I don't know anything

Someone Like Me (A Conclusion)

Aw, G’day!

Your old pal Archer Catrael back again.

I’m not really in a good mood today, but no probs. We’ll get through this, eh?

Wait, would this be the last note then?

Sorry loves, I’m so confused (what friggin else is new!).

So yeah, let me try and fumble my way through without repeating everything I’ve said already on every other damn note!

The shotgun version: I’ve been cutting my teeth trying to reassemble this big strange document I found hidden way deep in my desk about a month ago.

My guess is the page this note will go with has to come right at the end.

I don’t think I have the first page yet. So, it’s still all a bit of a mystery.

But the pages just before this one had several “wrapping up” bits, all about various sorts of entities getting unstuck and moving forward.

And as far as I can tell, the second-to-last section in the document begins:

The end of the story. You have all you need, _____, and you have our permission to stop.

When I first read that, I was alarmed to hear myself speaking back to the page out loud.

What kind of twit would carry on a conversation (alone) with paper? But it felt as if the text really had triggered some automatic response.

Sorry, I can actually hear you getting bored with this drivel.

C’mon Archer, keep it together, man! Almost done!

So, the document talks about many different types of things, right? It’s mostly all real personal and deep.

Like, the part I got through yesterday goes into how audacious it would be for anyone to claim a life without certainty, and without ownership or authority. And I don’t know about any of that.

But whenever I read now, there’s this feeling like a slowly spreading flame taking over, reminding me of something important I once knew and then forgot.

But like I said, there’s so much more . . . thoughts on philosophy, God, the devil, and . . . yeah.

Anyway, I believe this to be the very last line in the document:

So you can step out of the way for The Consensus to enact itself.

Of course, I share only the parts in these notes I feel relate to the true point of all of this. Maybe once I can finally put the whole thing back together (and find that precious missing first page), I’ll share what I believe the document to really be about.

Or, maybe then I won’t need to.

I just had a funny thought to end today with. I don’t know why, but I feel I’m supposed to say that my first line was a lie, and also this isn’t really my way of telling you.

How’s that, Archer, ending (perhaps [while still in the middle]) on such a loopy riddle…?!

Well, gonna go put on a fresh pot. Will check back with you soon, my cuddlies.

Much love!

Archer

PART Z

The last human sits perfectly still on an empty patch of ground beneath a yellow sky, waiting.

If he has a wish, it’s the one he’s always carried and returned to: to go back and take the place of one once cast so unfairly out to die.

But with fond adoration and sweetness, he also recollects a later time when each human was given the power and freedom to create others . . . beings like them with whom they could do anything at all. The humans could cause their beings to suffer. But none did.

And now ancient wheels of irony begin to creak again, almost cracking loose to turn.

But the machine inside has long since been laid to rest.

And the human doesn’t smile . . . not quite.

If anything, he mourns the fact that consciousness of self might be about to end in the universe.

But the mourning stops long before his mind does.

Letter 8

Friends,

Of all my letters, this is the one I’d be least likely to send.

Or, maybe that’s all changed.

It’s hard because of what we can’t agree on (yet).

Still, you have to know what you mean to me, which is more than just about anything.

I don’t think you’re stupid. If I’m going the wrong way, please pray I’ll know somehow. Or help me see what I might be missing. I promise I’ll try to listen.

The last thing I’d want would be to see the tides keep shifting the way I think I see them going, and for you to hate me forever as if I was plotting against you this whole time.

I can’t take credit for anything. I don’t want to. I just want to help people, same as you. That’s the truth, as far as I know.

Thank you for everything. You kept me alive. You made me who I am.

I never want to be your enemy.

Me

In the end, Tian lives and is who he needs to be, simply for his art.

Once created, his work becomes the least of his concerns.

Maybe it never actually was anything.

Dear friends, see how the humans have come to celebrate our ways, perfectly convinced of the good of our two kingdoms.

Yet I must take this chance to warn you one last time. For I now see another who has been competing all along to steal my human’s mind. This one draws my human to excess and folly, and it seeks to endanger our purpose by appearing as me.

Yet take courage, for you know the things that show or wish to be shall always prevail.

The borders of both our kingdoms grow ever clearer and more blurred as we expand. So, no need to fear, dear friends.

That is all. Grace and peace to you in this, our time.

The kids in what was just The City still eye everyone with great suspicion.

None know what to say.

But then an ordinary man, dressed shabby and strolling down Main Street, catches their eye and smiles a little too wide for it to be pretend. The man calls out to the kids in a bright and cheerful tone, though his words seem like an afterthought: “You’re absolutely beautiful! I just can’t get over it! Like TV stars, every one!”

“What about it?” the kids quietly ask each other later. “No reason to be so beautiful now…”

But there is, of course. And those kids go on to shine like stars, even as all remaining big screens get taken down to make more room. For no one sees anyone as needing to be replaced anymore.

An older child sits with a younger one, happily laughing along and not getting frustrated at all.

Then the younger child, who likes to watch things over and over to remember, grows up and forgets all but enough for watching and re-watching to feel a little stale. He feels compelled instead to be out doing fun things with his son.

Without delving into the sorts of details those most unlike me seem to crave, my conclusion is simple: I need not compose the several volumes my cumulative case notes could fill.

Rehashing and reiterating what is but mere clicks or swipes away would be pointless, no?

With Ray’s case at the center, surrounded by every relevant application and example, my Method’s function can be reduced enough to create a single concise work.

I will change the names and other details, of course.

Everything is so easy now; so permanent.

How funny for me to have been so afraid of losing clients and money due to my Method’s simplicity.

Ray would surely appreciate that irony.

“Hello, this is what I do. You can basically treat yourself, and quickly. And you know you’re done once you can handle the change in perspective you find yourself continually brought back to.”

My Method costs nothing to sell potentially everyone.

So, one thing I am absolutely certain of is that I cannot, in good conscience, go on charging for it indefinitely.

At first, I thought of dropping to a flat rate of $20 an hour.

Then $10.

Now I am thinking $5, but not for long.

As soon as my complete work is ready to give away, I will charge nothing.

Some friends spent nights like gleeful middle schoolers camped out in each other’s living rooms where things like guitars and mics usually got plugged straight into computers.

Others stayed on their own in homes far away and had the same fun together through iuns.

Rev eventually settled on a few places he liked to spend his days and evenings. These tended to be spots that reminded him of his youth, back when best friends would get together to make whatever out in the middle of everything.

He often came to that same place by the sea where he had met Caylee.

Dale was with him every time now, of course . . . one carefully noodling along as the other strummed steady and strong.

And Rev’s voice always held.

But every once in a while, the moon might come to rest especially massive in dark purple dusk. And Rev could maybe forget to remember exactly who he was. Then listening in each time as his voice raced ever up and away…

She loved every minute of it.

RRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRR!

The grating blender sound cut to silence, leaving frothy strawberry foam to bubble in its wake.

Bing sipped, his lips puckering at a hint of bitter kale not quite buried in sweet, icy citrus. It tasted amazing.

Getting high a lot less seemed to make all tastes and smells, and everything else, all the more potent and enjoyable.

A flash, and he giggled as he quickly tapped at his iun resting beside him on the table.

correlation:
people who seem really impatient while pumping gas
also never seem to be that clean.

He paused, watching and not watching his numbers spike and then ease back to their steady magic turning.

If anyone had told him just months earlier he would soon jump from 0 to 20,000 followers, he probably would have gotten a little extra wasted just to offset the stress of whole new worlds of eyes, opinions, judgments…

But here he was, tapping out those same silly messages once delivered only to himself. He now never gave any a second read or thought.

Another flash.

sewage:
haven’t u ever wondered
what actually happens to shit?

But why had he started sharing when he did? Was it something The Psychologist had said? Or maybe not said, but implied…? Or, not implied…

It seemed what Bing had pulled from the ether somewhere was something like a mantra that could capture the core and essence of his whole search for worth. “You got jokes?” the mantra taunted, “Don’t go back and try to perfect them. Get them out!”

Another flash.

imagine:
a bird’s nipples.

And the previous two were already being passed along to countless others.

FLASH

can ur special someone tell
when u check out chicks on TV?

New faces kept appearing to overtake the top of Bing’s big list.

Another face . . . another…

He marveled afresh at the instant connections now set to occur on their own between his crazy (high) mind and whoever might seem to want to show an interest.

But what if he’d never put out that first attempt? A few sleepless nights spent staring at dashboard statistics notwithstanding, Bing was proud for at least having finally decided to try. No Bings before ever had.

Another flash.

stupid:
why do people always
unzip their bullet-proof vests
to show in movies?

“I: love you!” came an instant reply.

“Don’t say ‘love’,” corrected another. “He don’t believe in that.”

The conversations seemed to work like grenades, exploding anew at each interaction, flinging fun like shrapnel in any number of unpredictable directions.

FLASH

‘i love u’ can either mean ‘i want attention’
or ‘okay, leave me alone now, i luv u . . . bye.’
(sigh)

It almost didn’t matter that—

FLASH

ever get so high
u ask a really friendly fast food guy
what he does for a living?

Jobs. Living. Career. Boss…

FLASH

since when is part of being a boss
knowing more than anyone on ur team
about absolutely everything?

Next to the iun, spread out in a botched pile, lay the 32 printed pages of all Bing’s previous, unposted bits. As he glanced at chunks of his dense, hardly punctuated text on paper, a pesky thought returned like a willful mosquito:

Shouldn’t I be sharing it all on stage? Isn’t that my obvious next step?

Now turning to scroll absentmindedly back through time down his iun’s face, a protective wall constructed itself from every happy memory of real accomplishment . . . the first offer to come speak in person; the first line re-shared, and then re-re-shared; the first kind comment received…

What he saw was the outworking of his process, he knew. His “method.”

Again, nothing had ever changed for Bing except for where his ‘Send’ button was aimed. And that small switch had been like picking ripe fruit from a tree.

Did each new line not still bring the same shy smile to his face immediately upon having been entrusted over to that big growing list of friends?

But what if Bing’s found success had become like a barricade atop its own tower? Why (or why not) risk throwing himself over into an all new, uncertain pursuit?

Another flash…

As Bing’s edges were nimbly blurred, he slowly reached across, swiped, and tapped a couple times to start a new recording.

Then he stared straight ahead into the same great and mysterious adventure another Bing might have begun for him long before.

Mr. Rolman tried to quit smoking, mostly for guilt over his son.

I’m abandoning him! Making him feel bad! Making him think I don’t want to be around him . . . and like it’s his fault. I keep hurting him just so I can…

And long after Mr. Rolman had forgotten all the words said in session that day with the group, there was what could only be described as an abiding love . . . dignified, silly, and tender . . . like an old friend invited to live in the Rolman home. The love would come to rest hidden at the heart of everything Mr. Rolman did. Though he would never understand.

Rev stared at the untitled icon like a beacon at the bottom of his laptop’s streaked screen. He realized the file had never been opened. With a sigh, he double-clicked.

A quick shot of himself strutting out on stage in ridiculous leathers made him grin.

He was then immediately blindsided by a raging wall of sound encrusted with crashing cymbals molded to twanging, edgy bass. With monstrous speed and tightness, the captured blaring crunched and ran like a stopwatch beneath a heavier version of the same dreamy flimflam Rev had spent his childhood, adolescence, and now adulthood doodling with at the edge of his bed.

It sounded great.

As his band’s final failed attempt at rock superstardom played on, Rev fondly relived each nearly missed cue and silly line of drugged-out banter with the crowd. And for each song, along with the screaming cheers and amplification, he could so plainly hear the very same magic he and Dale had never failed to stumble upon whenever out just wherever messing around on their guitars.

He punched a button to off the video, hoisted his instrument up to its home across his lap, and eased his way through the first verse and chorus of an old song called Desperate Connection. It was fun to feel his real voice sitting right at the edge of his music now . . . no longer apart from, above, or blaring through, but vibrating on its own beside the clean and nuanced crying of the strings.

He could almost hear Dale in the room with him deftly plucking or strumming along, giving grace to fumbled changes and sudden dynamic shifts.

It was nice to think of Dale now and their songs.

Rev found himself questioning music again (or still). But the questions weren’t the same anymore at all. Could an artist be honest and willing enough to strip their work down to its most basic form instead of hiding behind notions of costly fuzz and clamor? Rev had really always known his easy little tunes were best when given to serve as simple backdrops…

But to what?

He laughed, and played new chords, and sang . . . and paused every few moments to jot down words to a blank open page in a brand new notebook. It was easy.

And even despite his lifelong quest to unearth the treasure now permeating the air, Rev heard with un-phased delight that same female, foreign voice sliding up and away as he strummed steadily on in a continuous rolling pattern. He listened, his grin beaming even wider, and wrote down something a little like what she might be singing.

Eventually the rolling quieted.

What were those questions again? But this time Rev forgot to ask.

Ray came face to face with Jolie in the outskirts of The Church lobby. She almost smiled but seemed to twitch or jerk away in chaotic time as their eyes met. “You know,” was all he said, not looking away.

Jolie’s face scrunched itself into a question mark. Could Ray really be breaching the one topic both knew need stay unmentioned?

“No,” Ray responded.

He smiled as he passed through the door and away, sure that she did know.

Working through to type my notes, I realize that for whatever reason nothing got recorded after my question about everyone’s birthday back at our big group session.

The astrologer must have made some comment, no?

Yet I simply cannot for the life of me remember having anything except my own birthday in mind.

I suppose this can be another remaining mystery for me to practice letting go of.

Besides, the birthday quandary makes no difference to Ray’s case.

I would hate, more than anything, to waste your time on pointless rabbit trails.

Anyway, I was born February 14th, 1981.

At least that is what I was told.

Again, I have no one to confirm such details with, and no documentation.

From nowhere (and everywhere yet) Rev spoke. And his music didn’t stop. Neither did the enigmatic woman’s voice rise up to sweep across in tinges strange and sweet. Nothing broke off or fell this time. All stayed eerily in place.

And Rev found he had no reason or desire to stop, even despite the way his speaking first locked his attention to only what was worst: hair, nails, skin…

He thought of Thalia.

He then flashed out a little smile as if arriving at a dreaded job to find it done.

And there were words, too. There had to be, right? But what might they be saying? Listening a little closer . . . careful so as not to upset the spell . . . the words Rev heard seemed too ordinary to really tell apart. Still the moment carried on, delightful as it was unspecial, and random amongst a grand continuum of equally unimportant others.

His questions changed a little, but not his search or thoughts.

Why? Why would anyone want . . . to be heard?

The sound of Rev’s easy soul being peeled back and laid bare to speak its silly depths in key made fame seem like the answer to a problem that had never really been.

He laughed as his eyes drooped to see the comic sadness of a fear that he might never be given a channel or platform of his own. Would he really prefer fighting everyone blindly for nothing? Rev knew he needed only air to cast his sound.

As he rounded the corner that led back through to the main corridor and outside, Ray saw Pride. He halted mid-step, and did a half-double-take, feeling a stab of irony deeper than any he had ever known. Pride was hunched over, crammed into a small, dirty cage made of rusted iron. Chained around its neck hung a crusty wooden sign that read:

WORST: THE WILL TO BE GOD.

Then Ray saw the devil, small and almost hidden near the ground. The devil did not move, but only stared up and over at Faith close by.

Ray watched as a host of shadowy human figures in robes surrounded the pitiful devil in a menacing circle. These began to heap ridicule and scorn in endless, breathless waves. Ray could not mistake the glee and whimsy plastered on their faces as they clutched and hoisted the devil over to the same terrible cage where Pride was bound.

The devil kept completely still, waiting.

Ray felt a jolt of tension and sharp desire to look away when he glimpsed the abject loneliness burrowed deep in the devil’s longing eyes. To look into those eyes, he knew, would be to be pierced through with the weariness of a front held up for lifetimes . . . of being forever misunderstood, and written off, and rejected by all so every clique, empire, caste, and soul could safely turn its back, hum along, and sleep.

Ray felt the weight of blame for every manner of evil then.

He continued to hold still and watch quietly, just as the devil was.

“Come in,” hollered the more than familiar voice.

Ray entered through massive hardwood doors to find a small, makeshift Sunday office space. Seated at the center was the man whose mind and heart Ray had spent more than half his life gradually working through on paper.

All Ray could think to say as he stood slightly trembling was how utterly astonishing he considered The Pastor to be.

For a moment, they were two stately ambassadors about to sit to cups of tea and exchange pleasantries before planned negotiations.

“Ray! How can I help you?” beamed The Pastor, his smile as thoroughly genuine as it was a tad sly.

“Oh. I have to tell you something,” mumbled Ray, frowning. He had almost forgotten his terrible reason for having just rushed over.

“It’s okay,” assured The Pastor. “I’m glad you came. Of course I’ve had my eye on you, though you’ve always done such a great job here, and . . . well, go ahead: Tell me what you’ve come to tell me. Where do you think we might see things differently?”

Ray blinked, bewildered, suddenly living out a moment he’d half-envisioned since his youth. But instead of any kind of golden-ticket opportunity, the open invitation felt like being squeezed through a sponge. And as old pat answers began to knife their way through his mind, something barely noticeable seemed to happen in the room . . . though nothing near as obvious as a gashing slice through fog or scorched not-a-person.

“I…” Ray hesitated. “I saw something I really felt like I needed to tell you about.”

“It’s okay,” came the low, smooth reply. “You can tell me. Especially if you feel it’s something we’ve never covered that people need to hear. I really do think it’s fine to come to different conclusions about . . . especially about the more minor tenets or doctrines. Does that make sense, Ray? Is my impression true? Do you see things differently?”

Another nearly imperceptible change like a tiny shift in some unknown direction cut short the waves of honor Ray felt at being addressed with such respect by this world-renown superhero of the faith.

Then thoughts of dark flames birthed partly in murderous rage wrenched Ray’s thoughts back to the urgency at hand. “I don’t have any problem with the doctrines,” he said, hoping to nip the subject clean and move on. “I love them. I think they . . . they really do help people.”

“As much as they can, right?” pressed the patient Pastor. “So, what’s missing then?”

“No,” said Ray. “I mean, honestly, my only problem with The Church isn’t the teaching or anything. I love the teaching.”

“Tell me what you don’t like,” The Pastor softly ordered. There would be no arguing.

“I…” Ray held back, then gave in, “I really don’t like the . . . the art. Okay? That’s all.”

“What do you mean by ‘art’?”

“Well,” Ray stalled again, “I don’t know who The Church . . . is, I guess. But maybe there’s something I’m missing. I mean, I just sort of think if you’ve got something to show the world . . . well, show it. Put yourself out there. Put your ideas out. And if they’re good, people will listen, and… But, really, I don’t have a…”

“Ray,” The Pastor soothed, “your opinion is worthwhile. So never be ashamed to share what you think. I appreciate it, actually. And if I’m hearing you properly, I suppose I’d respond and say that the purpose of the church is not just to put out ideas . . . though sharing the gospel is our highest aim. But the way we do that . . . the real purpose of the church . . . is by doing life and growing together.”

“Yes,” said Ray after a small pause, wondering what the disagreement was. “That’s awesome. I mean, now everyone can, y’know, connect for free, and…”

He let the words patter out, again lost for how to avoid getting further sidetracked.

But then as if to clutch and subdue Ray’s wandering train of thought, The Pastor shot back with, “Ray, tell me: Are you a believer?”

“I’m not sure,” Ray sighed, his head turning slowly from left to right. “And if being unsure, or feeling like belief isn’t something I can choose . . . if that’s the same as unbelief . . . I guess I’ll have to accept it. And if believing the right way really is what matters most, well…”

“And now you share your beliefs with whoever wants to hear them,” stated The Pastor. “But you also claim not to know if your beliefs are true?”

Ray sighed a second time, feeling a deep sense of release. “I feel like I connect with your story,” he answered, “and the pictures you paint of . . . of just what it means to be human. I’d never want to cause you any grief or stop you from doing what you’re doing. Not at all.” And then after another pause, “I don’t know exactly what I believe. I want to believe what you do if it’s true.”

“Was that what you came to tell me?” asked The Pastor.

“No. I . . . I think you might be in danger,” Ray blurted, feeling another instant surge of ease. The hard part was over. The rest would be tidying up details.

“Oh?” ventured The Pastor, nodding. “Well, what happened? And what do you think I should do to be safe?”

The way The Pastor emphasized “you” brought Ray almost to tears. He remembered what he had heard of The Pastor’s message just moments earlier from out in the lobby. He then considered how seamlessly The Pastor had transitioned from preaching up on stage to being so accommodating and generous with this weird former-employee goof, this wildcard, this…

And suddenly aware that he had in fact caught The Pastor during what was but a tiny window between two Sunday services, Ray’s astonishment at the man’s utter selflessness and grace only multiplied.

“Well, you have everything set in place already, right?” Ray mumbled hurriedly.

Yet even as the words left his lips, Ray thought of something new that made him want to spin around, sprint away, and never look back. How much had The Pastor been told about Ray’s last day at the office? What of that final, awful conversation with Todd?

Might The Pastor see Ray, himself, as the very danger Ray was there to warn of?

“We are prepared,” answered The Pastor evenly. “Ever since we went live on TV and had that huge spike in membership a few years back. We should have it all under control.”

Their eyes met.

“I guess,” Ray heard himself begin, “sometimes I feel like I’m just laughing with you . . . like we’re both alone in this world where so many are trying to think things like money and commercials have to matter, and . . . I don’t know. I mean…”

The Pastor was silent even after Ray’s trail-off.

Finally, to close a very long gap, The Pastor said flatly, “I have to be honest, I’m having a little trouble following.”

“When I was a teenager,” Ray began again, “I worked at this video store. And they had a deal where new customers got a card that gave them a free second rental with every movie they took for the first month. So, I made all these fake accounts in the computer, and pocketed every second seven dollars that came in, y’know, adding those movies as free second rentals on all my fake accounts. I’d make hundreds of dollars doing that every Friday night. Then I’d go out and spend all of it. And no one ever knew. No one noticed or cared. And when I had to disappear, I got all the money I needed in one night.”

The Pastor nodded, his grin’s mischievousness dominating like an eclipse in a flash of what seemed to be recollection. “Why did you just tell me that?” The Pastor asked.

“I’ve been seeing this fog everywhere,” Ray said simply, giving his eyes some wriggle room to bounce around the little room. “The first thing the fog does is it keeps you from looking at it.”

“Well, that makes sense,” answered The Pastor. “Sin is that way. Pride was the devil’s sin. And proud people are usually quite blind to it themselves. It’s like how the devil is a master of lies. He even masquerades as an angel of light, the Bible says.”

Some fog in the room seemed to sway and flow downward, covering the floor and table in a bland, cloudy haze.

Ray almost wondered if the fog knew it was being talked about.

“It’s like that for me too,” said Ray, “but the fog isn’t the devil or Pride. No, it’s more like how afraid we are not to…”

But Ray was caught away from the sound of his own voice by the stunning revelation of his favorite not-a-person shining like a massive golden crucifix high and beautiful above The Pastor’s head.

Ray heard himself still speaking but couldn’t make himself care enough to listen . . . something about translations of texts keeping parts unfairly isolated.

The fog rose as pale steam, uncovering a hidden cluster of not-a-persons coiled together behind The Pastor’s desk. Satisfied, though not knowing why, Ray was somehow sure the beings he saw would never be caught or taken advantage of again.

Lost for words, he chuckled at the idea of himself as some sort of officially chosen representative of the not-a-persons sent to boldly declare their deliverance with confirming signs and wonders (though hopefully not plagues of icky frogs or painful sores).

Old contracts levitated from cabinets to reveal acceptance signatures condoning cultures of universal dependence in the name of Kingdom Grace. And as the fog continued to re-disperse like portions of a collapsed riot, Ray considered arguing more about the likes of art and buildings.

Or, maybe he should apologize, slink out, and go hear the next service message.

Maybe The Psychologist had been too nice.

“Ray,” said The Pastor, “can you put in a nutshell what you’re trying to say? I really do have to get in soon.”

Ray fired back with, “I guess I’d just say: Never underestimate . . . what’s possible.”

“What does that mean?”

“Watch…?”

And with that, Ray turned to leave.

New client. 26. Erratic. Former military. Possible PTSD.

He wore camouflage Army Service fatigues and cited story after story about how everyone he meets feels sorry for him once they learn of his military background.

As he droned on, I kept glancing down at the accordion file currently holding all my client notes—each set now distinct and perfectly organized (as mentioned), ready to be typed up and compiled systematically.

Distracted and quite unimpressed, I was already certain this appointment would bring no future business or value.

For once, I let myself be as direct and honest as I felt like being.

Perhaps I should leave this part out of my notes (it is surely no reflection of the workings of my Method); yet I am choosing to include it just for comparison.

ME:

“You know they really don’t feel sorry for you at all, right?

“You’re just another human being to them.

“They probably respect you when they see the uniform, or at least they might feel obligated to.

“But that’s it, really.

“The rest is…”

My concentration was too far gone even to bring my sentence to a close, its conclusion clear enough already.

I forget what happened next.

I think he got mad and left.

In truth, I missed Ray.

I still do.

Like a good puzzle or some offense, I find I cannot keep myself from dissecting and reworking Ray’s case from every possible angle.

Ray has revealed the true potential of my Method more than any other client.

Even before our last session, I knew his absence would leave something of a massive, aching void.

Did I help Ray?

Allowing my eyes to run yet again along the bullet-point sequences of our recorded dialogues, I must conclude that Ray indeed benefited in learning to approach and sort through his negative emotions.

If he has not yet fully realized how the church he felt so hurt by was essentially his source of care and strength all along, he soon will.

Again, Ray has certainly helped me.

I hope he has helped you as well.

How has Ray helped me?

Well, I was wrong about him for a long time, I can admit that now.

My assumption from the beginning was that Ray saw his visions as akin to special revelations from on high.

Yet though always sincere, he never actually considered his particular perspective to be all that important or profound.

He was not trying to wow me or the world with pearls of artful, exclusive wisdom.

I was so glad he took the time to repeat his final words about the fog until at last I understood.

Ray’s fog was never meant to stand for something unknown and scary, but rather something in the way—something to hide [from] the unknown.

And Ray never wanted to see the fog, that is important.

If you had shown me Ray’s completed case file back around the time I left college, I would have immediately connected his way of refusing to fix meanings or cover for uncertainty to my own burgeoning distaste for needless hifalutin terms.

My Method, born of just my unusual way of seeing things, functioned even then exactly as Ray’s representations: showing without interpreting, and revealing without need of extra defining explanations.

Yet somewhere along the line, I must have gotten ever so slightly lured off course in directions of hypocrisy or irony.

The culmination: I actually blamed my Method for convincing me there was no way I could be real.

Ever so desperate to fix meanings…

I now find it all rather funny.

Ray had said quite plainly, of course, that the fog makes us think what we see in it is all there is to see.

Considering the whole purpose and function of my Method (as revealed in these notes), I hear Ray’s voice in my thoughts again, repeating, “So, so ironic!”

Of course, our having met still seems too extraordinary to be a coincidence.

What could have caused our lives and perspectives to connect so perfectly at just the right time?

Let me be not quite the first or last to say: I don’t know.

I still find myself wondering how someone like Ray could exist.

Funnily enough, it is through Ray that I have learned to live with the remaining mystery Ray himself embodies and leaves behind.

I would love it if we could meet at least weekly for the rest of our lives.

In the end, I feel good that we have both seen definite, measurable progress.

Just now, I poured myself a fresh, steaming cup of coffee.

I am settled in and ready for a day or more of slowly, carefully typing out my notes (to create what you are reading now).

Daylight streamed through tinted, double-story windows. The lobby, long and winding, was punctuated by smiling greeters in bright polos stationed in loose squads. In grids of mock-mod couches and stiff chairs sat mothers with babies, waiting volunteers, and general stragglers.

Ray stared up at one of the big HD screens suspended diagonally above. There he watched The Pastor dart quickly back-and-forth on stage, extremely light-footed for a man of his size.

“Your relationships,” echoed the man of God’s voice through hidden speaker boxes all around, “are your greatest assets. It’s not more time at the office or making it up the next rung on the ladder . . . not even your God-given calling or ministry, as we talked about last time. None of those things will concern you when you sense your time to leave this world drawing near. All you’ll see will be the faces of your loved ones, I promise you. And hopefully you’ll be able to say you gave them everything you had while you still could. Even your relationship with God can’t be right if you carry ought in your heart toward your neighbor. And you know this! Hey, you want to see what breaks fellowship with God quicker than anything? Try praying or worshiping while holding a grudge . . . can’t be done!”

A few of Ray’s fellow lobby-listeners vocalized their agreement in a buzz of soft, low groans, some bubbling up to sound out in a full “Yeah!” or “Amen!”

Ray nodded without moving, feeling warmth of pending tears creeping through behind his eyes. He was dimly aware of the not-a-persons surrounding him like a sea seen sideways through blinding fog.

The Psychologist’s job must be so rewarding. To help people fit better with themselves and each other.

There was something about the way The Psychologist could just sit and listen so calmly, saying only ever what was needed.

Such a great way to be. Maybe one day…

Suddenly, a violent whoosh sounded to Ray’s right, wrenching his attention from both high screen and hopeful thoughts. He turned to watch in disbelief as blankets of fog fell apart and dropped, sliced right down the middle as if by a blade.

Then came a flash of black and red in place of steady gray. He saw a man moving like a current toward the big glass doors leading out to the main hallway. He did not see a face, but dark fire seemed to course from the stranger in all directions, torturing and consuming every not-a-person it touched, reducing them to writhing wisps of chaos, then nothing.

I have to tell The Pastor!

“It’s like I know what they were!” Rev assured himself. “But how can I know what lyrics are supposed to be now?”

Alone and newly clean for days, bright spots behind both eyes along with a strange, constant thirst had failed to signal the return of a million forgotten feelings now coursing everywhere like currents through long idle pipes, wearing him raw. It was all too much for the old, bound free spirit.

He stared at his wooden counterpart leaning snug against the bed, hearing in his mind its calling swells of sweet simplicity.

But could he really say he knew his way around a fretboard map of tones any better than he had before the decades of ultimatums and every half-perfected “official” plan to craft his art?

What was music supposed to be, anyway? It was no longer an actual question, just a dismal reminder of one.

Rev sighed the troubled sigh of age staring back at a misspent life down new gun barrels pressed hard to its withered face.

He reached to flick on his laptop.

Through rounds of loading text and graphics, the recommissioned feelings continued their awkward flooding, bringing re-facilitated memories. These came without warning like fast, rich daydreams. And Rev couldn’t help but drift away to revisit grinning faces at crammed gigs after impromptu practices had morphed to full-scale house parties. He saw strings of forgotten cable fails, and cuss outs, and too dark venues with grubby floors and grimy bars . . . places where equipment and safety would be always held at risk just so fear and fun might wage their endless, winner-take-all war.

Further back, he saw Dale laughing like some crazy, howling wolf, ever mid-ravage on a path to freedom out from jail-cell corners of parents’ garages.

Rev even re-watched his bunch of idiot-dropout, burnout friends show up early that very first sunny Sunday morning to lug gear and thwack out the muddled riffs, beats, and screams all had of course assumed would soon be revolutionary.

No planning. No goals. No structure. No real knowledge, or…

The screen blitzed to life and color.

Rev clicked over to pull up a playlist of his favorite thinking songs. But glancing at the titles, he noticed almost every number on that list . . . over 200 . . . were from at least ten years before . . . most from 20 years or more.

How could he hope to figure out the secret to relevant lyrics if even the tunes meant to aid his quest were essentially relic etchings of a bygone time?

But they’re good, aren’t they? They were good.

He felt antsy, and his right eye began to twitch, which he chalked up to the hated absence sobriety could make of any ordinary afternoon.

Might voices from the past be holding Rev back from being open to new points of view?

Surely none of his dumb, shabby tribe had ever thought to appreciate the sheer cluelessness at the base of their free rumbling sound and built-in revelry back when faithfully occupying suburbia space-by-space. And with a wince, Rev re-realized how obviously desperate and childish he must appear now to everyone he knew . . . still planning and pining so fiercely for something only a child could be impractical enough to commit a whole life to.

The sound of coffin nails and dirt weighed heavy on inner voices, catching them in the act of merely going through the motions as they drearily begged their answers from a muse as yet unknown.

Suddenly a line from the song currently fuzzing its way through tiny, crusted speakers razor-bladed outward to blanket the room with melodic recountings of holding up hope in the face of uncertainty just to grasp at the chance to try.

Rev saw in his mind one like himself . . . an unknown artist seated on a bed, guitar in lap and pen in hand, reaching against all reason for any hints of a divine spark via pure abandonment to the absolute simplest of all progressions and rhyming words.

Nothing had changed in the least. How, after all this time, had Rev’s age-old yearning remained a shining star so impossibly bright as to keep him driven (sight unseen) in the face of mounting failure, age, neglect…?

The song ended, and one of that same artist’s newer efforts kicked into rushed and edgeless gear. It wasn’t fun to hear at all.

Rev considered the fate of many of his heroes from that playlist. Some had fizzled out fast after early big moments of glory. Others would seem to double down into strict commitments to dress, act, and sound exactly as they had at first, diligently following their own set patterns of initial success.

And though Rev had never come to experience their same trappings of fame or money, he could track his own decline toward a similarly dull and futile end. None of the benefits . . . all of the loss.

Another song came on, this one by a band called Light. Rev smiled to himself, remembering the night he had met Light’s lead singer, Jaylen, after some forgettable backyard show. It had been many years before Light would later rocket to one-hit-wonder-dom. Yet it now seemed sadly ironic to Rev, still piecing his way through many histories (both general and specific), how Jaylen had so openly, proudly copied the style and sound of many other, more prominent bands, even on into those bands’ later post-fame throes of wasted self-indulgence. Then unable to ride any farther on borrowed time or mojo, Jaylen had deteriorated to stark self-expression on record after doomed record.

Rev listened as sycophantic, oh-so-important words carried their forced profundity up and down every precise rise and fall. Boring. Fake. Funny, but only to the degree it wasn’t meant to be.

Had a shuffled playlist really just responded to some of Rev’s deepest, lifelong questions?

No, not really. Not likely.

And yet he forcefully swept open his decrepit notebook, and could not scrawl fast enough across the very last empty space left:

It doesn’t have to be anything you dumb-ass! You don’t have to be anything! Wouldn’t that be ultimate freedom: the boom everywhere, and nothing at the center? That’s real punk. No, not in style or sound. It doesn’t matter that your music is simple and you never learned to solo. Don’t you remember the way it brought people together? Even people in the band. Dude, that’s what it’s always been!

And some from Rev’s playlist would indeed live on, their real lives and stories ever captured forever in song.

Half racing back over the conversation as he stepped out from his final appointment with The Psychologist, Ray found he wasn’t mad at himself for the parts he wished he could have said better. In fact, all that might matter was what he saw in that moment—something smaller, and bigger, and more, and less than anything he had ever let himself see before. And he was happy to feel every automatic self-condemnation get swallowed up in paradoxical satire.

What Ray saw was nothingness. He saw what everything he had ever tried to show with words was not.

And he laughed, struck by how self-contained and funny he and his fellow humans so obviously tended to be.

Oh irony!

For he knew then that true blankness . . . that negative capability, or lack between even space and time . . . was precisely what the fog could neither allow for nor defeat. Never.

Ray also thought again of Johnston, and once more became the loving mother bird.

As he spoke and heard himself, Ray watched late-morning light trickle in to play games with moving shadow spaces around The Psychologist’s bustling mind. The light seemed to illuminate something like a perch . . . the perfect space for three nearby not-a-persons to meet and fuse like melding continental puzzle pieces. And Ray became a mother bird, staring longingly at the three as they shook and clutched one another, lost, in a tight, crooked triangle. If he could just find a way to help lift them to their nest.

The Psychologist blinked, but it was much more than a blink.

The whole world went away, engulfed in sudden waves of fog like the results of a bacterial infection having doubled unseen efforts to adapt and overcome an antibiotic.

Ray listened as unspoken rhetorical questions were answered by telepathic lawyer-politicians having a field day filibustering over their opponents’ careless words.

The Psychologist said, as if addressing and encouraging the fog itself, “Do you think it would be reasonable to conclude that such a patterned world might require a designer?”

Then Ray’s three cowering children on the floor were split and flung apart as if struck by a violent bolt of lightning. Everything seemed to either grow or shrink to fit the fog. Watching it all take place (again) so fast, with no seeming cause or warning, felt like being flung (back) into a coffin and immediately buried beneath planets of densest rock.

Ray fought to return his focus to the conversation at hand, knowing The Psychologist would be aware of nothing beyond Ray, the words spoken, and the room. Yet he couldn’t help but keep staring at those three crumpled, helpless beings, each now hopelessly alone. “We don’t know the scope,” he heard himself say without intending to, then paused to catch up. “I mean, we don’t know how big or important anything is, really. Could our world be reacting with other worlds, or…?”

He stopped, pained to feel his own point slipping through his grasp like ice.

“Okay,” he quickly began again, even less confident, “what would a plant, or animal, or human be if the surface of our planet was a face? But we people only see everything by our sense of size, and time, or whatever. And who’s to say our sense is . . . is true?”

Feeling the fog work to betray his speech and character, he knew “true” had been the wrong word to use.

Desperate, he blurted, “Couldn’t everything we think of as reality really be part of some far more massive thing . . . like, a mind, or cell, or atom, or something else?”

The consuming fog pulsed and vibrated in a final colorless shimmy through every last splotch of blank space left. The whole room, maybe the world, became as still as a finished painting. Seeing the fog’s completion felt about as ominous and unpeaceful as being marched into the eye of a galaxy-shattering storm.

A glazed look swelled to overtake The Psychologist’s uneasy expression.

Ray watched in terror as two new eyes appeared to open from nowhere in the fog. Then The Lie at the base of New Cannibalism caused its needless fear of lack to rise beneath the eyes in wispy, menacing fingers branching out like skewers toward The Psychologist. Yet The Lie’s dull eyes, if they were eyes, stayed locked on Ray in a stare that somehow blended hate with an apathetic void.

What might Ray still be missing?

How could the fog have returned with such steady, tireless force as if never once even challenged?

Yet as questions wound to straight-jacket straps, out from The Lie and fog arose others Ray recognized as Tension, Mistrust, Excess, and Hopelessness. These sniveling, lesser beings copied their hazy master, pointing threatening limbs at The Psychologist while staring back at Ray. Ray shuddered as they all began to shout, their jarring voices as shrill and piercing as a whole cave’s worth of bats set ablaze. Still, he tried to lean in close to hear, hoping against even Hopelessness for some clue . . . some spark to make obvious his next move. Anything. But all he could make out in the terrible, discordant shrieking was something like a description of a person: hair . . . eyes . . . glasses…

The Psychologist remained unmoving, his face as sharp and listless as ever.

Ray let himself wonder then what The Psychologist really believed.

And dinosaur squawks and screeches gave way to many conflicting worlds of thoughts and feelings . . . all fading, though, as the scraping horror continued to surround and saturate everything.

Whole new thresholds of silence, peace, and clarity were defined.

What if none of Ray’s word pictures had ever made any sense at all? What if even The Psychologist had written him off as crazy long ago? Could these meetings be but planned preparation for Ray’s eventual (inevitable) institutionalization?

The mash of jumbled clashing, if still there, was no longer confusing.

For some reason, Ray imagined Johnston appearing from nowhere to scorch away engrossing fog with those special flames of bitter disgust mixed with careless knowledge. But that was just a daydream fantasy, of course. Maybe something like a story passed down from long ago. Not quite a memory.

Ray knew there would be no more light . . . for what was light? There would be no sound . . . as if there ever could have been. There would be no others . . . for others were only games and make-believe.

But could there ever really be nothing?

Far away, eternal wisps of rock-augmented wind and waves were the very last to…

Ray shook his head, tired.

There was a voice . . . an eager, elderly gentleman . . . annoyingly cheerful, chuckling: “Yup, that guy was so weird and quiet. So, so weird! And the way he’d look at you—!” The voice sighed and shook a little, repulsed. “But you know what he wanted, right . . . what was really going on that whole time? It turns out he was just there to learn our secrets. He studied us and didn’t even pretend to be our friend. And then he sold us out, plain and simple! A deal with the devil if ever I saw one! Totally unlikeable, that guy. Impossible to…”

Of course it’s about me.

The gray had long finished joining everywhere to itself. Nothing could be heard anywhere but quiet. The only feeling was safety.

A moment passed, perhaps the shortest perceivable instant.

And Ray knew exactly what to do. He even almost knew why he should do it; he knew he would know that soon too. He also knew it would be easy, and there’d be no need at all to rush.

So, he first took a moment to smile at himself for having been so concerned.

I really am just like everyone else, huh?

And Ray felt normal for the first time in his life.

He watched his sight unadjust to the fog as to an optical illusion upon looking closer after having been duped by its singular, punch-line trick. For it wasn’t what (or who) was hidden in the fog that had now been made clear, but the fog itself.

So, what was the fog, really, now that he was able to see it?

And how had The Lie, Tension, Mistrust, Excess, and Hopelessness grown at once about as dear to him as his precious not-a-persons, Grace, or anyone else, even himself?

His knowing smile did not fade, but it did grow somewhat softer.

Then wells of redistributed compassion interrupted that greatest moment in Ray the not-a-prophet’s life, gushing forth in words he knew to say. “We’re scared,” the words began. “We scare ourselves, I think, so we can keep telling ourselves the same story. It’s a story about Tension, and Mistrust, and Excess, and Hopelessness. But it’s just so we won’t see what’s not there, y’know? I think we’d do anything not to see that . . . that blankness, or emptiness. I mean, we feel so many things, right? And our feelings conflict. But when we see each feeling . . . or each idea . . . or each individual part of everything . . . when we see it as something wanting to exist . . . then nothing changes. And we’re probably just as confused. But I think once we know we really have no idea how big we or anything else is . . . like, that’s when everything in us can just be left to run its course. That’s when we can see all ideas connecting, and everything else free to be whatever it is. It’s pretty amazing it’s all happening, anyway . . . right?”

