“What the What? Byous!”
He’s a little confused lately, suffering from Hypergraphia, expressing the sounds between thought and feeling with scratches and squiggles around the edges of the paper.
I want to tesser into his thoughts right now, but he needs his peace. He’s been practicing his Longhand for an epistle.
I want to understand those beautiful raw scribbles.
Meghan likes his raw expression too. She found him a box of crayons and a pad of paper at the last stop. She wanted him to draw and color.
He’s taunting me, standing in the tesseract, at the threshold to his individual mind, saying, “Come up in here if you want to. I’m as open as a scroll.” I knew to back out and let him talk his way through it. The last time I was in his mind, I got banged around a little bit. With that everything at once again experience. I don’t know how he does it. He made me understand that it’s like walking into a village market with the queen’s gold star on your forehead and only five minutes to get everything you want. The first few times… “Yeah. It’ll make you puke and…
Inxusa, before my uncle died,” He says, “I used to write letters all the time. I’d spend weeks thinking about what to express. Good ink is precious. I know a handful of old people that use handwriting like a secret code. My uncle used to say, ‘Nephew, I leave your letters all over my living room, don’t nobody fuck wit’em. Hoes, bitches and niggers don’t read. If they did, the sound wouldn’t offend them. It’s an observation, not a judgment.”
I looked it up. Since the Asians and Melanesians have taken over Mars they use a form of brush script for official documents. There’s like two hundred thousand characters in their alphabet. Takes decades to learn. And the Venusians are a special bunch of people, scratching math and ascii on slate. I gotta admit trying to terraform that rock by flinging comets at it ain’t a totally dumb idea.
I’m proud of Tolo, he hasn’t broken a crayon in about two weeks. We got the park’s Apiarists to get the ships replicators making more. He’s been wearing out purple crayons with his scribbled notes and doodles.
This morning Meg’s reaction to seeing him writing words says it all. I couldn’t help but laugh. We were in the park. He was scribbling while he talked out his report.
“You know Inxusa, I was in a state when I pushed back at Neesha. I meant it, but it was out of line to say it out loud in front of everybody. And what the heck am I going to do with a lifetime pass for the Magic Kingdom? I’m grateful and all, but…
Meghan walks in shouting, “Niggah! Are you writing? I ain’t never seen nobody writing in real life. Niggah!”
Poor Tolo almost jumped out his skin and smashed all the crayons in his hands. His reaction triggered his restraints five bars. Olùkọ́lé, Vapor Takouba, Erica, Juan and the whole little Mexi army came crashing in on him. Laying on his belly, in a beautiful lapis blue sarong and ragged old day off t-shirt, feet crossed the air, with a handful of fat purple crayons.
Poor Tolo, looked so stupid. With them hovering over him in their yellow t-shirts, singing, “Ooh! Niggah! You write words.” Natalia Reshounn and Intsikelelo, giggling, “Oh! I didn’t know you kept up the practice, we’d have written your ass long ago.”
He looks up at Meg and reads, “Epp Opp Ork…Hey…!
Inxusa, I’m feeling some kind of way. I need a moment to identify it, please.”
Meg picks up a page and reads the purple crayon markings, “Baba, please teach my Dories to do the Waterbender slide for the Funk Parade.” She holds the page up to the screen and says, “These are elegant, pretty and delicate. He’s not a fighter, he’s a poet. Way more dangerous.” Puts it back on the ground and smirks, “Anyway, I was going to get coffee. You can bring your weird little friends if you want.”
One of those little Nomamyrmex shouts, “Niggah What! Ankaŭ vi estas stranga! Vi legas! Ho klaku! Kuzo!
Ŝi estas la granda seksa diino, Marta de la stacio. Mi konas tiun ĉemizon ie ajn..”
Tolo rolls over laughing, “Dude. You are totally out of line. You right doh! Eep Opp Ork means I love you. Sing it with me.”
Meghan standing there akimbo, ready to kick all their butts. Half a dozen little Mexi, dancing around this big helpless blue black giant singing, “Come fly with me. Up high with me…”
I finally let him go.
