Ain’t got nobody

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My experiment on Monday yielded no results, so what does that tell me?

  1. Nobody is actually reading my blog. I know that isn’t entirely true. There are a couple of people who regularly or occasionally engage. They just didn’t respond to my blog yesterday. In truth, neither actually “liked” it, so they may not have read it yet.
  2. I’m just firing off my random thoughts into the ether as a record of my existence, not for anyone’s delectation.
  3. People are just liking my posts to get me to read theirs. I do, but I don’t comment unless they speak to me, and I don’t “like” them if I don’t like them. I can be fickle that way. Don’t get me wrong. If I didn’t “like” something, it doesn’t mean I disliked it. I may not have read it yet.

I feel like I should do something creative, so maybe a little more of Erewin:

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The snow fell almost as densely in the air as it packed on the ground. It lasted only 10 minutes, but amounted to almost ten inches, midway up my calves. I couldn’t move as it fell, as the visibility was only a few feet in front of me. Had I designs on stealing one of those bodysuits, that quashed them. I would leave a trail of footsteps that would lead them right to me.

Just like Lena.

Not exactly like her. It didn’t snow where she was, at least not this month. The trail she left was Aba and was permanent. Our feet were the same size, to the millimeter. Inches, millimeters, I seemed to be dimensionally ambidextrous. We also seemed to be the same height and weight, but I think that is where the comparison ended. I didn’t look at all like her, especially now. My coloring was almost diametrically opposite hers – pale and blond compared to her olive and jet black, or at least that was her before Aba.

I needed clothing, and this looked like the only opportunity for miles. Hopping the wooden fence was remarkably easy. I cleared by a few feet. My “walk” to her front door took only a matter of seconds. I had hope to consider an excuse to give her to borrow – or take – a bodysuit from her. I had no money. I had nothing. I would need food, too.

What language would she speak?

Langlais, but that was close to English. Most everyone here either spoke or understood Langlais, especially on this side of the planet.

How could I know all of this?

As soon as I considered the question, I knew the answer. I had developed a neural network of Aba both outside and in. I had access to the institutional knowledge of a hive consciousness and a processing speed far beyond anything I had ever known – if I could remember what I had known.

I knocked on the door reminding myself to speak ultra slowly and look pitiful.

The woman who answered looked elderly, yet her skin was smooth, olive, and her hair black. On Earth, I would have guessed she was north African, and she had the physique of a woman who had carried several children. She was 5 inches shorter than me and about 30 pounds heavier. Her bodysuit wouldn’t fit me unless it stretched.

I covered my private parts and shivered. “Cold,” I grunted. Monosyllabic was safest. She let me in. The pity card worked, even if I wasn’t actually cold. She didn’t seem to be too bothered by my nudity.

“Hungrytoo,” I added.

“Pardon?”

I had said it too quickly. “Huuuungreeeee,” I replied as slowly as I could.

She walked into the kitchen and picked up a roll, and handed it to me. It squirted out of my hands. I would have to train myself how to hold onto things with my slippery hands. The pads of my fingers and feet were rougher than any other part of me, but still on the slippery side. Rather than trying to pick it up, I poked a finger into it to hook and lift it. It had some kind of soft cheese inside.

“You aren’t from around her,” she said, curiously watching my bread saga.

“Not … even … remotely,” I answer, again as slowly as I could. The bread was rustic and exquisite. I couldn’t recognize any of the ingredients. It was a rough flour, eggs, but not from a chicken, butter, but not from a cow or goat. The cheese was from the same animal or group of animals, literally. She churned her own butter and made her own cheese. Aba-me analyzed the ingredients as if she had never tasted human food. I had never tasted food from this planet either.

Hel.

That is the name of this planet.

“Whatisthis?” I exclaimed eating ravenously. I couldn’t remember my last meal, if you don’t count a mouthful of Aba, which happened to be vitamin rich.

“Huh? Slow down,” the woman urged.

“Itisdifficultformetospeakslowly,” I replied hoping that was slow enough. It wasn’t.

The woman just shrugged her shoulders, took a blanket from a chair in front of the fire, and wrapped it around me. It immediately slid from my shoulders onto the floor. Again, I found a way to loop it around my fingers and pull it over my shoulders. I was definitely not getting the hang of this.

