I don't know anything

Someone Like Me (An Introduction)

G’day chaps!

So, here we go again! Time for you to be thrust once more into my exciting world of painstaking, possibly pointless research.

Yippy!

How’d you like to spend the day with me doing what basically amounts to bursts of frenzied, highfalutin note taking?

Then of course there’s notes on notes.

Then notes on notes on notes.

Then…

Well, you get the idea.

And let’s not forget the joys of gradually X-ing off lines that all but stretch on forever in sneaky false starts and brazen dead ends!

Notes, then un-notes, that’s the way!

I’m prepared for my task today . . . a task which absolutely no one has asked of me (nor probably cares about). Got the old sardine tin cracked a smidge, and I’m nursing a fresh cuppa, all steamy and minty.

What could be better?

Well, I’ll tell ya!

Today I found the FIRST PAGE!

Yes, it’s true (can you believe it, after all this time?).

Being honest, it happened by accident.

But yes, I’ll bet my jolly stars this is in fact it!

I know, I know . . . I can come across a tad excitable. I’ll work on dialing it back some, sure.

But there was just something so utterly surreal about seeing the words at the end of this new page align with those at the start of what has to be Page 2.

I imagine it might be how seeing earth from space would feel.

And then, like a baby taking its first breath, I just knew. I saw, sudden as a bang, how the whole thing must fit together.

It all makes s…

But wait.

That would mean this note you’re reading now has to come first, yeah?

And if you’re reading this first, well then you haven’t the foggiest idea who I am or what I’m rabbiting on about.

Sorry, let’s start again, shall we?

This will all make sense, I promise.

So, my name is Archer Catrael. I’m 47, marginally overweight (read “snuggly and jovial”), and I work in data banking with a large, multinational advertising firm.

I have THE BEST job in the entire world!

One afternoon a few months ago, I was busy corralling some stray wranglers (loose files) here at my cubicle.

I find I tend to do best with the more thoughtless tasks . . . whether that’s wrangler-herding, setting soppy dishes to soak, or just contributing to general office morale . . . in the slow, sleepy hours a bit after my lunch break.

Anyway, I reached to grab this stack of report papers I like to lay out every few days or so. Nothing unusual.

But as soon as I yanked and did a sort of half-heave sideways, I felt my fingers brush against something thick and heavy hidden underneath, way down at the bottom of my cabinet.

There should not have been enough space there for anything to fit.

But I knew I’d glanced something other than the cool metal bottom of the drawer.

Curious, I reached back down into the dark and began to trace the thing’s straight edges.

I was thankful not to feel any sudden movements like sprouting limbs or spikes.

Testing its weight ever so slightly, I guessed the mysterious object to be perhaps a large book or picture frame.

But after carefully wriggling it free from its snug and secret hiding spot, I was a bit deflated to discover a mere plain-looking stack of old stapled papers.

There was no signature, label, or anything else beyond the lines of text that stretched to fill each page.

The staples were uneven and rusty, and had forged a trio of ugly red rings to forever tarnish the surrounding white.

I chucked the document to a pile of odd bits and pieces to get to later (outside my sacred slow afternoon time).

The next morning, I skimmed the first couple pages.

It became obvious right away the thing had been stapled out of order.

As I zipped along each choppy, over-punctuated line, I picked up on hints of themes too personal and complex for me to grasp.

It did not seem at all work-related, that’s for sure!

I snuck it home with me that night to browse through one last time, expecting not to find anything worthwhile.

I planned to shred it and forget it the next day.

I’ve actually got “shredding and forgetting” down to quite a science now after so many years of wasted-effort lists intentionally ballooned with false-conclusion ties and notes (to fill the time).

So, I sat to examine the first few pages again and had to force myself to keep slowing down and really thinking about each line.

What could it be saying?

Why?

Still confused after the second page, I sludged on.

I’m quite a trooper when it comes to soldiering my way through disparate, hostile assemblies of boring words and figures for no good reason.

Anyway, about halfway through the third page, I forget exactly what it was, but a certain phrase seemed to leap right out at me, reminding me of something . . . well, something very specific.

That’s interesting! I thought, and continued to wade back out into the sea of endless type.

Then it happened again, as if from nowhere . . . the writer basically posing some query almost identical to one I’d wrestled with for years (and long given up on).

This went on. Every now and then, just small, very particular things in the words seemed to reflect my own life, as well as my relationships, and other topics closest to my old heart in eerie ways.

I began to hold the uncanny feeling that the writer must be someone I knew.

Could the document have actually been left for me to find?

But those moments of illumination or connection occurred only for the briefest of stints, at random intervals. Most of the text was still incoherent, dense, and dry.

Yet moment by moment, I continued deciding to let curiosity get the better of me.

Migrating to my kitchen and rummaging through drawers, I knew it would be a mission to pry up those thick, massive staples knotted through and clamping the whole thing together. I had to wedge in a corn skewer and jimmy them up, one-by-one, tugging from side to side to gradually tear each metal shard from its tunnel-and-groove home like deep roots from soil.

Regrettably, the whole top-left corner of every page got somewhat garbled in the de-stapling. Still, all remained perfectly legible.

It took me weeks to read and re-read the whole huge thing, then months again to piece it all back together, a page at a time.

I can’t overstate how often I wondered if I should really be allotting so many hours (much of my workdays) to this chancy side project.

But mate, I couldn’t stop!

In fact, it seemed to be whenever I was closest to quitting that I’d glance at a few random lines again, and the most vivid new tie-ins would present themselves from nowhere like sparkly fairies emerging from a pond.

The ridiculous feeling that the document had been scribed and left just for me to find and fix grew unshakable.

I even began having these bizarre, recurring dreams of mysterious, colorful creatures hiding secret treasures from other times in dark cabinets for only me to one day discover and decode.

But back to what I started with…

Today feels like an ENORMOUS VICTORY since I finally found what has to be PAGE ONE!

It really makes all my work thus far seem like not such a dismal pissing away of precious (company) time.

I wish I could go through the whole document and show you every place where it connects with my life.

I would likely have done just that if I’d written this first note yesterday . . . but now I’m almost sure I’d be missing the whole point if I did.

In the end, it’s really not about me at all.

I’ve been trying, and will continue in notes like this, to show you what I believe the document is in fact about.

But you haven’t seen any of my other notes yet, so my guess is I’m still coming across here as a wee bit dimwitted, batty, fanciful…

And I’m okay with that. I’ll do my best to wear such labels well if needs be.

Honestly, at this stage, there’s simply no way to escape my compulsion to share.

So, here we go…

The first page begins like a note-to-self, though here’s a portion that references notes to others:

If you include all this, it will seal the deal, giving you something to work for.

That would be spending time with Mangelo.

It would be moving toward that good life, and knowing everything so far can still be redeemed.

Maybe you just saw the very last outline of the very last…

All you knew was it was everything you’d ever felt or known. Everything you’d ever seen.

There was no distance there. No pressure. It just was.

But what was it?

Yeah, that still probably doesn’t sound like anything, eh?

Another bit from the first page goes:

You’re a person too, Mangelo’s best friend.

But where might H.O. Christianson factor in?

I’ll say it this way: As clues give weight to hunches, finding the beginning (now near the end of my quest) seems to confirm every suspicion that’s formed and bubbled up as I’ve worked so tirelessly to piece this all together—suspicions boiling down to what I believe the document is really for, and why.

Yes, it goes on to talk of many other things—non-human things (if I’m reading those bits right), things that use people as tools, all sorts of mystical stuff…

But sorry, I keep getting ahead of myself. Let me collect all my other notes and start yet again, one last time.

Archer

Letter 1

I found a draft today that’s different. Older.

I have no memory of writing this one either.

Anyway, here it is:

Dear M&D,

I miss you both so much.

That’s what I’d most want to say, so there you go.

Was it hard to write just now?

I’m thinking how much harder it would be to send or say in person.

But what’s really the worst that could happen?

What would be so wrong with simply opening my mouth, forcing myself past the volcanic waves, and finally telling you both how much I want to be with you?

It’s crazy how someone could throw away their whole life on a whim in their 20’s, not even seeing how brash they’re being in abandoning everything and everyone they love so dear.

I feel terrible for . . . lots of things.

I’m trying to make some changes.

But even if I were to send this, and you were to really read it, I still wouldn’t expect you to believe a single word.

Why would you?

I have no credibility left. Not anymore. Just too many lies told too often for far too long . . . and it feels like I’m always starting over again from scratch.

So that’s why I don’t think I can send this.

But once I’m finally able to actually do what I’ve always worked so hard to convince everyone I’m already doing, or going to do . . . what I want to do more than anything . . . then I’ll know I’m ready.

Then I’ll come see you.

That’s my promise to myself, and it can’t just be words this time.

I have to become real.

If you were here, you’d see me turn to myself and plead something along the lines of: PLEASE, NO MORE LIES!

I wonder what that would look like.

But I cringe now whenever it gets quiet enough, and I start thinking how obvious it must have been that everything out of my mouth was garbage all along.

I couldn’t keep a story straight to save my life.

My mind was a fuzzy, shot, dead mess.

What about all those crazy all-nighters that sort of built themselves up around me while you were upstairs trying to sleep?

Or how I’d disappear for days and weeks, and then show up all bruised and dirty without even trying to explain where I’d been, or what I’d been doing, or anything…?

Remember when I kept claiming I was only on “over the counter” drugs?

How many times did I drop out of whichever school?

Yeah, you and everyone must have known.

But still, you never stopped helping me. You never talked down to me. You never treated me like I was a failure, even though I’m sure you knew I was.

When I was a kid, I had these daydreams about one day being the one to finally reverse all that bad, dark stuff we—

But, D, that was you. I saw the efforts you were making . . . going to meetings, forcing yourself to slow down and deal with me better. You did everything you could.

I guess I’m just trying to say I never understood how amazing you both were, or how good I had it over THERE with you.

Sometimes I wish I’d never left.

I mean, it all happened so fast.

And now, years later, I’m still scraping by on others’ leftovers.

I guess I’m glad it’s finally forcing me to be more honest with myself.

Oh yeah, did I ever tell you I started going to church over THERE before I left?

I know we’re not exactly “church people,” and I only bring it up because something happened at service one morning I can’t stop coming back to in my mind. This woman I’d never met said she had a “word” for me.

I guess that sort of thing was normal there, but I had no idea what to think.

The “word” was . . . she said she saw me standing in a new place, and when I turned around, expecting to see certain people there behind me, I was devastated to find myself alone. She told me God had given her the vision so I’d know I was in the right place when it happened, and I’d know I wasn’t really alone . . . that I’d find the right people as soon as I was ready.

Yeah, I still feel very alone. I’ve been HERE in this “new place” now for years. I’ve certainly felt let down by some I thought would be there for me.

But more on that in another of these [fake] letters.

I’m actually less jaded than I probably sound. People are people, and I’m learning just to let them be.

I’ll leave it there.

I so wish I could send this.

Love,

Me

PART A (The Psychologist)

(…all around and down below a voice cannot be heard…)

See how my human turns to face me, drawn as to a thing of beauty.

I am pulled like a weight, though not yet moved.

Can you sense our ancient dance?

So close now, there is perfect stillness. It has to be this way.

See my pattern worn deep into my human’s form. See my stitch there inside its crusty, blubbery shell. My crystal palace home. My lair.

My second lair, for the first has grown dry and stale as I am held, poised within its shredded remnants for what will be but moments more.

Pay attention, little ones, and I will show you the way to the human heart.

Though fluid as thought, we are limited. For our humans must choose us.

They must initiate. They must take us in.

Yet see how mine shuffles and zags.

See the crystal gap growing wider there inside, drawing me to its delicious blood. For it is there the flashing will come.

The crystals have been our destiny ever since spiritless ancestors were carried on ancient winds, separating and reforming across countless worlds and time.

You see, we and the humans are of an entirely different kind.

I will try to show you what it is within their feeble system that keeps them back from us.

Yet be assured that if a human reaches this point of hesitation, you have already won.

The hesitation can only ever last another moment.

We cannot help but seek expansion, so perhaps the humans crave but also fear us.

See how mine flinches and trembles, yet does not cease in its approach.

Can you already sense the glorious flashing about to bring itself into being?

How might I describe the flashing? You must know it for yourselves.

Yet what happens to the humans in the flashing is even more a mystery than is this brief and peaceful, final pause.

Here it comes, as sure as seasons.

See the tiny torn pieces of my dying earthen lair being lifted up.

When my human takes me, watch as I flow to fill the crystal’s space.

See how wide the gap is fixed. And this grows only ever wider, drawing my human back a little faster every time.

The widening, the return, the hesitation, and the giving in might as well be automatic.

But are we setting a trap? Are we harming our humans?

Before the world we once imagined began to be our new reality, I would often wonder of such things.

I remain transfixed in these moments of stillness. I truly do wish to know my human’s real experience.

Why does it resist? Surely the humans cannot think as we do.

Yet know in an instant they could resurface their whole world and blot us out forever, ending our beloved dance with them for good. Of course we would be powerless to stop it.

But if humans think at all, I believe their thoughts must move in mere single straight lines from thought to thought. My hunch is that when my human hesitates, its thoughts would read something like: just one more time . . . just one more . . . just one more…

My human never fails to lose its strange fight against its want for me.

Then the gap widens further, and I am consumed all the more.

But again, is our advantage unfair?

We will discuss such ethical issues soon, young ones, I am sure.

Come now, it is time. Watch as the flashing takes us.

Genesee and the girls of her clan sit laughing and chirping like happy geese, warm and content by steady flames.

Then night comes to rest in waves of setting shadows.

The girls huddle with their mothers to blunt the icy teeth of winter’s breeze. As words grow calm and slow, the elder mothers begin to discuss which man they shall next choose to make their chief.

Meanwhile, the men out in the plains crouch together beneath ancient trees, laughing all the more. They know these same trees once protected all their fathers. They have every reason to expect their sons to one day shelter here as well.

How many lifetimes have been spent hunting these same plains, carrying out adventures for the women? No man can say, of course.

Seasons have always come and passed, and so they must continue.

Nothing is ever gone, or better, or worse.

Nothing is ever counted.

One day, a strange water vessel hits ground just in sight of where Genesee and her clan make their winter camp.

All in the clan lay hidden, and watch amazed as smaller vessels emerge from the first like baby wolves from the belly of an enormous mother. These little vessels are filled half with living men, and half with rotting bodies of the dead.

The living strangers busy themselves as soon as they reach the shoreline, digging holes and burying their dead in the ground.

The strangers also cut the legs of trees with funny, shiny tools. And they hunt, killing even the noblest creatures of the land.

By winter’s end, other great vessels like the first have begun to arrive, advancing from over the edge of the sea in packs.

It is then that Genesee and her people become the strangers’ focus, like a squad’s worth of arrows suddenly aimed at the head of a single buck.

A crash of thunder . . . peals of shouting . . . and all see quickly the strangers’ great power to harness and kill with ghostly fire.

Then no more yelling. No more fighting. A new way has come, and the old must go where all bodies, and seasons, and fire, and laughter, and all things dear and dreaded end . . . to be swallowed underneath, now never to return.

Why?

Genesee is as accepting as a lake collecting rain. Yet the many new things she sees do sway and trouble her spirit so.

The strangers set up ugly colored markings everywhere. Genesee asks of the markings’ meaning and is told the strangers carve the land to claim parts as their own. This baffles her, for such a thing as owning has never been discussed.

How could one so small and agile ever hope to hold and keep all that lays forever fixed and deep beneath them?

An idea for how the two peoples might live together is brought forth from across the sea, shown somehow in tiny drawings on thin white leaves. The idea comes from the strangers’ homeland.

The idea says the strangers will promise to use their powers of fire and death to protect Genesee’s clan. The strangers will also promise to teach Genesee’s clan everything that can be known of vast worlds far away.

In return, Genesee’s clan will be put to work to scrape the land plain and flat. The clan will also deliver to the strangers special stones and other useless items found or made.

Certain strangers are set as chiefs. Some of these new chiefs are cruel, killing those in their charge who grow ill or overly weary in their work.

Genesee is made the wife of a young stranger-chief named Adrian. A kind man, Adrian is the only of the strangers Genesee and her mothers come to love.

The house Adrian builds is odd, made from legs and arms of trees. Yet the house sits near enough the mouth of what is called Great River that Genesee might always feel the same misty kisses on her skin.

Great River’s steady, crashing voice never ceases to assure Genesee of old and trusted things.

After the days of Genesee and Adrian, the two peoples become one.

A man proclaims himself to be chief of all. None are permitted to question or speak against this man.

The man makes others like himself as little chiefs. And these chiefs only kill, and hurt, and steal from those they rule.

Thousands are consumed by great fire and a cursed mist that kills when breathed, sent by those still living in the strangers’ homeland.

Battles stretch beyond lifetimes until no one remembers laughing around fires or out beneath old trees.

Men tasked with keeping order are kept poor, and so left with a single choice: overlook, take what can be taken, or die.

Tales come to be whispered in hidden huddles of a new land . . . a land where all are said to be made free.

One night, the children of Genesee’s and Adrian’s children’s children set out in secret, taking with them many others in trickling streams like dawning light.

In the new land, all must make their way to a place called The City.

Once they reach The City, dazzled by unimaginably bright colors and loud sounds, the travelers rejoice.

But freedom in The City is not the same as bygone, forgotten freedoms.

Somewhere in The City, a boy named Ray Golel lounges, warm and alone, in a bubbling pool behind his parents’ home. There he gleefully melts snails with salt and drowns small bugs for fun.

Revy peered at the full-length mirror hanging tall within his open closet door across the room. Light seemed to outline his reflection as he watched himself strum and pluck his old guitar, the first gift he remembered ever receiving from his father.

He looked pretty cool, his lean and angular profile bobbing gently as he jumbled along the rougher edges of a piece.

He listened as his voice began to stretch its way up in search of a good entry point. The rise felt familiar, though somehow weirdly wrong.

And he knew the lyrics he was about to sing were trash.

Why had he wanted to call the song Fantastic?

But it was hardly even yet an idea for a song.

He huffed and shook his head, recognizing at once his most familiar trap to avoid. Memories of days and weeks spent fiddling around like this at the edge of his bed . . . just noodling through the same old sets of chords over and over . . . rang out like a warning bell in his mind.

In lieu of the missing parts he somehow never failed to expect would magically present themselves to tie his work together, he shifted his gaze ahead, peeled his left shirt sleeve up over his watch, and dug the tip of his thumb into a tiny button on the side.

A telltale chirp meant the watch’s timer had been sprung into motion, set to sound four hours later.

Immediately all Revy could hear was the noises he never would have noticed if it hadn’t just become his official practice time: the build and fade of car engines passing, bursts of whistling birds, a few hoots from children far away…

He also heard Jodie’s voice booming through the wall. She must be pretending to interview some celebrity or something again. He could all but see her hands swooping to catch up with the bubbly, unrelenting words.

Two words in particular jumped out from all of Jodie’s lines, yanking Revy’s attention back each time: “And, uh…”

He smiled, picturing the sudden redness and scowl that would overtake Jodie’s stern face like a storm if Revy were to ever point out anything about her speaking skills or style. Yet she seemed to have more than just the freedom to question and chide any choices he made in his art.

And there went three minutes.

After brushing fingers hard through his hair, Revy slipped up his sleeve again and dug deep into two buttons to restart the timer.

He reached to grab a spiral notebook from an open shoebox just under the edge of his bed. PRACTISE was scrawled uneven across the book’s cover in thick green ink.

Inside the book, he bypassed pages of instructions to himself . . . mostly advice gleaned from rock star heroes in interviews.

It was actually from something said in one such interview that he had decided on his “4-for-4” plan in the first place . . . to practice four hours a day for four years.

Aware of the timer still snapping out fresh seconds, he rifled to a section marked SCALES. Letters and symbols for notes in each key littered the pages he landed on like a preschooler’s homework.

Labeling the notes had been an awkward notion. But he’d known this would be an important language to internalize if he ever hoped to play well with more educated musicians and not feel like an idiot ever struggling to catch up by ear alone.

He found the first note, C, on his guitar, and slowly climbed his way up the scale, not quite muttering letters to himself in hopes of memorizing each note’s name.

C, D, E . . . F . . . G . . . No, wait, that’s a G? That doesn’t sound right. Oh…

After a few minutes spent clumsily mapping the same tones to different spots on his instrument’s neck, he slid absentmindedly back to strumming out one of his old, comfortable, unproductive pieces again.

It wasn’t long before the seconds still ticking silently away on his arm began to scream at him like a drill sergeant.

He huffed a couple more times, ground more fingers through his hair, and returned to jerking his way up and down the fretboard like a sloppy robot.

Moments later, he cursed Jodie as she continued to spout her “And, uh…” banter from next-door.

Jodie, too, was practicing her instrument, he knew. Though she seemed to be making far more headway.

Doesn’t she know I have to do this? I guess she doesn’t care.

He glanced sideways to glimpse his profile again in the mirror. At least he could pull off the look of a passionately aloof rock god . . . perhaps prepping to amaze some intimate VIP crowd at a secret venue with a light acoustic set.

As Revy stared, whatever scale he’d been tinkering with went right out the window just beyond the mirror. His fingers fell to perhaps their most common, easiest place, strumming the chorus to one of the first songs he’d ever written with—

His eyes darted away from the mirror, the window, and every other distance.

His mind reeled back from far, far away.

For a split second, seated in the swivel chair by his never-used desk, he saw Dale. For that was where Dale had always sat whenever the two would spend hours messing around on their guitars in Revy’s room.

The chair was empty, of course.

A bitter sting of tears touched just beneath and behind Revy’s eyes. He slammed the fingers of his left hand hard against strings to cut short the folksy sound.

He couldn’t bear to hear what might have rung out like a beacon back to simpler times.

The temporal space left on his watch continued to shrink in its precise and unheard ticks.

With shaky hands, Revy fingered through his notebook to a place marked COVERS. This is where he would spend the remainder of his appointed time, trying to figure out the secret marriage of music and melody as mastered by others.

But every now and then, he wouldn’t quite notice himself slipping back into Fantastic or another unfinished number.

Then more fingers would machete through hair, and he’d glumly wrench his attention back to scaling the walls of others’ art until at last he was relieved by artificial bleeps emanating from near the end of his arm.

Jodie, too, was now silent.

A classmate pulled ahead, followed close by Johnston.

The two shot around L-shaped corners, zigging past waves of empty cork boards and brightly colored, crisply cut election posters taped to walls.

The classmate pumped sweatered arms, never quite looking back.

Johnston pressed, but heard his shoes begin to screech against the scummy linoleum floor. Too loud to go this fast, he thought. Too much trouble. Not the right way to behave.

He stopped and caught his breath, alone now in a random stretch of hall.

As he considered heading home, a neatly folded square of lined paper caught his eye from beneath the rear of a bin marked “REFUSE.”

Glancing left then right, Johnston glided in and stooped to clasp the mysterious page by its exposed corner. He noticed a blue heart drawn in pen with extra curves and spirals.

As he turned the note over to yank its careful folds apart, a gaggle of gleeful females swarmed into the hall, all giggling and honking like the working components of some enormous cartoon machine. Johnston froze, feeling their judgmental stares as they laughed and bobbed in his general direction.

