It’s all flashback The last time I spent a night in a foreign bed was the Leo party, far more recent than I first assumed. I found a picture of a hotel on my flist this week, a hotel that I stopped and had to look at twice, because it was that room, that one right there, and suddenly I was inside, looking out. Standing in a corner, knowing that I was invisible when I wasn’t being looked at. Just like every other human being. I should have taken a picture, but I was too lost in everything I assumed. I’m sorry, I want to say now. I wish you had told me. I’m sorry, but I held up a mirror and now I understand. It’s always a mistake to attack Russia in the winter.
This house is a different place, dark because it’s three in the morning and it’s not usual to turn lights on at such a time, not when other people are home and presumably asleep. There’s a wreath on the door, incongruous, but telling. I’m not sure if anyone who lives here actually bothers to live here. The carpets are deeper than I’m used to, but nothing else strikes me as special. It’s the room to the right, the only brightness in the entire black hallway. Be good to him. I heard her and understand, though I don’t know what else there is to do. I’m too damaged to be anything else. I’m too in love with somebody else. Being kind requires the least amount of effort. I don’t have to think about it. We were dancing, it was loud and industrial and not very good. My mother was a belly-dancer. There’s a trampoline in the back yard. He says it’s at my disposal the same way a rich man might offer me his secondary porshe.
I was waiting for a grand proclamation, a visitation of word to download some meaning into the withering hardware. I was waiting to want you, to let the barrier blocks fall so that I might stand free of them and that other person. I was waiting to understand the fundamental attachments that I formed in my absence.
I’m beginning to.
Under the main process, there’s wheels spinning, creating thread out of the morass of fluff that passes for thought in my brain. You helped me by being angry at me, upset that my twists have always ended positive, that every fairy tale disaster has been paid off with joy. You echoed years in that voice, a handful of fingers all pointing accusatory. I remembered being younger, shorter, less prone to speech yet talking in a rare moment of surety with someone who used to be my friend. “You just have to wait the right away, there’s a presence of mind and a shut-down. You can’t help me, like I can’t help you right now, but we’ll get there. We’ll find it by walking into it, like we need our eyes closed to walk into a wall.”
You don’t remind me of him, he hurt me later, crossed lines that grown men should not with little girls, but rather of what I said. What I began to try to say again, with as little eloquence as years ago, I’m sure, to you in the kitchen. That there’s ways and then there’s ways. There’s action in inaction and misery as debt. I don’t know how to convey how I know things, and I’m sorry. I want you to know how to survive in joy, but I don’t carry the work with me as you do.
It could have been one night, but instead it was one day. Something I knew would happen, all the way down to the fact that it wouldn’t matter to me afterward. As an illustration, it marked the harsh lack of chemistry while remaining kind. When it’s right, I cling. I am buried entirely. Ahead of time I know. Ahead of time I decide that the best I can do is try. I know it’s going to hurt, that some delicate thing is going to rip out of my inability to prepare. I’m aware that I’m not going to shake. My illusions weren’t shattered, the pressure was enough to shred unwilling membrane, a debt paid over again but I’ve done similar before, even lived with someone for six months where I paid almost daily but couldn’t gather interest. I let them captain the ship through horrible storm, haunted by violence and spoken words of You’re Never Worthy For me. Now I’m not as young. I’m acutely informed that there has to be a seed for there to be a blossom.
He’s since fallen into the sea, washing over deck into a body of addiction. We think he’s dead now, meth burned and vanished.
Regulators in the US could soon be asked to approve a human trial of gene therapy for cystic fibrosis that uses a hybrid of the HIV and Ebola viruses. In spite of my sketchy grasp of such technology, I can’t see how this is anything but a wretchedly stupid idea for a new Michael Crichton novel. The robots what run on blood might like it: Enter Hero Scientist, enter Military General. Hilarity Ensues. As does Much Bleeding From The Eyes.