Rust Chorus Blog

When Your Life Oxidizes
Levi Rogers

Rust:
NOUN
mass noun
1A reddish- or yellowish-brown flaking coating of iron oxide that is formed on iron or steel by oxidation, especially in the presence of moisture.

He imagined a different life for himself. That was the truth. The truth that kept him at night. It was this truth that had made him a heavy drinker, made it impossible for him to quit smoking. He knew it now, finally, after all the years in therapy—and it was such a stupid and childish realization. One that everyone, eventually, comes to. The life he was living was not the one he had imagined. Yawn.
The funny thing was the specific way in which this supposed imaginary life differed from his real one. For all the main set pieces were still there—a caring spouse, great kids, a creative job, a funky house in the Alberta Arts district. But little things were different, ever so slightly. In his imaginary life his kids cried less, he’d quit his job to write books, and they owned their house rather than renting. He was less prone to rage or existential anxiety. His partner did the dishes and picked their socks up off the floor. His partner was thinner. He was thinner. For of course it wasn’t just his partner who’d lost track of their physical self (though he did like to blame him for such things) it was both of them.
In this different life he imagined for himself he never got a flat bike tire or ran out of food in the fridge. He never got angry and never once did he curse at his kids or punch a hole in their black Subaru above the gas tank when the latch didn’t work. He didn’t masturbate as much, he’d quit smoking, and cut his weekly whiskey intake from two bottles to one. Instead, he toured the country promoting a modestly selling book from a top publisher and donated half the proceeds to Black Lives Matter and We the Dreamers. In this imaginary life, everything sparkled and shone with a golden hue. Like a piece of sheet metal freshly manufactured, glinting in the sun. But his real life had been exposed to moisture and lay covered in rust.
​
These thoughts made him question his relationship with his husband. As if his dreams were already oxidizing. Their dreams. From silver to red to brown. The corrosion of minerals as a metaphor for emotional intimacy. His romantic expectations versus reality. Yet it was him and him alone who’d let the water seep in.  

There’s a civilization of black mold on my windowpane that I can’t bring myself to bleach because at least it’s growing. At least it hasn’t reached the outer border of it’s possibility. ​

Bad Knees and How to Deal with Them
Alex Simand

I first noticed rust’s encroach when I was twelve and a beekeeper divined me with a pair of rods he mostly used for digging wells. Cross, they went at my knees, the metal like a sword unsheathed at my knobby prepubescent joints. What does it mean? I asked, but the beekeeper, a kind looking man with a massive white beard and mushroom dust under his fingernails, simply showed a sad smile and shook his head, jerking it in the direction of my father, who was rubbing ointment into his legs. I felt the inkling of a creak then, a future of bending for the sake of bending, forever at war with an arthritic atrophy I could never hope to keep at bay.

There are other forms of rust: a broken cuckoo clock on the wall of the dining room; days when the alarm clock sounds more like an apocalyptic siren; a job that seeps the blood from your face and leaves you gaunt and sunless. This, too, a battle of oils. Nobody wants to talk about how we’re all decomposing in plain sight but ignorance of nature is no excuse. Most days, my brain plays songs from my formative years on repeat, no matter how awful, no matter how Limp Bizkit, the last moment of absorption before we slammed closed the gates. Drinking a bottomless beer on a Wednesday because opiate is better than being buried alive like an infirm Edgar Allen.

Here are three coping strategies.

One. Move everyday with no sense of direction. Can’t build a cattle rut if you keep yourself to the brambles of routine. Climb a hill with no view. Eat a burrito under the bed.

Two. Make up words for feelings that will never be relevant in conversation. Trugology: the act of empathizing with the toxoplasmosis that inhabits your skull. Dervilbask: the task of carrying a pen tucked under your chin. Make friends with the random. Shakespeare was probably an alcoholic.

Three. Dress up for bed. Tuxedo jacket and hound’s-tooth stockings tucked under a wool blanket. Listen to music that makes your ears screech in protest. Preferably something old and scratchy as the wool blanket. Try sleeping outside. It seems to have worked for the Soviet children, though they don’t usually live long enough to truly test the bounds of theory.