“Please sit,” she said, gesturing towards the chair from which she had taken the blanket.

I made a hash of sitting, too, sliding into a heap on the floor. She laughed. I gathered myself up, along with the blanket, and made another attempt, trying to maintain balance. I was successful, but I was going to have to get used to this. I slid around in the seat and almost off again.

“I’m. Errrrrreeeeewiiiiiin.” I said as slowly as I could, trying to put her at ease.

“Are you the One? The Aba?” she asked. “I’ve heard rumors, but you don’t look as I expected.”

“No,” I replied, “but. Aba. too. She. Lena.”

She looked puzzled.

“Too. complicated,” I explained, becoming slightly more assured in my speech.

“I’m Mona al-Razir,” she said. “May I look at your hands?”

I held one out, and inevitably the blanket slid off that side of me. She couldn’t grab my hand, so I held it as steady as I could. She slid her hand up my arm to my shoulder and peered directly into my eyes. I shuddered with embarrassment, as it seemed overtly intimate.

“Extraordinary!” she exclaimed. “This was not foretold.”

“Foretold?” It was still best to stick to single word answers.

“The incarnation of Aba was a sign of the End Times, but you are not mentioned at all. Where have you come from?”

“Iawokefloatinginthelake,” I replied, forgetting myself. I repeated more slowly.

“Floating in Aba?”

“Yes.”

“Nothing survives the Aba,” she said in awe. “Who are you again?”

“Erewin.” There, I had said my name at a normal pace. It felt palpably pleasing on my tongue, as if I had never properly said it before. It was like I had finally calibrated my speed. “Please, I need something to wear. Something that won’t slip off. Do you have another of those bodysuits in my size?”

“You mean a Col?”

“Yes.”

“My daughter is a little smaller than you, but hers might fit.”

“I have nothing. I can’t pay you.”

“You already have. Just meeting you.” She slipped off into the next room and came back with a cerulean blue Col with a slight sheen on the lower half, flat on top. You will be recognized with our family colors, but that shouldn’t be a bad thing. We are an ancient family.

I carefully stood and stepped into it. It zipped up my chest, with the seam becoming invisible, as if it was my skin. It was a good thing that it was tight on me, since I slid around inside of it, and a correct fit would have spun around awkwardly. It was a natural fabric, but thin like vinyl or latex and stretchy like spandex, yet warm. Although Mona wasn’t wearing her hood indoors, I tried to see if I could wear it. It stayed up for a second and then slid off my hair. “How inconspicuous can I be, wearing this?” I asked.

“You will have a certain status in this region, and you may have to explain your origin. Call yourself Erewin ne-Razir. It places you as a wife of my late first husband. We weren’t married long before he died. I, and now you, were his only wives. Few will remember him. Your fair skin and light hair will mark you out more. Your blue eyes won’t pass as albino. You might say your family are from Palania, which is very far north. They get little light there. It is dark above the Coroda year round, well, for 100 more of your years, which were similar to our years before the advent of the singularity. Most Palanians emigrated south centuries ago, but a few remained.”

That explained the strange sky as well as the end times. They were being sucked into a black hole. “How many wives are customary?” I asked, avoiding the obvious issue.

“It varies by region. We have large family groups: two men, four women, or three and three. Usually several children.”

“Aren’t I too young?”

“Second wives tend to be much younger than the first. You might have married as early as eleven while you were training at the Techicalinstitute. The first bears the first children, the second works in the city, the third works on the farm, and the fourth rears the children. She is often the eldest and may have lost her first husband.”

“Do you have a family trade other than farming?” I wanted to be able to answer any question I might be asked.

“It depends on your training. If you trained at the South Talean TI, you would be a mathematician. That is on the far side of the lake. The nearby Western Institute of Talrazin, would have taught you the physical sciences. Nari hunc-Razir studied there. She will return from work shortly, as have three of our children. All are working age now.”

“What about your husbands?”

“Ranou Razir is out in the fields now, probably clearing the snow from his machinery. Razaq is in Talrazin purchasing supplies.”

“Are there other wives?”

“Narir is one with Aba, bless her, and Nabih works the neighbor’s farm now. Tell me about you,” she said, gesturing me back to the chair.

Sitting was more elegant this time in the Col. “I have nothing to tell you. I don’t remember anything from my past other than fragmentary details. I lived a planet called Earth. I traveled extensively.”

