building, along with portraits of incompany notables departed and present, multicultural artworks of five
centuries, all selected by Mister O'Malley, each possessing
some private relevance; creating in toto once their details
were examined and collated-or so Judy informed me-a
pattern overt to none save Mister O'Malley.
"This depresses you?"
"Overmuch," I said, "sans relief."
Throughout those quarters buzzed a barely-heard hum,
semblancing lifesound more effectively than white noise
generally did; sounding as bees in a nearby yard, a sick
kitten's purr, neighbor's latenight noise discerned through
the bedroom wall or the digitalized aspiration of artifical
lungs.
"A pleasurable depression, or one best avoided?"
"Depression can be pleasurable?" I asked.
"For some, when enhancing dreams of self-enacted conclusion."
"I take no such pleasure."
"So stated. This belief impresses full?"
"As a song in the brain."
"Who does the singing?" I was asked. "Depression scores
its own fantasia, with fortissimo drowning truest truth. In
such a state imagined leitmotivs, previously unheard, swell
up from the noteflow. How does the listener know if they're
truly in the score?"
"Unknown," I said.
"Self-analysis's perils proven."
"Doubtful, regardless."
"Attempt another approach. What is your fantasy about
your trip?"
"You mean what I hope will happen, once we're done? Or
while we're there?"
No response forthcame; lying on the couch, seeing in the
ceiling, as in clouds, faces of loved and hated alike, I wished
as ever for an ever-absent clarity.
"Which?" I asked. "What's meant?"
"What is your fantasy about your trip?"
Before answering I closed my eyes; considered my most
honest response, if not the one I'd have preferred to give.
"To reengrave our image," I said. "Make all that was, whole
again. The attempt matters. True?"
"What is your fantasy about your trip?"
"Why was what's said inapplicable?" I asked; again, silence. "I only want us bettered. Of late we've only worsened,
seeming with our wishes. A remade life, that's what's desired.
But it'll never pass if="
"Your fantasy? Your fantasy? Your fantasy?"
Troubled by my interrogator's new-erupting obsession, I
turned over to confront fullfaced, wanting to disturb it as I
had been disturbed; saw phrased onscreen unexpected, unsurprising, words:
DOWNBLOCK ERRORED / SYSTEMIC FLAW /
ANALYSIS PROCEEDING.
"Your fantasy. Your fant-"
My analyzer continued its rewrought analysis, so unwitting as any patient of its most obvious compulsion. A frayed
wire, or encased dustmote, prevented me from goodbyeing
one who'd so kindly simulated care. I'd allowed this particular chain to enwrap me so close that now, loosed so unexpectedly, I felt no freedom; only bereftness.
Would my husband miss his chains more than me? What
if I were the one who loosed them? My head ached as if it
were being hollowed out from within. Uncouching myself, I
left the office, shutting the door behind me.
In the lobby I met John, embraced his stillness, shivered
at his chill. The light crimsoned us, and, standing there, I
wondered how long we had left to bleed.
For two hours that afternoon we reresearched, reassuring
familiarity with the construct of E: instilling ourselves thriceover with given truth gleaned from memoirs of cousins,
guards, percussionists, psychic hairdressers, and all those
who, while earthed, remained close to the heavenly one;
reheard tales told of the Dutch Devil, recounted by Goldman (the more respectable sects of the C of E, thinking
themselves freethinkers, referred to the latter only as the
few); reexamined news accounts entered into computer files
so obsoleted that only Alice was enabled to rosetta their lost
linguas; reread sources deemed apocryphal by the faithful,
telling of revelations so unlike accepted texts, and so unsettling to fundamentalists, that even sans critique they held,
for infidels, the greatest credence.
During our
centuries, all selected by Mister O'Malley, each possessing
some private relevance; creating in toto once their details
were examined and collated-or so Judy informed me-a
pattern overt to none save Mister O'Malley.
"This depresses you?"
"Overmuch," I said, "sans relief."
Throughout those quarters buzzed a barely-heard hum,
semblancing lifesound more effectively than white noise
generally did; sounding as bees in a nearby yard, a sick
kitten's purr, neighbor's latenight noise discerned through
the bedroom wall or the digitalized aspiration of artifical
lungs.
"A pleasurable depression, or one best avoided?"
"Depression can be pleasurable?" I asked.
"For some, when enhancing dreams of self-enacted conclusion."
"I take no such pleasure."
"So stated. This belief impresses full?"
"As a song in the brain."
"Who does the singing?" I was asked. "Depression scores
its own fantasia, with fortissimo drowning truest truth. In
such a state imagined leitmotivs, previously unheard, swell
up from the noteflow. How does the listener know if they're
truly in the score?"
"Unknown," I said.
"Self-analysis's perils proven."
"Doubtful, regardless."
"Attempt another approach. What is your fantasy about
your trip?"
"You mean what I hope will happen, once we're done? Or
while we're there?"
No response forthcame; lying on the couch, seeing in the
ceiling, as in clouds, faces of loved and hated alike, I wished
as ever for an ever-absent clarity.
"Which?" I asked. "What's meant?"
"What is your fantasy about your trip?"
Before answering I closed my eyes; considered my most
honest response, if not the one I'd have preferred to give.
"To reengrave our image," I said. "Make all that was, whole
again. The attempt matters. True?"
"What is your fantasy about your trip?"
"Why was what's said inapplicable?" I asked; again, silence. "I only want us bettered. Of late we've only worsened,
seeming with our wishes. A remade life, that's what's desired.
But it'll never pass if="
"Your fantasy? Your fantasy? Your fantasy?"
Troubled by my interrogator's new-erupting obsession, I
turned over to confront fullfaced, wanting to disturb it as I
had been disturbed; saw phrased onscreen unexpected, unsurprising, words:
DOWNBLOCK ERRORED / SYSTEMIC FLAW /
ANALYSIS PROCEEDING.
"Your fantasy. Your fant-"
My analyzer continued its rewrought analysis, so unwitting as any patient of its most obvious compulsion. A frayed
wire, or encased dustmote, prevented me from goodbyeing
one who'd so kindly simulated care. I'd allowed this particular chain to enwrap me so close that now, loosed so unexpectedly, I felt no freedom; only bereftness.
Would my husband miss his chains more than me? What
if I were the one who loosed them? My head ached as if it
were being hollowed out from within. Uncouching myself, I
left the office, shutting the door behind me.
In the lobby I met John, embraced his stillness, shivered
at his chill. The light crimsoned us, and, standing there, I
wondered how long we had left to bleed.
For two hours that afternoon we reresearched, reassuring
familiarity with the construct of E: instilling ourselves thriceover with given truth gleaned from memoirs of cousins,
guards, percussionists, psychic hairdressers, and all those
who, while earthed, remained close to the heavenly one;
reheard tales told of the Dutch Devil, recounted by Goldman (the more respectable sects of the C of E, thinking
themselves freethinkers, referred to the latter only as the
few); reexamined news accounts entered into computer files
so obsoleted that only Alice was enabled to rosetta their lost
linguas; reread sources deemed apocryphal by the faithful,
telling of revelations so unlike accepted texts, and so unsettling to fundamentalists, that even sans critique they held,
for infidels, the greatest credence.
During our
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