Nepantla, The Tipping Point, Deep Time: A Conversation Between Worlds

By Kandy Fontaine

In an exclusive interview I conducted last year with Weird Fiction master and vertebrate paleontologist Caitlín R. Kiernan, she spoke with haunting clarity about the concept of Deep Time:

“Human history is nothing more than a thin film floating atop the abyss of geologic time… Lovecraft’s god things… creatures that had ‘filtered down from the stars when earth was young.’ … Gothic literature where the phantoms do not haunt castles merely ancient by human standards, but by the standards of the cosmos.”

Kiernan’s words do more than illuminate a literary device—they expose a rupture in perception. Deep Time is not simply a scientific framework; it is a psychic terrain, a confrontation with scale so vast it destabilizes the ego. It is the abyss beneath our myths, our politics, our identities. It is the stage on which cosmic horror unfolds, but also the backdrop against which our most intimate transformations occur.

We are not merely living in historical time. We are drifting in Deep Time, where the boundaries of self and species blur, where the past is not behind us but beneath us, pressing upward through the thin crust of human memory.

The Tipping Point

We are at a tipping point in planetary history. The forces of what Hunter S. Thompson called “old and evil” have rebelled against the inevitable progress that comes with mutation and sudden shifts in consciousness. These forces are not abstract—they are embodied in regimes, in cultural gatekeepers, in the machinery of repression that clings to outdated notions of power, gender, and identity.

As a transfemme author, I have had to negotiate multiple spaces—some of which rejected me outright, others that claimed radicality but recoiled when I didn’t fit their aesthetic mold. The question isn’t whether I’m “better” than those gatekeepers. If Caitlín R. Kiernan—a writer of staggering intellect and vision—entrusted me to curate a literary tribute to her work, the answer is already clear.

What strikes me most about the current despotic regime that has nested itself in the White House is not just its corruption, but its fear. Fear of mutation. Fear of multiplicity. Fear of people like me and Kiernan, who embody a future they cannot control. They cling to an ignoble and outdated concept of masculinity while covering up for systemic abuse and moral rot. These things are not separate issues. They are symptoms of a deeper refusal to evolve.

Imaginary Crimes and the Politics of Projection

Among the most risible accusations leveled against Caitlín R. Kiernan are claims that she is a white supremacist and a transphobe. These are not critiques—they are projections, often made by individuals who have not engaged with her work, her life, or her legacy in any meaningful way.

Kiernan is a transfeminine author whose fiction has consistently challenged normative boundaries of gender, species, and time. Her protagonists are often liminal beings—neither fully human nor fully alien, neither male nor female, but something else entirely. Her work is not just inclusive; it is expansive, offering readers a vision of consciousness that transcends binary thinking.

To accuse Kiernan of transphobia is to ignore the lived reality of her identity and the radical empathy embedded in her narratives. To accuse her of white supremacy is to flatten the complexity of her Southern Gothic heritage, her critique of American mythologies, and her deep engagement with the monstrous as metaphor.

These accusations are not just false—they are symptomatic of a cultural moment in which nuance is sacrificed for outrage, and where the politics of purity often mask deeper insecurities. They are part of a broader pattern of imaginary crimes, invented to discredit voices that refuse to conform to the aesthetic or ideological expectations of the moment.

Kiernan’s work is difficult. It is unsettling. It does not offer easy answers or moral clarity. But that is precisely its power. It invites us into nepantla—the space between worlds—where transformation is possible, but never comfortable.

Nepantla: Walking Between Worlds

What many critics lack—especially those who’ve passionately excoriated Kiernan for imaginary crimes—is a nuanced understanding of nepantla, a Nahuatl term popularized by Gloria Anzaldúa. Nepantla is the space between worlds, the liminal zone where transformation occurs. It is not a place of comfort. It is a place of friction, of contradiction, of becoming.

To live in nepantla is to be a walker between worlds. It is to inhabit the gulfs of Deep Time while navigating the immediacy of cultural violence. It is to be trans, bi, straight, neurodivergent, nonbinary—not as fixed categories, but as fluid rotations on an axis. This is not chaos. It is rhizomatic, as Deleuze and Guattari described in A Thousand Plateaus—a network of overlapping consciousness, not a hierarchy.

Sexual identity, gender, and orientation are not static. They are dynamic systems, evolving in response to pressure, trauma, joy, and revelation. We are not fixed points. We are constellations.

Beyond Speciesism

To walk in Deep Time is to recognize that speciesism—the belief in human supremacy—is a delusion. We are not above the plants, the fungi, the microbial intelligences. We are among them. Our pleasure, our delight, our grief—they are not uniquely human. They are part of a larger ecology of being.

We must evolve. We must embrace mutation. We must see ourselves not as rulers of the earth, but as beings in Deep Time, destined to be recycled, reimagined, and reborn. This is not a metaphor. It is a biological and spiritual imperative.

