So I’m sitting in the top bunk of a nifty little bed in a hostel room, second floor, first living floor, and typing up a summary of… well. Honestly, I just wanted to write something. I’ve been missing it.
To my left, there’s a lovely view of a rooftop, and a wall. On the rooftop, there’s some kind of dark brown vent-pipe, and, if you lean, a gray lighter, a beer can, assorted seagull feathers and cigarettes and the like. The wall’s got some sort of triangle on it in black spray-paint, and if you lean far enough out, you can see a brick building, maybe four, five stories, and beyond it, sky and skyscrapers. In the hostel room itself, there’s two bunk-beds. Mine’s the top of the one on the far side of the wall, next to the window, and the other one is against the side wall, long from the door. There’s a longish mirror, and four plywood lockers, big enough for a duffle bag, which is all I really need. Oh, and a towel hook. That’s rather important.
My first roommate is an older woman named Kendra who travels the world doing… something. She doesn’t have a home, she says, and seems to enjoy it. My other roommate, who only arrived two nights ago, is a bit younger, maybe a few years older than me, named Kim, from Australia. She’s very cool, seems to spend most of her time traveling. I guess that’s what hostels are for, and when Rebecca finally goes traveling next summer (she’d better, anyway), she will enjoy the company, I think.
I was wondering if there was something wrong with me, as I did not seem to be completely overwhelmed by this city. I was expecting, what with the mountains, and the hills, and the trees, and the fountains, and the architecture (so crazy! so, so crazy!), to be just staring goggle-eyed all about, but somehow it just feels… comfortable. I like this city. I am not overwhelmed, I do not feel like a tiny, insignificant prawn lost in the shuffle of bigger, more important lives. Dwarfed by the mountains, and the trees, yes, but the streets are wide and the skies are big and there is water. I could spend some time here.
…I could spend a lot of time here.
Quite honestly, I would not mind living here for a while. And that is partly the awesome geography, and the topography, and the architecture, and… well, it’s also largely the fact that these streets I have wandered down, I have been wandering down them in very excellent company. A beautiful city is nice, but it is infinitely nicer to have someone who… well. Someone to appreciate it with?
We’ve passed the stage where we both mutter apologies when our hands brush up against each other. I’m rather glad for that. For all the mockery of Those Puritans who freak out about holding hands, it is actually rather a big step for someone who just isn’t a physical contact sort (though hugging? hugging is awesome). And last night we talked about mental illnesses, and minds, and… mine. And I kind of just talked and talked and talked, and told him all (well, summarized) the stuff in my head that I cringe from, and some of the stuff I’ve embraced, and the stuff that’s a blessing and the stuff that’s a curse and the voices of doubt and the voices of hate and the voices I love and the voices I’ve run from and all the things in my past I have bled over and bled myself over and been terrified to face for so, so long and he listened, and commented occasionally, and we walked through rapidly darkening streets and below bright lights very quickly up very steep hills and it was dark and a bit chilly and the breezes and my mind opening up to someone who I’ve known for five years and less than a week, simultaneously, and it felt…
Really, I don’t know.
Maybe that’s okay?
Showing posts with label the friends inside. Show all posts
Showing posts with label the friends inside. Show all posts
Saturday, August 7, 2010
Saturday, February 20, 2010
What Power Struggle?
really though i never really had a reason to enter the fray, things just seemed to work this way, and i am just about as unchanging as Coyote hisdamnself. man, you might bring out the wild howling, or the manic laughter, or the omnivorous glutton, or the hunted predator, you might be able to twist the image a little, but it's still the same tufted tail, the same wild eyes, the same twisted soul. unlike Coyote, i could apologize, but i don't think i will. because i wasn't made to fit a bastion of order. man was not made for the Sabbath, but vice versa. (sentences like that are part of why i love my language so much. geez, only you, English. only you.) i am crazy because that's what i am. yes, i will try to handle it, i will try to keep things a little bit safe, and i will damn well apologize with every ounce of sincerity in my heart when the fucked-up parts of me go too far and i hurt someone, but... this is what it is, man. i am what i am.
