Self-Portrait 2

Self-Portrait 1

The Tide is Turning

I'm posting this video not as a political statement and if you are unable to separate a message of hope from political partisanship, please do not view, for I do not want to alienate a reader of The Story by interjecting politics into this blog. I'm posting this video, set to Roger Waters stirring music, because the lyrics and the images, all of them, move me.

482. Kyra on Hyneria

Kyra

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481. Mairi Painted

Mairi as fingerpainted by Ariel

480. Cathexis

After what seemed like hours, Em spoke: "You know, I have a list too." It was the kind of statement that was equally an opening, the kind of statement made between intimates, an unspoken communication understood by both. She had been captivated with his list of endearments, her heart working to believe, and in that labor, she built a world out of his words. That it came so easily was both comforting and scary. And she wondered if she simply wanted this too much, if, in fact, she was as blind as his father, convinced of what she wanted, perhaps needed, to be true.

"A list of your father?"

"No silly, a list of us. Do you want to hear it?"

Trev nestled his head between the pillows of her chest and closed his eyes as if to listen to a bedtime story in the warmth and safety of his own room, a place that existed more in his imagination than in memory. "Yes, I would like that very much," he said.

She tightened her arms about his shoulders. He smiled at the gesture, of the ride she was about to take him on and he pulled his knees into his chest. Her voice was gentle and she spoke as if speaking to herself and, whether she knew it or not, began to rock back and forth. He thought of being held in a rocking chair, her words as the wind, her arms a blanket. "I see a house, near the sea," she began. "Not big, more like a cottage with lots of windows and decorated with pastel hues of blues and pinks and yellows. The cottage is old, has a history, an ambiance, as a living thing would, and each time it creaks and groans with the wind or with our playful steps we feel welcomed, we feel protected, we feel cozy but most of all, we feel at home, like this is where we belong. The kitchen faces the sea and through the paned window we watch dorfels swimming by, a mother with her calves, leaping in the morning sun, their fins glinting as swords from the sea in the light. I open the window and let the cottage breath and the breeze is neither warm nor cool but rather fresh and clean, delivered from the ocean like a basket of fruit from a neighbor." She paused, her chest rising and falling like the waves in her mind and from a distance she imagined a trawler and a horn and then she laughed. "Hey, that's not funny."

"What?"

"You were snoring."

"I was not."

"Was too."

"I don't snore."

"Okay, what was the last thing I said?"

"You were telling me about your list."

"Right. And?"

"And what?"

"What was on my list?"

"Let's see."

"You were snoring!"

"Okay, maybe, just a little bit."

"I knew it."

"Well, you know why?"

"Tell me."

"Your voice was like a lullaby and the beat of your heart like a siren call, the warmth of your arms like the morning sun and the rising and falling of your chest like the gentle waves of the ocean. I felt safe. And I just . . ."

"Just what?"

"You know."

"Know what?"

"It just happened. Just like you said."

"What? What happened? What did I say?"

"Letting go. It just happened. I fell into you, into your voice, into your world, into your heart."

Em sighed. Trev smiled. "Go on. You were telling me about the cottage, by the sea, not too big not too small, the one with the paned windows and the leaping dorfels. Tell me more about that fresh and clean breeze."

Em smiled and as he started to smile back she tickled him and the two rolled on the floor like children who knew neither clock nor watch.

479. All of You

Em sat on the floor, her back against the wall. Trev, like a child, snuggled to her torso, his back spooned to her warm and soft chest, her legs, knees bend, holding him with the care of love, her fingers gently massaging his temples, both floating in the waves of conversation, staring through the plate glass upon the unjudging cosmos winking wisdom as shadows of lace on their young faces.

Em: Tell me about your father?

Trev: What do you want to know?

Em: Everything.

Trev: Be careful what you ask for.

Em: Forewarned. Now tell me, what kind of hynerian was he?

Trev: Bright, intelligent, caring, flawed, frustrated, trapped, angry, blind, black and white, right or wrong, rigid, emotionally withdrawn.

Em: Blind?

Trev: Not of sight but of vision.

Em: Explain.

