Assignments In Mordor

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It couldn’t work except that this unique striving seemed to generate crests of breaking Hawaiian turquoise-white chambers of balsam waters (across the agentive cellular regions of his brain-nous) certain cooling warmths and smoothings of his nervous system and the emotional optics of time and peo

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Assignments in Mordor
by William Alexander Patterson ©
alias, Christian Fowler ©




He stood out on the deck of his house over the eucalyptus canyon with its nine meter stilts. He put his hands forward. There was still time. He felt for his pencil in his pocket and took it out, held it, then put it behind his ear.


   Mordor was in his past. He had come back from that. The contracts were no longer forthcoming and he was no longer a younger man, capable of signing for such brutal assignments. He was finished with doing the moral laundry of his superpower “homeland”; conscience-laundry where others would not risk to go, except for the military might and the consulates on whose inner peripheral he had existed and toiled to build terrible things like an elusive witch.


   But  that was beside the case. He wanted something now that he couldn’t define. It had to do with catching glimpses and then coming back down to the ground in order to ground. To return to Mordor and sit and watch more carefully. And to be left alone. To see the people again with innocent eyes without the lenses that began to build while there and those acquired since.


   So many, too many acquired since. He had let go of the real people: the photographs, each to his particular mode of being who he really is, was, in his mind, looking to the camera for once to really show it. It had been a mistake. To let them go. There was little mistaking that in twenty years most of these he let go would be dead. That is not what he wanted. It was, he concluded, an impossible dream. Impossible to recollect the last time he saw these men before the impossible necessity of the world six years in the future when none of the trust… he had lost them, he had lost knowledge of the brotherhood of love that they accepted from him, that rarest of dispensations universally and it happened there. There.


   He had seen death there. Accidental deaths, two, both small children, little girls. One doomed, the other, a nasty, regionally brooding circumstance. Of which a little girl of seven knows Nothing. He had known her, been at the pool one day and watched her playing with her father in the pool, been introduced to her lovely South African parents, young and friendly beyond much that he had previously known, not only there but in any of his experiences; they thought it would be safer here, across the Causeway on the Emirate Island, than in the Compounds in the Aramcon communities.  Events that summer that had rocked the Kingdom turned!, a terrible phrase, but turned, in the as… they might be, might have been, the lovely South African parents might have been right or wrong in either direction and in ways impossible to foresee in the announced, hushed and censored, sneeringly peculiar and gossiped theory of security (unnamed) in the Eastern Province of the Kingdom. There were so many holes plugged with worry and some with real thought and care in the unguided official consulate versions.

   But the little girl loved the pool. With her little safety floaters around her arms, yelling and splashing with delight, she herself was delightful and would warm most cold hearts. Then she was dead; drowned in the pool. The company immediately arranged for a little coffin and flights back to England where the lived and had their residence. Then the family came back after a month or two. Then the other: killed instantly, standing in the middle of a desert off-road road  (the parents whom to his knowledge he had never known but who were known and spoken of by the loosely tied to him but loyal South African friend of his, the same who had introduced him to the other family) and the Englishman in the Jeep speeding around the blind corner of a dune.

   Never mind Riyadh. Never mind the European and American and Australian and South African and Canadian parents shielding their children from the enormous impacts of bomb blasts, putting their bodies on top of their children on the floor. That's right. That's how it was. The reader should be in no doubt.

   He stared out over the high deck blankly and grieved. Grieved till he could no longer stand it. He rushed back inside. He needed to take the quick and therefore near-as-can-get irrevocable decision to sleep.  It was the only chance he had to quickly kill off the full effects of the transpiration. He pulled the blinds for near complete darkness and eventually in some odd process of time he made it to sleep, perhaps more easily than he would have thought possible outside of sleep.

The next day he went to town to have a large latte coffee. He looked around and took in all the impressions he could outside of conventional tinkering with his perceptions; he wanted to retrieve life. He had no family, or, he was estranged from any relatives.


   He took a seat at a table where there was already a much younger man at his notebook on the Wi-Fi connection. He took his out as well. America was a generous place: the younger man lifted his head with an immediate smile and said that the seat was free and that there was room for both of them on the small table next to the window! He returned to his notebook: everything was normal for the younger man. He tried to remember his way back to this ease of relations and, and how clocks worked not as a timeless series of dulled consternations.


