Tue, 1 Jan 2002 18:26:25 -0800 (PST)
On Invisibility (was response to Shamelessly Appropriated Kessily Part n)

Logan spanking Kess is hunky-dory, but Hank spanking Kess is a big-big no-no.
Observing the previous sentence, I cackle in sheer glee--that would be such a
nice way to spank my English teachers of old.  On further inspection, maybe the
sentence is alright the way that it is.  *sighs*   I have a cold.  A simple
cold.

Nice chapter and NO you are not sorry that you left us hanging.

Borrowing Logan's body, I swiftly upend Kessily over my/his knee.  I watch as
my/his arm swings down and blisters Kess's covered bottom soundly.  Feeling
Logan's thoughts and desires, I know that he wants to stop spanking Kess and
apologize and hug her.  I input a little bit of conscious thought and will into
Logan's mind.  The input causes Logan to lift his hand higher and strike the
miscreant's bottom more firmly.  Feeling a bit of remorse at my actions, I
manipulate Logan into thinking that Kess is spanked enough.  He stops spanking.
 I exit his neural pathways, and exist in just a corner of his mind until it is
safe to escape from him.  I simply observe the flow of ideas through his mind
as he goes through the process of the holding and hugging Kess.  Kess, sleeping
comfortably, is eased into her bed.  Logan continues to sit by her bed.  He
holds her hand and comforts her even in her sleep.  Luckily for me, Logan is
such a wuss that he falls asleep at her bedside.  I stealthily extract myself
from the big dorkwad and escape through the walls and through the forest in an
invisible undetectable telekinetic bubble.  It has no smell, no mass, no
nothing.  It is truly and definitely invisible.  I survive in the woods,
meditating, and searching for a way out of my existence.  A way out of the path
that I seem to be on.  In every bit of breath I breathe, I struggle with self
and life.

Alone and lonely, I weigh the words on an invisible scale of life.  Alone and
lonely.  Are they the same and one?  Do they exist for their own purposes, ones
outside of those assigned by those mongrels generally known as mankind?
Resolutely, words are weighed and observed, scrutinized and tested.  Only to
find that there is no value in anything except the one that is assigned to it.
If that is the case, then what is the right value for anything?  Should there
be a right and wrong?  Is it so clear as that?  Acceptable and not?  It doesn't
make much sense to me.  I doubt that it ever will.  The mongrels search for me
as I meditate.  They have discovered a specialized frequency emitting machine
that is capable of disrupting even the deepest of meditative states.  If I try
to meditate around the thing, I end up with something like a television ad
embedded in my brain.  In time, those "television ads" become more than mere
suggestions.  They become the way that I process life around me.  They replace
the true person that I am for some false existence.  How will I ever be myself?
 How will I know what I want when I have been taught to see the world through
the eyes of others?  How will I be able to see myself clearly enough so that I
might deign my own desires worthy of satisfaction.

What the mutants of Gen X called a special gift, I know as a curse.  To see
others clearly with mass, shape, and form; to be invisible myself.  That is a
fucking curse.  I roar as the pain of my gift rushes into my head.  The
television ad has become more clear.  Something about Professor Chuck -- kill
him?  No fucking way.  You don't harm those that help you.  It is a creed of
life.  I break the ad into tiny pieces and send it to the garbage collection
center of the brain -- the automatic memory management section of the brain.  I
hope that they pick and destroy that crap pronto.  The garbage collection part
of the brain is the part that is most vital for a person's existence.  It
allows a person to be clean or to feel clean after swimming in sewers for a
lifetime.  So, that is my curse or gift depending on how you see it.  That is
what distinguishes me from the mongrels.  I don't even fit well with the
nonmongrels.  No place on the planet for me.  No place to call home.  Yearning
for a sense of peace and quiet and serenity.  Not quite broaching or finding
that layer in my own mind.  It's funny, I can swim around inside of other
people's heads and fix them.  I can heal them of the strangest diseases, things
that even I don't understand.  Yet, with even all of these things that I know,
I can't even find that stillness in me.  Why is this?

Some assholes say that in order to find peace you must be one with self and
nature.  Other assholes say that you must eschew your physical material things
in order to find peace.  Still other happiness assholes state clearly that you
must cling blindly to the teachings that came before.  The teachings that are a
path to our blind stumbling feet.  How is any asshole supposed to sell a bunch
of crap like that?  blind stumbling feet?  Every person is more than that.  To
have any person be so dependent on any religion reminds me of the innocence
lost in To Kill a Mockingbird.  It's a sin to harm the innocent Mockingbird. I
transform that into "It's a sin to harm innocent people".  I don't care if life
isn't fair.  I just want my piece of it to make sense.  There has to be a
pattern here.  Something that will make it make sense and fit a pattern or the
pattern.  *Where's the fucking flashlight to see the fucking little tree?*

So, you see, what started out as a relatively harmless how-do has
transmogrified into a snippet/story of sorts.  The interference that disrupts
this new mutant's powers forces her to materialize and take mass and form and
shape.  She sometimes wonders if she is nothing more than the product of the
surrounding interferences.  Maybe that is all that we are or all that we can
be.  What if Logan or Hank or the Professor detect her when she is forced to
decloak in the woods?  I wonder what happens then.  :D

As I was trying to say, this innocent "thank you for the new story" has morphed
into a snippet/story of sorts.  I didn't intend to write a story.  It just sort
of happened.  I can't stand the thought of reading my own work.  So, you'll
have to let me know if this is any good.  If it sucks, then I'll just try not
to post anything that looks like a story ever again.  How's that for extreme
dramatics?

At any rate, thanks for reading down to this line of the letter.  *Giving you a
big round of applause for your intestinal fortitude.*  Thank you for honoring
my work by reading it.