360. This Won't Lie

Trev in the shower
looking at shampoo bottles
and the clutter
overwhelming desire to throw them away
to declutter
and feel the peace of clutterlessness
he is losing his mind as they return to Kulmyk
and in losing his mind, he does two things
first
he completely declutters his quarters
and second
he plays the same song over and over again
he invites Mairi over
he is proud
and she sees he is losing his mind
he asks her to dance
she says you don't dance
he says I do now
and holds out his arms
they step into the center of his room
and he takes her arms
he is lost is his world
in a room barren of anything
and they dance
to the same song
over and over
and he never tires of it
in fact, he seems to enjoy it more and more each time
she sits him down
he doesn't see the problem
he gets upset
tells her Rog called her a whore
she says the farm breeds ignorance like rats in a sewer
Trev repeats that he called her a common whore
Mairi says his ignorant head is up his arse
then Trev says he said she was not worthy for Bravo
Mairi says nothing
then Trev says he said she was not worthy for evacuation, period
Mairi slaps him
hard
Trev spits blood on the barren floor
Mairi starts crying
Trev reaches out to touch her
She screams for him to take his hands off her
Trev looks shocked
Mairi comes back at him
Tells him she saved him
When no one else was there
she was
she was the one that succored him when he was dying
He says that Rog says she is a liar
a lying whore in fact
he says you are lying about Dr X
and that you are putting us all in danger
he says you are selfish
a selfish whore
a lying selfish common whore who shouldn't even be here
Mairi stands up straight
shoulders back
she pulls a small disc from her pocket
a hologram
sticks it in his face
and says
this won't lie
and walks out
Trev is left standing alone
disc in hand
he plays it
it shows Mairi holding him the day he was left for dead
he watches the whole scene
begins to tremble as it plays out
falls to his knees as he realizes
Mairi is telling the truth
that he is the arse
for most of what he said he made up
to hurt her
he wants to hurt her
and he doesn't know why
he knows she helped him
but he wants her to feel pain
so he lied
Rog did call her a whore
did say she would lie
but everything else Trev made up to hurt her
and he couldn't stop himself
each lie built
and grew to the next
he embraced the hurt he was giving
he felt it leaving his body and into hers
yet the pain didn't leave him
it only grew
and when he watched the hologram
of him in the street
unconscious
beaten to within an inch of his life
the faded colors
the wind
the dirt on his face
and the way she held him
succored him
whispered to him
kept him alive
that is when the pain became too great
and he falls to his knees
arms outstretched
head thrown back
eyes looking up
and he cries out
My Janus, My Janus
and the camera pulls away
and the scene ends
and there you have it

359. Outtake #3: What I Need

(Tranquility slips quietly toward Kulmyk. Kyra sits alone--I would say at night, but it always seemed as night in space--manipulating blocks of light in a Kulmykian game--a gift from John. The game, he said, was a symbiotic exercise, which was his way of saying, each block of light could connect with the player's electrical impulses with a discernment just beyond artificial intelligence, interacting with the life-form such to make the game as unique and insightful as to each player's capacity for self-awareness. With a wink, he refused to say what the purpose of the game was, only that she would know once she started playing.)

John enters her quarters, takes a look at the pink blocks hovering before Kyra’s hands and, with a somewhat solemn look on his face, says: “Enjoying the game?”

“Is it really a game?" asked Kyra, her porcelain face looking all the more doll-like in the pink glow as her hands continued to move the blocks. (She does not break eye contact and look at John. Her jet-black hair appears as cotton candy, a metaphor not lost on John.)

“Depends on the player," answered John, his eyes fixed on her lips, which looked more innocent than he knew them to be. The pink light made them look younger, softer, fuller and if eyes could smell, they looked lustfully decadent in a way that only a young girl's pouty lips can. The thought of kissing her melted in his mind in step with his sense of decorum and he wondered if his face betrayed the stirring of this unsolicited lust.




(With a consciously sensual turn of wrist Kyra powers down the cubes of light)

“Well, I have the sense you didn’t drop by to make idle conversation about a 'game.' What’s on your mind?”

(Pursing his lips, John's mind races to contain the fear that she can see through him along with the serpentine dismay that he wants her to)

“Kyra, I won’t pretend to know who you are or why you are special, which you are, and, to be frank, this mission makes no sense to me; but, if I have learned anything as a commander, it’s the importance of the chain of command and the support of the crew once the commander has made a decision,” said John.

