Basal Ganglia

by Revert, Matthew

  Ingrid understands her role in terms that diminish guilt. While hiding the baby there were only thoughts of right. The continuation of deceit is a continuation of protection. She knows the Frontal Chamber will be kind to the baby. Its walls know only the meaning of Ingrid, which is a meaning that nurtures the baby. Nestled among the secret letters, the baby is free to absorb Ingrid’s most personal terrain. The letters are a directory of psyche that will work toward teaching the baby what it means to experience life. She understands the baby does not possess life in a typical manner. It is incapable of thought so must be fed by Ingrid’s. These written thoughts will instill Ingrid’s bias in the child, and this will extend to perceptions of Rollo. It is unavoidable. She reasons that a child will absorb their parents’ bias regardless of any attempts to keep it from them. Perhaps the poor masking of latent bias is more detrimental. Parents’ words saying one thing and their eyes saying another. Confusion inspired by dishonesty yet conducted with honest intentions. Hiding the truth amplifies the truth, eventually drowning out the lies expressed in honor of the truth. A child should never learn their parents’ truth via their parents’ dishonesty.

  Ingrid was comfortable sharing her truth with her child. In preventing Rollo immediate access to the child, the child would know, as Ingrid knows, that Rollo is not someone in which trust can be placed. Rollo must earn his child. He must prove himself and show he is comfortable with his role in the new dynamic. The child is not another fort for Rollo to control.

  There is a suspicion growing inside Ingrid the materials selected by Rollo for the baby’s construction were not of uniform quality. Evidence supporting this suspicion is absent, but the feeling is there. When Ingrid’s hands caress the woolen surface of the baby’s skin, her tactility weeps. While this uneasy phenomenon occurs, Rollo cannot be regarded as anything other than dangerous.

  …

  Ingrid asks Rollo to stay out of the Prefrontal Chamber for a few more nights. He believes there is nothing to stay away from. His words were delivered to his supposed child, but it did not feel as though his words were heard in any sense. The words themselves, poorly chosen, conveyed nothing and have already been forgotten. This was not the introduction Rollo desired. He begins to hope the baby is a lie and, with the shift in desire, begins to feel it is not. That it lay before him the whole time, unmoved by its father’s voice. The fastest way to make something so is to wish it were not.

  He leaves the Prefrontal Chamber as requested, not so much for Ingrid or the baby, but for himself. His troubled mind struggles to breathe in the chamber’s darkness. The moss has ebbed to nothing. His eyes have found nothing and strain with unsuccessful mydriasis. For the first time in memory, he wishes to escape the absence of light that, until now, he found great comfort in.

  “When can I see the baby?”

  He asks this question as obligation, still unsure there is anything to see.

  “When I come for you next, bring more moss.”

  Ingrid guides him out, pulling the blanket behind her, separating him from them. He feels a rush of ventilated air travel down the Medulla Shaft. The sensation relieves him. Light that once appeared dim now forces his eyes to squint in its perceived brightness. Time is spent observing the reality of his body. Understanding that in the presence of illumination it appears. Within the darkness of the Prefrontal Chamber, Rollo felt his erasure.

  He moves to the Occipital Chamber, which appears brighter still, and gorges on the luminescent moss, burying his face within its damp softness, pressing his eyes into the light’s heart. It is torn into mush by famished teeth and sucked down in wads, satisfying both hunger and thirst. Sleep’s elusive cloud finds Rollo, covering him in its promise. He feels it envelop him, stealing the day. In a single breath, he slips quietly away, granted fleeting respite from the waking world of nightmares.

  10.

  Entry into an empty stomach. Food becomes bolus, which the body steals from. Saliva steals starch. Agitated acid steals protein. Bolus becomes chyme. Thick food product. Ravaged by the body’s need. Chyme continues beyond the stomach. Food becomes a contortion disconnected from its origin. It is dissected. Deconstructed. Parts within parts. What once grew, a life unto itself, is absorbed into the blood. Picked at. What is deemed unnecessary is discarded. Treated as waste. Expelled. The body remembers every process. The food becomes a part of the body’s memory. It travels the blood until it fades away. Everything individual is temporal. The chain of transitory process never ends. One will always find another. Life is process.

