LIVE – R017

“Start by doing what is necessary, then what is possible, and suddenly you are doing the impossible.”

Francesco di Bernardone, 1181–1226

Erik Parsons could not sleep. The Palace Of Light: their Cliff-Home at the termination of Parrot Cove Drive was silent and at peace, why not he? Born in Nineteen-O-Five — 1905 —this cannot be! Am I mad? Have I passed away unknowingly — from the world — too stubborn to relinquish temporal life, here at the wonderful Atlantic Sea? This home! The ocean, the fat white gulls, sweet Angela… All are still! Why can I not rest?

Thus far, he had remained alive and cognitive for four reasons: Angela Weiss, his beloved daughter; Genes, Good Fortune, and a Higher Power. Those factors, alphabetically organized spinning counter-clockwise softly smoothly perpetually in his mind. An eternal circle of mystery. He thought of that Ferris Wheel at the Skyhaven World’s Fair, way back. The mechanical malfunction… Ten years old, all he was… Now today, 2012, still here, primarily grateful… But… dawn was closing in with its vengeance.

Cognitive dissonance, it was called… He parsed the psychotherapy literature, both mainstream and scientific. Bipolar Disorder. Schizophrenia. Dissociative Identity… I’ll have one of each, thank you! The Devil? No, perhaps tomorrow, my plate is full right now… 

Angela Weiss did not wish to disturb Father. He, an eclectic student: which she considered mostly beneficial, occasionally horrible. One thing for sure, it hadn’t killed him! But, the first signs that he would not last forever had manifested. Father was uncannily alive unlike any person she had ever known. Except herself. Except Vitor Weiss, resting one floor beneath her: the Guest-Floor; that’s what Father called Floor 2.

Father could, she knew, at top floor, Floor 4; detect that fresh Corvette Grand Sport Obsidian Black, gleaming at ground level dreaming. Father had the keenest olfactory senses she had ever known. In the early dawn, he’d be first to herald the construction contractors with their coffee; bold black turbo boost, and crisp bakery sandwiches. Basic chocolate glazed sweet donuts for sleek men of effortless grace and shining artistry, as they came to Parrot Cove Road, 1/2 mile west and 250 feet below.

Father had always been severely myopic — nearsighted — for as long as she knew him, all her life. Perhaps that’s why he could smell in colors — synesthesia, it was called — to compensate for the bad vision. However, now a Centenarian, his hearing was diminishing, becoming raggedy and dull… The vowels, OK. The consonants, progressively clipped. And… was he becoming shorter? Shrinking?

Vitor Weiss was glad to be home with lovely Angela, smelling of delicate yellow flowers on the edge of the cliffs above the Atlantic Sea. Her scent was of the Ocean too, animal vegetable mineral — except even richer — it was those yellow flowers, hyacinth flowers, she told Vitor.

Posthuman, that’s what you are Vitor. Newer than the Corvette Car! Why? How? Why, for more intellectual power, bandwidth. We hope! How, that remains foggy to Father and I. But: rest assured you are wanted and needed on this Earth. To help solve the Earth’s complicated sadness. You are smart.

Vitor was a walking hard-drive, albeit synthetic, organic. He memorized Angela’s words of shaky optimism and peculiar doubt. He knew ABCs. And, the colors of an electromagnetic world — from infrared to ultraviolet. More, beyond the atoms and sub-atoms. Past levels of fermions and bosons. Did he know enough? Vitor shivered.

He remained shaken from the Visions he and Aleister Parker had witnessed. Places haunted and weeping, the Shoal Isles; and… further beyond the horizon, where men delivered unwitting evil, hurrying, rushing out a devil-beast-chopping-machine. Copter, Aleister Parker said it was called. Helicopter. There, at the region of mountains tall, lovely; those men of black steel hearts destroyed that frozen village of bearded men. Pakistan men.

Dear Angela, does this happen often? Angela? Is past the Atlantic edge the same Earth-World as here, your lovely home of joy and tranquility? Angela?

Vitor. Yes.

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About Richard E & Mary L Marion

Independent Writers
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