Lincoln gazed idly through her fourth floor window into belching smog which
seemed to surge then wither like a human breath; or that of some huge satanic creature
buried deep within the earth's core on which's back Manhattan had been irresponsibly
built; frozen there when a careless construction corporation saw fit to lay the city's
foundations on its ghastly features. Tower blocks appeared to poke at precarious
angles out of the ground like taught, accusing fingers as if out of a Dali painting, and a
musty air pollinated every crevice of the city scape as if the whole caboodle had been
unknowingly fumigated by a kindly demonic cleaning service. She yawned and
inexplicably found herself thinking about her childhood. Essentially, it had been a happy
one until the whole thing had collapsed on her like a rotten barn in a tyrannous tornado.
She had had a family that loved her and everything she had every needed. She had
never been rich, but then money can't buy love.
Straining her eyes, she could just about make out a single Christmas tree a few
blocks away; flickering incessantly like an infant glow worm mislaid by its elders in the
camouflage snow. Ten years ago, anybody would have thought that household with the
tree had been duped into thinking today was the anniversary of the birth of their lord
and savior when really it was April fools, but for what it was worth they were actually
right on cue. Anniversary it was, but a time of goodwill and celebration it could no
longer be considered. In reality, that bold family with the tree were planting a huge
'come and get us' sign for the establishment; they were bound to shoot up the hit list
with that show of disregard for their societal master's anti religious stance. In fact there
was precious little to distinguish today from any other save the effortless tumble of
snow and that magical sparkle in the air which perhaps god awarded just to remind us
that this was a day of great symbolism on which at least the regular hostilities should be
forgotten.
With the snow and the cold, Lincoln felt warm inside. Perhaps only those with a
metaphysical conscience felt such things, and if so she had relieved herself of some
doubt over the issue of her own spirituality. She had not as she had feared lost her soul
in maintaining her brutal profession; not least in the act of that unintentional killing
which she had so regrettably committed. She took the time to say a short prayer for the
victim of that particular sin and furthermore thanked god or whatever if anything
regulated the whole thing that her soul appeared to have remained intact despite the
act. Perhaps only in death would she recognize the reality of her karmic retribution.
Even the most self sufficient and self contained of people need a little something to fuel
their life-force; to stoke the furnace; and Lincoln's being an especially hungry if volatile
life-force necessary for her rather revolutionary political stance, she required a little
more comforting than most.
She straightened the bending marker pen which held her window open, crossed
her arms and imagined she was at home; round the dinner table on Christmas day. Her
imagination was a creative and persuasive one, but she could not quite fool herself out
of the reality in which she lived and into the one which she used to. She closed her eyes
and felt the paradoxical waft of hot and cold air from a rumbling radiator and the frost
encrusted window breeze eloquently over and through her with a sparkling ease.
This world didn't seem quite real to her now. Perhaps it was the tingling fantasy
of the winter wonderland we often expect to see through a frosted window on
Christmas morning which; when we are kids at least; never materializes save in the
disappointing form of grumpy slush. Perhaps it was that the idea of that fantasy land
actually ringing true this year that dissuaded her about reality. It was a nice consolation
given her past suffering; that the world was unreal; but then again it had come at an
inconvenient time in that nowadays she was really quite a way down the road of
recovery concerning that ailment. Irony interjected as she began to enjoy life; revealing
to her at this time of all times that none of it was genuine. "Zeno observed a glitch in
the physical makeup of the world which seems quite appropriate when considering that
all this conventional materialism doesn't really hold water. He said objects at rest
occupy a space equal to their own dimensions. An arrow in flight at any moment
occupies a space equal to its dimensions, therefore when an arrow is in flight it is at
rest. OK so logic appears to work on the surface; just like objects appear solid if we
look at them and hold them; without exploring them on an atomic level. When you
have a good look up close materialism has huge holes in it." If the world was real, it
certainly wasn't logical. "Godel's theorem; consider the sentence;" she instructed
herself; playing both tutor and pupil; "'This sentence is false'. Surely then; if it's true, it's
false. If it's false, it's true. What about 'this sentence cannot be proved as true.' Even if
the sentence is correct, we can't know it's correct. And 'I am a liar.' Surely then I can
only be a liar if I'm telling the truth; which negates me being a liar; which in turn means
I was lying about the original statement." None of these made sense, but maybe that
was how it was supposed to be. Lincoln found that only when she emptied her mind did
anything really wash; and intriguingly when she did so, everything made sense, though
she never could have communicated that experience; even to herself.
