Things that are shared and things that are not

Damon

My grandmother disliked me.
A lot.
But boy, did she love my big sister and little brother.

Let me explain. It wasn’t all in my head, I promise. Rather, it was a constant source of trouble for my family. Every visit that Grandma V. and Grandpa K., my dad’s parents, made to our mountain home, or the few visits we made back to their Iowa farm, were tainted by this constant sense of dissonance between how she treated me and my siblings.

Par example. When I was six or so, Grandma V. brought my sister a set of hand-crocheted doll clothes, a case to keep them in, and a doll to wear them (Grandma always referred to her crochet habit as ‘crotchet-ing.’ I’m not sure why). For me, she brought – toy surprises from cereal boxes.
On a later visit, when I was around ten, Grandma and Grandpa brought their camper. It was better for family accord if they weren’t in the house. My sister, and then my brother, were invited to spend a few nights in the camper. Such a treat! Like camping in a movable house, and special breakfast too! (My grandparents were quite fond of hot Jell-o as a morning drink.)
My sister and brother each stayed a couple nights in a row; I was not asked. I don’t know if it was I that noticed this, or my parents, but they had a big fight with my grandparents, and I got to spend a single night in the camper, too. I only remember feeling nervous the whole time; it was still fun to be in a house on a truck bed, though.

I could go on, believe me. The dislike my grandma held for me was inescapable (Grandpa was a different story – he liked all three of us kids equally).
And like I said before, Grandma was no fan of my Mom either. Undoubtedly, what she experienced, as an adult married to Grandma’s son, was a different kind of cross to bear: belittling, fault-finding, mocking, ignoring…it wasn’t pretty. I know, because I heard Mom’s tears and petitions to Dad to stand up for her, whenever his folks came to visit.
For my childhood years, I relied on my parents to explain, and defend me from, the way that Grandma talked down to me, ignored me, radically favored my sister and brother…as a kid, these things don’t make sense. Dad offered a trifold explanation many times over the years: 1) Mom was not the woman Grandma wished he had married; 2) I was just like Mom; and, 3) Grandma had always wanted a daughter of her own.
All three of these things were true. Point 1 was outside my purview, but Dad seemed convinced (and still is – Grandma wanted him to marry his previous girlfriend). No one could deny point 2, since I looked, sounded, and followed my Mom in everything. I have never fully understood what it was about my Mom which Grandma disliked so much, and thus consequently disliked in me. (But I am so OK with being like my Mom; she’s still a primary role model for me. I even write my ‘L’s like her, get mad like her, etc etc.)
Point 3 was a bit dissatisfactory, since it explained Grandma’s favoritism of my sister, but not my little brother. But then, my little brother was the spitting image of my dad: a grubby monster addicted to trucks and guns. Come to think of it, my sister was much like Dad, as well…a tomboy happier out with him reloading rifles, than in the kitchen with Mom.
Guess where I was?

So anyway, yeah. Grandma’s visits were not pleasant for me, or for my Mom. By the time I was a teen, I understood more of the reasons for Grandma’s bitterness, but that didn’t make it any easier. Plus, when I hit my teen years, I found small ways to bite back at her – a fact of which I am fully ashamed. I know why I would find ways to belittle her back if I could, or provoke argument, but it’s still an embarrassment to me.

All of this is to set the scene for something that happened on one of the last visits my family made to Iowa to see Grandma and Grandpa – before I moved out for college, and everything which came after. This was not a visit of the whole family – just me, my brother and Dad.
I was upstairs and found a copy of Emily Dickinson on the bookshelf. I was just starting to like Emily (which blossomed into full-scale adoration); I’d always been addicted to books, and would read any moment I could (even now, I walk and read, as all my friends can attest).
I came downstairs later with this collection of poems, and there was Grandma, sitting in the parlor doing her ‘crotchet-ing.’ She asks me what I’m reading, and I show her.
“Oh, I love Emily Dickinson.”
And she goes on to quote her favorite poem, the whole brief piece. I had been drawn to this particular poem, as well. I was a fairly observant teen, and it didn’t escape me that this was the first time, ever, where my Grandma and I had seemingly found a shared interest. There were two of us…
I know it now, as I knew it then: my perception of her – the years of slights and veiled insults – shifted almost imperceptibly. I thought better of her, and feared her less…a little, at least. And maybe, she hated me a little less. Not just because of liking the same poet, but because of all that this one poem implies about internal worlds (don’t worry, I copied it in below). Somewhere inside her and inside me, something responds to Emily’s particular words. And that was so unexpected for me; to find a connection, however thin, with a woman like Grandma V. Part of our insides was the same.
It healed a lot of the past. Maybe it healed something in her too; I don’t know.
Grandma V. died fairly rapidly of a brain tumor within a few years. I did not see her in those last years, and couldn’t attend the funeral.

