“As I descended into impassable rivers I no longer felt guided by the ferrymen.” Arthur Rimbaud, 1854 – 1891.
Aleister Parker gazed past the double-glazed windows pale green-blue past the Atlantic Sea bisecting sky dotted with fat round clouds and patient gulls cruising for breakfast. Spreading shaving cream, white and fragrant, humming absent-mindedly.
His thoughts veered beyond planetary, to the realm of recall and madness. Emily Parker, his wife. Deceased, gone. A year ago now. Highway encounter with a marble stone slab truck in that night of thick dark rain. He, Aleister, may be standing on that very stone flooring, soft and cool. If so, was her soul trapped in stone, here at Floor-Two of the Weiss Cliff-Home?
Preoccupied… Emily… The fresh plastic disposable shaver grabbed an intersection of facial angles, cutting. Damn, a good one… Peripheral motion reflected in the mirror glass. Eyes watching. Emily?
Irises pale lilac. Memories of hyacinth days. Honeybees, russian gold and furry black. A butterfly, Papilio Ulysses, displaying alternating colors of soft nights and fair blue skies. Emily!
Pupils endless ebony deep reaching. That angel aura which was felt rather than actually seen with mortal eyes. Emily?
She’s here. Reincarnated! She said she’d be back. Proof! Emily?
His face was bleeding. Rapid hands passed him a clean maroon face towel. Don’t worry it will wash out! Feminine laughter like crystal bells. Reminding him of the Tree-Spirits welcoming at the beginning of Parrot Cove Road as Vitor Weiss and he charged up the path in the ‘Vette to the very peak of the tall cliff last night.
Prior to his eyelids slamming down. Dreaming of breakfast. Desiring another day of circus-time with that gleeful madman Vitor.
It’s a just facial wound, silly! A single fluid sweep at light-speed and the V-neck T-shirt pinked with evidence of bad shaving style was removed magically. Ivory doll-hands rebounded with a fresh Fruit-Of-The-Loom peeled off the open 5-Pack of Tees. Good thing she had bought FIVE! Clumsy Aleister!
Aleister gasped, Angela…. Angela? Yes dumb boy, The cook, you know. The bacon cook. Gleaming idiot, that’s who you interrupted! Father probably already snarfed all the bacon. Erik Parsons Shark-Man ate it up!
Angela, not Emily, smiled elegantly with tiny pearl teeth at young Parker.
Informed him he should be more careful when food is in the works and Father is charging the kitchen. Now! March, dumb boy.
Monkey-Mind-Machine bided its time resting on Aleister’s nightstand in his Floor-Two Suite. Vitor Weiss had taken the cue from another Weiss, Ehrich Weisz; Vitor vanished once he was sure young Aleister Parker was not seeking shaving suicide.
The Ehrich Weisz began as a child trapeze artist turned circus wild man turned card magician. After that, he became Harry Houdini — master illusionist and international celebrity.
Vitor Weiss believed some folks were very different, like himself. Harry Houdini. Not Man, nor Cyborg, something… Angela Weiss said Vitor was Synthetic. Posthuman. Was Houdini Synthetic? Posthuman?
There had been other suspects. Buddha, Jesus, Mohammed, what were they? Vitor would find out. It felt good to be on a quest.
Monkey-Mind-Machine originated from Erik Parsons and his daughter Angela Weiss. That, Vitor knew for sure. At first he assumed it belonged to him, only. An aid for focus and clarity. Then, he handed it to Aleister Parker weeping in the Corvette Automobile. Aleister the pretend highwayman. Aleister cry-baby scaredy-cat. An unintended consequence…
It revealed visions of dying men in frozen lands across the sea.