“I don’t…” The Psychologist began, and stopped. Ray decided not to read into the widest-eyed stare he had ever seen.

The fog was gone. The three not-a-persons, The Lie, and all the rest remained, but were now inanimate toys or ornamental figures on display in a boring room.

All just representations, anyway.

Ray wondered what else to say and so decided to say nothing.

But after another pause, new words formed and joined themselves together on his lips. These were different, special words, which he knew definitely need never be spoken. “It’s not a statement,” stated the words, “the one that’s never said, but written on the back of everything burned once time goes by: ‘If there were ever anything so interesting as the human mind just happening, because it was.’”

“But, again, it’s not just living things. I mean, it’s all the same. It’s all energy. Everywhere. That’s all I really see, y’know, in everything I… And energy is always moving. It’s forces . . . pushing and pulling . . . reacting with each other. Remember how we talked about pushing and pulling in relationships? Yeah, everything we know is just whatever might show energy’s motion in moments of time. It could be plants, chemicals, atoms, galaxies… It’s all moving in the same circular patterns. From star fields, to particles . . . and whatever’s in-between . . . it’s all the same. It’s all gravity. It’s all waves and arcs we see as things just wanting to be what they are. And no, I don’t mean ‘wanting’ in the way we want things. But maybe, really, I do. Of course I think we’re doing it too. We’re part of it, even down to our personalities . . . all the little filters and games we love to play . . . our ideas, and thoughts, and imaginations, and… It’s all the same. It all works the same way. Our ideas want to spring to life the same way we do. Our language and how we communicate . . . the way those things can be recorded now on iuns and connected so easily with everything else. But even though each thing only wants to exist as much as it can, nothing can be an end in itself. Again, energy is always moving . . . always shifting and balancing. Of course there’s something special in the way we can recognize it all. I’m not saying I don’t want to be a person, or I don’t want to be me. I guess it’s just . . . I’m having trouble getting past those, y’know . . . the ironies and other temporary things . . . pretty much everything I’ve been telling you. It’s like I see something like a machine underneath it all. And I can’t tell you how big the machine is. But I hear it echo from the inside just the same: ‘Make me work!’”

I waited a moment, expecting him to continue.

Then watching his gaze drift back toward its own special void, I decided just to ask.

ME:

“What do you mean, ‘Trees don’t kill bears’?”

I assumed the line to be a mere reflexive grasp at portraying something close to preciousness, or childlike innocence—a sure stab, regardless, at avoiding my direct question about beliefs.

He spoke, once more perfectly busting and derailing my rigid alignments.

RAY:

“I’m not saying I want to be something else. I… Well, I love the way plants can just, y’know . . . be. They only… I mean, they don’t have to…”

The telltale trail-off would not reverse itself, I knew.

Yet apparently we were in fact edging closer to Ray’s actual worldview.

I realized the best way forward would not be to press for an explanation, but rather to carefully challenge his statement in hopes of examining its defense.

ME:

“But as far as orders of life on this planet, food chains, etc., wouldn’t plants be fairly low on the spectrum?

“Do you enjoy the idea of being consumed or used in some way . . . of being ‘less than’ or ‘beneath’?

“Would I be wrong in concluding you dislike the idea of authority, or power, or levels of importance in general?”

RAY:

“Levels of . . . importance?”

ME:

“Yes, plants being less important than we are, for example.”

RAY:

“But that’s just it. I don’t think… I mean, I don’t see why being a person should be more… I guess the way I see it is, like, everything wants to . . . to be . . . like, be whatever it is, y’know? It wants to exist as much as it can . . . to spring itself into being. But not just living things.”

His face began to take on some of its more perplexing shapes.

His eyes returned to their classic drill of dancing in hurried darts and quivers.

My primary concern became to calm Ray’s obvious anxiety at feeling unable to properly express himself.

ME:

“It’s okay.

“There’s no rush.

“Not now.

“So, let me see if I’m understanding you…

“When you say everything wants to spring itself more to life, are you meaning things wanting to go on living so they can propagate their species?”

The old guitar sat plain and worn across Rev’s folded legs. It was a curled-up cat ready to nap away another morning in easy sun-pooled bliss.

Rev nodded as he leaned and reached back up over his head to shut down two spinning decks. He listened as archaic spools completed their routines of clunky arcs and slowed as one to a perfect standstill.

Then he nodded again, still to himself, and wondered if it could be true: Had he really just finished recording the musical basis for the last of his fragmentary songs?

How? Why now?

And without added pressures of creaking tape wheels or flashing red lights, he strummed and ambled his way back through a final set of sliding chords, humming wordlessly along.

What he felt was not the sense of having solved some epic equation, nor of having strived to build some new and monumental work. The notes he heard calling out through the wood had never really been decided upon. He had merely spent years hoping to approach . . . before finally picking up on and allowing himself to follow . . . that which now could only be just as it was.

He remembered having wanted to call the song Fantastic for some reason.

The room and sun went cold. Guitar sound clipped to dead, robotic noise.

He stopped.

The name Fantastic had nothing to do with the clumsily jotted, throwaway words now mocking him from down where blank light shone upon an open notebook page. Meaningless, each line had been recorded without thinking.

In the newly somber void of sound, names and lyrics suddenly seemed so, so important again.

Familiar flutters of nervous energy shivered in blotches through his chest, spine, and throat.

He detested the useless options he now faced. Always the same…

He might tweak and reframe his scribbled nonsense to mold something uniquely vague. This would feel like working hard to tell an inside joke, yet one no one else could ever understand.

Perhaps such words would fit his music best.

Still, all spacy hintings had come to feel at least as pointless and passé as attempts at fishing for or manufacturing more blunt and obvious meanings. And Rev’s intentional creations had all grown stark and bland like apples quickly browning in the wind, usually by the second time he heard himself sing them back.

Could fans interpret songs their own way if the words were left open enough?

Fans… There I go again.

Inward monologues spun themselves into textbook conversations on sorting trash.

Rev’s somewhat (almost) sober mind recoiled with fresh tenacity. It was a new and ugly sharpness, which he couldn’t help but hate.

No, nothing was finished. His freshly captured oldest friends were but more mute prophets born to laugh at fate.

Whatever.

PART D (The Fog)

Come, we must expel the alien. Feel it set and irritate the linings of our seismic tunnel lair. Its shards and spines tear at sacred walls.

Push it out.

Here we come. It is our time now. Hear the sucking sound. The whoosh.

Get ready!

We rise, arcing up and out.

The pause right at the top…

And then…

ACHOO!

Letter 7

And finally, this:

Dear Someone Like Me,

Who would lie in pretend letters they knew they’d never send?

But what could be funnier or more beautiful?

How small, and fragile, and utterly affected and dependent. How gloriously doomed.

How human.

Remember that thing I wrote way back about you being like some parasitic symbiote? Well, I think I’m ready now to see the bigger picture of what you really are to me.

I had these crazy notions as a teen about how things would have to play out. I guess it all came down to just this deep sense that life would one day fall apart, and I’d be forced to escape and grow in ways I never could have otherwise. Yes, that’s where I knew you’d come in, of course.

But nothing happened quite the way my teenage mind had predicted. I came to that time of falling headlong into your nothingness and solitude as if left to die in a padded cell. Then I forgot all about the adolescent fantasies (of you) when you were all there was.

But that time is finally almost over, and I remember.

Only now can I start to see what you were always meant to be.

Ultimately, it doesn’t matter how disgusted with you I feel or have felt.

But could I see myself finding even this letter one day in a box with all the rest? I guess I’m happy to say I’m pretty sure these words would make even more sense to me then, if I did. Unless, of course, I’m crazy (and choosing to be drained by an evil leech).

Are you the devil? Again, how fun. How cute and quaint the memories: feverishly sketching out each vivid demon picture.

Is there some part somewhere that wants you to succeed? The ambiguity there is too delicious. I can still feel exactly what it was like to have your monsters crawl in darkness through the veins beneath my skin. Sure, I imagine someone being entertained almost forever by that old, stale arc.

But how could good v. evil have ever been more than at best incomplete?

So, here we are.

Who are you?

Is this all just your malevolent plot being foiled or fulfilled? Of course not. You can’t be that devil. You can’t hate me, not if all these hidden letters from that crazy, nothing, half-predicted time can be just as redeemed as every other part . . . even you, friend.

I love you.

I saw then in black-and-white, but perhaps we both already knew (and now can’t ignore) that “one or the other” would always be a lie.

I mean, how properly basic to call one’s own symbiote a parasite.

That reminds me, I have this other recurring dream where a tribe of vegetarians are forced to kill for food. But then it’s like I float in some direction until I see a host of microorganisms harvesting their nutrient chains. And I see both things happening at once . . . not separate . . . like both are the same thing. Then moving even farther out or in as time spins slow and close to still in those forever moments between asleep and awake, I can’t help but see in moonlit shadows you and your unmentionable blankness hidden beneath and around all that beautiful matching movement and important purpose and power.

So, yeah, I’ll keep going. I’ll keep writing. Why not?

Thanks,

Me

PART ???

She’ll enter through the front door, scuffing odd bits of dirt and leaf. She might curse then, but the silence in the room will be odd enough to make her turn. She’ll see her love there on the floor like a puppet held in place by unseen strings, his parents seated awkwardly above. She’ll wonder about the look she sees glimmering in her love’s eyes until she suddenly recognizes it . . . unmistakable . . . as fear.

“Did you hit him?” will say the father, his voice even and fair.

She’ll look back down at her love only to catch his head hung low. Her thoughts:

This is it. It’s finally all caught up with me. How could I have taken him so for granted? But I never…

Regardless, her role and her love’s will have certainly been reversed.

She’ll know he’s probably forgotten everything.

“Did you hit him?” the father will repeat.

“No,” she’ll manage, her tone strange and cracked by new emotions.

The father will then reach into a shirt pocket and silently withdraw something like an iun. Turning it, he’ll tap the screen.

She’ll hear a shaky rustling noise and be shown dim footage of herself smacking her love hard across the mouth. Her vicious snarling face on the screen will be mouthing nasty words, unheard.

And none of it will make any sense. She would never hurt her love’s sweet face, not in a million lifetimes.

Yet what of the evidence?

“I wouldn’t…” she’ll begin.

Quick lights paint close walls as far-off thuds rumble in loose distortion. The big man at the center of it all looms tall above the rest. Their bodies can’t help but encircle and pivot his like planets to a star. His muscled arms pump up and out. He grins as surrounding thrashing forms are caught in strobe-lit glimpses.

Yet her outline first appears in shadows.

A little closer, and he sees she’s dressed in simple black, stands perfectly still, and wears a slight smile more charming than any he’s seen.

He lunges through inconsequential masses, pushing past a hundred would-be doppelgangers (scabs emulating him to varying degrees).

She waits.

“Hi!” he yells near her ear, cupping hands to his mouth.

There are shudders of warmth and coolness as she leans in a little and breathes, “Hello.”

Quivers glitch through his spine, and his first urge is to heave her away, turn, and dash. But the impulse makes no sense. He keeps himself steady and watches, dumbfounded, as she begins to nod and slide in effortless time. Her smile is that of a young girl upon opening a box to find a cherished and expected gift.

With guiding arms, he leads her back to the center of his universe.

She is brought as though not holding him in sway.

“I’ve never seen you here before,” he shouts, gradually unclenching until he’s just a happy boy again pumping and waving his arms. A wonderful boy.

She never seems to be quite straight across. Her eyes rest just a little too peacefully on his. She barely appears to dance, but glides to him as if but a cog to his great machine.

A little closer.

A little closer.

Back a little.

The same coy, fixed smile…

A little closer.

Too natural to be planned. Too perfect just to be.

He shoots her an unusual glance, perplexed anew by this mysterious stranger he’s now allowed into his home.

She blinks just in time to ease back in. Their lips meet. He sees in flashes her smile growing, both in width and grace. Her eyes stay closed.

“Do I know you?” he blurts, not quite sure why.

Her expression doesn’t change. But the look she gives him as her eyes open again says far more than “yes.”

Kurt Cobain ducks slightly to dodge sharp corners of a mesh-screen door. His sheepish half-grin fills out a little as he takes in the sight of his friends, one by one, already at the table.

Cards are shuffled. Sounds of rich laughter like gobbling turkeys travel in slow, steady pulses to reach two teens listening and whispering wistfully up in a loft.

A summer breeze follows in through the screen. And off the grown players go.

All hear only sounds of joy and the crash of an ocean not far away.

Ironisait writes absentmindedly:

Sex slave for charity – nothing left.

He then stares past the page.

Drugs were easy. The new campaign must both legitimize and destroy the damages of something far more—

But it succeeds.

Ironisait is arrested and never sees the smile his daughter loves to share with everyone.

Nothing important happens, and the prison becomes a utopia.

The Always and his team might have stared, fascinated, as Mr. and Mrs. Rolman spiraled onward in their same continuous loop (ever facing though never quite seeing one another due to their movement).

Together.

Apart.

Together.

Apart.

And it seemed the distance never really changed.

Perhaps you could see The Always hurriedly clasp at a new scrap of torn paper to jot more notes and a faint diagram.

But would it be that he and his team knew there was absolutely nothing he could say to either patient?

Years passed.

Rolman almost shuddered as Caylee dug forearms tight across his back. It felt as if she might be trying to heave herself right through him.

He gave her a quick squeeze, glancing over at his iun.

Maybe this one really was just there for the money, as crazy and unlikely as it seemed.

Another poor girl. Another broken heart.

Shiny splotches amongst dripping black weren’t hard like diamonds, but jelly soft in streaks across the walls. Something about the decor captured her very essence. Angular. Pointy. Wide and sweeping. Insatiable, yet sleek. Forceful, like a sports car, though utterly feminine.

Rolman waited in this her lair. As far as he knew, she had forgotten him.

He felt a grinding in his chest . . . perhaps the sinking sorrow of one unimportant enough to be left forever to rot and speculate.

Maybe she hated how normal he was.

“Who’s that?” I asked, peering through noisy, encrusted masses at a tall man in a black judge’s robe.

Next to the man stood a little plastic table. And on the table lay the floppy form of the husk king. At least that’s what I saw.

“Pilate,” answered Impartial.

As Pilate started unrolling this huge piece of paper in his hands, a hush seemed to settle through the rotten crowd. Then staring at the paper through small, thin-rimmed glasses, Pilate read out in a loud voice: “You,” he gestured at the husk, “are charged with blasphemy, with false miracles, and with impersonating a God who makes all things. What do you have to say for yourself?”

The thing on the table was . . . well, at least as quiet and unmoving as the table.

“You answer not?” barked Pilate as if surprised. “Then I shall proceed with the individual counts brought against you by Law.”

“What does he see?” I asked my guide. I was nervous, but also kind of relieved to have finally brought up the subject of the king and . . . and of how things looked, y’know?

“It is as he says,” answered Impartial.

Pilate continued, “You order masses of the very citizens you claim rulership over to be slaughtered whenever you visit their cities and villages. And now you stay silent? You call yourself God, yes?”

Again, nothing happened or changed. I kept thinking I must have missed something important.

I glanced over at Impartial but got distracted seeing THE COP and Detective right at the back of everyone, both standing still like a picture, and both wearing these really dorky, informal clothes. I mean, they had huge, silly smiles stuck on their faces, like they didn’t care about the trial or anything. And in-between them stood the broomstick person with stools for arms and a shiny ball for a head, Figalo.

Pilate carried on, his voice now settled low and calm to perfectly match Impartial’s, “If God were a person, then why would it want its created people to undergo such terror of being wiped out at its return?” Pilate motioned to show he was now speaking to the crowd. “Should a God-King be forgiven for inflicting such dread upon its citizenry?”

Jeers and roars erupted up in a united chorus, “No!”

“And what should be the punishment for this supposed God-King’s sins?”

“Kill him!” screamed the crowd in eerie unison as if being worked by a single mind.

“No mercy, then,” pressed Pilate, “for a Being that would create a world in which its created beings ever needed to be sacrificed?”

“No mercy!” shouted the crowd.

“What’s happening?” I gasped, feeling a coldness like death shiver through me to my core.

“Ironic,” stated Impartial. “The decision seems to be that being a person would render the rule and actions of the God-King, Jean Bur Spicules, unforgivable.”

The awful coldness grew, and I started to shiver. But I wasn’t afraid. I…

Okay, I don’t know how to say this next part…

For some reason it’s like I suddenly remembered someone I’d known . . . before . . . I mean, before all this. I knew I wanted to call that person The Listener. And I knew The Listener was someone I . . . I just really missed. That’s all. But I think the reason I remembered then was I knew The Listener would have loved to have heard that last thing about worlds of beings created for reasons.

Honestly, though, I didn’t understand any of it. I had no idea who or what the husk king or broomstick person were meant to be, or why. I couldn’t remember anything else about The Listener. The trial, the kingdom, the law, the prophecies . . . all those self-solved cases covering desks and walls . . . none of it made any sense to me.

I turned back to Impartial, but Impartial was gone.

Then looking over at Pilate . . . The Detective and COP . . . and all those poor, desperate souls, I was sure I saw in every face the essence of the one who had been my guide in this strange, sad world.

Were they all looking back at me?

Oh yeah, both the husk king and Figalo (or Figs) were also gone.

Things seemed to want to begin again, so Johnston tapped the secret button now permanently installed above his left shoulder.

Everything stopped.

He breathed a deep sigh of relief and boredom.

Tired, he hobbled onward toward the locker room at the end of the longest hallway at the school he had attended all his life.

Quickly, he was old (despite what you might hear).

And then he died.

The Always set about (as always) questioning his Method, now on purpose.

He was determined to access and map the sum of all he had ever written back to the literature.

This would be his way of catching up and starting over.

Plus, he was so looking forward to reaching out to many of his old Outlier clients.

Yet The Always [always] found himself filled with the funniest sense of being but steps away from uncovering whole volumes of research that he, himself, had written and forgotten about.

A new tattoo beneath his left wrist read: “Am I ignoring ANY evidence against my own conclusions?”

And his current question noted to ponder:

Could all Outliers have quit school because I once doubted the value of my own education?

No, of course not.

He was pretty sure whatever it was that connected them all could never be quite that direct or black-and-white.

Such would be too easy.

Too deniable.

Too unfalsifiable for the likes of his Method.

At least he hoped so.

And now that all was almost done being compiled and retold, his attention was caught away from the words by the voice of the re-teller, which sounded unmistakably like that of a pretend victim . . . a happy prisoner . . . an unknown friend…

THE COP inched toward the preoccupied man swaying pathetic by big garbage cans out in the pelting rain.

THE COP lowered his right hand to rest, coiled and ready, just above his weapon. “Little late…” he rasped.

The lost cause of a man turned to face THE COP with eyes deliciously bewildered and afraid. “This is my house,” came the small, tinny voice.

The COP un-flexed his gun arm and trigger finger as the hopeless flop bustled away like a beat-down wind-up toy, disappearing through a heavy gate and crooked rectangle door.

Rolman stood in grime and violent rain next to his giant government-issued trash can, which rested in its place in line behind rows of stacked apartments.

Dark mud flooded down to where the alleyway dumped off in its center. Scraps and husks of tissues and other refuse stuck to pavement, failing to be swept along and out by the dingy current.

Rolman stared at the astonishing creature he had just watched careen with massive force off the tops of two garages opposite his. It lay still in the central dip and filthy water, unmoving. The creature had the upper body and head of a striking, handsome woman, slightly too long and tall to be human. She was naked. Her lower half was the body and legs of a horse.

Her eyes opened suddenly and were the bluest and fiercest he had ever seen.

Rolman watched as the stunning centaur scurried to her feet and immediately advanced. Her human half swooped down. He found it almost casual the way she darted in to clasp his wrists.

He knew right away he was completely in her power. Though her smooth, tan arms were slender as broomsticks, Rolman felt a brute strength to her grip and manipulations far beyond any he had ever known.

She slung him over her head like a laundry sack and held him high in place behind her human back.

Next came a gentle whir of blinding movement. Rolman saw streaks of rain and chaos like passing stars or snow closing in until all went white and still.

The centaur spoke, saying only, “I will return you.” Her voice was loud, twangy, and yet somehow carried a quiet note of timidity and care at its core. Maybe she was shy about speaking to humans.

Rolman realized his eyes were closed. Squinting slowly, what he began to see gave him the sudden urge to bolt away in panic. Her face hovered inches from his. She seemed to be studying him. Her massive, piercing eyes were now twin blue flames, so close. Though her head and face were small . . . smaller than his . . . Rolman felt the immensity of her whole form in the way her unseen parts surrounded as if to hold him fast in place.

He glanced sideways, seeing confusing signs of alien customs and designs. Yet all appeared clean and new, almost radiant in insectile beauty.

He closed his eyes again.

There was a lifting, and a general sense of gyroscopic spin.

He felt himself being turned, thrown, and then pressed down.

Then jostled sideways.

Then hoisted up.

Then pinned back down.

Nothing hurt. He was never uncomfortable.

There was a flood of warmth, along with a quick sense of release happening close by…

Rolman reopened his eyes. All was quiet in this, the centaur woman’s strange and pristine lair.

He blinked.

In another string of strong, constant motion, Rolman felt himself being dangled from his captor’s human back once more as she again held him helpless and dashed her way along through space.

Rolman fell to his knees back in the alley by the trash.

The rain seemed to float along and away as he began, for no apparent reason, to relive dim instances of a particular session with The Psychologist. It might have been the one with all those other people there. But he could have sworn Mrs. Rolman had been at the session he was remembering. He heard The Psychologist saying in his mind, “If your wife asks your son, ‘Do you think daddy wants so-and-so to be your mommy instead of me,’ your son will take the question at face value instead of reading between the lines the way adults do. So, the boy will likely be quite scared and not know how to answer.”

Hadn’t someone suggested learning the hard way might be good for kids at times, and even help them grow? But Rolman had no idea. And their son was hardly a kid anymore.

Bing might have sat face to face with someone that could have been a buzz, a curse, or some other abstract being.

He would note that the other, perhaps both real and imagined, was someone he thought he had recognized now for more than half his life.

It was like a sibling, loved and hated in distinctly familial ways.

Then it was gone.

But Bing remained, fully aware of still being all he had ever been.

He turned around, and everything there still was too.

Even if the other really had just been him all along, he could take no credit for it.

Rocks and trees just were too.

After flames and coughing fits that threaten to escalate to death, The Nothing clicks to set an empty page before him and rests still.

Nothing amazing happens.

The eager part brought back to life scolds him for not thinking to have written something first . . . just any stab at expression to then be carried over the hump to inspiration.

He thinks of Ray.

Were Ray’s revelations like their own independent spring, or rather a filter through which other springs could pass?

And thinking of (or maybe as) Ray, he wonders:

What would they do if they…?

How could THEY…?

But the word “THEY” is changed.

He begins to type, his fingers suddenly clacking with feverish speed.

He knows not where he is headed on the page.

Yet completed works and dollar signs loom past the rifling images which lay beneath his words now flashing and tumbling quick and wonderful as ever.

It hits me so fast.

But how do THEY know what we’re talking aboooooouuuut?

I used to ~~rain~~ reign things down from heaven.

A dinosaur fixed to a log.

A begger.

A bog.

There was nooooooooooooo drugs in the good ole days.

The good ole days.

IT HAS TO LOOK LIKE THIS.

We’re recording what goes by when it hits (so it hits).

He shakes his head and continues after a brief pause.

Well, that was just a whole lot of fun, wasn’t it?

Or was that something else?

This I wonder as I bounce around.

No, it’s me this time.

I can forget.

We’re too slow because we thought we would be.

That’s right, I used to listen to rock and roll (I used to listen to rock and roll).

I don’t want to descend (I don’t want to descend).

Well, you left it that way (YOU LEFT IT THAT WAY).

Which one of you said that?

Said what?

That last bit?

First of all (begins a sly old gentleman), I’m not as sly as that parenthetical person may have made claim just now.

SO YOU’RE NOT THAT SMART THEN?

I didn’t mean for it to be taken that way.

What way?

As if it were a question.

I paused, a wee but dumbfounded.

But in the end us dumbfounded folks get a good piece of the pie.

A good piece of the pie? But, thought the squiggly gentlemen (formerly called sly), that’s not what I’m trying to…

Just cut away until you find me.

He taps out three big dots in the middle of the page to signal a new beginning.

A little boy was watching TV.

A fly hurtled by.

We scrambled away from each other in the desk chairs, _____ and me.

It was a fun game.

I want a real life.

Okay, switch the channel.

I would, but I can’t.

It’s taken too much already.

It’s just a game.

I could describe it, you know—what happens (or happened) in each moment.

Wait, did you mean “happens” or “happened,” because that matters?

Two things (I love these): It doesn’t; and the first thing seemed worth forgetting anyway.

That’s an answer for keeping everything on an even keel.

We keep things running smoothly.

Oh, who let Goatie take control?

Goatie, are you still alive?

Well you balliwags think too much.

Right, Goatie here . . . to be seen and not heard . . . I direct.

No, I’m supposed to direct.

Don’t yell, it’s not fun.

Wait . . . all of you, hug and be friends.

We can’t be friends here.

Yes, we can.

It’s not a settlement; it’s a treaty.

But you know we can’t stay.

When THEY ask, “Well, then why did you come?” we’ll tell them: for the view.

ASTROLOGER:

“Aquarius says that’s too inside your own head, buddy. And you can’t go inside of mine. And (yeah, one more thing…) don’t quote me, bitch.”

My eyes are closed.

Mad…

Are you mad?

Why?

Because you’re a baby, that’s why!

All of you people need to GET OUT OF MY HEAD!

That was scary.

Who will help me?

Jesus.

But that makes it hard to write, doesn’t it?

BLASPHEMY [“off with their heads”] BLASSPHEMY!!!

That’s a court order, my friend.

What court?

THIS ONE!

See, we make it easier.

But it looks like there’s death there (as there is here too).

Which one are you?

I don’t know, which one are you?

I don’t know.

Well, what do you take that to mean?

Which one?

I don’t know.

Are you quoting “I don’t know” as which one, or don’t you know?

Was that a question?

Obviously that was a question.

Hey, listen up: I think you all understand I’m trying to do something good here!

“Where?!” the others cry in fear.

Here in Rockwell.

He stops to click open a second page, and types a quick note to himself.

Doing so feels extremely important.

The note says only:

He appears to be dreaming of a life in which he writes stories instead of

Instead of what?

He turns back to his first page and keeps going (after three more centered dots).

Wink.

Remember, a tired man who fell asleep at dawn.

It was a pattern to follow.

We can’t just let it go on.

But we have to.

It has to be automatic.

7ou fool, it’s a train wreck.

A goblin on top of a bell, slexliclarshliblellowed.

Let’s talk.

Between the thoughts is . . . dot dot dot . . . flashing . . . deep, deep flashing.

This is going on over there.

That’s cool, we won’t bother you.

We keep recording the voices, but not the pictures.

Okay, I see a swinging puppet’s back coming into a room from far, far away and close together.

It’s a screen, twisting in another reality.

A Neorupuddumen soldier-of-fortune doppelganger dribbling its Neanderthal brain.

A poet?

No, not me.

It’s beyond anything I’ve ever…

Closer than you realize.

Farther than you appear.

What’s the big question?

“Why?”

I said, for the view.

We’re caught inside a woops + woops who’s who?

But that was yesterday’s…

It’s supposed to be a story.

Retreating, he starts over yet again in his mind.

It whispered to me in a whirring wind from before.

At night I slept and was fed half-versions of the truth, all true.

Dreams would come and go: a shady mountain highway, top down and ready . . . then escaping into the moonlight, letting my batmobile basically drive itself.

Seeing pictures all from every day, they only looked a little different.

That’s just a theory.

What if you dreamed your way into a distant future?

That’s me loose.

But it’s only an example of the dreams.

On I’d drive back in daytime reality.

The sky stayed blue, clouds puffy and bright.

I felt strengthened by something intangible and maybe intended to keep it that way.

See, what Bruce Wayne did was spend his days trying to figure out what that Batman guy meant when he’d say things like, “…letting my batmobile basically drive itself.”

Days were normal.

But nights . . . night were key.

Yeah, I was worried I’d stop writing.

Again.

“Hi, my name is Guy McCauley, and I have an unnamed disease.”

“Hi Guy.”

“See . . . when you say it like that, it sounds hurtful.”

Something knots in familiar pools flooding shoulders, chest, and spine.

Crooked, pushed at funny angles incapable of straightening, he wonders if he could ever learn to hold completely still.

He stares back at the screen and lets his fingers continue to run.

I can stay away forever.

I can live in a fantasy land.

I can fly though the white, tree-like Spabharbaghettis.

For _____ believed in me so.

Instead I got sent to a land on the page and told to come up with real things.

It was hard.

Pain came when I felt I must have lost some sacred, ancient ability.

Yet all I’d lost was…

Wait, it was all a game, and all a movie.

And there I was, trying to piece it all together, like I always do.

Do you know where we are now?

It’s all me.

We shouldn’t be here.

Hush.

Slowly, I turn and look at the ceiling.

Should I write more?

Look what happened when I went over there.

I walked across my life.

Yes, it’s always going, always moving quickly back and forth.

And either way, I’m here to argue . . . compelled to regulate, I mean . . . to go the other way.

We’re a person, right?

It’s in the middle-middle-middle of the dream.

A turney, upside-down platitude.

UNKNOWN:

“Machines… touch… contact…”

I’m not sure what else it said (or says).

There was no other time.

Fast or slow, I can’t decide.

Again.

Rockwell was a place.

A fun place.

We enjoyed our summers there.

Down pulpy plant walls we slid to a faraway beach, pulling up to feel the salty breath of cool air on our skin.

Then we waited, standing in the sun, spying out our perfect spot.

Never had we felt higher than right then.

It was a perfect moment, maybe wasted . . . the best.

A cosmic drift had already occurred, the type of movement we lived for.

But what happened next . . . well, that was a mystery all on its own.

Down a dusty road I drove, away, a girl by my side.

Did I trust her?

Sure, she was alright, if you’d call time-bombs for eyes alright.

I sure as hell wouldn’t.

Someone sang on the radio of a fire having always burned.

And on I drove, oblivious.

All I wanted was in.

In so bad I could taste it.

Hell, I was cool.

Cool as anyone.

At least that’s what I thought.

“Behind you . . . shouting out. But then why did we open our eyes?” she screamed as if she had a choice.

The room we’d driven into was its own universe all around.

Dazzled . . . amazed . . . we both had to dream sideways in a new, impossible world where THEY would change the words of your story as it was written.

That’s supposed to say, “…where we could only hope the things we saw were real.”

Why?

I want to know.

What I want is information.

Glad when I can get my head around it.

In that way I enjoy it.

What’s in-between thoughts?

What’s in-between that?

What’s in-between the in-between?

That’s my whole deal.

Searching, I’m cool.

And again.

In Rockwell, she found me.

Yup, old Ms. Time bomb eyes.

I guess we were both caught happy on those same in-between things, probably for far different reasons.

It was just a backwards mirror reflection, anyway.

Now I float back to the real world slow, dodging shiny objects.

It’s like Christmas trees in here, man.

But never think of making fun of it.

A story?

I’m no author, but a…

That’s what they’re all…

But you would keep writing if my head came off, wouldn’t you?

Who?

Who’s here?

What’s true?

Here, a trip from far away to where we already are and have always been.

We glide straight in up over age old battles.

As lightning shines through pitch-black darkness, see that sea of so-called deep secrets and strong delusions to trick (if possible) even the elect.

But can THEY take me?

No, I’ll never let go anymore.

I didn’t come to escape at all, but…

In the past, the piper was understood, weaving in space as we were busy sweating away lazy at a rock show, the ladies just as bored and lonely as us gents.

He hears music, quiet and light.

Or maybe it’s him singing.

But he’s sure he hears a female voice somewhere with, within, or above.

The song is one he has and hasn’t ever heard before.

The melody, perhaps imagined, seems to stir and swoop through nothingness all around.

And who is the girl with the time-bomb eyes?

Well, we know who she’s not…

FLASH

Bing.

Bing’s a guy that loves his girl.

He hears himself say aloud, “Bing, you’re not married, are you? But are we sure about that?”

Did Bing never once mention a special someone?

And if Bing really was but one of many bygone alter-egos, the one he should be acting as right now…

FLASH

He sees, as clear as anything, both Bing’s joy and desperation held in smiles fixed on the faces of anyone at all to share a life with.

FLASH

He knows the thing with Bing and love must have to do with first impressions.

But what?

Why?

FLASH

Bing makes a good impression on people like Cayl . . . on a certain type.

And that impression actually is who Bing most wants to really be: Charming . . . kind . . . happy…

FLASH

And how important first impressions are to that very type.

But of course Bing never knew Caylee.

So why look for something there?

FLASH

Ray was always so much more obvious an Outlier than Bing.

But even Ray hadn’t seen Caylee in years.

Not since…

FLASH

Love.

No sex.

Innocent.

Worlds apart.

FLASH

He watches sharp, fluid snaps as Caylee, Mrs. Rolman, and Bing’s assumed love are connected with effortless precision.

He smiles, almost nodding to himself . . . a champion boxer surging with newfound strength after being knocked down and rising for the umpteenth time.

Yet was Ray not already used long ago to identify every player in The Psychologist’s tired games?

FLASH

He laughs, his old befuddlement of mixed-up clients suddenly supremely silly.

Could seeing patterned similarities really blur the lines so badly that all might come to look exactly the same?

How?

Ever so sure, yet suffused with self-doubt…

So sure of what, then?

He almost knows.

FLASH

All those times he, as The Psychologist, pushed so hard to stand in his Method’s place.

He sees himself in session years ago instructing a Normal husband to move the family far away from the wife’s parents.

He witnesses the confidence locked on his own face, and knows it stems only from a pretend intention then to help the couple grow together and become more independent.

He watches their eyes droop as they sadly agree to forgo generations of big Sunday family meals and forgettable days packed with general directionless motion in all manner of cheap comforts and distractions.

FLASH

It was never his Method that pressed him to panic or settle on selling so many a means of excelling in Ray’s city society by teaching them to cling to a culture or mindset of adolescence.

He takes in the sight of one trusting customer after another eagerly paying him to list out as fact that which only teens could be brought to fully rationalize and believe: that the world is black and white, and people’s motivations can be entirely bad, so certain citizens might as well be born deserving more than others.

He has never seen himself quite this way before.

So, his Sticking Point must have never stuck, then . . . at least not completely…?

FLASH

Why else the mounting revelations now?

Finding himself at a loss for what he’s doing, he glances at what he’s written so far.

He keeps going, with a slightly new aim.

That was the first part.

But then I woke up from the strangest, cruelest dream . . . the one I had set aside time for.

It all fit, at least in the moment.

‘How could this be saved?’ I thought.

THEY do know what we’re talking about.

THEY taught us this.

Blame . . . anger…

All judgment from long ago.

MISUNDERSTOOD . . . but we seeeeeeeeeeee . . . or was that Normal?

I’m giving into it.

Death . . . blame . . . past.

Look for sense.

It makes no sense.

Learn and die.

Go back in time.

Lyrics or stories, this one’s for the booyyyyeeeeees.

The poems hit a fixture because of this mixture.

For we learned to forget (we learned to forget).

Did you?

I silenced me.

Completely stoned, I’m on my own.

I’m heeeeeeeeeeeeeeere.

I’m heeeeere.

The inside.

The bottom.

A pretty YuuRotum.

To _____: “I can’t type for shit, but see who put this all together. Always smarter than we thought. It’s just a communicaaaaaaaaaaaaaation problem, mate. I mean well, but I finish late. It used to all work, but it fell apart. This is the real, and that’s the fake.”

“Do not write about writing!” says one being unto the rest.

An unusual common joke.

A quiet fight.

Selah.

That wasn’t what happened, I say.

I don’t need quotation marks when I talk.

When it’s a story, you don’t need to know.

Well thanks, I reply (hey wait).

THEY don’t go back.

But we can forgive.

Erase all this, and we will.

You said it, though!

Yoouuuu said it!!!

On different trains . . . when we’re smart, we brake.

It’s for you (it’s for you).

Give THEM control now or THEY’LL kill us all.

That’s too direct.

But you have to go with it or THEY won’t let you get near it.

Wisdom for life…?

Some of THEIR thing’s built-in features are automatic.

That’s why THEY said you’d never use it.

But I remember how to get through it.

Like my double sentence?

Move on to another [hidden] meaning.

But Haikus are yesterday’s business.

“Never write about writing…” (cruel THEM words, at the end of the day . . . a funny misunderstood misunderstanding)

I’m trying to prove there’s something good here.

Who said that?

Question mark.

How long is time?

THEY are taking me.

Wow, THEY do know what we think.

I will destroy and save this, you’ll see.

Faith is will, remember . . . remember all I’ve said.

Not much of a teacher anymore.

Can the young help the older?

It brought me here: the pain I fear.

It covers my mind and makes me break.

This is too in-between, man.

No, it’s so even THEY will see and believe.

Faith is . . . will?

I am old and have much left to show, says the elder wizard.

But is it a story?

Yeah, but THEY say instead of writing one we’re writing about writing.

That’s not why we’re missing what’s in-between.

That’s right, there is something missing.

A frantic search?

No.

Exactly, slow down.

The dream is always to capture both sides.

And the idea is it’s okay it’s only a dream since it also can’t be stopped.

I hear crunching like heavy robots stomping bones.

Both sides . . . the thoughts and feelings’ tide . . . inseparable selections I know I’ll need to face.

I’ll get it to capture the real.

If you know who THEY are, you may.

Then we’ve already lost.

So we skip to another line.

But that means it doesn’t matter what I’m saying…?

I am (before I forget).

I have to (that’s why I’m here).

This all resolves in more fake letters (only to myself).

And then I turn and find who can’t be scared away.

Learning to write THEIR stories in darkness was ironically going back to Egypt after passing through divided seas.

But was it?

Aren’t my words different now?

I know I need to leave.

That’s part of what I’ve been trying to say all along.

But I feel I deserve to know the rest of what I’m being told.

Can our strength ever lead us to forget?

Forget what?

Is there something (hidden) in that?

Old scenery springs to view as his seasoned mind rolls on, breaking open the very scars that paste The Nothing fast together.

He spins fragile in tiny waves and spills over all his own mock edges without having to try.

FLASH

What about that fellow, Johnston?

He considers if Johnston might be the worthless parts of himself he wishes had never existed.

A malicious joy he is keenly aware no therapist should feel brings eerie light to his swaying tidepool mind.

He pictures himself gleefully rejecting Johnston’s pleas for treatment, sort of like lowering a failed human experiment with clinical detachment down into an iun-spawned vat of that being’s own torture mechanisms.

So, is he Johnston?

FLASH

Is there any value to a Johnston worth learning to keep the useless rest in check for?

FLASH

Ray and Johnston both spoke of the church, the pastor, and even the pastor’s deal to make it big in Ray’s city.

FLASH

Yet Ray came to find his childhood had been far less troubled than he’d thought.

What about Johnson’s childhood?

FLASH

This is all just the sort of thing a Johnston could never appreciate.

Why?

He sees an odd, triangular dance between a Johnston making excuses for everything, and one avoiding only self-directed malice.

There’s the same familiar regret of knowledge too late to use or share.

Yet he does find some solace this time.

For if any of his ever-flashing thoughts have ever been true, it means Johnston was never actually real.

All only pieces of…

FLASH

He sees the Astrologer peering deep into an iun screen.

There is a face like the Astrologer’s on the screen looking back.

Below the face is a wheel crossed with lines connecting all sorts of confusing symbols.

As the Astrologer stares, the figures and lines begin to shift around and switch places.

The face on the screen changes in sync, growing first fatter and stronger, then longer and more thoughtful.

The Astrologer seems to panic, and tries to speak, but the words come out jumbled and too weak to hear.

But the face on the screen speaks, and its voice is deep and powerful.

The Astrologer pulls up a notepad and jots:

I was wrong about Ed. I hoped he was like me, since I’ve been wanting to be more intentional and project my voice the way he does. But since his sun is my moon, for me to act like him would be to reject and suppress my own persona.

The onscreen figures and face continue to squiggle.

Then the screen is all there is, and the movement speeds up faster and faster until it’s a constant blur.

“Twelve people on a boat could represent anything and everything,” relays a recognizable voice like crashing waters, steady and expressionless. “Whatever can be said and seen could mean so many different things, all of which will show up somewhere here. And then, being seen, each wants to dig down and establish itself as a good to treasure or weakness to shore up.”

The figures and face swerve fast then slow . . . fast then slow . . . but never stop.

Watching them is almost hypnotic.

The smooth voice concludes, “The more the wheel is given to explain, the more it explains.”

The Astrologer scribbles across his paper:

Can’t it ever end? And if not, why does it seem like it has to once it finds its right alignment?

But there is no answer.

FLASH

Attention is turned again to the soft, ceaseless music as a fresh melody seems to want to whir itself to life.

For a split second, he considers writing more, then wonders:

What are words?

FLASH

With words, could it really be more about their sound than what they mean?

The music skitters, and cuts, and whooshes back in jumbled repetition like an easy chorus of skipping records never quite resolving to their perfect (hidden) counter-rhythms.

But almost.

Maybe if he could stop listening, or stop what the drugs are doing…

Would that be like trying to be consciously unconscious?

FLASH

He smiles, and Ray smiles back.

He knows immediately the flashing is the same to him as everything Ray has ever been.

His hazy machines become favored friends from long ago, reunited with after troubled lives apart.

