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Text
Capacity
Try this.
Thank you.
I have it every day.
I like it.
Today’s not that great. I mean, it’s still good.
Yes.
What with the ingredients, proportions, intentions… it can be a lot.
Unpredictable interactions?
You can only get so close. it’s an adventure.
It’s a little chalky.
That’s just texture. You get used to it.
I like it.
It’s OK.
Kinda soupy.
Chalky, soupy… did you pick up the rind?
No.
At first it’s sweet, but sometimes it gets a bit briney if it sits too long.
Eww. Should I be concerned?
Who’s to say? I wouldn’t worry about it. A label only goes so far.
Well, you still kinda want to know...
You only need to control expectations.
That’s what I mean.
Do you have uncontrolled expectations?
No.
Good.
So, is all this just a walking around kind of thinking?
Pretty much. Gets you through the day but doesn't necessarily get you where you want to go.
Or anywhere, really.
How could you tell?
Sometimes It’s obvious.
Lately I’ve becomes sensitive to things like this because of this wart I have on my left wrist.
A wart?
I’ve had it a long time, all my life I think. I never used to think about it, it doesn’t hurt, no one else knows about it and who cares if they did.
Well, you’re telling me about it.
Yes, but here’s why. Over the last three or four months, it started to change. It had been more or less skin colored and not that pronounced. Now it’s hard, crusty, and kind of off-white. Take a look.
That thing? Looks like a pencil eraser.
I know. You see the red ring around the base?
Or a dead piece of coral.
The wart started changing about the same time I was thinking what kind of tattoo I would get if I were younger.
Not sure there’s a causal relationship there.
I’m too old for that now, would be ridiculous for an old person to get a tattoo, I mean the sad desperation in even thinking about it.
It’s not that sad. You see so many beautiful ones. Some of them are striking.
Which one would I get if I were 18 or 20 something, even 30 something?
We’d all make different choices if we could go back. That’s nothing new. Still don’t see a briney rind/tattoo/wart connection. Is it just kind of a backwards/forwards kind of thing with you?
That’s the point. Everything’s connected. But in that ongoing, not new/all new/all connected briney rindy mass, the only way to gain a perspective is to focus on something that seems to stand out.
Like a tattoo.
Or a wart.
OK.
Now you get it. The wart IS a tattoo. It’s better than a tattoo. Tattoos are all about choices. Size, color, location…
Design… Volition…
Coding…Differentiation...
Public… Private…
But with a wart, with my wart, I didn’t choose anything; it chose me.
You sure about that?
Seems that way. It grew right out of my very being. There was no conscious desire on my part. It raised itself up and out of my left wrist where I can’t help but take stock of it.
You might be overthinking this.
Maybe. But when it started to change, I started to change too.
Sometimes a briney rind is OK.
You don’t always want a recipe. You can experiment with any number of things.
Absolutely.
I know what I like. So when the wart changed, or more precisely, when I first noticed it was different…
Like changing colors?
Yes, and getting kind of scaly. It seems like it all happened at about the same time, except for the red ring.
Look at that.
I know. Maybe it was the ring that really made me think about this.
Like time to see a doctor?
No, it’s fine. Can’t you see? It looks like a target or something.
I bet you could just take a knife…
Why? It doesn’t hurt.
You could buy some kind of solvent or something.
Who would do such a thing? Would you?
I’m not the one with the wart.
What would that kind of destruction look like? I’m telling you it doesn’t hurt, I’m fine. Why not look for the positive?
It’s a wart.
Yes. It’s a wart. It’s also a lens.
A lens.
Yes, if you choose to see it that way.
I thought you said you liked it because you didn’t have to choose.
No, that’s different. Listen, doctors and other clever people look at a wart, they see a wart.
Because… it IS a wart.
I know! And it’s mine, so how can I not have a different perspective?
Oh. So a wart on someone else is a wart. But on you, it’s a lens.
You are missing the point. It’s a unique signifier protruding directly out of my very being, and now that’s it’s white and rocky and has a bloody red ring around it I can’t help but notice.
That’s true.
Remember it’s been there forever already, but because it blended in with the rest of my arm, which looked more or less like everyone else’s arm, it was ignored, barely there ...
We certainly hadn’t discussed it previously…
Right! It was insignificant… We are getting sidetracked. There must be a use for this thing. Maybe not a reason, but a use..
No, now that’s wrong. There’s a reason for your skin condition, but no use. Just go to a doctor. You’ll see.
Explanations are always dependent on framing, you know that.
Well…
Existence is independent of explanation.
So your wart, your lens, is inexplicable?
Who cares about that? It clearly exists, it’s screaming for attention…
Your wart screams?
It’s changing texture, color, it’s got a red ring around it. Its existence is not in question. Think about usage. That’s wholly different.
OK.
Who says it’s just a wart, anyway? It could be some kind of eye, and if it were, or I could understand it to be an eye, it would have seen EVERYTHING I EVER DID. Remember I had this thing all my life, but I just noticed it now. Why?
If only it could talk.
Now you’re getting it! If my wart could also be an eye, why can’t it be a mouth?
A mouth.
Look, I know it’s a wart.
Yes. It is.
It is also a distinct focal point.
Anything can be a distinct focal point.
That’s right! Anything and everything, but THIS thing grew right out of me!
So does your hair. Your breath.
Exactly! But unlike hair and breath, my wart is singular.
Can you imagine dealing with more than one?
But that’s the point. There’s ONLY one, it’s right there. It’s always been there. But now, it’s looking at me.
It’s a wart.
And it’s saying something.