“You have come a long way. Where had you traveled?”

“I’m not sure. I know I have bathed in the Dead Sea. I think Europe and America. I don’t know where home was.”

“Your accent is American.”

“How would you know that?”

“Razaq spent a long time stationed there and returned with an accent. He had to sound like a native.”

“Stationed?”

“Earth is an outpost. It is a complicated story if you don’t know the history. Much of it is confidential. Some is legend. You would have to read some religious texts to know what most of us are told in school. Little of it is true, just mumbo-jumbo. We aren’t religious.”

“But you seem to know what is foretold.”

“Everyone does,” she replied. I sensed that she wasn’t being very truthful or complete in her answer. “Besides, you are a conundrum, a fallacy in their teachings.”

“I’m not sure what I am supposed to do. I don’t know my role in this. I think I need to find Lena.”

“She will come to you in time.”

“How do you know that?” If I wasn’t foretold, that is.

“I think she will need you. You are unlike any other person here, and you both come from the same world, if what people say is true. You are …” She stopped and refused to continue. “It is better that you do not know. You should go to Talrazin. Our credit is good there. Find a place to stay, perhaps Hotel Bastet. Tell them I sent you. You may stay here and dine with us tonight. The snow will be gone by morning. Nari can tell you all you need to know about the Institute, if you feel you are strong enough on physical sciences to get by in a casual conversation. Nari can judge that.”

Thanks to Aba, I was probably passable, although much better in mathematics. Setting out in the morning armed with local information sounded like the best plan.

Turning the Screw

Bite me!

Fight me!

Come on. Give me all you’ve got. I’m ready for you.

(Silence)

Yawn. I gave you your chance.

I love this piece (Remembering Child). It may not be your cup of tea. I’ve played it, actually – not the cello part, although this guy was our soloist. He’s fabulous. (I know the composer, too.) I just felt like sharing, but not caring. I don’t care if you don’t like it.

I wrote a couple of paragraphs earlier about the composer Benjamin Britten. I was just getting into his opera A Turn of the Screw (based on Henry James), and then I erased it, but I’ve kept the title.

In case you haven’t noticed, I love new music. I want to be challenged – by the music I hear, by the books I read, art, films, etc. I just finished reading Murakami’s The Wind-Up Bird Chronicles, which is a dense fat tome, although it isn’t as heavy as 1Q84, which I liked a little better. This one, I was never sure what was real and what wasn’t. That isn’t necessarily a bad thing, but the whole wrapping up at the end seemed to be heading somewhere, and then it wasn’t. I just started reading Rushdie’s first novel Grimus, which is a whole lot easier, although there is some narrator drift – i.e., I’m not sure who is talking in some places. I’ve read a lot of Rushdie, so I know what to expect.

You would think that with all the heavy reading I do, my own writing would be heavier. It is, but I don’t post it here. Perhaps it is a little more magical than magical realism, too. At least Ezzie is moving in that direction. The Wind Whisperer is more the latter (MR), but I’ve hit a roadblock. Also, the first chapter is a little too weird, some magical sex with the spirit of a native American chief’s son. In fact, it was so weird that I lapsed into poetry, well, bad poetry:

We were a pillar of flame,
evaporating the spring
While the stars grew in number
until the sky became like daylight.
The wind swirled, fanning our flame
as we reached into the night.

I was flying, and as Shylah released me
I rose into the stars, my friends.
I had been gone too long.
The fire that was our mortal bodies burned below
with the Grand Canyon looming in the distance
under the golden haze of sunset over the Pacific.

Shylah’s spirit flew east, but I was free,
to soar higher – above the highest clouds.

Kyrah-Deerstalker embraced me.
I knew his name and had drawn him with me.
Holding tightly as we soared into the stars,
my fire kept him warm, enveloping him,
becoming one in the bright sunlight
somewhere between the Earth and the moon.

There was one other line, but I just decided to make that not part of the poetry.

What happened to the novel? Three chapters and then pffft. My main character had her mother die, a near miss with a tornado, and found out her high school flame (who is now a Catholic priest) is dying of a brain tumor. He is saying the funeral mass. She is special (a daughter of the wind), and I’ve lost the plot. There isn’t one really. Three pretty decent chapters, but no plot.