Let us explore the manifold species of pleasure and delight. Let us decenter ourselves in the fullness of being aware that consciousness is multiple and overlapping. Let us maintain our grip on logic, even as we dissolve the boundaries of identity. Let us walk between worlds—not as exiles, but as architects of the future.

This is the work. This is the walk. Between worlds, across gulfs of time, toward a future that is not merely inclusive—but expansive. 

About Kandy Fontaine: Kandy Fontaine is the transfemme alter ego of author Alex S. Johnson, first manifest in the story “The Clown Dies at the End,” published in truncated form in 2015 in Imperial Youth Review. Their short stories, poetry and essays extensively explore liminal states. Forthcoming from Fontaine/Johnson as of this writing is the first issue of Black Diadem: Magazine of the Fantastique, which reproduces the Kiernan interview in full alongside “Ballad of a Catamite Revolver,” a story written by Kiernan for her Sirenia newsletter. Next year Fontaine helms The Language of Ruins: A Literary Tribute to Caitlin R. Kiernan, at her request. 

The Color Purple

I choose a rich purple shade

bearing a substantive connection to my ancestry

the African deities who gave birth to our humanity!

it is said to evoke visions of nobility, royalty, wisdom

creativity, spirituality, mystery  magicality

a colorful synthesis of soothing blue and spirited red!

becking forth recollections of powerful deities 

it’s paler shades suggest romantic allusions

and a state of peaceful composure

while its darker shades  shift

to suggest a state of dejection and spiritual elevation

its rich darker shade signify wealth luxury grandeur  power

but it is double sided in that it can betoken  melancholy 

and frustration when applied superfluously 

I suspect for some men it can denote

some feminine qualities… rightfully regulating

the dominant notions of masculinity

while its violet shade can symbolize passion, ambition

creativity and mourning in some aspects of cultural identity

it can accentuates one’s individuality in a crowd

replete with antiquated notions of conformity 

its blending of red and blue can birth

deliberate intrinsic serenity and stability

it is a celebrated historical scarcity

purple pigment extracted from seal mollusks

enhanced its costly rarity attainable only to the aristocracy…

But now the color purple has been reclaimed

and integrated into our everyday commonality

and individuality attainable to anyone who

deems themselves fit for royalty!–

Jacques Fleury is a Boston Globe featured Haitian American Poet, Educator, Author of four books and literary arts student at Harvard University online. His latest publication “You Are Enough: The Journey to Accepting Your Authentic Self” & other titles are available at all Boston Public Libraries, the University of Massachusetts Healey Library, University of Wyoming, Askews and Holts Library Services in the United Kingdom, The Harvard Book Store, The Grolier Poetry Bookshop, Amazon etc… He has been published in prestigious publications such as Spirit of Change Magazine, Wilderness House Literary Review, Muddy River Poetry Review, Litterateur Redefining World anthologies out of India, Poets Reading the News, the Cornell University Press anthology Class Lives: Stories from Our Economic Divide, Boston Area Small Press and Poetry Scene among others…Visit him at:  http://www.authorsden.com/jacquesfleury.-

NO KINGS RALLY – 10/18/ 25

The tangerine-faced king—

his crown is spikes of gold—

beholds some seven million who renounce him.

All 50 states are filled

with swarms of chanting woke—

some in costumes; all with homemade signs. 

*  Dissent is patriotic

*  Proud Vets  * Free Tylenol

*  We have a Constitution, not a king

*  Our only king is Elvis

*  Power to the peaceful

*  ICE should be for skating, not for hating

The tangerine-faced king

prepares a counterpunch—

an AI video: he flies a plane

and drops brown diarrhea

on throngs of peaceful marchers—

his enemies!  He showed them! He’s the king!

The excrement-encrusted

still throng with mocking signs.

Under muck, the messages are clear:

* That stuff trickling down isn’t prosperity.

*  Jesus:  OMG, you guys! That’s not what I said!

*  Charlie Brown: Dear Great Pumpkin,

    Please do something about your evil cousin.

*  Inflatable T. Rex:  Donald T–

    Rex everything he touches!

*  Lowly Worm, driving a red apple:

    My other car is RFK’s brain.

*  Know your parasites:  Dog tick (photo);

      Deer tick (photo);  Luna tick (orange face).

While fat king fantasizes

about revenge, the mob—

millions, zero gunshots, little trash—

dances in the streets,

sings some protest songs,

united to support democracy.

*  Fight truth decay

*  Who the hell’s Aunt Tifa?

*  If you’re not anti-fascist, what are you?

*  Hate won’t make us great

*  No troops in US streets

*  Help! Make Orwell fiction once again

Old tangerine-faced king,

your subjects have one dream,

one goal:  * CLEAN-UP ON AISLE 47.

We’ve caught the woke-mind virus.

Now we’ve got empathy 

and critical-thinking skills. Yes!  We, the people.