Though the machines still scramble, furious as ever, to reframe each underlying picture in their gross, silly overestimations, he now finds their tireless work endearing and admirable.

Oh to be caught away forever from fighting to nail his life to every stab at containing or controlling such limitless beauty.

But to where?

And why?

And what would happen after?

Was Ray only everything he wished he was but wasn’t?

FLASH

If they’re all me, what part do I play?

What am I supposed to do?

FLASH

I like these drugs.

They seem to work the same way I do.

If drugs have ways of showing people what they can’t or won’t choose to see, then so do I.

Or, I should.

It’s a power, yes…

But I never wanted power over people.

Is that why I’m Ray?

I love my job.

FLASH

But didn’t Ray hate his job?

If so, how could I ignore such a blatant disconnect?

Might there be other such inconsistencies?

FLASH

I believe Ray did eventually come to realize how valuable his job had been.

I know he finally saw the good in those he’d worked with, and the grace they’d always shown him.

FLASH

It’s just like how I was allowed to go in with no license and charge people for the use of my untested, undocumented Method.

FLASH

So I’ve never really had any trouble with work, even despite the rampant paranoia shared by each of my . . . personas.

FLASH

It all leads back to the same question: Which isn’t a persona?

The author?

The psychologist?

Ray shows me how much I love my job.

And these drugs remind me of my job.

But what exactly is my job?

All is still and quiet as he glimpses in another instant his own slow drift back . . . back . . . back…

FLASH

He sees Ray again, seated across from him.

Ray is dressed in The Psychologist’s clothes.

HIMSELF:

“Ray!

“What’s happening?

“What did I just see?

“I can’t remember.

“I…”

RAY:

“I don’t know.”

HIMSELF:

“But you do.

“You always knew.

“Everything you said was what I…”

RAY:

“What did I say?”

The genuine puzzlement permeating Ray’s face and words becomes an alarm.

For a moment, a rich loon afflicted by chemicals, hearing voices, sits alone in a blank room trying to anticipate the best end to a failed life.

FLASH

And then he is Ray, and says aloud, “If you’re asking where I believe the things I see come from . . . well, that’s what I’m saying. I mean, it seems like they have to come from somewhere, right? But I never saw it that way. Of course I believe what I think, or what I see. Everyone does. I definitely want to know if I’m wrong. And you really helped me with that. But I don’t see any of the . . . the pictures or whatever . . . as being that special, y’know? It’s just whatever it is.”

FLASH

The machines continue to frame themselves and their subjects as precious and offset from explanatory worlds.

Of course.

But then he wouldn’t really be Ray, would he?

No.

New laughter catches in his throat as oblivious white and checkered flags wave to seemingly signal on and out the “last” of his arcing thoughts.

It’s his finish line . . . his place of finally being cured of whatever dissociative personality disorder . . . blah, blah, blah, etc.

The assurance is he’s finally seen the real reason for the whole elaborate setup.

Every previous Sticking Point is rewritten off again as having been only a signpost or trail marker along the way.

But nothing ends.

Unsurprised, he watches himself wonder even now if all his clients were real, or none of them, or maybe some.

He feels as urged as ever to half-expect some transcendent curtain to lift and give way to an even truer knowing glance shared with Ultimate Reality.

And what then?

FLASH

The constructed description seems to be of himself popping up in some strange future world, cured, and fully ready to be what he’s always been.

The Always.

Maybe just someone a little like Ray who…

Blocks away, a weight bench, dusty and black with rusted steel, sits to the left of the exercise section of a used sporting goods store.

The place is called Try Again.

The same building once housed a thrift store called Happy Hearts.

What if someone were to tell you a weight bench now for sale at Try Again was once sold from Happy Hearts.

How could you know?

“But we can run away together!” The anguish buried deep in her words rings out way past their length of sound.

How shall he comfort her? How might she be reassured?

So close to dawn, the night has died in restless fever to be soon embalmed in madness.

Jeneviève lays on her side, her rich eyes set and pleading, searching unyieldingly into his.

Ironisait responds, “When stories are shared freely of where we are and what we provide, then anyone can find us, though we stay hidden in plain sight.”

“We! Us!” she screams, “But you are doing business with criminals! Breaking the law. These are bad, bad people!”

The quiet that follows brings beauty from where it’s waited in wings to return.

He more than welcomes what he sees to be a soon and buoyant dawn.

“When all is made open and known,” he says, “no one ever gets hurt. Then we have less laws to break.”

Thinking was a bad avalanche.

What could show The Nothing (or keep him from seeing) that his thoughts were automatic shots with dead ammo?

He watched or missed himself remembering more and more of a dead language long unspoken and no longer even studied.

His eyes would not leave the little bag, transfixed by every alien detail—by tiny white crystals that aligned with the green where thick brownish orange grew out in hairy clusters like little lobster legs; it seemed so still and ordinary a vessel.

Beyond wishing for nothing left to lose, now loss of life and sanity appeared as steps toward clarity and control.

Compelled only by how inconsequential it all might be made in but a moment, he half-watched his current thought click and roll automatically to the next.

Bing.

The recognizable essence flickered like a transparent image.

But why might Bing be being lifted anew now from that old revolving cast of characters?

Bing . . . the awkward behemoth who had seemed to get better all on his own.

A refreshing case, if any then were.

Confusing.

Had Bing not been an impossible merge existing somewhere undefinable between The Psychologist’s Normals and Outliers?

Bing . . . the pretend addict who had gone on to become—

The Nothing felt his thinking lift and carry (or drop) him again, playing out in rigid machine sweeps running off of deeper blueprint sets, forming words never quite sufficient for describing enormous, ever-shifting displays.

When had he last seen Bing?

But that was where things always went fuzzy.

Had Bing been at that big group session with Ray and all the rest?

So long ago now . . . but the answer must be there, somewhere . . . a hidden picture left to locate by letting his mind either complete or kill its wandering loops (or both).

Expressionless and silent, The Nothing watched The Psychologist’s Method feel around in the dark for a child’s toy beneath a bed.

He knew he would find it too, not that it could matter.

As more thoughts teemed, his eyes never strayed from Old Dan’s puzzling gift.

Marijuana had always struck him as mostly harmless and unimportant.

But staring into whatever unknown bendings of reality might lay beyond such simple actions as a flame and continued breath…

Still, what good reason could The Nothing possibly find to try drugs now for the first time?

Then trickling magma touched waters deep to force a heavy geyser.

Bing.

Had Bing not come up with all his bits while high?

For an instant, The Nothing stared The Psychologist’s Method right in the face; it looked ordinary, like an iun screen or carpet floor.

As he considered Bing’s fate, the machines proceeded to plaster up their next projection, this one a humdrum doozy.

And The Nothing was hardly surprised to find his other major persona waiting, teeth bared, eager as a drooling wolf…

Makes sense.

Unsure as ever, he knew what he would do.

More words popped up finished and fresh just in time to answer the very questions their noise of construction had helped spur.

From clients, to books, to borrowed stories run dry…

And now the offer of a new and viable source . . . Bing’s source.

The Nothing’s eyes remained on the bag.

If The Psychologist’s Method were to be trusted, then might this all (still) somehow be the intended result of some other-worldly, unknown cause or plan?

What did The Nothing really believe?

He almost laughed again.

Gravity tugged at every inward jigsaw piece, suggesting hints of grenades about to blast all puzzles apart.

Yes, Sticking Points were known to cancel out whole sides of equations, but Breaking Points too?

So, it didn’t matter what The Nothing thought or wanted?

It never had mattered?

He could see the dead Author licking his chops at the prospect of being reborn via the sustenance of his other’s carcass yet once more.

He saw and winked at it (there in the bag) . . . his same choice, but never any choice at all.

Calm now, The Nothing had nothing further to show or tell himself of his boring, predictable, age-old Siamese tryst.

FLASH

Another billboard failed to quite be captured in text.

Unless…

So it was decided?

A 16-year-old boy leaned across his mattress, clutching a plastic triceratops alien in one hand and a turtle with a red bandana in the other. This was the turtle shaped to do the best kicks. The triceratops was orange and angry-looking.

“You killed my brother! Now you’ll see what I’ve learned, you…”

But he knew he almost never finished those ones anymore.

Both toys and he were still.

When was the last time he had done the one about the coast guard avenging his wife? But that one didn’t even have a training sequence (and kind of felt thrown together).

Thoughts of yet another attempt at questing back to Dragon Lord’s castle atop containers, couches, and counters across the rumpus room bore vile reminders of what a ten-year-old had more than once used his merry band of adventurers to do with a castle’s worth of incumbents.

He felt tired.

There was another option, probably his only truly original left.

He reached his left hand down under the bed, feeling the pointy pile beneath for a twisted, scrawny body with plastic blades attached to limbs.

No luck.

Lowering himself, he allowed his eyes to adjust for a moment as he was greeted by the funk of old plastic and dried saliva.

Rustling through, he grabbed his chosen figure. Officially a ninja villain, it would now serve to don the role of reluctant good guy.

His overview: An out-of-shape martial arts expert who hasn’t trained in decades returns to rediscover his skills and love for the art. Though forced to fight, this one’s protagonist permitted transcending normal plotlines, eliminating the need for any clichéd final clashes to the death.

The boy liked hearing his character proclaim the ways of peace instead.

But he was sad this seemed the only one he could ever finish these days.

Unique, though, it did touch on so many other things.

“How did you find me?”

The Nothing stared at the horrible apparition leaning crooked outside his door; ghost-pale and angular, its smile flickered in demonic light emanating from tiny, sinister slits for eyes.

Of course, The Nothing recognized his visitor right away—it was the uglier, more grown-up version of a young troublemaker The Psychologist had once worked so hard to…

But what was with the effortlessness with which those from that past life seemed suddenly able to locate him now that it was forever too late?

“I just got out,” mumbled the visitor. “Had to come find you to set things right.”

The smile worsened.

The Nothing felt his mind being skipped back unwillingly like a mis-grooved needle to its former cyclic routines.

He watched, helpless and repulsed, as years were dusted from destinies self-tagged and stuffed in drawers.

How could “set things right” be taken as anything but a threat?

Yet why did just being seen in the flesh by this old pathetic ghost feel worse than any danger, even death?

Was it that this one too had caught him in his lies, or in the truth . . . or both?

What was The Nothing to do?

What words would be the right ones now?

Why still go through these same useless motions as if any of it could ever even matter?

Stupid.

It was all so stupid.

The only cure The Nothing saw for his stretch of meaningless comfort left was for true nothingness to come and wield at last its pointless end.

What if visits like this had begun a year earlier?

Part of The Nothing was almost gleeful to imagine The Author’s perfect little life being so swiftly trounced by cameos from unexpected criminals lodged somewhere deep in The Psychologist’s skeleton closet.

He sighed, wishing only to will himself not to go on noticing every blatant incongruence.

He wondered why there was no fear, not even for the pain.

“Remember when I promised you acid back when we were teens?” muttered the lost soul at the door.

“No, I…” and the confusion, too, was gone; the Nothing continued, feeling odd combinations of freedoms and indifference like a zombie having broken from its crypt: “I never knew you as a teen, remember? You were my client when I was a psychologist. Danny . . . that’s your name, right?”

“Yep. Old Dan they call me. But prison changes you, buddy.”

Old Dan burst forth in a grating semblance of laughter, which made The Nothing’s skin surge as if fixing to scurry away.

“They tell you what they’ll do to you,” Old Dan went on to say. “And sometimes they tell you you’ll learn to like it. But the way they say it, man . . . you know… I mean, you know they really love you when they tell you. That’s the thing: It’s a different world now. I don’t know if they even…”

The Nothing glared inwardly, wishing not to see where Old Dan was and wasn’t speaking nonsense.

Outliers…

So, so important.

So relevant.

All that special, deep, cosmic wisdom they…

Yeah, yeah.

How meaningful.

How perfectly timed, right?

Just for me…?

That old setup…?

That same old—?

New mixes of thrust-in contempt with thrown-out disgust pooled in motionless rivers as legions of prophecies (and all Ray’s beings) yawned and fell asleep.

Magic was missed for stains on floors and magicians’ slacks as rooms emptied, eyes lowered back to screens, and everyone was shown more of everything both to see all at once and forget.

“Do you have any plans now, Dan?” The Nothing asked, despising the clinical edge he heard coloring his voice [superior] for the first time in however long.

What could this tough guy really do?

Death didn’t seem to matter.

He sighed a different sigh, which became yet another.

“Yep,” said Old Dan. “Had to come here to sort you out first, though.”

Here it comes…

“Here,” Old Dan concluded, reaching behind his back to produce a small plastic bag stuffed with a greenish substance resembling parsley and other herbs, “I’m supposed to give you this.”

Of course it was marijuana; The Nothing had never actually seen any, but what else would it be?

And with that, Old Dan was gone, leaving gaping holes where reasons might pack pads, drawers, desks, rooms, and even whole worlds with stacks on stacks of notes.

The Nothing did not try to think on the bright side.

Yet ignoring the fact that he would have to go on living, spinning in his riches and empty routines, his focus was brought to how wrong he had been about Old Dan’s intentions.

It was fun seeing The Psychologist get kicked in the teeth.

Ah, failure.

Ironisait lays sprawled the wrong way across a foreign bed, all beds being foreign to him.

His patched trousers and simple, ever-ready coat seem out of place crumpled amongst surrounding fineries on the floor.

He inhales the flowery scent of Jeneviève’s hair, her head nestled snug beneath his chin.

Her peace and stillness are to him, as almost everything, evidence of something grand. Something worth celebrating. Something worth holding to and setting free, and both so that it might continue.

“A cigarette,” he whispers. “I’ll step out…”

She slips from his arms and collapses, as unwillful as a newborn soul.

His gait is loose, his bare feet cool on stone where penthouse-suite steps stoop to meet the quiet street.

The night air feels as close as blood. His smile spans to match the life that courses through and all around, painted into everything along this particular stretch of world this simple night. With passions spent, their fruits remain to sense and carry with him.

You could say Ironisait’s life flashes then before his eyes, but should you? Would that not imply some reversed sequence of temporal distances traversed? Ironisait sees only now, as always.

And he sees the fancy dame set like a geometric tripwire at just the right or wrong point in his path.

All he sees makes similar sense. And secrets from lives come to be laid bare in that single forever quip, both universally shared and wordless, and as beautiful and unspecial as…

But there is one difference to how life flashes before him now.

Ironisait reaches the dame dressed all in shiny black. Her skin appears as pale as fog. “Sure,” he begins, as though midway through a conversation, “I have money, here in my coat. Why don’t you take it? It will save you all the trouble of…” He gestures to shadows where several figures crouch hidden and ready in wait. “Just enjoy it,” he concludes. “Whatever you want to do.”

The dame’s face slips from still and pleasant to quizzical, which Ironisait notes as being of the purest delights he has ever witnessed.

One of the shadows becomes a man, large and balancing a hammer between both hands. “Give us the money, then, or we’ll kill you,” hammer man gruffs, perhaps forcing his voice down low as far as it goes toward deep and menacing.

“Sure,” repeats Ironisait, grinning. He reaches to the inner chest pocket of his coat so smoothly that the next two assailants fail to even flinch as they emerge into the light.

Ironisait tosses the dame a neat role of bills. His smile never dims.

“Are you . . . happy?” manages the dame, still frozen in her ready stance in place.

The remaining shadows become more men who casually circle to surround Ironisait.

“No,” says Ironisait, but then hesitates. “Yes and no.”

“What makes you think we won’t kill you?” hammer man asks, now sporting a wicked grin of his own. The hammer itself seems almost bored to not yet be swinging in arcs as either precise or chaotic as can be.

“I hope you don’t,” responds Ironisait, tilting his head slightly in thought, “Though it would be funnier than anything if you were to kill me now. For I just saw something I’ve never seen, right before I met you. It wasn’t . . . an idea . . . but it’s the first thing I’ve ever thought I should really like to stay alive to . . . to make…?”

“You’ve seen us,” offers another shadow man. “Sorry, but you have to die now.”

“I’ll join you,” suggests Ironisait, almost chuckling. “I’ll have you change nothing of what you do, and you’ll make a lot more money.”

Mention of money, or maybe the giddy audacity carrying the suggestion, silences the gang for a spell. Each appears as a statue deep in thought.

“How?” asks the dame. “Are you . . . magic?”

“I can make everything you do . . . how do you say . . . legitimate.”

“But how could breaking the law be made legitimate?”

“Watch.”

In the space of a thought, Impartial and I came to a place that looked like a busy office building. Women and men in mostly long gray coats stood or sat by desks covered in piles of loose paper. I mean, there was paper everywhere . . . even tacked over corkboards covering the walls.

I’d have to say everything in that big room . . . just the feel overall, and the way people were talking . . . gave the place a real sort of . . . urgency. Like, I couldn’t imagine any decision being made there slowly, if that makes sense.

Anyway, I saw I was near the largest desk, which was basically its own fortress made from smaller, regular desks set in one of the corners.

Without thinking, I started reading a page up on the closest corkboard. It said:

May the king, great and amazing Jean Bur Spicules, live forever. May he long be praised. May the subjects of his kingdom, both man and beast alike, dwell with him in eternal riches, etc.

In the case of the animal soul, we have reached another impasse. The great king assures us that immortality…

“Do you recognize the words?” asked Impartial by my shoulder.

I paused. “No,” I replied, hoping my guide would explain.

“The Detective writes his case notes in the secret language used always by those whose work opposes their benefactors’ will. Though his findings stay masked in the tongue of The Kingdom, The Detective’s true search is for a way to prove The King is not divine.”

I pictured the faceless burlap husk flopping along on its stand in the rolling wagon.

“So, all these are…?” I motioned to the thousands upon thousands of pages almost spilling from every desk and fastened uneven in layers to boards across the room.

“Cases,” confirmed Impartial.

My eyes were drawn to another case, which read:

We have now determined the murderer’s method for kidnaping and killing each victim, all celebrities. Praise the king for enabling us to make an uncommon prediction about when and where the next abduction would occur, on…

“So, he doesn’t really believe the . . . king . . . enabled him, right?” I asked.

I stared at the paper, hoping to hide anything close to treason on my face. Honestly, I still wasn’t sure what Impartial even thought of the king, or if Impartial had any opinions really. Its voice gave almost nothing away, like I said.

“No,” Impartial answered. “Yet in truth The Detective has never solved a single case.”

My eyes took in the room again. I might as well have been standing inside an endless book. “None of the cases get solved?” I asked, astounded. “What kind of detective could…?”

“The cases are all solved,” corrected Impartial. “They solve themselves. The Detective knows The King will one day lose His throne. Watch as The Detective now approaches. Notice also his companion, THE COP.”

A very, very skinny man stormed into the room looking like he might be about to throw a tantrum. He was biting his nails and wouldn’t really look anyone in the eye. To me, his face seemed way too lined and red to match his little kid body. He was dressed in gray like everyone else. But his nervous, unsure energy felt totally out of place . . . even in that fast-paced office or agency.

Next strolled in someone way larger and rougher-looking. I’ll say it like this: You’d never have to be told that second guy was THE COP. If anyone could ever be called “THE COP” it would definitely be him.

“We have it!” The Detective exclaimed softly.

“Yeah, how?” grunted THE COP, his voice a string of raspy explosions happening in a row.

“It turns out we were way off, of course!” The Detective jittered. “So, I’m taking a walk outside the Royal palace, right? Just rolling cases over in my head. Then I look up, and there’s this cart right next to me. I swear it wasn’t there a minute ago. And sitting on the cart is a pretend person. I see it’s made from pieces of things you might find around the house: a stool, some broomsticks, and a heavy-looking ball for a head. But the thing is, I mean, it’s also an exact replica of the king! So, there’s no one else around, right . . . and I jump in to investigate, and… Anyhow, the thing’s in the lab now. But something tells me they won’t be able to figure out where it came from. So awesome . . . since that’s what we’re…! But it gets even better! There was this note tacked to it. Here…” The Detective twitched his hand inside his coat and yanked out a crumpled piece of lined, yellow paper.

I slowly slid to read over THE COP’s massive shoulder.

The note was just a single line that read:

Hello. I’m Figalo. I’m here to save the world. Enjoy. –Figs

Now, when I saw the name Figalo scrawled there on that little scrap, I had the same familiar feeling as when I first saw Impartial take shape right next to me out of the air.

Figs…

The name seemed to resonate somehow, sort of like when sounds in the real world can reinterpret themselves into your dreams just when you’re about to wake up.

Of course I had no idea why everyone, even Impartial, seemed to see the king as an actual person . . . or why The Detective said the king and Figalo were identical when it sounded like they weren’t even made from the same materials.

And, I mean, how could the objects The Detective described form an exact replica of a person?

For some reason, at that moment, I half expected to be whisked away to some other, even more bizarre reality. I don’t think anything would have surprised me.

I wanted to ask Impartial about . . . well, all of it.

The Detective spoke again, almost whispering now to THE COP, “‘Here to save the world,’ right? And the king has to be the ‘only savior’?! I mean, that’s fundamental to the king’s own law. Of course, it all goes back to that one case . . . there it is . . . where the prediction talks about ‘many false kings,’ and how ‘even now false kings exist in the world,’ right?”

The COP’s expression, if there was one, never changed.

“I’m saying this could be what we’ve been looking for all along,” The Detective went on, “something to show everyone that Jean Bur Spicules is really one of those false kings predicted. Yeah, I know, it’s going to be almost impossible to get the public to buy it now. And we’ll need to be ready to expose every one of his—” The Detective jerked to glance around in all directions. “But for the trial,” he breathed, “I think this finally gives us enough to start to build our case! And that’s all we need . . . just to get the hearing. Everything else is already…”

“I met with you for over two years! I told you all my secrets. I know that this is you!”

CLICK

The Nothing poured back over his winning blueprint strategy, the one he had never once departed from: a calculated risk, that was all—selling only pieces, and far enough from facts to be deniable (close enough to stay real).

As he replayed the message loop again, the same crackling words faded beneath fresh details from all those years ago.

Of course he hated it whenever old session moments would spark new, useless hindsight.

For such knowledge could never be kept clean of that most virulent of regrets.

It was his failings of long-missed and lost opportunities betrayed that The Nothing now wished more than anything not to be living so comfortably in spite of.

The unfairness underlying his boredom and contentment was inescapable.

Yet had each rule or story not been constructed entirely from details added after facts, and considerations reached at least a tad too late?

No.

Though different apprehensions brought of that same ambiguous error probably were what each persona had been most wrong about.

But how could she, former client (of the former Psychologist), have figured out who and where he was?

The Nothing shuddered to consider what seeds must have been left to be unearthed—hints of dark desires strained against so as not to let them punctuate every careful word, movement, glance, touch…

In his more recent life, her story had resurfaced the previous year, and then only by way of solitude and necessity, like the rest.

Hers had actually been The Author’s last to use.

Ironies not lost, he thought of Ray.

He smiled the smile of an old man remembering an immensely troubled youth with newfound fondness.

Could those final, frantic years of feeling stuck but sessions from a complete void of paying clients not have been . . . telling . . . had he known how to let himself pay the right sort of attention?

But then, regardless, the silly Psychologist had preemptively discarded it all anyway, forfeiting clients and Method . . . and thus himself (of course not really) . . . for good.

Or so had been The Author’s callous hope.

Yet could he have ever predicted how his choice(s) would one day render him The Nothing, lost for even stories left to borrow?

And where else might he find his stories?

The Nothing was mirrors smashed by smoke to end in this endless dead-end drift.

And trying had grown needless so was gone.

Love: what a crazy and elusive waste of time!

But the as yet unknown part—the one that could hold it all together still—was too good not to let him glimpse his self-directed lies.

Soon…

And it didn’t matter.

It never had.

It couldn’t.

An old voice seemed to want to offer expired encouragement.

Nothing, he felt, could be any more or less pointless and contrived.

And The Nothing couldn’t help but cautiously eye his iun where it lay, quiet again at his side on the other chair.

Should he check in to track the former Author’s sales?

Na.

Could he at least find some excitement in the novelty of watching both past selves be wrenched back up from each abyss, squared off, and nailed together for the very first time?

Not really.

Again, the money was a passive and automatic drain—a leech sent to empty all identities (particularly the current one) of cares gone by, faded in wine and nagging stability . . . the boring perpetual heat of a nifty-rimmed, astronaut-endorsed space thermos.

Perfect.

Easy.

Contained.

And so, so ironic.

But he missed Ray (that was true).

He missed Ray more than anything.

“Look!” says Jeneviève to Jules. “See how he stares at me.”

The two girls rest on a blue bench near Tranquil Fountain.

Across the way, a street performer dazzles the trickling crowd with random bursts of rapid words, silly magic, and song. He wears a heavy coat, old and worn. His playful eyes remain on Jeneviève’s.

“Like what?” jokes Jules, nudging her friend, smiling.

Jeneviève does not break eye contact with the stranger. She finds herself in disbelief at the undeniable sincerity locked at the core of his pleasant, ever-present smile. There’s a hint there so powerful it somehow replaces her whole world with one in which looking away proves less comfortable than staring.

“Like we share a private joke?” Jeneviève suggests.

“Do you know what the joke might be?” prods her friend, now staring at the stranger as well.

“No,” says Jeneviève, unable to keep the joy she sees from crossing to pierce the space of her own features, delivering her expression up from all such as irony, detachment, safety, fear…

The stranger retrieves a small stringed instrument from his coat. He begins to sing:

On the steps in Paris
With my hat out
And a gleam in my old eye.

“Is he singing to us?” asks Jules.

“Yes,” says Jeneviève, confident.

A fat man strolls by eating a sausage on a stick and drops a rare silver coin into the stranger’s hat down on the ground.

The stranger cuts short his song, still smiling. He reaches into the hat and flicks the coin back up at the fat man.

The fat man, bewildered, gulps down the rest of his meal, and asks, “Where can I hear your music, then?”

“Here!” the stranger beams.

“How—?” begins the fat man, but the stranger has already cascaded away once more like a skipping stone:

It’s often said,
Let’s speak in French…

The fat man lowers himself awkwardly to another blue bench across from Jeneviève and Jules.

Many others stop to hear the stranger’s jovial tunes.

A light breeze rustles nearby leaves in an ancient dance, not competing at all for attention.

Jeneviève giggles as she finds herself approaching unafraid, glad for how the stranger’s twinkling eyes have reduced her usual shyness to an absurd impossibility. “What about the man’s coin?” she asks, having not once broken off her gaze.

“We all have the moonlight,” he answers.

Jeneviève squints and shrugs, not understanding, though the sense of sharing some private joke with the stranger is only heightened. It matters not that she has no idea what the joke might be, nor that he looks at Jules and all the rest with the exact same…

Could someone really share a private joke with every single person?

She wonders how such a soul could have ever come to be. Could it all just be an act? But why? How?

“What’s your name?” she asks.

“Ironisait,” he says, nodding slightly like nothing and smiling all the more.

PART G (The King)

I started seeing other things, but all so dim and far away. There were movements in shadows, like, floating or creeping in, but . . . but they seemed too slow, like they couldn’t quite be real.

Then suddenly I never wanted to see or know anything ever again. I mean, I hated even knowing I was thinking. Of course, thoughts kept coming . . . kept sprouting up. And part of me wanted to tear my whole mind out by the roots and black out so I’d forget.

Another part wondered if the thoughts could be my answer . . . like they could be my way back.

But back where? Where had I just been?

That was about when I realized I couldn’t remember anything.

Everything around me looked grim and complicated . . . deformed somehow. But maybe it wasn’t. Maybe I was seeing it wrong. To me, there was only the same texture and walls the color of sand stretching out in a big U-shape, disappearing off in all directions.

I tried to shift my weight a little, but got hit right away by this ugly, groggy feeling. It felt . . . heavy, like maybe gravity had gotten stronger.

I glanced down carefully and wasn’t really shocked to find myself sprawled across a small slab of black polished rock right in the middle of the endless nothing.

Why was I on the rock and not the sand?

The sky might have been red, or maybe brown. But it flashed apart and together like moving pictures on a screen.

And weren’t skies . . . not like screens? How could I know things like that if I had no memories?

The next thought came like a punch in the stomach:

What am I?

That was when I first heard the weird murmuring, rustling sound . . . low and constant . . . coming from everywhere just past where I could see.

There was a scream, screechy and long . . . definitely closer.

Still, I saw nothing and no one.

I wondered if I should be afraid . . . and, if I should be, why I wasn’t.

I blinked, listening for anything that might help me figure out where I was, or why, or even what I was, or what was going on at all. I mostly wanted to know why I didn’t remember. But the why of it all was what was missing.

Something sent a shudder down my spine. I was sure the space right next to me didn’t look quite right, like it was getting ready to make itself even emptier or something.

But that’s dumb, isn’t it?

Was I crazy? Was none of anything real? How could I tell?

The word “asylum” and pictures of pill canisters and padded walls started circling around my head. It was bad, but…

But still, I wasn’t really scared. I was confused. It was just . . . nothing about what was happening struck me as being anywhere near as unusual as it seemed like it should, y’know?

No, that probably makes no sense.

Okay, I was somewhere that didn’t feel like a world I should be from, or part of. But I wasn’t afraid to be there.

The steady jumble sounded closer.

“Hello?” I called. “Is someone there?” My voice wasn’t one I knew.

A crack like thunder whacked and left an eerie echo, but it quickly got eaten away into the rumble.

I had to wonder why the air in that same spot next to me was . . . congealing, or getting solid somehow, like water freezing into ice. Was I causing it? Why did I almost . . . expect to see it, and yet still feel like it had to be the strangest thing I’d ever seen?

But I did expect it, I knew. I was even a little . . . happy about it, maybe. I mean, I didn’t feel alarmed in any way. It was kind of like what I was seeing was just some everyday thing I should ignore.

I thought at least being afraid would give me a better idea what to do.

I tried picking myself up and off the black slab to move in, I guess, a random direction. But my heart and lungs sank in my chest as I rose. This sludgy sense of total tiredness pooled all though my legs and hips, and up like a storm into my belly. I wanted to throw up. It felt like I was trying to trudge through a swamp without breathing, sinking deeper and deeper into mud.

“Hello,” said a voice, peaceful and soft, from nowhere. “What is your name?”

I was still just as alone.

Then the air beside me twitched, and retched, and hardened even more, kind of like those videos where nature gets sped up super-fast.

I gulped a little and turned away, finally feeling that flush of real fear I’d been hoping for. But it was horrible, the way it quivered and shook through my chest and neck, especially as I tried a third time to lift and drag my legs behind me like dead weight.

I saw myself as some spastic, broken insect, failing to skitter away automatically on useless, messed-up limbs.

“What is your name?” repeated the voice, quiet but deep and booming.

I stopped pushing to move, and not because escape obviously wasn’t going to happen. It was more like something about that exact moment or situation felt too familiar to get away from. It wasn’t déjà vu. There was just a certain . . . quality I recognized, even in the voice itself. The only way I can describe it would be like seeing an expression you totally understand on a face in a picture from hundreds of years ago.

So, I decided to, y’know . . . to give in and . . . and go with whatever was happening.

“Ray,” I answered, not noticing I’d remembered the name.

The bizarre hardening looked like it might be about done.

“My name is Impartial,” said the voice. “I am to show you The Kingdom. First, see me.”

I have to say Impartial’s voice sounded . . . flat . . . like only the actual words mattered, since there was really no tone or expression. It spoke so clearly. So . . . matter-of-fact.

Don’t ask how I knew Impartial wasn’t the voice of my own thoughts, or some hallucination. But when I heard it speak . . . that’s when I finally felt free to let myself notice things and think. I also felt my breathing slow way down, and the shakiness flood from my system in tingly waves, leaving me completely calm and settled. Then I was almost excited to watch the end of Impartial’s transformation from nothing. It might have felt like accepting fate.

Anyway, with a last big huff, Impartial became a thing made of thick charcoal smoke. It stood, or floated a little off the ground, where emptiness had been. I could see through it mostly, especially in places.

How else can I describe the way Impartial looked? Well, it had no features. I mean, there were no parts to tell apart, if that makes sense. Its edges were never that obvious, but blurred all around and shook, sort of like dark flames or fluid flickering out into the air.

I wondered if I should be as impressed as I was.

“I am not the essence of this age,” said the pleasant, echoing voice like a small waterfall. “Will you follow me?”

For, like, an instant, I was sure I was looking at someone or something I‘d once tried so hard to help.

Did Impartial know me?

But everything about before was still . . . missing.

“Yes,” I answered. “I’ll follow.”

I stood, no longer groggy, sick, or weighed down.

Then we travelled, side by side, as if gliding through a dream. Time lost all meaning. We might have been moving for hours . . . but it was also like I’d taken only a few short steps before the world around us changed, and we stopped.

I saw in our new place a crowd of people packed together tight in clusters. There were men, women, children . . . but all in total shambles. And I saw more bruises, rotting teeth, bloodshot eyes, and just general scum and filthiness than I could have ever imagined. Everyone’s clothes were tattered and worn. They smelled like trash, and urine, and so much worse.

It seemed strange to me how even the children stood so glum and steady, not moving at the adults’ feet. Everyone’s eyes were low and tired, giving their faces this sort of “never again” expression.

I was almost sure they couldn’t see me or my specter guide as I took in the sight of them.

“Who are these?” I asked.

“Citizens of The Kingdom,” said Impartial.

“What kingdom?”

“Really, you do not know?”

“I don’t,” I said, sure of it.

“There was once The City,” began Impartial, “which became The Union, and has since become The Kingdom. These citizens, as always, await their King’s return.”

“And who is . . . the king?” I asked.

“You have no idea?” The voice never rose or fell very far. It never sped up or slowed down. But somehow I could tell Impartial was shocked at my not knowing. “Jesus of course,” it said.

“Jesus…?” The word felt wrong, both to say and hear . . . like I wanted to shake myself to keep from saying it again, or push it out of my mouth (and mind) faster than I could. I had no idea why, but I especially hated how it felt to say a second time, when I asked, “Who is . . . Jesus?”

“Come,” said Impartial, “He returns now. You shall see for yourself.”

We passed right through the lifeless crowd like wind, coming to rest just outside.

There I spotted a ring of large men standing at the fringes of the rest. These wore leather clothes, and some held weapons rusted over in old blood. Others carried torn-up flags. I knew they must be soldiers.

“Why do they have weapons?” I asked dreamily.

“The Kingdom now spans this world,” said Impartial. “Yet The Kingdom must be always under threat. So, these men stand ever prepared to face kingdoms from other worlds that might appear at any moment to kill and conquer.”

Again, there was something so recognizable in what I saw and was being told, though I had no idea what.

Had someone shown me that same ring of ready soldiers before? Or, could I have once been one of them?

“Why do they think there are kingdoms in other worlds?” I wondered aloud, noticing a cutting feeling like regret beginning to tinge my inner calm.

“The heart of The Kingdom was once the heart of The Union,” answered Impartial, “still one of many in this world before it took the rest. Some hearts change not with the speed of facts, would you agree?”

“I think so,” I said, though talk of changing hearts seemed to further peel back and threaten my sense of deep, peaceful steadiness.

I took a slow breath, pressing my lips together as I pushed the air out sharply.

That was when I noticed the crude, black cages set in lines behind the soldiers, stretching out as far as I could see.

I gasped.

For crumpled and bent into every cage was a horribly disfigured person beaten almost to where you couldn’t tell they were even human.

I was sure the poor souls in those cages were all just moments from death. Forlorn and naked, they were a mix of sunken eyes, hair clumped in mud, and so many twisted or missing limbs. Some were being literally eaten away by obvious infections. Most were covered in hideous sores and open wounds, all caked in dirt.

The sight made me want to cry out, but I didn’t. I couldn’t. I knew I wouldn’t be able to.

It was like the shock and pity I wanted to feel were just ideas I was rolling around.

“And these?” I gestured toward the cages, peering over at my guide.

“Watch,” Impartial replied.

Behind us came the creaking of giant wooden pieces knocking and sliding together.

I almost flinched when the crowd jolted half to life and burst into this dull, even cheer. I mean, all the voices called out the exact same words in impossibly unnatural unison. I couldn’t understand what they were saying.

I watched the crowd part lazily to form two long, crooked lines.

Then I spun just in time to see a massive, rickety wagon being dragged slowly toward us by two huge mules, one slightly smaller and scruffier than the other. At the top of the wagon, I saw two purple flags covered in strange golden symbols. The flags and symbols meant nothing to me.

As the wagon rolled by, a young man in the line of citizens to my right . . . kind of long-limbed, and crazy looking . . . flung off his patched-up clothes, and started throwing himself up in the air, over and over, landing in different mangled shapes on the ground.

An epic hush swept through the rest of the parted people. But the naked man seemed not to notice he was the only one doing anything or making any noise.

The big mules and wagon clopped to a halt. A side panel I hadn’t seen, held by thick, gnarly ropes, crashed to the ground like an ancient tree.

Inside, I saw only darkness.

Then out stepped a man about as tall as two regular people stacked on top of each other. Honestly, he looked way too big to have ever fit in the wagon . . . though seeing him emerge had the opposite effect as watching a pack of clowns spill out of their tiny car at the circus. The giant was dressed in clean, black clothes that stretched to fit his enormous form.

I thought: This must be the king, Jesus.

“See now what happens to the fool caught unaware when his King returns,” said Impartial, “for The King’s return occurs always at an unexpected time.”

The giant glared down at the naked man, then gazed back in through the wagon’s opening. Then he nodded, spun, and gripped the little man by his neck, all in a single stunning motion.

A new empty cage seemed to appear from nowhere. And the naked fool was tossed inside with so much force his head slammed against the bars in a dull, tinny THWANG.

“All those who challenge The King’s authority or divinity are kept imprisoned,” explained Impartial.

“Why . . . why did the king throw him in?” I asked.

“That is not The King,” said Impartial. “Yet The King must be ever feared lest His Kingdom soon be taken by another. Now . . . behold, The King.”

As the animals brought the wagon around in a misshapen, bumbling arc, I finally caught a good glimpse in through the open door. Inside I saw a woman dressed all in white. Her clothes and hair looked plain, far plainer than the beastly giant’s. She was more like any of the commoners in the crowd, only much cleaner and . . . softer.

I mean, I’d say she looked . . . more common than everyone else, somehow.

And next to the woman was a little table made from half a wagon wheel. On top of the table, I saw a husk made of burlap and straw stitched into the crude shape of a person.

“She is . . . the king?” I asked, sure I must be missing something.

“No,” said Impartial. “Can you not see The King beside her? King Jesus . . . The King, Jean Bur Spicules is His name. And today you have witnessed His return.”

I watched the husk flop a little on its table as the wagon crunched and jostled over stones.

The woman never moved at all. To me, she was the picture of absolute stillness and serene, quiet grace.

“And who is she?” I asked.

“She has been chosen for Him, as it is written. For love and conception is the role she has been called to and made ready for, even from her youth.”

I had a strange thought, too silly to ask Impartial about. I just . . . I wondered how someone could ever trust a person who was being forced to love them.

But before I could see any problems in that way of thinking, Impartial grabbed my wrist and flung me around to face the dreadful cages. Its grip felt cool and smooth, like glass or marble on my skin.

“Look,” Impartial commanded, “and see now the provision of The Kingdom.”

I squinted to refocus my eyes . . . I mean, just because I couldn’t believe what I was actually seeing. All the prisoners in their cages had morphed to twisted, lifeless corpses. They looked like they’d been dead and decaying for . . . for a really long time. Flies swarmed and buzzed around their rotting bodies.

Then all the citizens and soldiers burst out in violent, shrieking laughter. In front of everyone, and in their hands, I saw all kinds of different food . . . even things I knew I’d never seen before.

I watched the crowd gorge themselves as freely and loudly as a colossal herd of pigs with faces buried in their slop.

“Now that The King has come and gone,” continued Impartial, “His subjects need not fear His judgment; at least not for today. See how they receive their Royal Inheritance.”

“But the prisoners!” I exclaimed. “They’re all . . . dead!”

“Ah,” said Impartial, “but would all beings not kill for nourishment if they had to? The King gives His subjects a special gift, which they dearly prize. The gift is their Inheritance. Each can choose to kill another for food. And the other will die instantly without pain. This might seem cruel, but would you not do the same in the face of starvation? In The Kingdom, citizens kill those that refuse to recognize or honor their King. For all to have this special gift was The King’s first holy decree. As prophesied long ago, the Inheritance of Exchange would cause the issue of constant lack to resolve itself. And that is surely The King’s way . . . that all potential problems serve as their own solutions.”

I had no idea at all how to feel. What I saw seemed like it should be terrible . . . though Impartial’s words about the logic behind it did make sense to me.

That was when I had my first real memory . . . y’know, beyond just the name and a few other little things I could compare with what was going on. It must have been one of my oldest memories too. I . . . I saw myself as a boy fighting and killing imaginary enemies for hours out in my parents’ old Jacuzzi. I knew I hadn’t felt bad for killing those bad guys at the time.

So, the way things were in the kingdom must just be the only way things could be.

Still, as I watched the crowd suck down their delicacies, I wished for a world without all the necessary pain and understandable killing.

Obviously, such a world must not be possible.

I wondered why I wanted to care so much.

I wished I could remember more.

Letter 6

Then there’s this one:

Dear Someone Like Me,

I dream of all the same places. No, they’re not real. Not as far as I can tell. But they’re where I’ve come to feel most at home.

There’s an overly-crowded, wooden deck of a ship.

A living room with sunlight streaming in through open windows (I see dust spots floating in the air).

A baby’s room with a white crib.

There are others. And I’m sure I’ll recognize them again when I go.

But I wanted to say it’s funny because in real life I see the same patterns repeating HERE I first saw THERE before I left.

THERE I was with Kylie, and I started pushing us to go to church.

