Flux Lit: 1 Poem and 1 Story
by Adrian Kresnak
Latte Sonata
Caffeine
to heal your heart.
What would your mother say?
How many cups before you’ve had
enough?
Three dollars paid in worn-out paper bills,
the chance that I might burn my hands and tongue,
and then you count the sleep potential lost —
I guess I don’t know what my coffee cost.
Call it a sweet tooth. Call it self-care,
spending three dollars daily for a cup of coffee with steamed milk.
I can’t drink it black. The world is too bitter already,
the papers bringing new headlines every day.
The cost of knowledge? Awareness. The constant need
for vigilance. What would your mother say?
Mine would shake her head, murmur oh, honey,
we can make our own troubles at home.
Do you think Lois Lane sips a cold vanilla latte,
working late nights to expose an individual number one?
Do you think the staffers in the capitol pass around
packets of instant mocha to get through the all-nighters?
We have to stay awake and stay aware.
This is a world — and oh, I love it, but — you need a pick-me-up
sometimes, is all. You need to give your time.
You need to sacrifice your sleep.
We have to stay awake and stay aware.
We have to stay...
Caffeine
to heal your heart.
What would your mother say?
How many cups before you’ve had
enough?
Three dollars paid in worn-out paper bills,
the chance that I might burn my hands and tongue,
and then you count the sleep potential lost —
I guess I don’t know what my coffee cost.
A Performance of Pancake
This lady Meg invented an anti-gravity device and only authorized its use for art shows. Jacob sent a dozen emails, even called once, but Meg showed no interest in sharing the technology. Instead, she offered a simple invitation: join me in a happening We’re performing Pancake next week.
He came to the parking lot along with six other (more eager) participants. He wore a canvas hoodie he’d bought just for the occasion, something disposable. He smiled and responded when talked to, but didn’t let himself get drawn into any particularly deep conversation. True American art wasn’t anything conceptual or abstract; it was making deals. He was here to make a pitch and negotiate a contract, and that’s what he was going to do.
A bus pulled up, blue and white, with rays of sunshine gliding across the windows. The participants took their seats. Jacob spotted Meg in the far back, but she was sleeping, and anyway talking on a drive made him carsick.
Behind him, a couple of women were talking excitedly. If he heard them right, their names were Sophie and Mia.
“D’you think the artist would’ve ever thought someone could actually perform Pancake?” That was Mia.
“She couldn’t have. Their computers were still analog.” That was Sophie.
“A work that was never meant to be performed… and we’re performing it!”
“Until we all go splat.” Sophie laughed as she said it.
Jacob felt like a child on a field trip. This bothered him. He’d never been on a field trip or even ridden in a school bus before. Regular people took trips and learned things; he’d downloaded everything he needed to know on a series of obsolete tablets. Once he graduated high school, he intentionally stopped thinking about children. He didn’t want to waste his energy on a group he was no longer a member of. Maybe these other people had good memories of school trips. Maybe that was why they were devoting some of their valuable time to this.
The bus arrived. The destination was a wide building, or perhaps it just looked wide from the way the roof curved toward the ground. To Jacob it appeared like a piece of paper someone had crumpled up and failed to throw in a wastebasket.
Meg, seemingly wide awake now, led the group downstairs to a wide-open space. The walls were covered in mustard-yellow curtains, which struck Jacob as strange because there didn’t seem to be any windows. The other participants made excited noises as they spread out through the room.
At last, Meg called for everyone’s attention.
“The difference between a practice and a performance,” she said, “is the expectation. The performer declares they will do something meaningful at a certain place, a certain time, under certain circumstances. The audience – if there is one – agrees that the meaningful thing is worth witnessing.
“I asked you all out here today because I have built something very meaningful – and very ordinary. I ask you to remember this, that it’s ordinary. We witness miracles every day that we are not thankful for because they are ordinary. Fluxus artists knew this. They built their Happenings – their art events – into the grand artwork of their audiences’ very lives. Today I will give you a new perspective on things. I hope you find it, at the very least, interesting. Everyone ready?”
She turned the levitation on without waiting for an answer.
Jacob’s feet met the ceiling with a clank. He waited for the blood to rush to his head and was surprised when it did not. There hadn’t been many instructions for this part of the event, and he was unsure of his next steps.
Just out of arms reach, one of the other participants was pulling some things out of her bag. It looked like a food storage container. The participant opened it; a stack of pancakes remained perfectly piled inside.
“You want some?” she asked. Oh, that was Sophie’s voice.
Wordlessly, Jacob reached out and took one.
He felt like he should be experiencing something more. He would never say so out loud, of course: that would be admitting to reflective emptiness. He wanted something big and had no idea what it could be.
Vaguely, he remembered that he was here to acquire something. He was going to talk to the artist, wasn’t he? He wanted to ask her for a promise.
Pancake in hand, he started to walk.
He stepped with certainty, like he wasn’t walking on a wood-paneled ceiling. Looking up, he noticed the floor was tiled with a grey-and-white vinyl. The patterns reminded him of a map he’d drawn as a child.
He’d been a lonely child, or perhaps it would be more accurate to say he’d been a distant child: not comfortable playing with others, interested only in his imaginary worlds. He used to play CEO and draw up pretend stock markets. That was how he connected with the world. The world needed people like him as much as it needed people different than him.
He thought he needed Meg’s invention. He’d read the patent online while riding on the subway. This technology could change the world, if it had the infrastructure. He could provide that – his organization could provide that. He’d thought it would be perfect if he could just get Meg to agree.
His footsteps tapped on the wood panels. As much as he walked, he didn’t seem to be getting very far.
Maybe the technology wasn’t real at all. Maybe this was an oddly-decorated room and they were all on the ground and tricking themselves into believing otherwise. Maybe this wasn’t technology but magic, and it only worked as long as they all agreed to be part of the performance.
There was no way he could ever monetize this.
When he had this realization, he reached her. He held out a hand and she took it in a polite handshake.
“You wanted to talk to me?” she asked.
“Thank you,” he said, because he no longer had anything else to say to her.
After half an hour, Meg raised (lowered) a hand to call for everyone’s attention.
“The difference between a practice and a performance,” she repeated, “is the expectation. You are here today because you expect the ordinary to be meaningful. I hope I have shown you something that lives up to your expectations. Thank you for coming.”
The participants cheered.
Jacob walked forward in small steps. He reached the door and, with a jump, grabbed the handle and opened it. He walked out, toward the blue light of a perfect day. He took one more step outside. He landed gently on the ground.
BIO: A.S. Kresnak (xe/xir) went to grad school to study health communication. Xe still believes the world listens. Xir website is askresnak.carrd.co.