Spin Glass

Here is the situation: as with other times that I have taken a midday nap, Tabi has taken it upon himself to schedule the rest of the day in a more compact method. The time is one PM and I will go with him into the walls to work on the heating and water pipes that make the coffee machine function, to check it for kinks and dings, and then at three PM we will go to the Room to enjoy ourselves, before we split up to read or consume media, all leading up to seven PM when we will cook together, eat together, and retire in the Room again—this time with booze and other substances—until we are so tired that we want to go to bed.

Having a timetable for events and circumstances is a prominent method in keeping me excited and active up to individual events. Because I am horny and stupid, I am mostly looking forward to our two slots in The Room; before that point, I can fondle and gaze at Tabi all I want, and be sure I'm not going to have to actually get my ass turned into knots. Yet.

Actually Tabi tells me that the timetable is a remnant of a time when he had more guests in his home. The schedule itself is a great big satin board mounted on the southern wall beside the fireplace, on which disposable sticky notes are placed. "I don't know that I've told you the whole story," he signs. "I had more friends here a couple years ago, right before you arrived. I was... depressed when they left, so your arrival was so perfect I couldn't believe it. The world just lined up."

I can't help but smile at that. He is putting up the last sticky note at seven PM. "I wish I had the opportunity to meet them. Were they like me?" I feel like I have obviously asked this question a thousand times before, but memory waves a noncommittal gesture.

And Tabi signs, "No. Well, not physically. You feel most comfortable being a goat, but they were comfortable with other forms. But also, they were gay and sexually active. So it was that sort of arrangement." He gives me a beautiful, knowing grin, stretching across his caprine head. He sticks the note into the seven PM slot, taps it down, and lets me ponder—in my own flowery mind—all the things we could do with a couple other friends. I think he knows that that's on my mind, as I stare off, and he signs, "I think you would have loved them."

"Any chance they'll return?"

"It is not out of the question!" And he shrugs in a very casual way. "They did not leave on bad terms or anything. It was just circumstances."

I ponder the idea for a moment, and Tabi can sense it. What would it mean to leave his house? I take a breath and sign back. "I don't want to do that, for the record. I like being here." Because I have stated it, I feel reassured, too.

And Tabi's form relaxes even more, and he settles down his normal position, three inches off the floor. Sometimes I believe he would shatter if he were to touch ground, but then I recall how powerful he can be, holding me in his arms. And he tells me, "Only as long as you wish, my dear." And in the back of my mind, I think about what it would be like, saying goodbye. I reckon it wouldn't make sense for me and my current self. I am in love with this house and the routine it affords me, and the life I am able to live here, and the form I am able to take, and I am in love with Tabi or at least something close, and that's enough.

And he floats forward and offers me a hand. I sign, "Are we fixing the coffee machine?" and with a forgotten world trailing behind him, Tabi nods.



Along the western wall is a bookcase with no books on it, and along the ridges of the shelves is a small brass handle which comes familiar to Tabi's touch. I have been here before; this place is designed with all sorts of secrets and shortcuts, and this is my favorite. In order to get to many of the rooms, one must simply sneak past the walls entirely. And we are—very suddenly—behind and within the heart of the house, in one of its many, many ventricles.

Ba-thump. Ba-thump. Ba-thump.



When Tabi's home was built—or maybe time is irrelevant here again—it was decided to be made mostly of wood, a substance that is kaleidoscopic in its many shapes and properties. Again it must be said that I believe the home to be of Euclidean proportion, and spacetime does not distort, but there is the distinct sense that no hands were involved in the construction of the building, and maybe no trees, either. There are no seams in the patchwork of ebony and maple wood that form the ceiling and pillars, and spots of lighter pine are found inlaid within spots of oak in shapes that would be difficult or impossible to woodsmith convincingly. And as a whole the proportions are random and 'wrong' if a judgment could even be assigned to them.

Here in this transitory hallway winding further south, hidden behind a spot of bookshelf that is actually a door, the materials involved dazzle the mind if it ponders too hard. This hall is not built like it is secretive, even though it would be hard to find naturally; it is composed of luxurious black and homely brown woods of all make, all polished and varnished with dutiful care. There are pillars set against patterned walls, which bob in and up and out in an elegantly-derived, nearly symphonic emboss. Here, there are no windows or doors for a while, but to call it 'featureless' would be missing something. And it is entirely transitory as a result. There are many, many halls like this in his house. This is a place built entirely to get you from one place to another. So thus my conclusion that no human hands built it, for the effort involved would be staggering.

And also the concept of work in Tabi's house is funny to me. Because there is so little work involved in the way Tabi moves as he guides me along, and because I am able to soak in the sensory experience without paying the cost of labor, I often completely exclude the word work from my vocabulary. No part of my day-to-day is strenuous, except in the most literal sense of requiring energy to move. But I am listless. I do not need to work to survive. I have Tabi.

