Day 4: Closed Circuit Walk-a-bout

I was awakened by Cornman Ron at roughly 06:10; a way of telling time takes too long in the afternoon, since he'd bother me if I wasn't perfectly pretending to be sleep. His spying yielded some reportable gains; one of them involved my events slated for me today. Such a breath to reach beyond my nostrils with such putrid air far eye-watering than I could take. I was on track to ignore the whole of him, but mentioning what post I’d be starting, the heads-up felt needed, even if I couldn’t deduce why in my fugue state. I wonder if he knew I couldn't move for the first six minutes he was talking. I could feel the tears; did he see anything off? Somehow, it had become my duty to report to him since the fire and the second and third hanging, something I wasn’t fully knowledgeable of before searching for my pants for your information. It didn’t take much to make the leap that that was his bias’s aim. Journals are—well, let me make clear the Journaling thing.

In an effort to ensure research transparency and the constant flow of ideas, any member is allowed access to any journal at all times outside of writing. If taken, it must be returned at the absolute earliest convenience to its owner's desired place. Hiding them, at least for new members, is impossible, and unless you’re actually writing, a request can’t be denied to aid the connectivity of experiences from alternative perspectives. I should’ve taken closer notes on these rules. Today, I may get the full extent of some sort of reason for this other than the research element, given how reasonable cameras would be. Then, later, test the extent of the request. Then again, this is right up Ron’s alley.

Speaking of, if he wanted anything, it was proof of their participation in that fire as a daily task to occupy someone else's time, at least that's what my journalistic instinct would guess. Maybe that would take another day, so he shared with me a list of names, those last seen on land but in this area before their disappearance. He felt obligated to coach me on how to bring it up tastefully with conversational grace. Bless him, the fight is a real doozy for him. Has some planned signatures waiting for when he’s handed a Rolling Stones issue by a reader. I might fuck with his stress, promised to bug the Wolfman if he came up with the bug. When I reminded him that all these journals were up for grabs, he seemed surprised that it was a tax hike, not a suggestive donation box. And with failure came with 'consequences.' We shared a laugh over that, can't lie. Makes sense that he scrambled for his notepad when I counted the days he was behind. “How should I sound? Desperate or sad?” Cornman Ron asked.

“Go on, man. You’re here to get the horrid tale, aren’t you? Speak up, MANNN! Shhh. You’ve got to breathe the Gonzo, man. Make recording the very second notion driving you on the quest, the journal, Cornman Ron, the journal, the journey, the jump into the unknown.”

“I hate that you might be right. What a title card! Figure out those experiment details; time, which members, that sort of stuff. Don't skimp, Mr. Remembers Everything,” he said.

“I don’t fucking work for you. And calm that optimism, head is still pounding.”

“But you can care less about this shit going well than I can. Plus, home may come a calling--”

“You’re right, and I can care even less than that, so go do your job,” then I left my bunk.

Breakfast is eaten together, minus Harvestman Jerith’s boys, who help set up and keep the gators back. I was sent through the D.A.S. Atrium by Growing-woman Gwen to the end cove where Wolfman Patrick ate his oatmeal with honey and green apple slices. It’s part of his morning connection ritual. I leaned against the wall as he stretched on an unrolled rug. Tai Chi was an unfamiliar trend sweeping old Betty’s in the park off their feet. During his slow martial arts, I circled for the hand-scribed lines on the walls and running up the plinths. He focused on his breathing with his eyes closed, so it didn’t matter where I was or what I was supposed to be feeling during the meditative exercise. I’m more lost than anything.

Where the Atrium, if the whole area doesn’t count, is full of photo-realistic scenarios in different sizes, in the trophy room, in all its burgundy lines, none in English. I could make some sense of the German, the French, etc., but their defining similarity was a blank underline where contextually a name should go. Even though most lines were structured with advanced linguistics, they had empty spaces somewhere in the text. Timing must be a significant part of the status quo because I ended up on my hands and knees following the one English line heading into the floor. Written in burgundy from around waist height to the floor.

It starts with, “An insufferable exchange of souls on the corpse poker table; and for this Detective S—” The moment I began to scratch the bottom for another letter and began to recognize the smell of damp rust—

“Now, use the energy throughout our day. We have one task after another to put to the land our request.” Wolfman Patrick said with a clap.

“A request of the bayou?”

“As we study triggers in nature, certain frequencies and ambient radio waves are open; that openness gives us pathways to shout for an off-the-cuff response.”

“Part of it is sounds, but I imagine there’s a larger mechanism to include the nomenclature.”

“Perfect.” He said, leading me through the Atrium. “Our part is coordinating with specific times; we have discerned when nature is listening most attentively.”

“Would you call that the first step?”

“It’s an ongoing initiative. Patterns don’t match our current calendar. Thanks a thousand years of subtlety, celestial changes, yet we’ve found that there is no weakness in baseline readings. First, we speak with Coldman Jason.”

The stroll up was simple enough, minus some glares from the other Cornman, who I quickly learned wanted this post. Honestly, I can’t imagine why I sort of arrived at it, laid out with a pretty picture. A picture that sat in Coldman Jason’s station with copies of my work. A lot of it, actually, but hold on.

