Her Thoughts Disperse when the Pedestrian Lights Turn Green

There is a mature woman walking week-days in the city, whose name is Xenon Trun, and whose thoughts are those in pure light. When she moves on the streets she radiates and it is in all, she in whom the realm of life takes its stand; she who dwells in those who walk with her pursuing their daily deeds. The lights go tomato red and peppermint green and she is released and she follows and then leads, just like others going in the same direction. Her daughters ask as she leaves for work: “Why do you walk in deep with the crowds, mother?” And she replies “because I am as much of them as they are of me”.  For although she has a biological family, her family is also the crowd.  “I operate undetected within the thoughts of each who walk in crowds, and I am invisible to them. I am revealed only when I stumble, or I walk into someone, but then I might be recognised and helped, or I remain intangible, dwelling in the intangible.”

She lives in those with whom she walks. She moves in them and she leaves them as quickly as she has entered them. She walks with those upright or bent, and in those who sleep as they walk. She is the site of those who talk as they sleep. She is anonymous, for she is just one in the crowd.

“I am the invisible one in the crowd” say her thoughts as she silently passes them to her passing listeners. “I care for those who feel hidden, since I know the realm of crowds and all who are in them”. She who is numberless among numbers. She speaks softly as though she is the calming silence which surrounds the walking, streaming, bustling mass of pedestrians. Her hidden voice passive thought in the immeasurable noise.

She arrives daily from the suburban fringes, alights at the central station, and beneath the underworld of skyscrapers she shines in their dark shadows: a radiant luminescence. She is a spreading dawn over troubled thoughts and feeling which are weighed down by the scale of their daily intentions. A universal moan resonates when she inwardly sings, one car horn after another until they sound as one, and the crowd unconsciously recognize it as their own, since the seed of questioning still lives in them. She is in their thoughts, and through them comes her voice: enriched by words which is the knowledge of crowding things. She is joined to the unknowable and the intangible. She reveals herself in all who unknowingly think of her, through hidden thought and constraining voice, a voice from the invisible outside.

She is likely to leave the visible world at any time when her work, not her office work, appears done and the surrounding people are enlightened by her wisdom emanating from her radiance, her fine voice. And Xenon who is hidden within will be paid the ultimate homage of being left behind in history’s memory as the last.

Her proud elderly father tells of her utter and unspeakable mystery to his elderly bowling club friends. It was he who tore her personality away from schooling and it was he who broke the chains of her inner troubles, the same restraints which bound him, which he failed to overcome. It was he who overthrew the prejudices against her, who reminded her of teenage embarrassments and who rejected her first crush. Love is an evil force which tries to harm her, the tyrant, the adversary, the king, and the real enemy. Xenon’s mother had left him bereft after the divorce, taking his daughter’s love for him with her.

When Xenon’s mother left her, never to return, when she was eighteen, her mother left Xenon a secret note tucked into the pocket of her leather school bag.  I am the first who fought for my portion of life before it was left behind, she wrote. I am like the spirit in the soul, which came from living springs, immersed in its effervescent mysteries. I speak and love and fondness also speak, she wrote. I walked with its language and spoke of its mysteries as it were my own, a hidden mystery, and the constraints of life and oblivion were nullified. And I bore fruit in them, the thought of the unchanging eternal realm, and in my house, my children, and now my former husband. And I have gone away because I do not love him she wrote, and your love will leave him and find me instead. Fifteen years later Xenon is still walking the same city footpaths and circumstances as her mother’s, an office worker herself.

Xenon’s son is perfect in every respect, for he has closed his ears to his father. He is the word which originated through her, who came as the first born, who has hidden within him her maiden name, which is light. Her son reveals the everlasting, and his entire known is unknown to his father. And his whereabouts are unknown to the family. The babe has probably gone to heaven. He is what is difficult to interpret and what is secret, and when he returns to the family he will reveal himself to them, when darkness which grieves them has lifted, and to clarify the reasons why he left his mother and sisters without anger, and his father with fury.