  Rollo leeches strength from food and sleep. His body performs integral acts of maintenance. He wakes into something different. Events prior to sleep have separated from the emotion, offering clarity. Different emotions have introduced themselves. These new emotions shift Rollo’s perspective. The arrival of a new perspective lends credence to that perspective by virtue of being new. Old perspective has had time to digest in the mind’s stomach no longer causing upset. That which satisfies the mind’s hunger is always afforded greater attention.

  Aided by the vitality of sustenance and rest, Rollo regrets his capitulation to Ingrid. It happened too easily. Access to his child has been denied. Their dynamic subsists on absence of communication, yet he allowed her words to dictate his actions. In his world of maintenance, life is action. The fort is predicated on his drive to act. The baby’s introduction concerns the fort and is therefore within Rollo’s purview. If Ingrid will not allow Rollo to engage with the baby, he will merely disregard that which Ingrid disallows. Whether permission is granted or not, he will come to know the baby.

  He will try and talk his way to the baby before applying physicality. Use the words that now seem to exist between them. Should his words fail to find receptive ears, he will push Ingrid aside. If such overt action results in distress or anger, he will endure it. Anything can be endured. All one need do is wait. Emotions are short-lived creatures, quick to drop their essence like a cloud drops rain.

  In the Occipital Chamber he pulls away a section of luminescent moss, wrapping it gently in a cloth, which dulls and preserves its glow. A smaller section is pulled away which he eats, allowing his body to experience the mental and physical strength it provides. The moss sits comfortably inside, breaking down without complaint. In the Sylvian Fissure he washes. The water is weaker than before. Less inclined. It drips rather than flows. Like a tear one tries to prevent. He moves the pathetic wet around his body, feeling it evaporate beneath the heat of his hand. The occasional cough of grey water douses him, before the pathetic dripping continues. His skin only relinquishes its filth with persistence. Trapped grime bleeds from his body, washing away, dying in water traps.

  …

  Ingrid is compelled toward an action she is unable to reconcile. There is an addition to her son she longs to make. A conscious addition contrary to the principal of natural development she has tried to abide by. Within this compulsion is a sense her son is not yet complete. As though whatever existence it possesses is a step away from true existence. Time is spent focusing on this addition. Rationalizing it. Building reconciliation between what she wants and what she deems right. Rationalization works to marry one extreme with the other, shaving off edges. Pushing toward the middle. Finding common ground where none has reason to exist. With commitment, anything can be correct.

  Ingrid is able to find the reconciliation she desires via Rollo. When she has completed the final addition, Rollo will be able to interact with his son. This is a commitment she makes with discretion, trying to mask the commitment from her deeper self who understands the lie. The commitment rests on a precise course of action Rollo, although not aware of it, must abide by. Her commitment allows for its own retraction should Rollo deviate from the highly specific path she has built for him to follow. It is a path so complex not even Ingrid comprehends it. One she hopes Rollo will fail to follow. The commitment is designed to rationalize the baby’s addition, and in that aim, it is successful.

  Ingri
d’s son is moved to the Frontal Chamber. Into light. He is placed on his back, staring up at folds in the ceiling, taking in nothing. Taking in every detail. A needle’s eye is introduced to red thread. The baby’s belly juts outward, waiting for the needle’s kiss. Ingrid’s hand swoops toward the belly. The needle slides easily inside the child, who continues his entranced stare. Sewing’s dance begins with caution. An unfamiliar pattern is expected. Ingrid’s hand will guide the pattern into knowing. Stitching finds rhythm. Rhythm grants pace. A shape is forming on the child’s new belly.