Yes. It’s saying GO TO THE DOCTOR.
Your obstanancy with all this is stunning.
Oh OK. Your rhapsodizing about your wart is genius; my inability to share your vision is stunning.
And tragic. We are all so alone.
No, I am right here. I just don’t see your wart as a lens, or an eye, or a mouth…
Or a portal.
It’s a portal now?
It might be. It depends. I’m just starting to understand its potential.
It seems limitless.
But you have to start somewhere.
Fine.
So it’s an eye, watching me; what I do, where I am, who I’m with…
Hello.
And it’s processing all the information of the current moment through the lens of my entire life, because remember, it’s been there forever.
Yes, but so’s your brain. Most people just use that.
But most people don’t have a wart like this! I have a wart AND a brain!
OK. Maybe I should grow a wart.
You really should, but it’s not up to you. It’s an unconscious development.
For you maybe. But for me, it could be a triumph of the will.
It’ll at least be a struggle.
Well, I’m not enthralled.
I am, but remember I’m focusing on the use.
Right.
So it’s both a focal point and an observer, right? I can’t hide from it, and I don’t want to.
It is right there.
OK, so I'm watching it watch me, and it sees all. Yet I have questions.
Me too.
I need to know if it’s objective, independent, or…
Well it can’t be truly independent. It’s part of you, grew right out of you. That’s at least a conflict of interest.
You’d think so, but I’m not sure. You can’t tell by just thinking about it.
That’s true.
You have to listen.
Listen to what?
To the wart, of course.
Oh right, the eye wart that is also a mouth.
That’s it. You have to listen attentively.
I bet.
You really do. Because it has its own language.
It does?
I think so.
How do you know you’re not listening to yourself make up a lot of nonsense?
It’s possible, except I never thought like this before.
Before?
Before the wart.
But you said you always had the wart.
I have. But I just started to pay attention to it.
Maybe you’re just growing as a person. The wart may have nothing to do with it.
Haven’t you been listening? I am seeing all this for the first time BECAUSE of the wart.
You know what I think?
What?
I don’t think you have the wart. I think the wart has you.
We are very close.
Yes. It’s growing out of your wrist.
Right. We are going around and around here.
No, we’re getting somewhere. Let’s think about tattoos again.
OK.
You think the wart is better than a tattoo because you did not choose it; it chose you, right?
It’s an important distinction.
Agreed. But intention matters either way, right? You’re either the driver or the passenger.
Maybe.
The tattoo and the tattooed person are not the same thing.
That’s debatable. The tattoo is useless without a person on whom it is displayed. A tattoo is just a design, an idea, a picture in the parlor’s sales catalog until it’s inked onto flesh. Then it’s a tattoo. And once a person is tattooed, they are one thing.
Depends.
Identity is a function of context and intention.
And boundaries.
And perspective. That’s where the wart offers utility.
Whatever.
No, not whatever. Listen, just because the wart grew out of me doesn't mean it can’t function as an independent observer.
Well…
My identity, my boundaries, my perspectives, my agency all develop due to that independent observation!
Through your talking wart.
Yes. Until I understand its language, who knows? Again, why not see where it all goes before passing judgment?
OK.
Of course the language could be nonverbal. Tied into my nervous system and all.
Just what you need. More internal dialogue.
It’s both inside and outside. See the value?
I see a wart.
I see more. And another thing. Just because It’s independent doesn't mean it doesn't have an agenda.
An agenda.
I think so.
Are you on the same side?
We’re very close.
I have to go.
OK. See you next week.
***next week***
You want a muffin?
Sure. I like muffins.
These are really good.
Yes - what did you use?
Not sure. I found some berries that smelled about right, and then just made muffins. I don’t know what they were, but I loved the smell. Very summertime.
Kind of risky.
Low stakes. Just muffins.
You shared them without knowing what was in them?
And you accepted. So it all worked out.
Well...
I was right last time too.
I could have been allergic.
You are no longer hungry.
What else were you right about?
My wart.
Right.
It does have an agenda. But It’s benevolent.
OK.
At least I think so. We are streamlining communications.
How does that work?
I’m listening. It’s more telepathic than anything else.
Interesting.
Crazy.
Really?
No, I mean the thing has a memory, apparently photographic. I’ve evidently missed a tremendous amount of my own life.
Go on.
It seems to be able to replay every moment of my existence utilizing optimizable filtering dynamics.
Wait.
What?
What does that mean?
I think in spreadsheets but it thinks in images.
Your wart.
Through my wart.
I do not understand you right now.
OK, so this morning, I started to see a progression of complete strangers in my mind, but from weird angles.
Oh. The angles were weird.
Thousands of people.
Wow.
Yes, it went on for some time. Everyone moving around, sometimes I could only see people from the back or the side, sometimes the faces were crystal clear, but each one was closer to me physically than you are right now.
But I’m right here.
Yes! It took me several minutes to understand…
Understand?
My wart was showing me everyone I had ever been next to but never spoke to.
What.
Yes, like people in the subway, or on a bus, or in an elevator…
Or on line at a store?
Yes.
And the wart is doing this?
Well from the angle, it looks that way.
So these are people that you’ve completely forgotten, and your wart has always remembered?
It’s more like these are people I never paid any attention to, so I hadn't forgotten them…
OK.
And the wart just recorded them all. I don’t know if it’s actually conscious of anything.
But…
You have to remember, this is a wart we’re talking about.
I have to remember that?
I have a better understanding now.
Right.
What does that mean?
Well, I don’t doubt you’ve had visions.
