Ursa Minor

“Five hundred years in the future…would you really plan that far ahead?”

Lee looked at Guin, who had stepped up to ask him for a dance while Neil showed Karen the basic steps of salsa.

“Farther.” She had asked him if he thought Star Trek was real, having been raised by her father on VHS copies of the original episodes, as well as The Next Generation on the tellie.

“Me, too!”

She walked him walked through the basic box shape of the rumba, quick quick slow, quick quick slow.

Lee smiled. He immediately felt a connection with Guin that transcended what he had felt with anyone else before.

Guin smiled back.  Lee reminded her of so much — her father, her brother, her sisters, her mother, a street lamp, a shirt mannequin, a puppy, a bobcat and many more.

“Do you believe in time travel?”

“Of course. You?”

“Have you been through the keyhole?”

“With a telescope.”

They stopped dancing and stared at each other.  They realized they were raised in the same code of Ursa Minor, the children’s chapter of the International Order of the Hibernating Bears, also known as Ursa Major.

“Are you…?”  Lee hesitated before finishing the question.

Guin’s eyes widened.  “I am.”

Lee shook his head in astonishment, What could he say?

During the initiation ceremony of Ursa Minor, each candidate is asked to dig deep into their thought set to see the sets of states of energy that best describe the timelessness of bearhood.  In your lifetime, the Chief Bear teaches, you will experience timeliness and timelessness.  Timeliness is riding a bus, trusting the bus driver while your thoughts wander toward what someone said to you at school the day before and how you were going to react when you got to school that day. Timelessness is a conversation that never started and never ends — the conversation is carried on from knowledge millions of years ago and millions of years into the future, running in millions of directions — tangential, parallel, imaginary, real, quantum entangled and/or gravitationally bound.  All of us participate in the timelessness conversation but most are so caught up in the timeliness mode that we miss how every action we take lasts forever.

They nodded at each other without saying a word.  They were bound for life, able to operate with each other on multiple levels at once, at slow pace and fast, inside time and outside time.

Lee cleared his throat. “Glad to finally meet you.”

She blinked and crinkled her eyelids through her glasses.  “It’s about time!” 

They laughed.

Neil led Karen over to them.

“Okay, I think I’ve got Karen ready to try the salsa with Lee.  Did you show him the lead part?”

“Umm, the lead part for rumba.”

Neil rubbed his chin. “You know, that might work.  We could call it a ralsa.”

Guin laughed. “Or a sumba!  Neil, I’ve got to go home and study for a rocket propulsion midterm tomorrow. Mind if I bow out of the rest of this quick lesson?”

“No, no. Go home. Your schoolwork is important, future rocket scientist!”

Guin waved goodbye to Lee and hugged Karen.  “You guys are going to be great, I know it. I’ll see you again soon!”

Neil clapped his hands together. “Okay, we’ve got work to do.  Which would you rather try together first, salsa or rumba?”

Ursa Major

In every network, nodes intersect.

Where nodes intersect, trunk lines form, combining streams of information multiplexed together like liquid pulled through tree roots, passed up the trunk and redistributed to branches, twigs and leaves.

Groups of people used to meet around campfires, along river embankments and in hilltop forts to accumulate and multiplex information gathered by their peers.

Information seeks the quickest route to travel — water flowing down a hill, photons passing around a galaxy via gravitational lenses, gossip in the hallway.

– – – – –

Ed’s phone vibrated.

He looked across the small wall separating his office from the dance floor. Everyone was busy either dancing or talking, just the way he liked to see his clients and instructors, no one left alone.

He read the text.

“Update?”

He responded. “Full class tonight.”

He received a smiley face in return.

– – – – –

That evening, several hundreds miles away, in an unused Dekalb-Peachtree Airport hangar, a pizza delivery truck pulled up.

The delivery man lifted a pizza warmer satchel from the back of the truck and pressed a buzzer on the hangar side door.

