decadent tranquility

Endogenous Etiology: 2

2008-07-03T20:16:00.003-05:00

Transcript from sometime in the future. Location unknown. Names redacted. (document 2)

Q.

A. I couldn't tell you when it started, no more than a man who slept late could tell you when the sun rose.

Q.

A. Look. I fucking told you I don't know. Ask me another stupid question and the session is over.

Q.

A. Don't apologize. Don't ever fucking apologize to me. Means nothing.

Q.

A. By the pauses. I would say memory, but that is long gone, like the flavor from a biscuit left in the sun. Insipid. Is that the word? Fucking insipid. My memories.

Q.

A. The juxtaposition of those two words. About how my fucking has been. Ever have an orgasm without having an orgasm? Didn't think so.

Q.

A. I don't laugh much anymore. Indulge me. Screw it. What did you ask?

Q.

A. Right. You know not by the thing itself because the thing itself consumes you, becomes you and you can no longer distinguish between it and you. So, you don't know. People look at you funny. They know. But you don't. That is, until you have slippage. You don't know what slippage is do you? Well, slippage is a flash, about that quick. A flash of light. And in that light, just in a millisecond, you know. You know that what is, is not as it should be. And you slip back into the humid dark. A darkness unlike anything out there because the darkness is within. There is nothing out there as dark.

Q.

A. It comes and it goes of its own accord. I've met no enemy I fear more. I never know if the day will bring light or dark and even within the day, like passing clouds, the moods change, sometimes on a dime. How. Why. I've no fucking clue. I do know, there was a time it was not this way. There was a time when the light was all there was. There was a time when I could do no wrong. Now, those times are like another life. I don't even recognize who that person was.

Q.

A. The shift, either way, happens in an instant. I can't predict it. I can't anticipate it. I can't control it. And those around me, they don't understand. To them, I'm an asshole. And, I suppose, looking from the outside in, I am. I treat them like shit. I know it. I know it when it is happening. I see it unfolding. And I am powerless to do anything about it. Except . . .

Q.

A. Leave. The only power I have is awareness. I haven't lost my awareness yet. I know when the moods shift. I know when I'm out of control. I know when I'm going to shit on anyone and everything in my path. I can't change the behavior so I have two options. Either they leave or I leave. Because if we stay in contact, bad things happen.

Q.

A. I feel like you are not listening. I can't fucking control it. I can't not be what consumes me in that moment. I can see it. I can know it. But I can't be otherwise. Imagine it this way. When you are drunk, you know you are drunk. You have that awareness. Now, that awareness does not make you less drunk nor does it give you better judgment. So you don't drive. So see. You isolate your ability to do harm. That is your option. Same here. When the mood changes, it is like in one moment you are sober and in the next you are drunk. And that quickly, you act like the drunk. Now imagine what those around you think? You see, there is no bottle in your hand. You are not at the bar. They see none of the outward signs. Just bam. One moment you are yourself. The next, you are an asshole. A danger to yourself. A danger to everyone around you. And no one understands. So you live with your sickness alone. Unlike a fever or a cold or the flu, you get no sympathy. Instead, you get scorn. And hatred. And you watch your friends, one by one, go away. They stop calling. The visits become less and less frequent. You understand. They don't.

A Story Sampler

2008-06-21T00:28:00.002-05:00

Dans la ville

2008-06-19T20:59:00.005-05:00

Rog and Yul attend a concert in the city. Yul's idea.

Rodrigo y Gabriela

Her Patroon

2008-06-17T17:06:00.006-05:00

ed note: Kyra has returned and the crew has sought a reprieve on the Arc'teryxian world of Polaris. Trev and Em headed to a small seaside village, staying in a cottage just outside of town.

He slowed to match her pace, indulging the natural feel of cobbles worn in foot and aged buttery smooth in history, each stone perfectly imperfect in the charm of time when hand and hammer mattered. Her feet were smaller than his but smaller in proportion and they seemed to be just right, skin olive tanned, arches firm in curve. The breeze coming off the azure ocean was neither cool nor warm as much as clean and pure and her long dark hair fanned in the way young hair, rich and supple, dances in the wind, tickling his shoulder. He thought it was nice to walk so close, not by necessity but by choice, her fingers twined in his. She had chosen the lacing and chosen the closeness and she smelled of lilac with a hint of rosemary, part scent and part memory of sighs and caresses under the clear cascading flow of shower rain.

The village on the hill overlooking the sea curved and twisted to match the mountainside and where stone and mortar ended and rock and shale begin were as blended as the strokes of Rembrandt. Each hut and structure fit into the other, a family of russet roofs presiding over open doorways as brothers and sisters, bustling with goods and little feet. The sun, refulgent, shone but not too hot and the shingles of clay glittered as the sea that lay before. Smiles were as lanterns in the shadows and leathered hands placed the sacrifice of the soil alongside the bounty from the sea.