  A red circle.

  The circle concludes. Ingrid places the needle within its parameter and begins the rhythm once more. A slight change. The circle is smaller. The larger circle must accommodate it, but only just. The new circle must allow for a smaller circle to sit within it.

  A red circle within a red circle.

  Another circle begins to form within the second, becoming a third. Ingrid maintains a focus beyond her. A careful hand amplifies with greater care. Precision becomes more important and more difficult to achieve as the circles decrease in size.

  A red circle within a red circle within a red circle.

  Ingrid continues her task, attaching increasing importance to each new circle. The smaller the circle, the longer it takes, as the intricacy and care required intensify. The baby remains still, ever patient. Allowing the addition to its body. Understanding, via Ingrid’s understanding, this needs to happen. Its belly absorbs the concentric circles into its identity.

  Ingrid has decided the circles will be her son’s name. A name that fights verbalization, but a name that encapsulates everything a name seeks. In their world of unuttered names, a name should rise above its spoken form, becoming more than speaking allows. It is tailored to their fort world. It clings to its belly. Always transmitting identity. Distinguishing it from all else unlike any name before it. The memory of thread sewn with care speaks beyond the merely spoken. Perhaps if Ingrid possessed such a name, it would still have a purpose. It would mean something beyond the pragmatic need to label one thus when placed against the other. In this thought, Ingrid resents her name. Unlike Rollo, she will never forget her name. She will never forget his name. Perhaps beyond the pragmatism of labeling, all names mean something.

  Her son sits complete. A part of their world. Informing all to come in whatever capacity that might entail. Ingrid picks up the baby and stares into the detail of her handiwork. The circles are imperfect, which in itself possesses its own perfection. Gentle hands under each plush arm pull the baby toward Ingrid’s face. The raised belly circles meet her forehead, tarnished with the sweat of concentration. A circuit forms between mother and son that will never break. Energy is born that powers the connection.

  …

  Rollo lurks at the Prefrontal Chamber’s entrance, training his ear to interpret sound. He is unaware Ingrid and his baby have moved to the Frontal Chamber, rendering his aural vigil redundant. His ears invent non-existent sound, which his brain processes as real. A rush of air from a distant vent becomes a threnody dedicated to Rollo’s isolation and want. It is the imagined voice of Ingrid poisoning his child against him with hateful words devoid of truth. The resonance of wastewater drip is the baby responding to Ingrid’s ventilation words. Nothing abides by his need.

  He must enter the Prefrontal Chamber and confront the realities he invents. Regardless of his mental dissuasions, Rollo must know his child. He picks at the thread securing the sheet separating him from the chamber. The air that escapes does so with desperation. Stale air, trapped and longing to mix with fresh air beyond the chamber. This is what Ingrid has been taking into her body. This is the baby’s reality. He tears away at the rest of the sheet, forcing the stitching apart. Stale oxygen floods and engulfs Rollo who keeps his mouth shut, not wanting to breathe whatever spite Ingrid has forced upon it. The Prefrontal Chamber sucks at the outside, giving itself back to the fort’s bloodstream where it can flow with freedom.

  The Chamber has lost all light. Faint tendrils of illumination reach from outside, but find quick death in the totality of the darkness. Rollo unwraps the moss collected from the Occipital Chamber and allows its light out, throwing itself upon every surface, lending it familiarity. His eyes navigate the newly revealed space around him, seeking out Ingrid. Attempting to understand. The cots are empty, as are the chairs. No one is there. Rollo’s search transitions from careful to frantic. The power of absence overwhelms him. He would rather feel Ingrid’s spite than the enormity of such loneliness.

  11.

  The body speaks the mind. Converting thought to physical language. Always betraying what we fear to speak. Eyes divert when lies occupy us. A hand obscures the face when fear overwhelms. We stare at unspoken objects. Nothing is hidden, only ignored. Our protection consists of another’s self-obsession. When lost in themselves, another will never see you, whether you seek their gaze or not. Should one attract another’s gaze, know that the language of your body is easily understood. Bodies communicate beyond the imperfection of words, occupying a language unbound to form. We understand the body of another because we understand our own.

