What To Pack On A Trip To The Underworld When You Might Not Be Coming Back
Author’s Note: There is no companion edition. You always might not be coming back.
You thought you already knew the answer.
You’d seen it on your TV screen, every re-watch as good as the first:
The vampire looms over the tiny blonde, mocking her with what she’s lost:
Her home. Her job. Her purpose. Her friends.
He asks her what she has left when all that’s been stripped away.
“Me,” she replies.
You cheered.
You didn’t know then that me is not unbreakable, whole and shiny as a ball bearing.
Me is an onion, peelable down to the nothing at its core.
Every time you lose a layer, you realize, eyes blurred and burning, that there was still something left to lose.
You can only see the shells after they’re gone. It’s like some principle of electrons you learned and forgot in the space of an hour in tenth grade physics.
Back then you wanted freedom. Now you want that healthy body. You’d snatch it back from that careless girl, suck it dry and toss her back the husk.
She has eyes like yours, hungry, wanting. She was impatient, not ungrateful. She already knew loss, already believed in death, was already finely acquainted with irony.
She knew then what you know now: what both of you need is a time machine.
Who knew high school physics would turn out to be so relevant?
No, you cannot take a time machine to the Underworld.
You cannot take anything to the Underworld that could enable you to escape the Underworld.
This is what you can take to the Underworld:
A backpack. Make sure it’s comfortable. Ideally, you should try it out with a load of bricks. But by the time you’re choosing backpacks, you won’t have the strength.
Good walking shoes. You should break them in first, but you won’t have the strength for that, either.
A canteen. Check it for ironic leaks. The water of the Underworld wants you to stay in the Underworld.
There are two schools of thought regarding traveling food. One is that it should be lightweight but energy-dense, so you can fill your pack and live off it for months. You will need to argue yourself into choking it down, but survival is the point and anyway you are used to that. The other is to take the most tempting food that travels at all, food that you might actually want to eat. Of course, by the time you are packing for the Underworld you may not be capable of wanting to eat.
That’s it. That’s all you’ll need. Now you’re all set for your journey.
I did not forget the map.
There is no map.
There is only this:
You descend.
You descend, with straps around your shoulders.
You descend, always looking back.
Each time you look back, you think that you have doomed yourself. You have not. It doesn’t matter.
Looking back will not make the door behind you close forever.
Not looking back (no one ever doesn’t look back) will not ensure that you can leave.
No one is assured that.
You will descend.
You will spend as much time in the Underworld as has been allotted to you.
It is measured in pomegranate seeds.
You will be told how many you have at the start of the journey.
You will not be told how much time each seed represents. It is different for everyone.
When you eat the seeds, your journey begins.
If you return, you may not notice immediately.
Sometimes the door does not look like a door.
Sometimes the Overworld looks very much like the Underworld.
If you return, you will know by the sensation of heat on the top of your head.
It may be difficult to identify that heat. You may have to use a process of elimination. Not Hellfire, not dragonfire, not lava, not napalm, not tight-beam radiation.
It is sunlight.
When you feel sunlight, you have left the Underworld.
You may have been in the Underworld for a long time. There are things you may have forgotten.
Do not look directly at the sun. It will blind you.
Crossposted to http://rachelmanija.dreamwidth.org/1220480.html. Comment here or there.
You thought you already knew the answer.
You’d seen it on your TV screen, every re-watch as good as the first:
The vampire looms over the tiny blonde, mocking her with what she’s lost:
Her home. Her job. Her purpose. Her friends.
He asks her what she has left when all that’s been stripped away.
“Me,” she replies.
You cheered.
You didn’t know then that me is not unbreakable, whole and shiny as a ball bearing.
Me is an onion, peelable down to the nothing at its core.
Every time you lose a layer, you realize, eyes blurred and burning, that there was still something left to lose.
You can only see the shells after they’re gone. It’s like some principle of electrons you learned and forgot in the space of an hour in tenth grade physics.
Back then you wanted freedom. Now you want that healthy body. You’d snatch it back from that careless girl, suck it dry and toss her back the husk.
She has eyes like yours, hungry, wanting. She was impatient, not ungrateful. She already knew loss, already believed in death, was already finely acquainted with irony.
She knew then what you know now: what both of you need is a time machine.
Who knew high school physics would turn out to be so relevant?
No, you cannot take a time machine to the Underworld.
You cannot take anything to the Underworld that could enable you to escape the Underworld.
This is what you can take to the Underworld:
A backpack. Make sure it’s comfortable. Ideally, you should try it out with a load of bricks. But by the time you’re choosing backpacks, you won’t have the strength.
Good walking shoes. You should break them in first, but you won’t have the strength for that, either.
A canteen. Check it for ironic leaks. The water of the Underworld wants you to stay in the Underworld.
There are two schools of thought regarding traveling food. One is that it should be lightweight but energy-dense, so you can fill your pack and live off it for months. You will need to argue yourself into choking it down, but survival is the point and anyway you are used to that. The other is to take the most tempting food that travels at all, food that you might actually want to eat. Of course, by the time you are packing for the Underworld you may not be capable of wanting to eat.
That’s it. That’s all you’ll need. Now you’re all set for your journey.
I did not forget the map.
There is no map.
There is only this:
You descend.
You descend, with straps around your shoulders.
You descend, always looking back.
Each time you look back, you think that you have doomed yourself. You have not. It doesn’t matter.
Looking back will not make the door behind you close forever.
Not looking back (no one ever doesn’t look back) will not ensure that you can leave.
No one is assured that.
You will descend.
You will spend as much time in the Underworld as has been allotted to you.
It is measured in pomegranate seeds.
You will be told how many you have at the start of the journey.
You will not be told how much time each seed represents. It is different for everyone.
When you eat the seeds, your journey begins.
If you return, you may not notice immediately.
Sometimes the door does not look like a door.
Sometimes the Overworld looks very much like the Underworld.
If you return, you will know by the sensation of heat on the top of your head.
It may be difficult to identify that heat. You may have to use a process of elimination. Not Hellfire, not dragonfire, not lava, not napalm, not tight-beam radiation.
It is sunlight.
When you feel sunlight, you have left the Underworld.
You may have been in the Underworld for a long time. There are things you may have forgotten.
Do not look directly at the sun. It will blind you.
Crossposted to http://rachelmanija.dreamwidth.org/1220480.html. Comment here or there.