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are not abstract—they are embodied in regimes, in cultural gatekeepers, in the machinery of repression that clings to outdated notions of power, gender, and identity.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 They cling to an ignoble and outdated concept of masculinity while covering up for systemic abuse and moral rot.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. 

Evergreen

Daphne and Stu stood at the picture window overlooking the front yard of their mother’s home, talking quietly. 

“I don’t know,” said Daphne, “something’s not right with Mom.” 

Together they peered out the window at Mildred, who was busily watering her vast garden. “How do you mean?” asked Stu. 

“She talks to her plants,” whispered Daphne. When Stu gazed at her skeptically, she said, “Really. She even has names for them.” 

Stu laughed unconvincingly. But when his sister didn’t share the humor, he grew concerned. “Well, Mom’s always been a little edgy, Sis.” 

“No,” she disagreed. “That doesn’t even begin to describe it, Stu.” 

“What would describe it, then?” he asked. 

“Try bat-shit crazy,” suggested Daphne. 

Out into the garden they walked, stopping behind Mildred at a safe distance, observing. 

“Ooh,” said Mildred, upending a watering can over a peony. “There, that’s good, take a long drink.” Mildred tittered. 

Daphne and Stu exchanged a glance, looked back at their mother, who moved onto an azalea bush. “You take a drink too, Bob.” 

Stu nudged his sister, whispered the word, “Bob?” 

Daphne made a twirling motion with a forefinger next to her head. 

“Mom,” said Stu quietly, “come on into lunch.” 

Mildred shook her head. “Nope. I’ve got to feed my babies.” 

“Babies?” he asked. 

“Of course,” replied Mildred, taking up a huge bottle of liquid fertilizer. Dipping an eye dropper into the bottle, she began dispensing plant food, drop by drop, onto individual blades of grass. 

“Mom, lunch is ready. How long do you expect this to take?” asked Stu worriedly? 

“Well, the last time I counted,” said Mildred, “there were more than 400,000 blades of grass.” She began humming a merry tune. 

“Mom,” said Daphne, stepping across the lawn and reaching for her mother. 

“You’re crushing them!” shrilled Mildred in horror. “Get off, get off!” 

Daphne leaped back onto the pavement. 

“Ooh,” wailed Mildred. “You hurt Aaron!” 

“Who’s Aaron?” asked Stu? 

“The dandelion,” replied Mildred, cosseting the bent weed in her age-spotted hands. 

Stu made a pained face at Daphne, who rolled her eyes. “I told you so,” she mouthed silently.  

The next day Stu called Mildred’s doctor with what they observed.  Dr. Zeel thought they were overly alarmed, but agreed to have Mildred in the next week.  

Dr. Zeel told Mildred at their appointment why her children were concerned. Mildred laughed and told the doctor “Oh, that’s just a game I play to keep myself amused. I know the plants don’t listen to me. I’ll try to be more discreet around the kids.” The doctor did some tests and told Mildred everything looked good and not to worry. 

 After she got home Mildred called her children and scolded them. “You shouldn’t have gotten my doctor involved,” she said. My plants won’t like you after I tell them what you did.”  

Daphne and Stu were more concerned than ever about Mildred, but couldn’t think of what to do next. Mildred wouldn’t speak to them.  

In the following weeks Mildred’s children had to rethink Mildred’s relationship with her garden. A three hundred foot redwood which didn’t grow within seven hundred miles sprang up overnight in Stu’s backyard. Dandelions broke through Daphne’s sidewalk and driveway, fracturing the concrete. Other mysterious botanical phenomena occurred throughout the world. 

 Even Mildred did not know that her plants talked to other plants.  Fruit trees refused to grow fruit, wheat and other plants that normally provided the staff of life did not cooperate as well.  While sympathetic with the plants, Mildred recognized that she had to prevent a global catastrophe. She convinced her children to apologize to her plants so they could pass along the forgiveness to humans.  

Stu and Daphne felt really stupid, but based on the gravity of the situation, they knew they had to do it. With Mildred helping to prepare their remarks, her children addressed the plants in the garden.  

