The solution to the Happy Ending Problem, while noteworthy within its field (geometry) was not as interesting as the story which would develop around it some years later.
The full theorem was discovered and described by a young, relatively unknown undergraduate of Castle named Meredith Kabah. Her peers would describe her as being shy, isolated, and “having few known friends.” One of her acquaintances in the school’s chess club had doubts as to her even having any sort of family: “I think she might have been homeless, to be quite frank. Meredith’s tuition and expenses were covered by a full academic scholarship -- outside of that, as far as I could tell, she sort of lived on campus. In the library, mostly, but I think she might have been sleeping in the bell tower.” Despite being somewhat of an outcast, most of the testimony surrounding Meredith was in agreement of a certain intensity she seemed to have. One of her elective professors described it as “something in the eyes.”
The breakthrough came as a surprise to her faculty peers and instructors, who remember her as being “mostly indifferent” to mathematics, instead focussing much of her time entertaining “an unnatural preoccupation with the school’s chess club, and the game itself.” It was not until Meredith quit the chess club that her talents in the mathematics field would emerge. The paper which put forth the theorem came just four days after her official resignation, and was soon followed by five supplementary papers, all of excellent quality. Past this, however, things seemed to slow down. Meredith spent a few years doing graduate studies where she failed to produce anything of academic novelty or consideration. She would decide drop out of the field of mathematics all together to pursue writing instead.
Meredith released an autobiographical book a few years later entitled Memoirs where, much to the shock of academia, she confessed to not having thought up the theorem by herself, insisting instead that she was “shown” the answer psychically by an “inter-dimensional” entity which referred to itself as ‘The Janitor.’ This happened, as she describes, “an hour at a time over the course of three days where I was instructed on both the theory and what to write in accordance with it.” These claims of mediumship were described in Memoirs amongst a plethora of other equally fantastical ones, many to do with, drugs, ritual, and obscure metaphysics. Within the field of Mathematics most, if not all of this was either ignored, glossed over, or otherwise separated by some measure from continued academic discussion of the theorem. Philosophically the claims were dismissed all together as “language and historical pseudoscience misapplied.” Critics would accuse her claim(s) as “pure fiction,” citing her admiration towards the ‘trickery of the dark arts” as admission of guilt. Other critics claim that she is invoking a sort of “redundant metaphor,” and the story is to be taken more literally but in the context of spiritual humility.
The initial formulations of the theorem were engaged by George Szekeres and Esther Klein, which lead to their eventual marriage -- this is where the Happy Ending Problem gets its name. It is perhaps sad, then, that Meredith would complete the theorem only to never really know a family, marriage, or even a prolonged relationship with anything other than than a board game. Meredith would die a year after the publication of Memoirs, to the day, from a fast-acting brain tumor.
While perhaps not as interesting as the rest of her life, this foreword wishes to call note to the fact that Meredith’s publisher, four days after her death, received an unfinished “and slightly stained” manuscript of a story in which Meredith’s historical time at the college is loosely implicated. Along with the manuscript was a hand-written note from the person who sent it claiming to have “found the story in the garbage where I work.”
Tuesday, August 3, 2010
A Psychic in the King's Court
Susan keeps her feet down on the lush grass of the courtyard. She must remain grounded, and present. No time for unseen scenery, or any of that.
Today is all Teresa’s.
They walk, mother and daughter, taking in the sights offered by the bustling campus. Castle is a small but prestigious school which exists on an island-city of the same name. They do not talk much, but then again they never really needed to. Looks are exchanged with other woman such as herself, most of them with their husbands. Susan knows every parent must feel the raging sea of hormones she sees, and the waves of force they deliver. Despite and through all of this, however, she sees potential. Teresa you will be so great. This thought soothes the mother-of-one.
Susan spots another young girl about her daughter’s age. She is wrapped in a flowery dress which gives her a sort of elemental nature. A biology, or chemistry student perhaps? Susan peers into the smiling young lady, taking a look at her soul -- it reminds her of the old alchemists she used to know. (If only she could peg Teresa so easily.) The girl is looking upwards. Susan follows her gaze to the top of the building they approach. It is a bell tower of considerable height styled in a sort of medieval architecture, though quite obviously brand new. This bell tolls for you, Susan. This is confirmed as they walk closer. She spots a small plaque on the wall near the entrance. The building is sponsored by the Bell mobile service provider.
“Can you hear that, honey?”
“Hear what?” Teresa asks, the annoyance in her voice equalled by her general excitement with the big day. She wears an unassuming purple dress. “I can’t believe this little mini-river they have through campus,” she says, brushing off the question with an almost feigned wonder at the small stream which runs down from the overlooking Mount Ajour, and though the campus. “It’s all so natural.”
“It’s sort of a buzzing sound. Do you hear it?”
Teresa shrugs as another question slows her down from the great race that is life. Her hair settles. “Kind of.”
“It’s...kind of loud.”
Teresa walks on, ignoring her mother and Susan grins to herself, trying her best to let these things go. Today is the day, after all. Still, a mother worries. Her daughter’s dress whispers praises to Teresa’s form, enthused to be closer at any given opportunity. So would many of the young men here. Susan has lost count of the number of males she has caught staring at her daughter. She will meet a young man? The one that she saw? Of course, and what will happen then?
