A Memory Made Flesh

(music: trois couleurs, blanc)

 They came two months ago, dragged me out of a filthy pool in a field as I watched the swallows zooming, circling over my head as my brains oozed out into the filthy clods of grass under my left ear. The earwigs and beetles crawling all over my open eyes.

They had a film crew with them right out of a science fiction series on what used to be called television. The members of this film crew were living cameras with brain storage areas and transmission prosthetics jutting out all over their bodies, a sailing ship of gadgetry. I can hear their hard boots now clomping up the concrete stairwell to my clean bright room stripped of all superfluous decoration by the need to give fear, to make uneasy my already jangling nerves. The flutes are rising in song as the day dawns on yet more senseless questions.

They had a time traveller with them looked like Merlin from all the flittering memories of my lost childhood. He was tall and thin but you could say he had wiry strength. He had on a skullcap of gleaming chrome that picked up radio signals from my brain such that I could never lie to him on camera. I do not understand why these supreme beings, who can know, by their super-temporal abilities, all that came before and after any chosen event, could be bothered to partake of the now, the present, so dependant were they on the future and the past in a way I could only envy. The interrogation didn’t go as I had feared; no tools of the trade, no drills or short pieces of bamboo and finger hammers.

He had no forename, no surname, no name in between, the traveller in time, but his nursey little helpers had the fear whenever he was in the room. You could see these once proud, erect, nubile angels of the night shrivel to shrapnel ripped renditions of the star spangled banner. Their ruler was in the house, master of his own and their time.

They must be slaves of his somehow, these super strong ladies, these helpers. He made me feel comfortable for the first time; the only time I remember feeling this good about myself, about my lack of a past about my unseeable future. I never heard a familiar voice from day to day. How he did it I may never know. But there is one thing I do know….



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