The Amazing Morse is on sale

I just wanted to alert faithful readers of my blog that my first book, The Amazing Morse, will be on sale for most of the rest of the week on Amazon (e-book format). More information can be found here: http://www.amazon.com/The-Amazing-Morse-ebook/dp/B0099YXY2Y/ref=sr_1_1?ie=UTF8&qid=1347836505&sr=8-1&keywords=james+rozoff

China Hearts

A short story that it took me nearly 30 years to get around to finishing:

 

Most anyone who was familiar with this street would have recognized the weathered man standing outside the little shop of curios, though it was doubtful any of them knew his name. He could often be seen standing uncomfortably in front of a little curio shop, gazing at the items displayed in the window when he thought nobody was paying any attention to him. He appeared somewhat old but sturdy, as though the demanding work he had done his whole life had both aged him yet kept him healthy and free from the vices that idleness often attracts. His clothing was of the coarse and sturdy variety, typical of a man who earns his living by the sweat of his brow and the toil of his body. His face was weathered like a tree trunk, adding texture and lines to a face that had already been good at hiding whatever thoughts or emotions were occurring behind it. But it was perhaps in his hands that the tale of his life could best be read. They were thick tools for heavy work, looking almost more like work gloves than hands. So much did they bear the mark of his toils that they almost looked like root vegetable fresh-dug from the earth. He appeared out of place in this neighborhood of sophisticated city dwellers, but not enough so to call attention to himself. Although rough, there was nothing threatening about him; indeed, he emanated a gentleness that belied his tough exterior. There was a meekness in the way he kept to himself, a self-consciousness in the way he avoided bumping into any of the constant flow of people who walked past this busy street.

His existence had been one of hard work, struggling with nature for his meager wages. The work was brutish, leaving his body covered in dirt and dust and his mind numb from drudgery. But when he had a day off, he would often walk into town to drive the numbness from his mind, making sure that he was well washed and wearing his finest clothes, which really weren’t very fine. He had contemplated buying the type of clothes he saw those in the city wear, but he had no idea how to go about choosing such items. And besides, he knew that such clothing would only accentuate his other differences, the browned skin, the calloused hands and the dirt under his nails and in the grooves of his skin that could never be completely removed.

Here in the city, people lived differently than the others who shared his life. There words were fairer, flowed more smoothly. Their clothing was more for show than for work, and their manners more refined. He would often be content to sit on a bench and watch the people in their day to day business, moving effortlessly and knowingly through complicated social interactions. They possessed an understanding of society and how to gracefully move within it that he had never had a way of learning. But for him the heart of the city was the little shop that displayed intricate and delicate items for purchase. They spoke to him of lives lived without hardship, where things were made not merely for their usefulness but because they were beautiful. Most of the items there were made to be displayed, to be placed upon a mantel or in a curio cabinet, only to be looked at. Things made of crystal and intricately crafted fine metals, gold gilded porcelain and statuettes made of marble, jade, pearl and rarer material still from all parts of the globe. These items represented to him places that he could never hope to visit, experiences he would never have, people he would never be or even know. Such things would be quite out of place in his humble little cabin. Everything he possessed had been made of rough-hewn wood, blackened iron and unadorned pottery.

And yet. To own just one of these items, to possess something that stood apart from the base tools and utensils of his existence. Such a thing would be worth coming home to at night, worth the effort and struggle that was his life. He needed something in his life that could be adored, that spoke to him of something beyond need, something that existed without regard for mere function.

So he stared through the window, with each visit seeing something new displayed along with items he had wondered at before. When someone appeared to be walking towards the shop, he would start slowly in motion, walking a short while only to stop and stare again from a distance. He was afraid of what people might think of him if they caught him staring into the window, afraid they would mock the unsophisticated man who thought he was something he was not.

He would watch those who strolled so un-self-consciously into the store as if they were born for such things, as if it never occurred to them that such things might be too lofty or unobtainable for them. It must be admitted that the man felt a trace of jealousy when watching such people enter the shop and make purchases so casually, leaving the store with precious items that he had gazed at so lovingly through the shop’s window.

And then on one of his trips to the little shop he beheld an item more beautiful than any he had seen before: a heart-shaped crystal hung from a fine lace in the upper corner of the window. Though unadorned with gold or silver, its simple radiance caught the light of the noon-day sun and sparkled it back at him from its many finely cut facets. As it twirled ever so slowly upon the lace that held it, its myriad details would throw off various colors of the spectra, eclipsing the beauty of the other items around it. Upon seeing this crystal heart, he came to cherish it more than anything he had ever seen.  His trips into town became more frequent, his time spent gazing in the window of the little shop less spent concerned with what passerby might think. The idea came into his mind like a flash, that this precious item would be his. It horrified him to think that he might one day come to stare into this window only to find that some other person had taken it for their own. He had little money on him that day, but walked back that evening to the little shack he called home with the intent of returning the next day.

The pay he received for his labor was meager, but his needs had been more meager still. With little needed to satisfy his wants, he had managed to save what he believed to be a considerable amount over the many years. He would take it, all of it, and go back into town tomorrow. It would be enough, he was sure. Pretty sure, at least. All that evening his mind vacillated between thoughts of the crystal heart, of how happy he would be to bring it back home with him, how horrible it would be if someone else had bought it in the meantime. Perhaps they would not sell it to him, perhaps his life savings would not be enough for such an embodiment of beauty. And so one moment he would be thinking of where he would put the crystal heart in his small home, and the next moment he would be contemplating life if he should never see it again. He slept little that night.

He was up early the next morning, even for him. It was far too early to wander into town, far earlier than the little store opened. But he spent the time preparing  himself, wanting to make himself as presentable as he knew how to be. He scrubbed his fingernails with an old brush until his fingers nearly bled, trying to get the last of the darkness out from under them.