She held up a vine of purpure grapes, and to the eye they appeared as jewels glinting like amethyst and she as a princess worthy of oil and brush. He looked not at her but at the others and in the looking smiled, for they looked as he had once looked and as he would look again, the kind of looking that made one pinch perchance it all but a dream. They would dine for two in the coming dusk and she would cook as if it were their last meal and he would eat as if sitting on the edge of a cliff, not of clay, but of slippery time, falling and falling forever deeper.

Rendered coin traveled upon the counter patron scarred, their purchase satcheled in woven whey bags. They walked among the artisan wares, legs touching as if the slightest separation was a sin against love. As a plant takes energy from the sun, they fed off the light of each other, standing taller when together, smiling more often and laughing as children laugh for the prism of their day held neither grays nor blacks but the spectrum of joy and hope and love and an endless flow of endearments evidenced not in words but in touches and looks and nudges and of hands in the back jeans pocket of the other.

Her arm rode his waist as braided rope mooring her patroon. The shops were full as is wont on days of sun and skies of blue where the dulcet hymn of birds heralded church bells ringing the noon. Just in a nook, a small restaurant, outdoor seating facing the sea, appeared with the matador wave of the chef's hand, their path lighted by his warm smile. A table for lovers, linens white and utensils silver before goblets homed with red fruit. Somewhere the sounds of pots and pans clanked and latin voices susurrated forth on the aroma of dishes handed down from generation to generation, tongue to ear and hand to eye. They nooned without prink or preen, silver upon china clinking a cappella notes of murmured satisfaction.

Bellies repleat in comport of desserts not denied. Wine judged by tongues quite divine as fingers found their kin beneath the shade of tyne. Commerce exchanged and promises endeared, a return requested with a smile and a hug.Thus was the first day of Trev and Em in town.

Torrid Impalement

2008-06-14T16:12:00.004-05:00

Yul, back curved with the grace of twin taut suspension cables, lips parted in glistening heat, head back and regal straight, her lioness mane a shimmering waterfall, her angled eyes silted gray, said: "Baby, bring your instrument of torrid impalement over here and impart within me the wisdom bestowed within your hewn oak. Wield me darling as a knight wields his lance, take me as a cowhand takes his calf, use me as a cobbler uses his hammer."

Rog didn't need to be asked twice.

Capiche?

2008-06-14T11:17:00.004-05:00

"My father was a surgeon. When I was three, he left. Cut me and mom out of his life. Mom was brave, always held out hope he would return, kindled that belief in me. I grew to hate her for that. Then I grew to hate the lack of empathy and compassion in my own heart. I lost a father I never knew. She lost a soul-mate. I was not a help to her. When I told her I was going to med school she just started crying. Being young and stupid and selfish, I just walked away, as if I was the victim. The idea of her sitting in the house alone, abandoned by the two men in her life she loved is not a memory I like sitting in.

"So I grew up at the window, so to speak. I watched the drive. Watched every hopper pass by. My ears developed a sensitivity to the sound of a vehicle pulling in. I just knew, he would return. I just knew it. Even on the dock, I was looking for two, not one. Of course, as you know, neither showed. Those first few days after departure were, and this is saying a lot, perhaps the darkest of my life.

"Can you understand? I'd like to tell you how great I am. But this is me. I have a lot of growing up to do. I'm not there. Yet. I know I should be happy for Kyra. I know I should be standing with open arms to greet her. But logic and emotion are two different things. Emotion, for me, is the stronger. There are times I'm overwhelmed. Times I'm just an observer in my life, as if I'm riding rapids and hanging on for dear life. No control. None. I just try to hang on. I don't try to win. I just try to do as little harm as possible and often that means a monumental effort just to keep my mouth shut. Sometimes that means leaving. Just walking away. And when I do, for self-perservation I wonder, is this how dad felt? Did he have to leave? Was he tormented by the same demons? Did he gift those demons to me--are they in my genes? Did he leave because of me? Think about that. Your mom and dad loved you. But think of growing up wondering if your dad hated you, hated you so much he left. Not just left, but left and never returned. Gone like the light before dusk, only this sun would never rise again. Imagine living in that darkness. Eternal, only you wake up every morning and run to the window thinking this is the day, the day the sun will rise, the day I will see the light again, and day after day you are greeted with nothing but interminal darkness."

Trev paused as if remembering he should breathe. Then he continued.

"As soon as the door shut, I lost control. Imagine needing to vomit, and as the urge hits you run for the bathroom, and somehow you are able to hold it within until you see the throne, and with that sight, you lose all control and make a mess of everything. As soon as the door closed, I lost it, consumed, the air sucked from my gut and out my lungs. The pain so great within my skull that banging my head to release the demons, to release the pressure, seemed the most natural thing in the world to do. The blood actually tasted good, the way familar ground under foot feels good. You know you are frailed up when pain is the best thing in your life.