Keep walking, Susan.
Her daughter stops, looking back at her delayed mother. “What is it? Do you see something?” Teresa nods knowingly. “...Something, something?”
“No, not... ...it’s not important right now.” Susan shakes her head, more to herself than anyone. “What is important is that my little girl is finally going to college.” The distracted mother continues walking, contemplating on her own scholastic endeavors, or lack thereof.
Susan did not go to a post-secondary school, in fact she did not gone to any school. She grew up in a nomadic carnival, performing as a psychic until the age of twenty-seven. Over six thousand professional aura scans to her name. She is very good at what she does, and would have continued to do if had she not been surprised one day to find, what she perceived to be utter perfection glowing around her future husband. The whitest light in the cosmic black: a soulmate. He saw her instantly -- truly saw her, as she would find out. Susan left the carnival with him for the suburban kingdom where he claims to have originated. In the beginning everything was perfectly aligned, just like their white picket fences. Then fate grew cruel. Michael had taken them both so far, but then he himself was taken, and not by the order of things, but rather the just ‘the order.’ If only he could be here for this.
You’d be so proud.
While Susan is confident with her PhD in the esoteric, and all that remains unsaid, college is completely unfamiliar to the single mother. She wipes away the beginning of a tear covertly.
Their walk around campus eventually leads them back to Teresa’s residence. They stand there at the front door in a visual embrace only the two of them know. Teresa is wearing Susan’s favorite purple dress, it is contrasted now by the by the shades of ivory which grow around them. Concern and worry invade Susan’s face as she prepares to say goodbye to her baby.
The little angel smiles, gently defining beauty. “Don’t worry, mom. I’ll be fine.”
Today is all Teresa’s.
They walk, mother and daughter, taking in the sights offered by the bustling campus. Castle is a small but prestigious school which exists on an island-city of the same name. They do not talk much, but then again they never really needed to. Looks are exchanged with other woman such as herself, most of them with their husbands. Susan knows every parent must feel the raging sea of hormones she sees, and the waves of force they deliver. Despite and through all of this, however, she sees potential. Teresa you will be so great. This thought soothes the mother-of-one.
Susan spots another young girl about her daughter’s age. She is wrapped in a flowery dress which gives her a sort of elemental nature. A biology, or chemistry student perhaps? Susan peers into the smiling young lady, taking a look at her soul -- it reminds her of the old alchemists she used to know. (If only she could peg Teresa so easily.) The girl is looking upwards. Susan follows her gaze to the top of the building they approach. It is a bell tower of considerable height styled in a sort of medieval architecture, though quite obviously brand new. This bell tolls for you, Susan. This is confirmed as they walk closer. She spots a small plaque on the wall near the entrance. The building is sponsored by the Bell mobile service provider.
“Can you hear that, honey?”
“Hear what?” Teresa asks, the annoyance in her voice equalled by her general excitement with the big day. She wears an unassuming purple dress. “I can’t believe this little mini-river they have through campus,” she says, brushing off the question with an almost feigned wonder at the small stream which runs down from the overlooking Mount Ajour, and though the campus. “It’s all so natural.”
“It’s sort of a buzzing sound. Do you hear it?”
Teresa shrugs as another question slows her down from the great race that is life. Her hair settles. “Kind of.”
“It’s...kind of loud.”
Teresa walks on, ignoring her mother and Susan grins to herself, trying her best to let these things go. Today is the day, after all. Still, a mother worries. Her daughter’s dress whispers praises to Teresa’s form, enthused to be closer at any given opportunity. So would many of the young men here. Susan has lost count of the number of males she has caught staring at her daughter. She will meet a young man? The one that she saw? Of course, and what will happen then?
Keep walking, Susan.
Her daughter stops, looking back at her delayed mother. “What is it? Do you see something?” Teresa nods knowingly. “...Something, something?”
“No, not... ...it’s not important right now.” Susan shakes her head, more to herself than anyone. “What is important is that my little girl is finally going to college.” The distracted mother continues walking, contemplating on her own scholastic endeavors, or lack thereof.
Susan did not go to a post-secondary school, in fact she did not gone to any school. She grew up in a nomadic carnival, performing as a psychic until the age of twenty-seven. Over six thousand professional aura scans to her name. She is very good at what she does, and would have continued to do if had she not been surprised one day to find, what she perceived to be utter perfection glowing around her future husband. The whitest light in the cosmic black: a soulmate. He saw her instantly -- truly saw her, as she would find out. Susan left the carnival with him for the suburban kingdom where he claims to have originated. In the beginning everything was perfectly aligned, just like their white picket fences. Then fate grew cruel. Michael had taken them both so far, but then he himself was taken, and not by the order of things, but rather the just ‘the order.’ If only he could be here for this.
You’d be so proud.
While Susan is confident with her PhD in the esoteric, and all that remains unsaid, college is completely unfamiliar to the single mother. She wipes away the beginning of a tear covertly.
