invisible to the electronic eye. And I have determined that it must
be a genetic defect. Meaning, I owe it to my parents - circus contortionists
who often disassembled themselves, scattering their electrons to the
winds. My birth happened in the back of a station wagon on a cerulean
Wyoming highway and now there is too much space in my makeup.
store doors shut in my face or never open. I am in photos and family
video tapes; always slightly out of focus with some background detail
invading the edges of my persona. Elevators close on my limbs. Doctors
have bombarded my frame with electromagnetism and pierced me with
x-rays. In 1973, I was the subject of a nondescript article in a British
paranormal journal called Spectre. That is how they found me. A trio
of female alchemists had hatched a scheme to return the Earth to its
original state. In preparation, they said, for the resurrection, they
said, of the Goddess, who had been imprisoned by Death in the bottom
of the Great Salt Lake. They wanted me to help them rob the Denver
Federal Reserve so they could finance the operation.
ended badly. Two of them were killed by marshals when they went to
buy guns from the SLA. I was waiting in the car.
how I got here. Where I met you.