“Plants in Mildred’s garden, we were foolish,” muttered Stu. 

“We didn’t consider your feelings. We were wrong in thinking that you didn’t really understand what Mildred was saying,” added Daphne. 

Stu added: “We know plants have rights too.” 

In tandem they murmured, “We beg your forgiveness and hope that you can convince the other plants that humans depend on to provide food for them again.” 

 Mildred has listened in.  When Daphne and Stu were done, Mildred bent to the ground, then rose up and told them how her plants answered. “They will do what you want under one condition.” 

 Stu and Daphne answered in unison “Whatever they want. We’re good for it.”  

Mildred assured them, “Oh, it’s easy and I’ll do it. All they ask for is a double ration of the fertilizer treat I give them.” 

 Stu asked “It’s that easy? Can you start now?” 

 “I’m on it in the next five minutes. It’s a good thing I stocked up on their treat.” 

 Good to their “word” Mildred’s plants passed on the kids’ apology and worldwide, the plants returned to their normal behavior. 

 Four prosperous years passed before food crops went on strike again, protesting overcrowding, abrasive weed killers and that pesky hedge trimmer thing. 

Swallow wings

Cat guts

A flower peeks out

From under the snow

A newborn’s ugly

Introduction to reality

***

Someone will prepare the order for pickup and burn the burger on the fire of memories

You can feel the bloody ketchup of feelings mixed with the ashes of the past

A little mayonnaise on top of the fumes from the fire of misunderstandings

The product must be consumed before:

Bombed fast food will never be able to issue an order to a customer

***

the inquisitor with the eyes of the night

where the bloody water flows

the waves of time take away our bodies

we are nowhere

***

A folder with documents falls out of your hands

I get nervous every time before an important report

The amputated heart does not make itself felt at all

Somewhere far away someone else is kissing your buttock

But I don’t care because my cheeks are too cold for tears

I bloodily threw you in the trash [can]

My veins and capillaries no longer warm my body

I threw you away along with my heart

But why do you still live inside my head no matter what?

***

the sniper

pregnant

with death

gives birth

to silence

The Current State of Uzbek Literature

Uzbek literature today stands at a fascinating crossroads between tradition and modernity. Rooted in the rich legacy of classical poets such as Alisher Navoi and modern writers like Abdulla Qodiriy, contemporary Uzbek literature continues to evolve in response to rapid social, cultural, and technological changes.

In recent years, there has been a noticeable revival of interest in national identity and language within the literary scene. Many young writers are exploring themes of self-discovery, cultural preservation, and the tension between globalization and tradition. The use of the Uzbek language in literature has expanded, with a growing number of poets and novelists choosing to write in their native tongue rather than in Russian, which dominated much of the Soviet era.

Digital media has also played a significant role in shaping the new literary landscape. Online platforms, blogs, and social media have provided young authors with the opportunity to share their works widely, bypassing traditional publishing barriers. This democratization of literature has led to a more diverse range of voices and perspectives being heard.

However, challenges remain. The publishing industry in Uzbekistan still faces financial and logistical difficulties, and there is a need for stronger international promotion of Uzbek literature. Many talented writers lack access to professional translation and global literary networks, which limits the global reach of their work.

Despite these challenges, the future of Uzbek literature looks promising. The new generation of writers is bold, creative, and deeply connected to both national heritage and global culture. Their works reflect the complexities of modern Uzbek society—its hopes, struggles, and dreams. With continued support for education, publishing, and translation, Uzbek literature is poised to gain wider recognition on the international stage.

Toshpo’latova Muxayyo Shokirjon qizi  Student of the faculty of Philology,Uzbekistan State university World Language 3rd Year

ORH (Duane’s wife)

As the sunset swallows the day,

love incorporates identities.

You are the rain

who washes my dust away.

NO CROSSWISE STRIPES

Oh, Orh, that first spontaneous smile in the night:

I was lost and didn’t know it, and

then

your beacon found me

and now

I walk with no bear tracks beneath my feet

and no coyote in my path.