A bald Turkish man with a thick handlebar mustache opened the door and nodded the delivery man inside.

“What have you got for me?”  The question echoed in the hangar, coming from nowhere.

The delivery man held ou the satchel. “It’s the software and geotracker you ordered, placed in a Faraday cage as specified.”

A brown, hairy arm extended from a gap between two crates. “Give it here.  Your payment is already inside your truck.  You know your next delivery?”

“Neil in Huntsville.”

“That’s right.  He thinks it’s a special pizza order so make sure the local Papa Pie store makes a fresh, hot pizza in time for Neil’s delivery.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“You can call me Mama Bear.  Now go!”

The Turk, one hand on the semiautomatic machine gun hanging from his shoulder, escorted the delivery man outside.

– – – – –

Ed received another text from Mama Bear. “Order us four large pepperoni pizzas with extra cheese and marinara sauce on the side.”

Ed replied. “How soon do you need them?”

“Four hours from now.”

Ed replied with a wink emoji, then stood up.

“Hey, Neil!”

Neil had finished dancing a foxtrot with a woman he’d taught for six months, her understanding of dance steps just becoming clear.  “Yeah, Ed. Whatcha want?  We’ve still got 20 minutes left.”

“Come here a minute, willya?”

Neil tromped across the dance floor, pointing at Guin and giving her the thumbs-up on the quick progress she was making with Raubine.

“Yeah, boss, what is it? Got another client lined up for me?”

“You still moonlighting at night?”

“Well, sure, Ed.  Furniture moving, architectural rendering, pizza delivery…”

“You’re keeping busy.”

“You know how it is…”

“Sure I do.  You working the pizza job tonight?”

“Yeah. Why?”

“Do you mind making a delivery for me if I called it in?”

“If I’m available.”

“Of course, Neil. You can’t determine your route, can you?”

“I could ask, if I knew about what time you needed the pizza.”

“Two o’ clock.”

Neil pulled up the schedule app on his phone, then realized what Ed had said. “Hey, boss, we close at midnight.”

“Are you sure?”

“Of course I’m sure. It’s the same every weekday.”

“But this is Friday night.  Doesn’t Papa Pie stay open late on the weekend?”

Yeah, midnight, like I said.”

“If I could convince your manager to stay open later, would you mind putting in a little extra overtime?”

“Yes, if there’s a tip involved ’cause waiting around two hours after close ain’t gonna cut it if I could be at home finishing up a drawing.”

“It’s for a special party, if you know what I mean.” Ed patted Neil heartily on the back, winked and snickered.

“I get it, boss, but…”

“And I’ll make it worth your while.”

“Okay, Ed.  I’ll be there.  Now I’ve got to get back and help the new couple get comfortable on the dance floor.”

“New couple?”

“Yeah, Lee and Karen.”

“Go for it. I’ll see you at two.”

“If not before!”

The Next Work in Progress

“Is it exercise, love, or performance art that brought you here tonight?”

They spun around the room to a Viennese waltz, their arms held out in formation, firm but flexible.

She looked up at him admiringly, pressing the small of her back against his palm.  She wanted to say she came to the weekly dance lessons because of him but she knew she wasn’t the only woman who thought that about their handsome, older dance instructor.

“To learn how to hold my own as a follow.”

He smiled at her.  Less than a year earlier he had told his dance instructor the same thing, that he wanted to hold his own as a dance lead, starting out as a newcomer.

“Okay, we can do that.  But I ask one thing of you.”

“Yes?”

“You must be willing to practice.  A lot.”

“How much?”

The song stopped and he escorted her off the dance floor.

“How much time have you got each week to exercise?”

“Usually 30 minutes in the morning before I go to work and 30 minutes to an hour at night, depending on my social calendar.”

“Then give me your 30 minutes in the morning and at least three hours at night each week.  Can you do that?”

She sat in the chair he offered her.  She wanted to be with him as much as she could.  How many other women was he teaching?