    It couldn’t work except that this unique striving seemed to generate  crests of breaking Hawaiian turquoise-white chambers of balsam waters (across the agentive cellular regions of his brain-nous) certain cooling warmths and smoothings of his nervous system and the emotional optics of time and people. The crooked piles of pain were turned to layers of balsam and nothing was altered.


   The staggering giants of  brooding were reduced to mint and unicorns and his eyes impressioned back into reality like ancient marbles thrown, tossed and sorted by child Pharaohs.


   He walked home into his Berkeley hills and summoned the possibilities. Nothing has changed. He felt no changes to who he was. This summoning attracted his heart to the people and houses and trees and dogs and cats and cars and old tarpaulin covered wrecks of different backyard and street things around him. It felt to him like he was letting go. And he probably was.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

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Previous edit

He stood out on the deck of his house over the eucalyptus canyon with its nine meter stilts. He put his hands forward. There was still time. He felt for his pencil in his pocket and took it out, held it, then put it behind his ear.

  Mordor was in his past. He had come back from that. The contracts were no longer forthcoming and he was no longer a younger man, capable of signing for such brutal assignments. He was finished with doing the moral laundry of his superpower “homeland”; conscience-laundry where others would not risk to go, except for the military might and the consulates on whose inner peripheral he had existed and toiled to build terrible things like an elusive witch.

  But  that was beside the case. He wanted something now that he couldn’t define. It had to do with catching glimpses and then coming back down to the ground in order to ground. To return to Mordor and sit and watch more carefully. And to be left alone. To see the people again with innocent eyes without the lenses that began to build while there and those acquired since.

  So many, too many acquired since. He had let go of the real people: the photographs, each to his particular mode of being who he really is, was, in his mind, looking to the camera for once to really show it. It had been a mistake. To let them go. There was little mistaking that in twenty years most of these he let go would be dead. That is not what he wanted. It was, he concluded, an impossible dream. Impossible to recollect the last time he saw these men before the impossible necessity of the world six years in the future when none of the trust… he had lost them, he had lost knowledge of the brotherhood of love that they accepted from him, that rarest of dispensations universally and it happened there. There.

  He had seen death there. Accidental deaths, two, both small children, little girls. One doomed, the other, a nasty, regionally brooding circumstance. Of which a little girl of seven knows Nothing. He had known her, been at the pool one day and watched her playing with her father in the pool, been introduced to her lovely South African parents, young and friendly beyond much that he had previously known; they thought it would be safer here, across the Causeway than in the Compounds. Strong events that summer that had rocked the Kingdom turned, a terrible phrase, but turned that they might have been right now or wrong either way and in ways impossible to foresee even in the theory of security in that particular region.

  But the little girl loved the pool. With her little safety floaters around her arms, yelling and splashing with delight, she herself was delightful and would warm most cold hearts. Then she was dead. Then the other: killed instantly, standing in the middle of a desert off-road road, the parents just letting her stand there, and the Englishman in the Jeep speeding around the blind corner of a dune.

  Never mind Riyadh.

  He stared out over the high deck blankly and grieved. Grieved till he could no longer stand it. He rushed back inside. He needed to take the quick and therefore near-as-can-get irrevocable decision to sleep; it was his only chance of healing the transpiration: he pulled the blinds for near complete darkness and closed his eyes and tried to clear his mind and sleep. He eventually made it to sleep.

 

The next day he went to town to have a large latte coffee. He looked around and took in all the impressions he could outside of conventional tinkering with his perceptions; he wanted to retrieve life. He had no family, or, he was estranged from any relatives.

  He took a seat at a table where there was already a much younger man at his notebook on the Wi-Fi connection. He took his out as well. America was a generous place: the younger man lifted his head with an immediate smile and verbally expressed that the seat was free and that there was room for both of them on the small table next to the window! He returned to his notebook: everything was normal for the younger man.

   He tried to remember his way back to this ease of relations and, and everything. It seemed it couldn't work except that by what the effort did do was create a palliative in his mind, a cooling warmth and smoothing of his nerves and the emotional optics of time and people in his mind. The crooked piles of pain were turned to layers of balsam.

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