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Elena’s Notes

(March 3rd 3020 – April 14th 3021)

By Maroula Blades.

March 3rd 3020

The sun blisters green boils waging war against earth, throwing solar hurricanes that disturb communications on the ground while she falls irritably to bed in a black open sea. And we are used to everything, even flying snails making straw nest on rooftops. From a distance many of the structures appear beautifully ornamented with seashells. The world will take us to her womb one day, where we shall be molten steel. Will there be souls to bless; I wonder. My peace is interrupted as I work in the botanical garden tending string beans. Beyond the hexagon glass screens troops of workers have been brought in to clear an overgrown field infected with black moss. Drably dressed in industrial overalls they march the jasmine scented paths. Babies drinking pearly nutrients cry and kick in dried pumpkin hats that are perched on the heads of surrogate mothers, as they work to the sound of bugles. A boisterous MP threatens workers with a snapping, red-mouthed scissors,

“It only takes a snip to send you to the grave, so move right along; you motherless beggars. Tomorrow won’t wait for you.” No one sleeps. Darkness comes and turns straight around; dreams are not what they use to be. So after work I walk in orange woodlands between silk threads knitting pleats for a robe, reading past chronicles buried in black moss at an ancient shrine. ‘He came in regal clothes, crested with red flowers amid restless man. He folded his wings on the ground to walk the oceans under the darken sky and so He shall return again to a paradise.’ My picnic of steamed buttered beans, freshly squeezed tomato juice and a Granny Smith apple trims a tattered hessian sheet as I gaze into twilight. On the way home, I always plant remaining seeds of fruits and vegetables in the tired woodland, hoping that they will thrive one day. The moon peels shimmery waxy sheets that fall weightlessly to earth. Beached whales slide on blocks of ice crowing like eagles used to on stretches of oil at Dawn Bay, they’re hunting slippery seals. Here they come again, marching thinly, two-legged beings hatched from the same seed. They tread the dense mire. New hearts rotate with the strength of a Minotaur. Equipped with tools they attack cruel black moss and oil that has been ransacking the land. Crude oil flows with their blood; under the gaze of a microscope it coils like olive worms. I’m the last person of an old folk, a basket weaver born in the Caribbean. As the moon peels its fifth layer the Geda, an automaton, tells us, “All is well.” Her voice swirls amid silver prisms high in a sooty sky. Her sheep wind-up their pacemakers; set for a new day.

April 14th 3020

I like it here on the giddy cliffs of Dawn Bay, listening to surf pounding against the serrated teeth of rocks, even if the sight below is one for sore eyes. Greedy globules of oil stretch sticky putrid fingers over the entire area. A three-quarter sun pivots slowly to its green bruised side as graphite clouds evaporate as quickly as I snap two fingers. Once upon a time white sands walked hand in hand with the yellow morning sun here; sand-blinding lovers as they purled between sandy ashen sheets. Love brushed by liquorice-green kelp to form sleek tapers that rolled towards an infinite blue. Two thousand metres off Dawn Bay lemmings warped the body of water, attaching weariness to the morning’s tide. On rare occasions I’ve found caramel tiger striped shells with pick-candyfloss inlays between rocks. I press them to my barren ear. I’ve heard the breath of life on the winds sails, on the seas passionate surges and children kicking sand to the surf, laughing with curiosity and fear; on the beach they’ve found a poisonous black sea urchin. How lovely and real it was back then. This birthday treat of remembrance will be cherished on this, my one hundred and thirty-second year.

July 29th 3020

I know it wasn’t in God’s plan that I should breathe this stagnant air at this time in life. Man intervened, fifty-seven operations behind me. The worst of which was an implant of artificial bone marrow threaded through my spinal column. A traumatic accident smashed my spleen and injured several vertebrae causing cancer. I hitched a lift in a truck to the marketplace to sell my wares. As we journeyed, I sat on a neat pile of bricks. The truck suffered a wheel blowout. The vehicle swerved, skidded and then tipped. I lay crushed under pale grey bricks. At times I wish they’d just let me die in peace. I have become an experiment like everything else in today’s world, a relic, an antique of curiosity, “Let’s see how long we can prolong Elena’s ageing process. It’s extraordinary that this woman can jump and swim as good as our first models of Tak M T,” remarked a unit whose index finger performed laser surgery on my knee within ten minutes. Some Taks were released fifteen years ago to scrapyards along with old wares like the cooking pot; others became the sanitary task force. Air swimming, that’s what they call it when we go twice a week to the weightless recreation room where cramp-flailing limbs recuperate from over-exhausted neurons. These new medical prototypes are the best models elders have produced in the Quandrem. The Quandrem is a place where new peoples are born with exact chromosomes; there are no deficiencies in any member of the new race. There are just two blood groups, which make transplants easier when technical difficulties arise. The average lifespan of a new subject is approximately two hundred years; they avoid the physical and mental calamities that can occur in an ageing inferior body.