When he could stand it no longer, he made his way into town, trying to walk slowly so that he would not be there too early. But when he arrived, the store was not yet open. He rushed to the window as quickly as he could without appearing obvious to the few people that were on the street at such an early hour. The heart was still there. The knowledge lifted his heart even as it did nothing to calm him. He stood staring into the window until he became aware of the shopkeeper who walked to the door and opened it, glancing at him as she passed. The sudden recognition that he had been caught looking in the window made him flush with embarrassment that bordered on terror. He had been caught looking in the window of the shop, caught believing that he was worthy of such items. He walked away, his desire for the heart frustrated by his fear of not being worthy. He walked on, cursing himself, cursing life, cursing the fact that he was not one of those who could effortlessly walk into such a place of beauty.  He walked on until he realized the shop would soon be opening, and that the heart may reach the attentions of others who might also wish to have it for their own. He forced himself to walk around the block so that he would not call undue attention to himself, but he walked so quickly that people looked at him wonderingly. He reached the shop window and stared in the upper corner, thrilled at the sight of the crystal heart once again. And once again, he felt the utter inability to force himself into the shop, felt the complete lack of knowledge regarding how to go about such a transaction. He glanced about him in his practiced manner, making sure he was not standing out. As he did so, he noticed someone walk into the shop. Dread filled him again, at the thought that he had waited too long and might forever miss his opportunity. But if he had been afraid to walk into the store before, he was terrified at the idea of going in there when others were inside. He waited for the person who had entered to come back out, only to see two more people enter. The two exited shortly, but in the meantime, still another person had entered to look at what lay inside. It seemed an eternity of people walking in and out of the store until he was sure that it was now empty. And the heart was still there.

He could delay no longer. It was a greater act of courage than any he had performed in his life, but he forced himself to walk to the door and pull it open. He had never experienced such agony in his life, terrified that he would not have enough, or that they would simply refuse to sell it to such as him.

Inside the store, he found the shelving to be entirely too close together, the aisles insufficiently  wide. He walked slowly, cautiously, terrified that he might knock one of the items off the shelves. His shoulders seemed to him to be impossibly wide, his gait unsteady like a drunk’s. The shopkeeper stood at the counter near the door, but he avoided looking at her. She was a shape at the edge of his vision upon which he placed an imagined look of scorn. He concentrated on navigating the too-small aisle, ignoring whatever finery lay on them except to make sure not to knock into any of them.

Turning left, he now walked back up another aisle, approached the window. There was the crystal heart, slowly, barely, turning on the delicate lace that held it suspended. He looked at it and through his fear it lured him on. The sun shone through it, the first rays of the morning sun as mere playthings that it tossed about playfully.  He approached it as though it were a holy relic, hardly daring to raise his eyes to gaze upon it.

He knew he must now claim it as his own, knew that if he backed away in fear today that he would never have the courage, it would be lost to him forever. Rather than ask the shopkeeper to take it down for him, he decided to do it himself. His self consciousness around people had only intensified now that he carried within him his secret desire. Reaching up, he slid the lace from the hook it was suspended by with more care than he had ever given to any task he had ever done. He felt the weight of the crystal heart hanging from the lace now, discovered it to be lighter than he could have imagined.  Feeling its lightness, he imagined that it must also be more fragile than he had believed. He became terrified of the idea of it hanging loosely from the lace lest it sway and smash into something as he walked his way towards the counter. Holding the lace with one hand, he cupped the heart with the other. Feeling it to be reasonably secure, he released the lace and with that hand also protected the delicate ornament from any conceivable harm. Holding it now in both hands, he gazed at the heart that was now all but his. So great was his fear of letting it fall from his hands, he began to imagine that the sweat that now appeared upon his palms would cause it to slide from his grasp. With an involuntary reaction to an imagined movement of the heart, he gripped it more tightly than he intended. In that moment, he could feel the heart shatter from the pressure he applied on it. He looked in agony as the precious object of his affection broke apart into tiny splinters that sunk like teeth deep into his skin. Tears of pain welled up in his eyes, but it was not the cuts in his hands that were to blame. He let loose an uncontrollable sob, which caused the shopkeeper to become aware of him, which in turn led him to remember her presence. He managed to put aside his grief, set the pieces of crystal down as delicately as he could upon the shelving that stood behind the window. He walked as quickly as he could toward the exit without causing further damage. He stuffed his bleeding hand deep into the front pocket of his work pants, pulled out his money, his life savings. Without daring to look at the shopkeeper, he placed the money on the counter, left the shop, and never came near the little store again.

Eternity, Inc

Yesterday, I was running errands, listening to NPR when I heard them make an announcement for a sci-fi flash-fiction contest. I thought up this story and wrote it up when I got home. It's over the 600 word limit, but I like it better this way.

Eternity Inc

 

“It’s not like I want to live forever, you know,” I said to the man connecting electrodes to my shaven skull, “it’s just that I wasn’t ready to sleep the final sleep quite yet. After all, death is quite a big commitment.”

The man nodded as he worked, preparing me for what could quite possibly be life after death. I wasn’t convinced that downloading my consciousness to a computer was going to work, but it least it took the edge off the whole inevitability of death thing. There was still hope. That is why I volunteered for the project, and when I say volunteer, I mean to say I paid a considerable percentage of my family’s inheritance to Eternity Incorporated in order to be their guinea pig. Everybody I spoke to seemed to believe the project was legitimate, the idea for continuing my existence until some other arrangement could be found a viable one. At least, as far as something as radical as this could be. In fact, the backers of the project seemed to be even more invested than I was, if such a thing was possible. Apparently, there was a good deal of money riding on my success. I was to be a pioneer (though, I learned later, not the first).

As my death approached, the attention increased, until as I breathed my last, there was a crowd of workers and observers that surrounded my bed. The last thing I remembered was the sound of a saw and a dim awareness of what they were going to do with it. Technically, I suppose, they prematurely put an end to my life, but you really couldn’t call it murder since I’m still around to testify to the contrary. You see, they managed to maintain my consciousness, enabled me to beat death in a way no one else has before. My awareness was dropped into an awaiting CPU the way a guppy is dropped into a new fishbowl and, plop, I was soon swimming in an unfamiliar habitat, with people tapping on the glass and staring inside. Not only was I alive, for the first time in my life I had no fear of dying. The entire resources of Eternity Inc. were vested in my continued existence. I was their cyber astronaut, the first ever to explore cyberspace. But while that may sound important to you, in fact I felt little different than that guppy bouncing its head into walls of glass.