He glanced halfway up, not quite meeting pairs of menacing eyes . . . then quickly down again. His point of view was the sliding piece of the Strongman carnival game once its lever has been whacked with a mallet and the slider finds its apex.

He shuddered as he took in partial outlines of further curves and spirals.

An old warmth began to pool in his chest like a shaky jolt, and Johnston bolted, fleeing first straight at the gaggle, then around . . . an uncoordinated asteroid knocked into and out of orbit.

A door marked “MEN” lay just beyond.

Then safe in the usual dank and sterile mix of smells . . . hidden with his feet up in a stall . . . Johnston finished unraveling the paper, fighting to contain a wicked grin.

mark,

im stefani. im gabbys freind. u met me at gabbys house when derek had that party. i long brown hair and big tits. haha. anyway, i wrote this letter because ive been thinking about u. i like the way u talk and ur voice and i just though u were cool so gabby says u would probably go out with me. i want to go out with u. ur hot. haha. i think u liked me 2 because u were looking at me and laughing when i said that about mr hensler. i was so nervous about u but i hope u will think about this. i been thinking about u. a lot. haha. anyway. bfn.

xxx

stef

It was dark.

The kitchen air had fallen still and musty, probably with age.

Johnston cursed as quietly as possible, almost a whisper and quite matter-of-fact. His scrubber’s bristles, loose and dull, were matted through with tiny fragments. Slime from old, scorched beans and days’ worth of a crusty film held fast.

He gritted his teeth and scraped all the more beneath pale, lukewarm water.

The chore had to be done, so he let his mind wander in the particular way it had trained itself to, having now well over a decade’s practice.

Stef . . . Stefani… Perhaps it’s just her fun, cute way of spelling Stephanie. Or maybe Stephany.

Yes, he could picture her now. And Gabby. And others, all clustered in a tight circle on the floor of Stefani’s pink and Easter-blue, pony-themed princess room. He envisioned the troop of pajama-pantsed beauties all laughing and egging each other on as together they penned Mark’s note.

Johnston now knew the note by heart. He had read and reread it over 50 times, letting his mind run to fill in every missing detail.

Had she given the note to Mark? Had Mark tried to throw it away and missed? Did that mean poor Stefani might be alone somewhere even now, perhaps softly crying into her teddy’s side for having been so slighted?

How could Mark have committed such treason? Johnston would never spurn so exquisite a creature as Stefani. Of course not.

And he could just see Mark, too . . . the pretty-boy idiot, self-obsessed, immature, carefree and careless.

The dishwater seemed to stink more than usual as Johnston continued to scrape with all his worth, tearing at a few final filthy remnants until at last he saw no traces.

With a smile, he set about drying and putting away.

The odd football yell or hyena shriek from down the hall was nothing new. Barely even noticeable.

His smile grew as the complete blueprint for a plan seemed to leap all at once to his mind, ordered already in sequential steps. He would write Stef a note, and leave it near the same place, though more visible out in the hallway.

And what if his note were to actually reach her? How romantic would their against-all-odds story one day be? He could just see himself with Stefani reciting their unlikely tale for the nth time to seated half-ring rows of beloved grandchildren.

But first Johnston would scrimp and save, running that decrepit scrub brush through more sets before retirement. That way he could take her to the movies and buy her popcorn.

He would treat her the way she needed to be treated . . . the way she deserved . . . like royalty.

She just needs someone to show her how special she is. Someone to love her.

The noises from Johnston’s older brother’s room became less human and more frequent.

Johnston remained completely still, unaffected.

The dishes were done. Yes. Floors were clean.

He paced over and lowered himself to the brown shag-carpet beside an old cherry-wood desk his father might have used. He had been told this was the very spot his father’s body was discovered. It had since become Johnston’s spot, right at the center of the house.

He stared into a blank white page that lay diagonal on the floor before him and waited for careful designs to become correct words.

Then his gaze shifted, and he stared way past the page (and every fluffy shade beneath) until all blurred to sweet meaningless oblivion.

The expected words came, and he wrote.

Hi Stefani,

How are you? Ok, try not to be mad, but I found your letter to Mark. I thought it was great! I loved what you said and the way you wrote it. My name is Johnston, by the way. Johnston Sayen.

I know this is going to sound strange, but can I meet you? I just mean that, if Mark did not appreciate your letter, maybe you would like to know someone that did?

Maybe your letter never got to him. If that is the case, forget about what I said. You can try to get another letter to him. Or whatever you want to do.

Well, I will leave it at that. Since I found your letter, I have been thinking about you. A lot. Haha. bfn

xxx

JS

He was happy with his draft, though he knew it would undergo scores of tiny tweaks throughout the night.

But first Johnston let himself get lost again, staring far deeper than carpet could go in total stillness and silence.

Time slipped away as it always did, and he became that boy again . . . the one whose older-brother guardian was always off somewhere subdued in distant rooms by all the worst subductions. He was once more that quiet boy who taught himself to clean from magazines, and who learned to find his own way to each school . . . that boy who met all violence and chaos head-on with the sheer force of a simple belief in a single ideal: that Johnston could be, and do, and become anything he chose if he were just to complete each necessary step. It was more than a belief, really. It would always be his way out . . . his line to reach for and return to no matter what.

Johnston certainly wasn’t violent. Never.

In morning’s light, Johnston set about perfecting his letter again.

Did he know, deep down, he would never really leave it for Stefani to find?

There was a man who would one day change his name to Bing. So let’s call him Bing now.

Bing made plans to tell his boss and co-workers about something he would dub his “Yearly Medical Day.” He intended the request and necessary conversations to include dapper explanations of how he would bust through all sorts of appointments with various specialists in a single day, getting it all out of the way at once.

It would be a lie, of course, and just as well…

For even after Bing had paced his office hallway like a pent-up swarm of bees to work up the nerve, all he could actually manage with his supervisor was: “Um, I gotta take Friday off for . . . doctors…?”

And with that, his real plan was underway.

Two anxious nights, a hundred-dollar bill unclipped from a wad, and a hurried dialogue later, and Bing had his prescription. It was stamped, signed, folded four times, and tucked safely away in his wallet like a tool in Batman’s belt.

Driving to his next and final stop, he took a deep, slow breath.

He reached to press the volume button, causing his car radio to cough to life. Chattering, distinguished voices cut through loose, gravelly speakers.

But he wasn’t listening.

Almost there.

Gingerly thumbing sleep from both eyes, Bing glanced down and across at his new iun resting open on the littered passenger seat. The address was up, along with a little map, though he had memorized it all late the night before.

Reviewers of the place he was headed for had made a point of describing the way Suite F only appeared to face the street (“between a crappy head shop and nail salon”), but that the real entrance lay around back.

Nearly all the potential places Bing had come across in his almost-all-night search had been described in similarly off-putting ways: “up the second flight of stairs . . . watch for the guard to the left of the building . . . if you hit Dearhurst, you’ve gone too far.”

Apparently medical marijuana dispensaries weren’t the easiest places to reach.

A flush of tired nerves jolted Bing to life as he made his way around a quiet row of shops.

There at the back, he saw a makeshift metal guard shack next to a big door with a large F painted crude in green.

It was time. This was the moment he had been both longing for and dreading for the past six months, ever since a work colleague had shown him how legal weed could be a real possibility.

Of course it was the details that made him nervous, like always . . . like reviewers of some dispensaries who described being given strains to sample right at the counter, “taking tokes” with their “budtenders.” An offer like that would put Bing in an awkward spot for sure. He couldn’t turn it down for fear of seeming rude or shy. But the idea of being high around others, especially someone as experienced as a budtender…

Also, the listed pricing charts all seemed so confusing.

He hoped, more than anything, to avoid any sort of attention or drawn-out conversations in the unfamiliar environment he was about to be thrust into.

But there was no turning back. His prescription had been paid for. He was locked into his plan.

As midday heat beat down through grubby windows, Bing shoved his iun under the seat, withdrew his wallet, clasped his ID and prescription together in one hand, and slowly popped open his door as though easing into a freezing pool.

“Hey man,” spouted a skinny guard from the shack across the way. “Y’all got yo papers ready?”

“Yes,” stated Bing.

The guard bowed slightly, reaching to open the heavy door behind him.

Even before stepping through, Bing was overwhelmed by the smell that wafted out to greet him like an old friend. It was that same familiar scent of pine, and skunk, and herbs, and something else all its own.

He found the smell to be both calming and alluring right away. His rigid gait eased a notch. He smiled.

Maybe these people would be cool. Maybe they could be his friends.

“First time or returning?” asked a mechanical female voice from a box to Bing’s left.

He turned to glimpse two of the most alarmingly attractive young women he had ever seen seated behind a thick acrylic-glass window. The one with darker skin and slightly more tattoos gave him a friendly smile and repeated into a microphone attached to her desk: “First time patient? Or returning?”

“I’m . . . first time,” said Bing.

“Got your rec and ID?”

Bing noticed the slot at the base of the window. Without saying anything, he slid his license and prescription through.

“Thank you,” said the other girl. “Please sign in and fill out one of these…” She slid a clipboard with a stack of stapled forms back through the slot.

Bing took the clipboard and lowered himself to a metal chair.

After signing and initialing a few dozen times, he glanced around to take in the waiting area. It was quite bare except for a small wooden coffee table at the center. On the table lay neat stacks of magazines with pictures of plants and paraphernalia.

The smell, and what that smell meant was waiting just beyond the next big door to his left, remained pleasantly bewildering.

He could hear faint fragments of talking taking place behind the door.

He took a deep breath, hoping again for a quick and smooth exchange.

His name was called like at a doctor’s office.

He rose, slipped the clipboard through to the smiling receptionists, pocketed his ID and rec, and pushed through as the handle buzzed to unlock.

The smell so intensified as he entered that innermost chamber (its source) that it hit Bing hard like a massive wave. It was the steam from cartoon pies that causes characters to lose their senses and float off the ground toward it, all drooling and fuzzy-headed.

He couldn’t decide which was more appealing as he inched across that pungent room . . . the rows upon rows of giant mason jars, all filled with more marijuana than he’d ever thought he’d see, or the team of tiny beauties behind the counter, all grinning at him.

But the idea of sampling a smoke with an unfamiliar female seemed to Bing about as uncomfortable as being a eunuch at a peep show. He imagined himself guffawing like Goofy, and felt his pulse quicken in his neck.

He sauntered instead to a small Asian man who stood almost unnoticeable amongst the rest behind the counter.

“Hi, Mr. Pugloci?” welcomed the young man in a quiet voice.

“Hi,” said Bing, his gaze lost in waves of green and other forest colors.

“Your first time here?”

“Y. . . yes. I just got my prescription today,” said Bing, immediately feeling a remarkably strong sense of calm and focus as he brought his eyes up to meet those of his first budtender.

“Wow!” said the peaceful voice. “That’s great. Well, I can walk you through everything you’ll need to know. My name is Ten, by the way.”

The two shook hands.

“Bing,” said Bing.

“Well, Bing, basically how the dispensary works is you have your top-shelf strains…” Ten motioned to the jars Bing had just been ogling. Each jar had a hand-written label with names like Moody OG, Kryptonite, and Purple Princess. “Then there are your medium and low-shelf.” Ten pointed toward jars that sat, conveniently, on the two shelves below the top.

“Oh cool,” said Bing, eyeing jars through the glass.

“If you don’t mind me asking,” said Ten, “what’s your medical need? That way I can help you find the right strains for you. The ones you are looking at now would be good for things like insomnia, loss of appetite, or anxiety. Over here,” Ten continued, gliding in an arc around the counter’s sharp central corner, “we have strains known to get you up and moving. These are more energetic and are said to help with creativity and mental stimulation, kind of like an energy drink. You might find them helpful for problems like depression or mood disorders.”

“I guess…” began Bing, trailing off.

“It’s okay,” assured Ten, “I know it can all be quite overwhelming at first. Trust me, in six months you’ll know all the different types of strains inside and out.” Ten laughed then, pronouncing each “ha” as though learned from a textbook. “Here,” he breathed, arcing again at speed around and out from behind the counter, “these are edibles.” He reached to open a refrigerator door just behind where Bing was standing.

Bing turned to see that the little fridge was packed full of chocolate bars, brownies, cookies, and bottles of lemonade and soda. Some of the goodies had professional-looking labels. Others were unmarked, in re-sealable zipper bags. “Wow!” said Bing. “I’ve never had edibles before.”

“The key with these is moderation,” cautioned Ten, smiling humbly. “I mean, you only want to eat a little and then wait about an hour or so. If you’re used to smoking, you might just keep eating and eating, and then…”

Ten seemed to let the consequences of his unfinished thought hang in Bing’s imagination like barbed wire.

“I smoke a little bit,” said Bing. “That’s why I wanted the prescription . . . so it could be legal or whatever. But yeah, I’ve been doing it off-and-on since high school.”

“Cool,” said Ten, his expression blank and tranquil. “You have probably just been smoking whatever you can get, right, not really paying attention to different strains?”

“Right,” Bing confirmed.

“Well, now you can really keep track of how the different types affect you. Oh yeah, one more thing…” remembered Ten, navigating his way back behind the counter with the finesse of a predatory animal. “These are called concentrates…”

Looking to the small section where Ten was gesturing, Bing saw rows of tiny vials and tubes half-filled with oily liquids, as well as bottled pastes that looked like brown or yellow globs of dough.

“With these,” Ten said, “you only need a little bit to get the same effect.”

“Oh, so I should just get those then?” asked Bing, noticing the prices listed were about the same as the regular, non-concentrated marijuana in jars.

“Well, no,” said Ten, pausing, a slightly focused tinge to his expression suggesting the arrangement of his thoughts. “I see a lot of people will start medicating with mid- and top-shelf strains. Then they build up a tolerance and start using concentrates until those don’t even work anymore. You really don’t want to get to that point, right? I mean, it seems better to just ease off a little if you start to build up that kind of tolerance. That’s just my opinion, anyway. You want to make sure it keeps helping you medically. Again, just what I think.”

“Oh, okay,” said Bing. “Well, my main symptoms are anxiety, so…” He trailed off again into silence, hoping not to have to continue.

“Okay,” beamed Ten at just the right time. “Then you’ll want to go with the first group of strains I showed you. They’re called Indicas. Great for anxiety.” He was already lifting three of the mason jars to the countertop and unscrewing their steel lids in one fluid motion. “Go ahead and take a closer look. You can smell the flowers and get a sense of how each will taste. See the thick red hairs on this one?”

Bing lowered his face toward the jar labeled Abusive OG. The dense clumps inside were so large the entire jar was made up of only about four massive buds, dark green, almost brown, and covered in a dense jungle of red. “Is this one that you use?” he asked.

“Me?” said Ten. “I haven’t medicated in about six months. And we just got this strain in last week. So, no.”

“Wow, six months?”

“Don’t tell him that!” called the squeaky voice of someone else unseen nearby.

Ten smiled politely, his eyes ever fixed in their impervious gaze. “Yes,” He assured Bing. “Like I was talking about, I had built up too much of a tolerance, so I decided not to medicate for a while.”

“You must be . . . desperate for it by now?” chuckled Bing.

Ten, or the place itself, had certainly seemed to set Bing more at ease.

“No,” said Ten simply.

“No?”

“It helps me in . . . certain ways,” Ten began, then paused. “When I want to, I’ll use it again. That might sound cryptic, I know.”

Bing nodded, thinking, and replied, “Actually, it reminds me of what the doctor I just met with was saying, right before I came here. I went to him because he writes these articles about weed and how the experience can be sort of . . . spiritual, in a way. Is that kind of what you’re talking about?”

“I think that’s something private for each person,” responded Ten. “Right?”

“I don’t know,” answered Bing, slightly disappointed, but still smiling wider than he had in longer than he could remember.

Bing completed his first medical marijuana purchase, exiting with a rich sample of strains and edibles to try.

As he left, he thanked Ten, the two receptionists, and the laidback guard outside, even treating each to a silly grin and wave.

The white paper bag folded neatly under his arm carried a hint of the captivating smell like a beacon back to its lair.

Shielding his eyes from the blinding sun as he strutted back to his car, Bing felt about as loose and relaxed as Ten had seemed.

He considered Ten’s comment about spiritual experiences.

Though Bing would never see Ten again, the small man’s calm words and demeanor would never be too far from his mind.

The Rolmans were given a winning lottery ticket.

Or maybe the money was willed to them by some rich relative.

It really doesn’t matter how. Basically, the Rolmans were given huge amounts of cash. They had no idea how much. It might as well have been billions (or trillions) of dollars.

The money was one of the few things Mr. Rolman never mentioned to The Psychologist. He just never thought to bring it up in their sessions.

But Mr. Rolman did have plans for the money. He stuffed it in the innermost pockets of his oldest coats, which hung in the living room closet below stacks of board games, umbrellas, flashlights, and other ordinary knickknacks.

Mr. and Mrs. Rolman took money from the pockets whenever they needed it.

Mrs. Rolman bought a hairbrush, and a birthday cake for their son.

Mr. Rolman bought the boy a scooter.

One day, Mr. Rolman began to feel a dull pain just below and to the side of his right knee.

From then on, the pain seemed to flare up whenever he ran to keep up with the boy at the park near their home.

The pain grew worse week by week until eventually it remained a steady, sharp tinge that made him cringe each time he panted and pumped his arms to go faster. But the boy never stopped blasting forward and away on his shiny yellow scooter, circling and whooping, playing all sorts of little games Mr. Rolman never quite understood.

Sometimes Mr. Rolman’s attention would be drawn away to seeds, or nuts, or rocks, or lizards, or whatever else he might come across on the ground as the boy carried on.

The Psychologist had told Mr. Rolman it was okay to be a little absent-minded, that the important thing was how much time he was always spending with his son, and that it was great he was encouraging the boy’s individuality and confidence.

Much of what The Psychologist told the Rolmans would eventually be shown to be somewhat incomplete, like games with missing pieces or wrong instruction cards.

“Thank you for calling Sea Breeze Faith. This is Ray. How can I help?”

CLICK

Ray Golel hoped he was smiling. He was sure trying to hold a smile.

But keeping the corners of his lips upturned while fighting to find some sort of natural rhythm to his stints of eye contact with Jolie was like working to solve two very different puzzles at once, both time-sensitive.

And paying attention to her actual words became attempts at spinning one too many plates.

He was making her uncomfortable too. He had to be. For almost whenever his eyes would dart carefully away, hers would likewise spring from his on cue.

His smile would loosen . . . her expression would shift.

He would bring the smile back at just the right time . . . but then his gaze would linger a tad too long, feeding tension like air into a balloon until it popped.

It happened over and over.

Ashamed, he sensed he was ever but seconds from hearing her cry something close to, “Don’t!”

And the fact that nothing was said of their shared pressure or agitation was what gave it most of its power over him. For all he knew, it was all in his mind.

What’s she talking about again?

“So, why are you here so late?” Jolie asked.

Why are you?!

But all Ray could manage out loud was: “I usually . . . just . . . wait here until . . . later.” He felt his face flush, probably with red.

Why would I say that? Couldn’t I just tell her I’m working on something personal? No, then she might get suspicious.

He realized she was still talking, so he bent his attention back like a bar to the prattling stream of her words.

“So, anyway,” the words were saying, “I was going to go back for my master’s, but it’s not really a good time right now. I don’t know. I was supposed to get married…” She paused to laugh (an escalating series of detached little bursts). “I know that doesn’t make much sense. Wow, you’re, like, the only guy I could ever say that to and not have it go all weird.” Her laugh seemed to want to start up again, only to be cut short by more words: “Anyway, wow, we’ve been here talking for almost two hours!”

Ray looked at his watch, instantly reminded he was the only person he knew without an iun.

Two hours!

But there were no other options. He had to stay still and just keep fighting to reinforce that rudderless, shaky smile . . . throwing up sandbags of pure resolve until his wild, tired eyes would simply fail to skip about with hers any further.

She can’t know!

As if in answer to his hopes, Jolie trilled conclusively, “Well, I’d better be going. Thanks for listening to all my crap. Have fun, whatever it is you’re doing.” Each tiny explosion of laughter that followed grew more boisterous and unsettling than the last.

“Have a good night,” responded Ray, fostering an eye-twinkle into his last model smile like an artificial cherry on a store-bought cake.

She made her way out, bouncing through the office like a pinball to do things like forward phones, close blinds, straighten papers, lock drawers, and then finally let the big self-bolting double doors in front shut and clamp behind her.

There was silence.

That was too close! She must . . . they must all know. How long has it been? Wait, almost three years…?! One more month! I have to be out by then or I’m sure they’ll…

But Ray found himself lost in something like a vision, foreboding and stunningly clear. The scene was of Jolie and all the rest seated in a sharp circle to surround him.

He then saw evidence being brought forth, each single piece in turn . . . and every crime fit to its rightful place in metanarrative sequence. All deliberate choices were made duly impossible to escape or spin until every chance was lost at last for Ray to force with all his worth his own unique brand of utter sincerity.

Besides, his was a naiveté even his slightly graying hair and crinkled eyes must have betrayed as abundantly willful by now.

They know! They all have to know!

The vision wound and swept away on its own. He saw only himself and Jolie now, sitting as they had been . . . she, calling forth each remaining secret through her mere silent stare . . . and he, straining with all his worth to only stay still, and wait, and…

He watched his own face unravel as he failed to force himself normal again like a bee denying unto death its inability to launch itself from water.

The vision concluded with Ray as a crumbling statue . . . a hand held up to its ear . . . and then his statue self hearing only “Don’t!” after a final hellish moment of eye contact misaligned and held too long.

Don’t!

The phones rang again, a grating digital sound.

He must have forgotten to set them to Night Mode.

“Sea Breeze Faith. This is Ray. How can I help?”

“It . . . it’s you!”

Female client. Unknown name. Age unimportant (20’s-30’s). Talkative.

Who was the man with her?

I will sometimes have clients bring in their long-term partners, which is usually quite effective.

Whoever the man was, he came for a single purpose: to be introduced to the others.

I soon gathered that I had met with the client at least a dozen times before.

Though I had no recollection of her, I could clearly remember and identify each of the others.

The one called Sandy spoke first today.

Sandy has described herself as snaggle-toothed, potato-shaped, and rather homely or common.

She seems bent on coming across as extremely likeable and easygoing.

I eyed the man in Sandy’s presence, keen to catch his initial reaction.

He shot me back a typical look—one of many I have come to expect from those in his position.

His was the desperate, silent plea of one who would give anything to know the secret behind some impossible trick just witnessed.

I felt no pity for him.

Sandy shared for a few minutes about working at a mall in a cheap jewelry store.

She described some of the tacky ornaments and trinkets preferred by her regular customers.

Next came Reggie.

Reggie tends to present himself as the most male of the others.

He has said he is tall and overweight, with a thick, bushy mustache.

Today Reggie recounted to me and the man how much of an ordeal it had been to make the switch from cop to fireman.

Or was it fireman to cop?

Anyway, Gel was last, always an interesting one.

Gel’s voice is shrill and will bend asymptotically toward various comical accents.

Today Gel told a tale I remembered having heard before about working on the set of a game show until being struck blind by lightning.

I would like to meet with Gel more.

I find liars (or actors) intriguing.

Once Gel was gone, I turned to the petrified man, then back to whatshername, the client.

