What poem? Poems got all sorts of meanings and, like, I can ask a few friends off-offhandedly about it if you need. Obviously I won't say where it's from, but I have been interested in poetry because of Raven and Lily so it might not seem too weird.
[Hands over his notebook; it has the following poem carefully copied down:]
[Quattrocento by Margaret Atwood
The snake enters your dreams through paintings: this one, of a formal garden in which there are always three:
the thin man with the green-white skin that marks him vegetarian and the woman with a swayback and hard breasts that look stuck on
and the snake, vertical and with a head that’s face-coloured and haired like a woman’s.
Everyone looks unhappy, even the few zoo animals, stippled with sun, even the angel who’s like a slab of flaming laundry, hovering up there with his sword of fire, unable as yet to strike.
There’s no love here. Maybe it’s the boredom.
And that’s no apple but a heart torn out of someone in this myth gone suddenly Aztec.
This is the possibility of death the snake is offering: death upon death squeezed together, a blood snowball.
To devour it is to fall out of the still unending noon to a hard ground with a straight horizon
and you are no longer the idea of a body but a body, you slide down into your body as into hot mud.
You feel the membranes of disease close over your head, and history occurs to you and space enfolds you in its armies, in its nights, and you must learn to see in darkness.
Here you can praise the light, having so little of it:
it’s the death you carry in you red and captured, that makes the world shine for you as it never did before.
This is how you learn prayer.
Love is choosing, the snake said. The kingdom of god is within you because you ate it.]
I figure it's about, like... Eden, you know? But if he can give us anything more than that, that'd be real good. If you got any ideas, too, I'm all ears.
I'm thinking, like... if this was an answer. Should we be looking for a way to get to the angel from the garden? Up in heaven?
[ she reads it over. ] I'm kind of getting the same sort of vibes. Like, hm, [ she's going to do a quick search on helloogle. ] it might be a good idea to dig into the author, er, poet, Atwood, because apparently it's a pretext for her [ clears her throat. ] reflecting on the human body as a hybrid of material existence and immaterial consciousness.
[ hums, thoughtful, ] so if we consider everything, then, like, Heaven isn't technically supposed to be in Hell, so it's kind of the hybrid in this case, since it's not fully here. I wouldn't doubt that it's a way to get to the Angel. I wonder if that stupid cube guard *thing* is part of the equation.
[ what the fuck am i reading right now. she just stares at it, reading it over and over like it'll magically make sense. ]
This is making my head hurt. [ she laughs. ] I'm not even sure what this is trying to say. [ squints. ] And they did it with... mushrooms? [ blinks. ] Lemme see the pics, that actually sounds neat to look at, if nothing else.
[He hesitates - offers up his phone and fiddles with it for a second to bring up the gallery]
It's the next two.
[The next two pictures show the interior of a decaying hotel, bubble-chic French Baroque architecture salt stained and half covered in vines and ferns and established greenery. Its sprawling beach patio opens straight to the sand and beyond that the ocean, though the promenade of graceful statues are now crumbling, and rather than cafe tables or lounge chairs, only moss and bioluminescent mushrooms venture over the once ornately tiled floor.]
[On the floor, the mushrooms have spread a little more in each image, mycelia sending out filaments that weave together to form words]
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[ not too long after is there a knock on his door... assuming his room's where he's at. ]
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Hey, dude.
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I, uh. I kinda was hoping for some advice.
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And I can sure try!
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[Holds the door for her, and steps back to give her some space to come in]
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You can't tell no one, kay?
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But... I wrote down what I remembered, and me and Nem looked it up later. Turns out she was quoting a poem.
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...who're you thinking to ask? Me and Nem are planning on hitting up a couple literary types.
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[Hands over his notebook; it has the following poem carefully copied down:]
[Quattrocento by Margaret Atwood
The snake enters your dreams through paintings:
this one, of a formal garden
in which there are always three:
the thin man with the green-white skin
that marks him vegetarian
and the woman with a swayback and hard breasts
that look stuck on
and the snake, vertical and with a head
that’s face-coloured and haired like a woman’s.
Everyone looks unhappy,
even the few zoo animals, stippled with sun,
even the angel who’s like a slab
of flaming laundry, hovering
up there with his sword of fire,
unable as yet to strike.
There’s no love here.
Maybe it’s the boredom.
And that’s no apple but a heart
torn out of someone
in this myth gone suddenly Aztec.
This is the possibility of death
the snake is offering:
death upon death squeezed together,
a blood snowball.
To devour it is to fall out
of the still unending noon
to a hard ground with a straight horizon
and you are no longer the
idea of a body but a body,
you slide down into your body as into hot mud.
