Posted by My House Arrest at 02:49 PM
I know I don’t want that.
Posted by My House Arrest at 02:49 PM
I know I don’t want that.
Posted by brims assemblage at 07:19 PM
Posted by ezra kire at 01:41 AM
Posted by Smooth Blue at 06:08 AM
Posted by between moments at 12:59 PM
The circle is masked to me. This is a first. The eyes that stare out from those deep wells of obscurity are hostile, unfamiliar. The energy is blocked. No flow.
Something has gone horribly wrong.
Posted by keeping up with A.P. at 11:51 AM
I'm not certain how to get to him--he's most likely being monitored, and it's not safe for me to get so involved this close to home. P. and I have to do some brainstorming, I think.
Posted by Smooth Blue at 03:50 PM
Posted by J-Meister at 02:01 PM
Posted by brims assemblage at 08:24 PM
Posted by The Softest Person at 01:08 AM
Posted by keeping up with A.P. at 11:47 AM
I spent a few minutes perusing the preliminaries. There was a photo of him, he'd filled out a bit but still looked the same. It's funny, that wasn't even that long ago but now it feels like a different life. I asked M. to give me a different case. The ex isn't a primary subject, so he'll probably be fine.
Apparently Toni's visiting New York for a little while and has insisted on meeting with me ... it's completely against protocol for her to dictate this but what the hell. I have a feeling she wants to get to the bottom of it all, or something, I may have to tell her that there's no bottom at all. I've learned so much over the past few years but I don't really feel like I know anything. Maybe Morgan can be more convincing on this point than I am, who's to say.
And on rereading the email I sent back to Toni I realized I mentioned a cookout -- what was I thinking? It's a bit like a tic at this point. After last Saturday, it might be a while before I feel like doing that again.
Posted by Smooth Blue at 01:11 PM
Posted by On the Lake by the Snacks at 11:59 PM
Posted by The Softest Person at 11:59 PM
Posted by My House Arrest at 07:27 PM
Posted by between moments at 11:04 AM
I had an uncle once – my father’s twin. Twins, twins – dig back far enough and I spect this family is prlly full of em.
Fair twin, dark twin. Twin of innocence; twin of crime. Poles and counterpoles.
But this is not true, not at all. None of us are innocent.
And what about the triplets? Do they whirl around in circles, looking for weighted circumstance to give meaning to their lives?
Picar leads me northeast this night, along the curving western coastline. The tides are slack and silent; the inlets sparkle in the moonlight. I could stand in the dry darkness of the caves and make them echo.
But not tonight.
Tonight I head around the bend to Parallax Point, which you will never find for as long as you search. You must simply walk in its direction, and if you are meant to make discovery, you will.
If you should find the Point you will know it by these things: a flickering fire; a circle of shadowy figures. And they will chant from beneath their hooded robes just to scare you; to bring you into that wavery nightmarish place of hot sparks and uncertainty in the inky blackness of night vision ruptured by flame. The chant means nothing; the robes are mere costume. Ritual and illusion: remember this. You will only fall if it is your desire.
And tonight, again, at long last, it my desire.
Posted by between moments at 08:44 PM
This island is not that small. The eco-tourists who have the balls to come here think they can hike n bike the circumference in a week’s time, and are invariably surprised when they’re still hundreds of miles from their final destination on the day they’re due to fly out. Fly home; back to the civilized world where topography plays by cartography’s rules.
Because Picar on the map looks like your average ordinary week-long adventure island. A couple hundred miles of gorgeous coastline; crescent beaches and sea cliffs and switchback trails. Sun, sand and surf.
But Picar on the ground is a whole different story. It doesn’t matter how expensive your compass or detailed your atlas, you won’t find your way unless the island says you will. Unless yours stars and moons are right.
And there’s hazard in that, too -- because chances are you still won’t end up where you intended.
But there’s nothing to be done about that. It’s out the window I go, in the pale light of half-past midnight. Slippers, robe, old red backpack filled with things we never understand.
K3 is calling again.
Posted by ezra kire at 07:10 PM
Posted by between moments at 11:36 AM
The problem with Jemima (or one of them, anyway) is that she talks too much. Way too much. Does not understand the weight of silence, and how it can hold things down that need to be kept in place.
Flight has become necessary. Something I should have realized days ago. Those who wish to help can only harm, themselves and others. Possibly me as well.
Jesus! That woman …
Posted by My House Arrest at 11:52 AM
I’ve been on the streets of Kallarackel's deserted kingdom all night, pacing them beside my brother Horace. For the first hour or two he was not aware of my presence. Finally, he stopped and said, “Charles, let’s be serious. Give me my shoe.”
