14
The black laborers of the rim whom nobody knew of their ancestry except that it was mixed for muscle and melanin, where it might as well have been the fringes of Hell.
*Seth, if you could see this now*
Just like her one time protege-boyfriend, Marjorie had run away from her duties as a chair on the supreme council. And it was to a place where she hoped nobody -even the innermost, would come looking: where inexactness was mitigating the rumble of new bedrock rising from the depths of the Pacific - a new continent being born.
It was a living. One on a geological tightrope.
Erasmus Jr power Nth would have approved,
Escape is only a journey into yourself. Not your current self. Not a self you feel comfortable with. But a self you have never fully known or needed to be in control. ‘He who loves his wife loves himself’. Union is the final destination of every escape planned. As lawful permission has always been its key.
After-shift, the rim honcho confronted Marjorie, this is no place for a White woman to be. Why have you come here? What has the council to say to us?
His adaptations: thick, crusty lips and brows. A third eye with a slot pupil nestled in a recess on his forehead, overlaying his vision processing with a mental heat map. He caught her unspoken question, it never rests -even while we sleep.
Marjorie touched its bony surround -gingerly, arousing his nerves -it was a part of him they didn’t / couldn’t share, the irony, tantalizing. He peeled her hand away. His was coarse and his fingers, twice as large as hers. But something had given in her heart. The thick, silver heat-reflecting paste that had caked elastically over her bare skin swelling…
Were one not moved by race, what would he be? To resign that the Aryans and the Nordics, entwined were the perfection of our species. Are genetic exchanges what we really fear of contravening? That dicey splicing of X and Y. We know through sowing further and farther afield, what might be. At one time, it happened we did. Our bodies remember, each one a little piece of the time of the gods of the fallen sky.
*This is love after it has passed through a prism*
Mother?
But no one replied.
She understood that in innocence, we see colors bathed in neutrality, while in maturity it was the rotating casts of the Spirit / the aura, over flesh and its artifacts that we tolerate, ignore, or discern. As the wise say, ‘love is something we don’t know we have until we meet someone who does -or either who must”.
Mr. Frederick combed his beard compulsively. The riddle that was his soul -all the West’s souls, was twisting like eels in a bucket.
Skimming along a stream of molten stone, hissing against the sea water, turning to reticulated black rumples, cliffs many stories high that rose overnight, guided by the rim slaves and their inexact heat modulators. Her silver skin, an extension of her reflective, dolphin-shaped craft. Raised heads beheld her through a haze of steam and spray.
And here she was, alone.
Solitude is a display of self above appreciation of it. It longs to be seen and touched but is always out of arms reach, of ear shout. Solitude is a stage of forming connections, not cutting free of them. It just takes time before the desire to be alone or aloof is replaced with happiness again.
It was late and barely light. She told the skimmer to head back to the Baja enclave. Slung across her chest, her half-rim baby. Its expressed third eye, perfectly sensing every nerve in the Universe. She named it Tasha. A clairvoyant far higher than her. It’s face was soft and lips, thick and rosy. From a cleft in her forehead, her reptilian eye peeked, shy, curious.
She had her mother’s thick curls.
For once in her life, Marjorie felt satisfaction. The men who took her halfway and then disappeared leaving her with deep emotional scars. Generous Saim included, and his exacting witchy sister, Gracie. The tug of war economy, the overbearing, pompous council. The cold war that had went awry so badly, almost swallowing her up, physically and morally.
The millions of bodybags at Shanghai airport like morose terracotta legions of past emperors.
Mr Frederick and his witch partner stood ankle deep in the surf as she approached. Thoughts of being humiliated before the council again, Frederick and the powerful teacher’s association cutting her down with their constricting pedagogical logic.
She stopped the skimmer a meter or so above the water, stirring up droplets and washes of moist air, forcing Frederick to raise his voice over the rush of the Bernoulli-Coanda engines.
Authority flows from the big to the small. It is a law of the Universe. As even galaxies swallow / rip apart smaller galaxies, stars capture lesser stars, planets have moons. Contravening authority creates ecosystems that breed sin.
Marjorie, we may appear superfluous in the wake of your growing maturity, but eventually you’ll be reabsorbed into the education system -at a suitable level for your aptitude. And so too your child. There are special inexact schools…
Teacher Frederick’s partner raised her arms and Marge let her hold Tasha. She caressed the fold of flesh that lidded her third eye and the baby giggled.
At her family ranch, she lay bare on her oversized round, sheepskin bed, Tasha strapped down nearby, having just suckled. She thought about going to college, learning to build higher order inexact machines, a far cry from the crude blades they forged as teenagers. Professor Honda would be proud.
In the end… there was school -she laughed at the irony. And she wondered where Matthew was, if he was even still alive. She wanted Seth-Percival to bring up her child, and her estranged husband -cold like she often was, fair yet calculating, measured with his dispensation, -to train it.
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