809. slippage

My hand is sore, something I only notice when I write. It is the holding of the pen by which I know it, this pain, know it is not natural, not the aging I see so clearly in the mirror nor some disease of unknown origin. My hand hurts to write and only when I write; otherwise, I feel no pain at all; the hand is, in every way, whole, healthy. The pain, to be clear, is not in the writing or perhaps I should say not in the act of writing, but rather it is in the hand, or more so, in my mind and transferred to the hand. And by this holding of the pen, I know. I am under extreme stress.

What I find most terrifying is not the stress, but that I must know it slant, know it by shadow, know it by degree of act and not of pure consciousness or unhindered awareness. This crass blindness to my own self is what I call slippage. I am aging. Life has found me wanting. In my premature weakness, in this calving of the psyche, I become, under the chisel, the hammer, as so many icebergs. And in this way, I see myself slowly floating away as one might if from shore, from what was whole, the country of oneself. And too, there is this sense that the shards shall never be whole again. One feels one is less than before. That what was there yesterday, is not here today. I suppose there is some correlation to knowledge and memory and the erosion that age imposes on experience. One feels as a book with pages missing, the story fuzzy, the fragments that remain as puzzling as the gaps. Like looking at a dry riverbed and wondering of the water that used to flow, must have coursed, as blood courses, in the living. Something died within me when Cait died. I can feel its weight on what remains. I carry it every day. And to think, I know it by my hand, by writing.

journal entry, John Discovery--written sometime shortly after departure from Polaris

darts and daggers

There is a difference between leader and follower, between a plan presented and a plan created. So much of life is solitary, our internal experiences ours and ours alone; unity and togetherness but illusions; protectors of our psyche as coats against the cold. And what of Love? This invisible thread that weaves a life between two, that stitches collar to coat. Does it not need two? Does it not demand an other? And do we not punish most with isolation, solitary confinement. Hate me if you will. Throw your darts and daggers jagged. But by Janus, don't walk away.

benthic stone

I dreamt he was a dolphin and she the sea. Again and again he dove, shimmering and arched. Again and again she sighed, glistening and parted. And where he leaped, I drowned. Slapped by her spume. Stung with her salt. Leap and dive, leap and dive. Sigh moaning upon sigh. The sky bright, burning bright. And still her waters heal him. Releasing and healing, releasing and healing. I saw this from the murky depths. This weaving of two lives. And then bubbles. My life rising into their wake. All is quiet now. I see them dimming, from a cage of benthic stone.

WIP: of cotton

WIP (work in progress): The piece below contains the original first draft and, in parenthesis, optional edits both inclusionary and ex. Although this does not make for the best reading experience, I hope it gives some insight into revision. Enjoy. 
 
She smelled of cotton and in this way (I found she) was linked to every woman (of significance) I knew. This smell (this redolent scent), (mind you), was not the cotton of fresh laundry or recent purchase nor did it compete with any perfume (fragrance), artificial or otherwise. It was the smell of earth, (not air), of hands free of (from) polish, (and) skin soft in labor, (not lab). (Her) {she stood before me,} unadorned skin and the thin robe. (She stood with her) head turned upon my chest (and as) I leaned to kiss her neck, parting {holding aside} (her) golden hair, drawing breath. This breath, of a robe long in storage, an afterthought, random, as there were many other robes she could have chosen, was the memory of (love shown with) weary eyes. It was the economics of hard times, of character grown in poor soil. It was the religion of another generation, of hand-me downs, of bedrooms too small, of meals too lean. She was, in this breath, in what could have been no more than a thimble of seconds, everything I had (ever) known of love, everything I (sought.) had (ever) wanted. We made love as if love was all we had. We made love as one does when love is what is made, easy and natural as breath, of that breath standing before bath, of arms that spoke where tongues would not, of (the) continuity {in the way} of blood, of no beginning, (and) {of} no end.
 
__________
 
revised: second draft
 
We made love as if love was all we had. We made love as one does when love is what is made. Natural as rain to ground, seed to sapling. In the peace of repose, we lie incandescent. Silence descending like dusk. Not even the sound of our breath is heard.
 
