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[Sep. 4th, 2023|09:50 pm] |
The stretches of both banks, as we approach the centre, in 2023, were increasingly punctuated by men preoccupied with cutting grass, sat on ride-on mowers.
After we pass a woman’s property with nature-worshipping symbols, we pull the canoe up by a footbridge, and I wander off past the 7 dead trees to see what is about.
Some Elohim had collapsed on the track leading to a community of Balts and Slavs on the other side of the river. The council, it stated in both languages on a notice board, were ready to get the place connected to powers that could light your dwelling, and charge up devices that would draw to you almost all the information on the planet - the only interface, your personality and how well you can spell, and how much time you have. You will need to work - come to some peace with yourself about that.
Christ - under the wing of Yaweh, what is this prison of spirit? We should be living for tens of thousands of years. And now, we are a piece of enlightenment, fallen Malachi, cast down in a body fit for some spit of time for digging out plunder.
Something like that, the Elohim might curse his body with as it lies prostrate on the dusty road, mosquitoes biting his exposed alco-tanned skin.
I regard him, mentally preparing myself for the accepted greeting should he arise and come in my direction, and then redirect my attention to the noticeboard
‘but you have to join the brotherhood first’ it says, ‘otherwise, do it yourself’.
We are 35 minutes away from Jugla. By car, which we do not have. I know a 10-minute walk will take us to a bar with Elohim-size portions of dead plus fried potatoes and a salad. You could drown in the bowls of soup if you were tired and emotional. Outside it, there is a statue of a March Hare three times the size of a man. They charge 950 euros for a meal, which is more than a tube of paste for the teeth.
He isn’t dead, I notice, now taking shelter behind one of the dead trees. He rises onto his knees, and grabs his bag: clink.
So, he has been taking the spirit. His spirit DNA loved the wine, but we are too far North for acceptable supply. There is no olive oil in which to be bathed before communion with the ones who have infested the land, either. Lingering sympathy hanging out on the off-chance is dispelled quick fast- Maybe he senses some burning flesh of shashlik, and these thought patterns are not my own. They are like the corrupting messages sent by a predator or parasite. Could be.
I retreat to my wife, a Balt, who has her hair covered from the early spits of the afternoon deluge.
‘Elohim, there’ I say in broken balt, ‘local laikam’.
‘Then we wait by the footbridge, saxon’ I think she says, as though it is the way. I agree with my head and wait for him to arrive by killing things that have taken my blood. |
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