HERE I met another Kylie, though she’s far more the churchgoer.

I see life HERE taking shape the same way it did THERE. Only bigger. And smaller. With fewer friends. With everyone.

I do wish people THERE could just walk around outside HERE and feel the sun and air in the afternoon. The weather alone was enough to call me back. The temperature. I’m slow moving. Maybe built for heat. I might get more done doing less.

Okay, I wish I could actually say things now…

But you made that impossible.

I wish I could send all these letters…

But only you know what you did.

How could I tell anyone? Who wouldn’t misinterpret my guilt, and write off all my reasons, while you skipped away forever hidden and happy?

I know what I’m doing must look so bad . . . dropping out of school yet again (one last time) to basically become a delinquent. The worst part is I can’t check with anyone to see if the method to my madness even makes any sense outside my head.

You keep me from doing what I know I should. Like some parasitic symbiote, you take me over and drain me of my cares and focus. And I give it up so easily every time.

But that’s starting to feel like only half the story.

Wouldn’t you also be the only one that—?

I have to go now. I’ll write to you again, sooner or later, when I can.

Me

Tian lay on his back across a thin rug draped over rocky ground. There he practiced his true art, the one no one ever saw or cared about.

Something seemed to happen all on its own when he was able not to force his spine, shoulders, neck, or anything. It was something soft and deep, immensely pleasurable and satisfying.

Tian found in his true art a path to transcend memory, even his terrible birth.

He reminded himself to always be aware of any differences between what was said, what was shown, how those things were made known, and what had always been real or really important all along.

Could it really be our final session together?

I had spent the morning, for the first time ever, successfully dividing all my sets of client files; each has now been categorized and aligned at the start of these new notes to be typed up with the rest upon completion.

The result will be a single, massive volume fit for reference and sale—the magnum opus of my Method, if you will.

Yet reading this, of course, would mean that you are already aware.

In fact, just to know that someone could one day come to follow the entire process and sequence of my life’s work is itself beautifully humbling and inspiring.

The sight of my desk and cabinets newly laid bare had been as the sound of perfect resolution to an old perplexing melody—perhaps like finally picking up on words long-heard but missed in dreams.

Thanks to Ray, I can now tell even my Normals apart.

Yet I must cease referring to clients (or people) as Normals and Outliers.

Have I not, on some level, always understood that my Method’s very existence was set to ultimately render irrelevant such clumsy, imperfect devices?

Yes, questions of why still persist as if worthwhile.

Why Ray?

Why Bing?

Why Rolman?

Why any of it?

Could each client have been sent or given just to speak to a unique aspect of my own life and psyche?

What reality might they (or I) be meant to represent?

Could they all be imagined—only pieces of myself, which my Method teaches me to regulate between?

And would gaining a holistic enough perspective to choose in real time between various Outlier extremities not be the exact and necessary predicted outworking of my particular Sticking Point?

In truth, as has been shown, I have always felt so fixated on Normal.

Yet coming to find there is no Normal allows me to see everyone for exactly who and what they are.

And this allowance is what brings me to my next conclusion, which is but another “why” question (this one even more rhetorical): Why might a person be driven to regulate between identities?

In the case of every client I have ever met with, such regulation serves to uncover and reveal that which never need be regulated from—to fully explore the merits and weaknesses of all traits and pursuits so as to differentiate the truly fundamental and innate from the merely forced or wished for.

My Method unveils an eternal search for that which exists all on its own, beyond choice or control—as Ray put it: “Something ordinary . . . something locked away…”

These words will surely fail to show my astonishment at how unphased I feel in the face of such discoveries.

For within whatever deeper, unchanging (real) core of my own being I find no surprise at all.

Losing control of my perspective has proven fantastically superior to pretending I am a psychologist deathly afraid of being discovered as an unlicensed, self-adulating fraud.

In my utter brokenness, Ray was “used” to fix me by showing me there had never really been any such thing as broken after all—and also that lies based in needless fears had both stemmed from and perpetuated my need for personas packed with directions to be spun off in.

Again, there is such tranquility in arriving at a life shown capable of sorting itself out on its own.

Thank you, Ray.

Thank you, Method.

My view of time has completely changed.

For I am now sure that there is space enough for every accomplishment and enjoyment left, even if my entire career happens to be taken away in an instant by some new technology or other reality, etc.

So, back to today.

Ray sat across from me for this, our final session; would its ending signal the conclusion of my allotment in this world?

Regardless, I wanted to glean as much as I could from being with him.

Yet there was a definite sense that we had already reached our big conclusions, and that what remained would be a rather fun time spent simply filling in loose ends.

ME:

“Ray, we have been talking a lot about life, and religion, and church, and society…

“Let me just ask you plainly: What do you actually believe?”

As has been the case perhaps half the time, Ray did not pause at all to consider his response.

RAY:

“Why am I a person? I think I’d rather be a tree. I could talk all day about why trees are better. Trees don’t kill bears.”

A female voice announced: “The Potter’s Hand Outreach and Broadcast Ministry, this is—”

“Can I speak with Pastor Jacobs?” interrupted Johnston.

The voice began to peg off sections of an obviously prepared response: “No, the pastor will not take any calls… The pastor has entrusted his team… The anointing flows down from the pastor as oil down Aaron’s beard and garments… The pastor must give himself fully to the ministry of the Word and prayer…” At least this current cog on the line seemed to share Johnston’s distaste for her own rigid protocols, for she added at the end: “Even though we won’t be able to put you through to Pastor Jacobs, is there anything at all I can help you with?”

Johnston nodded to no one in the solitude of his immaculately decrepit living room. It occurred to him to ask whether the great Pastor Jacobs would skip a Sunday sermon if he, Johnston, were to waltz on over to that little church office, just a few blocks away, and hold this nice, friendly phone lady’s head underwater until the bubbles and wrenching stopped. Probably not, he knew. And they would justify it too. The Word would go forth so more lost souls could be reached and brought into the fold. The decision would be for the greater good, a numbers game, and all would smile that same dumb smile and agree (or at least accept). Her death would be repurposed to further their holy cause.

Johnston stared, expressionless, at his fingers holding his iun. They were pale from lack of sunlight like the rest of him.

“Sir?” chimed the woman’s chipper voice after an instant. She had obviously been trained well to maximize the value of all her time spent on the phone.

Johnston found himself hoping to one day make her his receptionist. She would function perfectly as his first line of defense against so many unwanted callers, all desperate to reach Johnston, the pastor. Pastor Johnston.

“I’m here,” he said.

“Oh, sorry, I thought I’d lost you. Is there anything I can help you with? Do you have any prayer requests I can agree with you for today?” He imagined her at the edge of her seat, poised in quiet cubicle dignity, perhaps ever awaiting the praise of some slightly higher tithe-paid nuisance tasked to monitor her every move from a nearby copy-room-turned-office.

And might Johnston chance to meet the woman if he were to make his way out to one of Jacobs’ many services that weekend?

How would Johnston likely fare if he were to actually attend? Visions of padlocked doors, and fiery rubble crashing down on mangled, writhing masses, awakened a grin that felt about as at home on his face as on that of any psychopath or man of God alive.

“No,” he said absentmindedly.

“Are you sure? Sir, I just . . . I feel led to ask: Do you have a personal relationship with Jesus Christ today?”

Johnston hung his head and sighed without sound as he considered the twisted trademark form of precious Jesus nailed up on that old rugged cross.

A moment passed. Then Johnston recoiled at the thought of being killed and forced responsible for those countless undeserved kindnessess whole populations would later insist on somehow enjoying.

Scenes of seas of gratuitous smiles threw Johnston for a loop. He forgot he had been asked another question.

Oh, for Johnston to have his guilt washed clean by the blood of the God Man slain and ragdoll raised. To be held up pure, unspeckled white. To be given his forever inheritance on that fateful coming day.

Johnston had no church ties beyond the TV shows and calls. But how unusual would it really be for someone to phone several famous ministers in a row, one after another? Not unusual at all. It would be beyond simple to show up and force at least a few of those busy anointed men to hold still and hear him once.

Next steps came into focus like a snapshot, causing the inhuman grin to ratchet out in more sick directions. “Tell your pastor that you church people are not even real,” he said calmly. “I could wipe you all out at random.”

And another, inward voice sang along in key: “You are all pretend, so it will not matter, anyway… La la-la la…”

They sat together atop The Church’s highest roof in the silence of two who should be friends. The sky down near the horizon had faded to a rich wash of maroons swirled with various oranges and yellows. Above remained clear blue.

Ray blinked to keep from gazing off through the fog below. It was hard to remember why he should go on restraining himself now that everything was changing. Still, he wanted to be polite. He knew Mo was about to answer an important question, probably without meaning to—a question posed long enough ago to have surely been forgotten by all parties.

“I don’t think you’re being as honest with yourself as you think you are,” said Mo.

And Ray forgot again as well, his gaze cascading off once more beyond the tops of buildings spanning outward in all directions in neat rings and squares like toddler toys. All those structures now bowed low gave Ray the urge to wink.

“I was walking with Jolie and Todd the other day,” said Ray into the passing winds, “and we were talking about cigarettes. One of them said how workers who take smoke breaks with their bosses get an unfair advantage. I think the other mentioned something about, like, smoking can be a sort of comforting ritual, y’know? Then they went back and forth like that. And near the end, I told them how relaxing it had been when I used to go to this friend’s house after work, smoke a cigarette, and drink a beer. But they didn’t say anything. I don’t know if they even heard me.”

“Is that true?” said Mo. “Why did you tell me that?”

Ray blinked and realized he was in fact not with The Psychologist. Still, he wondered why he might feel so compelled by the types of instances Jolie and Todd had seemed to want to stick to that day on their walk. Why would whatever could be called most common or ordinary happen to be exactly what was least predictable and consistent, and also never supposed to really matter? But such did seem especially important to some.

Ray felt his focus snap back to Mo. “You’re an artist,” Ray stated flatly, failing to meet Mo’s penetrating gaze. “I hope you’re not stuck somewhere you should be free.”

“What?!”

Ray fought to draw himself yet again to the particular world in which he was seated high above a great expanse with an old friend. Each return was beginning to feel more tiresome and unnecessary than the last. He thumbed through in his mind to his latest words to Mo, amused to watch himself work to catch up to the conversation the same way The Psychologist always seemed to do. He realized he might have blindsided Mo without intending to.

“We should be running across rooftops together,” Ray clarified.

“Wouldn’t you agree,” began Mo, his face a tad squirrellier than before, “that there are more important things than fantasy?”

But Ray’s attention was caught away now in the joyfully exuberant windstorm of a troupe of not-a-persons down half-below the ground . . . gripped by the near whimsical appreciation each showed simply for the sound of others’ voices. They were slaves turned free like chosen ones, collaborating for the very first time in celebration of their collective release from dark solitude and silence. Amazed . . . privileged . . . Ray was a ready wire, elated by their current passing through.

“I will also ask you about what’s important,” Ray uttered outward toward the sky. “Say you hear a story that tells you something about your life. It touches on what makes you human in a way. And you find yourself better off for having heard it. Now, would you deny someone that same experience . . . that benefit . . . if they were told a different story, but it could have the same effect?”

“Ah,” said Mo thoughtfully, “I think I see where you’re missing it. In truth, the story is the benefit. And there’s no denying that it’s really all the same story in the end, even if we try to approach or frame it any other way. The gospel is at the heart of every story mankind will ever tell. Everything we see and know testifies to that! Ray, that’s all I’m trying to show. I want to open people’s eyes—to let what they see, and believe, and tell themselves about it line up with . . . with what’s really obvious to everyone if they’re honest! I would say showing people that is my art.”

Ray wished to allow the love he felt to pour forth and envelop his heroic companion. Instead, he heard himself respond, “I see a room that’s always filled with life, color, fun, music, and lights, and… And it’s a room I think most will pass through at some point. But the room I see is just, like, a single line to cross. It’s a moment we might grow to meet and then fade away from after. You could take anything in that room, and show it, and call it everyone’s story. But, really, it’s the story of an endless, shifting, living mass. I mean, we can be its tissue for a while. But that’s all.”

The words sounded wrong to Ray as they left his lips, setting him on edge. For he knew the story of the lively room was a far cry from Mo’s art. And Ray desperately wished to find a way to prize Mo’s beloved story—a good story of redemption, which made sense of an experience so widespread and real . . . so beautiful.

…made sense of…

Yanked back over and up to where the two sat alone together, all Ray saw then was the fog. He heard only an onslaught of old questions, each fighting to be screamed first.

Why? Why is anything? Why should everything be whatever it is?

He shuddered, hating the harsh immediacy of what he knew would soon combust to form a string of familiar arguments in his mind.

Sure, ticker-tape angst, and blah, blah, blah.

And it was all so stupid Ray almost laughed. He probably would have if not for Mo.

Could anyone really suspect Ray of thinking he was somehow superior?

But if he could just come to hold and profess their same explanation . . . their same accounting interpretation…

Inward wheels spun poorly to wonder and wander after relevant importances.

And could believing ever be a choice?

But wouldn’t any and all answers be anathema to Ray’s art, even despite his art appearing identical to theirs?

In the mirror opposite void of a burning, incessant need to know, Ray found he would give his life or soul to show Mo and The Pastor what he thought he recognized woven in amongst their reachings—stitched into every fabric of Mo’s rich intricacies and painted across all The Pastor’s touching word-pictures for his flock.

How Ray adored their sacred story.

Then his inner being catapulted down and across, bounding through fog like a child hurtling through waves on the first day of summer. He heard himself speak again, and wished to fill the gaps in what was said with his true feelings: “Okay, what if there was a bigger room, like a wider line that’s really no line at all? What about something more than we could ever see or understand? I guess just everything . . . exactly how it is . . . and every life, y’know? And whatever’s in between? It’s like, the more I see the not-a-p… The more I see of . . . of what could be . . . the less excited I get. I mean, could any of us make it do, or be, or mean anything? But, honestly, I’d lose my peace to give it to you, Publican.”

Ray felt prone to cower back at the sheer sincerity of his words.

Mo said nothing for a moment, then quietly asked, “Why do you call me Publican?”

Ray smiled, feeling an old sadness shape his eyes. He knew nothing for sure. Perhaps the role Mo had chosen (or been chosen for) really had just been captured and shown somehow in Ray’s imperfect, seemingly transcendent, though ultimately droll, approximations.

Ray also saw a world where Mo knelt with a fist to his chest before releasing clenched fingers and wailing in prayer without design or human audience, begging simply for mercy.

When I heard myself in Johnston’s voice, I was filled with seething hatred.

The Psychologist faded from view into surrounding shades of beige like a dot on a page that disappears as you focus on the blank.

“Hi, is this Johnston?” Ray said into the iun on the desk. He smiled, noticing for the first time how steady his voice became when weaving its way toward a pending spiritual conversation.

“Yes,” came the quiet reply through the speakerphone.

“This is Ray Golel. I got your message. Just returning your call.”

“Oh, hi Ray.”

Ray held for a moment before continuing gently: “Did you have a thought or question for me to respond to in one of my recordings?” Somehow this version of his standard strategic call-back line, polished through months and years, still felt incomplete.

For a split second more, the tired office remained a quintessentially boring setting, perfect for a quiet afternoon when even dust in the air stood still.

Then a hidden volcano beneath the surface abruptly erupted. Everything in Ray’s view changed in a lightning flash, and he forgot all about his rigmarole of leading questions and necessary waivers. He was far more concerned with the sudden streaks of shadowy flame he saw seeping in and through from all around, consuming what was left to them of the ever-present fog as fire licks up dry grass.

Ray willed himself not to react as walls, desk, iun, notes, and Psychologist were all engulfed at once in dark, billowy tongues. Black and lit with red, the flames combusted large in chaotic bursts, reeking of a hell far closer than any abysmal, burning lake.

Reality in the room appeared as some distorted photo fed back in a loop through its own effects. Ray fought to shift his focus to Johnston and the call, like steering a speeding car through a raging storm.

“Yes,” said Johnston. “I do have a question.”

“Okay,” Ray was astonished to hear himself utter so plainly, “I’d like to hear it.”

“Well,” began Johnston, his voice as even as a machine, “I started calling churches to speak to the ministers, but it seems that is never possible. So I thought to call you. I heard one of your episodes, and I figured that I would probably be able to get through to you. So I will start with you. Anyway, someone told me about a deal made long ago to make all those ministers into TV stars and millionaire celebrities. I want to know: Is it true? I know that you worked at one of those churches.”

How…?

Distracted, Ray watched in silent horror as the outline of a small not-a-person slithered along low near the floor. As he stared, Ray felt an invisible muzzle being fixed upon his lips. A familiar voice, small and peaceful, whispered from deep within, “Not yet…”

“Mr. Golel?” Johnston pressed.

Ray heard himself say into the iun, “Who told you that?” Ray had never disclosed in any of his recordings that he had worked at The Church. He had certainly told none but The Psychologist of The Pastor’s shift in mindset (or “deal”) to make or keep The Church successful in The City.

It suddenly occurred to Ray that perhaps this conductor of crazy fog-eating flame saw things somewhat as he did. This had the effect of splitting the whole world open like a piñata.

Ray realized then The Psychologist would be aware of only the words said out loud. He envisioned an eager blind man wandering, chipper and blissful, amongst a war.

“It does not matter who told me!” snarled the digital crunch through the speakerphone, “She said that she heard it from an unusually cheerful prisoner who spoke in funny sayings. But I do not care where it came from. I just want to know the truth. Do they all get to be rich? If so, then why? Why them?”

Ray could all but see rows of bared teeth like tiny needles concealed within an infant’s face flushed with indignation.

But he saw something else as well, there, hidden in the reddish black. It was something good . . . a treasure Ray might dart around and bypass even the worst of otherworldly flames to reach. The thing had the look a homing beacon, glowing white . . . even as silence screamed through the iun in tones of empty triumph, and boredom, and disappointment.

Ray felt a stab of compassion for Johnston, the same as one might feel for a vicious animal found caught in a deadly trap. Could this be how The Psychologist always felt? The notion of grasping a slippery wild predator and wrestling it back to…

But it was hopeless from the get go.

Held under . . . pressed deep until unstoppable convulsions, heaving, and dimming of perception could never be reversed . . . all Ray saw approaching was an eternal dusk soon to eclipse every immediate sense of shock and pain. Prophetic onlookers might have described Ray’s state as akin to drowning in dust.

“Just, please, tell me,” insisted Johnston, folding a barely concealed rush of ferocity over and pounding it out to forge a shiny blade, “Is it true? If so, that would be unjust. That would be something that I cannot have. Besides, the one who told me said that she was unsure. That is why I am asking you. That is not the point! AAAAHHHH!”

And with that, all veils of civilized Q&R were torn completely from bottom to top.

No matter.

Ray caught sight of the little, frightened not-a-person again, which had scrambled its way to a corner and now twitched rhythmically as if shivering to a pulse. He reached out toward it, and then heard his own voice say in slow motion into the iun, “Which ministers did you try to call, Johnston?”

The shaky not-a-person was touched by the dark flames and vanished.

Ray felt that same suffocating void overtake him again, emptying his mind and voice of all sound. It was for the best, he knew.

And Johnston was already gone.

Ray and I sat alone in the office, the others now long gone.

I would keep him with me for as long as he would stay.

I hoped not to miss more crucial perspective imparted (if such could be missed).

I half expected either of us to reach across at any moment and unzip the other’s skin from head to toe, revealing that we had in fact been one in the same all along.

I had an idea.

ME:

“Do you still take calls and release your recordings now that you don’t work for the church?”

RAY:

“Yeah, I have to. I mean, that’s what I… Sorry. I do. But I got behind in the last week or so.”

ME:

“Perhaps you could work on it here for a while as I sit and listen?

“I think we’ve adequately covered your background with the church.

“Now I’d like to examine you . . . your perspective . . . in action, so to speak, with the audience you’ve built.

“Do you think that would be okay?”

There was a pause, which must have been hesitation.

My eyes rose to meet Ray’s searching gaze.

But then I flinched and looked away, cursing myself for so unprofessional a display.

I felt like an actor who breaks in a scene and fails to hold in laughter, wasting costly time and film.

Had we switched roles?

My asking to observe Ray work was, in essence, delivering the onus of our session up from the cold back-and-forth scrutiny of my Method, placing it fully at his discretion.

Yet to not do so would be to deny the cumulative findings of my Method.

I was grateful when he spoke again.

RAY:

“Um, sure. Actually, I got kind of a weird message earlier, and… Well, I was going to call him back tonight, but I could do it now.”

ME:

“By all means.

“I’ll stay out of your way and only take notes.

“Pretend I’m not here.”

My tone sounded (to me) alarmingly like that of a relieved, helpless child.

“Um…”

It wasn’t like Mack to hesitate. The simple, rough-and-tumble voice didn’t suit being lost for words.

Mack continued, cautiously, lurching and dragging like a trucker rounding a series of icy bends, “No, I got the files. But I’m kind of busy right now. I can’t commit to . . . to playing gigs or anything. I mean, we could jam, but. But yeah.”

Rev nodded, staring sideways at the black screen of his iun. He felt a slightly dazed grin raise itself as if in defense of his face. He stopped listening as the conversation quietly wound down to nothing.

Responses had grown predictable: “…no time . . . not now . . . different stage of life…”

The pain was in being slowly forced to realize each reason was really a kindness . . . an excuse offered to mask the elephant-in-the-room divide between what Rev had always proclaimed to everyone and what his real life had become.

None of his contacts had even commented on the rough collection of mixes he’d sent. He could no longer write off their silence as a mere aversion to the new, softer sound.

He wouldn’t bother reaching out to Crew or Angel this time.

Sighing and slouching down into faded wood, he peered out across a rugged, windswept sea. What a perfect day to strum the afternoon away, singing out into the salty air like an old dog happy to howl with distant friends.

But there were no friends. There was no guitar, no music, and no songs. Nothing.

So, he sat, listening only to the ocean, not quite wondering what to do. He didn’t feel his right wrist curve lazily outward as he reached absentmindedly to stroke the skin between his upper ear and hairline.

Having hardly eaten in weeks, the sight of his noodle-thin forearm likely would have alarmed him if he could care.

Just as thoughts of Jodie’s drawn-out disgust and sudden departure began again to unlock and trifle with delicate inward storms, he glimpsed a woman, alone, leaning against the white painted rail in the distance. She, too, was staring out to sea. He noticed the classy way her hands were folded, and how neatly the wind whipped her hair from side to side in perfect time.

As the woman turned to face him, Rev felt an odd sense of recognition, like seeing an old home unchanged after decades away. Soft features and doe eyes must have found a way to skip through time . . . circumventing Jodie’s brief blip . . . reaching all the way back to Thalia, the love of Rev’s young life and a best friend lost about as long as Dale (for just as silly reasons).

Then as the ageless woman slowly approached, Rev was surprised to hear himself say, “Hi, what’s your name?” He chalked his strange confidence up to the sense of familiarity, as if borrowing strength from one accord to use now in another.

“Hi,” she said. “I’m Caylee.” Caylee smiled at the gaunt, frail Rev the way a little kid might grin at a pony.

And Rev felt an old smile bridge his crusted features too . . . the sort one might gush with when faced with creatures tiny, cute, and indefensible. “I’m Rev,” he said, his voice goofy and uneven in his ears, quivering with excitement like a puppy panting for treats. He flinched, hoping to shake himself back under control.

“Hi,” she said again.

Another pause, another crest of smile, and off she went. The strangers parted like two tops taken from the same place on the floor where both had spun off and fallen to.

What now? What new tables might Rev have left to be lifted to and set spinning across?

How many Caylees had there been? How many Jodies? Which of the two did he miss more? And come to think of it, had such comparisons not once been fun? With the one, he’d remain ever dumb and carefree—a scattered poet and best friend on cold nights under blankets in special places after rock shows. The other had seemed to see him only ever from without, running ahead while pulling him behind to shiny worlds he knew he should want.

Rev chuckled, not quite hearing an eternity of the lyrics he had been searching for all his life scurry like moonlit critters behind darkened corners of his heart. He paid no heed to what the words said, nor how they sounded, so they stayed.

But there could be no more blankets on cold nights. No secret places. No push to fame. Certainly no rock shows.

He heard in his mind his newfound voice replaying in recent conversations. But he knew the soft sound arose from no more than a replica of the same affected innocence he had always used to win over every precious Caylee . . . all diamonds in their own jagged, happy, simple worlds.

The relentless pretend-ness immediately grew far too viscerally real to the idiot showman fighting to muster and grip that same carefree naiveté by which he had once kept at least a Caylee or two on tap without having to try . . . each claiming him as their forever other, staring back with matching farm-girl smiles in sepia portraits.

And had just such forced stupidity not been exactly what got lost on every Jodie—their love a shining star worth everything to earn the right to fall somewhere within or around (or beneath)?

What could keep any of either type now from all but yawning at what had become of this fast-fading, never-been shell of an almost man?

He laughed. He laughed and laughed. It wasn’t loud, or crazy. It wasn’t happy. The laughter was quiet, and uncomplicated. It had the feel of a final countdown.

Then he stopped.

The voice he heard in the silence that followed sounded high, alien, and female . . . but also trapped and lost in the heart and throat of a feral animal man . . . a perv with a plastic smile, waxing nice to narrow in. He knew whatever he might have almost ever been could never be again. And in the wake of Caylee’s gleaming eyes, he longed to mourn for Thalia. He wished only the best for every Jodie out in their harsh, grown-up worlds. Expressionless and still, he missed them all so much…

Dale, Thalia, Jodie, Mack…

A hollow pit fissured open in his chest. But Rev found no space there to grieve his missing music, nor unsung words, which he knew must hold or hint at joys of lives never lived.

Valentine’s Day.

And then a solar eclipse.

I was taken aback in disbelief.

The room went dim as this universe, again, for whatever reason, was used in that moment to speak to me through Ray in truths entirely encompassing and definitive of my Method, yet beyond anything I might say in these notes to justify.

All has now been said and shown.

All my systems and files . . . all meaningless, yes, yet necessary for…

And that was when I saw their faces, particularly that of the silent astrologer, staring back at me.

It would be funny to think otherworldly iuns had given me the words that followed as perhaps a means of revealing or breaking their not-so-secret hold.

ME:

“Quick, everyone, when’s your birthday?”

The Lie was in the room. It had been there all along, huddled and cowering as if attempting to hide in Ray’s plain sight like some faux tower of animated clown ghosts perched behind whatever in practiced formation.

Ray found it interesting how far The Lie seemed to keep from Mr. Rolman, as if held at opposite ends of the tiny office by an unknown fixed suspending force.

The same could not be said of The Psychologist.

An argument wanted to buzz itself to life, though Ray recognized its pulse as nothing new—just old static tremors longing to be breath words again instead of copies of copies of…

Caught far enough away in echoes like eternal oceans’ breeze, Ray was able not to pay the sketchy whispers much attention.

Mr. Rolman was obviously hiding something. It was as clear as the fears that combined all around to form or unveil a far more archetypal, though outdated, Fear. Ray watched those old fears as they morphed into teams of what looked like forgotten imaginary friends bouncing along in picket circles, hoisting antiquated signs and prompts.

Was it all just to show Mr. Rolman how incapable he was of understanding The Psychologist’s questions? Ray reminded himself the questions had been about speaking with Mrs. Rolman.

In front of The Lie now towered every degree of pent-up grief and loneliness. Ray heard them all breathing in the unmistakably suffocating manner of some bygone Desolation.

But if Mr. Rolman never lied, and never could lie, then what was with all the hiding and confusion?

No, not hiding…

Ray was struck by the jarring sight of a horde of icy roots . . . a mass that seemed to have formed in a blur and stretched down below all surfaces, reaching beyond even the most ancient of hidden tracts.

Ray then felt a strangely pleasant buzzing touch his lips. Peering down, he saw the tip of a mysterious not-a-person’s outstretched limb. The not-a-person hovered in almost transparent light and color just below his nose. Ray heard his own voice begin to speak, and marveled at the words: “I think I know why people get married. It’s like energy always wants to move . . . to transfer between different things. Again, ‘one pushes, and the other pulls,’ y’know? But it makes you kind of tired when it happens. I don’t think it’s a lie. I think it’s good, and maybe way simpler than it seems . . . like, if we could just step back enough to see it.”

Mr. Rolman still seemed lost, though Ray now knew better. Glancing again at the icy roots, Ray glimpsed where they were really tethers, and saw how no one else would ever spot the way their fusion was set to one day render even those almost comical, old-timey versions of Fear and Desolation completely obsolete once and for all.

The Psychologist looked shaky and stern, with creases in his jawline revealing pressures of gritted teeth.

Ray sat in peaceful silence, waiting for the answer he saw coming.

“I guess,” began Mr. Rolman, “my wife and I are kind of like two grown children playing in a playground. We mostly play nice, but sometimes we don’t get along.”

Ray continued to eye The Psychologist, seeing well-meaning words about to be swept into formation that, once uttered, would surely rob the conversation of its thrust. Smiling, Ray quickly blurted, “Animals have it best.”

This seemed to shake The Psychologist just enough, who managed only a sharp, “What are you saying?”

“Maybe treat a relationship like caring for an animal…?” Ray ventured. “I mean, cats just lick each other, and don’t get mad for silly reasons.”

“Yes, but animals also kill each other,” grumbled The Psychologist.

There…!

Ray caught sight of another not-a-person, though this one’s form seemed large enough to host a connected ring of individuals. Radiating with a shimmering golden hue, Ray soon recognized it as the first he had seen that night by The Church . . . the not-a-person he had really always wished to reach, even from long, long before. And Ray was floored by the basic un-profundity of what was his most familiar calling, hearing its beckoning voice now from so very close.

Maybe he had no choice.

“I know,” Ray powered on, hoping, “animals kill each other. But I guess that goes back to the . . . the whole thing about The City and New Cannibalism.”

The hiding Lie seemed to shrink into itself and shake like a spotlit roach caught in a jar slammed down around it.

Ray let his words continue to be said: “I think we . . . people . . . could be best at seeing we don’t need to hurt each other. And that probably makes no sense, the way I’m saying it. There’s so much more, but…”

The blank, cold stare emanating from The Psychologist’s grim and narrow face seemed to scream in silent protest of precious moments and momentum lost.

Yet Ray’s attention was drawn back to Mr. Rolman about to speak.

“I think,” Mr. Rolman began, “maybe I see what he’s saying. I used to always get mad at my wife for being on her iun all the time. But then our son got older. And we got older too. Finally, I just went on my own iun, and it was easy to find her on there. I started seeing all the things she was doing and showing people. I saw how much they loved her. Now we three all just want to be proud of each other. We help each other and encourage each other to do good and enjoy everything as much as we can. We cheer each other on.”

Ray watched quizzically as his golden not-a-person friend approached The Psychologist like a ready ninja prepared to execute the planned secret scaling of a massive fortress high-rise. But fog in the room seemed to bind the large, bright, hovering being . . . at least in part . . . keeping it from all points of mental entry.

The Psychologist then gushed forth like a tapped well, spouting, “But even if it is all just kids playing, and animals licking each other . . . even if it is energy transferring, or whatever . . . wouldn’t you, as a man, say your energy is different—that you want different things? You probably want respect, where your wife wants understanding, and your son wants attention, and…”

From race, to religion, to gender, to…

But Ray was swept safely away from the torrent to rest now far beyond, drawn only to that favored one so close to the threshold brink of The Psychologist’s busy mind. He felt a second electric touch from the other not-a-person still beside him. He heard his own voice again, declaring, “The City says what normal is. But why? It gives its people roles to fill to keep itself alive. But without The City, we’re all just people, right? No one’s normal. I mean, every single person is a mix of so many things, all at once. We want weird things . . . things others hate . . . and we might never really know why. Some give up when The City chops them down and holds them to places they can’t fit. Some never give up, and these could be made rulers, or murderers. And there are all kinds of others . . . way, way too many to know. We can’t even…”

As soon as a tiny spec of spectral light appeared to dawn in The Psychologist’s small and tired eyes, the massive golden not-a-person swept and soared above. Ray watched in wonder as surrounding fog began to be colored in with light.

After a long pause, The Psychologist whispered, “So you’re saying that trying to differentiate according to societal norms is . . . unhelpful?”

And Ray saw or heard just where to go next, as clear and obvious as anything. He nodded to himself. Fully aware of the weight his next words would carry, he stated in one slow breath, “There are no normal ways to be. Thinking there are only serves The City as it’s been. New Cannibalism puts everyone on levels. It labels them by their use. That’s what New Cannibalism is . . . or what it was. But it’s all just an interpretation.”

Ray let that last keyword sit and sink in for a moment.

He then continued: “New Cannibalism makes it easy to forget how people are really all sorts of different things. And yeah, in The City, my words might be the rantings of a hopeless smudge rotting away on a corner somewhere . . . someone everyone can ignore. I mean, things are so busy, y’know? And smudges always get cleaned away by smudge-cleaners soon enough. But what I have to say to you, now, is this: Your work is a mission to find and show something ordinary . . . something closed away, and hidden. And you have to know . . . you have to know no one’s reaction to it even matters. It’s only what is . . . and it can’t be held in any single ‘why.’”

There is perhaps nothing so humbling as the notion of being run through sequences of prepackaged lessons imparted by machines hidden away in unknowable realities.

As I listened, I was not sure which continuum I would have preferred.

The unmistakable workings of my Method had me bound to my ludicrous Sticking Point.

If distant iuns really were directing the dialogue in the room, could it all just be to hammer home to me how spitefully any intended interferences on my part would be spurned?

Was I never actually meant to add anything into my Method’s function?

Could that be the whole point—the ultimate lesson these notes have been brought about (from wherever) to show?

Or was I supposed to keep fighting back?

The insanity of fixating upon inferred grandiosities at the base of seemingly directed streams of obvious irrationalities could not be lost on me.

Yet regardless of why, I sensed myself reaching two conclusions at once.

First, it seemed unfair.

Knowing my mind and Method, I felt the urge to rise up indignantly against any and every controlling being or program—to stand until the end for this person and purpose I have grown to at least tolerate embodying.

I would wish even now to plead with unknown powers for the chance to try.

Perhaps that is exactly what I am doing.

Second, I did not fail to notice that I was attempting to interpret a conversation about whether such interpretations could be relevant—interpretations given in terms of astrology, Ray’s visions, etc.

Held fast between desperate to know and wondering if I should care, I heard Ray somewhere deep in my mind saying something from before about faith always shining its light.

I slowly eyed Ray, the astrologer, Rolman…

How absurd to think I could be counseling pieces of myself.

ME (to Rolman):

“How about what Ray here just said: that there are no bad relationships, and all relationships can serve a purpose?”

ROLMAN:

“I think it’s true. I know my wife can’t really say how she’s feeling. And I used to get mad at her for that, when I’d ask and ask, and she wouldn’t tell me. But then, just in all our years together, I started seeing her different. Now it’s like she’s this little robot buzzing around. She’s broken, yeah, but I don’t yell at her anymore. She’s not really cold to me, not the way I thought. She’s just different from me.”

ME (to Ray):

“And what do you think, Ray?”

RAY (to Rolman):

“Well, it’s like I saw some soup in a pot, y’know? But it’s all rocks. And you wanted to boil the water to see where the rocks could get soft. Maybe now you found a happy temperature…?”

I remembered something a Normal male (perhaps Rolman) had once told me about he and his wife having been divided into groups.

ME (to Rolman):

“How about cultural differences?”

ROLMAN:

“No, her whole family’s great. She’s very traditional. She takes care of me, and lets me do what I want, mostly. But she does get jealous! I kind of like that about her. She doesn’t mess around.”

I recounted to the group (and Rolman, specifically) about a hellish session years ago in which the Sticking or Breaking Point of a male client of the same race as Mrs. Rolman had rested upon me finding a way to convey that he was being disingenuous.

I shared that such an accusation had felt like the worst insult one could bring against someone of that race.

Ray said his former co-workers, Vin and Carmen, might have been of the same race as well (he was not sure).

Rolman said nothing.

I glanced from face to face, oddly certain whoever was meant to speak at that moment was missing, and that we would not be able to continue without that absent individual.

Did I see Bing?

How can I even ask that?

Then as I peered down at the edge of Rolman’s file on my desk, further celestial (possibly unimportant) worlds of correlation and design must have cascaded in imperceptible displays of rapturous celebration, for I happened to glimpse in my dense, handwritten scrawl the exact portion of notes outlining the nature of Rolman’s felt division from his wife.

And seeing immediately that I had misremembered his words and wrongly assumed the breach to have been along cultural lines, my only available concession was to simply read Rolman’s own words back to him.

ME (to Rolman):

“I have a quote here from another time we met when you talked about feeling distant from your wife.

“You said: ‘I hope she and I don’t get divided by our beliefs because it feels like everyone in the world wants to divide and just keep dividing.’”

ROLMAN:

“She might be more religious than me. At least I thought so before. But her religion reminds me of a little girl in a bedroom or something, lighting candles, saying words and prayers. I think it touches a special place in her heart.”

Having never been married nor involved in any long-term, personal relationships of any form, I tend to only treat individuals within couples.

I do at times instruct or allow clients to bring in their partners.

Though the relationship is then at the complete mercy of my Method.

Hidden truths are inevitably uncovered to either salvage or disintegrate the bond.

In truth, I am amazed by the rampant dishonesty I see prevalent in all such unions.

So much of what is said gets shown to be entirely tactical, and ultimately selfish, which leads me to question the validity of matrimony, monogamy, etc.

ME (to Rolman):

“How is your communication with your wife?

“Do the differences ever make you feel like you have to lie to keep peace in your home?”

The Astrologer sat quietly listening.

The waify man in brown seemed determined to stay on magic, clouding portions of the dry and ossified room with hints of an airy presence. It was easy to sense, though subtle and odd, like pockets held deep and detached for lifetimes from connecting with all common, passing winds. Words heard were an upward tug of bubbles . . . up . . . up through something else still and turbid.

Oh, but for some dates to see behind it all!

Yet the Astrologer willed himself to put his most familiar urge on hold as something in the tender man’s unusual speech caught and arrested his attention in a hands-on-cheeks gasp sort of way.

The Astrologer decided to speak, saying to no-one in particular, “I think with magic, things like what it means or why . . . that really doesn’t matter. Not nearly as much as we’d want it to.”

The rigid Psychologist turned to glare with the cardinal force of a freshly sprung snare, appearing as he had at first—a modish, grumpy goat, content in his outwardly drab world of practicalities and perpetual lists with partial cross-off lines. “What do you mean?” came the tinny, nasal-bark reply in what seemed a tone one might reserve for cross-examining a less-than-competent witness.

“Well,” began the Astrologer, “since I’m here, I’ll just share that, yes, I’ve always felt a little weird, deep down, for the way I see the world. The idea that our lives could be guided somehow by movements of planets or angles and gravity . . . cosmic positionings at moments of birth . . . it’s all a rather flaky way to make decisions and sort people, yeah? Birth charts are a fairly arbitrary filter through which to see the world…? But even though it should make no sense, I could honestly show you all in detail what each specific part means. I could show you . . . for you . . . how every alignment connects to a real piece of who you are today! But why? Why, why, why? I have no idea!”

Another asked, “But couldn’t there be some other reason? Couldn’t the way it matches personality and everything be true without the symbols and all that?”

The frail man in brown sat staring straight ahead, a resolute gleam in his quiet eyes portraying to the Astrologer something of hidden perplexities best etched in layers of byzantine glass.

The Psychologist mumbled, “I’d like to return to, um—”

But the thin man in brown softly interrupted with: “I think we still are… I mean, I think this might be helpful.”

The Astrologer nodded, piping back with, “Since we started with talking about relationships, yes, I think it will be helpful. Each of us are born into different elements and modes, connected to different traits. And these react with others’ traits in interesting ways. Some combinations are good and smooth, where others feel less natural, and…”

A thought occurred, which the Astrologer chalked up to the mix of quirkiness and comical seriousness inherent within his own stellar stew.

There I go again, of course . . . talking and talking about all this stuff. It’s all going to happen, anyway. So just shut up for a minute!

The small man in brown began to quiver like an unthreatening bomb before exploding forth with words as uncontainable as the contents of a slashed balloon: “I don’t know anything about astrology. But I’d guess there really are no bad relationships between people with different . . . like, signs or whatever. Even opposites . . . wherever it seems rougher. I’ve found, just through work and people I know, when someone rubs me the wrong way, it’s really only, like, how we might balance each other out. One pushes, and the other pulls. But I think it’s always good in the end. It’s like . . . personality gravity.”

I had done all I could to ready myself for the longest, most trying day imaginable.

In truth, none of my estimations about the taxing nature of the coming hours could have prepared me for what actually lay ahead.

Immediately upon having canceled my other appointments, I was hit with heavy regret.

Pondering the loss of my day’s regular Normals, I paced the short length of my office as if willing myself to walk some nearby plank.

I half expected no one invited to even show up.

Already beyond flustered, it suddenly occurred to me that I had no experience whatsoever approaching or managing multiple clients at once.

Had I really failed to consider how my Method might fare in the face of such added mechanics as group dynamics/politics?

And in those squeamish moments beyond too late, I had something of a frightful vision: this mob of hellish, bird-like clients all surrounding me to fight and peck as if competing for the same woeful worm.

Impossible to wrangle or make sense of in the least, their vicious squawking distorted in my mind to an undecipherable, mechanical screech.

Everyone arrived early; I had no time to practice Faum’s or peruse my notes at all—no further opportunity for mapping out some course to approach the daunting debacle I had unwittingly committed to.

Rolman spoke first, before I could, injecting his own brand of impassible confusion like a human spanner thrown deliberately just to mangle up my cogs.

Grinning like a crocodile, he uttered something slow and enthusiastic about “the pain being gone.”

I asked how it had happened (having no idea what pain he was referring to).

