Trompé Setsuled (setsuled) wrote,
Trompé Setsuled

  • Mood:
  • Music:


Among other things, my horoscope to-day read, "Matters involving communication of all kinds seem to be totally fouled up . . . Messages may not get delivered, e-mails may not go through, people might even totally misinterpret words said directly to them," and that was all certainly absolutely true.

I sent communiqués to Trisa on Monday night that went unnoticed. She sent me an e-mail that I did not notice until it was just about too late, I tried calling her office only to be told by their operator that her extension didn't seem to exist, but he'd ring it anyway. As it began an endless loop of automated recording/ringing, I was paged. Hanging up the phone, I picked it up again immediately to check my voice-mail finding it was Trisa, telling me to call her office. She gave me the same number as in her e-mail, as well as the purportedly non-existent extension. Only this time when I dialled it, it worked.

Trisa immediately answered, "This is Trisa," barely audible due to the fact that she'd lost her voice somewhere amongst the screaming crowds at Ozzfest—Y’know, I've just never, in any situation, been able to muster the kind of enthusiasm required for screaming. Be it rollercoaster or rock concert, something about me just doesn't facilitate my getting the concept.

As I was leaving to go meet her for lunch, my grandmother tried talking to me in her usual stoically plaintive tone, "It had been a while since I'd seen that little friend of yours--Trisa?"

"I awnno," I half mumbled as I tied my shoes--Trisa 'd been over the other night as I think I mentioned a few entries down--apparently my grandmum'd overhead part of the phone conversation this morning. Fucking thin walls. They make me so very paranoid, but apparently not paranoid enough.

"Is she a girlfriend or just--?"

"Just a friend," I said.

"You can't talk her into it?" pried my grandmother, her voice without mirth but instead weighted with gossipy intensity.

I merely grunted negatively and dismissively in reply, supremely irritated that her nosy, shallow inquisition should strike so near the bone.

"Well, don't give up hope," she said, making me want to strangle her directly.

I met Trisa at lunch and told her this true story;

"The earth had two moons, and this team of scientists gave me a garage door opener that hooked onto my belt. When I pressed its button, it made me jump as high as I liked. They wanted me to jump from earth's old moon to the new one. Which I did.

"On the new moon, I met a ninja whose black clothing was coated lightly with glitter. We had a pleasant conversation despite the fact that neither of us spoke.

"Then he abruptly took me prisoner and placed me in a cell without a roof. Its iron bars were all vertical, and very tall. In the cell with me were a bunch of random earth people. I asked a couple of police officers how they'd been captured. When they refused to answer me, I jumped out of the cell.

"The evil moon men chased after me as I bounded across the pale dusty landscape. I grabbed the glitter ninja and dropped him from a terrific height before making my final jump back to the other moon.

"Only I miscalculated my trajectory, and began to burn up in earth's atmosphere. And suddenly, Julia Ormond and I were underwater together,"

What I didn't tell Trisa is that I was Tom Cruise in the dream.

I understood very little of what Trisa told me to-day, but I did glean that she was slightly upset by what I'd posted on her journal.

"I'm sorry . . ."

"It's okay, you didn't know," she said.

But it was a question that haunts me even now. What was it about what I'd posted that she did not want the internet to see? She seemed to become visibly irritated when I pressed the issue for curiosity's sake, so I dropped it. Yet the intrigue has deepened now that I've noticed, with astonishment, that she actually went to the trouble of deleting my posts.



To-night's class was stimulating, I thought. This is the Views of Death and Dying in Literature Trisa and I are taking together. Placing the barrier of a garage door between us, Trisa asserted both in word and deed that she was driving herself to school to-day, instead of riding with me as usual, because she had to take a nap (What? Of course it makes sense!).

So it was I watched her walk into class, and got the opportunity to watch her make an entrance. Trisa makes a great entrance. There's some kind of aura of unapologetic, natural extravagance about her. Something about it made me a little sad, though, and I'm not sure what. Maybe it's her innocence . . . I'm certain she'd take issue with me stating that there's anything innocent about her, but there it is.

On the other hand, almost everyone seems innocent to me for one reason or another.

The class was almost a cacophony of intellectual discussion. I could not reproduce it all here if I tried. I will say that our text book, Escape From Evil by Ernest Becker, is incredibly fascinating and I recommend it.

At the end of class, the teacher asked us to spend two minutes writing a description of our own death.

I wrote;

"The pain, in every aspect, every portion of me, had been so overpowering just moments ago--the little customary, usual aches had suddenly pulsed into such a blinding crescendo--that I became completely incognisant of the ditch.

"Then I was barely cognisant of either pain or my surroundings,"

He then asked us to write about seeing ten thousand people die;

"With a deep, vast, amorphous rumble, everyone was made to fall down.

"Everyone. More people than the human mind was meant to completely process--moments before crammed so tightly together--all simultaneously fell . . . as if pressed by a tremendous, invisible hand.

"I was unable to even think to ask, 'Why?',"

Finally, we were asked to write about witnessing the death of someone we care about more than our own life. Guess who I chose.

"Her eyes, it seemed, had fluttered slightly moments ago. It had seemed to me that they had, despite the fact that I knew they could not have.

"That machinery had abruptly and totally cancelled her life in an instant was irrefutable. Yet I found that I had to fancy the brief flutter of her eyelids . . ."

After class, I found her talking to a guy she'd taken something of a liking to who's also in our British Lit class. As I approached, she was talking about her own speculative death. She'd seen herself killed by disease, which I suppose was more likely than what I'd chosen.

The guy she was talking to was kinna tall and had this kinna interesting segmented blond ponytail. The only thing I gathered the courage to contribute to the conversation was, "Fortunately, I'm enough of a masochist to have enjoyed writing all three, in a weird way,"

To which he'd replied, "There was a time when I could have enjoyed writing about the death of ten thousand people, but not now . . ."

He and Trisa had been talking earlier about how the class lacked a certain emotional essence, or something like that. I'd gotten slightly upset (although at the time I didn't think I'd come off as too abrasive and maybe I even didn't), and said that I thought the class was very enjoyable. That I thought there was enough emotion in the class just from reading poetry. That reading poetry was emotional.

I didn't win Trisa to my perspective. The two of them seemed to feel there was some emotional aspect that was absent from the class. That I couldn't see it made me feel a little . . . dysfunctional. Perhaps related to the part of me that doesn't scream at rock concerts or on rollercoasters.

It put me out of the conversation anyway.

"To me," Trisa remarked to him, "it just seems like something's being suppressed,"
  • Post a new comment


    default userpic

    Your reply will be screened

    When you submit the form an invisible reCAPTCHA check will be performed.
    You must follow the Privacy Policy and Google Terms of use.