Sputterpub's Blog

After you concentrate awhile on the self-awareness, you realize you need other-awareness too. That’s how you begin to figure out life, and figuring it out, appreciating it, seems to be the assignment. You try to connect with someone else. You see that we’re forever trying to connect with someone else, starting with our parents and our siblings. Poor material us, built of protons and electrons, made of millions of tiny particles, nothing ever touching anything else. Matter appears solid; that’s all. If you moved slowly enough, carefully enough, you could no doubt slip your cells through the interstices of this wall…

I ended as a prisoner-of-war. Loot. A prize. Booty. The commander-in-chief got to take me to his chamber. And now to his home. To his death and mine, but of course he won’t listen to me about that. Of course not.

I don’t know why I was selected. I saw one sister dragged away to be murdered on a grave. I watched my mother transformed by her grief into a hellhound. I know my best sister-in-law was carried off like me (and I see that she will live and even be a little happy again). But I was picked to be the leader’s special. Perhaps for my freckles. Perhaps for my friendship.

This man is no brute. He’s a boyish man’s man, and a perfunctory lover. Maybe he’s such a good general because he knows well how to talk to men. He doesn’t know what to say to a woman.

But I’m easy to talk to. I’m perceptive, and I’ve spent much of my life dealing with men like him. So we talked. We talked and he felt better, and finally he began feeling me. He massaged my neck and shoulders. He seemed to excite himself when he cupped one of my breasts and nibbled a nipple, and his hand made ever larger swooping moves in the vicinity of my hips, but someone must have once warned him well away from her loins. He hesitated… and did not touch. And I, a prize-of-war, did not teach. I accommodated, and we had mediocre sex.

He thought it was better than that. Or he liked the talking. He kept me in his cabin all the voyage to his home, and he tried to use my body twice a day.

Now we’ve landed, and I’ve seen his wife, and I’ve seen his cousin who has been here to make the wife happy all these years. We’ve reached his home, where his wife and her lover will kill us both, and I’ve tried to warn him, but he doesn’t heed me. Of course.

Ultimately, what you find out, I think, is that even if you’re self-aware you have no real existence unless you are perceived by another. It is imperative, first, that you attend yourself, and get to know yourself, and keep waking yourself up. But you can’t do it alone. You can’t exist without trying to describe the experience of your existence, and to make that description you need an audience. You need a mirror. You need another perspective.

So the answer, now that we’ve cruised up down and around, is You. You are what mattered most of all.

You.

The next day I did a lot of considering. The visions began. Maybe I should have waited for my new skill to settle into focus. Maybe I could have deferred my god-man while I learned. I never saw us clearly; I doubt it.

I met him again the next night, as agreed. He had his hands on me at once. Fast authoritative hands up my back, on my ass, down my belly, between my legs. I had to squirm away, twisting quick, while I tried to pull my mouth from his to talk.

I told him no. I tried to say it again but he pulled my lips into his while he cupped both cheeks of my ass and hauled me against his mounded crotch. His kiss burned my mouth and fuzzed my tongue.

I had to knee his manhood/godhead to get free. He was very angry. I like to think there was disappointment too, but he looked like pure spite and vindictiveness.

He told me I could keep his gift of prophecy. Said something about not taking anything back. No: he made an addition to the gift. He promised I’ll always foretell accurately. But he said no one will ever believe what I say. And of course he was right.

At first what mattered most was matter. You have to think of God as pure divine sublime holy energy. Absolutely immaterial. The problem was that energy can’t perceive itself. It has to become matter to be perceived. So energy converted some of itself into matter. That’s the thing about the Real Thing, you know: it can perceive itself. In that, we are created in God’s image. You have an obligation to be as self-aware as you can, as much as you can. You have an obligation to be awake. Worship is not necessary, but awareness is. Which leads to considerations about death, and time, and saying goodbye. There’s a reason only people say goodbye…

I improved enough in foretelling that I would have seen my own rape coming, except that I avoided looking too closely at myself. I liked seeing my shape in the futures of others, but I didn’t want it all played out for me. Anyway, sometimes the self resists the focus. Then I can only see my future by looking peripherally; there is movement at the edges, gray against black, while the center of my sight is white blankness.

It was near the end of our endless war. After the death of my beloved brother for the crime of my bad brother. The water in our cisterns was polluted, the mortar in our walls was scoured by the thick blades of alien swords. Some dozens of the most favored females, frantic with panic and heated with fear, ran loose worshiping or hiding among the goddesses’ statues.

I was separated from the others in the stampede of grass-damp robes. I made it to my favorite shrine; I remember the cool of the marble through the silk across my stomach and against my thighs as I leaned over and upon the table-like sculpture. My eyes sought the kind darkness of the ground after the hot orange of our burning city. I felt the beginning of mist-like rain on the back of my neck. Then his warmth was upon me.

