Further Explorations by David Russell is today's feature on One Thousand Worlds.
Energised by their lovely liberating experience, Janice and Cedric are determined to ‘spread their wings’ and take the world by storm, a two-person conspiracy. They head off physically in different directions, but remain in constant depth communication electronically, ever comparing notes, monitoring each other’s minds and experiences for a depth of mutual understanding. They may meet again fully equipped with a great depth of self-knowledge, and a knowledge of each other’s depth. They negotiate giddy peaks of high finance; Janice even does into ‘dreamscape’, making a pact with the devil. Further delights of sensuality are explored by both, with exotic partners; the depths and shallows of life are all embraced …
About the author-
b. 1940. Resident in the
. Writer of
poetry, literary criticism, speculative fiction and romance. Main poetry
collection Prickling Counterpoints
(1998); poems published in online International
Times. Main speculative works High
Wired On (2002); Rock Bottom
(2005). Translation of Spanish epic La Araucana,
Amazon 2013. Romances: Self’s Blossom;
Explorations; Further Explorations; Therapy
Rapture; Darlene, An Ecstatic
Rendezvous (all pub Extasy (Devine Destinies). Singer-songwriter/guitarist.
Main CD albums Bacteria Shrapnel and Kaleidoscope Concentrate. Many tracks on
You Tube, under ‘Dave Russell’ UK
They beamed at each other, sizing up their physiques again, comparing their respective performances which had led up to that climax. Then Janice breathily broke the silence. “You were an astral rocket, surging, grounding, resurging.”
“And you the booster supreme.”
After a final hug, they wistfully shrugged, along with smiles and suspicions of tears. “We’ve both got our planes to catch, darling…we’re all wired up.” They turned their backs on each other going down their separate lanes.
Janice and Cedric’s bittersweet parting, executed with watertight composure, froze that moment of perfection. Their state-of-the-art arrangements, so efficient in sustaining long-term contact were so effortlessly executed—miraculously, none of the hitches either of them experienced with their other contacts—that they simply had to have been exquisitely premeditated, but all the more because, regarding functioning in the immediate present, they were both prone to fumble and stutter.
Yet, there was a sense of permanence in that kaleidoscope world of fleeting acquaintances. Shattering glasses always sharpens, enriches the vision. Closet pyromania fantasy makes every dreamer dynamic—visions of the inferno, crashing of all solid architecture, but with the stench of charred flesh blanked off. Such an abundance of good looks and vibrant expressions passing by on the streets; it felt that any one of them had destructive potential, mighty cataracts at close quarters. The diffusion of that potential sustains the world’s equilibrium, global spark potential.
As they lived so exclusively for the depths, the buoyant currents of life had forced them up to the surface, to embrace the shallows, while sustaining their ability to forsake them, in perfect control of their natural buoyancy. That was the precarious stability engendered by their conjoint imbalance, melding of premeditation and blind panic, undermining and invigorating—generating a zest for life through the threat of its loss. But privately, they both missed the comfort of a little warming clumsiness. Living without it was like negotiating ungritted ice on a road—so easy to be injured if the path is too smooth, and the ugly, grinding monster can be a saviour.
If it was a matter of being nourished by the celebrity images, there was some potential there of Hugh Grant meeting Renée Zellweger—weights adjusted just right without painful drab dieting, though they were both thorough in burning away the calories. Perhaps next time, they could let go a little, though each of them always looked naturally spruce and together. Their negatives were revealing full images in the darkroom, the changing room, the transformation room, under the common denominator of its red light—great to contemplate the universal monochrome, fabulous the flaunting, waving of the leanness to reach out for their ideals.
It is good that kindred souls sustain contact when travelling in opposite directions. Vacua are good for slow-tempo reflection…
Geographically, their paths and areas had been quite close since childhood. Their respective parents’ careers had been near parallel in terms of both town and position in the hierarchy. Minute adjustments, of course, could easily have driven them oceans apart. But as things actually mapped out, in the cold, fluorescent light of reality, early-life setbacks were happily avoided while their protective shells hardened. Their respective cynicisms had come to full fruition and then their sophistication cracked and burst with full pollen prior to their encounter. From the bottom of the jaded fatigue of disillusionment, they could only rise, bubbles in the bottle, beaming at all their onlookers.
Now they would expand their disrobing into global recklessness. The repartee, live and electronic, proliferated and ricocheted.
They’ve got the right to do what they want to do with each other and keep themselves to themselves, and don’t bother anyone, thought Janice.
“Yes, I appreciate that the boundaries of tolerance are shifting dramatically, but we can’t just stand still…” mused Cedric.
Having speculated so long, so timidly about becoming swingers—and with a great deal of initial revulsion, they had at last done so. Having lagged so long in the rear, they had jumped to the head of their queues without jostling, without pushing. The tides of change had broken down each one’s formidable, well-tried barriers. And in this case, miraculously, the reality made a snug fit with the anticipation and reverie. They made high fidelity recordings with their memories. Ok, so there might be subsequent evaporation, a dry, crumpled-parchment residue, but perhaps renewable with a suitable inundation.
The museums are so state-of-the-art now when there is such a polarity between their structure-shells and their contents. Those obscure vaults long ago lost the allure of their inaccessibility. So many now can be satisfied by reproductions or flickering images of their contents. The antique facades are now so brazenly open to the stonemason. Mentally, perhaps physically, they would become daredevil athletes…
They simultaneously fired that starting-gun of supreme adventure at each other. “It’s time to burn the boats!”
Theirs was the ice-skating giddiness of euphoria, with its swirling skirt concomitants—its figure eights. Janice felt a few querying ripples about her orientation. Sometimes it felt it was fuzzying and melting round the edges, the aesthetics of concocting an eclair. She did appreciate beautiful women, those ballerinas, runners, swimmers—yes, and skaters! She loved to see herself as she would love others to see her, galvanise the cameras, be their elusive, flirtatious magnet.
Cedric did indeed have some androgynous, near-feminine grace about him. Perhaps this had been a precious, isolated incident to compare, contrast and counterpoint, manipulate the borderlines, her mirror-image, melting the gender barriers including her gaining some desired hardness—or maybe massed mirrors, modulating every angle. Or did she, at heart, wish to stand before eternity as a crystalline statue—posthumously fulfilled? A pilgrimage to the great melting-pot seemed called for. In her fantasy, she could coach him to become her ideal. They had both enjoyed their mudlarking as kids, before appearances took over and they polished their presentable interfaces for the smooth world.
Again, they had attended many of the same cycling rallies, but never meeting, each radiating impeccable chic with state-of-the-art crash helmets, elbow and knee pads. Superbly enjoyable events, great heady highs without hangovers, defiantly streaming past those harassed motorists in their traffic-jam queues—neither had witnessed a crash.