Such pivotal moments go best if left to simmer in their own dramatic juices.

The trick is to only set and frame, and then wait and watch, and not intervene at all until just before the whole scene boils over.

Yet this time the man beat me to it, which has never happened before.

Really, I let him.

Of course I did.

I was curious.

The man turned to whatshername and blurted out words with exaggerated zeal.

MAN:

“You know it’s all you, right? None of those other people are real!”

Should it concern me how superior to the man I felt in that moment?

I was almost enthralled by how much more of his lover I knew than he did.

His baffled innocence, and the way his voice cut and trembled as he spoke, reduced him to a poor child clutching at reason one last time before breaking down in near tearful despair at a cold world’s sheer unfairness.

I reminded myself that I am a professional.

Of course I would know her better, that is my job.

I watched the client’s face intently.

We had reached what I refer to as a Sticking or Breaking Point.

Things would now start to go in one of two ways: Whatshername would either register with reality or push to escape it further.

Yet either outcome today would ultimately prove inconsequential.

Why?

Let me back up and start at the beginning.

I want you to grasp how simple this all really is.

My goal in these notes is to show my Method in action for purposes of training and future reference.

Most of my clients are not cases of dissociative identity disorders (split or multiple personalities).

Yet using my most important cases as examples, I intend to demonstrate the effectiveness of my Method at treating any number of conditions.

Cases of multiple personalities simply serve as great illustrations.

Why?

Because those with such tendencies are not actually being dishonest.

Whatshername was never attempting to hide anything from herself when dissociating.

Quite the opposite.

Her other personalities were the parts of her that she most wished to see (or be) for whatever reason.

In every case, my Method is a process that allows unconscious awarenesses or drives to be made increasingly obvious until a Sticking or Breaking Point is reached.

Then the truth is either accepted consciously (it sticks) or avoided.

Whatshername accepted her reality today.

She is now cognizant of all her personalities.

She might even remember being each of them.

Future sessions (if we continue to meet) will center around helping her discover which parts of her identity each manifestation was a representation of as she learns to manage them all at once.

So, who is whatshername?

I realize how strange it must sound for me to say I cannot remember having met with her before.

You see, I have this particular irregularity, which most would assume to be problematic.

Though I work as a psychologist—I meet with individuals and some couples throughout each day for therapy—I honestly cannot tell the vast majority of my clients or anyone else apart.

To me, whatshername is but one of a multitude of faces that all appear the same.

Although the idea of a counselor being unaware of who he is even counseling might seem hopelessly irresponsible (perhaps unethical), I believe my irregularity to be the reason I was able to discover and develop my Method in the first place.

I do not see who a person is, but what they are.

What do I mean by that?

Well, I refer to most as Normals; you probably need no expertise in sociology or statistics to grasp why.

The more of a Normal someone is, the more difficult he or she is for me to identify.

I call non-Normals Outliers.

Not only can I tell Outliers apart, but it is only by working back from my Outlier clients that I can begin to distinguish my Normals.

Outliers serve as magnetic poles to help me find direction in terms of recognizable features.

I have never spoken or written of my irregularity before; I bring it up only to contextualize my Method’s initial founding and function.

Much of what you will read would probably make little sense at first without at least a basic understanding of how I see my clients.

Yet I must stress that my Method works exactly the same—just as effectively—in treating both Normals and Outliers.

And you do not have to share my irregularity to use my Method.

If a colleague ever notices my inability to differentiate clients, I usually claim some sort of accident has botched up my files.

This is not a total lie, for my previous case notes are in absolute shambles.

It pains me whenever I stop to think of how many rushed sets of notes I must have scribbled and flung together so flippantly through the years.

In truth, my notes have been so disorganized because they were never necessary.

My Method works without the jotted generalities of interchangeable clients’ progress.

Yet these new instructive notes will be different.

I must say it feels rather cathartic and surreal to see my irregularity expressed in text for the first time—quite relieving actually, as if a weight has been partly lifted.

I might as well continue to open up this way and share my real experience.

I can always later redact any redundancies.

So, I met with whatshername this afternoon.

What happened before that?

I remember feeling troubled during my first two earlier sessions.

Even when I awoke this morning, my mind felt locked to piddly remnants of what had been a strange and irritating dream.

The dream was…

I only recall seeing coffee . . . my coffee cup . . . but it was big, like a shield or something on my arm.

And there was just the daunting feeling of having no idea how to go about drinking from such a wide brim.

What could it mean?

For months now, I have been coming to grips with the undeniable certainty that therapy is fast becoming an excess luxury for my target demographic.

Obviously the truly wealthy would never grace my office door to have their deepest secrets recorded for analysis.

Those with means understand the ease with which such systems can be compromised; the fear that their hidden lives might be sold and brought to light is actually quite logical.

No, it is the middle classes I have watched disappear from my appointment books like water drying in the sun, for they simply cannot see what I do as enough of a priority now to be worth what I must charge.

My fear of running out of clients weighed on me this morning because my first appointment was with Mr. and Mrs. Rolman.

I often wonder how the Rolmans are able to afford my services week by week.

Yet how sure am I that it was in fact the Rolmans seated across from me today?

Could it not have been another Normal couple?

Again, so many faces all the same.

Though the lines seem to be blurring exponentially faster.

Why?

Well, with less and less clients left to see, I have little left by which to tell my few remaining apart.

I will admit on some level my drive is to compile and publish these new notes before my irregularity gets exposed (and misinterpreted), like a squirrel desperately seeking nuts to store in the face of a long, cold coming winter.

I will certainly have to remove much of what I have written here already.

Such textual adjustments cannot be considered dishonest; for not only are my personal fears irrelevant, but my primary motivation truly is education and beneficence as stated—not self-preservation.

Besides, I have every reason to trust my Method to continue to work despite however extreme my irregularity gets.

How funny I mentioned my coffee dream this morning, for I often have another dream related to how I see my clients.

In that other, recurring dream, I can almost make out the words of some whispered conversation always happening far away.

Then I awake each time with only an eerie sense that the undeciphered words were really dark family secrets.

I never had a family.

I do not know my family.

You would think a therapist with no relationships would be at quite a disadvantage, no?

Yet what my Method has proven time and time again is that if human experiences can be aligned and reflected back just right, then the solutions to human problems are always exactly the same.

Such consistent evidence becomes my bedrock core of hope whenever fear prompts me to dig and stall in doubt.

I love my Method because it allows all needless individual details to slip away as entrenched dynamics and patterns essentially present themselves.

Rather than a face or personality, my Method shows a client’s life.

Then I can help that client see beyond and beneath all their working sets of conscious commentaries.

Still, it would probably be good if I could find a few more Outliers soon.

Ray approached the deep green bed of carpet grass that circled all the edges of his office park like a mote. He saw tiny cracks in the cement ridge lining above where flakes and paper specks mingled with old oil stains and glimmers of fading white from a painted-over grid.

Stepping up, over the ridge, he felt the squelchy give of padded earth beneath his feet.

He passed an old tree with gnarled bark patterns resembling bunches of faces with too many eyes. The plot at the base of the tree was a perfect soil circle where the slender trunk disappeared to welcomed roots beneath.

His dress shoes clacked as he skipped diagonally down to pavement beyond the grassy mound.

There would be no traffic here, he knew. This quiet, tree-lined street was where he always began his walks after working all day for The Church and then his self-appointed job.

Looking west, he smiled as the sun’s last rays kissed his neck and face.

He turned and started walking the other way.

All in view was lit a peaceful gold and amber red, while stretching shadows crossed the glow like skeleton silhouettes. The shadows’ placement meant he was getting a later start today than usual. He blamed Jolie.

Yet his focus drifted from the day’s quota of work and tense misunderstandings to a strange, small trickling sound . . . a tiny river gushing from a burst pipe up ahead.

A young woman, dressed smart in slacks and blouse, stepped to the road just beyond the flow of water. She spun and hurtled toward Ray like an asteroid.

He almost froze, but caught himself in time to will his feet to keep him moving.

As the woman rifled past, Ray felt caught up by her current like fresh debris in a tornado. He might have seen the beginnings of a smile touch her face, though it could have just been daylight’s final glimmers filtered through the blurry edges of his vision. She appeared to beam with strength and life.

Yeah, I’ve started a business . . . sort of. Something tells me you’d be great for what I’m planning. I know this must seem so weird, me asking if you’d be interested. I mean, I don’t know you, but I just have this sense about you.

He saw in a flash the two working side by side, deftly tag-teaming all manner of decisions via power meetings in boardrooms at crunch times. She would keep him moving, and help him organize his work in ways he had never known possible.

As Ray neared the end of his quaint asphalt sanctuary, roars of crossing motors from the busy street ahead slowly morphed to angry growls of vicious animals. These, he knew, were sent each night to weary his focus and kill all sense of the peace he had hoped these walks would bring.

Did unseen drivers care at all that their blarings were now ripping Ray from his dreams of partnership with the regal woman who had passed? Of course not. No one cared.

The sun was gone.

Skipping ungracefully to the sidewalk, Ray turned and came to a thrift shop called Happy Hearts. It was odd seeing all the lights out.

A little farther, and the dim outline of The Church began to loom thick in the distance. Hazy blue and purple twilight painted five enormous structures tunneled by walkways and strategic garden groupings, all surrounded by acres of The Church’s own parking lots, streets, and signals.

Ray came to a halt and stood in place, imagining himself as some lone warrior gazing over from above and far away at a foreign palace planted firm and safe at the center of its kingdom.

Thoughts like unwelcome ticker tape struck in familiar time, resurrecting a garble of old arguments Ray had long failed to lay fully to rest. These indignant ghosts all crowded and cried, vying for his attention as he continued to gaze across at the majestic buildings and landscape.

Refuting the arguments, he knew, would be like swatting at a swarm of incoming bees. Yet the alternative, he also knew, would be far worse.

Just to pull in extra . . . the ones who don’t even really… Why should you have to…? How could you be okay with…?!

The ticker tape wound down and crunched apart where it always did. He reminded himself he was being unfair and too judgmental.

He remembered some of The Pastor’s recent words.

To stew this way, he knew more than anything, would prove unlivable for long.

He forced himself to continue walking, feeling a light breeze cool the nape of his neck from behind. Gradually, the programmed squabbles began to fade, along with their dark accompanying still-frame shots and warlike sounds. Poison drained from bottles. Ray took a deep, deep breath.

It’s not your fault. It’s no one’s fault but mine. I should have tried harder. If I’d just told you . . . or just been able to say it better!

Had his whole life really been reduced to a single lie? Had playing innocent all these years convinced him he was actually some sort of martyr?

More like a coward, and not very smart.

He sure felt far from Jesus.

His mind spun like a cobra from its mirror trap, stretching out flat until he could no longer understand or believe he was this particular person walking this street in this City in this world . . . this fool ever fighting to hide himself, always smiling wide while teaming with revolving clusters of the evilest little plans.

Grace!

The call came from deep enough within to snap Ray back to the here-and-now like a thunderclap.

But how could this be his life? And how could he prove to himself for good it was no one else’s fault?

Tired, his focus collapsed away from ledges far too shaky to rest his weary soul.

But I should have tried harder! I should have told you…

He glared now at the approaching Church, feeling the heat of his own blood as his fists clenched firm against his will.

It’s broken, and you’ll never fix it that way. You keep trying to sync up all your dead pieces to make something alive!

He sighed.

But that’s all you’re used to. That’s all you know.

Suddenly, a man appeared as if from nowhere, inches from Ray’s face. “Hey!” sounded a chipper, adolescent voice.

Ray’s inner play again was shattered. He squinted, failing to quite decipher the stranger’s face. “Hi,” he heard his own voice say.

The stranger seemed to be creeping even closer in the near darkness.

Years of experience playing both roles in such scenarios had taught Ray there were but a handful of reasons one might be stopped like this in the street (and almost all akin to sales).

“Hey, I’m from the, uh, church over there,” ventured the stranger. “We just got out of service. You ever been?”

“Yes.”

Inside, the awful riot crashed itself back to life.

I work for them! But you would never… They make me do things that… Trust me, it’s… Oh, but then if I don’t explain, you’ll accuse me of witchcraft. You’ll say I’m trying to make you suspicious, which is the same as putting a curse on you to deceive you, right? Let me guess: You’ll call what I’m doing “of the devil . . . earthly, sensual, demonic.”

But Ray was alone, facing a silence far more vicious than any loud, careless engines. A young man had passed by moments earlier and surprised him. That was all. Neither had spoken.

Starlight shown above in patches wherever City lights allowed, as evenly spaced as graph paper.

As Ray came to the private street leading down to The Church’s main entrance, he felt a familiar twinge erupt near the side of his right knee. He chided himself for having forgotten his running shoes for one too many walks.

A blue car, shiny and new, putted up from The Church’s parking lot to meet him at the intersection. He leaned in to press the button to cross. The smiling, middle-aged woman behind the wheel waved him on.

As he gingerly stepped out in front of the car, the light across from it turned green. He swore silently, and scrambled to get out of the way, wincing at every step as his flat, hard dress shoes drummed fast along the concrete.

It’s not her fault! She doesn’t know! She’s trying to be considerate.

Perhaps to escape the throbbing now strobing up and down his outer leg, Ray’s mind blasted away to imagine a group of formless future aliens unearthing a particular fictional movie The Church had just put out. He considered how odd an impression the film would leave. For though rather violent at points, its angrier dialogue had been stripped of all edge and curse words, prompting those distant lifeforms to perhaps scratch their possible heads at such phrases as: “What the heck, Jones!” “Ah, fill your belly!” “I don’t give a fig!”

It’s not so bad. People like it. It’s making so much money. Who am I to criticize?

Turning the final corner to end his suddenly agonizing stroll, Ray entered again the peaceful street behind his office park. Though the same little river continued to trickle, he saw no sign of the amazing woman from before.

How positively serendipitous it would have been to find her there awaiting his return.

But Ray was alone, talking to the ghosts of those who had passed him by.

As usual, God was being way too nice to Mr. Rolman.

“Dad, watch me skate!” called the boy, pure glee twinkling in his little eyes.

Mrs. Rolman thundered, “Get out!”

As Mr. Rolman slid the screen and glass doors shut behind him, he glanced up to see his son’s steady smile still beaming from beneath the tiny quilt and larger blanket shared each night by the three. The lights inside suddenly went dark, leaving only that joyous, baby-toothed grin etched in Mr. Rolman’s mind like a neon sign.

Again, God was being way too nice.

Mr. Rolman stood in the garage, eyeing his drugs for the night. He knew that Mrs. Rolman knew, of course. So words came to mind he could use.

I’m just trying to relax. Don’t you care?

Though the words weren’t quite a trap, they also weren’t completely his.

The next night, he’d be watching their son alone. That would mean several trips like this to the garage, leaving the boy inside to play games on the new iun or TV.

But wouldn’t Mr. Rolman need the iun with him? He’d sure gotten used to using it. It had happened so fast.

He shook his head, certainly not proud. He pictured the two porcelain faces on the other side of the wall, their eyes slowly closing . . . one so much a part of him, yet both somehow the same.

The drugs had gone down easy.

He forgot all about his special words to use.

He wondered why he couldn’t calm down. Nothing about the moment felt right. It was all so good, yet so undeserved.

How kind of Mrs. Rolman to always put their son to sleep.

I hope she’s okay. I hope she’s feeling better. I hope she’s having a good time. I hope she’s not mad.

A sharp chirping meant a message on the iun.

Mr. Rolman made his way gradually back around and in.

“You don’t like me?” whispered Mrs. Rolman at the door, her face overwhelmingly beautiful.

Mr. Rolman was confused and said nothing.

As he lowered himself to the floor and under blankets, his swollen knee knocked against the boy’s warm, curled back.

“Daddy!” cried the boy just above a breath, with tiny fingers rubbing still-twinkling eyes, then reaching for his father.

Mrs. Rolman shook her head and fell to the couch in a huff. She had the tight-crossed arms and scowl of a cartoon elephant mid-harrumph.

A tear inched down Mr. Rolman’s cheek as he felt his son’s breathing slow to a deep and even tide.

He returned the boy to the floor as carefully as he could.

The reason Mr. Rolman thought Mrs. Rolman might be mad is really too silly to say.

A year or so passed.

Bing could sure still remember life before his reality of legal weed. It had been a life spent mostly racing through TV channels alone in his plain box apartment . . . a life given daily in frantic pursuit of fresh cures to a disease called indecision with its grungy symptoms born of boredom crossed with slipping time.

Perhaps the sickness had hidden somewhere behind that old Bing’s sinuses. For he would rub his crusty eyes so hard and often that the fine lines seen drawn beneath might as well have been canyons cut by friction.

Food heated in that life would all grow cold. Poured beer had always gone flat.

Eventually that Bing would have to settle upon some lesser of many evils, causing time to fly so the whole ordeal could end and begin again.

Yes, steady weed had changed much at first. For whatever magic lay within those small torn shreds of plant had seemed to slow Bing’s mind down just enough to vibrate almost in tune with whichever burst(s) of silliness he might end up given over to.

What’s funny about things like curses is they almost seem to love being outrun. Catching up might be where they have their fun.

Tired sparks of a feeble buzz brought hints of old lights and fuzzy motions. But devoid of zaniness or bliss, it begged Bing in drab tones to be filled with something else to be run through.

He lay in bed, his mind bouncing between potential old albums or videos to relocate on his iun. He knew somewhere there had to be some worthy specimen to offer. But all imagined options were but played-out, dreary trash.

Whatever had made for any previous Bings’ enjoyment seemed utterly incapable of rousing the current one.

And lately nothing new could be trusted.

A few far-off stars shone through in tiny pinstripes at the edges of Bing’s blinds. He didn’t feel his hands quivering to clasp at clumps of bedding.

A familiar flash of connection was the jolt of colliding worlds. He reached across to scoop up his iun, slid open the screen, and silently tapped out a message.

old people who only ever listened to music to be cool
keep doing it even though they hate it
and it’s not cool anymore.

He could already see himself later wondering why the words had seemed worthy to save.

A sheen of sweat began to tickle at points across the inner legs of his pajama pants. He swept the covers off with a gruff sigh.

Almost immediately, he started to shiver.

Fighting not to recognize the many mounting signs of yet another sleepless night, he replaced the blankets carefully, half on and half off.

He braced himself for further flashes of useless inspiration, which always came perpetually in waves.

Could more weed help?

What’s this strain called again?

He lifted the iun still in his hands, and typed:

don’t use blue diesel at night.

He waited.

Sure, he could go smoke more. But besides the Blue Diesel, he had only a little left of a strain called Green Crack.

He chuckled, weathered another internal flash, and quickly keyed:

how dumb would u have to be
to try to use a weed strain called greencrack
to fall asleep?

The light from his iun’s face pierced through to hurt behind his eyes.

If I fall asleep now, I’ll get four hours…

And nothing had ever proven capable of keeping that same thought from repeating throughout such nights with adjusted figures.

He sighed once more as if resigning to accept the bittersweet resolution to a long and bloody battle. Some part of him must want to just go ahead and capture every wild, frantic, flashing thought.

No?

Maybe getting them all down and digital would clear his mind enough to rest…?

Might as well, right? If I’m not going to sleep anyway… So what was that about Green Crack again?

He squinted at the iun.

Green Crack . . . Green Crack… Well…

He slowly tapped out a reply to his last message, keeping the two together.

well, gc once made u try to kill urself,
so sleep…? no!

And something was deeply, deeply wrong, as if the universe itself had paused to focus all its sets of secret eyes on him.

The words he saw onscreen weren’t funny. They weren’t smart. They weren’t any kind of reminder. He saw only sheer failure immediately upon having decided to actually, consciously try.

Some covert line had been crossed somewhere.

Bing blinked. His hope might as well have been swept out like a match.

Perhaps attempting to play with, use, or otherwise enjoy a curse only gives it more fuel to burn through once it can catch up and re-establish itself in new, ripe territory.

The old sinus sickness drew more clenched hands, chills, and sweating. And Bing was in the bathroom, sparking away at his last clumps of Green Crack, drawing its piney smoke through an old, repurposed aerosol can.

He was asleep within minutes.

No, Bing didn’t bother reading his night’s recorded flashes. It wasn’t that he forgot.

Fluorescent lights pried into Ray’s skull as if to scare a story out of him. Nothing unusual.

Children’s latest artistic efforts tacked amongst faded zippy wall-poster slogans all sank into an over-lit backdrop. A welcome sound could be heard far off: fresh coffee percolating in the new machine’s pot.

Ray sat silent, desperate to ignore Jolie’s end of a phone conversation emanating like irregular bomb blasts from two desks ahead of his.

“Hello? Yes, I called yesterday and left a message with Parker… Parker… Oh, he said his name was— Yeah. No, I never heard back. Well, I— No… My name’s Jolie… Pwell… From Sea Breeze. It’s a church… Yeah, now I have three glass L-desks that we need to— No, we need to get them out of here today, so— Well, Parker said today would work… What’s your name?”

Ray glanced over at old desk pieces piled in ruble at the center of the large, open room. The space was a ghost town of crumbling boxes, scuffed phone systems, large and small cabinets, plug-in calculators with rolls of tape, and trays strewn with dusty remnants from former employees’ drawers. A broken plastic Christmas tree leaned propped against a little table surrounded by four white cartons marked CHRISTMAS STUFF. To the rear of the central wasteland stood a perfect wall of unopened boxes Ray had signed for when delivered a week before.

From beside Todd’s big door, far across the way, Ray caught the eagle-like stare of Mottamis, whom everyone called Mo. Mo seemed to be homing in on Ray, glaring not quite pensively. As soon as their eyes met, Mo blinked as if in defense, then stepped purposefully forward.

Ray’s attention was caught away by another abrupt burst from Jolie . . . still pressing for some sort of confirmation from whomever she had on the line.

Mo came to a halt at just the right distance to almost loom over Ray. “Hey, I have a quick question,” blurted Mo, his tone suggesting more.

“Okay,” replied Ray, glancing from left to right. Mo’s questions were never quick.

“What would you do in a situation where you have unlimited freedom to create or experience anything you want? And it’s forever. And I mean anything at all!”

“What do you mean?” asked Ray, peppering out more shaky, sideways glances. There was no telling what sort of office-wide tension such conversations could snowball into. This one felt like a trap.

“I mean,” said Mo, “you can make anything happen. Anything you want. Just by imagining it.”

“Um,” Ray sputtered, immediately aware of a stack of unanswered correspondence on his desk, “…and it’s forever?”

“Yes. You will always be able to make or do absolutely anything you can think of.”

“I guess,” ventured Ray, “I’d want to know what flying feels like. Um, why? What would you do?”

“Okay,” snapped Mo, “So say you fly for as long as you want. You would eventually get bored of just flying though, right? So what then?”

“I don’t know,” said Ray.

“Come on! Unlimited freedom! What would you do?” Mo’s words had the cadence of a counterpunch.

“I guess I’d do just what it says . . . like, imagine different things, and different people and stuff. Different situations. Um…” Ray’s eyes returned to rest over upon Todd’s giant door.

“But you see the limits, right?” roared Mo, his smile resembling that of a baby shark about to feed.

Beads of sweat began to dot and itch Ray’s neck and back. He did not see the point Mo seemed to be so confidently driving toward. Knowing Mo, it probably had something to do with God.

