A Pile of Dirt by a Pile of Dirt

He was breaking. He was swinging his massive fists, breaking the Neot before him. How long had he been doing this? He was breaking. Each time his fist made contact, thud, thud, the ground on which he stood seemed to quake. Come on, please. When the ground shook, he looked at his feet and looked up to appraise the right end of the Neot. Raise it up high. Hold tight. He did not see the end of the Neot. Don’t let the light go out, please. He took several backward steps. When it all disappears, you’ll still be. More of the Neot seemed to come into view. The asteroid is due. He took several further steps. More of the Neot came into view, but it did not grow more distant. This time, he appraised the left end of the Neot. What do dancing and kissing have in common? Perhaps the Neot was the edge of a city. As he could not see the end of the Neot, he pictured it bisecting a city. A Neot dividing one city from another. Dividing one city in two. One day, the Neot reached toward the border of a country. How exhausting it is to watch over time. A Neot dividing one country from another. Dividing one country in two. In truth, the Neot had no left or right, but in his imagination, each day the Neot was a border between something new. A Neot dividing one time from another. A Neot dividing one person from another. He was breaking. When I watch over time, I feel like time stares back at me. He swung again and drove his fist against the Neot. He considered cases and numbers, distance and necessity, and the Neot refused to crack. He was breaking. He raised his fist and threw all his weight behind the swing. Sappho once sang, But in pity hasten, come now if ever / From afar of old when my voice implored thee. He believed that each time his fist made contact, some inner part of the Neot would crack. From the outside, the Neot was unyielding. He glared silently at the unmoving Neot, breathed heavily, and swung again. From now on, this is a mango. He was breaking, although only he knew the purpose for which he first set out to break the Neot. The Neot’s size was incalculable and his fists soon began to miss their mark. He needed accuracy, he thought. Remember to wash the backs of your hands too. He took several steps back. To him, the Neot was a Neot, nothing more. He placed his hands on his hips. I mean sex, games, liquor. He glared silently at the Neot. If he could mark one point of focus, one point to strike consistently, he thought, it might be possible. Although only he knew what he wanted to be possible, no one knew what exactly would be possible. I’m talking about someone’s life. He wanted something to mark the Neot. It was impossible to remember the exact point of the many he had punched. Neglect seeps in soft and wet as a tongue. He could not be certain that the spot he just struck was the place he’d struck a moment later. I’ll wait for you. Any more of this, and his fists would break before the Neot. Silence was golden. Unconquerable. His fists would lose their function. He was solitary. He did not know how long his fists would last. It’s just like. Therefore, marking out a specific spot was also an act of self-preservation. Solitude was a hermit. If only I could take proper aim. He looked around, but found nothing at a cursory glance that might mark the Neot. Before him, the Neot stood in his way. Be silent on the matter of transcendence. Because he stood facing the Neot, the Neot stood immovably in his way. If the way ahead is blocked, just turn around. He turned with ease. The sound of lips parting from lips. And because he turned, in front of him now was a plain. There were no trees or grass, dogs or cats, birds or water. Only a plain. If I go to the end? Because he saw no end, for a moment he thought of the end and walked to the middle of the field—that is, he walked forward. It’s less romantic than it is destructive. His two feet