From: Date: Fri, 29 Aug 1997 03:15:28 -0400 (EDT) Subject: "The Lie" (1/1) by Nancy V Ok to archive with my name and e-mail attached. DISCLAIMER: Scully, Mulder, and Sir Walter Raleigh do not belong to me. I use Sir W's words without his permission. CLASSIFICATION: VA RATING: PG, for language. SPOILERS: Gethsemane KEYWORDS: Scully angst AUTHOR'S STUFF: This is the groove I'm in, so why fight it. I've been in Scully's head so much lately that I'm starting to develop a taste for tailored suits. (Forget the heels, though.) Sorry if this is incorrect timewise. I haven't rewatched "Gethsemane" and don't remember if she ID'ed Mulder on the same day she presented her report to Blevins et al. This story is written on the night before she presents her report, but assumes she has already ID'ed the body on a previous day. I found this poem, and added a story. 'Nuff said. Thanks for reading. The Lie (1/1) by Nancy V ourhouse@toad.net %%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%% The Lie -- Sir Walter Raleigh Go, Soul, the body's guest, Upon a thankless arrant: Fear not to touch the best; The truth shall be thy warrant: Go, since I needs must die, And give the world the lie. I don't believe in fate, but this is just too spooky. No, not spooky. I can't use that word. I was thumbing through a poetry book, for no reason.... OK, not for no reason. Enough of this lying to myself. I was looking for meaning. I was looking for empathy, some ages-dead bard who had put into words how I was feeling, how I have felt, how I might feel tomorrow after I sit at that table and tell them what I have to tell them. It leapt out at me as if in bold letters -- "THE LIE". Okay, so it *was* in bold letters. I almost turned the page, I almost didn't want to read it. Then I memorized it. Say to the court, it glows And shines like rotten wood; Say to the church it shows What's good, and doth no good: If church and court reply, Then give them both the lie. The court. Those men. The ones who must hurt and shit and piss like us other mere mortals. What are they thinking just before they drop off to sleep? Are their wives or lovers beside them, snoring softly? Do they wish for even a split second that they could share all they know with someone besides other power-hungry bastards who wear wing tips and smoke Morleys? The church. I admit I once relied on it; now, I have no reason to go back except the best of reasons, the ones that make us all run to God and make promises we can never keep. If our wishes are granted, we forget the promises; if they are not, we hate a God who could hurt us so. Tell potentates, they live Acting by others' action; Not loved unless they give, Not strong but by affection: If potentates reply, Give potentates the lie. This is just too good, isn't it? Acting by others' action. I almost fell off the couch when I read that line. As if Sir Walter was reaching out to touch me with a wispy ghostfinger. I've never been one to read too much meaning into poetry -- as if I know enough to understand what others mean, when I often cannot understand myself -- but who needs to read more meaning into *that*. My entire life has been one long action designed to please others, reacting to others, trying to predict what others want. Right up to this very day, the day before I stand (or sit; I'm not sure I could stand without getting lightheaded) and deliver the greatest performance of my life. Tell men of high condition That manage the estate, Their purpose is ambition, Their practice only hate: And if they once reply, Then give them all the lie. I started to sweat, and laugh, and shake, and I knew that if anyone I knew could see me now, they would not believe it. I, the strong one. I, the brave one. I, who never talked about the things that hurt her, the things that kept her up at night, the things that lived inside her head, both memories and cells gone wild. I, the one who would never admit that I truly felt somehow that Sir Walter Raleigh was writing this for the future, for me to read it, sitting here among my few worldly goods as I readied to truly sell my soul. Tell them that brave it most They beg for more by spending, Who, in their greatest cost, Seek nothing but commending: And if they make reply, Give every one the lie. Can I do it? I can't think about that now. I have to do it. That reminds me of something that happened to me in tenth grade, strange as that may seem. I was dating someone -- Brian Hollander. I didn't want to date him anymore, but I wasn't quite ready to give him up. You know how that is; it's just nice to have someone to go places with, talk on the phone to after dinner, even if you're not all that interested in them anymore. Inertia. And people don't think physics is relevant to real life. Anyhow I had told one of my friends, who had just become a friend and who was wildly popular and even though I shunned that sort of thing there was a tiny part of me that loved the fact that Jennifer liked *me*. So I told her one day after lunch that I was thinking of breaking up with Brian. And then she told Brian. I'm standing in the hall and I see him coming toward me, and I can tell by his face that she told him. I know what's coming. I know I can't lie to him, I can't pretend I don't know what he's talking about, Jennifer must have gotten it wrong, maybe she was just saying that because she likes him, etc. I lied anyway. I wanted so badly to tell him the truth, thought, in fact, that when I opened my mouth the truth would come out. I was counting on it. And yet, what I heard was a carefully crafted lie that sprouted from Godknowswhere. It scared the hell out of me. And it makes me think that tomorrow will not be as difficult as I might think. Tell wit how much it wrangles In tickle points of niceness; Tell wisdom she entangles Herself in over-wiseness: And when they do reply, Straight give them both the lie. It's said that those who are truly wise only know how little they understand. I must be a fucking sage, then. I'm so lost, I've been lost for so long. I thought I was doing what was right, helping justice to be done. How was I to know there were more and more layers of deceit, more and more ways to tangle the truth and prevent it from ever seeing the light of day. And justice? Justice became just us, Mulder and me, trying to fight our way out of something we couldn't begin to understand. Tell physic of her boldness; Tell skill it is pretension; Tell charity of coldness; Tell law it is contention: And as they do reply, So give them still the lie. Tell fortune of her blindness; Tell nature of decay; Tell friendship of unkindness; Tell justice of delay: And if they will reply, Then give them all the lie. Poems never made me cry, and I'm sure this one wouldn't have, if not for the circumstances. Fortune...friendship...and there's justice again. Did I ever have a friendship with Mulder? I'd like to think so. But there are two kinds of people, I think. One kind convinces themselves of their happiness, no matter the situation. The other convinces themselves of their pain. I am the former, and always have been. I thought I had a happy childhood. I thought I was happy with Jack Willis. And I thought I was happy with Mulder. But I think back now to all the things we never talked about, all the pain we never acknowledged, all the times we jumped to conclusions instead of talking about it. VanBlundht. His weekend in Rhode Island. My weekend in Philadelphia. What was that all about? Were our subconscious minds desperately trying to communicate, in the face of all our resistance to ever discussing anything serious that didn't directly relate to a case? Will I ever have the chance to find out? Tell arts thy have no soundness, But vary by esteeming; Tell schools they want profoundness, And stand too much on seeming: If arts and schools reply, Give arts and schools the lie. Tell faith it's fled the city; Tell how the country erreth; Tell manhood shakes off pity And virtue least preferreth: And if they do reply, Spare not to give the lie. So when thou hast, as I Commanded thee, done blabbing --Although to give the lie Deserves no less than stabbing-- Stab at thee he that will, No stab thy soul can kill. Sorry, Sir Walter. My soul's been through enough. Some nights I feel I might not awaken, and I have the urge to pray and confess my sins one last time. "If I should die before I wake, I pray the Lord my soul to take." My mother never made us say that. When I asked her about it later in life, she said she'd always found it horrifying to have children speak as if they would die in their sleep. But as I think about it now, for me it would be the best way. I could never face Mulder as I lay helpless and weak in a hospital bed. I could never feel as if I had one last chance to spill all my secrets to him but instead lie still, proud and stubborn to the end, keep silent. Of course now, those points are moot. My message goes out tomorrow. Tonight, I do not sleep. END -------------------------------- comments to Nancy V ourhouse@toad.net