“Thank you.”

“I do want you to know one thing. I’m here if you need me.”

“Are you sure it’s not the other way round?”

(John smiles without answering)

(Kyra takes an audible breath)

“You know what I miss the most? I miss the unfiltered honesty that I had with Papa. Our relationship, and I didn’t know it at the time, and time only further embosses the difference between then and now, but I was Kyra and he was Papa and that is all there was in our interaction. Do you know what I am saying?”

“Perhaps, but for fear of pride and ignorance on my behalf and grace and beauty of expression on yours, continue.”

“To Papa, I was Kyra. No more, no less. On this ship, I am the commander and only underneath that veneer, to the crew, am I Kyra. There are times when, even after almost two years and all we have been through, that I look at the crew and I wonder who they are and I know they must, if they reflect, wonder the same about me. The only way to describe what I feel, not all the time, but more times than I care to admit, is this: Have you ever eaten a meal until your belly was full, so full you couldn’t put another bite in your mouth, yet still felt unsatisfied, still mentally needing to eat, physiologically wanting more?”

(John hesitates as if the words, like meat, needed time to digest)

Kyra continued. “Here is another example, one you might related to a little better. Have you ever felt the need for union, a strong need; then had union and although the physical need was met, you felt completely unsatisfied. An unorgasmic orgasm if you will. I hate to put things in such a crude light, but that is what I crave.”

“An orgasm?”

(Kyra laughs and shakes her head)

“No. A relationship that is genuine. A relationship without anything between me and the other. I had that with Papa. I didn’t know it at the time. But with every day that passes, my hunger grows; yet, on this vessel, surrounded constantly by the others, it is as if my belly is full. Full but hungry. Spent but desirous.”

“Are you okay?”

(Kyra laughs)

“If I only had a penny for every time I’ve been asked that question.”

“What’s funny? I meant the question.”

(Kyra sighs)

“Nothing funny at all. I laugh because it is the wrong question and I’m amused to hear it again, from you, as if I thought, you of all people, would know.”

(John looks somewhat puzzled with a hint of disappointment)

“Let me put it this way. Papa would always say to me, Kyra, don’t make hot, don’t make cold. (Kyra pauses before continuing) It was his way of saying don’t get involved on what happens on the surface, that who you are is calm and serene and deep and cannot be touched by the storms that come and go above. So, when someone asks that question, I know they see only the surface and what they see is more times than not, not my surface, but a reflection of their own. And in those moments, I feel most alone. That is when I feel no connection and that is when I utter the words I wish I could extract from my mind like a cavitied tooth: I am fine.”

(Kyra pauses and John looks on as a child at storytime waiting for the teacher to continue, afraid to speak and break the spell)

“You see, deep down, below the surface, that is where you will find Kyra; and there, you will see that she is fine.”

(another pause, still no response)

“Do you want to know that Kyra? Can you know that Kyra? Can you leave everything you think you know behind and embrace me without your ideas, your desires, your needs, your wants? That is what I need.”

358. On Bended Knee

Von flipped through page after page, skimming images in his mind as much as words on paper. The letters, one for each day of his captivity, were not so much letters as they were conversations, the sort of conversation that if overheard by a stranger, would not be given a second thought, but when imagined by the father from the son would not have been exchanged for all the world. Yet, the letters were not really conversations, they were prayers, or, as was called in the Tao, meditative prayers. There was a difference. Prayer was a plea, passive, something your grandmother did; meditative prayer a deed, active, and effective in ways beyond common comprehension. The Tao believed that meditative prayer could reach beyond space and time and shape events. His son had spent more than three years absorbed in that belief.

Von closed the tome as he closed his eyes and took a deep breath as if he had forgotten how. In an instant, his universe changed as if the pages of the Imprimatur Rubious had rubbed the sleep from his eyes and for the first time he saw not with dreams.

A thousand thoughts ran through his mind, not the least that he had survived captivity, not of his own will as he had thought, but with assistance from afar. Moments from the edge flooded the chasm of his memory as he recalled standing between this life and the next one, wanting to slip away into the peace of the night. At each of those moments he had found strength, had remembered the sensation of a cool breeze pushing him gently back to safety. He had thought little of those sensations at the time. Now, he realized a love, as deep as the regret welling in his bosom, and he cursed himself for the ignorance or pride that clouded his view at the time. And he marveled. Three years. Not a day missed. Letter after letter, all in longhand, painstakingly rendered not as word to paper but as Love to father.

