Survivors

They were survivors. They had seen it; they had lived it all. They weren't intact but they were in contact. She knew he needed her. His photo was by her bed and his face forever posed in the same expression. It haunted her—that same expression. She tired of it. She wanted to pull off the posed expression. She wanted him to speak to her. The look, the same look, every day, every night. Please, let's go deeper than this, she complained to the photo. The same sad smile softly glared back at her. His eyes set to the camera, the click, the shot, that moment frozen . . . for whom? His eyes did not reveal what was in his heart in that moment of posed deliverance. She sensed a sadness.

One day I will take a picture of him. My heart can see. I will open the shutter, the window of light, and he will turn around, surprised that it is me. CLICK! I will know what he feels in that moment of surprise, of discovery. I will watch his expression develop in my lab of color. I will see what he has survived. I will paint in chalks the textures of his face and touch him through the mediums of paper, colored chalks and my fingertips. For hours my fingers will press the chalks, creating the contours of his face. I will close my eyes as I feel him. Come through, I will coach him forward. We have survived, haven't we?

The painting finished, I will hang it in my bedroom. I will watch over him as I sleep. I will dream of paintings, photos, images that I have yet to birth in the medium of life.

My name is his name inverted and his form stands tall in my own, though my physical stature is of a small woman. I have birthed him in an eternal day and watch over him every night. My power is in his recognition. I wait for the moment, with camera in hand, when he turns to me and remembers the promise he gave to me a long time ago. Did the promise survive, or has he forgotten? He seems sad now.

Does he know that the demand was HIS need?

What is our story? What part does he play and why do I stand behind the curtain? The theater is empty. Perhaps he sees rows and rows of dead people hoping to be stimulated into life. Passive, they wait to be entertained and he smiles, that same posed smile, and I feel sad—another performance has begun. He is really funny; the audience of ghosts is laughing but they have no mother to be born to, no access into this life. He survives night after night in this cold tomb.

I want him to come home, come home with me. Your life is with me, can't you remember? He turns the lights off and picks up a torn ticket and walks toward the theater door. The night air is brisk and a wind pulls back his hair. He whistles a tune. It's an old love song and he adds his own verse, singing, "You're still intact, you still got it." He reflects for a moment on a performance he gave long ago . . . it ended in a promise and he shrugs, not quite remembering what it was. He smiles his sweet, posed smile and rests his hairdo on the mantle of his fireplace and sleeps. I'll see her tonight, I know it.

She walked with him, arm in arm, as the scenery changed from the familiar European streets of his childhood and youth to shining, surreal, sparkling streets that only existed in his dreams of her. He was happiest with himself when he was pleasing her. That was not always so. For many years she patiently taught him the ways of love and he mistakenly, childishly, always only enumerated his crass, conceited demand for attention. He now realized that attention given to her, that giving love to her, fulfilled him in a way that the people or things of the world never did.

Tonight they laughed as she reminded him of her old days of teaching him. "You were such a conceited brat," she teased.

"I was, wasn't I? How could you put up with me? Always loving me, getting me to understand the wonderful secret of loving you." He gently pushed up against her shoulder and she pushed back with a hard jolt. That was a sign between them that he understood and her sign back—the heavier jolt—was her way of saying, "And don't you forget it!"

This was a most wonderful night, a dream of dreams. He felt so happy. He knew that he was ready to give her anything she wanted, anything she asked. He mused to himself, she has that look in her eye; it must be something big she wants me to do. "So, Kat what is it, what's my next assignment? It's a big one. I can tell by the size of the twinkle in your eye?"

"Do you remember the promise you made me long ago?" she asked.

He was quiet, searching his heart for the promise she was asking him about. He thought of the many foolish promises that he had made to appease others; promises he had never really intended to keep. He knew he had broken many to her as well. He had been a foolish man, and surely she was not holding him responsible for a promise that he had given only to protect his selfish interests.

"I've said a lot of stupid things to get what I wanted out of people, Kat. I am puzzled at what it is you are asking . . . It has only been with your love that I have become a man capable of response to others, of holding fast to my word towards others."

"Yes, I know, my friend. It was when we first met in the dream of your desire. It was a true demand, a true desire that called me to you. Now, though you cannot remember the promise you made me, I must call you to keep it. This is the last time we meet in the dreams of sleep. The next time we meet—and that depends on you, on the promise delivered—we will meet in the Awakening Zone.

There was no need to question her or to protest his ignorance. He accepted her ways, knowing it was the highest intention, the truest truth. His tears flowed unashamedly and he hugged her this last time and whispered in her ear, "I will keep my promise to you. 'Til, then . . . " He woke from his dream, his eyes still wet.

