The Divine Sharpness In the Heart of God

By Karin Spirn

The sordid history of Gavin Cheng-Johnson and Rona Gomez. Includes never-before-seen excerpts from the works of Liam Stump.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Lulu.com
• Release date: Sep 29, 2014
• ISBN: 9781312559530

Book preview

The Divine Sharpness In the Heart of God

The Divine Sharpness in the Heart of God

Karin Spirn

Copyright © 2014 by Karin Spirn

All rights reserved. This book or any portion thereof may not be reproduced or used in any manner whatsoever without the express written permission of the publisher except for the use of brief quotations in a book review or scholarly journal.

Cover design and painting by Adam Hunter Caldwell

ISBN 978-1-312-54067-5

Chapter 1

The problem is that here in the United States, students tend to be so open that sooner or later, if you are kind to them, they even start to ask you personal questions, like private problems, could you help them. So what should I tell them? ‘I don’t care. Kill yourself.’ It’s not my problem. —Slavoj Žižek.

* * *

Gavin Cheng-Johnson knew the link would be pornography, but he clicked it anyway. His roommate Sinder always sent him student-teacher porn on the first day of class, kind of a back-to-school tradition. The room was empty, probably a safe twenty minutes until anyone would show up. He was supposed to be reviewing his notes, but there wasn’t much to review: read the syllabus aloud, introduce the themes of the course, establish a no-nonsense teacherly persona and strict sense of discipline that could be relaxed later in the term, once it was clear who the good students and the bad students were.

He dropped his bag next to one of the uncomfortable chairs, sat down, set his phone on the tiny fold-out writing desk. Double-checked that it was on silent before he tapped the URL in Sinder’s text message.

Yeah, it was porn.

A tiny Asian girl, skinny-skinny with straight black hair, one of those girls that you knew legally had to be at least eighteen but you couldn’t quite believe it. Not Gavin’s type, too small and young, but her outfit was cute. Short plaid skirt, sneakers, a really polite-looking collared shirt that still managed to cling to her tiny boobs. The teacher was a white guy in a track suit. She put her hands on her hips, said something, gave him a note which he tore up and threw on the ground. Next thing you know they were fucking on the desk.

These were really way better without the sound.

This is, um, English? It was a tall dude with pimples, peering in the door. Gavin threw the phone into his bag with the video still playing.

You’re early, he said. And then, to sound more welcoming, You can sit anywhere.

* * *

Welcome to English 1A, the university’s introductory composition course blah, blah, blah. This course is required for all students who have not passed the advanced placement exam with a score of four or higher.

Gavin looked up from the syllabus. Twenty faces stared back at him, twenty blank slates, young and unformed, cautious and hopeful.

So yeah, that’s you guys, he said.

Their chairs were arranged in the customary composition semicircle, blue stapled copies of the syllabus on each fold-out desk. No one super interesting: six or seven Brandons in crisp new baseball caps, a bouncy batch of Ashleys in boob shirts. Some prissy-looking Asian kids. One black guy. A few nerds with boxy t-shirts and bad hair, including the guy who showed up half an hour early.

Let’s see. More than four absences is grounds for being dropped according to university policy, two tardies count as an absence, if you miss class don’t email me, email a classmate. Check, check, check. What else.

He could hear the boredom, butts squirming on chairs. First days were always like this. They started out with excitement of newness, the possibility of something interesting. He’d gotten dressed early, put on a jacket even, the only day he’d do that. Studied himself in the mirror. He looked okay—not skinny, definitely, but at least sort of stately and trim. He fluffed his hair up with his fingers. A good hair day, more Euro than Asian, a little curl even. His face was moonlike as always but not too puffy, a hint of cheekbone.

Every section of English 1A has a theme. Here came the important part. He looked over the top of the syllabus to make sure everyone was paying attention. Our section will engage in a post-structural analysis of the works of playwright Liam Stump.

He looked up, hopeful, the final shred of hope. Please. Let there be one face smiling in recognition, pleasure even. Just one. Please.

Nothing.

Has anyone ever read anything by Liam Stump?

Blankness, boredom, a thin streak of controlled terror.

Well, he said, clearing his throat as he lowered his expectations. "Has anyone ever heard of Liam Stump?"

One of the Brandons raised his hand, not all the way up, but high enough to expose a tuft of frizzy armpit hair. His shirt said Pure Protein Explosion and the sleeves were ripped off.

Okay, you. What’s your name?

