Download Elegiac Machinations For Free

“Like David Lynch, Daulton Dickey has found a language to articulate the obscenity of the unreal, itself the confluence of the perversion of capitalism and the seduction of technology and popular entertainment.” — Slavoj Žižek

Download the PDF edition of Elegiac Machinations

Click here to download the Epub edition from Dropbox

Click here to download the MOBI edition from Dropbox

elegiacmachinationsReality is a product of perception. To alter reality, we must alter our perception. But how? Our unnamed narrator explores this question and attempts to unravel the mystery in this experimental novella, a non-linear, surreal trip through consciousness—and beyond.

Embracing the street art mythos, the narrator plasters an unnamed city with symbols meant to open up awareness—awareness of consciousness, of reality; reality as it is, not how people perceive it. But he lives in a world in which corporations, government, and technology have transformed people into mindless automatons. People move without thinking, follow without thinking, work and live and dream without thinking—and they don’t realize they’re shackled in a continent-sized prison.

To change people, our narrator has to wake them up; he has to make them aware of their shackles. Can he use stencils and spray paint to wake them? Can art still thrive in a culture populated by drones?

Part philosophical meditation, part surrealism and literary cubism, Elegiac Machinations is unlike anything you’ve read. It’s a haunting exploration of what it means to be alive, a meditation on the nature of reality and art, and on paying attention in a world dominated by routine and distractions.

Daulton Dickey retains the copyright © on this novella but he grants you permission to download it and share it. 


A Very True Review of Very True Stories Starring Jeff O’Brien

Daulton Dickey.

So I’m sitting in my car outside work. Lunch hour drags when it’s hot outside and you forgot your lunch. I debate driving across town to grab a bite, but I’m neither hungry nor motivated enough to expend the effort.

Voices on the radio chatter, something about an ‘incident’ somewhere over the east coast or New England. I focus on the story but the ‘incident’ remains ill-defined.

Can’t be too important, otherwise they’d issue warnings, make declarations, cut to in-progress news conferences of sheriffs or mayors, FEMA or Homeland Security.

At least thirty minutes have passed since I started my lunch break. Christ, I’m bored. I light a cigarette and check my watch. Ten minutes have passed since I started my lunch break. Fuck me. How am I supposed to kill fifty minutes when I’m this bored?

I pull my phone from my pocket and open the Kindle app and flip through the titles inverytruestoriesstarringjeffobrien my library. One stands out: a woman kneels beside a heavyset bald man, who’s standing and thrusting his arm in the air. The title? Very True Stories Starring Jeff O’Brien.

What the fuck is this?

I have no memory of buying this book.

I download the file and read the opening page: a dude looking to get laid takes home a creature disguised as a woman. Tentacles emerge from her pussy and morph into two women.

What in Christ’s name is this? And who the hell is Jeff O’Brien? (more…)

Another excerpt from a novella that I’ll eventually finish

Daulton Dickey.

A woman hangs from a window over the street. Two, maybe three, stories above the pockmarked sidewalk. She’s hanging from a cord—elbows stiff, fists clenched. A skintight unitard reveals her breasts and cunt, each rib, every curve and dimple. She swings back and forth, back and forth. A featureless white theater mask obscures her face, and two eyeholes allow for sunlight to bounce off her eyes and sparkle.

She swings back and forth, back and forth.

She sings as she swings—a trilling howl, an atonal screech, beautiful in its portrayal of compulsion.

People on the street below march to work. Men and women carrying briefcases and bags, playing on phones or tablets, hustling north or south, east or west; many cross or sidle along the sidewalk beneath her; no one glances at her.

Gears in a machine are not capable of hearing their squeaks or mistimed thumps.


The woman stops swinging, hangs from the cord. She lowers her head and gazes down at me—her eyes shine through the eyeholes and radiate heat.

I wave.

She gazes.

I lay on the sidewalk and wave.

People flow around me.

The woman splays her legs and spins. She flips her arms and catches the cord and climbs into a nearby window.


The window closes, a blind drops and blocks the sun.