Chiaroscuro and sinuous she rises. I hear shape not sound. She moves across my still eyes and I am wordless before this nature, this lapping warmness that engulfs me. From the closet she emerges wearing only a thin robe. We meet in the bathroom before mirror and tub. Her arms open, taking me into her softness, her head pillowed upon my chest. Parting her hair as one would a curtain, I lean and kiss her cream white neck. She smells of stored cotton, of chest-of-drawers, of a time before I knew her.
 
In this way, she was linked to every woman I had known. The robe's redolent scent was not the cotton of fresh laundry or recent purchase nor did it compete with any fragrance, artificial or otherwise. It was the smell of earth, of hands free from polish, and skin soft in labor, of weary eyes and the economics of hard times, of character grown in poor soil. It was the religion of another generation, of hand-me downs, of bedrooms too small and meals too lean. She was, in this breath, in what could have been no more than a thimble of seconds, everything I had known of love, everything I sought.
 
By scent alone, she had entered the book of generations, had embedded herself in my mind and memory, this flower standing, dried and pressed between the pages of my past, of people and places that no longer existed, of those alive only in my memory. I knew from that moment she was both past and present, breathing and ghost. And I knew too, she would haunt me for all my days. 

808. into the nether regions

She waited at a table in the corner, alone. The contact was late. On the table, her slate glowed. A small red light illuminating her pale face. Her metallic hair aglitter. Rising, the red orb began to pulse, slow and steady in the way of breath in sleep. It felt this way, this slipping into the nether regions of consciousness, that place between wake and dream. As if one could walk between realms. And wasn’t it this way, of dying in pieces, of living with what could never be changed, of holding what could never be altered. Heavy as stone memory. So hard. To live this way. Shoulders always tired. Advice so unwelcome. For how does one leave behind the heart of identity? How does one deny the self? How does one disown the very narrative that is you?

Looking at her watch, all about glowed. A low hum of conversation, inebriated laughter, drooping eyes, clinking glass. The pulsing grew more violent. Wasn’t hard to imagine Bravo’s engines firing to life, of the crew preparing to disembark. Thoughts of Rog boiled in the gut. Visceral. This sense of being left. It was, she thought, her earliest emotional memory. Visions of her sister walking ahead, hand held by father. Her mother rushing to fill the void. Seeing her own solitary reflection in those quivering eyes, her dress dirty, hair disheveled, her mother’s hand reaching for what had already been lost. Still, no matter the number, no matter the direction, fortune or fame, that pull to the darkness remained. Woven in her very fabric. As much her as her hand. With a strength she couldn’t comprehend. Nothing but image and pain, hand in hand, of the two of them walking, neither looking back.

The waitress came, asked for her order. When she turned back, the red orb was gone. Her stomach settled on the thought, as if lead. Hollow, heavy, leaking poison slowly. Then he came. The transaction just a blur. Her vial again faithful. Removing the seal, she took a breath. Pain smiled. There would be no more hurt. No more leaving. No more anything.

_________

Kyra: Alert me as soon as Rog comes to.

Von: Will do.

Kyra: And Von.

Von: Yes?

Kyra: Thanks.

807. that alluvial stain

As the hour of departure drew near, Trev sat with pen and paper. Em was quietly packing, folding clothes with care, holding them with the dignity of sacred texts. He thought of the return to space, to the hardness of metal, of manufactured air. Of how very different life had been here with the cottage, the lake, the pathways through the woods, of the sun in the morning, of dusk descending, of the sound of wildlife, of birds and crickets and owls. He thought of reading by the stream, a blanket laid on a bed of clover. Of glasses raised and toasts given, of wine on the tongue and smiles as beautiful as butterflies. He thought of open windows and candles and poetry written as she slept, that gentle rising of breath, the softness of her bosom under a light throw, of how her hair flowed over tranquil eyes. He watched her now, moving from chest to bed, organized, he thought, like the daughter of a sea captain, always mindful of what to bring and how to bring it. He thought too of the hour, of their leaving and as if a window was open and a gentle breeze beckoned, he thought of the soft soil of this place, of its wonderful aromatic richness and in this thought, of richness, of fresh-turned earth, this mother of all they ate and drank, he thought of Em. Of the line between mothers and birth, of the dying to one thing in order to be born to another, of the movement of arm and leg, the sweep of a look, the tenderness in breath against the ear. So he wrote. No editing, no revision, no care but for the flow. Then he wrote it again. Only later, when Em was emptying the trash did she find what he had written.

