Owen Kaelin

Activity

2011-10-23T08:03:00.003-04:00

In addition to the joint-authored web-project Step Chamber, and several joint projects of yet-undetermined length, Owen is currently working on two novels: Climbing the Thin Museum and Come Back, Eurydice.

The Step Chamber Project: Creature #2, 1st incarnation

2011-10-23T07:46:00.008-04:00

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Contributions to "Careful: You'll Wake the Story"

2011-09-07T12:47:00.002-04:00

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The Step Chamber Project: Creature #1, 1st & 2nd incarnations

2011-07-07T23:32:00.005-04:00

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Sound and Sky, published in 2011 in Anemone Sidecar #15

2011-06-28T16:37:00.002-04:00

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House of Letter L, published 2011 in Café Irreal

2011-05-01T19:40:00.001-04:00

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An Audible Palace, published 2011 in Exclusive [Concave of Delights] Magazine

2011-04-06T14:57:00.003-04:00

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Leisure, published 2010 in Kill Author

2010-12-03T05:22:00.017-05:00

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Three Tales of Invasion, published 2009 in Alice Blue

2009-07-26T20:30:00.020-04:00

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Growing Home, published 2007 in Snow Monkey #18

2008-08-24T06:36:00.011-04:00

T
This home is a good one. The outdoors has been cold these days, but in here it's warm.
The neighbors and i get along well, and when we're collected we're extravagant with our icecream. From our freezers to our stomachs, the icecream tames the outdoors for us, like philosophy. When we spoon in the crafty cold, we borrow its wintry voices. These voices decorate the room with tales of gentle snow on the hills, and green needles climbing high.
The neighborhood blooms from the bitter white, the added homes filling up with friends all around us. With such growth proceeding so rapidly, i find it frequently necessary to apply new order. Once the pathways between us are laid down, a simple map organizes me among everyone.
The manager tells me that a home for nailbiters has just been introduced into the owner's design. The nailbiters'll be heading here from the balmy South, where the ocean breaks down beaches. Here, there's always work to be done: the builders're already busy raising the home they intend for the incoming mumblers. Just to think: Mumblers in our own community, joyfully eating icecream with us; and before too long, nailbiters right beside them! Things get more interesting all the time!
I know that the paths i construct to link me to each new home must be firm before the new people are set to arrive. Each of the homes in this community — those of the nailbiters, the mumblers, and all the others that already live here along with me — requires a different sort of route, appropriately conceived. I think i've done well with the people that do live here at the moment, and no less should be deemed to the others. It seems obvious that my rapport with these newest people will depend strongly on my ability to rapidly add myself to their association at the moment they move in. If a path isn't secure when a new door finally opens, i could very well lose permanently my chance for engaging with them, and the agreeable balance we all hold dear thus jeopardized.
Occasionally, there're obstacles that confront me along the way. For example, as i begin my route to the mumblers, crawling a tight tunnel under the thicket which restrains the snow well above me, i find a mirror in the ground, blocking my path. I don't know what it's doing here, but i do know that if i try to cross the mirror it can burst under me, making bleeding shards for my hands. The mirror needs moving. But as my fingers dig under its rim, it occurs to me i've no good idea where to put it. I certainly can't let this mirror stand at the side of my path, unless i wish to view myself every time between home and mumblers, always in that transitional pose. I don't want that sort of reflection; i desire only the one that interprets me as composed and still, an established figure.