"Want to hear more?"

Em searched his face, her eyes as lasers, trying to beam into his soul a light mere words could not. "Baby, I told you before and I'll say it again and I want you to hear me and hear me clearly. I want all of you. Do you understand?"

Trev bowed his head.

"Look at me. Wherever you go, there you are. There is no escape from yourself. So stop running. Or," she smiled, "if you must run, run to me, run to my open arms. Capiche?"

"You know, you're not really a callow limpet."

"A what?"

Giggles replaced words and arms and legs as rope twinning. Holding his face close to hers, his eyes looking like a frog, she said, "Let's go greet Kyra."

"Okay."

Leaf and Tree

2008-06-13T14:07:00.015-05:00

The door closed and upon the closing the world within and the world without seemed as distant as a leaf falling from a tree. Like the tree, she wondered if the parting was not as natural and the separation as permanent; that what only a moment ago was living, was now without life; and she wondered how just a few seconds ago could seem as far away as Hyneria; and how her feet now, felt as the roots of the tree and Trev seemed as the leaf, blown apart by some emotional wind she never saw coming, sudden as lightning in a blue sky.

A few moments later . . .

As a race car late from the pit, Em shot for the door. In the hallway stood Trev, his hands holding up the wall, a small trickle of blood running down his nose; his bloodshot eyes staring at the floor between his feet, gasping for air or dry heaving could not be ascertained. As quickly as she had flown into the hall, she froze, mind shuffling the images before her, searching for a pattern, something, anything to make the scene comprehensible. Returning quickly with a wet towel, she approached Trev with eyes to match. Taking his head in her hands, he looked without speaking and she looked without judging.

With her hand gloved around his, Em turned, her arm a tether, her hug a vest, her spirit a buoy of hope in his wan sea. Together, one heart towed the other back to safer ground. Wasn't the first time. Wouldn't be the last. This, she told him, was love. He looked upon her visage with glassy eyes as child to teacher, ears wide in the wonders of an undiscovered world.

They sat, knee to knee and forehead to forehead, the warmth of the one flowing like current into the other and where one soul gave, the two, together, grew stronger. Lips gazed as ambassadors of breath, a mingling of essence, magic of the ninth order and what was sour became sweet and what was hurt became healed. Whispers laced lobes flush as the cheeks that touched and where there had been two beats, evidence suggested just one.

Soundtrack: Priscilla Ahn's Masters in China

mog.com

More about this song

Cold as Cloudless Night

2008-06-12T22:50:00.006-05:00

"Kyra's back," said Em.

"I know," replied Trev.

"Baby, you don't look too excited. What's wrong?"

"Nothing."

"No, that face ain't nothing. Talk to me."

Trev sighed. Right arm cummerbunding his ribs, hand balled fist white. (Upon which) Left elbow found perch, the branch of thumb braced under left cheek, head cocked down, index and middle finger holding court on forehead before bowed ring and pinkie fingers.

"Trev," added Em, her hands rubbing his shoulders, "we don't have to go. We can stay right here if you like."

"No, we need to go. I'll be okay."

"You sure?"

"No."

"Then let's stay."

"You know, there was a time I would have thought staying was a good idea. Fear is like that. It lies. Lies like a hot poker about to . . . . Look, I'm sorry."

"For what baby?"

"For ever thinking this would work."

"Baby, what are you saying?"

Trev turned.

"Don't go."

He kept walking.

"Trev. You walk out that door, you walk out on me now, don't come back."

He turned. Eyes cold as cloudless night. The moment hung. Breath watched. Hearts bass heavy.

(to be continued or rewritten or forgotten or deleted)

Pellucid Hearts

2008-06-08T09:41:00.006-05:00

ed note: I'm always looking for new ways to express an idea within The Story. Today, another first. This chapter has no words written by me. Instead, watch the video and listen to the song. And let your imagination take you into a conversation between Zoe and Von. She is telling him of the last days on Hyneria amidst the rain, working beside his son, Ceru, their hearts reaching out, fulfilling the promise made a few years hence, penned in a letter, given in the rain of eyes reflecting the rain of the heavens above.

Song: Rain (Priscilla Ahn)

Theandric

2008-06-07T16:26:00.005-05:00

"Grand, what is papa doing?" asked Kyra, her wide eyes locked on the ocean-facing deck.

Grand looked out the window and smiled. The hynerian she had fallen in love with many years ago still had it. His movements flowed as an easy breeze; a grace typically unknown in the male; a strength hidden in seamless elegance.

"Grand? Is he dancing?"

Reaching down, grand picked Kyra up and placed her on the counter. Placing her chin on Kyra's shoulder, together they looked. "I believe he is," she whispered.

"Why is he dancing all alone? Is papa okay?" Kyra whispered back.

