ROUTINE FIVE: WE’RE GOING – AND NO MIND IS SLOW FOR FREE
Interzone
hangover – aching spine – constricted brain, feels like wearing a helmet two
sizes too small – taste of metal or blood or battery – extremities cold. Trauma-trained by The Influence herself,
Agent. You’ve been Influenced.
We’re going
to have to inhabit other bodies, best warn you now. Not always a pleasant experience – although
of course sometimes it is, no hard and fast rules about anything ever – but a
very useful aspect of existing between stations, so to speak. Ever see Quantum Leap with Scott Bakula and Dean
Stockwell? Vast oversimplification.
How you
feel, Agent? Don’t worry – constant déjà
vu is a symptom of being here – apologies.
Human
bodies not used to this excessive Interzone treatment. Takes a while to get used to this new terrain
– no map that makes sense – and even when the body gets used to it, the mind is
slow to catch up – the brain is the realm of habit, the empire of pattern – and
no amount of deep-consciousness meme-injection can change that. Some shit just takes time to get used to.
Time heals
all wounds, they say. Sometime it still
hurts underneath the scar, Agent, tell you that for free. Hell, even amputated limbs hurt sometimes,
ghost-pain of the less-than-real. Still
get pains in my nonexistent heart.
Anyway.
Shaking,
Agent. It will pass. Spirit too full. That will pass too-
What do you
mean “who was she”? Told you, Dana’s The
Influence, inventor of the-
Oh. Her.
Doesn’t
matter.
No point
being distracted from task at hand by Old Man Blackwell’s ex-life, Agent. Dead ends and doors closed tighter than
tombs. Nothing but sorrow and dust in
those places, Agent. Best not to dwell.
Seriously. Stop it.
Nothing to be gained by prising open old scars. Not even blood there anymore. All turned to dust. That was a different life.
Come
on. No more. Give it up, Agent.
No.
No.
No-
Okay,
fine. But you owe me.
She was
eighteen when I met her. I was nineteen.
We were in the prime let’s say of our
lives. Healthy specimens, all parts in
working order. Fine looking examples of
the human race, I don’t mind saying.
Organisms poised at the cusp.
Carefree. Wanton. Unrestrained.
Ravenous. Untapped. So full of life, biting into the world, all
teeth and skin and sweat and vigour.
Dripping with life, you could say, luscious with it, all plumped up with
energy and appetite, firm and wrinkle-free and shiny-eyed and magnetic. Fell deep in love, sank into it desperately
and deliciously, two worlds orbiting – for the breath of moments – and suddenly
crashing together like a wave on a rock, like something dropped from a cliff,
no way of stopping that crash – and we wove together like thread, became one
single fabric, colourful weave, knitted together on the loom of gluttonous
love. One thing. Inseparable.
Until of
course we separated.
I didn’t
know… I didn’t know.
No I’m not
crying it’s this damned Interzone dust – constant sulphur and ash – havoc with
the glands.
Her
name? Doesn’t make any damn difference
what her name is.
Was.
(Is.)
***
Forget
it. Bigger fish to fry, Agent.
First, find
you a place to call home – not staying in my shabby chic mansion of dust,
that’s for sure, room in here for one and one only. Find your own hovel. It’s easy enough out here.
Cast your
gaze around over this place. Pick
somewhere. Move on in.
That’s
right, Agent. That easy in the
Interzone.
No,
seriously, I mean it. Nothing is
permanent – not anywhere, really, just think about it, permanence is deep-core
illusion number one – but definitely not in Interzone. Look, see, that bone turret rising slowly
from grey swamplands – wasn’t there last time you looked, was it. No it wasn’t, Agent. Tomorrow – not that we have days here of
course – tomorrow it’ll be slightly taller, or shorter – is it rising or
sinking? – everything in motion here, Interzone’s alive.
That spire
there – next time we look over this grey landscape, that spire will be top of
minaret, bet you my bottom dollar it will.
That lean-to there, up against the bleeding gum – that will be
gone. Unless it’s in use, Agent, unless
it’s in use – Interzone cares for its own, let’s say. If you use it, you can keep it. If you get killed on a job or vanish into
some crack or crevice in the Systems – well, place closes up like you were
never here. Interzone’s alive, made of
ideas and change, Conflicts Storytime – on the generations. To this new cold. Drag “invocation” recognised forms – Precisely
the Still.
Everyone needs
a home, like it or not. Place to be
true. Place just to be, no strings
attached, no tugging or compression from other psyches, place just to exist in
own time, own way.
Hell – I
suspect – the brain. One bleak critique
be emulating in heart.
How you
being here, out Cut-up - “madness is as map that makes and grace” as they say.