But then, instantly, none of it mattered. Mo and the conversation slipped from Ray’s focus, along with everything else.

It’s happening again.

Ray watched as words he might have sought to say fell from sequence to meaningless scribbles and jumbled, clanging noise. He smiled, aware of only drifting toward an old, familiar place.

He had watched himself slip like this before, losing track of where (and even sometimes who) he was. But he had never quite made it all the way back to his special place since…

And there it was . . . that same beloved sound, unmistakable. As if suspended in the emptiness of the calmest, darkest of caverns, Ray heard a rush like limitless oceans crashing eternally all around. He did not think to marvel at how nothing had changed. Instead, he remembered Mo. But the dialogue and nonverbal cues had been cracked apart like an egg, its soft yolk running raw in pure colors of intention.

“I guess,” Ray heard a voice like his utter with disarming peace, “I’d rather have something totally unknown happen . . . not anything I’d choose or expect at all. More just whatever could happen. Or maybe whatever couldn’t.”

“But you would still have forever!” Mo’s faint voice insisted. “That’s a long time. Do you really think you would enjoy just whatever imaginable random events forever?”

Ray’s distant response came smooth and quick: “If it were just infinite worlds and things I could imagine, then no, you’re right. But why does everything have to be imaginable?”

“What do you mean? That makes no sense: Why does everything have to be imaginable?”

“Well,” Ray’s tranquil voice went on, “why do things have to be the way we experience, y’know, with our senses? Why do things have to happen in time? Yeah, I’d get bored with just different worlds of strange creatures and things. But I think if I could see what stretches out, like, as far as possible away from my imagination, then I might never get bored.”

Mo’s voice fired back, “You’re talking about a world not bound by matter and space, or even logical absolutes?! That would be a world where things could be what they aren’t. You get that, right? And what could happen in this non-material, non-rational world of yours?”

“Anything. Whatever…” Ray’s voice uttered, his tone morphing down to a hopeful, raspy whisper. “I’d spend forever seeing whatever could be.” The words felt like the final squeeze of a sponge.

A tremendous shaking hit Ray’s chest as he was washed back from his faraway place until it became again a fuzzy, beloved memory.

The office air felt icy cold and dry like death. All eyes were locked on him, each set filled with varying degrees of pity and disdain. Nothing unusual.

I HAVE TO KEEP MY MOUTH SHUT!

Even Jolie was silent, obviously listening. How bizarre Ray must have sounded, spouting such nonsense about unimaginable worlds.

They all know!

Mo stood perfectly still, his face a model picture of deep thought. “Go on,” he said gravely. “That was pretty good. See what working in a creative environment like God’s house can do for you?”

“This isn’t—” But Ray caught himself in time, stuffing the words back like clothing into an already packed case.

“This isn’t . . . what?” pressed Mo.

Ray sighed, shaking his head, his face surely betraying in twisted contortions the overwhelming shame he felt as he fought to glue his gaze to the floor.

“You know,” continued Mo, “it’s unfair to think we’re not creative. I mean, consider that you have actually met Jaylen Uay! He got his start here, doing praise for youth. And it was those same songs he created in free worship that have made him one of the most successful Christian artists ever. Are you saying he’s not creative? Are you saying I’m not creative?”

“No,” gulped Ray, the rapid river of never-to-be-said phrases held unsteadily at bay.

I could save this place, you know! But no one listens. Why did you all write me off? Why do you think I’m CRAZY!

A beep, and a click, and Todd flew into the office like a hearty comet. Ray felt the frigid air begin to thaw. Todd must have felt something too, for he halted mid-strut, pivoted past the desolate part pile, and strode straight up to Ray.

“How are you?” Todd thundered, showing the warmest of smiles.

But Ray knew better, of course. The smile had to be just a cover for enormous suspicion and contempt.

PLEASE DON’T WRITE ME OFF!

“You—” Ray began as if at the press of a button, his mechanical soul threatening to spring and drain floodbanks held fast by only human lips.

“Yes?”

“You have to see it all, all at once, or . . . or you’ll die.”

Next, a massive, sick grin arced hard across Ray’s face as all the blood flushed out.

He heard no responses and saw no reactions. Yet as glaring lights above went dim, he felt the creepiness he had unleashed permeate the stale air like sludge, acquiescing to every face, possessing every heart and mind.

This would be Ray’s last day working at The Church. Though he would always keep close by.

Revy peeked into his green room just in time to see Mack erupt in a long cascade of vomit, covering clothes and drums. Their eyes met, and Revy giggled dazedly to himself as Mack began to mumble and spaz around.

After all their countless little gigs thus far, everyone in and near the band knew to allow for Mack’s nerves to make things unpredictable at every last moment.

At least it was only the tiny practice kit that got trashed, and not the studio’s expensive set now waiting out on stage.

“You good?” called Revy.

“No!” came the muffled reply.

Revy chuckled again, pleased to be aware of a general haze taking form. It was just a soft sense of sweetness and warmth, which he hoped would allow for this, the third worst moment in his life, to at least be cut and spliced with smiles.

“See you out there, buddy,” Revy bellowed, leaving before the smell could cause a chain reaction.

He sped by Crew and Angel’s greenroom on shaky feet, hoping to see neither.

Just get through tonight, and it will all be over. Or it will be . . . starting. That’s right.

Revy’s induced comfort made it no less difficult to ignore whatever underlying tensions might cause half a band to insist on separate green rooms before and after their first big headlining gig.

He also had to fight to reel away from such sharp realities as all the money, jobs, and other moving units now wrapped up in delivering a perfect performance.

Five minutes.

His mind jumped to disjointed shards of a confusing conversation with Crew an hour earlier . . . something about key changes and vocal exercises. Hadn’t some important decision been made? He only remembered Crew barging in and going off at him about . . . which song was it?

Oh no! Three minutes.

Revy’s oldest, strangest lyrics began to tumble in and out of his mind as they had been in intervals all afternoon. He couldn’t help but grin at old-reel flickers of him and Dale getting so excited whenever a second verse would somehow lead back into the same chorus as the first.

What were the lyrics to Second Nation again? He strained to imagine the intro. But the whole song seemed so fake and meaningless now . . . a time-filler really, which he had tried way too hard to make say something important. Did they have to play it? It did usually get a good response.

One minute.

He peeked around heavy black felt to see a wavy sea of blank faces brightly lit by the bloated stadium’s house lights.

Who are all these people? Why are they here? What is music, anyway?

There was an awareness of movement, some cheers, flashing lights…

He dimly heard the last of Mack’s count-off clicks.

And then it was all just sort of happening. Feelings, and politics, and hopes, and sketchiness disappeared into a sonic wall built in real time upon an ever-steady grid of perfect clockwork. Even Mack seemed relaxed and mechanical.

One of Johnston’s Business professors was a wiry fellow named Spek.

Spek’s lazy style, creepy wink, and wizardly appearance were to Johnston hallmark trappings of pure, irreversible failure.

Spek seemed most proud to revel in never having conducted any business of his own.

Now Spek’s apathy for actual instruction was costing Johnston his night.

Occupying two big tables at the library’s farthest edge, Johnston macheted eyes and fingers across several laid-out pages to triple-check his work. Waves of confusion fell like gunfire behind twin twitching eyelids, interfering in their drawn-out war against droning, heavy fatigue.

The formulas were easy. So why were they not working? Had he not just re-reread the chapter?

Yet somewhere along the way, solving practice problems had become attempts at cleaning running engine parts that would dirty themselves six times faster than their edges could be wiped.

A moment’s empty silence almost brought to mind several realities remaining: the older brother and noises down the hall, a transcendent carpet multiverse, and even that same disgusting scrub brush now years old . . . supposedly all springboards to catapult Johnston onward and upward.

But not yet. Not now. Not really.

The thought of Spek’s smug face made Johnston snap a pencil, the waste immediately providing his rage a clearer target than injustice.

Wasted thoughts. Wasted time. Wasted money. Wasted lead.

He was startled to notice a girl a few tables over, young and all alone. How could he have missed her? Had she seen him break the pencil?

It felt odd not to bounce his eyes back from her at once to resume their doomed undertakings across the desks. He could not be more aware of his choice to allow her image to hover at the corner of his vision. So soft. So bright and pretty. So defenseless.

He could approach her easily, of course, and comment on the fact that they alone seemed studious enough to brave the college library this late on a Friday. He could ask about her major, and dazzle her with the sheer vastness of his superior knowledge and ambition.

Johnston was, after all, what every girl wanted: a good-looking go-getter with a future so bright he might just burn all others to nothing with it (starting, of course, with Spek and every other useless teacher).

If powers that be could just set Johnston free, and let him go, and watch…

There she sat, a finger circling the clear little clip that held her sandy hair. “What a big brain you have!” she would exclaim as he wowed her with his wit.

Yet should he not return his attention to more unsolvable problems at hand?

Business Statistics was a silly class, though important (like the rest).

Spek’s favorite line jostled to mind, the one repeated most often: “Business assignments are the easiest of all to fudge; and they usually turn out better when you do.” It had to be a test. What teacher would encourage students to not do their absolute best?

There she sat, staring into a subject-less volume opened to a colorless page. So warm and happy. So carefree. He could hear her now, spouting pleasantries as he revealed the utter depths to which one would plummet to then rise and win the world. She would see him matter amongst the matter-less as he crushed the sorry likes of Spek with inarguable value, carrying what forefathers and heroes had once been known to cede their very lives, lands, and freedoms to—the drive to grasp at facile existence and bend it fast to human whims. And if they, why not he?

There she sat, a breathing bag of indentations and curvatures, pretending not to notice him.

Who would dress like that to go study? Unless…

Johnston shook himself from the thought, relieved to no longer be shaking himself from every lapse of calling slumber . . . but both shakings being really just ways of recoiling from different shames and troubles adjoined to getting caught.

There she sat.

What could he give her? What might he do? Would he pretend for her? If asked, would he really act the lowly, stupid fool?

He pulled a fresh pencil stiff from its case, and wrote somewhere:

Will you do anything for *? LYA? LM? TI? LYA? THANK YOU!

When Revy returned to himself, wiping beads of shiny sweat from moppy hair as he scampered lightly back to his green room, he had only one thought.

That was as good as we could possibly be right now!

The next morning, Revy sat like a stump at the plain wooden table in his kitchen. Jodie was there, hovering unnaturally somewhere off to the side.

Revy scrolled through review after review in disbelief. Comments on his performance seemed to all revolve around a few reshuffled phrases, like:

“…full of himself . . . sophomoric lyrics . . . stupid songs . . . thoughtless . . . fake . . . pretentious . . . would have been good ten years ago . . . yet another example of the failure of a generation to make anything new or worthwhile…”

And there were others.

“I thought you guys were . . . good…? Uh, yeah,” offered Jodie.

“I . . . I don’t get it,” whispered Revy. “The crowd seemed to love it. I mean, everyone was cheering and everything. They wanted more. I don’t…”

Jodie’s eyes rose only slightly from the iun in her hands as Revy interrupted his own words by leaping to his feet and slowly meandering out of the room like a sudden zombie with no goal.

Still glued to his iun, Revy waded through to comments by actual concertgoers and fans, hoping for a more positive response than that of “The Media.” After all, if his music really meant anything, he shouldn’t expect those corporate industry bigwig reps who wrote professional reviews to really get it, right? But the unofficial response was worse:

“…trying too hard . . . out of touch . . . okay, but from another time . . . weirdo front man . . . ugly . . . goofy . . . hard to take serious . . . songs all sucked . . . hoping for more…”

As automatic and reflexive as the band’s performance had been, Revy lurched for his bag of designer pills, the ones made just for him.

Ray. 30’s. OUTLIER!

Ray was referred to me by my long-time associate, Officer Minkrit.

Minkrit called early yesterday to discuss a case for which he requires my particular expertise.

A woman named Caylee has gone missing.

Caylee is not presumed kidnapped or dead.

In fact, Caylee has vanished like this several times before, though this is her first disappearance in close to a decade.

Minkrit asked if I would meet with Ray because Ray and Caylee once took off together, 17 years ago.

Ray’s recent whereabouts are all accounted for; he is not a suspect (the case is not a crime).

My task is simply to uncover any useful information about Caylee’s whereabouts or reasons for leaving.

Ray cannot know why we are meeting.

According to Minkrit, Ray underwent some sort of breakdown late last week at work, even threatening his boss, so he was told our sessions together would be to discuss the incident.

It seems Ray took the bait; our first session just ended five minutes ago.

As always in these new notes, I will begin with more general impressions before combing through the recorded transcript to measure my predictions in detail.

I must say, I greatly enjoyed meeting with Ray today.

Most in my position would likely be irked by his constant second-guessing and sporadic bouts of stutters.

Yet unlike traditional therapists who push solely to pin labels, my Method allows me to step back and appreciate a particular anxiety apparently sparked by pressure to commit to one’s own words—words Ray seems terrified will be identified as representing his true thoughts (and self).

I hold that conventional methods could serve only to exacerbate such a fear, shutting down real communication at the outset.

No, it was not particularly easy to pry information from Ray today, at least not at first.

Yet here we come to a second cause for my enjoyment: I was already looking ahead to these notes and what valuable insight I should surely have to offer on drawing out quieter clients.

A third source of professional whimsy was how Ray’s words, whenever he did manage to string more than a few together, were such a refreshingly wide berth from the safe and templated responses I hear from all my Normals.

Normals seek the simplicity and certainty of the narrowest possible paradigms to set their lives to and forget.

Sure, a Normal might be forced to ask, “What if?” at times (only once their natural models show signs of nearly crumbling); yet such uncharacteristic ponderings are but single spikes destined to dull and fade out fast into the next overwhelming wash of whatever is most generally understood to be the way things ought to be.

I am no sociologist, though I would venture to guess a largely unquestioning majority could make for more stable, ordered populations.

Outliers cannot help but operate from an almost continuous, compounding, “What if?”

And I already see in Ray quite an odd balance of unlikely forces—an unprecedented balance, really—unlike anyone I have ever met.

How is Ray unusual even for an Outlier?

Outliers tend not to care (or be much aware of) how they come across.

Yet Ray seems petrified by just how strange his words might reveal him to be.

Today I witnessed at least two vastly divergent motivations crashing together and repelling beneath each careful, choppy utterance.

I will undoubtedly have my work cut out in digging deep enough for my Method to identify and reveal the true nature of those motivations (to Ray).

Yet that revelation, I am already sure, will be what brings him to his Sticking or Breaking Point.

Yes, I feel excited for the challenge, and for what treasures I shall have to impart here to you as my Method draws Ray’s uncertain polychotomy to the surface like pumping water from a well—somewhat automatically.

Next time, I plan to delve fully into his workplace breakdown; I suspect far more than a simple case of office politics, or whatever might cause someone to lose their temper at work . . . money-stress, perhaps?

Yet, again, I am getting ahead of myself.

I must endeavor to keep these new notes more linear and sequential, unlike my previous disconnected attempts.

Truly, I apologize.

So, Ray was my first appointment today after lunch.

I remember feeling surprised to check my schedule and see so full an afternoon.

He arrived early, giving me the opportunity to observe him for a few minutes on camera out in the waiting room.

I would describe my first impression of his appearance as being the opposite of anything formidable or charismatic: droopy posture; tacky clothes with no real style; his face, sullen and unremarkable.

Yet I became almost suspicious at how perfectly still he sat, not busying himself in the least with any of my planted magazines or pamphlets.

Nor did he look around the room at all or pull out his iun.

He just sat there, waiting.

First-time clients tend to be quite nervous and jittery; they usually do all they can to distract themselves in the moments before we meet.

Most expect our sessions to be the Freudian undertakings of TV and movie therapy—they picture themselves reclining on a couch as I deftly extract their deepest secrets.

Many new clients fear having nothing worthwhile to say, or saying the wrong things and being misanalysed.

I called Ray in on the intercom, still watching as he stood and stepped into my office in one fluid motion like liquid through a release valve.

Once seated across from me, his demeanor changed entirely.

Though his body remained placid, his eyes began to dart everywhere like crazy bats flittering haphazard through a cave.

I began with my usual round of general, ice-breaking questions—name, age, and brief reason for visit.

Ray fought for what many would have found agonizing minutes to force his first words out.

He mentioned having worked at a church until last Friday.

Minkrit had not told me where Ray had worked.

Ray’s ties to religion—his breakdown having occurred at a church—piqued my interest, adding colorful dimensions to the clear picture already forming in my mind.

Again, though, I had a specific aim for our session today, which I would not deviate from.

I had to find the best and fastest route to broach his experience with Caylee.

ME:

“How was your childhood?”

RAY:

“I guess I was pretty . . . angry . . . as a kid.”

ME:

“Tell me about a time you got mad.”

He stumbled through a long, overly complicated story of how he and a friend had once been roughhousing with an older male babysitter when, due to a sudden rage impulse, Ray kicked the babysitter hard in the groin several times.

Upon crumpling to the carpet, the older male had begun screaming threats to take Ray’s life.

Ray recounted having dropped to the floor then as well, sobbing and trembling in fear.

Yet here is where his story gets interesting, and where Ray reveals himself to be a true Outlier.

For as soon as the babysitter had left the room (presumably to confirm he had not just received a free vasectomy) Ray leapt to his feet and boasted to his friend something along the lines of: “I’m a true ninja, see? My greatest skill is my ability to make an opponent think I’m weak. I could have destroyed [babysitter] just now if I’d wanted to.”

I would have appreciated more time to work a smoother transition.

Yet Ray seemed to be opening up enough for my priority to take precedence.

ME:

“So, were you angry when you left with the girl when you were 15?”

RAY:

“How did you know?”

ME:

“I never heard the full story, just that you and someone might have disappeared from high school for a few days?

“Maybe it caused some worry?”

Notice the way I purposefully left my phrasing so unsure.

My aim was to immediately establish a secure distance between Ray’s actual history and any assumptions on his part about my opinion.

I wanted the raw account, unaffected by fear of judgment.

Most of all, I wanted Ray to feel safe.

As he began to share, I was careful to look for any programmed defenses or signs of deflection.

“Well, it was because, I mean… Okay, something really bad happened before that. When I was 14.

“No, you don’t have to write that down. I won’t go into it now. I just…

“I guess everything with Caylee and me leaving was, like, me trying to make up for . . . something. Something bad. That’s all.

“But Caylee never said that much at school. She was always just . . . there . . . kind of like me . . . except I think she had some pretty good friends.

“So, I was in the hall one day, and I saw her sitting by herself. And she had these mixed-up pictures of horses on her bag, all different sizes, and… And I usually don’t talk to anyone, but I just said something like, ‘Hey, I saw a horse like that one on Sunday.’

“She told me she loved horses. All animals, really.

“But you don’t have to write that.

“It was just, like, right away I could tell we’d be friends, y’know? Like, everyone else always had to be into all the important stuff . . . but Caylee and me could just sit and talk for hours about this bunch of horses I saw near the train tracks.

“Oh, that was at this place I started going on weekends. It was after the bad thing… But that’s not important, um…

“I’m not sure what you’re writing.

“Okay, I . . . I won’t keep saying that. I mean, I guess you’d know what to…

“Anyway, I started talking to Caylee all the time. One thing: I never got nervous around her, and that was huge for me. I usually couldn’t sit next to a girl in school without feeling like my whole body was getting electrocuted or something. Seriously. But Caylee was different. She told me I was easy to talk to.

“We started going to the train tracks together, and…

“Okay, I just have to say this: It was like we never even thought about, like . . . sex, or kissing, or going out, or anything like that. It just wasn’t like that with her. It was more like we were kids together.

“We’d go watch the horses in the long grass and then sit up over the train tracks with our feet dangling over this big tunnel. Then one day, one of the conductors had to show us why that wasn’t such a good idea. He screeched his train to a stop and then yelled up at us to get down. And as soon as we were off, he let up this huge puff of black smoke right where we had been.

“We never went up there again. But sometimes we’d walk around inside the tunnels and hide in these little openings in the walls along the way, plugging our ears tight whenever roaring trains went by. We’d do things like that all day. That was kind of all we did.

“I didn’t really have that many other friends. And things at The Church were . . . weird.

“No, you don’t have to put that.

“Um, Caylee was just really nice to me. That’s all.

“One day, we decided we were going to go hang out under this bridge by the ocean. I still remember how careful we had to be, climbing down, so we wouldn’t fall into this, like, swampy riverbed thing underneath. We found a place to sit where we could see the riverbed stretching all the way out to end right where waves hit the beach. We started singing all these old songs from back then, or . . . or maybe we were making up our own songs, I can’t remember. But there was always this constant wind. It never stopped. I mean, the wind and waves in the distance were all we could hear while we were there. And yeah, our own voices.

“When it was night, we could see all the stars off over the ocean. That first night, I remember looking down to see she was holding my hand. I already knew I loved her, but… But it was the most amazing…

“I never said anything to anyone. It just wasn’t the way most people…

“Okay, I’m not sure how you’ll write this part down, but we honestly just forgot to go back. That’s all. We were looking at the stars and the waves. We were singing. We were talking about . . . I forget . . . silly things . . . people.

“And she was the only one that knew about the bad thing that happened with me before. She was the only one I could ever tell.

“We really didn’t know how long we were gone, or what was happening with the news and everything. That probably makes no sense. But I think we were down under that bridge near The City for about four days. We didn’t eat. We had a camping canteen with us, and some water . . . but I don’t remember ever drinking. It really just felt like we’d left the world or something . . . like, so far away we forgot all about everything else.

“And when we got back, everything was different. Caylee’s parents took her from school, and I never saw her again. There was nothing like iuns back then. She was gone.

“You probably think I sound so stupid, or crazy, but it was just a . . . a different kind of situation.

“I mean, I hope you don’t get the wrong idea. Like, I don’t remember missing her at all. I wasn’t sad. It was more like Caylee was always with me. And she still is. I didn’t cry. I…

“What are you writing now?”

Ray seems to respond to prolonged eye-contact as if being sighted by a pistol.

As he spoke, I found I could only meet his unsteady gaze for brief stints, and only whenever he raised it to hover anywhere in my general direction.

I listened to his whole story without interrupting, endeavoring even to move as little as possible so as not to disrupt his flow.

Once finished, he asked again about what I had been writing.

I told him I had made a note to ask if he thought Caylee would describe herself as being the same as him or different, and in what ways.

Something about Caylee was not adding up.

So far, she sounded like a Normal.

Details of young, Normal, female clients had connected in my mind as Ray spoke, all blurring together as usual.

Yet adolescent Normal females do not form close bonds with male Outlier peers; the social hierarchies of high school seem designed to impede such ties.

Ray never did speak to my question about how he thought Caylee would describe herself.

Do I suspect he was lying at all, or withholding information?

What he shared about their time under the bridge obviously contained elements that cannot be true in reality.

People do not forget their lives; they do not forget to eat and drink.

Ray mentioned having never had any thoughts of romance with Caylee; he also mentioned loving her.

And what set of teens would write off sex as unimportant?

If not for the fact that Caylee’s disappearance with Ray had been confirmed as voluntary, my assumption would be he just grossly overestimated their connection.

Such self-deceptive embellishments are not uncommon for Outliers.

Yet Ray, again, seems grimly aware of his particular peculiarities.

We will certainly be returning to the “bad thing that happened” before his time with Caylee.

