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Seventeenth Sitting

So are you digging these briefer chapters? Do ya feel like your life is moving faster, that these are the fun times, just whizzing by, and pretty soon you'll be old and smelly? Well, that's the way I've gotta be (We're in a plot now, recall?), because she's a'goin' away, and I feel so funny abouts it that I gots ta sing sing sing!

I feel so very weird

It's like I've got a scummy beard.

Because she's goin' away.

But I cain't see her today... well, at least not for any real length of time, unless we invite Him along, which is fairly lame, but if she just sneaks out she feels bad about it, even though we behave within the bounds of our assigned relationship, except when I kissed her on the neck, but you know, that was just kind of an accident, as I was just trying to floss.

My, all this talk of flossing is making me hungry. Perhaps a juicy flashback...

***

"So where are we going?" She rolled down the window of my glorious yet awkward blue `90 Honda Civic.

"Nooo. Stop. It's very important that I actually keep this a surprise, not because it's that fabulous a surprise, but merely because I am fatally incapable of deception, and that is bad."

"Whatever you say," said glorious beautiful She. I gave her a lecherous look. "Okay, not whatever you say. And not whatever you imply."

"Well, shoot. You ain't no fun." I was lying.

"We can't be long. He's kind of freaking out. No. Not kind of. He's freaking out."

"What? Again? Why, why? Look, I'm not a threat, right?"

She gave me that "Oh, really?" look.

"Well, not a dangerous threat. I thought you told Him these things."

"I did. He's still freaking out."

"Well, what? Should I turn the car around and go get him? We can bring him to the special surprise place?"

She paused. "It might help."

"Done." The car barreled left into a sharp U-Turn, catching up to speed in the opposite direction just in time to meet the oncoming vortex of eternal nullification from which nothing emerges alive (or otherwise).

***(<--happy, candy-like mark indicating flashback change of phase)

Better? Much less narration, there, but the dialogue was more realistic (...even though it may not sound realistic. I know; I was there). These days are slipping by, I realize, and this may be the only record I have of them... unless of course she becomes my merry bride or my depressed literary agent, and we cement some solid group memory storage units to store what would otherwise wriggle about and slip away come someday. As this is really doubtful (as I will probably be asleep), I feel compelled not to warp things too much in this account, and to take lots of pictures, as they last longer.

I feel much better about both of us dying there and not just Her, and in such a sanitary way, too! Just being taken away by nothingness to nothingness. There's a swell alternative to suicide... though I guess it's more perfect if the whole world vanishes into a hefty nothing, so as to leave none of those wondering worried friends and relatives calling the police, sending out search parties, and you know, generally clouding the world with bad vibes. Better to go back and pick them up; bring them with. Besides this, everyone should have the option of just writing "Gone South for healing" on his and/or her door and just vanishing for a long time `till the Damage, that mighty happy gorgon of pain, she is gone. This might be less plausible in Antarctic regions, for obvious reasons (i.e. the epithet "healing and nurturing" would have to be used instead to be NewAgedly correct).

But every old wife's butt knows that all ya need ta fix the Damage is true love, right? Works for me, but then I am a classic Freudian non-sublimating, non-projecting, non-rationalizing, non-etcetering face-my-demons-and-wail-pitifully original Sin kind-of guy. My weak spot, She is obvious, as is the cure. Yep, the old "true deeps of existence and their simplicity"'s fer me, that's certain. So, basically, if you don't like this book, I doan' care, unless you are She or the next She or someone who could physically, socially, or financially disfigure me so's to prevent future She's. So again ha.

No! No! It's madness, I tell you. I renounce the whole last paragraph! Everybody and his or her dog knows that value is an extraordinarily complex matter, raised in people by a complicated network of mechanisms triggered by biological, psychological, social, and otherwise cognitive factors. To even pretend that only one thing really matters is self-deception, is plain stupid, is completely unhealthy, is... well... religion.

Ha! Didn't see that coming, did you? Yes, it's true. A wise man once told me "People will always be slaves, but they can sometimes choose what to be slaves to." I thought this was pissy and reductionist, and said so. Various Christian warning-label-types have preached in my vicinity that if you don't accept God as your god, you'll worship other things, like money or power or pleasure or Juicy Fruit. The implication is that all these are ultimately empty, that you can be rich, powerful, or what have you as all hell and still be miserable (I find this comforting. Misery is a devoted friend and will never completely abandon. Also, always kill yourself. Then eat paper.). This may be true of those things listed, but what of the big "L?" ("Land `o Lakes," that is.)

Sure, if you're a psycho depressive who needs a honey to make up for the faulty parts of yourself, then when you end up with a mere human being you'll inevitably get disappointed and go screw up that relationship, but if the need is within the norm (which I guess is still pretty gapingly huge), and we keep our wits about us, isn't this the one single-cause means to eternal happiness? I guess it depends upon who you talk to.

Oh, incidentally, this has all been part of the song that started at the beginning of this chapter, doncha know. I guess I must repeat the hook, being a slave to the formulaic as I am.

I feel so very weird

It is just as I feared

Yes, she is going away

And I'll probably sleep all day.. and a day doesn't have to be just a day, you know, as in 24 hours. Why, didn't you see/read Inherit the Wind, in which a very famous based-upon-an-actual-guy lawyer tries to reconcile the creation story in the Bible with anything that makes any sense at all by positing that maybe, just maybe, the seven days mentioned in said story aren't actually referring to calendar days, but to geologic epochs, so one day could equal a jillion years or so? Granted, this argument was helped by the fact that there was supposedly no actual sun during the first couple days to even suggest a time frame, but we can use that element here by talking about Alaska days, one day equaling 14 hours of daylight or so, however many days that might take to occur around December or so. You dig?

You realize that if I do go to sleep, this book will end faster, so it's in your interest to... well, you know. Hold me underwater `till the bubbles stop, I suppose.

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© 1993 Mark A. Linsenmayer [ Contents ]