They aren’t visions. They’re recorded events.
Recorded events then, fine. I just don’t see the wart connection.
Wow. What are you not getting? This kind of thing NEVER HAPPENED BEFORE THE WART.
It also never happened before this morning.
It’s communicating with me through my nervous system.
Maybe you are tapping into something within yourself, and you just think it’s the wart.
It’s really more of a portal.
No. It’s still a wart. You have become fixated.
Wouldn’t you be fixated if you had a wart portal like this?
And through all that concentration, you’ve unlocked inner energies that you attribute to the wart.
Well, from the outside, I can see how you would think that.
You can?
Sure.
Do you think I’m right?
Not a chance.
Oh.
It’s must be so hard to be on the outside of it all.
I can’t imagine being on the inside.
I’m terribly grateful about it, actually.
You really may need to take a step back.
It’s so interesting.
Yes. Kind of nuts though.
No it isn’t. Here’s what’s nuts. Every one of those thousands of people I stood next to on the train, on the street, whatever, we pass in and out of each other’s lives, more getting in each other’s way than anything else.
OK.
But here’s the thing.
Yes?
Some of them have warts too.
Of course they do. Warts are very common.
No. I mean WARTS. Like my wart.
What. Wait…
Yes.
So you are now in wart-communion with someone you took an elevator with 25 years ago?
Who knows? The original links can be traced, but it’s the future that’s important.
I don’t understand.
I know, I don’t either.
And yet…
There’s clearly some kind of cross temporal pan-personal resonance at work.
There is?
And for me, the portal is my eye-wart.
For others?
Who can say? The connection is only marginally physical. Like an echo down an endless hall of doors, we know there are openings and closings, comings and goings, but we can’t focus on all that. The physicality is at most a menu.
A menu?
The menu is not the feast.
All right hold on. I’m lost. You’re in communication with others now, right?
Most definitely.
Other people you believe you were at one time very close to physically, such as on a crowded bus, but you never spoke to?
The matches are definitive.
Says who?
It’s obvious to us.
Through the wart.
For me, yes, through my wart. For others, their portal is different.
Like what?
It doesn't have to be a wart.
Good.
Look, if you suddenly found yourself in the doorway of a fantastic mansion, with calm and love and cooling energies everywhere, full of beings with whom you intuitively and completely shared a deep and trusting bond, you would just use the door and go in. The door itself would hold marginal interest.
But considerable utility.
Now you’re getting it.
I’ve never had that experience.
Neither had I! Not until this week. All I’m saying, in answer to your question, is for me, the door, if you will, is my wart. For this one woman I just met, Dwing Hsi, her portal is some kind of anomaly on her back.
Dwing Hsi?
She was wearing a work ID when I stood next to her on a subway once. The details are coded in the metadata.
I’m sorry?
Why do you have to think about that minutiae? Her ID badge, her name, that is not important. The connection is important. We instantly recognized each other and couldn’t stop laughing.
You don’t know her.
We share a portal. We know much more than each other. We don’t understand it individually, at least I don’t, but together we do. We are all much more than this person/that person being here/being there.
It’s a big world.
And we’re all together, yet all alone, all at the same time.
It’s all chance.
What is?
Who you connect with, and who you don’t.
No, no, no. This is not Missed Connections. It’s not just that things could have been different. Things really ARE different!
It’s certainly not all self-directed.
Which self are you talking about?
Me. You. Dwing Hsi. All of us.
But that’s what I’m telling you. It’s not really like that.
What, and who, you pay attention to really matters. But you can’t pay attention to everything. It’s random.
No. It’s capacity.
It’s a big world.
You said that.
It’s true.
Yes. And we record it all. That’s what I’m saying.
Wait. What? Really?
Seems to be. Look, that’s what’s happened to me, and I’m nothing special.
Don’t say that.
Neither is Dwing. She’s really smart but..
I’m sure.
Very accomplished. Overcame a lot.
You’re saying we can all do this?
I’m saying we all do this whether we know it or not.
How could we not know it?
Those who know it, know it. Those who don’t, don’t. You need a portal.
Not necessarily a wart though.
No, but my wart worked for me. I recommend them.
Not intuitive.
Until it is.
I don’t know. Sounds distracting.
Distracting? From what? Muffin world? You bet.
I have to go.
OK.
See you next week.
***next week***
I have a fresh salad today. Would you like some?
OK.
Simple greens and these wonderful tomatoes.
Lovely.
I don’t believe in dressing when you have beautiful components like this.
That’s fine.
I agree. Some of my favorite flavors are very subtle.
It’s all what you’re used to.
Maybe. You need to get past that though.
It’s very personal.
You have to get past that too.
I suppose.
No, definitely. You have to be open to new experiences.
That’s very true.
I knew a man once. He salted his cereal.
Really?
Yes. Corn Flakes. He put salt on his Corn Flakes.
That’s a new experience.
Not to him, that’s the point. Everything had to be salty or he couldn’t taste it.
Oh I see.
It wasn’t that he didn’t like it without salt. He literally couldn’t taste anything unless he dumped all this salt on it.
Wow.
Yes. Corn Flakes, apples, cheese…
Most cheese already has a lot of salt.
I know, right?
These greens are tasty just as is.
He was my father.
Who?
The salt guy.
Oh.
Had to take all this high blood pressure medication, but he didn’t care. Salt the grapes, salt everything.
Hard to watch?
I got past it. It didn’t mark me or anything,
That’s good.
He’s dead now.
I’m sorry.
I mean, you’d have to be pretty fragile to let that kind of thing get to you.
