over years from that
of lover to that of snake, its embrace crushing as it hardened,
stealing all life but for that upon which it needed to feed
before crawling away.
"Her own world," our host corrected. "If you do return,
be mindful," he added. "Whoever passes, changes."
We followed him through a passage lined with old gray engravings of Manhattan scenes, etched as if with needles of
smoke, capturing glimpses of our own lost world. Even at
their moment of existence those places and people were
made of stuff less lasting than what had seized their shadows;
concepts of the other world never seemed less empirical, nor
more evanescent, than the irreality of our own.
Luther slid open a door at the hall's end. Beyond was a
darkened room, full of light. Twenty wall-installed monitors
girdled his wife, each set to different channels. Each set's
volume was audible enough that thirty babblebits of language might be misunderstood simultaneously. Luther's
wife sat statue-still in a chair, facing most of the screens, her
eyes so unblinking as theirs. Multitone spectra rainbowed
her black face.
"Wanda, honey," Luther said, kneeling beside her. "You
hungry?" She muted, too enraptured by her visions to heed
the world beyond her illusionary ring. "Wanda," he repeated. "Chowtime, honey. Open wide."
He lifted a strip of potato impaled on the tines of a fork
to her mouth, prodding her lips apart; she made mouthmotions as if, drowning, she wished to suck in more water.
Luther's wife never took her look from the sets as she admitted the fork; when he extracted his instrument, she chewed
what he'd given her with care, as if she were conscious
enough to want to avoid biting her tongue, or lip, or the
inside of her cheek.
"That good?"
She nodded. Momentslong he knelt there, free of word; it
evidenced that his attentions redirected themselves solely to
his wife, when they were bound in one room. He smiled,
regarding her with television eyes, skycolored and endowed
with induced life. I fancied that after endless exposure to
unspeakable broadcasts, he'd settled upon this single channel, one showing all he could still bear to see.
"I'm so sorry," I said.
"Why?" Luther asked, plainfacing puzzlement over my offering; his voice's tones placing inexpressibly distant as
they landed in my ears. "She's happier." His wife laughed;
she'd seen something funny on one of the screens. "Don't
bring souvenirs, if you return," he said, losing his smile.
"Nostalgia's worse than any drug."
"You anticipate with pleasure a trip unassuring guaranteed
return?"
"Not unassuring hope," I replied. A crack, ceilingways,
appeared to my upturned eyes as a hair in milk. A chlorine
scent permeated the room, as if it had contained a pool
recently drained.
"Because return isn't guaranteed?"
"Nada," I said, correcting; regathered my thoughts and
expressed something I believed I knew, at least until the
moment I expressed the belief. "I've no wish to suicide."
"Your negatives are most positive."
"My husband so wishes."
"You think he wishes to die?"
"An unwavered yes." Unwavered; still, I could answer true
for only one of us. Vizzing downward, I regarded the space
between my feet. The clock's readout awared me that this
final session was but half-done. Drafts rustled the wall-cloaking drapes that muffled all outroomed sounds.
"Why suspect your husband of thanautopian desires?"
"His actions evidence plain, as recounted timeover. Expressed thoughts and deeds demonstrate as well. His words
and facial affect hold a matching slackness evident to all."
"As you interpret."
"As they reveal," I said. A poster of a Magritte work affixed to the curtains on my right reproduced the artist's
green apple filling a tiny room. The wording announced a
retrospective at the Postmodern, two years earlier. I'd not
attended; surrealists' work was too mindfully suffused with
tradition to suit my preferences. There were throughout
Dryco's
of lover to that of snake, its embrace crushing as it hardened,
stealing all life but for that upon which it needed to feed
before crawling away.
"Her own world," our host corrected. "If you do return,
be mindful," he added. "Whoever passes, changes."
We followed him through a passage lined with old gray engravings of Manhattan scenes, etched as if with needles of
smoke, capturing glimpses of our own lost world. Even at
their moment of existence those places and people were
made of stuff less lasting than what had seized their shadows;
concepts of the other world never seemed less empirical, nor
more evanescent, than the irreality of our own.
Luther slid open a door at the hall's end. Beyond was a
darkened room, full of light. Twenty wall-installed monitors
girdled his wife, each set to different channels. Each set's
volume was audible enough that thirty babblebits of language might be misunderstood simultaneously. Luther's
wife sat statue-still in a chair, facing most of the screens, her
eyes so unblinking as theirs. Multitone spectra rainbowed
her black face.
"Wanda, honey," Luther said, kneeling beside her. "You
hungry?" She muted, too enraptured by her visions to heed
the world beyond her illusionary ring. "Wanda," he repeated. "Chowtime, honey. Open wide."
He lifted a strip of potato impaled on the tines of a fork
to her mouth, prodding her lips apart; she made mouthmotions as if, drowning, she wished to suck in more water.
Luther's wife never took her look from the sets as she admitted the fork; when he extracted his instrument, she chewed
what he'd given her with care, as if she were conscious
enough to want to avoid biting her tongue, or lip, or the
inside of her cheek.
"That good?"
She nodded. Momentslong he knelt there, free of word; it
evidenced that his attentions redirected themselves solely to
his wife, when they were bound in one room. He smiled,
regarding her with television eyes, skycolored and endowed
with induced life. I fancied that after endless exposure to
unspeakable broadcasts, he'd settled upon this single channel, one showing all he could still bear to see.
"I'm so sorry," I said.
"Why?" Luther asked, plainfacing puzzlement over my offering; his voice's tones placing inexpressibly distant as
they landed in my ears. "She's happier." His wife laughed;
she'd seen something funny on one of the screens. "Don't
bring souvenirs, if you return," he said, losing his smile.
"Nostalgia's worse than any drug."
"You anticipate with pleasure a trip unassuring guaranteed
return?"
"Not unassuring hope," I replied. A crack, ceilingways,
appeared to my upturned eyes as a hair in milk. A chlorine
scent permeated the room, as if it had contained a pool
recently drained.
"Because return isn't guaranteed?"
"Nada," I said, correcting; regathered my thoughts and
expressed something I believed I knew, at least until the
moment I expressed the belief. "I've no wish to suicide."
"Your negatives are most positive."
"My husband so wishes."
"You think he wishes to die?"
"An unwavered yes." Unwavered; still, I could answer true
for only one of us. Vizzing downward, I regarded the space
between my feet. The clock's readout awared me that this
final session was but half-done. Drafts rustled the wall-cloaking drapes that muffled all outroomed sounds.
"Why suspect your husband of thanautopian desires?"
"His actions evidence plain, as recounted timeover. Expressed thoughts and deeds demonstrate as well. His words
and facial affect hold a matching slackness evident to all."
"As you interpret."
"As they reveal," I said. A poster of a Magritte work affixed to the curtains on my right reproduced the artist's
green apple filling a tiny room. The wording announced a
retrospective at the Postmodern, two years earlier. I'd not
attended; surrealists' work was too mindfully suffused with
tradition to suit my preferences. There were throughout
Dryco's
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