The time is close, she thought. All agents were being called in from the Interior Zone. Who will find me first? she wondered. She continued with her preparations. She studied the map. Hmm, war on the coast and the rebels are doing the laundry. She flipped through stacks of photos, carefully choosing the images that would be preserved as maps for her agents. This is war, she laughed, and I intend to win it! I'm going to leave clues everywhere and we'll see if my agents can find and separate the whiter-than-white clothes from the rest of the pampered, hampered laundry. Dress to kill. Keep your lipstick on straight, women! Men, keep your moustaches glued on!

She left the first clue in Death Valley. Humor them, she thought. Two hooded figures at Dante's View watched the sun go down. If they only knew. She left the first clue with them. They never even sensed her presence. On the top of their heads in white, bright bold letters read the number 1. Anyone flying by could see it. Must see . . . must see and give the sign.

Breakfast, lunch, and dinner; three squares a day. This was war and you had to keep well stocked—just last month she was lucky to suck the juice of a single orange. Supplies had been low for weeks . . . no vital energy—the lust drained it out of her. Everybody wanted to fuck. Fuck this, she thought. You want stimulation, she threatened, you got it. This is war, honey . . . the greatest stimulation humanity has ever devised . . . but I got my side and I am the only ONE on it. Kat paced like a tiger, like a lioness, but not like a feline in heat. She had some self-control. Clue two, perhaps?

Looking through her reserve pile of photo maps, Kat got an incalling message from agent Scarface. She flashed, NO MESSAGES! but Scarface persisted. All right, I know the deal . . . first you are going to go for the sexual stimulation via mind fantasy . . . zero results . . . Scarface, you don't turn me on . . . not that way . . . transmission out if you don't come up higher . . . I don't cut deals . . . what do you want, Scarface . . . you working for me or you working for the enemy? . . . Sometimes with you it's hard to tell . . . double agent . . . Now here comes the begging and pleading . . . All right, what's your transmission, Scarface . . . any strategic points of view . . . Shut up! Jerk! Bodily mutilation for sexual stimulation is not real art even if it is in the movies! Hang up now, babe. I got another incalling message. NO, you can't know who it is.

Crazy war, concluded Kat. The guys working for me . . . geez . . . someone should give them a purity test before they are allowed to enlist . . . If these are my friends, can't wait to meet my enemies . . . oh, my dear loved ones . . .

There was no incoming call. She was busy scanning the terrain to see where clue two could drop. A jeep . . . a young woman with dark hair . . . look, she is wearing a beret . . . she's the one . . . clue two will be given to her. Odd, she noticed me. She's gotta be a personal agent then. I gotta give her the clue in the physical then. What form will she take it in?

"Hello "

"Hi. Beautiful out here, isn't it?"

"Yes, I have never been here before. Would you mind taking my picture by the point there?"

"No, not at all, if you let me take a picture of you, too. Photography is my hobby."

"Good shot."

"Thanks."

"Could I take a picture of you, too?"

"Sure." This woman is on to it, thought Kat. A double personal agent with a beret too. What luck today. She's a gem, one in a million. She passed the purity test. I hope she is not a cover personal agent working for . . . shhh . . . that clue can't be given now.

Skyman searched the clouds and found what he wanted. How romantic, he thought. Strings and strands of her are always floating by if you know how to recognize the fragrance. She is in the southern regions now. Number one clue found . . . those two hooded figures felt familar . . . incarnations past? Yeah, right, I get it. We're on the move now. The clouds are weaving with the wind; the elements are flashing. There is going to be a major fire. She's hot, now. All her interior screens are shut down. She is the only one I know who calls everyone to her when she is in complete seculsion. The bastards! This must be double jeopardy for her to take all these precautions. The new life and the new tradition . . . whew, the fire is getting hotter. Kat, I'll follow where you lead. I'll meet you at the Serpent Mound; the signs are ripe for it.

Lost contact, lost contact . . . I'll survive this too, he thought. Fuck it! I'm miserable without her. God, did I save that sketch? It's got to be in an old journal somewhere. I remember waking up from a dream and not wanting to forget her. I sketched her face . . . Shit, I got to find her. I don't know why, after all these years of Interior Zone connections, after all these years she has been helping me, she cut the connection. She must need help. Yeah, the promise. Sevol pulled his hair back— several strands slipped out. Whoa, figure this one out. By the sketch I did of her I wrote, "Beginning of interior instruction by Her." She told me her name was his inverted and that I should just call her Kat. She asked me what I cared about . . . my usual, standard selfish answer . . . . . Me! Me! and anyone who gives me what I want. What I wanted back then is not what I want now. Got to get the interior link back. I sense she needs me somehow. That would be the greatest expression of her love and kindness, that she needed me somehow . . . But she's only a dream . . . a real one . . . more substantial than life exteriorization. She is inside me, not outside me. But! . . . She wouldn't cut off total transmission without some kind of clue, without some kind of intention . . . what was it I promised her long ago? Why is the answer to that question missing from my journal? My journals are filled with endless descriptions of our talks in the inner fields, but no promise. There's got to be hope. There has got to be future promise. I've got to see her again.