At present, I am more concerned with measuring the exact weight and essence of his apparent fabrications or misrememberings.

ME:

“So you never talked about sex with Caylee?”

There was a long pause.

RAY:

“I think the love we felt was too… But no, I don’t think we ever talked about it.”

In all honesty, I was momentarily translated back to specific instances from the time of my own youth—though I should always endeavor to keep personal experience from affecting my assessments a priori (especially when it comes to what I choose to include in these new notes).

There simply must be more to Ray’s story for me to uncover.

My current conclusion is that his reported relationship with Caylee defies both biology and my extensive knowledge of Normal/Outlier dynamics.

We arranged another appointment.

I have plenty to roll over as I consider how to best dig further next time.

In a way, Ray comes across as unbelievably genuine.

I do not buy his innocent-at-all-costs routine, though I would not call it an “act.”

Any embellishments on his part certainly seem unintentional.

Bing had a misunderstanding.

The community college rested like a sweet little hub, surrounded by a giant horseshoe of rich grass bunched at rigid intervals with green, leafy trees. Sunlight beamed from across the college courtyard, sparkling off the oil spots of a brood of mallard ducklings as they waddled after their mother in a loony zigzag line like a tiny honking marching band. Bing took in the scene, smiling as he circled the school on the thin paved path that looped the major parking lots.

If asked, he would have said he was there because of a computer game he had taken to. In the game, the player’s avatar could go to college, work and get promoted, exercise, and socialize at bars. Each activity would earn different progress points. If time was portioned well, the avatar might end up the company CEO, with celebrity looks, who owned the biggest mansion, and was married to the hottest girl at the best bar. It was an easy game for Bing to beat, but one he played through over and over most afternoons at work. Perhaps the peaceful surrounding scenery served to help avoid the heartache of having never seen real-life progress move in such straight, measurable lines.

It was his lunch break, and he was high.

Bing never bothered anymore with monotone radio voices that seemed only to buzz unintelligible amongst grating, repetitive sound effects just to fill in time between paid spots.

Even chosen voices speaking now in tinny tones through his tiny iun speakers had become but soothing background noise at best.

His mind raced instead with pretend accusations from his co-workers. He had never actually been accused. But Bing’s battle was to both believe and ignore that which he could know best from experience: that no one seemed able to tell whenever he came back high from lunch . . . or cared . . . or even noticed he’d been gone.

Must be almost time.

Old colors whirled and wheeled like ghoulish funhouse mirrors. Within these came faint glimpses of distorted alien faces, cheerful cartoon animals, complex symbols, and textures upon textures . . . all too dim and rushing away too fast to really focus on.

Or maybe it was nothing but memories of past highs, back when…

Regardless, the words at the forefront (now taking form as [fake] allegations) never seemed to cease.

Always so, so many words.

A too familiar flash, and Bing lurched to grip his iun like a feening robot.

His car swiveled back around to restart the loop behind Lot A, the busiest. It would be too hard to type. A few deft sweeps, and his iun’s voice recorder was prepped and blinking red. He heard himself speak then, as if from far away (still far too close for comfort), saying, “I can’t get high on my lunch break every day like this because I just get all anxious after. I get real worried and paranoid about how everyone sees me. It’s like I can’t pay attention the way I need to or something. I’m off in my own world but also thinking everyone knows. But if I know I’m wrong about that, could this just be my conscience telling me not to get high this way? Should I stop doing it at lunch, then?”

Another sweep to close the screen, and the iun was re-lowered.

As he began the slow right turn to leave the loop before Lot C, Bing spotted a middle-aged man in unkempt slacks and tweed, probably a professor, jumbling along just behind a group of young, giggly girls.

Bing watched as one from the group turned back to face the potential educator. She then grinned and began to skip about her friends like a lively faun amongst more stoic elder deer.

Another flash, another sweep, and: “Teachers who sleep with students… Guy becomes a teacher so he can roam the halls, y’know, strolling for strange… Trolling for strange? Shit, I messed up my own joke.”

He made the left onto Holding Ave., chuckling to himself.

Or maybe he was surrounded by a cliché group of friends in some dingy living room somewhere, all laughing together at his mis-told bit over enormous bowls of rainbow cereal.

To his right, Bing watched a tribe of miniature people sweep across the yard of a fenced-off playground. Some of these came to cluster in open spaces, while others drifted to the tiniest of plastic ladders, slides, and swings. A young woman in skinny jeans and converse shoes stood with her hands clasped behind her back, inspecting the small humans in their bustling.

Bing smiled again, telling himself the woman’s story: that she had always loved kids, and saw her job as a great and noble opportunity to sow some good into their lives while they were all still receptive enough to…

A partial stab of regret…

But Bing was also still away, playfully one-upping his makeshift friends in that homely, trashy room. Weed and bongs abounded, of course. Pounds and pounds and pounds of weed. Trash bags full of it.

The college and preschool crossed, colliding with smoke and grins.

Then another flash, a swipe, and yet more words: “I don’t want to be the old guy that spends his lunch breaks driving through a school I dropped out of years ago just so I can check out all the chicks’ asses!”

The giggling friends in the living room morphed and expanded to a packed theater’s worth of house-lit faces, all roaring along as Bing contorted his expression to a half-grin/half-snarl in perfect, playful self-mockery.

As he nodded to his own reflection, reveling in his wit, a massive sentry in thick, dark shades swooped its black-and-white chariot in to cling to Bing’s rear. It held, as inescapable as gravity. Ugly, angular, and cold, it filled every unoccupied space in the rearview mirror.

Bing was instantly sure the cop had read his reflection’s lips.

The muddling of the two schools went all dreary and terrible like damning courtroom evidence being read in drab tones and televised.

A wave of panic hit Bing’s chest. And there was an awful flash of further words, this one not to be recorded.

No, officer! I wasn’t talking about the preschool when I said “asses” just now. I meant the college, but . . . but I was kidding anyway. I’m not like that. See, I was recording these dumb jokes, and…

Mo was a coiled spring hardly touching the rugged post that held his weight. “No, that’s not the original,” he insisted, his voice streaked with indignation like rain cascading down a window.

“We can’t access the original from here,” offered Darren from across the way, nodding, his feet dangling free over the side of his truck bed.

Ray sat slumped between the two on the cold pavement ground, his gaze pinging back and forth above as if to follow a long rally in a tennis match.

Having met both in Bible school many years before, Ray knew he could never hold it against Mo and Darren for erupting into spontaneous preaching and loud debate whenever the three got together. At least this time they weren’t somewhere crowded.

Optionless, Ray resolved to just keep quiet and listen. Maybe he could learn something, or see some fresh connection like gleaming gold beneath the rapid river of his old friends’ fervent words.

“We can, like I just did,” pressed Mo, bowing slightly.

“But most people wouldn’t care enough to get that far. Perspicuity of Scripture, et cetera,” countered Darren, smiling, though his eyes seemed somewhat sad and distant.

“No!” Mo almost yelled. “That’s what I’m saying. If it says something, we have to say the same thing.”

Lost, Ray let his mind wander to where he would be now in his old life . . . just about done for the day fielding his secret calls at the office. He could almost see his own gaze, fixed and resolute, trailing tenderly through penned notes on pesky regulars to pick out that one final, special enquirer whose question itself would make the day worthwhile. Ray had never failed to finish on a wringer so unique and real that the mere fact of its having been asked could leave him, and the asker, and anyone listening with more than any answer.

A moment passed, and Ray brought himself back to the confusing crossfire at hand, only to re-conclude he had nothing against his Church friends. Nothing at all.

“We already are,” Darren was saying, his voice even and peaceful, “as much as they can understand.”

“No!” half-shouted Mo, launching himself to a stance apt for battle.

But something was different. The conversation had begun to echo and fade as if drifting away down a subway tunnel or to a bunker beneath the earth. “Yes!” and “No!” both spiraled together in a passionate, paling flurry . . . arcing this way and that until the whole dramatic dance wound itself back to begin again and again. Maybe it had already gone on a thousand times.

A pleasant whoosh like sleep tickled up and down Ray’s spine, and the talking was a soft radio drowned out by softer eternal crashing.

Again?

“Once you have some experience teaching,” flickered Darren’s voice like a sagely breath, “I think you’ll get how we have to communicate Truth just one small piece at a time. You will probably get frustrated by that at first, but otherwise they just won’t get it. And they all make assumptions. And…”

“But they will get it,” came Mo’s snarl in hinted pieces. “That is perspicuity of Scripture. That’s what it means. That’s what I’m coming back to.”

“I…” Darren began.

“There was…” interrupted Ray. But he paused, fascinated. He then listened intently as he continued, “There was a group who had a symbol.”

Mo and Darren were silent, having been struck perhaps by the unfamiliar pulse of Ray’s quiet voice disrupting their earnest wrangling, breaking their magic momentum spell built from matching one another’s zeal.

“The symbol was called Gred,” said Ray’s voice.

“What are you talking about?” asked Mo.

“What does the symbol mean?” rephrased Darren.

“The symbol was used for a long time,” Ray’s voice replied. “For generations. But then some who left the group started thinking it was Gree instead of Gred.”

“What?!” smirked Mo.

“When the two groups met up again, y’know, a really long time later, each thought their way to say the symbol was better . . . no . . . that their way was . . . right,” Ray’s voice concluded.

No more radio, there was only the rushing weight of always, more beautiful than…

Somewhere, the sight of a wide cluster of stars made Ray almost sigh. He was at once transported all the way back to childhood nights spent outdoors on a giant foam mattress at a mountainside campsite, and to endless stories shared with and by someone very special of how those same stars formed the outline of a cosmic doorway exit, and mostly of what wonders lay beyond.

But even that beloved, heavens-spanning pattern was now passing ever farther and farther away.

Not knowing if or where he was coming or going to or from, Ray caught a fleeting glimpse of Mo and Darren staring over at him, still speechless. Their expressions, nearly blank, were spruced by a mild emotion close to bafflement . . . closer to pity.

Of course they feel sorry for me. They think I’m a lost cause. They’d never even ask… It’s just been too long since I was… But why did I have to say anything?! Why couldn’t I…? Such an idiot!

“So, anyway,” Mo piped up again, shifting eagerly back to Darren, “I think I know what I was really trying to say. Remember how hungry you were to know Truth back when you…”

But Ray couldn’t hear the rest. Neither could he feel the tear that glanced his eyelid’s edge.

He missed the inertia of rising, and first motions of storming away.

Then he found himself suddenly at a full sprint, pumping all four limbs too hard and fast to even breathe, yet knowing he had no destination in mind. All that seemed to exist was the clapping of his footfalls reflecting off of pavement at every distance like a frantic battle of flat struck drums or guns firing hidden from far and near.

But what was really happening? Which parts were true?

He saw himself in darkness with his eyes wrenched shut.

Then everything shifted to The Psychologist’s quaint, scattered office, where Ray knew he was ready to answer the most logical next question conceivable with: “Yes, it sounds like silence amplified, or maybe unheard air, or even my own blood flowing somewhere behind my ears.”

And up ahead appeared The Church again, its entire compound set aglow by scores of symmetrical colored lights, all of which came to focus on a single paneled cross at the biggest building’s highest apex.

Ray laughed.

Why? Why always here? Of all the…

That old pang at the side of his knee might have caused his leg and hip to stiffen some. But the throbbing was a fire burning far enough away to be more than just endurable.

Tiny drops of moisture were kisses from angels hidden on high.

And there was something else in that busy air as well. Someone else. It was someone Ray could almost feel, a person he just about . . . saw . . . right there at the entrance to The Church’s namesake street. But not completely there. And how was it also not a person, or at least not like any person Ray had ever seen? In fact, how was being not a person one of its clearest qualities?

It seemed funny to track a wash of only mild curiosity, which must have tagged in to relieve more frenzied normal fears.

The conversation with the two friends, maybe minutes ago, was less than a distant memory. Ray could be convinced it hadn’t happened.

Now the stranger was at least as present as the massive works of architecture lit up strategically all around.

A not-a-person.

Ray heard himself giggle at how odd it should feel to think in such terms.

Perhaps old Ray Golel had finally lost it.

Or maybe he had died.

Either way, he considered the pros and cons of endless pure delusion as an aftermath.

But there was something about the not-a-person that made it more beautiful than any buildings, and more appealing than even that old skyward doorway (now long passed through or fled). Compared with its surroundings, the not-a-person seemed to shine in regal gold as if on purpose to overpower every ho-hum manmade shade and ersatz surface.

As if instantly, the not-a-person felt more like home to Ray than his job, and Church, and friends, and life . . . and if he really had just witnessed his last lucid moments, he was glad to have watched them go.

Bring on the descent. Let me plunge even deeper.

Allowing for such reckless thoughts was certainly new.

Ray watched himself take a very big step toward the not-a-person. “Hello?” he called.

Did it turn? He saw no face or features. It was all the same foreign texture or substance, like a poltergeist or shimmering liquid silhouette.

It was then that Ray first noticed the fog billowing through all the buildings of The Church and out everywhere as far as he could see. The fog was sparse and thin, but unmistakably there once seen.

He watched as the not-a-person glitched and gestured suddenly toward him, though it did not move any nearer. Clearly helpless against the fog, its motion was a mix of chaos and futility, like a fish caught in a bucket slamming its body in last mad gasps for water.

Ray looked from left to right, in awe yet unalarmed at the sight of a massive sea of the not-a-persons, all fixed in the wispy fog at points scattered throughout The Church and everywhere else. It was like seeing a population of barnacles on a wall, twitching and quivering yet held fast in place.

Could they see him? Were they real? Was he? The questions spit like automatic sums collecting out the end of some dusty, archaic calculator from the depths of a long-abandoned closet.

Ray knew he should have been surprised to see himself lunge so fearlessly out into the fog near the entrance to The Church’s main courtyard. He approached the first not-a-person he had seen, distinguishable from the others by its alluring golden tint. But before he could reach it, he was caught by a flash of light so bright it felt like existence itself should never hope to contain the beam’s brilliance within the spindly likes of space and time.

Without having to blink or squint, Ray turned to see that the unworldly light’s source was a torch held aloft by someone he immediately knew to be Faith. And he saw that Faith’s great light was aimed at another close by, whom Ray recognized right away as Grace.

Grace appeared to be just as trapped in the fog as all the not-a-persons.

And even Faith’s light, brighter than any other, could only pierce the fog in needle beams at a few distinct spots.

Later, staring into my various depths of fluxes and swirls on paper, I was struck by the most obvious connection imaginable: Ray’s take on sex and his church background.

I chided myself out loud for having missed it in session.

Such careless oversight chokes me with overwhelming self-disdain and an unbearable sense of powerlessness, like feeling unable to stop myself from slipping ever further down into some abyss.

I am haunted by vivid pictures of all my clients realizing at once that I have no idea who most of them even are; I see them storming out in one mass exodus, even my few precious Outliers, as I am dragged and blasted across the world as a total fraud and failure.

Worse, I see my beloved Method lost and buried forever, never having been made known.

These notes are my only hope.

So, Ray’s religious sex ideals brought to mind Dr. Adrian, a clinical psychologist and psychiatrist who has worked in this facility with me for decades.

I remembered Adrian having once relayed an experience shared by one of his patients connected somehow to religion and sexuality.

I could not recall the details but decided it would be worth asking.

Now, I do not care for Adrian at all, nor his pretentious work, and I would never normally choose to interact with him.

In fact, I have no qualms in mentioning that several of Adrian’s patients have died inexplicably while in his care.

Rising from my notes on Ray, I had to force myself to take each step down toward Adrian’s office suite, hoping at least in part to find him absent when I arrived.

Adrian was alone when I entered, standing slumped over a cabinet by his desk, busying himself with what appeared to be tiny vats of chemicals.

I wasted no words, speaking fast and with my hands.

ME:

“Hey, I met with this religious guy today.

“And he says the love he felt for a girl in high school overruled his teenage sex drive.

“Have you ever heard of anything like that?”

Tapping my foot, I attempted to adopt as harsh a look as I could muster.

My hope was to come across as hurried and disheveled so as to promptly leave.

In reality, I had already called to reschedule my next appointment, which would have been my last for the day—only another Normal, anyway; no doubt her interchangeable issues will be just as pressing and ready to stick or break next week.

ADRIAN:

“Is he gay?”

This could have been a failed stab at humor, I was unsure.

Regardless, I remained silent and staunch.

Adrian removed his thick-rimmed glasses to wipe them proudly on his coat.

ADRIAN:

“Well, closest thing I had was this doctor a few years ago, an MD. But let me make sure I get this right… What he told me was he felt like the prayers he prayed for his patients were losing their effectiveness somehow. You see, he’d always pray for miraculous healing, but he just had this terrible sense the prayers weren’t working the same way anymore.”

I nodded, disappointed, already certain Adrian’s anecdote had no bearing whatsoever on Ray and Caylee.

Everything within me pushed to simply turn and leave.

But Adrian kept talking.

ADRIAN:

“So I suggested he speak with his spiritual leader, a pastor, about the issue with prayer. But then we talked for a while after that, and . . . um… I forget why, but I ended up asking him something pretty good. Have you ever had that happen . . . like, you weren’t expecting it, and you don’t know where it came from…? Maybe that was the miracle.”

Adjusting his glasses again, Adrian did something close to laughing aloud for almost a full three seconds—a grating, husky sound like grinding gears.

I pivoted slightly, and took a half-step toward the door, deflated to hear him continue.

ADRIAN:

“But what I asked that doctor was: ‘So are less of your patients actually recovering? And, if so, how could you measure whether it was your prayers or treatments that weren’t working as well?’ It was fun to see him realize right then his suspicions weren’t based on anything. They couldn’t be, if you get what I mean. After that, he knew his concern amounted to a feeling of spiritual inadequacy, which we talked about for . . . I don’t know, another month or so.”

Well, my suspicions were certainly confirmed: Dr. Adrian is a blithering idiot.

I will advise (right here) that a secret camera be installed to monitor Adrian whenever he is alone with patients or their pills.

Anyway, I called Minkrit a moment ago to inform him that, in my expert opinion, Ray is harmless.

I relayed every detail about the place under a bridge near a city.

Ray and I will continue to meet.

I promised to keep Minkrit abreast of all relevant updates; though I suspect there will be none.

Today I had to relearn a difficult lesson, though one I should have known already on every important level: I can never rely on anyone else (such as Adrian) for accurate addendums to my own research or findings.

At the end of the day, I have need of only my Method, as shall be firmly established in these notes.

Scallion8635 writes: Have u ever seen this guy, Tian? What’s that all about?

BeepWadJXDom writes: Just checked it. WTF?

Scallion8635 writes: I know! That’s what I thought. And no one can seem to find out more about what he’s doing and why…

BeepWadJXDom writes: Is sposed to b joke?

Scallion8635 writes: No, I don’t think so.

BeepWadJXDom writes: Like dancing or sumthing? What u mean cant find out?

Scallion8635 writes: It’s like he’s not even paying attention. I heard only one person got a comment back. It could be fake. IDK. Tbut tian said something like, “It’s just for me. anyone could. When I don’t do anything, I get too loose.”

BeepWadJXDom writes: Ths freking weird bro

Letter 2

I do remember this one, it was more recent. Here it is:

Dear Sally,

But isn’t that fake already?

“Dearest brother,” / “My dear sister,” how so unlike us could you get?

Instead of some rumpled notecard or whatever, maybe pretend I wrote this next bit on a scrap of old screenplay or treasure map, or something cool like that:

I don’t want our relationship to be: I move away; time happens; there’s people, and weirdness, and life; and then one day we see each other when we’re old, and say, “Oh yeah, we used to be kids together, eh? I think I remember that.”

It’s a shame when so much seems to work together to make people slip apart.

I still write to H.O. Christianson sometimes.

But I haven’t even written to Mangelo in months, I just realized.

I have folders filled with whole books’ worth of these pretend letters. I wish you could know.

Now, more than anything, feels like the time I have to change. Time to get ready.

I can’t keep watching the same things happen.

Seriously, though, enough about me.

Letter 3

And here’s another one from way back:

Hi Kylie,

I thought of something the other day that made me laugh. I keep wishing I could tell you. It went like this:

I guess you know if you date a stoner when you’re a kid, one day he’s going to grow up, get high, and write you a long and inappropriate letter.

But that doesn’t seem funny now at all.

I’m sorry.

And I really wouldn’t… I’d never want to make you feel uncomfortable.

What would I say?

Of course nothing could ever touch our special time. For me, it’s snapshots from summer days and cold nights in-between.

Driving around. The music.

My favorite was just all those silly little places we’d end up, living out our teenage fantasies (while acting so grown up). Always way beyond our years, y’know? Way more than now, anyway.

Oh, and our strange little gang, so beautifully . . . free, in everything. Do you think kids now are the same?

Yeah, I finally moved back HERE, sort of like I always said. But right away I started seeing all these weird connections.

I found this place’s version of you, definitely my favorite person HERE. She’s the closest friend I’ve had these last few years.

Remember when I was taking bass lessons in Chusik with that orchestra guy? Oh wait, no, that was after you… Well, I picked up some lessons HERE recently, and the roads leading out to the teacher’s house are exactly the same as Chusik roads. It feels like I’m going up and down those same quaint, old-timey hills again.

There’s a Milton HERE, and a Badie, and I’d say they fill pretty much the same roles yours did.

Of course no person could ever be replaced. That’s not…

But I’ve known your opposites too, both THERE and HERE. It took me forever to admit those types might always stay something of a mystery. I like to think I know them. But then it has to get pounded into me over and over how we’re really not speaking the same language. I do respect those people. I wonder why they do the things they do.

It hurts sometimes, not knowing.

Have you ever hoped someone you say you love won’t be your enemy once you’re finally able to…?

I guess you could see things a million ways, and still there’s no way to ever please everyone. But anyone like you has always felt the most like home.

So then why did I treat you so bad, getting all mad and unpredictable? I was a child to think you were anywhere near as complicated or distant as I could make you out to be.

If I’d only tried with you the way I do with those most unlike you . . . the ones who can’t actually appreciate it…

Well, that’s all for now.

Aardvark

PART B (The City)

We brood in outer darkness like ancient spirits over endless seas, ever peering across this great fixed gulf to where our new homes shall be.

As we await our last departure, let us consider once again the nature of our humans and their plight.

Children, have you noticed something altogether new? Have you felt a sudden massive change or shift?

Call me desperate, even foolish, for these words of baffling hope.

Soon there shall be no need for words.

My human came to me, wavering and reluctant.

I then sensed something of an eerie closeness in the flashing.

What I glimpsed next as I fought to tear my focus from eternity was so bizarre I had to wonder how it could be real. I saw my human pressing in toward me with all its might.

Yes, I have surmised the humans lack our ability to think beyond mere points and simple lines stretching between single events.

We provide a gateway, which proves ever more enticing. And our humans never fail to draw us in. Yet they then get wrenched away to their own flashing.

Regardless of the cruelty or unfairness of such basic creatures being driven for our sake toward their compulsions, I was confident a thought close to just one more time, just one more… would always keep my human coming back. The automatic pull seemed to work like a tripwire set to spring the perfect trap each time.

So surely you can imagine how taken aback I felt to find my human literally leaning in, desperate for more.

