“It’s so good here...” Diarmid remarks to herself, as she walks towards a row of shops, within a city suburb that is not familiar to her. “...Not perfect, but my kind of place. Similar to Greenwich village. Somewhat….” She looks up a hilly part of the street divided by a concrete bridge for a train line, lined with graffiti on both sides. “...But, what a vibe, its my town, but not at the same time.” She continues walking looking around within her dream, yet parts of the scenery seem blurry, out of focus, aware that she experiences dreams of parallel realities, a conjuring of dream meditation.
“Damn it,” she says to herself, now awake staring up at the ceiling, as her parallel reality, revealed within a dream, begins to unconsciously fade from Diarmid’s mind. In her conscious state, she begins to recollect the psychiatric session she had a year ago in relation to her weapon charge.

“Aria. When you were growing up. Was there ever a weapon in the house. A gun?”
“No, there wasn’t. When he, my father was discharged, he lost interest in military, weapons, war. He had post trauma, so no. The Jungles of South America freaked him out, something happened down there. A firefight, I don’t know all the details, nor do I care to know.”
“The police reports claim that you seem to have weapon training, at least knowledge of the weapon that you used.”
Diarmid smiles.
“Just a natural ability. Best be aware of the weapon of choice, be it that day when needed for self defense. It’s like, I read this report on a high school shooter, one of those fucked up psychotics. Y’know, blames the world why he’s a loser, so he kills innocent people. Anyway, the automatic rifle he had double jammed, he tried to clear the round. The cops shot him, ten times...I guess, they took no chances. You know what I’m saying?”
“Double jammed?” The psychiatrist asks, as she studies Diarmid’s emotional cues.
Diarmid hold up her right and middle index fingers. “Two bullets stuck in the chamber, you gotta drop the clip and dislodge the round with your finger.” Showing the psychiatrist in front of her the actions of clearing a stuck round. Aware that the psychiatrist is studying her actions, curious if she is portraying an autistic mannerism.
“Is it sad when innocent people are shot and killed?”
“Yes it is,” Diarmid replies, yet doesn’t blink. To which the psychiatrist mentally notes Diarmid’s answer and facial expression.
“You mentioned the dreams you had of your father in the jungles of South America. Explain to me the images of skeletons in military uniforms.” The psychiatrist asks, sitting calmly looking at Diarmid.
“Well…” Diarmid pauses briefly, thinking quickly about what she is about to response to the psychiatrist’s query, in relation to Diarmid’s dreams. “...Do you remember when you were at medical school?…” The psychiatrist nods, without answering the question. “...The skeleton, it is, in its completeness, not human.”
“What is it then?”
“Dead…” Diarmid answers, whilst smiling.
“A deceased human?”
“...No, it’s undefinable. The skeleton is neither male or female, it reflects no biological variations…” She looks away, looking at the office window with the blue sky. Noting that a cold Autumn has arrived over the city. Diarmid returns her gaze to the psychiatrist sitting across from her. “...It appears almost to be detached from its origins, a separate entity. Within an entity, within us.” With her left index finger she points to the middle of her chest.
“Are you afraid of them?”
Diarmid looks down at her shoes, admiring the stylized sneakers. Looking up, she exhales gently through her nose.
“Maybe, I don’t know how to describe the emotion I feel. But, fear wouldn't be of them,” she replies.
“Frustration?” The psychiatrist asks, quickly looking at her notes.
“What do you mean?…”
The psychiatrist doesn’t answer the question, skillfully aware that Diarmid doesn’t expect a reply.
“...Well, I guess it may have something to do with time…” Looking down at her hands, more so her nails. Satisfied at the shape and color, particularly the white tips along the distal edge. Looking directly at the psychiatrist, without blinking.
“...It ends. For everybody.”

___

Reading: "Rituals of the Antithtical" from 'RITUALS OF THE ANTITHETICAL' (A.Glass 2023)

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