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Vol. 3 Chap. 42 The Erotic Mysticism of the Martyred Flesh
Vol. 3 Chap. 42 The Erotic Mysticism of the Martyred Flesh
Vol. 3 Chap. 42 The Erotic Mysticism of the Martyred Flesh
Truth had an early night’s sleep, as jetlag is a real bastard. The bed was tiny, but he was prepared to cherish the fact it wasn’t a futon. He had spent enough nights sleeping on the floor. The mechanical alarm went off at five in the morning. Dawn was still some distance away, but his host had insisted. If he wanted to understand, truly understand, his philosophy, this was the only way.
They set off on a predawn run. Jogging at first, but they quickly sped up to a hard run. Through the silent, still streets. All new housing here- comparatively new. The whole area burned to rubble during the war. Row houses with terracotta tile roofs were replaced with concrete boxes, though they kept the terracotta. Electric lights and telephones replacing the oil lamps.
The author led them along the main street, the morning trucks taking their groceries here and there, the night shift coming home, the day shift starting to stir and queue up for a hot bite of something before work. The author had a clear route in mind. The run was stretching out longer and longer- Truth’s legs were aching, his feet were aching, his lungs panting to get in enough air. The author was sweating too. They pressed on.
Truth tried to take in the city as they ran, the bits of the past rising out of the modernity, like old nails poking up through the new carpet. A tiny shrine with a fox inside, an old post box, candies introduced by the Portuguese to the Shoguns in a store window. Next to a brand new Toyota, its owner arriving early to make sure that the world-beating corporation he worked in rose like the sun. Like a phoenix from atomic ashes. Though here in Tokyo, jellied gasoline, used in quantity, was enough to clear the way for the world of the 1960’s. Soon, though, the physical exhaustion pushed all morbidity from him. He could no longer think. Just feel.
The author led them, ultimately, to a gymnasium. Without a moment’s rest, they kicked off their shoes and went inside. Truth was gasping for water, sweat pouring off him. The author was no better. Instead of water, the author pulled him onto a mat on the floor.
Without a word, he flicked a jab at Truth’s face. Truth swayed back on instinct, his own hands coming up. Palms open, fingers curled, his body settled into its stance without conscious effort. The author’s kick came sharp from the left. It would have landed on someone else. Truth slid back and to the side, then pushed in. Hooking the leg and sending the author tumbling back. The author rolled out and was on his feet again before Truth could capitalize.
Truth could feel the author’s eyes on him, focused, fixated on him. Appreciating every move, every breath, as mindlessly as Truth devoured the author’s presence. He felt so seen. Truth’s open palm lashed out, his body twisting and sinking, putting all of himself into the blow. The author parried with his fist, replying with a chop towards Truth’s neck. Truth blocked high and dove in for a grapple. Back and forth, mindlessly struggling until they collapsed. Bruised, gasping. Almost fainting for lack of water.
They helped each other up and staggered over to a water barrel. The author used the ladle to drink. Truth just stuck his head in and gulped. When he ran out of air, he pulled his head back out of the barrel and gasped. He looked over at the author, shirtless now, rippling muscles framed by a wall of practice swords. Smelled the sweat and polish of the gymnasium. Smelled himself. Felt the heat radiating off his still-strong body, a warm shield against the cool morning breeze coming through the door.
For a moment, there was no “Truth.” There was only the flesh, the muscles, speaking to the entire universe. Tangible, real in a way he could not describe. Connected without the mediation of words to the absolute. And then the moment was gone.
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“You saw it. The blue sky I wrote of in my essay.”
“Just for a moment.” The gym’s showers were adequate, and they both badly needed it. Besides, while they might share a casual appreciation for the other’s physique, neither cared to take it beyond that. So why not chat in the shower?
“That’s all it can last. A moment. A moment that combines the sheer joy brought by physical suffering, appreciation of life, and the undercurrent of inescapable death.”
“Like cherry blossom viewing,” Truth smiled, making sure the cool water reached every inch of him. “The flowers are beautiful precisely because the beauty is fleeting. Soon, they will be a mess on the road, swept up and put aside to rot.”
“Exactly, yes. I read a bit of the Bataille last night. Like visiting an old friend. My dictionary got quite the workout. But I see what you were getting at. Yes, I share his and Nietzchie’s radical materialism.”
“More than that, you reject Plato in his entirety. This is no mere anencephalic mysticism- it is an experience of the absolute that can only be experienced through the flesh. One cannot experience it through reason or the mind at all. You categorize reason as the corrosion of meaning.”
“Precisely. It is a revelation reserved exclusively for heroes. Those with the resolve to spend years training their bodies to the absolute pinnacle and training their courage alongside it. I have only experienced that true moment of unity, as I wrote, once. That perfect balance of the mind and body, suspended at the extremes of human existence.”
“Waiting for that aesthetic death to complete a perfect existence.” Truth said softly. “Because Achilles died when he was young and beautiful, but the aging Jason simply became a pestilence. Remembered with pity and contempt.”
The author smiled and tapped his nose. “Yes. To lose one's individuality in the warrior band, to die at the peak of perfection, united with the universe through pure reality and concreteness found in the flesh. That is the way a hero should die.”