Trev: My father could only see the world from his particular point of view, which, for him, was the only view. I think he was sincere in his view, however mistaken, but to argue with him was a waste. There was no room for grey in his world-view nor, with the children, was there room for open discussion of opposing views. Let me clarify that. We had discussions but as soon as your view was different from his, the conversation turned to argument, voices raised to a sad ugliness. And so, we learned to not express. What was the point? He would have an opinion, and we would either agree or just politely listen without engaging and try to leave the room as quickly as possible.

Em: Sounds a little unhealthy.

Trev: You asked.

Em: Surely he must have suspected?

Trev: Suspected what?

Em: The withdrawal.

Trev: That's a great question. I suspect that he did but it was not something he ever really talked about, except . . .

Em: What?

Trev: There were times.

Em: Tell me.

Trev: Well, when he had had a few, he became a different person, a nicer person, a more caring person.

Em: You say that like it is a bad thing.

Trev: A sad thing. When he was under the influence you could see a side of him that was loving, hurting, in pain. And, I suppose what was sad, depressing actually, is you knew, as soon as he was sober again, the curtain would fall, and that loving person would be gone, and no matter how hard one tried, that curtain could not be moved. And we would live with the angry, frustrated, opinionated person again.

Em: Why was he so frustrated?

Trev: He didn't fit.

Em: Fit what?

Trev: He had no social skills. He didn't know how to interact with others. He had lots of trouble at work, a continued source of frustration for him. He was brighter than his superiors, had a greater intellect, yet, was destined, to the end of his days, to always be the subordinate. He couldn't understand it. Thought the world was against him, that others were jerks. You see, he couldn't see. He couldn't take an honest appraisal of himself and see himself for what he was. As a result, he was trapped. Trapped in a life of constant pain, constant frustration and that frustration spilled out at home. My mom took the brunt of it. How she stayed with him is today, still, beyond my comprehension. Said she loved him. Said we never saw sides of him that she did. Said he really did love all of us. Said marriage was for better or worst and that when it was 'worse' wasn't an out but part of the deal.

Em: Did you believe her?

Trev: I don't know. When I was younger, when I was living in that environment, no. She spoke of things I simply couldn't comprehend. The side of him she spoke of, I never saw, and, at that age, didn't have the wisdom or vision or imagination to see. All I knew was pain, day in and day out. My life was one of walking on eggshells. Always fearful that the slightish infraction could set off his irrational anger, the yelling, the berating. When you live in that bubble, when that is your only experience of a person, it is very hard to believe a contrary view.

Em: And now?

Trev: Still don't know. My father died a few years before we left Hyneria. I never saw the side of him my mother claimed to exist. Not in his last weeks, not even on his deathbed. For me, he was the same to the end. You know, I kept thinking, perhaps hoping, that with death in sight, and he knew he was dying, that there would be some sort of waking up, that there would be a moment when he would open up, talk to me, like an adult, share with me what was in his heart, tell me of his demons, perhaps offer some sort of apology for the many years of pain he put into my life. But, to the end, there was nothing. He died as he lived. Blind and unapologetic. Tone death to his influence on those around him.

Em: But he loved you, didn't he?

Trev: Perhaps.

Em: He had to. He had to love you.

Trev: One would think, but I don't know what that means. What does it mean for a person to love another and never show it, never express it. Is that love?

Em: Maybe he couldn't. Maybe he loved you and was simply incapable of showing it.

Trev: And I ask again, what is that? What does that mean? Am I suppose to imagine his love? Is that suppose to give me comfort? I might as well create my own father because I really don't see the difference.

Em: Baby, I don't have answers.

Trev: I know. You asked. Do you regret it?

Em: (grabs his head and turns in to hers) Not in a million years. (before he can respond, she kisses him)

Trev: (opens his eyes to hers)

Em: You know what?

Trev: What?

Em: I love you.

Trev: (eyes water)

Em: All of you.

Trev: (buries his head in her chest)

Em: (she wraps her arms around his head with her chin resting on his short hair)

478. All Things Trev

"You know, I really don't know all that much about you," said Em. "Tell me what I don't know. Everything. Good, bad and ugly." Em twirled her hair. Trev looked at her like she was crazy. "Start with anything. Doesn't have to be scary."

"Okay, I like red ink and I hate black ink."

Em smiled. "If this is a metaphor, I think I'm about to fall in love."

Trev frowned. "Would have been a good one."

"It's not?"