“How much will this cost me?”

“Let’s talk about cost later.  No matter what, I will make it affordable for you.  Thank you again for a wonderful dance, Raubine.”  He bowed his head and turned to hold the hand of a woman seated nearby who had waved as he stepped off the dance floor, leading her silently to a clear spot on the floor just as a samba started.

Raubine visited the studio a week ago after buying a discount coupon on the Internet for a free dance lesson by the owner followed by one more lesson for $5 by an assigned instructor.

The dance studio owner, Ed Post, was a military veteran who had just celebrated 27 years of teaching ballroom dance styles.  His cartoonish smile and thinning hair made women feel at ease, especially when he showed them in their first lesson how much they didn’t know they already knew about basic footwork, musical rhythm and body posture.

After the first lesson, Ed assigned Raubine to Neil, a half-Irish, half-Greek dance instructor who had torn a ligament in his left knee while teaching Tae Kwon Do and had taken up ballroom dancing to rehabilitate his leg.

Neil’s torso was bulked up from years of body building.  Despite his bulk, he was graceful and charming on the dance floor, confident in his dance technique despite little training.

Raubine watched Neil’s samba moves on the dance floor, unaware he had only learned samba two weeks ago.

She sat and watched Neil take four different women on the dance floor, wondering if anyone would ask her to dance again during this two-hour open dance session when a young, bubbly blonde with a red face walked up to her.

“Hi! I’m Shelmi!  What’s your name?”

“Raubine.”

“Is this your first time?”

Raubine shook her head.  “How ’bout you?”

“Yep.  But I’ve danced before, just not a lot of ballroom.  You taking lessons with Neil?”

“Not yet.  I’m supposed to later tonight.”

“He’s great.  My friend Guin — that’s her over there — she taught Neil everything she knows.  Her and Ed, that is.”

Raubine nodded.  Guin was a tall brunette who had the flat feet and strong legs of a gymnast.  She was talking to Ed and laughing.

Shelmi reached out her hand.  “Do you mind dancing with me?  I’d love to practice the cha-cha.”

“I don’t know how…”

Shelmi scrunched her face.  “Pshaw!  The only way to learn is to try.  I promise I’ll only trip you a few times.”

Raubine allowed Shelmi to lift her to her feet and walked with her onto the dance floor.  Shelmi’s energy was infectious.  Her skin glistened and radiated heat which gave Raubine the impression that Shelmi must have been dancing all night.  Yet Raubine hadn’t noticed Shelmi on the dance floor.

Shelmi stood beside Raubine and walked her through the basic zig-zag follow pattern of cha-cha, then turned to face her and showed her the lead part.

“So, you wanna be lead or follow?”

Raubine was about to answer when Guin jumped in between them.

“Hey!  I’m Guin!  Who are you?”

Raubine was astonished by all the attention she was getting.  “I’m Raubine.”

“Hi, Raubine.  Shelmi, mind if I step in?”

Shelmi frowned.  “Well, I don’t know.  She’s already my date for this dance.  But if you insist…”

“I owe you!” Guin patted Shelmi on the shoulder.  “You can watch.”

“In that case…” Shelmi crossed her arms and leaned back on one hip, eying in mock criticism.

“Okay, Raubine.  I just talked with Ed and we’re going to give you not only the starter package but also a group package at a major discount.  He likes the way you learn so quickly and would love to have you as a regular at his studio.”

Raubine raised her eyebrows.  “And would Neil still be my dance instructor?”

“Sure, if that’s what you want.”  She held Raubine’s hands in hers.  “However, I can tell you it’s best if you learn from a woman, too.  Your follow will be so much better.”

Shelmi nodded enthusiastically.  “She’s right.  And Guin is so good at this, you’ll want to take lessons from her!”

Raubine looked from Guin to Shelmi out to Neil giving another woman cha-cha lessons.