"Oh, I think he is more than okay. Look just to his left. Above. Watch those birds."

A few feet above papa's head she spied a bevy of white birds, wings extended, appearing to float with the gentle undulations of a boat on the ocean. One by one they dipped, rolled and circled around, weaving in choreographed unison to the magnificent twirling figure below in the pristine white tunic. His hands seemed to have no beginning or end, a movement both circular and elliptical without being either, neither fast nor slow, splendidly hypnotic. Kyra watched, her tongue captive, her lips forming the shape of an un-uttered wow.

Papa moved from toe to finger as the wave unrolls upon the beach, a singular movement of flow more similar to melody than dance. The birds, evenly spaced, silent as the wind, formed a circle above his silver mane. Reaching upward, body and tunic a font of translucent morning light, finger tips blinding with the brilliance of ten discrete sunrises, diamond hair coruscating. Trees hushed and shrubbery kneeled; stones solemn spoke not in a breeze twirling as ribbons upon the banner of the day.

"Would you like to join him?"

Kyra nodded.

"Go."

Kyra ran. Papa turned and with a serpentine twisting of arms he leveraged her momentum and without flesh touching, catapulted her small frame into the air above his head. The snowy birds haloed her black tresses. Papa lowered his arms. Kyra, held aloft as if in flight reached out and upon each palm a golden egg of energy appeared and the eyes of the birds shone from a source unknown. With a nod of his head, the birds circled downward and Kyra, in suite, glided back to the deck. "Papa, how did you do that?"

"I didn't. We did."

"How?"

"You believed. And when you believe, when your heart is but a vessel for the greater Love, unfiltered in the dross of life, then, my dear, you and I, we, together, can do magnificent things. Now hug me."

Grand watched. Her eyes as a lake after a hard rain, brimming with love, reflective of the love before her eyes, the love of a grandfather for his granddaughter.

On the Nonce

2008-06-03T11:21:00.006-05:00

It arrived, the ship, on time. John stood on the forward observation deck, his hands at his sides, Ariel, on his left, beside him. His warm kite hand gently wrapped around the string of her finger. Together they watched the return of Kyra. As the vessel silently pulled into dock, a tear rolled down John's face. Ariel craned her neck, her eyes turning as pools. He bent. She crawled onto his knee.

"I'm ready now," said Ariel. "Are you ready?"

John held her head in his hands and their eyes studied each other not as eyes looking to see but as souls needing to know. "I'm ready," he said.

"Are you fired up?" she said.

John laughed. "I'm fired up."

"Good. Let's go change the world."

Aotistic

2008-06-02T18:50:00.007-05:00

It lifted. Not all at once. Nor quickly. I would like to say I had some role in the lifting. That I was a prime mover, seed bearer of light, a light that would peek and grow. I wasn't. I stood in abject terror. Terror that what was coming, the light, would not stay. I wanted that light so bad. And I knew I had no control of it. And I had no frailing idea of what to do. Until a child showed me the way.

Song John cannot get out of his head:

Priscilla Ahn Dream

Aborted: John and Ariel in the Pod

2008-06-01T10:45:00.003-05:00

ed note: New chapter type introduced: Aborted. An aborted chapter was written but not posted, not for reasons of content like an Outtake Chapter, but for reasons of style and/or writing. For example, the chapter below did take place, but the writing is lackluster at best and its content really adds very little to the story. An aborted chapter is one that could be posted, and did happen, but would need to be rewritten but since the action is so insignificant stands little chance of getting that time. So, without further ado, I present the first, of hopefully not too many, Aborted Chapters.

"Who's with him in the pod," asked Trev.

"Ariel," said Von.

"What are they doing?"

"Don't know. He has all communication shut off. Nothing getting in. Nothing getting out."

"Is something wrong with the pod?"

"Nope. Seems they are just sitting there. All systems are green, so your guess is as good as mine."

"So, do we just sit here?"

"For now."

"What if--"

"What if he needed some space. What if he needed some time. Do you want to rob him of the very thing he is seeking?"

"I'm just saying."

"If he wanted to do harm, he has had plenty of time. And if he does intend harm, he will have plenty of time before we could get there."

"What if they are in trouble? Need our help?"

Von turned to Trev. His look didn't require words.

"Okay, we sit. I got it."

Rope Taut

2008-05-31T23:39:00.002-05:00

He stood, nude from the waist up, hands down on the counter. She looked from the bed with eyes of chocolate, one leg forward, one back. He bent, triceps rope taut, back dolphine curved smooth, held the letter before the mirror. Her smile arched and ached in a happiness natural and pure. His hair, short, spiked, blond. Her lips full, wet, dark. He read. She twirled.

He mouthed the words. She opened her robe.

"Baby, come to bed," she said.

"Okay," he said.