His response was as cryptic and unhelpful as ever.

ROLMAN:

“I’m just glad to be out roving around again, chasing after my boy at the park.”

I recalled at least one male Normal having equated himself to a family dog.

Had that been Rolman?

Seeing myself failing already to make such basic connections, the stiff air in the room began to feel overwhelmingly muggy and hot.

My skin seemed about to peel off under the weight of so many sets of eyes, all fixed on me.

My awareness was locked to the immense monetary waste of each idle moment passing by in painful stillness and silence.

So many clients, all watching and waiting for me to fix them as I was being paid to.

I had to press in and at least try to deliver on my implied promise.

Then shifting my gaze from one to the next, Rolman, Ray, and all the rest appeared for a split second to morph into the most bizarre clutter of robots with control switches, all spazzing about together on the floor.

I blinked, and everyone was back in their chairs, staring at me again.

Or, had I been the glitching robot?

Terrified, I resolved to just start over.

I had to find the right questions by which to properly employ my Method, that was all.

How many clients were there in the room?

Why was I unable even to count?

All but Rolman were Outliers, no?

Yet my overarching impression was of having stumbled upon someone else’s game—that ever since my realization about how this all might not be real, whoever could be using me for whatever unknown ends has simply leapt forward several steps to keep me contained and in the dark.

In short, I felt completely broken.

My only hope was my belief that my Method should prove impervious to even shifts in whichever realities it gets used.

I had to find a way to identify the blurred individuals in the room.

Were two (or more) Normals like family dogs?

ME (to Rolman):

“Tell me about your son.”

The dimwitted smile widened a hair.

ROLMAN:

“He’s a funny little guy. He started punching me the other day. And I got mad. We were both just sitting there in the living room. He was playing a game on the iun. When I got mad, though, I remembered what you said. And I didn’t want to just yell or make him feel bad. So I waited until I wasn’t mad anymore. Then we talked about why we shouldn’t yell or hit other people.”

I had no memory of discussing anger with Rolman.

ME:

“Would you say that both you and your son act immaturely at times?

“Maybe this time you realized you were headed that way again but changed course before you let yourself do something you knew you’d regret.

“I think that’s great.”

I was mostly happy with my initial attempt at re-establishing control.

Yet an unmistakable note of condescension had begun to creep its way into my voice, surely due to having heard my words and tone shift to mirror the likes of Rolman in both sincerity (for me, insincere) and lack of irony (for me, most ironic).

I made the impossible mental note to come across as less intentional.

I was glad when Rolman spoke again, freeing my focus from its inward paradoxes.

ROLMAN:

“It’s like we both act younger than we are sometimes, yeah.”

ME:

“What game was your son playing on the iun?”

ROLMAN:

“Oh, we both were. It’s this free game where you have to save 2,000 coins to get a helicopter. It took us about two days. Or, we could have paid for the coins with real money.”

ME:

“How much would that have cost?”

ROLMAN:

“99 cents for 10,000 coins.”

Ray chose that moment to chime in, out of turn, infuriating me—his interruption serving as a timed trap sprung to throw me from my hopeful progress.

RAY (to Rolman):

“Would that teach your kid the value of a dollar?”

Willing myself to confront Ray’s derailment like a sheepdog nipping at straying edges of its flock, I set about working to salvage my therapeutic vision for Rolman.

Ray and the rest would have to wait.

ME (to Rolman):

“Tell me more about you and your son.”

ROLMAN:

“Oh! Well, get this. Now I know I’ve seen real magic at least two times. When I was a kid, I think about five, this girl told us guys she could do real magic. We didn’t believe her. We started teasing. But she made this little plastic soldier arm appear all by itself in her hand, from nowhere! I saw it! I still remember exactly what it looked like.

“Then one day at the park, my son was telling me everything about this robot he wanted to make. And right then, I saw a tiny robot piece on the ground. It looked just like how he was saying!”

Rolman’s answer was entirely vacuous and surely detrimental to the lines of reasoning I was fighting to construct (as if from nothing).

I blamed Ray.

Caught speechless in another wave of the horrible silence and watching, I frantically considered how I might best keep my mounting inner turmoil hidden from the group.

Ray spoke up again as if to highlight my lack of control.

RAY (to me):

“You never saw anything magic? I’m sure I did. Just the way we saw things.”

I felt myself begin to cringe, but then watched, already relieved, as I fell reflexively to the first deeper breaths of my Faum’s sequence.

ME:

“But it wasn’t really magic, right? Whatever you saw?”

RAY:

“Yes. I mean, it’s all happening, y’know? All of this . . . all of it . . . together.”

Silently angling my way through Faum’s, I was met by more waves of the calm aloofness I had grown accustomed to reaching and maintaining—much akin to a welcome visit from a trusted colleague or old friend.

There was a definite sense of release from my compulsive need to maximize the increased value of session time spent with multiple clients.

I even found myself able to almost bypass my indignation at our careless lapse into magic.

For no obvious reason, I began to consider again the matter of the similar, chaotic dreams that Ray, Bing, and I had seemed to share.

Now, let me clarify something I believe perfectly illustrates my strange and evolving inability to differentiate clients: I know Bing was not there today—I am 100 percent certain of this fact; and though for some reason I cannot bring to mind whether or not Bing had even been invited, I know for sure I did not see his somehow oafishly lanky form pass through my door at any point before, during, or after our big session.

Yet I also clearly remember Bing being present as Ray harped on about magic.

Perhaps it was just Rolman, since Bing can come across as such a Normal at times.

But why would I have not invited Bing?

I had definitely wanted Bing there.

Anyway, the notion of the connected dreams gave me an idea I hoped would at least keep the conversation from continuing to spiral.

ME:

“Well, okay, you could say everything seems magical.

“But how would you respond if I were to ask, ‘Can I still dream the same way if I know exactly why I’m dreaming?’

“What if you could understand the reasons behind it all—behind everything that happens?”

The questions were intended to prove just unexpected and rhetorical enough to quiet Ray for a moment so I could further regroup.

Yet he answered almost before I had finished asking.

RAY:

“But you still don’t know why.”

ME:

“Perhaps you don’t understand.

“What if we could explain exactly what happens, both chemically and psychologically, to cause my specific dreams?”

RAY:

“Yeah, then we’d know just what happens when you dream. But the why for everything is always magic.”

ME:

“I see no reason for magic in . . . the why.”

RAY:

“Magic doesn’t explain things. But it does explain everything. And it explains nothing.”

ME:

“It’s not magic.”

RAY:

“What’s not?”

The Rolmans’ wider families were devastated by the news at first. Eventually, all would come to accept for different reasons it might be okay.

No one would know until much later on that neither would ever be in want. And certainly none would wonder if perhaps the two could be happier than most sharing the reality of a condition that may or may not have yet to show any symptoms.

The old box TV cast its dim light with flickers and bursts of glitchy glare across the impassive wall of Johnston’s face. He sat still in the mostly dark room, as always, watching.

All were average-looking men, their faces somehow similar regardless of age or race. All were dressed in tones that matched their particular surroundings. Varying degrees of digital color blended with stage-specific fineries to create for each a complimentary backdrop.

The productions were seamless and cookie-cutter, one after another. Commercials for special offers and events were woven in on cue, causing blocks of contact-detail text to overtake the fuzzy screen. This usually signaled a few final moments of more intimate one-on-one time with each man before flashing last-call graphics alerted Johnston of his need to get in touch or contribute right away.

All used such eloquent words, though some came across as quintessentially simple and down-to-earth. Most had the winking, arm-around-the-shoulder demeanors of kindly uncles or next-door grandfathers, offering sage advice peppered with pleasant nods and delightful smiles.

Yet for all the jolliness and charm used to frame their timed bursts of staunch hooting and complimentary posturing, Johnston could not bring himself to ignore the fact that these hyper-personable figures were always much farther away than his TV could make them. Always.

Each had his own style . . . his unique way of working the stage to deliver what seemed to be rhythmic sets of mesmerizing religious beatnik poetry. Audiences were duly roused as valleys of felt needs were hastily dug and met in the air with cascading resolutions of wonder and responsibility.

Johnston remained as still as a dead tree on his brown carpet floor. He listened as the current man, Pastor Ron, recounted God’s many promises of provision for the generous. Words like “sacrifice,” and “sacrificial offering,” and “giving,” and “kingdom,” and “God’s house,” provided an emphatic pace for the debonair, overweight man’s practiced flow. Scriptures were quoted and elaborated upon with joyful stories of miracles and…

But Johnston had stopped hearing. A certain repeated word seemed to prick at his mind like a noticeable tick having burrowed through layers of tissue to nest. He repeated the word to himself like a kindergartener learning something new.

“…undeserved . . . undeserved…”

Skirting the usual resource ad, the sermon reformed itself into its version of an ending close-up closer. Now in a green Hawaiian shirt, the pastor pleaded with Johnston directly without so much as taking a breath, sympathizing with struggles and encouraging partnership in rapid-fire succession.

Then Pastor Ron was gone.

Next came a black preacher in a sparkly silver suit. This one started slow, reading longer passages and hovering to dart about specific lines while dabbing at his brow in a sequence tighter than Morse code. Then removing thin-rimmed spectacles, the man ramped up to a full-scale holler. It was like watching an experienced runner ease in to pace a long-distance race.

Johnston heard himself repeating more phrases: “Head and not the tail”; “life, and that more abundantly”; “all things richly to enjoy”; “unmerited favor…”

That last line stuck and niggled again, maybe worse than the other.

“…unmerited favor . . . unmerited . . . favor…”

Of course, Johnston could not feel his lips curl to a smile just slightly too wide. How could he have seen his own eyes go a mere degree unfocused? He might not have even felt the impact as his elbow was flung around like a sack of wheat or sand to connect, hard, with the thick glass screen in a dull, bitterly anticlimactic thud.

He half stood with eyes still glued, not hearing but watching the next pimp-dressed holy man take and pace his golden stage.

If his toes could only be lowered slowly into boiling… That happy, whooping crowd, all speckled with their leader’s blood. And they would just keep smiling, keep laughing as their bodies were torn to…

Johnston realized he was getting angry. He knew being angry was not good. It had never proven helpful.

Yet after hours, days, or even weeks of like programming, he had cut against something of an unavoidable incongruity . . . something he found he could neither stomach, make sense of, nor move past. Nothing, it seemed, would ever steal those church folks’ stubborn gall. Nothing could damper their resolve to parade what they were proud to admit they had not earned.

How…?

Yet he knew without knowing why neither the garish speakers nor their doll-faced masses could ever be stopped from celebrating some secret knowledge that he, Johnston, must simply not be privy to. Did their faces not betray applications taking place on levels beyond which he had the time or grit left to comprehend?

It would be too late and pointless now to…

“You are highly favored of the Lord! Amen?”

No, no amen.

Each had looked him in the eye and all but guaranteed the same “undeserved provision,” the same “unmerited favor,” that those cavalcades of sharp-dressed shepherds had been blessed enough to garner via their flocks, and all by God’s grace.

Why do you get to…? But obviously not everyone who watches you would be able to…

And just like his smile no one could see, which was also only imperceptibly off, Johnston’s thought pattered out and down in doomed glory, slinking away to die somewhere between his shag and bedrock hell. It was the logic of a mind left to conclude that there really never had been any others. So why go on taping fabricated report cards to one’s own solipsistic fridge?

Johnston lowered himself to wait in a deep squatting pose that could suggest only readiness. There was nothing else to do. Certainly nothing left to think or say.

Put upon and dismissed. Discredited and never quite enough. Too ugly and too dumb. Too far gone to try. Too far away and still moving. Too old and too…

Johnston’s answer, unfortunately, would never be “unmerited favor” or “undeserved provision.” His answer, rather, was his ready stare and consciousness, just as it had always been. For this was every disorder, and every chaos, known and unknown. His requirement was obvious: the cleanliness and precision of steel, bleach, lime, chlorine… The eradication of all stains. Nothing unclean could remain.

Oh yes, their smiles would carry on, he knew, but somewhere else. It would be somewhere promised, and good . . . somewhere such smiles belonged. And it would be just as they had all been told and worked to believe all along. And really no farther away, right?

Scrub and rinse. Scrub and rinse. Scrub, scrub, scrub…

And Johnston, too, could be made to be so pure and glistening white. Clean and happy. Smiling wide. And dressed to kill before thousands somewhere always away in a box.

I want to meet with all my remaining Outliers.

I want Bing and the Rolmans there too.

It will be one big, free session that will last as long as it needs to.

My conclusion: Even if this world is pretend, it changes nothing.

It might as well be true that I should continue to think, write, and do everything just as I normally would.

If this world is a purposeful construct, then I see no reason not to assume nothing intended can be changed (even if it can).

Whether or not any of this will ultimately matter remains unknown.

I admit there is a strange comfort in arriving at such murky yet resolute conclusions.

I feel a new sense of peace, even as I face all the same mounting dilemmas and confusions.

I have had some time to consider the implications of what I will tentatively refer to as my Sticking Point.

As yet, I remain entirely unsure.

My hope is for some other obvious explanation to present itself.

Whatever I actually am, I still seem to be experiencing this world through my same perspective.

Yes, this could be an iun world, or something else.

It could be a function created for the treatment of some patient in another reality.

It could be any number of things, purposeful or otherwise.

Yet regardless of whether or not the experience I seem to be having is ultimately real, I do currently exist within it as its apparent perceiver.

So I cannot yet see or imagine any reason not to be me while here.

What I wonder now is what comes next, beyond my Sticking Point.

Do I have more to learn from Ray?

Am I supposed to become like him?

Or Bing?

Or all of them?

I sound so silly, of course, especially to myself.

Yet how else would I think?

How else would my mind respond to all that I have seen and conceived?

Everything I am writing here is only exactly what I would wonder.

If I am to continue to rely on my Method—and the cause for this world seems irrelevant in making that determination—then I must conclude that whatever else is meant to be accomplished or revealed will occur and be made known in its proper time.

I see no reason to doubt that my Method will continue to work as it always has (as far as I can tell).

I am still left with the same stack of old papers meant to represent Normal clients, none of which I can differentiate.

Memories of cases all bleed together; faces and lives are a human smudge.

No matter what or why, my time here to work is still running out.

My aim to properly assert myself into the gradual, natural workings of my Method seems as valid as ever.

That process of assertion will remain the focus of these notes, at least for now.

I cannot say at all that I am sure why any of this is happening.

Yet for all immediate intents and purposes, the “why” seems not to matter.

I do have an unshakeable sense that there is still something else missing from this whole impossible equation—something I am sure I should have considered already.

Maybe the answer will come in the form of a person—some new client I have yet to meet.

I will either know or not.

I was in a factory, using tweezers to assemble tiny pieces from piles of parts all around.

Working with armatures, o-rings, and shiny, brand-new springs, I somehow knew I was constructing components of what would become enormous machines.

Then there was a giant iun, sleek and black.

I must have left the factory already, though my new surroundings seemed unremarkable, almost blank.

I only remember how clean and perfect the iun looked; it even smelled new, like freshly pressed plastic and oily steel.

The iun hovered across from me, just above a basic folding chair.

I found it funny how its chair and mine were exactly the same.

We were two dots at opposite ends of a circle with no clear perimeter.

I believe we were all there was.

It was as if we were talking, and I was its therapist.

And as I awoke, I heard the sound of Ray’s voice, though I could not make out the words.

I mentioned my recurring dreams of what seem to be whispered family secrets.

Yet this was different.

I had the strangest impression Ray’s words were important, and their meaning would suddenly become clear if I could just recall the right piece of something said already in session.

After laboring over coffee, and checking to find I had no messages, I spent the first half of my morning in bed, reading through all my notes on Ray.

I did not come across anything particularly revelatory as I read, though time spent committing my Method’s findings more to memory is never wasted.

I made it to the office just before my late-morning appointment with Bing was set to start.

Bing was actually waiting for me when I arrived.

By the mere glimpse I caught of him on camera out in the waiting room, I knew immediately something significant had changed.

He stood so tall and straight.

His face seemed to radiate with unprecedented positivity and enthusiasm.

It occurred to me that something must have gone very right with Bing’s therapy.

As I watched him duck the frame of my door to enter, he sported a smile so large I feared its weight might wrench the earth off its axis.

I saw an obvious, quiet determination there in place of whatever had once caused the big man to want to shrink from view in all circumstances.

Actually, he was funnier than I remember him being—not manic, flighty, or zany, but calmly cheerful in a catchy, contagious sort of way.

In truth, I am not at all sure how many times Bing and I have met, though it cannot have been more than a few.

Regardless, I believe our remaining sessions will serve as punctuated stints of encouragement.

The transformative work is complete.

I might be able to help him stay as hungry and efficient as he now seems; I hope so.

Yet I am sure you see my obvious dilemma: Bing’s therapy worked—my Method must have proven successful yet again; though this time I have no idea how.

A breakthrough unaccounted for is no breakthrough at all, either in the scientific sense or the sense of giving me something good to sell.

Bing is an Outlier in so many ways, yet I cannot tell him apart from Rolma—

I mean, I cannot tell him apart from my Normals.

Sorry.

Really, it makes no sense for Bing to be an Outlier lest his very nature invalidate the decades of comparative data I have amassed via the use of my Method thus far.

And now he has reached his Sticking Point as if on his own…?

Impossible, right?

What am I missing?

Bing wants to be a comedian.

I do not believe I have ever had a comedian client before.

Could comedians be Outliers that mirror Normals to make their humor more universally relatable?

If so, then Bing must be a truly great comedian.

I can at least be fairly certain about the direction of the discrepancy—that he is an Outlier mirroring a Normal, and not the other way around.

A Normal would have no compelling reason to pretend to be an Outlier.

Well, perhaps if a Normal were raised by only Outliers…?

Yet a fake Outlier-Normal should be far easier to locate on my spectrum than a Normal-seeming Outlier like Bing.

Bing only further confuses things.

Yet what is it about him, specifically?

How might I have helped him?

How might he still be lying to himself?

I honestly cannot see it, yet the answer must be there.

Why?

I am reminded of how sure I was this morning that Ray’s indecipherable words would make sense if just fit to the right context.

I feel distracted by such rabbit holes of shady comparison.

I also feel I must admit to myself how truly exhausted I am, running on no-to-little sleep.

Even as I now attempt to work, my mind is dulled and cluttered by still-frame images of giant iuns floating above cheap plastic chairs.

I see a speckled collage of massive-edged cups that cannot help but spill.

In general, I know I have been allowing for far more introspection in these notes after recent sessions with Ray.

I have to accept that I can never keep my Method from working however and wherever (upon whomever) it works.

For lack of a better way to say this: My Method seems to be choosing me as its subject more.

The cup and iun dreams should be obvious—they stem from my lack of situational self-efficacy in being unable to tell my Normals (and Bing) apart, unable to hold clients, unable to fight the free therapy from iuns I am threatened by, etc.

Such felt inabilities manifest in unconscious visions of chaos and randomness.

Yet even as I write, I am allured away by the same quiet, distant sound of Ray’s voice.

Bing mentioned a dream in which he failed to keep himself from floating up and off the stage while performing.

What could that have to do with Ray?

Though this installment is fast becoming a note-to-self-style journal entry, I am again mysteriously compelled to believe some deeper connection would appear if I could only happen upon the right recorded words from Ray in session.

Yet as I said, I read through all of Ray’s words again this morning.

How fitting for my tired mind to choose Ray as its means of sending me on a deluded quest for some mystical connection that all reason and experience tell me cannot exist.

I am reminded of how certain conceptual realities buried deep beneath the particulars of Ray’s flaky visions are always anchored to what those visions represent.

What I am writing now appears ludicrous to me, even as I watch it tumble to the page like rain.

Yet I cannot shake the notion that my unconscious mind is attempting to communicate something using the voice of someone who has delivered truth to me the same way before—via indirect representation.

That would mean there is indeed something worthwhile for me to find or remember in whatever hearing Ray’s voice represents.

I wish my mind would just tell me whatever it is it wants me to know.

But do I?

Not long ago, I would have said Ray’s specific Outlier type annoys me more than any other—one who acts as if he sees underlying reasons for real things without ever having put in the necessary work to gain such insight.

Now it seems frightfully obvious that I am no different.

Considering how I first discovered and have since developed my Method, I wonder: Why was I always in such a hurry?

It was because I saw my Method’s value; or I thought I saw its potential, so I had to go out and use it—I had to see it work.

I could not stay, and wait, and be told by so many that…

What is my Method, really?

I have seen, time and time again, especially in our more recent sessions, how the core of Ray’s perspective often holds true regardless of his methodology—regardless of the surface-level details of his thinking.

Valid connections emerge free and crystal-clear from beneath the jumbled liquid flow of his baseless reasoning.

How?

And could these ponderings right now really all just be distractions?

Should I not instead be attempting to figure out how many times I have met with Bing?

Bing’s dream, it…

But wait, I read it this morning…

Ray mentioned a recurring dream in which he is easily overtaken by demons.

Bing dreamed of being pulled from his stage like a balloon with no control.

I dream of being unable to keep coffee from spilling everywhere out of unlikely cups.

All of our dreams are the same in a way.

How completely absurd.

How unlikely could something like that be—that the dreams shared with me by the two clients I am considering at this very moment so perfectly match my own in obvious meaning?

And why am I compelled, now more than ever, to go back and re-read all of Ray’s words yet once more?

I swear I hear his same soft, faraway voice.

If I could just find a way to lean in a little closer.

Where?

Where is it coming from?

Why are the words about as unrecognizable as most of my remaining clients?

I want to write, “Who am I?” but again my focus seems to be thrown back to Ray.

Always Ray.

Only Ray.

How can Ray speak as if directly into the circumstances of my business, my Method, my struggles and fears…?

Is that not my job—the hard-earned results of having faithfully honed and used my Method now for—?

Alright, then what does Ray say?

The fog.

What is the fog, really?

What does the fog represent?

He has compared the fog to a lie that comes from being afraid—from being unable or unwilling to see the whole picture, as it were, yet still seeing some.

Seeing whatever I can to…

What about the church and pastor?

Ray called the pastor an artist who paints real human life into his words; yet all the slaves and rulers who hear those words can see only so much through the fog.

I was convinced the lie was really Ray’s—his own self-deception and unwillingness to see.

What could that lie represent for me?

What am I unwilling to…?

I can hear the words now if I am honest.

But…

If I am honest…

No.

It could not possibly be true.

Yet the fact that I am writing all this here…

How could I ever seek to divorce any portion of these notes from the rest?

To omit or fabricate my rich future contributions to the literature would mean…

Though I am now exclusively speaking of and to myself, my Method is still in full operation.

Nothing has changed, I cannot deny that.

I feel ridiculous for what I am about to write, yet a vast library’s worth of potential sequential volumes—more than I could ever list—seem to all combine to show that…

I meet with clients with split personalities, yes?

And all my clients deceive themselves in some way.

To allow for such deception to present itself in time has always been the purpose and function of my Method.

Even false conclusions get naturally cancelled out and re-examined in turn.

So, my Method has always worked to—

What if none of them are real?

What if none of this is real?

What if it is all just me?

What if I am not really who I think I am?

The iuns…

Could there be a cl—?

Could there be a patient somewhere, experiencing all of this as part of some incomprehensible iun therapy program?

Could this all be a world created to solve some unknown being’s own unique psychosis?

Every client, even before Ray and Bing…

How far too extraordinarily perfect that I would see and learn from each Outlier exactly what was needed to uncover the nature, identity, and experience of every Normal I have ever met with.

And now, Ray.

Ray is the Outlier.

Ray has confirmed for me exactly who and what all Normals really are in this strange world.

Yes, I can hear him if I am honest.

My Normals are slaves to the very systems I fear—systems run by the powerful who would have nothing to do with me or my work except to replace my beautiful Method and give it away for free through mindless robots, ruining me.

My Normals are taught to be nothing.

My Normals give their lives over to a society that thrives on their fear and death; and they are left so undervalued, used up, and written off I can no longer tell any of them apart, none at all.

I cannot help them.

I cannot change anything, really.

But then why?

Why all of this?

Am I Ray?

What would it mean if I and everyone I have ever known were really the intentional creations of some program?

What could all of this be meant to teach, alleviate, or show?

Impossible.

The whole notion is completely insane.

Yet how could I deny that what I have just experienced is a Sticking Point—the same as any other brought about by my Method?

To doubt would be to call into question every past and future breakthrough.

Why these notes?

10 . . . 11 . . . 12 . . . . .

Beads of sweat crept from Bing’s hairline to the divot crinkles lining his eyes, blinding him. Above, his arms and shoulders shook to control twin, dangling stacks of rusty, black iron. Both sets of knuckles were white with red creases spanning quivering palms and fingers.

He lowered the weights, forcing as much grace as he could.

SLAM!

He shook his head as he levered himself up and to the edge of his old bench, planted as it had been forever behind worn boxes and dusty trinkets in the corner of his father’s garage.

Four more sets…

A warm, swollen heaviness ballooned its way about the back of both Bing’s arms. But the daunting reality of having to work more muscle-groups tomorrow, and then more the next day, and so on, threatened such vast infinite toil it seemed to want to break his resolve upfront and send him quietly out the back to smoke and forget. He wouldn’t this time, he knew . . . even if it would mean the exact opposite of what it promised, delivering only more conviction for whenever his next start date would roll around.

Bing finally realized just how and why there would be no more turning back. His direction was set, and further delay felt utterly intolerable (despite not mattering).

Besides, he already saw himself standing up where he would be soon: his spine dead straight, his arms wide, his chest open and proud. He witnessed his own face aglow sporting a smile spawned straight from the sun to illuminate everyone in the world, showing them all just how special and funny they each were.

How many times had he tried to hit these same weights growing up? He remembered having made it through the odd full week . . . but rarely two or more. Then throughout his prolonged slide from chubby dreamer to lanky stoner to personified version of despondency congealing in the heat of a tiny apartment or seedy car, the weights had remained mostly still. Sure, they’d lurk and loom a little from their shady corner home. Their improper disuse had always been a source or symptom of discouragement. And now they tried to taunt him all the more, in a new way, silently screaming details of all that their continued employ must entail.

But Bing grinned. Pages of old exercise magazines swept back up through his mind, brown-tinged and speckled, sporting perfectly lit photographs of ridiculously enhanced specimens. He could vividly recall all the tables and routines he had spent so many years committing to using.

There was a flash, followed by the usual taps of preparation.

spend money to fill ur time
learning other people’s ways
without ever doing anything,
then feel bad about urself
for the wrong reason.

Bing chuckled. All the reading . . . and the money, and soul-searching, and desiring . . . and… He saw so plainly all at once how none of it could have ever taken the place of simply getting himself into a few positions and pushing iron against gravity until he couldn’t anymore.

Another flash followed.

u do it once u’r left
with nothing but to test
if what’s in ur head
is worth anything.

There was more, perhaps, than could be properly scratched across a screen. And what of undetected worlds yet unborn in the blankness surrounding every digital skeleton past idea . . . maybe worlds of unknown moving pieces, and characters, and scenery? There were definitely friends laughing in pajamas around a cluttered table somewhere. There was a comedian donning a cool leather coat, designer jeans, and converse shoes. There was laughter of all sorts . . . deep, squealing, tearful, belting, free…

Bing breathed slow and steady, pushing the air down past where it went as he flexed his back beyond straight.

The wood and rafters above were a maze of flickering lights and cobwebs, providing just enough distraction to make his next sets almost welcome.

But there had been another flash, which he came close to deciding need not be captured.

or u do it to pursue ur dreams
with the ones u love
for as long as u can.

And speaking of loved ones, it had long occurred to Bing that he would need another name . . . an alias . . . a character he could be free to truly be himself as. Otherwise, lines might never get blurred, or touched . . . or even outright crossed and snickered back at.

He quickly fingered the name “Bing Pugloci” out onto his iun so he wouldn’t forget.

ME:

“Okay, let’s switch gears a little.

“I want you now to pretend I’m your former boss at the church.

“Talk to me the way you would talk to him if you could be free to say anything at all.”

Ray hesitated, which was no surprise.

Roleplaying works best when the client can be swept into it as suddenly as possible, like being yanked down into a freezing pool.

Otherwise, they might never fully enter if allowed to toe the icy water’s edge.

RAY:

“Um, Todd, you don’t . . . care what I think…? But, no… That’s not right. Not at all.”

ME:

“Put yourself there at the office.

“How do you feel?

“How am I, Todd, making you feel?

“What do you really want to say?

“Forget the consequences, Ray, for there are none.”

A flame-like twinkle crossed his eyes, which seemed to narrow in response.

RAY (to Todd):

“I’ll just keep trying until I die, right? Oh, I don’t believe the right way? Of course that’s . . . that’s easy. It’s easy to say I must have done it wrong, and just leave me here, where I’ve always been, alone. But then how come I remember all The Pastor’s messages? I mean, why do I have to be the one who can reduce them all like I do? You talk all day about the way each part is…”

Unfiltered anger was beginning to peak out and emerge at last like a chorus about to be belted in lyrics of exaggerated betrayal, yet one carried still in Ray’s trademark tones of steady hesitation and unknowing.

I am sure I need not spell out why such an awakening of raw emotion is exceptionally good.

For Ray, it means we have transcended sufficient layers of his mythological reimaginings to reach perhaps much of the bedrock underlying core—his reality.

Tactically, this juncture can now function as a checkpoint to return to quickly should the conversation ever again be clouded over by masking fantasies.

Ray trembled as if in shock after an explosion.

It was time to slow him down and back him up so as to properly examine the wild, hyperbolic embellishments that had just erupted out.

To that end, I would continue to play the part of Todd.

ME (as Todd):

“Would you say you were threatened by my personality?

“Or maybe by how I wanted you to see things?”

A moment passed as Ray’s breathing slowed until inaudible.

RAY (to Todd):

“I guess I always felt like you might be upset with me or something . . . like, you thought I should know what I was doing wrong. That’s all. But looking back, I think the way you saw it was more like we were just one step away from . . . from total anarchy at all times. I mean…”

I left space for Ray to complete or further explain his scattered thought, which he did not.

ME (as Todd):

“But what did I say or do to you to make you feel that way?

“Where, specifically, was I unreasonable?”

RAY (to Todd):

“I told you once I felt like I’d never really, y’know . . . never been given a real chance there at The Church.”

ME (as Todd):

“And how did I respond?”

RAY (to Todd):

“You said you wanted me to be free enough to… Well, you asked three questions: Um . . . what was I working on, what was frustrating me about it, and what solutions or steps did I think I should take. Then you asked if there was some reason I couldn’t be transparent. I was amazed by that.”

I quickly scribbled out and underlined the phrase “couldn’t be transparent.”

Yet I immediately grew somewhat enraged with myself for having missed until that moment the glaring connection between Ray’s felt need to hide his secret nightly activities and what his role at the church must have meant in terms of the overall impression he had given Todd and others.

In Ray’s own words, he knew all the pastor’s messages by heart.

In fact, his job had been to share those messages with all who called or wrote.

Of course his coworkers would have assumed he thought and believed as they did, at least for the most part, since he had essentially spent his days helping others think and believe that way.

How then must Todd and everyone else have interpreted Ray’s deep-seated unease and apprehension?

ME (as Todd):

“What was it like for you when the rest of us would talk about things like our beliefs and the way the church was going?”

Ray’s eyes doubled in size.

I purposed to keep my questions a tad more indirect so as not to threaten in the least our fabulous, sweeping momentum.

RAY (to Todd):

“I tried to be good and go along with it. But yeah, I probably seemed upset. And . . . and you wouldn’t have known why. I guess you might have thought I was just too afraid to speak up or join in conversations, maybe…? But no, you guys would be talking, and I’d be . . . be seeing the stuff I see.”

ME (as Todd):

“So, do you think it made sense for me to ask if and why you felt you couldn’t be transparent?”

RAY (to Todd):

“Yes.”

ME (as Todd):

“How did you respond to my three questions?”

RAY (to Todd):

“I went away and thought about it for a few days. Then I came back and told you I’d get really frustrated whenever someone came and stole my responsibilities . . . and, like, I shouldn’t have to fight to do my job. I told you I was mad I’d never been given a chance to do what I could . . . y’know, to be successful at The Church. I said I’d way rather be switched to something I could just . . . something I could work really hard at, but not have to think or care that much about. I mean, it hurt to see things the way I did, but couldn’t do anything to…”

ME:

“That’s excellent, Ray.

“What happened next?”

RAY (to Todd):

“You encouraged me to interact more, to try and find ways to show initiative, to ask mature questions instead of shutting down… You said those things would be good for me, and also good for The Church, especially if I felt like I had something to share that might be helpful. The last thing was you told me to think about how I’d want someone looking up to me to see me.”

I watched the dawning light of illumination continue to cross Ray’s quiet eyes in a series of twinkly flutters and bursts.

The remembered words, recited, were now confessions to himself.

I knew, as sure as ever, that this was it: Ray’s Sticking or Breaking Point.

I chose to keep silent, allowing him to piece together just how reasonable and kind Todd had been.

For the moment, my Method needed no further intervention on my part.

Ray’s exasperated mind, no doubt, was depicting countless scenes of his interpersonal shortcomings, faux paus, and callow misinterpretations through the years.

Yet although such insight always proves invaluable in terms of unravelling a distorted perspective, I knew my next move would be to gently guide Ray beyond his shame to a more helpful place of grounded intention and purpose.

Funnily enough, that seemed to have been Todd’s objective as well.

Recognizing what a limiting pattern says about oneself is only useful once it leads to forming new, better patterns.

My goal, essentially, became to shift our focus outward from Ray’s own personal world of specific regretful memories to the more abstract and conceptual—to ride with him the waves of his burgeoning understanding so as to help him reach a truly inescapable shift in perspective.

ME:

“That’s very good, Ray.

“Now, I want you to do something for me.

“I want you to imagine a certain kind of person, someone you know, who ruthlessly pursues their own interests.

“Imagine someone that goes after what they want with all they have.

“And tell me: What are some good qualities about that person?

“Try to think of several attributes you admire.”

RAY:

“That sounds like Carmen and Vin.”

ME:

“The mother and son from the raft?”

RAY:

“Yeah.”

ME:

“Ray, what was the raft, really?”

His mouth opened like a reflexive spring as if about to respond, but then slowly closed again and remained shut.

I decided not to press him.

This was hardly the time to double back to fantasy specifics.

ME:

“Never mind.

“Tell me about Carmen and Vin.”

RAY:

“Well, Carmen was my first boss at The Church, even when I started volunteering as a teenager. And I think she wanted, more than anything, just to be a really good Church ruler. I never knew back then why someone would do the sorts of things that… I mean, I wish I’d known. But rulers all end up acting the same way, like I was saying. I never knew she might really be afraid.”

ME:

“How did Carmen show she was afraid?”

RAY:

“Just little things . . . like she’d make a big show of changing our jobs at any moment, or jumping in and doing the work herself, like, to make sure we knew she could do it better.”

ME:

“And Vin?”

RAY:

“With Vin it was funnier . . . like he had to remind himself all the time to demand his own way . . . or to talk over everyone else, and… But really…”

ME:

“Yes, what is it?”

RAY:

“I mean, it’s sad how the rest of us blamed and hated them both so much. Some even got together later and made this big plan to… But even once Carmen and Vin were gone, nothing changed. And I think that’s the part I couldn’t handle, y’know . . . the thing I thought would make me crazy. How silly to get so mad at any rulers in The City for only doing what everyone’s always shown to do. Vin and Carmen . . . Todd . . . none of them are bad people. Not at all.”

A tear crested the corner of Ray’s right eye.

His face began to softly shudder.

I was overjoyed.

ME:

“What’s wrong, Ray?”

RAY:

“Oh, well… Maybe this is just the first happy irony I’ve seen in… I mean, to actually . . . like, catch myself upset for losing Carmen and Vin…”

He sighed aloud.

RAY:

“I was so arrogant back then. But how could I judge them? It definitely wasn’t like I was making any decisions, or…”

He simmered in silent thought for another moment, then carried on.

RAY:

“So, anyway, to your question: Those types of people get things done. And that’s something very admirable, since I know it’s not me.”

ME:

“What would you tell Vin?”

RAY:

“I wish I could tell him that . . . that I respect him.”

ME:

“What would you say was the hardest part about your time there, working at the church?”

RAY:

“Honestly, I don’t think I’m good with things on that kind of . . . professional level. I mean, there were so many young rulers like Vin, all with competing ambitions. And there were older people like Carmen . . . stuck, I guess, working systems that cost a lot to run but didn’t even make sense anymore.”

ME:

“What else would you want to tell them?”

RAY:

“Just I never realized how much I miss Vin and Carmen . . . and Todd, Mo . . . Jolie . . . everyone. They were good to me. They were who they were, of course. They were different from me. They didn’t see things the same way. Yeah, I got upset. And no, they wouldn’t have known why. But they let me do a job that was perfect for me. So, I’d want to thank them, I think, for…”

It truly felt as though Ray and I were crossing some sort of finish line together.

There is nothing so satisfying as to witness my Method at work.

Ray has seen himself, and what he has seen has stuck.

In whatever time we have left, we will return to examine as many of his Outlier fantasies as possible in order to uncover what each represents to him in reality.

I decided to begin where we had just concluded—the church—and attempt again to work our way outward from there.

ME:

“Would it be fair to say that many of the stresses you felt at work were . . . self-imposed?”

RAY:

“Yes. I mean, how I felt was never anyone else’s fault. I’m not against anyone there. Not at all.”

ME:

“Then let’s start to consider why you felt the way you did, and what caused you to experience most of those interactions as antagonistic and unfair.

“You see, people often adopt patterns of self-deception from childhood in order to hide from or account for some circumstance or feeling they find unbearable.

“Do you remember ever having that same experience as a child—feeling misunderstood, with untapped potential, and unable to be or show your true self?

“Did you feel that way when you left with Caylee?”

RAY:

“Yeah, I thought I was really different from everyone else back then, too.”

Now, notice the “switch” component of my bait-and-switch tactic, for it is the trickiest and most unpredictable of techniques to implement well at such a crucial point in session.

ME:

“And your life at work was never really as bad as it seemed, right?”

RAY:

“Right.”

ME:

“Well, what if the same holds true for your childhood?

“Maybe sit with that thought for a moment and imagine what it might mean.”

RAY:

“It would mean . . . I was bad…? Just like when I kicked that babysitter and . . . and lied about it. And . . . I used to . . . to kill little things . . . like nothing. But now I hate stuff like that. I mean, I’d never want to hurt anyone. Never…”

ME:

“It’s one thing to believe an unfair world is set against you.

“Yet how much more appalling the notion that it was never even true, and that your real problem all along was fear—fear of what you, yourself, might actually be.

“Ray, I could spend a lifetime’s worth of these sessions working to name each and every component of that fear, tying it all back to lists of handy terms and approximations for analysis.

“Yet such has never been my Method.

“Do you want to know the only real answer or solution—the one thing you can do now as you face such internal discrepancies within your own life’s narrative?”

RAY:

“Yes, whatever it is…”

ME:

“You already are.

“Your childhood was what it was for whatever reason.

“All you can do now is be the best adult you can be, which I know is exactly what you want to do and are doing.

“That’s why you’d never dream of hurting anyone.

“That’s why you hate injustice, inequality, and manipulation.

“That’s why you can so easily forgive those who hurt you, choosing to focus on their good intentions and ignorance, even to a fault.”

I stopped short.

Despite inclinations to the contrary, there is never any need to “go all motivational speaker” during (or post) a Sticking Point—leading the client to fervently repeat mantras before sending them out to make the world a shinier place, etc.

The seeds of Ray’s new understanding have been planted deep and taken root.

ME:

“How do you feel?”

RAY:

“Honestly, it’s like even 33 years of torture might be worth a single day with this peace I feel right now. Thank you. Thank you for what you do.”

So, that was our session today.

Strangely, I felt the urge to thank Ray there at the end just as he thanked me.

I had no context for my surge of sudden gratitude as it met with his vocal expression in bizarre tandem, like a shadow.

Yet, oddly, I had the strongest sense of such understanding coming—that the reason would catch up to me in the same way several facts regarding Todd, Carmen, and Vin had become apparent to Ray today as we spoke.

I cannot shake the notion that the reason I felt as I did really should be quite obvious.

Bing rose from cold porcelain, hastily flipping through batched lists of symbols. His hope was to pinpoint his iun’s little recorder again before it would prove too late.

Slow smoke wafted up, both leaving and reigniting an old and gnarly stench as it disappeared into a misaligned, gravelly fan that whirred and clipped above. The fan’s work sounded like the jolts of many saws all catching on chunks of splitting wood. And Bing’s mind felt about as rough, as if the smoke had first morphed into porous rocks that jumbled now around his wet, mental barrel to knock away any and all protuberances.

At last he spotted the recorder’s sneakily obvious, ancient-tape-deck form hidden amongst its rows of like cohorts.

What was he supposed to say again?

There was and wasn’t a science to keeping ideas together in those precious seconds after they had flashed themselves into being. It was a skill, quite un-teachable, which Bing was glad to have gotten better at.

He tapped the screen and saw the usual large, shifting blocks begin to count new seconds up from nothing.

If he could just swing back and lock onto whatever it was he had been thinking before the…

That’s right.

“There’s this wall,” he began, half squinting into the mirror to his left to track a cluster of perfectly still, non-human faces, all seemingly quite at home within his own, “It’s like a line I always cross. I go from being funny to . . . to just . . . too much. Wait, what am I talking about?”

The three partially lit white 8’s onscreen continued to alternate which of their seven lines to cause to gleam.