Their walk around campus eventually leads them back to Teresa’s residence. They stand there at the front door in a visual embrace only the two of them know. Teresa is wearing Susan’s favorite purple dress, it is contrasted now by the by the shades of ivory which grow around them. Concern and worry invade Susan’s face as she prepares to say goodbye to her baby.
The little angel smiles, gently defining beauty. “Don’t worry, mom. I’ll be fine.”
The Master's Wrath
The dean stands with the Jacob, a Bell technician, and they both observe the problem in the device hanging in front of them in the tower room, the highest point at the College. There is no hole in the floor to enable acoustics, for this bell rings at a distance.
“We received an email from someone who claims there is a problem with the Bell...Bell.”
“How do they know?”
“The woman, ‘Babs,’ says she’s with an NGO that does independent monitoring of cellular signals. I guess those exist.” His receptionist had simply stopped and shrugged at this point in the conversation, holding up a sheet of paper. “There’s no header, or anything, but she did email some numbers...”
“Forward the numbers to Bell and ask them to send someone.”
The dean looks around in boredom, exploring the tower he shares with Jacob. In one corner there is a pillow and a blanket. Some sort of squatter? I thought only I had the key... The administrator engages thoughts of the tower further and several instances arise from his memory where he had overheard students posing the question: “Why doesn’t that bell ever ring?” A good question -- as it turns out the bell does ring, just in a way he had never really thought about before. Technology: a new building; it is, however, designed to look old.
Today the administrator feels his job has taken on a new dimension, if only a little.
“Ok, Jacob, what are your thoughts? The dean ventures a question to spark some conversation.
Jacob sets his flashlight down on the black and white tiles of the floor and removes his attention from the open panel on the side of the bell. He seems to welcome the break as his hand immediately goes to his forehead to wipe away some moisture. “My thoughts?” He raises his eyebrows as if no one had ever asked him this. “Ok, well, the other night I had a dream that I was back in my old chess teacher’s classroom, Master Crowley, and he had all these things he wanted me to do, and I couldn’t understand what he was talking about. He would get mad when I made mistakes and throw chess pieces at my exposed eyes.” The technician glances back to the open latch, and the flashing lights on the operating panel inside. He scratches his chin a bit in thought. “ Ok, just try and make sense of that for a second...” He laughs a little, shaking his head. “Anyways, those are my thoughts...I wonder what it all means.”
The dean blinks a few times at this, amused at the extrovert. “I meant...uh...any idea what the problem here could be?”
“Oh yes, the problem. Well, you’re going to have to call the other technician for this.”
“You don’t know what the problem is?”
“No, I know. I’ll tell you, it’s just I can’t do anything about it, technically.”
“You technicians....are very technical.”
Jacob grins, half amused. “Well, you’re going to have to call the Federal technician. I’d say you’ll more than likely get ‘Hoit.’ That guy is...very technical.”
The dean laughs. “Why is that?”
Jacob shakes his head, trying to put the entirety of it into words: “He wears these glasses with really small, rectangle lenses. Comically small, and bottle glass thick. I don’t know if he wants to look like he’s from the future, or...what, but it’s just an awful look. Plus he’s real secretive. One time he even said ‘knowledge is power’ to me. Can you believe it? I mean...it is, but it’s like we were playing Mortal Combat or something. Maybe we are... regardless, ask him where he got his glasses and see if he tells you. It’s this big secret and it pisses him off when people ask him. Or maybe he likes it, I can’t tell.”
Underneath his unbuttoned jumpsuit Jacob is wearing a curious black t-shirt: it reads ‘black’ in white letters.
...You’re not too far off being a character yourself. The dean laughs. “Well, some people do have secrets...” He nods at this, content to leave it at that. “Maybe if it comes up...I will ask about the frames.”
Jacob moves on. “Anyways...the problem is in his area.”
“So just what is the problem, exactly?”
“The emergency frequencies. I’m not sure why, but it looks like the array is sporadically broadcasting on a couple of the emergency frequencies. They shouldn’t be, cause there is no emergency. At least not that I can see.” He looks around jokingly. “These things happen. They shouldn’t...” He shrugs. “...But they do.”
“So nothing is really wrong? I mean, I can still use my phone, right?” The administrator takes it from his pocket for a second to check the reception. The dean watches as Jacob struggles to find a polite way to respond to this, so he just continues on preemptively, putting the phone away. “I mean...I want it fixed, obviously, but it’s just a little fluctuation, right?”
The technician bobs is head back and forth. “Sort of. There is something else but it’s...” He trails off, reconsidering his words. “See, the problem, should we leave it unattended, is what happens if there actually is a problem? Say you were to get in trouble, or something. How would we know which one is which?”
“Oh...”
He’s an odd fellow, the dean concludes, but still when Jacob speaks it is in the dialect of understanding. He knows what he is talking about -- that is about the only thing one can be sure of while listening to his odd diatribes. Even the man’s ever-so-slight accent has an elusive quality to it. Native perhaps.
Jacob stands up, dusting himself off before walking over to his bag which leans against the small cement railing which encircles the top of the tower. He grabs a water bottle from inside an leans against the railing, continuing on. “You can make a call, though. I was just sort of speaking to the theory of it. You know? Dean? This is a school and all...” he trails off, looking down at the bustling kids.