Sematic

2008-05-30T14:47:00.022-05:00

Arn stood on the bridge, data slates floating as panels of light before his rigid frame. Clear, dark, reflective, his eyes watched each translucent slate of grids and dials and bars change from headache throbbing reds to a steady soothing rain of greens and blues. As if not believing the data before his eyes, Arn dipped his fingers into the light, holding puddles of numbers and charts and graphs swimming in his palms, the teal effervescent hues illuminating the sharp edges of his weary visage.

Crossing his arms behind his back, chest shield bowed and broad, a stance curiously introspective and defiant, he breathed in the data, holding it within his lungs as if to fortify his tired soul, to give subtenance to a body drained. Since the capture of Kyra, their vessel had been under surveillance, arms length, yet there, just sitting, felinesque, taunting, not with probes and feints, but with a subtle yet clear and unmistakable electronic presence. Why they had not attacked, as they had before, he found interesting, and, depending on the hour, disturbing. Sleep had not come easy, when it had come at all and he mused that the soldier in space differed little from the soldier on the ground. After all, there were no degrees of death. Nor were there second chances.

He looked again at his floating slates, each supplying information at the wave of a hand or blink of an eye. They must have known. His slates would be red. Blinking their presence. An unwanted guest. That could neither be ignored. Nor evicted. They were there. On board. Blinking in red. He knew it. They knew it. And he knew that they knew that he knew.

Now, they were gone. So it seemed. Gone did not always mean gone, a testament carved with las-fire upon the graves of the naive. Slates could be wrong. Slates could be manipulated, a tactic he had used and been used upon. Taking a cavernous breath filtered through mind circumspect, Arn stroked the groomed wave on his chin. With a twist of wrist, he re-ran his probes, doubling their algorithms, increasing their range, checking for any irregularities. Nothing. Green on green upon green. Standing on the bridge, the wide pitch of space before him, the silence of a cave his companion, he looked to see what could not be seen, he turned his head to hear what could not be heard. Unlocking his arms from behind his cloaked back, Arn steepled his fingers and exhaled. Then he commed Von.

beyond

2008-05-29T10:52:00.024-05:00

beyond the yolk of sunrise meline
beyond the song of matutinal birds
beyond the whisper of your breath
beyond the quiet of midnight clear
beyond the bridemaid's thought of the morrow
beyond the pain of yesterday's sorrow
beyond the page of word scribed
beyond the dew on twinkling grass
beyond the note of afternoon rain
beyond the warmth of sheets slept two
beyond the lush green of clover deep
beyond the marigold waves of sunset shimmering
beyond the edge of rainbows smooth
beyond the ocean lullaby
beyond the milk of a young mother's teat
beyond the eyes of adoration meet
beyond the worry of thoughts surrendered
beyond the wages of karma rendered
beyond the doorway yet unknown
beyond the path not of stone
beyond the comfort of knitted sweaters
beyond the forgiveness of unmailed letters
beyond skin smooth in innocence
beyond the crevasses of tribulations
beyond the fear of barren wombs
beyond the laughter sought too soon
beyond the infinite blackness in view
beyond the orbs of green and blue
beyond the fire of novas cast
beyond the companion known at last
beyond the niveous mountain snow
beyond the supplication of bended knee
beyond the cup of bitter tea
beyond the echo of judgment called
beyond the obstacles however walled
beyond the concept of you and me
beyond the honey and the bee
beyond the sway in a chorus of trees
beyond the watchet of a witnessing sky
beyond the shoulder on my thigh
beyond the terra under our feet
beyond the amber waves of wheat
beyond the flowers giggling in the breeze
beyond the luxury of our unease
beyond a hand reached in hope
beyond the fingers twined like rope
beyond the bounce of hair curled
beyond the smile on lips unfurled
beyond my heart and yours
beyond the seasons that come in fours
beyond the curtain of our souls
is where I want to walk with you . . .

love,

em

From Darkness to Light

2008-05-26T11:12:00.001-05:00

T: How did you do it?

K: Love did.

T: Just like that?

K: What else is there? What more could there be?

T: Just seems like there should be more.

K: Not everything is Faustian drama.

T: So . . .

K: Yes. Think of it this way. When the light goes on, it matters not if the room has been dark for one hour or ten thousand eons. The Hood, next to papa, might just have been the most extraordinary being I've known in the flesh.

T: So with just a moment of insight, everything changed? Just doesn't seem possible.

K: Such is the power. But I need to correct one thing you assume. I didn't do it.

T: Just having a hard time getting my head around . . .

K: Maybe it's not your head you need to open.

Intermission: Faith in You

2008-05-26T10:37:00.000-05:00

Wrong Question

2008-05-24T18:47:00.001-05:00

T: One thing I don't quite understand.

K: What would that be?

T: You. Here. After all you've done. Seeing you just, here.

K: Got to be somewhere.

T: I mean, after what you did on Kulmyk. Just seems like you should be somewhere . . .

