Tuesday, September 25, 2012

"Breakfast with Neandertals" Part 3

After meeting the Neandertal I made a point of walking alone each day to fetch water. I used the path east of the caverns so I could smell the delicacies smoking near the entrance. I knew the Neandertal was watching me. One morning he grabbed me as I walked, and tried to place me on top of his lap. I fought him but he held me tightly against his chest. His strawberry blond hair was dense and soft against my nose and smelled sweetly of gentian and musk. He kept pulling me against him but he was too big for me.

I never did it on top before, nor for more than a few seconds. His silky hair rubbed allover my front. Soon I was wet and grinding up and down his pestle. I ended just like the Neandertal did and at the same time. Then I slumped down, spent, into his huge arms. They reached all the way around my back. With his fingertips he played with my nipples. His nails were yellow, blue, and black – broken, with long hair and lice caught between the cracks. I’d have to file them.

At one point I tried to kiss his mouth. He thought I was trying to tell him something. He turned his ear toward me. I blew my hot breath into his ear. He still thought I was trying to say something to him. He shrugged. He started getting hard again inside me.

I came home late that day after gathering nuts and mushrooms. I also found herbs for the Neanderthal, who had a nasty wound on his leg. My husband was pissed when I returned. He sat smoking and drinking in the dark. I told him I had a migraine and to leave me the fuck alone. I placed my bag and a large package of smoked meat down. My husband looked down at the wrapped package and laughed. “Is that what this is all about? Meat?” he asked.

from the short story project DYSAUTONOMIA. Comments and discussion welcome on blog entries. Follow me on twitter for updates to this serial story and future stories from this ongoing project

Sunday, September 16, 2012

"Breakfast with Neandertals" Part 2

So breakfast was nice. I picked some yarrow and marshmallow as a gift. My husband was nervous, but we use many of the same gestures the Neandertals do. My husband just pretended not to understand him. What an asshole. I think the Neandertal is deaf anyway so it didn’t really matter.

The Neandertal fixed breakfast. His wife only prepared the drink. She didn’t seem well. My husband was upset because her hands were covered in dense hair. He said he didn’t want dirt and lice in his drink. She shrugged. She slowly handed us a drink prepared from ground nuts. I asked where she learned to prepare it.

While walking around the hearth my husband kicked over a hunting knife. He listened to it clang on the stone flooring, then said it was a piece of shit. “Is this a toy?” he asked sarcastically. The Neandertal signaled with his hands: It’s not the size of the wave. It’s the motion of the ocean. My husband stared at the Neandertal’s cock. “What’s an ocean?” he asked.

We soon sat down around the colorful spread of stonecakes, boiled eggs, and smoked meat with red berries. My husband eyed the meat suspiciously. He usually just ate bark in the morning. I didn’t care for the grass bed – nettles would have worked better – but I was impressed overall. The game was better than any meat I trapped. It was rich, dense, and chewy. And the fire made it even better than I imagined.

I ate a lot – the same amount as the Neandertals. I asked the wife which pulses she ground for the cakes but the bitch didn’t want to tell me. Maybe the Neandertal ground them himself. I resisted the urge to sit next to the Neandertal. My husband would probably blow his lid. He was suspicious of the whole affair. The Neandertal dwarfed him. My husband carried his weapon on him all the time but the Neandertal didn’t need to. He just watched constantly. And sniffed.

from the short story project DYSAUTONOMIA. Comments and discussion welcome on blog entries. Follow me on twitter for updates to this serial story and future stories from this ongoing project

Sunday, September 9, 2012

"Breakfast with Neandertals" Part 1





“The new neighbors invited us for breakfast”, I told my him. I was grinding wheat outside.

“Which neighbors?” He asked. “You don’t mean the giant rats hiding in the caverns?” My husband lounged under a deerskin nearby, smoking. “They’re not exactly our neighbors”, he said after a pause. “Anyway I thought they were moving out this summer.”

“How am I supposed to know! They can’t speak.” Little by little giant raindrops began to fall. I pulled a hardened deerskin over my workspace, and pulled my baskets close.

“I thought you said they could speak”, my husband admonished me.

“They can speak to each other. And they sign.”

“You don’t have a hard time speaking to one of them from what I heard.” His pupils were luminous under the shade of the animal skin.

I shook my head. “I wasn’t talking to him. Where’s my barley?” The sharp rhythm against the grindstone broke the air as I worked.

“What were you doing then?” my husband asked.

“I showed him where the red berries are.” I said, breathing with the rhythm of the rolling motion.

“What a fucking faggot!” My husband lay unmoving. “Where’s his wife? And why does he whack off at the creek?”

“How am I supposed to know!”

Things started with the Neanderthal on the way back from the creek one day. Me, Nana, and my cousin’s wife went to get extra water. We saw him sewing outside, fashioning hide into clothing. They said he was looking at me. They mimed him ogling my tits while chewing on animal hide with his big teeth.

The Neandertal looked down at himself as we walked past. His Schwanz almost reached the ground. He walked over to us to peer into the jugs we carried. He couldn’t see their contents in the bright sun and haze. Smoke billowed from the caverns. He kept blinking. He gestured to the berries we picked. I told him I would show him where we picked them. The next day I showed him the best bushes in the upper meadow.

I thought the Neandertal didn’t have a wife. He didn’t wear a wedding amulet. But when we returned from the meadow I saw her inside. I could tell by the way she looked at me that she was his wife.

from the short story project DYSAUTONOMIA. Comments and discussion welcome on blog entries. Follow me on twitter for updates to this serial story and future stories from this ongoing project

Monday, September 3, 2012

Can the Varicella virus cause Vertigo?

Last night I dreamt the blisters had become big hanging protrusions of withered skin, with eruptions on top of existing patches, like lava slowly overtaking former flows. In my dream I touched a piled-up protrusion on my lower face, gingerly feeling the papery texture. It burned angrily after I touched it, like a cactus needle, in waves. I thought, “I’ll have to go back on the antivirals”. But in my dream I was somehow indifferent.

Tinnitus today in my right ear, resonating loudly like a tuning fork at a very high steady pitch. The hearing goes in and out, throwing off my balance again and again. A week ago while being treated with acupuncture my left ear was singing instead, the sound starting low and shifting ever higher until I could hear it no more. How strange. I imagined my left ear opening up and freeing as the frequency rose.

The rotational vertigo I had the last 6 years dissipated (that is it turned into dizziness) when I started Acyclovir anti-virals. I hope I can eventually look inside my inner ear and see whether the cysts in my outer ear are also plaguing my inner ear. Or perhaps there is some other obstruction interfering with my balance and hearing. I am hoping to look inside there and inside the brainstem as there have been a lot of migraine headaches and “body migraines” in my neck and shoulders. Walking on eggshells hoping the vertigo does not return.

The feeling of vertigo would not be alien to Mars dwellers due to the need to compensate for the lack of gravity on Mars. I imagine a giant flywheel at work, powering the systems needed for life on mars, with its inner sanctum employed for its positive effect on the human skeleton...

We’ve been going to the field archery range early mornings since camp ended. Today we left very early. It was cold when I got up. I walked with the dog through the Canyon while my son shot repeatedly at an Ace of Hearts affixed to a target board. I love standing among the singing arrows, anticipating their whoooosh and the sudden “THWAT!” when they hit the board. I feel as if time has stopped, as if I am walking through a Margaret Honda sculpture, slowly, carefully.