The dean doesn’t exactly follow, but walks forward to join him at the ledge, looking down as well. “Yes, Jacob, it is.”
“We received an email from someone who claims there is a problem with the Bell...Bell.”
“How do they know?”
“The woman, ‘Babs,’ says she’s with an NGO that does independent monitoring of cellular signals. I guess those exist.” His receptionist had simply stopped and shrugged at this point in the conversation, holding up a sheet of paper. “There’s no header, or anything, but she did email some numbers...”
“Forward the numbers to Bell and ask them to send someone.”
The dean looks around in boredom, exploring the tower he shares with Jacob. In one corner there is a pillow and a blanket. Some sort of squatter? I thought only I had the key... The administrator engages thoughts of the tower further and several instances arise from his memory where he had overheard students posing the question: “Why doesn’t that bell ever ring?” A good question -- as it turns out the bell does ring, just in a way he had never really thought about before. Technology: a new building; it is, however, designed to look old.
Today the administrator feels his job has taken on a new dimension, if only a little.
“Ok, Jacob, what are your thoughts? The dean ventures a question to spark some conversation.
Jacob sets his flashlight down on the black and white tiles of the floor and removes his attention from the open panel on the side of the bell. He seems to welcome the break as his hand immediately goes to his forehead to wipe away some moisture. “My thoughts?” He raises his eyebrows as if no one had ever asked him this. “Ok, well, the other night I had a dream that I was back in my old chess teacher’s classroom, Master Crowley, and he had all these things he wanted me to do, and I couldn’t understand what he was talking about. He would get mad when I made mistakes and throw chess pieces at my exposed eyes.” The technician glances back to the open latch, and the flashing lights on the operating panel inside. He scratches his chin a bit in thought. “ Ok, just try and make sense of that for a second...” He laughs a little, shaking his head. “Anyways, those are my thoughts...I wonder what it all means.”
The dean blinks a few times at this, amused at the extrovert. “I meant...uh...any idea what the problem here could be?”
“Oh yes, the problem. Well, you’re going to have to call the other technician for this.”
“You don’t know what the problem is?”
“No, I know. I’ll tell you, it’s just I can’t do anything about it, technically.”
“You technicians....are very technical.”
Jacob grins, half amused. “Well, you’re going to have to call the Federal technician. I’d say you’ll more than likely get ‘Hoit.’ That guy is...very technical.”
The dean laughs. “Why is that?”
Jacob shakes his head, trying to put the entirety of it into words: “He wears these glasses with really small, rectangle lenses. Comically small, and bottle glass thick. I don’t know if he wants to look like he’s from the future, or...what, but it’s just an awful look. Plus he’s real secretive. One time he even said ‘knowledge is power’ to me. Can you believe it? I mean...it is, but it’s like we were playing Mortal Combat or something. Maybe we are... regardless, ask him where he got his glasses and see if he tells you. It’s this big secret and it pisses him off when people ask him. Or maybe he likes it, I can’t tell.”
Underneath his unbuttoned jumpsuit Jacob is wearing a curious black t-shirt: it reads ‘black’ in white letters.
...You’re not too far off being a character yourself. The dean laughs. “Well, some people do have secrets...” He nods at this, content to leave it at that. “Maybe if it comes up...I will ask about the frames.”
Jacob moves on. “Anyways...the problem is in his area.”
“So just what is the problem, exactly?”
“The emergency frequencies. I’m not sure why, but it looks like the array is sporadically broadcasting on a couple of the emergency frequencies. They shouldn’t be, cause there is no emergency. At least not that I can see.” He looks around jokingly. “These things happen. They shouldn’t...” He shrugs. “...But they do.”
“So nothing is really wrong? I mean, I can still use my phone, right?” The administrator takes it from his pocket for a second to check the reception. The dean watches as Jacob struggles to find a polite way to respond to this, so he just continues on preemptively, putting the phone away. “I mean...I want it fixed, obviously, but it’s just a little fluctuation, right?”
The technician bobs is head back and forth. “Sort of. There is something else but it’s...” He trails off, reconsidering his words. “See, the problem, should we leave it unattended, is what happens if there actually is a problem? Say you were to get in trouble, or something. How would we know which one is which?”
“Oh...”
He’s an odd fellow, the dean concludes, but still when Jacob speaks it is in the dialect of understanding. He knows what he is talking about -- that is about the only thing one can be sure of while listening to his odd diatribes. Even the man’s ever-so-slight accent has an elusive quality to it. Native perhaps.
Jacob stands up, dusting himself off before walking over to his bag which leans against the small cement railing which encircles the top of the tower. He grabs a water bottle from inside an leans against the railing, continuing on. “You can make a call, though. I was just sort of speaking to the theory of it. You know? Dean? This is a school and all...” he trails off, looking down at the bustling kids.
The dean doesn’t exactly follow, but walks forward to join him at the ledge, looking down as well. “Yes, Jacob, it is.”
Damage Deposit and First Month's Rent. Check.
Eugene stands on a black and white linoleum floor -- both feet on white, incidentally. He notices this as he looks down to inspect what was once a shiny surface. He feels like a chess piece now as he surveys the condition of this section of the playing board. Is this square a strategic move? This is the game, isn’t it?
