distillery / summer sketches (2)

Checked the usual boxes at the district. Keys work okay, but I don't like the creaking. Drop a little grease in the hinges next walkabout, I guess.

No red ink, nothing in black or blue. No postcards, no envelopes, no letters. No news is fine. I want to send word to WI and MI, give them a heads up in case I find a courier to run the route for me. But we agreed, no calls ever and I would never write them unless it was a fucking emergency. And right now I'd just be running off a hunch, so no go, slowpoke.

It should be a no go, because that's what we agreed to. But summer's got me off balance. Summer's got me off balance bad. I keep wanting to call zoe and...fuckit. Moving on. Moving on.

~

Stopped for a quick coffee after my walkabout. Tried to sketch two maps from memory, horns marking birds of paradise. Both from summer. Both...somewhat sanitized. The horns are there but they're not calling out - there's nothing out there to receive. If I were sketching in the distillery area maybe then, but that's not a theory I'm too keen to try. Without Maya around it'd be a suicide run.

One sketch died - jittery nerves. Had a cigarette and tried again. Worked, for the most part.

(bird of paradise 1)

(bird of paradise 2)

Okay. Okay. Feel better now. Temporary reprieve, but still. The pieces fit. The patterns hold. Not...pretty (all those teeth), but these two memory maps are stable. I'll take the win. 

~

Shit. Maya wants a meet now?

Wait, no, she wants to do a practice run? At the distillery? 

I know we agreed to not schedule these things but I just came back from there...argh. 

I hate traceurs.

burst transmission / a tale from winters past

The lizard's out cold. I'm awake, coughing sawdust and blood. Maya's awake, golf club in hand and ready to bat. The man in red kneels, hands behind his head. I forgive you, he says. Smiling serene calm peaceful blissful. Teeth rotten. Lips cracked.

I forgive you, he says. I don't care, Maya says, swinging.

Except.

Stop fucking with me, brain, stop fucking with me. Maya was kneeling and buying me time and he swung and I went for his legs and we tumbled and he stumbled and...he fell. Shattering glass, window breaking and he fell smiling and soundless. Maya kept me from falling, we woke the lizard and we ran out of the factory.

~

Six years ago, the lizard found a key. I drew us a map, and Maya ran point. Just three of us, the first time. We went looking for a sign (the mouth or the horns, or even the windmill) and found the smiler instead. The first of them and the least of them, red suit and rotten teeth and oh boy was he just so happy to see us.

Remembering wrong isn't the problem - not this memory, at least.  When they're involved, memory's a finicky thing. Static's a given. I don't remember them by the names they use or their titles - I remember them sideways. For the smiler my trace memory is Maya at the Factory, the beginning of our bad winter.

The details get switched around. The characters switch places. The way their presence affects memory, it's a bit like balancing a thermodynamic equation. Energy can change form but the overall energy in the system remains constant. That's how it's been all this time, all these years.

So when my trace memory for the lizard's starts going blank, it's a bit of a fucking problem.

~

He takes its limp hand and presses to the wall, to the center of the mouth drawn in grease and engine oil. We're at (I don't remember where we are). There are (I don't remember how many we are) of us, all standing guard around the lizard just in case - hopefully it won't even be a few minutes before he's calibrated his eyes and ears to the last sign.

(I don't remember how many minutes we lose now, how many hours).

its hand is on his face now, fingers scrabbling at his throat, parting his jaws

(I don't remember how it eats his name, only that it does.)

Maya helps (I've forgotten her name) give the lizard CPR and yells at us to look for defibrillators, for fucksakes, we're in a fucking HOSPITAL!

We look, but the hospital is grey and all its patients are grey and all its doctors are grey and the lights don't cast shadows, not of us, any of us.

(I don't remember how we escape that sideways place. Or who saves the lizard's life. Or why we christen him the lizard after escaping the hospital.)

When a memory gets tangled up, it's an after-effect of having to remember them, even sideways. When a memory starts disappearing, something's out there eating it up, second by second.

~


I have to be calm about this. I have to be calm.  If I find the lizard, he can help me figure out what's missing and maybe why.

How to find the lizard, when he's gone so fucking spectacularly off-grid, even for him?

Have to keep calm. Have to remember my function.

I find routes. I draw maps. I map territories. I can find the lizard, but I have to be careful about it. Have to remember that we're never the only ones looking. I'm looking for a friend. They're out there, hunting. And worse: recruiting.

A courier, maybe? Two nodes, two packages, the start of a triangulation route?

Not exactly quiet. Things could get messy. But it's the quickest way I know. Not really much of an option when you're running on a clock and you don't know how many minutes or hours or days you have left before the timer goes click click boom.

Traces / summer sketches (1)

There's no set rhythm to when the kink hits my hands. No warning. Typing one second and second two it's like a spider's having an epileptic fit over the keyboard. Always painful and sharp and sudden. Tingles afterwards, between tendon and bone, under knuckle and palm. Running cold water after the fit's done helps, as close to fucking freezing as possible. Running cold water and then a cigarette.

