Song to the Siren: (Can we stay a while and listen for heaven?)
Summary:
Following the murder of his brother, Maxwell sinks into the night. Before he drowns, Edamai pulls him to shore.
[A prototype chapter for World Citizen]
Last night, I dreamt the three of us were together.
We were standing on the very top of the Ziggurat of Arkadia. Hah… I remember the first time we climbed up that impossible wonder. I was so scared that of falling out of the sky, I could scarcely move. We were all scared weren't we? That's why we were holding each other's hands so tightly.
Even you Kane. And you Roark. My brave brothers.
Edamai told me that there is life after death. There is an energy within all things that transcends the body: a soul. The soul cannot be created nor destroyed, only transformed from one life to the next. At first, I thought that meant you and every brother that has fallen became the fungi steak I had the night before.
He laughed.
The soul doesn't work that way, he said, it flies far for a new existence. I was relieved but strangely disappointed. I think I would rather have you all be a part of me. That way, nothing can never tear us apart again.
The Promise. Artist: Katerina Abels. Oil on canvas. A caterpillar, a snake and a honeybee emerge from the savage garden.
You're both somewhere out there — as a flower, an insect or an ophidian. An existence more simpler and beautiful than this. It's a comforting thought, isn't it? And yet… If that was really the case, why haven't you come back to me? Perhaps we've met again without my realising. Unless— no. Is it that you've forgotten the life we shared together?
"Memories are transformed."
I don't want to believe that. What's the point in living again if you lose your past? That's no different to death. No. I believe in a soul that never forgets.
I remember your words, Kane. "Religion is fabrication." If that's so, then you and Roark are with me. This, I believe. You are there in my reflections and in the words I speak. Your soul is here. Religion cannot alter the past, but if I keep remembering then none of you will truly die. Life after death shall be one where you will never have to experience the pain of death.
Do you hear me, brothers? Please answer me…
"Max…"
I turn away from my mirror. Edamai walks into my room, his body still coccooned within his biogear. It's odd seeing him so uncomfortably trapped inside. Despite his smiles, I can see the sweat on his brow. The awkwardness of his movements. How much the steam on his viewing screen frustrates him.
"Are you alright?" I say before he can.
"Fine. I wanted to ask you that, actually."
I can't speak to him like this. He's been suffocating in there for 83.3 hours. He's not like me, so used to the safety of the coccoon — I can scarcely tolerate wearing it these days. But a free soul like him will suffocate.
"What are you doing?"
"Let me get this stupid suit off of you."
"Stop, you'll get yourself into trouble—!"
The velcro tears off with a sharp crack. My fingers quickly find each zip, unravelling every layer.
"S level is where they isolate the sick. You don't pose a contamination risk to the colony here."
"What about yourself?"
I'm not well. It mattered little what happened to me. But I spared him from my own self-inflicted cruelty; he didn't need to hear any of it.
Just as I reached the final layer, he clasped my wrist still. Through those cold, plastic gloves, I felt his warmth.
"I don't want to make you ill."
What did it matter if he did? It's not like we never did it before. Perhaps this time, I can verify the truth of my new religion.
"What if I wanted you to?"
"Stop."
His voice was husky with the smoke of war. His eyes trace my hands, my shoulders, my face. He sees the symptoms and with one look, concludes: death has infected my soul.
I can't hide it from him. Not when he looks at me like that. Examining. He was a doctor once, the battlefield his hospital. Still is. That's his gift.
Even if it fills him with despair.
I see it in his far-away eyes — usually they are in that paralysing space between memory and dream, but now they are here. I am here, in the veil between earth and sky, where the storm or the savage garden cannot penetrate. Here — I am home in dark spheres where his being wraps around mine.
I retract my hand from his suit. He takes it. Calloused fingers knot through the spaces between mine, then leads me to bed. We sit, hand in hand in dimmed blue lights. Time stretches on as he watches me.
I see my brothers staring back from his sanctuary. It always hurts when they look at me like that. I let my head fall upon Edamai's shoulder. It feels wrong. It should be the other way around.
"Is it heavy?"
"Is what heavy?" he whispers.
"My head."
That laugh of his, so soft. He nods.
"I'm sorry…"
"Why? Someone needs to give your shoulders a break. Let me carry that mind of yours for once."
I smile at that.
He lays me down, in turn, I wrap around him. We stare into each other's eyes, painting a waking dream.
In that dream, the ceiling parts. Doubtless blinking stars tell us how to reach the heavens. The secret lies in the ocean. In sinking backwards. Edamai tells me the stars are liars. If they really knew everything, then they wouldn't need to ask us how to touch the ground.
"Edamai."
"Yes, Max?"
"Don't die."
I forbid it; my only prohibition.
He pauses for several heartbeats, then with his hand, draws an imaginary cross over his chest.
"For you, never. You must promise the same for me."
My finger draws a brand over mine. Into his soul, I whisper:
Yet another new study debunked the basis for the anti-trans sports bans. It was never about sports but for creating legal avenues for exclusion and abjection. This is one of the largest analyses ever conducted, involving 52 studies and 6,485 trans people. Read the study here.
I can't access the full paper, but their conclusion is right there in the abstract:
While transgender women exhibited higher lean mass than cisgender women, their physical fitness was comparable. Current evidence is mostly low certainty and has heterogenous quality but does not support theories of inherent athletic advantages for transgender women over cisgender.
if you are a parent, or may become one, or you are otherwise likely to arrive in the situation of caring for a child while they eat, promise me this: if a child doesn't like a certain food or food group, you will ask them WHY. and specifically, you will pay attention to either confirming or ruling out "it makes my mouth itch" or "it makes my stomach hurt," both of which are medically important info that children may not provide unprompted. which i know because this PSA has been brought to you by "i spent my entire childhood and much of my early teens eating peas and lentils while wondering why everyone else liked the Violently Itchy Mouth Sensation so much, like were they a bunch of legume masochists or something, before i finally realized that Violently Itchy Mouth Sensation was in fact a sinister demon appearing only to me, and her true demonic name was: Legume Allergy"
I usually try to review cheeses virginally - that is, ones that I’ve never had before. In this case, this is a cheddar I’ve had many times before. But I couldn’t leave it off the blog, what with its obvious appeal to leather and rubber fetishists.
As far as cheddars go, Grafton’s 2-year aged isn’t going to shock you. It’s mild, light on the salt, with a slightly sweet and grassy flavour. It’s got a nice texture. It’s dense, more moist than I expected, and smooth.
So what is the deal with the gummi suit on this cheese anyway? Well, cheese has obviously been around a lot longer than fridges. Fresh cheeses like mozzarella are too moist to last very long outside of a cold place (bacteria and fungi do so love damp places), though I don’t think anyone was too mad about eating that stuff quickly. But cheeses that have been aged (and dried) more have some more preservation options, which is where cheese wax comes in. The wax is a physical barrier, stopping fungal spores from landing, and also blocks moisture and air, making the cheese a pretty unfriendly place to grow. Even drier cheeses can be bandaged in cheesecloth and then slathered in lard to preserve them while allowing some ventilation.
I gotta admit: hot wax isn’t really my thing. But cheesecloth bondage and grease… it has potential.
[ID: A digital drawing of two Igorot girls in traditional wear, one Ibaloi and one Kalinga, holding hands. The Ibaloi girl has long hair and is lighter-skinned, while the Kalinga girl has her hair in a bun and is darker-skinned. The lesbian flag is depicted as clouds behind them. End ID.]