Certainly, one can blind this mirror by facing it into the thicket, but even there it'll remain potent, always waiting to reflect me. And by its disposition, i'll fear it still judges me, clandestinely gleaning my information and then, instead of bouncing it back for my approval, stuffing it away among the deep branchings.
In the end it feels best to bury the mirror. After all: so long as this mirror remains underground, its glass meeting dirt, it won't be able to bounce anything at all. Its talent will die in the unseeable brown. As i work, i come to like my solution more and more. How interesting to think of a buried mirror! Every time i communicate with the mumblers, i'll recollect this glass that lies helplessly underground, stopped by dirt.
When all is finished, i pat the cold soil. My fingers ache with this cold, but my new pride encourages me. Donning my gloves again, i anticipate my expanding neighborhood with optimism. There're splendid things that want to be opened and appreciated by my fingers and eyes and my twistly thoughts. In the same way that i've completed my pathway, i'm confident i'll be able to seize these eager things, and direct them properly.
The people who're building our community have a house all their own. I visit them to learn about their job. They give me coffee and unroll their maps. Their cartographies describe the arrangements of the existing homes as well as those under construction, and the newest lines indicate their newest intentions. The full layout appears as if it can form a kind of blocky person, arms and legs reaching and putting on weight, then a head to conceive it all. I wonder if this form'll continue changing into the future, under multiplying barnacles. When asked if they've an idea when the construction is likely to end, the builders can't tell me. Instead, one of them appeases me with perspective: "Listen," he says, "as long as there's work to do and i'm being paid, i'm happy. I don't ask any questions." The others agree, laughing.
We discuss the interesting neighbors we already have, and the possibilities that our community's future might allow us. How'll the incoming people change our minds and feelings ? How many of them will give us things, and how many will take things away? It's fun to speculate, but we won't know for certain until after the people arrive and have begun to share their personalities with us.
The manager tells me we'll soon have room for collectors in the community, as well as sullen scowlers, and inspired daydreamers. It's the daydreamers who arouse my curiosity the most. I ask him: "Do you think they'll know which way is up?" He shrugs: "I guess we'll know that when they get here." Secretly, i hope that these daydreamers can teach me something.
The manager adds that the builders've just begun a home for the incoming pessimists. Enthusiastic, i push back my hair: "Pessimists!" He indicates on his map where they're going to live. He adds that their house might be joined by another or so, because it turns out there're a lot of pessimists to cover.
Now i'll have to learn my way there, before they come.
When i'm home, i begin the new pathway, wending through vegetation. Although the snow is not difficult to trudge through, the procedure does not prove as easy as i'd hoped, because a great root soon blocks me. There're tools that i can employ to rid myself of this root, but i don't want to hurt its tall parent in the process. In the end i decide to dig a tunnel beneath the root. I go to the builders and borrow a shovel from them.
As i work at it, the cold, stubborn soil frustrates me. And there's so much of it to move! The eventual ramp leading down to the shadow and then up again to the snowy plane has to be a long and deep one, because i want the travel between myself and pessimists to be easy. The ramp takes many long hours to arrange, but in the end i'm satisfied, if exhausted. The eventual pathway between myself and pessimists takes a little more time to complete, but when it's done, it's for good.
Still, i'm not finished with these pathways, and i don't want to be. As long as i'm here, i hope for the enduring multiplication of neighbors.

