fibo-den-acci

[Peter Fogarty]

[Fibo-den-acci]    <Fibodense> (fibonacci density) :: a thousand ways of
density . . .


Null density ::  We spun in after the 27-day spiral sunwards on
electromagnetic rails from the tear edge.  We'd been out on routine testing
the termination shock limning the subsonic, that glistening pane of tension
before the heliosheath teardrops away from the interstellar wind.  For
slowtime days we combed and wove the flux for density, braiding the
tessellating groove so that Sol's coruscating field curled on.  The vibrant
rayon-ionized and counter-rotating spheres of our interstellar bodies
dissolved into invisibility as we crossed the threshold of Golden.  Golden!
We the Delany's golden, we who somehow could traverse the edges of Sol's
radiation and live: he golden, she golden, null golden, golden to the lost
density of light and its gardeners.  Heliosurfers, solsailors and sundancers
came here to depolarize and we were no different.


One density ::  And we were no different.  Oh!  We were as different as
anyone could be.  We each rotated down, we each dropped notches of
dimensionality, and our glowing unity fragmented and I am again.  Everything
started with desire and I am no different, I'm at war with my self on my
body's battlefield: subtle pushes and tugs down at the resisting dense.  The
bar was dark, but we were light, polarized, and individuated after our
passage through the aether gateway grid.  There were humans here, other
golden, other species, and various energies.  The bar wavered in the
collective light; coloured shadows shifting like mandlebrot sets.  We, the
Oh and the I, we sat, the three of us.  No need to order in the Golden.  Our
muscles ached from our tense weight.  To be golden is a curse and a
blessing.  Ionized water sprayed around us and for a moment our stars showed
like diamonds in the mist.


One density ::  Mirrors folded in upon themselves and we stood at the bar,
to amusement of multi-dees and the consternation of the humans by whom we
apparated.  Humans, hah, could never handle downshifters to their dee.  The
condescension of downshifting assaults pride, always; better to arrive
downshifted than to emerge from the very air in the semblance of one of
them.  Us, we energies, must become human to be visible on their dee.  And
the pilots who drink at the Golden, they're no mere human.  Sense hardened
from thunder through silent space, they, who endure the slow death of space
because to leave earth is to become the ance-spacer on the Galileo run,
returning every ninety-year to the grandchildren of grandchildren, they're
the original human beings.  I saluted the valiant tragedy of their lonely
centuries as I sat at the bar next to a creased triplanetary, probably the
seer of a nine.  Leaning from a high stool at the bar and tall with a face
like rainforest midnight, eyes flecks of moonlight in the trees, and as his
breathing returned to normal through his broad nose, he said, looking up at
me, "you do that to me every 'me do you?"


Two density ::  "It wasn't that long ago when it was light above, all around
and in the waters-between."  Slipshift.  We were eating raw vegetables on a
moon beneath an orange sun and a bright star.  A simple matter it was,
through a vesica piscis between twin orbs, to timeslip at the Golden.  Still
looking, "waters-between?" he asked, "need a singalong?  See how dense I get
on you?"  And surfing his countenance: why do you fly on thought while we
scar space why we so dense you subtle I see nothing you up pushing down and
my senses 'plex the multi intertwined in mine.  Oh, to live so slowly, to
comprehend so little, every micro-expression unread, and needing to brute
the air to produce those clicks and whistles as he spoke me and I listened
him thirteen ways but five only he shared.


Three density ::  Bone, he archaeologies of a life drunken with emotion.
The cold expanses between the planets shed whispers at shadelow.  A stolen
embrace between two moist three-brained bodies become two from within the
nine.  Deeper yet, Khushi sings under the bluest sky, a brook joins her, and
the trees tickle one another.  Falling; a wet crown pushes from her lips,
pain of the sun explodes in my eyes and burning air by my heart beat.  I
gasp and scream as I fall free; now three.  Beat.  Waters-between, heavy
yet?  Waters-between, o that name flows through my hair as my arms pull and
push warm liquid as I swim with the Sirians.  Float upon the waters of my
homeworld, golden.  Castles condense above the reefs and drift on the wind.


Five density ::  He stood against the bar ignoring sounds (singing angels,
my Love, my guides?) and watched his fleeting thoughts: I am that I am,
seer, with my eyes and ears and nose, with my math and jets.  Here not
because I'm tall, not because I'm golden, oh no, but because I waver with
golden now.  Never saw tell (?).  Here first, you see, now then.  O how you
golden avoid the density of lightness.  Then you wouldn't be golden and I
wouldn't be human.  Katipos balloon from their nest under the pingao grass.
They drift over my face, spiderleg shadows dervish round my eyelashes, and
one lands on my cheek.  It tastes me with its tiny black palps and I see
fanged chelicera about to sink venom; I slap it dead to the sand.


Eight density ::  Bone taps a tailormade jane from his pocket.  Hark at the
fool sucking on hot coal, eh waters-between.  On the cornices, four circles
imprint his palm as he knuckles the Audi round a hairbend, rear wheels
skidding in the verge.  White crystals spill from his nose and he laughs
with a blonde woman, her hand on his knee as he shifts up a gear.  Tullamore
Dew on his breath, hot red meat in his belly, and cocaine in his blood.  The
wind rushes in his ears and he sounds like a violin.  The Oh and the I, we
are sated now; how our shoulders ache and our forehead flower's afire.
Thanking Bone, we bade him farewell and the Oh and the I, we left.  Thirty
four counterclockwise and twenty one clockwise and at nine tenths of the cee
it is all just light.


Thirteen density ::  I saw her face float over my nicoflare like a ghost in
smoke.  Pale gold and emerald quarks whorled at me.  She (?) shimmered and
shifted; caught, I blinked away the burn and peered into the bar, gone.
Talking I was to . . . (?) Oh, musa been angels again, oheah, the Golden.
Funny, lighting here's shady nowdark, brillig was when I inschooned.
Shebeen type of face to suicide for, a ko-omote, ah fib on the acci: on the
lip of the return to the one, nine end of mean loop cycles back to thirteen,
a one a three is four.   Step it upout!  He scaled back up to one density ::
as I, the Oh and the I, rotated back to null density :: we saw (?) his wry
smile, the traceries of micro-expression and left with a gentled sigh, . . .
is all light.