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[ 5 minute read ]
Fey, Feeling and Funked
I have always been fey, though not especially knowing. Others have spoken of glimpsing something from the corner of their eye; a movement or a shadow. If I am tired and have not slept for days I see that too. I see shade that languidly spills from an armchair but never directly; the lights are far too bright for that. On occasion, I feel a cold fingertip on my neck or a 'spider' that runs across the stubble on the top of my head. These are the fringes of observance when you are close to the veil.
My Chilean girlfriend of long ago used to say, ‘Bettre’ instead of ‘Better', as in ‘That is bettre than that.’ I let her word slip through my lips sometimes, and sometimes wonder if she can hear me, feel me, know I am near; not in her space but in her void. Perhaps she has been somewhere and left a trace which I feel, like our hands have momentarily almost touched and a breeze, for a moment, melds the thinness of our essence together, though only near our hands. I try not to say ‘bettre’ too much in case I disturb her, just as I only look at photographs of my family with one eye. I am not a holder of the past and I have no intent to keep people from their present. With binocular vision we are hunters and our focus is seen in the animal and spirit world, However, I have seen many monsters with only a single eye remaining. I know they are monsters, but I am certain they do not.
Sometimes, I let creatures too near and I have to live my hour by the skin of my teeth. But it is never only an hour because the clock started ticking a long time ago. If I could draw I would draw a hill and a picnic table on top. That is where I would draw the people I know, because that is where the people I know think they are. They are not there. They are near a sea of torrent, of relentless waves trying to reach for them; greedy and cruel. It is not water and it is not wet. It is suffocating and it is cloying and sticky. Sometimes, I see people drenched in dry smoke that is neither the air or the sea. There is never a cleanness when I see them. I never smell flowers that shouldn’t be there, like I do when my hand almost touches the hand of my now gone Chilean girlfriend.
The shade that was near the door has gone now and only shivers cross my body. They start on my back and ripple down to my legs, like throwing a stone into still waters. They are not cold and I know they are not to warn me of heavy danger. There is only something near-by and, though keenly watching, it is only trying to move its hands past my own. I wonder then, if I had a secret word that some woman I loved, and was loved in return, knows about and she is silently but loudly speaking. We are not practiced at love or how to show it, she and I.
It is late and the ogre who diurnally stumbles near me has slipped into sleep and his presence looms near, asking who I am in confused and never comprehending stupor. Hakim, my spirit avatar, nods invisibly to me to signify that I am correct; the troll is around. He moves from room to room, short-sightedly peering at my things and Hakim follows to make sure he leaves no spiritual trip-hazards. Hakim against this lumbering fool is no match; their aspects do not match. Hakim’s experience and sensibility is clearly defined and closely controlled, while the tendrils of despair and gloom that break from the miasma of complex endings of everything attempted, that is the ogre, dissipate, but not before they choke the tiny creatures that try to take a breath. The ogre never coalesces enough to be grasped in any world. Lost and fumbling, there is only a question of why, about itself; why is…?
The air heavy with its passing, still has within it inquisitiveness that squints past the acrid swipe of its passing across stinging eyes. We are all impatient but we know we are wasting our time. This is not anything that can reason; it has no background and no support; it is riven from anoesis that is, in fact, only dried and discarded slim succour. As such, it is separate and has no knowledge of from whence it came. It sees and then forgets, but it is disturbing. It is a reflection, a poor facsimile of a living entity who is disturbed. Hakim offered me a piece of paper with angry scribbling on it, such as someone might randomly cause a pen to make a mark on with no attempt to make a shape or a word, and I agree; it is so.
Because I am mindful of its spiritual pollution I cannot feel anything else. I know that Harrari, the abandoned alien, would reprimand me now. It is I who is the cause of my imperception, I have a headache. She is right. I made the headache myself.
I can’t hear ‘bettre’ now and I cannot feel or smell a mellifluous breeze as our hands nearly touch. But she was never my love; it is someone else who makes my tears come now. I mostly hide her. I see her face and I call, but never her name. I quietly call but I don’t know her secret word. Sometimes, I fancy I hear her voice. Once, I think she waved. Hakim tells me not to form her image or her likes to surround her, because we, in life, were so close, but I couldn’t help it just then.
I am fey, feeling, and funked.
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