Lying on the sidewalk, I stare at the clouds, at the gray and black wall filtering the light of the sun. Faces crawl by. People flow around me. Flesh screeching in the machinery of the moment, all automatism and no verve. Screams and screeches and howls—silent yet audible. Meat machines programmed for busy bee antics.

Below me, the ground roils and rumbles, flops and floats, as though I’m lying on a waterbed. I perch my arms behind my head and close my eyes. Light taps my eyelids. Pink bleeds into black. Smells of diesel fumes assault and soothe me. The hum of stomping feet, of marching corporate soldiers, relaxes relaxes me.

Then I feel it: a shadow grows over me. I open my eyes. The white-masked woman is standing beside me, hunched over and staring at me. Her hair—knitted into a ponytail—hovers between us. Her eyes break through the darkened holes in her mask. She studies me, her eyes comb over me, her breath smacks her mask, vibrates it and reverberates inside it. It implants chills on my spine and arms.

—You can see me? she says.

—Watching you, up there, was like listening to poetry.

—But how can you see me?

—The same way you see me, I suppose.

I sit up. Then I get to my feet. White Mask jumps back, hunches. Her forearms tighten and ripple.

—What do you call it? I say. I point to the cord hanging in front of her window.

—Loneliness, she says. —Confusion.

—I’d call it beauty.

She and I raise an island from the trembling earth. The sea of busy bees does not penetrate our cliffs.

—Would you like to see beauty? she says. —And loneliness? And confusion?


—Then come with me.


She leads me into her building, up a flight of stairs and into her apartment. Roses grow in cracks in the walls. Clocks are planted in the floor. Couches and chairs are hanging on the ceiling and sprouting from the walls. Sculptures of flowers and legs—without genitalia—are settling and drying in the corner of the room.

I’m standing on a clock, watching time squirm beneath me, when White Mask crosses the room. She stops near the window, back to me, and pulls her arms from her sleeves and wiggles out of her unitard.

Her back is smooth like glass and it ripples—fills the glass with rainbows and bubbles—when she contracts her muscles. She keeps the mask on her face and she stands in front of the window and spins toward me. Centered in the window, backlit by the gray haze of the muffled sun, she is darker, faded—a double exposed form languishing inside a silhouette: she’s built like a pin-up, all tits and curves.

She says something, but she whispers it and the mask muffles it.

—I don’t know, I say.

In that mask, only her eyes are alive.

—Would you like to see it now? she says.

—This isn’t it? I brush the air between her body and me.

—You can’t see it from here.

She opens the window, crawls onto the sill. Then she climbs onto a perch outside and disappears.

I slip out after her and follow her from windowsill to windowsill, up and over four stories and to the roof. A billboard as wide as the building sprouts from the rooftop. White Mask is climbing a ladder another story; she sits on the platform at the base of the billboard—still naked—and swings her legs to and fro.

I climb the ladder and sit beside her, catch a glimpse of the city: glass and concrete and steel; man made chrysanthemums towering over the land; concrete grows on horizons, blurs the curves and melts the edges.

Streams of worker drones scurry around the sidewalks below. Cars and buses god the streets. Feet-slapping thunder and murmurs, engines and horns float up, up and enshrine us in the symphony of routine.

The face of a woman beams on the billboard behind us. Airbrushed, practically painted, the woman is smiling beside a logo and a slogan promising more bang for my buck. She stares off into space, frozen in a drum beat of recycled air.

A horn rises. Tires screech. A car below nearly slams into a bus. A half dozen cars riff in similar keys, and the bus makes a hard left, turns into an adjoining street. And the people clotting the sidewalks flow and flow. The line churns forward, ever forward, and no one stops or pauses or even turn their heads.

—Millions and millions of people, White Mask says, —and yet no one notices me. They never acknowledge me. How do I know I’m not dead?

—Are you afraid?


—Then you’re not dead.

She glances at me. Eyeballs swollen behind the mask.

—How do you know you’re not dead? she says. —Do they ever see you?