Curtains!

Back to writing bad poetry, I guess.

 

Inner Truth (the search for)

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I drew the PRINCE of CUPS today, for my Planet Ezzie episode, which goes live on TCoA at 9:26 pm ET tonight. I put the interpretation of it in Ezzie, but during my research, I discovered that it is associated with 61 Chung Fu of the I Ching. That is relevant because it is my birth year. It represents INSIGHT or INNER TRUTH. It also has a connection with Scorpio, but that doesn’t relate to me in particular.

I would have to say that I am looking for some inner truth at the moment. Life kinda sucks right now – it’s been on a slow burn of bad for about the past 3 years, and I’m looking for a solution. One of my ill sibs has gone from bad to worse, although there was a tiny fragment of good news today, so let’s hope that trend continues. The parents are beginning to fail, too. They are in their 80s, so that isn’t surprising. That doesn’t make it any easier. There are some big life changes coming in the family, and I’m just hoping to make it through unscathed.

All the writing on Erewin lately has left me a little worn out. I need to decide what to do with that. I can work it into Out of the Frying Pan, and in fact it might help balance it a little. It doesn’t really solve the large plot hole. Yes, you read that right, not pot hole. Although Erewin has become a superwoman, she is still (technically) mortal (human, at least), unlike the two other main characters, who have become essentially immortal.

My stories seem to have immortality and death as their common themes. I wonder where that came from.

Anyway, it is back to work for me now.

Erewin

After writing yesterday’s chapter fragment, my head kept spinning, so here is some more:


Erewin gazed at the stars as she floated in Aba. In the middle of this silvery sea, there was no where to go, and no hurry to get there. Like in the Dead Sea, she floated without effort. She had been there once long ago, a forgotten lifetime ago.

Something seemed wrong. All the stars were nearly on a single plane, and seemed closer than they should. The two moons, at a more careful inspection were gas giants in the same plane with a weak glow from the nearest cluster of stars, not from this planet’s sun.

The night seemed too bright, and this planet’s rotation had slowed to weeks, rather than hours.

She sensed a chill, as her breath fogged in the air, although the Aba protected her. It was warm, and she was still warm where she floated above it. The air temperature was 31° F. Aba was 98.7°.

She knew she had to act. It was either a sea or large lake, and it was deep, very deep. Her unnatural ability told her it was 7994.63 miles deep, the diameter of the planet, and she was at the exact center of its surface on this side, 10 miles from the shore on all sides. She should have been able to see it, but the reflection of the stars in a mist that hovered over the briny liquid obscured her view.

10 miles in every direction, she thought. That’s a long swim.

12 minutes and 33 seconds. The notion was ridiculous. She would have to swim almost 50 mph. Deep inside, however, she knew she could do it. The mind said no, Aba said yes. She lay still. A baby cried somewhere, 13.56 miles due west. That would be her direction.

Skimming on top of this calm sea, her strokes were machine-like, efficient, and lightning fast. Without significant effort.

Without almost any effort at all.

The shore was boggy, and permeated by Aba, as well as another black substance – completely black with no reflection. Aba and this other liquid did not mix.

Tan.

Aba and Tan did not mix. It rolled off her hand like oil droplets off water. Tan was dangerous. To others, not her.

Aba, she thought, was a consciousness. It didn’t speak to her, but she could sense it inside her. Erewin had arrived unexpectedly, and Aba didn’t trust her at first. Those who had arrived with her had been absorbed into Aba’s hive consciousness instantly, except (miraculously) for the owner of the hand that had tried to pull her under, none of whom she could remember.

Erewin had another name, but she couldn’t remember it. She knew that Lena also had another name: Carthage, a city in Africa, on Earth. She knew where Lena was, approximately, at least Lena’s last connection with Aba. She was on the other side of the planet, the day side. She knew that they would meet, eventually. They would be drawn to one another.

On dry land, Erewin took the opportunity to survey her body. She was tall and very thin with blond curly hair that draped onto her shoulders, and she was instantly completely dry. She also knew that her blue eyes and alabaster skin would set her apart here. As it was while she was while she floated, the microscopically thin layer of Aba made her skin slippery and impervious. Nothing would stick to it, except in the palms of her hands and the bottoms of her feet.