  Ingrid hears the frenzied sounds of Rollo’s search, knowing she possesses the object he wishes to find. Furniture toppling and clamoring crockery. Peace disturbed by growing desperation. Both her son and the Frontal Chamber must be protected. Rollo is lost to a primal drive that demands his son. If she remains in the Frontal Chamber, she may be discovered, along with the importance she bestows upon the chamber. If she leaves the baby in the chamber and confronts Rollo, his search will grow more frenzied. It feels as though little choice remains outside of taking the baby to Rollo.

  She carefully lifts her child and slides him beneath her shirt, allowing it some semblance of safety, however illusory. Its woolen skin presses against the skin of Ingrid’s belly, creating the slightest itch. Almost imperceptible. An itch that longs to grow rather than lose itself beneath scratching fingernails.

  The Frontal Chamber is left behind them. Ingrid moves toward Rollo, one hand holding her son against the security offered by belly and shirt. The other is clenched into a fist so tight it consumes her fingers. This fist is unconscious in its manifestation and serves only to offer a place in which to store the growing fear. The veins in her hand swell with trapped blood denied passage to whitening fingers. She stares at the sheet torn away from the Prefrontal Chamber’s entry.

  Ingrid has underestimated Rollo. She predicted a turn of events that failed to eventuate, allowing Rollo to exert himself. He asserted his desire in a way defying precedent, wavering from his own pattern. Moving without Ingrid’s understanding into a new pattern. This unknown pattern represents danger. In Ingrid’s mind, if he is capable of forcing entry into the chamber, he is capable of feeding Ingrid imperfect materials in which to build the baby. Her conviction grows. Her paranoia has been justified beyond reasonable doubt. Rollo is capable of terrible things.

  Rollo, more than before, must be kept from the baby.

  In the new air of the Medulla Chamber, Ingrid is forced into spontaneity. The sound of Rollo’s calamitous search maintains its urgency. While he remains convinced Ingrid and the baby are in the Prefrontal Chamber, Ingrid has an opportunity to seek safety. It seems unlikely that Rollo’s Prefrontal search will last much longer. He will eventually reach the conclusion he is alone and broaden his efforts.

  Although the Frontal Chamber calls to Ingrid, offering sanctuary to her and the baby, it is a risk she will not take. Should Rollo’s search find them there, a great deal more will be lost. A part of Ingrid lives within that chamber and now, a part of her son too. It is a manifestation of their heart. In the absence of a biological childbirth, it is the organ they share. It represents the necessary separation of Ingrid and Rollo and the coming together of Ingrid and son. It is a place where separation finds strength in its voice, allowing for the development of her own possible truth.

  She moves toward the Central Sulcus Emergency Tunn
el. It is an obvious place to hide, somewhere Rollo will know to look, but her position will be temporary. Here she will formulate a plan. Although unspoken, it is understood the fort belongs to Rollo. While Ingrid spends her time sneaking between the Frontal and Prefrontal Chamber, Rollo is always out there, absorbing aspects of the fort only he understands. She is trapped within an extension of Rollo and somehow, within this extension, she must avoid Rollo.

  …

  Strewn failure surrounds Rollo. He has torn the interior of the Prefrontal Chamber apart, searching for his baby. The absurdity of his search resides within the impossible nooks in which he has directed focus. Beneath cutlery, inside cups. The layers of sheet that comprise the floor. Anything that occupies space has been examined with increasing violence. Within the frenzy, every action is rendered reasonable. A shattered plate represents only the elimination of a potential hiding place rather than the destruction of property. It never occurs to him Ingrid and his baby are not there. Rollo has underestimated Ingrid. He has projected an old pattern upon her that no longer seems to apply.