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“it must be admitted that there are aftereffects, impressions that linger long after the external cause has been removed, or has removed itself. “if anyone looks at the sun, he may retain the image in his eyes for several days,” goethe wrote. “boyle relates an image of ten years.” and who is to say this afterimage is not equally real? indigo makes its stain not in the dyeing vat, but after the garment has been removed. it is the oxygen of the air that blues it.”
- maggie nelson, “bluets,” 191.
…
her dream is gentle. hazy. friendly puffs of thick smoke on the horizon. hundreds of kilometres of thickly forested azure hills. branches swaying in the breeze. the soothing noise of gentle water. linen and potolli-weave. warmth. closeness. distant stirring. a kiss pressed to her brow. then: peripheral awareness of sudden pain, not her own, singing through the force. rey wakes at once and instinctively opens her awareness. extends herself. feels, reaches, prods. poe: a bright hurt, sharp, but small. fleeting. outside the tent, he mutters an unfamiliar but distinctly shriiwook curse. finn, half-asleep and sprawled on his belly beside rey, stirs. grumbles unintelligibly. he’s felt it, too.
“are you hurt, poe?” she calls.
“just a little burn,” he returns. his mind is guileless. unfolded and open, freely so; rey gathers sensory flashes. the break of an emerald dawn. long dense lines of blue coniferous trees. the beginnings of a crackling campfire. the sting of a rogue spark. “no harm done.”
“mhm,” she says. settles into the sheets again. an early riser, poe is; he thrives on the solitude of quiet mornings whilst rey and finn mutually enjoy long and leisurely lie-ins. finn is awake now, though, and radiates playfulness: he palms her hip, her waist. caresses. draws her closer to himself. presses a kiss, grinning, into her belly. his emotions flow pleasantly through their bond. contentment. security. affection. comfort. want, too. pleased, rey reaches to run her fingers through his locs.
“morning,” he murmurs.
“hi,” rey says. she tips his chin up. kisses the upturned corner of his mouth. his loud fondness swells, easy, and brightens the force about him. birdsong warbles nearby.
rey allows her waking awareness to broaden: to the animal joy radiating from the singing birds, to the voices of so many insects, to the steady breath of foliage. small things, great things. teeming, exuberant life. she reaches further, wider, into the vastness of the force: until her attention falls helplessly upon the settlement some eighty klicks south. the injustice which cries out there is deafening. all-consuming. a great black chasm in the force. a powerful imbalance. a cartel operation there harvests and processes the blue trees: apparently, they produce a brief, but powerfully euphoric intoxicating effect when snorted. a lucrative business, but filthy. ecologically devastating and dependent upon the barbarity of slave labour. disgusting! ceaselessly cruel. nausea roils in her belly. ragged breath, pained noises, and desperate exhausted prayers ring in her ears. she tenses: for a moment, the agony of so many is her own.
finn reaches through their bond, probing, concerned; rey wonders if he can feel it too. if the weight of it knots in his throat as it does in hers. if his burgeoning connection to the force yet allows him to perceive so distant a disturbance.
“what is it?” he asks, sitting up. his lovely dark eyes glimmer, golden, like twin wupiupi coins, in the warm dawn light which filters through the open tent flap. “what do you feel?”
“many things,” she murmurs. swallows with difficulty.
“good things?”
“poe’s making breakfast,” she says: she knows not what else to say. she draws a great breath. releases it. releases her horror. her anger, too, and her grief. all of it, everything, into the force. she entertains a vision of sizzling tofu bacon and eggs with blue yolks.
“caf, too,” poe says. he crawls into the tent, hands and knees; grins cheekily. “caf for my lady, caf for my pal. i know what you addicts are like.”
“your pal,” finn scoffs. he’s pleased: practically giddy. this thing between them is new, thrilling and delicate; words like pal have come to mean more. he tugs at poe’s wrist, his sleeve, and stretches to exchange an eager toothy kiss with him. it’s crackling, electric, and powerful in the force. rey watches. luxuriates in their mutual pleasure. settles. relaxes her tense jaw. allows her muscles to unknot. allows herself to be present.
“aw, buddy,” poe teases, riles.
“come here,” finn growls playfully. rowdy, he moves to pounce on poe. manhandles, straddles, pins. they wrestle momentarily: but the playfight dissolves quickly into another kiss.
“whoa, cowboy!” poe says, laughing. he squirms ineffectually: his sweater rides up, exposing a patch of flushed bare flesh, and rey bends to mouth a mark into his skin there. “much as i like where your head is at, i can’t leave the fire alone.”
“where do you think you’re going, dameron?” rey demands. she taps her forehead with her index finger as she extends her awareness to the blaze outside. “i’ve got my eye on it.”
“hey, cheers,” poe says. he grins: but gentle concern, visible in the crinkled corners of his eyes, colours his thoughts. “you alright though, skywalker?”
“hm,” she says. she thinks of jakku. how distant the loneliness she felt so keenly in that desert seems now! there is only this little blue planet, verdant and cool. there is only warmth. connection. balance. finn’s here, and poe, and something gentle is growing up like grass between the three of them. she’s keen to let it unfold. she thinks of chewie, who in just three cycles will come with reinforcements who will rally behind rey to liberate the settlement. she thinks of three cycles of quiet and contentment and slow mornings. she thinks of light and dark, and the space between. the cosmic force swells in her chest. finn’s hand finds hers. “i think so.”