Yeah Write Entry 243-A Generist Speaks

A Generist Speaks

by

Shannon Barber

Nowhere ain’t a bad place to be.

I keep repeating those words to myself as I sit in a pocket of gauzy hazy nowhere. I am a Generist, The World doesn’t reach for and into me. The world doesn’t push at me with light.

I belong to neither. I have my secret places, these pouches of Nowhere where I can watch.

I only stay here in nowhere because in the world, it is so bright I have to close my eyes, and if I close my eyes, I will sleep and if I sleep I will dream and The World will grow.

I can’t handle the responsibility.

I know my dreams create the things in the dark, the dreams of the Generists before me created The World in all its fever dream glory. I know.

When he was alive my Tio brewed me bitter tinctures to keep me from dreaming. I slept like the dead. He was no Generist but he understood. He was a brujo with knowledge that ran deep, he did not know The World but he knew it enough.

I am a Generist.

One of the Warriors told me once that Generists are the untamed Id of the Creators. I thought he was there to kill me. It makes a pretty silky kind if sense. End the Generists and let The World die out.

Nothing in nature is fair and creation is a rabid dog.

It is our nightmares that create The World. The creatures and terrible vaguely human beasts, the landscapes-all of it comes from us. In a fair world Generist would be artists and writers. We would all be Barker or King.

Our nightmares would terrify and delight, but never kill. No, never that.

Not all who have nightmares are Generists but all Generists have nightmares.

I personally am responsible for the Sidus. The barely human things with flames in their eyes and a call that can run a person mad. Like cicadas and earthquakes had a growling fire spitting baby.

I do what most of us do. I find thin places where I can rest, but not sleep and not dream and generate nothing.

Sometimes when I have gone too long without respite from my own brain, I stand on the edges of things and stare down into vast emptiness. I spread my arms and try to imagine myself a bird thing, a Raptor with claws and wings and incredible speed. I try to dream myself into a predator, with only meat on the mind.

I don’t jump because I’m afraid.

I stay in my nowhere place because I have nowhere to go and nowhere to be.

Someone told me once that what makes us real are our hopes and dreams.

And that, is the tragedy of all of the Generists.

 That is my tragedy.

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