I hadn’t given the other Corn people any thought. My reputation did some lifting on my rank. I started noticing some similarities. Corn-man Denins hung around Coldman Jason’s office/cave, cleaning the railing or carrying boxes—the same box back and forth. Before that, Corn-woman Brittany, occult specialist, former ballerina, gossiped with Storm-man Winters, wearing a similar tool belt setup. Harvest-woman April had Cornman Cecilia organize her medication cabinet while getting a supply count. Not that Blue Moon June graduated from grad school, but that appeared to be the make-up. The shake-up didn’t bother me except, that even before Wolfman, what my words and their assembly had to do with the upcoming experiment or any prior.

This was the most I got out of the two nerds going back and forth. I cannot remember who said what—It was all said.

“Interacting with the elements proves to be the most malleable portion of the ritual—words in the correct order will vibrate deep within the mechanisms that wildlife uses to communicate. The denser the matter—the deeper the connection, even if it takes longer to develop. –We hope to translate any response we may get—if we can read or take in. Messages, given the tree's longevity, could take hours to receive and long to decipher.”

Pressing the point isn’t my strong suit, given my nonsense of a brain, but the easy-to-perceive avoidance of questions 1-3 by giving answers 10-20 was an agitating evasion attempt. That’s what would turn me into Cornman Ron, so I dropped it to stay on his heels on his way to Mead-woman Mary.

Sound engineering was always a hobby before her life changed; her awakening seemed to reverberate in her meeting. She shook my hand like the clamp that needed to be unscrewed, or finger loss will be a common occurrence, as her degree focused on Electromagnetism. Sounds' effects on these two cosmic forces pulled her interest in this direction. Not here obviously, but Wolfman Patrick interrupted to segway from past to present. With Corn-woman Cecilia’s help, Mead-woman Mary began flipping switches to a high-pitched whine. I seem to be the only one reacting to it. A gradual increase in the stinging until I was yelling to be heard. Suddenly, Wolfman Patrick was flapping his hands for her to stop deafening me.

“Hayman Nelson, are you okay?” Mead-woman Mary asked.

“YEAH—yes. It’s fine. It just felt loud. Loud, right? Why did no one tell me to grab...” None of them were wearing ear protection.

“No—”

“She’s got dynamite blast still lingering in her ears? Was that painful?” he asked, patting me on the back like I was coughing up blood.

I felt a line about the hook during that, but couldn’t make heads or tails of it. “Didn’t know a sound could make your head want to blackout and cry.”

“Good—that you're feeling better, right?”

Mead-woman Mary shot a look at Wolfman Patrick that I caught out of my peripheral, still facing out over the shore, choking down this nausea out of nowhere. Her silent response to his facial response to the look was that of a corrupted optimist. “I gather the speakers could use some rewiring, yeah?”

I saw the sharp snap of the Wolfman’s eyes to Mead-woman Mary, who took the telepathic advice and answered, “We’ll be ready by showtime, just a few more tweaks.”

“Perfect. Thank you, Mary.”

Of course, he wanted to move on, only pausing to get a silent recommendation from Harvestman Jerith. The boat’s motor covered what they talked about. This put my focus elsewhere when I caught Snowwoman Shawna coming from the floor bar. I called out, hoping my slip-up wasn’t caught. When she reached her bunk haven, she sped up and ignored me thoroughly so I could succumb to the Wolfman’s call. My questions about her status fell very short, but he alluded to how tough this life can be and the GRIEF it can bring. Finally, a reason to talk to Ron.

First, I had to speak with Iceman Xavier, who wanted to survey the lands twice daily. He puts the raw meat left in the swamp away from their landing. I helped him clean out traps, reset them, and get water-level checks surrounding the island’s shores. His actions carried a sense of duty, more so than this organization calls for or the others. His sanity depends on this place, possibly. We found lingering debris from the fire. Soaked, chard wood planks floating aimlessly. I pulled it out, and it still had two screws in it. The remanence of a stamp piqued my interest and was enough to get Wolfman Patrick to unclench from the side of the boat. At the dock, he was let out first so the vessel could become stablest as it had been since he last got on. This also gave him the lead to Blue Moon June, who appeared bemused by the finds. I was just put off by this because it's the first time I had seen her look that way. Something I’m starting to believe is just standard practice, like pointing at me amid clandestine whispers.

Diner: rabbit/gator stew with cornbread and rum. The rum was good.

Nightmare addition:

Sleep paralysis again, creepy-crawlies from the ceiling roommates all web mummified, but this creature thinks me special and has a peculiar fondness for me. Winter cold sinks in before the fangs' acid sizzles in the vein. The drowning makes my eyes pop, and one is dangling from the cavity. Next fang goes from taint to brain—why can’t I wake—this is insane. A spider breaks off an arm and drinks from the remaining armpit. It becomes enraged that I don’t taste better, and it’s back to drowning in the blood I’m bleeding with every sliver of skin they remove.