Christopher WunderLee - Moore's Mythopoeia

“Not particularly, I try hard to forget such things,” she looked directly at him, offering her condolences, a faint ‘I told you so’ upturn of her lips. “Now I must steal away with my escort here…”

“I’ve only just met him,” a small dip in his tone, “besides, you just got here. Won’t you stay?”

“I would if I could, but you know us women, we meet a strong man and can’t get enough of his cockiness,” she slipped out of his arm by crumpling slightly, knows all their eyes are on her, dissecting, stripping away fabric, placing together her anatomy.

“You’re just trying to shock me…”

“And you’re replying just as I expect, I don’t like to know what someone’s going to say before they do,” she moved towards him and put her hand out. Vincent rose slowly, trying to appear that he doesn’t mind at all (which he actually doesn’t). She leaned into him, pressing her body against his side… why? Graham watched her… he felt her hand running down his back… why in front of them? He put his arm around her despite himself, pinched her skin… this is some theatre. She dropped away, clutches his hand and leads him towards the door.

“Nice to meet you,” Vincent turned out of custom, “all of you.” Graham nodded amiably. “Congratulations again.” Another nod.

“So I’ll see you in a year or so?” he called after them.

“Not if I can help it.”

They were back in their car within ten minutes (would have been eight and half but the help had some difficulty finding their coats) without saying goodbye to anyone or staying for the dinner planned. Elisa explained: “It will be utterly a bore, all those men standing up, giving speeches, each one trying to top the other. The only way I’d stay is if they’d let me speak.”

“But they wouldn’t do that…”

“No of course not. It’s Graham’s day,” she mimicked, as though someone had warned her with those very words. “Then I’m supposed to stand and chat with characterless women who haven’t had a real thought their entire lives, they say the same things, I can tell you exactly what they’ll say before they do.”

“Why don’t you like your brother?” now chugging along nicely back towards the highway.

“Graham? He’s everything I detest.”

“Which is?”

“Engineered… purposeful… ambitious (which means he’s selfish, but in a socially acceptable way)… simple… idle… mechanical… a follower…”

“How can you say that, that he’s a follower?”

“Quite easily actually. He’s worse than any of them. They present him like he’s a leader, someone we can all get behind and respect, but he’s none of those things… he does what’s easy, never lets himself ask any questions of real value…”

“Which are?”

“That’s why he was appointed: appearances. The whole damn thing is about how things appear, as long as there are no smudges, no obvious scars, no outward problems, its utopia.”

“You should be careful.”

“Why? It’s just you and I.”

“I still don’t understand why you’d hate your own brother.”

“I don’t HATE my own brother, I HATE my half-brother.”

“Why?”

“Because he perpetuates the lie…”

“What lie?”

“The perfect lie.”

“Which is?”

“Paradise on earth.”

“Where do you get these ideas Elisa?”

“I think them, you should try it sometime…”

“I don’t think so.”

“You don’t THINK at all.”

“Careful…”

“Of what? Am I going to say something that’s going to hurt you — we wouldn’t want that. But it’s so easy; you’re just like all of them, insulated against anything negative. You can’t even imagine that I might think something different than the rest of you, you even have to warn me… don’t say that, it’s different and I don’t have my citizenship manual handy to look up whether or not it’s okay. It’s pitiful.”

“I still don’t think you are aware how dangerous saying things like that can be…”

“Are you going to report me Vincent? Is that what you’re insinuating?”

“No of course not, but other people would Elisa.”

“I wouldn’t say that in front of other people Vincent.”

“Why would you say it in front of me?”

“Because I should be able to if I want to… I should be able to have thoughts and entertain them and discuss them with you. Why do you assume new ideas are negative?”

“I don’t, but they have the potential…”

“They have the potential for good too.”

“Possibly.”

“You are brainwashed.”

“No Elisa, I’m not. I’m invested in the community, in protecting and maintaining it. If I misbehave, try to change things for my own purposes, I risk the entire communities well being. As long as we work to aid it, we can’t injure it.”

“That’s called propaganda Vincent… did it ever occur to you that being forced to AID the community is a form of slavery?”

“I swear, I don’t know where this stuff comes from…”

“They’re called ideas, they come from my mind.”

“Listen, I don’t want to argue with you. We disagree, that’s all.”

“I’m…”

“I’m sorry too.”

“…NOT sorry. You want me to be lovely and friendly and have no thoughts. You can’t imagine that someone would have grievances with the way things are and it upsets you even more because I’m female. Women aren’t supposed to think things like that.”

“No one is, its abnormal. There are regulations against broadcasting or verbalizing slanderous statements and saying negative things about the government.”

“Vincent, there are regulations against premarital intercourse and deviant sexual behavior too, but that doesn’t seem to bother you.”

“It’s not the same thing.”

“No, you don’t think it is… because you can accept a woman sexually, allow some small leeway, but intellectually, that you can’t manage, you can’t abide by. You allow felonies in the bedroom but not even misdemeanors anywhere else… if it’s a woman.”

“That’s not true,” relieved to be pulling up to her building. Vincent stopped the car and looked straight ahead for a few moments. She didn’t move. He began to turn towards her, leaning… she turned for a second, met his eyes, annoyed, opened her door and slammed it behind her. He began to exit, opened his own door, but she was already disappearing into her building… nothing tonight…

…maybe time for a warning…

* * *

The mural, still wet and giving the room a synthetic, plastic smell, is in acrylics, very textured, so the paint lifts off of the wall. The woman is a portrait of the owner of the residence, although she did not sit for it, exactly recast. The artist has never seen her naked, but the proportions are perfect; it is her, just as though she had posed for several hours. She does not know that the work has been done. The man is missing definite features, he is wearing a lengthy trench coat he has never owned, and the face is contracted to avoid giving away his identity, somewhat in the style of Lucien Freud. She is holding his hand, leading him into the gates without rising herself. A smaller woman, in a ballerinas costume and with sprite wings, also completely naked, and with a rather distastefully anatomically correct view of the lower portion of her body, sits with legs folded against her chest and a tiara of flowers atop her head. She is musing on the other two figures, not appearing to be within the same space. The artist has lovingly made her transparent, explaining why her nipples are visible, and seems to have, at the last minute, chosen to make her caped. She does not seem to be from the same picture, and it might be said, she is blowing a kiss to one of the other figures, whether it is the woman or the man is unknown. Above the gates, El Grecoian clouds give the scene a claustrophobic impression, as though the sky was falling. The female seems to be slightly aware of it, but the male, missing perspective, is only concerned with the gates. The moon is three fourths full, with visible craters and with what seems to be an alien’s face when the viewer stands back against the opposing wall. If this was done intentionally or not, is unclear.