Every day I wake up in the morning, I remind myself of this. I was six times dead.
Six times dead.
On the seventh try, my heart kept beating. Not only was my survival a miracle, but I could be a vegetable, suffering from seizures, scarred from head to toe, burnt to a crisp. I could be a burnt crisp, err potato chip. I could be one of those hard black French fries from the bottom of the basket.
After three weeks my web of scars is nearly invisible. I returned to the orchestra today. It was a modest program of Schubert and Mozart. Yes, I still get the odd tremor, but nothing at all during rehearsal. I still have the odd embarrassing slip, and it is almost always about selkies … err, sex.
May I have hot tea with cum in it? Hmm. That’s not what I normally drink, but the waiter knew what I meant. I’m a regular there, and he’s become accustomed to my absurdities. It’s a small cafe a short walk from the concert hall. It serves healthy junk food, if there is such a thing. Their owner is an aging prog rocker, so they always seem to be playing Genesis or Peter Gabriel on the Hi-fi, perhaps a little too loudly, but in spite of my current looks, I’m a child of that generation.
I’m still startled by my appearance in a mirror. Yes, I’ve dyed my hair many times, but the blue eyes are a sign of something that I cannot change. And to have the body of a twenty-something in my fifties … well, isn’t that every woman’s dream? In certain light, the scars shine. I look like an alien, or at least a human wearing a full-body skin-tight net.
Can Tommy see me? According to my blog, that stopped during the ritual. What would happen if I put the henna back on? Actually, I’m glad that he can’t anymore. I don’t really remember that time very well, but I shudder thinking of it, especially with him deep in the full throes of puberty.
I taught Laura her first lesson yesterday. She isn’t the raw talent that Tommy is, but she caught on really quickly … really quickly. We seem to have a connection. She reminds me of myself at her age. Carefree and driven at the same time. She’s going to drive Tommy mad. I don’t know why I wrote shit … um, that. Tommy prefers her twin. Right? I mean Laura is a bit by bit copy, isn’t she? In one hour, I felt like I’ve know her all my life.
I’ve seen them before. Both of them. Yes, my blog tells me I have touched them in spirit, but I’ve never met them in the flesh before. It’s so uncanny that it makes me believe my raving missives more and more.
I’m still having naked out-of-body dreams. It doesn’t matter whether I am asleep or awake. I followed Laura home. Leane met her outside and stared right at me. Suddenly, I was back in my kitchen cooking dinner. Was it real, or was it my imagination.
It had to be my imagination.
Just like the two phone calls I received today. The Indianapolis Symphony wan’t me to play a solo with the orchestra. Ten minutes later, the Pittsburgh Symphony phoned. The ISO is two years on, but the PSO wants me in the spring. Someone backed out. It’s a new piece by a young composer. That’s right up my leg … hip … street. That’s why they asked me. With the ISO, I can choose my repertoire. I’ll have to think about that. Hmm … I have some friends (a few … maybe) … composer friends. Maybe I’ll see if they will write something for me. They’ll have to do me quick … write it quickly.
It seems nobody will talk to me, but everyone needs me. Laura will talk to me. She likes to talk. Apparently, that is what differentiates her from Leane. Leane is a thinker, not a talker. Two sides of the same coin. Different souls in two identical bodies. Tommy may prefer thinkers, but Laura will command his attention.
How do I fucking know this?
I am a Goddess. In my own mind, I am. I’m just going to sit and play with my Orb, maybe out on the patio. My spirit won’t even notice the 6 inches of snow out there. Right.
You think I’m a prick … err, joking.
Maybe I am, but the prospect has its allures. I must say, however, that the Orb is becoming increasingly corporeal. I can picture it now floating above my computer, benignly observing. It is beautiful. I am naked. Yes, I often am when I’m blogging. (No webcam, sorry.)
Although it looks like glass, it is soft and warm to the touch. I know this in my imagination. Its touch is reassuring, almost sensual. The image inside is wrong, too. Well, not wrong, but not what I would expect. It’s inverted, but it isn’t my room I’m seeing. There is verdant foliage. I can’t make out any details.
This is silly. I’m becoming delusional again. I should go to bed now.