And, with that, never once looking at my eye, or my face at all, he bent down and untied the shoe. Gently he removed it. Then - he walked on. Barefoot, I was stranded alone on the hushed streets of Kallarackel. This was certainly not the host country of my crimes or those who arrested me. I had been sent far – farther than I deserved, I thought.
I watched Horace disappear down a lane, the morning mist beginning to seep in from the seaside. I screamed for Lucy. I yelled for Alicia. I received no answer. I assume they’re still captives of my once and glorious house arrest.
Posted by Smooth Blue at 11:01 AM
Posted by Smooth Blue at 04:23 AM
Posted by My House Arrest at 04:37 PM
The streets are lined with cobbles and the salt spray is palpable if not confirmed. I still haven’t seen any actual shoreline. But what I did see was my brother, Horace. He was busy searching, very busy. I tapped my toe (clad in his old shoe) twice on the window pane, and he did not so much as turn his head. He seemed preoccupied, overturning pillows, dumping out drawers, and conspiring with a tired-looking maid.
So I’ve departed my house arrest. I’m out on the streets.
It might really be best for everyone, if I simply returned.
Posted by Smooth Blue at 12:44 PM
Posted by On the Lake by the Snacks at 06:32 AM
Posted by My House Arrest at 01:29 PM
Lucy and I were at a standstill. Who knows what Alicia was up to, but I assure you it involved her mollydoll. I wore my twin brother’s shoe, and I was perfectly willing to step right through the hedge.
“Escapes are not uncommon,” I told Lucy. “Just recently, another man fled this bucolic village.”
She simply shook her head.
“Okay then, Lucy. Just tell why I must stay – give me one explicit reason.”
She did not answer. Instead she dropped to one knee and reached for the laces of my shoe. She yanked them into a tight and secure double-knot.
Posted by J-Meister at 11:15 AM
Posted by ezra kire at 08:41 AM
Posted by On the Lake by the Snacks at 12:57 AM
Posted by keeping up with A.P. at 09:30 AM
Posted by ezra kire at 08:24 PM
Posted by My House Arrest at 09:32 PM
For two days, Lucy has been locked away in the attic and the transmissions have been constant. And during these past two days, it would be no exaggeration to assert that my house arrest has reached its greatest glory. And for these two days, Alicia and I have sat at our kitchen table, regarding my twin brother’s shoe. I know Horace and I know he’ll want it back.
Finally, I could wait no longer, and, with Alicia’s nod of blessing, I reached for the shoe and loosened the laces. As I slipped my foot inside, Lucy came bounding down the stairs.
“No, Ol’ Uncle Charles,” she warned. “I must tell you that is not such a good idea.”
Posted by keeping up with A.P. at 05:50 AM
Posted by Voidwalker's realm at 10:36 PM
Posted by J-Meister at 05:20 PM
Posted by between moments at 10:11 PM
There are some things that are so true you can’t believe them; you spend your whole life fighting against their weight. Any son of Picar should know his life will always be someone else’s game to play. Free will, self determination – these thing exist, for sure. But on the small island where I was born there are other forces in motion – forces that supercede even the strongest of wills to pursue one’s own reality.
You can escape these forces for a while, but only because they let you. Which is, of course, no escape at all. And eventually you end up right back where you started: drenched in an ocean cave, tides turning ebb, draining your life force back to the sea. Vampire tides.
There will be moonlight on your face, as you lie flat on your back within the arch of the cave. Chest heaving, hair matted, patches of sand clinging to your chilled skin. There will be a presence all around you – a presence you cannot see (of course) but can most certainly feel. And those childhood ghost stories – all that legend and campfire bullshit -- will suddenly be true. K3 will have come for you.
It doesn’t matter if you’re of native or colonial blood; karaii or karaiia -- you can see from the words themselves how unimportant such a distinction is. What matters are your moons – the ones you were born under – and whether they can tap your tides. Conduct you like a circuit board; an electrified marionette.
And yeah, there’s power to be had in going with the flow, especially if your tides are strong. You can surf it, kinda. It’ll get you high. Riding that cresting wave of energy, hundreds of thousands of years of everything K3 has come to be. Not one man – not even a king. So much more than that.
But there’s always a wipeout in the end. An ocean cave, ebb tides. Gasping for breath as the rippling moonlight takes everything away from you. And each time it takes more than you thought you had, until you find yourself inhabiting negative space. You no longer exist.