She half consciously pressed her eyelids shut in cynical reflection as a gut
churning crumple of thunder slithered through the erratic atmosphere only to swirl
dramatically into a kamikaze dive leaving only a boisterous eruption of cackling cracks
and curvaceous convulsions of shattered light which would have scorched her eyes like
an Icarun pilot if she had not fortuitously closed them a moment earlier. Such fancy
imagery in actuality served only to irritate her further.
But groundless moaning on this day of all the hundreds felt like a cardinal sin,
although with most people either cash drunk or destitute, it was unlikely anybody could
stomach celebration in the face of such superficiality or struggle; depending on which
side of the sociological fence you fell.
Snow had begun to bounce down to earth like globs of frozen cream
descending from the gargantuan desert bowl of a gluttonous creator. A gaggle of
frozen footed birds scuttled desperately from the ignoble incantation of ice below them.
Only the gleeful ring of a commandeered police car offered a hint of seasonal cheer.
She leaned her head forward on a hand as if there was something worthwhile and
significant beyond her shivering window to catch sight of and hold interest in. She
propped herself up against her old nobbled wooden desktop on which perhaps she was
meant to have done school and college homework; depending on how far reaching her
parent's ambitions for her had been; if only she had gotten the chance.
She stretched her arms and clumsily dropped towards the disorienting haze of a
semi dream state which was surely preferable to the regular stark embroilment in the so
called 'real' world which she would have had no qualms about running away from had
she not in so doing had to run through that very world like a hamster in a wheel; thus in
'reality' going nowhere. She appreciated the cold comfort which the ebbing motion of
snowfall presented her with. She appreciated the unfafable feeling that came through
being protected from the elements yet inescapably at one with them. But despite this
internal warmth she felt the coldest cold in her heart when she considered that she
herself remained alone. "If only you could just leap back into the past; same day,
different decade. Or if only you could make the past leap forward to you..." She
exaustedly rubbed her eye against an arm as if doing so would prise it open to a new
reality; preferably one which resembled that which had been yanked away from her one
cold and stormy day not unlike this. "Idle day dreams I know, but what else is there?"
Twirling a helical hand like a hyperactive ballet dancer, she felt at peace for a moment
as she considered the symbolic gesture which nature was busy awarding her. The
gesture that out there it was cold, wet and tempestuous whereas 'in here' it was warm,
dry and as calm as the rocky edge of an ocean cove thumped incessantly by the raging
waves and yet refusing to buckle or give way to nature's fiery rage like a prophet
tainted by a tidal wave of heretical disagreement which could never cripple his faith.
She stretched her arm further and rested her head like a homeless child with
neither bed nor blanket to call her own, or like a tired mammal resting at an opportune
moment while the predators milled around outside its underground home; physically at
ease save its miniature heart pounding unabatedly at the grim prospect of being made a
bigger animal's ungracious snack. "I'm too skeptical for my own good; its not that bad
really. You can't apportion blame and say 'what if' all the time. We all have our burdens
and if I'm honest I'll admit mine aren’t that hard to bear. OK so my head's not what it
should be and it might well trudge along like a flea bitten mule, and it might well make
me hurt sometimes, but at least I'm not struck with a debilitating paralysis or such a
mental mess that I can't even live out the mundane normalities of life. But it does hurt
sometimes; not with prick your finger pain or break your leg pain, but real, bone deep,
rasping, jeering pain that feels like someone's pumped your veins full of a plutonic
poison that pulses through your bloodstream and swells your skin like a blocked
hosepipe just waiting to blow. It feels as if you're stuck in a brittle body that feels like it
has a steel covering pressed into the skin; like you're wearing a spiked suit of armor
inside out that stops you even moving; with layers of pins digging into your flesh like
you're on a bed of nails. But people have it worse. Alright, so as I said; those cognitive
mechanisms stutter along like three wheeled farmtrucks, but most of the time its fast
enough and maneuverable enough to appreciate the glory of this universe. The
hugeness of the place; the insignificance of our little community; our little human race;
our little human world. What specks on the huge scale train set of the divine we are;
microscopic bugs in an infinite jungle. And how arrogant we are to believe we can
comprehend this limitless cosmos; that we can control it. Typical then, that the only
way to understand the sublime artistry of this complicated existence is to toe punt the
complacency out of our promiscuous psychology and everything will suddenly fall into
place; to just let it all go. People make it difficult; maths, language; tradition; they
confuse the issue. Pure knowledge is the only knowledge, and all we need do is sit back
and watch and listen and we'll soon find we knew less about the human condition than
we first thought; which maybe is the first step on the path to wisdom."
