Fictions

Out of office

Everything’s been said before, probably, but it’s been forgotten, so it must be written again. I heard this quote somewhere, possibly carried by the wind while sitting at a coffeeshop in a dusty cobblestone alleyway but more likely just online. Probably a screenshot of a tweet written by a handle like theThoughtsTheyCarried2000109. It’s a comforting notion, to be forgiven for unoriginality.

Perhaps the human experience is this pallid replica of experiences throughout history, with technology driving their number and strength downward. Perhaps in the past, with our histories perpetuated through old myths and half-remembered stories from elders, each new revolution would feel more novel. Not today. Living in the library of Babel, not doing the appropriate research can feel like a sin.

The world keeps on going flat like a screen. Mountains come up and greet the trees like layered paper = I glance down and my fingers and huge and flat, laid on top of the scene. I fall out of my body and watch it keep on walking around the lake by my office. Someone else takes the controller again ~ but they must be clumsy because the volume keeps dropping out.

Dead air & decaf coffee sit on my desk, backlit by spreadsheets and emails and the fading memory of daylight. Entry consultants have to pull long hours at the request of their higher ups, editing powerpoints for the boss to present to the client. It keeps my options open, though, and I get paid enough to live in a swanky New York studio apartment close to downtown. Damn the shopclass soulcraft. Caffeine is normally the drug that makes me forget your body and lock into the shifting shuffling network of interwebs, relationships, money and desire that keep this whole thing pumping, but lately it makes me antsy and I can’t sit still. Last week I had the flu and my whole body was empty, drained into a husk. I was able to sit in my chair all day and not get antsy at all. I wrote an email at the end of it.

“Hey Diedera, nice to hear from you. I have a meeting tonight but let’s grab lunch next week? Let me know if you’re free. Also, life shits a brick and calls it beauty. You know how it goes, a blurb here, a blurb there, shimmy shimmy hot damn and she’s up like a bucket lickety split, hot damn. Warmly pickled in a pack of hay, Todd.”

In my bed that I night I dreamed I was at a salsa ball. I’m dancing with a woman in a red dress, it flows down to her knees and spins out in circles. When she pulls close I can smell the sweat mixing with unmistakable musk, dark and suggestive. I’m hypnotized. I didn’t know you could smell in a dream. The dancing is electric, alive, I’m in an instagram filter and the contrast is wayyy up. Once I realize this, though, she slips away and the stagelights go out. I don’t dream the rest of the night.

I’m off of work after another late day, sleeping through sunrise, staying inside past sunset. Big full moon rests lazily on the hills. The rolling grass and scattered enclaves of liveoak becomes vast at night, dusty moonlit shadows stretching cavernously across the valley. I step in the grass. I’m an alien in this world. I approach one of the trees nervously. I can’t tell if it’s annoyed at my presence.

Ashen moonlight is scattered by oak leaves. Two coyotes prowl through slitted light. It’s cold enough that moving is more comfortable than being still; I stamp my feet and tuck my hands in my armpits. The loose polyester blazer and slacks I’m wearing don’t provide much protection against the night breeze. I smell hay on the wind, and hear chattering squirrels. They’re up late and active tonight, maybe drawn to the full moon like me.

The woman appears on the horizon. Pale skin and black hair framed against the moon like a woodblock print. The dress of her collar is the same color as her red lips, red dusted across the cheeks. She looks like a character from an old myth brought into the world. The air seems to part just before it reached her clothes, the dust just before it reaches her skin.

Another day in the office. Same 5 day pattern of discussion of weekend plans and TGIF. No moon tonight. I’m spinning in tighter and tighter spirals, waiting to hit the center and for the centripetal force to pull me into pieces. Shatter, reform, and take loping circular strides once again. At some point forget I'm not on a linear path.

Orthogonal energy is slowly smoothed out, conformed into the surface. Like a potter’s hand on a throwing wheel, no bumps allowed.

I dream again, I’m in the ballroom. I see the woman across the dance floor, she’s wearing the same color red but with a pointed hood, but the color and figure is unmistakable, I hustle over through the gentry. They’re in the middle of a dance, maybe a tango, everyone is wearing a black tux with a white shirt neatly tucked in. I tap her on the shoulder, but when she turns around her face is a giant grasshopper, mandibles clicking, kaleidoscope eyes the size of large oranges bulging out on either side.

Listen, please. I desperately have something to share with you, but I don’t know what it is.