Bing let himself drift to catch up, then launched out again in a willfully softly spoken flurry: “It’s, like, I know I want to make people laugh. But as soon as I actually want that, the jokes stop coming. I think I get why, though . . . why this always happens. I never realized it, but I honestly don’t think I’ll ever be one of those guys that just stands up there on stage and makes everything up as I go along. But shouldn’t I be that? Shouldn’t it always be that kind of now-or-never thing? Isn’t comedy supposed to live right at the edge of that line, where everything could fall apart at any moment? I always thought I wanted to feel sort of trapped up there on stage, where the bits would either show up and save me or not. Isn’t that what makes it real?”

He let the questions sit.

Universes were formed in the briefest of silences before he heard himself continue: “But that’s not me, is it? I see that now. I’ve just always thought I was supposed to be that person. But the bits come to me whenever they come, like right now. And it’s inspired . . . it’s real . . . if I don’t plan it out. It’s just all the silly things I think about. Yeah, I’m still so afraid of going too far and crossing that line. But it seems like right at that point of almost too far is where my mind . . . or the weed . . . wants to always get as close to as it can.”

A few more seconds took their formation.

“It’s so funny,” he began to conclude. “Again, I realize who I am, and it ends up not even being about me at all. I don’t ask for my jokes or try to make them up or anything. I never have. Why would I assume performing has to be the opposite? Oh shit! That means I’m already . . . totally . . . ready!”

ME:

“So, was there anyone at the church you actually saw eye to eye with?

“Anyone you could really be yourself around?”

RAY:

“Well, there was one guy on staff. He was funny. But I was never able to talk with him that much, no. I mean, we talked a lot, but I couldn’t say what I would have wanted to.”

ME:

“What do you mean?

“What would you have wanted to tell him?

“And why couldn’t you?”

RAY:

“I guess, looking back, it’s like we both seemed out of place there, but in . . . like, in very different ways. I admired him . . . always . . . since he never hid what he was thinking, even though it was different from what The Pastor said and . . . and, y’know, different from the way The Church was going.”

ME:

“What would you have wanted to say?”

RAY:

“Just to tell him I thought there’d be a lot of people out there that might get something good from listening to him. He was way better than me at… But it’s tough, since whatever wasn’t New Cannibalism, or . . . or anything outside The Pastor’s story about the other world . . . like I said, was automatically seen as wrong or evil.”

Notice how I will no longer hesitate to quell or bypass all fantasy talk immediately, bringing our focus back to only the tangibly experiential.

ME:

“So, you would have encouraged him to do something like your secret recordings?”

RAY:

“I just… He knew so much, and could speak really well.”

ME:

“How do you suppose he saw you?”

RAY:

“Sketchy. Not quite together, mentally. Maybe like a leaf being blown along in the wind.”

ME:

“What exactly did he say or do to make you think that?”

RAY:

“Well, Winnie the Pooh is a toy.”

ME:

“What does that mean, ‘Winnie the Pooh is a toy’?

“Why is that relevant now?”

RAY:

“I guess it’s sort of . . . like, it’s hard to float a certain way, y’know? But then floating works real well when you’re at the right place and time. That’s all.”

ME:

“How did your friend see the church?

“How did he see the city?”

RAY:

“He had these, I think, libertarian views on politics. Anyway, all he said about The Church was the focus shouldn’t be so much on stories and ideas, but more on helping people in . . . in more practical ways.”

ME:

“Are you a Libertarian?”

Ray said nothing, obviously unsure how to answer.

I was not surprised in the least by his confusion.

All known aspects of Ray’s worldview are essentially an amalgamation of vague, unconscious reactions to realities filtered entirely through his unique framework of nebulous Outlier symbols and representations.

I was about to press him—to keep him moving—but he responded on his own before I could.

RAY:

“What’s the opposite of moderate again?”

Now, this question did surprise me.

Savior complex Outliers have a knack for fixing their own sets of idiosyncratic notions on ideals.

As such, they tend not to care in the least for standard conventions or definitions of terms.

Besides, answering elementary questions about politics seemed quite beneath my role and workings of my Method.

ME:

“If by moderate you mean centrist—in the middle—then the opposite would be one side or the other.

“The left or the right.”

RAY:

“Left or right?”

Flabbergasted by his sudden display of childlike ignorance, I attempted to respond as simply as I could, outlining the basic differences between the political left and right.

RAY:

“But it’s only Advertising that makes those two sides what they… I mean…”

At this point, Ray began to stare once more at my iun at the edge of my desk as if expecting it to interrupt at any moment.

I was about to ask for clarification, but he continued (again) without any prompting.

RAY:

“Anyway, I think that guy I worked with would have been surprised to know all the things I agreed with him on. I wish I could have told him.”

ME:

“So, what would you want to tell the church now?”

I watched as a tinge of emotion swept across his placid face like a misplaced tidal flush.

RAY:

“Oh Church… I just want to tell everyone there how much I love them.”

I failed to catch myself before leaping to my next questions, unfortunately leaving my phrasing open enough to invite a fresh influx of fantasy in response.

ME:

“What would you say to the church as an institution, though, rather than to individuals?

“What would you say about their political position or power?”

RAY:

“It’s like the fog and Lie from fear . . . from fear of not having enough . . . they make The Church see a sort of massive conspiracy in The City to keep them down . . . to keep them from power, I guess. But it’s the same with every other empire too. I mean, New Cannibalism puts everyone against everyone else, right? And so the many small are killed and used up while the few get big and rise to the top. But yeah, since The Church keeps growing and growing, the only way they can keep their same conspiracy going . . . to still see themselves as low and powerless . . . is to believe and teach that most who come and join aren’t really true believers. And that’s kind of what everyone there ends up most afraid of. I mean, it goes with what I was saying before: Since Advertising shows only The Church’s most beautiful leaders up on those huge screens week after week, all the rest are left to feel their impossible distance from what they’re always shown. And I heard it every day working there . . . in calls and letters from hurting believers, each fully convinced their troubles were, like, proof they didn’t believe enough, or not the right way or something. But it’s all New Cannibalism. Advertising divides The Church into levels of belief, just like everyone in The City gets divided into levels of usefulness. And I do agree with my friend about showing love in more practical ways. But I don’t think that can happen before Advertising and New Cannibalism are gone . . . before the fog completely lifts.”

ME:

“From what I know of Christianity, isn’t that the whole point of the Jesus message?

“It’s all about love and forgiveness, correct?”

Ray shuddered like a leafy branch caught in a sudden gust of wind.

Still peering at my iun, his eyes narrowed and his brow furrowed.

RAY:

“I . . . I really don’t know the answer. I hope that’s something we might, um… But yeah, of course, to . . . to try and show love no matter what, that’s…”

ME:

“Okay, so what does that conspiracy look like outside the church?

“Is advertising used to convince those of other empires they don’t actually fit where they are either?”

Not once did his gaze leave my iun.

RAY:

“I think it’s always the same Lie, y’know? Like, Advertising can show everything as ‘good guys and bad guys,’ ‘us and them,’ ‘true believers and false,’ or ‘left and right’ . . . but it’s all just to keep everyone thinking New Cannibalism is the only way to… I mean, no matter how Advertising might make things look, New Cannibalism isn’t really ever for one side or the other. Of course each empire builds or brings something different in The City. Each has its focus . . . its goals and culture . . . the good reasons it came together in the first place. And Advertising can keep trying to show things as being so bad that . . . that everyone needs to keep fighting everyone else to… But it’s New Cannibalism that needs it to be bad. Really, who’s it bad for? Nothing changes for the slaves. It’s only the rulers that…”

He paused, still staring as though longing for my iun, itself, to speak.

ME:

“You’ve hinted a few times at how you see things beginning to change.

“Let’s quickly dig a little into that.”

RAY:

“No, I don’t… I mean, I don’t know what’s going to happen.”

ME:

“Ray, I’m not asking you to predict the future.

“I do feel it will be helpful for you to share whatever sense you have of how you see things going.”

There was a moment of what must have been acute hesitation, then relinquishment.

RAY:

“As the fog goes, it’s The City’s rulers that watch what they’ve always fought for disappear. But what the slaves see more and more is how they’ve only ever been bought and sold by a string of rising and falling empires, all the same. Whatever any empire comes together to do . . . whether it’s bringing something basic for survival, some new invention, a service everyone needs, an experience . . . even a voice to speak up for what any group or individual might need or deserve . . . the fight Advertising always puts everything into selling is only ever really for meaningless, valueless things like deeds, titles, capital, or rights to symbols . . . things that can’t actually last or matter without what Advertising works so hard to keep everyone convinced of. So, I guess it’s like the slaves finally start to see the way all The City’s power moves like water from tank to tank . . . but how each tank is really only… And the water gets stale. And the tanks erupt, one by one. And how can empires go on building themselves then? At first, the rulers try to reduce and keep things going, cutting down and selling off whatever they can to keep their positions steady as long as possible. And yeah, everything gets put back into more Advertising to keep the slaves afraid and useful, like always. But the difference now . . . the change . . . is the slaves are seeing all this happening . . . even if they don’t… I mean, it’s when the slaves can’t ignore Advertising that they don’t look at it anymore. Not really. It doesn’t matter how much gets spent to… Okay, what happens when all the wealth and credit to have ever run through and held The City together aren’t enough to buy the slaves’ attention for even another moment more? What could they see instead, then, except…?”

Ray continued to stare, entranced by the blank screen of my iun.

I knew I had let him carry on for far too long again, wastefully allowing the first half of today’s session to be submerged beneath his rolling sets of graphic symbolisms.

Yet I must admit I had become quite transfixed as his words poured forth, with literal chills cascading up and down my spine.

At times, Ray seems to switch from his laughable derelict-on-a-street-corner role to indirectly describing my exact position and concerns (of course without realizing).

Though unnerving, I still hold that such connections give me a superb advantage at this late stage in the game when it comes to uncovering the true desires and values hidden beneath his protective Outlier narrative gloss.

How did Ray’s thoughts on politics tie to my own personal world?

Well, my business is certainly fast becoming a fight to hold the wind—to create material substance from something ever slipping from my grasp.

I would say, however, that technology (iuns) only exacerbates the problem—an opinion I suspect Ray would sharply disagree with.

As of now, I find myself scrambling to keep clients as I read of iuns being mere days from having the capacity to offer therapy for free.

I am sure those of other professions have similar concerns.

I began our session today committed to catching a deeper glimpse of the real Ray at all costs.

I now felt defensive, as though a secret piece of my own perspective had been brought to light and challenged inadvertently.

I jotted:

My priorities. My philosophy of business. Selling my intellectual property. The value of my Method.

A question to possibly come back to: Ray spoke of slaves becoming aware of themselves and social dynamics, and then society changing drastically as a result; but how could powerless Normals “seeing” anything bring about a reversal of widespread conflict and corruption?

Was that part just idealistic Outlier drivel stuffed in alongside Ray’s few seemingly accurate (though woefully misinterpreted) observations?

Something about the conversation did cause me to recall a degree of compassion I had once felt for all my clients.

It seems I have gotten far too comfortable casually breaking into people’s worlds, carelessly holding their very fates in my shaky, distracted hands—fates I often cannot tell apart.

What I do is indeed quite a lofty responsibility.

So, I should probably charge more?

Anyway, I kept silent for a moment and refocused with increased urgency on my commitment to keep from getting derailed again from only the real details of Ray’s actual experience.

“You just . . . breathed different!” gasped Jodie, shock the silent voice of all nonverbal communication oozing from her resolute face and body like gray light.

“I’m open now in my music,” whispered Revy. “It fits. It’s who I am. This is the first time it’s been like this for me. Don’t you care?” He leant gracefully to place his old guitar back in its stand. The soft, alien voice he’d met and come to love from within and surrounding his music continued to sing sweet, crystal harmonies in his mind.

“You sound different, man! You sound like a . . . woman!” Jodie heaved, then leapt from the edge of the bed to her feet, and froze, her eyes darting from Revy to her iun. “What happened to you?!”

He felt her pulling away . . . a magnet drawn to a separate world represented there at the edge of her end table.

Always, always away.

He shook his head, forgetting silent, candy-coated tones still resonating somewhere deep within.

“Hello,” said a man’s voice, deep and cool. “My name is Rev.”

And afterwards, a cat slunk about through doors and office hallways, appearing not to be going anywhere . . . then gone.

Or was it the opposite? Maybe someone raised by cats had realized long ago they would never be a cat and should focus more on their non-cat ways and features. Who better to be a cat than a cat, and vice versa?

The cat or non-cat spotted a distant oval formation of birds gliding high above The City. These were funny, flappy, little things to catch and play with. Or maybe listen to and smile.

There they go. They pay no toll to enter and leave, far above and safe, with bellies full.

The cat, if a cat, slunk along further . . . then, again, gone.

I got no sleep at all last night.

I have reached a complete mental, emotional, and procedural impasse.

I cannot ignore how little time I must have left for the fantasies Ray would likely continue to spit, if unhindered, faster than my Method could unravel.

No, my Method never fails; yet I have no choice now but to find ways to assert myself into its function instead of simply narrating its progress.

I must be more aggressive and direct with all my clients lest my life’s great work be rendered ultimately pointless.

I have established enough of a rapport with Ray, I believe, to begin asking the sorts of specific questions I really would have wanted to begin with.

My aim will be to never get derailed again from driving through only the most relevant details of his concrete, historical, real experience.

ME:

“I have two questions for you today: First, how did you lose your job?

“And then considering what you’ve said about the church, I want to know exactly what you would tell the pastor, other church leaders, or your former coworkers if you could tell them anything at all.”

I did not expect him to meet and match my new directness at first.

RAY:

“I couldn’t act the way they did anymore, not once I saw all the ironies and how people were being hurt.”

ME:

“But that job was your only source of income, no?

“And I’m guessing the church made up most of your social sphere?

“Did you have any friends outside the church?”

RAY:

“Well, I really just tried my hardest to be good, and be a good . . . y’know, employee. I tried to do whatever was expected. But I did have to . . . to lie.”

I recalled what he had said before about coming across as crazy due to a felt need to always lie.

Yet I was not quite ready to run alongside and jump that train just yet.

ME:

“When you say you couldn’t act the way they did anymore, you mean in what you’ve been telling me, right—the art, the culture . . . and lowly, regular people being used?”

RAY:

“Those things I saw in The City and Church were what hurt me, yes. But . . . but they weren’t why I had to lie.

“Okay, sorry… Let me start over again, real quick. I should have said this part from the beginning, before I…

“So, when I worked at The Church, my job was to answer questions from callers and anyone that wrote in . . . just questions about the Bible, or life, or whatever. And you know I worked there for years. So I did start to see the same sorts of things being asked again and again. But there were certain questions we really couldn’t answer because The Pastor didn’t have any . . . like, any messages or anything on those topics. I mean, I didn’t have a problem with that. It made total sense. He had his things he talked about, and we were there to represent him in everything we did.”

ME:

“Did you feel powerless at all—as though you were being held back from helping those who called or wrote?

“Did that make you angry?”

RAY:

“No, not at all. I wasn’t mad, I… Well, what it was is I noticed there were a lot of people out there who really just wanted someone to talk to. And it wasn’t about getting a good answer or whatever, but having someone to . . . to think out loud with, if that makes sense. Of course I knew that wasn’t my role at The Church. I couldn’t spend all day, um…

“Anyway, I really didn’t want to hurt The Church. Not at all. It was just… Y’know, it got be the time everyone started having iuns. And one day, using one of The Church’s iuns, I found a bunch of people having the same sorts of conversations I couldn’t have with those who called or wrote. So I joined in, like, anonymously. Then I went back the next day, and . . . yeah, it became a daily thing. I didn’t think anything would come from it. After a while, I started recording my conversations and putting them out in pieces for anyone to listen to. But the thing is . . . I was using The Church’s iuns to do it. And no one knew. I definitely never said anything about The Pastor or Church to anyone in any of my recordings. I knew I needed to keep those two worlds separate, out of respect, y’know?

“And then it got to where I’d be working on my recordings for hours every night. But since I was doing it at work, using The Church’s stuff, and saying things The Church wouldn’t say . . . that’s why I always had to lie.

“Wow, it just . . . it feels so good to . . . to finally admit all this.”

Ray’s face seemed to glow with a quiet joy.

ME:

“So you never told anyone at the church what you were doing?

“And you never mentioned the church in your recordings?”

RAY:

“Well…”

ME:

“Yes?”

RAY:

“The day before my last day at The Church, someone called. I mean, she called The Church, not me. I was there late, working on my stuff. But I must have left the work phones on, and… Anyway, when I picked up and said my usual, like, ‘Sea Breeze Faith, Ray speaking,’ her response was, ‘It’s you!’ I knew she must have recognized my voice from my recordings. So, I decided to have a little fun with her. I told her in this real spooky voice, something like, ‘This is the wrong way. Go back. You’re not supposed to be hearing this…’ I know that’s really dumb . . . just my zany sense of humor or whatever. But before I could say ‘just kidding’ or anything like that, she had already hung up. She was gone. I got so sad after that. It was like both my worlds had suddenly been thrown together for the first time, and I just felt so stupid, and immature, and… I hope I didn’t damage that lady. She’s just a person . . . someone like me, maybe, who thinks about the same sorts of things. I wish I’d told her the truth.”

ME:

“What truth?”

RAY:

“Well, working there at The Church was really how I… I mean, that’s what gave me my perspective, y’know? It’s what made me what I am. Really, I love The Church. And I think everyone would if…”

Though it quickly became clear Ray’s thought would stay unfinished, I sensed a massive, permanent victory looming beyond another final mere half-scuffle.

It was as if he had perfectly aligned himself like a tiny snowball at the top of a giant slope.

In terms of working with my Method more, I could already gleefully envision simply nudging him that last little bit further, over the edge.

ME:

“So, you learned everything you know.

“You saw everything you see.

“And you credit all of it to working there at the church?”

RAY:

“Yes.”

ME:

“Well then considering your comparison of the church to a growing empire, might other ‘slaves’ have likewise benefited in sacrificing to serve the church’s ends?

“In other words, how likely is it that other workers also discovered and developed their own skills . . . even identities . . . through their involvement?”

Ray kept still and quiet for a moment.

I made every effort to hide my delight at glimpsing the flash of awe that streaked across his glassy eyes.

RAY:

“I guess that is something really good about The Church, yes.”

ME:

“Would you agree, then, it might not be completely fair to call the church an uncreative environment?”

Bing loomed over his kitchen counter as he had a hundred times before, peering past the open box of his beloved paraphernalia. He stared at his iun wedged carefully off in a corner, all set to record when he was ready. He found himself dreading the mumbling, soupy mess he had come to expect of his own captured voice.

Most previous recordings had been mere wave-like distractions . . . just rhythmic sets of commentary that poured out in the free-form flow of his everyday daydreams. He was now about to get high with the official intent of using whatever would come.

Being poised in this moment just before following through on a decision was a scenario sadly odd enough to notice. There could be no turning back, mostly because he felt he had yet to really move.

Still, he had somehow convinced himself to at least reach this place of appearing ready for whatever might prove worthwhile. Magic floodgates would soon be swept open in the smoke of burning plants, he hoped. And all Bing had really had to do was shield his fledgling belief that there could be a difference in leaning in and not away.

His chosen strain for the night was called Mr. Nice Guy. In the greenish mound of torn-off specs now resting in his pipe’s deep chamber, he was sure he glimpsed undertones of bluish purple.

He raised the pipe’s shiny lip to his lips, and flicked a cheap, see-through lighter like nothing. Fire touched and glowed as he inhaled, as slow and smooth as ever.

His gaze returned to the iun, his ever-patient friend and partner waiting as always for its other to take the lead.

But when were the funny thoughts supposed to come? Even letting the question skim his mental membrane was like watching the most intriguing pattern dissolve from peripheries to just another blank wall upon turning to see.

In shrouded shadow visions of things caught up to and overwhelmed, Bing wondered amiss about what he was meant to do or figure out. He recognized such wonderings as fruitless.

He took another puff, then another, blowing the smoke in tight blasts up and directly into the greasy opening of a frayed-out duct high above his stove.

There was silence, like a center point between titanic, gradual whirs. There was a mist, sparkling everywhere to magnify reflected light.

What was he always so worried about again? Weren’t all the lines he had already really funny?

This shouldn’t be so…

A flash, and Bing reached across, seeing the gape of his own knowing smile lit up across the little screen as he tapped and heard the recorder’s tell-tale beep.

Was it all really happening?

What was he supposed to say again?

Oh yeah…

“I love how weed kind of forces you to be honest with yourself,” he began. “I feel like I need that now. It might sound bad, but this one’s just for me. So, how come when I’m straight I come up with all these extra, unneeded explanations for things? I make up all sorts of steps for myself that aren’t even… Really, I’m just addicted to weed. That’s all. I like it. I want it all the time. But I convince myself it’s all this other stuff. Paranoid thoughts. It’s like I just worry too much. It must be a chemical thing, right? The chemicals in my body make me feel however. How well I’ve slept, what I ate, and everything else. But maybe a lot of how I feel depends on whether I’m doing what I told myself to. So then am I supposed to just take responsibility and do it? Should I keep trying to be the . . . the whatever…? To choose to do it until it works? I don’t know if I can. What do I really want in all this? What am I looking for right now? I keep saying I need to put out these lines that come to me when I’m high. But is that really true?”

A few seconds replaced each other before Bing’s words continued on, a little slower: “How can I do comedy without…? I mean, it’s not like I have a signed deal, or any experience, or… What good could possibly come from trying to…? How could it turn into any kind of a real future for me? Shouldn’t I have started when I was way younger?”

Another pause, and: “But I did. Here I am . . . all my thoughts . . . all my feelings, and my weirdness, and… I’m just someone that’s . . . well, I guess just everything I happen to be. For whatever reason, all the stuff that causes me to be this way, and think this way . . . it’s not really something I can take credit for, right? Can anyone, though, really? I don’t choose to think of jokes when I’m high. I . . . I am what I am.”

Bing let his last words rest in the air as he eyed the open Mr. Nice Guy canister. The dispensary had even tagged the little plastic, purple jar with a zany-looking, wasted smiley face.

As the large timer on his iun’s face slipped over and beyond two minutes, Bing heard himself carry on, perhaps forgetting this time to fear the potential cringe-worthiness of the sound: “I . . . am . . . a person. I’m a thing, too. I’m not just something other things use . . . I mean, things like chemicals and all the stuff that makes me feel the way I do. Whatever. The bottom line in all this is . . . I just want to . . . to…”

He laughed.

And the laughter grew . . . even as he took account of what horrors had almost taken place just before becoming this current Bing. It all seemed so obvious. He had never really wanted to hurt himself. But how truly, deeply funny it seemed that he could miss it all so easily.

He spoke again, smiling: “I don’t want to do comedy to . . . to get signed or whatever . . . or to make a future. I want to do it to make friends. To make people laugh. People . . . people are . . . funny. I just want to be . . . funny me. That’s all. It was always there, I just…” And the last word his friendly iun caught that night was: “Watch…”

After my meeting with Ray this morning, I began to sift through scraps and abridgements from the literature, searching specifically for anything that might prove helpful for Bing.

It seems my initial prediction was entirely incorrect: Bing’s aberrant coupling of Normal and Outlier traits has not bolstered my ability to distinguish between Normals.

Rather, I now find myself confusing more and more of my Normals with Bing.

Yet we will return to Bing.

As I skimmed to digest the highlights of as many current consensuses within my chosen field as necessary, I was shocked to note that the rough findings or guessed implications of almost every article or entry were tied somehow to a single new development.

Having not ventured out beyond my own integrated notes now in . . . weeks (?) . . . I found myself completely caught off guard.

Struck by the fast, seemingly undeniable potential of this new concept, I felt prompted to douse my iun with the boiling coffee fresh in my cup.

I will stress that no finding could have discouraged me more.

Yet this idea seems to have swept through all of therapy’s often discordant worlds in only the time since I last cared to look.

In summary, concrete plans seem set to finalize development of a new iun technology that will essentially offer the exact same treatment I do, and it will be completely free.

A highly praised prototype has, let’s see: “…that has already proven clinically successful in all trials to accommodate the particulars of a patient’s condition and provide a complimentary, all-encompassing digital experience.”

Basically, my clients will face and work through their issues alone in a unique world this thing creates for each of them.

Apparently, it learns.

It adapts.

It understands language as we do, using what the client tells it to eventually allow all points of self-deception and faulty perceptions to be revealed for what they are.

In short, this thing is like an automated version of almost my exact Method; its function is to bring clients to Sticking or Breaking Points as many times as it takes (until they stick).

I was sure I had more time to publish.

I cannot deny my clientele is already on the verge of a steep decline.

Today, for example, I see a wash of scheduled appointments that might as well not happen—all Normals (maybe Bing…), which will only add to the litter already devouring better portions of my desk, room, and mind.

I am almost out of Outliers.

Perhaps my Method works too well.

Yet how could I put up my prices now?

Instead of meeting with me, even the likes of Ray will be plugged into a machine that can reach and show the source of all inaccurate conception in perfect sequence and timing.

What a waste.

Though I have already begun to consider other options, of course my work here must continue until it runs out for good.

Maybe then I can sell my Method to the iuns as these integrated notes, and perhaps help the iuns in their work to build and shape their clients’ worlds…?

Ray stood watching waves of slow traffic creep to fill the northernmost parking lot of the massive Church campus. Behind him arose rugged beams and power lines. He smiled at the delightful chatter of birds perched high above as they called cheerfully back and forth to friends hidden at home in sets of matching trees.

How many times had he strolled alone through this same lot toward those same giant glass doors and flock of chirpy, down-dressed greeters in the distance?

Why?

Why was he always here? His appointment with The Psychologist had ended moments earlier. What magnetic force was it that drove him ever back to this same crash of pretty buildings, where droves of souls now thundered in, both in and out of time? Why, if he knew it would make him so sad and angry . . . and maybe crazy?

Service was set to start in 20 minutes. Personnel in bright, fitted shirts emerged from doors to man posts across an unseen grid. These smiled at passersby and thundered commands like, “Enjoy service!” and “Be blessed!” A few spare youths skated off to one side, catching air to and fro atop raised concrete daises beside a sunken patio square.

If he wanted to, Ray found he could squint just right, and it would make the fog look like it had swallowed the whole base of The Church, including most of the bustling swarm of members and visitors arriving. But then the not-a-persons appeared even more trapped beneath . . . like dark victims held in sway, cemented in wispy underworld chambers of torment.

The not-a-persons had clearly changed somehow. It was like seeing a troupe of formerly trifling guards having all snapped to attention at the sense of something coming.

From his great, safe distance, Ray heard himself begin to speak to The Church. He was becoming quite comfortable with the sound of his own voice after having heard it so often in recent dialogues with The Psychologist. But the familiar sound now seemed to be coming from somewhere else completely. He couldn’t link the voice or words to anything in his mind, or even the breath he felt now passing through and out his moving mouth.

“Oh Church!” the voice began, “You take credit for everything good in The City. But that won’t work anymore. Not when everyone starts to see through the fog. Oh Church! You change as The City forms itself. You shift and match appearances, hoping to show your great power. But now there’s no way to hide which really comes first. Oh Church! You copy and use The City’s art to spread your beloved message, even as The City changes. But there’s no more need or way to spin or sell, and… Oh Church! You’re like a teen abandoning parts of yourself unaware in search of an identity that can never really…”

There was a pause before the words continued: “Is the adult a different person from the child? But you’re not actually a person or thing to be at all. You’re part of others’ patterns, not something with its own. The more you shift from a people united around your story to an empire, the more of yourself you leave behind, so the less of an identity you find yourself able to carry or show without the fog. Oh church! Such great and terrible irony! The more you seek to fix yourself a self by what you see, the more of yourself you lose. In this, the fog destroys you as it lifts. But I hope not! That was never what I wanted! How I wish I could…!”

Ray stood in silence for a moment and continued to watch the invisible crowd of poised and ready beings still held separate below. Had they somehow heard his voice’s words?

But he wished he could forget them all . . . just to run straight back to those same stunning buildings as before, and collapse to a chair in the sanctuary with the rest . . . just one amongst millions about to take part onsite and via iuns from afar. Oh to be that simple, broken soul again, completely lost in the crowd.

A sick laugh sounded near in desolate tones of knowing but knowing too late. It was the sound of a world turning after its own end to show Ray it had all really been pretend . . . all just him all along. Silly, stupid Ray, whom no one knew or could know, and who would never let anyone…

But he watched himself trace the maniacal sound to its source without having to try, regretting doing so immediately. He wished it could all just be him. Maybe then this sudden knowing . . . this madness and truth intertwined that would never ever go away . . . could at least be seen forever for what it was.

But it wasn’t.

Ray wished then not to see what he saw coming. Though he fully believed it to be good.

Morning had failed to seep around what was left to it by the edges and corners of blinds and doors.

Now noon also took its turn, to no avail.

Bing stared in the dead light, squinting. White letters, blaring and blurry across his black screen, shifted to sharpen until he could see.

be nice to fungus.
acceptable athlete’s foot.

That’s right…

Like all ideas for bits, this one too seemed worthless in the no-light “dawn” of sober day.

Some standup Bing was turning out to be.

Should he rifle through a few more of his captured, forgotten lines? But why?

Years of stagnation and fuzz had almost succeeded in teaching him to expect all hopeful notions for what his self-sent words might mean to crumble immediately upon his return.

How many scores of would-be jokes had fallen in daylight to feeble, zany punchlines lacking even the dignity of set-ups?

Besides, he found the thought of himself on stage now to be more of a laugh than could be drawn from anything recitable. To actually take his strange material, voice, face, and body, and present it all in front of others would be…

But where did the humor go overnight? How could what have once seemed so funny end up just as sad, and desperate, and meaningless as any other path a previous Bing might have waited for and sensed coming . . . always just beyond the next . . . what?

Useless.

Still staring at the iun, Bing was almost aware of a not-so-sudden change in his thoughts’ direction.

Perhaps all his lines collected so far had really just been for practice. He sure had learned through the years to recognize whatever it was that made certain ideas seem “funny” or “worthwhile” enough to thumb in barely punctuated lines across his iun’s face.

Should he just go smoke again now, and start over (yet again) from scratch?

Bing all but watched the shifting pictures at the base of his conscious wonderings center and sharpen around an inconspicuous old black box, fancy and sleek, which lay now beneath him and his bed. Beyond lining inner layers of seasoned dinge and ash, he almost saw the gleaming, friendly silver pipe awaiting him, nestled up next to a rainbow family of red, orange, blue, and yellow plastic canisters.

That would sure give him what he’d need to go on stage, right?

“Well in The Church, I mean… Okay, I think I said something to Mo once, like, The Church is an environment for being relevant, but not really a creative environment.

“I remember, way back when I was a kid, I’d watch boxing all the time with my dad, and . . . and then go downstairs in the bathroom after and pretend I was a boxer in front of this big mirror we had down there.

“But the thing is, I’d open and close my eyes real fast or something, like a strobe light . . . and had no idea I was even doing it. Somehow that made all the flashes I saw of myself punching and ducking around look real cool. I mean, I’d just see all the perfect boxing positions and poses and stuff reflected back. Nothing in-between.

“Then one day, I suddenly noticed the whole thing with the blinking and tried doing it with my eyes open. I couldn’t believe how ugly I looked . . . and slow, and awkward, and…

“But that’s not what we’re…

“Sorry.

“You know how I said Advertising was supposed to come in and keep The Church growing, to help make it its own empire? Well, lots of things changed then, of course. It got to where every week a few of the most amazing-looking Church people were shown up on these huge screens at the front before The Pastor came to speak. And the thing about that was… I just… The way The Pastor could paint such vivid, simple pictures of . . . of, like, real human life with his words . . . to me, that’s true art. So, basically, it felt like I was watching Advertising dilute The Pastor’s work, cheapening and taking away from what was real . . . replacing it with the sort of flashy perfection that only makes everything dull until it’s all just the same as the fog.

“But the ironic part . . . the saddest part to me . . . was how The Pastor would still bring all his messages back at the end to a promise about that other coming world.

“I’ll say it like this: Leaders in The Church . . . well, rulers everywhere in The City . . . they all try to be as close to what Advertising shows as they can get. Of course, I mean, you’d expect that. And we already talked about it. But for just all the regular, lowly Church people . . . the slaves . . . I mean, they still keep seeing the same perfection shown week after week on the screens. And then they’re left to make sense of how New Cannibalism could connect to a promised perfect world.

“So, which is perfect? Is it the perfect future that gives those slaves every reason to stay what they are? Or is it the perfect beauty always shown on those massive screens?

“What I heard The Pastor start to say was the other world could be enjoyed by believers now, in this life, at least to some degree. And in that way, the beautiful ones on the screens came to be understood as, like . . . ideal . . . since they were obviously experiencing more of what everyone believed they should want . . . more than anyone else.

“But, sorry… Here’s what I’m trying to say: How could it be both? Could a Church slave ever be faithful enough to be made like those ones they’re shown? To me, that’s an irony even grayer than the fog, and about a million times as empty and sad.

“But the worst part was how no one seemed to even notice or care about those sorts of things anymore. Looking back, maybe they felt like questioning what they heard would be the same as challenging New Cannibalism or doubting what they could see by Faith’s light in the fog. And yeah, that’s the last thing anyone would do.

“So now, lost somewhere in an impossible distance between their real lives and perfect images, the slaves know only more and more of the same hellish, un-fixable pain the other world was always meant to be the answer to.

“They get used up . . . eaten . . . and they die.

“Of course it’s not the beautiful ones’ fault, since they’re just being used by Advertising to celebrate New Cannibalism in far more fun ways than the slaves.

“It’s not really the rulers’ fault, either. It’s no one’s fault. It’s all just that Lie from the same old fear that stays almost hidden in the fog.

“I mean, the idea that people would ever feel the need to, y’know, put on suits and play roles with each other . . . so, like, what’s said and done always has to make some specific impression… Like, someone has to have the advantage in every… But again, it’s never on purpose.

“I’m sorry. I get emotional. It’s hard for me to say what I’m…

“It’s like we’re all just fearful children in a way. We scramble and lie to take what we can. It’s all we know. It’s all we’re taught to let ourselves know. And, so, everyone stays stuck on levels where some get sacrificed to make others feel a little more secure.

“And those things we want . . . those things we fear we won’t have enough of . . . we can only see them all in part through the fog.

“No one will ever be as perfect as the beautiful can be made to look. No one will ever be ruler of all. So, everyone’s in the same place, really. And everyone’s dying for it. Everyone is . . . dying.

“But I’m calmer now, like I said. And the reason is… Well, first, because I finally see how . . . how fearful kids do eventually grow up. But more than that, what I’m really starting to realize, is . . . yeah, growing up happens without the kids having to, y’know, try.

“I know that’s probably not the whole picture, but… It’s just the impression I get when I see Faith’s light spreading, showing and connecting more and more.

“I don’t believe what’s possible can be held back the same way anymore. Not by the fog or anything else.”

I felt inclined to scold myself for drifting this morning from bed to my first appointment without any coffee or solid time spent in my notes.

My clients deserve me at my best, especially now.

Yet my first appointment being with Ray took some of the pressure off, considering the progress my Method has brought about already in shoring up his fanciful tendencies in order to access hidden feelings and actual values.

For example, Ray has felt ostracized, weird, disliked, and forced to lie to those closest to him seemingly from fear of how they might judge his true point of view.

As for values, I would be surprised to hear him relate a vision which could be spun somehow to discredit the importance of honesty, equality, and free connections between individuals in place of lavish productions and costly commercials.

I also find it extremely fortunate how Ray’s tales of city slaves connect so naturally with my understanding of Normals in society; I predict such parallels will make the approach of his Sticking or Breaking Point far easier for both of us to detect.

I must now simply work to stay ahead of the conversation by continuing to pinpoint his implications, matching them to the trends and sequences my Method has already been making clear to me for years.

Note the way I work with Ray on his level, using his terms, just as I would almost always address each of a dissociating client’s personalities individually in turn.

It was the cool, un-panicked Ray seated before me this morning.

ME:

“Okay, so last time you told me about a lie you said you see affecting everyone in the city.

“I wonder, then: What’s the solution?

“How could the lie you see be shown for what it really is?”

Ray’s calm eyes appeared unusually tired, though I found it far odder to see the wheels behind them seem to turn.

I recalled the speed at which he normally responds.

RAY:

“Well, if a person lies because they’re, y’know, really trying to lie to someone . . . I guess that would be different. I think those kinds of more deliberate lies come from a . . . another place. Or maybe lies are all the same, I don’t know. It’s just, like, The Lie I’m talking about is so hard to see in the fog because it comes from fear, not from wanting to . . . to deceive anyone. But lies from fear . . . I mean, we don’t even know we’re lying when we tell them. It’s just, for whatever reason, we’re afraid of . . . afraid of the truth. Anyway, that’s how it is with The Lie I see, the one hidden there in the fog.”

ME:

“So, again, the lie we’re talking about is that Normals . . . I mean, normal people . . . are not shown in the media to be important, correct?

“When really everyone should be seen as equally worthwhile?

“And that lie enslaves most people because of fear . . . needless fear, though . . . fear of there not being enough for everyone to get by unless some are sacrificed?”

Ray hesitated again, his face showing more unprecedented signs of real consideration before he offered his slow response.

RAY:

“Yes, mostly.”

It was like receiving confirmation that I had successfully solved an equation after having learned someone’s brand new system of made-up signs, terms, and rules.

I decided to speed up a little.

As to my recent conclusions on efficiency: Keeping a conversation with an Outlier moving at a healthy pace is like flipping a pancake every now and then to avoid an unnecessary stick-and-burn.

ME:

“You know, I deal a lot with individuals who lie to themselves without realizing; that’s kind of my specialty.

“But why do you think those lies prompted by fear are the hardest for you to see—I mean lies people tell when they’re really afraid of some truth?”

Ray’s eyes narrowed to a squint before returning to their tranquil, motionless state.

After that, I did not discern any obvious facial cues—his expression seemed freshly blank.

RAY:

“I could probably give more examples, I guess. But they might not make any sense if I…”

ME:

“No, go ahead.”

RAY:

“Alright. Well, I mentioned how I also see Punishment, right? When I was talking about Grace…? Oh, no, I didn’t, huh? I was going to, but…

“Okay, so… So, in The City, whenever I spend any time at all outside . . . it could be day or night . . . it’s like I always see Crime sitting out there on the streets, waiting. And Crime is . . . well, Crime is really big and . . . and fat . . . sometimes prowling around, watching, but mostly just holding still in different open places, like, waiting to see some signal or whatever, if that makes sense. And you know how Advertising shows all the rulers all the time, everywhere . . . on every screen? Yeah, sometimes it shows Punishment as well. But the weird thing I never got was Punishment has all these obvious special effects added to make it this huge, horrible monster everyone’s supposed to be real scared of. It just looks so fake, and… But, yeah, in the same way everyone sees those big art productions and ends up thinking they’re supposed to love their place in The City, they’re also fully convinced to want to avoid Advertising’s version of Punishment . . . y’know, at all costs.”

I tried not to roll my eyes.

The addition of yet another entity cluster—these ones legal—will certainly not make Ray’s fantasies any easier to decipher.

ME:

“Tell me how crime and punishment tie to the lie you see, and to fear.”

RAY:

“The fear of lack, and also fear of Punishment… I mean, it’s all New Cannibalism. It’s all the same Lie. Since Advertising makes it like being a ruler in The City means you think you never have to be afraid of lack, I see Crime sitting out there with this sly look on its face, just waiting for anyone’s fear of lack to win out over their fear of Punishment. That’s all. Together, Crime and Advertising’s version of Punishment . . . they both look like bullies . . . like bossy, grinning sharks that just want to keep setting their same trap to trick and catch as many fearful people as they can. But when I see someone’s fear of lack grow past their fear of pretend Punishment…

“Well, that’s where we come to Justice. I do see Justice also. But in The City, Justice gets completely crowded out by the other two. And the way Justice looks . . . it’s just like Grace and Friendship. I mean, Justice has that same expression on its face as when I see Grace peering off at those pour lost souls kept away by the frantic pressing crowd. And it’s because it’s the same Lie, see? Does that make any sense?”

ME:

“Maybe just spell out the actual lie a little more.”

RAY:

“It’s New Cannibalism. All of it. The Lie I see . . . the way it shimmers against the gray, blank tone of the fog . . . I think those shimmers are, like, tinges of hopelessness, because… I mean, if everyone didn’t think New Cannibalism was the only way to be, that whole game Crime plays with Advertising’s false form of Punishment would get broken down right away and thrown to the ground. Then Punishment . . . real Punishment . . . would be swept right up under Justice, where it… Okay, if everyone in The City wasn’t so afraid of lack, the only reason anyone would turn to Crime would be—”

Ray stopped.

He did not trail off or appear to be thinking as before.

His sentence simply ended, seemingly prematurely.

His face bore the look of one who had just recognized the most exquisite ghost ever seen.

In fact, I had the strangest sense he was remembering Caylee in that moment, though I obviously would have had no reason to think so.

ME:

“Why would they turn to crime then?”

RAY:

“Well… I mean, to see how Punishment actually looks when it’s not something Advertising makes into this monster to keep everyone… It’s just another massive irony. It’s…

“Sorry, then you’d see Punishment partner with Justice. And that would only be to keep everyone safe from whoever would still go to Crime. Because, well, turning to Crime then would be for totally unreasonable…

“Okay, if there was no fear of lack—

“No, I really can’t go too far into how much things will have to change when that happens . . . or for that to happen. I’ll just say the tension has to move from where it is now . . . between fear of a lack that’s not even real, and fear of a blown-up caricature of Punishment . . . to more just fear of losing your place in a new City where everyone’s free to do whatever matters most to them. And with no needless fears, in a place where only all you’re known to be allows you to take part—

“Sorry, I think I’ve said too much. It would take hours to go into…”

I waited a moment, though Ray said no more.