“Well…”

“Look, I’ll give you two free lessons on top of whatever Neil’s giving.  I absolutely promise I’m doing this for your own good.  You will rock the dance floor and never be able to sit down all night.”

Raubine smiled.  “Really?”  She was normally shy and didn’t understand why these women would want to make her less socially awkward.

Shelmi patted her on the back.  “Yes, yes, yes.  It’s true.  Oh, there’s my boyfriend!  See y’all later!”  She ran across the room.

The cha-cha ended and Neil walked over.  “Raubine, I see you’ve met Guin.”

“Hey, Neil.  Are you giving Raubine her lesson tonight?”

“I plan to.  Why?”

“My appointment backed out.  Mind if I help you teach Raubine for the next hour?”

He looked at Raubine.  “Guin is a great teacher.”

Raubine was confused.  “So, is this my official dance lesson or what?”

“No, this is still the open session.  Guin, you’re just going to walk her through all the follow dance steps, right?”

“That’s right.  Raubine, it will make you so much better when you have your lesson with Neil.”

“Okay.”

Neil patted her on the arm.  “That’s perfect.  Well, if you’ll excuse me, I’ve got to help reinforce a dance lesson I taught earlier today.”  He walked across the room toward an older woman in a pink blouse and long yellow skirt, her hands in her lap, sitting quietly but attentively by herself.

“Okay, Raubine.  First things first.  Your hands.”  She flexed Raubine’s hands up and down.  “You’ve got to learn how to keep her hands poised without clinching.  Let them relax in my hands.  That’s it.  Now slightly curve your fingers.  Good.  Your dance lead will communicate a lot of where he intends to send you on the dance floor through his handhold.  You’ve got to have just enough of a connection with him to feel his intent without gripping too hard or too loosely that you lose the connection.  Here.  Rest your hands on top of mine and let me raise or lower them while you let your elbow and shoulder relax.  That’s it.  Feel the connection?”

Raubine was amazed at easily Guin was getting Raubine to feel as a dance partner.  With Ed, she had a general feeling of almost being lifted and carried around the room, completely in Ed’s soft but firm guidance.  Guin gave Raubine the idea that she was participating equally by giving Guin feedback through her hands.

“That’s a great start.  Now, I want you to hold me as if you are the dance lead so you can understand to be a better follow.  Place your right hand on the small of my back.  No, a little higher, just below the shoulder blade.  Good.  I’m going to push back so you know how much pressure the lead feels.  Feel that?  See how the tiniest movement of my back, including side to side, tells the lead where your center of balance is moving?”

Shelmi ran up, her boyfriend in tow.  “Raubine, this is my boyfriend, Geoff.  Geoff, this is Raubine.  She’s brand-new.”

Geoff extended his hand.  Raubine let go of Guin and shook his hand.  “Nice to meet you.”

“You, too.  You taking lessons from Guin?”

“I just started.”

“She’s the greatest, isn’t she, Shelmi?”

Shelmi swung Geoff’s arm in the air.  “Spin me around, you silly, and show Raubine what Guin taught us last week.”

Geoff lifted his arm, raising the grip he had on Shelmi’s hand above her head.  She turned in place like a ballerina and returned to the position she started in, facing Geoff.

Raubine clapped.  “Very good.”

“Thanks, Raubine.  You’ll be able to do that in no time!”

The boy who thought he was a shoe

Muscovy ducks waddled past the porch every morning, leaving their nests for time in the neighbourhood pond.

Aneratsporp sat on the porch and watched the ducks.

He knew his grandparents would carry a basket of crumbled biscuits out to the pond soon, feeding the ducks, pigeons and sparrows that congregated around the pond most mornings.

Aneratsporp wanted to join them.
But Aneratsporp was not a regular boy.

He thought he was made of leather and nails, pieced together by his mother’s fifth husband, the local cobbler, childless until the age of 75 when he married Aneratsporp’s mom.

