He said, she said.

A unified structure of vocalisation?

“A unified structure of everything? That would be very undesirable. We need a few cracks here and there. A few mistakes in the pattern, a few cracks to let the light in".

Leonard Cohen almost sang that.

He said, she said.

“…and look" she could almost hear him say, “Memories are just not just digital. They are more that ones and zeros. They are fluff, grunge and lint as well. Puppy dog tails and moonbeams, something or other." he stuttered and stumbled into muttering,

“You know - you know, what that ridiculous singing nun was on about! That wasn’t a code!"

It was her memory speaking aloud and she wondered again about coffee, deep thoughts in her vast kitchen. He definitely wasn’t here. It must be her. It often seemed he
did
talk in a code. Phrases repeated like this, a stuttergun of words for emphasis. Slow, deep tones for added gravitas. She’d become adept. She watched him speak in measured clips when in public but the codes were stilll there, fainter but still distinguishable.

They had Italian metal octagonal pots for ages. Horribly awkward. Her teeth grating as she tried to get screws to mesh. Half remembered eras of filter papers. They’d had long theoretical arguments about the best way to fold the papers. They were arguments about the theory, then arguments about the theory of arguments and off they went down a familiar recursive spinning rabbit hole, her mind now, rotating in reverie. Anti-clockwise spin she noted in passing.

She started and shook with a shudder. Her body was actually spinning. She’d been standing so long that she’d almost passed out. Her body woke up in self preservation as she’d started to fall,
“This pedantry will be the death of me," she said aloud, to no one in particular. A curt rejoinder to her peristaltic musing.

She’d read about erythropoietin, the proteins the kidneys produced when there was decreased oxygen level in the blood. It delivered a low level adrenaline hit. Quite similar to the body’s automatic response to any threat. She took deep breaths and turned to the coffee conundrum.

“Filters or cafetière?".
The vast gleaming machine still floundered in the corner of the counter. She remembered, another shudder, when they’d bought it. A shocking amount of money. An over large black and chrome man-toy. He’d quickly had got tired of cleaning and polishing it, the impenetrable instruction manual in 15 languages and reliably shit cold coffee. None of it made any sense. The instruction text appeared to be autotranslated from an obscure philosophical tract. It had nothing much to do with production of hot beverages. A lyrical homage to a single estate bean and other obscurantist drivel.

She sighed. She mostly drank tea now anyway. Their ritual of coffee in bed was a lingering memory, overwhelmed ennui. Now, the dogs wet nuzzling tipped her into action. Their demand for food, to be let out for bladder relief on the yellowing postage stamp back lawn, all urgent. The only flurry in the daytime routine they all agreed on.

Maybe a coffee after all. She caught a breath and coughed. Laughing and coughing at the same time. That almost counts as exercise. She sank into the sofa smiling at the old joke. Today all the inanimate objects in the house did seem threatening . That was new. She had imagined the vacuum cleaner, growled at her as she walked past?. She was sure it lived under the stairs but it was in the corridor. Did she leave it out? She rummaged through yesterday’s desultory attempts at training the house.

Maybe a lucid dream? Isn’t there a test? You pinch yourself? Maybe. Or you get someone else to pinch you. Her mind stumbled. Would that would require someone else to be in the dream as well? She tried to grasp this thought when both dogs sauntered in, chattering. They nodded simultaneously and continued on as if nothing was amiss,
“Were you just talking?" She said aloud. They looked round at the sound of her voice. They both lifted their shoulders in a Gallic shrug kind of way,
“If you guys and the vacuum are in cahoots…". Her mind trailed off into silence. She wasn’t sure if she said that aloud. Eyes misty, heavy, the room moved a little anti-clockwise. A mind was melding with a sofa.

D.V.S. - He said, she said.
Created

28–02–2018