Here's my Five for this week with a continuation of Lydia's story from a couple of weeks ago:
(Historian, Writhe, Preyed, Employable, Conveyor)
I turn and rest my forehead on the coolness of the window and reach to feel the slim silver disc of my Health Historian hanging around my neck. It’s been there all my life, the one singular constant, feeding the docs my daily data, reminding me of appointments, and signaling me when I am mistreating my body – not taking in enough water, pulse racing because of stress, eating unhealthy food. The small dot at its center stays red as long as I am employable, as long as I am healthy enough to go to work, but turns black if I become sick. I remember very few days when I couldn’t go to the Artisan’s Guild.
I look down now and see that not only is the center dot black, but the whole silver disc has changed color. Something deep down inside me writhes and I feel suddenly preyed upon, fighting the urge to fling the door open and jump from the car. I take several deep breathes and try to focus on the scenery outside.
I’ve only been outside of the Automated Atmosphere twice before and each time the trees have looked different. Today their leaves are yellow and orange and red. It must be the season that was once called Fall. We’ve learned about seasons, years, months, and days in our educational study times, and about the unpredictability of weather on the outside. Hurricanes, tornadoes, and floods. I can’t imagine living with such uncertainity, but I have to admit today the trees are incredibly beautiful, more beautiful than any tree I've ever seen on the Inside. I would like to paint them if it were allowed, but it’s not. I shift in my seat and feel the brushes and paint I brought along with me through the soft fabric of my bag. In the city we have only sunny, perfectly heated days, with no humidity and scheduled gentle rains for the plants and trees.
As I look out the window again I have the strange sensation that the car is not really moving, that instead it’s the trees that are moving quickly by on some huge conveyor. It’s a trick, a mirage of movement that the Immigration Office wants me to believe. I shake my head and the feeling goes away.
(Historian, Writhe, Preyed, Employable, Conveyor)
I turn and rest my forehead on the coolness of the window and reach to feel the slim silver disc of my Health Historian hanging around my neck. It’s been there all my life, the one singular constant, feeding the docs my daily data, reminding me of appointments, and signaling me when I am mistreating my body – not taking in enough water, pulse racing because of stress, eating unhealthy food. The small dot at its center stays red as long as I am employable, as long as I am healthy enough to go to work, but turns black if I become sick. I remember very few days when I couldn’t go to the Artisan’s Guild.
I look down now and see that not only is the center dot black, but the whole silver disc has changed color. Something deep down inside me writhes and I feel suddenly preyed upon, fighting the urge to fling the door open and jump from the car. I take several deep breathes and try to focus on the scenery outside.
I’ve only been outside of the Automated Atmosphere twice before and each time the trees have looked different. Today their leaves are yellow and orange and red. It must be the season that was once called Fall. We’ve learned about seasons, years, months, and days in our educational study times, and about the unpredictability of weather on the outside. Hurricanes, tornadoes, and floods. I can’t imagine living with such uncertainity, but I have to admit today the trees are incredibly beautiful, more beautiful than any tree I've ever seen on the Inside. I would like to paint them if it were allowed, but it’s not. I shift in my seat and feel the brushes and paint I brought along with me through the soft fabric of my bag. In the city we have only sunny, perfectly heated days, with no humidity and scheduled gentle rains for the plants and trees.
As I look out the window again I have the strange sensation that the car is not really moving, that instead it’s the trees that are moving quickly by on some huge conveyor. It’s a trick, a mirage of movement that the Immigration Office wants me to believe. I shake my head and the feeling goes away.
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