His opponent waits patiently in that polite chess etiquette.
“Another thing that makes this house interesting is that the land it’s built on is among the oldest settled land in Castle. Some say the old shamans would perform a ritual which moved the Mount Ajour to their bidding. Others say that the mountain simply moved, and their rituals were based around its movement, but uh, regardless...this very spot right here.”
Eugene nods along with the landlord; history enthusiast. Just the two of them, but Mike Palgrean is the type of person you never quite feel alone with. The prospective tenant has quietly stood through three phone calls for the rotund salesman already.
“So what do you think of the kitchen?”
Eugene thinks that the microwave is covered in stains, because it is. At one time nuclear cube had been a shiny black, a sleek device, just coming into the world. Now it begrudgingly serves its baser role.
“It’s uh...cozy. A real collage of styles.”
Dirty microwave or not, time is running out. Sooner or later he has to pick a place. There is that one girl who seems to live in the library, during the day at least...so that spot is taken, and so is his willpower to exist in the housing grey zone at his friend Nathaniel’s place. Eugene is a fourth year student, he has been around the block --this block, even-- quite a few times. He knows what he needs: a room to weather out another year. His last year. It does not have to be fancy, just not the streets.
“Ok, let’s take a look at your room. It’s actually fortunate that you are here when you are, as this room comes with a bed, which is always a necessity right?” The landlord continues, preemptively glamorizing what is to come. The old man in his suspenders has seen it all. He knows which pieces can be sacrificed.
The pair make their way through a darkened section of the hallway and Mike makes no move to light it. Maybe there will be light at the end of this tunnel? Admittedly, Eugene has been surprised before by decent, clean housing. Intuitively he feels there will be no surprise behind the door which they find themselves standing at.
Eugene stands there on the threshold getting ready for what is to come: somewhere where he’ll be alone a lot, thinking about his next move, and then the one after that.
“Alrighty....” Mike Palgrean murmurs, searching for the correct key. The small brass instruments crash into each other lightly. Finally his eyes and fingers find their destination: a key etched F7. “Ok, so this is the room...”
The door swings open and Eugene peers into his value system to see how he had last left it: all of it functional, like the microwave.
His opponent waits patiently in that polite chess etiquette.
“Another thing that makes this house interesting is that the land it’s built on is among the oldest settled land in Castle. Some say the old shamans would perform a ritual which moved the Mount Ajour to their bidding. Others say that the mountain simply moved, and their rituals were based around its movement, but uh, regardless...this very spot right here.”
Eugene nods along with the landlord; history enthusiast. Just the two of them, but Mike Palgrean is the type of person you never quite feel alone with. The prospective tenant has quietly stood through three phone calls for the rotund salesman already.
“So what do you think of the kitchen?”
Eugene thinks that the microwave is covered in stains, because it is. At one time nuclear cube had been a shiny black, a sleek device, just coming into the world. Now it begrudgingly serves its baser role.
“It’s uh...cozy. A real collage of styles.”
Dirty microwave or not, time is running out. Sooner or later he has to pick a place. There is that one girl who seems to live in the library, during the day at least...so that spot is taken, and so is his willpower to exist in the housing grey zone at his friend Nathaniel’s place. Eugene is a fourth year student, he has been around the block --this block, even-- quite a few times. He knows what he needs: a room to weather out another year. His last year. It does not have to be fancy, just not the streets.
“Ok, let’s take a look at your room. It’s actually fortunate that you are here when you are, as this room comes with a bed, which is always a necessity right?” The landlord continues, preemptively glamorizing what is to come. The old man in his suspenders has seen it all. He knows which pieces can be sacrificed.
The pair make their way through a darkened section of the hallway and Mike makes no move to light it. Maybe there will be light at the end of this tunnel? Admittedly, Eugene has been surprised before by decent, clean housing. Intuitively he feels there will be no surprise behind the door which they find themselves standing at.
Eugene stands there on the threshold getting ready for what is to come: somewhere where he’ll be alone a lot, thinking about his next move, and then the one after that.
“Alrighty....” Mike Palgrean murmurs, searching for the correct key. The small brass instruments crash into each other lightly. Finally his eyes and fingers find their destination: a key etched F7. “Ok, so this is the room...”
The door swings open and Eugene peers into his value system to see how he had last left it: all of it functional, like the microwave.
One; or the Other
It is the last night of Frosh.
Eugene makes his way against the grain: through the campus events, under the canopy of excitement. He could go around the party but this is the quickest way. The fourth-year’s trip is away from his newly-leased place downtown, away from the booze, and to the small coffee house which sits on the hill. The coffee-craved student has been impressed by the Frosh proceedings this year: a dunk tank, an inflatable castle, a large ‘your face here’ picture of Julius Caesar and Cleopatra, and even a psychic fluent in the magical arts. His class didn’t get a blowup castle and he finds this slightly unfair. He stares at the fun to be had walking past, a strong desire to go jump around with the drunken first years. The maturity within stifles this desire, pointing him back towards his destination elevated off in the distance.