Posted by My House Arrest at 01:05 PM
This morning I visited Lucy in her attic (it’s my my house arrest, but, I’ve admitted, the attic, and the transistor radios, are all hers). She’s there before I wake each morning and still tweaking dials when I rest my head to sleep. But this morning she was conducting a symphony – it was a glorious chorus of crackles, static and hissing pops. I shouted to her, “You’ve done it! You’ve found a frequency!”
Without patience she shoved back her safety goggles. “Don’t be ridiculous. I’m transmitting.” Then she offered me her first smile. “Transmitting like I’ve never fucking done before.”
Luckily, Aliss arrived at the moment and took my hand. She led me down the flights of stairs to the ground floor of my house-prison and out into our small garden, where we came up to the rich bush – an azalea – from which she came. The exact spot where I first found the girl, clutching her rope doll. She pointed at the dirt and said, “Please. Smell. Take a sniff, Ol’ Uncle Charles.”
I dropped to my knees and did this very thing. And I’m not sure if I liked what I smelled. The smell of salt and fish and oxygen-rich air. Apparently we were living in a seaside town. It was the wrong place all together for a truly glorious house arrest.
When I stood back up she was holding forth a shoe – three stripes along the side. Nambo’s shoe – from my trunk.
“How did you get that, my girl?”
“I opened the trunk.”
Things were not going right. The house arrest was not holding together. “Then, am I right to assume you’ve taken possession of the mollydoll? My mollydoll.”
She nodded. And pushed Nambo’s shoe into my arms.
“What do I want with this fool’s shoe?”
“Before Nambo wore that shoe, it was loved and worn by another man. He told me to call him Horace.”
“Horace? Dear Aliss, do you know who Horace is? He is Ol’ Uncle Charles’ twin brother.”
She hadn’t known and she didn’t seem to find this fact remarkable. Instead, she told me to put on the shoe. “It will carry you out,” she said. “With this shoe on, you can walk through the hedge and straight to the sea.”
“What? But Aliss, this is the Golden Age of my house arrest.”
I stared through a gap in the hedge and feared what lay beyond.
“And, please, Ol’ Uncle Charles. It’s time you call me Alicia. I believe that name has become available once again. Alicia.”
And with that a scream came from the attic, the voice of 1,000 transistors in unison. The girl and I looked to the sky and watched the blue atmosphere shiver. It was in this moment that Lucy led the world in prayer – a prayer in my name.
Posted by between moments at 09:17 PM
No, I don’t think Aliss is one of them. I think she’s mixed up in it now, somehow, and if I discover it’s my fault I’ll probably try to kill myself all over again.
What am I saying? Of course it’s my fault – if it wasn’t she
wouldn’t be involved. She’d still be here. Or ... wherever she is when she’s
not with them.
Which is most certainly where she currently is. With Them. Fuck. And she probably has no idea what’s going on. How could she? Aliss knows a lot about a lot, but who could ever grok K3 unless they were allowed?
I can only imagine what kind of scenery they’ve painted for her; what the hell they’ve said about me. Have they cast me as a twisted monster? Pathetic nutjob? I guess neither is far from the truth if you’re standing in a certain light. But neither one is accurate without the proper context, either (is anything?) and if she believes them I’ll never be able to reach her.
She ... oh, SHE – she’s been with them all along. I know this now. She didn’t just show up on my doorstep. She was sent. And she didn’t need my help to find her way back to Picar. K3 could have deposited her on Jemima’s doorstep anytime she wanted. Or at least, anytime they wanted.
Maybe that’s how they p0wned her.
Posted by ezra kire at 02:27 AM
Posted by The Softest Person at 01:52 AM
Posted by Smooth Blue at 11:15 AM
Posted by brims assemblage at 06:32 AM
Posted by between moments at 11:06 PM
The new “nurse” has disappeared (no surprise there) but her visit has been memorable. Heh. Fuck. To say the least.
She was in my room last night, all moonlight on the edge of the bed, and maybe it was just a crazy lucid dream like I used to have – I don’t know. Maybe they’ve started cooking my meds into my jello because they know I’m not fucking taking them.
Anyway. I wake up and her tart little face is in mine, slanting angles and a strange softness, and her bony fingers wrapped around my wrist. Cold hands.
“He needs to get out,” she whispers, dark eyes shining. “Please don’t try to stop us.” The look on my face must have been saying something, because she smiles then, a hint of menace, and squeezes my wrist.
