We drove south
To find it
With nothing
Apparently
Under it
Not even itself
It had lifted
Unparented
Itself
Up
And up from us
The farther we drove
It just moved away from us
Like a mountain
It was a mountain.
Maybe not
Alma
Hi.
Trim Bissell:WhentheAirCleared 1968
The enclosure. It is difficult to tell its dimensions; not one of us has walked its full distance or ascended the entire height. We live within defined limits; we are shuffled or escorted through familiar hallways. I suspect that the enclosure is the size of a small village although with none of the villagers’ amenities; in height it may be several hundred yards although eyesight is undependable and the roof, visible at any point, seems to waver and shake with cranings of the head. The climate is controlled; the atmosphere is adjusted for our peculiarities; the personnel who administer it for us are replaced regularly and do not seem to have continuing shifts. Perhaps they do not like it, then, but we are told that it was originally constructed as an “alien environment,” so there is no reason why they should. This is our home. I regard it as such.
Now and then our therapists (who also change frequently) grant us reports from the Outside; indicate that certain outcomes have emerged from our suggestions, that various breakthroughs have been achieved by our aid. At one time I thought that these words were of much significance and that it was only a matter of time until we were given a full release with apologies and gratitude. Each progress report brought us closer. Now I know differently: our therapists are being patronizing. Nevertheless, I accept the news with thanks; it is good to hear that they are aware of us Outside and that the irretrievable alteration of their lives continues.
I am not happy in the enclosure. How could I be? Nevertheless, I am content. I walk, meditate, engage in metaphysical discussions with my therapists (after I have given them the desired facts for the day), avoid meetings of the tribe, fornicate joyously with females who accept me, sleep eight to twelve hours otherwise, and in all ways try to live an ordered existence without rage. I am not aggrieved. I blame no one for what has happened to us, for I volunteered into the mission. There is no culpability, only circumstance. Circumstance is all.
Now and then, less frequently than in the past, I will emerge from strangled dreams: dreams of many colors, in which I have shouted through corridors; and after these dreams it is several hours or days until I can reconstitute myself around this familiar, acquired personna. These dreams are some indication that I have not totally accepted my condition. Still, I can deal with them with far more composure than in the past and in the last extremity I reveal them to my therapist who prescribes effective if temporary drugs.
I will not let these dreams disturb me. They mean nothing. The past is of no significance, it has no relation: it is only the enclosure and the rooms, the therapist and these notes, the slow, kindly gestures of even the coldest of the females as they envelop me. Sex is warmth, always.