Aneratsporp was always small, his mother assuring him from birth that because he was special, it would take a special person to fit into his life.
The old cobbler said the same thing to customers whose feet were too small or too large for the wooden shoe forms displayed in his shop window.

As a baby, Aneratsporp lay in a crib at the back of the shoe shop while his mother laundered clothes for the local hotel.
His grandparents didn’t like that their grandson spent all day staring at the ceiling next to open pots of glue and varnish.

When Aneratsporp was three, his grandparents came for him and took him to their cottage on the edge of Decatur, Alabama.

They tended a small working farm, setting him on the porch where they could watch him while they gathered eggs, pulled weeds and milked goats.

Aneratsporp was happy being a shoe.
By age five he was 18 inches tall.

He couldn’t read, write, or talk but he understood what people said.

He knew his grandparents loved him and kept him from being seen by their customers.

He didn’t mind.

He sat on the porch, being a shoe in sunlight and rain showers. 

He knew he was a special shoe because, of all the shoes in the house, he was the only shoe that his grandmother changed clothes everyday.

He smiled when his grandparents called him their little babushka.

A mockingbird landed on a tree behind the house and sang a song just for Aneratsporp.

Tweedle, tweedle, tweep. Chirp, chirp. Doohickey, doohickey. Tweedle, tweedle. Chirpoodle. Chirpoodle. Tweet.

A fluffy bird song.

The Muscovy ducks waddled back to their nesting sites.

The sparrows flew away.

Pigeons returned to their pecking order under the eaves.

Aneratsporp heard his grandfather scrape a hoe in the garden while his grandmother poured water into the trough in the animal pen.
Aneratsporp closed his eyes and dreamed of being the perfect little shoe for someone someday soon.

Confound it!

“Captain, it’s going to be at least another 72 hours before we finish repairs.”

“Wuh?”

“Sorry, captain, but it appears to be a design flaw we have to correct before we get to Mars orbit.”

Lee nodded and turned to Guin. 

She shook her head. “You stir crazy?”

Lee nodded again.  “I’m taking a quick nap.” He flipped his solar visor down and touched his wrist panel to single comm with Guin. “You tired, too?”

She flipped down her visor and leaned back. “Something bothering you?”

“Yeah. The darkness. You are the only person I can talk to about suicidal thoughts without triggering worry or sympathy.”

“Uh-huh.” During their early space travel training on Earth, Lee and Guin demonstrated to the psychiatry staff that their high level of creativity corresponded with bouts of depression that they managed by talking to each other.

“They’re old repetitious thoughts, almost comforting in that way.”

“I know.”

“In my daydreams, I’ve been speaking to myself from both the male side and female side, going through the arguments for staying alive. They’re not original thoughts… I’m depressed because I don’t have kids and if I kill myself I won’t leave behind a legacy even if I’ve impacted the lives of others in more ways than many with kids, etc.”

“Hey, look where we are.”

“Yeah. You know I married Karen monogamously for life and if she was unable to have kids, then we wouldn’t have kids. Therefore, all else being unknown givens, there was no reason to live any longer if the only real purpose of being a sentient primate is to procreate.”

Guin raised a eyebrow, which Lee smiled at in his VR view of her face inside the helmet. “Remember, I’m the one who knows more about what Katen experienced with a hysterectomy than you.”

Lee frowned.  “True.”

He lowered his chin to his chest. “I pass through these thoughts in frequent enough cycles that I’ve grown used to seeing them as their own form of escape mechanisms like fiction writing.”

“Wah wah wah.”

“I told you these are old. What am I escaping or hiding from?”

“Well, Karen was a nice person so I don’t think you were trying to escape from her specifically.”

“Maybe not. Instead, I look at my ‘faults’ — depression cycles, self-centeredness, bisexuality, my father’s passive-aggressive anger issues, to name a few — and think it might be best if one, I didn’t have kids, and two, I don’t live any longer.”

“What about on Mars?”