The Brandon looked from side to side. Me? Braden.

Figures. Braden the Brandon. Gavin had had Brandons named Brandon and Ashleys named Ashley a bunch of times, but he couldn’t recall another Brandon named Braden. A Jayden, a Jackson, a bunch of Aidens, but no Braden.

I think they did one of his plays at my high school. Braden chewed hard on his gum for a few seconds, his mouth ajar. It had a name like…

Gavin waited for whatever this was going to be. He’d bet his Mellon fellowship that it wasn’t one of Stump’s. It would have to be a pretty freaking weird high school.

It was like something about birds or flying…I don’t know. Maybe that wasn’t it.

I guess not, Gavin said.

Divine…

Aha!

The Divine…somethingness… Gavin could see the wad of Smurf-blue gum sticking to his front bottom molars as he chewed.

"The Divine Sharpness in the Heart of God," Gavin cut in. Sorry, but dude, painful.

Yeah, said Braden.

Do you remember anything about it?

I didn’t see it. My buddy saw it. His girlfriend was in it.

Right, figures. Gavin was working on not being discouraging—that word had appeared several times in his most recent teaching evaluation—so he stopped himself mid-eye-roll and pretended to be checking out something on the ceiling. But really, how quickly that dream was crushed. Ridiculous.

That’s the wrong play, he said. "There aren’t any women in The Divine Sharpness."

But Braden’s brain had shifted into high gear, or whatever the Brandon equivalent was, maybe some kind of extra-high gear with really low output like they’d use in one of those small trucks with giant tires. He said the whole thing was inside a bloody red heart. And the heart was beating the whole time, and it was, like, spraying blood all over the place.

Okay, yeah, said Gavin. That’s it.

It had to be, right? Maybe they had switched the gender of the characters. There wasn’t any reason Bo and Mi had to played by men, not technically. Probably the director just couldn’t find any guys. High school theater was more of a girl thing.

"So, right. The Divine Sharpness is indeed set inside a giant, beating heart. Gavin smiled at the really smooth segue he was about to make. What theme do you think could be embodied by that setting?" Right, the theme. This was what he wanted to spend the first day talking about.

One of the Ashleys raised her hand, which made the tops of her boobs bounce around. It wasn’t his fault for looking. He had been informed of the university’s sexual harassment policy and everything, but seriously, they were about to fall out of her shirt.

Is it love? She had one of those panda bear faces with the big, dark eyes. Now see, this was Gavin’s type, at least for girls in porn videos.

And you are, he said.

Kayla, she said, matter-of-fact like she had expected this question and was used to answering it often. Gavin found her on the roster and marked an A for Ashley.

Well, Kayla, it could be love. But can we abstract that a bit? Can anyone think of a larger epistemological issue represented by the heart?

He looked over at the nerdy kids, the only ones who might have a shot at this.  They were staring down at their notebooks. One grim-looking nerd girl all in black was taking frantic notes, her left hand curled into a claw around her pencil.

Maybe they needed a hint.

Something about how the heart functions as a symbol? A symbol of our emotions. Like love, as Kayla said. A shy smile from her, totally worth it to work her idea in.

But the heart is also a physical part of our bodies. Does that bring anything to mind? Anything about how the brain and the body exist in tension with one another? Anything about the dichotomy of subject and object?

Fuck, he always did that.

"Well, actually, I guess that’s what I was looking for. The dichotomy of subject and object. The subject referring to what we call ego, consciousness, that which makes judgments and initiates actions. The object referring to what is passive, receptive, lacking sentience. Humans, of course, are both subjects and objects, in that we both act and are acted upon. But we like to think of ourselves as subjects, not objects."

Wow, he was seriously losing them. They were staring at their desks, at the wall above his head, out the window. The nerd girl was still writing, but he was getting the feeling it wasn’t exactly class notes. Kayla had her arm stuck deep into the front pocket of her book bag, doing something with her phone.

"The subject/object dichotomy will be one of the major themes for our class. We’ll be using it as a lens through which to analyze plays like The Divine Sharpness, No No Not Now, and my personal favorite, Time Slide. But what’s really fascinating about this dichotomy—"

The drama of his pause wasn’t entirely artificial. What he was about to reveal was the central premise of his dissertation, the argument he would stake his career upon. He felt the chill of vulnerability spread through his upper chest, as though he were about to divulge this most sacred part of his identity to a hiring committee at the Modern Language Association convention instead of a room full of undergraduates whose opinions, thankfully, didn’t count for jack shit. He scanned the room. No eye contact. None at all. Whatever, fuck them anyway. Not here to make friends, etcetera.