In spots along these walls, the wood's grain is hidden by a layer of murky-red wallpaper. I suppose the wallpaper looks nice enough, but I get the distinct sense that it's hiding a spot of woodwork even more intricate. And the thought strikes me as funny, so I gently chuckle, and relay this to Tabi, interrupting our journey to the attic. "What do you think is behind the wallpaper?"

Unexpectedly, he responds instantly, with a witty little look in his eyes. "Mahogany, no detailing. I changed it—I wanted this hall to have some more color. What do you think?"

I picture, for a moment, the hallway in an older, more drab form. The woodwork is now more uniform in color, and the flat sides effectively convey reflection. I can see across the varnish the impression of the overhead lights, and the boards form flat panels that extend all the way downwards towards a shape I can't make out yet. For some reason this strikes me not as a thoughtful version of this hallway, but a memory. Actually memory is at the wheel. Actually memory has brought me here.



But in truth I am in a newer, more red version of the hallway. And the memory is dreamlike, and I believe it was from a dream, too. And I am able to break thinking of that moment so that I can respond properly and honestly. "If I imagine it, drab is the word I come to immediately. Actually, old is."

"It was both of those things," Tabi signs. He is ahead of me now, and soon has met up with an auburn door along which is diminutive, barely matching his height, and which leads—cyclically—into the wall where we just emerged. But it does not open out into the living room, it does not return us to our original place, but instead gives us a glimpse into the very most internal of places. The veins of this house are dark. They are actually not even transitory, as you cannot navigate between them. This is a space between four walls entirely for the purpose of pipe maintenance; it is a spider's home and a cobweb trap. It is dark.

Tabi holds up a hand, and then there is light pooling out of his palm, which rotates gently to expand our view of this vein. Beyond the auburn door is a room roughly eight feet across whose length matches that of the wall, and whose interior is crowded with brass; the pipes are labyrinthine in the same manner as a neural cortex, splitting the ashen-gray boards of the support walls where they wind in and out. Tabi motions me inside, and when I step in, I can feel the limitless cold of the floor, where carpet finally gives way for hardwood. Here, although dust is nowhere to be found, the same is true for heat. And a chill runs up my spine immediately, and expands to become a full-body chill, shuddering me like hands around my shoulders.

It has been a while, but not an overwhelming while, since we've been between the walls. So Tabi takes my left hand, squeezes it, and I am confident enough to proceed.

Though I can't conceptualize all the details, I know why there must be so many pipes. There are sinks and showers in every bathroom, of which there are at least two dozen, to accommodate giving one to every single bedroom, which Tabi has implied were all meant to be filled at once. Below this vein is the basement, someplace, where water cooling and heating is dealt with. I am hoping we don't have to go that far down.

Right here, however, is a stainless steel tank which functions as a heater and storage for water that is meant to be converted into luscious, bitter coffee. It is in the center of the vein, standing a little taller than me but a little shorter than Tabi. And with his palm-light, I can make out where it has dings and bangs, rattling around in here for the past few months unfettered.

He signs to me. As he does, his palm flicks around, moving the illumination in a hypnotic sort of way. "Does any part look missing?"

I shake my head halfway. Nothing jumps to mind, except for the fact that it should be—at present—completely still. And yet it is rattling ever-so-slightly. There is a distinct sense that water is pumping someplace, trying to pump, that heat is not transferring properly, that something is wrong. I sign back, "Can you lift me up to the top and light the inside?"

Tabi takes a moment to prop his arms around me in such a way I can rest on his shoulder—it is not a terrible ordeal but it is suitably awkward—and then I am light, I am weightless with him. And he shifts his non-weight upward until we are floating in-between these walls up and up and up, and then we are above the tank. At this angle, Tabi is able to rotate his palm, illuminating the top, where a lid is. The lid is not shut tight, and I can see that plainly.

A deep and foreboding feeling.

And I reach forward and undo the lid, and note that it is only on by one of the steel threads, and when I pop it off, the gilded light of Tabi's palm is enough to illuminate

something dead

and trapped

inside of the boiler.

The pipe is still rumbling where water is seeping through its fur, its matted and rotted fur, and trying to get into the bottom drain. And the smell is tremendous and atrocious. And I retch completely involuntarily, and then I think about the fact that I drank the coffee and then I retch on purpose.

And bile and mucus and vomit mix into the slurry of corpse.

And I fall backwards.



I am in a room the size of myself. The walls of my prison are throbbing and breathing and with my ears fluttering in abject pain, I can hear them breathing. There is some kind of ebony rubber-plastic on my sides holding me in. There is black and shining light in equal measure and my eyes are going wide and I can't focus on a thing, and I know I am falling, and so is my body. My legs are falling off first, because the tendons are dying. I am falling further down into the floor, melting with death, I am lacking blood flow and stagnating. The plastic is tight and breathing against me and I am panting for air that doesn't exist. My lungs do not respond. I feel my heartbeat screeching along without brakes. When I look down my chest cavity is crawling with insects. I am screaming aimlessly and watching it part, watching me part, down the middle. My breath gives out. My voice gives out. Nobody is screaming. I feel my heartbeat again. Again. Again.



