489 lines
26 KiB
Plaintext
489 lines
26 KiB
Plaintext
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OOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO oOOOO OOOO. OOOO OOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO
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OOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO" .OOOOOO OOOOOo OOOO OOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO
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OOOO oOOOOOOO OOOOOOO. OOOO oOOOO
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OOOO .OOOO OOOO OOOOOOOOo OOOO OOOO"
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OOOO oOOOO OOOO OOOO "OOOO. OOOO OOOOo .OOOO'
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OOOO .OOOO" OOOO OOOO OOOOoOOOO "OOOO. oOOOO
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OOOO oOOOOOOO..OOOO OOOO "OOOOOOO OOOOoOOOO"
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OOOO .OOOO"""OOOOOOOO OOOO OOOOOO "OOOOOOO'
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OOOO oOOOO ""OOOO OOOO "OOOO OOOOOO
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|---------------------------------------------------------------------------|
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| There Ain't No Justice |
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| #111 |
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|---------------------------------------------------------------------------|
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- Metamorph -
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Chapter 02
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by Arifel
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II
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`Whatever you can do, or dream you can,
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begin it. Boldness has genius, power and
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magic in it.' - Goethe
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`i was living in Adelaide, more or less permanently on tour with a band
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called "Wax Sundial". i expect you've never heard of them.' i shook my
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head. `not surprising... they weren't very good. they let me write
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lyrics for them, sometimes; i didn't have much of a say in their musical
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direction, but i'd managed to work them around from being a
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halfway-decent Hawkwind cover band - this was the time of the hippy
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revival, mind - to the point of being borderline decent Goth - and one
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night, after a show, this girl from the audience came back to help us
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pack up. she wanted to talk to me, simply on the basis of the lyrics i'd
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written.
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`she told me that fifteen years before, she'd been given magical powers,
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and she wanted to pass them onto me.' i moved down slightly and nibbled
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her ear-lobe.
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`magical powers, huh? like the ability to change the length and colour
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of your hair?'
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`like the ability to change my shape completely. read people's minds,
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move objects without touching them... Fiona - that was her name - said
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that she could pass these abilities on to one other person, and she'd
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decided that i was that person.'
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`is this why we're sharing a bed? you want to give these abilities to
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me?' she m-hmm'ed assent.
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`yeah. she warned me first, it would hurt - every cell in my body had
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to undergo a sort of processing, and it took the better part of a week;
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around a hundred and forty hours of the most horrific pain imaginable.'
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there was something strange about the way she related this; as if she'd
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been terrified of the experience, but with an undercurrent of longing...
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`if i'd known how bad it would be, i wouldn't have done it, but once
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she'd started, it was too late to go back.
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`we went our separate ways after she'd instructed me in the use of my
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new body; since then, i've met about half a dozen others of my kind. we
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keep in touch.'
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`and you want me to join your, ah, kind?' i felt her lips smiling,
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brushing against mine.
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`i've been reading your messages. i've read the stories. i've been
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waiting for you to dump that Gary creature and get into the right frame
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of mind for this transition.' i smiled back, not believing a word of it
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and said,
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`well... why not?' she held me away again, looked into my eyes with a
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serious expression.
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`you agree?' i nodded, without really thinking about it. she grinned,
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exposing vampire-like canines. i froze for a moment, then grinned back
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at her, thinking i've finally found someone i can relate to, and maybe
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it was true after all...
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`well?' i asked.
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`well, what?'
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`well, when do we start?' she grinned and threw herself at me, pushing
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me back onto the bed.
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`right now.' she kissed my throat, her tongue tracing the line of the
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blood-vessels, tugging the neck-line of the jumper down so she could
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taste my collar-bone.
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`i meant, when do we start the procedure of making me one of you?' she
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kneeled over me, her hands on either side of my shoulders, and stared at
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me for a moment.
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`you're pretty eager to undergo the most agonising experience of your
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life, aren't you?' i returned her gaze levelly.
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`if you can appear as - or physically become - anything you want, why
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are you wasting your time with someone like me?' she took both my hands
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in one of hers, held them above my head, savaged my throat with her
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teeth.
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`i see inside. i know what you're like. i know what you can be.'
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`that's (agh), that's very flattering. you sound like Q, taunting
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Commander Riker...' she grinned at this comparison, while lifting the
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lower hem of my jumper and then ducking her head underneath the covers.
