite clever, if I do say so myself. Perhaps one day I can put it in writing. He sighed and continued to stare up.

The ceiling was its usual off-white; nothing particularly different on this particular morning. It wasn’t a particularly drab day. In fact, the sun was shining rather brightly through the large, wide window beside his bed.

I wonder. How would you characterize the voice in your head? The voice of your mind when it’s reading a book or thinking to itself? I think you’re a tenor; a moderately high pitch with plenty of rich intonation, though not unbecoming of a man. The voice of a scholar: someone astute and educated and profound, whose voice can pierce and divide marrow from bone...

The alarm rang shrilly, its twin bells clanging away mere inches from his head.

Dammit!

He grabbed the clock and turned off the switch.

Shit! Stop cursing, dammit! Argh…

Dave sighed again. He noticed that he sighed a lot, though he didn’t consider himself a melancholic person.

Right? You’re not melancholic. Just tired. A lot.

He sighed again.

Shit! Stop it! The sighing! And the cursing too! Aw, just shut me up.

Searching for a diversion, he lightly tossed aside the covers and sat up. It was a bright, clear fall day and he was looking forward to it already. Days like these were the good ones.

Any day you wake up before the alarm is a good one.

Right. Teeth first. The bathroom was only a few steps outside of his smallish bedroom, past the smallish kitchen with its smallish table and chairs. Not that he or his roommates were small; it was just that dorm furnishings, as nice as they were here, never compare well with those of a "real" house and home. Of course, his conception of a real home was planted squarely in the suburbia kingdom of New Jersey, complete with white picket fences, SUVs in the driveway, and a freshly mowed lawn.

I miss mowing the lawn. And the SUV. That I never had.

Dave wet his toothbrush and continued the morning ritual, starting in the lower left corner of his mouth this time. Brushing his teeth always left his mouth feeling too clean. Dry and irritated by the residual toothpaste.

Mmm, cereal.

After rinsing, he wandered into the kitchen and pulled the oversized cereal box off the top of the refrigerator.

Bowl. Spoon. Milk.

And there they were, neatly arranged on the smallish table.

The arrangement is simple. Elegant. I like the color of the tablecloth; what is it called, plaid? But it’s a light green and blue; not red and black like lumberjack flannel.
Do I sound trite?

He blinked. The question caught him off guard. Trite? He paused.

Trite? I don’t even really know what the word means.

He bowed his head to pray.

Um.
Dear God… thanks for the food and everything else I have to do today, whatever that may be. Class and problem sets and reading and problem sets and
Please bless the poor and those who have nothing to eat. And give me grace, passion, purity, and humility this day. Amen.

He opened his eyes. The cereal stared haughtily back.

Oh, right.

Dave quietly padded into his room and retrieved his Bible. He really liked his Bible.

I really like my Bible. Dark, thin, elegant. I like that word, elegant.
I know. You bore me.
Right. Trite.
Clever, aren’t you?

"Therefore, since through God’s mercy we have this ministry, we do not lose heart. Rather, we have renounced secret and shameful ways; we do not use deception, nor do we distort the word of God. On the contrary, by setting forth the truth plainly we commend ourselves to every man’s conscience in the sight of God. And even if our gospel is veiled, it is veiled to those who are perishing. The god of this age has blinded the minds of unbelievers, so that they cannot see the light of the gospel of the glory of Christ, who is the image of God. For we do not preach ourselves, but Jesus Christ as Lord, and ourselves as your servants for Jesus’ sake…"

He stopped chewing and let the cool milk slake into the back of his throat. This was what he enjoyed about these mornings.

Quiet. The mornings are quiet, and so you can ramble on and on to your heart’s content, soothing your ego with words that seem so profound now, at the moment of conception. Too bad you’re just stupid.
Stupid.
Ill-formed. Malcontent. Brooding. Foolish. Unwise.

He continued reading.

"For God, who said, ‘Let light shine out of darkness,’ made his light shine in our hearts to give us the light of the knowledge of the glory of God in the face of Christ…"

Light. "In him was life, and that life was the light of men. The light shines in the darkness, but the darkness has not understood it."
How does a cereal stare haughtily, anyway?

Dave wouldn’t know. He had just finished it and the door was beckoning.

Foreword

2004-10-31T16:54:00.000-05:00

NOTE: This novel is general fiction; it is neither science fiction nor fantasy. An edited version may very well may end up in the "autobiography" or "memoir" section one day, but to encourage "spur of the moment" writing, it will stay classified as "fictional" for now.

fermi surface: "The surface of the Fermi sphere, which separates the occupied from the unoccupied levels..."
Definition taken from pg. 36 of Solid-State Physics by Ashcroft & Mermin.

This novel was inspired by the National Novel Writing Month "competition", a challenge to write a 50,000 word novel in no more than thirty days. Anyone who completes the task is a winner, so I encourage you to join.

As the title reflects, this novel is primarily concerned with a preoccupation of things both above and below the proverbial surface. What any of these terms mean is entirely up to you. As a general disclaimer, I will say that none of the characters (with the obvious exception of myself) are intended to reflect anyone I or you may know in real life. However, as it draws heavily on personal experience, you may find yourself suspecting that this not the case. That is not my concern, though I hope that prospect entertains you in any and every respect.

Enjoy.

-Davey Wavey