And I get a flash – like a video montage – of the whole damn thing. From the beginning. Cochrech’s easy smile, that first day in class, feet up and chair tilted back but eyes oh-so alert. Camping at crater lake: firelight, rustling underbrush, snapped twigs, that blur in the woods, terror and exhilaration and acid shakes in the sleeping bag all night. The knives, the blood, the scars. The freefall into sweet, all-seeing oblivion. And then graduation, K3 in the shade of the greening maples, smoking his damn cigar. So fucking cliché, all of it. Which is exactly why it worked.
And I had forgotten it all – all but Tristan’s name, Tristan’s face. And a hazy narrative in my head that matched not at all the truth I’d just remembered. How the fuck did that happen?
“Alicia,” I blurted out – surprised the both of us. She looked excited but scared. Glanced around in classic paranoid fashion, then leaned in close.
“Leo,” she said, but it became a kiss before it was ever fully a word, my name, her lips, her hips pressed hard against mine, sliding over my prone body, knees to either side, but she kept sliding and then she was gone. Nothing left but a trace of cinnamon and me to wonder if I’d just woken up – or if I was still sleeping.
Good Christ, is that what this is all about?
Then that makes Lucy ... and Aliss too?
Posted by keeping up with A.P. at 12:52 PM
Posted by On the Lake by the Snacks at 09:17 PM
Posted by J-Meister at 02:53 PM
Posted by between moments at 09:12 PM
What the fuck? New Nurse just came in and snatched the Adidas off the trunk. Looked me right in the eye as she squeezed it in her firm little hand. “Tristan needs this,” she says. Struts the fuck out.
If she means Tristan Cock-Wreck my whole sideways world just went upsidedown.
Posted by between moments at 05:55 PM
New nurse today. Weird. Curvy little brown slip of a thing, breezed in with my tray of fucking jello and wafted out again on a cloud of ... cinnamon? Twitch of the hips in her tight little uniform, underneath which she was clearly not wearing granny panties. Come to think of it, none of the other nurses dress like that. They all wear scrubs. It was almost like this chick’s getup was ... a costume?
Christ, I hope she didn’t poison my fucking jello. I’m the only one around here who’s allowed to kill myself, and I’m done with that gig. Things are getting way too interesting.
Posted by brims assemblage at 05:26 PM
Posted by keeping up with A.P. at 09:21 AM
Posted by The Softest Person at 11:50 PM
Posted by My House Arrest at 07:02 AM
Today, I heard the girls talking. Aliss is more forthcoming with Lucy than she is with me. She was yelling at Lucy, telling her to STOP!
Lucy told Aliss to “relax.” She said, “Don’t worry, girl. I can’t even communicate with him. The gorillas have confirmed it. These radios will never receive messages from the outside world – they can only send transmissions.”
Aliss was still ill at ease. She hugged her rope doll and told Lucy it was wrong. “Don’t contact him,” she begged. “I don’t want to hear from Leo.”
“Like I said, Aliss, don’t worry; that’s simply impossible.”
Leo?I set to my writing table and drafted a letter, to be hand delivered through my traders. I would order a doll from the Softest Person, perhaps a gift for Aliss. It should be a lion, a doll that shows the greatest cunning, that emits the most compassionate of ferocities.
Posted by The Softest Person at 10:20 PM
Posted by keeping up with A.P. at 06:16 AM
Posted by between moments at 09:58 PM
Woke up this morning and the sun was shining in.
Wait, that’s not my line.
But it was. Shining in, that is. Nice change after four days of rain. Spring and all.
Still, it’s hard. The air smells like home, like childhood. Like something I’ve lost that I won’t ever get back. I let my eyelids drift down and reduce the room to shapes and light and it’s almost there. Hardwood floors and white cotton curtains instead of speckled old lino and cheap plastic venetians. It flickers into place for a moment -- a signal in the static, and then the nurse squeaks in on her thick white sneakers and it’s gone. Bitch.
No – it’s not her fault. What the fuck do I know – she may not even exist. Even if she does, she is apart from all this. She knows nothing. About Lucy, about Aliss, about the strange shoe sitting on top of the trunk when I woke up this morning. It looks like a vintage Adidas, brown with white stripes. Pretty beat-up. Maybe a size 10? Anyhow, the nurse didn’t give it so much as a glance when she came in. Like it wasn’t even there.
Heh – maybe it’s not.
I’d think maybe I wasn’t either, except for the jello they keep fucking feeding me. Christ – at this point even Jemima’s burnt toast would be an improvement.
Posted by On the Lake by the Snacks at 06:38 AM
Posted by ezra kire at 12:06 AM
Posted by J-Meister at 04:59 PM
Posted by ezra kire at 12:31 AM
Posted by keeping up with A.P. at 07:26 AM
Posted by J-Meister at 10:35 AM