What’s fascinating are the times when this dichotomy falls apart. When the boundaries between subject and object dissolve, when no matter how hard we try to enforce those distinctions between self and other, me and you, we just can’t manage to keep them separate anymore.

Professor Cheng-Johnson. One of the Asian students raised his hand.

I’m not a professor. I’m a GSI—that’s graduate student instructor. You can call me Gavin.

Okay. Gavin. He didn’t have an accent, but he looked really polite, the way Chinese people from China looked. No one in Gavin’s family looked like that, not even his grandma, who was definitely from China but was sarcastic as fuck.

What’s up, Gavin said.

You left out an ‘s’ in the word ‘assignment.’ On page three. He pointed at the blue syllabus.

Thanks, Gavin said. Dickhead. He didn’t know the kid’s name or he’d put a D next to it. So, give it some thought before next class: what is neither a subject nor an object? It might not sound very interesting to you. But if you stick around and do the reading, well…

Students yawning, texting with their phones under their desks, doodling crazy stoner squiggles all over the blue handouts. What he was about to say was a lie, but he so, so wanted it not to be.

I think this should be a pretty interesting semester for all of us.

Chapter 2

ACT I, SCENE I

A lengthy slide, much larger than the kind found in a children’s play yard, descends from stage right to left. Both ends of the slide extend past the proscenium, so that no beginning or end is visible. Two men sit on the slide, unmoving. Thomas McGrew IV is higher and closer to stage right. Thomas McGrew III is lower and closer to stage left. The rest of the stage is dark.

TMG IV: How long has it been?

TMG III (Checks his watch): A minute.

A minute of silence.

TMGIV: How long now?

TMGIII (Checks his watch): A minute.

Two minutes of silence.

TMGIV: And now?

TMGIII (Checks his watch): A year.

TMGIV: A year?

TMGIII: They go by quickly sometimes.

TMGIV: They never used to.

TMGIII: It will only get worse.

A minute of silence.

TMGIV: How long?

TMGIII (Checks his watch): An hour. (Holds up his wrist) You should get one of

these.

TMGIV: Don’t believe in them. Too oppressive.

TMGIII: Well, if you don’t want to know, you should stop asking.

TMGIV: I will. I’ll stop.

A minute of silence.

TMGIII: That was a week.

TMGIV: Thank you.

* * *

Oh, professor. A breathy voice, a male Marilyn Monroe, called out from the next room. I want to feel you inside of me.

Is this how we say hello now?

Gavin closed the front door behind him, threw his book bag onto the couch and sat down to unzip his snow boots.

Suck on my tits!

Hold on, Gavin yelled.

Sinder rolled out of his bedroom on his desk chair, his computer on his lap. He handed it to Gavin. It smelled like coffee and dirty laundry.

Hit play, he said. "You’re gonna freak out."

Gavin took his time pulling off his gloves. They were Italian lambskin. Six years ago, right before he moved from California to Indiana, he had used part of his first stipend check to buy a dapper winter wardrobe of items he had never owned before: heavy wool coat, insulated boots, cashmere scarf and hat in matching austere gray. Only the gloves remained, the frayed fingertips revealing glimmers of red silk lining. They were the last symbol of a forgotten dream, the dream of embracing the Midwest with dignity, with the romance of an anthropologist, being in the place but not of it. Now he wore a waterproof Gore-Tex ski parka from House of Coats just like everyone else in New Buffalo. Indiana was all about good deals and practicality, and only some kind of insufferable narcissist would choose their clothing based on wanting it to look good.

Come on. Sinder poked him hard in the shoulder. Play. Play. Play. He was a normally dusky, that kind of slight Indian guy with dark skin that glistened like he put oil on it. But right now he was pale and sweaty and his hair was all mushed onto his head like he’d been sleeping in a ski hat.

Have you been watching porn all day? Gavin asked. Tell me the truth.

This—Sinder pointed at the screen—"is the best one ever. You will not be disappointed!"