“Kids, you mean?”

“Maybe.”

“Still undecided?”

“Not in our mission goals. That’s partly why I’d kill myself tomorrow but I’m stuck in here for the next three days.”

“Yeah, dude, don’t stink the place up with your carcass!”

“Haha. I’d hate to waste a clean set of underwear so soon!  Besides, I love life even if I don’t love me.  I want to see how you keep progressing which means I’d have to stay alive at least until we can get back into the living quarters and out of this cramped command module.”

“Or after I see you on Mars?”

“Of course. There are times on Earth I’d say I’ll wait to kill myself until after X (some movie release, for instance).”

“Part of ordinary human existence, in other words…”

“Yep. Methinks it’s just a matter of dance withdrawal.  Only I can fix that, I have to care about myself and say it’s worth reworking our schedules that will support dancing. I risk losing more memories of Karen and living on my own…”

“Which you tried once and I appreciated the effort. Don’t worry, you won’t have to live alone for a long time, not on Mars!”

“Thanks for listening.  I may have figured out the latest reason for suicidal thinking: overthinking my withdrawal from dancing and how I can find a long-term solution for dancing more frequently.”

“Just not in the next 72 hours!”

“My chameleon/people pleaser self keeps wanting to draw a picture with you in it every time I talk to you and that’s not always necessary.”

“I understand. Perfectly natural. We’ve been space exploration partners longer than anyone.”

“Every time I talk to you like this, part of me wants to compose flowery love sonnets or a rap song just because I can and it’s fun to think you’d get an emotional kick out of my expressing lovelorn lamentations. Yes, part of me loves you that way but not always.”

“I love you, too, Lee. Feel free to hit me with your lamentations anytime. I won’t melt or faint, I promise.”

“Humans can do that, of course.”

“We’re not fully human anymore.”

“No. Still, though, I miss dancing with you on Earth, seeing how well your students improved, planning this future where two characters based in part on us (and others we know) would help build a new civilisation on Mars”

“Thanks. That is a nice way of showing what our friendship meant all along.”

“No problem. Doesn’t seem that long ago when I tried to stay away from you because I thought you’d be harmed emotionally by me when it was never my intent.”

Guin clicked her teeth and struck a John Wayne pose. “Well, pardner, you ain’t gettin’ away from me now!”

They both drew imaginary pistols and shot each other, their wrist panels automatically sensing an instant game of Cowboy Shootout, announcing Guin the victor of that round.

Lee feigned a chest wound and leaned back.

What is reality?

Creating fictional characters with whom I empathise presents predicaments when I want to experience their lives as if they’re my own.

At times, Facebook becomes like a game of Sims probably is like (although I’ve never played Sims) wherein I get to be myself but also thinking myself as a character, a role, while keeping it real with my besties.

Today, some people celebrate events in their lives catalogued on Facebook and other [social] media outlets.

Today, I am alive, sufficient reason to celebrate the people in my life who give me hope for tomorrow. 

I am an artist, not an activist.  I live the set of beliefs I hold dearest.

As a set of states of energy in motion, I suffice. 

As a social animal with friends I trust, I thrive.

Peace out.

Wrinkled hands, timekeepers

The woods grew quiet as songbirds followed the shadow of a large predator circling over the treetops.

Two turkey vultures floated in the currents of air rising above the forest, in search of a meal.

A crow cawed.

A yellow swallowtail, temporarily suspended in place by swirling breezes, caught the attention of no one as it fluttered over the carcass of a centipede.

A black fly tasted the centipede and flew on.

The vultures moved out over a field and the forest grew loud with bird chatter.

Poison ivy slowly crept up a tree.

A dead oak leaf from last year’s crop sailed to the forest floor.

Time has no meaning in a forest — the forest is time.

Transmission from the future transcribed on 11th Mar 2017

Via Inner Solar System Alliance Comm

[begin transmission]

Diary of a Left Hander

Of the many sets of states of energy with which I interact comfortably and thus call a friend (yet so much more because we do not limit ourselves to human-based conventional labels), you are truly one.