The fact that the day passed without incident probably indicated a direct
intervention from the almighty; a time for spiritual reflection rather than filthy brawls.
In better days Lincoln would have spent Christmas with her family around a tree
awaiting the unlikely appearance of Saint Nick her dad may well have falsified with a
badly fitting red suit, a cotton wool beard and a sneak bite of the reindeer's carrot
which now older she would have kicked herself for falling for like a self despising
donkey. Then again, in worse days she would have spent it in a padded cell which at
the very least persuaded her that every Christmas was white; which surely negated the
purpose of Sinatra's warbling wish. But Christmas wasn't about fooling people; it was
about truth; spiritual truth. Iron, too; was content now to be able to discuss those
truths; to deliberate a bit. To at least; if it was possible; share his loneliness. "It's not
possible." Lincoln answered a question which he had thought, not spoken; which was
admittedly pretty spooky; but he decided to test her telekinetic abilities as he trampled
through an iridescent cover of snow which refused to settle as it sparkled in the light of
countless strobes of neon light; "what's not possible?"
"To share loneliness." Iron silently cursed his own complacency and allowed the
apparent psychic to continue; "You can't have both; logically at least." Since logic did
tend to fall flat on its face on occasion, she realized this was no more than a theoretical
proclamation.
Her ears pricked up as she heard the faint, muffled wail of a young girl some
few yards away amongst the densely packed tenement blocks which may as well have
been Tokyo capsule hotels for all the living space they offered. "You hear that?"
"Probably a kid whose dad bought the wrong present; you know; cat or dog; it's hardly
possible to mix them up but parents always find a way, and you know a dog's not just
for..." A brisk elbow stopped him dead and brought them back to the sound of silence,
"That's not 'daddy I want a kitten' crying Mart." Iron let the psychic do the psychology;
"So what is it?"
"That's more like 'someone left me to live my life on particularly nasty streets' crying or,
well; 'somebody just murdered my family' crying." That last guess was a little too close
to personal experience for comfort. She brushed her smog infested hair out of her eyes
as if it was a tangly vine in an overgrown corner of the Amazon and mimicked both the
unnaturally keen observation of a cat and the deadly funeral march of a stalking spider
as she altered the direction of her hearing to the site of the alleged but hopefully
incorrectly diagnosed double homicide.
She halted at a sharp corner; Iron tagging along; the dim glimmer of an
unidentified houselamp chiseling a coincidental clearing of illumination into the raucous
random scatter of heckling housing blocks from which the shrill sobs seemed to
emanate. Sometimes the world felt like a deep, dark cellar to a young and infirm child
having just heard the most credible of grisly ghost stories on a heinous Halloween.
"You sure that's crying and not a homeless creature licking its wounds?" This time Iron
kept his comments to a whisper on the off chance that she was right. "This way." And
anyway, he would have followed a coffin into a cremation pire if its lead was
persuasively commited enough. He was well aware though, that the journey of life was
one you had to take yourself. It's your free choice where you go; what you do, but
none of it is really of enormous significance. What really matters is that you are
traveling. A journey is to do with learning; growing spiritually. Eventually you realize
the point that where you are is the destination, and that that had been the case all along.
Enlightenment; discovery; manifests itself in the here and now.
Meanwhile, Lincoln had found the culprit; or more accurately the victim. Sat
between a costating cohort of tittering trashcans which spewed garbage all over each
other like drunken down and outs, a cherubic girl no more than ten or eleven years old
sobbed head down like an outback bushwalker stranded in the middle of nowhere with
a dried up water bottle and a deadly widow bite with no way of contacting the much
needed ambulance; as if one could get to her uncharted location even if she could.