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Truth snapped to consciousness. I feel the sudden urge to get in a workout.
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I mean, it may be related. Sounds like I just had one of those soul whatevers. If I’m remembering more of my past lives, maybe I should go see what my soul wants.
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Truth went and found the home gym. It wasn’t much- a mat, a bench, some free weights. Not even a bar or a squat rack. Truth sighed and started some calisthenics. After a light warm-up of one hundred one-finger push ups with each finger (total time to completion, ten minutes) and an easy hundred burpees, he started doing a little shadowboxing. Open palm strikes, thrown elbows, short, sharp low kicks. Feinting some grapples. It all flowed. It always had. Fighting was easy to figure out. It was learning everything else that was hard.
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Palm strike? You curl the fingers in so they don’t bend backward and break if you miss, It protects your knuckles too. Keeps them from tearing open on someone’s head.
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What? I must have done. It’s just another way to hit someone. I’ve hit a lot of people.
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Truth looked down at his hands in wonder.
Breakfast was an abbreviated affair, eaten on the go. He had a target, he had a date (tonight, as he picked his target with an eye for convenience rather than perfection) and he even had a rough strategy about how he was going to get the job done. It was the actual doing of the job, and surviving it, that was the challenge.
He spent a lot of time walking around muttering, jotting notes on a bit of paper, staring upwards, measuring vaguely with his thumb, then it was back to muttering and note-taking. He had a highly functional grasp of arithmetic, but anything beyond that was a closed book.
After a fairly tiresome afternoon, he made his way back to the barge rental office. He walked straight past the front desk, ignoring, and ignored by, the Level One working reception. He couldn’t be bothered to assume a persona. The Blessing of the Silent Forest was more than enough to make them unreal before him, though he never let Incisive lapse. The only real person in a world of ghosts. He picked out a fancy crewman’s hat and a white jacket from the supply closet. It didn’t fit particularly well, but then, it didn’t have to.
He made his way over to the skydock, making a few light alterations to himself with Incisive. He would be unnociable, but in the event that a high level appeared and did, in fact, notice him, he would simply be a crewman, keeping the party moving. Just in case. In the meantime, he planted a few small talismans here and there on the barge, taking careful note of where the bound demons were located. Where all the safeties and backups were located.
At seven that evening, the carpets started flying in. Sharply dressed office workers, their plus-ones dressed to the nines, coming to party and get their freak on. No sex workers for this party, nor mixing bowls full of blow or pills. This was a fancy office party. Liquor, in its many forms, dominated. Sparkling wine, smoky mezcal, whisky, both sweet and strong. There were obscure mixers, too, rare and strange liquors, ice harvested from comets before the Shattervoid closed the sky, shaved, crushed, and chopped into sparkling spheres.
To accompany the drink was the “Bitters,” eyedroppers of potions, color-coded for effect. Enchanted trays of droppers drifted from guest to guest, letting them pick their poison and enjoy. Uppers for the tired, soothers for the stressed. Aphrodisiacs for the hopeful, ambitious, or cruel. An easy dozen, carefully selected by the party organizer and approved by the senior partners. For those who liked to let the evening build, they were added to the drinks. For those who wanted relief now, the drops went under the tongue or into the corner of their eye.
Music started pulsing. Not too loud- it was early yet. There would be food passed around before the real dancing started. Beautiful men and women, sharply dressed, sparkling, trying to attract attention and approval from those above. Proving their superiority to those below. Glamorous? Yes, endlessly so. Glamours on almost every face. Enchantments drifted subtly about, hooking where they might. Of course, no one here was one of the cattle below. They had their personal protections, keeping the wisps of magic from corroding their minds. It was all part of the game.
Truth watched it all happen. The music got louder. People’s hands started sliding around, touching what was usually forbidden, or at least strongly discouraged. Someone who should have stopped an hour ago ordering a double. The Bitters getting refilled three times in an hour by the overworked bar staff. The nibbles were sent around on flying platters. Meat, beautiful cubes of pork and beef, and rare seafood, trimmed into elegant, bite-sized chunks. The smell was amazing. Truth glanced down at the city below. How long since those below could afford meat? How much longer could they do it?
The sun sank into the mountains behind the city, and the night sky slowly came into its glory. The barge turned up the party lights and cranked the music. Booming, throbbing. The lights flickering and changing in time with the music. Screams of laughter and fun pissing down over the sides onto the people below. The drink and the bitters had transformed performative fun into sheer abandon. For a brief moment, they were all young, sexy, and beautiful again. Some for the very first time. They danced, Level Ones, Twos, Threes, even a scattered few Level Fours. They chatted and schemed and fucked in the false privacy of the shadows. Truth leaned against the railing and watched it all happen.
The first talisman had done its job- they were subtly off course. Only by about three blocks, hardly noticeable from this height. Then, the second talisman kicked in, severing the controls. Truth grinned horribly and activated his other blessing- the demon-crushing blessing from the Bronze Sea. With a tiny flex of will, he drove spikes of cutting force into the bound demons holding up the barge. Exterminating them.