Yes and no. Sometimes it’s little stuff like that…
What the hell do I care if he salts his donuts? I don’t have to do it.
I suppose.
The thing was, he thought everyone else was crazy for not doing it.
Interesting.
Not really.
No.
I mean, these greens here. Really good, right?
Absolutely. I just said so.
I know. But when you eat something like that, without dressing or tons of salt, just straight out of the ground and you concentrate on the taste, it’s like your tongue is listening, not just tasting.
I see that.
Exactly! And then when you start to appreciate all the subtlety, you describe parts of the taste in visual terms: this is a bright taste, that one is darker. I mean these greens really taste bright green, right? What else could you call that?
I don’t know. Maybe a little sweet.
OK but a lollipop is sweet.
You’re right. It’s a language thing.
It becomes a language thing. But it starts off as a perception thing.
Language is imperfect.
We make a lot of assumptions.
Absolutely.
We describe one experience in terms of others.
We do the best we can. You always have to qualify.
Maybe. I’m experimenting with a lot with equations now. Functions, limits, rules – all numbers and symbols, very few words.
Does that work?
When it does, it’s the best.
Very powerful.
There’s nothing like a good equals sign.
It verges on poetry if you wander off.
That’s not good. A lot of poems are garbage.
Sometimes they have to ripen.
I saw him the other day.
Who?
My father. The salt junkie.
Your dead father?
Yes. Via the portal.
What.
The wart, remember?
Wait. I thought you said you only saw people you stood next to but never spoke to.
I don’t just see them. We bond and don’t let go. They’re with me now.
OK.
I’m for real on that.
I’m confused.
That’s OK.
Thanks. So what happened with your dad?
He was standing behind Honoré Gustavinson, this other man Dwing and I am now bonded with. He lived a block or two away from us when I was a kid. My dad evidently never spoke to him either. That’s why he was there.
Must have been weird.
Gustavinson is quite interesting. Some kind of scientist. We used to go to the same drugstore. We recognized each other right away. He lit right up.
Where’s his portal?
Along his lower gum line. Some dentist butchered him. He showed me the scar.
Horrible.
He thinks it was pretty good trade-off now. He made a lot of notes while we were together.
What about your dad?
Yes, that was strange. He was only there briefly. We all saw him and reached out, but none of us bonded with him.
Sounds just as well.
Maybe next time.
Your wart.
Yes?
It looks bigger.
Does it?
Yes, definitely.
Well, I have been using it day and night. Maybe it’s like a muscle, and I’m building it up.
It’s more like a golf ball now than a pencil eraser.
I guess you’re right. I hadn’t noticed. I told you the physicality of all this is hardly the issue.
You should get that looked at.
You’re looking at it now.
By a doctor. It’s turning a little green.
You know what I think?
Hardly ever.
I think you want a portal.
A wart?
Yes.
I don’t want a wart.
Warts work really well.
I know enough people.
You do not understand.
Clearly.
We’re conditioned to fear what we don’t understand.
For good reason, a lot of the time.
For no reason, most of the time.
Well I’m not scared now.
Really?
Do you think I am?
Yes.
Should I be?
No.
That’s good.
Well, maybe a little.
Why?
Because you’d rather not understand. You are not that open to new experiences.
That was about eating greens without dressing.
We were also discussing the limits of language.
Point taken.
And missed.
I have to go.
Visible light is only a tiny fraction of the entire electromagnetic radiation spectrum.
Yes. And higher wavelengths will kill you.
Everyone knows there’s much more going on.
See you next week?
Remember. Nothing is ever lost. You just need a portal.
I don’t want a bloody wart, spinal anomaly or destroyed gumline.
Trade-offs.
I’ll say.
It’s sharing existence while still retaining your you-ness.
Your you-ness?
Well, after awhile identity becomes a bit more mathematical.
OK.
I can understand your concern, being on the outside.
See you next week.
***next week***
Ice water. That’s all I can drink now.
So good.
I still enjoy coffee.
Essential.
But that’s not really drinking.
Not like ice water.
That’s the point. Not at all.
I mean you don’t drink coffee because you’re thirsty.
Completely different paradigm.
Same mechanism though.
You’ve been thinking.
Yes, I have. I think I want a wart after all.
Who wouldn't?
I mean a portal.
I understand.
Life’s too short.
Maybe.
I mean that whole being open to new experiences thing.
Well you know...
What?
Not all new experiences are pleasant, or even positive.
That’s not the point.
Sure isn’t.
But still….
Yes?
We need an objective.
We do?
Scaffolding at least.
Temporary at best.
You said you have to start somewhere.
You don't think you started yet?
I mean with the portal.
Be patient.
OK.
Would you like more ice water?
No thanks.
So Dwing is a horse now.
Excuse me?
It’s true. She’s a beauty.
Are you still bonded?
Of course. Bonds are not species restricted.
Must have been a shock.
Not as much as you’d think. Turns out portals have portals.
Is that how it works?
Evidently. It’s pretty fluid.
I guess.
I think she’s a Friesian, so graceful. Beautiful eyes, that's how I recognized her. You still want one?
I like horses.
No, a portal. Don’t be stupid.
But...
I keep telling you the physicality is not that important.
I know.
No, you don’t. Warts, horses, don't get hung up on all that.
OK. I just hadn’t expected Dwing to be a horse now.
I understand. Portals are a trip.
Seems like.
You’ll see.
What’s Gustavinson’s reaction to Dwing being a… what kind of horse is she again?
Friesian.
Right, one of them. Sounds like a mode.
Funny you say that.
Why’s that?