No eclipse darkens my meal.

No snake sheds in my sight.

And I can spend hours filling your well with a stone.

SACRIFICIAL

The praying sadist decapitates

her mate

for climax’ sake.

“love’s addition sometimes subtracts”

The successful huntress offers up

a corpse

on God’s doorstep.

“artists always execute their works”

You are that cat,

that mantis

and I the mouse,

the mate.

MANDALAS

The moon woos the maiden waves.

They waver between care and greed,

coyly approach or recede,

as moon acts an inconstant knave.

A worn and generous field

marries the magnificent sun,

and grainy children soon come

who inherit both Daddy’s gold

and their mother’s charity.

A river surrenders herself,

and her union with the gulf

enlarges her identity.

Maned clouds graze in bluebell skies.

When they’re spooked their hooves of thunder

will tear the air to flinders

and waken baby lighting’s cries.

WHISPERS

Your spirit’s in the Whispers–

I can’t go there anymore–

it’s haunting all the places

where we went before,

the movies, the restaurants,

the sidewalks and liquor store.

I’m mute in all the arias

I once used to score.

Our friends are sore reminders

of those joyous days of yore

when we formed a pair of selves

combined at the core.

But now the twins are severed–

reminiscences, a bore–

locations, open wounds–

Whispers’ silence roars.

                         The Fate of the Dark Night

 “My child, if I leave, you won’t find me again.”

The sun’s warm and broken rays disappeared. As the world dressed itself in black, owls shrieked with a chilling ugliness. Some people know better than anyone how terrifying an enemy the dark night can be—those are the ones who live in solitude.

When Sveta’s children suggested placing her in a nursing home, she had refused. And now, in a spacious house, she was left utterly alone. With age her bones weakened, seizures grew worse, and Sveta, helpless, longed for nothing more than a kind word. She cursed fate—for taking her husband seven years ago, and for scattering her children far away, like a volcano erupting from her heart, never to return.

Autumn had arrived, bringing a biting chill. The heavy black clouds above seemed to glare down at her. She went inside, intending to watch television for a while. The clock ticked like tireless ants in the field, yet to Sveta, time seemed to have stopped. Nothing on TV brought her joy; she grew bored. Entering the guest room, she slowly searched through the cabinet and found what she was looking for—the only keepsake left from a broken family: a photo album. Opening it, her eyes fell on the first page—a family portrait. In an instant, tears didn’t fall from her eyes, but blood.

Her little son Oleg, who had first spoken with the words “Mum, mum,” and her daughter Marina, who once prepared for a whole week to recite a poem at a holiday, appeared vividly before her eyes. As she thought of it, she realized the sweetest time for a mother was her children’s childhood. She longed to return to those days filled with tender worries. One by one, her memories poured out. Yet the same children who had never been deprived of her love, strength, gentle words, and money, now showed no interest in their mother’s condition—whether she lived or died, whether she was warm or cold, it was all the same to them. Bitterness filled her heart.

    When she saw the photograph from her wedding night, she was struck with yearning for her husband. “If only he were alive now, perhaps I would not be so humiliated,” she thought. Sveta’s soul was gone—only her body remained. Suddenly, a thunderclap split the sky, shaking the windows. Panic seized her. She felt as if she were burning from within, as though left to scorch in the middle of a desert. She longed to turn her face to the rain and rushed outside.

She had lost herself, running back and forth across the yard, as though someone were chasing her but could never catch her. She laughed so loudly as she ran that her voice seemed to echo with the thunder. The old white dog “Belka,” tied in the corner of the yard, barked at her without pause. At one point, she took too wide a step, slipped, and fell backward, striking her head on the ground. Unable to withstand the pain, she burst into tears. Her sobs mixed with the rain. In the embrace of the pitch-dark night, bright days flickered before her eyes.