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`some of my associates are a lot like Q,' she said. `same sense of
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humour. one of them posed as a statue in the Art Centre for two months,
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and when there was a suitably large crowd of people admiring him, he
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suddenly came to life, announced "I'm completely bloody sick of this,"
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and walked out.' i laughed. `i should introduce you to him.
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seriously... playing games like that, what we call "distancing" games,
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only emphasises how, how comfortable, how /good/ it feels to be human.'
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she lay herself along my body, writhed; `and to do human things...' i
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ran my hands down her sides, found the hem of the lycra bike-shorts she
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was wearing, slipped my fingers underneath the hem and stroked her
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behind. she brought her legs up, gripped my hips with her knees and my
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shoulders with her clenched fingers, bent down and touched her lips to
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mine. we lay like that for quite a while, hardly moving, until she grew
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impatient and removed her lycra shorts completely. doing this caused
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some cold air to slip in under the doona cover, and in our writhing to
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recover some of the lost warmth, we ended up lying side-by-side, legs
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intertwined. boldly, she explored me, her fingers cold enough to make
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me gasp, strangely contrasting with a warmth centred in the palm of her
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hand. helpless before such temptation, my erection returned in full
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force; i lay back with my eyes closed and let her have her way with me.
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i felt a sort of pin-pricking feeling on the tip of my tongue followed
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by a hot flush, the sort you get when you've got flu and your body is
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trying to deal with it. she lay on top of me, holding me tightly. she
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moved her mouth close to my ear and whispered,
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`it's going to hurt, worse than anything you've ever experienced. but
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i'll be here all the time. i'll do what i can to help you.' i tried to
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answer her and found i couldn't speak; i tried to turn my head, move my
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hand. nothing. i simply lay there, no panic, breathing slowly,
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shallowly, feeling the warmth inside grow until it became a burning,
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aligned with my spine. a distant hum became a roar in my ears, and my
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vision was filled with the sorts of patterns you get when you rub your
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eyes in the darkness. the burning spread out, down my arms and legs,
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slowly ascending my backbone one vertebra at a time. i waited for it to
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reach my brain. i imagined it was like a sewerage pipe backing up, my
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head filling with lava, covering the temporal and occipital lobes,
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swirling around inside my skull, lapping against the somatosensory area,
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a shivering derelict wrapped in blankets waking up and finding someone's
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set him alight. the sensation stepped up a few degrees, to the point
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where it felt like my skin was being inflated with scalding water and my
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nerves, viscera, bones and the rest were swimming in it. i couldn't
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move or scream or protest; each time i thought it had levelled off to a
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degree i could stand, it got worse.
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i could see daylight against the outside of my closed eyelids. the sun
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had come up; it felt like i'd been burning for years, and yet the
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movement of the light indicated it'd been less than half an hour. i
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knew i wasn't going to make it, then; and it kept getting worse. i was
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screaming, inside, vividly imagining that i was shaking my head from
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side to side madly; then something cool touched my shoulder and neck,
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magically draining the heat and pain from me down my right side from my
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jaw down to my hip. ohh, yes, i can make it now, i thought.
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`i'm taking energy from you,' i imagined her saying. `this process
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generates a shitload of energy. are there any covens or mystics or
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psychics living nearby? they might sense it and come looking.' she
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touched my left shoulder and the heat retreated from that side, too; my
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feet had cooled down but my head was screaming white hot. i didn't
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think there were any witchy people around; this suburb was primarily for
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people to retire to. most of the magick types i knew lived in Coburg.
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`good. i'm going to do as much as i can for you right now, then i'm
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going to call some friends. we'll absorb the excess energy and help you
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through this.'
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you're going?
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`i'll be back in a few minutes; i just have to put out the call and i'll
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come right back.'
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oh christ, no - as soon as she removed her touch, the heat came back,
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worse than ever. it was all the worse for not being able to move - i
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imagined that writhing about, biting the carpet and shrieking madly
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might have helped me deal with it. maybe this was part of the process,
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learning to cope with the pain. i couldn't think of any distractions;
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usually, when you're hit with this sort of sensation, your only instinct
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is to get away from the cause. i tried thinking of music, something
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harsh, thrash? guitar? the pixies. this monkey's gone to heaven, i
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thought. it worked. i, visualised? audialised? the song as best i
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could remember it, creature in the sky, got sucked in a hole, now
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there's a hole in the sky, right, right... i imagined the guitars, the
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strings, the bassline, the rhythm thumping along mechanically and the
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pain pulsing in time to the beat. i imagined the guitar chords, D
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Major, B Minor, D Major E Major F Sharp A Major, over and over. with the
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pain changing intensity like this, pulsing, i felt i could survive for
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as long as i kept the song looping over in my head.