Wednesday, January 27, 2010
Coyote's Wings
Long ago, when all the spirits that we know as animal spoke, and were brothers, Coyote and Eagle were friends, and they would hunt together, Coyote running over the ground and Eagle sighting prey from far up on the winds. Now, Eagle soared over the mountains, and because he was so closed to the Sun, he could be warm even in the winter, because in those days the Sun was very close, and even slept in the mountains at night. But Eagle felt bad for his brother Coyote, who ran over the ground, even in the winter, where the Sun could not reach down through the trees, because of their thick needles and leaves – back then, even the leafy trees grew all year round.
So Eagle said to Coyote, “Brother, aren’t you cold down there, where the Sun cannot reach? You’d better come up here with me, and fly over the trees.”
But Coyote is very proud and stubborn, and he only laughed at Eagle. “I feel just fine, brother! I have thick fur and the cold does not bother me at all.”
Eagle continued to ask his brother, each time they went out hunting, if he would not feel better up on the wind, where it was warm under the Sun. And each time, Coyote would laugh and tell Eagle to focus on his own tasks, and let Coyote worry about the ground – he was not cold, under his thick fur.
One day, Eagle and Coyote were out hunting, and they came across the Heron, who was weeping in his home by the lake, which had not yet frozen over.
“Why are you weeping, Heron?” asked Eagle, as he landed on the tree above. “It is a beautiful day, and there are plenty of fish for both of us.” It was only them, for that moment, as Coyote could not run as fast as Eagle could fly, and he was still catching up.
Heron looked up at Eagle sadly, and said “Oh, Eagle, I am weeping because I cannot catch any fish with these wings!” Back then, Heron had very dark, heavy wings, which could carry him very high but looked out of place against his light body. “They are so heavy and dark that the fish always see my silhouette and scatter before I can get to them! I cannot catch fish anymore, and I am afraid that my family will starve.”
Eagle pondered this for a moment, because he was very wise, and he saw a solution. “Heron,” he said, “What if someone were to take your wings? You could catch fish as the men do, by stabbing with your beak from the shores, and the fish would not see your wings.”
“That is a great idea, Eagle!” Heron was overjoyed, and he did a dance with his wings – the dance that all herons do, now. “But who will you give them to? They are very big and dark, and very powerful.”
“I will give them to Coyote, so that he does not have to run over the cold ground when we are hunting together,” said Eagle.
Heron clapped his beak. “Eagle, are you sure that is a good idea? Coyote can be very foolish, and he might do something stupid with these wings and hurt himself, or you.” But Eagle did not believe him, and as soon as Heron had shrugged off his wings and waded away, Coyote came running up.
“Brother!” he cried, his ears perked. “Why are we all here so still, when the day is beautiful and there is hunting to be done?” He saw the wings then, floating in the water, and stopped short. “What are those there for? Aren’t those Heron’s wings?”
Eagle stretched his own wings and smiled. “Heron doesn’t want his wings anymore,” he said. “They are yours, if you want them.” For he knew that for all Coyote’s pride in his legs and his own warm fur, he was very curious.
Coyote pretended to be disinterested in the wings, but secretly, he was immediately filled with joy at the thought of flying high, and being able to soar with Eagle above the trees. He sniffed at the big, dark wings, and then said “Oh, well, I may as well take them – I wouldn’t want them to go to waste!”
As he put them on, Eagle said from his tree branch, “Just be careful, Coyote. They are very powerful wings, and dangerous if you are not careful with them.”
“I am always careful!” Coyote was never careful, but he thought he was. He immediately took off, flying in circles over the lake and laughing for joy. Eagle was pleased at his brother’s happiness, and they went back to hunting together.
But it had not been very long when Coyote began to try to do tricks, as he had seen Eagle do with his mate. He flew straight downwards, and then straight upwards, and he began to fly with his eyes closed, despite all of Eagle’s warnings. “I am Coyote!” he cried. “I will do tricks that no bird has ever done!” And he continued to fly with his eyes closed, turning around and around.
Eagle cried warnings after him, trying to slow him down, but Coyote continued to fly until he flew straight into the Sun, knocking her out of her path. The bright heat of the Sun singed the wings to the white color they are today, and Sun fled, for she was afraid of Coyote pulling her down to the Earth. As she fled, the trees turned yellow, and then red, as the heat left them, and all their leaves dropped off. Eagle came and pulled Coyote away from the Sun by his wings, almost detaching them, and carried his brother back to land in his claws.