Von opened his eyes and looked down without moving his head as if he could hide behind his quarter-opened lids. Glowing red, filling the room with sacred light, a small disc, no larger than the tip of his finger, silently and slowly grew brighter and dimmer as if each exchange was a breath, as if the disc were alive, as if it begged to be touched and opened. The disc was a holographic version of the letters, a version that would, when activated, appear in 3-D before him, the pages breathing in light as if alive from floor to ceiling in folio fashion, which could be turned with hand or eye.

With a wave of his hand, the holographic folio opened and the room filled with light. Opening the volume to a random page, Von walking into the light, his hands swimming in the sea of illumination as the words appeared to move as fish in shallow water. On the right-hand side, he spied what appeared to be a watermark, about the same size as his face. Gently leaning his countenance into the mark, Von felt as if he had touched an open circuit, his face felt wet and a scent of sea air filled his nostrils. His mind began to swirl, faster and faster, and as a child on a merry-go-round, the images of his mind began to blur. He quickly pulled his head back out. Touching the mark with his hand, he felt the shock again and this time he placed his whole head into the watermark, and as the tear of the father met the tear of the son, the two were united on a plane of existence Von could not explain.

When the strange joyful energy threatened to rip his heart from his chest, Von pulled his wet head out. Balling his fists to wipe his eyes, he studied the words on this page. Near the bottom he saw the four words that appeared on every page—I Love You Dad. Kneeling on bended knee, Von reached into the hologram, grasped those four words and pulled them into his hands. They pulsed as if the light beat in harmony with his heart. Bowing his head, Von took the string of words, and like a scarf, wrapped them around his chest, love touching love. The room brightened and with closed eye Von felt as if he were lying in a summer field looking into the sun, such was the light that penetrated his eyelids.

The words seemed to hug him back, and releasing his grip, Von placed his hands on the floor to steady himself, and with head still bowed and eyes still closed said, “I love you too son.”

Kyra sat stunned. Von looked exhausted.

“So there you have it,” he finally managed to say.

Soundtrack for this Chapter: Same Mistake (James Blunt, All the Lost Souls)


Commentary Part 1



Commentary Part 2



Bonus Outtake Commentary

357. Fire Burning Cold

“Dad, are you going to see Ariel?” asked Tom Jr.

Tom bent down and brushed the hair from his son’s forehead with his thumb. As his large hand cradled his son’s head the image of Ariel, laughing and smiling and skipping through the house flashed before his mind. Ariel and Tom Jr were the same age and because of Tom’s relationship with John, the two children had practically grown up together.

_______



Four hours prior:

“Tom, the Tranquility has changed course. For reasons unknown, they are on a heading back to Kulmyk. This will not happen. Do you comprehend?”

“Yes sir.”

“Gather whatever resources you need. Report back that what once was, is no more.”

“Sir?”

“That will be all Tom.”



_______

“Dad, you’re hurting me.”

“I’m sorry son,” said Tom, releasing his grip. Before Tom could respond, his six-year-old likeness ran screaming into the next room, “Mom? Mom?”

Tom stood, straightened his jacket and walked out the door.

Intermission: Bulldogs Victorious 14-8

The winning touchdown.

Bulldogs beat Christ the King 14 -8, advancing to the championship game next week.

356. Imprimatur Rubious

Von locked the door to his quarters and walked over to the floor length and ceiling high window, an accoutrement deeply appreciated in each quarter on Bravo. Standing with hands held tersely behind his back, he watched the last glimmer of Hyneria slip from sight as one might watch the sun dip below the horizon; always, it seemed, with a sense of shock at how quickly it occured. With effort, Von took a breath and reflected, his chest feeling as if caught in a slowly tightening vice, his mind muddy with a thousand compromises. The sun would rise again, but he would never again see Hyneria. His eyes looked down without looking as the unspoken thought hovered just beyond acceptance—and neither would he ever again see Ceru.