   Years ago, it had rained like this too. Sveta rocked Oleg to sleep in the cradle, while her husband Ivan read fairy tales to Marina by candlelight. She had not known then that fate’s wheel would turn so cruelly. If she had foreseen it, she would never have let her children slip from her embrace. She would have taught them from childhood that it is not man who chases after sustenance, but sustenance that follows man. At that moment, she felt another sharp pain in her body. A seizure gripped her; her tongue rolled back, foam gathered at her lips. Helpless before fate, she collapsed. In the winter night, no one witnessed her agony—no one but the old dog in the yard.

Ablakulova Dilfuza Komiljon qizi was born on March 8, 2006 in Payariq district, Samarkand region. Currently, she is a 2nd year student of the Faculty of Public Law, group “B” of Tashkent State  University of Law. Volunteer of the University’s Legal Clinic, “Qomus” Clubs, and representative of the student committee.

HARBOUR OF THE CHANGING SEASON

(Vo Thi Nhu Mai)

Beneath the hill, grass arranges itself into a song. The wind moves through the leaves. I sit counting threads of kitchen smoke, each one a beat of passing time, and you are a gentle rest note. If I could take the infinite distance and shrink it into my hand, your silhouette would fit there like a trembling dew on a blade of grass at dawn, like the last winter light warm enough to hold a season of longing.

Perhaps every season hides a waiting, and we are lost in the instants where one season meets the next. The hill wake, birds sing into the open air, and within that song I hear your footsteps crossing through layers of mist and bands of young sunlight.

Halfway through this journey called life, I realize every meeting is fate, and every parting is fate too. When something dissolves it does not truly vanish but transforms into another form, like smoke melting into wind, like light hiding in the clouds. Life’s changes sometimes wound us, yet it is through impermanence that the heart opens and learns gratitude for what once arrived.

I want to hold the sky’s thin thread as if holding your fragile hand, so near and so real. But the season shifts and the wind takes away its secrets, leaving only the scent of resin and someone’s distant lute on the slope, a note falling into the grass and turning into a lingering farewell.

If you ever return, remember to cross with me the landing where seasons meet, where we once watched leaves fall without sorrow because we trusted that in every fallen leaf a green seed stirs, and love still breathes softly somewhere between you and me on the sun-named hill.

I have learned that letting go is not forgetting but letting things return to their rightful places, like water finding the river, like wind returning to the sky. Some longings must be laid down to become peace, and some loves endure only when we do not cling. From that, my heart becomes as light as a cloud drifting over the hill where seasons keep changing, and the heart no longer fears loss.

Autumn is the most delicate season. Leaves shift in the soft music of time, change colour in a romance all their own, and fall for me to walk through like brief, fragile clouds. The wind touches the skin when I forget my coat. The desire for something warm, a cup of cinnamon and roasted squash, a lover’s scarf places me inside a time-box of memories, both discovering newness and wanting to curl into warmth beside the hearth.

Autumn turns me into the most innocent, hopeful version of myself. Something strong urges me to rewrite simple things into small adventures. I hear songs that blend the craving to touch raw nature with the rapture of perfect colour. The joy of lying outside, resting my head on a loved one’s lap, holding a book to shade against the sun, makes me see the unpretentious beauty of the season.

I want to remember how fragile this weather is, and how easily people open and become vulnerable when they meet during the changing days. For me, autumn is the beginning of something better, the time when the old hard shells are shed to reveal a smiling child beneath, who still knows how to love, to live, and to smile through change.

Võ Thị Như Mai (Mai White) was born in Vietnam and began her career as a high school teacher before moving to Australia to pursue higher education. She holds a Master of Education and a Master of Literature and has worked as a full-time teacher in Western Australia for over twenty years. She is the founder of the long run THE RHYTHM OF VIETNAM, a platform promoting writers from Vietnam and many other parts of the world. She also starts working as a reporter of MULTICULTURAL PRESS.COM.AU, featuring many multicultural aspects of the writing world. In May 2025, she was honoured with an Excellence Award from the Consulate General in Australia, recognizing her outstanding contributions to the preservation and promotion of her native language and literary heritage within the international community.