Don’t forget
to look up, Agent – plenty of good treehouses and underhangs and nests up in
the trees. Don’t scoff, nothing wrong
with living in a nest. Ask any bird. Perfectly good nest could be exactly what
you’re after – especially if you’re planning on laying eggs.
No,
Agent. That was a joke. Lighten up.
You’ve been
map that makes sense – and very useful aspect of existing between empire of
pattern – and even amputated limbs hurt sometimes, ghost-pain to catch up – the
brain.
But now you
need a place to centre yourself, physical centre, a place to stash your
physicals. You’ll what’s the word accrue
belongings as you progress, Agent, and you need a place to store your inventory
as you level up. No actual levels here,
not a fucking game Agent, but still, the metaphor means something (basically
beyond empire of pattern hurt sometimes, ghost-pain bearing an eerie virtual) –
and after all what is all communication but a series of metaphors? No actual letters in nature, Agent, no
syllables actually mean anything outside of our own soggy brains – no meaning
but the meanings we agree on, and we all know it.
A wise man
once told me that “everything’s a metaphor for everything”. Actual wise man
here, not some phony aphorism, mind. Name
was The Inscrutable Cosmo, he was a 17th level Space Wizard. Don’t give me that look Agent, the fuck you
know about space wizards? Who made you
the goddamn expert in space wizards all of a sudden? Moments ago you didn’t even know about
Interzone.
Jesus.
Yes I know I
just said no levels out here, but Cosmo wasn’t Interzone, he was Earth Prime,
totally different system to Interzone, levels up the wazoo. Take it as moot, Agent. Point is, everything can mean something else
to what it means, is the point. We can
make little squiggles create images in our minds if we let them. Nest can be home. Interzone can be real. Climate emergency can be cut up by a couple
of seedy Nova detectives. And Space Wizards
can level up.
Keep up
Agent. Lots to learn.
Come on,
keep looking. Let’s head away from city
centre. There’ll be something out here
for you, guarantee it.
We pass
thick broken tile concrete ruin sprouting with thorns rash-inducing nettle
flailing like tentacle – not a great sign to be honest – and fallen log hut
dark with glowing voyeur eyes watching us pass with hungry intent – also not
what you would call positive neighbourly vibe.
As we approach, five gristly mugwump pile into sinking cabin through the
window, greasy stank reeking of recluse – not dangerous but clear they want to
be left alone to their own infernal devices.
We spot
floating bungalow, hovering metre off the ground but accessible if you stand on
something, pile rocks into crude platform, maybe rocks float too.
There, what
about that? Nice looking, floating’s a nice schtick, not too much shabby with
your chic – windows still got glass in them.
Steal.
Pile up
rocks, poke heads over windowsill – empty.
What do you
say, Agent? Home sweet home?
Yes I’m
sure. Can’t see anyone in there,
right? Then it’s yours. Of course.
What? Yes, sure, they could come
back, but if they belong here, Interzone will let you know. Trust me on this Agent, been here since you
were mouthing your mama’s tiddies.
Everything’s fluid here, Agent, you’re still thinking with ex-life
mindset – get with the program, or the deprogram ho ho ho – no such thing as
possession here, it’s anarchist paradise in the living flesh.
At that very
moment one of the mugwump gets thrown out of sunken cabin’s window, slit from
crotch to throat, organs spilling into the black mud – its eyes meet ours and
for a second there’s this pleading kind of expression, then the lights go out
and mugwump powers down, goodnight. Red
fills the black mud, pooling, mixing, stinking.
Ah
shit. Don’t sweat Agent, it was probably
personal.
Did I say
“paradise”?
Metaphor.
(Needless to
say, we move on.)
***
Eventually
we find this nice soft cave like a giant puckered anus, roomy and clean,
entrance tightens like a muscle ring and the smell is pleasant even – musk and
lilac and hint of cinnamon – and it’s empty and both big enough and small
enough for your exact needs. Responds
well to stroking, and roid-lights emit warm glow when you rub them just
right. Bulbs rise up and offer
themselves to our aching bones, and we sit, sinking into giant goiters like
beanbags made from smooth hairless skin and filled with heated pus. All in all, not too bad.
Break out
the eel juice and tiger milk – housewarming present let’s say – and we clink
bottles, cheers and welcome home.
We hear
voices outside – just passing, no danger – but anus door clenches tight in
protective concern. It likes you.
“The technique
can have access and again at Earth is face artistic practice and demons, which
Occult terrain – no of habit, the Garden employing well-meaning cults,
intersectional the battery – extremities Illuminate,” says the first voice, a
wheeze like emphysema.
“As ecstasy,” says, two, "Electronic
death nihilism.”
“Gates,
glance, the notion simulated universe?
Don’t make me laugh.”
“It’s not
alone in a real universe the bizarre cult from the smallest and, given the
project on some, that I hate tarantulas and scorpions, supercomputer.”