I’m not sure of course. She looks like a Friesian. It would be rude to ask. Kind of your sort of question.
Speaking of rude.
Sorry.
It’s OK.
So back to your comment. Honoré is a little hard to read now that he’s a piano.
A piano.
Baby grand. He’s ecstatic.
A piano is an inanimate object.
And?
How can Gustavinson be a piano?
A piano is an intensely intimate instrument.
Not until someone plays it.
Incorrect.
You play a piano. You don't become a piano.
No, YOU don’t become a piano. Gustavinson does..
I’m having trouble with this.
I understand. To be fair, it took me by surprise as well.
That’s a relief.
It’s a limitation. I have mine, you have yours. We have to work through them.
It’s more than that.
Dwing got there first.
How is this even possible?
Perfectly reasonable. She loves music.
No, no. I mean this whole porting business.
We do make a lot of assumptions.
Of course.
We think today is pretty much going to be like yesterday.
Yes.
And that we’re pretty much going to be the same tomorrow as we are today.
But we still change. We learn and grow, we forget and decay….
Yet you just said Gustavinson can’t be a piano?
That’s different!
That’s the point.
I’m not sure I want a portal after all.
Exactly.
What do you mean?
First you don’t want a portal; then you do; now you don’t.
Not the same thing.
Clearly. And yet, consistent. You are getting there.
No. Really?
Of course. The thing is, we all have portals, we’re all getting there, whether we realize it or not.
But control? Intention? Driver vs. passenger?
Remember, you need patience.
Who does?
Everyone. And attention.
Right.
It will take much longer to find your portal if you won’t even look for it.
Maybe.
Definitely.
Your wart is really big now.
Does it make you uncomfortable?
I can hardly see your wrist now.
I can hardly feel it now.
I have to go.
Next week?
Next week.
***next week***
I brought you something this time.
Very thoughtful. Smells wonderful.
How do take it?
Black, thank you.
Me too.
I used to add milk.
So did I. And sugar.
Really good, just like this.
Agreed.
I have ice water as well.
That will be perfect later.
Yes.
Yes.
So.
Yes?
Where is it?
You will never guess.
OK.
It’s my old tattoo.
Ha!
It’s behind my right elbow. I got it so many years ago, I don’t think about it.
I never noticed. Let’s see it.
Right there.
Look at that.
Just a little green circle.
Like a wart.
Or a target. I chose it so long ago.
And you choose a place where you can’t easily see it.
Right. I can’t see it without a mirror… I don’t know what I was thinking.
I do. You don't need to see it.
Not anymore.
There it is.
Yes. So. You know those greens we had...
Don’t even. I saw you.
Really?
Gustavinson saw you first, but it’s pretty much the same thing.
I never considered being a color before.
Portals. You just never know.
Except you really do.
The you-ness adapts.
So you know what’s inside colors?
More color?
Yes, but ultimately it’s all numbers.
I knew it!
At least I think so. Wavelengths…
Angles of refraction...
Values… saturation...
Probably why Gustavinson saw you first.
Such a nerd.
He’s a remarkable individual. We take the package.
So why didn't I see you?
There’s a lot to look at.
You’re telling me.
You saw something else?
Your dead father.
Really?
Yes.
I wonder why. You were never physically close to him.
My portal doesn't work like yours.
Well that makes sense. I can only bond with a tiny fraction of the people I see.
The physicality is even a smaller thing for me than you said it was.
The door is not the mansion. So what’s the dynamic?
All color for me. Specifically green.
Like equals sign green?
Seems like.
What a powerful connection.
So much variation. Emerald is not Chartreuse.
Or Jade.
Or Sage.
Plus so many contexts.
Birds.
Plants.
Food.
Don’t forget eyes.
There’s only so much you can understand from the outside.
How did you know he was my father?
Pretty obvious.
Where is he?
We could pull out any random digitizer.
And possibly be right.
But probably be wrong.
How did he look?
Calm, mostly. Not that focused.
Well, he is dead.
Not finished though.
No.
He sees you too. The portals don’t eliminate you-ness.
We dissolve.
But we don’t disappear.
Silly to hold on to stuff that’s not even yours.
Right. Like even from the depth of that endless green, I know there’s blue that way, yellow the other.
So staying still...
On the edges...
Impossible?
Inevitable?
Might be close.
You said we have to move past all that.
Not so sure now.
Wait. You’re no horse, no piano. What...
I told you. There’s nothing like a good equals sign.
Wow. Really?
I need a rock.
Sounds so limiting.
Quite the opposite.
I’m going to try the blue edge first.
While you’re still green, can you say hello to my dad for me?
I’ll try. Not sure I can bond with him though.
Oh I know. He’s not easy.
Green is good for him.
I hope.
Next week?
Not sure.
I know.
Why don’t we just see what happens?
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The Peel
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Currency Exchange | Part 1
I monitor Leslie Tuesdays, Thursdays and Sundays, 21:00 to sunrise. At this point in my career I don’t need long hours on a freezing mountain each and every week, especially when my real work is back in the lab analyzing dusty terabytes of raw stuff Leslie has dutifully collected over the years but that no one has ever seen. But I have to stay connected, and I love being essentially alone with whoever, whatever is Out There.
Not that you’re ever alone in a government facility, but it often feels that way which is good enough for me. I take Flo sometimes, because she’s smart enough to keep away from the sensitive stuff and knows when to hide. And Felix is always somewhere, fixing something or coming by in the middle of the night with tea I never ask for but always appreciate. With the two of them close by and my own head focused on Leslie I feel confident and in control, happy and busy. And then Leslie says:
03041972 023663978 TVC15 00 TVC15
This repeats three times, then there is a pause for exactly four seconds, and then the characters repeat again, three times, then another four second pause, then more identical repetitions.