—I don’t think so.

—So you might be dead, too. Maybe this is our eternity. Condemned to silence and anonymity.

—If so, I would say this is heaven, not hell.

—Look at them down there, she says. —Just look at them: always on the move. I swing and swing, or I sit up here, like this, naked, and still they don’t notice me. If we’re not dead, maybe we’ve been sucked into a parallel universe.

—They see what they want to see, I say. —We live outside their realm because they can’t squeeze us into any picture they might have.

—Or they’re simply incapable of seeing us.

—It’s not that they’re incapable; they’ve spent so much time ignoring us that they can’t see us any longer. But this is temporary.

—How do we get them to see us?

—We make them confront our traces, I say. —We leave signatures in space and time, signatures from which they infer us.

—But then, to them, we are not alive. To them, if they infer us, we’re merely hypothetical.

—It’s a start.

—I’d prefer to be dead than to be a nameless and faceless, a featureless, figment of someone’s imagination.

—I’d rather be a figment of the imagination than dead, I say. —And how do you know we’re not a figment of the imagination? here and now?

—If we were a figment of the imagination, then someone would acknowledge me.

—I am. Right now.

—But what if I’m dead and you’re a figment of my eternity?

—Do I feel real to you? Right now?

She brushes my cheek, lowers her hand to my hand and slips her fingers into my fingers and weaves a flower, and the flower blooms when she unfurls her fingers.

An Excerpt of a Novella I can’t seem to finish

Daulton Dickey.

The sun is out but hides in a cave of gray clouds and raindrops. Birds squeal and scream, and engines roar as they push and pull and tug cars along, down the road, past the sidewalks and the people cluttered. Here, there, everywhere—people move and sway. Cattle in calls fall in line and march to work. It’s the American Dream. Hallucination. A nightmare. People work to spend to work to live in debt and desirous of the next new thing. Everything is holy if it is obtainable. Every action is noble if it helps them obtain the latest gadget, the latest orgasm, a kind of intellectual intercourse milking juice from advertisements and pop-psychological propositions. They move like robots. Their actions are mechanical. They move and play with phones or gaze off and dream. Sky cracks open, clouds part, and the sun breaks through, the great and beautiful, the mystical and holy sight of light particles funneling through gaps in the clouds and drenching the crowds, and the people shield their eyes or tilt their phones or lower their heads and furrow their eyebrows. Everyone ignoring the sun’s breakthrough, the routing of the clouds, everyone annoyed by the burst of light, everyone moving and swaying and marching with downcast eyes and eyebrows, as if the sun is an enemy or a distraction. But the sun is indifferent to all of them. The sun gives them what they need whether they want it or not. The sun casts its spell and sheds its lights, blankets the earth and warms the cockles of the people too distracted to want or to notice it.

Gum is stuck to the sidewalk. Feet slap it or the concrete beside it.

A bird lands and skips over the gum and jumps onto a windowsill and leaps to the roof and slips into a hole in the soffit and disappears. And no one notices it. No one watches the bird, examines its movements. No one stops to applaud or to appreciate the poetry of its movements, the beauty of the ballet of its procession.

Across the street, a man has stopped in the middle of the sidewalk. He’s kneeling, looks like he’s praying. People pass him, diverge and converge in great swelling movements. He stands and twists and falls into line, and the line proceeds; it glides to the end of the sidewalk and across the street and onto another sidewalk, and the man is lost in the crosshatch of meat and clothes, of sunglasses and smart phones.

Smoke puffs from the roof of a building not far from where the crowd devoured the man, and it catches a ride on the wind and drifts over the crowd and across the street, slamming into—and passing over—me. Then smells of scorched meat waft and merge with the crispness of the vanishing storm. And the sun wants to come out, tries to break through. It penetrates the clouds but the clouds fight back and break off, seal their wounds and amputate the light spilling onto the earth.