"Afraid not. I just like red ink and I prefer almost any color over black. Black is so lifeless, so impersonal, so business and staid, and old and humorless. Red, on the other hand, is alive, like blood. When you see it, you know--you know something important is here, something that should be remarked, remembered, taken seriously. Red is the color of life."

"Wow. I never knew. Tell me something else. Something I don't know."

"I can't step on an ant. I can't swat a fly. I just can't kill any living thing. It's why I decided to go to medical school. I know it sounds cliché, but I've always wanted to be the one that could save a life, not take it. The trouble is pride. I see it in the corners. Pride lurking. It whispers to me. Tells me I'm better than others because I save lives. I know its not true, that life is not that black and white, that truth is more than just a series of firmly held postulates; yet, I hear the voice. I'm unable to shake it."

"Do you want to? I mean, do you really want to let the pride go? What if that pride is what is driving you, that that pride is doing you more good than bad?"

"That's a very nice way to look at it and I love you to pieces for the heart that can say such things, but the truth of the matter is this." Trev hesitated. He had shared before. Opened his heart. And in every case, not some, but every time, he had been attacked for the honesty, told he shouldn't feel or think that way. Judged. He was tired of the weight of judgment. He was tired of people asking him to open up only to smash him in the mouth when he did. He looked at Em. His jaw tightened. His breath shallowed.

"Is what?"

Trev sighed. "If I tell you what I really feel, if I show you my heart, completely raw, as it is, will you judge me?"

Em sat up. "Of course not."

"What if I told you that everyone else has made the same claim. Said one thing and then did another?"

"I'm not everyone else." Trev didn't respond. "Look, you don't have to tell me if you don't want to but--"

"But what?"

"But if you don't tell me, who are you going to tell? If you don't trust me, you can you trust? We are a crew of seven, eight if you want to count Kieran. Listen to me Trev. There are not a lot of other fish in the ocean. I'm here. Now. I've got two ears and one heart and I think I know how to use them."

"Okay. The pride is not driving me. It is a reflection of my immaturity, of my need to feel like I matter, that I am important. I can't pilot the ship like Rog. I can't do Zing Tao stuff like Kyra and Von. I can't Null like Mairi or even flirt and frail like Yul." He stopped. Dizzy in the emotional tide pulling him out to a sea he would rather avoided.

"Can I ask you a question?" said Em.

"Sure."

"Did you leave me out on purpose?"

"What?"

"You listed everyone on board but me."

"No, not on purpose."

"Well . . ."

"Are you looking for a reason to disown me? Is that what this is about?"

"Wow. I can't believe you just said that."

"I'm sorry."

"Are you really."

"Em, I've never known someone that I felt sincerely cared about me for who I am. So I've lived most of my life pretending to be someone I'm not, trying to please people, to be accepted. When I look at you, that is what I see. I see someone who doesn't have to try, who doesn't even know how to project. You are who you are. I struggle to even know what that means."

"Oh Trev."

"Em, when I hear you tell stories about your mom and dad, I pretend to be happy and in a certain sense, I am, happy for you. But you know what else?"

"What baby?"

"Those stories are like a knife in my side. Everything you had. I didn't. Your stories remind me of what I didn't have, will never have and although I try to resist it, I resent that you had them in your life. Do you see it? Do you see my immaturity? Do you want to run away now? Do you want to laugh at me and tell everyone else what an idiot I am?"

"Are you through?"

"Well . . ."

"Can I tell you something?"

"Go for it."

"I didn't ask nor did I choose my parents. Neither did you. What we had or didn't have is history. It exist in memory. We can't change it. But you know what, we are not slaves to it either."

"I don't know how to let go."

Em laughed.

"What's so funny?"

"There is no 'how' in letting go."

"I don't follow."

"I don't know how to explain it other than it is like breathing. You just do it. If you think about it or try, it becomes much more difficult."

"Still not following you here."

"Okay, how 'bout this. I open my arms and you fall into them?"

"What are you talking about?"

"Let's try it." Em opened her arms.

"You want me to what?"

"I want you to trust me. I want you to let go." Trev hesitated. "Do it. Fall into my arms."

"What is that going to accomplish?"

"Other than your warm body against mine?"

"Yea, other than that."