make their way across the plain. The plain is all dirt, and the occasional gust of wind sends dust whirling up and forces him to shut his eyes. Who will it be today? Dotting the plain are massive stone statues and their shadows. That one looks like a mammoth. He thinks as he passes the first. If we cannot discern between deception and belief. We would choose to believe. Not long after passing the statue that resembles a mammoth, not far from the statue that resembles a mammoth, he spots another stone statue. Not a mammoth. Not a quinkana. Not a dorudon. He stops briefly, and gazes at the statue. Having noted on the mammoth-like statue a mammoth’s tusks, short hind legs, and hump above the head, he gazes on at the statue. That’s. I think. That’s. That thing. It. The gap between the lips. It reminds me of. The concept escapes him and frustrates him. Two and one. Bearing the other. More than two. Pigeons? Next to the black statue he sees another black statue. Emily. Sunja. Caudron. Alexander. Yao. Could they live? About fifty meters away, he sees a statue smaller than the statue he has just seen. Kuesi. Clouded angelshark. Kongthong. Melody. No. The truth is, when he first walked the plain, he saw uncountable numbers of statues at once. Something. Something. Similar. Similar. To the edge of the plain. From the rightmost edge to the leftmost edge. Though his right and left turned to left and right the moment he turned, both right and left and left and right were all plains. Pierce the hole. Pierce the sky. Slowly he walks fifty meters onward, during which time two strong gusts of wind ruffle his hair. A small statue. It resembles a Neot. Though clearly smaller than the two statues he examined before, it reminds him of a Neot. Let’s look at this small Neot. He remembers that he’d set out to find something with which he could mark the Neot. He stands tall in the center of the plain. Wherever he is, he cannot keep going like this. He is anxious. He looks at his dirt-encrusted feet. Not like this. The plain stands in his way. Without walking, he returns immediately to his original place, as in truth, he had not taken a single step. He had only considered the idea. What if? He had no idea what might have happened if he had actually walked that plain, and not just in his thoughts. But he was glad that he did not. If I can’t find something to mark it. Without hesitation, he turned. And because he turned, in front of him now was the Neot. Acknowledging that he could not mark the Neot in any way, he resolved to lock his gaze on the point he would strike. 1 rhythmic slip XI lonely yet laid-back $ reverberations that fill the gaps between extremes. It was not possible to mark the Neot with any number or symbol or letter. He considered the center of the Neot. I know you too. The heart of the Neot. With his mind, he went on picturing the center of the Neot. Everything has a center and outskirts. The center of the Neot. The center of the Neot. With his mind, he pictured the center of the Neot. One. Two. Three. He went on and on and on. The first sound was in a minor key. Again, he pictured the center of the Neot. Going so far. Then he pictured the center of the Neot again on top. I swear, it’s on the tip of my tongue but the word won’t come out. In one single spot, he went on picturing the center of the Neot. The center, again and again and again. Value and quotient. Faster than everything. And finally, he saw the center of the Neot. The center he had painted on the surface with his mind was finally real before him. His heart leapt, for he had brought forth the center of the Neot. He had discovered the center of the Neot. It had emerged before him. Having exposed the center of the Neot without assistance, he nearly succumbed to ecstasy. He heard nothing. Joyfully, he punched the air. He had clenched and swung that fist countless times, and yet it somehow felt as though he