Coyote was still unconscious when Eagle took the wings back off of him and brought them over to Heron, who was happily stabbing his meals in the lake. “Heron,” he said, “You were right. Coyote flew into the Sun with your wings, and damaged them. Do you want them back? They are not so dark anymore, and you will be able to catch fish without scaring them.
And so Heron did his dance with his wings, as all Herons do now, and Eagle went back to hunting on the wind alone, while Coyote went back to running over land. To this day they share their kills, and Coyote runs over the ground, warm in his thick fur, while Eagle soars over the wind, and Eagle does the wise thing and does not offer Coyote power anymore, and Coyote is crazy and cheers Eagle up with his tricks.
So Eagle said to Coyote, “Brother, aren’t you cold down there, where the Sun cannot reach? You’d better come up here with me, and fly over the trees.”
But Coyote is very proud and stubborn, and he only laughed at Eagle. “I feel just fine, brother! I have thick fur and the cold does not bother me at all.”
Eagle continued to ask his brother, each time they went out hunting, if he would not feel better up on the wind, where it was warm under the Sun. And each time, Coyote would laugh and tell Eagle to focus on his own tasks, and let Coyote worry about the ground – he was not cold, under his thick fur.
One day, Eagle and Coyote were out hunting, and they came across the Heron, who was weeping in his home by the lake, which had not yet frozen over.
“Why are you weeping, Heron?” asked Eagle, as he landed on the tree above. “It is a beautiful day, and there are plenty of fish for both of us.” It was only them, for that moment, as Coyote could not run as fast as Eagle could fly, and he was still catching up.
Heron looked up at Eagle sadly, and said “Oh, Eagle, I am weeping because I cannot catch any fish with these wings!” Back then, Heron had very dark, heavy wings, which could carry him very high but looked out of place against his light body. “They are so heavy and dark that the fish always see my silhouette and scatter before I can get to them! I cannot catch fish anymore, and I am afraid that my family will starve.”
Eagle pondered this for a moment, because he was very wise, and he saw a solution. “Heron,” he said, “What if someone were to take your wings? You could catch fish as the men do, by stabbing with your beak from the shores, and the fish would not see your wings.”
“That is a great idea, Eagle!” Heron was overjoyed, and he did a dance with his wings – the dance that all herons do, now. “But who will you give them to? They are very big and dark, and very powerful.”
“I will give them to Coyote, so that he does not have to run over the cold ground when we are hunting together,” said Eagle.
Heron clapped his beak. “Eagle, are you sure that is a good idea? Coyote can be very foolish, and he might do something stupid with these wings and hurt himself, or you.” But Eagle did not believe him, and as soon as Heron had shrugged off his wings and waded away, Coyote came running up.
“Brother!” he cried, his ears perked. “Why are we all here so still, when the day is beautiful and there is hunting to be done?” He saw the wings then, floating in the water, and stopped short. “What are those there for? Aren’t those Heron’s wings?”
Eagle stretched his own wings and smiled. “Heron doesn’t want his wings anymore,” he said. “They are yours, if you want them.” For he knew that for all Coyote’s pride in his legs and his own warm fur, he was very curious.
Coyote pretended to be disinterested in the wings, but secretly, he was immediately filled with joy at the thought of flying high, and being able to soar with Eagle above the trees. He sniffed at the big, dark wings, and then said “Oh, well, I may as well take them – I wouldn’t want them to go to waste!”
As he put them on, Eagle said from his tree branch, “Just be careful, Coyote. They are very powerful wings, and dangerous if you are not careful with them.”
“I am always careful!” Coyote was never careful, but he thought he was. He immediately took off, flying in circles over the lake and laughing for joy. Eagle was pleased at his brother’s happiness, and they went back to hunting together.
But it had not been very long when Coyote began to try to do tricks, as he had seen Eagle do with his mate. He flew straight downwards, and then straight upwards, and he began to fly with his eyes closed, despite all of Eagle’s warnings. “I am Coyote!” he cried. “I will do tricks that no bird has ever done!” And he continued to fly with his eyes closed, turning around and around.