"Trev," Em's tone changed, "I don't know all the answers but I do know this. If we don't have each other, we've got nothing. I'm here. Now you either trust me or you don't. What's it gonna be?"

477. The Lake of Eternal Wisdom: Part 1

"Papa, where are we going this morning?" asked Kyra.

"To the lake of eternal wisdom. I got a message this morning. She wants to see us."

"Really?"

"Yeah, really. Now go pack for a day trip and make sure to wear your old jumpers."

Kyra took off and Papa lifted his cup. Above the rim and before a sip he spied two eyes starring directly at him. "What?"

"A message this morning. Is that right?" asked Grand.

Papa smiled. "You know, I can't tell you everything. What would the lake say if I shared a private correspondence?"

"I see," said Grand, turning back to the sink. "And I suppose this dinner is just gonna cook itself, because, you know, the pot of eternal sustenance works in mysterious ways. You should stick around and I could initiate you in the ways of knife and board, of wine and water."

"Why don't you come with us. The three of us. Pack a lunch. Make a day together."

"Zeke, you know all I've ever wanted was to be asked." She closed her eyes as his hands found her hips. "But I know magic when I see it. Take Kyra to the lake. Teach her the lesson of the pebble. Janus knows I've heard it enough."

Papa wrapped his arms around her waist. "You sure?" He kissed her ear and felt her warmth against him, her hands dusted with flour holding the counter before them.

"Yes, go, before I change my mind."

"Hey," yelled Kyra, standing in the doorway, "does this mean we aren't going?"

476. Crimson Mist

The camera sits five or six feet from the shower door. The room is filled with roiling steam and only the sound of steady water is heard. The door opens to a wall of crimson mist. In slow motion a darker shape emerges, a dynamic figure. John steps forth, wet, nude, strong, hard, his chest broad his arms chiseled, beads of water dripping from his square chin. His eyes set, straight ahead. As contrails behind wings, steam coils in his wake taking shape and form, of feminine fingers growing into delicate arms and a whimsical torso, full, soft, and erect materializes, hair flowing as rivers between mountains. The second camera catches his backside as he approaches the lave. His thighs solid, glutes round and thoroughbred taut, dimples as quarter moons, glistening wet. Still in slow motion, his right arm circles condensation from the mirror and we see two figures in the reflection. One of flesh, solid, hard, like an eggshell; one of spirit, enveloping, loving, sensual, wordless.

The scene switches to Von, sitting, sipping snizzle with his right hand, his left holding a book open. He hears a sound, pauses, hears it again and places the cup down.

The camera flashed back to the bath. John's image, standing before the lave, fades from view as the misty apparition consumes him. We hear a faint moan; and then Von's voice.

475. The Cup

The cup shook, as it had yesterday and the day before. The mornings were this way. A stalemate. Anger and despair intertwined and entrenched, their tentacles rooted in his very fascia. Where they ended and he began was no longer clear and, like a gardener before an untended vine, he felt the anxiety of being overgrown, overwhelmed, consumed.

He watched his hand; and the slight tremor, still there, as it had been for the last three days. He focused on stopping it, snizzle licking the sides of his off-white cup. Mind over matter, he told himself, evidence notwithstanding. He tried again. And then again. He thought of trying a third time before lowering the cup to the table, as if landing a helicopter in a storm, its ceramic base clacking to and fro on the metal tabletop. With the sound of failure echoing, he raised the offending hand, fingers limply clawed, palm inward, before his unshaven face and bagged eyes, the tremor as a frightened child before a scolding parent. (Looking with fatigue, his appendage looked back with all the intelligence of a loose shutter flapping in the wind.)

Kyra had vanished. Not a trace. Not a lead. He knew what had happened. He knew where she was. But there was no evidence. Just a knowing. And an imagination at play. They told him it was not his fault. He listened, politely. But their eyes did not match their words. Even through his own lens of self-crimination he could see that much. And they were right. He had pleaded. He had begged. He had convinced them on this course. So the words fell like so much virga, and tongues remained extended, parched, unsated.

Taking breath, he reached again, for the cup. His hand moving with the languid speed of a snake. Again, the table began to chatter and snizzle threatened to lap the white levees as the cup failed to take flight. Defeated, he removed his hand, withholding the dignity of a glance, locking fingers behind his back. Bending, he snuffled the cup, the aroma working as an elixir. Closing his eyes, to close the world, if only for a moment, he lapped his warm beverage as a dog before a bowl. Lost in his temporary universe, he didn't hear the door.

