200 Litres

[Subtitle: Stay away from the solvent storeroom!]

[Also, the following account is COMPLETELY TRUE]

The methanol is staring at me: 200 litres of flammable liquid, encased in a steel drum. Through the uncapped opening I can see an eye; it’s eye. Floating in the metallic black liquid it seems to coalesce, then disperse, coalesce, then disperse. I can’t quite keep my focus on it. The light in the solvent storeroom is dim, and the room is full of shadows. An emergency siren sits on a near bye shelf, just out of reach. I am wedged into a crowded corner, surrounded by other drums of methanol; but they are capped and inert, I don’t need to open them.

Any moment my rational brain will calm me with it’s rational thoughts: the eye is only your reflection, when you blink, it blinks; see. The methanol is not sentient. It doesn’t think. Or know. Or want. Or manipulate.

Inside the drum, billions of molecules are vibrating. They are made from life-creating atoms - carbon, oxygen and hydrogen - but they cannot create life on their own.

But what if another atom had gotten inside? A radical. A wanderer. A nomadic particle travelling freely through the unexamined ether. An element maintaining its atomic integrity, despite massive dimensional distortions. Could it be a unique isomer of nitrogen? Maybe it became trapped between interstices, nestled into a polar channel, and forced to bond. What if a new amino acid has been created? A strange amine formed from mutated wood alcohol and incubated in a cavernous, metallic womb.

I know it’s there; I can’t deny it now. It glides easily through the cold fluid, finding gaps and dislocations, increasing the vibrational energy of the surrounding molecules.

And I can hear it. It calls to me. The liquid warble seeps into air and creeps closer, reaching into my ear. It weaves insidiously through my auditory canal, brushing against the fine hairs lining the inner membrane, giving them a gentle motion, a slow beat. The movement of the hair generates a beat of electrical impulses. From the structured calm of my inner ear, they move into the spongy chaos of my cerebral cortex. I am confused.

My confusion generates a clarity: The methanol is sentient. And it does want. It wants…it wants me to…no! (Matches). I turn my head away, but I can still hear it’s insistent voice. I need to move, to run. I try to shift my body but my hips won’t move, they’re jammed against the solid, metal drums. The drums are blocking me, holding me tight. I need help. I stretch out my arm; I can almost reach…the emergency…siren…no. I will have to scream…

But I don’t scream. I feel calm. (Flame). I can still hear the voice, the voice of the methanol. It is soft and fluid. My brain is soft and fluid. (Heat). My skin is buzzing. My epidermis is moving, undulating; a gentle motion, a slow beat. My bones have become soft; I am fluid.

Wednesdayfulgent13

I have ABSOLUTELY nothing to say (or, indeed, to blog). However, I don't want to leave the previous, 'black hole of doom' blog post sitting at the top of my blog. I am fearful, as any rational person would be, that due to the dark puddle of melancholy emitted by Hollow Distortion, depressive karma may be attracted to this site. Obviously, by moving this blog post away from the powerful "top" position, its negative karmic influence is greatly reduced. And, because of the gravity of the situation, I am willing to post this blog entry on a Wednesday, despite my commitment to cutting back on Wednesday blogging.

Hollow Distortion

I've been waving my arms around, lighting fires, and sending up flares, but I'm not on his radar. I haven't been on "his" radar for more than a decade. My true love remains elusive.

I am weary from this endeavour. This endeavour seems to have a grudge against me. I've tried different paths, time after time and full of hope, but these paths always end. Something always barricades the way - thick scrub and fallen branches, mostly, occasionally snakes. Hope hasn't ended, though, not quite. But it also grows weary.

Each year without a companion is getting harder. The clichés amass; empty spaces, absent embraces, soundless conversation, untouched flesh. The aching loneliness is paralysing and inescapable. I feel as though I am being slowly dissolved by a caustic substance, one which I can neither neutralize nor remove. I'm beginning to die.

I've sometimes thought, if I had magic powers, would I use them to influence a situation. And I've always thought 'no' - don't mess with nature. But, as the years grow longer, I'm edging closer and closer to 'yes' - let nature be damned.

I know that finding a partner is not a panacea. All my sufferings will not miraculously disappear with a kiss. There are other things complicit in creating the caustic substance, including ex-partners. I don't know if existence without caustic substance is possible. My belief (hope) is that there are ways of containing, even diminishing, the substance, and lessening its damage, and that one of these ways is companionship.

Younger Love

Attractions of a younger partner:

• Less lines and blemishes, both externally and internally
• a conduit for a younger you
• heightened adoration
• power differential
• reduced complications
• easier to hide flaws

Things I've Observed Whilst Engaging in Casual Sex

• pretend intimacy
• a fine line between caressing and groping
• amplified grunts
• silence
• short term memory

(Actually, upon reflection, this list wouldn't be out of place in Things I've Observed Whilst Engaging in Sex With Partners.)

This is What I Wrote:

...I will keep your phone number. I don't want to make any promises about keeping in touch, so I'll just leave it at maybe. The last few years I've often felt like I'm just coping, so I don't know to what extent I can take on someone else's burden. I hope good karma comes your way. Nicole

Embraced by Heartbreak and (Some) Joy

I make my way through the clamouring night. My eyes are misshapen and they hurt when I try to focus. I enter the building and find that I am safe. There is no need for vigilance, I am not under attack.

He is here. He is my crush, but only from a distance. She is here, too. She walks to him and fills his vision. He caresses her hip and kisses her mouth. I remain remarkably calm while my heart breaks.

They laugh and banter, and see only each other. I walk past them. I am mist. Outside affords me some space, and the cool night is gentle. I decide not to leave.

I pass them again on my way to my seat. They are as I left them.

She is in her twenties. He and I are in our forties. I don't like this maths. I'm reasonably sure they've not been a couple for very long. If I could steal him away from her, I would. I have no ethical quandary here.

He is alone. I walk to him and fill his vision. His face exudes a multitude of expressions, mostly confusion. He doesn't seem to want to run away, though, like my crushes usually do (!) - maybe I'm getting less freaky with age. I don't want this moment to end, it may never happen again. But I don't want my presence to become oppressive, and I want to be gone before she returns. So we talk only briefly, then I leave.

I make my way home, through the open night. My vision is clear and my eyes are alive. Pieces of me, seemingly irreversibly melted, are reforming and rejoining. My structure is becoming less amorphous. There is some joy to be had from this.