had never made a fist before. Both fists were clenched. He was now more confident than ever. He stared silently at his fists, then closed his eyes. He heard no voices. When he opened his eyes and looked at the Neot again, its center was still burned into his sight. It had not disappeared. Heat shimmered around his arms. He saw his fist strike the Neot squarely in the center. Thud. He saw the Neot. Thud. Again, he swung precisely at the center of the Neot. This time with more force. Thud. He got warmer, and the heat around him shimmered even more. Thud thud. He was getting faster, he thought. Thud thud thud. He did not think he was witnessing his own power, but felt tremendous satisfaction at the act of witnessing. The more he delighted in himself, the Neot seemed to break, just a little more at a time. Sweat ran down his brow, but he did not realize it. He was elated, seized by a sense of stilted accomplishment, and the heat around him warmed him further. He heard nothing. He did not watch his actions. He did not think about himself. Thud thud. Thud thud. He was nearly reduced to his fists and the Neot, and he was breaking. The ground quaked each time his fists made thud thud contact with the Neot. Each time the ground quaked he felt himself quake. But he simply trembled with each synchronized quake. Now he could punch precisely at the center of the Neot. Each swing found its mark at the center of the Neot. He punched the center of the Neot, then punched the center of the Neot again. Thud. Thud. Thud. Thud. Faster. Thud thud thud thud thud thud thud thud a gust of wind sent dust flying into his eyes, but even as he blinked he refused to tear his eyes away. His eyes were locked on the center of the Neot. Countless repetitions later, he swung once more, and the Neot cracked. The crack emerged across the hollow core and grew instantly. Because he had swung his fists endlessly at that particular point, the center of the Neot, he witnessed clearly the moment the crack spread across the Neot. In that second, the crack extended like a bolt of lightning. One handspan, a handspan and a half, three handspans, more than three handspans and a half. The crack went on to the underside of the center. He wished he could see that moment again, for it had been so quick he could not savor it. Disappointed, he silently looked at the crack. Then he took several steps back to look again. Even from this distance, the crack was clearly visible. He looked up to gauge the potential direction of the crack. He craned his neck all the way. He found himself shutting his eyes because of the sun. It was a new day. He had punched away at the Neot all night. In the middle of the unlit plain, he had watched the center of the Neot throughout the night. He had not seen night, dawn, and morning. But he was breaking. All that mattered to him was that he had a goal, actions to take, and that there would be an outcome. With eyes shut, he stood tall before the Neot. The undersides of his eyelids were dry. Tears ran down his face. He realized that he had scarcely blinked throughout the night. Eyes sufficiently moist, he slowly opened his eyes. Before him was the Neot. The Neot he had watched all night. The center of the Neot was nowhere to be seen. What he now saw was the clear line. A line that had not been there before. The line had no color. Then he was struck by an insurmountable urge to drink water and relieve himself. He wanted to shout. It was a historic moment. He had achieved success with his own two hands alone. Although only he knew how long it had been since he’d last felt this accomplishment, he could not hold back his cry. He swallowed. Saliva kept on pooling in his mouth. He looked at the line. Once drawn, the line would not disappear. He wanted to witness his own power again. To the Neot, to the world beyond the Neot, he shouted, as though there was anyone there to hear, to watch.