At this point Eugene knows the coffee shop and its inhabitants fairly well. The monks there are adorned in their brown robes high, high on the mountain’s shelf. The clergy in the front, thousands of small, roasted brains sealed in storage in the back room. Money in between. The occupants sip tall wares watching far below where antics abound. He must ascend to this plateau, to maybe do some reading or surf the net. Whatever it is he will be safe up there, because tonight the creature is loose. It lives in all of us but tonight the hunt is externalized: an army of spinal cords.
The lone traveller moves off the path so as to allow an approaching mob of Frosh to stampede past him.
Unchained males, waving banners of vitriol and weapons of penetration. They swing not towards the beast, but some opposition. Steel on steel. Their mistresses tie their handkerchiefs around their knight’s lances, spurring on the carnal. These misguided children who adhere to the old gods, all that avails for them is flight. Somewhere off in the distance sirens can be heard, and that is surely where this group shall shore up. It is the sound of the party, drawing them closer.
Eugene moves back onto the path, continuing on away from this. While it holds no relevancy for him anymore, he does admit that when you’re there, it’s good.
The noble retreat from that whole emotional practice. With age comes a shift from reckless warrior to a student of the sciences and a drinker of coffee. Instead of garnishing the complexities of life as a spontaneous drunkard, he moved on to something a bit more lateral. After all, trying to script a genuinely novel life had been hard. Now his fulfillment comes from the script of genuine knowledge --the latest academia-- and how he can better apply his ever-expanding knowledge base to it. He is a bishop of productivity.
The traveller finally achieves his summit and is greeted by the calculated ambience. He can’t really put his finger on the artist at play, but guesses it’s likely available for sale if he wanted to find out. Instead of this he orders a latte and stands there watching the milksmith forge out a blade whose edge will weather the strikes of lethargy. Upon receiving the tool, and sheathing the instrument for heat safety, he takes a seat at an open table.
Beside him a trio of extroverts are engaged in the kind of talk conducted at a volume decidedly worthy of a stranger’s attention, and Eugene is strange enough to listen. Their words crash off each other, trying to break through. They enjoy these little debates; no doubt it’s an ongoing thing. Of the three people one is a female, and one has a beard.
“So I need one philosophy elective, either Vance or Gaard’s class. Which one should I take?”
“OK, definitely Vance. Know why he loves Plato, and the Greeks? He says that those post-Egyptians came to be schooled in the same ‘universal source code’ which saw the pyramids built, among other things. The sacred is the most interesting of truths. Socrates would not even write it down; Plato did in part, giving us the geometric key; and Aristotle would constantly allude to the ‘real’ philosophy, unwritten and passed only in initiate confidence. It’s cryptic, it’s been purposely obscured, but it’s the whole foundation for Western Philosophy. Since then, the discussion has slowly moved away from the objective....it’s gotten boring.”
“You haven’t had a class with Gaard, though, she’s about as far from boring as it gets. Did you know she can whistle Wagner compositions? She does, in class, over her phone’s speaker, from her house. That’s how much free time she has on account of the end of philosophy. You see all this idealist stuff is tiresome when today the discussion has arrived at language. Gaard is student of Wittgenstein, and of the power and limits of logic. Not the spiritual hermetics of the Greeks, but the indifferent conclusions of deduction, and we have them. These abstractions of unknowing that Plato mistakes for being somehow more real, Wittgenstein checkmates them with the Tractatus, for it shows all philosophical problems to be simple misuses of language. Words like ‘Truth,’ or ‘truth,’ or ‘sacred,’ or ‘word,’ they have no definition outside of how they are used. It is a simple, elegant argument: that for which we cannot speak, we must pass over in silence.”
“Or...”
“Or, what?”
“Well, Femer teaches Hegel.”
“...I just got deja-vu there for a second.”
“Well, Femer teaches Hegel.”
“That’s not funny.”
The coffee shop closes and Eugene makes his way down the mountain path towards the city. Nearing the campus again he notices the inflatable castle is now nothing but a placid pool of plastic, flat on the ground. A certain silence enlists on the campus but he can still hear the sirens in the distance, and the battle. Steel on steel.
Eugene makes his way against the grain: through the campus events, under the canopy of excitement. He could go around the party but this is the quickest way. The fourth-year’s trip is away from his newly-leased place downtown, away from the booze, and to the small coffee house which sits on the hill. The coffee-craved student has been impressed by the Frosh proceedings this year: a dunk tank, an inflatable castle, a large ‘your face here’ picture of Julius Caesar and Cleopatra, and even a psychic fluent in the magical arts. His class didn’t get a blowup castle and he finds this slightly unfair. He stares at the fun to be had walking past, a strong desire to go jump around with the drunken first years. The maturity within stifles this desire, pointing him back towards his destination elevated off in the distance.
At this point Eugene knows the coffee shop and its inhabitants fairly well. The monks there are adorned in their brown robes high, high on the mountain’s shelf. The clergy in the front, thousands of small, roasted brains sealed in storage in the back room. Money in between. The occupants sip tall wares watching far below where antics abound. He must ascend to this plateau, to maybe do some reading or surf the net. Whatever it is he will be safe up there, because tonight the creature is loose. It lives in all of us but tonight the hunt is externalized: an army of spinal cords.
