Durable memory must be preserved in themselves, not the brain matter. Where are our memories kept? In a jar? Behind a door, locked with a key both enormous and molecular, waiting for that moment after the quest where the seeker finally finds the object that will transport him or her into that region of majesty? Or is it perhaps a road or path, lit by fogged headlights, swathed in mist, glimmering with the millions of hopping insects that litter the length of such supposed highways? Every stretch of paint extending into the black hole's iris. Every pair of fox eyes turned silver falling like coins into outstretched palms, waving along the coastline, hello and welcome to your new home. The foreign guests were nothing speakable, as run of the mill wallpaper as anything else in the town. Not that people noticed these things these days either. A couple holding hands, taking photos, wearing the kinds of clothes reserved for those attempting in vain to blend into the cascade whole, instead coming to the bottom of the pool to find themselves more half-drowned looking than anything else. They were from Malaysia I think, somewhere like that, and well I just happened to be on guard that night, just the regular routine, four to six am and the majority spent looking at photographs and listening to music on my computer then home to bed so I can do it again tomorrow. But instead I get these foreigners looking completely suss, even though it was equally evident that they were not doing anything wrong at all. But then I was out of the car, lifting my baton more out of habit than anything else, but then the guy started shouting, and I thought I saw another shape beyond girl with him, and you know, you get into that position and you start to get cagey, I'll admit that before anyone else for sure, not the proud type, I just felt pushed into a spot, if you follow?
So whatever, these two don't put up too much of a fight and once they are down and I have a quick scout about to make sure there's no other rat around I come back to check i/d's and the like, and well, you know, sometimes it's hard to recognise their faces …
It's definitely on an airplane or something, there's kids voices only, even though there's lots of mechanical noise as well. I'm looking down at some non descript lakes, looking at all the water, wondering when we have to start using it. It's just sitting there with its big eye looking back at me with this kind of patronising kindness, like “hey there kid, don't worry, sooner or later you get to drink me and piss in me and use me to scrub your asshole, you're gonna be ok.” Big smiles all round. Sure. The kids are pretty loud, so I turn it down. Think about changing the channel but all of the other movies are the same. Why the fuck are airline movies so bad? Would'nt you think that they would have some kind of deal between the aviation commision and the studios? I'm sure all of those big budget films are using up at least, like, twenty or thirty totally viable planes and helicopters and other shit for their shit movies. I turn it up again and the kids are all screaming now because there are terrorists on the plane but from that point it just gets so fucking predictable so I turn it off. I look around the passengers, they all pretty much look like me, except that some of them are women and some of them are from Argentina, but they pretty much look like me. That same expression, the nervous glance. You know, just makin' sure. Can't be too careful. And meanwhile they are more than happy for a Custom's officer to dice their four year old into millions of little pieces watching on going “uhh no I dont think I have anything in my shoes?” and nodding lots. Fucking nodding. Like a bad pop video. Big smiles all round. So yeah, they got them looks going on. And all I am thinking is that this plane is still going too fucking slow and that maybe I'll just go up to the cockpit and see if I can't make it go a bit faster, because I am already a day late and I don't think the others are going to wait much longer. Jeff said he would be flying out of Van in late April, and I think Ted was saying similar last time I called, so that would make it three weeks until I need another contract. Fuck. There's a girl talking to one of the hostesses and they are getting along really well, like full on laughing at the top of their lungs, and it all gets too much. I lose it. I watch as a guy gets to standing on a seat mid-aisle, tearing into the roof with their fucking fingernails, the sound of the tearing, even plastic. Blood's splashing down on this bald professor type's head, and he is just sitting there smiling like it's all completely okay, like real understanding, but everyone else is just losing their shit, knocking heads and my phone rings and I get a phone call from Jeff saying that Ted is dead and that there's no point coming no more.
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