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meanwhile, my vision centres were going crazy, lines of bright blue
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laser light slashing back and forth, red giant suns searing me from
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either side, the left side of my brain squared off mechanical and
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ratcheting like a three-dimensional slide rule, a Lemarchand puzzle-box
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in full spin, the right side pulsing and sighing like a sponge soaked in
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blood, in love with life and seeping from a million wounds, and both
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sides were slowly expanding, spreading out to meet in the middle, and i
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knew when they met that something terrible was going to happen, that
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they were going to fight over me.
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i smiled to myself amidst the noise, the agony, the light and the
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approaching sense of terror. if i could've moved, i expect i would have
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run my tongue over my teeth like Frank Cotton in `Hellraiser', and said
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`Jesus wept!'. this was what i'd been looking for all those times i'd
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taken hallucinogens, and here it was for the price of a kiss. wau.
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the two halves of me were about to attack each other when she came back.
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it seemed like months since she'd left me, and the relief from the pain
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she brought made her appearance like the arrival of an angel. she
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appeared as one to my spiky, skewed vision; i couldn't actually see her,
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but the phosphenic noise clustered to one side and formed an MTV-style
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figure, black-and-white face from some old movie, a burning purple halo
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like neon rings of Saturn torn from around the planet and run through
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with current, her wings formed from thousands of scattered feathers
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dancing fitfully to the beat of my imagined music, her hands drifting
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down to me like descending sheets of ice rain. as they settled around
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my face, the bright lights faded to the point where i could be sure i'd
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imagined them, and the heat receded. my brain no longer felt like a
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tennis ball in a bath of molten metal. `it's okay, i'm here now. i've
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sent out the call, and the others will be here soon.'
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others?
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`of my kind. of our kind. some of us keep contact, share research,
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ideas. sometimes we collaborate on a project. i know of three who'll
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definitely be here, two more maybe.
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`our shape-changing isn't limited to the outside. there's a
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modification that, uh, comes with the ability, sort of an optional
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extra; it's like a combination quick-reference, add-on computer, instant
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data storage-retrieval system. it handles most of the usual, boring
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stuff like keeping records of patterns you might like to replicate one
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day.' she moved her hands from around my face - the pain flared up
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until she replaced her hands on my shoulders, massaging gently. `there
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have been Metamorphs on earth for over eight thousand years... records
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go back that far, at least. there's a sort of initiatory tradition
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where newly-changed Metamorphs travel to Nereid - the smaller moon of
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Neptune - and leave their signatures on a block of onyx there. i
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haven't been on the Pilgrimage yet, but i'm told there's more than two
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thousand signatures on it.'
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how would someone get there? hitch a lift with NASA?
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`Hah, no... various methods. one of us left in fourteen fifty-two and
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travelled at sublight speeds. she got back only last year.'
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you can travel faster than light?
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`when it suits us to. don't ask how, i don't know the details. they're
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in storage somewhere. when you need to make the trip, you work it out.'
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i lay there, eyes closed, feeling like i was lying on the surface of a
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huge balloon filled with some dense gas. occasionally, ripples would go
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through it, and i'd feel like i was about to fall through the surface
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and sink into the gas. Lydya sat beside me for the first light-to-dark
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period, her hands touching me, either both sides of my head or my chest.
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the moments where she moved her hands were terrible; the pain had
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escalated to the point where i couldn't bear to be deprived of her touch
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even for a few seconds. later that evening, two others arrived. i
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could sense them at the end of the bed, radiating cool aloofness,
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occasionally moving to get a better view of me. i still couldn't sense
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any great change in me; sometimes, i lost track of the outlying parts of
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my body, my feet and hands; sometimes i was reduced to a tiny brain on
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an abbreviated spinal column, a rotten, wrinkled apple dangling from the
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end of a withered branch.
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Lydya talked me through the first night. she told me of the things that
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the Metamorphs had done in the past while remaining in the background.
