One Heartbeat

Please, please, please, Gods, tell me that I did not do what I think I did last night.

Witness my mantra the entire skyrail ride to the Temple of Yilrega this afternoon. Also witness the massive headache I spent the entire morning recovering from. Now, brain, concoct some way for me to get back my favorite gyena scarf without highlighting the mistake I made. Consider vowing to abstain from alcohol. Consider also the irony of swearing that on the festival day of one of our sacred harvest deities. Finally, consider instead making this resolution at the new year. Also consider forcing coworkers not to abandon you with someone about as mentally compromised by alcohol as you are. Also consider that going to the chant service at the Temple of Yilrega in the afternoon may have brought back your headache as divine retribution for your lack of critical thinking skills.

Dad called me only three hours after I returned home yesterday. Thank the Gods I didn’t need to explain the holographic entertainment shenanigans of last night. He thought I looked terrible due to stress at my new job and wouldn’t stop asking me questions about my boss. Perhaps even more unsettling: he kept talking about the preparations for the rain dances next week, and my sister has replaced me in all of the prominent family events. Today, people in Shija have some kind of holiday, but next week I will work a full ten days. Otherwise, I would take the skyrail into Bell Quarter to see the procession from Kesha Falls to the Narahji Community Center. Dad wants me to register myself there as soon as possible so they can send me notices (and perhaps provide me with naksbetru so I don’t have to improvise when I make shrine offerings).

The actual purpose of the conversation? “Your mother says that going to the Temple of Yilrega at least once a month will give her peace of mind. The salvation of chanting the sacred names—you know it means a lot to her.”

After what happened last night, a call from my parents must be a divine sign. Either Yilrega hates me or Tsemanok has decided to use me for comic relief. Times like these make me almost wish I had joined one of those mystery cults, but they require too much dedication that I cannot provide at this point in my life. All the same, five hours of chanting has left my voice raw. The geometric shapes hennaed onto my forehead will remain for weeks and comfort my mother when we have our next video chat.

During the service, I made two mental lists: one of things that have happened, the other of things that have not. Perhaps writing it will yield some logic I don’t understand yet. Perhaps not.

shaking windows emergency landings dances chants in my ears dying gods resurrected gods kisses love getting caught in Shiji summer storms loss of items (How does this relate to the impermanence of life as outlined by Akah Saleisi?) my boss’s sadness movement stillness old men work lovevideo writing writing alone holographic journeys laughter homesickness nightmares

reconciliation with those I hate reunion with what I have lost tonight’s conversation with Suka professional competence immersion in love’s madness attainment of Akah Kara’s trust running through cold fountains success in love and war dinner income-based resource allocation form akačehennyi realization of the meaning of life donation of hair to the Temple of Kartreytin respite from routine tears relaxation with friends in a bath house—must make local friends sojourn on Riverside Street

Suka was right. Holograms bring nothing but trouble and darkness, pain and overstimulation of the senses. Akah Kara told me that they found a woman in one of the garden niches by a fountain, her head dripping blood into the water. She hadn’t noticed someone drilling a hole through her head until she felt the stabbing, dying pain. We know this because they found her hands gripping the sides of her head. Why did she die? They arrested a former lover—and he stopped here because Akah Khera called him on her video phone.

Maybe I will hear the rest of the story tomorrow.