I am rotting from the inside and unable to die.



This is not a dream. I am holding memory's hand. Memory is here. Memory is my guide.



And then I land in Tabi's arms, as he scrambles, all of him scrambles at once to catch me, his comfort and composure flying away. His floating stance sinks, and he is barely able to get to me before I tumble all the way to the hardwood. He has me by his chest, and his breathing brings me back to the present moment.

I cough violently, spit and remnants of vomit, and my vision is all foggy, and I feel him clutching me closer and closer. He takes a look inside the cistern, floating back up high enough—seems to get the picture, exhales, brings me so tight. And I get the sense he is apologizing, overflowing with apology, even though it's not his fault this happened. This is Tabi's tendency.

Finally I lock eyes with him and my breath is heavy, but limply, I sign:

"I am alright."

My mind is such a terrible, fickle thing, making up memories like that, and I will choose to be alright.

And his smile makes me feel right about my decision.



The folds of this house flow through my mind. Given time and attention I could write down every crevice I know of. In the moment, we write its story through our movement.

Back into the transitory hall, then into the living room, then along the shelves until we find a closet embedded in an archway. Here is where the cleaning equipment is stashed for convenience. Here is where the smell of bleach is overwhelming, where the soap and vinegar and little spray-bottles of window cleaner hide, here is where the brushes are.

Tabi carries me to the closet so we can gather tools, and by the time we make it there, my legs are working again, my brain is running diagnostics on all of me and fixing the connections severed. And I am feeling better, a lot faster than the panic attack—the panic attack was truly dire—and I deck myself out with big rubber gloves and boots and we march on back to the place of origin, the pipes, to sterilize and erase the memory of dead animal.

I

am

alright.

The process is indelicate and awful. I retch again and manage to contain my vomit but it's a rough one. Tabi is there. We are noncommunicative. It is just important that we get this over with.

Somehow the memory that I drank the morning coffee—with water this dead thing was stewing in—does not scare me. Memory keeps showing the paperwork to me, and I just tiredly nod. I said I was going to not think about the hard questions for a while and I'm sticking to it. Actually I am walling out the exterior world.

My world is all sensory. I am just hands and feet and pins and needles; I am muscles clenching and unclenching, and fur, and I am wiping down the interior of the boiler and putting bits of flesh and rot and maggots into a trash bag, where they won't be found again. And I am the smell fading slowly from my nostrils until there is nothing but bleach. I am cleaning up until I can focus on something else, and finally that comes to me in the form of Tabi's gaze on me, when we are both scrubbing in the cistern. He gives me a look in his delicate eyes along the lines of, 'this is a very shitty activity to have to do,' and I am in agreement, and I laugh a little. I have always felt like laughing with Tabi is the first step to recovery.

After all, memory tells me that we have been through worse together. And I have probably said mean things to him and he has said or done mean things to me. And in the end it comes through via shared experiences of pain, trauma, dead animals in boilers. This is what truly locks me into this dance with Tabi, my housemaster, my companion, my maybe-in-love—we cannot function alone.

I wonder how true that thought is.



I remember that when Tabi took me in, he was the loneliest person. And his great big eyes were behind glass. I could tell that he was thankful for me, that my very existence was the signifier of better times to come. And he told me that he was going to keep me safe for as long as I wished to stay. And he told me I could become anything I wanted, because he knew how to change my shape and my everything. And he was so eager to please me that he was almost scary, almost too inviting—but that fear was just a little blip on a long road, something easy to forget. Memory says it never likes bringing that part up. I am much happier when I am not scared of Tabi.

I remember first shook me awake that next morning, how he had the biggest smile on his face, his hypnotic eyes lighting up like lanterns, and he let me realize that I was how I currently am now—I was in the body I wanted.

He had transformed me overnights.

I remember the first time Tabi kissed me, which wasn't long after I arrived. And I remember the first time I realized the nights were so long, so long, so long—I remember all the times that I realized that. And I remember all the times I voluntarily chose to push it back, further and further. Kicking the can down the road until it sinks.

I remember the first time we made breakfast together. And all the times I made it on my own. And I remember coffee flowing down my throat. I remember warmth. I remember panic attacks.

I remember throwing up in the toilet, or trying to. And I remember Tabi in that hallway floating towards me. And I remember the lights dimming and I remember him grabbing me when I didn't want him to and





























































I am done scrubbing. Tabi lifts me out of the boiler. When I am upright again, I sink into him. I am tired all of a sudden, and hugging him with my arms wrapped around his back feels right. His breath is a bobbing wave against his ribcage. His muzzle rubs at the top of my head. He kisses me gently. I want to be done with this terrible memory of mine.

And like that, he whisks us away.