We leave in an hour. I want you in the humid soil before the lake, to know your dampness, that soft domain, refulgent, indolent, of grass and flower, of skirt and thigh. I want your sigh seen as ghosts rising, your teeth unconsciously bare in desire, your eyes full of the stars beyond my back. I want to know your gravity and shiver warm and cold, warm and cold with celsius pleasure, that seduction known to finger and glove. There is here life, this fullness, this rush, this fit. This crashing of you into me, my world, our world as changed as the boy upon the breast. I want muddy earth between my fingers, to smell of your bloom flowering my shoulder, your lust in the tremor of calf and the impaling of nails, this seeking of blood, to rip open, to expose, to reveal to the heavens what heretofore has been hidden. It is here, this last freedom released, unbound before fruit and flower, intoxicated in the way of poets with verbs and architects with nouns. But above all, I want not your soul nor your willing flesh sinuous and shimmering. I want what can never be taken, never be replaced. I want you, as you have never been, as you will never be again. I want dissolution. I want abject capitulation. The melding of our coin into new currency. I want it this night. I want it forever more.


As the hour draws near, my desire surges for soil, that alluvial stain, damp as damp to be, those soft domains moonly refulgent, this indolent night of sweet grass and bowed flower, of pleated skirt and willful thigh. I need this place of ghostly sighs rising from parted lips, of teeth bare before nature and eyes scarred of fallen stars. I ache to know your tidal gravity, to shiver warm and cold with celsius pleasure, that snug seduction known to finger and glove. This fit, this fullness, this silty rush of life, this crashing of you into me, our world as changed as the boy upon the breast. I want muddy earth between my fingers, the pungent flowering of my shoulder, lust in the tremor of calf, the impaling of nails, this seeking of blood, to rip open, to expose and reveal to the heavens what heretofore has been hidden. I need this last freedom released, unbound and given flight. I want not your soul nor your flesh sinuous and shimmering. It is not in the hour, or minute nor second that I seek, but this eternal imprint of memory stained in the act of dissolution, abject capitulation, the melding of coin into new currency.

806. chatoyant eyes

T: When Yul stormed off did you have any idea what was going on?
K: I knew something wasn’t right, but my mind was preoccupied with Mairi and to a lesser extent John.
___________
Skeleton Chapter: This is where I simply tell you what happens as opposed to writing of it.
The relationship of Trev and Em, was to Yul, devastating. She saw that what they had, she did not. Unable to carry the weight of a moment that was of all moments, the sun to her long buried seed, she sought and found a supplier. Her vial, long empty, now full again. Only in this way could she cope, the pain released from her mind as the sweet serum entered her veins. On this night, she was a day out from resupply. To leave within the dusk was to leave her tether to life. To leave now, she thought, was death and pain. To stay she knew would be death too, but a sweet death, absent agony and anguish. What seemed a choice to everyone else was never volitional for her.
__________
Of what Rog saw:
She appeared as fire and hell, hypnotic chatoyant eyes singeing reason from my skull. Her breath, an updraft of wrath, contempt, of sun-licked anger, bellowed from parched lips. The wind of her tongue whipping my self-righteous indignation. My knees knew no brace. My arms hung impotent. Again her words came, jagged, raw, lacerating the flesh she had held so dear. I rose or so it felt for all seemed into, against, the air humid, heated, fierce as my very nostrils screamed and burned of her atmosphere. All was not as before. Facts came fast. She moved to a line once seen, now erased, snorted into the maelstrom. And I saw what I had never seen, the gutting, the spilling. She was of this, I was convinced, consumed. Just a wisp of what was.
__________
Yul, from her journal some weeks later:
It had been coming for some time. Or, perhaps it is more fair to say, what had been put in motion by birth, by fear and rejection, by a hatred I never understood, could never grasp or protect myself from, had been unleashed. Freed to wreck havoc. Fear reigning lawless. Memory violating me again and again; for who can protect you from what is inside? Who can hold what can’t be held, as invisible as the thought not thought, the word not spoken? So there is this falling, this pain so great, burning as only truth burns pure, that one seeks not salvation but surrender. I had found a supplier. Had told no one. In this way, I survived. The shipment coming tomorrow was my life, my protector, the love I knew I would never know. To leave without it was beyond my ability to imagine. It was as if asking Em to leave without Trev.
__________
T: So what did you do?
K: We left her.

