Turriptopsis Dohrnil by Carly Chandler
Fossils are the imprints of moments that last far beyond the expiration date of the original idea, the footprint of a dinosaur cast in sediment; the mosquito trapped in amber that brings the dinosaur back. Bones of creatures larger than our lives rest for profit underneath our feet, specks of eternity, of a time long behind us, blissfully unaware of our memories dancing above the sediment as they rest. Fossils are the reminder of a time before us; fossils are a reminder that there will be a time after us. See a Tyrannosaurus Rex in a museum, be elated with absolute joy, see the curve of the bone and the hollowness where the eyes should have been and the caverns between its ribs – see the person that came before you, the skeleton of being that ignores what comes next.
There comes a moment where eternity becomes the most measurable thing in the universe, where forever becomes a moment, not in time, but a long, dredging existence that threatens you with the promise of tomorrow, of the places that you’ve been that the things you’ll see and just how long your eternity is, measured in the memories from your moments. It is cold. There comes a moment where coming to terms with the promise of eternity isn’t one that you’re going to be able to reach; there comes a moment where eternity isn’t a promise that you’re going to be able to make.
A jellyfish bobs along underwater, a million lifetimes behind it, reborn and reborn and reborn all over again. An immortal jellyfish holds moments and memories, and homeostasis maintains their ability to start over again when their cells tire out. A rebirth; the ability to step out of one skin and into another. Seven years for our cells to age and birth themselves into A New You! all to be wasted on growing up and growing old and growing out of this body and into the ground. A seed to their grave to their final resting place; a seed to their cycle, over and over and over again. A promise of another tomorrow, to reach for that promise of immortality.
There is a seed that has just been planted. It may grow to be a strong, mighty oak tree, live to become a gnarled, knotted oak tree that lives to see One Hundred and Three Years – it may be a rose bush, prickly and thorny and beautiful, and only live to see ten. There is a seed that will see more than any many – it will see the earth, and by the time he sees the inner machinations of our world, it will be too late. The seed grows and grows and ages until it spreads its innards and becomes a cycle in itself, life and the world.
Memory. A man walking into a bar and never really leaving. A child chasing a butterfly. A photo taken at the peak of a marriage. A marriage, beginning and ending with broken glass. I swim in the ocean, the waves pulling me beneath the salty foam, the tears and the shit and piss from the fish and the sharks and the surfers and the jellyfish. Memory. A moment, a promise to know. A jellyfish lifts itself up and wraps its way around my leg and stings, like tears begging to spill down cheeks, burning the film on the front of eyes, silent and swimming.
Forward and backward, the jellyfish pushes forward, like a saw cutting through an impenetrable log. It pushes onward, cells rebirthing themselves on the most tiresome of levels. There’s a matter of effect, the things you’ve heard are true, the facts of the situation – details skew themselves, the forward and backward become blurred, the moments become complicated and tangled and the memory is dreaded.
A forever moment is an unattainable thing. A predator comes and snuffs memories out like a light, an unwanted scorpion pricking your foot and scurrying away, before you’re left with the effect but not the cause. Memories are footprints within the journey of being within being. The glory that pairs with impact – the glory that pairs with leaving a footprint behind on a world that leaves billions of its words and its children behind.
I sit on the floor in my room. There is a door, slamming beside me, the constant knock, knock, knock, horrifying and loud. The sky is dreary and grey as the rain patters against the ground, but there is no wind that comes with it. I listen in, staring at French doors so I can stare at the rain. Windows taped off with blue painter’s tape, framed by old, white action. There are years behind these doors – there are memories, and dangerousness, and forgotten hands on its face.
A cohesive connection loses itself when the jellyfish strays from the forever-ness of the self.
Works cited: Information about the immortal jellyfish: https://www.famousscientists.org/facts-about-the-immortal-jellyfish/
“I scrapped this piece because I forgot that it existed. I wrote this personal essay and it remains a fossil.”
Carly Chandler (she/they) is a queer experimental author from Louisiana who specializes in horror and poetry. They have previously been published in Argus Magazine, Demonic Verses, Words and Whispers Magazine, and their work is forthcoming in the inaugural issue of Toil and Trouble Magazine and Ilinix Magazine. Their Twitter handle is @carlywithawhy.