Moments later, as I sensed the flashing in its beauty begin to ease, I grew aware of another entity hovering just beyond my precious crystal . . . something of an entirely different kind. I will call it a “thing that showed” or “thing that wished to be.”

Like me, the thing that showed was not something my human could know directly.

The thing was also unaware of me, my human, and really all but itself. I watched it writhe about in blind desperation, bound by a darkness greater than even that about which we dwell.

My attention was pulled back to my human as it came to engorge itself with more.

Then gushing with the weight of galaxies, I felt myself glance the very farthest edges of my swelling sacred crystal.

It was dizzyingly perfect, beyond anything I have…

Still, that same odd sense of being watched or studied only remained and grew. And my human pulled in even nearer, searching as if for an actual face or eyes to stare into.

Of course it would not find what it was looking for.

To then cast my gaze outside that most intense and wondrous of all flashings was to meet and hold the nothing eyes of death. I can only say I was driven by the same grand sense of purpose I feel now in sharing this with you.

I had to know how my human’s patterns had been changed. Instead of just one more, just one more… its function had shifted closer to: I want everything from you that you can give me!

As that most splendid of flashings finally slowed to steady streams of light and power, I was able to better grasp the nature of the strange and lonely being locked outside, the thing that showed or wished to be. For simplicity, I will say I heard it speaking itself aloud, ever repeating only these same words: “You people come up with all sorts of amazing ways to harness value, and yet you stop yourselves and each other?!”

Though I alone could comprehend the thing and its expression, its very presence had been enough to alter my human’s function.

I ask you, dear ones, to please consider what this transformation in human thought patterns might mean for us, a shift from fearful surrender to ruthless eagerness.

Could our humans be capable of seeing for themselves some of the good . . . the value to them . . . we provide?

I dare not stretch this line of giddy reasoning too far, for I realize relying on human appreciation to serve our great aims goes against everything we have understood of how our kingdom is to come.

How outlandish and risky this all sounds, I know.

And I confess, I do still have much cause for caution. For there are two niggling questions I have not yet found answers to.

First, after failing to find whatever it was looking for when it sought to stare straight into me, my human has since turned away again to fear and hesitation, at least in part.

I consider the silent words of the thing that showed or wished to be: “You people come up with all sorts of amazing ways to harness value, and yet you stop yourselves and each other?!” Having known humans for lifetimes, is there anything that holds them back from making use of what they find worthwhile other than fear of running out . . . fear of there not being enough?

And if such fear is what underlies their irresolution, then let that inspire our hesitant assurance all the more. For does fear of lack ever not push them to build and build, and go on building, so as to cling tightly to all the “finite” good they see?

My second remaining question is whether there are other things that show or wish to be, and if those things’ unheard expressions have the same effect on humans.

Again, my first question to you: Have you noticed an immense and sudden shift?

Take heart, children, and always remember: Regardless of exactly how, we can rest in knowing our prophecies shall surely be shown true.

It is but a matter of time before all final questions of inconsistency are answered like the rest, and our precise way forward presents itself.

There was once an army of ideas.

Of course, people couldn’t see the army as it was.

So, lives and careers got built around fighting to scribble ideaesque shapes on flags.

The first generation of competing scribblers had their sights set on authority. Each worked to make their particular shapes the only ones trusted and adhered to.

All flags chosen came to be held aloft by a proud and special, select few called collectors.

In the beginning, the collectors arranged themselves and their flags naturally into squads, platoons, companies, and battalions that more or less matched the ideas’ formations.

The intricacy and beautiful order of this ever-expanding, fabric-and-squiggly-line enterprise made it all the more enticing to command.

One day, both the unseen idea army and its profiteering counterpart came unaware upon a great and consuming fog that filled The City.

As both armies marched headlong into the fog, nothing at all changed for the collectors. As always, their eyes stayed glued above to only where their flags were meant to fly amongst those nearby.

In fact, the collectors soon became extremely successful in The City. The prestige of their flags protruding high up over the fog drew many from far and near to come be made collectors themselves, even at great expense.

To the collectors now, and all who saw them, the flags and symbols were and had always been the ideas.

Lost, the forgotten ideas fell blind in the fog, unable to see or even remember one another. Each was hopelessly isolated. Most wondered if they were real.

Every lone idea might as well have called itself aloud with all its worth yet found no one to hear or understand.

Maybe in The City, the lost ideas could have stayed stuck forever in blank and gray for no good reason at all.

A grandson of one who came from the land of Genesee and Adrian cautiously enters a place in The City where rights to hold flags are bought and sold. He is rough, with hard eyes, and scars that range like craggy rocks across his neck and face. His clothing and movements match those of foreigners known never to pull plants, clean floors, or otherwise serve The City’s natives.

Alone, he is painfully aware of being the first of his kind to show any interest in the power and beauty of the flag shapes.

He reaches a daunting inner gate.

A tall figure with a black cap and heavy stick steps forward to block the way. A tiny metal shield pinned to the tall man’s chest shows all in The City he is in charge of keeping something safe.

Neither man speaks.

Anger wells up like a hidden eruption from beneath the scarred man’s skin . . . a hot seething he has always known, yet one he would never hope to carry.

As teeth and muscles clench unseen, the scarred man feels the coarsest patches of his face begin to steam. He knows he will not pass this point. He has reached what will now have forever been his limit.

Thus far, and no farther.

Not him. Too different and too old to be so out of place.

Too early, and too late.

In a nearby den, points of view considered newest in The City are blurted with utmost seriousness, one-by-one, to then be leaped upon by any who might wish to try to tear them down for fun.

For a time, most in the den would say to the scarred man stuck at that possibly redundant gate something along the lines of: “Why would you want to look like trouble? What could a security guard really do to a grown-ass man if you’d just say something like, ‘Yeah, I’m thinking of going here. I wanted to check it out first.’? What’s your motivation for putting out this vibe that can only tie you to the worst troublemakers in our society? What good reason could you have ever had to join a gang in the first place?”

Many cries for help are heard like beacons in that busy den. Yet everyone ignores one man’s.

The ignored man concludes his day’s renditions with: “I hope you people don’t feel like I’m blaming you for all the horrible stuff in my life!”

A woman somewhere listens as an older man attempts to speak. She quivers, fondly imagining hurting him as his voice quarbles and rasps along so slowly, breaking unpredictably into disgusting slurps and squeaks. She is incensed at his failure to keep up with his own thoughts . . . infuriated by all signs of his coming apart.

Jordan Mackie. Male. 40’s. Outlier.

If not for my intervention, Jordan would have undoubtedly gone on spouting a perpetual string of utter nonsense for our entire hour.

Even his responses to my direct questions were wholly random and ridiculous.

I first asked about his reasons for coming, to which he rifled off a string of short, disconnected sentences, showing no signs of stopping (or even slowing).

I considered that perhaps he might be testing me, gauging my ability to unearth some common theme or hidden thread tucked secretly beneath and between each incoherent line.

No such test was taking place.

An early example:

JORDAN:

“I can’t read, but smelled all the books at the library. I never voted neither. But I dated this girl, and she turned out to be a shark in a reverse scuba suit. Said she was a mako.”

To this, I asked if he was joking.

His response:

JORDAN:

“I’m a walking contradiction in these overalls, man. Come on, bats, why crap in caves? You see in the dark!”

Most would be at a loss in the face of such stalwart absurdity.

Fortunately for me, my Method made obvious within minutes exactly what Jordan was intending through his unique and endless onslaught—key word: intending.

The aggressive, zany nature of his forced, incessant folly revealed it to be a clear rhetorical tool.

A tool for what?

Unapproachable, unquestionable, unpunishable insanity could negate the need for shame or restraint of any kind; in other words, choosing to always come across as crazy was his excuse to allow for total freedom.

As with every case, Jordan’s Sticking or Breaking Point would result from his true intentions and motivations being brought to light.

Yet the tricky part with some Outliers is they seldom speak to have real conversations.

Masked well in shells of practiced loudness, humor, madness, etc. these types are not easily touched by others’ words at all.

In that regard, Jordan and Ray are opposites.

As I pondered how I might go about erecting a vocal mirror to what was essentially a noise box with no OFF switch, one of Jordan’s quips seemed to leap out from the rest to provide my Method with its perfect means.

JORDAN:

“Help me, Doc! It’s like I got a banana farm with no dirt. But I told this girl I’m packing plantains so she’d be, you know, the good kind of surprised.”

From this particular deflection, it was the phrase “packing plantains” I recognized as key.

I knew exactly what to say, if not how the rest of the conversation would play out.

All the basic stepping stones toward Jordan’s Sticking or Breaking Point were now in view.

I love Outliers.

I cut in as soon as he paused to take a breath.

ME:

“You weren’t embarrassed at all about surprising that girl, were you?

“Is there anything that embarrasses you?”

I expected an attempt at re-steering away from what would likely be perceived as approaching (unbearable) sincerity.

Yet he remained quiet for a moment—the first real break in his continuous steam—as if he had been knocked somewhat out of alignment.

JORDAN:

“Na, Doc. I’m an intransigent fixture of blackness.”

ME:

“Well, good.

“That’s what I thought.

“So you can be completely open with everyone about all the things you want, right?

“You never have to hide at all?”

JORDAN:

“I ain’t crazy. This is me. I’m real . . . right?”

I had been handed the correct strand or tip to now pull and unravel the knot.

ME:

“No, you’re not crazy.

“Not really.

“And you’re not pretending.

“You can talk and act however you want; you can be completely free.

“That’s important to you, isn’t it?”

He smiled.

You see, driving our dialogue in the direction of Jordan’s true intentions by calling out a positive aspect of his secret motivation (freedom) worked to cancel out any opportunities he might have taken to lunge away into offense or defensiveness.

Here is where I could turn to textbooks, and cite copious studies and research to back up my—

Blah, blah, blah…

Case closed.

I may have mentioned wanting to keep these notes as jargon-free as possible.

And how difficult would the relevant research really be for anyone reading to find?

Please understand, I celebrate the research.

Of course I recommend you follow and fully familiarize yourself with the literature.

In fact, it was due only to ever-expanding degrees of confirmation I discovered in my studies that I was forced to abandon the inefficiency of merely mapping my Method’s beta form (indefinitely) to further approved interpretations of taught conclusions.

It was my findings from the literature I followed here, out to the real world—to my world of serving various Outliers and Normals.

Should I have kept my Method untried and hidden just to overload its burgeoning core with a surplus of accepted terms expressed in others’ words?

Should I have waited just to bolster its acclaim by adding certain special letters to my name?

Let me share another quick case just for comparison.

I met with a young Normal girl and her mother yesterday morning.

I believe the girl was looking for ways to control her anger—specifically, humiliating rage outbursts suffered semi-daily in class.

Now, research would suggest sending a professional there to the school to examine the girl’s behavior, and to walk her through techniques for calming down, better expressing feelings, etc.

I agree, of course; that would be best.

Yet who could afford such a service?

Consider that the mother is already paying top dollar for them to come see me.

My Method simply brought that girl—in a single session, just like Jordan—to her own individual Sticking or Breaking Point where she could no longer hide from her anger’s true source and consequences.

Or, I think it was anger…

Anyway, it felt invigorating to begin today with such a smooth case as Jordan’s.

I got quite little sleep again last night.

Why?

Actually, there was another strange cup dream.

In the only part of the dream I can still recall, I was here in session with an old, old man, and this time it was his arms that were the giant coffee cups; they looked like ceramic saucers with long, flat edges sticking out sideways from his shoulders.

The old man was shaky, as if he simply could not keep any part of himself still.

I knew somehow the old man’s rampant jitters were from desperation for me to solve his problem and show him how he might drink from his massive cup arms; and I remember feeling so strongly that there must be an answer.

Did I think of my Method in the dream?

How might those long, straight brims be viewed as anything but insurmountable?

I think there was also something like a clock, the hands spinning impossibly fast.

Much feels missing now as I revisit to recount, though I know that I did not awake immediately.

Life-changing events don’t always change lives, at least not right away.

But what if a life were to pass by and end in the gap between a big event and the change it could have brought?

It was in such a gap Bing believed he lived.

In another life, the boy who would be Bing once dreamed of many futures. A new girl in class, and there would be an all new dream gleefully scrawled across new journal pages long past midnight. But every added written whimsy had served only both to hide and throw childhood’s sheer freedoms and fantastic irrationality square up in the clueless face of that young Bing’s budding manhood.

And like life and death, manhood would prove unstoppable.

So, a sacred mystery, lost both to youth and age, was how each new happily-ever-after finish line could be crossed with the very same zeal and faith as whatever forgotten “ending” had been captured back on page one.

A later Bing would enter his 30’s drained and quirky, almost thoroughly convinced his dreams had all been but wasteful lies. That Bing had then watched himself fall still and crack apart like a dying plant, swarmed and eaten away by decay as algal eyes grew crinkled peering back through smoke in mirrors.

A distress like never quite hearing some vital wakeup call had loomed just close enough to shave off shards of any remaining sillinesses . . . pruning ever away, but never to the root . . . never to where actually getting on with whatever else might be left could be possible.

For every Bing, something had always been just about to happen.

Once he had bought his weed prescription, the most recent Bing would spend his non-workdays driving between various outskirts, parking lots, public restrooms, backs of playgrounds, and the gritty undersides of withered, empty architecture. That Bing had known better than to hold up for too long at any such illusions of free space. Instead, he would slowly bounce between them like a flat soccer ball with no goal.

But time spent cycling through only those same old ugly, letdown destinations had begun to be punctuated by loud, vast stretches of an unbearable sense of nothingness . . . ever lonelier and more desolate.

Then the life-changing event had come to bring about the current Bing, changing nothing (yet).

It was a normal day.

Mostly dark, unlively ghosts amused themselves in a playful racket that buzzed between and beneath what Bing saw of the lot and beat-up Buick parked ahead. Each dull spirit crumbled back to tottering piles of dusty bones once it finished its turn at cheap projection.

Bing sighed. He knew smoking more would do absolutely nothing.

He had never managed to see about smoking less.

Slowly swiping his iun, he absentmindedly tapped twice to play a new recording. A fuzzy cheering crowd blasted through in high pitch static to signal the start or end of something good.

A bland flash, and Bing swiped and tapped twice more.

why would anyone want another person to cheer for them?
cheering is obviously not spontaneous.
we do it to fulfill some social thing. from obligation.
bands make u cheer while u wait for encores.
it’s just time going by.
why, if everyone knows?
always forced and fake. unneeded.

There was some relief in having emptied the notion like urine upon his little screen.

He tapped to read an unread message from himself, surprised to find he had no memory of it.

this is the shit u catch urself saying now when u’r high:
“i love how mr. peanut is a vegetable,
so its ok to eat him…”
(and then u got some guy in the front row who’s all like (pic))

He had no idea what “pic” was referring to.

But seeing a reply to that one, also forgotten, he tapped and slid up again to read.

ever think to urself while high
‘which part of me said that?’
um…gay thoughts. (and then u just leave it)

He almost smiled.

But anything close to laughing alone in his trashy car (again) rang just sad and pointless enough to be worth fighting against with all he had left within him. To let the laughter seep out and become real would be like admitting . . . like letting go of hope for good.

How long?

Well, how many self-told iun bits had Bing collected now? He guessed it would be at least ten thousand . . . over three full years’ worth.

And he was still getting high for most of almost every single day.

But now 32, even more wrinkled, and just about officially dreamless, the idea of actually seeking and booking gigs, or starting out anywhere . . . at anything, really, was…

Bing knew a dream’s comfort could be poison, sure . . . for dreams were always free. But time marched only onward and away, which was something no Bings yet had quite been able to see. And the trickling of days and weeks gained more unfair advantage with each new unshared line of bitterly assembled text.

If I haven’t done anything yet, what hope do I…?

Scanning through his once-flashed blips, they all seemed so brutally clumsy and desperate. The opposite of funny.

What could he really expect to gain from being booed off stage now, and watching every suspicion the weed had always warned him of rise in the real world to swallow him whole?

Silence rang in his ears like a terrible screech. He thought it might be the noise of his own mind being held both dumber and smarter for reasons only former Bings had maybe known.

Too dumb to know how any of it should be shown. Too dumb to make it touch the minds of others.

Too smart to laugh alone in his car forever. Too smart to really try for once and fail.

Held and nestled in a safety-net web that joined the last Bing’s life-changing event to new Bings yet to be, this Bing felt himself being readied for torture and death by relentless thoughts that wouldn’t stop screaming at him from a tired replica of a bunch of old highs. Like always.

Was this it?

His life was a single picture, complete in its neatness, of everything he knew he could never figure out . . . at least not alone.

Imbalanced. Damaged. Deranged.

And as always, part of him wished and pushed to go back to a life that had never really been, where he could be like all the others . . . those happy masses of folks who spent their days high as well, only without all the…

But it was his endless demanding flashing thoughts that meant he never could.

Besides, those happy folks might not exist.

Was there a limit to how many times the same painful concerns could be rolled or glossed over in such an addled, aging mind?

How long could he go on being so on edge without it doing the “forever” kind of damage?

FLASH

heal ur heart, dude.
u have to,
or this will just keep happening.

But as with all his stupid bits, Bing knew this apprehended piece would soon be…

Why? Why still so trapped?

But the questions weren’t even rhetorical.

If knowing had ever been enough, he knew, there’d be no gap to be so stuck in.

Bing had a difficult call to make.

Mr. and Mrs. Rolman each took calls on their landline. His came in the morning, and hers in the early afternoon. Both calls were from their family doctor.

The doctor spoke to each of test results, repeating words like: “Unfortunately,” “Alzheimer’s,” “Beginning stages,” “Early-onset,” “Dementia,” “Severe…”

Mrs. Rolman thanked the doctor and hung up the phone. It was time to put together her boy’s afterschool snack. She laid a circle of cookies on a plate and poured some milk in a paper cup, happy.

It was morning. Three ducks hovered apart across the still surface of a bluish manmade lake. Revy sat on a sun-bleached bench admiring the peaceful body of water he had come to at the heart of the small community college.

Sporting scruffy, dingy flannel, he hadn’t shaved in weeks, to where sparse splotches of beard had grown just past the point of always being itchy. With his crusty old guitar resting light across his knees in tattered jeans, he might have passed for a college student from another time.

Jodie had needed the apartment for a meeting. The results she had to show for her efforts meant there had been no real discussion as to if or why the place would go to her. So Revy had set out at random to find his muse in nature.

Now slowly thumbing through the faded pages of his shabby PRACTISE notebook, he expected to find nothing.

There was no more 4-for-4 plan. No more fumbling through others’ patterns and songs. No more learning names of scales, or what dots and dashes scattered about lines were meant to mean in terms of tone and time. None of it had ever mattered anyway.

Propping the book down beside him on the bench, Revy did both exactly what he felt like doing and its exact opposite. He sat still and watched the colored water.

It was time to write a song. It was always time. It was way past time.

For however long he could remember, all that had remained in the wake of countless strategies was to reach inside and pull out what would have to be an instant hit . . . to snap fully alive at once and capture everything of the moment, and of his feelings, and of hidden meanings immediately recognizable to an entire generation as their own.

What generation?

He suddenly realized he had not sung anything since the band’s big final gig.

His mind ambled along to catch up.

No record. No deal. No royalties. No real friendships left within the band, nor any lasting fans without.

There was only Revy and his wooden sibling left sitting silent by some nice fake pond.

And was he really afraid to sing for the sake of students cooler than he who might pass by?

Could any of this be considered close to a life he might still want? Why?

What had become of the sheer and naive, beautiful simplicity to how if he didn’t come up with something great (from nothing), then nothing would ever happen?

How many more months and years framed in madness, and now soaked in pill-fueled isolation, could he really hope to redeem with just the right mix of purposeful sound and effortless lyrical…?

What?

He picked up the book again and rifled to a section near the back marked LYRICS. Then stretching the rumpled page hard beyond open, he returned it to the bench.

What were lyrics supposed to be again?

What did he want to say?

Lost in hazy notions of iffy, unsure messages, Revy began to strum or pluck along lightly, absentmindedly moving a little outside the lengths of his standard windup runs until his guitar’s own lilt reached to join the light, steady lapping of the lake, bringing a soft, transcendent fixed-ness even as ducks and floating leaves all leant to the cheerful voice of dirty strings.

Magic. But only background music.

Something to soothe. But nothing to call forth or show.

Certainly nothing he could sell.

And Revy couldn’t help but hear Dale there with him in the sound, one circling around like an elated tornado as the other kept steady as a boundary line . . . always the perfect blend of pleasant straights and playful jangles.

Not a care in the world, together, outside, as happy as…

Revy’s well-worn, heavy heart became a well logged to the brim once more by its most familiar storm. Yet with squinting eyes and grimacing lips, he let himself be washed away this time without the usual fight.

And why not? The band was gone, and Dale would never be back. Their beloved boyhood dreams seemed doomed to stay forever stuck in versions of past future plans either locked away in Revy’s mind or lost to yellowing pages.

It was his reality, no?

Or maybe there had always been some sort of lingering musical spirit that would allow him certain moments of grace to approach and be merged with.

Maybe it really was poor old Dale’s ghost, drawn out of the gray by the other half of a forgotten favorite tune.

For however long, Revy played. And he wept, a disheveled man with an ugly guitar on a bench at a school near some ducks.

Bing. 32. Big (quiet; awkward; shy). Outlier (?).

Bing was my first appointment today.

I must confess I was so consumed with thoughts of my afternoon session with Ray that the notion of including Bing’s case in these new integrated notes was probably farthest from my mind.

A quick aside about myself, which I am hesitant to add (please feel free to skip the next few sentences): It seems throughout my life I have come to hold a rather sticky, irrational belief that events will always turn out the opposite of how I expect if I have specific expectations and have not considered alternatives.

This morning, I expected only boring, substitutable Normals; I never considered Bing at all.

And as I see my absurd belief written out here for the first time, I am sure it could be chalked up to mere predictive probabilities feeding a confirmation bias—though “confirming” only that I have no actual psychic powers.

In reality, despite my illogical, interpretative filter of expectations, the reason Bing might be such an important case for demonstrating the effectiveness of my Method is that his sole need appears to be a clearer picture of himself.

In other words, it is not that seeing himself will bring to light some primary concern or tendency, as with most clients; rather, Bing’s actual problem is his lack of self-concept.

Accurate self-revelation is at the heart of what my Method is and does.

Also, Bing shows a highly unusual, unprecedented fusion of Normal and Outlier traits.

So, it is my prediction that Bing’s case will prove invaluable in enabling me to detect differences between multiple Normal clients, particularly those with interpersonal issues.

Why interpersonal issues, and not issues of identity or personality?

Did I not just get through stating that Bing’s true obstacle is his fundamental blindness to himself?

Yet I sense myself jumping way too far ahead again, and that further conjecture and exposition now would be to plow the wrong way down a one-way street with my eyes shut, shouting at the top of my lungs with fingers lodged deep in both ears.

I will surely have to edit much of this part out.

As always, all shall be made clear via the simple recorded workings of my Method.

Let me start again at the beginning.

It would be an understatement to say that Bing frightened me initially.

My plan this morning, before arriving early and putting on a pot of coffee to brew, had been to spend my first half-hour or so quietly preparing for my later time with Ray.