Eagle cried warnings after him, trying to slow him down, but Coyote continued to fly until he flew straight into the Sun, knocking her out of her path. The bright heat of the Sun singed the wings to the white color they are today, and Sun fled, for she was afraid of Coyote pulling her down to the Earth. As she fled, the trees turned yellow, and then red, as the heat left them, and all their leaves dropped off. Eagle came and pulled Coyote away from the Sun by his wings, almost detaching them, and carried his brother back to land in his claws.
Coyote was still unconscious when Eagle took the wings back off of him and brought them over to Heron, who was happily stabbing his meals in the lake. “Heron,” he said, “You were right. Coyote flew into the Sun with your wings, and damaged them. Do you want them back? They are not so dark anymore, and you will be able to catch fish without scaring them.
And so Heron did his dance with his wings, as all Herons do now, and Eagle went back to hunting on the wind alone, while Coyote went back to running over land. To this day they share their kills, and Coyote runs over the ground, warm in his thick fur, while Eagle soars over the wind, and Eagle does the wise thing and does not offer Coyote power anymore, and Coyote is crazy and cheers Eagle up with his tricks.
Sunday, January 24, 2010
It feels too cold to walk outside right now. I don’t know why – it’s only seventeen degrees, I’ve walked in colder. Maybe I don’t want it bad enough, maybe I’ve been sitting here, inert, for too long, maybe it doesn’t matter. It’s cold, and I’m lonely, and Mohan hasn’t talked to me in ages and I haven’t talked to him, but I’ve been hearing the kittens, for whatever that’s worth. Ever heard a cat meow from a few feet behind you, looked around, and seen your own cat sleeping peacefully right under your chair? Or vice versa, sometimes. It’s a little unnerving. It helps that the kittens (I know they must be full grown by now, but I still think of them as The Kittens) have a deeper pitch, and aren’t as vibrato in voice.
Walking home from work today, I had this craving for someone I haven’t seen in a while. I wanted to talk to him, hold his hand, walk together and talk and understand him. I wanted company. Want. I want company. I want someone to hug, and I want someone to talk to and care about and kiss in the dark when we’re alone and it’s the magic of the night that lights up your soul and I want adventure and love, and love, and it… just… hurts.
Damn, I’m whiny this fine evening. That’s why I go walk, when things get lonely. I find things to focus on that aren’t life, and it’s a little easier to take. Ah, well. Took some pictures, and now I’m just going to read Sandman and fall asleep. Maybe things will be better in the morning.
Walking home from work today, I had this craving for someone I haven’t seen in a while. I wanted to talk to him, hold his hand, walk together and talk and understand him. I wanted company. Want. I want company. I want someone to hug, and I want someone to talk to and care about and kiss in the dark when we’re alone and it’s the magic of the night that lights up your soul and I want adventure and love, and love, and it… just… hurts.
Damn, I’m whiny this fine evening. That’s why I go walk, when things get lonely. I find things to focus on that aren’t life, and it’s a little easier to take. Ah, well. Took some pictures, and now I’m just going to read Sandman and fall asleep. Maybe things will be better in the morning.
Wednesday, August 26, 2009
Medication vs. LSD
You know, I managed to be without meds for four weeks, with no serious problems.
...Yeah, because the sudden recurring manic laughter is completely normal. Someone is going to notice, even if 2/3 of the people who usually pick up on that are leaving.
Actually, taking meds doesn’t make the manic laughter go away. In some cases, it gets worse.
Oh, I know. I remember things like that, too. But you have to admit that having withdrawal-like symptoms for almost half a week isn’t normal.
I don’t have to admit shit.
Your chest is contracting.
You’re unable to externalize negative emotions.
You need your fucking meds. They’re in the cabinet. Take them.
Fuck you. Id rather see the world more clearly. I’m tired of all this distortion.
Oh, for the love of… You’re not seeing things more clearly. The insanity is the distortion, not the meds! You might be more interested in the world when you’re completely fucking batshit, but that’s because it’s not the real world. Take. Your. Meds.