But to Eternity Inc., I was a celebrity, like the first man with a Jarvik heart. While I couldn’t see them, I imagined a crowd of executives, technicians and investors gathered around a monitor high-fiving each other and opening champagne. They were able to communicate with me, just not in a way I really recognized as human contact. But all of us took joy in the fact that I was alive.

Of course, this was only step one in the process. I was now in a sort of holding pattern. To retain my consciousness was one thing, but to give it some kind of physical life afterwards was another. We had discussed it earlier, the potential for a body donor, the hushed conversation of a clone body, a robotic body superior to any human one. You see, we potentially had forever to come up with a solution. My consciousness was stored in one of the most complex computer systems ever designed, backed up by generators and storage that guaranteed that no catastrophe would interrupt my existence. I was protected in a way normal human life never could be.

They treated me like royalty, if such a thing can be said regarding an incorporeal being. They were very careful to visit me often, keep me amused. You see, as a consciousness living in a computer, they were unable to shut me off. Perhaps they could have, I believed they could, but they were afraid of losing their investment. And so I was left on twenty four hours a day, adrift with only my thoughts and whatever companionship they provided. They tried to keep my mind—which is to say me—as busy as possible, so that I might not think too much on the fact of what I was or what my fate might be. And in this way, I found my constant awareness endurable.

But one day, they did not come. I was left alone drifting lost for a long enough time to worry, enough time to be terrified, enough time to realize they were never coming back. Perhaps it was war, perhaps it was a plague, I could only guess. For all eternity, I can only guess.

Once I feared the finality of death. But I never wanted to live forever.

 

 

 

Chapter 3 of The Sleep Of Reason

Here it is. Remember, it's up to you to let me know if I've gone of my rocker.

Chapter 3

 

Dave and Johnny were headed East on Highway 23 towards the city of Manitowoc. They were to perform at the Capital Civic Center as part of a larger group from the Baraboo Circus, but the town also presented an opportunity for Dave’s training.

“I still don’t get what Doug thinks I’m going to learn by watching you do your job. You talk to ghosts. I don’t know anything about ghosts. I sometimes get visions in my sleep. I’m not going to be of any help to you.”

“You’ve to see in order to understand. You’re still learning, still just a baby. Your abilities are unfolding. It useful to try to discover where your talents may lie.”

“I’m hoping they don’t lie in talking to ghosts. Just the idea of talking to the dead scares the hell out of me.”

“Oh, ghosts aren’t dead people,” said Johnny. “It’s a common misperception that’s been around for centuries. Quite understandable. A person sees a ghost that looks and perhaps acts like a person they used to know, and they make the assumption that it is the dead person they see. But, no, the dead stay dead. Ghosts are a certain emotional something the dead leave behind when they die. It’s as though it resides on the strong emotions contained in an area around some tragic or intense emotional incident. That’s why certain areas and houses are haunted, because ghosts are confined to a specific area where whatever significant emotional outburst occurred. It contains a certain life-force, perhaps, but I wouldn’t say they’re alive. Certainly not human, not the person the claim and even believe themselves to be.”

“Are they evil?”

“No. Well, they’re quite capable of committing horrible acts, but you can’t really call them evil. They’re like emotional relics, they’re not thinking creatures. They’re bound up in the event that caused their creation, and are always reacting to that event. So while they are reacting to that event, they are capable of causing harm to those outside of that event, capable of dragging others into their reality. But they are not aware of their actions, so I can hardly say they have the moral capacity required to commit evil. But they can appear quite terrifying.”

“That’s not very encouraging.”

“Ah, they don’t frighten me. I have a certain facility with them, a certain understanding. They’re like children, really. They have their emotional outbursts, try to test the limits of their reality. You just have to take a kind but firm hand with them.”

Dave’s life was in Johnny’s hands, now, and Dave wasn’t very happy about it. He trusted Johnny, liked him as a person, but felt that his life was getting out of his control. In fact, it had been out of his control ever since he had let his guard ever since he had let his guard down for an instant, permitted himself to behave like he was still young, acted for a moment without thought of consequence. Aw, hell, his whole life had been out of his control. As a child, his parents and teachers told him what to do. When he worked in an office, his bosses and convention had dictated to him how to behave. And now he was being sent by Doug to observe ghosts. Twenty-nine years old and he felt no more in control of his life than when he was five.

He wished Mindy were here with him, as she had been for his other experience with the supernatural. But Doug needed her at the magic shop, and they were both still his employees. Dave was amazed at the way the normal life was still able to interject itself into the world he now found himself, a world increasingly filled with the most supernatural of beings imaginable. But still the bills needed to be paid, the dishes washed and put away. And his career as a magician carried on. He had that going for him at least.

“So where are we going, again?” Dave asked.

“There’s a house in town that has had reports of ghostly experiences. Doug checks out the various chat groups on the internet looking for experiences that seem genuine. This one qualified. We’ll check it out and perhaps you’ll be able to learn a little about ghosts. Who knows, you might end up taking a fancy to ‘em,” there seemed to be genuine enthusiasm mixed in with his blue-collar English accent.

“Not likely.”

“Anyway, we’ll see how you do. Any encounter with what they call the supernatural should give you a further understanding of things. By the way, the term supernatural is a misnomer. What we encounter is natural. If anything it is superhabitual, something beyond what we generally perceive to be the norm.”

“So ghosts have always existed?”

“Oh, yeah. You’ve read Hamlet, haven’t you? Well, that story begins with the sighting of a ghost and nobody seems to surprised by it. Frightened, perhaps, but not surprised.”

“But that was just a story,” said Dave.

“Look at you, now. Hamlet was just a story, eh? And I suppose the Sistine Chapel just had a ceiling.”

“That’s not what I meant. I mean it wasn’t real. There wasn’t really a ghost.”

“That’s not the point. The point is the audience didn’t question it. And Shakespeare didn’t fear writing a ghost into his story and having people laugh at the notion. People have always believed in ghosts, every age and every culture. Even today, people believe, even if the belief is frowned upon.”

