Work in Progress

Work in Progress is a short story by Lupe Fiasco. He posted three excerpts to his website, beginning with "The Times" on August 4, 2011."The Times...An Excerpt From A "Work In Progress"". LupeFiasco.com. August 4, 2011. This followed by "The Dispatch," which was published on August 5th, and "The XXL," published on August 7th.
== Text ==
=== "The Times" ===
The Times…
Stepping out into the square the first thing noticed is the emptiness. Odd because the square is crawling with people. It is at maximum capacity. It is full. The emptiness is not the lack of objects but the lack of substance. The lack of purpose. Odd again because the square is full of things to do. It is bustling with all forms of entertainment and engagement. It is full of purpose. The dual nature of the square leads one to cancel out attempts at identifying the true nature of the square because at once it is undefinable and also defines itself thoroughly. The purpose of the square is nothing that feels like something. The square is ornate but lacks artistic appeal. The ornate gilding and filigree is mere reproduction of some original romantic or oriental design. It mimics authenticity but by its very unnatural production it is stripped of any authentic merit. Its placement among the modern structures and fixtures screams out that it doesn't belong even though it's just as modern as they are age-wise. It betrays itself. It cancels itself out.
Nothing can be added to the square. Things are only taken by the square. Everything in the square costs some portion of oneself. Time is taken in the square and paid to the relentless marketing stalls, signage and campaigns. Money is taken in the square by the ceaseless vending machines of unnecessary items. Life is not taken in the square though. Life is exchanged. Your non-square life in exchange for the glamour and speed of the square's life. There is a glut of communication in the square but no talking. No conversation. Merely questions about the state of your present affairs and the opportunity to modify them for a time. The chance to become beautiful, fashionable, important, happy, desirable, entrained, perfect. In short all the things you were not before you entered the square.
The food of the square is delicious and plentiful, if you can afford it. The price of this sustenance is high at the start of the day but the value depreciates over its course as the food rushes to its inevitable rottenness. Its own self-destructive unsuitability. However If you don't mind the taste of waste you can maintain a rather balanced diet in the square. As you see even as the food becomes waste it is forbidden to be given as well. It must be re-purposed. From valuable to valueless in the course of 24 hours. But its value never drops to point of free. Freedom must be paid for. The calculations of the square's mathematicians can be utterly cruel. The true acidic nature of the square bubbles ominously beneath its cool surface. The power to strip value at an ever increasing pace is the squares most constant attribute.
The square is overflowing with life. Bursting at the seams with life. It is an overload of life. So much so that once one leaves the life of the square it is hard to find a comparable intensity of life elsewhere. The life of the square kills off the life of everything outside of it but at the same time feeds off this outside life as well. The square secretes a life-giving poison. An unnatural paradox made all the more conflicting because of the squares peaceful pronouncements. But all the time the square is at war. The square is constantly at war with the world outside of it and the worlds that continually traverse within its borders. A war waged with peaceful weapons in the hands of friendly homicidal maniacs. A war of sensory imperialism. A war for resources to keep the square at war. Lo and Behold the death's head of the square!
The square is constantly surveilled. The square although constantly courageous in its raw self-expressiveness lives under constant fear. The fear of any unauthorized self-expression by others. Watching others for anything asymmetrical, learning from them, assimilating them if they are of value or removing them if they are not. The square does not fear its destruction. It lives in fear of being forgotten. So it is ever inventive of ways to remind others of its existence. Redundantly in competition with itself to out do its previous incarnation of itself. Forever mutating and evolving. Sacrificing its own limbs and memories in hopes of staying on the minds of its transient inhabitants. "To forget to remember" is its mission statement for this process.
The current genesis of the square is its most profound and applauded by its designers as its finest moment. The mobilization of the square. The ability of the square to exist outside of itself, implanted in the minds and hearts of all those who have ever entered its domain. A parasitic relationship between itself and us. It moves as we move and ultimately we move as it influences us to move. Our perspective is its perspective. It has become one with us. So now we are also at constant war with ourselves. We are constantly chasing a newer, better self-identity abandoning any former substantial definitions to the scrap heap of obsolescence no matter how pertinent they are to our continued survival. We apply and remove value irregardless of impact to the world at rates that Geiger counters would fail to measure with any surety. We are truly radioactive. Decaying in decadence. The square is us, full of emptiness.
I was at the airport in Chicago. I went to use the restroom. When I was done I went to wash my hands. When I looked up from the sink into the mirror I saw an advertisement instead of my reflection. It was one of the most honest and terrifying points of my life. We've come full circle in the square.
=== "The Dispatch" ===
The Dispatch...
I went out and visited with the collateral damage today. It says "Hi" and that everything is great. The optimism of the collateral damage knows no bounds and should be applauded for its lack of even a hair of despair. Upon the first sight of me the collateral damage exploded into thunderous applause. It shot headfirst into cheering and a pleasant albeit foreign whistling that filled the air with the audible scent of sweet daisies, a strange description I suspect most would reach if one were to try to find a comparable sensation in the realm of flora.