    I made this.

    I made this.

    I made this.

    He was breaking. The act of witnessing his own power drove him to work without rest. The sound of himself was everything now. He swung a little harder, a little faster. Dawn broke and darkness fell and dawn broke again, on and on. Dawn broke and split and shattered and the dirt was blanketed in snow, which blanketed the statues and melted away. Streams of water ran down the statues. Stains were left behind. The statues were bathed in a red glow, then in darkness then in sparkling light. Meanwhile. Which statues resembled which and which statues were eroded by sand and which statues disappeared forever, he did not know. He did not think of the values he had never considered. To him, what was not was not, nothing more. He went on swinging his fists at the Neot, and his body grew neither cold nor hot. The cracks spread in every direction. Each traveled further than he expected. Thud thud. Thud thud. Thud thud. Uncountable nights later, he saw a hole. As he had driven his fists into the same spot over and over again, he had pictured the Neot splitting apart. It refused. He no longer thought about the Neot. The Neot was the boundary between yesterday and today. The Neot was the boundary between fear and fear. The Neot was the call of temptation and temptation itself. Soon he would see beyond the Neot and soon he would travel beyond the Neot. Nothing would stop him. With such thoughts in mind he swung his fists at the Neot without rest, then swung his fists some more, at which point he finally saw the hole. The end of the Neot. It could be nothing other than a hole in the Neot. There was no beam of light or whistling breeze, but he knew it simply had to be a hole. Rain hammered at the statues on the plain. In that moment, he could feel it, the Neot had been fully penetrated. Though unlike the moment the first crack appeared in the Neot, he felt his fist break through. He remembered clearly the sensation of his fist being stopped by the Neot. His fist would fly into the Neot with no more or less than all his power, then stop against the even greater power of the Neot. Tens of thousands of repetitions had taught him thus. Emil Cioran once said, Nescience is older and more powerful than all the gods combined. The Neot seemed rigid. The Neot seemed unyielding. The Neot seemed immense. It’s not not any of those things. He nearly lost his balance and fell. Quickly, he pulled back his fist. He had dug a sizeable cavern into the Neot. Please. Just once. Please. The fact that the base of the cavern was still blocked by the Neot had filled him with renewed determination each time. Zzbbkkiibb. But now there was a clear hole at the end of the cavern. He peered into the hole, slightly larger than his two fists. People everywhere made love. And stories. The hole was perfectly blocked. He scrutinized the blockage for an age before deciding to touch it. Gingerly, he reached toward the hole. When the tears well up, we reflexively close our eyes. He guessed at the texture of the thing he was about to touch and had a realization. He was already inside the Neot. I dig and I dig. His hands had touched the Neot countless times. With his fingertips he felt the thing blocking the hole in the Neot and realized. That his fists had never felt. Change of usage. He pulled back his hand. Stared intently at the hole. A texture. To his eyes, it looked clearly like a textile of a certain texture. Thanks for all your hard work. The texture he sensed with the tips of his fingers. He stared down at his swollen red hands. Quit talking and get back to mopping the floor. At his calloused knuckles. The temperature of the thing he touched clung to his palm. He clenched his fists. The panting of a dog running into its master’s arms. That’s. I think. That’s. A thin woolen coat. That was what it felt like. The greater the mass, the greater the friction. A low-quality woolen coat. A black coat. Although only he knew if he possessed such a coat. The mass of ancient disregard. To his eyes, it was clearly a black coat. Though he had no idea why a black coat blocked the Neot, it was clearly a black coat. I can tell from just the laugh. And if someone was wearing that coat, the coat was someone’s back. There are all sorts of twists and knots here. If he swung at that coat, it would instantly turn, swing back at him, and faces would break and blood would flow and someone might die. Why won’t you think of the kids? He stared at the coat, the thing that might be someone’s back, the thing that blacked the hole he’d given all to make. Hello? Who’s there? He almost asked, but did not. Instead, he strained his ears. Instantly, all was silent. He was still on this side of the Neot, and he still did not know who was beyond. It was quiet. With the fists he’d swung, he gave the black coat a push. It refused to budge. He reached out with both arms, heaving all his strength into his palms. It refused to budge. He placed all his weight behind his palms and pushed. The black coat did not move or turn or make a sound. He heard nothing. Fuck. What the fuck. He shook out his arms, hopped two or three times on the spot, and spoke nonsense to himself to relieve the tension. What the fuck. Fuck. The curses tumbled from his lips. Fuck. He clenched his fists tight. Felt his body cool. His hands even felt cold. That the Neot was wearing the same kind of coat he might have owned did not make the Neot not a Neot. It’s almost like. He no longer needed to concern himself with such things. He sensed blood in his fists. He shut his eyes. And just like before, he swung at the Neot. He heard no words. He swung at the Neot. He swung at the Neot. Clouds of dust rose into the air. He held his breath and swung. He heard nothing. He swung. The moment his fist went through without bouncing back, he opened his eyes. He strained to pull back his fist. It was stuck and refused to budge. This time, he put all his weight into the pull. The Neot’s hold on his fist was so strong that his shoulder nearly popped. He placed his soles against the Neot and lay back. He was afraid. Cold sweat ran down his body. Fuck. He screamed. He heard nothing but his own voice. He took the center of his gravity entirely off the ground. In that instant, his fist came dislodged, and he fell. His whole body ached as he lay there. He panted loudly. Looked at his dislodged fist. Though it was unharmed, he was furious. He wanted to howl.

    The Neot is a Neot.

    The Neot is a Neot.

    The Neot is a Neot.