"John, what the hellocks?"

Startled, John jerked up and snizzle flew everywhere.

Von grabbed a towel, holding it forth at arms length. "Get yourself cleaned up."

John looked down without responding.

"I understand your grief. I understand your pain." Von hesitated and then lowered his voice. "But there is something else I understand too."

John looked up.

"Nothing you can do will bring back Cait." Again, Von paused. "But there is still hope for Kyra."

Standing, John thought to speak, but instead took the towel and turned toward the shower, his words beaten back by Von's unyielding gaze.

"John?"

"Yeah?"

"Next time you might . . ."

"Might what?"

"You might want to try one of these." Von held out a straw. For the first time in three days John smiled.

474. Soughing in the Dark

Two entered the cell
where one would not have fell
They would take their due
spoils of war their hue
Or so convinced they caballed

Where one would have wavered
the two soughed without favor
Hearts dark
into the pitch
One left
One right
Four hands to two

Blows rained as hail
Fists hammering out braille
Into each liver
A lesson delivered
and heads aloft once held
greeted the floor without yell

Breath released
Breath taken



"Sir, we have a breach."

"Video."

Shakes head.

"Idiots."

473. An Audience of Pebbles

Clover, he had said. Fields and fields of damp aromatic clover, an endless rolling carpet before china blue skies. Really, she had asked, her arms wrapped around her folded knees. Yes, he had replied, looking her way. She smiled. He didn't. Which only made her smile wider.

Tell me more she said.

I hear silence in a cloud he said, stroking her hair; and feel hope in the warmth of a sunbeam. I see your hair spread like a shell, your eyes big like planets and on my cheek, your breath, honest as the breeze. Down a ways, a stream gurgling; and on that clear bed, a thousand pebbles, all shapes and sizes, waiting in audience for our naked feet.

She leaned her head on his chest, listening to his heart beat. He pulled her tight and closed his eyes.

472. Von's Journal #8

Before the attack, Von sat with Zoe. She asked about Ceru's mother, a subject, she said, his son had had not much to say. Von smiled with closed lips and answered her questions with polite discretion noting that nothing he told her was false; nor was it true. Returning to his quarters, he picked up his journal:

a question not asked

a note not written

a look given and not

a date let slip

an idea not shared

a tear not shed

from a dull heart

an effort not made

an interest not shown

a hug half-hearted

words in place of silence

and silence when words were needed

home a prison

and work an escape

meals together are eaten alone

no arguments

no fights

no ugliness

just a drifting, slowly, away

politeness replaces passion

comfort in a cold glass

smiles exchanged for unconscious sighs

dancing seems absurd

touches become as birds in winter

and kisses rare as diamonds

and one day, you wake to a stranger

and what had been living . . .

471. Compromised

John: How many men are down?

Arn: (blank stare)

John: How many?

Arn: All of them.

John: (taps his comm) Kyra? (silence) Kyra, come in.

Arn: (sits on the curb)

John: Rog, this is John, do you read?

Rog: What's up?

John: Get everyone back to the ship.

Rog: (no response)

John: Rog, did you--

Rog: I heard you. We've got a problem.

John: What?

Rog: Kyra's missing.

John: What do you mean missing?

Rog: You know, like not here.

John: I know what missing is. Can you elaborate?

Rog: We went our separate ways. Suppose to meet back in three hours.

John: And?

Rog: She's not here. Not responding to her comm.

John: (no response. looks at Arn who is staring into space)

Rog: John, what's going on?

John: We've been compromised.

Rog: What?

John: They knew we were coming here.

Rog: Did you get the codes?

John: We got the codes.

Rog: Well?

John: Get everyone back to Bravo.

Rog: I'm not leaving without Kyra.

John: Rog--

Rog: I'm not leaving John.

John: She's not here.

Rog: Shiott!

John: Rog--

Rog: Hang on, incoming from Von. (Von stayed behind on Bravo)

Von: Rog, we're under attack.

Rog: John--

John: I heard.

Rog: Damn.

Von: Gonna need some--(loud explosion)

John: Von?

Rog: Von?