The lone traveller moves off the path so as to allow an approaching mob of Frosh to stampede past him.
Unchained males, waving banners of vitriol and weapons of penetration. They swing not towards the beast, but some opposition. Steel on steel. Their mistresses tie their handkerchiefs around their knight’s lances, spurring on the carnal. These misguided children who adhere to the old gods, all that avails for them is flight. Somewhere off in the distance sirens can be heard, and that is surely where this group shall shore up. It is the sound of the party, drawing them closer.
Eugene moves back onto the path, continuing on away from this. While it holds no relevancy for him anymore, he does admit that when you’re there, it’s good.
The noble retreat from that whole emotional practice. With age comes a shift from reckless warrior to a student of the sciences and a drinker of coffee. Instead of garnishing the complexities of life as a spontaneous drunkard, he moved on to something a bit more lateral. After all, trying to script a genuinely novel life had been hard. Now his fulfillment comes from the script of genuine knowledge --the latest academia-- and how he can better apply his ever-expanding knowledge base to it. He is a bishop of productivity.
The traveller finally achieves his summit and is greeted by the calculated ambience. He can’t really put his finger on the artist at play, but guesses it’s likely available for sale if he wanted to find out. Instead of this he orders a latte and stands there watching the milksmith forge out a blade whose edge will weather the strikes of lethargy. Upon receiving the tool, and sheathing the instrument for heat safety, he takes a seat at an open table.
Beside him a trio of extroverts are engaged in the kind of talk conducted at a volume decidedly worthy of a stranger’s attention, and Eugene is strange enough to listen. Their words crash off each other, trying to break through. They enjoy these little debates; no doubt it’s an ongoing thing. Of the three people one is a female, and one has a beard.
“So I need one philosophy elective, either Vance or Gaard’s class. Which one should I take?”
“OK, definitely Vance. Know why he loves Plato, and the Greeks? He says that those post-Egyptians came to be schooled in the same ‘universal source code’ which saw the pyramids built, among other things. The sacred is the most interesting of truths. Socrates would not even write it down; Plato did in part, giving us the geometric key; and Aristotle would constantly allude to the ‘real’ philosophy, unwritten and passed only in initiate confidence. It’s cryptic, it’s been purposely obscured, but it’s the whole foundation for Western Philosophy. Since then, the discussion has slowly moved away from the objective....it’s gotten boring.”
“You haven’t had a class with Gaard, though, she’s about as far from boring as it gets. Did you know she can whistle Wagner compositions? She does, in class, over her phone’s speaker, from her house. That’s how much free time she has on account of the end of philosophy. You see all this idealist stuff is tiresome when today the discussion has arrived at language. Gaard is student of Wittgenstein, and of the power and limits of logic. Not the spiritual hermetics of the Greeks, but the indifferent conclusions of deduction, and we have them. These abstractions of unknowing that Plato mistakes for being somehow more real, Wittgenstein checkmates them with the Tractatus, for it shows all philosophical problems to be simple misuses of language. Words like ‘Truth,’ or ‘truth,’ or ‘sacred,’ or ‘word,’ they have no definition outside of how they are used. It is a simple, elegant argument: that for which we cannot speak, we must pass over in silence.”
“Or...”
“Or, what?”
“Well, Femer teaches Hegel.”
“...I just got deja-vu there for a second.”
“Well, Femer teaches Hegel.”
“That’s not funny.”
The coffee shop closes and Eugene makes his way down the mountain path towards the city. Nearing the campus again he notices the inflatable castle is now nothing but a placid pool of plastic, flat on the ground. A certain silence enlists on the campus but he can still hear the sirens in the distance, and the battle. Steel on steel.
Wind, Rain
It might rain. That’s what they said, at least. Teresa heard people talking about it when she awoke this morning to a foreign ceiling. She would stare at it for a long time, trying to figure it all out. The night before she moved from body to mind and back again, and again, and again.
Right now she is walking down the street towards the park. No umbrella. Sometimes you want to get wet, after all. Her shower this morning had washed away the physical grime of the past couple days, but the young student needs something more and the exuberant gusts of wind now billowing through her hair are working very well. The line of trees beside her on the sidewalk dance, stationary flurries and she dances with them. Guilt, lust, and the fumes of the creature begin to be strained from her conscience. She inhales the air deeply, affirmed at the power of nature, even if just a city park.
The dancer in the purple dress calms herself as she walks by a young man who looks to be about Teresa’s age. He is a soccer referee by the looks of his cleats, striped uniform, and whistle. He is familiar to her only through an approximate style she fancies. They have never met before, not him, but that is not to say that they will not. Since coming to the college Teresa has been noticing both in herself, and in others, the nature in which the sexes play both the expedient and the pawn. She glances over her shoulder to catch a glimpse of his backside as he walks away. If he is a referee then surely he himself plays on some sort of team. She wonders what position?
Continuing down the side walk, now nearing the entrance to the park she spots a police officer on a horse who is overseeing a small gathering of people where the road has been blocked off. She walks up to the large black animal and the horse’s head swings around to inspect her, such powerful large eyes, in them her reflection upside down on the black curvature.