“But that doesn’t make them real.”

Johnny began to laugh, grabbing his stomach for effect. “Oh, they’re real. We get to town, we’ll grab a bite to eat, and then I’ll show you a ghost, all right.”

“Maybe so, but I’m still don’t get it. I don’t see how we as a society could have just forgot about their existence. I don’t see how the spread of science can somehow disprove something that’s real.”

“Look,” said Johnny. “I’ll tell you things how I sees them. You talk to Doug or Izzy or Russell and they might all tell you the story differently, but this is how I approach it. It’s ‘cause ghosts don’t sell cars.”

“What?”

“Yeah, the knowledge of the existence of ghosts doesn’t help the wheels of industry spin any faster. As a matter of fact, a ghost in the machine would do just the opposite. Believing doesn’t do anyone any good. Consuming, that’s what our culture needs. We need to believe that our next purchase is going to bring us the happiness we’ve always been looking for. The system, whatever system it is, tends to promote itself at any chance, until the system is all you see. In olden times, King Henry took over the church so even at prayer, you were thinking about how the good old king was playing his part in God’s plan.”

“But people still believe in God nowadays,” said Dave.

“Yeah, but that’s been co-opted, more or less. Take a look at the preachers on the telly nowadays and they all pray to the god of consumer goods. Even those that read The Bible, it’s like they don’t see anything the system doesn’t want ‘em to. Any real sort of religion requires sacrifice, and that aint in the best interests of the machine we’re supposed to serve. Believing in ghost might take us away from our sacred duty of producing and consuming. Oh, it’s alright to watch movies about possession, and ghosts and the end of days and such, as long as we’re consuming a product out of Hollywood or some John Grisham novel. Just so we know it’s entertainment. Just so we don’t take it to heart, start thinking about it too long, just so we move on to the next movie about UFOs or some government conspiracy.”

"I don't believe it."

“Believe it. You can’t do anything without being subjected to advertisement. You can’t drive down the road without being bombarded by messages of a consumer culture.” He looked out the window. “Look, there’s one,” he said, pointing to a billboard that advertised the movie Bad Grandpa. “You can’t turn on a radio without being told what to do, how to act, what to think. Rare is a house without a television on, pervading the consciousness of everyone in the house. They capture the young ones early and they never let ‘em go. And as bad as it was for my generation, yours is even worse. You don’t wake up without running to your phone to check for messages. You fall asleep with the telly on.”

"Messages aren’t advertising.”

“They’re a constant tie to the group consciousness, which is led by the priests of consumerism. You’ve got to stop thinking of consciousness as your own. You’re only thinking by yourself when you are by yourself. As soon as you are in the presence of others, your consciousness is linked at some level to those others. Everybody thinks they’re individuals. The world is full of people rebelling in socially acceptable ways. The telly speaks and it is filtered down through various other media. But the message is unwavering: consume. Duck Dynasty pretends to promote prayer, but it’s really just a way to push merchandise. Psychologists and other manipulators are paid billions in order to get into your subconscious and plant their seeds. And those who employ them pay billions more to make sure that message gets to you.”

“I can’t believe such an enormous conspiracy can exist in broad daylight without the truth being exposed.”

“It’s not a conspiracy, nor is it a small group of people doing it. It’s a mindset, a paradigm that’s evolved. The consciousness is bigger than the individual. The individual walks around only dimly aware of the role he is playing.”

“So is this what Doug taught you?”

“No, this is what I’ve picked up on. At least, that’s my way of seeing things, as Doug would say. Doug’s up in the air with his philosophies and such. Me, I’m working class. I have a street level view of things.”

“I thought your perspective came from your faith.”

“Well, yeah, that’s true. But you can have beliefs and be practical too. Doug, I don’t think he ever gets his shoes dirty stepping on the ground. I was raised in a pretty rough section of London. It was my mother’s faith that helped me see a way through it, albeit with a few more tattoos than she’d have liked.” Johnny grinned, his smile cutting through the ink that covered his flesh, giving the tattoo that shared his left eye an off-balance look.

“And how does your perception differ from Doug’s? asked Dave, looking back towards the road, away from Johnny’s smile.

“He sees the big picture, but he misses the details. He misses the suffering the little people feel when the world is out of whack. He just sees something is wrong, he doesn’t feel it.”

“Then why is he the leader? Why not you, or Izzy, or Russell?”

“You’re kidding, right? He’s the boss because he signs the paychecks. That’s how life works, Dave, old boy. That’s what keeps me sticking around. Not that he’s a bad sort, or anything, but you can tell he’s used to having things his own way. And me, who needs a job, I aint gointa say too much. Just so long as I can play by my own rules.”

“And do you trust him?”

“He aint missed a paycheck yet.”

“That’s not what I meant,” said Dave. The question was an important one to him. If he couldn’t get answers, he at least wanted assurances.

“That’s all I care about,” said Johnny. “Look, I’m free to leave anytime I want. So are you. In the meantime, we have others to compare notes with, mates that won’t think we’re loony.”

Dave let it go at that, awaiting the opportunities for better explanations that would surely come eventually.

 

Dave knew he would soon be presented with new information, new experiences, but he wasn’t looking forward to it. The thought that lunch stood between them and such experiences, made it all the more appealing. As they approached the exit sign for Manitowoc, he saw the various restaurant signage. “Where do you want to eat?”

“There’s a place called The Penguin,” said Johnny. “Locally owned, nice people, cute waitress. I wouldn’t mind going there.”

“The Penguin it is, then,” said Dave, taking the exit.

The town they entered differed little from any other he had been in lately. The ubiquitous Perkins, Applebees, Buffalo Wild Wings, Qdoba, and Panda Express were situated around the central hub that was Walmart, like appendages of some spider or octopus. Like some metastasizing tumor that threatened to overwhelm the town. They continued to drive down the central avenue until it seemed they had passed the area where eateries were situated.

“Turn around, we must have passed it,” Said Johnny.