Acid trips make the world more distorted too.
Acid is not Risperdal.
Shut up.
Maybe I should start taking meds again. For a while, nothing seemed different, I didn’t even hit withdrawal, that I remember, at least. And the week in Maine was amazing, unlike normal problems when I don’t take meds. But all the sudden I feel my brain slipping. Dreams are vivid and a little nightmarish again, I’m wondering about things that really shouldn’t… um, things that aren’t really open to discussion, if that makes sense. The rules of physics aren’t… um. Basically, I’m laughing again, instead of whatever emotion I want to express, my chest is acting like it did when I went through withdrawal three or four times before, and the world is strange.
So yeah.
...Yeah, because the sudden recurring manic laughter is completely normal. Someone is going to notice, even if 2/3 of the people who usually pick up on that are leaving.
Actually, taking meds doesn’t make the manic laughter go away. In some cases, it gets worse.
Oh, I know. I remember things like that, too. But you have to admit that having withdrawal-like symptoms for almost half a week isn’t normal.
I don’t have to admit shit.
Your chest is contracting.
You’re unable to externalize negative emotions.
You need your fucking meds. They’re in the cabinet. Take them.
Fuck you. Id rather see the world more clearly. I’m tired of all this distortion.
Oh, for the love of… You’re not seeing things more clearly. The insanity is the distortion, not the meds! You might be more interested in the world when you’re completely fucking batshit, but that’s because it’s not the real world. Take. Your. Meds.
Acid trips make the world more distorted too.
Acid is not Risperdal.
Shut up.
Maybe I should start taking meds again. For a while, nothing seemed different, I didn’t even hit withdrawal, that I remember, at least. And the week in Maine was amazing, unlike normal problems when I don’t take meds. But all the sudden I feel my brain slipping. Dreams are vivid and a little nightmarish again, I’m wondering about things that really shouldn’t… um, things that aren’t really open to discussion, if that makes sense. The rules of physics aren’t… um. Basically, I’m laughing again, instead of whatever emotion I want to express, my chest is acting like it did when I went through withdrawal three or four times before, and the world is strange.
So yeah.
Thursday, May 28, 2009
Enough of this.
After looking through this, I decided that there was altogether too much negativity, and it's growing like a tumor through the later entries. This isn't how this blog was supposed to turn out. And, as it happens, Mohan had something to say about it. He asked me. I answered.
"I don't know what to say anymore. It's like the microphone is melting in front of my face. You don't see it, but it's there. Or it's not. I don't know."
"You're ending every sentence-- paragraph-- lately like that. 'I don't know, I don't know.' What do you know? Don't say nothing. That's bullshit. What do you know?"
"I know about rocks. No, wait, that's not me. I know about the sky. You see faces in the clouds, sometimes. Some people take things to make them see the faces clearer. I know that some people eat fungus to play up their subconscious."
"Don't fall into self-pity, now. That's not what this is about, and I've had enough of your whining about seeing things. You see me, don't you?"
"Well, I hear you."
"Exactly. Is that so bad? Am I such a terrible friend?"
"No. You're the best friend I've ever had, for all your crazy ways. We should start writing again."
"Anytime, once we get this thing sorted out. You need to finish up school, you know. I wish you didn't, but like it or not, there's things you have to learn. People... you have to deal with people, that's more what this is about. You have to do this."
"Okay. I know that. I just wish I didn't. When are you going to start sending me lines again? I want to see more than just cliffs, I miss the skies and the mountains. I escape there, sometimes."
He smiles. "I know. When this is all finished, we'll start writing again. Drake has more maps, and David has been talking about his journey, and we have to get your anatomy straightened out, too. It'll be fun, this summer. You'll see."
"I don't know what to say anymore. It's like the microphone is melting in front of my face. You don't see it, but it's there. Or it's not. I don't know."
"You're ending every sentence-- paragraph-- lately like that. 'I don't know, I don't know.' What do you know? Don't say nothing. That's bullshit. What do you know?"
"I know about rocks. No, wait, that's not me. I know about the sky. You see faces in the clouds, sometimes. Some people take things to make them see the faces clearer. I know that some people eat fungus to play up their subconscious."