I have that exact copy of Emily’s poems; Grandma let me take it when we departed. Every time I read Ms. Dickinson, and especially that one poem, I think of Grandma V: of her eyes running over the same lines; of why that poem was meaningful to her; of her casually reciting it to me. Poems reveal so much of us…I could almost exegete an entirely different future for Grandma V and me, based on two brief stanzas from an eccentric genius. And I think I know a little bit more about Grandma’s internal world.

I shared one moment of tenuous, untrammeled connection with a woman who had spent her life actively ignoring or despising me. That’s wonder and grace, my friends.


I'm nobody! Who are you?
Are you nobody, too?
Then there's a pair of us -don't tell!
They'd banish us, you know.

How dreary to be somebody!
How public, like a frog
To tell your name the livelong day
To an admiring bog!

        - Emily Dickinson


Pythias reponds


To be quite honest, I struggled to respond to this in a way that did not involve pointed phrases accentuated with calling your grandmother things that start with a ‘b’, an ‘a’, a ‘c’, another ‘b’ (not as serious as the first), or an ‘m’ paired with an ‘f’.  

Such a sad, joyless experience she created for herself and then transferred on to others.  Life may not always play out as one would like, but to be so ruled by a long passed disappointment that mistreating a child seems justified just hints at what a sad, hollow woman she must have been.  In my studies the question has been raised concerning whether its easier to suffer the absence of a family member and wonder who they are rather than to have them and simply suffer instead.  Is the curiosity of what one might be missing easier to bear than the confirmation of disappointment?

I am impressed that a woman of that type cared for anything at all.  Her specific selection within Dickinson tells me that she felt a grudge against so many who achieve more than herself.  Its a bit like telling someone you love the Bible and then reciting off the verse about rich people struggling to reach salvation because you are unhappy with your poverty.  The poem selected could be her way of giving her finger to any who have accomplishments to their name.  A poem about embracing individuality becomes a testament of bitterness with a life that was perceived to lack sufficient accomplishment.

I would like to think if she were alive that she could find meaning and satisfaction in all the amazing things you have accomplished.  It seems doubtful though.  All the beauty in the world couldn’t break the ring of selfishness around the heart of a person who harms a child to make themselves feel better..  I am truly sorry for the deprivation of a loving grandmother.

On the subtle, beautiful, vicious state of dreams

Pythias on Dreaming

I fear I have become predictable when it comes to casual cocktail conversation.  Like any good party guest, if the chatter grinds to a punishing halt, I will usually casually lay a critique about the most recent conversation topic from the perspective of Sigmund Freud.  While much of his work is tainted with facepalm-worthy homophobia, misogyny and racism, he had some intriguing ideas.  One such point of interest is his analysis of dreams.  He suggested that dreams are often the presentation of experiences you have had but will not address.  They are a manifestation of stuff that you mash down because you can’t, or won’t, deal with it.  Like the monsters under your bed (or in my case, Darth Vader), they come out when you let your guard down to sleep.

The other night I had a dream.  At least I believe it was on the cusp of waking and sleeping.  I perceived that I was my current self but placed within the body of my teenage self in my teenage world.  I could operate and make decisions based on all that I know at my present, older age.  The prospect was terrifying.  Unsure of what to do, I sought out the advice of Damon, who at the time would have been barely 20.  The search was not easy, but I knew that if anyone would understand and believe me, it would be him.  I found him on the street of Fort Collins and tried to explain that he was to be come my dearest friend and that I needed his understanding more than anything.  I was willing to provide any information that he needed to prove that I would know him, including showing his future residence and work. Looking him right in the youthfully fresh face, I mulled the possibilities at my finger tips.  Do I try to relive my life as I lived it previously or try to save old relations and save the world?  I could not escape the press of the decisions.  I had to act.  As these things seem to go, I awoke feeling as though I still had weighty matters hovering over me.