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some had obsessions; there was one who lived in Canada who was taken
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with uncovering conspiracies, who knew the names of the three men who
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had really shot Kennedy; there was one who roved the world, collecting
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genetic samples of every life-form in existence before the humans have a
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chance to kill them.
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`most of us lead fairly ordinary lives on the surface. we don't draw
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attention to ourselves. we live as you do, from day to day,
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accumulating experiences, storing sights and sounds and scents,
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researching the physical world, looking into the past as revealed in the
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genetic library, looking out into the skies at night. we don't judge
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what might be considered wrong or right, but we all have opinions. for
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example - well, speaking personally - if i came across someone being
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raped, i'd do some uniquely painful things to the rapist. i'd make sure
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he never did it again. for a while, that's all i did, wandered around
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looking defenceless, attracting the attention of the sort of people you
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wouldn't want to see wandering free at night. and then taking care of
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them.'
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from what i could judge of the light coming through my still-closed
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eyelids, the sun was coming up again when she stepped back, briefly
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charging me with agony before one of the others stepped forward and
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touched me. the pain dropped back slightly, but was still foremost in
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my senses. it was tolerable, but very uncomfortable; about the level
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you would be at if someone were torturing you and you were bravely
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resisting, spitting in their face and saying `do your worst, damn you!'
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i knew it could get a lot worse than this, so i maintained. whoever was
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there didn't bother to speak to me, so i just lay silently, trying to
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feel out my outlines, establish what parts of me were still present.
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with a little concentration, i could feel most of me; my nervous system
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was still intact. i thought about the previous week, about driving my
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car, the feel of wind on my face through the poorly-lined soft top, of
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driving late at night with the music cranked up loud, of getting drunk
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and reading electronic mail, of Gary and the way things had been when
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i'd first met him, of my friends, of visiting Goth clubs, the crowds of
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people, of watching Siouxie and the Banshees on the overhead video
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systems, the taste of vodka and lemon, the smell of stale cigarette
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smoke, the taste of peyote, the dizziness, late nights and early
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mornings trying to achieve alternative states of consciousness and the
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futility of trying to describe them by writing it all down on pieces of
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paper with ballpoint pens.
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abruptly, the pain rose to the awful level that signalled my being
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alone. i suffered in silence, my mind darting about desperately trying
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to find something that would relieve the feeling. nothing worked, not
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even mentally playing the song `bone machine' over and over. the last
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thing i recall is imagining my brain, smaller than ever and slowly
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shrinking as it sank below the surface of a bathtub filled with molten
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lead. shiny rivulets worked their way into the cortical fissures and
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then completely covered it. with a buzzing sound, my consciousness
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receded, and
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for a long time after this point, i was aware, in a sort
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of dim, uncomprehending, passive fashion; usually, one's
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thought processes involve imagined sounds, words as you
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talk to yourself internally, snatches of music, phrases,
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desires, stimuli from your body, itches to relieve,
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hungers to sate. i didn't think; i wasn't even aware that
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the pain was gone. i simply was. the bright patterns were
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gone; i observed the cycle of light and dark slowly
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parading over my eyelids... and i waited
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dark light dark light dark light again dark again wet
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dark wet rain cat hello cat light wet light wet dark cat again hello cat
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light she wet she hello she Lydya she. it's been raining. i think i've
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been asleep. i'm in the uh garden. i'm in the back yard. i'm under
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the lemon tree. cat. i think he wants to be fed. cat food is in the
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house. get up. no? crawl. to the house. open door. cat food is in
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cupboard. cat food is in can. can is closed. cat can't open can.
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squeeze, it's open. broken can. cat eats. it's night time again. it's
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raining again. i'm lying on the grass. looking up at the sky. the rain
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falls on me. it's warm. there are things swimming in the rain. i can
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see them.
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a green thing has landed on my nose. lacewing fly. Chrysopidae,
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backbrain says. i can see inside it, see the working bits, see how it
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unwinds and flies from one spot to the next. it looks like a clockwork
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toy, no more intelligence than one of those wind-up monkeys that plays
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cymbals and bugs its eyes out. it does what it was wound up to do.
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it was raining a few, uh, days ago. i have a vague memory of sitting in
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the back yard, back against the lemon tree, just sitting there and
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watching the clouds wheel past. it rained. i felt like i'd become a
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plant, just content to sit and catch sunlight. (smile) maybe i'd put
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some roots down.
