From the Blood of Conifers – Chapter 1: The Fog of War

by nielskunze on March 8, 2016

From the Blood of Conifers
De-Solving the Matrix; Dissolving the Veil

Bashiba's Breath

Bashiba’s Breath

Chapter 1 – The Fog of War

Through the wisps of indistinct dreams that seemed to hang in the night air like tattered and worn sheer curtains, a personality coalesced and fought toward awakening… toward the screaming alarm at the foot of the bed.

Patrick awoke in near-perfect darkness. Only a faint glow filled the uncurtained windows with enough light to see sweet fuck all. He climbed out of bed; it was time; and ambled according to some ingrained kinesthetic memory through the obstacle course of his modest basement suite toward the bathroom at the other end of the unwalled space. He paused a moment at the third window, the one in the kitchen, to look out across the street.

The lights from the buildings across the street were feeble diaphanous spheres contained in a thick and heavy fog. The lights were being swallowed by this inexorable foe, this daily visitor come to devour all sight and sensibility in the river-valley town. Only a gentle mist hovered over the surface of the lake, but where the rivers flowed, down near Patrick’s place, the movement churned up thick wads of opaque moisture– obscuring and bone-chilling.

“Fuck,” whispered Patrick, as he continued to the bathroom… as though there had been any hope at all that the fog wouldn’t settle in yet again. It was expected, inevitable… but that didn’t make it any more tolerable.

He sat on the toilet in absolute darkness, purging the last traces of visceral memory– of only just yesterday– from his aging, ailing body. The days were all mostly the same; best to just shit them out, not let them fester in monotony, inviting cancer, invoking pain. Patrick’s first morning dump was often the highlight of the day… and dawn hadn’t even revealed an inkling of arriving just yet.

Finally, he flicked on the bathroom light. Proper wiping required actual seeing; he wasn’t willing to perform the task by feel alone. And besides, if he didn’t turn on the light, there was a good chance that he’d fall right back asleep… right there on the toilet. And no one needs that kinda deep ‘ring around the rosy’ etched semi-permanently in their backside.

Having exited the stench-du-jour, Patrick then proceeded to flick on the lights in his open living space, and made his way to the nook he called the kitchen to begin the coffee procedure. He often thought it curious that only since he’d significantly cleaned up his diet, and had begun to intentionally detox, that now his morning defecations were so bizarrely aromatic. Sure, they still stank. Damn right they stank! But there was always something new, and unidentifiable… and nasty, rounding out the stench. Presumably, those new olfactory sensations were the dredged-up putrified remains of a careless youth finally being released. Kerplunk. Good riddance. To Patrick though, it seemed never-ending.

With coffee in hand, as was his routine, Patrick then plunked himself down at the computer, to begin his morning cyber-routine. There were all the web-sites and blogs on his Top Sites page needing to be scrutinized one by one for any signs of novel interest. Two or three a day might have curiosity’s irresistible hook, and Patrick would bite… and masticate… and even swallow… followed usually by cognitive indigestion for the rest of the day. Patrick was positively addicted to this agenda of trying to make sense of all of the news coming in from the front– the war front, that is.

It was the War on Terror, the War on Drugs, the War on Cancer, the War on The Middle Class, the War on The 99%, the War on Math, the War on Wall Street, the War in The Middle East, the War on Guns– now that was a good one! It was just one giant War on Common Sense, or simply the War on Truth. On his better days, Patrick thought it was the War FOR Truth. The truth of it was, though, that it all just made his head swim…

Ah, the internet– all you can eat at the information buffet!

Patrick had just poured his second cup of coffee when there was a knock at the door. “Shit! That can’t be Jeffrey already.” It was still twenty minutes too early. He hadn’t even had his second shit.

It was Jeffrey– smiling-his-mother-fucking-ass-off Jeffrey!

“Why are you here?” droned Patrick backing away from the door, retreating into his living space. “You’re way too fucking early.”

“I tried calling,” explained Jeffrey cordially. “Your phone must be off… since last night.” He said it in a way that lacked even the tiniest trace of accusation or judgment. The very inflection of his voice was a shrug saying “No big deal.” He said it almost cheerfully. Fucking Jeffrey! Fucking cheerful Jeffrey! It was a big deal to Patrick– putting this very real chink in his morning routine.

“I haven’t even had my second shit yet!”

That made Jeffrey flinch, ever so slightly. (It had been Jeffrey– for the most part– after all, who had persuaded Patrick to finally begin cleaning up his life. Jeffrey knew the importance of shitting.) The flinch lasted perhaps a nanosecond, and then Jeffrey was overcome with cheerfulness once more. “I have to stop off at Gram’s,” he explained, as Patrick hurried to get his things together. “There’s something I need to pick up before work.”

“Why can’t we stop by after work?” insisted Patrick, still trying to salvage the possibility of that second shit.

“Gram insisted,” said Jeffrey, hoping that was explanation enough. And knowing that it wasn’t, he added “She’s got this thing about timing.”

“Isn’t she dead yet?” said Patrick heartlessly. “No offense,” he quickly added, and then plowed on. “I mean, how the fuck old is she now anyway?”

Jeffrey might’ve been a bit taken aback, but he answered quite cheerfully nevertheless. “What? She’s only a hundred and six.” And with all that righteous good cheer mixed in you just couldn’t tell if Jeffrey was being sarcastic or perfectly serious– like people are supposed to live to a hundred and six!

Patrick was dressed now. He always drank his coffee from a to-go mug anyway, so that was no problem to take along. “Just let me fill my water bottle,” he said, rinsing it in the sink. Jeffrey remained in silent good cheer… and somehow that irked Patrick, as he made his way over to the distiller. “Oh, and my insulin,” he said, grabbing the pouch from the counter. He filled the bottle from the reservoir, took a little sip, and they were quickly out the door.

Patrick and Jeffrey were on their way to Gram’s.

Go to the Next Chapter of From the Blood of Conifers

Leave your comment


Required. Not published.

If you have one.