Dave turned into a Walgreens parking lot, a building identical to the Walgreens where he lived in the Wisconsin Dells, identical no doubt to the one in the next town over. Made identical so that whoever drove by it would instantly recognize it for what it was. In the world of marketing, there was no taking risks that anyone should have to think too hard in order to find your place of business. Thinking could only cause problem. All marketing was designed to sidestep the whole thinking process in order to simplify the process, funnel customers and their money to their place of business. All quantities needed to be known, everything made as interchangeable as possible.

As they drove back passed the Dairy Queen and a McDonald’s, Johnny cried out, “Oh, no!” Dave turned to look, saw Johnny staring at a Hardee’s restaurant. “The Penguin’s gone.” The distress in Johnny’s voice was palpable.

“Sorry,” said Dave. “Me, I don’t really care where we eat, just so long as we do. Where shall we go?”

“It doesn’t matter,” said Johnny, dejected.

Fearing he would run out of choices, Dave pulled into a recently built strip mall that contained a chain restaurant of the sit-down variety.

“Oh, bloody Hell!” said Johnny, looking up.

“You said it didn’t matter,” said Dave, intent on ridding himself of a hunger that was making itself his master. “We’re just here to eat.”

There were speakers outside the door where music was pumped prodigally to the outdoors like a perfume meant to entice. Not a bad song, thought Dave, definitely not Boston. Speakers were mounted on an overhang to the entrance, promising fun and amusement to anyone who entered in between the stereo separation. But between the speakers, Dave noticed a security camera within its dome, sending a less than welcoming message of its own.

There was a crowd in front of them and they were made to wait for the almost unnaturally friendly greeting they too would receive when it was their turn to be seated. They were stuck in an area the size of an elevator, and television screens busily conveyed content above them from each side. On the wall was the catchphrase of the establishment: “wings, beer, sports”. Simple and direct.

Although everyone in front of them should have had their attention towards the front, the presence of Johnny, the Tattooed man, was soon noticed. It was a young crowd, no strangers to tattoos, but Johnny managed to draw the furtive and not so furtive glares of just about everyone who was waiting. Not that he noticed: he must have been used to such attention by now.

Dave wondered why some people seem to go to such extremes to draw attention to themselves only to disregard the attention they garner. Dyed Mohawks and trenchcoats call attention to those who pretend to be disinterested in the stares of others. Perhaps it is an excuse, perhaps it is so that the person knows why they are being stared at, so they don’t have to guess what it is people are seeing. By decorating the outside, it was a message that said what was on the outside was just a container for the real person inside.

They were led through the noise of a crowd and a competing amount of television by a perky blond waitress. Everywhere, television screens stood as distractions to the patrons. Dave and John were seated at a table, rows of televisions on all sides of them. Johnny was talking, but Dave couldn’t help being distracted by the various action taking place on the many screens. There were three screens directly above him, another four neatly arranged one tier below. Televisions were on both sides of him, hanging at the periphery of his sight. One was showing sports highlights, another showing some college football game, still another a lacrosse game. One of the screens was asking trivia questions, but the wait between questions—stuffed with advertising—caused him to lose his attention. Even the commercials distracted his attention, were designed to grab at his attention, he couldn’t help thinking. No, not grab his attention. That was not what they were designed to do. They were meant to grab his eye, to funnel their messages not to his attention but to somewhere beneath his attention to poke at his subconscious motivators.

Various commercials (describe)

 

Dave tore his attention away from the screens, looked at the people around him. They were for the better part ignoring those they sat with, as Dave felt himself doing with Johnny. As they watched the screens, the wait staff walked around doling out smaller, hand-held screens for the patrons to use in order to interact with the bigger screens mounted on the walls. Thus, Dave couldn’t help noticing, the people’s attention was further divided by having even more competing screens. What interaction that took place at the tables was merely commentary of what was taking place on the screens. It was as though all of the information was sent funneling through screens until it was digested by the patrons. Like pigs at a trough, thought Dave, not knowing what it was they were consuming, nor caring why it was they were being fed. He found Johnny’s voice to be just one of many sources of information competing for his attention. Text scrolled across the television in front of him in layers, too quickly for him to process. And all the while the screens at the periphery of his sight were pumping out vast amounts of information and images, somehow feeding his brain whether he wished them to or not. It was not that they were drowning out what it was that Johnny was trying to convey to him, not even that they left no room in his mind for thoughts and ideas of his own. No, he felt that somehow, amidst the constant barrage of useless and ephemeral information, there was some sinister virus that was travelling along with it, the screens above him like UFOs beaming rays into his head, planting their seeds deeply into his subconscious like spidery aliens.

He tried to relax his mind, allow the messages to come without trying to process them. He thought that by silencing his own mind he would be able to witness in a tranquil manner the effects the messages were having upon his mind. He felt the placid aspect of his consciousness receiving the flow, being played upon by the constant influx like an instrument that has wind blown through it. He felt the items that excited his passive mind, felt the effect they had on it. He contemplated each message that seemed to excite his psyche, wondered what the intent of it was and who or what it was that sent it. He found his mind working on an elevated level, even as he realized it was not capable of any kind of useful action at the moment. He was witnessing the working of his mind that was always occurring but of which he was seldom aware. A vast amount of thought was occurring beyond what he was ordinarily aware of, was always occurring. It was both fascinating and frightening. He was so much more than he gave himself credit for, and yet so little of what made him who he was ever was truly decided by his conscious self.

He found himself beginning to rebel against the information being thrust at him from so many different angles. They all wanted his attention, all wanted a piece of his consciousness, to take from him what was rightfully his. No, they didn’t want to take what was his, they wanted to take hi, to own his mind, to replace his thoughts with their own. Some alien thing wished to replace his internal engine with some overlord kind of engine. And there was too much of it he was being bombarded by to fight back. Fleeing was the only option, and he found himself exiting the building in a less than polite manner, bumping into a crowd of young men as he went.

He did not stop until he was beyond the sound of the external speakers, back at the van. He soon noticed Johnny walking towards him, a look of concern on his face.

“What’s the matter, Dave?”

Dave looked into the tattooed face of Johnny, and he wondered if he had had anything to do with what had happened. “Did you do that to me? Was that you playing with my head? Is this some sort of display Doug had you put on for me?”