Cold water for jittery hands. Cancer cloud for jittery nerves.

~

I tried to keep a record this time, this summer and winter. Hardcopies and electronic. Scribbles on little notebooks, fragments on randomly named txt and rtf files. Sketches on graph paper and photographs of appropriate graffiti down by Toronto's graffiti corridors. 

Our first bad winter is almost six years in the wind. One lesson I've learned is to never keep complete records. Never keep complete logs.

The truest map is the territory itself. But the territory is playground to intelligences amorphous and apathetic and indifferent at best. Containing the territory is not....feasible. We tried the first time. I still don't know the price we paid.

For us, little mice scurrying between blades of grass, past predators winged and clawed and poison tongued, for us the best map is one kept in ideas and keys. Memory triggers, sense memories, fragments. Keys to doors and latches to windows, not the doors themselves. And never, never ever the mansions or the forest greens.

I'm not sure I'm explaining this right. I'm able to try to explain it at least....which means this is something I'm allowed to do. Hard to keep the rules in mind, sometimes.

~

This is turning into esoteric doublespeak when all I really needed to do was post a jpeg. The whys and wherefores matter, but here, the object of the discussion:

(the horns, sketch 5 of 17, original @ wall behind power station)

I've got one full SD card and two notebooks, from everything in summer. But half the images in the SD card are garbage. Took a backup snaps with the cameraphone (like this one) - grainy and low res and impossible to fucking read. Even with these the timestamps are garbled.

I'll go through the backups for now, and type up whatever's coherent and legible in the notebooks. Should keep me busy for the next few weeks or so. Analysis will have to be later...much later. I'll keep busy with this and I won't have to call Zoe and listen to her blank beautiful voice say no over and over again.

Maya doesn't know about this little side project, not yet. She won't like it, but I can't weather storms like her. I can't walk down the graffiti corridors alone, like her, live bait in tow. I'll record, just enough to remember. I'll re-learn the map, find a way to to survive the next winter. A place to hide, rest, and forget.

And then the story will loop. Over and over and over again.

Tesseract, Second Movement

Seven months down.

I spent summer in mourning and now fall promises the death of any joy I had left to spare.

Wait, that's a soft lie. I'm pretty sure after summer in Peterborough I don't have any joy left to spare. Goggle eyed hicks throwing slurs they don't even understand, raving dogs on six foot chains, backyard bonfires and moose skulls on townhouse doors: yeah, I'm sure not gonna miss any of that.

Zoe from the firm - client side contact / hr / corporate imp / lean and pretty and lightyears out of reach and of course taken - seemed amused by my initial "reaction" to the city. That was mid summer, way back in July, over iced coffee after pulling extra hours on a saturday.

She suggested I kill time picking up grad students at a bar over by Trent. Hick free, she said. And apparently being eloquent and having an exotic accent would help. The sheer lack of charm...well, that was just a matter of practice, darling, practice. Said she, in an atrocious english accent. I laughed. And laughed. She kicked my shin, but gently. Wanted to kiss her then, but the spark died and the moment passed. 

I told her being eloquent didn't count for shit if you still sounded like a...what was it again? "fucking towel jockey"? Christ, even sober these hicktown assholes couldn't get towelhead and camel jockey straight. Terrorist slurs 101: not fucking rocket science.

That was just banter, back then. A little harmless flirting. I hadn't started hating the city as much as I do now. My sleep cycles hadn't gone as badly awry again, the twitch in my hand wasn't as persistent. I didn't have crescent scars on my palms.

Zoe won't talk to me anymore. I called her before Labour day. A bad dream, a few hours missing, lights shifting just past the edge of sight - bad shit is going to converge, again, my brain kept yelling at me so I called her even though I promised promised promised them I would never call her or even think of her again.

She picked up and I wanted to confess and explain and I wanted her to absolve me. Zoe, I said. Zoe, I said. Zoe do you remember, I said. Did they let you remember, I said.

No, she said, and hung up.

~

The story loops.

Past imperfect, future tragedy, present farce. Preset / predetermined / preordained.

I've been back in Toronto a few weeks, tracing my steps from another bad winter seven months deep. Maya's around. I've talked to her about Zoe, about Peterborough. About the summer I spent in mourning. About the things I remember and the things I'm not allowed to.

The Lizard is gone. I thought I'd caught a glimpse of him back in March but trace ran nowhere. Maya's the only other survivor left. She's the only other one I can talk to. Guardian angel, sword all bloody and her smile so red, so red.

She's immune, I suspect. She's survived long enough without hiding as much as the Lizard has. I thought I was immune and my summer in mourning proved me wrong, so wrong.

~

Hands shaking. Haft stp tpng.

Z

sry

so sry