Now the voices which come from Xenon’s thought are sourced by three distinct emotional burdens; herself as her mother, her husband, and her son. There are three personalities, three powers, and three names. They are joined together in a triangle, each point eying the other, each point in tension with the other. They cannot exit and be real. Her daughters on the other hand are the rational, the steady, the insistent. Xenon listens to them when they speak to her face to face, at the breakfast table, at dinner, and sometimes in the bathroom. Their voices are perceptible because they are intense; words springing forth occasionally with spittle.

They each were self appointed masters of separate household realms. Her husband was master of the rooftop and the shed where he could shout the loudest or cry alone. It was only after he had exhausted himself that he would call for a ladder and come down from the roof, or when he asked for his dinner to be brought to the shed which stood exposed, a yellow corrugated iron shed, large enough for one man and a bench, or two small children and a bench, at the farthest end of the backyard.

She was master of the kitchen and the bedroom. She often ate alone, or with her daughters. She would also sleep alone. The bedroom has an en-suite and a secret door. She went through that door when Xenon’s husband came home drunk, smelling of urine and reeking of debauchery. The door led to her daughters’ bedroom. She would get into bed with one or the other and cry herself to sleep. Whenever he was too drunk to get up on the roof in the morning she gave him his breakfast in the shed.

Her son was conceived when he had been sober, had not got on the roof, nor had he gone to his shed. It was a luminous moment before the pressures of his personality which wound together into an ugly knot called his life had completely fallen away, when he saw his wife as the one he truly loved. It was a tender night, soon forgotten in the maelstrom of the pressures, and her son was born on schedule, his father doubting his part in the miracle and demanding that Xenon prove his paternity.

Her son was master of his bedroom. No one entered without his permission. The door was locked when he was away. His walls were adorned by posters of his favourite Goth bands. Black bed linen lay unruly on his bed bunk. A black bible sat on a small return. A full length mirror stood beside a narrow wardrobe. When he stood before the mirror the glass distorted his shape. Sometimes he was tall and thin, his head like a peg, his body like a strip of ragged rayon. At other times he was as broad as he was tall, and looking like a deformed cannonball. He never wanted to be normal. He called himself X. When X left home he took the key to his bedroom door with him.

Then on a city street there appeared her former husband, the man-demon who once ruled over the lower parts of her being and the chaos that was her household. He appears to have no form or perfection beneath his WW2 German overcoat. Rather, he is like an opaque worm conceived in dank earthen chambers, his head combed over with a few black strands of hair. Now, he is Xenon’s bane, formerly known as Roger Trun, the true father of X, who also has two daughters who do not speak to him: he who has lost his power, having had it stolen away by the devious Xenon. He had emerged from an alleyway and came toward her and tried to overpower her; but she became the light’s afterthought which suddenly expanded before this alcohol soaked demon.

She, in the afterthought of light screamed at this drunkard to leave her alone, and when he approached her strong words grew from her thoughts: “I will get another restraining order and he’ll breach it again and he’ll be given the right place to live in, then he will fall into endless disorder with his fellow inmates.” And her thoughts descended over the entire crowd nearby, who suddenly turned on this debased intruder and drove him away. She was blessed, and the higher order of justice temporarily yielded to her.

Days later, in a rage the demon Roger made wax effigies in her likeness in his shed, producing them out of his sheer will, for he has never made anything in his life, except life itself. While making them he was saying to himself, “Stop, stop, you woman who walks on strange matter. I am coming to you again, but this time from the world of sorcerers, for part of me was already there before I met you dear Xenon, my deceiver. You refuse me and my excellent plans for you. I know now that your life plan was, pre-determined by a saint who revealed himself naked to avowed believers dining on wafer and wine.” Everything in his shed, which stood in a disused dump on the city’s outskirts, shook as though hit by sonic waves, and the sludge nearby trembled.

Roger, in his guilt, is the creator of her indifference which reigned over the chaos at home, and in spite of this children were produced in his likeness. But he didn’t know that his creations were the unwritten decree of his marriage annulment, for he did not recognize the power of alcohol over him.

And soon he will be reaching the over-point of his own chaos. Then he will be hidden in it, empowering by it, and giving it a shape unrecognisable as Roger. When that day comes he will grant himself enormous power, evoked by ritual and silence, so that he will reveal himself to his son X, the son of his darkness.

 

 

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