There’s a civilization of black mold on my windowpane that I can’t bring myself to bleach because at least it’s growing. At least it hasn’t reached the outer border of it’s possibility. I want to see how far it goes, even as my life atrophies like a duffel bag stuffed into the back of a closet. In the duffel bag lives: soccer socks with logos of cats on them; a pair of broken rainbow candles I got from the Middle East, back when travel was still possible; a slick coat of lubricant from either axel grease or Astroglide, can’t decide. Maybe that’s all there is as we come to rest, a collection of totems we watch from our periphery while the world turns to dusk.

Rust Queen
Marie Marandola


“It’s called a patina,” the mirror sneered
as she frowned at her tarnished reflection.
“And it’s very dignified.” She absently scratched
at the aged silver-glass, pursed and unpursed her lips, but the skin
around her mouth preferred the pursing.
Like snowmelt—how strange, when in her mind, she remained
as smooth and icy as she’d ever been. A wish, a—                     
Well. Perhaps it was for the best, the not seeing.
The mirror made her sad enough
with his murky new blossoming where once
he’d known to only show her proof of youth. And what good
would vengeance do? Even the daggers in the knife block
had grown rusty, and no amount of scrubbing
(she’d tried—oh, how she’d tried) would shine
them back to what they were. Whose heart
would they pierce now,
save her own?
​

The mirror made her sad enough
with his murky new blossoming where once he’d known to only show her proof of youth. And what good
would vengeance do? 

Untitled
Liz Bergland
​
Louisa hated these trips to the surface. The masks smelled like feet, and the canned oxygen tasted like plastic. The recycled air and close quarters on the station weren’t much better, but at least they weren’t pressed against your face. At first, going down to the planet had been worthwhile. They searched for survivors, even found a few people who had managed to seal themselves in with enough plants to keep the carbon cycle going. Now, though, they just looked for salvage —electronics, fuel, medical supplies, rare plastics—and food. Anything refrigerated had rotted long ago, and even the canned goods were inedible by now, but thanks to the station’s reconstituter all they needed was organic material. Without aerobic bacteria the bodies hardly decayed at all; they’d have all the flavorless protein goop they could eat for at least a few decades. “Look!” She looked up sharply at the urgency that broke through the tinny tone of her headset. Tetsuo was walking quickly towards the skeleton of a high-rise. They must’ve just started building it when the photosynthetic plague hit; it was little more than steel beams jutting into the sky. Like metal saplings, thought Louisa, trying to feel the sun. She caught up with him, breathing heavily as her space-atrophied muscles strained against the weight of gravity. “What?” He ran his gloved finger along one of the beams and held it up. The tip was a reddish-orange. “Rust,” he half-whispered. Louisa looked at the smear, uncomprehending. “Yeah, so?” Tetsuo’s full expression was hidden by the mask, but his eyes shone and the skin around them crinkled. “Rust means oxygen.” His voice creaked. “Oxygen.” She felt light-headed for a moment, then remembered to breathe again.

kola diviya
by Jane-Rebecca Cannarella

The rusty-spotted cat is tiny and streaky and rare; and I’m told that despite my interest, I won’t be able to adopt one. They live in Sri Lanka and India, and they make their homes in the rapidly diminishing deciduous forests. Obtaining one would be impossible, or so it’s explained to me by the animal shelter on Morris Street. But, I mean, I can make a forest of my apartment if necessary. Fill it with trees and we can live underneath one at the end of the growing season. I’m told the tiny wild cats are protected, but I can protect them here, too.

My current cats are big as hell and none of them are spotted with circles of iron oxide - none of them would want to venture into a tree or cave to escape a predator or, more importantly,  a responsibility. My cats are average-sized wards of my wood-paneled home, they ask a lot of questions about my plans for the future in raspy sounding mews whenever I call out sick from work. But just like the rusty-spotted cat, there is so little I know about myself - so the fact that almost nothing is known about rusty-spotted cats works for me just as well. We could live together in anonymity comfortable in not knowing. Spend the days in the vegetation of my deciduous home experiencing the shelter of a solitary life. We’d only emerge at night to hunt out the snacks in the fridge and talk to one another about dreams, make meaning out of the stars blistering in through my ceiling. And the joined unity would be enough - they can keep their secrets and I can keep mine, and the little pack of mini cats and I could sleep in a circle in cavernous regions of our home.

So, I’ll keep hoping that one day I can adopt one, and we can protect one another.  

Untitled image
Cassandra Panek

third image is William Cheselden's Osteographia
fourth and fifth image are Illustrations of Madness: James Tilly Matthews and the Air Loom