It had been two point five years since Sinder had moved in, two point two five years since they had embarked upon their mission to watch every student-teacher porno ever created and Gavin hadn’t been disappointed yet. The research process was grueling of course, but it had resulted in an archive whose scope, Gavin felt quite certain, was unparalleled in breadth and complexity. It was a nice hobby for two definitely-straight roommates to share, easier than taking up exercise or a sport, and it kept them from talking about things like formal logic all the time. But Sinder’s qualifying exams were in a month, and Gavin really didn’t want him to get kicked out of graduate school, which is what would happen if he didn’t pass. Sometimes Sinder seemed to be studying with manic intensity, but then sometimes it seemed like he was just getting way too high on caffeine and playing a lot of Tetris.

Sinder reached across Gavin’s lap and started the video. The girl was soft and broad-shouldered, and her boobs had probably been big even before the implants. She was wearing tight but unflattering clothes that looked like they were about to fall off. The guy was there, too. He basically looked like a guy.

Oh, professor, the girl said. I really enjoy your class. I find it extremely stimulating.

The guy adjusted his ugly brown necktie. Stimulating? Well, I hope it’s not too stimulating.


She seated herself on his desk. You could tell by the length of her skirt that her bare ass cheeks were touching the desk’s surface. I can handle it, she said. The only thing is, I’m having a lot of trouble with my term paper.

The one due next week?

Sinder was clutching Gavin’s arm like he had just won a beauty pageant. Something exciting. Maybe the professor had a twelve-inch dick. Maybe the girl had one. As long as it didn’t involve shit, Gavin was cool with it. Shit was okay when you were drunk or just feeling really resilient. Not right after your first class of the semester.


Yes, the girl said. "The one analyzing Liam Stump’s The Divine Sharpness in the Heart of God. I’ve been working on it so hard. I was up all last night. My back is really sore."

I’ll show you some Divine Sharpness, murmured the professor. Sinder let go of Gavin’s arm and punched it.

Holy fucking shit, Gavin thought. He wasn’t going to say it out loud because Sinder looked up to him as kind of an unflappable badass.


What was that? said the girl to the professor.

Nothing, sorry. Just talking to myself. Let’s have a look at that sore back of yours. The video jumped, and now the girl was naked and sucking the guy’s dick. It wasn’t twelve inches, just normal, and he had a little potbelly.

Yeah, I found you Liam Stump porn, Sinder said. I am the best roommate ever.

You are the best roommate ever.

Liam Stump porn, Sinder said again. He slouched low in the rolling chair, held his face in his hands, watched the screen. The guy was on top of her now, in and out, kind of hypnotic. They watched for a few minutes, not saying anything. This part was always awkward, when the people in the movie stopped talking but you felt like you had to watch until the end. Gavin usually spaced out, let his eyes blur, thought about his dissertation or tomorrow’s lesson plan or whatever.

Class today was just like this, right? Sinder asked.

Especially this part. Gavin pointed at the screen where—oh, yikes, cunnalingus. When did that start? He moved the computer from his lap to the coffee table. Not that he didn’t think women should receive sexual pleasure or anything, just he didn’t like seeing all that tongue and labia so up-close.

Let me guess. Sinder put his fingers to his temples and channeled psychic frequencies. Your students loved the Stump, right?

The guy ejaculated all over the girl’s face. Freeze—the video automatically forwarded to another porn, with two guys and girl.  Sinder let it keep playing, but they didn’t watch it. They didn’t watch porn together, except student-teacher.

You should have seen their faces light up when I announced it, Gavin said. It was like Christmas.

It was all super-hot chicks, right? Just like— He pointed at the screen. The girl was licking semen off a blindfold.

Well, Gavin said.

Oh my god. Sinder planted his feet hard on the tan carpet and rolled his chair forward and back. There were hot chicks? What did they look like? Did you talk to them?

Kayla’s panda face appeared in Gavin’s mind, a strong jolt like he could feel the soft skin of her chest, smell her neck. His face was turning red like some kind of fucking undergraduate; he could feel it.

A gentleman never tells, he said.

Please. Sinder ran his thin brown fingers through his sweaty hair, making it stand straight up on top of his head. His eyes were bloodshot and his pupils were the size of dimes. I’ve been reading Kant for seventy-two hours. I haven’t slept in three nights. Please.

It was this one Ashley. Gavin wasn’t much for bragging about his romantic life, but if it would cheer Sinder up. She seemed into me. I’ll ask her out, you know, once the semester gets going. Probably not true but you never knew, and anyway it made a better story.

Aw, man, said Sinder, launching himself three feet backwards. You always get all the women. Which definitely wasn’t true, but Gavin liked how Sinder thought of him that way.

Chapter 3

Someone was knocking at the office door, just as Gavin was about to play the most epic internet Scrabble word ever:

Žižek!!!

