A story of one soul during two lives
Transmigrant Blues by Indi Riverflow
Archive for the ‘Transmigrant Blues : Round 4’ Category
Is it the story of a girl having flashes from her past life?
…or a writer imagining his future destiny?
Is the girl insane? Is the writer vain?
“Sorrow sometimes teach a lesson well,
And I know that good can come from bad
So let’s look into that morning Star
‘Cause you know just who you are…”
“Maybe three months until you start showing symptoms, if that. From there, it’s rapidly downhill. Bedridden in six months. Your type of malignancy has a survival rate of about five percent at a year. There are always miracles, of course.”
Suicide suddenly seems very attractive.
Guns are for psychos; hanging and wrist slashing for halfhearted gestures. I’ve always been terrified of heights and there’s no way on Goddess’s green Earth I’m spending my last seconds watching a sidewalk or ocean rushing up on me. I’ve gotten plenty of that in cold-sweat nightmares.
Maybe this is the wrong approach. There is opportunity, true, to embrace death in my own fashion; but do I thereby win? Is blinking out with a minimum of discomfort and maximum dignity the only available goal? It seems meager.
Fortunately, I live not far from the hospital, and soon arrive in my crescent-shaped driveway, pulling in behind the RV and boat. I unravel the various locking mechanisms and punch in the alarm deactivation sequence.
The music turns queer, distorted, choppy, sounding nothing like the well-worn Israeli psy-trance tracks that I know I set to play. It’s as if it’s being twisted through a time warp, so I’m hearing some beats and tones before the ones they follow.
When I open my eyes she is before me, a radiant angel in a shimmering pale blue gown, quite literally glowing with K-glare and the background of strobes. Her lips are moving, but, curiously, making no sound; then I remember the fifty decibels of music, to which I had become totally numb. I quickly reduce it to conversation level.
I stretch and blow out a pungent cloud of smoke rings. “I want to go to a concert or rave every night for the rest of my life,” I declare, passing the joint. “Come party with me. We’ll spend all my money. We can have large orgies here. I want to dance my life away.”
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