I find this is the most terrifying/beautiful dualism of dreaming.  The lack of control.  While lucid dreaming would be interesting as I could dabble in all the possibilities that could ever be, it does not speak directly to heart of my experience.  As anyone who has ever suffered with a broken heart can attest to, dreaming can be the cruelest bitch.  I really don’t feel the need to qualify that - if you have never felt that sting, you have never had your heart broken.  In fact, a friend of mine said she smoked pot before bed every night because it assured her a dreamless sleep.  When she stopped, the dreams came back.  To go to such lengths to avoid inner reflection makes me wonder what monster lingers in the tangible dark of her repressed experiences..  However, there was an experience once of my own that might need a bit of explanation.

Experiences that are completely beyond my ability to explain tend to frustrate me.  It appears the most I can offer is empathy, which at times seems little more than the callous cousin of sympathy.  Words have always been a powerful vehicle for the transfer of experience and meaning in my life.  For those who have never felt like their sexuality is non-acceptable socially, perhaps this will crack the door.

When I first moved out on my own, I did so with the explicit condemnation of my parents.  In their socio-religious world, a child remained a child at home until marriage and then became an adult.  I knew I could never be open to the world while under their roof.  Announcing I was moving out, I got tears from my mother and a fist from my father.  Living on my own was exciting but trying to mesh a harsh, learned religious identity with my homosexual identity produced a caustic result in my unconscious life.  I lived in a very old, drafty apartment in the same crappy twin bed I had always slept in.  

The dreams were the same.  They always incorporated loving companionship and supportive family.  Everything was light and beauty.  Waking up was an unusual experience.  The last moment of the dream lingered into waking, like the warmth from a shower before the bite of the cold when you slide back the curtain.  When you go to bed depressed, sweet dreams involve a hangover the next morning and there was a time I spent months on a bender. Things have improved immensely but I have never forgotten the dark burn.

Damon Responds


I don’t know where to start with everything you covered here...it’s probably going to ramble. But I think I’ll start with dreaming, Freud, etc.
Pythias, I think we’ve talked about my theory of dreaming. I believe there are three types. The first if ‘junk-process:’ random bits of information assembled by one’s brain into bizarre, occasionally amusing adventures for your sleeping self. In general, I find these fun. Not many nightmares in this category - unless I’ve been watching too many crime procedurals.
The second category is ‘spiritual information.’ These are the dreams I believe come from outside myself. They may be narrative, even adventurous, but the texture is different, and it usually takes me very little to find the message from the Divine in them. And often, the message is built right in; a god-figure or friend-of-God walks up and says, “Hey. You. Please observe ______. Please stop _____. Pray for ____. Love you.” That kind of thing. My own dreamscape when I am in this ‘type’ of dream is familiar now, in general. A continually expanding world of narratives, work, messages, persons, etc. And not stuff inspired by my waking life, but a separate universe. In most respects.
The final type of dreaming I ascribe to is the ‘therapy’ dream. This, I believe, is one of the small points of intersection I have with Freud. These are the dreams where my subconscious uses any number of methods to self-direct a message to my attention - “Hey. Poke, poke. Look at this. Deal with this. Think you’ve put that in the past? Ah ha ha. I think not.”
This seems to be the type of dream you’re talking about, Pythias, yes? Believe me, I’ve had them. Mostly therapy-dreams, trying to cope with my own version of the loss of family.
The point that’s interesting me at the moment is your mention of power & control in the dream. [As a side note, I can lucid dream often - but for me this does not mean I can change or adapt the dream. I am not just some canoe-rider in it. My whole self is present.] It doesn’t surprise me that in dreams I attempt to exert control over something completely beyond my ability to control in waking life - in this case, the loss of my family (and other bad things I could mention). But again, what interests me more deeply is what this desire for control in dreaming says about: I feel powerless, yes. My waking self could tell you that. But moreover, IF the power were mine, I could singlehandedly fix the problems of the past. And the present.This is the dissonance I suspect in your piece above. The positioning of a self as ‘victim’ (I use that word carefully) to those things that other people are able to do TO us...and our seeming inability to bite, fight, spite back. Of course one could bite back, but at what cost? And to what purpose? A full awareness of the intractability of the situation, and a certain fatigue caused by previous fights and losses, means we just push these things away.
And then, here they are in dreams. A safe place (sort of) for our brains to say, this is a still a vital part of what made us who we are. I think some dreams need to be taken to therapy (I always say YAY THERAPY!), but the constant re-dreaming of certain themes teaches us about our interior dialogues, which our waking brains ignore. And the constant re-dreaming, can, I believe, allow your brain and spirit to complete unfinished business; say things you want to say; or at least, be honest with yourself and reach some kind of healed or healing place.
Of course there’s still the hangover in the morning. I HATE waking up from a dream about family, or a lover, having cried in the dream, only to cry when I’m awake. And the waking thought, “Great. Now I have to look at this AGAIN. And wander around all day with the images in my head. Charming.” Yet I cling to the truth that it’s an important part of my self-awareness and journey toward healing. Letting the nasty parts of the past go. Someday.
That said, I prefer my fun ‘junk-process’ dreams or spirit-messages. A lot.
Oh, and PS - I’m glad I showed up in your dream as a fresh-faced youngster. Let’s keep me that way, K? I don’t want to be your wizened guide anywhere.