On a triple-word score, snap! And sure, one of the Z’s was really a blank tile, but the other one was worth ten points, and the K was worth five, and all told it had to be worth at least fifty. Žižek was perhaps the only philosopher with a Z (besides Nietzsche, which had too many letters). Gavin had been gunning for this word ever since Sinder chose the theme: Lacanian psychoanalysis. He always picked something mega-specific like that: The Frankfurt School, sociolinguistics, 1960s French philosophy.

When it was Gavin’s turn to choose, he preferred more general themes—comic books, music, hockey—something you could get a little creative with.  For the theme of time, he had allowed Sinder to get away with money. But if Gavin played something like Habermas for the topic of postmodernism, Sinder would get all, Habermas was opposed to postmodernism! Yes, duh—he was a famous opponent of postmodernism. If that didn’t fit the theme, then maybe Gavin didn’t understand what a theme was. It’s not like he had used Cicero or poodle or something.

The office, shared by all the English graduate student instructors, was ugly and undecorated, crammed tight with coffee-stained desks and giant industrial bookcases housing nothing except a few stray copies of the school literary anthology and some old journals nobody wanted. But this semester he had gotten smart and scheduled his office hour at 5pm on Tuesday. That got him some privacy and unchallenged access to the office’s sole computer.

The door to the office had a giant window in it, which Gavin had been told was for his own protection. Someone was knocking on it, really gentle like she was afraid to break her fist on the glass. It was that nerd girl from English 1A, the somber one who scribbled in her notebook all through class. As soon as Gavin looked up at her, she tried the door handle, but it was locked. He switched the computer screen from Scrabble to The Chronicle of Higher Education and opened the door.

Did you have a question about something?

Bits of snow were melting trails down her combat boots, her long black skirt, her hair, which was also long but not in a good way, making little puddles on the carpet in the hall. She had a gray backpack slung over one shoulder and a giant black pea coat over the other. She looked like she had come to seek shelter in the office.

A question? Her mouth, which was kind of frowny to begin with, turned down at the corners. No, not really. I just wanted to talk about some things you said in class.

During the first week of the semester, Gavin said. I believe this is unprecedented.

She glanced at the computer screen. I’m sorry. I can come back another time if you’re busy.

See, that’s what his evaluator was talking about. Discouraging.  The GSIs were always complaining about passive, complacent students, and here was this girl, wanting to discuss ideas from the class. Granted, class had only met once and there was absolutely nothing to discuss yet, but he wasn’t going to get hung up about that. The university was paying him seventeen dollars to sit in this office being available for an hour, and be available he would!

He slid a stained chair over from one of the empty desks, grinning like a concierge. No, come in, sit.

She balanced herself on the chair’s edge, with her bag and coat piled high on her lap. Her back was very straight and she looked ready to make a quick escape.

Comfortable? Need some water or anything? he asked.

She shook her head, which was good because he didn’t know where to get her any, other than offering it from his own aluminum bottle, which he had just filled from the strange humming water fountain down the hall.

So, what’s on your mind?

She waited a moment, eyeing him nervously as though to make sure his question was sincere. Spit it out, he wanted to say, like as a friendly joke, but she would probably take it the wrong way.

When she finally spoke, her voice was low and scratchy. I was thinking. She cleared her throat, which made her louder but not less scratchy. I was thinking about that question you asked at the beginning of class yesterday. About what’s neither a subject or an object.

You were? When Gavin told them to think about it, he didn’t expect them to take it literally, to actually think about it. It was a rhetorical expression meaning I’ve run out of time so we’ll talk about this next class. Everyone knew that.

"I think the answer—is it thoughts?"

The answer? There wasn’t an answer. It was just a question, something to interrogate, examine. A thought experiment, as it were. And actually the answer was the abject, but that would take way too long to explain right now.

Thoughts, he said.

Well, I was thinking. She pulled a long tangly strand of brown hair from the front to the back of her head. "Thoughts are the only things that can make you go beyond your reality. Like if you don’t like where you are, you can think about someplace else, and in a way it’s like you’re there. Or if you are hungry but you’re not supposed to eat anything, you can think of the taste of food, and for your brain, that might be the same thing as actually tasting it. So thinking is a way to create objects that only exist in your brain—the subject."

Why aren’t you supposed to eat anything?

Her frown, which had started to disappear, crept back across her face.

"For whatever reason, like you’re allergic or on