Wednesday, January 14, 2009

Death and Politics at the End of the World

The surreal surroundings confound my normal coyote-esque instinct to shrink from human contact. I comply hypnotically, my head settling onto her lap of its own volition. I watch the movement of my limbs with the bafflement of a mastered puppet. Alien fingers graze my forehead, leaving a cool, dry trail of unfamiliarity up the arch of my forehead, down the bridge of my nose, across my cheekbones, sliding around my temple. Her calves rustle slightly in restlessness, unmercifully jiggling the throbbing mass upon it. Her tinkly call for a glass of wine shimmies down- a circuit that flows down her spine, through thigh and arm to ring in my head. The gentle pressure of her palm briefly alleviates the nauseating nosedive into a sick sprawl on the deck that is one swell away. I grip her hand, pressing it onto my warm flesh and pray for a lengthier stay of execution. Six strands of hair flip into my face, wedging into my cheek.

Sounds, colors and dimensions rotate, echo, and slide off one another into a kaleidoscopic reality that defies attempts to focus. White sails and angling bodies lose focus, an antagonizing back-drop to my universe of frayed nerves, tumbling intestines and pulsing eyeballs. Elizabeth Kenny quickly forgets her consideration and pledge of healing, her replies to shouted queries pinging at my skull like a woodpecker in spring.

(blah, blah)

I slip into the corner, clothed in a darkness that makes sight useless and huddle next to naked boards, wary of exploring the unknown.


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