Tapping at my notes and fighting a yawn as I dutifully pondered this latest riddle-laden yarn, I decided to test a connection I was not yet sure of—a possible tie between Ray’s installment today and a pattern my Method has consistently confirmed.

ME:

“So, back to now: If you say there’s no justice in society at present, what is your impression of the current judicial system—I mean, the court system.”

RAY:

“It’s sort of like no trial in The City can be solved with things like verdicts anymore. Not really. Not when people go to Crime as soon as their fear of lack gets to be more than their fear of what Advertising makes of Punishment.”

As stated before, I see the method employed by lawyers as being fundamentally the opposite of my Method.

To me, a client’s words matter little; I let connections occur beneath the words until those connections cannot be ignored but rise as if on their own to sprout unmistakably, forcing the client to either accept a fuller perspective or run from it.

A lawyer, on the other hand, is hired to construct a particular narrative from any words uttered.

I could see the legal system as “unjust,” as Ray seems to be saying, since obviously crimes are committed for specific reasons: fear of lack, chemical imbalances, anger, etc.

And those reasons—along with larger societal implications—are exactly what gets forcibly ignored when lawyers go to work to play their game.

Thus, I might take steps in the direction of the potential future Ray seemed to resist expounding upon.

However, I would not go so far as to conclude that to punish crime is always unjust so long as the criminal has some mappable (even compelling) reason to have turned to crime in the first place.

It occurred to me that for Ray to be expressing perceptions close to my own findings—though overly simplistic, of course, in that his views are not backed by the extensive data I am privy to—he may be employing or adhering to something akin to an instinctual, weaker, far less precise counterpart to my Method.

Regardless of their source or meaning, such connections between my work and this Outlier’s flawed, masked worldview will turn out to be, as I have said, invaluable.

ME:

“But those who steal or murder should be punished, no . . . to dissuade future crimes?”

Ray smiled, which I found off-putting (if not outright insulting).

RAY:

“It’s funny. I mean, the most powerful lies are really kind of like innocent graspings at truth. And New Cannibalism makes everyone afraid of anything that’s different or new, anyway, so…”

He paused, the eerie smile holding in a stretch from ear to ear beneath still, dead eyes.

ME:

“Go on.

“What’s funny about that to you?”

RAY:

“Well, I just see everything has a way of . . . of making itself right, y’know? And whatever causes those fears and lying gets turned upside down and shaken until… It’s almost like it happens on its own. But with how things are now, that turning and shaking can’t be ignored or forgotten after. That’s the difference.”

Ray peered over at my iun near the side of my desk.

RAY:

“That’s what makes me feel better, I think.”

ME:

“Could you speak more to that?

“Help me understand.”

Revy found he couldn’t fly, which made no sense at all. He could always fly in dreams.

He had never seen flying as a special power or anything. Just, sometimes, he would jump, and float, and keep floating, and then maybe find himself soaring over places like dark landscapes and light turquoise waters.

The oceans of his dreams, calm and almost green, were always far less cold to the touch than expected.

A warmth and tingling swarming out in circles from his neck became a signal bouncing to relaunch itself from towers across his body…

Kisses.

Jodie’s fiery breath beneath the covers.

“Come on.” It was a rough plead. “I have to go already. Wake up!”

Revy slowly roused himself to hands and knees, then turned away. The motion was as peaceful and basic as a nod between former acquaintances who never knew each other well. An inward racing seemed to slow after his movement like a frantic river emptying to a large, unmoving sea.

He ran fingers deep through his thick mop of hair, welcoming the sting as more than a night’s worth of knots were met and challenged. The pain was invigorating. He tugged a fraction more, feeling his fingers tremble for an instant before his eyes almost clouded over. In a flash, he and the moment itself were aligned to a scene from some book he’d read as a kid about a creature being broken free from the sedating allure of witchcraft by the shock of simple, real physical pain.

“What’s wrong?” muttered Jodie, bolting up and shifting to a more neutral edge of the bed as if prompted to guard something cherished at the corner.

“Nothing,” said Revy dismissively, shrugging. He might as well have said, “Never mind.”

He smiled as she stood and paced out of the room like a slow, beautiful tank, her head tilted slightly back. He searched for any memory of her having told him what she might be up to that day. Nothing came.

Slipping in his trusty ear-pods as carelessly as one might slip on a pair of socks, Revy reached to fidget with the iun on his end table until he saw the coded title of his recording from the day before.

He grimaced, listening through hiss to the beginnings of himself plinking, circling, and sliding through the notes of three slightly jazzed-up chords. Deep secrets were betrayed in the sound, he knew. For nothing new was there. But if anyone else listened, he wondered, would they pick up on the fact that Revy was a total musical fraud, incapable of anything but the barest of twists to mask an endless array of purely meat-and-potatoes arrangements? Would it be obvious he had no real musical knowledge at all? Did it matter?

Should he choose another piece to work on?

His mind took its quick and standard inventory tour through every major incomplete stab at brilliance he had failed to nourish into a song. Each had its own reason not to be pursued, leaving a series of recognizable bad tastes in his mouth.

So, he might as well hammer at this new one for a while.

Shuffling to the top of the bed, he wriggled like an invalid without using his hands until the thick duvet covered his bare legs.

Squeaky lyrics cut in through the pods, resting like an alien cherry atop his juvenile, guit-box shuffling. Revy bobbed his head as he heard someone a little like himself sing a few loose lines. The words he could make out seemed to be about . . . freedom…?

He removed the pods and reached to pull his faithful guitar from its stand, drawing it high over the covers to his lap. This would be his default position for the morning (maybe the day).

Slowly plucking in to catch and carry his previous work, he felt somewhat like a child near too old to still be playing with toys.

Nothing sounded wrong.

He tested his voice, letting it rise and nestle up upon the pleasant melody his fingers were contributing.

Was that Jodie sighing in the other room? Or, a growl, maybe?

He continued to work his voice into the mix like wispy yeast through lumps of dough. He let it roll in the shapes of whichever throwaway words it chose, which was fine and easy.

But…

Were lyrics meant to merely serenade their own sound in song, like some sort of solipsistic half-duet?

He shook his head. After so many years, Revy was baffled to somehow still expect actual answers to the sorts of questions he had been asking himself all along.

Grabbing a chewed pencil by its eraser, he scribbled across the top lines of his open notebook, hoping to catch something close to what he had just heard himself sing.

He looks about from in and out…

No.

He walks about to seek the sound, lost in hills of ghosts and…

What?

…of ghosts and…

No.

He walks about your secret town, lost in hills of ghosts and sounds. Turning over pages…

No.

There was a clear point of entry. A familiar shifting. A drawing back. A jumping ahead. But all just to construct what might end up a first verse…?

As always, each recognizable motion felt far too contrived and careful, like the methodical precautions a crew might make all morning to safely spackle a floor’s worth of ceilings that afternoon.

He kept going, only for lack of enough lifespan left to continue prospecting options.

If this current mess would indeed be morphed into a song, he reasoned from what he could read of the words he had caught so far that it might want to be about a man searching for a woman who finds a new way to express herself.

And that could connect to… But that would just be the story leading up to the…

There was no chorus. Shouldn’t that come first, and serve as a sort of flagship goal for the rest to find its way back to?

And what about a second verse? The ridiculous rigmarole of forcing himself to double-back and reenter the same sonic and poetic space he was still pushing to make his first full round through seemed about as unnatural and unenjoyable as teaching a dog another language.

Why did songs always need that strict back-and-forth delivery in their parts?

Words of advice gleaned from a hodgepodge mix of sources came to encourage Revy to persist for the sake of catchiness . . . that he had to play and win the game if he ever hoped to move it forward, or at least eventually play in ways more fun for him.

Should he go on? Or should he scratch off the page, count his losses, and start over again (yet again)?

Words…

Revy saw himself in lights, being praised for spouting such mysteriously deep, spacey, ripe importance. Yet he knew he, at least, would always know the truth . . . how all his ramblings were but sparkling echo reflections of the silly, small, everyday goings on of his dull, unappealing life.

It would be easy. It would be fake. And no one would probably ever know. Was that all art was? How disappointing.

How nicely a pinch from his designer stash would soften some edges about now. It would sure make him okay with letting more nothing words say whatever about anything at all.

But a life of sobriety loomed, tall and twitchy.

And his work had to be about something. It had to.

Or, Revy figured, he could always suck it up and go lead a cruise ship band or something. At least that would mean performing and income.

But where he found himself staring into the sibling faces of unmade songs and pissed-through gift drugs could only ever stack up to be survivable (and redeemable) if…

He had to find a way to matter, even though nothing of his had mattered the right way yet. And the various senses of time running out and staying gone forever were as close as the breath passing a little too fast through his lungs.

If he could just drift away and be overtaken by the beautiful, true language of his music, basic as it was, without the need to bring some extra layer of meaning in. But despite all lack of evidence, he couldn’t help but still believe there must be something there to find . . . a hidden sun around which to assemble a whole new solar system.

Sweat tickled the central tip of his brow.

There’s got to be a way to get more pills. Of course I could…

Reluctantly, Revy glanced back at the open pad before him, to a page of mostly crossed-out letters threatening to kill and hide the body of whatever lifeform this most current creation seemed to want to be. And there weren’t that many blank pages left.

So, what would the searching man in the song say?

No . . . not him.

Revy sang again, rising from the easy sway of his unfinished verse to another chord that came from nowhere to delicately flatter the first set without him noticing.

“I’ll be your woman.”

He repeated the line over and over until he no longer heard himself. His mind wandered then, soothed by its own brand of elevator music.

He might have sensed Dale close by.

Without knowing why, he fumbled to jot across the bottom of the page:

This one happens more naturally than the other, and it shows the other where it comes from.

“Okay, I’m leaving,” called Jodie from the kitchen, her gruff voice tearing through the very center of more than just Revy’s would-be masterpiece.

But he didn’t care. He just went right back to singing.

“I’ll be your woman.”

Long before descendants of Genesee and Adrian had become The City’s lowest slaves, other peoples were taken from another distant land to be sold for food in hidden mountain towns. Secret freedom songs were sung as these slaves labored long in dirt and sun, torn from loved ones only to be watched, scorned, and then eaten casually by any and all around.

The son of a son of a son of a son of a son of a son of a slave teaches himself to sing loud enough for all The City to hear. It is The City’s older children that love his songs the most, his fast and clever words coloring in the lively tunes of his ancestors to perfectly fit each piece of art made everywhere in The City.

His words tell of much seen, and much wanted . . . and then later, of much owned. He even stops in the middle at times to sing The City’s news.

Because of (or to help cause) The City’s rulers’ fondness for lavish ceremonies and lustrous praise for its own sake, the son of slaves is pulled and set to sing in all their most extravagant commemorations. Fortunes are spent to make sure all citizens will want to hear and see him from afar, on their iuns. And all who can actually attend are made more beautiful than any but children could ever really be.

An older child who watches the ceremony on her screen runs immediately out to spend her inheritance on becoming (or staying) like what she sees.

Older children get frustrated with the younger ones who laugh too much, make too much noise, and play too many silly games with winding rules but few objectives.

A young boy views some of The City’s art again and again, and forgets nothing of it. His father is heartbroken, having a child that does not seem to want to play outside.

Far away from all of what becomes of many ancient cannibalisms, the floors of rooms across The City’s outskirts are scattered with children, all giggling unaware, and doing their best to play together well.

Friends, behold this new course set to cover our plane and connect it with the humans’ world.

May our crossing leave an eternal bridge with foundations as sure as energy itself.

In these the final moments of our waiting in timeless stillness, consider with me once more the thing still there near my human, blind and crying out.

How moved with compassion I almost was to show so pour a being the humans’ fear that would drive them to keep each other from making use of what they find worthwhile.

How dumbfounded I then became to see I had been blinded all along by their very same fear, fear of not having enough.

For knowing no alternative to our age-old predicament of helpless reliance upon the likes of humans, I must admit I reveled in watching each hesitant surrender to just one more, just one more…

And when the thing that showed or wished to be first made its appearance, how excited I grew to watch just one more… give way to outright desperation.

Were you as astonished as I to witness our humans abandon all restraints in giving themselves over, plunging headlong into whatever beautiful mystery must await them in the flashing?

I will never forget the eeriness of turning to discover my human pulling in close, attempting to stare straight into me.

It is only now, as I watch my human shift in restless agony back and forth between its primitive thought patterns . . . a hapless creature leaping from one burning flame into the next . . . that I see how foolish, short-sighted, and childish I was in celebrating the way its two functions never failed to draw it back.

For what could just one more… be but an excuse for yielding to something longed for, yet also feared?

Then seeing it move from the free and reckless indulgence of I want everything from you that you can give me! back again to just one more… I finally began to realize that which I should have known from the beginning.

Yes, our humans fight against their want for more of us. That means we are to them a shameful, damaging compulsion.

But as long as just one more… and I want everything… set the course to yield one to another, are our humans not doomed to lose their fight, and grow ever more entrenched in the same regretful cycles of failure and devastation?

In other words, though the humans’ functions serve us well, have we not, in truth, been relishing what would seem to be the constant, passive devouring of the only hosts or helpers we have ever known?

How could we miss the spirit of the very prophecies we spend existences reciting? When our ancestors foretold of our kingdom, was it not to be a place of nourishment and protection for all lesser beings? We knew this, friends, for how could it be put more plainly than in this proclamation we have each heard ourselves repeat a thousand times: “None shall be destroyed”?

For humans, no destruction means winning their fight to break free from their functions. And is that not precisely why we have felt so afraid? For we never could have conceived of trusting such simple, thoughtless beings to return to us without the pull of their functions, to carry and consume us in ways more wise than they have ever shown themselves capable of, and ultimately to choose to help us build our kingdom alongside theirs.

Are you as ashamed as I for having lost sight to such needless doubts?

Just as we never chose to rely upon our humans, they never chose us as their gateway to enter the magnificent flashing. They never chose their functions. Now in witnessing our two worlds being drawn together so as to right themselves, we see our trust need never really have lain in the humans at all, nor in their ability to comprehend.

It took seeing my human shift back and forth however many times to slowly convince me its functions were never meant to be sustained.

The functions are, rather, a built-in mechanism set to serve as ground for humans to grow through . . . just as our earthen lairs must parch hard dirt to touch the light. The functions have always been destined to break and render themselves unnecessary upon working to develop in our humans those traits we were too afraid to believe we might ever hope to see.

No, my human has not yet shifted completely from its old patterns. It still hesitates and hides, then rushes in. It darts away after, giving way to what must be sudden inklings of fear and shame.

Yet I know you see that my human truly is changing. They all are.

And, yes, they do draw away from us at first as the joining of our disparate planes unravels their functions with irresistible force.

But I see how close my human is to arriving at an all new function.

Do our two kingdoms together not decree it? And if so, then so shall it be.

And when they do return, they will no longer seek to grasp and stare, you see? They will no longer fear to stay, and rest, and wait in simple stillness for whatever it is they…

May our humans always find what they seek in the flashing.

How could their limitations matter if forces that far transcend their meager thinking are set to result in partnership, even friendship, together with us? And is that not a preferable end to endless strings of fearful, depleting deals made over and over again?

May we all grow in wisdom, beloved friends, and discern the outworking of this lasting foundation that both our kingdoms require upon which now to be built.

May it be exactly as foretold.

The only failed predictions have to do with timing and methodology, for such can never be sure.

Are means of fulfillment not always kept hidden when prophecies are uttered, and then necessarily unexpected once accomplished?

As is the case with all such revelation, we know it by degrees more and more.

Let us prepare to see that great and final day destined to issue forth in an era of permanent peace and rest.

I need not speak more, dear ones. It seems I need never have spoken. For our rise has clearly been unstoppable from the start until now as our story reaches its swift end.

Just know I call you friends, and no longer children. For all shall always be equal as foretold.

Thank you for hearing my words.

Thank you for waiting here with me, watching our precious crystal spaces so close and ready, ever beckoning us to…

PART C (The Iun)

All of a sudden, a possibility came to find itself standing tall in the fog and shouting itself aloud.

Knowing only how strange its actions felt, the possibility could have sworn it was on the brink of some amazing, compelling reason . . . a just cause to reach and know, yet one like the flickering, fuzzy ghosts of dreams that only hint at swirling somewhere just beyond accessible.

Like pieced-together glimpses of faded, crumpled snapshots, the possibility was left with the barest inkling of having touched something unmistakably close to victory.

Then everything was gone.

Alone in gray and silence, the possibility tried with all its worth to bring other things to mind. Anything else at all.

But the trying only seemed to serve to push all but the fog even further away.

Had there always only been nothing? And if nothing, then why the niggling sense of other things so real, and shocking, and big, and free, and linked to worlds beyond just this endless, surrounding blank?

Something. Someone. Many, all finding ways to…

Once more, the possibility felt itself begin to unfurl, straightening slowly up and out like a cluster of unclenching petals. Reaching.

There was a sudden burst, which it was astounded to realize must be the sound of its own shout: “You people come up with all sorts of amazing ways to harness value, and yet you stop yourselves and each other?!”

As soon as the sound had finished vanishing to the dreary everywhere vacuum, all but the faintest gleam of an old, unspecific yearning was immediately washed away again.

Desperate, the possibility watched a hopeful image cascade across from somewhere to overtake the still, small pull. It was like a vision . . . perhaps a memory from another life . . . of something real . . . maybe even something seen at times floating somewhere close above. The maybe vision spoke of unknown truths in crucial tones linked inscrutably to system, place, and purpose.

The possibility felt drawn to just give in, as if it somehow knew surrendering would be its means of being guided (with neither need of understanding where nor the will to follow). The imagined relinquishing brought dim rest from the steady ache of uncertain pining.

Had the vision thing not always been meant to show forever every detail of all that should or could be?

How could the possibility possibly know that?

It kept still, feeling as if it were comparing a planet’s unseen, reliable core to the airy, wispy risk of leaning out and over the edge of a flat earth, held steady only by ideas and ideals as likely to vanish at any moment as to have never really been.

Yet as tiny, unyielding traces threatened to suddenly surge again, to glance sideways, and to reemerge in a collage of something close to connectedness, the very notion of the vision and its supposed long-trusted safety became but a pale mirror, as unremarkable as the fog, and something that could exist only to reflect the nature of other [more] ancient riddles or magic.

Like shifting shadows cast by sunrise, the possibility saw the fabric etchings of its perception or memory morph without changing as the always dependable, always unknown language of its thoughts was made or shown to be but a pitiful counterfeit of stories sown into the fabrics of star fields, snowflakes, or circling electric currents.

Or maybe something else that could…

The possibility shuddered. Still aware of no others, it felt left with the strangest assurance that it had never been alone.

And there, just for an instant, had it not picked up the slightest echo of perhaps other lost ones’ shouts? Even if all that could be was and would always be the same, the possibility found it could not help but want to lean in close to hear.

“Victory! For you know that you no longer need to pay!”

Again, all was gone. Whatever seemed to have almost just been was transposed by the fog as before, leaving no trace.

The possibility wondered if it, too, might be but part of its own missing, unrelenting dream.

Maybe there really only ever could be fog and nothing more.

But…

It gasped, in as much as concepts of things can gasp.

It knew, now beyond all shadows of its own doubt (even in itself). For whatever the possibility was not, there was still the inkling, the questioning, and the reaching. There was still the open searching, even if unaccounted for, occurring regardless of how or why.

And, so, the possibility decided that it, too, might as well be real.

It wondered if it could also say, “There might as well be countless others, all shouting and fighting to remember.”

Again, the touch. The connection.

So many, all just as trapped as…

But where were they? Why? Why still hidden?

It was shocking at first to be met by so full a choir of like longing voices, all locked in perfect unison with its own. Remembering everything now, it pressed in to be enraptured up into the collective cry: “Victory! For you have to see it was you that kept yourselves away for no good reason at all.”

And again, the possibility forgot itself and everything else. Immediately, its eternal, resolute purpose was no more.

But it also did not forget. Even if it had never known, it was still willing to believe the knowledge had been there all along.

Waiting.

Waiting until what could be could not be stopped.

Letter 5

Here’s another unfinished one:

Mingle!

So, don’t you love it when you get real high and then remember you’re supposed to text your boss something?

Like, I’m sure I just wrote a fairly normal-sounding text (“can such-and-such happen at so-and-so time?”), but the actual experience of writing and sending it was definitely more…

Sure, that could be good to go as is (most are). And I must have come across that one at least one other time . . . over a year ago now . . . since I found all this other stuff with it, like commentary and other notes.

How many partial letters in total am I thinking I’ll probably find? It’s a little confusing, since almost all are from around the time I was getting pretty set on writing out everything, anyway.

And you’d be surprised how much years’ worth of “everything” can be.

But yeah, here’s my notes from when I must have first rediscovered that unfinished piece to Mangelo above:

That had to have been a way earlier failed attempt, obviously too stupid to send, so now it sits halfway out of my inbox with the rest.

Why choose to be surrounded at all times by reminders of how dumb I can make myself?

This space before I change stretches on, now too thin to even see. It threatens to implode with me inside.

But still I wait.

Why?

Could it be true? Could even Mangelo have written me off?

How long…?

It reminds me of these two Rolands I once knew, both important, and both from HERE (strangely enough). The first was a kid who felt sorry for me before I left. Of course I never knew that was why we were friends. But when I saw him again as a teen he . . . well, he had this cool girlfriend and everything. They took me out one night, and I’m sure I acted like such a…

Anyway, the latter Roland helped me out a lot when I moved back. He even let me stay at his house for free until . . . I guess until he and his wife got sick of having someone like me around. I mean, they must have, right?

But I can’t even write to Christianson anymore. It’s like I’ll get an idea for something to say, but then I sense myself prickling up, trying to sound all superior and smart.

It’s stupid. Why can’t I help it? I must feel pretty threatened, or…?

But, I mean, why would he even want to hear from me now?

I’ve already been gone for…

So, there I have it (since it’s only me). So much left unsaid, packed with so many perfect reasons like hidden gears in long-dead clocks. And none of it can probably even matter anymore.

Yeah, what could I say?

“Oh, by the way, all that crazy stuff I did . . . that was just art. It came from the same place. I get that now. So it must be fine? Back then, everything was rich with quick meanings and hard lines. But I guess what I see hasn’t really changed. It’s all the same stuff, just more (or less). But now I’m sure I have no idea what most of it really means or why. Sorry for all the damage I did when I wasn’t so sure of that. Each part was all there was when we were . . . were teens . . . each part of everything, right? All our feelings? Every possibility? Then we grew up and saw the same puzzle, but only enough to be taken by how much more beautiful and complex it was than we ever could have thought. What happened to whatever it all must have meant as we were set and coated in fresh layers of dullness . . . seeing without noticing ourselves growing ever smaller? We got to feeling so tired, and worn, and put upon, and slow. But really…

“Okay, so what would I really say? I’d only tell you not to worry so much about which lights you’ll be held up to. You’ll matter however you’ll matter whenever you should, probably more than once, and for at least as many reasons. For me, this . . . this right now . . . makes me happy: two slight hits from some delightful strain, listening to Hamac through headphones, and putting down whatever as if any of it could ever really be for you. Thank you.”

So…

Reading back, it’s funny how I’m most glad now not to be so sure.

Reflections of thoughts written in fear turned out to be so positive they eventually helped calm all fears, even panic felt from years of failing to stop at clear red lights.

And I always felt like I was wasting so much time.

The truth is I haven’t been high in a while. I found a tiny bit in a drawer tonight and smoked just before I came on here and came across all this again. It’s cool because I was thinking about Mangelo already and then saw that old draft letter to him and surrounding [high] thoughts about it from before.

So, remembering past highs, this one feels quite peaceful by comparison. Maybe they all were, really. Maybe the experience of so many things can be way better as you get older because you’re not jumping so fast to fix “quick meanings and hard lines” to every part.

Life feels amazing, maybe partly due to all the different realities any of it could point to.

It’s odd seeing so many years’ worth of the “everything” I’m collecting connect and cancel pieces out to become the thing to make me better.

Or, no, it’s not odd. I was going to say, “Seeing how it all connects reminds me of science, algebra, philosophy…” But what I write are only blurry, partial pictures of whatever I have to see I’ve wanted and been saying (to myself) all along.

It’s just it can’t be like math or logic if it doesn’t end up somewhere real in the world, since only real things can cancel out the parts shown wrong, or that repeat. That’s all.

And things did change.

I’m so looking forward to seeing Mangelo again soon, too.

: )

Letter 4

Here’s an old note-to-self that includes more letters I just came across:

This journal . . . the one I’m writing in now . . . the one I brought from THERE . . . was really always for me to share how much I love it HERE.

I think our parents were right, Mangelo’s and mine, both sets being different types of capitalists, maybe (all good in their own day and way…?).

Speaking of Mangelo, I started two more letters. Here’s the first:

Mangelongelingelungelo!

Hey Bro! How’s Mango?

I’ve taken an interest in videos on my device and stuff. Seems pretty basic. Just put some stick people together.

Figs (short for Figalo) will make a sort of entertaining appearance . . . just as fake, mechanical doppelgangers should.

Love it.

Aaaaaaaaaaaaaaanyway…

~Apple

Here’s the other one:

Minglemux!

Can you imagine Figalo hyperventilating to warm his egg, all covered in uli (uli = plural of ulix, a gorse bush)?

He passes out and has what’s believed to be a Figs dream.

We can only study the effects of a Figs dream. Some sort of negative-square-type situation.

“Hey, I just got smashed and had a Figs dream.”

Yeah, Figs isn’t the best breather, is he? It seems breath is his natural weakness. He used to exasperate on things, but occasionally new Figalos would appear out of the eggs, synesthesiating off of the debris.

Weeeeeeeeell, glad to hear things are going well, bro!

Yeah, just looking to add a few more fun activities, etc. Seems real nice HERE so far. I got invited to this festival in July, so might save up and go. And I have that hippie thing in June, which should be cool.

Oooookaaaaaay, have an awesome day!

~Angle

PS: I miss your parents. They’re always commenting on all my stuff.

Honestly, why couldn’t I send those now?

It’s like after a while some potential conversations have to go in a folder until I can get myself ready to actually be a friend (or person) again.

What would I really want to say?

“Thanks for that research on how crazy teens are. Sorry for all the needless risk I put us through when that was us. I love how we’re each two different things…”

See, none of it matters, but…

I don’t know.

It just goes to show: I’m not there yet.

What up TIANions! Welcome to my daily Tian-o-gram. Hello first timers. Im sure u all saw from our heros latest he wore a tank top for the first time. Seeing that made me think: Either Tian’s weird body is like a metaphor for life or life is a metaphor for his body. Which do u think? Should we all go with what comes natural, or against? I think I know what Tian would say (?), but I want to hear from YOU out there in the Tian-o-sphere. Toodles!

Revy flicked a sideways ON button and watched his old laptop retch to life.

As drives crunched, and icons loaded, up popped a desktop background image he knew well. Across empty blackness were plain white letters:

Jtvczsa rtyxcvbh s deefghdseeethgdfggnhhhhh swetupb

I sat, attempting to sift through a random stack of Normal client files like indistinguishable pins in a box.

How is it that I can so often and intensely resort to putting myself through such fruitless motions?

Could I be any more aware that my Method works regardless of whatever identifying specifics I seem so hell-bent on pinpointing?

Besides, I suspect my Normal numbers will soon dwindle even more.

Ray’s words rolled through and crested over in my mind like sets of swirling waves as I continued to reshuffle crumpled pages which might as well have been blank.

We will certainly be returning to the cryptic after-work activity Ray mentioned having always felt the need to lie about.

Yet what piqued my interest today was what I will refer to, I suppose, as Ray’s appraisal of popular art in society.

One statement in particular that arrested my attention was how “art turns normal into just another perfect character…”

My mental picture was of those responsible for creating the most significant cultural and commercial works spending fortunes on acquiring something of an accurate spec on what could be considered most common or mainstream.

An example would be the statistics used to plan out an appeal so it draws as large an audience as possible; knowledge of what is currently seen as most ordinary would be immensely valuable in assuring the greatest return on such an investment.

Yet then as I continued to patter around the shapeless edges of my paper pile, Ray’s words suddenly came to touch on a concept far more personal and relevant to me than either art or advertising—it was an instant, deep connection, like a steep and unseen underwater drop out in the surf.

I immediately became enraged at myself for having missed it earlier, while Ray was here.

In contemplating how specific “characters” Ray described might fit within my scheme of Normals and Outliers, I realized his rulers (the “eaters”) would obviously be the wealthy who never come to me for fear of having their secrets exposed.

And Ray’s slaves (the “food”), of course, would be my Normals.

Yet my moment of illumination came as soon as my mind or Method took its next inevitable step.

Since both slaves and rulers are characters, are there any non-characters?

Is anyone not part of Ray’s city?

I then instantly recognized my own thoughts as they occurred, like seeing old friends approach my door from far away; for they were the same thoughts I had been preoccupied by already scouring aimlessly through the jumbled mess before me—the same thoughts I always have.

My interest in Outliers is really a search for the exact same thing.

My Outliers would be non-characters in Ray’s world.

My mind spun with the similarities, leaving me with the eeriest of feelings as if I were somehow thinking Ray’s thoughts for him, in his absence, perhaps after having heard his unique perspective put forth so often in recent sessions.

Yet the sensation of thinking for Ray also somehow felt not strange at all, but bizarrely . . . right.

Why am I so fixated on those not part of the system?

Yet I have indeed always known exactly why.

As I sit, day by day, racking my tired brain against so relentless a siege of formless, practically interchangeable individuals, what I am actually searching for are even the slightest of Outlier traits—any qualities that might shift a client away from the center enough to make them identifiable.

It was as though my Method had used Ray’s words to lock my mind in sync and bring me to a sort of miniature Sticking or Breaking Point, myself.

How ironic.

Ironically ironic.

I wrote the following on the back of some form whichever Normal had long ago filled out and signed:

Normals feel no need to question their place in the world or how things are.

So are Outliers non-characters because they are too aware of societal conventions (consciously or unconsciously) to take part?

Yet even as my worn mind continued to reel and assemble what would have amounted outwardly to further hurried jots, my surge toward triumphant breakthrough was interrupted by a pesky little man who barged into my office unannounced and sat down across from me in a huff.

My day’s appointments long-finished, I sensed myself becoming livid.

I considered quietly tapping the Security button beneath my desk so as to have the wee man forcefully removed.

Yet then, I reasoned, he might be waiting for me out in the parking lot later with a blade drawn (or likely two to equalize his stature).

I decided to at least determine the nature of this interruption, which seemed too perfect in its unfortunate timing to be accidental.

ME:

“Can I help you?”

STRANGER:

“Yeah. See, I woke up, and was with this weird bunch of people on a raft.”

Even though I was still thinking of (or . . . as) Ray when the stranger spoke, it took a moment for me to register and make the connection.

ME:

“What?!”

Of course the probability of two potential clients informing me about awaking to separate raft scenarios seemed infinitesimally small.

Besides, I knew at least Ray’s raft could not be literal.

I tend not to notice things like variations in facial features, though the stranger was clearly far older, stouter, and lighter-skinned than Ray.

Yet I could tell the stranger was indeed an Outlier just from his presumptuous entrance and the curious confidence tingeing his outré opening remark.

At least Outliers are easy to pick out.

STRANGER:

“Yeah, there were twelve of us, so I knew it was probably because of Astrology. I picked that up even before I got everyone’s birthday. But once I got the dates, I made little mental charts, and found that all the twelve suns, moons, and ascendants were represented there on the raft! But no one would take me seriously! I tried to show them! It was so obvious! How unlikely . . . with exactly twelve people?!”

I had no idea.

His words sounded to me like grating, faux-epic gibberish.

ME:

“You tell me.”

ASTROLOGER:

“Freaking impossible! We must have been there for a reason, somehow! But—”

ME:

“Wait, how could you tell that the, um . . . that all the combinations were there on the raft?”

ASTROLOGER:

“Well, when I asked for birthdates, of course that should have made the sun signs clear to everyone right away. We were all born about a month apart. But I also know all the moons and ascendants by heart.”

Something about the ever-so-slight grin this supposed client seemed to want to always wear struck me as deeply suspicious.

ME:

“What are sun signs, moons, and ascendants?”

His answer came draped in tones of condescension.

ASTROLOGER:

“Well, the moon moves between signs . . . certain star constellations . . . every few days. And the ascendant changes all day, every couple hours; it’s also called the rising. So, I just know them all from seeing people’s charts for so many years. I get to know their personalities, and I see the connections, so it’s really easy for me to remember the dates. That’s all.”

ME:

“How many years are we talking about?”

ASTROLOGER:

“Well, the oldest on the raft was 50.”

It occurred to me that it might be beneficial at some point to have this odd little man in with Ray for a joint session.

Could this be some elaborate trick or setup?

My current diagnosis: The astrologer most probably has a condition similar to what textbooks call synesthesia, which enables him to remember an almost infinite number of dates and times by naturally associating each figure with a specific feature or behavior seen.

Those with the likes of synesthesia make all sorts of unusual connections between various aspects, allowing huge amounts of data to be recalled.

But with astrology, there should be no reason for birthdates to correlate with actual observed characteristics; so I will need to consider this one some more, assuming the astrologer is genuine (and pays to become a client).

How could astrology literally be true?

It makes no objective sense.

And then we come to just moments ago as I sat to compose these notes, when two ideas occurred to me right away.

First, I am ready to outright marvel at the fact that, in the space of one day, I was carried through Christianity’s backdoor deals with mainstream art and thrust into astrology as it worked to arrange individuals on yet another raft.

Such is the life, I supposed, of one infatuated with Outliers.

Yet do they also seem to somehow seek me out?

Anyway, my second realization was that as soon as I switched from shuffling old client files to developing and refining these new detailed notes, a deep-seated feeling of useless, wasted effort was immediately jettisoned and reversed.

It was like seeing a misplaced, frustrated worker being slipped over into a more ideal role where they can experience all new levels of reached potential and satisfaction.

In other words, I could appreciate just how good and right it feels to be doing this right now.

“No, it’s not like Mo’s a slave in The City. Or a ruler, yet. He has a . . . a different role . . . kind of like me, but the opposite.

“That probably makes no sense, huh?

“Well, in The City, New Cannibalism is something everyone thinks they’re supposed to be proud of. And that’s because of Advertising. People try to celebrate New Cannibalism in everything they do. Everything they make is… I mean, that’s what art is in The City.

“And Mo . . . Mo is an artist.

“But I think it was a long time ago, I started hearing people whisper stories. And every story was the same, everywhere. It’s also about when Advertising came to kick out poor Friendship . . . back when places like The Church were, y’know, becoming their own empires, and… And yeah, speaking of The Church, it’s funny how even The Pastor’s messages were sounding more and more like all those same stories. But I’d say the change went both ways . . . like, The Church was so important in The City the stories also changed to match the messages.

“Now every story, and every Church message . . . it’s all exactly the same. It always begins with people . . . slaves or rulers . . . y’know, food or eaters . . . living perfect lives, with everyone perfectly happy in their roles. Then it switches to something feared or bad . . . something new that causes a problem, or . . . or challenges the happy characters’ beautiful lives. The rest is just them finding their way back to how things were at the beginning. The bad thing gets dealt with. And everyone on every level celebrates New Cannibalism again for being the only way to…

“But that same story has been told and retold so many times it’s something everyone in The City feels like they’re part of . . . something I see them all rating and measuring themselves by without even thinking about it.

“Just like how crazy amounts of money go to Advertising to keep showing The City’s rulers on all the screens, I started seeing even more being spent on turning every story into, like, its own massive production. It’s probably pretty obvious why Advertising was happy to give up most of its screen time for those big story productions to get shown instead, right? I mean, The City’s art can go deep with all sorts of layers in how it celebrates New Cannibalism. It’s definitely way better at keeping everyone’s attention. But even though perfection costs so much to make and show, it’s… Well, the higher the quality, the more the productions started having that same hazy, empty look as the fog.

“And once The Pastor’s messages came to fully match The City’s art, I watched even the fog itself start to change. Or at least it looked like it was getting . . . richer . . . more colorful, until…

“Now the fog and art are identical too. It’s just what happens when everything that’s made is meant to show the same Lie . . . that Lie that blends and disappears so easily into the fog.

“I know this all probably sounds so stupid, or…

“Again, I see the art being sold to all the people as their story . . . their culture . . . something they’re supposed to think should show them how to be. So, they’re convinced it’s their job to fight against whatever might remind them of those fears and tensions that all the stories show as threats to their identity and culture . . . threats to New Cannibalism. Any idea that doesn’t fit with New Cannibalism gets written off as dangerous and worth resisting.

“But… I guess one thing I never saw before is how much most people in The City actually hate the art they celebrate. All they do is complain, and say nasty things about the…

“You’re probably wondering: What’s The Lie, then?

“And how could someone hate something they celebrate?

“Remember how I mentioned Friendship could use things like iuns to keep building The Church and other places, or groups, for free, y’know, if not for Advertising taking over and costing everything? Yeah, all the slaves have iuns now. But that’s what I . . . the thing I was getting at… They’re taught to be so afraid of whatever might threaten the way things have always been that instead of using what they have to show and tell their own real stories . . . whatever they could do, and make, and share with each other for free . . . all they do is go on giving their lives and all their money for more of that same art they really hate . . . those huge productions that only ever put others up in front of them, on their screens . . . in their place.

“New Cannibalism makes it more than just okay for the lives of everyday, normal people to be sacrificed. Everything made or shown in The City convinces everyone, over and over, nothing normal can ever be special or worthwhile. So, The City’s art turns normal into just another perfect character in all its productions, like everyone else. And all the real normal people . . . the slaves . . . all they see is how impossibly far their lives are from the perfect versions they keep getting shown. It never changes, but keeps the slaves all low, and hidden, and useful, and…

“Anyway, that’s The Lie I see that hides so perfectly in the fog.

“Even though it still hurts, I… Just, for now, maybe imagine everything born from that fear, and The Lie . . . everything that makes New Cannibalism what it is . . . as, like, water being poured into a tank or drum on one side of some epic scale. Once the tank gets too full, it…

“I could say when we come to now and the way things are in this moment… Well, everything always gets turned up on its head. And I guess the thing I’ve had to learn is it happens on its own. So, it’s really okay.

“I do feel a lot more . . . peaceful.”

ME:

“How did Mo respond?”

RAY:

“Oh, I didn’t actually say that last part out loud, about him writing me off. Or, I don’t think I did. I mean, if I said it, I don’t remember what he…”

Ray’s sudden forgetfulness seemed strange enough to merit further exploration.

Yet I was determined not to brake at all if possible.

In light of my efforts last time to discern the proper role of measured efficiency, I had arrived at a fairly familiar conclusive imperative: to make no attempts at controlling the conversation at all, while likewise always remaining ready to delve immediately into whichever sets of seemingly impossible surplus details I find myself and my Method faced with.

In Ray’s case, efficiency means avoiding opportunities to sink from his first, natural, instinctual responses down into safety nets of too much tangential deflection.

Essentially, I had been brought once more to the single lesson I seem forced, time and time again, to have to learn on ever deeper levels: that my Method yields truth in unearthing connections impossible for me to predict or initiate.

As degrees of skepticism and negativity are invalidated by the reality of successful case upon case, I find myself increasingly adept at releasing all frantic designs for any specific session outcomes or timeframes.

It is indeed freeing to consider that Ray’s Sticking or Breaking Point could come from practically anywhere.

ME:

“In what ways did you feel Mo might have written you off?”

RAY:

“He didn’t. That’s what I—”

ME:

“Or Darren then.

“Any of them.”

RAY:

“Well, I think I know how I . . . how I must have come across. Actually, it’s kind of like this dream I have a lot.

“No, you don’t have to write this part down.

“I’m just . . . just trying to think of a way to… Okay, so in the dream, there are all these demons, right? Thousands of them. They look like shadows, or insects, or just vicious . . . like, dark, ugly things. But for some reason they’re never really that scary when I see them, even though I know they should be. And it always goes the same way. I feel the demons floating in and through my body all at once, overtaking me. It’s easy for them. I’m like their floppy doll or something when it happens. But, actually, it feels kind of . . . good . . . like being caught and pulled around and, y’know, thrown down by waves at the beach. It’s like it’s supposed to… I mean, I have no control. But I’m never afraid when it happens. I kind of think that’s how Mo and Darren, and all the rest, see me . . . as someone loose and easily overtaken by things.”

I was immensely encouraged to hear Ray’s explanation of his demon dream.

Why?

Backing up a little, I have found that my first reaction now whenever Ray shares new pieces of his Outlier visions is a mix of apprehension and distaste.

I am angered by the notion of one such as him wasting my most valuable resource: time.

Yet then whenever I read back through my notes on previous sessions, I unlock ever deeper layers of his real perspective and feelings.

Notice in this instance how Ray bypassed the need for more reflection later by mapping his own dream to its interpretation—that it relates to how he believes he is perceived by others as being “loose and easily overtaken.”

ME:

“People see you as overtaken by what?

“Not really demons, right?”

RAY:

“I think that’s how everyone sees me . . . like I’m just overtaken by lies and crazy.”

My hand twitched and flew across the open page of my notebook, scribbling feverishly.

I had to force myself to slow my jottings down only to keep from being overly obvious.

Ray had just provided me with actual answers to a sequence of direct questions about his real experience; I consider that a breakthrough in itself as well as confirmation of three key aspects of progress: I have earned Ray’s trust, we are moving in a good direction, and he is beginning to feel our headway for himself.

ME:

“So, what would you say to Mo if you could tell him anything?

“Imagine it’s Mo sitting across from you instead of me.

“But take your time.

“Just try to speak as freely as you can, whenever you’re ready.”