Lincoln immediately sat down by her on the steps of a boarded building and put
an arm around her like a spiritual mentor to a student having doubts about her religious
convictions. "You OK?" That didn't really need to be answered; a muggy combination
of trickling tears and a gushing cut in the top of her head dying the girl's long blonde
hair a putrid brown and her off white bridesmaid like dress a nasty bronze red. Iron did
his bit displaying the extent of his medical expertise as he handed her an appropriately
sleet white cloth for her head from a pocket which prompted Lincoln to inquire with an
accusing glare why he just so happened to be carrying the thing around. "I got a little
nick yesterday." Undoubtedly he was referring to being sliced across the midriff with a
stealthy slash of a surmising sword; an injury he had concealed from Lincoln both to
save her from worry and to underline his own masculine image which he really needn't
have bothered doing since even he recognized that she saw right through it. "I was
running from the soldiers; the medics." Volunteering an explanation of her own plight
was probably a positive sign. "Medics, huh?" Even language had been twisted by this
suzerainious society. Volscenzi had had a master plan to fit any school age children
with tracker devices which would ensure a decline in public deviance; kind of like the
King Herod of a more civilized era. Kids were generally rounded up straight away, but
some slipped through the net if their guardians were of an anti social disposition.
Babies had been fitted with the things at birth for a good year now, but paranoia would
most likely soon have them sneaking the damned devices into the mother's womb just
in case revolutionary ideas hatched mid gestation. The only positive came with the
realization that it appeared the government was as incompetent when it came to this
program as it was with maintaining what queasily over hopeful might elaborately label
law and order. "So where did you get that cut..."
"Alice. They sent people after me; I ran and hit my head."
"Better a hole in the head than a microchip." Iron's comment was perhaps not so
brightly conceived given the bawling youngster's mental state, but fortunately it turned
her to laughter rather than further tears, which made her look an even harsher
contradiction than before in contrasting colors to the dark, dilapidated environment.
Lincoln shook her head; whatever Iron's psychological condition, it was obviously
catching. "If they haven’t caught me it must mean they don't know where I am;" Alice
had an unlikely knack of looking on the bright side of things; "If they don't know where
I am they can't have fitted the bug, right?"
"Right..." Lincoln looked at her foot and switched it from side to side testing out
possible striking positions as she imagined that perhaps the reassurance Alice needed
had been in the talking to other people rather than the verbal moral support.
Condolence had clearly gone out of the window along with capitalism. Alice's tears
were receding as if a piece of film of a typhoon played in rewind. "Well; I'm Sarah; this
is Mart, and we aren’t medics, or troops or anything else like that; we're kind of in the
same boat as you." Alice's parents had always taught her not to talk to strangers, but
generally she discovered there was very seldom anyone else. Speaking of whom...
"Have you got a family; somewhere to go to?"
"Mom and dad are helping the priest with his hospital."
"Rinpoche Chen, right?" Alice nodded slowly; another victim, it seemed; of an assumed
ESP Lincoln would have ensured her she didn't possess. Maybe she just didn't have the
ability to use it consciously. "We're friends of Chen; he had to close down his old
hospice because of government intervention."
Alice was looking almost as bright as her cloudy getup by now, as this almost
qualified these strangers as... well; familiars. "Mom and dad said we had to hide when a
patrol came around, and we got separated. That was yesterday. I got lost and the
medics were after me; wanted to take me to plant one of those bugs, or whatever they
do. Mom and dad never put me up for the inoculation; they don't trust the
government." Inoculations were a good excuse to cover more ghastly medical
experiments; scare people into thinking that if they didn't check their kids into the
nearest clinic they'd have more chance of dying on the streets when in actual fact the
monitoring devices were far more detrimental to their health than any diseases which
may or may not have been doing the rounds. "Well, I guess we'd better take you back
to Chen's, huh?" Iron helped the now jovial juvernile to her feet; never really knowing
how to treat kids mainly because he had both suppressed much of his past and because
at heart he was still one himself. Lincoln shuddered at the thought of what the next
governmental geinea pig scheme might be, then concluded that it didn't bare thinking
about. "Good thing we turned up when we did; you never know what lunatics are out
there."
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