Climbing the People, published 2007 in Snow Monkey #18

2008-08-24T06:30:00.010-04:00

I
I see them everywhere. I watch them leave their doorways and poke about in front of me. Their abundance makes them useful for climbing. But because they move their bodies so much, it's a little difficult to gain a hold and proceed from one to another. When i manage to, i catch only the delicate features that stick out. Their interiors're stuffed with discouraging fog.
But on the exterior the people're often pleasant, and sometimes even friendly. They say hello and smile. I return these faces, always the willing mirror.
Even if i wanted to, i wouldn't know how to manage my way through the fog to the real surfaces of these people. I can discern no pathways.
I can't imagine what these people might be harboring in their elegant courtyards, under such cover. Perhaps even my dreams'll never reach there.
Sometimes when i go to grab hold of a prominence, i find it necessary to knock something aside first, so i can get a secure grip. In this way i end up touching the people's food, music, shoes, cigarets, coffeemugs, whatever they've chosen to attract to themselves for the moment.
The local mailwoman arrives in her square, tin car, but she has no mail for me. "Are you sure?" i persist. She answers: "I'm sorry. Maybe next time." She's dressed all in blue, but her car's white, like the mail she carries. I watch the black tires trundle her off.
I don't bother asking explicit directions from people when i'm uncertain about where i am and how i should be proceeding in order to get to where i want to get to, because they always seem confused when i talk about directions. But when i describe to them what sorts of qualities i'm looking for in my journey, the people respond with animation, ably correcting my misconceptions. I change my direction accordingly.
But it takes so long just to get from place to place! Fucking christ, i think, how long today's project is getting to be! The people mirror one another tirelessly, but the proper destination is never in my sight, and no platforms yet offer me rest.
It's with much anxiety that i'm suddenly aware of the chimerical oiltruck approaching. I've been warned about these guys, but this is the first time i've seen them. I understand that they want to mine me for my crude. Probably they're aware that i'm poor and that therefore i can't fight them.
The oilmen clarify themselves gradually, and i know there's no stopping them. Even should i change my direction, it seems unlikely i'll be able to escape.
I grab hold of a girl who i can tell must be interesting, because of the peculiar sounds she draws in. These sounds give me little pulls just before they disappear, as if urging me to follow. I want to get closer, as the sounds do, and see what's inside, but i and the girl appear to be divided by certain kinds of knowledge, or else the lack of them. I think: If only i could find some way in to her, then she could become my destination, and i wouldn't have to climb any longer.
I assume, also, that were i able to get closer to her, or at least comfortably into her fog, then the oilmen would be more challenged to acquire me. But as has been the case with every person i've climbed, i can discern no accommodations for me either in or around her.
The mailwoman graces me again, but affords me no mail. Reading my concern, she says: "Don't worry; they're just prospecting today. They're not drilling yet." I want to believe her so that i can be soothed. I say: "Oh. Well, that's a relief. At least for now." She nods: "Just make sure you're not out in the open too long. Especially during workdays." "Right." "Maybe i'll have something for you tomorrow." "Okay. I'll see you then." I watch her leave, then i go on climbing.
The oilmen pass me by, innocuously. They don't even glance in my direction. Now i can relax.
But even after all the time that i've spent climbing, still i've found no landing. I wonder: Why're things so sparse, today? How much farther will i need to climb before a landing, if not my destination, finally catches me?
I ask people questions to this effect, but nobody seems to understand what i mean. When my words suggest to them that there're roofs to my journeys, they look perplexed. I have to conclude that their universe has no roofs. In their worlds, i think, no landings exist that need to be reached, several times a day, nor even people who require climbing. I think: I wish i could get closer to some of these more interesting people and their expansive, fortunate worlds! I look for pathways, but i can't find even one. I think: Maybe i have to practice my eyes. With practice, i might eventually start to discern the invitations. Everything humanity writes it writes in code, after all. I have only to learn.
When finally i spy a landing, i throw my dreams ahead of me, and they settle in right away.

Hills of Teeth, published 2006 in Spinning Jenny #9

2008-08-24T06:13:00.019-04:00

Our
Our children're tall creatures, yet even in their height they easily duck themselves into hiding. They prefer the craggy ridge we've nicknamed the Hills of Teeth. We look forward to understanding the children, but first we must dislodge them from the Hills, and that's not always easy. The children're thin and wily. We need strategies. Once we've caught a child, we arrange a fire and break her apart over it. As a piece of her enters our comprehension, she reluctantly imparts knowledge.
Long lakes poke the ridge's flanks. One guesses that these lakes weren't always here, but grew from the stagnant saliva of animals, who hunt the children eagerly and long, their saliva running the slopes. The animals're rarely successful, and move on when they weary.
Assume that we live on one of these shores. We want to set ourselves out upon the long liquid, and float from shore to shore. We want to visit the little wooded islet in the center, but we've no craft that'll carry us. Nor can we imagine where we might find such a craft.
But the children can tell us, we think. Therefore we organize a great hunt, and a mass comprehension to follow.
We know these craggy hills well. We've mapped their features in our thoughts. We know the most efficient way to reach each attitude from another. We know where the children like to congregate, and how our designs can best be conjured in those places. Today we capture several children. In our hands they turn stiff and fragile, and cannot respond. Now they can be described only by us.
We arrange a fire and prepare the children. When we absorb their content we're enlightened, but in the end it's not what we need.
I suppose we've a better perspective now. We understand it might even take us years, and many more children, before we can randomly find what we want.
To make our project easier, we construct small, temporary houses for ourselves in the hills, then settle within them.
Over the months of hunting children, we grow more adept at our strategies. But the ornamented guestrooms we've prepared in each of our heads remain empty.
We never lose heart; we're certain that the knowledge we seek awaits us in the hills. We assure ourselves: One of our children is keeping it for us. We've only to find the correct child.
But meanwhile, our homes're comfortable. They can accommodate us for a long while.

(Spinning Jenny #9 has been reborn as a PDF, which you can download here if you want to read all the cool stuff that was published in its pages.)