"Don't fall into self-pity, now. That's not what this is about, and I've had enough of your whining about seeing things. You see me, don't you?"
"Well, I hear you."
"Exactly. Is that so bad? Am I such a terrible friend?"
"No. You're the best friend I've ever had, for all your crazy ways. We should start writing again."
"Anytime, once we get this thing sorted out. You need to finish up school, you know. I wish you didn't, but like it or not, there's things you have to learn. People... you have to deal with people, that's more what this is about. You have to do this."
"Okay. I know that. I just wish I didn't. When are you going to start sending me lines again? I want to see more than just cliffs, I miss the skies and the mountains. I escape there, sometimes."
He smiles. "I know. When this is all finished, we'll start writing again. Drake has more maps, and David has been talking about his journey, and we have to get your anatomy straightened out, too. It'll be fun, this summer. You'll see."
Sunday, January 25, 2009
An Introduction
It occurred to me today that I could use this laptop, now it’s mine, to store all the information about Mohan and his world and Drake and whatnot that I have, and record more! It will be amazing. I will start to write little excerpts from his life as they come to me, too. But in the meantime I should introduce this mysterious friend of mine, and his world.
Mohan is about nine feet tall, and covered in light brown fur, very sleek (most of the time). He has a tail, about ¾ as long as the rest of his spine, the last few inches of which widen and flatten, resembling a hand made up of palm, but a little more flexible. His spine is a little more flexible than a human’s, possibly because it’s so long, but also because that’s how his species is designed. His arms are three-segmented, or nearly so—from the shoulder, they have an upper arm/bicep segment, proportionally the size of ours, and then a forearm, a little bit longer proportionally than ours, and then their wrists are little under one foot in length, and very flexible, almost tail-like until they turn into hands. Their hands only have four fingers, two with three joints, and two with two joints like ours, but they are in pairs of both, on either side of the palm, positioned a bit like ours but opposing each other.
Their heads are slightly more elongated, their foreheads a little more sloping back, their cheekbones a little higher, and their chins a little more pointed, most of the time. Their ears hang down almost to the base of the skull, and are shaped a little like elongated dogs’ ears. Their noses are very complex, consisting of tendrils which can be wriggled a bit, each of which has its own nostril. Their sense of smell isn’t as strong as a dog’s, but it’s as sophisticated—they can learn and identify more smells than we can, but are only a little better at picking them up. The nose design, I think, is less about smell, more about breathing. Their eyes are a little wider, the irises a bit larger and the pupils more narrow. They wear the fur on top of their heads longer, like we do; it resembles hair, a bit.
I think the gravity on their world is a little less than ours, which is why they’re so tall. A lot of things there are elongated.
Anyway, Mohan’s my friend; he found my mind more than a year ago when I was thinking about starting a comic strip entitled “Space Pirates!” The idea was a bust, mainly because one of the characters eased his way into my mind, showed me his name, and told me to write a story about his world instead. I obliged. I guess the ‘pirates’ thing is what attracted him. See, he left home to be a pirate with his cousin Drake, but the bloody life was too much for him, and he deserted after a dispute with the first mate, who was an exceedingly bloodthirsty jerk. My job is to write on his adventures, but the problem is that the nature of his world is just so that first, I have to figure out a way to tell that without… well, without too much of an infodump. I wonder, sometimes, if this is what happened to Professor Tolkien. Did something from that world just take root in his mind and demand to be written, and the stories followed? That’s what it seems like, only with him it was the language. And he was a much better writer than I am. Hopefully, I will do my friend’s tale justice, when someday I write it all down. In the meantime, he and Drake contact me through the haze of Risperidone when they can, giving me maps and charts and cultural notes and customs and traditions and religions.
They’re living at a house of their cousin’s (their family is a very extended clan from the mountains, so they’ve got a lot of cousins. They were raised together, they’re like brothers) now, and somehow that helps them contact me; I guess there’s a fair bit of arcane paraphernalia lying around for the use. Somehow, a few of the kittens that live there got through, too, but the Risperidone put a stop to that. I kind of miss them sometimes, but they’re probably big by now, anyway. I have a drawing of the house somewhere, and a bit of a map… kind of. It’s a little muddled, because I think it breaks the rules of physics in a few places.