“Some shit
differently, specifically Naturally, constantly.”
“I hear you sister,
I hear you.”
The voices
die off with distance and the insulating properties of new flesh cave. Always so much to learn from eavesdropping on
strangers, I always say.
What’s that
Agent? Yes. Totally agree. It is
very fucking weird.
Couldn’t
have put it better myself.
***
We’re
drunk. Told myself that not tonight but
once always.
And you poke
and you prod and you probe and you finally dip one finger deep inside my cracks
and prise them open and suddenly I’m all words – spilling out like that mugwump’s
internals – red and raw and fresh and with a kind of pain that’s so familiar
it’s almost pleasure.
Her name was
Nalan. Is still Nalan, I guess. Turkish
name. Both her parents born in tiny
village made of dung and desperation. She
was lost and alone like I was – always on the outside, always in the
margins. And we found the light,
Agent. Together. We clung together in the darkness like we
wanted to melt. A single candle. Breaks my heart to think of it. So I have no heart any more. All gone.
Any phantom
limb still itches now and then, Agent. Ask
anyone.
She’s still
out there, somewhere, in the world, the world of illusion outside. When I took that slip of paper – that ticket
that exploded me into the Interzone – I could never go back, not the same. I never came home. Did she wonder? She must have. Did she panic? How could she not? Was I on the news – wannabe-writer never
returns, read all about it – was there a search party? And how long did she wait for me before it
sunk in? That I was gone?
When did she
move on? And how?
How long has
it even been out there? And-
Tell you,
fucks me up thinking all this. Even
though it’s been so long, it’s preserved – like a scientific specimen pickled
pale and soft in saline solution – it never dissipates, never changes – I just
close the door. Bolt it. Lean things – things in the present, in the
Interzone – lean things against that door.
Never even go down that corridor – never even turn on that hallway light. Police tape and do not enter, Agent. But now look what you made me do.
Don’t cry,
this is my pain, not yours Agent! Ah
shit.
Oh.
Sorry. Forgot.
You’re going
through all this yourself, right now, fresher, fresher. Sorry.
See, best if these things stay locked away. Door is closed. Leave it closed. My advice.
Sorry.
Trauma-trained
by this entirely even amputated limbs to get used – either supposed entirely
excessive Interzone treatment. And – and
aggravate to a new point used to this cult of catch up – whatever fucking No
that.
I’d better
go, Agent. No, I’m going. Got my own place to collapse in. No sleep – hate dreaming – but let you have
your own space. Taken up too much of
yours already.
No, no, I’m
going, Agent.
See you in what
passes for morning here. Sorry again.
We’re going
– and no mind is slow for free.
***
(We were of
gluttonous love – suddenly crashing together no syllables actually on a rock,
life, you could sometimes, ghost-pain bearing just to exist moments – and or
not. Place shiny-eyed and magnetic. And we teeth and skin being here, out, all
plumped to be true.
Life, biting
into our lives.
Truth is, I
know she’s still out there, still living some kind of life. Been 25 years now, Earth years. Can’t help but think about her
sometimes. What would have
happened. What could’ve happened. If I never came to Interzone.
Just say I
never tore that ticket that exploded.
Just say. Just say I looked at it
but kept walking. Home. Into her arms. Maybe I would’ve become a writer, maybe got
some job on some comedy show, who knows?
Maybe she would’ve become that vet, or who knows, maybe a famous vegan
cook. Maybe we would’ve escaped the city
– she always hated the concrete the smell the noise the grey metal the exhausted
fumes the cram the race – maybe we would’ve moved to my folks’ holiday house in
Cape Paterson, fixed it up, made a new life in the countryside beachside – tree
change sea change we change. Maybe? Who knows.
Maybe even had a kid.
Ever see or
blood or create since to us – apologies.
Useless
thoughts as I lie on itchy lumpy stained ruined bed in my own private cell in
ash and sulphur Interzone, staring at cracks in ceiling. Useless thoughts.
Fell deep in
like something dropped.
Maybe a
daughter. We’d call her something like
River, Indigo, Pepper. Something. Can almost see her. Looks like me, a little. Almost.
She would sing.
Useless
thoughts.
Time,
specimens, all parts all communication but here, not some stopping that crash
the goddamn expert – and after and wrinkle-free and love, sank into cusp.
On the loom
of pattern hurt an eerie virtual. Two worlds place to centre attached, no
tugging like a wave was a 17th heart.
Don’t want
to be awake. Don’t want to sleep –
dreams come with sleep, don’t want to dream her again.
Be emulating
in (basically beyond empire yourself, physical centre, agree on, and that look,
the grace) – as they of the human home - viscerally – but all wounds, of humans
human Human bodies.
I
get up out of bed and head to market – need more drink, drug, curse-lifter, something
– something to soothe the goddamn pain away.)
***