K: More important?

T: Yes.

K: Changing the universe, perhaps?

T: Yeah, something like that. Something other than just standing on a beach looking out over the ocean. Something other than talking to me.

K: Perhaps.

T: So?

K: So what?

T: So why here?

K: Maybe 'here' is the wrong question.

Do You Love Her?

2008-05-18T18:18:00.002-05:00

"Do you love her?"

The question struck him dumb. Lightning out of clear blue sky.

"Well?"

Her words echoed inside the Pod. Pebbles dropped into a well.

"I won't be mad if you do."

John turned to Ariel. His words stopped by her eyes.

"It's okay daddy. I still love you."

Isn't It?

2008-05-17T15:25:00.003-05:00

Mairi comes around the corner of the corridor and sees Yul, knees pulled into her chest, streaks running down her face, crying. She inquires. Yul speaks between sniffles. Something to do with Rog.

Scene moves to the bar with Rog, Von and Trev. Rog and Von are talking. Trev listens and watches but doesn't speak. Rog is hunched over his shot of snoot like a dog over a bone.

Von: Wanna talk?

Rog: Nope.

Von: Wanna talk anyway?

Rog: Nothing I ain't already said.

Von: Well, not like I have anywhere else to be. Humor me.

Rog: I'm frustrated. That's all.

Von: (raises his eyebrows)

Rog: Look, if I thought you could help, I'd waste your time but it'd just get in the way of a good shot of snoot.

Von: How many have you had?

Rog: Shots?

Von: Yeah.

Rog: Not enough.

Scene shifts back to Mairi and Yul

Mairi: What did he say?

Yul: He yelled at me.

Mairi: About what?

Yul: Said something about the kinds of questions I was asking.

Mairi: That's odd. What were you asking him?

Yul: Nothing. I was just trying to get him to talk.

Mairi: What did you say?

Yul: All I said was I thought the ship seemed awful quiet.

Mairi: That's it?

Yul: Yeah. That's it.

Back to Rog, Von and Trev

Von: Let me guess. Yul?

Rog: I don't even want to talk about it.

Von: What did she do this time?

Rog: I've told her a bazillion times I don't like statements that end in a question. Just pisses me off to no frailing end. And you know what? No matter how many times I tell her, she still needles the shiott of of me.

Von: Give me an example.

Rog: Okay. Try this on. She says, 'ship is awful quiet.'

Von: That's not a question.

Rog: Right. But then she adds, 'isn't it?'

Von: Okay.

Rog: What?

Von: I just said okay.

Rog: You think I'm an idiot.

Von: No. I'm just not sure I follow.

Scene flips back to Mairi and Yul

Mairi: Why would that upset him?

Yul: Because he's a Yakmuk's arse.

Mairi: Yeah, well, besides that.

Yul: You're asking the wrong person. I was just trying to make conversation. And he attacked me.

Mairi: Did he say anything else?

Yul: Like what?

Mairi: Anything.

Back to Rog, Von and Trev

Rog: Look, if a person wants to say something, fine. Just say it. But damn, don't end every statement with an "isn't it" or "don't you agree" or, frail, just pisses me off.

Von: I can see.

Rog: Why can't she see? I've told her a thousand times I hate that crap. "The ship is awful quiet, isn't it." Isn't it. Isn't it. If I hear that question one more time . . .

Back to Mairi and Yul

Yul: Get this. He accused me of trying to delibrately piss him off?

Mairi: How?

Yul: By asking him a question.

Mairi: What did you ask him?

Yul: Just asked him if he thought the ship seemed awful quiet.

Mairi: Why would he think that question was you trying to aggravate him?

Yul: Frail if I know. You see the shiott I have to put up with.

Back to Rog, Von and Trev

Von: Your permission to ask a question?

Rog: Don't frail with me.

Von: Besides Yul and her way of asking questions is there anything else on your mind?

Rog: Well, now that you ask, actually there is.

Scene fades back to Mairi and Yul

Mairi: Are you sure their wasn't something else he seemed upset with?

Yul: No. Not really.

Mairi: You sure?

Yul: Yeah.

Mairi: Yul.

Yul: What?

Mairi: Trust me.

Yul: Alright. Damn you.

Back to the boys

Von: Anytime you ready.

Rog: (slams back another shot) Tell me why the frail we're just sitting here?

Von: What do you mean?

Rog: Kyra! John tells us he saw Kieran and we are just gonna sit here and do nothing? Is that what we are going to do. Nothing. Look at me Von. Nothing?

Back to the girls

Yul: He mentioned Kyra.

Mairi: How so?

Yul: Same old shiott.

Mairi: Enlighten me.

Yul: (her face starts to tremble as she searches Mairi's face) He wants to go rescue her. (the tears cascade)

Mairi: Oh baby. (opens her arms)

Yul: (through tears she manages to say) What do I have to do? Tell me, what do I have to do?

