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Monday, February 02, 2004

in the desert

At the instant of sunset, humans are known to see a green flash of light on the horizon. However, the creatures of the desert, with the exception of the grey-footed turnith, the rock dalsey and the flightless wront, see the desert bathed in the colour gyrrth, which lies beyond the violet. In reality, gyrrth consists of a group of colours but only a few animals have the receptors to distinguish them.

Gyrrth light is critical to the growth of the flossberry shrub, which opens its fronds only when all the violet light is extinguished. The berries of this rare but long-lived shrub only grow through a photsynthetic process driven by the high energies of gyrrth-coloured photons. Given that gyrrth light shines alone for approximately a quarter hour (13 minutes to 22 minutes depending on season and lattitude), there is little chance for flossberries to mature.

The fluted asperdill is the only animal to see only gyrrth-coloured light, being blind the rest of the time. yet, it feeds only on flossberries, which appear as dark spots in a gyrrth  coloured landscape. Laboratory experiments with the asperdill in which patterns of gyrrth light are shone on a blank wall show that the asperdill does not distinguish between the blindness of most of the day from the absence of light of flossberries. As such, the asperdill is wont to attempt eating the unilluminated sections of a wall, confused by the presence of gyrrth in other places. It does so by using a sharp stabbing motion of its proboscis which then would draw the impaled flossberry into its mouth parts as it retracts. Unfortunately, the results of experiments in which the asperdill stabs at a wall do irrepairable damage to the proboscis, meaning that the asperdill can no longer eat. This experimentation is widely supported by the community as asperdills are prized for their meat and body parts but can only be rendered while still alive. The many dead asperdill found in the desert, starved due to the rarity of the flossberry shrub, are of little use except as nourishment (upon decomposition) of the false flossberry shrub.

descent - part 2

rhythmic burning, each step spreading, slight scrape underfoot of loosened gravellious slipping, with the long distance behind and cool endorphin afterglow ahead. A daily ritual and prelude to pleasure, contract of muscles fulfilled. But wunce a ponner time, it began to hurt her, yes another, so much part of me I forgot there were two, it began to hurt in tearing tingles deep inside, an aching, which no muscles could reach, growing days haunting nights.

The hurt crept slowly, hid behind tired rivulets of saltiness dripping from shoulderblades, extinguished by soothing currents exhaled to pleasure. It went on disguised but grew beyond its constricting frame and never turned back.

Specialised prodding and poking took time to show results, the horrific birth of a crustaceous  infestation. Hard shells of scaffolding support softened interstices, accelerating devourment of all but laughter.

descent - part 1

They told me about the getting home from workday with a boxfull scrappaper of recycling prized possessiveness—not yet become my precious—no, not then—not till after after—but in itself was not odd, even an admirable gesture on the part of lost voices for falling trees, voices regained in the daily illiterapaper, news to us all, concerns to none, blackhand-making jumble sale of characters—three dimensionaliterally, corner piling remnants of days, juxtacommuning and plotting a newgrowthregrowth eventual escape.

That is what they told me but I can't recall at all with parched little green rattlers mellifluent in my ears, ears which see the giggling creeping man peering round the corner, yes he peeks and sneaks and peers with a mischievous glint but that is all, he does not want my green rattlers, just reflected glances, caught unwillingly and set hookly free, tagged with gcm until the next corridor turns up. So now I sit, tags building a slipping sandpile over me but weightless because the tags are green, and tell stories to my adoring audience member, he shares my chair and uses my eyes to sleep, more often now than before, his morphic resonances pulling the sides of our tongue apart sucking the scents of the air conditioned legions deep inside.

When he shuts his eyes, my fingers can dance, to the stories, weaving the tale from middle to end for the beginning is lost or boarded up with a short planck, shut away where the questions of it don't make sense.

but the prehistropology can be traced a-ways, it sends shivers in my spine but I want them, they are all that is left, back to the middle of the tale, filtered through greenness, if you care to join us...

[Note: These are some sections of a piece begun many years ago and lost until now...]

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