Her clothing (which she also couldn’t remember) had disintegrated at first contact with Aba. She had floated for 3 hours, 47 minutes and 26.42 seconds before she had awoken. She needed to find something to wear, something that wouldn’t slip right off, something that hung over her shoulders. Panties, a skirt, trousers, would slide off, since they relied on friction to stay on. Something that pulled tight around her waist might stay up, but they would twist around easily. Shoes were unlikely to stay on.

Naked, she would also stick out in the freezing temperatures. It was about to snow, too. The stars were gone above the land. A quarter mile to her right, she noticed a freezing pyre. It looked like flame, but shot up like icy water being belched up from deep underground. There were 12 of these pyres equally spaced around the sea. She decided to take a closer look. She stepped toward the pyre, and arrived in 4 seconds. She had very little control over her speed.

“Onetwothreefourfivesixseven,” she said, testing out her voice. It sounded like, “One-en.”

She would have to practice doing things slowly. Aba had not only radically augmented the speed of calculation in her brain and her awareness, but it had a similar effect on her body. She wondered how quickly she could run, if she pushed herself. The next pyre was around 5 miles away, the calculation came back quickly, just like her swim. 3:06 minutes, based on an estimate of 100 mph. Barefoot and naked, she didn’t want to test it.

The pyre sent super-cooled water up to a height of 144 ft. She knew that Aba would protect her if she touched it, but that was too much of a leap for her humanity. Unlike Lena, Erewin retained a physical vestige of humanity. She knew more than she should, calculated too quickly, and moved at superhuman speed. Not only was she a superwoman, she was a supercomputer.

Every molecule of Aba was equivalent to what she knew as a supercomputer. Aba hadn’t spoken to her; the knowledge was just … there.

The baby cried again. It was about 8 miles away, but she could still hear it. Erewin added that to her known abilities. Running to the baby at 100 mph barefoot on boggy unfamiliar ground was dangerous, so she decided that she would take it slowly. She would pinpoint a goal and try to walk there.

There were no trees in this bog, so she looked for small ground formations, took a step and was there almost instantly. After ten attempts, she started to get a feel for walking slowly, still meaning faster than humans could run.

After 15 minutes, she had traversed most of the distance, stopping at a fence on the edge of a farm. Along the way, she ignored the carnage of frozen bodies sticking out of the ground. It was too disturbing for her to handle. She knew what it was. The bog was a thin layer of soil set on top of Aba. If someone stepped on weak ground, they were trapped in the Aba. Eventually, they froze, but not to death. Aba sustained them. They would awaken during the month of daytime to freeze again at night. Pulling them from the Aba would kill them. She processed the information and let it go, trying not to be emotional.

What would a super-emotion be like? She dared not consider it.

It was a bucolic scene of a mother, wearing a bi-colored one-piece bodysuit, trying to settle an infant on the patio of a farmhouse.

I could wear one of those, Erewin thought, although she was almost a foot taller than that woman. A brief glance, a moment of recognition, and the woman fled inside.

As this was the only farm Erewin could see in the vicinity, she plotted how to obtain one of those suits.

It began to snow heavily.

 

Prompts, promptly

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I wrote about my lack of dreams last time, and that seems to have shifted somewhat. I’m still not sleeping well, so my dreams have been fragmentary, but I have had some. That means I’m still not past having to use fantasy to divert myself.

One of the ways I used to do that was to create ridiculous scenarios and run with them (that’s where the last novel idea sprang from), so here are a few:

Sixth Gear. Sunni has bought a new 10-speed bike to ride to work. She tends to favor 1st, 3rd, 5th, and 10th gears, that was until she found 6th, and it changed her life … or should I say – lives.

Everywoman. Clare was a normal woman, with a normal family, working a normal job, and was happy. What was that she stepped in while crossing a busy street? Bubble gum? Hardly. She watched with dread as her body transformed into molten glass, vaporizing her clothes. Nothing to see here folks! I mean it. Look away now!

Itch. Every morning, Sandy woke up with an itch. She could never predict where it was going to be – her wrist, her hip, the back of her neck – and it would last all day. Her doctor could give no explanation. Today was different, though. It was inside her skull, and it made a noise, sounding like radio chatter from the other side of the universe. It was.