Next thing we hear is tocins sounding and lights blinking and Arn's voice: "We have an unexplained Pod launch."

Rog: (to Arn) Where is John?

Arn: (no answer)

Rog: Arn?

Arn: On the Pod.

What Will Be

2008-05-16T20:43:00.004-05:00

We walked down the beach for what felt like a longer time than it was. She seemed elsewhere. I had the feeling she was not seeing what I was seeing, not hearing what I was hearing, not thinking what I was thinking. And I wondered if she could feel the fear in my heart, could hear the question I couldn't bring myself to ask.

She stopped and look out over the ocean. Her eyes looked distant. I watched the breeze blow her coal black hair around her porcelain face and I imagined what she must have looked like to papa or even to the crew in those early days on Bravo. Her bearing, regal, dignified; a natural ease, much like how she described her grandfather in his white tunic or so I thought.

You want to ask me a question she said. It's okay, she added, the answer won't change in the asking. So I asked. And she said, maybe. I think she saw a glimmer of hope in my eye because she quickly added, probably. My eyes dropped. I didn't know they had until I felt her finger under my chin. Nothing stays the same she said. We suffer because we want what can't be. We want the world to stop, for us. We want to live in a photographic universe, a place where love last forever. Look at me, she said (I did). Enjoy this. It will pass. But don't miss it now because you can't stop thinking about what will be.

Larger than Life

2008-05-16T10:09:00.006-05:00

Interview on the beach, my feet and hers unshod, heels planted in the soft wet sand, warm water rolling and receding between our toes. In a cloudless sky, the morning sun lays its warmth upon our shinny faces as we stare with squinting eyes into the endless steel-blue horizon. The surf seems to suck the breath from us as it races back to wholeness, a parental healing, before the next wave fills our lungs with fresh, clean sea-scrubbed air in the rush to greet us again, playful as children at a wedding reception pulling and tugging with a frayed rope. Our thoughts, in concert with our rhythmic breath, play on the music of the lazy warm waves like a spring breeze with laundry on the line; and for the longest time neither of us say anything.

T: Does the water remind you of home?

K: Somewhat. It looks very similar but the feel and texture and smell are quite different.

T: How so?

K: The water on Hyneria was much softer, slippery and I suspect had a slightly different molecular structure. I wish I could explain it better, but it felt wetter, was less inclined to bead. The sand, too, had a different feel; more clay-like and slightly darker in hue. Where this sand absorbs the sun and increases in temperature, the sand on Hyneria, year round, maintained a constant warmth--never too hot nor too cold. I miss the carpet-like feel too.

T: Interesting. Do you mind if I change the subject? I'd like to ask you about The Hood.

K: Not at all.

T: Give me your first impressions.

K: Surprised. I had an image in my mind that bore no resemblance to what I saw that first day and what I came to know over time. In my mind, based on everything I'd heard, he was a monster, a creature that took pleasure in another's pain, power hungry, arrogant, egotistical, manipulative and physically repulsive. I imagined him as a mass murderer, someone without conscious, pathological, convinced beyond argument in his own intelligence and knowledge, someone with a vision that would brook no interference, someone who took what he wanted when he wanted it, someone who had long forgotten what it was like to need, to want, to be without, someone insulated from reality, someone living in their own world--in short, someone madly delusional.

T: Well, that begs the question, if he was not these things, what was he? What did you come to know?

K: It's complicated. You sure you want to go down that road? This isn't a ten minute conversation.

T: You have no idea how intrigued I am.

K: Okay. I'll begin with this. The Hood was larger than life. He was one of those rare individuals that simply is not like the rest.

T: Charismatic?

K: More than that. Much more.

T: You're going to have to explain that.

K: Not sure I can. The sense is more experience and feeling than thought. In his presence you feel as if he is not of this world, not in good or bad way, but from the way he walks and talks and thinks and moves and stands and sits and converses and questions and listens and looks, from the way he ponders, his curiosity, his intelligence, his touch, his vision and past and experience; his taste in all things tangible and intangible. And, his pure physical appearance; the bearing, the posture, the tilt of the head, the shape of his nose, the clarity in his eyes, the breath of his hands, the stoutness of his shoulders from which hung the most magnificent robes. Take all of that, if you can, and try and wrap your mind around such an individual, one which controls, leads, rules billions of subjects that live on thousands and thousands of worlds and yet, when you are in his presence, you feel as if you are the center of his universe, as if there is nothing more important to him at that moment than engaging with you, listening carefully to your answers.

T: Sounds almost as if you admired him?

K: I wouldn't say admired. Perhaps I came to see the limits of my own judgments, my own assumptions, the limits of my own understanding. I came to see that the universe is something more than just our thoughts about it. And, in time, I came to see something I'd never seen before--my destiny. And here is what is interesting. Without The Hood. Without him being who he was, needing what he needed, engaging me the way he engaged me, I'm not sure I would have . . .

