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11 January 2007 @ 05:35 pm
unfinished (room)  
He wakes, and again, the room is changed. This morning afternoon evening time, however, only the bed has been moved; and the only addition, a second door, opposite the first. But that's enough, isn't it? For it begs the question, and, for people like the Kid, such questions must be answered.

Lying sideways (that's how it feels, because that's what happened to the bed), he picks up the notebook and pen, and quickly scribbles a few lines of... poetry? Something, perhaps, more fitting for the denizens of this magic-infested nest. Satisfied after only a few corrections, he rises and sees that the bed is not the only thing that changed after all. The bathroom is gone, and in its place, a larger, more well stocked closet. Within, miracle of miracles, a pair of shiny, black boots; the kind worn by (wait for it) motorcycle riders. So the Bar is not the only spirit here that can read his mind. He carries them out and places them on the bed, along with a concert t-shirt that's embossed on the back with; in large, stylized, and glittered letters; "ZOSO". It's all just to laugh!

Thinking that he will have to ask someone else to let him wash up in their room, he decides not to; and dresses without giving it another thought. Thinking that the shiftings of his room are meant to keep him in fear, he decides to ignore them; and writes some more. Before he can cross out the third and fourth letters of the seventh word in the seventh sentence of the eighth paragraph, however, he falls asleep again.

Upon rewaking, he finds that not only has he lost the urge to write, but that the letters he was going to expunge are just the right ones for another sentence on the reversed page. Satisfied that not only the choice was correct, but that the nap was also, he decides that it's time to see what's behind the second door. First thought; the orchid. Next; fear. Last; this knob looks exactly like the ones in that house in...

The hallway leads to the right for what he estimates to be thirty feet, or nearly. there are no lamps or ceiling lights, and so it gets darker the farther along its length; but surely, thirty feet isn't long enough for it to be that dark at the end? Nevermind, it's only space (and not infinite, for that matter). Merely ten, maybe a dozen, steps and he's there. Another door. Of course, he thinks. Thinking that the two doors make this corridor skew symmetric (where had he learned that?), he opens it; and there is his bathroom. So he shakes his head, strips, and takes a bath. What would you do?

There is a shaving kit on the counter by the sink with brush, cup, and safety razor, but no soap; so he takes it to the bath with him and makes do with the Zest from the inlaid holder. His beard has never grown quickly, a gift of his ancestors, and the scruff is of a length that speaks of months, rather than days, of neglect. But the razor is unused, the soap adequate, and his beasts of hands sensitive enough to leave neither stub, nor shadow, nor mark. He gets so much pleasure from the ritual, in fact, that he lays his head back and takes another nap.

Wakes in cold water, of course. Time to get up again. He has to search all the drawers before he finds the towels, because (rats? Oompah Loompahs?) someone had put them all the way at the back of the bottom drawer on the farthest row to the right. By the time their softness becomes warmth, the only part of him that is still wet is his hair. Looking at it in the mirror, he wonders; does it need to be cut? Until now, there has always either been someone there to tell him when they thought it should; or he didn't have a mirror to see by, and so ignored them; or there was no one else around, and it didn't matter. Not deciding, he lets it grow.

Gathering up his clothes, he walks back to his room, thinking; I have done this before. Memories brush against his shoulders, and laugh because one of his balls is lower than the other. What was her name? There was another one, too. If he can concentrate, maybe he can remember the cadence of her words, if the words themselves are lost forever. No, he knows, she would remember them. Where another door will has should been, he turns his head, listening for the sounds of fucking, but the balls of his feet are the only pieces of flesh rubbing this carpet. With a sigh that says he's lost so much more than he ever deserved to have and wants so much less than has been offered, he comes into the light of his (bed)room and begins to dress for the second time this
 
 
 
Vixen in Sensible Shoesqueenlyzard on January 12th, 2007 05:12 pm (UTC)
this is very reminiscent of Kafka (well, Kafka on a cheerful day)... I can see I'll have to start paying more attention to your jounral :P
rogerdrrogerdr on January 12th, 2007 06:59 pm (UTC)
This is from a roleplaying game where I was 'pupping' The Kid from Sam Delany's Dhalgren. To the extent that I was able to mimic Delany's eccentric style, I thank you, but I'm unlikely to do much more in this vein. If you want to read Kid's LJ, it's at plague_journal, but I recommend Dhalgren for the real thing.
CR Drostkentox on January 17th, 2007 06:52 am (UTC)
Hey, dude, sorry to interrupt. In the post here:

http://community.livejournal.com/convert_me/845711.html

...there were many deleted comments. I could have sworn that on a previous reload of the discussion, I saw your name hanging around. Do you remember posting some replies there other than the ones at the bottom? Maybe some good-hearted banter?
rogerdrrogerdr on January 17th, 2007 09:31 pm (UTC)
I think what's there is about the extent of my comments on the thread. There might have been something more about Jesus' not really being the Messiah, but I don't remember. Certainly nothing noteworthy.