Conversations Reputedly Recorded in TD+18 | loci.theduereturn.com
  








  









  
    

Conversations Reputedly Recorded in TD+18

Error message

  • Notice: Undefined index: field_related_artifacts in cck_blocks_block_view() (line 97 of /home/93967.cloudwaysapps.com/jauqmmtgea/public_html/modules/cck_blocks/cck_blocks.module).
  • Notice: Undefined index: field_artifacts_metadata in cck_blocks_block_view() (line 97 of /home/93967.cloudwaysapps.com/jauqmmtgea/public_html/modules/cck_blocks/cck_blocks.module).
  • Notice: Undefined index: field_artifact_related in cck_blocks_block_view() (line 97 of /home/93967.cloudwaysapps.com/jauqmmtgea/public_html/modules/cck_blocks/cck_blocks.module).

[Though the notes compiled below have no official attribution, nor any record to those whose throats with whom their thoughts originated, it is believed that the conversations were recorded initially during TD+18.]

“But I don’t care.”
“I know. I don’t ask you for that, I ask you because I need to hear myself asking if I’m going to come to an answer. You may as well be anyone else except, I haven’t any fear of you. Your face is sad, are you sad?”
“I’m not sure, I guess so. I feel something and maybe my face betrays it. Sometimes I feel like a different person. Not like I’ve never seen or breathed before but, somehow, I’ve understood everything differently my whole life, you know, with a different soul maybe. A soul that makes everything a little more sour. It’s strange. Does it make sense?”
“I don’t know.”
“I know you don’t, that’s not why I ask. I ask to understand myself, not because of who you are..”

***

“and I would sit, I mean away from her in another room and think of the gears that brought swivel to her hips and put the snakelike twists in her spine and arms. I would sit there and think of the strange whir of her eyelids and that voice in our heads--- I mean that voice that contends with us, that tells us what we know but will not know for ourselves, would say, “you love her” And in the night her warm arms enveloped me in our bunk while I slept and her systems restored. It felt it was real, I mean Edith was real. Later, they dismantled her for parts, her flopped about like fish pulled up from the sea.”

***

“This courage is not mine, it was spoken into me by the others. You see me and won’t see me. I have stood next to you while you were tense with disinterest. My hands hurt to be near you and you, for your part, have disappeared into ship wall and driftwood but, your eyes not meeting mine is a sign of my existence. If you looked at me, you’d only look through and I would know then that I was a ghost.”

***

“It’s where we are, if that’s a way of putting it. I think that I have seen myself in the gait of others, up on deck moving back and forth, walking away from me. I no longer know the time only that I fill this space and, of that, I am certain because I must be.”
“But, how do you know you’re here? How do I know I can touch you? Would it be you, after all?”
“I don’t know.”

***

“Sure, and you can hear me. But, what is my tone, my register? A tone? Some noise? A word? A word… what is the weight of a word? If a word is a structure what is its measurement and mass? No… the word is more like a dead soul, the essence is there but the cast is broken. Then, some words just completely disappear, their weight is less than air.”

***

“Out there I saw you with a face I’ve never seen. The ocean was like an under-ripe field of wheat and the current it swam with, the scythe that cuts it lean. There was a tremor in your good arm and your eyes shone with greed. I saw you then, how you wanted; a desert without ocean enough to slake it. Do you know it? The moment I’m speaking of?”
“You wore a yellow jacket with the hood pulled up and you waved to me…”

***

“Or to see him do anything; hollow something with a spoon, I mean an everyday occurrence because a test of endurance in slowness. Though I wouldn’t have you believe it was arduous, for him I mean. For the viewer though, even his closest friends, it was a pleasure that soon wore thin. One began to feel as though being with him was like being conjoined with a void in time. I mean people waste your time, sure, but through gossip and letters and cleaning and dressing, everyone wastes your time. But, he wasted your time with a way in slow motion; daily life at its lowest possible pulse. He talked too slow and consumed sunsets with empty stories. It was nice though, his voice. Low and sinuous. His eyes were the color of a cello and his hair was like the pit of a cello. I remember that his handwriting was always legible.”