A gentleman's introduction?

Damon-

I remember reading a quote by Madeleine L’Engle, who said that one should make the bed every day, and write every day. By writing something every day (and presumably, having proven your good intentions by previously making the bed), one occasionally stumbles on gold.

Well, with apologies to Ms. L’Engle, I do not write, or make the bed, consistently. But nonetheless, now I’m half of an erstwhile blogging partnership.

I think Pythias and I are both amused about the prospect of blogging. That’s probably enough of a reason to put our sublime and ridiculous musings out in the public forum: our own entertainment. Never mind actually alchemizing gold out of dross.

But anyway, we were talking one day, and I said to Pythias, “Have you ever seen a blog where two people just talked back and forth to each other?” That was our starting point, so it’s fitting we should start with the following ridiculous piece of history.

The little ‘story’ below is an early public-forum exchange, back from the days when MySpace was the place to be (Facebook hadn’t even happened yet); it seemed like a fitting way to introduce our little blog project. The comments we traded took on a life of their own (Heh. Pythias: get it?). Perhaps something similar will happen with this blog. Who knows.

Enjoy.

Actually, do what you will with it. Pythias and I will enjoy talking to each other, privately in public, regardless.

P.S. The little story / ongoing joke we wove (Heh. Pythias, see what I did there? That’s twice now.) is a mixture of our two personalities and voices, coupled with much of a certain author whose one work we had both been reading at the time. Can you guess who? Points if you can.

Pythias-

At the beginning of every semester there is a moment where the instructor thinks its novel for everyone to speak up and herald themselves.  One might think that such a process should be off the cuff and extemporaneous, however, I hem and haw trying to come up with something clever or impressive. Thriving on preparation, I mime out the words quietly before class while putting in a few gestures that make me look engaging and eloquent and taking pause to receive applause.

In the end I find myself completely frazzled and sweating like a farm animal and announcing loudly to the class “My name is Pythias and I like learning a lot” while contorting my face and moving my shoulder in such a way that it looks like I am attempting to steer a bus with it.  I end up sitting down ashamed by my own lack of eloquence.  You know it’s special when the teacher lifts an eyebrow while tilting her head to the side and says “Well, let’s hope you can bring some perspective to class.”  Lord knows what kind of perspective that would be.  The kind that involves lead paint chips, no doubt.

Introductions to the blog are a bit easier though.  Damon has been my dear friend for years and the thought of blogging with him seemed infinitely more believable than blogging solo, as everyone has a limit on the number of consecutive farm stories that they care to hear. 

I imagine the point of our blog going forward is to celebrate and discuss something each posting.  If anyone hops about our bandwagon as it consistently lists off the path into the wheat field, we would love your feedback and suggestions.

Our first piece.  Enjoy.

French Cigarettes & Graveyard Books

P.

“Damon. I fear that we need to stage an intervention here. Perhaps we should have a sit-down with Ms. K and sketch out a plan of action to work through our difficulties towards a positive solution-based issue resolution key point—”

*Gasp...sputter, keels over.*

*Thump.*

D.

*Holding black lily, wearing appropriately somber pinstripe suit, with a fabulous scarf.*

"Pythias was truly the finest of us all. If only I had told him so, on a comment on myspace, before intervention was necessary."

