November 8th, 2021 - The Haunting of Hajji Hotak

Dear TNY,

I don’t know how I feel about “The Haunting of Hajji Hotak”.

Also, as I type this, is the name Hotak ever even used in the story?  Quick Control-F and, nope, it’s not used at all.  So that seems dumb.

First, this story is written in second person perspective.  That’s always tricky, as I have described here before, because people don’t like being told what to do.  The second sentence is, in fact, “It’s not your job to wonder why.”  So maybe the MC isn’t supposed to wonder why, but that is exactly what my job is as the reader.  That makes the attitude off-putting to me, which is not a good place to be at sentence two.  Thankfully, the author chose to focus on the characters’ actions in the story instead of focusing on “you”.  So I only had light issues with this perspective.

And, why couldn’t this be first person? Explain how it works better as second vs first, please? Oh? You never respond? Okay.

What I don’t understand about this story is why it’s so fucking boring. Or I guess I understand why it’s boring (mechanically), but I don’t understand why it has to be boring. That seems to be the connecting thread across most “literature” these days, requiring boredom. And this story shares a lot of the same characteristics as the bulk of modern shit being published.  There are a million characters with similar names and no differentiating characteristics (by that I mean they have different names and assignments (mother in law, husband, son, daughter, wife, etc.) but none of them are defined enough (except maybe the grandmother) to be people).  And these characters muddle about aimlessly like the rest of literature, in this story it is a stereotyped model of an Afghan family in the US.  There’s just not that much interesting that is happening.  And if the interesting thing is supposed to be the “you” character and its interaction with this family, it’s not that interesting…until the very end (maybe).  And I’m not sure I’m on board with that either.  I think this story was designed to make it questionable whether an operative was listening in on their lives (as they are obviously stereotypes of former “terrorists” according to the good ol’ U S of A).  So that’s the question I was asking myself.  Is this some operative? Is this some piece about America’s perception of foreigners’ evil? Are we to be hit on the head again with one-sided views of a culture? Oh my, a lecture story?  Also there was another agent alluded to for Karl as well, leading me down this operative path.  But I think it became clear by the end it was not an operative, but maybe more what the title was insinuating, that it was a “ghost” or spirit or angel or something associated with a higher power (as there were superiors).  And I’m landing on this conclusion based on the whisper in the heart at the end, which is not technologically possible (and the line about asking for God’s help and “you” providing it).  That’s what was interesting to me, kind of.  The rest of it not so much.

Also, it could have been operatives all along. Could be a covert op think piece. If so, fuck you even more. Mainly, what you should be hearing is that it’s not clear, pushing it pretty close to the confusing side of ambiguous, which means poor execution.

I don’t know.  I don’t know what to think.  This is likely a story I won’t remember.  It seems like another TNY stab at diversity.  It’s not that good.  Just more wasted pages.  Like, where is the writing that matters? What matters in this story? What and/or who is it changing/transporting/empathizing? What is the fucking point? And that’s a trick question, because if you have to explain it to me, then you have already lost. The point of Art is beauty for the sake of beauty. To be so beautiful (in a complex way, in that love, true love, is unfathomably complex (I’d argue that Art actually captures Love, if that makes sense, in all of its unmanageable grandiosity, but I digress…)) that it shouldn’t need an explanation to achieve said beauty. But this story isn’t beautiful. So why? If I was an editor at your rag, and I couldn’t point to “why” for most of the stories we printed, I’d retool the whole fucking program. Instead you guys seem to self-congratulate and walk further down the spiral into the pit of hell. But, late-stage capitalism, amiright?!

But what do I know?  I’ll tell you:  Not much.  I barely exist.  God, if I laid down the self-pity thick enough regaling my yesterday to you, we all might tip the fuck over.  Not really, though.  Likely I’d just feel more sorry for myself and look pathetic to everyone else. Which, I think is happening most of the time anyway.

Why can’t I figure life out?  It shouldn’t be so hard.  Most people are so fucking dumb, like I should be able to crack the code of living.  But maybe that’s the problem.  Maybe the problem is a lack of ignorance.  Or maybe I’m the dumb one.  Looking for shit that isn’t there.  Chasing dreams that won’t happen.  Committing to ideas that are difficult, time-consuming, and, ultimately, not the right ones. Believing people should act a certain way and do certain things instead of appreciating how they are acting and doing on their own. I don’t fucking know. Rather, that might be the only thing that I do know: That I DON’T know shit.

Maybe I’m the problem.

I was watching the end of WarGames the other day.  When all the people are in NORAD while the game plays out.  And when the computer realizes the only way to win is to not play, I really took that to heart.  That’s how I feel these days.  The only way I can win at this life is to not play.  Just turn the ol’ Nick machine off.  Fade the fuck out.  And let this breathtaking existence continue to flush itself down the shitter at the hands of inexplicably confident losers; I just won’t have to watch anymore (it is not lost on me that I’m likely an inexplicably confident loser too).

Maybe that’s the jam.  I’m sure you, TNY, wouldn’t mind a break from me.

Stupid.  I’m just so fucking stupid.

Well, I’ll be seeing you next week, I guess.

Whatever.

Nick