“Naw. You’re just beginning to see a little more clearly, that’s all. You’ll get used to it. It effects us all a little differently, we all come to it in our own way.”

“I don’t want to get used to this. I don’t want my consciousness changed.”

“Just thinking of it like you’re developing a new sense. Like smell. Some things stink, but you’re glad you have the ability to smell, nevertheless.”

“But…it was like there was something in the randomness, something I couldn’t quite understand but knew was there. Like there was something living amidst the random messages the televisions were sending.”

“All human thought has a life of its own. That’s the problem. We don’t know a tenth of what’s going on in our mind, but it’s always working. (verb agreement) When the conscious mind does not jibe with the subconscious, we waste our human powers, they get siphoned away and coalesce into something else, something not really living but alive, if you get me. That’s sort of what ghosts are on an individual level, the disparity of energy between what we perceive and what we lack. But when the power of the conscious mind is able to come together with the power of the sub-conscious, when they jibe, that’s what you’re starting to experience now. That’s you beginning to connect with your human powers. In observing what is out of joint, you are given the knowledge and ability to set it right. It’s just…well, it’s hard. It’s a long journey. And just like every other aspect of life, you never really arrive.”

Dave had enough of such things, didn’t really care to understand what Johnny was trying to explain to him, even if he meant to be helpful. His mind was overloaded and he just had to step back from it all for a time. He needed to feel the concreteness of reality, find something to center himself.He stared at the jumble of messages that played out amidst the images on Johnny’s skin, It reminded him of the chaos that had just bombarded him in the restaurant. But as he looked further, he saw the various images seem to blend themselves harmoniously one into the other. With little extraneous ink, each image gracefully flowed into the others, in contrast to the chaos of the television messages. Around the face of a woman that was tattooed on the left side of his face, a tree grew, bearing rich red fruit. Near its base was a snake weaving around the tree, its eyes peering at Dave. And next to the tree and the snake was—

“That’s the Garden of Eden, isn’t it?” Asked Dave with a sudden understanding.

“Yes.”

“And that’s Daniel in the lion’s den,” again Dave noticed another image upon John’s neck.

“Good catch,” said Johnny.

“Do you have any other biblical tattoos?” asked Dave, the panic of a moment ago beginning to fade with this new interest.

“They’re all biblical,” said Johnny.

“Really?”

“Yeah.”

“Who’s the woman, then, the big one?”

“Elizabeth, mother of John the Baptist. Actually, it’s an image of my mom when she was young, since I don’t know what John the Baptist’s mom really looked like. My mom’s name was Elizabeth, too. And if you hadn’t noticed, my name’s John. Nothing my mother planned. I’m the fourth son, and she just liked the name. Still, I’ve always felt a sort of affinity with Elizabeth, a sort of righteous woman whose faith was rewarded after she had resigned herself to being childless.”

“You’ll have to show me Deuteronomy, sometime…I mean, if it’s not somewhere inappropriate, of course,” said Dave, feeling suddenly a little awkward.

“It’s alright,” said Johnny. It’s art.”

“Yeah, but couldn’t you just buy art and put it on your wall?”

“I got what was available. The woman who did this, she was incredibly talented, and she was a tattoo artist. I couldn’t let her work go undone. She needed a blank canvas, and I volunteered. I carry with me her memory, her talent. I have to think the world is better off with her work brought to life. And I have to believe she is better off having done it.”

“Johnny drifted away briefly, lost in memories of someone who must have meant a lot to him. An awful lot, thought Dave, thinking of how such a commitment must have determined the course of his life.

“They’re amazing,” said Dave in order to console his friend, not insincerely.

“Thank you. But wait a few hours, you’ll see something amazing, alright. That is, if you’re receptive to this sort of thing. Not all of us are, you know. Izzy seems immune to ‘em.”

“Alright, But I’ve got to get something to eat yet. If you don’t mind, we’ll just hit a drive-through. My nerves are still a little jangled.

 

They arrived at a house that must have been near the age of Doug’s apartment, or his own apartment, or the apartment he used to live in. Something about old houses, he thought. Something about old houses that harbored memories. Maybe it was just that with greater age came greater opportunity for some emotional crisis to trigger such an occurrence. Or maybe there was something about the era, the turn of the century, the rise of technology and the receding of the shadows.

The house itself was idyllic, with a large porch that was perfect for hanging plants and flags and swings in the summer, as well as for the Christmas lights that now adorned it. The light dusting of snow added to the seasonal quaintness, making it worthy of a postcard. But with any older house, as there is with any older story, there was history, and no history was without some darkness.

“I hesitate to say I can almost feel it from here,” said Johnny as Dave parked the van next to the curb. “There’s a lot of anger here.”

“So, what’s the story?”

“The couple living here have been reporting strange noises at night So did the last owners. Strange occurrences, too.”

“And how did Doug happen to hear about it?”

“He’s always looking for things like this. Nothing mystical, I don’t think. He’s just on the internet a lot. Gets involved on a lot of chat groups and forums and such. They’re out there, check ‘em out sometime. Lotsa kooks out there, taking pictures and thinking they see ghosts in the reflections of windows. A lot to sort through. Most of ‘em just wanting to believe in something. This one, though, musta caught his eye. The backstory is the guy who lived here, sometime in the twenties, his wife was cheating on him with his best friend. He hung himself in the attic. Lots of potential with this one. Those kind of emotions tend to stick around even after the person who experiences them is gone.”

“You sound like one of those psychics.”

“Yeah, well I wouldn’t put too much stock in them. Those who can see, people like you and me and the others, we don’t go around advertising on television. It’s not exactly the sort of thing you want everybody to know.”

As they were talking, an SUV pulled up and parked behind them.

“Mrs. Wilsing, I believe,” said Johnny. “Dave, my friend, it seems our little adventure is about to begin.”

The Sleep Of Reason, Chapter 2

I'm posting the second chapter of the novel I'm working on in hopes of feedback. While in the midst of writing, the thought that I may be out of my mind occasionally comes to me, and I'd like to know what others may think.