Randomness is hard to define; you don’t know it when you see it. Context is everything: a group of numbers means many things or nothing depending on who’s counting, what’s counted, where one starts and stops, who defines foreground and background. All SETI analysts are looking for meaningful patterns, intended rhythms that suggest order in all that stacked and scrolling text, all those numbers. It’s not supposed to be easy, and it isn’t. No one expects a clear, unmistakable message to simply be handed to us.
And yet, here’s one right here, right now, impossibly but undeniably addressed to me personally, coming from the [YYZ2112] nebula, meaning that as per Einstein it was sent approximately [7,000] years ago. Long before anyone knew my birthday, my social security number or the Bowie inspired small, strategically placed tattoo that only a few select eyes have ever seen.
Two of those lucky eyes belong to Flo, who is now looking at me from her perch on my work bench. She blinks at me patiently as I try to figure this out.
###
Protocol demands any potentially interesting finding be corroborated right away. I feed the originating data from Leslie directly into the MISTAR network to get as many eyes on [YYZ2112] as possible for confirmation of, well, anything. It is largely an automated process, and as usual within a half hour negatives from around the world are coming in. Nothing unusual from that sector.
I check again – the birthday-SSN-Bowie pattern hasn’t stopped, but evidently I’m the only one seeing it. We ran a full diagnostic on Leslie just last week. Taking her offline now would be expensive and sure to irritate Mitchell, which is fine when justified (she’s an idiot) but should be avoided for the same reason. I start thinking who the hell I can call who will both understand what I’m seeing and not lose their mind, or assume I am losing mine. Baxter maybe; I could call him. He can at least keep a secret. Flo yawns at me – she bores easily.
My phone buzzes with an incoming text from a masked number – all 1’s.
03041972 023663978 TVC15 00 TVC15
I stare at my phone. Another text comes in a few seconds later from another mask, this time all 2’s:
03041972 023663978 TVC15 00 TVC15
The third text from all 3’s comes in:
03041972 023663978 TVC15 00 TVC15
What the hell is going on?
I hear the security door slide open with its tiny squeak. It’s Felix carrying a cup of tea in one hand and a piece of paper in the other. He always waits for me to speak first as he knows how wrapped up I get working with Leslie. Flo jumps down from the bench to say hello. “Hi Felix”, I manage to mumble as the next identical text hits my phone, this time from all 4’s.
“Everything ok, Miss?” Felix seems to know that it isn’t. He sets the tea down on the bench next to Flo’s spot.
“Uh-huh,” I say. I feel my instinctive calm giving way to the freak out building up in me. This is Contact.
In the same state of the art facility that houses Leslie there are still fax machines. It is one of the more unfathomable ironies baked into going back in time for a living. The same government agencies developing mind altering scientific revolutions still insist on maintaining this barely used, antiquated technology. Felix clears his throat. In “I think this is for you.” He hands me the piece of paper. He’s right. I know what it says before I even touch it.
03041972 023663978 TVC15 00 TVC15
03041972 023663978 TVC15 00 TVC15
03041972 023663978 TVC15 00 TVC15
“About an hour ago, we received about 100 copies of this same page,” Felix looks at me to make sure I am listening. “They were all the same, and they came in on every machine at the same time. They all ran out of paper…”
I stare at the fax; Flo and Felix stare at me. OK that’s it, I will call Baxter, this is crazy. But before I call him, I know he would do the exact same thing I’m about to do. I pick up my phone, buzzing away now with the same message from all 39’s. I hit REPLY ALL and type “ Hello”.
The texts stop immediately. I check Leslie; the pattern has slowed, allowing me to catch my breath. The repetition interval is now three minutes, no longer four seconds. Flo gets up, stretches and slinks across the bench to rub against me. Felix says, “Your tea is cold,” picks up my cup and turns to the door. “I’ll be right back.” The door opens silently at his approach. Felix pauses for a moment and looks back at me. My phone rings – it’s Baxter.
###
Baxter is barely tolerated by his colleagues in equal measure due to his undeniable mathematical genius (creates jealousy), his unnerving telepathic/clairvoyant abilities (creates insecurities) and his unapologetic insistence that he and everyone should be able to levitate – all you have to is practice! (creates concerns). As a scientist I find Baxter fascinating. As a human being, I often find him dark, unnecessarily cryptic and distracted. However, he has never betrayed my trust. I’m not proud that he has also seen my TVC15 up close and personal, but he didn’t care then and so many years later he sure in hell doesn’t care now. He also has not forgotten.
“Why do you want to call me?” Baxter’s version of Hello. He wouldn’t ask if he knew the answer but I can’t tell him by phone. “Need your technical expertise.” I don’t need to say more. He can only foresee immediate events but he can intuit a great deal. “You are with Leslie,” he growled. It was not a question. “20 minutes,” he says and arrives in eight. “I made all the lights,” he greets me as he enters the observatory.
He checks Leslie’s former and current readings from [YYZ2012]; I show him my phone and the fax, and Leslie’s antiseptic MISTAR request. It is indistinguishable from any of the other dozens that are sent out routinely by bored global monitors every shift. He looks at everything carefully and checks Leslie again. “Your social?” he asks. I nod – he knows the significance of the other elements.