805. Quotes: 10

When you accept that you can break, that at some point you will be broken, by releasing the idea, something magical, something stronger takes hold and you find a strength previously unknown.

Von heard whispering to the boy

804. you know what

We leave tonight, said Kyra.

Why tonight? Why not tomorrow morning? asked Yul.

It will make decompression easier.

Well, I don’t like it.

You know what Yul? I don’t give a rat’s arse what you like. We leave one hour past dusk. Say what you got to say. Do what you got to do. But we ain’t waiting on no one.

I call bullshite on that.

Chill, said Rog.

I just don’t see why.

Kyra looked at Mairi. You want to tell them why?

All eyes turned to Mairi. She began with an apology. Not everything she had told them about her and Dr X was true. And for reasons she would explain later, if they didn’t leave tonight, they might not be leaving at all.

Well frail me, said Yul, storming off.

Rog looked at the others with a shrug.

Rog! Turn and tuck or you won’t have nothing to turn and tuck.

Kyra turned to Von. Can you do something about that?

Nope.

Well, try, cause I ain’t got the time nor the patience. Oh, and Von?

Yes?

Tell John I need to see him.

803. tomorrow, we leave

We sit before the picture window, robed, eyes full of sleep. The house is empty of sound. A warmness in dawn, of the silent view before us growing. Two cardinals flit, as if for us, a private ballet. We don’t talk. There is no need. Her hand reaches for mine. She smiles, takes a sip of coffee, her eyes over the rim looking at me in the way of eyes emerging from still water. It is quiet like that and I can tell from the tilt of her head, the squint of her looking, the grasp of her fingers, all is right. And the day looks brighter.

Later, we walk to the lake to take in a final view. Not so much to look as to breath, to know the air of fawn and fauna. Flowers everywhere, open, shamelessly exposed. Each breath full of this flora, infusing lungs and memory. Tomorrow we leave, replacing the blue sky for inky darkness, the soft earth under our feet for cold metal. It is as if we are leaving life. Even gravity seems reluctant.

Again she takes my hand. Holding tighter this time and I know this turning of page, this closing of chapter. She knows too. The unknown of space before us made more acute by the lack of space between us. We have, as two roots, grown together, unseen to others but by evidence of bough and branch, a shine as wind in our leaves. We glitter. Catching light in a thousand ways, fragments of moments seen mostly by contrast.

The sun rises above the trees now and the lake shimmers away the last wisps of mauvish mallow. Everywhere, as not before, gentle sound. She closes her eyes. Breaths deep. And I watch her lean her head into the warmth of day. Her hand still holds mine. Her fingers moist in our heat. We mix this way such that what is hers and what is mine seems the wrong question just as mother and child to be are both two and one at the same time. I kiss her cheek. She smiles without opening her eyes.

Neither of us wants to leave this place of birth, of root so firmly grown. The fear of the gardener. Of transplanting. Will it take? Are we more than this place of tranquility?

802. a clear day

Yul: She’s a clear day and I’m thunder and lightning.

Rog: I kinda like your thunder and lightning.

Yul: Well, it ain’t always about you.