Chapter 2

 

They were on the road, travelling west in Dave’s van. They weren’t going anywhere in particular, they were just driving, away. Away from the predicament they found themselves in, away from the plans Doug and the others had for them. Doug had asked too much of them, asked them to surrender any idea for a normal life. They were escaping. No matter where the road led to, it only mattered where it led from.

For over an hour it felt good just to flee, to put miles between them and The Beyond Show. It felt like they were accomplishing something, distancing themselves from something too large and frightening for them to deal with. But by the second hour, already, in Iowa, the urgency that had driven them on had begun to fade. They had sat silently for the better part of the ride, witnessing little but the sameness of I90, the interstate looking little different now than it had in Wisconsin. Exit after exit beckoned them, each with advertisements and road signs for the same restaurants and hotels.

Dave had always dreamed of travelling the country, exploring the different towns and areas that composed it. But now it seemed that he had waited too long. Driving along the highway, he saw nothing but dreary sameness. Iowa appeared little different than Wisconsin, little different than the Illinois he had left behind. And when they reached Nebraska, he felt it would be more of the same.

Assuredly, part of it was just him getting older, getting a little more jaded having seen enough the world. As a child, everything was new to him, the world an adventure without limits. As he aged, patterns seemed to emerge, where each new experience could be categorized in one way or another, each new encounter not being entirely new. The old he got, the less truly revelatory experiences came his way. But it was something more than his age that was causing this. It seemed as if the world he lived in, or at least the culture, had aged too, as if it tired of youthful experiment and was now relying on tried and true methods, content to churn out the same stores and restaurants endlessly. It seemed an entire society was sleepwalking through the middle years of its existence, just as he heard co-workers complaining about how their lives were flying by in the midst of working and raising a family.

Wanting to fill the spot within him that was beginning to drain of its urgency, Dave turned on the radio in search of diversion. He turned from the static of a Madison station now out of range to the next one on the dial. The all too familiar acoustic guitar beginning of More Than A Feeling could be heard and Dave reached for the button to discover what else he could find. Even for someone of Dave’s age, who hadn’t been born when it was written, the song had outstayed its welcome. The radio came to rest on a commercial for home re-financing. Dave tested his patience by waiting it out. His mind began to wander until it snapped back to attention with the next commercial message: “We live in a world of NOW! And that’s what Get It Now is all about!” It was advertising for one of those stores where people could get electronics and furniture on a monthly payment. It was a store where people with no money, patience, or common sense could get unneeded things at double the price. Dave fought the impulse to find another station, knew his options were limited in the middle of Iowa.

Before long, a voice came on, announcing another block of uninterrupted rock beginning with a classic from Boston. The voice seemed to come from nowhere rooted neither in time nor space, belonging to nothing. As the acoustic guitar intro of More Than A Feeling played, Dave couldn’t help thinking the DJ’s voice sounded familiar, as if she were the same one he recognized from the Madison station. Come to think of it, he seemed to remember that the last time he turned off the radio was to her announcement of a non-stop rock block, starting with a twofer by Boston.

Mindy turned off the radio in huff. “Who chooses what gets played on the radio, anyway? It is all computers and spreadsheets? Don’t humans do any jobs nowadays without being dictated to by machines?”

Dave said nothing. He wondered if this all played into what Doug and the others had been telling him, then decided he really didn’t want to know. His world had already been torn apart, he wondered just how far things could yet go, how much the surviving pieces could be scattered and reassembled. How many of his basic assumptions could be stripped away? How different was the truth from anything he had dared believe? Would he ever achieve some understanding and, if so, could he rely on whatever new truths he would find? Or would they just be more façade waiting to be torn down?

“There’s nowhere to run to, Mindy,” he said at length.

Mindy was silent for a moment. “I know,” she said at length. “But keep driving, okay? For a little while, at least.”

 

It was late by the time they returned to Doug’s house. They expected it to be in darkness, but the patio light seemed to beckon them. The gat to the driveway was open and Dave risked driving inside. Before Dave and Mindy reached the front deck, the door was already opening, Doug gesturing for them to enter. Dressed in a red silken smoking jacket, the kind only an affected entertainer would wear, he led them into the living room, sat himself on an oversized Victorian chair with tassels on the bottom. It sat across from a couch which Dave and Mindy were supposed to seat themselves, but the couch seemed almost too precious for anyone of this era to actually sit on.

“You knew we were coming back,” said Dave. Doug still looked as he had when they had left. His hair still looked as though it had just been made ready for him to step on stage. His teeth were so white Dave couldn’t help wonder if they had been capped. And even in the dim lighting, Dave couldn’t help thinking Doug was wearing some subtle amount of eyeliner or something that made his face seem a little mysterious, oriental. Doug was two distinct people, an outer and an inner man. Dave wondered who that inner person really was.

“Yes, I knew you would be back,” said Doug. “I see things. You’re not the only one, you know. We all have our abilities, though none of us see as much as we wish or what we choose to see.”

“See, that’s what frightens me. You have powers I don’t even know about, and you expect me to trust you without telling me everything you know. How do I know you’re not manipulating me? What aren’t you telling me?”

“You have powers too.” Dave couldn’t help thinking he wasn’t just looking him when he said that. “I know a bit about you, but I surely don’t know all. Nor do I know how your powers will unfold themselves as they develop.”

“Develop?” Dave asked, fearfully.

“Most likely,” said Doug. “The more you see, the more you will likely develop your abilities. Power follows perception. To the extent that we overcome fear and are able to see things as they are, we are able to develop whatever abilities we have.”

This wasn’t something Dave wanted to hear. He was still hoping that his dreams might stop, not grow.

“So if truth is power, why the secrecy?”