Elvin. Serena hid her pointed ears under a mop of curly red hair. She was smaller and thinner than most people, and she could hear a sneeze a mile away. Why a sneeze? Because that is what it always was, and she was determined to find the source.

So … entries on a post card, or whatever.

Fantasy, and the beginning of an unfinished novel

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I’ve been talking about dreaming a lot lately. Unfortunately, my sleep patterns haven’t been cooperating. I can’t get to sleep, so I concoct some kind of fantasy. Then I fall deeply asleep before I get to the interesting bit. I wake up and think about having to get up, regardless of what time it is. At the moment, there is no semi-sleep, which is where the most interesting dreams come from for me.

So … fantasy. I’ve been avoiding it, since I have so many projects in the air at any one time that I don’t want to start another. (I should be choosing the poetry for my anthology. I’m hoping that will help me make a final decision on the title of the collection.)

So again … fantasy. What do I fantasize about? Duh … sex. But what about beyond that?

Well, that depends. Sometimes I will see someone during the day, and that starts something. Ooh, the gym, hot bods all around while I’m on the treadmill. That gets old quickly. Time travel … been there. Metamorphosis … yes, there, too. Robots … why would I fantasize about robots? Being a robot. Done that. OK, here is an edited version of the first chapter:

I had hoped it was another bad dream, but I awoke face down with my wrists lashed together behind my back and my ankles tied to the table legs.  I knew trying to move around would have only brought the flimsy table to the floor on top of me.

My cell was padded and completely white.  My naked body was the only color in the room, and I admit that I haven’t gotten much sun lately.  Why my legs had been tied spread open filled me with dread.  My bum hurt with just the thought of my vulnerability.

I’d gotten pissed off my head last night, and if I wasn’t sure that I’d made it home, I would have suspected that one of my drinks had been laced with – I couldn’t remember what that drug was.  HGH came to mind, but a human growth hormone wouldn’t make me forget the evening.  H – G … no … G – H.  Struggling to remember was something to help take my mind off my predicament.  It wasn’t coming, so I’d have to try another mental trick to forget what was happening – or what wasn’t.  I’d been awake for an hour already, but I’d had no contact.  I’d seen nothing, heard nothing.  I couldn’t even smell anything other than my own sweat.

Why I was so sweaty had no explanation.  The room was at the perfect temperature, although the air didn’t move.  No breeze, no vents – no door.

No door?  Another anomaly.  How did I get in?  How would I get out?

Why didn’t I have a hangover?  Admittedly, my predicament was worse than the worst hangover I’d ever had.

Somebody had cut my hair, too.  Not completely, but short enough that I couldn’t see it.  I had a mannerism of brushing it out of my eyes when I was nervous.  Not only did my bonds prevent that, they had shorn the offending hair.

“Hey! Anybody home?” I shouted.

No reply.

That would teach me to go to a Halloween party and get plastered.  I had gone as a witch, even died my hair black.  Alec kept doing pornographic things with my pointy hat.  He’s got to find a more interesting method of flirting if I’m ever going to let him take me out on a date.

I hadn’t dressed as an ordinary witch.  40-something Witchy Becca liked rubber clothing – revealing rubber clothing!  That was Anna’s idea, and her clothes, too.  She’s got a few more curves than I have, but every single one of mine showed, partly because I’m probably a size bigger than she is.  “Latex stretches,” she assured me.  Ordinarily, I would have been self-conscious, but it was Halloween, and I was role playing – a slutty exhibitionist witch.

Martin kept making rude comments about my nipples.  The more he mentioned them, the more they showed, so I kept bringing up his prick, err, in conversation, but that had the desired effect.  He was dressed in a hospital gown, supposedly as a mental patient.  No hiding there!  All the guys kept plying me with drinks, I think hoping that they would get to help me squeeze out of my latex afterward, but no one succeeded.  The one guy that might have, hadn’t shown up: Eric.  He was invited, but he was going to another party.  Becca Myers in latex wasn’t enough to draw him there.  We’d had a hot and heavy fling years ago, but I can always hope for a repeat, can’t I?

Anna poured me into her car and deposited me at home; I vaguely remember drinking a couple of glasses of water in the kitchen.  Walking upstairs got a little fuzzier, then sitting on my bed.  Nothing more, except the dreams.

My advice?  Never get pissed wearing a catsuit.

[Description of a series of weird dreams.]