On his desk it stood, the box. Von quietly walked over, pulled out a chair and with eyes locked on the parcel as if at any moment it might disappear as a mirage on Silus, sat down. The box looked rather ordinary in its coarse brown cloth wrapping, but the dang thing was heavy. Von ran his weathered finger along the edges, leaned over with eyes closed and breathed in. For an instant, Ceru appeared in his mind as clear as if he were standing in the room. Von closed his trembling eyes tighter and running his regal nose along the package, breathed in the scent of his son again, and, for just a moment, father and son were together. Von smiled as the simple and absurd thought entered his head that if he never opened his eyes he would never have to face the separation that was searing the veins of his heart from the inside out. Even old Hynerians need their fantasies, he thought, or perhaps just fathers.




Untying the cord that bound, Von opened the box and a rubious glow filled the room, warming his smooth face: the Imprimatur of Letters, a sacred seal given rarely by the Order to works deemed extraordinary, as in not ordinary, as in, how the hellocks did he not know his son had written such a work, had had this work officially recognized by the Tao. Zeke knew. No imprimatur was recognized without his approval; yet, the sombeech had said nothing. Von felt lightheaded.

Inside the box were more than a thousand letters, neatly bound, all written in longhand, apparently one every day for just over three years. On the cover were two words and two dates separated with a dash. Von froze. The dates were his dates, his dates of captivity, of torture, of solitary confinement, of neural traces. The dates matched perfectly. Above the dates, just two words, My Father. Inside, a note, hastily scribed:

Dad,

I could say I love you with all my heart a thousand times and still I would feel the words were inadequate to the expression. You always taught me to trust the act and stand weary of the word. And so, in this work, I give you both, not as two, but as one. As you read these words, remember the letter, but know the deed.

I love you dad. Do your duty and I will do mine. And when the time comes, we will meet again with heads held high and I will greet you with arms open and heart warm and you will see a smile like you have never seen. You have been everything to me and with every breath that I have remaining, I will honor your memory with aid and succor to those in need and they will know, I am the son of Von.

Love,

Ceru

To be continued . . .

355. Four Words

We arrived at the dock as shadows grew, the wind as fierce as anything I could remember on this world or any other. The whole landscape seemed a palette of unforgiving grays from the sky dull to the dock sheen. Splattered against this achromous canvas, ships of all makes and sizes, hue faded hulls, bobbed like mobiles on the teetering edge of Hyneria’s crib as numbered flags flapped and yelped like skittish kites anxious to flee their tethered mounts. We felt as babes, and about as small, before an angry mother spewing wind and rain for reasons beyond our comprehension. Powerlessness, I suppose, carries its own phlegmatic resignation, and, oddly enough, a sense of peace, or perhaps just the peace that comes when responsibility and authority has been arrogated by a higher power.

On the platform before us, pockets of goodbyes huddled against the blustery elements, coats brown and grey and black held tight, like so many charcoal smudges, as families longed to slow the hands of time, to hope against hope that if they filibustered long enough, the clouds would cede and the sun would emerge and an announcement would blast news for everyone to return home, the crisis over. Forced smiles looked grotesque, almost as if at any moment they would crack and mothers sported raccoon eyes and crimson noses as words were selected with more care than the forgotten diamonds on their hands. Into this emotional wasteland, Ceru and I leaned into the wind, our hands firmly on our hats, our final goodbye more dreamlike than one would have thought.

We searched for a place to call our own, a place to do in public what should have been private; one had the feeling of urinating in the street, sober, and nobody cared. The whole matter was simply a distasteful nightmare, but one we would not have missed for all the world. When our feet found root, we twisted toward each other, hands finding shoulders as branches seeking support. I would rather not say what we said other than various terms of endearment and hope; promises, we left on the table, since there was no reason for either of us to play those games.

After a hug like two school girls after summer recess, I turned toward Bravo and had not taken more than three or four steps when Ceru yelled Dad. I turned, he upon me, package in hand. He said four words and thrust what appeared to be a box into my chest. Before the tears, from either of us, could flow, he turned and walked away. His gray longcoat swallowed by the interminable misty bleakness. There is a reason to turn. I wish I had. The vision of his backside disappearing, as if consumed by the sea, haunts me to this day and there are times, when the vision is so clear, that my heart threatens to burst, pound, from my chest, as if I have committed some crime. That was the last time I saw my son, the last view I had, the last image ingrained in my mind.

“What were the four words?” asked Kyra, her eyes as misty as Ceru’s must have been.

Von looked at her as if the words would come forth when they were ready, not him. After what could have only been a few seconds he said as distant as if he were back on the dock, “I love you dad.”

Four Words: A Reading



Four Words: Commentary Part 1



Four Words: Commentary Part 2