Then shapes like faces bleed from windows and slips into the light and travel across the street. They bleed and breed into more windows, and the street is now a corridor lined with death masks staring out from the windows on the buildings lining the sidewalks. And yet no one seems to notice. People walk by locked in their worlds, lost in those impulses firing through their brains, feeding on chemicals and electrical transmissions and neglecting the face-like shapes gazing out from every window.

And the faces seem almost communicable, like they can latch onto the wind itself and float—shadows growing in fog, transplanted from window to window, xeroxed and carried along and deposited in every reflective surface, even in the sunglasses and eyes of strangers as they pass without wisdom or acknowledgement or comment.

The air is cold and crisp and it fills my chest and seems to freeze the hairs inside my nostrils. The face-like shapes dissolve in my lungs and seep into my pulmonary tissue and take a joyride through my circulatory system, and I see faces surf along the breath that escapes my lungs, and the faces stretch and break apart and dissolve overhead.


Her hair is brown and from a distance looks brittle, not dirty or greasy or even frayed but it looks delicate somehow, as if touching it would shatter it somehow. It sways in front of her chest and curls and lays on her shoulders as she leans forward and slips a spoon into her mouth. She drags the spoon away from her lips and her nose and cheeks relax, and her eyes, once slit, now spread and blossom—flowers unfurling at the onset of day.

Elbows on the table—who needs etiquette?—she flips through a tattered paperback book as she slips another spoonful of soup beyond her lips and into her mouth. She pauses midway between flipping a page and gazes outward, in thought maybe, and settles her eyes on me.

I break my gaze, glance out the window behind her, squint as though I’m studying something more interest or enticing or appealing than her.

Face-like shapes linger in windows across the street. But they’re fading now. They fade. And when I sense the woman has turned away, I glance at her again: the remnants of a smile drift from her lips. She slurps a gulp of soup and flips the pages. Her eyes bounce from left to right, crawl down, and bounce from left to right.

The muscles in her shoulders and jaw ripples and she rubs her right shoulder as she reads. Then she sits back and cracks her back and stretches her arms—below the table her shirt rises like curtains opening on a stage, and her belly is white and seems firm yet somehow soft, though it’s probably my imagination. The cramp or spasm or whatever vanishes, and she releases her shoulder, goes back to her book.

She slips the spoon into her mouth again, slurps again, flips the page and massages her shoulder again, and the rhythm of her motion, the beauty of her movements, spill into the open air and crashes and screams and sings. No one else seems to notice. The waiters and waitresses, the men and women stuffing their faces, the strangers crisscrossing the sidewalk out front—no one notices or acknowledges her beauty and sensitivity, the poetry of her motion.

Up out of my chair, I glide across the room and stop at the table, knock once to snag her attention. She moves fluidly: shifts her gaze from the book to my face and rolls her shoulder blades in a semi-circle. Uninterested and unconcerned, eyes full yet empty—unaware or uninvolved.

—Must be good, I say, gesturing to the book.

—I’ve read better.

—What is it?


—Nabakov could churn out prose.

—But the book itself is overrated, she says. —Reams of repetition. Someone better could say this in twenty-thousand words.

—But no one else could have said it the way he did, which is why we read good fiction.

—This isn’t good.

—Good fiction evokes a response.

—Harlequin novels probably evoke a response.

—Then I’d say it’s good fiction, too, I say. —What you want to or should avoid are the books that don’t elicit anything. Those are the dangerous ones.

She closes the book, shifts her neck and tilts her head.

—If you’re hitting on me, she says, —I’ll give you points for your technique.

—I’m not hitting on you.

—No? Then what would you call it?

—An invitation.

We lock eyes.

—To what? she says.

—A walking tour of the city.

—I’m familiar with the city, thanks.

—Not the city I can show you.

I extend my hand, palm ceilingward.

—It’s too nice to sit indoors reading, I say. —And I’m willing to wager that you, too, can show me a new sight or two. So come on. What do you have to lose?


A lower case ‘i’ is an arabic ‘1’ with a dot over it. The eIe is a lower case ‘i’ with an eyeball in place of the dot. You can see the eIe on buildings and street signs, on overpasses and stoops and sidewalks across the city. From north to south, from east to west, the eIe stares at you, follows you, seems to track you and every move you make.