I’d become like a captive wingless angel.  I was afraid to look – my cleavage.  I could feel a little more weight than normal, and sure enough, I had somehow grown larger, as in my dream.  Shit, I’m still dreaming, I thought, but I knew I wasn’t.  These thoughts were too contiguous and less vague.  I wondered why I had been bound, since there was no obvious escape.

Somebody had to be watching me, so I decided that the only way I would get some interaction was to be a nuisance.  I knew that meant a tumble onto the floor.  The padding would cushion the blow, but with my hands behind my back, I couldn’t control my fall.  I hoped also that it might break the table and partially free my legs.

I crawled to the side of the table, and taking a deep breath, hurled myself off of it, bringing it clattering on top of me.  It hit me hard on the cheekbone, but aside from a possible shiner, I was otherwise unscathed.  Still nobody came to rescue me.  In a fit of rage I kicked at the table, shearing off one of the legs that I was bound to.

Another anomaly – it was steel and shouldn’t have torn so easily.  I kicked at the other corner, which broke as well, but the leg swung around and bashed my hip – another bruise to mar my perfect skin.  It didn’t come right away, but I’ve always bruised easily.  Fortunately, I could now slip the ties down the table leg and off.  The wire was still looped around my ankles, but I was free to walk around, and I could just barely slip my bound wrists around them so my hands were in the front.  They had been bound with a single strand of white coated electrical wire, but I couldn’t find where they were tied or wound together.  It was one single loop, too tight to squeeze my hands through.  I wondered briefly how they could have slipped the loops on.  Likewise, the loops around my ankles were the same, and I was surprised to find that I hadn’t cut myself on them.

Standing, I searched the walls for the hidden seams of a doorway, but couldn’t find them.  “Get me the hell out of here,” I yelled to no avail.

Damn, I thought, pulling at the wire on my wrists.  In a rage I bit at it with my teeth, and it snapped right away, like I’d used wire cutters.  I had succeeded in freeing myself, but I was still a captive.

“Congratulations,” I heard a man say behind me.  “You’ve passed the first test.”

I turned, and before me a man stood dressed neck to ankle in white Lycra, only slightly less revealing than the latex of my dreams, but now I was completely naked in front of him and quickly covered myself.

He chuckled at me.  “I know every inch of you intimately.  You haven’t worn anything other than a body bag in centuries.”

“Centuries?”

Dingbat

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Photo by lehandross from Pexels

I’m tired. Today, my class all arrived 10 minutes early, so we started early with the promise that I would finish early. 25 minutes into the class, I took a look at my watch.

Panic.

Quick, give them instructions for the homework. Pass it out. Let them go. They sat there stunned.

Go away. Class dismissed.

A half hour early. I realized it when I walked out into the empty hall. Too late to call them all back.

April fools! Please come back! I was only kidding.

I just wasn’t thinking straight. I didn’t sleep well. Woke up too early.

I’m a dingbat.

A dingbat? What does that even mean? A stupid or eccentric person, if you Google it. One of the things about being human is the ability to describe something through a name. Why does something need to be named? Is every sound music? Yes, to some. Does every music have sound? No … to some.

Humans have the irresistible urge to name everything, to describe everything. I’m OCD. I’m depressed. (I’m tired.) I’m unlucky. I’m cursed. I’m ADD or ADHD. I’m straight, I’m gay, I’m trans, I’m sis, I’m queer. My pronouns are he, she, it, they, her, his, its, their. I’m paranoid. I’m stupid. I’m incorrect, politically, racist, narcissist, pure, complex, an alcoholic, tea-total, addict, a junk-food junkie, vegan, vegetarian, fruitarian, Unitarian, atheist, pantheist, agnostic, religious. Maybe none of those. Maybe I’m just different.

Everything I know is wrong. Maybe.

I call myself Anne. Rebecca Anne Martin, writer, musician, eroticist, driven, nuts, closet nudist, novelist, poet, supernova.

Sometimes naming something is a crutch. Must call it something. Can’t explain it? Call it God, then change God into our own self-image. Call it a miracle, then pray for it. Prince kept changing his name, even to the point of using a symbol – which was essentially an unnamed name.

Quick! Call it something or it will cease to exist.

Yes, I know. We can’t refer to something without naming it, but maybe some things should be left without. Just sayin’.