*Breaks down, sobs, turns to Mike & The Mechanics for consolation.*

P.

*Twelve hours later. Damon walks into 7-11 for a post-eulogy perk-up through self-medication of narcotic substances, available at extreme discount. Feels very out of place under fluorescent lights, in THIS suit.*

"Yeah, can I get a pack of...gasp! Is it you?"

"Who did you think it was, Travis Fimmel? Who really wears a scarf with this much style, despite this constricting and unflattering apron?!"

"You look like hell."

"Thanks. I've been there since your smoking and acerbic wit sent me to a premature demise."

*Sulkily.*

"Fine. Give me my pack of Marlboro Lights. I expect to never hear another word about this. Now that you're among us once again, but with a severely limited need for fresh air, or air of any kind, you can just clam it when I smoke. And I won't mention that you once compared me to a redneck, which is SO not true. Rednecks have fat necks and thus don't need scarves."

"Ever the gentleman of tact."

"That's me. Come on. Let's have coffee. Mike & The Mechanics are waiting in your car."

P.

*Pythias grimaces and pushes cigarettes across the counter somewhat half-heartedly.*

"Well, think of it this way, Pythias. With everything that is in cigarette smoke, perhaps you should take it up. It will keep you alive...err...well, together. Longer."

"Hats off to the comedian. Snappy routine. You would be killer in a club."

"Can I get that scarf when you’re through....with it, I mean?"

"No, when I bury myself, this thing goes down with me.” *Pythias swats at a fly.*

"Do you think it’s too late to do some of that stuff that I did not dare do when I was breathing?"

"Well, I would hold off with a lot of water sports and perhaps sky diving as well. It might be best to avoid most activities that involve pets as well. That and the elderly; they might think you’re taunting them."

"Duly noted, Damon."

D.

*Later. Substances have been imbibed.*

"Come to think of it, I say feel free to taunt the elderly. They made Sunday School a living hell."

"Boy, the living hell jokes just keep getting funnier."

"Dude, I'm serious now. Sunday School was a living hell. Mrs. Golike made us sing this song about Paul's conversion experience. Pythias, have you ever tried explaining 'conversion experience' to a group of preschoolers - much less understanding it? And nobody can be a teacher for that long without the slightest sign of aging. She just got to seventy and stopped."

"I wish I could have made it to seventy."

"Cry me a river, princess." *Damon inhales Gaulois.* "And stop making your 'seeing red again' face."

"Alright, fine. And just for kicks, let's say I buy the whole Sunday-School-is-the-first-circle-of-hell routine. But let's put this in perspective, shall we? Who at this table has glimpsed the cloudy surface of the Stygian river? Who at this table is suffering from a severe lack of lung capacity? And who at this table, exactly, has recently discovered the power of formaldehyde as a mouthwash? I don't care if Mrs. Golike took all twelve of your little cronies, strung them up by their ankles, stuck candles in their noses and used them as nightlights for her ghoulish rituals. I am, right now, cornering the market on hellish experiences."

"She knitted me a scarf that was mauve and white, and I had to wear it with my re-gifted brown corduroy jacket."

"Merciful Christ. Poor you. Have a shot...to new kinds of living hell."

*Clink.*

P.

*Pythias tips shot glass over and smacks lips together*

"It’s strange. I always thought absinthe had more of a punch than that."

*Damon gasps and sputters clinging to the bar and mouthing words, soundlessly*

"Oh quit being so dramatic. You are never going to see Kylie if you thrash around like a fish outta water. And NO, you are not dying. I happen to know the experience quite well."

*Damon rights himself after a drink of water and regains a shred of composure.*

"That was not fair. That’s like pure rubbing alcohol."

*Pythias tilts thinning eyebrow at his light-weight friend and readjusts fabulous scarf*

*Damon feels awkward at what a fool he made of himself. Seeks diversion. Notices gold coin around Pythias's greying neck. Grabs for it and pulls it free as Pythias's eyes go wide and drops to the floor like a sack of really old potatoes.*

"See! What’d I tell ya! That absinthe will get ya! Hey there! Hey!!"

*Pokes at the re-dead, who seems to have literally fallen to pieces, with his penny loafers*

"Ok, who’s being the little princess now? Whatever, let me know when you get past your little charade and rejoin the real world, Pollyanna."