I would say I miss you but you are a continual part of my thought process meaning, of course, that I miss making eye contact with you and dancing in Mars’ gravitational fields with you as a nonjudgmental partner.

We express our knowledge of each other in centuries so the days, weeks and years in between the time we spend together are not fraught with meaning.

Instead, we measure what we have together in the immeasurable ways we encourage the other to focus on staying busy, hoping that the accumulation of information through moments building on moments we call wisdom gives us a cushion to lean on when we’re up against a wall beating our heads to avoid the abyss of…well, that place, the Big S.

At this point in our careers we have overcome enough project setbacks that we calmly face work-related problems as we calculate multiple outcomes to predict the best possible solution(s) given the current working dataset.

Do you remember that one summer when I attempted to move out on my own, forgetting, as I often do, that I am unable to function without a primary caretaker? My caretaker at the time was my longtime friend and marriage partner who was always jealous of anyone getting between her and her time with me.  She never understood the levels of friendship associated with polyamory, including platonic friendships of a nonsibling nature.  Like ours.

Your dance routines are just some of the parts of your being I admire for the melding of your creativity with your body form.  From that admiration I drew inspiration to create the ever evolving backyard creation I started calling a treehouse but which branched out into the inner solar system as our sets of states of energy were adapted to extraterrestrial existence.

At times my longterm depression expresses itself more strongly such as when I eat too much to compensate for lack of faith in a longterm future with you in it.  So far I’ve always resolved that situation.  So far.

Until next time!

[End communication]

Glacial Springs

“I’m not sure what love is anymore.”

Midmorning heat from the Sun melted frosty dew, water drops pipping and plopping from ancient tree limbs onto the glacier’s mottled surface.

The gurgle of a nearby moulin lulled them into silence once again.

He reached over and touched his fingers on the top of her head. “Is this love?”

“Maybe.  I mean yes, here in this moment.”

They held hands.

She continued looking down at a sedimentary rock, imagining its history.

“What is love to minerals frozen in time? Does a rock know love any more than the vapor trails we call clouds?”

He remembered standing under an apple tree on his grandparents’ farm, desiring to be as tall as his cousins who could leap and grab the lowest branch, pulling themselves up into the tree. He had to be lifted.  What kind of love was that?  What divided maturity and responsibility for younger siblings from a kind of numbness that comes with an early life full of tough lessons?

“If love is just a meme of a meme, a euphemistic cliche, how else have we led ourselves astray?”

The glacier rumbled under their feet in a low rhythm, as if music thumping in a bass box of a distant car was pulsing up through their soles.

“To you, love is just a generalised set of states of energy in motion.”

“To us both!”

“A ‘label,’ a ‘symbol.'”

“Uh-huh. And…?”

“Is the beauty of this place just to you sets of liquids succumbing to the law of gravity?”

“This place, yes. The beauty, no.”

“Then what is love?”

“Love is the thing and the memory/anticipation of the thing, whatever that thing may be. You are love, because we share memories and anticipate sharing more memories together.”

“Any memories?”

“Maybe…”

“Surely, love can’t be the anticipation of pain?”

“Some say it is. Our subculture taught us that a father who passively watched his son accused of crimes against humanity, then systemically tortured and murdered is love.”

“True.  Do I torture you enough?”

“More than I’ve let on.  I know when you’re mad at me but play innocent, even dumb, to deny your emotional victory over me.  That’s also love.”

“No doubt, sly fox!”

They swung their arms up and down to the rhythm of the glacier.

“Love is a musical instrument tuned to the vibrations around us.  A lover, a parent, a friend hears music, everyone else hears noise or nothing at all.”

They nodded in agreement and ran as fast as they could across the glacier, sending small shockwaves into the crevices and cracks crunching under their crampons.