He never said a word. The depravity of his act, there, on that altar, in that grove, was outrageous beyond language, and I didn’t find any way to express it. He covered my back with the weight of his body, pressing me down, peeling my wet robe up and away from my legs, forcing my thighs apart, wedging his hands between marble and me as he thrust himself incurving into me, into me, around and into me all heat and pressed vigor.

You.

I know you meant what mattered most in some little vignette. You wanted me to tell you a story and then sum it up. A fable would have done nicely. But I went cosmic on you, and I give you here the answer:

You.

The thing is, most folks really don’t want the answer. They want questions. Doug Adams will know that. He’ll give his answer, 42, in hitchhiker’s guides. But he won’t give the question (What’s 6 times 6 plus 6?).

Most folks give answers and want questions.

My father had a hundred children; I understand large families. My siblings were like a city state. We were all fair-skinned and prone to sunburn and we were mostly light-eyed; only seven of us were dark-haired as kids. We were all royal and we were generally mediocre. History only remembers four percent of our names.

I was one of the few dark-haired dark-eyed sisters. I was the only one who competed with my brothers, in foot races and wrestling. I did well, too; I charmed most of the men with my athleticism and my daring. But the womenfolk tended to disapprove of me. Which drove me to be even more athletic and daring. I gravitated to the company of men.

In time I developed a male-type physicality. I didn’t become a nymphomaniac, but I grew comfortable with my body and used it to express my feelings. Sometimes I’d give a complicated hug to a guy I felt close to, and if that led to sex, well, I was okay with it. Most of the time, provided the players were both happy, those complicated hugs led to very good sex, the semi-public kind, fresh and frisky.

But I got in trouble the time I almost seduced a god. He was handsome to the point of perfection, nearly omnipotent, and he made it flatteringly clear how much he wanted me. I can envision him now: short golden curls above a smooth brow, around a chiseled face, piercing eyes, a smile at once warm and wicked, his body nearly hairless, almost perfect, velvet over steel. Big hands, square fingers, clean nails.

Oh yes. He had a way of looking at me across a crowd, when I felt like he and I were alone with a wire stretched taut between us. Thrum. A way of expanding that lovely chest as I approached, so his pectoral muscle became my center of visual orientation.

The night I met him he nearly had me, but I shied away at a critical moment. I let him put his arms around me and pull me to him, and I started to return his kiss, but then I found myself responding too fast and too deep; I pulled back. He coaxed and still I hesitated. Finally I agreed to meet him the following night. I remember his last kiss before we parted, sweet and a little lingering, with his throaty mumble about a gift. I walked away from him unsteady on my legs.

They didn’t argue at lunch yesterday. Karen never got around to disagreeing with anything, and Alice restrained herself. In the 15 months since they’d seen one another Karen had acquired diagnoses of hypertension and diabetes, and Alice attempted to be gentle with her. She knew Karen was trying to be good. She was taking her meds and walking every day, her refrigerator now contained some food, and she had given up those Starbucks coffee shakes. Alice was a bit dismayed when Karen ordered eggs benedict instead of something like the portobello sandwich she selected, but she noted the side salad, and she watched her companion leave most of the fried potatoes on her plate.

She was trying not to argue, so Alice stayed away from work topics. She was trying not to harp on diet, so she focused on her own food. She began to wax loquaciously about her sandwich, the roll, bread in general. Alice never cooked much but when she did, she experimented with soups and bread. She understood bread.

“Talk about transubstantiation,” she said around her final bite of sandwich, “and I always think of bread. For that matter, I think about alchemy whenever I knead dough.” She swivelled in her seat a bit as she entered the subject.

“I mean, there I’ll be, with bread and water and a little yeast in the bowl, and as I put my hand in and begin working it all I can think of is that old flour-and-water paste we used to make. Yech. The smell takes me back to like first grade, gluing the paper around the kite frame. I remember reading in a biography of Clara Barton that they cooked the paste – to get the lumps out you know? – but we never did that . . .”

Alice might have noted Karen’s change in complexion but she was wrapped up in her own words. She continued: “It’s like the warmth of my hands is magic. Because the more I work that paste, the sooner it transforms to bread dough. From gunk to the staff of life. Now that’s what I call a miracle.”

Karen retched. She felt the gag and barely got out of her chair before her gorge rose. Luckily the bathroom was near their table. She made it inside before she lost her lunch.

Her regurgitation was clean but her soul was shaken. She sat on the small bench by that toilet for almost 10 minutes, trying to calm, trying to understand or banish the flashing images of helping Darren build that kite.

She was still confused and wobbly when she returned to the table, where Alice had settled the tab and was ready to leave. Karen preceded Alice out of the restaurant. Her shoulders were slumped and her pace was a shuffle. Alice attributed it all to the food.