Wednesday, October 13, 2004

the story of september

i will go backwards, for the first things to enter my head are the last things to have occured this fall; and fall has only just begun. i got off a phonecall from my father about 20 minutes ago. he called because he wanted to know when i would be returning to my insurance classes. i didn't actually know he was so urgent about that. he kept reiterating that it was "very practical" and finally said "and you're going to need it" with a hearty laugh. i haven't been taking more insurance classes. the reason is i haven't been in this state... practically i haven't been in this universe; but explaining this to him was going to be tricky, so i immediatelly rushed into the explanation of the webpage i had been building; the webpage i essentially just arrived back on earth from. it took a while and i had to give him the link and walk through what exactly it was and what was going on on it, but finally it dawned on him that this web portfolio had indeed been "very constructive." I rapidly started detailing that it had taken all weekend to create, which had been performed at the house of a friend of mine from college who resides in the mountains high above Limetown and the Champaigne Universe, I tried to illustrate how much effort had gone into it, that it had occupied this whole weekend and that i haven't had any time to think about insurance. He finally settled down but resumed his argument that i ought to schedule the next licensing exam as soon as possible, that that would be the necessary thing "to fall back on" while i'm doing "the art thing." He also took a moment to grumble that my going to Europe for 2 weeks "got in the way" of my pursuing insurance. He doesn't like that i went to Europe. Either that, or he doesn't like that I went to Europe with Mother. I had just sat down in IHOP when I returned his two worried messages. I had been in no mood to check my cell the last few days, not while i was up in the hills, where the beams and rays of Champaigne don't reach anyhow. I had found both his messages and those of others, all worried about where I'd dissappeared to, when i finally checked my phone on the last day. It kind of made me laugh to hear it: why should they be worried about me? I'm always nowhere. I'm never in one place; seeing me in one place at a time is always just an illusion. i am juggling universes on my shoulders always, and they are growing heavier with time, chewing into me. They shouldn't worry about me so much. there's no way i could stay in one place for long if i tried; i am the citizen of too many different places at this time. In any case, i had just driven back to Clear Mountain, descending from that larger strip of mountains, The Alchaves, which long divided my life in half between its past and future, and which now just divide the Desert, which bleakens this sour continent. Buried in those hills rests the city I'll call SandGun. Down I had plunged into the valley of Champaigne ghosts, and it seemed for all the world that I was plummeting into a bowl of poison; the air turned suddenly brown in every direction as i neared the City. It was the same vicious brown that had assaulted us, as the plane had descended from its long trek from Germany. (i'll keep other country names the same-- no point in shielding those from the curious eyes of idle surfers, i assume.) Now as i sit here, buried perhaps in mountanous layers of that filth, i cannot see it; it has blended back into the background, forgotten itself in the back of my awareness again, where it always hides. Oh how crystalline the peaks are in which crouch the little houses, clutching onto stones on slopes, in SandGun. How curious this place lies exactly between the place i'm from, and the place i may be going; right along its border made of upheaved stone. How much more curious, that my family of elves, whose names i will imagine-up later, my two who left my school with me, are living there-- are a part of the place. In their living room I sat this morning, none of us having slept the night, and the guy was telling me the story of a crime, and the gal was wearing a hat i had made. All that night the gal had worn that hat as she pried into the computer screen, a cigarette occassionally ornamenting one hand as she blasted through code with the other. By the end of the night's work i had a webpage; my much-needed, long-awaited web portfolio, and my sweet dears had constructed and provided it for me for free. i could not thank them enough and they only thanked me for visiting them at last, as i hugged them both goodbye. many things i could say about this couple, but all of them would be too flattering and too lengthy for the interests of my tale, especially in the fresh embers of such a time together. We are like family; that is how i often think of them, these two folks i met in college long ago... They resemble both my past world and my desired, my longed-for future one at once, and they don't expect anything of me or ask me to be anything else than i am... and we seem to delight mutually in each other's company; i could go on but i would drift myself to tears if i did now... Their poor house is under seige, however, and every new time i return to it i feel the shaking of its foundation more and more sturdilly. the man is one of those i've heard called "Other": he can see things which we mortal/humans aren't supposed to, and he knows things about things he can't possibly know about--- this was the overly-simple explanation of an "Other" which was given me so long ago, when i was presented the title. there is no doubt in my mind anymore that he is a sorceror, although i'd be shy to say that to him and i'm not sure he'd accept it if i did; we all think sorcerors don't have any problems, because they are magical and can solve them-- but that turns out not to be the point, nor the speciality, of a sorceror... Not, in any case, of any of the sorcerors i've known. I spent three nights with them, and i saw their daily difficulties with more clarity than i had before; i tend to glorify and glamorize this couple, i know... It is hard to see the 'reality' in some people-- usually in the people who seem to present a relief to reality, as you know it... It is merely a matter of wishing you didn't have to see it; of wishing, on their behalf, that they could be the one couple who could be spared it. Such wishes go nowhere. The house is crumbling from inside out... they are being slowly and forcefully removed from it-- and they are angry at their very shelter and the walls around them, at the way in which they must live, a semi-life, until they are fully removed. They are being removed, i am told, for that very same reason for which i find them home; because they are not like most folks, and never could be. Someone has entered and passed a judgement that they do not belong there, that they are not the most profitable inhabitants for the structure. I would be in rage too. There is no hope in cleaning the place; they both have the will to leave it in utter shambles and destruction when they go, just to slap that unwelcome judgement in the face. I have kissed the both of them now, and i have kept them in my thoughts. They wanted to see me when I arrived back from Europe, they insisted I come up the mountain and spend some days. They couldn't wait to see the pictures, to hear what it had been like. I had been working back in the Angel Glass Studio, the first few days after landing back in Limetown. I had returned to some interesting news: we were being considered for a commission by the city of Cloud Mountain. my elvish friends of SandGun knew the significance. My father couldn't understand what it meant. I had three drawings to show the board representative by the end of my first day back in the studio, which my employer delightedly told me later had impressed him immensely. I may have a quite massive commission on my hands in the near future, unless it is given to a certain someone in Lemuria... The folks in Angel Glass have been paying me a little here and there to design windows and mosaics and murals and things for the shop. Things seem to be going well for our little glass shop, especially so if we are granted this commission. I am starting to feel more a part of that little studio, more attuned to its goings-on, its facets of operation. I care more about the projects coming out of it. it is my hope that we are given this chance to prove ourselves; a 30-foot mosaic mural, to be prominently displayed in one of the prettiest little college towns on this edge of the continent. Little was mentioned about Europe, the first day I got back into the shop. There was so much else to talk about to do with commissions and projects, and my employer had almost been caught up in a hurricaine herself, on a little vacation she had taken at the same time. I slept a whole day, after the plane landed and my Mom had dropped my off back in Limetown. I was still on Frankfurt time for a few days after coming back into the land of Champaigne and Dynamite.

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