Baxter walks slowly around the room. He’ll talk more when he’s ready. Flo watches him and eventually saunters over to move him along. She rubs against his leg when he finally stops and looks at me. “Who else knows?” he asks. “Flo and Felix,” I say. “You saw Leslie’s MISTAR was clean.”
“Yup,” Baxter turned a moment before the security door slid open; Felix is back with a teapot, three styrofoam cups and a pack of Fig Newtons. “I hate those things,” Baxter greeted Felix. “I remember,” Felix looks him in the eye. “I heard you float in.”
###
Baxter sips his tea. “The MISTAR is the key. No one outside of this room sees what we see. Whoever is sending this is manipulating a thousand systems from [7,000] light years away. They want to maintain control.” He looks at Felix and me. “We should make sure they keep it.”
Neither Felix or I respond. I have no idea where Baxter’s going; Felix wisely keeps quiet. “No mistakes,” Baxter continues. “We tell anyone, we’ll lose access. There’s a reason they’re doing it this way.” He tells Felix to bring him the additional faxes. Felix nods. “I have them all in my office,” and is back with a large manila envelope in less than a minute. Baxter methodically reviews the contents and then takes my single copy. He carefully returns everything into the envelope, licks the adhesive and seals it up.
“Message received, right?” he stuffs them all in his shoulder bag. “Need to burn them,” he mutters. I catch Felix’s eye, and regret it. “No mistakes,” Baxter repeats without looking up. He zips up his bag. “Can I see your phone again?” he asks me. I want to look at the texts one more time, but with a shock I see they are now gone. “Wow,” I say, handing the phone to Baxter. “Message received is right. Just not understood.” Baxter betrays no emotions as he searches my phone for data. He clears the phone’s cache. “They’ll know if we wipe the whole thing,” he says as much to himself as to us, and I know the “they” he means are not from 7K LY’s away.
Flo meows softly, which seems to refocus him. He scratches her back gently as she pushes herself into him in response. “We have to all get on the same page.” I know what he means here too, and completely agree. I need to center.
###
Baxter and I developed meditation practices independently, long before we first met. Felix often sits with me during my shifts, and Flo of course never really stops. Sitting has always been essential to me since I started as a teenager.
I reboot Leslie and follow Baxter and Flo to the small break room just off of the main floor. We are within earshot of most of the machines, but we can adjust the lights here to make it easier to sit. Felix follows me silently. I can feel his anxiety, his determination to stay calm, to understand the problem so he can fix it. He doesn’t share the electric connection binding me to Baxter. This is Contact. We need to remain open, to let go but still understand the science that brings us all here, together at this moment. Our embrace of “the impossible” is so far proving to be surprisingly easy, but the ramifications are cascading within me. I’m sure something similar is happening within Baxter, who is spreading out the yoga mats for us.
We do our stretches and then arrange ourselves for sitting. “Work on the numbers,” he says to us.
03041972 023663978 TVC15 00 TVC15
I set my phone’s timer for our customary 20 minutes. We sit. In 20 minutes my phone gently chimes. I look first at Baxter: his grey eyes are wide open but still focused within. Felix however is fully alert. He is waiting for me to catch up. Flo meows softly. She looks at us all calmly from an invisible perch four feet off the ground. She is levitating.
###
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The Peel
I accepted two bananas I didn't want from a man I didn't trust. He had so many and they would rot unless he could give them away. He vanished before I could question or even thank him, but now what? I didn't want any bananas and now I had two.
"He's going to put us in his backpack and crush us." I was crossing the avenue and only barely heard the soft worried words. People are always talking and I don't speak to strangers.
"No, his books are in there. He won't risk mashing us all over the pages. He's going to eat one of us and throw the other one away." This voice was closer and had a strong foreign accent. The city is so full of foreigners, and they walk so close to you sometimes. Let a couple of them get eaten I thought; I just want to get home.
"No! He can't!" the worried voice cried out. "You said we'd always be together!" My bus token was in my pocket and I had a banana in each hand. I had my own problems.
“Do not worry, I will think of something,” said The Foreigner as I hurried to the corner, shifting the banana in my right hand to my left so I could dig the token out of my pocket. Now both bananas were in my left hand but I was not concerned. I have long been known for my dexterity. Wherever was my token? So many things in my pocket; where was the one thing I needed? Ah, there it was.
“You see? We are very much together now.”
And then I felt light tickling laughter: a soft, relieved but still nervous laugh I both felt and clearly heard even as my bus approached. It was like a mild, rolling electric shock both across my hand and within my ear – the laughter of the first banana.
“Ah, he understands now, you see?” The Foreigner chuckled, generating another sliver of not unpleasant shock current through my skin. “I knew he would catch on. He’s very well educated.”
I let the bus pass and slowly slipped my token back into my pocket, staring at the bananas in my left hand. They seemed to stare back. There was an uncomfortable silence. These occur often when I try to speak about important matters so I was not fazed. I stood my ground.
“Perhaps we should speak somewhere less well attended,” the first one suggested, no longer nervous. I could now detect this one was female. I fought back my own familiar nervous tic; I was never comfortable talking to women. Men weren’t much better. But I regrouped. These were only two bananas.
“Absolutely,” I said, turning into a dark side street, but I moved The Foreigner back to my right hand. The negotiation was just beginning: I would allow no collusion.
I recognized a bookshop halfway down the otherwise darkened block. The store was known primarily for its art and architecture collections. “You see? Only a truly educated person would speak to us in a bookshop,” The Foreigner cooed as we entered the mellow lighted doorway. The other seemed to sigh in assent; a pleasing electric shiver swam from each banana toward the other, meeting in a warm glow halfway down my spine, radiating out.