*Another chilling autumn day. Damon had never been to a re-burial before. Personally, he found the chain around the coffin to be a bit overkill.*

D.

*Night. Somewhere in the wastelands of upper Saskatchewan. A figure is drawing a sled, assisted by a team of matched white horses. The moon is shining brightly, doubly so off the smooth sheen of snow. The figure, robed in black, has almost approached the warm lights of a small stone house, sheltered in the lee of a great sloping curve of mountain.*

"We're almost there, Pythias. But I'll have to warm up before we start the whole process. You will have to stay in the cooler, but I'll leave the radio on - I think I can get the 24-hour 80's station from Sirius up here."

[In Pythias's rapidly freezing cortex: "I hope you don't expect a response. And I really, really hope you don't expect my thanks for leaving me in a dark cooler for the next twelve hours while you thaw your poor fingers. I'm the corpse here. Show some sense of priority."]

The horses are put in their stable and fed. Pythias's poor shattered remains are gathered in their oversize wicker basket and placed in the basement cooler. The figure in black spends an inordinate amount of time in front of the fireplace of the little stone house, pondering. A glass of Bordeaux is in his hand. On the table beside him is a small shot of absinthe, mixed with formaldehyde, to honor friends lost.

*Night. In the basement, now considerably warmer, of a small stone house in the upper wastelands of Saskatchewan. The wind is gale force, but the little basement is cozy, with several heaters around a large stone table. All the heat is directed away from a shadowy corner, where a large wicker basket sulks in silence. A figure in smart black pants is striding about, assembling a collection of herbs, powders, candles, and a great quantity of fine black cashmere yarn.*

[In Pythias' poor petrified cortex: "Twelve hours later and he shows his moronic little face. The nerve to strip me of the one thing literally holding me together, and then he acts like he's doing me some huge favor by collecting my assembled pieces and carting me off to the middle of Gucci-forsaken nowhere. Disembodied, collected like leftover loaves and fishes, and if I have to hear David Bowie ONCE MORE, I'll manage a scream somehow."]

*“Queen Bitch” on the radio. The figure in smart black pants turns slightly, thinking he overheard a sudden shift in the basket. “Hmm. Must be further signs of decay...is that the hiss of gas? Weird.”*

The figure collects poor Pythias' various pieces, and working quickly on the cool stone table, assembles them into something vaguely Pythias-shaped. Four hours of intense rearranging/powdering/herb/application/fourteen incantations/soldering/dyeing/massaging (very little of this; one has one's stomach to think of)/ and showering for all parties later...

"My work is done. For now." The figure collapses into a soft chair. Tori Amos has worked through most of her back catalog on the CD player, and now, on the table, lays a perfectly perfect Pythias, completely inanimate to the untrained eye.

[In Pythias's considerably more composed cortex: "That was the longest spa day of my post-life."]

"Well, Pythias," says the figure in black, "I had to climb to the outer limits of Baja to find the answer to the question of your resurrection." He pours a small glass of Bordeaux and lights a Gaulois. "I had to consult every master I could think of. And all the while, you were stuck in a chest freezer. So glad that my landlord's are vegetarians... all I did was post that sign that said 'raw meat, ready for trimming' on the freezer and they left well enough alone. I had to fly to New York to the archive of pagan texts, and to Africa for the National Library Archives of Zombi Literature. But how to take all this information? How to condense it? Make it apply to the case of a young, pretentious man with so much to live for, but an increasingly penetrating olfactory cloud around him?"

The figure pauses dramatically and stubs out his cigarette on a Payless shoe sole (the things he's had to deny himself to finance this little resurrection).

"The final answer was in Readymade Magazine."

*[Indistinguishable sounds from table’s occupant]*

Damon sniffs. “You know, when they tell you that 'sheer sarcasm and pointless threats are a possible side effect of the reanimation process,’ somehow you just don't take them seriously. I know I should have 'forgotten' to attach your vocal chords until I had finished my tale of struggle." The abused and underappreciated figure in black fills his fourth glass of Bordeaux.

"Poor you," says the critical un-corpse. "It's one drama after another, seriously. Personally, I would switch places with you in a heartbeat. I mean, of course, the in-charge-of-resurrection part. I wouldn't want to be constricted to your monochrome wardrobe AT ALL. Seriously, who told you that you had to wear black to be a Resurrecter? I'm sure the Maharini or whoever the fuck you consulted believed in fabulous saffron robes AND the eternal power of the human body."

