Us personas have been
rather ravaged this last while. Our dear Vicky, who put up with us
for over thirty years, has taken a room in the spotless surroundings
of a care home. It was not really her decision, and ours rather
reluctantly, but was begrudgingly the outcome of health issues we
could not cope with. We are laid to waste, guilt, anxiety,
depression, all giving us their undivided attention.
As luck will have it,
we can walk to her new abode in twenty minutes which we do every day.
It is our task, when we arrive, to keep the Martians at bay. They
seem to roam the halls of such establishments, confounding the fears
of the residents and confounding the staff with their trickery,
always able to hide just out of sight, these little green aliens
whose intent is not always that clear. We were going to bring a
bazooka or a giant pea shooter, but the staff thought it best to use
psychological warfare in the battle. We will have to hone up on our
apocryphal skills and read up on Martian invasion strategies, it
seems we may be mired in this oppugner for some time to come.
It leaves us in a
vacuum here at Deathrock Apartments. We personas have all taken our
turn at nurturing our dear Vicky over the last several years as her
mind gained the joys of otherworldliness. When one of us became
overwhelmed, another persona could take over and offer a fresh
approach. Luckily, the local drunk has not been around for years
and years, or things might have taken a turn. Her three cats, the
orange ones, have laid the claims to her bed, although one morning as
we peeked through the slightly open door after a bit of a scurcuffle
they looked rather grey and later they turned black and white after
which we put on our spectacles to see they were really just orange.
Several of us personas think there may actually be nine cats living
here, and we are attempting to scientifically set up some experiment
to put an end once and for all to this mystery. Our Vicky would be
smiling from ear to ear at our endeavours.
We sort of miss our
Vicky, her ear always open to discussions on current affairs, the
recent developments in nuclear fusion or the beaming and reassuring
face of our new Prime Minister. Her broad smile at our dissertations
was always confidence building even though we all knew she didn't
have a clue what we were disseminating about. It seems there is a
higher, some may call it spiritual, aspect to human communication
beyond the legal meaning of our diction.
We are slowly teaching
our bullheaded sense of humour to shut up about how we rode Betsy the
cow over three foot snow banks from far out in the bush to arrive in
the big city to pop out of the elevator where our Vicky sits waiting
for us to pop in. We are learning to sit quietly and listen to the
stories, the memories from childhood which consume her thoughts. And
then she asks us if we have a story to tell her, and we relate a
tidbit from our childhood and we laugh at our silliness from years
and years ago, and our bond continues in a mysterious way. When we
leave she comes to the elevator with us and we wave farewell as the
closing doors pop us out of existence. It is with relief that we see
her heading enthusiastically down the hall to some unknown adventure.
She has adjusted to her new home.
All us personas decided
we must pull ourselves together by our bootstraps and continue with
some sort of life, and since we know no other we will continue to
ravage the earth with much tomfoolery and misadventure as we attempt
to deal with a slight maladjustment to capitalism, organized
religion, male chauvinism, and politics to awkwardly bring justice to
humanities forsaken. If we fail we fail so be it, our Vicky has a
big enough smile to save us all.
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