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she was here all along. Lydya. i suppose she was keeping watch, making
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sure i didn't run off or something. i hope she fed the cats. they
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seemed pretty hungry when i, uh, woke up. i remember opening the can by
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squeezing it, and it didn't take any more effort than you might use in
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crushing a paper cup. (smile) the cats didn't mind.
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i remember looking at that lacewing fly that landed on me. it looked
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big; well, huge, as if it'd landed on the stage of a microscope. i could
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see the tiny nerves, muscles, quivering hairs, twitching eyes, antennae,
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air whispering in and out of spiracles, cells dividing, code sequences
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||
undoing, doing up again, undoing, like magnetic Lego blocks that kept
|
||
changing shape. within seconds i had... realised it, comprehended it
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||
fully, from egg to adult. it was like those structures you could
|
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generate in Conway's Game Of Life, the ones that would fly across the
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screen spewing copies of themselves in all directions before hitting a
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wall and dying. looking at it on that level, it was pretty sad; get
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born, eat, reproduce, die. i begin to think that the complications
|
||
introduced by consciousness are needless complications. these things
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||
happen; life lives and then dies. what's the point of agonising about
|
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it?
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what?
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the hell with this. i intend to have some fun with life. at one point
|
||
- i can't remember when - Lydya warned me about the dangers of looking
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inwards straight off. if i'd looked into my own form with the
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thoroughness that i'd invested in that lacewing fly, i'd've been here
|
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for ever.
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i don't feel hungry. i haven't eaten for days.
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maybe i did put some roots down.
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*
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i get up, my muscles protesting at first and then sliding smoothly; i go
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inside. there's a funny smell in the house, one i hadn't ever noticed
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before, sort of a heavy, musky odour. the rooms are in partial darkness.
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||
|
||
in the living room, Lydya is reading one of my books (`The Lowbrow Art
|
||
Of Robert Williams') and listening to an LP (Adrian Belew's `Lone
|
||
Rhinoceros'). i stand in the doorway, staring at all the things i'd
|
||
never noticed before. unbidden, a kind of pulse surged up in me, my
|
||
vision blanking bright white for the briefest instant; when it subsided,
|
||
the entire room was perfectly outlined, every piece of furniture
|
||
highlighted, absolute distances between things marked down to within a
|
||
micron. the amount of dust in here is phenomenal.
|
||
|
||
Lydya looked up at me, smiled warmly, put the book down. the volume on
|
||
the record player dropped without her touching it.
|
||
|
||
`welcome to the real world.' she said in earnest. i just stood and
|
||
stared at her, taking in the words. i'd been without them for so long,
|
||
i wanted to savour their strangeness, how the universe could be bound up
|
||
into little packets and tossed around so casually. humanity is so
|
||
arrogant, in that respect. imagining that words can encompass reality.
|
||
i realised that the narrow way humanity thought, the narrow world-view
|
||
allowed into their narrow consciousness through the tiny narrow slit
|
||
that their narrow limited perceptions could manage, was just one way of
|
||
looking at things. it worked fine if all you needed was to keep your
|
||
belly full and to ensure a viable environment for your children. i'd
|
||
always imagined that there was more to what we understood. now i knew.
|
||
|
||
i entered the room and sat down before her, my legs crossing with an
|
||
ease they'd never known before, my hands resting easily on my knees, my
|
||
face blank, eyes wide, open, ready for anything she wanted to
|
||
communicate. i became aware of a new sense; the tiny hairs that grew
|
||
along my cheekbones were sensitive to changes in air pressure, much like
|
||
a cat's whiskers were; it was a welcome supplement to my other senses.
|
||
|
||
i found my voice, finally. it sounded strange to me;
|
||
|
||
`now what?' she rolled her eyes in exasperation.
|
||
|
||
`come on, there must have been a thousand things you would have wanted
|
||
to do if given the ability to change your shape! what happened to
|
||
them?' my attention wandered from her face to the dust motes floating
|
||
in the shafts of sunlight coming in through the kitchen window.
|
||
presently, i found more words.
|
||
|
||
`that was before. i feel like... well, like my volition has been
|
||
derailed, completely right-angled. i could really spend the rest of
|
||
eternity in the back yard, looking at insects.'
|
||
|
||
she smiled at me.
|
||
|
||
`would you like to go on a pilgrimage?'
|
||
|
||
|
||
|
||
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