    Inside the cavernous Neot was silence. He rose. Glared at the Neot. Before him now was a hole as big as he. He wound back and swung again, this time avoiding the point where he’d driven his fists before. Because he swung more softly than before, it slipped free easily. He whipped his fists in and out. He swung. Swung at the Neot beyond the Neot blocking his way. The Neot that had swallowed his fist again and again soon became pulp. Penetrated. So natural and quick was the process that it seemed almost like a fleeting future glimpsed long ago. In an instant, he made it through the Neot. Beheld the pulp that remained. His heart seemed to hold its breath. He clenched his fists. He heard nothing. Fuck it, what the hell. This was the end, he thought. He threw his entire weight behind one final punch at the air, driving his fist faster than it had ever flown. In that moment, he nearly fell forward. It was because he’d lunged without an iota of fear of the Neot. Therefore he nearly lost his balance. His fist hit nothing. The black coat. There was no black coat. He had reflexively shut his eyes a moment before contact and therefore had not seen when it disappeared. The beginning and end of the work. A certain singular determination, imagination, and thought. The puncture was effortless. Nothing stopped him or made demands. The thing before him. What the. He turned to face the hole through which he entered. He spat in the hole. He swung another fist at the hole. He was empty. He took a step. Passed through the hole in the Neot as though crossing a line in the dirt. The second he made it through, he whirled around. Again swung his fist. The hole was definitely there. Again, he passed through the hole. The second he made it through, he turned again. He had to see the Neot. The cavern he made, before he left through the gap. Beyond the Neot he had crossed. When he turned, he still faced the Neot and the darkness that seemed to be the hole. He was exhausted. Heard nothing. Mm. He intoned. The sound disappeared without returning to him. He took several steps back. Mm. It was silent. He thought he could see more of the Neot now. Mm. Because he stood facing the Neot, the Neot was before him. There must be a center and outskirts. He thought back yet again. The hole he made. The center of the Neot. In an instant, he crossed the darkness. With the hole in the Neot behind him, he walked forward. Quickly escaped the cavern. A dusty wind came blowing. He held his breath. On the top of his head, his shoulders, the tops of his feet, Neot. Neot. Neot. Neot. The sensation of swinging his fists tugged at his arms. Thud thud. Thud thud. He thought he could hear something. Thud, thud, thud, thud. Maybe it wasn’t a hallucination. In the darkness would be the statues. The rain had long since ceased. In the darkness, he recognized a familiar statue. Lhotse. Makalu. Manaslu. It’s a. White. Black. Of the soul. He absolutely knew of something resembling it, and that was Thuja. Forsythia. Hornbeam. Destruction. Perhaps he mixed up the statue for something else because of the darkness. More different things. Sexual. Romance. Sexual. A short distance away were slightly smaller statues. Evens and odds. A row of identically-sized statues. This is. Actively. Disintegrated. Oblivion. In the end, he could not recall its name. All he could repeat was that it resembled something. He went on. Circling around Determined, perversion, ancient, fantasy, something resembling it. Something. Something. That doesn’t exist. A more familiar statue further ahead. There was a statue that reminded him of a Neot. But now it looked nothing like a Neot, he thought. It was much too long ago. Something that was not. No such thing existed. He had succeeded in breaking the Neot, and the Neot clearly had a hole through it. When he thought of the hole in the Neot, he swelled with accomplishment and his vision seemed to clear. He wanted to see it once more. The hole in the Neot, as big as he was. The power. The drive. Without walking, he returns immediately to the Neot, as in truth, he has not taken a single step. The return journey is omitted. Without staring further at the darkness beyond the Neot, he whirls around. In an instant, the statues on the plain, the statues dotting the darkness, disappear. But before he can complete his turn, A strike. He falls. He is lying flat. Stopping him is nothing. Was not nothing. Was not nothing. Was not nothing. As though still lost among the statues, he thinks yet again in repetition. Of forgotten. Forgotten things. The smell of burning mackerel. All he knows is that it has been piercing the same point for a very long time. Perfect accuracy. Unerring aim. Vaguely, he thinks. You. His arms remember his fists. Remembers him, who was almost entirely his own fists. The push. The bend. The plain. Statues, endlessly littering the darkness. One black statue next to another. One big statue next to an even bigger statue. Statues dotting the plain. Black statues and black statues. Dark statues and even darker statues, endlessly on a ground swept by gusts of dirt. One after another. The wind ruffles his hair. His eyes are shut. He hears nothing. He can no longer escape into reality. Although only he knew what exactly he had wanted. Despair will not break. Thud. Thud. Thud. Thud. Thud thud thud thud. It may not be a hallucination after all. He does not think.

Translated by Slin Jung