Copyright 10/2025 Patricia Doyne

The Clock  

On the wall of heaven hangs a clock, 

invisible, silent, without hands,

 and yet — it is everywhere. 

It does not measure minutes, 

but the tremors of the soul. 

Its mechanism is moved by truth, 

and its hands stop 

when a man lies. 

It knows the difference between words and feelings, 

it hears the silence of the heart 

when it trembles under the weight of guilt. 

It is no ordinary clock — 

it is God’s measure of goodness, 

a secret guardian of sincerity. 

Every thought, every intention, 

every shadow in one’s gaze 

leaves a trace upon its glass. 

When you love purely, it shines, 

when you envy, a gear breaks within it. 

It does not tick “tick-tock,” 

but whispers: 

“were you truthful,” 

“have you touched souls,” 

“were you truly you.” 

Its time does not pass, 

it judges. 

And while the world turns in false seconds,

 that clock — unseen, eternal — quietly measures souls, not days.

 

Maja Milojković was born in Zaječar and divides her life between Serbia and Denmark. In Serbia, she serves as the deputy editor-in-chief at the publishing house Sfairos in Belgrade. She is also the founder and vice president of the Rtanj and Mesečev Poets’ Circle, which counts 800 members, and the editor-in-chief of the international e-magazine Area Felix, a bilingual Serbian-English publication. She writes literary reviews, and as a poet, she is represented in numerous domestic and international literary magazines, anthologies, and electronic media. Some of her poems are also available on the YouTube platform.

Maja Milojković has won many international awards. She is an active member of various associations and organizations advocating for peace in the world, animal protection, and the fight against racism. She is the author of two books: Mesečev krug (Moon Circle) and Drveće Želje (Trees of Desire). She is one of the founders of the first mixed-gender club Area Felix from Zaječar, Serbia, and is currently a member of the same club. She is a member of the literary club Zlatno Pero from Knjaževac, and the association of writers and artists Gorski Vidici from Podgorica, Montenegro.

—————-

Apologia to the angry mob of futureless youths

We are the immortal goodbyes the  gods said to each other

Aeons ago at the gloaming hours of broken covenants

Every word is now a forging of newfound courage, or hope

Behind gray clouds that quiver on the breast of crestfallen dew

Do not bind us now to the oaths of our failed bloodlines

We may fail yet again with tired maxims, axioms hiding

In the palimpsest of hardworking mediocre metaphors

—————–

At a bullet train station in Fujian

Ten years ago around this time of year 

The weather was biting like a lover gone bitter

The fellow Chinese teacher said something about winter wind in China

Which can typically lick human faces off with frost bite

That there’s no way to know pain from shame 

Because the cold is an anaesthesia

So we could be walking around like zombies 

With nice-smelling coiffed hair

Empty eye sockets staring back at people

I didn’t know if he was only trying to shock or humor

A newcomer with excess baggage to boot.

When the train arrived, the wind howled harder

Stepping inside I caught myself in the glass door

Not a zombie yet, whatsoever, thank God

Just a Bukowskian traveler with frozen lake eyes

Emeniano Acain Somoza, Jr., is a native of Siquijor Island in Central Visayas, Philippines. He was last based in Fujian, China as a second-language teacher after over a decade stint as a Corporate Communications Officer in the Middle East. Some forthcoming online and in print, most of his poems and stories have been published by literary magazines and journals, including The Philippines Graphic, The Philippine Free Press, The Philippine Star, and the Philippine Studies: Historical and Ethnographic Viewpoints Vol. 53 , among others. He has published three poetry books since 2010. and currently Editor-At-Large for The Syzygy Poetry Journal. 

Golden child,

On the dark red of the earth

Mark your tracks

In weakness and Uncertainty.

Barren roads, disturbed and Flooded

Of the vile nature of the one Who has decided to steal Everything from you

Of whom in his ignorance The I AM was believed.

Golden children,

May your shine never fade

Access to believe, to dream, To grow

To have clean air and Electrifying food.

May the rain caress your feet

Multiply bonanzas

Let the rain irrigate you Hope

To build your story and build.

I apologize

For the damage done to the earth

On behalf of my parents, my grandparents,

The ancestors, who by doing nothing, we did everything

I ask your forgiveness for those who

They watered the crop with blood

That today reaches your Mouth as the only food.

There’s no way to erase the past

I don’t mean to

there is no coupon that exchanges life

if there is, I don’t have it…

what I have is hope and will

I want to share with you and inherit your resistance and resilience

Invite you not to give up even in the biggest fires

Invite you to dance life

Every time you can.

What I can do and do is give you my voice

for the calling

share my passion for this life,

Activate awareness and decision

impact transformative leadership

and fight hard in the face of uncertainty.

Let us consistently stop the actions that lead us to this deterioration and devastation.

The tension at the maximum limit found a home,

the earth catches fire, little will freezes us,

natural imbalance is our reality

we have to write, paint and dance

the world we deserve to have

as long as the oxygen reaches.