Is this all real? I don’t know. Part of me wants so badly to believe it is, and part of me says that’s ridiculous, but the larger part of me says it doesn’t matter, in a way. I mean, it does. But not very much. The part that counts is the story, right? Mohan wants me to tell the story. Drake wants me to know the world. (Drake also wants me to learn the language, but I’m pretty certain that it can’t be fully communicated by the human tongue—we communicate by thoughts. I think our thoughts go through in pure thought form, and our respective brains translate them as best we can.)
Someday, I will do both.
Mohan is about nine feet tall, and covered in light brown fur, very sleek (most of the time). He has a tail, about ¾ as long as the rest of his spine, the last few inches of which widen and flatten, resembling a hand made up of palm, but a little more flexible. His spine is a little more flexible than a human’s, possibly because it’s so long, but also because that’s how his species is designed. His arms are three-segmented, or nearly so—from the shoulder, they have an upper arm/bicep segment, proportionally the size of ours, and then a forearm, a little bit longer proportionally than ours, and then their wrists are little under one foot in length, and very flexible, almost tail-like until they turn into hands. Their hands only have four fingers, two with three joints, and two with two joints like ours, but they are in pairs of both, on either side of the palm, positioned a bit like ours but opposing each other.
Their heads are slightly more elongated, their foreheads a little more sloping back, their cheekbones a little higher, and their chins a little more pointed, most of the time. Their ears hang down almost to the base of the skull, and are shaped a little like elongated dogs’ ears. Their noses are very complex, consisting of tendrils which can be wriggled a bit, each of which has its own nostril. Their sense of smell isn’t as strong as a dog’s, but it’s as sophisticated—they can learn and identify more smells than we can, but are only a little better at picking them up. The nose design, I think, is less about smell, more about breathing. Their eyes are a little wider, the irises a bit larger and the pupils more narrow. They wear the fur on top of their heads longer, like we do; it resembles hair, a bit.
I think the gravity on their world is a little less than ours, which is why they’re so tall. A lot of things there are elongated.
Anyway, Mohan’s my friend; he found my mind more than a year ago when I was thinking about starting a comic strip entitled “Space Pirates!” The idea was a bust, mainly because one of the characters eased his way into my mind, showed me his name, and told me to write a story about his world instead. I obliged. I guess the ‘pirates’ thing is what attracted him. See, he left home to be a pirate with his cousin Drake, but the bloody life was too much for him, and he deserted after a dispute with the first mate, who was an exceedingly bloodthirsty jerk. My job is to write on his adventures, but the problem is that the nature of his world is just so that first, I have to figure out a way to tell that without… well, without too much of an infodump. I wonder, sometimes, if this is what happened to Professor Tolkien. Did something from that world just take root in his mind and demand to be written, and the stories followed? That’s what it seems like, only with him it was the language. And he was a much better writer than I am. Hopefully, I will do my friend’s tale justice, when someday I write it all down. In the meantime, he and Drake contact me through the haze of Risperidone when they can, giving me maps and charts and cultural notes and customs and traditions and religions.
They’re living at a house of their cousin’s (their family is a very extended clan from the mountains, so they’ve got a lot of cousins. They were raised together, they’re like brothers) now, and somehow that helps them contact me; I guess there’s a fair bit of arcane paraphernalia lying around for the use. Somehow, a few of the kittens that live there got through, too, but the Risperidone put a stop to that. I kind of miss them sometimes, but they’re probably big by now, anyway. I have a drawing of the house somewhere, and a bit of a map… kind of. It’s a little muddled, because I think it breaks the rules of physics in a few places.
Is this all real? I don’t know. Part of me wants so badly to believe it is, and part of me says that’s ridiculous, but the larger part of me says it doesn’t matter, in a way. I mean, it does. But not very much. The part that counts is the story, right? Mohan wants me to tell the story. Drake wants me to know the world. (Drake also wants me to learn the language, but I’m pretty certain that it can’t be fully communicated by the human tongue—we communicate by thoughts. I think our thoughts go through in pure thought form, and our respective brains translate them as best we can.)
Someday, I will do both.
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