I was literally pulled into one of many fine homes of the collateral damage and at once noticed how airy and free of obstruction it was. The sun beamed in from every vantage it could find illuminating the entire inner dwelling in a natural morning fire that would put all the chandelier and candelabra of Versailles to shame. The collateral damage then relaxed itself in the most odd positions to and fro around the house and floor wherever comfort was to be possessed. Yogic contortions and asymmetrical postures of the most delightful and exotic origin. I can only describe it as a dance minus movement. From these positions, of which I was welcomed to try but for the life of me was hopelessly unable to mimic, the collateral damage spoke in the oddest measures and beats. Furthermore chatter was about the most random and roundabout things. It was as if I were not in the room at all. From what I deciphered, the moments right after the previous nights meal had to be of significant importance as it was the only topic of conversation. Spoken about up to a point then abruptly stopped mid-word then rewound and started again. Initially the cultural practices and habits of the collateral damage don't lend themselves easily to crossing the divide of opposing customs but after a while of just casual attendance the finer points can be deduced to a satisfactory medium of understanding.
Upon leaving that home I was greeted almost immediately by a group of adolescent collateral damage. They were dressed in the most vibrant crimson and cinnamon colored clothing, the preferred palette of the collateral damage, with hints of sooty blacks and dusty grays strategically placed here and there. Their faces were painted in like suit. It was reminiscent of sights once seen at a tribal ceremony where no expense was spared on the pageantry. But this was the everyday attire of the collateral damage children. What grandeur! What excess! It was truly a sight to behold. So spoiled they must be by such extravagance. The little collateral damage then invited me to play a game in which one simply fell to the ground and laid quite still in much the same distorted fashion that the collateral damage assumes when relaxing and having conversation. Again for the life of me I was unable to participate much to the censored displeasure of the small collateral damage. Luckily I had a secret weapon on my person of the confectionary kind and was soon able to rally unshakable support from them again.
I felt such a remorse in having to leave such a peaceful place populated by so many lively souls. But if the rates of growth of collateral damage is anything to go by, soon collateral damage will be as close as the neighborhood corner market or the local senior citizens home. I further suspect we will soon be able to live harmoniously in communities where proud families of collateral damage heritage share in our honored traditions and pastimes and vice versa. A seamless merging where we will become them and they will become us. A time when we can spoil our children in the same manner of colorful dress and relax as they do. An era where xenophobia of every flavor will be effectively wiped out because all will be one and the same. A place where damages of all forms collateral, intended and scheduled can prosper and grow. Our schools will be filled with collateral damage and that will be just fine. It is a fanciful vision of the future I know, but soon all will be able to say with sincerity of heart, "My neighbors, my co-workers, my teachers, my lover, my friends, my family and my world are all collateral damage and so am I!"
=== "The XXL" ===
The XXL...
Its by far the best of times. There is so much to choose from. Endless choice. An abundance of delicacies. Filling the void should be easy. And what a hungry void it is! And as deep as it is hungry but by the time i'm finished with it it will be stuffed to the brim. By the forkful and by the forklift it will be satisfied. And there is so much more to be piled upon satisfaction as well. Layer after layer. No other time can compare to the surplus of these present hours. No other place can even begin to compare tallies of gorgeous, delectable things.
We are leaps and bounds ahead of the nearest and so far ahead of the farthest, one is presupposed to even question their very existence. To the limits we go. Bulging ever further from our cores. Pushing our borders into territories as of yet unknown. Growing ever so gargantuan. Swelling and puffing from the intake of the wide array of delights. I envy not those who lack. I pity them. The only thing that pulls me from the depths of complete sorrow for their plight is the ever comforting pillow of mine own plump abundance. If i could wish away their ghastly slim inhabitance I would not refrain even an atom's weight from doing just that service.
My expedience of action pours out of my humane mercy and out of due responsibility over the potential forfeiture of my own amounts. But most of all my decency in regards to matters of humiliation of others. If i could devour up their unfitness I would do so immediately. I would eat their despair. I would dine on their misery. I would swallow whole the entirety of their abject wretchedness. I would add them to my ever expanding girth. They would become me. And in becoming me they too would feast upon the mouth-watering mass of scrumptious objects. Their palettes would be corrected to discern and detect the honest flavor of substances. The impartiality of their backward gastronomic philosophies would breakdown under the weight of a refined, imperial gourmet sensibility. It moves me to near flooding of my saucers and bowls with tears of joy to have such prophetic knowledge of their future ascension into grace. The rise into the face of civility.
The passage into the mouth of dignity. The regal traverse through the necks of enlightenment. The heroes welcome into the belly of royalty. Look at those faces, so innocent, so pure. I could just gobble them up. The crisis that would arise in aftermath would only be one of "What next?" "WHAT NEXT INDEED?!!" My eyes sharply lift from the empty plate in shock and horror. Until this moment I hadn't pondered this consequence with any serious depth. How did the elephantine gravity of such an impending emergency elude me with such stealth of existence? How will I survive once they have all been eaten? It empties me with dread. Starves me with uncertainty. My eyes search the dining room in grand distress for structures of the most basic edibility. The furniture. The taxidermy. The suits of armor. The rugs. The walls. The candles. The shotguns. The hounds. The servants. My fellow diners. The latter three discoveries calm my desperate search. But instantly I'm whipped into a panic yet again at the notion they too will be insufficient in the long run.
The panicked eyes thus begin the pitiful hunt again. Until suddenly they cease their random interrogation. I have lost control of them. The wandering becomes self aware and detached from my governance. My eyes no longer mine slowly creep their gaze downward, ever so downward. Coming to rest on my own fleshy rotundness. The mouth waters and grins in compliance. The nostrils flare in allegiance. The tongue is diabolic in its conspiracy. The throat swallows in approval. Alas the hunger has found its last resort. Bon appetit.
"Weight loses when patience wins." If I had a gym I would write that on the wall.
== References ==
Category:Short stories