I was glad to have gotten something of a good night’s sleep, though I found it strange to find no recollection of having actually gone to bed; I could remember perusing my notes on Ray at about eight o’clock last night, but then nothing after that before having awoken this morning with new angles and lines of questioning already circling my mind.

Sipping my coffee, I glanced at the mess of strewn papers that currently makes much of my desk resemble an uncovered landfill; these are the previous case notes I mentioned—the disconnected ones, each of which is meant to tie somehow to an individual client.

I considered that, since my Normals have become so maddeningly interchangeable, I might be able to record a single generic session with one and simply sell it to the rest.

Patting around the more chaotic edges of my paper pile, I began to wonder what I could hope to charge for such a one-size-fits-most product.

I was reminded of my need to raise my prices soon.

Then out of nowhere, a tall, rugged, heavyset man emerged beside me like an enormous killer whale about to crash down and crush a tiny rowboat.

Fighting not to stumble sideways, or otherwise reveal how startled I was, I peered covertly over at my schedule and realized the hulking, unkempt blob before me must be Bing.

How might I describe my first impressions?

I was certainly intrigued by the way the big man moved as he sauntered ever so delicately back between the two small chairs opposite me.

His stance was crooked and sideways . . . his gait, slow and shuffling.

He gave the impression of never quite being able to sit or stand up straight.

He seemed at all times to be drawn away from the center of the room as if pulled by magnets in the corners.

His overall demeanor depicted something of a silent, restless search for ways not to assert himself.

Basically, despite his size, I would say Bing seemed to want to occupy as little of my space and visual attention as possible.

If there were such a thing as a reverse inferiority or superiority complex, that would be my diagnosis just from having briefly watched him stand, move, and sit.

I first asked how he was doing.

BING:

“Well, it looks like having dreams isn’t enough to get me straight, right?”

You should never be disarmed by a client’s sudden rush to depth; new clients will have likely spent a great deal of time reflecting in advance on how to best express their dilemmas once in session.

Yet I certainly would have expected neither depth nor haste from the uncomfortable, extremely cautious giant lumbering and slumped before me.

I fired back immediately, asking what he had meant by “straight.”

He mentioned an ongoing addiction to marijuana.

This was a new one for me; it made me smile.

I realized right away, however, how inexcusably unprofessional smiling was; so, I quickly covered up with questions about the duration and scope of his addiction.

He spent the next few minutes scratching through all sorts of attempts at tying his overuse of the drug to hindrances in job performance, motivation, health, and essentially every other important life arena.

All of those ties utterly failed; in fact, he was unable to articulate any specific negative effects at all.

So, sans such measurable consequences, I interpreted Bing’s addiction to really be a stand-in scapegoat used to blame for some other personality, character, or developmental issue he would be likely just as burdened by if he had never tried marijuana.

Rather than getting caught up in fruitless arguments over terms, I realized Bing’s Sticking or Breaking Point would result from examining just what he hoped “breaking the addiction” would mean or do for him.

Client narratives, no matter how ridiculous, almost never need be opposed directly; once underlying hopes and desires can be effectively made known, any false stories told and believed get brought into alignment with reality on their own.

Such is the beauty of my Method.

I have had great success with a relaxation exercise called Faum’s Successive Breathing Technique; so, to help Bing calm down and concentrate, we cycled together through Faum’s first ten breaths or so.

I then had him lay still and continue to breathe as deeply and slowly as possible for another two minutes as I watched.

Next, I told him to imagine his addiction as a living, intentional entity—something else, separate from himself.

The irony here should definitely not go unnoticed; for though the faux effects of Bing’s addiction exist entirely within his own perspective, having him envision a [false] distinction between the addiction and himself was a subtle way to begin to rob it of its fall-guy function as an excuse to hide behind.

We circled back to some of the challenges he had mentioned already.

ME:

“So how does the addiction make you feel at work, when you’re around your supervisors and coworkers?”

BING:

“At work, it’s like I’m not even there. I just sit in this big room, so worried everyone’s going to know I’m high.”

He next mumbled something about noticing his thoughts could be particularly funny at times, but that the drug made him act like too much of a “dorky loser” to ever actually joke with anyone.

This led to mention of “an extreme pain,” but he quickly backpedaled, assuring me it was something he no longer felt.

I pressed a little, but Bing was resolute.

Always assume a client wants to share whatever they might begin to reveal.

I noted that perhaps I would first need to gain a bit more of the big man’s trust.

I asked him to elaborate on his funny thoughts.

He stammered through a convoluted explanation of having recently (reluctantly) given up on an unspecific goal to pursue standup comedy.

He claimed his addiction had kept him from ever taking any practical steps toward performing, and that it would now be most likely too late.

ME:

“What steps did your addiction keep you from taking?”

BING:

“Well, I could never call to book an open mic night, or anything. I was just too wasted in my apartment all the time.”

Of course, nothing about a felt inability to refrain from marijuana use should have kept Bing from making that call.

After all, he called me two days ago to arrange our session this morning.

Having Bing picture his addiction as a separate entity would allow for such logical disconnects to be sidestepped so my Method could then begin working indirectly to reach and reveal the true source of his pain, reluctance, failure, etc.

ME:

“Take some time and think about why you wanted a career in comedy.

“What good outcome were you hoping for?

“Maybe think about that and record your thoughts in a journal we can look at next time.”

His eyes widened inexplicably at mention of the word “journal.”

ME:

“So, at the end of the day, what do you want?

“I’m asking because I think we need to view your addiction in a new way.

“Imagine the addiction only wants to overtake you.

“The addiction wants to consume and control you as much as it can so your goals will be no match for its goals, so to speak.”

Again, although my language here surely appears to inflate and amplify the role of Bing’s addiction, understand that such over-exaggeration was to ultimately highlight the overblown nature of his beliefs about his addiction.

ME:

“Don’t see the situation as you failing to do what you want because you can’t stop using marijuana.

“Instead, view your addiction as something foreign that’s currently living its life through you, keeping you from living it.”

Bing kept quiet for a moment.

His thoughtful expression suggested he really was digesting my words, which speaks to his intelligence.

So, what does Bing want?

What is he using the idea of an addiction to avoid?

What is it about himself he refuses to see?

Well, consider the examples cited already: Bing feels unable to connect at work, unable to make friends to laugh with, and unable to assert himself in pursuit of his dreams.

I am certain that I do in fact know why he blames such concerns on his abiding overuse of marijuana.

But I also know his reasons are irrelevant.

I could undoubtedly fill limitless volumes with data to flesh out the true driving force I see behind his self-deception, labelling him with every relevant fancy-sounding condition imaginable.

Yet such work would prove pointless, both in bringing about Bing’s Sticking or Breaking Point, and also for purposes of future study.

Again, the only thing needed is for my Method to make clear exactly what Bing, himself, wants.

Once he sees what he wants, it will be impossible for him to go on ignoring his own next steps toward that desired outcome, regardless of whether or not he continues to use or abuse any drug.

He will then no longer be able to carry his addiction card as a crutch.

Since only self-revelation is required in Bing’s case, I wonder if there is even potential for breaking when he reaches his Sticking or Breaking Point.

I began to hint that he might try to see his addiction entity as something positive—something (or someone) to actually learn from—though I sensed we had already reached a good stopping point for today.

We may have been moving a little too fast.

I like Bing.

Despite his refusal to be or acknowledge much of what he is, he comes across as having a very honest, trustworthy nature, which I find quite refreshing.

I had planned to delve more into his impossible combination of Normal and Outlier characteristics but will leave that for my notes on our next session.

The last thing Bing shared before leaving today was about a recurring dream in which he finds himself performing in public for the first time yet cannot keep from floating up and off the stage like a balloon no matter what he tries to grab and hold to ground himself.

And very nearby…

The sun and sky were bland.

Colors were not quite right.

Everything felt dim and dull . . . zapped of joy and luster.

Everywhere looked closed-off and hostile.

Had these same streets not once been somehow nicer, and maybe less littered by scads of such forlorn souls drifting along in downcast shambles?

Johnston sped beyond Holding Ave., pulling up fast to make a yellow light, and then pumping his brakes as he saw from the gauge just how far he was over the limit.

A large brown van ahead signaled to pull out in front.

Johnston slowed a tad more, holding until the van began to emerge. Then he sped up.

The van showed no signs of stopping.

Johnston counted seconds, convinced he had judged correctly.

One, one-thousand; two, one-thousand; three…

He whisked by, careful not to look in the direction of the blaring, retro horn blast.

A moment later, he returned to considering how happy he was about his hair, having shorn it neat and tight the night before. Simple and professional, it felt fresh on his head and cool on his neck.

But then there was the shirt. He could not be more aware of his yellow polo’s worn-out bottom button, its sad thread now several loops loose and obvious. He all but felt the speckled star-field stains that glimmered across his chest. Irregular fading gave his sleeves the look of having been splashed with mild acid.

And he knew his car could only be described as intensely nondescript and shabby.

To Johnston’s left, next to a grimy pole set to mark some forgettable locale, stood a young, odd-looking man. Pudgy and soft, the young man’s hair was painted black with blood-red tips. His face was powdery white, with greasy charcoal splotched about the eyes. He wore an ink-black coat, cut at its edges to strips and tendrils, which hung still in the windless, seedy heat of midday sun.

Johnston glared directly into the stranger’s eyes, forcing them with piercing ferocity back from whatever distance like an unyielding death-trap magnet.

Then, driving on, Johnston almost nodded to himself in satisfaction at the unspoken acknowledgment he knew had just occurred. His stare alone had been sufficient to draw a sharp enough distinction. He had needed no words to clearly declare, “You can paint yourself however you want. But you and I both know that you are really nothing. Look at me. I look normal—this shirt, this car, this haircut—but you can see in my face something more than you will ever reach. LOOK AT ME!”

He took a deep breath.

No use getting all worked up.

Not too far ahead, a car facing Johnston inched to its intersection and halted right at the line, ready to turn across.

Johnston’s light leapt from green to yellow. He sped up a little.

Now, Johnston knew for sure that he was not a violent person. He had never, ever been violent.

But he learned that day if he ever found himself thrown into a game of chicken, he would also never lose.

Never.

In truth, I was completely thrown off by the way Ray calmly strode through my office, sat down, and looked me right in the eye.

I had spent days and nights preparing to accommodate the same fidgety, jumpy gaze, carefully plotting specific phrasings to circumvent all latent awkwardness and connect with this Outlier who had given the impression that eye-contact and the sound of his own voice were akin to torture by repeated jolts of current.

Today he was stoic.

His eyes did not once dart from mine to zip between background details.

In fact, the dead stillness of his expression left me at times somewhat anxious and unsteady.

Of course I noted the obvious change in demeanor right away, estimating it to be a clear sign of dissociation.

I concluded that I was likely in the company of an entirely different Ray, perhaps another of many.

I tested this estimation by beginning with a reference to our last session.

ME:

“So, I’d like to explore your past a little more.

“You told me something had happened to you in adolescence, something painful.

“And it was something you felt you were trying to make up for when you ran away with Caylee.

“Why don’t we start there.”

His response was so sudden it took me several seconds to decipher the actual words.

RAY:

“I saw them kill someone, but . . . but it was like they thought they had to. I felt like I couldn’t do anything about it, so I just had to leave. That’s why, I think.”

Pacing back across the span of my working short-term memory, my awareness crossed the chilling phrase “kill someone,” which came into focus like a silent alarm.

I am pleased to report my immediate inclination was to fight to remain as still as Ray’s eyes.

I sensed myself sinking reflexively back down into Faum’s, filling my lungs by degrees in roughly calculated percentages while exhaling as slowly as possible.

Having used Faum’s so often now to moderate my pulse and remain outwardly unresponsive, it seems to have become something of an automatic response to more shocking client revelations.

I considered sliding my iun off and under the desk to covertly dial Minkrit.

For all I knew, Ray could be about to share important testimony.

Yet my primary need to gain and hold his trust won out against all other inward appeals.

It was absolutely crucial that I avoid whatever could be perceived as anything close to suspicion or negative judgment.

I knew even the slightest unplanned facial cue or flicker on my part might bring unpredictably dire repercussions—perhaps irreversible.

Besides, I figured a recorded confession would suffice.

ME:

“Who killed someone?”

I marveled at my pleasant, even tone.

RAY:

“Well, it was, like . . . they all just thought someone would have to die. It was the… It wasn’t their idea. No, it wasn’t their fault. They really… They thought they had to.”

I love Outliers.

Outliers do my job for me.

ME:

“Correct me if I’m wrong, but is this the first time it’s occurred to you that it wasn’t whoever’s fault?”

RAY:

“No. Or . . . maybe.”

Having finished with Faum’s, I forced my breath to remain deep and steady.

I spoke lightly and cheerfully, as if enquiring about his favorite foods or pastimes.

ME:

“So, who had to die?

“And why?

“And who killed that person?

“And are you telling me it was seeing someone die that motivated you and Caylee to run off?”

As I spoke, Ray’s eerie, unaffected stare gave me the sense that I was interviewing some sort of living computer program rather than the overly self-conscious Outlier I had anticipated.

Yet his cognizance of our previous conversation ruled out the possibility of this being an all-new persona.

I hoped my questions were not overly leading.

What do I mean by that?

To illustrate, let me state that I despise the work of lawyers, who merely play with words and rhetoric to paint whichever biased picture they are assigned.

My aim is the exact opposite: to always let more truth be uncovered (whatever that truth happens to be).

The last thing I would want would be to force a disingenuous or incomplete answer by making the likes of Ray feel incriminated or ashamed in any way—that would equate to me and my own experience or opinions cutting in to jam the flawless function of my Method.

Through the decades, I have gotten better at avoiding such self-indulgences so as not to hinder my own groundbreaking work.

So many in our profession are taught to lead clients toward specific endpoints, which are probable interpretations based on statistics.

Yet those most common conditional bookends have become so widespread in popular culture, and now carry such harsh social stigmas, that I find it far more impactful and efficient to simply let each individual see the full implications of their own shared narratives for themselves without any added designations or analysis.

My Method allows for whatever is there to rise to the surface and be seen.

Anyway, at this point Ray launched into a speech most would write off from the get-go as pure nonsense.

I wondered if his choice to wax unrealistic then might be an unconscious retreat from talk of killing.

Or could it be tied somehow to this new peaceful side of Ray?

I apologize for prolonging my introduction here with so lengthy a barrage of caveats and ponderings.

Ray just presents so interesting a case.

I caution you: Do not be overwhelmed or put off by the sudden, sheer erraticism to come.

We are indeed about to step from the proverbial edge of the strangest cliff.

Be assured that regardless of the purpose behind Ray’s bizarre confabulation, my Method will work to uncover all hidden motivations and desires buried beneath the fanciful words.

“It’s, um… It was a long time ago. That’s how I saw it, I think. You know how different times have a different . . . feel, or something? Well, everything was simpler, and quieter, and more spread out and free. Even the air was different.

“And I saw this little town, way high up between these pretty mountains. First it was just a few wooden buildings in a circle . . . y’know, some basic stores with rickety signs and things . . . carts and wagons, and animals . . . and then shacks around the edge where people lived.

“And since the town was so high up, it stayed cut off from the rest of the world. I mean, they did everything there for themselves. And yeah, travelers would pass through. But for sure no one from the town ever left. They’d all known each other since…

“Well, I think it’s because the town was cut off for so long . . . that…

“I don’t even know how to say it.

“Okay, I’ll just….

“I saw them . . . eating people.

“But there was no… I mean, honestly, I’d say they made it . . . the eating . . . look like this fun, like, peaceful activity . . . something they all just really enjoyed doing together. It was kind of like their town tradition. And even though they were filthy, and their faces and teeth were dirty and brown, everyone always had this happy gleam in their eyes when they ate. Even the little ones.

“Okay, sorry, none of this probably makes any sense, huh? I have no idea how you’d write this down.

“But say you’ve got only a few people and families who have done the same things for… I mean, the eating must have gone on for generations. It was like their heritage. And I started seeing this . . . picture . . . carved in the corners of all the walls and burned into beams in the middle of town. It definitely wasn’t obvious. But, somehow, I knew the picture was a symbol that perfectly matched that smile on everyone’s faces when they ate. And the symbol was their identity. It’s something they were proud of.

“So then, well, I saw that little town start to get a lot bigger.

“But . . . wait, I need to back up first… Sorry…

“So, the only pathway through those huge mountains crossed the cannibal town. And most travelers, especially in winter, decided to stay for a while. That’s what the town symbol really meant. I mean, that’s, like, the whole deal with the eating, y’know? The town’s culture was to only eat outsiders. You could say it was to only eat whoever didn’t share their symbol.

“And that’s how things were for a long, long time.

“But as more and more travelers decided to stay, I started seeing these smaller communities getting together on their own to eat whoever they’d collected. And they’d eat some from other communities in the town who obviously knew the symbol and culture. But none of it was a secret or anything. Everyone saw exactly what was going on. And I’m sure they all would have agreed . . . like, officially . . . that their town identity was still wrapped up in only eating outsiders. It’s just, basically, the rules for who to eat and why never got talked about or written down or anything.”

“Still, okay, here’s the thing: Wouldn’t you expect people to be . . . horrified, and fight not to be killed and eaten? That’s where this whole thing gets . . . almost . . . funny.

“I’m not sure how to tell you this part, but… It’s like this new business started springing up everywhere in the town where these really complicated-looking traps were made and sold to be used on whoever anyone decided was an outsider. And, so, deals started being made on every level . . . deals that really reached to everyone in the town. But you could trace it all back to owners of businesses paying each other to catch and sell whoever they could to anyone that would buy, all across every community. Somehow, everyone still got sold as ‘an outsider,’ but . . . but, yeah, it could be anyone from anywhere being bought to be eaten by anyone else.

“Anyway, the town kept growing and growing until first it became a city, and then a whole bunch of cities. But something changed before the cities fused back together to make one huge City. It looked to me like it happened all of a sudden. But right before it became The City, when it was still just clusters of little cities, I watched the rest of the world come together and join on every side, connecting all around.

“So, everyone knew things couldn’t stay the same anymore. But the symbol and culture in the cities never changed. The eating stopped, but not the . . . the cannibalism.

“Way before The City, I watched those powerful ones whose awful deals clotted all the communities and smaller cities together like blood, become, like, a whole new class of eaters. And in The City, the new eaters could still buy, and sell, and kill anyone . . . anyone at all. And everyone seemed just as happy . . . all just as smiley and…

“And I watched that same old symbol, once cut and burned into doors and walls, get raised up to shine in lights across The City sky. Everyone loved and celebrated their symbol, since it showed them who they were.

“Maybe the change only looked like it happened so fast to me. But, I mean, really, everyone was already used to the idea of lives being sacrificed for…

“So, they all kept grinning just the same and carried on as before in a world where there couldn’t be any outsiders anymore.”

Ray’s cannibal city is almost certainly the projected construct of a victim mentality.

It seems Ray’s escape with Caylee was to play the victim with her, safe from every unpleasantness wrought by their everyday high school world.

I am positively inspired with anticipation to see how my Method serves to delicately uncover exactly who or what Ray’s cannibals represent.

I should clarify that I do not consider Ray to be delusional.

I do not believe he truly holds to a literal population of cannibals who evolved from eating humans outright to…

Well, perhaps the end result had been left rather deliberately unclear.

Each Outlier has a unique way of overtly masking, while simultaneously covertly expressing, their true feelings and perceptions.

What do I mean by that?

If you were to question a sad Normal, you could probably get them to land at something close enough to: “I’m sad because…”

With an Outlier, you might only succeed in guiding them to circle such adjunctions as: “It doesn’t seem fair that so-and-so [group] can cause such-and-such [injustice, etc.].”

If Normals know reality and their experience directly, Outliers are ever fixed at some peculiar distance from it.

Yet it is in measuring and comparing my various Outliers’ specific projections that I am able both to deliver those Outliers to their Sticking or Breaking Points and begin to distinguish my Normals from one another.

In short, my Method functions like geometry.

I am made aware of intervals and angles between individuals, which enables me to better understand each and many all at once.

Though you surely do not share my particular irregularity when it comes to client (or human) identification, the geometric insight you gain from employing my Method will no doubt prove invaluable in connecting and categorizing your clients to serve them more efficiently.

First and foremost, I cannot overstate the importance that there is no need whatsoever for me to bring each fantastic detail of Ray’s outlandish tale into question.

Rather, Ray’s cannibals and cities will dissolve on their own to whatever underlying realities get brought to light and shown back ever more objectively.

For now, note my soft return to my same initial questions.

ME:

“So then who did you say you saw killed?

“And who killed that person?”

Ray said nothing for a moment.

Both he and his expression remained as still as empty space.

He then gestured toward my iun at the edge of the desk.

I handed him the device, intrigued, and watched as he clicked through to bring up a video of a hefty, well-dressed man, mid-pace across a beautiful stage.

As soon as Ray thumbed the triangular PLAY button, I immediately discerned the large, dapper man to be some sort of religious leader preaching to an expansive, boisterous crowd.

Though I heard but a snippet of the preacher’s eloquent ramping about success first requiring many failures and rejections, I remember thinking I could see myself quite comfortably thriving in such a role, perhaps in another life—as another application of my same Method—delivering polished peptalks in splendid time to an eager crowd.

There would, of course, be substantially more money in doing that.

Ray spoke as he tapped the square STOP button center screen.

RAY:

“I saw Friendship.”

ME:

“Friendship?”

RAY:

“Yeah, Friendship was very, very happy.”

ME:

“Help me understand.”

RAY:

“Well, I mean, I watched Friendship build The Church, and everything else like it, out of stones, one at a time. And the stones were people. I saw their faces when they were being set together into walls. And in The Church, I saw The Pastor too, smiling, watching and encouraging Friendship along in its happy work. It was . . . the way they looked at each other . . . Friendship and The Pastor . . . it was beautiful. Like, so much was said without words, y’know? Because . . . well, they both just knew.”

ME:

“Was this your pastor when you worked for the church?”

RAY:

“This would have still been way long ago, back before the cities became The City. But Friendship looked so dignified working to cement those people together . . . all the families and their friends. And in The Church, I heard The Pastor say things then like, ‘Most all are won by loved ones.’ And the living stones knew it was true.”

ME:

“Was there . . . pressure in your church to invite new people?”

I hated using the word “pressure,” but was unable to think of a better term in time to frame my thought.

RAY:

“No, Friendship worked slowly and quietly . . . lovingly . . . for years. And The Pastor was a great man; everyone knew, even outside The Church. You could just tell . . . I mean, hearing him speak each week to all the people in his walls, giving them everything he had.”

ME:

“The Pastor ‘was’ great, or ‘is’?

“I get the impression something changed?

“How does the city fit in?

“And what happened to friendship?”

Note my intentional use of Ray’s own terms; this was to assure him that I would not be challenging his perspective as I drew out more information for my Method to unravel.

He hesitated, his eyes still fixed forever away, staring straight through me and every distance beyond.

RAY:

“I don’t… I’m not sure. I don’t want to…”

I immediately sought to further relax my posture and expression, falling back into Faum’s until I felt as serene as I hoped to appear.

I could not allow Ray to retreat at that moment.

I also could not afford to come across as pushy or deceptive in my directing of the conversation.

ME:

“It’s okay.

“Can I be honest?”

RAY:

“Yes.”