T: Would have what?

K: Can we take a break?

T: Sure.

K: The morning is slipping away and I'd like to go for a walk before the sun gets too high and the wonderful warm colors fade.

You Are . . .

2008-05-14T01:09:00.001-05:00

Trev blew on the crimson wet parchment. When he was sure the ink was dry, he took Em’s sleeping hand and gently placed the folded note between her fingers, careful not to wake her. He kissed her cheek, lingering in the beauty of pre-dawn simplicity, in the quiet warmth of sheets shared and a gift given. Standing erect, naked, he looked down upon her peaceful face. Just felt natural, comfortable, right and part of him wanted to wake her, to see her see him, to feel the tingle of her gaze, the discovery of the note, but it wasn’t about him, so he stole another kiss before tip-toeing away.

The Note:

You are . . .

Kids stopping to play with a pile of rocks as if nothing else was more important

The stranger who smiled at me through a sea of apathy

The first warm rays of morning slipping under my door

A hand reaching to hold my hand without being asked

The playfulness of a puppy

The sound of snizzle in a still quiet house

Sand discovered in an old pair of shoes

A wisp of hair as a note on the page of your face

Rainbow eyes

The child that walked with me when no one else would

The look that told me everything was more than okay

The leaf that danced for my pleasure laughing in the face of gravity

Pregnant lips

Rain on a spring day

Flowers smiling in droplets of multicolored reflection

The music that lingers in my mind after the last note has slipped away

Fingers combing my hair

The first star in a mauve sky

A coat unbuttoned

The shoes beside my bed

A letter written

A package unexpected with a handwritten address

Hot soup on a cold day

Fresh sheets

The thought not left unsaid

Forgiveness from a bottomless heart

The ear with nowhere else to be and nothing else to do

The scent that reminds me of home

The rocking chair on my porch

A falling star in a midnight sky

The cool breeze from a babbling stream

Judgeless

Diamond sparkles in the dew

The smell of hay in the barn

Arms holding without words

Showing up

The head on my chest

The kiss that greets my day

The hand that reminds me I’m yours

The choice to stay a little longer

Interest sincere as labored sweat

The vision I don’t have

The hope I’ve left behind

The light I once knew

Candles winking on the edge of my bath

A book shared

A story embraced

Sweaters

Bookshelves

Late night rendezvouses

Heated whispers and eyes dark with dreams

Plans

A short time later:

Em put the note down, pulled the sheets up around her knees, and with a steady deep breath smiled with dawning cheeks. Her closed eyes played a movie written in dreams shared and composed in the beat of hearts singing in the universal language of lovers.

“Morning,” he called, a tray in hand, two cups smoking their secret forth like chimneys whispering.

“Morning.”

“You got the note?”

“Yeah, I got the note.”

“You just gonna smile?”

“Yeah, I think I am.”

Fit Me (Twijn Ik)

2008-05-11T17:28:00.011-05:00

"Hey you, can I tell you something?"

"Yes."

"This might sound a little odd."

"Ok."

"I'm not sure really how to say this."

"Just say it. We'll work out the details later."

"Ok."

"So?"

"Alright."

"Yeah?"

"Ok, here goes."

Em raises her eyes.

Trev looks sheepish.

"Ok, here it is. You fit."

"You fit. Is that it?"

"Yeah."

"You fit?"

"Yeah."

"Ok."

"Well?"

"Well what?"

"Well, aren't you gonna ask me what that means?"

"No, not really."

"What?"

"Really, I got it. I fit."

Trev stares at Em.

Em pretends not to notice.

"So that's it?" he says.

"I fit. What's so hard to understand about that?"

"Ok, well, then tell me what it means?"

"You said it. Why should I have to tell you what you mean? Are you confused?"

"You know I should spank you."

"You think you can?"

After a short wrestling match, both out of breath, Em on top.

"You had enough?" asked Em, smiling.

"Maybe."

"Ok, tell me what fit means."

"Everything."

"Ooooooh, the clears it up."

"I'm serious."

"So am I. Now what does everything means?"

"Kiss me," he says. She leans over, lips part, and with sleepy eyes, close, tenderly, one upon the other, a softness, pulsing thin pillow flesh, translucent shades of red and orange and pink. Breath, one into the other, warmth filling warmth, movements lost in time. Tongues, pointed, dance and dart as devils before the gates of eternity, each twisting and swirling, advancing, retreating, teasing, tasting in unspoken effortless synchronicity. Hips dovetail and legs twine like vines. Arms move without command as hands and fingers lace within tresses pulled breathlessly tight.

"See?"

Em smiles. "Shut up and kiss me again or . . ."

"Or what?"

"Or I'll fit my hand to the curve of your backside."