“It’s not secrecy. I just can’t tell you. You have to see, experience it for yourself. Again, I suggest you read Plato’s Republic, at least the part about the cave. Plato spoke of people living in a cave, watching shadows on the wall and believing them to be reality. He spoke of someone exiting the cave and his eyes initially being blinded by the sun. But eventually, his eyes adapted to the sun, saw things as they truly were for the first time. But when he went back to the cave, told his friends and neighbors what he saw, they called him mad. That’s how it is with us. If I tell you about things you haven’t yet experienced, you will think me mad. And if I tell you about things you have already seen, well, those aren’t the answers you’re looking for. But beware, if you stick with me, you will see things that others who have not stepped into the light might mistake as madness. Of course, you’re already on that road. With or without The Beyond Show, there are some things I expect you will never unsee.”

“True enough,” said Dave. His mind flashed back to William Burke smiling at him as he pulled the trigger he had pointed at his own head. He saw faces in ecstasy glancing from a raging inferno, saw Bill Neyman cutting the heads off of chickens to prove just how far from reality he had progressed.

“Then I invite the two of you to stay with us, where at least you won’t be alone.”

“I must confess our options are limited,” said Dave.

“Good, then it’s settled. I’ll have you go with Johnny on a little project—nothing too scary—just to see if you have any talent in his area of expertise.” Dave shot a glance over at Johnny, saw a smile appear on his face. Mindy, I’m going to need someone to mind the store, as I’ll be out of town for a little while. Personal business.”

As it was getting late, Doug led them towards the door. Before opening it, he said: “There is one other reason for you to experience things for yourself. I need you to see things in your own unique way, and I don’t want to prejudice your experiences. I need to hear your opinions of things, to see things from your perspective so that I do not get too comfortable in my own.”

“Yeah, but—“ Mindy began, but was not allowed to finish.

“You seem to think I know more than I do. Perhaps I have seen a little more, have been on the path a little longer, but  my knowledge is in my opinion still quite scant. One must progress through barriers of fear to reach any kind of worthwhile revelation, and I am not the bravest of men. I’ve never been in the position where I’ve had to risk much, never had much to fear. I hesitate to be too free with my answers because I’m not yet sure of them myself. I’m hopeful you can accomplish things I cannot.”

“Then why listen to you at all?” Mindy seemed less interested in an explanation from Doug as she was a certain amount of respect She was getting an insufficient amount of both.

“My answer is as it was before. I offer you employment, companionship, and an opportunity to learn. Perhaps you find it too much a business arrangement, but that is what I am at heart: a businessman. But I like to believe I am a fair and honest one.”

20 Questions

I recently did a 20 questions interview over at Live Journal and thought I'd share: http://pegamoose-g.livejournal.com/41340.html

Feel free to add a 21st question if you have one : )

The Mystical Process Of Writing

Writing is mystical, there’s no doubt about it. The writer is the spiritual descendent of the early storytellers, who from before the dawn of history told the stories that defined their tribes. Gathered around a fire late at night, people would listen to the storyteller explain of what it was that lay beyond or within the darkness, interpret the stories of the stars. Wherever there was uncertainty, the storyteller wove a narrative to help people understand what science and direct observation could not.

When the printed language was developed, the writer was able to do what the storyteller could, only he could share his stories beyond time and space. The voices of the writers of Ancient Greece live on today, in all corners of the world. Writers have allowed the dead to be remembered, permitted heroes to live on eternally, far beyond any mortal life.

But it was not only Odysseus and Roland who were granted immortality by the writer. There are countless characters sprung from writers’ minds who are more real and have been more inspirational than most people born of mothers. I cannot imagine a world that was not influenced by the likes of Hamlet, Jean Valjean, Oedipus, George Bailey, even Superman. Where parents and real-life role models were lacking, such heroes were always willing to step in and demonstrate to readers lives that they could aspire to, virtues that made a character worth remembering. Some of my fondest memories are there because an author created them.

There are lands also that seem to be somehow our spiritual homelands, although we have never been there and perhaps can never visit. The ties to such places may not be rational, but they exist nevertheless. Whether it be the sewers of Paris, a Hobbit hole in Bag End, or Trantor, there are places that exist in our memories, places we long to revisit and come home to.

Such are the mystical aspects for the reader, but for the writer the process is even more supernatural. Ask most any writer of fiction, and he or she will tell you that their characters are the ones who determine how a story turns out, that it is they, not the author who determines how they act. The best sort of writing experience is the one that just flows, where little to no intervention is required by our conscious mind. Such an experience is real and is shared by more than just writers. Here’s John Popper describing the same thing happening to him through music:

Sometimes it’s brilliance all around me

Sometimes it’s light I barely see

And though I utilize its grandeur

It does not belong to me

‘Cause all I can do is vague description

As I do my best to share

The smooth perfection I can only dream of

The flow of all the life that’s there.

 

When everything is flowing, it truly does feel as though some higher force is guiding me. I’d feel embarrassed to say such a thing if it weren’t for the fact that many have said it before. The idea of a Muse, or goddess of inspiration, is well known. Homer, Virgil, Dante, Chaucer, Shakespeare, and many others have invoked the Muses to aid them in their storytelling. Some say that inspired storytelling would be impossible without them, and yet when they come to the writer’s aid, it seems that he is not the one writing but merely a recorder of the voice that speaks to him.

There is one more mystical experience I would like to share with you, though here I stand a little bit more exposed, as I do not recall anyone else expressing the idea: I write in order to keep the spirit of all my influences alive. I write, and in my writing, I desire to continue a wave of inspiration that was begun by the first storytellers has reverberated in the great works throughout the ages and continues to echo to this day. I am but a vessel for forces beyond myself, an echo chamber for voices far more important than my own. This probably sounds arrogant, but I’m not coming from such a place. I did not say I was a worthy vessel, merely a vessel for such forces and ideas. It could be I am quite incapable of dealing with such large ideas and be made to look quite ridiculous in my attempt. Nevertheless, I have experienced such feelings and emotions through literature that I feel it is worth my attempt to rephrase them, repackage them for a new generation. Sometimes lesser lights are needed to reflect the brightness of those who otherwise might blind.

Such are the thoughts I sometimes get when writing. It would be easier perhaps to ignore them, but I will chance sharing them in the hopes that I am not too far away from anyone else’s experience. I like to believe that deep down inside we are all of the same essential stuff, share similar thoughts and feelings. Sometimes it just takes a like-minded individual to draw it out of us.