September 18th 3020

I’m happy to be alive, to plant seeds in deteriorating earth and watch them grow at such a rate that the fruit they bear astonishes even the Geda. These fruits carry the wonders of a planet that has long since aged. ‘Are we close to the end of time?’ I drag this question behind me like a bulging sack of chip cards. It is a shame that I can’t paddle the old cerulean lagoons. I’d love the water’s smooth touch against my skin, breathing out in its cool meandering body. I remember as a girl taking our last family holiday at the only remaining tropical paradise in the world. We trod clear blue waters feeding mantas that had become quite tame, being use to eating offal from small fishing boats. They would glide and flap their wings around the white and red tourist boat in hope of some moist fish pellets. At first my father held me on his shoulders, but this was too far from the majestic gliding blankets. He let me slip carefully into the arms of water where I gazed upon these gentle, giant creatures that were said to be volatile. In a sand dune, I buried my little gold heart for the evocative sea. This sea in front of me brandishes a deadly, silent body like a cobra. Almost all the glaciers have melted; it is common around the world to see tiny crystal slippers of ice waltzing on jet-black seas, they sparkle as lances of sun plunge to water. It’s full moon tonight; at this moment she’s wearing a Juliet cap of lacy cloud. I can sense her magnetic field pulling my person; my head throbs. I wonder if it’s due to the metal implants. Moon sheets fall on the heaving, whispering sea floating like deflated sails. An earth tremor passes under me. Boulders roll blindly to the edge of the sea. Minute crabs run over the tarnished beach, trying desperately to bury their heads into what they think is sand. They gurgle and blow chains of black bubbles from gaping mouths, and then pass away under a starry watchful sky. I’m happy to witness three crabs running to another bustling rock where they hide from the moon’s scoured face. What I would do at this time; just to embrace a hand full of clear water, to dab its sea pearls on my forehead. I would love to lace beads of red coral and braid them in my hair. I’d dive off rocks and swim to an underwater ballet choreographed by silvery mantas until sunrise.

December 25th 3020

Today is the birthday of King Jesus. How beautiful the zenith must have been above the manger where the precious one slept. The magnificent star, which guided the wise men, is portrayed in an old chronicle. It is as big as the sun that is now bearing down on the horizon like a huge fiery shield. The Geda gave me permission to decorate the Joshua tree in the botanical garden with knitted balls of gold thread to celebrate Christmas. I was able to bake a sort of Christmas pudding in an old pot I salvaged from a scrapyard, and honey buttered carrots. We ate dinner beside the tree, a few gardeners had never eaten anything cook before. It was a total success. They have just gone off to the metal scrapyards in search of aged cooking utensils. Am I just setting fire to fury when thinking the old ways will one day return, is it foolish to hope for mankind and the need for salvation?

February 13th 3021

Most of the chronicles I’ve read where wars, experiments and pure neglect have beaten this world. Everyone works for the whole now, there’s no need for money, shops and vacations, which were there only for the fortunate ones. The Geda has her voice in every corner of the world, instructing us on how to abide by rules and to care for the planet has it now stands. For she knows without its support we could never exist even though we’ve excelled in technology. We’re still in need of something so natural as oxygen. They’ve tried to duplicate the mechanism in plant organisms but to no avail. Taks have been ordered to seas on vast platforms to drain and refine oil slicks and to combat detergents that keep poisoning waters of the world. Reports of algae and coral spores in the Indian Ocean make daily prime time news. Sophisticated underwater cameras filmed a small red coral reef exploding with seeds like a submerged firework display. This exciting revelation tells us the world can regenerate itself when we thought all was lost. Fresh water, well almost fresh water from thawing glaciers is pumped into large reservoirs. Eventually, they will install appliances that will deliver water to homes where we can indulge ourselves in purifying our bodies and souls. Every ill that has beset our world has its tears mounted in glaciers. Acid rain from the Chernobyl 1986 disaster presents a reminder of neglect. The oldest ice found on the South Pole is over two million years old; it shows signs of very high temperatures during that period. This can be seen in the water bubbles frozen in ice sockets. Of course, this water will have to be filtered and re-filtered time and time again for our consumption but at least it will be real. So it seems our world fortunately for us is extremely robust, but even it has boundaries to declare, but where and when?

April 14th 3021

Another birthday, this is the beginning of a new era.  I am still here to explore it, to discover past secrets and to live as long as the Geda wishes. There are now many fruit bearing trees waving green fingers amongst orange woodlands. Parsley has been found to cleanse soil of the determined black moss. I have planted a Joshua tree in the heart of the woodland symbolising strength and freedom. Whales need not beach themselves on oily land anymore; they sensed beautiful watery depths not too far away. I hope my notes will be of use in future, even if only to discover the pleasure that can be enjoyed from cooking in an old Teflon pot and sharing life’s spirit with one another. This testimony I wish to share with tomorrow’s sons and daughters of the Geda.

Bildquelle: (c) DA

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