I point to one on back of a billboard. It’s as tall as a person, seems to gaze into the street below. The woman, Anne, considers the vandal, wonders how he or she managed to put the eIe up there.

—That’s part of the magic, I say. —You can see this thing, and you can ask how or why. And either way you’re doing the vandal a favor. You’re caught in the trap he, or she, devised.

—But what’s the point? she says. —I see these things everywhere and I don’t know what they mean. Are they even supposed to mean something?

—It’s kind of like subterranean propaganda, the agit prop of the underground.

—I still don’t see the point.

—Emblazon the image in your skull. That’s the point, I say. —Subconsciously you’ll begin to associate this image with something.

Around the corner, and another eIe is the first thing we see. This one is smaller, about the size of a fist, painted below a corporate logo.

—So this is what you wanted to show me, she says. —Graffiti?

—Street art. It’s street art.

—It’s not new, whatever you want to call it. I see it every day.

—But how often do you acknowledge it? do you think about it?

She looks forward, shakes her head.


We’re sitting on a bench on a sidewalk overlooking a rundown building. Cracks and potholes scar the street. The sidewalks—in front of us and in front of the building—are broken and shattered. Weeds grow from the cracks, tower over the uncut grass. Stencils and murals and tags cover the front of the building, an open-aired museum free for any- and everyone who passes the lot and turns their heads and sets their eyes on the fruits of the labor of countless men and women. And so people cross the street and amble down and up the sidewalk, cross in front of the building, walk alongside the walls and gaze ahead or stare at phones or tablets or shield their eyes from the sun’s fugitive rays. But no one glances at the walls. No one stops to consider or to appreciate the subject or the force of the images splayed and sprayed and preying on the facade of the building.

—Look at them, I say, —huddled over there, oblivious.

The people passing the building huddle around a bus stop on the corner. The bus stop is an aluminum skeleton with a corrugated roof. A wall bifurcates a bench inside the skeleton. Ads are plastered on the wall. People are sitting on the benches—men and women, young and old—and they gaze at the street or at Anne and me. Two teenagers are cackling. One, a boy, points his phone at an advert, what from here looks like a movie poster.

—So is this how you endear women to you? Anne says. —Take them on a tour of the worst part of town?

—You’re a rare breed, willing to take a walk with a stranger.

—Has it ever worked?

—I wouldn’t know.

—So this is a first for you?

—There’s a first for everything.


A dozen eIes peer out from the base of a building, each devouring the periphery, the view, each painted in bright neon colors, each calling attention to itself. If only the world knew, if only people stopped and stared and thought and considered the point of the eye above the ‘i,’ of the eIe as a whole, then their worthless trips down commuters lane, their mechanical processions to and from work, might crack and dissolve. The illusion, the subjective world of lies, the lives of drone like activity, of corporate controlled sanctuary, might fizzle and sizzle and fade away.

But then no one stops to gaze. No one stops to consider the eIes. Everyone drifts and ambles, everyone moves—to curbs and cabs, to buses and intersections. The eIes are there for all to see yet no eyes gaze at the eIes on the wall.

—The vandal must have no life, Anne says. —These things are everywhere.

She’s clutching her arms at her chest. Her hair curls around her shoulders and bounces as she leans forward to study an eIe. Her eyes fold inward and her lips curl. She seems innocent somehow, lost and delicate somehow.

—Would you be opposed to a proper date? I say.

—If this is your opening volley, I’m kind of afraid to see what you’d have in mind.

—Cliche, I say: —Dinner, maybe a movie. Something simple and traditional, something unoriginal.

—And if I say no?

—You’ll never see me again. No hard feelings.

—But if I say yes?

—Then you’ll see me tomorrow night.

She peels her eyes from the eIe and straightens her spine, allows her arms to drip and droop at her sides.

Universes are born and collapse, civilizations rise and fall, lives blink into and out of existence in the seconds she burns considering my proposition.