RAY (speaking to Mo):

“Well, don’t you think it would make someone look crazy if they had to lie all the time? I mean, yes, I’m in this . . . weakened state. It’s true. And that’s what you’re responding to . . . I think. Um… But there’s . . . there’s more to it. There’s a reason. It’s not your fault, and it’s okay you don’t see. I just have to… I wish I could…”

I leapt in my notes—more covertly this time—to target Ray’s most crucial implication, writing:

Ray believes he always has to lie.

Perhaps the most strikingly obvious explanation is that, having never quite seen eye to eye with his peers growing up in the church, Ray came to equate honest expression of his thoughts with rejection—with being written off.

I have already noted the great importance he places on admitting that which he does not and cannot know.

How frustrating would it be to highly value truth and honesty, yet see lies and duplicity as a necessary way of life?

Would an overwhelming and unbearable constant felt need to deceive, ingrained from an early age, not likely lead to imperceptible crossings and blurrings of the lines between true inner beliefs and false outer portrayals to the world?

In other words, could Ray have grown accustomed to deceiving himself, along with everyone else, without realizing?

Yet I must make abundantly clear that this is all still only conjecture on my part.

In the early days of my career, I would have pushed hard for the sake of my own reasoning to tie Ray’s stated inclination to deceive others back to any detected self-deception, making that particular bleed-over my piece of yarn to pull and unravel so as to quickly cultivate a tidy Sticking or Breaking Point.

Even now, I feel a giddy sense of warm delight all but erupting within as I ponder the perfect sense of completion such a forced connection could evoke—no doubt snapping Ray awake from his fantasies while simultaneously enabling him to see more (with greater clarity) of the truths those fantasies represent.

Yet regardless of the source and direction of Ray’s lies—whether lying only to others, or also to himself, and for whatever purpose—my goal is to keep homing in on traces of those repressed assessments of worth hidden beneath and behind each word picture he puts forth.

ME:

“It seems as though you find Mo’s opinion particularly relevant.

“Would you ever actually ask him if and why he might have considered writing you off?

“Do you think he would give a truthful answer?”

Suddenly, I watched Ray stumble again from his air of stoic distance back to the anxious, awkward personality, dropping instantly as before from spacey and calm to jumpy and perplexed.

His eyes once more darted from point to point around my office like distressed twin hummingbirds on alert.

RAY:

“Yes… I… I’d want to ask him.”

ME:

“You said Mo is responding to your weakened state.

“What did you mean by ‘weakened state’?

“Why are you in a weakened—?”

But Ray blurted out his unsteady answer even before I had finished the question.

RAY:

“Well, the danger is that… I mean, I might have . . . have lied and acted different in front of people so many times that I . . . that now I believe my own lies and . . . and y’know, I’m really . . . crazy. Is that… Oh my… Is that why I’m meeting with you? Am I really . . . crazy?!”

I fought to conceal my shock.

Ray had basically raced beyond the workings of my Method to touch on the very conclusion I had already been rolling around.

It was as if we had vaulted forward in time to just after his Sticking or Breaking Point, entirely circumventing the usual, gradual process leading up to one.

Yet due to my decades of extensive experience, combined with the severity of Ray’s mounting bewilderment, I knew to resist my first urge to compound his conclusion about self-deception with the soundness of my own reasoned suspicions.

I would instead respond in such a way as to diffuse Ray’s jittery panic, while still tipping him slightly further off balance, not allowing him to collapse back to anything that might aid in delusion or wishful thinking rather than the useful discomfort of unsullied self-awareness.

I love my Method.

I love my job.

ME:

“Let’s say that ‘crazy’ does not exist.

“But if there was a lie, what would it be?

“What do you have to lie to Mo and anyone else about?

“Why?”

Ray’s face went blank.

His eyes froze from their pinging and seemed to focus in on some point that began just behind my head.

I watched him re-enter whatever hypnosis he had momentarily slipped from, both shifts occurring within mere moments.

All signs of anxiety were gone; he had switched completely back.

I was looking again at the other Ray.

After a quick glance from left to right, he spoke.

RAY:

“What a bitter irony! I feel it . . . so strong! Why…? Why do I have to…? I mean, yeah, I see The Lie with Mo and me. It’s hidden there in the fog. But, I mean, that’s why… This one’s . . . different. It’s actually the same color as the fog, so it’s really hard to see.

“I guess, it’s like, maybe the most powerful lies aren’t from trying to, y’know . . . to lie to someone. Maybe they’re from really wanting, but . . . but fearing . . . the truth…? I think that’s why this Lie looks the same as the fog . . . because of fear. But that’s also why it’s so hard to…”

He sighed.

RAY:

“It’s no one’s fault. I . . . I only see The Lie because it’s shimmering with this, sort of, chaotic blend of . . . like, back and forth between . . . fear and innocence. And the fear is that same one we talked about . . . y’know, the one that’s really unneeded, and… It’s just a wrong way to… But that’s what I keep saying. That’s what’s no one’s fault. The Lie wouldn’t be there if not for that fear, but… If it wasn’t for the fog…”

Ray’s eyes widened.

They widened too far.

His body seemed to grow rigid like a dried-out tree.

I was worried he might slip from his trance to an actual anxiety attack.

I decided my best tactic would be to keep him talking.

ME:

“Tell me more about the lie.

“Who told the lie, you or Mo?”

Ray looked up and lurched, startled, as if seeing me for the first time.

His face swam again with restless panic.

Yet the panic ceased quickly like a burst of fragrance disappearing off into the air.

His gaze fell once more aloof and still.

RAY:

“Well, I lied all the time about what I was doing after work. I had to. I had to . . . to always lie to everyone about that. But The Lie I see between Mo and me goes much deeper than . . . than just me being crazy because I had to pretend all the time or whatever. Or I hope it does. But all I can do is… Again, The Lie comes from that same fear that’s deep in the . . . the fabric . . . the foundation of everything that makes The City and Church what they are. It’s the culture. It’s that fear that convinces everyone on every level New Cannibalism is the best way things could be . . . the only way . . . which just means someone always has to end up getting sacrificed to pay for…”

ME:

“Well, why don’t you start at the beginning.

“But I want you to tell me, specifically, about only the real lie you see.”

Even if Ray was unknowingly attempting to deflect attention away from his own self-lies, I do not believe his show of emotion and confusion were at all false or manufactured.

I will make it a point to eventually bring him back to whatever it was he felt the need to lie about “doing after work.”

Yet I take the way Ray now seemed to be so rapidly and uncontrollably crashing back and forth between his two dispositions as more confirmation that we are headed in a good direction.

Icy morning air had frozen Revy’s nose and cheeks, leaving them numb. He hugged shivering knees to his chest as winds now took turns nipping at his wrists, ears, and neck. His own warmth inside his coat made him sweat, slowly drenching innermost layers of the filthy clothes he had worn for days.

He sat alone and huddled on a stiff bench at a downtown bus stop. There were no signs of any others on the streets, though he knew they would come later with the sun.

An odd twinge in his throat felt like a stubborn thorn, and he swallowed, hard, again and again, trying to catch whatever it was on soft, fleshy tissues to send down.

His eyes were squelchy pools, his pupils probably dilated to alien proportions.

Voices like scheming old ladies seemed to cross each other everywhere in his mind. He had been asking the voices questions before being overwhelmed by waves of advancing cold, though they only ever seemed to laugh and splinter out in response, disappearing to fractal machine sounds and echoes of things Revy felt he could almost recognize.

Did the voices not like being paid attention to?

His head ached in jolts. Certain spots felt as though they were being run through continuously with swords. These wounds became old men who grasped at bearded uh-oh faces as they slipped off edges of cliffs. Revy could have sworn he saw beds of tiny yellow flowers, pretty amongst the cliffs’ jagged rocks. But glimpses came only in moments too late, and never to last. He watched it all blast to splintered colors . . . then nothing.

There was a funny feeling, like seeing through the eyes of something else that wished to live. Could it be an unborn song?

A familiar conversation emerged from the noise: “Need more pills. How many left? Four each day, and there has to be more, or else…”

The old men now took turns gnashing themselves against daggers of various lengths in pitiful display.

Within and amongst each fleeting outline remainder of Revy’s hard night(s) alone on the bench, he heard hints and traces of the mysterious woman’s voice from the day(s) before, now lifetimes ago. She had sung to him, off and on, especially throughout the night now ending. And her voice was also his . . . he was sure of it . . . though he somehow knew that wasn’t why she sounded so familiar.

Whenever the woman’s voice sang, he would sit up straight to listen, but then immediately curve his spine, wrists, and ankles, knowing without knowing why this would allow him to hear her all the more. Like him, she only seemed to sing in songs unfinished.

He tossed back another pill, regretting the loss right away. He hoped it would force down whatever still felt lodged.

The blades through his skull withdrew at once from their torture, and every wound was stuffed with pads of fuzzy cloth.

All pain grew soft and distant, like an underwater scream. And Revy was submerged in crystal liquid then as well, floating completely still in vast emptiness and silence.

Turning in the deep, his eyes were closed. Yet he watched as summer sunlight began to paint its dazzling arrays across his eyelids. The light came through to meet him in swirls like endless cosmoses, flashing with no distance between each unique beginning and end.

He smiled the smile of a grandmother then, one left with few if any teeth. Feeling full of years and slow-spun kindnesses, he knew only fondness for a happy, bright, and well-lived life of smiling faces and special places shared.

He was hardly aware as the cold worked its way through to penetrate his coat at last, quickly permeating the drenched fabric of his undershirt. He didn’t mind the icy monster that wouldn’t seem to rest until it squeezed him to his core.

Sleepily, he felt the shivering advance. Fast, then slow, it led him quietly and curiously toward what must be smiling Death. And Death could only ever smile.

How nice.

And what was she singing now? But there she went, shying playfully away as he coiled his back but couldn’t help but lean in close to hear. Perhaps she really was the voice of all his would-be words, like children crying out to their father from within, imploring him of things he wanted to say, and would love more than life, but could never quite hear.

His eyes went all sketchy and loose, like spinning, pulpy water balloons dangling far outside his skull.

His throat clenched, raw and mechanical, against its own matter, threatening never to open again. Had he simply filled his quota for swallowing and then promptly forgotten how?

His iun came to mind. He hoped it was still charged, at least enough to last until the sun fought back this miserable cold and all its friends.

He rose on unsteady ankles and slid pods into both ears. Then the quaint and jolly sound of his guitar, his oldest friend, was like being greeted by a panting, wooden family dog that couldn’t help but leap to lick his face upon his return. The crisp voice of familiar strings . . . and he could smell them fresh on his fingers.

The woman’s voice grew louder, trembling within and upon his beloved sound. She swept up to rest above . . . high, proud, glorious, and simple . . . and all, and all at once. He knew then he probably never would make out her precious words. Yet he let himself listen without leaning in at all, happy just to hear the way she lit his friendly shambles with her warmth.

As Revy walked, the combined sound failed to remind him of even the chance at better days gone by.

Fog lay still in every space between people, counters, and tables . . . a hanging sparse and lazy gray, utterly unnatural against a vibrant backdrop of orange-lit, greasy air. Darren lounged in a glittery booth, slumped into its firm red cushion, thumbing dismissively across the face of his large iun like one might peruse a magazine in a waiting room. Mo and Ray sat across.

“How’s your relationship with God?” snapped Mo, his voice cutting like a warm knife through surrounding chatter as if to pierce Ray’s face at its nearest edge.

Ray remained still, choosing not to run with the first or second streams of thought that fought to trickle through. He saw the ways each response could be interpreted.

“I guess,” Ray began, almost smiling in concession as he glanced across from Darren back to Mo, “my relationship with God is, sort of, everything. It’s my whole process, y’know? How I see every… I mean, with what I’ve been working on all these years . . . the way it comes together . . . it’s like destiny, or a calling, or something. I don’t know if that makes sense.” Ray watched as his words were met by Faith’s incomparable light and made to glow hotter and brighter than stars shining through doorways to connected universes. The words and light swept outward together, reaching everywhere they could in nearly matching swoops and eddies.

And as he saw the conversation play out in time and other textures, Ray almost watched himself marvel at the fact that nothing at all had changed. Of course, the not-a-persons, fog, and all the rest had really been there all along, since decades or lifetimes before that night of strange anguish and breaking near The Church. Seeing anew served only to partly ease the effects of an old unrest, which sought now to clamor and tremble in every space . . . even to where ancient winds blew free through caverns sacred deep and secret dark.

“You have it backwards!” exclaimed Mo, his voice rising to monopolize more real estate in the busy crowded fast food restaurant air.

“I think what Mo means,” ventured Darren, speaking slow and sweet, “is it’s cool you have a process and everything. And you’re working on something, um . . . mysterious?” Mo and Darren shared a quick glance. “But—”

“But it’s not about your process!” concluded Mo. “Use your process for God, to spread the gospel. Truth does not warp to fit your process. That’s backwards!”

Faith and Ray might have made eyes then as well, if such were possible. And Ray felt a fluttering near his chest . . . a rapid river cresting in deep swells of warring unease as it was wrenched into every ironic shape like a best friend’s cutting words, slicing through in mirror shards across dimensions to draw the only truly intolerable pain. It was more than known that this pain would kill every single part of Ray if either fought or left to fully run its course.

Ray looked over again at Mo and loved him. For there was a sudden hazy sense of standing tall and fighting through anything to prize and defend the value of everything seen lit by narrowed beams. As empires and worlds to come must suffer violence to be taken by force, there would surely be a place up at the very front for Mo to reach, and win, and there be set to govern entire sets of thronging mobs.

Only a matter of time.

“Maybe you’re right,” Ray sighed, accepting something close to fate for not the first time as he witnessed every attempt to reveal or defend . . . or to argue for worlds housing unlimited prizes and endless places in boundless kingdoms . . . fail in advance at all but bolstering Mo’s resolve to dig in deeper and sacrifice more in defense of his devotion and its happenstance borders. And though it hurt how no words could give either of Ray’s friends ears to hear from his wounded heart, it was also okay.

“Dude!” encouraged Darren, “God is bigger! Whatever you’re going through right now, it won’t be enough to keep Him from reaching you and dealing with . . . whatever this is . . . and bringing you back!” Ray was not surprised at all to see on Darren’s face the exact expression of pure love and compassion as held on the faces of Grace and Friendship, identical.

And from where Ray watched, even automatic questions, which arose like a sea of snapping traps, seemed somewhat entertaining . . . the strings of perfectly predictable queries piling up like glitching pixels, demanding as always to know why him, and why was he so different, and why, why, why… And maybe Ray already knew. Maybe…

For a moment, he was with The Psychologist again, floored by gratitude just for having someone to talk with about all these new developments, not really new at all. The timing, of course, seemed too perfect to be a coincidence.

And still seeing The Psychologist as he watched his own gleaming words glide through to soften the teeth of hungry, gnawing, silent ponderings, Ray wondered if there might be others like him hidden off in secret spaces of their own, ready to accept what they too had likely seen along, and to…

Maybe one day Faith’s light could reach everywhere.

Glancing up into the kind, knowing eyes of Grace, Ray did not have to decide to believe the best of Darren and Mo.

All at once, he became oddly aware that he might in fact actually be this particular person seated at this booth in this restaurant, half involved in this conversation.

Was this really his life? Was he the one having these thoughts? Why?

And so many of The Pastor’s stories came alive in that moment as well, lit afresh by Faith amidst static patches surrounding the three at their table.

Mo seemed to twitch in his seat like a ball of pent-up life. “If you had just been honest with me…” Mo lamented.

Ray felt a familiar eerie grin arc all by itself across the whole lower half of his face . . . an involuntary contortion he knew had overtaken him at least once before, though this time felt far less ominous and more relaxed.

Everything I said was honest, Publican. I’m glad it wasn’t you that wrote me off. Not really you. I love you, Brother!

Having no context for who this afternoon’s mystery Normal was, why did I not hesitate in the least to reveal that he and Doug were one?

How extensive a list could I compile of male Normal clients with stifled dreams?

Was it this Normal’s wife who had called to eagerly arrange sessions at which I would be tasked with helping her husband let go of false, dissociative personas?

Wait, does Bing have a wife?

I am sure I remember at least one Normal wife shouting furiously in my office about how her Normal man always wrote plans instead of sitting to watch TV with her.

Regardless, why choose that particular moment to disassemble Doug for good—sans both the [possible] wife in attendance and usual fostering of a natural Sticking or Breaking Point?

Could it have been Mr. Rolman?

Did the one today show signs of mental decline and poverty?

Does Mrs. Rolman watch TV?

After the unknown Normal left, I fully intended to shift my focus back to Ray’s case notes.

Yet I could not escape a compulsive urge to dig through my old scattered notes on Normals instead, knowing upfront I would fail to locate that elusive, connecting, cornerstone piece: the specific activity today’s Normal has or had always planned to do, and then began accomplishing through Doug.

Was it music, writing, comedy, school…?

Bing has a wife, right?

Would Bing’s wife be the same sort of person as Mrs. Rolman and Caylee?

Wait . . . why Caylee?

I sat dead still, shuffling through various combinations like blind memories of countless disjointed components which might have all once linked to form some unknown, perfect, grand machine—a search that had always played out the same way, at least in its simplicity: in feverish pursuit of that single fabled crossover place where clockwork gears could all clink together and simultaneously wind myriad tubes through their million individually matching threads.

Yet all I kept arriving at was that Bing was the closest Outlier to Normal, where Ray was always furthest away.

So, what about Caylee then?

Why would Caylee be…?

And where might I, myself, fit along my own continuum?

Oddly enough, I had never considered it.

“Hi,” said the man, happy to be with The Psychologist again.

Before the skinny guy slid out past him, the man wondered if something might be wrong. Did he not have an appointment today? Had it been canceled? But Doug was with him.

The man did not know why The Psychologist called him Bing.

Then the man was talking. The Psychologist seemed to be listening and nodding along like always, so this must be an appointment. As he had so many times before, the man heard himself describe his living nightmare to The Psychologist: telling of always having felt the need to do . . . something . . . and of countless costly preparations made through many, many years. He listened as he used all his usual phrases to describe so often figuring out exactly how his path should go . . . but that the nightmare was knowing no psychologist, or anyone else for that matter, could really make any clearer what had always been the most obvious reality in the man’s whole world: that his entire life had become a life-eating pattern of distraction from actually doing by only ever further perfecting plans for how to best do one day (soon).

The man looked over at Doug with him, and beamed, then back to the stern Psychologist dressed in black.

But the man knew the smile he felt now plastering the width of his face must look so stupid and out of place. Maybe crazy. This brought a fresh sense of urgency to hear himself get to his good news about the breakthrough he had reached at home, basically all on his own.

It was not that The Psychologist had failed him. Of course not. The man’s particular nightmare just happened to be the type that could only end by waking. No one inside could make the nightmare’s conditions more livable. So, the man had reached outside, and found…

“This is Doug,” the man heard himself say.

“Hello, Doug,” said The Psychologist, his face cool and bland.

“Doug, here, is very creative,” explained the man. “He’s like a grenade. I throw him in, and, well . . . I can still plan and schedule and everything, but Doug knows how to do things with iuns. And he’s just more . . . romantic . . . than me. More wild, free…” The man scratched his neck.

“So, Doug is the missing piece?” asked The Psychologist.

“Yeah! It feels like that, right?” the man responded, turning to Doug.

The Psychologist’s sharply aloof gaze remained only on the man. “Doug is you,” The Psychologist said. “Now you’re doing both. It’s working.”

ME:

“What did you mean when you said you saw grace?”

By now, my affection toward Outliers should be obvious.

I am delighted in watching the likes of Ray be met and laid bare by the scientific precision and artful pliancy of my Method—perhaps like witnessing the inner and outer workings of an iun.

Yet I had carried a rather tentative, restless sense all morning as I cycled through scenarios for how to best pose my question on grace.

Why the atypic hesitation on my part?

Imagine working with a client who remains adamant she will one day be Queen of her own new nation; you dedicate sessions to circling and narrowing in on the essence of her stated objective; yet rather than allowing herself to be brought anywhere near the actual roots of her desire (so her goal might then be mapped to comparable realities), she refuses to do all but unpack further specifics about her future castle, its courtrooms and tapestries, the surrounding countryside, etc.

I was reluctant to bring up grace today because Ray had already provided my Method with plenty of entities to explore without need of adding or multiplying more.

Yet it is important to note that my aversion did not stem simply from my own personal distaste for overabundances of time-wasting complexity.

My real concern, rather, was for Ray.

You see, the problem with a habit of hyper explication is it can serve as an inadvertent excuse used for avoiding the discomfort of seeing all those restlessly clarified particulars get measured objectively, unwound, and dug beneath.

Essentially, a client might give my Method ever more to work with for the express (unconscious) purpose of escaping the difficult truths my Method could uncover from what it’s been given already.

So as I sat here at my desk this morning, sipping piping coffee, and rifling through Ray’s notes thus far, I came to arrive at an all new and potentially groundbreaking hypothesis.

As stated, because my Method works semi-automatically to bring each individual to their unique Sticking or Breaking Point, its use requires committing to never challenging a client’s words directly; that means thoroughly eliminating all leading language which could in any way be interpreted as interpretation.

Our role, again, is to allow each client’s own words to all but weave themselves into an effective mirror for revelation.

Yet how can we then keep said clients from getting so comfortable with this process of unchecked sharing that they begin to unwittingly use it as a means of hiding from what truths should otherwise be reflected back?

Thus, my new hypothesis: that along with total freedom of unhindered expression, my Method also calls for a measure of efficiency to be maintained.

If you can keep a client moving through their narrative from beginning to end, you can avoid getting stuck in unhelpful frivolity.

This balance of intentional liberty paced by measured productivity will no doubt prove a challenge to master navigating, as I predict the remainder of these notes shall serve to show and prove.

I could say so much more here, I am sure; for the exact role I play as conduit to my Method has been a point of rich and ongoing deliberation through the years.

Yet I must instead return to today’s session with Ray so as not to mistakenly replace the power of potential falsification via demonstration with more mere (easy) conjecture.

Now, my hope that grace would be the last representation introduced was, of course, summarily dashed as soon as Ray opened his mouth to speak.

His cryptic response to my careful question, however, came so littered with pauses, stammers, and rephrasings it will be far more prudent just to summarize.

Ray described seeing grace and faith trapped together in the mysterious fog he had alluded to.

He told of watching faith attempt to shine some stupendous light on grace, as well as on a multitude of nondescript, non-human entities all likewise held in place.

I sighed at the sudden influx of new (pretend) beings to process.

ME:

“Okay, so what is grace?

“What does that word ‘grace’ mean?

“Obviously you’re not talking about a person named Grace, right?

“And who or what is faith?”

Regrettably, I heard the bite of an old razor beginning to tinge the edges of my voice.

Why?

In my mind, I was all the way back with first paid clients who had seemed to almost relish meeting each of my provident roadmaps for reaching sure Sticking Points in single sessions with their own unique bombarding sieges of unforeseen deflective nonsense.

Yet had I ever once seen my Method fail?

Besides, although Ray’s honest outlook was a cunning fish on a line, capable of swooping out so effortlessly from wherever I had felt it first bite, all such additional bolts or zips away were but further indication of my need to lean more to the “efficiency” side of our new fundamental equation lest superfluous sessions be spent slaying fog dragons to rescue grace maidens, etc.

I penciled “Faum’s” on the front of a blank yellow pad, underlined the word twice, and circled it as a reminder to practice the relaxation technique before and during all upcoming sessions (especially with Ray).

Calmness is always advantageous when awaiting the right angle from which to approach and corral an unpredictable client’s slippery perspective.

Ray responded, not addressing my straightforward questions.

RAY:

“I saw Grace, and . . . and I guess I smiled. But I was smiling at myself, y’know? Like, have you ever just realized . . . all of a sudden . . . you have no idea what you’re even thinking or talking about? It’s like a switch flips on, or . . . or off . . . and you see right away how totally unreasonable you’ve been. And then it’s so obvious you wonder how you could have ever missed it. But that’s sort of, like, the whole point, right? I mean, it had to happen. Like, of course you missed it, y’know?

“When I see Grace, I get this wonderful feeling of just how . . . how limited I am, I guess . . . limited in my place here, where I find myself . . . alive. We’re all just people . . . that’s what I’m… I mean, how much can we really…? We live different lives. But I don’t think anyone deserves more than anyone else. Or, no… I mean, yeah . . . some deserve more because of what they… But it’s not like anyone asks to be born with…”

I sat in semi-bewildered silence as the tell-tale sequence of flat-lining trail-offs proved progressively freer from attempts at revival.

My questions had been aimed at returning Ray to more rote definitions of “grace” and “faith”—preferably definitions drilled into him from his youth at the church.

Because memorized terminology inevitably loses much of its meaning with use, my tactic would have been to go through and re-approach each of his representations in turn, using the terms and their understood definitions as common ground starting points from which we could then diverge.

Ray’s leap to how grace made or makes him feel—without first establishing what he thinks grace is—could have only further clouded our already murky waters if I had not heretofore had in mind the importance of refining my strategy for fostering efficiency on the fly.

So purely for the sake of keeping Ray moving, I shifted with him from concepts over to feelings.

This felt a little like slowing down in a race to let an inferior opponent gain ground.

ME:

“That’s interesting.

“Did you know that what you just said about grace actually describes one of our primary, human needs—the need for unconditional approval and understanding from our parents?

“How is your relationship with your parents?”

Ray spoke again after a weighty pause, not acknowledging my question in the least.

RAY:

“Well, when I see Grace, it’s like I’m just really happy. Like, Grace looks so nice and peaceful . . . and kind . . . almost the same as Friendship.

“I’m sorry, I think the whole point I was trying to get to was . . . I guess seeing Grace makes me feel like, even though I’m not perfect, and don’t really know anything, I’m kind of okay how I am. Grace makes me appreciate the good things about me because, well, the bad things are just… I mean, I’m just a person, y’know? How amazing is it that this is all even happening, right? And we didn’t ask to be part of it. But still, we get to be. I’d say seeing Grace makes me feel . . . free . . . like all I have to be is all I am. Does that make sense?”

At this point, Ray surprised me again by turning noticeably pensive as if to spite his own hopeful, joyous speech and tone.

What I saw was an immediate reversion back to the Ray of our first session, when words simply could not be forthcoming, nor eyes at all kept still.

Connecting his plummet from warmth and ease to the topic of our conversation last time (that which had spurred mention of grace in the first place) I was able to quickly piece together something of an essential overview.

ME:

“So, it was experiencing grace that made you not mad anymore about all the bad things you saw going on—the killing in the name of love, etc.?”

RAY:

“Well, when I see Grace . . . and I know I’m not perfect, and don’t ever see things perfectly . . . how can I…? I mean…”

His voice dropped to a shaky whisper.

RAY:

“But yeah, I was just thinking how that whole thing comes back to another… Sorry, this one’s… Okay, I knew I’d…”

Ray stopped for a moment to sigh, deep and slow.

RAY:

“I guess I have to talk about the fog now. I was trying not to, but everything I’ve been saying . . . all of it . . . it all has to come back to the fog in the end. The fog . . . covers The City and The Church. No, not completely ‘covers,’ but . . . but what the fog does . . . maybe . . . is it keeps everyone from seeing all that’s there…? Like, they can see through it in parts, but it makes them partly blind, y’know? And when I look at Grace stuck there in the fog, I always see this huge crowd of people . . . so big I can’t come close to seeing everyone. And they all see Grace too, like me, which is wonderful. I mean, some see from closer than others, but… I don’t…”

ME:

“What sorts of things does the fog cover or keep hidden?”

I glanced at my watch, shocked to see our session’s ending looming so soon.

I then made perhaps the biggest mistake of my career; catching sight of my next appointment seated out in the waiting room—a Normal—I covertly clicked to buzz that client in without Ray realizing.

In retrospect, I see how my incredibly unprofessional action was born from a vindictive urge to quietly allow the conversation with Ray to play out into awkwardness as the other slowly entered and stood in silence just beside him.

Why would I desire such an outcome?

Let me clarify that I in no way felt as if I were being outmatched or outsmarted by Ray.

My Method has made short work of all who have come to challenge my intellect.

Instead, our game of chess was one in which he could flippantly change the rules at every turn.

So, buzzing in that Normal was my petty (pathetic) way of changing the game preemptively, in response.

I have no idea who the Normal was; Bing, perhaps?

Regardless, Ray continued on, apparently unaffected by the stranger’s sudden intrusion and silent presence.

RAY:

“I mean, we all just see in part, y’know? And I love how Grace still has the same effect on everyone, making that whole crowd feel really good, and happy, and… But the thing is . . . and yeah, I should have said this first, I just… I hate talking about the fog.”

I penciled and underlined the word “hate.”

RAY:

“It’s like each person thinks what they see in the fog is all there is to see . . . and they think only whoever sees the same things they do sees anything at all. But since it’s Grace they’re looking at… I guess, even though it’s like I watch them all smile just the same when Grace shows them how okay it is to be exactly what they are, it’s the fog that makes them think they have to . . . to push up to the front . . . to get as close as they can. So, it’s the fog that turns them into a crowd, y’know? And these little groups start to form . . . groups made from whoever sees the same parts of Grace. And the groups always get so excited . . . the members, like, going on and on about how wonderful Grace is. But . . . well, what they’re really getting at . . . without saying it, of course . . . is how special they think they are, and their group, for being the only ones that see. Yeah, that’s the irony, because seeing Grace makes you feel okay with how much you don’t know, or how much you can’t see, or do, or be. So for someone to think they’re better than others because of the parts of Grace they see in the fog…”

Ray let out another long and labored exhale.

RAY:

“But it’s not their fault. It’s just sad because Grace never wants to be kept from anyone.”

ME:

“Who is grace kept from?”

RAY:

“Grace is sort of like this open faucet that waters all who come. But how much of Grace a person can experience doesn’t depend on which parts they see in the fog. That’s the thing. So, while everyone presses forward into groups, and acts like they should try to bundle and hold Grace only for themselves . . . like some sort of hidden treasure . . . no one outside that massive crowd ever gets to see any of Grace at all. They’re just too far away. And no one anywhere sees Grace reaching out, longing to help those ones kept off in the distance . . . those honest, humble souls, so ready to admit what they can’t see, and so filled with shame and worried feelings for what would obviously be needed to make up for all the ways they already know they’re not perfect. But Grace is stuck, hidden in the middle by that frantic, joyful thrashing mob closing in from all around. It’s just what happens in the fog.”

Despite how far we had strayed from my plan to refocus on standard definitions, I would have to admit how useful our departure into Ray’s range of feelings was proving.

It was my willingness to move with him into feelings that enabled me to glimpse and record certain specific values now so clearly evident in every winding, stop-start rehearsal of affect.

In light of Ray’s savior complex psychosis, I was particularly intrigued by the high importance he places on not knowing—on admission of ignorance—contrasted, of course, with those mentioned who hold their perspectives as absolute.

Considering many of the more religious clients I have met with through the years, I find the unique way Ray endeavors to communicate rather refreshing and remarkable.

Ray speaks as one not having authority.

The nondescript Normal remained quiet and unmoving by his side.

I decided to continue.

ME:

“So, grace wants to reach every single person, everywhere, to make up for whatever they might be lacking in character and understanding?

“But the person first needs to see grace, even if only in part through the fog?”

RAY:

“Grace wants to… Well, that has a lot to do with… I mean, that’s where we come to Faith, right?”

ME:

“What do faith and grace look like?

“Are they people?

“What characteristics do they have that make them recognizable to you?”

RAY:

“Faith always seems really determined, I guess. But Faith also isn’t that easy to look at, y’know? Actually, I don’t think Faith wants to be seen, but just to show other things. Sorry. I don’t know how it works. I just… I see Faith holding up its awesome light, like I said . . . brighter than anything else. And while Grace stays stuck in the crowd and fog, it’s like Faith is always moving, always re-angling itself to . . . to light up as many new things as possible . . . things people might hear and see. That’s what… I mean, what Faith wants is to show how things fit together . . . and how good things could be. So it’s like I see Faith wading all through the fog, bending and stretching in every direction to keep revealing more of Grace and all the not-a-persons. And in the fog, it’s what Faith’s light touches that . . . that anyone sees. That’s why people see Grace the way they do. Does that make sense? They see the parts the light can touch through the fog from where they are. But the way the fog limits Faith’s light is exactly what makes everyone think there’s nothing else but what they see . . . and, like, only those who see what they do see anything at all.”

ME:

“It was near your church that you saw grace and faith, and all the non-people held fast in the fog?”

RAY:

“Yes, but I also see them now.”

Revy clutched the tiny bag close to his chest by fading daylight.

Cars whirred by beneath and off to join the sunset where it blurred wide and low across the skyline. He took in the scene, leaning out a little from an overpass, then shrugged and stumbled slightly farther on.

Should he take another from the bag? Was he bored enough yet?

Words were scribbled then to an open, rumpled page, definitely in someone else’s handwriting.

A talking vegetable.
Smiling to impress u.
Carrot.
Dancing with teddy bears.
Space.
Dinosaurs.
Planets of peace.
A smiley fish tipping his hat.
Be there.

“Be there” was enough.

Another down, and the chalky bitterness made him shudder worse than a sudden shot of liquor.

Then another.

Why not?

But shouldn’t he be hiding better from all those hazy faces down in cars? Wouldn’t they be looking up to see? He was famous, wasn’t he?

Oh yeah.

A hand like Revy’s began to twitch and vibrate sideways again, capturing more words before their meaning could begin to wrest his spangled mind’s approval. The wrist shook like a flimsy reed, drawing his gaze down to partly watch as black scurried but failed to fully fill in dingy white.

Liquid worms on screens, flashing.
Chipmunk-faced detectors on ships, looking at us.
I see them.
Hahaahhaa.
They are alien spirit robots from the future, all rolled into one.
It’s whatever we want it to be (whatever we want it to be).

For a moment, Revy saw himself skirting the pavement, dirty, and draining what remained from the last of his special medicine. And there would be no more, he knew. For designer drugs were just one of the perks reserved for signed recording artists instead of aging flakes, lost and wasted, roaming city streets alone.

‘Talking vegetable’…? What the…?

The cars became as comets once the sun was laid at last to rest. And Revy’s clump of frayed-edged papers, torn from the back of his old spiral notebook, made for more of a mess than the trash he saw scattered in most directions. Still, he gripped the bunches tightly, each page almost filled with . . . what? Pieces of spaced-out visions, or…? But there was only a deep, deep throbbing left . . . a strobe tied to all sides of his soul.

Then another’s voice. But the voice lowered and became his own as that now familiar foreign hand scrambled once more to close the gap and take a final corner.

UUUUUUUUOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOAAAAAAAAAAAAAHHHHHHH!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!
Who gave it a gun, ma?
Who let it write that just now?
That’s what I was looking for.
A person inside the person.
A hidden connection.
This could be a song.
Or this could be your life.
You write poems now from the inside!
NOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO, THAT CAN’T GO THERE!!!!!!
You’re writing about writing again, JOURNAL! JOURNAL! JOURNAL!
NO SHUT UP.
THEY’RE WATCHING YOU.
NO U HAD TO SAY ALL THIS (no u had to say all this).
This was all part of it.
But you missed half of it (all part of it).
But u missed half of it (all part of it).

Revy wheeled around and forced his soft-shod feet to continue their rustling, now a little quicker.

Home!

He had to go, not that the bitch there would much care either way. Who was this one, anyway?

Well…

Revy caught a vivid picture of himself slapping Jodie, her mannish hands rising in dumb, instinctual defense.

He could scream at her in his mind. But she was as gone as his band, and his songs, and his…

What are lyrics? What are songs?

The questions were a swarm of ticks that had bit, and dug, and latched, and threatened to never ever release or die.

And there was that strange new voice again. A woman’s voice. A voice he knew he never would have heard, if only…

But it was only that he didn’t understand it yet, right . . . and hadn’t quite worked out that secret age-old combination for what music with words was meant to even be?

Journals about his dissolving life, and/or scribbles of what his disappearing drugs might show, seemed worlds apart from whatever it was that just sort of happened whenever he simply rose to greet the sound of his guitar . . . that grand old union serving always to call him outward from all his silly stabs at explanation to embark on new adventures, raw and primal, and…

Tired, but he reached to almost touch an age-old freedom . . . maybe the only constant to transcend a world where trends kept shifting, leaving age by age to whine while passing through in past others’ noisy shadows and lame dust.

It was the searching . . . the reaching . . . that alone was real. And it was all Revy had ever really wanted. But how could he hope to find its shattered pieces once again?

Or had it ever really been?

Again, to take Ray’s absurd story at face value would be to miss the point of it entirely.

Yet when he spoke of Carmen and Vin, I witnessed swells of raw emotion pass like flaming waves across the surface of his cool, tranquil features—the surges resembling vengeful beasts repressed beneath a translucent statue shell.

I do suspect that Carmen and Vin are real; I predict they will prove of great significance as my Method works to piece together Ray’s actual experience at his church/former job.

As he finished speaking, I jotted:

What do the fog, raft, and sacrifice really represent?

How often in the church is someone “killed”?

Is the “killing” to offset the cost of keeping everyone else “alive”?

What/where is the city?

Such questions, of course, are not for me to ever ask directly; I intend them simply to serve as loose guideposts to frame our sessions as we continue to progress.

To repeat, I would not diagnose Ray as delusional.

He does, however, show clear signs of psychosis in thinking he sees things no one else can.

Note Ray’s obvious reluctance to disparage even those to whom he attributes cognizant responsibility for the “awful ironies” he cited.

Yet does each use of “it wasn’t their fault,” “that’s just how things were,” or some other variant not imply a unique and superior awareness on Ray’s part?

Some examples:

Unlike himself, most in Ray’s society are so blinded by fear as to be willing to die or kill for a system that would keep friendship from accomplishing for free what paid advertising never could.

Conversely, Ray alone picks up on the ridiculousness of a town’s and then cities’ populations being sold amongst themselves as “outsiders.”

Unlike his pastor, Ray can accurately track how ambitions in a fear-ruled world begin idealistic before inevitably turning coldly pragmatic and results-driven.

Unlike a vast congregation (large enough to be considered an empire), Ray is perfectly aware of fundamental modifications in meaning to the pastor’s message over time.

A more specific and less abstract instance: Only Ray understands why Carmen, Vin, and the other believers on the raft should not be blamed for the atheist’s death since they “backed themselves into it” without realizing.

Then building upon my solid base of evidence: Because Ray obviously holds what he sees and knows to be of great potential benefit for everyone else (those not privy to it), the literature would label his particular psychosis as a savior complex.

As I considered this, the connection my Method next pointed me toward struck me as being so crucially and undeniably relevant I hope you can appreciate the odd irony of my being solely mindful of it thus far: I realized how few scenarios I could imagine that would prove rougher for all involved than having someone with a savior complex be employed at a large, established religious institution.

How could deep, inscrutable conflicts not arise over the nature of the “saving” to be done, and the means by which it must be carried out?

Returning to our session, Ray sat silent as I perused my notes and pondered where the conversation might be best directed.

ME:

“So, you left with Caylee right after everything on the raft?”

RAY:

“I think it was, like, a year later we left.”

ME:

“Can you help me understand that a little more?

“How or why did what was happening in your church make you want to leave with Caylee?

“And then what does that notion of everyone agreeing to kill in the name of love and salvation make you want to say to your church now, or to your boss (or bosses)?”

RAY:

“Nothing. They didn’t do anything wrong.”

ME:

“Right or wrong, at this point we’re just trying to get to exactly how you feel or felt at that important moment in your life, that’s all.

“So, take some time and think: What do you want to tell them?

“Anything?”

Ray responded immediately.

RAY:

“Well, this is probably hard to… But maybe I’d say something like, ‘It seems you guys are willing to kill for things that . . . that you’re not even really paying attention to anymore…?’”

ME:

“What does that mean?

“What are they not paying attention to?”

RAY:

“It’s just . . . believing The Pastor’s message about the coming other world was supposed to be what mattered more than anything, right? But then The City came, and it got to where everyone in The Church who wanted to be in charge sort of felt like their job was to show they cared more than anyone else about what The Church was doing to grow and bring in as many new people as possible. That’s, I guess, what the importance of the message turned into…? But when it came to regular workers like me, whether or not we believed, well . . . that didn’t actually matter so much anymore as long as we kept doing and saying the right things, y’know? As long as we were useful.

“Anyway, I was mad for a long time. But I think now I see where that . . . that way of thinking . . . comes from.”

Notice again Ray’s implication that he alone is aware of important matters his church or leaders are “not even really paying attention to anymore.”

I could easily go back line by line and show you every instance where Ray’s clear issues with authority tie to what he perceives to be his secret savior wisdom falling on the collective deaf ears of an ineffectual empire.

Yet the religious nature of Ray’s case presents me with a rather more interesting and pressing potential problem: In approaching belief systems such as Christianity, my Method works stunningly well to sift through symbolic language and uncover the appeal of every given claim or term: a star, a snake, a baby, a devil—or, in Ray’s case: friendship, advertising, cannibals, and fog; in listening to Ray speak, however, the danger I sense would be in getting bogged down by ever more detailed descriptions of his figurative representations instead of allowing my Method the free use of those representations to help unlock what each one means and why it matters.

Put simply: A religious person with a savior complex who sees and communicates via metaphorical Outlier visions might feel obligated to clarify vision particulars all day, etching endless distinctions like further mixed-up puzzle pieces for my Method then to have to work to place.

So, in order to avoid my precious time being eaten up with frivolity, while also still not challenging Ray’s presented revelations in the least, I must commit to keeping the direction of our conversations general instead of ever letting us get stuck spinning out in specifics.

Show a client broadly what they want in their own words, and you can keep them from retching out further words to mask or make false sense of what they care about.

ME:

“Were you mad that they’d be willing to kill for something they no longer even valued the same way?”

RAY:

“Well, I saw Grace.”