You feel the membranes of disease
close over your head, and history
occurs to you and space enfolds
you in its armies, in its nights, and you
must learn to see in darkness.
Here you can praise the light,
having so little of it:
it’s the death you carry in you
red and captured, that makes the world
shine for you
as it never did before.
This is how you learn prayer.
Love is choosing, the snake said.
The kingdom of god is within you
because you ate it.]
I figure it's about, like... Eden, you know? But if he can give us anything more than that, that'd be real good. If you got any ideas, too, I'm all ears.
I'm thinking, like... if this was an answer. Should we be looking for a way to get to the angel from the garden? Up in heaven?
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[ hums, thoughtful, ] so if we consider everything, then, like, Heaven isn't technically supposed to be in Hell, so it's kind of the hybrid in this case, since it's not fully here. I wouldn't doubt that it's a way to get to the Angel. I wonder if that stupid cube guard *thing* is part of the equation.
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...you think?
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Thanks, dude. I guess we gotta come at it from all angles.
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[He flips forward a page in his notebook and hands it over]
This was everything I could remember, word for word. The mushrooms spelled stuff out, too. That I got pics of.
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This is making my head hurt. [ she laughs. ] I'm not even sure what this is trying to say. [ squints. ] And they did it with... mushrooms? [ blinks. ] Lemme see the pics, that actually sounds neat to look at, if nothing else.
They didn't hurt you, did they?
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It's the next two.
[The next two pictures show the interior of a decaying hotel, bubble-chic French Baroque architecture salt stained and half covered in vines and ferns and established greenery. Its sprawling beach patio opens straight to the sand and beyond that the ocean, though the promenade of graceful statues are now crumbling, and rather than cafe tables or lounge chairs, only moss and bioluminescent mushrooms venture over the once ornately tiled floor.]
[On the floor, the mushrooms have spread a little more in each image, mycelia sending out filaments that weave together to form words]
[In the first picture:
—o͡f͜ ą ̢mon̸s̕tru̷ct҉ arca̧d͜ias ͟t̕o r͟evel͠at͘įǫn wa̧s ͘to ͟forge͝t m̢y̢se̴lf̴:͘ w͝ashed̀-̢o̴ut,̶
c̡ol͜d, ͢p̶o͠n̨d̡w̕eèd҉ ta̛ng͟l̨ed in ͏t́he͝ me̛mb̀er҉ wer҉e ̀s̨ha͜l͟l ͡còm͝e ͢to ̸r̷eve͞l͡,̵ iǹ fl͡o͟w͝e̡re͢d͢ éxit ͡w҉ou͢n̡ds—
T҉h̛a̛t wh̵i҉ćh͝ ̡sh̡all̶ ̨be ́wr̛i͘t̴e̡
͏ ͘ ́ ͢ ͘ ̧ ͘ ̛ ͡ ͞ ̡ ̕dest҉inies ̴a̴ro̷u̡nd̀ ̨wit̵h à
leth͠a̸l̷ ̸b̀egging,̧ ͞a ̸th͘ou̢şed and ͡càp̢t̴ưr͟ed͝, t́h͞at wheth͟er i̵t ìs̀ n͏o͝t̨
f̵o̢rgív̶e̛n...]
[And in the second:
her͞e, ̡ever͞y͡ ͜v̛i̧ne͘ ͢& ͟root͏ de̕mands ̨bl̸oo̡d͘ ̷–̛ ̵ ͜ ̡ ̡͘
͠ ͏ ̷ h͟eré,͡ ̧év̴eŕy l̨i͏fe͞ i͘s͢ ̴biŕthed ͡f҉r̢om hơlloẃ ̡a͟b͟s̢enc͞e ̧–̴
̀Be̢twe͜e͜n th͟e ͝rib̶ca̷g̛e͏ ͏tur̷ned ͞vi̵n̨e͠ riv̀u͘let, ͞survived
͟ ̕ ͟ ͝ ̴ ͜ b͏ef̛o̸r͜e̷ you̶ ͡s͜lidé ҉down ̸i͘n͏t̴o your ̡fin̕g͠ers.͏ ͠I̡ ̶h̀ave ͘s҉e̴en̴ t̀h͠ȩ m͡e͜m̕b̕ra̢n͠es of ͏d́įs̛eas̵e͟
̕clos͘e ̶ov̨e̛r̸ y͞o̢ur ͏hèa̴d,̷ ánd his͜tor͠y̕
óccur̨s̛ ͠to͢ y͞o͞u̢r bod̨y̕ a͟s͏ a ̴f̕a҉l͝l҉i̵ng ͞i̸nto̶ ͢h̛ot ̷m̴ud]
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