Planet Ezzie (39. Proof of Life)


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I’m alive.

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.

Planet Ezzie (38. Goddess Complex)


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I just keep reading over these lunatic blog posts that I’ve written lately. Do they run … jog memories? No, not really. What concerns me most is that everything that I can verify actually happened, maybe not the out-of-body experiences, the flying or … gulp … Orbville. Obliviously … obviously, the tornado happened. I can see the damage. I was teaching Tommy horn lessons, but that has stopped. I don’t know if that was Tommy’s instigation or his mother’s. Someone who looked like me that Tommy calls Beatrice interfered with him. I would not do such a thing, but that was during my lapsed period. His friend, Laura, who I mentioned in a blog has phoned to ask for lessons, or at least her mother has. I can’t consider that until I feel better.

Was I having some kind of psychotic episode or prolonged fugue state? It is hard to tell. I just don’t remember any of it.

How do I feel physically? The web of scars makes me feel like I have a horrible sunburn, and I still have tremors once a day or so. Practicing my horn seems to calm them. Maybe it is the vibration of the sound that puts me back in rhythm.

The succubus, Beatrice or Crystal – whoever it was, is gone. The henna is a distant memory. The coven won’t speak to me, although I was able to determine that I presided over a full moon ritual, and that they have little recollection of what took place after we cut the circle until the lightning strike. Mass amnesia. They were all at my house when they came around after I was torched.

Speaking of the house. I had to clean up after a prodigious amount of sexual activity. What a mess! It is clean now, although it still smells like semen. I think I’m going to need new carpets, as there are a number of stains. After visiting my doctor, it appears that I was pregnant, so they performed a D & C just in case there were any remnants of the fried embryo remaining in there. I find that sad, as I’ve never been likely to have children, yet if anything about this episode was true, this could have been a demon child. No thanks.

Incidentally, my eyes did turn blue, and my hair is now a red fuzz. My head-shrinker … err, doctor expected it to grow back white, but that seems not to be the case. He has no explanation for my hair turning red. It was likely a recessive gene in my DNA, considering my family history, but that doesn’t explain why it would change so suddenly, or at all. Incidentally, I do look younger than I remember. The web of lies … um, scars completely avoided my face, and I’m starting to think that they will explode … eek! … fade. It’s just a hunch, considering how they have healed in the past week. My recovery has been all but Miracle Whip … gad! … miraculous.

There is another thing that is still nagging at me. I’ve been having out-of-body dreams, or even daydreams. I think about somewhere, and I have a vivid dream that I’m there. Once I realize that it can’t be true, I’m back. I also have a clear image of the Orb, what it looks like, feels like, and smells like. Maybe that is just my imagination playing tricks on me.

I met Diana today. She lives around the corner with a clear view of my back yard. She was out walking with her mother when I went out to get the mail. (Apparently Beatrice wasn’t paying the bills.) Diana ran up to me and hugged my leg. Neither I nor her mother knew what to make of it. She kept pointing at me as they walked away, and that’s when I noticed her pink coat had unicorns embroidered all over it.

Was it all true, or am I falling off the cliff again?

Planet Ezzie (37. The Letter)


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I am back home. My body feels like I’ve been struck by lightning, probably because I was. They tell me I will never be a star … erm, the same. The eclectical … electrical system in my body has been jumbled up totally, and who knows when or if it will recover. My ears have only just stopped ringing. I was lucky that my eardrums didn’t burst. I have a pencil-thin web of scars (burn marks?) up and down my torso and legs, which I assume will never go away. They said it was an unusual pattern, distributing the current, rather than a straight path from my head to my feet. A freak pattern from a freak bolt of lightning.  I asked them to shave my head yesterday, since my hair was melted and mottled.

They have told me that I’ll be prone to seizures, but I haven’t had any yet, unless you count the tremors that I’ve been having on occasion. I’ve also had some amnesia. The past two weeks are completely gone, unless you count the dreams, ones that I would discount completely if it weren’t for the letter I received today, which seemed to align with the delusional blog posts from the past month or so. Before the two-week gap, the previous month is pretty fuzzy, too. My frog … blog helps to fill things in, but I don’t know what is real and what is fantasy.

No one will walk with … err, talk to me. Wilf has gone home, but Ben might come stay with me next week. My parents are afraid to fly, but they are happy that I’m on the mend.

This letter is the most ridiculous. It purports to be from me, but it is written in crayon in the printing of a child:

Dear Ezzie,

If you are receiving this message, you have survived. I don’t know how much you remember, but you have greatly wronged the neighbor boy, Tommy. That was the only way you could induce the lightning strike. You had to be so angry with Beatrice that your subconscious would lash out to kill her. She was in your body, which needed to die, at least long enough for her to be cast out of it. I only hope that Thaddeus stopped her from going too far with Tommy.

Believe your blog. It is true. All of it. You have survived probably because you helped Diana “accidentally” dial 9-1-1 just before the carnage to get the emergency services close by.

This was the only way. There was no Plan B.

Tommy may never speak to you again, but keep an eye on him, if you can, as well as Diana, who is writing this letter for us. You are her unicorn.

Yours … well … You,

Gaia Esmeralda Dryar

I’m still processing this. I’m alive, and that is what matters. The writer knew my full name, and that is saying something. Maybe I will regret surviving. The road ahead will be difficult. I’ve taken leave from work for the time being, and I still seem to be able to play my horn, but I want to be 100% before I return. It wouldn’t be a good idea for me to have a seizure on stage.

I am definitely not 100% now.

Tommy’s post on my blog was disturbing. I’m very sad about Thaddeus. I don’t remember him, but I regret my part in his death.

My house was a complete shambles when I arrived home. It looked like someone had an orgy here. That would be in keeping with my blog, which, if it were true, would mean that I’m three weeks pregnant. Did anyone check that at the hospital? They wouldn’t expect a single woman my age to be pregnant, and until now, I didn’t know it was a possibility. I assume the lightning strike would have ended that. I can’t imagine that the embryo would survive 30,000 amps of current. I have a follow-up appointment in a couple of days, so I’ll bring it up with my doctor.

I need some sleep in my own slime … um, bed for the first time in days. I’ll clean up later. (Ick! Dried semen everywhere. Maybe I’ll find some clean shirts … sheets first.)