"Alright. Pythias. I haven't even finished my tale of struggle and your mouth is running faster than your feet do when you hear the words 'White Sale.’ Clam it while I finish my story and maybe, just maybe, I'll be so overcome with gratitude for your return that I'll overlook your serious breach of etiquette. I figured out the secret of true resurrection, and you, sir, are going to be tied right where you are til you hear the whole tale."

[If it is possible for a slowly recomposing corpse to look put out, Pythias is perfecting the technique.]

"Fine." Grudgingly.

"Alright then. Here's the end of the story. The answer, as I was saying before I was interrupted by your sparkling repartee...[lengthy pause for maudlin effect]...was in Readymade Magazine. You see, this whole tale began with a scarf, and it must end with one."

"I must knit you back to health." The figure in black has pulled out an obscenely shiny pair of silver needles, and is preparing his skein of black cashmere." And before you say anything, yes, it must be black. It'll be the last scarf you ever wear. You will be the Un-Man In Black. Heh.”

P.

*Pythias is exercising his very limited capacities, but mostly seems distracted by chewing*

"All I can say is that it is about time. I mean, I was picking out those blasted narworms for a days before you finally got things under way."

He picks one of the forenamed creatures and gives it a toss off the edge of the table and promptly realizes that the multitude of his former residents are now lying on the floor and has a frenzy squooshing them.

"Wow, it’s a pity I did not resurrect your dignity."

The bug mashing stops long enough for a nasty look to be sent .

"Where the crap are we? Looks like a mausoleum or something? Like no one has been here in few hundred years."

"It’s the women's restroom at the Republican National Headquarters."

"Well, I guess there is no rush then."

The recently undead gets a look at his feet and realizes his Italian loafers are missing as is his oh-so fabulous scarf.

"Well. What do you have to say about this tragedy??"

Gestures at feet and neck and makes a snide comment about 'resting in peace'.

Damon flicks cigarette into the pile of bugs.

"The magazine required that your soul be sacrificed."

"If I see you in my scarf, I am going to strangle you with it. That and tell everyone that you wanted to go to Disneyland for your last birthday."

*Gasp of horror from Damon*

D.

*Damon is attempting to look placid, and it’s only a coincidence that Bjork is singing about unraveling… it’s most probably a coincidence, anyway*

“These are the rules. When the scarf is complete, you must wear it on the anniversary of both your deaths, and that is all. Since your life force will now be bound in it, I have done you the favor of securing a safety deposit box in your name, at a bank close to your hellhole of an apartment."

"I'll show you hellhole here in a minute."

"Ha. Ha. Ha.

“Now pay attention. This is going to take me a long time, but the longer I knit, the more your health and mobility will return. So entertain me while I knit."

On the radio, there is a mix of songs from all the figure in Damon’s favorite artists, which are numerous, given his deep passion and knowledge of music. He knows that he will lose control of the radio dial within the first two inches of the scarf, when feeling has returned to Pythias' petrified fingers. In preparation for the onslaught of 80's music headed his way, he is building his internal reserves of musical memories.

"So." This preternaturally short response from the slightly more alert Pythias, whose forehead is losing its Botoxed quality.

"Yes, Pythias? Knit one...purl two..."

"Did you get your picture taken with Cinderella, or Jasmine, when you went to Disneyland?"

*A ringing silence for almost a full minute. Only the sound of clicking needles and shifting logs in the fire*

"It's worth mentioning, you...you...ungrateful wretch, that if I knit two and purl one, I can wreak havoc upon the hitherto perfection of your body. You know, you are the one the boys have been mourning since you collapsed on the barroom floor. There's a whole train of mourners right now filing past your empty marble tomb in front of First National Bank and Quizno's but you can bet your sweet bippy they'll drop you like a hot potato if you come back from the dead with a goiter on your head."

"Oh, threats, is it? Threats?? Nice! Very mature to hurl threats at a man who can't move his arms! Yet."

Damon sighs with restrained remorse. "I acquiesce. My work is almost done. I shall knit in silence and cast no more threats. But it would be nice if you entertained me now. It's not been the most stimulating environment of late. The upper wastelands of Saskatchewan are a dark place without companionship. Especially the companionship of a man that can walk himself, as opposed to being wheeled about in a trolley."