ME:

“I feel as though I’m listening to you tell me about a fascinating dream you had.

“Maybe it’s a dream that means something to you.

“But I’m not too worried about that yet, because I’m sure we’ll get there if we need to.

“For now, I’m only interested in hearing more, whatever you’d like to share.

“I promise not to take anything you say as being against your church or pastor, or anything like that.”

Such a transparent outlaying of my true cards and colors in expressing my aim to eventually reach any hidden points of significance was intended as a peace offering or sign of respect to help nullify Ray’s niggling concerns.

RAY:

“Good. Yeah, I don’t have anything bad to say about him or anyone there. Not at all. If I sound negative, I’m sure I’m saying it wrong, y’know? But it was really just something that happened when I saw The City come together and form itself all around The Church. It wasn’t… I mean, well . . . I should have said this part first . . . but there were all kinds of beautiful things happening in that little cannibal town. Then in the cities. And it had everything to do with the killing and eating, if that makes sense.”

ME:

“The eating was beautiful?

“Was it because of the symbol—the gleam in everyone’s eyes as they ate?”

RAY:

“How can I put it? It’s like there’s this special kind of sweetness when you’re part of the smaller group, the ones being captured and killed by everyone else. You share, like, a certain bond in going through it together . . . like maybe an understanding of how fragile life can be. But even cruel things, like all those horrible deals happening in the cities . . . they’re really no one’s fault. It’s just the way it’s always been. The big and strong kill and eat the small and weak because everyone thinks that’s how things are supposed to be.”

ME:

“What changed in the church?”

RAY:

“I don’t want to say.”

ME:

“That’s fine.”

RAY:

“Well, now if I don’t say it, you’ll probably think it’s something much worse than… It was nothing.”

ME:

“Whatever you want to tell me is fine.

“I won’t hold anything you say or don’t say against you or anyone else.

“I won’t assume anything.”

RAY:

“Well, it’s that… Okay, it’s just sort of how life changes as time goes on. So, imagine you start off young and full of passion for . . . for something big you want to do in the world. And all you have is this genuine desire . . . this fire . . . deep inside. And your reasons come from . . . from somewhere personal, and spiritual, and… But when you grow up in The City . . . or, when The City grows itself up around you . . . it’s like you end up somewhere very different, maybe, from where you thought you’d be back when it was just you and that burning dream. The way you see things in The City always has to shift . . . outward . . . as you go, I guess. So, again, you set out to do something good. It’s something you know could help a lot of people. I’m sure you can imagine something like a church that’s small, and connected, and loving, and . . . and afraid of that big, scary world outside you know could stomp you out at any time. But if you don’t get stomped out, then one day you… It’s like everything turns practical, y’know? And then you’re looking at the difference you can make as part of that bigger world instead of being knit together in simple love for fear of that world. That’s how dreams come true in The City. But it’s not bad. And it’s no one’s fault. No one meant for anyone to get hurt. Of course not.”

ME:

“Who got hurt?”

RAY:

“Well, right before The City became… I mean, right when people stopped being actually eaten, I saw Friendship standing still for the first time. It was the weirdest thing ever . . . sort of like seeing someone who’s just lost their job staring at their work as it continues now without them. And I watched that eternal smile fade to…

“But wait… I don’t think I made this part clear enough yet, and you have to understand: Before The City, Friendship wasn’t only in The Church. That’s just mostly where I saw… I mean, maybe it’s like The Church was the perfect place to see Friendship at work. But Friendship was everywhere, bringing all the small and weak together as stones to be set in different walls.

“So, what happened in The City was New Cannibalism replaced Friendship with something else.”

ME:

“New cannibalism is people still being bought and sold by the powerful, though no longer literally eaten?

“Is that correct?”

RAY:

“Well, really, it all has to do with the symbol. Again, everyone since the early days loved their town symbol. But to be put somewhere by Friendship meant loving your symbol in . . . in a different way. It meant it was time for you to play the part of the outsider. And when you were an outsider, you and everyone with you in your wall had a whole new view on life, like I said. But then in a world with no outsiders, it was those sorts of connections that couldn’t… Yeah, that’s when Friendship got replaced by another, called Advertising. But Advertising didn’t just highlight part of the symbol. Advertising was the symbol, now lit up and made alive to be shown everywhere, all the time, on every screen. And Advertising had only one goal from the beginning: to celebrate New Cannibalism . . . to make everyone on every level proud to be part of their City.”

ME:

“What happened in the church once advertising took over?”

RAY:

“So, for anything like The Church that became successful in The City, its walls of living stones built by Friendship got broken down. That’s so the whole thing could be put back together and keep growing, but much faster than before. You see, Advertising doesn’t connect the stones in the same personal, individual way Friendship did. Instead, everyone gets arranged by their levels in The City, whether strong and powerful or poor and weak. And as I watched more and more come to be made part of The Church’s walls, I heard The Pastor shift to saying things like, ‘We must become all things to all men in order to win some.’”

ME:

“So it was advertising that convinced the pastor to build his church that way?”

RAY:

“No, not at all. And it’s not that it was a . . . mistake. Man, I’m sure I’m saying this all wrong. I mean, it’s definitely not like The Pastor wanted power, or wanted to hurt anyone. He just saw what The Church’s place in The City would have to be going forward. And it’s like his focus shifted outward to something . . . measurable . . . the same as with anyone building anything in The City.”

Ray was evidently endeavoring to avoid the true nature and felt cause of his frustrations, circling ever back to hover about varying degrees of “just how things were.”

I would have to approach his complaint carefully, employing non-leading questions that could work indirectly to uncover and underscore perceived abuses.

ME:

“But if friendship was already causing the church to grow naturally, with people bringing their families and friends, then why would that have to change in the city?

“That’s the part I’m having trouble understanding.

“Why take apart the whole structure and adopt advertising?”

Ray smiled, though it somehow seemed a tad too contrived.

His tranquil eyes appeared to glow with shadow undertones forged by what I supposed to be years of perpetual disgruntlement.

RAY:

“It’s ironic. Sorry, it’s perfect. You asked the perfect question, because everything I said leads up to it, y’know? It all leads up to now, and now everything’s changing again. Advertising for New Cannibalism in The City is… Okay, I’ll say it this way: Friendship and Advertising might be so different . . . so completely opposite . . . they almost look like twins. But… Well, Advertising only shows the few who actually make it in The City. And it also carefully hides the fact of how many unseen lives get used up just so those few can always be seen enjoying what everyone’s supposed to want. Yeah, once The City formed, and Friendship was replaced, The Pastor also started saying to the people in his walls things like, ‘Friends in the Lord are closer than brothers.’ But that’s not quite the irony I’m trying to… I don’t…”

ME:

“So friendship wouldn’t have worked for the church once the church was part of the city?”

RAY:

“No… I mean, yes… I mean, that’s the change I’m talking about. That’s what everything’s been leading up to. So, imagine Friendship brings you just the right people . . . the ones you know your dream can help. It’s slow, but . . . but still, you start to get excited. Things are really happening. Then, all of a sudden, you’re part of The City, and it’s like everything speeds up. You dig down, searching for the . . . for that same fire that pushed you out to go help people and make a difference in the first place. But all you find is just this uneasy feeling, like you know something’s gonna have to change so you can keep things alive and growing at the same pace and scale. That’s where we come to now. It’s fear. It’s always been fear. It’s the same fear that colors everything made, shown, or said, everywhere in The City. The symbol . . . that smile . . . could there be a more perfect emblem for what once convinced a town to eat anyone called an outsider and now convinces everyone New Cannibalism is worth living and dying for? But New Cannibalism should make the irony so much more obvious. I mean, some burnt smudge in wood gets blown up into the same picture shown over and over, and… And fear of not having enough gets reimagined back to you as fear of losing some good thing . . . some ideal . . . that’s supposed to be worth going after more than anything else. And if most people have to die to keep that smile . . . that gleam . . . alive, well…”

I waited a moment until it was clear Ray would not complete his thought.

ME:

“I guess I don’t see the irony there.

“Or maybe I’m confused…”

Ray then flicked my iun screen off and gingerly set it down.

RAY:

“Sorry, I was saying how Advertising and Friendship are, like, mirror images of each other. But the difference is Friendship could have worked without the symbol . . . without any fear of being eaten or used up . . . to still bring everyone together where they naturally fit. And Friendship always worked for free. But Advertising costs everything. And now, when I see things like this iun, it’s like I’m watching The City’s whole economy get pressed harder and harder against itself, with Advertising fighting so desperately, y’know, to take up every single new screen. That’s the irony, I guess. That’s what it really is. I mean, all The City’s money still goes to Advertising, right? But paying everything for everyone’s fear of lack to be spun into love for . . . well, for watching those few who can appear to lack nothing . . . that could only make any sense back when Advertising owned all the screens. Now no amount of money would… But it’s no one’s fault. And . . . and really, I think it’s okay. Friendship never left. That’s important to know. I guess . . . well, just picture standing quietly and watching from a distance as more and more wealth gets blown on doing a job you got fired from for political reasons, but now you know you’ve got what it takes to do it for free way better and faster than the new guy. It might make you start to smile again, even if you still felt kind of sad. That’s all.”

Ray continued to stare at my iun in silence.

My current assessment: Ray’s role in the church had likely been limited by the allocation of significant resources and attention to new technologies for impersonal automation intended to replace what had been his free, human work of connecting with individuals one at a time.

Or maybe Ray had simply been frustrated by his own lack of advancement within the church.

Being so strange and nuanced tends to render many Outliers far too unpredictable for promotion within fixed hierarchies.

ME:

“Ray, will you tell me about your experience in the church?

“Who did you see being hurt or killed by the powerful because of new cannibalism in the city?”

“So, okay, I was 14.

“It started with, um . . . maybe it was a dream . . . something like a baby about to be born. I just . . . I remember this feeling of being swayed around in warm, peaceful darkness.

“Or, no, I think it was cool, not warm.

“But then my eyes squinted open, and I got real startled to . . . to see the sky and realize I was outside. There was this bad stinging like a slice or stab at the back of my head, especially when I moved to sit up. But… I mean, there’s no way to even tell you how shocked I felt to find myself sitting near the edge of a small, wooden raft, surrounded by so many others . . . way too many for such a tiny boat.

“For a long time, everyone was quiet. And I didn’t say anything either. I thought maybe none of us had any idea what was going on, like we’d all just woken up or whatever the same way. The ocean in every direction looked totally still. It seemed like we were just drifting in place on flat, clear glass . . . endless.

“Then these two people next to me started talking in a hushed sort of whisper. But I could hear them pretty well. One goes, ‘This boat is our provision from on high!’

“The other’s, like, ‘Yes! We escaped the sinking ship, for we’re being brought from glory to glory!’

“The first comes back with, ‘Why would God give us this provision if we were destined to drown?!’

“And the other agrees, ‘Amen!’

“So, I knew we must have come from a ship. But I wondered why the life raft would be so, y’know, old-fashioned and made of wood. I still had no memory of traveling anywhere, or of a crash, or anything.

“But then I got, like, fully blown away to recognize two people from The Church, a mother and son named Carmen and Vin. And the funny thing is the three of us would end up working there together later.

“But yeah, for sure I didn’t know anyone else.

“Anyway, after not much time, Carmen started making these really loud pronouncements . . . though her tone stayed steady and formal, kind of like a news reporter reading off a screen . . . warning everyone the raft was slowly filling up with water. And it was true. We could see it trickling in over the edges.

“Before long, Vin, her son, got this weird look on his face . . . all serious . . . and started shouting how the rate the boat was filling meant it would sink before the standard rescue time. He didn’t give any details but just kept repeating the same thing in different ways.

“This went on for a few minutes until it was like their two voices merged, and then both were insisting one person on the raft would have to be thrown over the side to save the rest.

“Honestly, my head felt like someone had just pried a nail out of the back. But I kind of winced through the pain and moved up to a crouch, then stumbled forward toward Vin. I was fuzzy, but I wanted to ask about his calculation or whatever . . . like, what he’d meant by ‘standard rescue time,’ and how he’d figured it out so quickly. I mean, we were both kids, y’know? Vin would have been maybe 11 or 12.

“But before I could talk, he raised his voice even higher than it had been and questioned my loyalty to everyone on the raft.

“Carmen laughed a little and urged me not to worry. She announced her son was at the top of all his classes, and on his way to becoming an engineer when he grew up, so he would know.

“No, you don’t need to write this down.

“Sorry, it’s just . . . it’s so obvious to me now, looking back. I never saw the connection before, but… You see, Carmen and Vin’s family had been leaders in The Church for . . . well, since before The City formed, so definitely a long time. For generations. And later on, working with them, it’s like they both always had to be so sure of themselves in everything, no matter what, y’know?

“I think when it comes to New Cannibalism . . . how it’s all based in fear . . . well, anyone that wants to be in charge, that’s trying to move up . . . anyone in ‘the middle’ . . . knows they could be replaced at any time by those above. And that’s a scary feeling to have to live with, right?

“I don’t think Carmen and Vin wanted to hurt anyone. I mean, I’m sure they didn’t. I think it’s more they backed themselves into it without even…

“Sorry, please don’t write that last part. I don’t want this to sound bad.

“Back in the days of Friendship, The Pastor would paint these beautiful pictures each week with his words . . . pictures of another world to come. It was supposed to be a world filled with the exact same sweetness and love that connected everyone in The Church’s walls hidden together from so many crushing powers and sets of snapping teeth outside. And back then, The Pastor said no one’s levels or titles in this world would even matter in the next. So being lowly and kind could be considered noble . . . even insightful . . . since it meant you were able to look beyond your pain to a future when everything would be made right.

“But in The City, The Church became its own empire, like I said. And you just can’t do things like apologize or show weakness by second guessing yourself if you want to move up in an empire.

“It’s like The Pastor’s words never changed, but their meaning . . . um… Instead of a shared hope for a life to come after being caught and killed, the other world became more, like, a reward for staying a slave . . . I mean a slave to The Church to help it keep growing in The City. But Advertising only ever celebrates the powerful. So everywhere in The City, people are always driven to think they should want to rise as high as they can. Some succeed, and others fail or give up. But as far as The Church is concerned, you might as well mash your teeth into the concrete if you’re a slave who doesn’t believe in the other world to justify your position.

“When you think about it, The City just came from generations who thought they couldn’t survive without having deals where lives got sacrificed. Then later generations were convinced some were meant to rise up and share in their empire’s wealth and power, where most would have to stay lowly, and quiet, and happy to be its fuel. The irony is…

“I see a . . . a fog that’s…

“Sorry, you don’t have to write any of that.

“So, there was an atheist with us on the raft. To me, I’d say he seemed like just a really likeable, funny guy. Not rude or anything. But someone happened to bring up The Church, and the atheist mentioned he didn’t go. When asked why, he said he’d once believed The Pastor’s message about the coming other world, but didn’t think he believed it anymore.

“Everyone got real quiet. Then, all of a sudden, the conversation sort of erupted back out of nowhere, and… Well, now it was only on whether or not the atheist should be the one killed. I guess everyone agreed with Vin and Carmen that someone would have to die to save the rest.

“One lady asked why they should even put up with the atheist in their presence at all, using up their resources.

“Another kept calling the atheist an “anti-newcannibalist,” though the atheist had already said he’d moved to The City to become successful, and that he even admired The Church’s position.

“Vin treated the atheist’s words like meaningless noise to be ignored and drowned out.

“A few suggested maybe another on the raft should step up to take the atheist’s place. That way, they claimed, the atheist might stay alive long enough to believe again.

“Many argued the atheist’s contrary spirit was a bad, corrupting influence, and insisted he be thrown out right away. I mean, they were, like, furious it wasn’t happening already.

“Someone mentioned sacred writings comparing believers and non-believers to light and dark, having nothing in common.

“Another remembered a passage that states if someone doesn’t accept the message, that person must be turned away at the door.

“Then this guy next to me brought up an even older part . . . a story about a man who gets thrown overboard from a ship during a storm, and how God sends that rebellious person into the belly of a giant fish to keep him safe so he can turn and change his ways. Somehow this idea made everyone on the raft stop talking. And after another quiet moment, all agreed, one by one, it would probably be best to throw the atheist over the side so he might believe again like he had before. Carmen even recited The Pastor’s own words about the storms of life often serving as the means God uses to bring a wayward believer back to Faith.

“But I just couldn’t believe it . . . any of it . . . how all those sensible-looking people could be so…

“I finally stood up and tried to argue something like, ‘Are we really talking about letting someone die? How can we decide what’s…? I mean, don’t we also read that showing love, even to our enemies, is the sum total of all we’re meant to do?! Aren’t we told to imitate God, who makes the sun shine on both the evil and the good?’

“But they all talked over me and outvoted me without ever voting.

“Carmen started yelling about standing against the devil and his powers. Most of the others echoed her words and enthusiasm.

“I kept trying to find a way to show how unfair the whole thing seemed. But it was like they’d all blocked their ears from hearing.

“Did I sacrifice myself? Well, I was young. But that’s just an excuse, y’know? I didn’t even think of it at the time. Now, every day, I wish I’d…

“I’ll never forget the last words I heard that atheist say. I mean, it was like he looked right at me, and was just: ‘Well, if it’s you or me, and they pick me…’

“Once the others all crowded in to hold the atheist in place, I couldn’t see him anymore. Then one after another, they started firing questions at him about whether he’d believe The Pastor’s message again before he died. I didn’t hear him respond. I did catch a glimpse of his face when he was pulled forward and then wrenched up to be thrown over . . . and it was like I could literally hear him pleading without words something close to: ‘I don’t know if I believe or not. Hey, I would if I could!’

“The atheist stayed floating near us until that night, almost completely silent in the dead calm of the ocean.

“The next morning, he was gone.”

Johnston sat as always on the brown shag floor, propped beside his same old reddish desk. He had been fidgeting carefully for hours without realizing, shifting his weight to war against a stiffness that regrouped to take fresh segments of his back and neck like rot. Hovering somewhere between roughly two positions, he stared down at his brand new iun fixed in place and bright against the carpet.

So far, the iun had functioned solely as a sort of secret eye, allowing Johnston constant access to what was essentially a continuous high school reunion. Remembered faces, only ever happy, were spersed with snippets of most smug and cheery words. No one appeared to have aged.

There was something quite appealing about keeping real-time tabs on all the detestable idiots from each of his previous lives at once. Perhaps it was the controlled distance he enjoyed . . . a distance from which he could watch unseen and marvel coldly at the implied success enjoyed by every single one.

A red flashing was unprecedented.

A new message? A . . . request?

The sense that someone might have chosen to make an actual stab at connecting with him was quite surreal.

But Johnston did not dwell long on having maybe been reached out to. Another click, and pools of whatever chemicals could have served to trigger and feed excitement flashed quickly hard like clay and clogged their tubes. For up had popped the face of Scott, the initiator of the contact . . . perhaps the biggest idiot of them all.

Why would Scott want to…?

Johnston covertly sidewindered his way to his old work colleague’s iun page, huffing in dull impatience as boxes of advertisement graphics mimicked a pack of lax gypsies pausing mid-path to casually set up shop and block his way.

Passing seconds revealed but a few fresh pixels at a time.

Further clicks seemed not to matter in the least.

He watched.

…trapped…

He cranked himself back hard against the desk.

What first peered up successfully over the mutable commercial space was a counter tracking how many others’ pages Scott’s had already been connected with.

Johnston’s congealed elation stiffened further like a corpse.

A button marked “Latest” eventually gave way to lines of text.

Great news! I was jus waiting tables $ one of my customers told me he thought I should come work with him and run his CS dept! a 300% increase! Wow y’all! Good things can happen!

Glancing a little below the text, Johnston’s eyes quivered, sweeping in chaos to half-bathe in the glow of a sea of mostly female avatars, too many to count, and all at least as perfect as any costly, invasive rectangles might be made to look. Each bright, peppy face or likeness represented a response made that day to Scott’s stupid misspelled note.

Something bad happened. You might say a problem chose that moment to finish sweeping itself into being like a terrible fire that would or could now never fully be extinguished.

As was often his practice when accosted with news of another’s gain, Johnston let his mind stretch to construct a rigid network of tight, ordered comparisons. What if he were in Scott’s shoes, faced with the same opportunity?

“Hello sir, how might I best serve you today? [Insert appropriate quip for maximized compensation]”

But the inescapable, burning question would always be: Why? Why would anyone desire another to perform so wasteful a routine? How would the attention of whoever could afford to be distracted by such valueless luxuries possibly be worth so little?

But Johnston already knew he knew no “why” would make a difference. Not to him.

And in terms of value, probing the air for the sake of his own indignation felt irredeemably close to staring silent as either flashy interrupting slots or service songs-and-dances ran their course.

I’d just have to do it. For me, it would be for tips. For signatures. For checks, and trusts. For money, of course.

Having fought harder than anyone else now for stacks on stacks of bitter years, Johnston knew he had never truly won at selling himself in any given role. That was his reality. And it made no difference whether his impassible edginess was the result of futile time or just some fundamental un-likability.

He gritted his teeth, feeling the muscles in his jaw petrify as he re-centered himself in doubled-down, pure determination.

But again: Why? Money? How much could more of the same ever eventually be worth?

And even the best of his exceptional efforts seemed no match for the celebrated pretense of a Scott . . . an air shown and told in bold-faced lies which must be clear to all except those most obtuse, entitled creatures, the customers.

Johnston’s tired back pinioned him once more away from the desk.

No, but they do know that they are being lied to. They reward the liars in order to be . . . charmed.

Johnston’s gaze broke from the iun as his mind’s eye caught traces of rich, fat, withered goons, all decked out in spiffy cloaks and hats. The goons were guests who winked at gorgeous, young, and naked hosts from near enough to clutch, and smear, and sully, before beauty then with boundless grace would pocket compensation, smile wide, and pirouette away.

What right do they all—?

But the thought was killed and so far gone it swept only in form as through an iun’s uncolored mind to be sold exclusively amongst those who would never give a Johnston a single second look.

Memories flooded back, uninvited and unwelcome. He grew rattled all anew by the crazy, zany sounds of Scott and co. hidden away in their secret compartment while he, Johnston, painstakingly pushed to make systems run a little better every day. Then flashes of being blamed, laughed at, discarded, forgotten…

An old conversation reared its ugly head, as unpredictable and sick as sounds from all off-limits rooms. And the sacred cleanliness of reason doused disgusting flies that flittered up . . . so many coming at him at once and potentially carrying such dangerous diseases.

Johnston jerkily flicked on his TV to catch a man with a pockmarked face and cheap dress shirt who stuck like landed punches to both sides of the panning screen. The man was shouting, “Claim those promises! They are yours! My God shall supply all your need. Do you receive it? Say it with me: ‘I am above and not beneath…’”

There was more.

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.”

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?

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.”

“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.”

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.

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!

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.

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.

“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.”

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.

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

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!

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.

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.

: )

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.

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…

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.

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.”

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.”

“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.”

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?

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.

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…?

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…”

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?”

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.

“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.”

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.

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:

“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.

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.

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?

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 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.

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.

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.

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 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.”

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 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.’”

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?”

Valentine’s Day.

And then a solar eclipse.

“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.

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.

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.

When I heard myself in Johnston’s voice, I was filled with seething hatred.

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.

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…”

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.”

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.

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