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Fifty-Ninth Sitting

No, Mad, your time is over. You have to leave now. My god, I was really in a frenzy there... not at the time -- I mean writing the previous section. And my eyes are still very wide, and they do not blink. And the tape She sent has gone on in My ears, Her voice powerless to calm Me down because I did not wish to be calmed. Intensity is just intensity, and the "good" or "bad" part of it is just an afterthought. And sex and battle are furious, not that I would know from recent experience about the former... you didn't think I... "That horrible, demented thing?" It was just more massage... much more intense than ever before. It was enveloping, but it was calculating... Unlike certain times before, I could see very clearly what I was doing: where Her body was in relation to Mine, and where were the various landmarks on that Body, so as to get just as close to those borderlines as I dared, and yes, I must say, ever-so slightly over. But I was so so sensitive for any sign of discomfort, of disapproval, and though She said She couldn't properly enjoy the ordeal what with all the internal strife, She did not stop Me, could not make even the slightest gesture of protest, as the intensity built around Her thighs, as I converted Her stomach, the one area that She was sensitive about, that made Her giggle and flinch, into My headquarters, stretching out straight up the solar plexus to Her neck, reaching fully around Her to pull at Her back, making an effective very close and active embrace for as long as I could drag it out. And God I loved Her, and could feel It rending at various places around My eyes, tiny explosions moving progressively back into my brain. But just as in the fight, a part of Me was not dwelling on such sensations, but acting... a body with a mind of its own, concerned with where and when and how hard in the same manner as whatever automata took over my fists and rained down blows without the slightest effort on My part. And now writing (righting), with My eyes smaller but still never blinking, with part of Me so pulled into this and an outer layer sitting back and watching, analyzing, noting patterns and laughing about them, searching with cheer for the unifying themes to cap off the book and put you to rest.

And at the end there were long strokes... proper massage technique, I was later for the first time told... from head to toe, very lightly, but very complete. And I rested very close against Her, and kissed and nibbled at Her ear, which is when, after about five minutes of it, She whispered, "Now, don't get carried away." Too late, babe. Way too late.

And Her tape nears the end now, with a song wishing Me goodnight, wherever I am sleeping. And She hopes that if I dream, I dream of Her. I don't know how it will end; I don't know how I will end; I don't know how We will end. I just don't know, you know? You dream of Me. Goodnight. Goodnight. Wherever you are sleeping. And I hope that if you dream, if you dream, you dream of Me. And Her voice comes through My ears, pulling Me from Your arms.

***

But there's always more, and life goes on way after the climax, and the book needs its fat to feed off of. I am not yet on the plane, though I am pretty damned gone. But definitely alive, though. No question about that. Wow. And still God, for the moment, choosing as I do to keep up this shortish long run instead of pulling another half-time show... although that was just a wily ruse, something to distract You from what was (and still is) really going on during the breaks. I am a Mighty God and consequently (it's a logical consequent `cause I say so) require sustenance in order to be placated. Keep up the good work.

In return, I will give you as a kindly Godly gift your first denouement, which in this case is true. You didn't think I'd let you off without tellin' ya more about the DOGS, now, did you? And I don't mean about Brandy getting away from those meddlin' kids, `cause Zelma found Her pretty soon after that. I'm talking about after Brandy got put back, and Bear was, according to Zelma, "too rough with her," so as of Friday, Bear got ousted to the "airlock," while white dog, who is a She and is coincidentally named China (pronounced "Chee-nah"), finally gained admittance to the pen. No more howling and groveling for her... only loud and powerful barks. The legend will live on in the hearts of whoever: Within half an hour after the switch, Zelma heard the sounds of viciousness. She rushed out to witness China holding Buster down to the ground in a DOGGy version of "mercy." Within another hour, the same was done to Brandy, then Lucy, then... well, Queen is meek enough to not even require it. Within the day China had made all the DOGS submit except Buffy, who presumably she could not get near. Strangely enough, after moving to the pen, China began to avoid Me, like Samantha usually does, like she's mistrustful and afraid. Maybe I represent too clearly her former lowly and desperate state. In any case, I had to leave before I could regain her trust. Ah, had I only been as all-powerful then as I am now!

Bear, on the other hand, became whining and dejected. She told Me that when a week after I left She took him out for a run (during which he behaved like a perfect gentleman -- just as well as Duke), he really didn't want to get outside so much as get back in the pen. Awwww...

We took all this in on a Saturday morning while we waited for a convenient point in my quest to tape all of her albums (on Las Vegas's equipment; "It don't have Doubly, but it'll do") to go for Our final drive. During this morning time the gathering of lives continued. I vacuumed (very quickly) the whole apartment, we did laundry, and before that, as soon as I woke up (7:00am?) on the couch that I had so reluctantly climbed on to the night before, I simply moved myself into Her room and climbed in, arm and eventually leg draped over Her just as usually happens in such a situation. About two hours later, My head resting on Her shoulder, She finally said: "Hmmm... I'm finding this hard to rationalize away as an act of friendship."

"Don't even try, Wah-man... Don't even try..."

***

Enantiodromia... Roll it on the tongue... There's definitely some new stuff coming up here... or maybe not so new... Last night, for the first time in months, I called up X-She's roommate (this X-She not being the one with the Halloween party, and not the one who said She looks like Me, but the one I haven't had a single nice thing to say about)... now, I didn't get hold of her, but I did talk to an unfamiliar voice... twice... someone strange living there... which probably means someone moved out... or something. And I got to thinking that I had no idea if X-She was all right or not; there could have been a terrible accident at some point, and no one would have called to tell Me... and it worried Me... a lot... because as much as I rag, and even though She won't speak to Me, I still care about Her a lot, and obviously not at least completely in "that way," as I am otherwise occupied.

...And then I woke up this morning on the edge of tears. I had dreamt that My Father was dead, that I and My sister and mother were home grieving together. They were for some reason arguing about how to properly raise me, how someone needed to cook me fancy things like macaroni and cheese, and I shouted "Stop it! That doesn't matter, and you both know it." And they did; we all started crying and holding on to each other for dear life. My sister said: "I know I miss my daddy... I'm sure of that. The only other thing I'm as sure about is that I love you guys." And we all embraced, crying, and I started regressing, cursing that it wasn't fair, asking where He was, and what had happened to Him anyway? My mother said that He was driving on ice and went out of control. "The ice! Dammit! It's always the ice that brings Him down." I was referring to some earlier incident by this remark, but I don't remember what.

What I realized through these things is that my life is just a fragile shell made up of other people. I mean, I knew this before, but I tend to concentrate it on just one person, or maybe extend it to past She's that I'm still on good terms with... There's still a lot I'm missing...

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© 1993 Mark A. Linsenmayer [ Contents ]