There were a surprising number of patrons in the shop. I was comfortable knowing I was generating minimal attention. I made my way to the back where they allowed you to sit and read in peace. You could even just sit and think surrounded by books you would never read, and since it wasn’t a library you could even engage in quiet conversation. They only had one rule: no food.
The Foreigner whispered, “We are all safe here,” magnificently missing the point. The other did not respond, as I had skillfully steered her attention elsewhere. I had set our party down at a small table directly across from the cookbooks. Successful warriors know their terrain.
“Off the beaten track for tourists,” I remarked casually as I laid my new friends on the table in front of me, slipped off my pack and sat down. A free arts weekly lay unused on the next empty chair. I picked it up and covered the bananas so we could speak unobserved.
“Charming,” The Foreigner countered, instantly regaining her cool. Yes, she was a female as well. Two against one. My back began to warm again, this time uncomfortably quickly. There was another long silence as we all took stock.
“So,” The Foreigner began, “My guess is you haven’t spoken to many fruits and vegetables before.” I could almost imagine her quick-flick lighting a cigarette as her partner took a chair behind me, just out of my sight. Suddenly this was not going the way I anticipated at all. I could clearly see the bananas hadn’t moved an inch.
“Vegetables too?” I tried to arch my tone eyebrow-like. ‘Big talkers, those ‘taters?”
“I thought you said he was smart,” the first one sneered. She did not stay nervous for long. I would have to fix that.
“I said ‘well educated’,” The Foreigner replied. “There’s a difference.” I could feel her focus swing back to me. “So, as I was saying, you are new to this…” she paused, flicking her verbal ash, “depth of communication?”
“I prefer straight talk,” I replied evenly and honestly. “People, machines, texts, interior monologue, angels, animals, memories and dreams, I have no truck with claptrap.”
“Ah yes, yes, an honest man I am sure, no chit chat with the salad, no shooting the breeze with the beans, as it were?” The Foreigner thought she could toy with me; the first one twittered softly at her companion’s witty wordplay.
“Look,” I said a bit louder than I intended but maintaining complete control. “You are just a couple of stupid bananas I saved from rotting to death in the hands of that over-burdened stranger.” I noticed a couple of bookstore patrons eyeing me from the stacks. Fine. Four, even five or six against one, I could hold them all. I just hadn’t realized it would be so soon.
“Really?” the first banana exclaimed. “You saved us?” The spot on my back seized up, sharp and hot. “Looks to me like you’re setting us up for the big flambé.” She sent a strong shock right through the table straight into my chest.
“Doubtful, my dear,” The Foreigner said malignantly. “He talks a lot and carries all those books around, in his head, in his bag, whatever, he runs after voices but has no ideas of his own. He’d just strip us, stuff us down his hole and throw out our skin. Or what his kind calls ‘the peel’.” She derisively snorted; the first banana shuddered. Thick spider webs of pain crisscrossed behind my eyes.
The Foreigner continued. “Or if he felt frisky, like on a date – yes I know, hard to imagine – he’d just give us the split. Right down the middle, split us, stuff us with sweet milky goo and then puke us all up 30 minutes later wouldn’t you, you small-minded criminal?”
“Criminal?” I did my best to chortle. “I have no desire to do either of you harm, although you well know I could have quite easily disposed of you both several times by now.” I waited too long for a reaction; neither banana responded. I was not deterred. “I do admit wishing at this point I had not stepped forward to save you as your company is becoming tiresome. That said, I’m sure we can agreeably resolve the situation.” I leaned back and intertwined my fingers across my belly. No reason to withhold my natural magnanimity.
“’Resolve the situation’ – I like that,” said The Foreigner, somewhat randomly shooting a series of pinpricks trough my fingertips. I did not know which digit would tremble next. “Which situation exactly are you referring to?” I clearly saw the arts weekly rustle as if one of the underlying bananas were lazily stretching, slowly waking from sleep.
I blinked despite my commitment to strategy. “Clearly the issue is that I am now in possession of and engaged in dialog with two bananas when earlier today, just moments ago actually, I didn’t even remotely want any bananas and had no idea my evening would take such an unexpected and as far as I can tell unproductive turn.”
There was another long moment of potent silence before both bananas burst into wild laughter, causing the inside of my nose to wrinkle and burn as if I had inhaled a violently rancid industrial compound. “An unproductive turn you say?” The Foreigner could hardly speak between her guttural guffaws. The first banana managed to splutter, “Oh my lord, oh my frozen lord,” over and over as her convulsions gradually subsided into annoying, endless giggles.
“Do you really think,” The Foreigner managed to ask as she slowly regained what I now recognized to be her normal, patronizing tone, “do you really think that by your unconscious, unplanned act of insecure reflex you even remotely, in any way, influenced anything?”
Suddenly all banana laughter stopped, and at that moment I felt a strong, male, non-electric claw grip my shoulder from behind.
“Sir, would you please come with us?” A number of store security personnel had assembled around the table in an obvious attempt to distract me.
“But there were so many of you,” I stammered at the bananas. “That man… no one else wanted you. I didn’t want you either. I just couldn’t accept the waste. You were all so ripe, and perfect, and yet you were being given away, for nothing, by a complete stranger… no one wanted you…”
“But you didn’t want us either,” the first banana whispered as the officers stood me up, bent my arms behind my back and applied the cuffs.
“He doesn’t know what he wants,” I barely felt The Foreigner snarl in contempt as I was led away and pushed out into the lightless street. “He just doesn’t want to rot.”
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11/29/15
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