“Hello,” she says, more or less to both of them, extending a hand slowly towards the horse’s mane. “What is going on here officer?” She asks of the human, who has now taken notice of her.
“Preparations for the Adjour parade, ma’am. Colorful floats, horseback, and horse-drawn carts and wagons. The whole works. We have one every year at the end of frosh. It ends here at the park.”
“It looks like it will rain.”
He frowns openly at her, studying her likewise expression for a moment. “You seem happy about that.”
Teresa tries to hide the smile she was unaware of having on her face. Suddenly she feels incredibly guilty. “Will it be cancelled?”
“No, we’ll have it.” He nods to affirm this. “Like I said we have one every year.”
Right now she is walking down the street towards the park. No umbrella. Sometimes you want to get wet, after all. Her shower this morning had washed away the physical grime of the past couple days, but the young student needs something more and the exuberant gusts of wind now billowing through her hair are working very well. The line of trees beside her on the sidewalk dance, stationary flurries and she dances with them. Guilt, lust, and the fumes of the creature begin to be strained from her conscience. She inhales the air deeply, affirmed at the power of nature, even if just a city park.
The dancer in the purple dress calms herself as she walks by a young man who looks to be about Teresa’s age. He is a soccer referee by the looks of his cleats, striped uniform, and whistle. He is familiar to her only through an approximate style she fancies. They have never met before, not him, but that is not to say that they will not. Since coming to the college Teresa has been noticing both in herself, and in others, the nature in which the sexes play both the expedient and the pawn. She glances over her shoulder to catch a glimpse of his backside as he walks away. If he is a referee then surely he himself plays on some sort of team. She wonders what position?
Continuing down the side walk, now nearing the entrance to the park she spots a police officer on a horse who is overseeing a small gathering of people where the road has been blocked off. She walks up to the large black animal and the horse’s head swings around to inspect her, such powerful large eyes, in them her reflection upside down on the black curvature.
“Hello,” she says, more or less to both of them, extending a hand slowly towards the horse’s mane. “What is going on here officer?” She asks of the human, who has now taken notice of her.
“Preparations for the Adjour parade, ma’am. Colorful floats, horseback, and horse-drawn carts and wagons. The whole works. We have one every year at the end of frosh. It ends here at the park.”
“It looks like it will rain.”
He frowns openly at her, studying her likewise expression for a moment. “You seem happy about that.”
Teresa tries to hide the smile she was unaware of having on her face. Suddenly she feels incredibly guilty. “Will it be cancelled?”
“No, we’ll have it.” He nods to affirm this. “Like I said we have one every year.”
The Cave
There is something to be said about Room 9202 of the Arts and Social Sciences building, and the comment lends itself from that of the nature of the building overall, in particular the architecture. The layout is a strange labyrinth: unintuitive, meandering corridors conjoining spaces in which the impression of a room has been established, but without any discernible pattern or methodology. Room 9202 is a near-spherical area, placed in the direct center of the eight-floor complex. It has a fountain.
Going through her first couple days of real class the first year had noticed some of her teachers really stressed attendance. This is one of them. Looking down on her syllabus she sees that Dr. Adam Vance had devised a clever way in which to deduct points from those who did not show up for class. Not overtly or substantively harsh, just clever in the sense that ignorance of the spoken word of class is booby trapped to the rest of the semester. There is a certain warmed passion which radiates from Mr. Vance as he starts the attendance. He truly enjoys his job, the little nuances that come from being a steady hand in a world in a world sparse of his type, charged with flying the banner of the ancients, in all their wisdom.
Dr. Vance is so much different than Dr. Gaard, whose literature class Teresa had just attended prior. Dr. Renso Gaard is a name the first year had heard a couple of times independent of her class, all of the occasions in regards to the woman’s tremendously agile intelligence. She has written a number of books, some of which the College use for instruction. From the podium she lazed at earlier Teresa caught whiffs of resentment, alcohol, and other foreign particulates. Dr. Gaard spewed forth pure genius of a texture too raw for most to handle, like a computer barking out prime numbers. In the first class, someone asked about attendance: “Attendance? Does the amount of time you sit in those chairs relate to how much you learn? Are you an empty cup into which information is poured at a steady rate? No, there is no attendance. There is only the language of the course and what you choose to do with it. It’s all public; I wrote it, and if you apply logic to it you will pass this course. Feel free to get up and leave at any time if a novel idea fancies you. Feel free to restrain from anger if I choose this option as well.”
“All right. I see most of you are here now. For those of you who have arrived late please see me after class and I will add you to the attendance.”
Dr. Vance is medium build if not a little slender. He’s not entirely comfortable teaching, but he’s forgotten this over the years and let a personality develop that is. He walks slowly over to the chalkboard, waiting for the voices and noise to die down. The traditional chalkboard Teresa was used to from High School had been replaced with the white felt marker board. On it, Professor Vance had previously written ‘Philosophy 101’ with a black marker. He motions to the word now as he stands beside it, repeating the words aloud.
Philosophy is a subject Teresa had always had a bit of an interest in, but whenever she asked her mother questions along that line it seemed to strike a nerve with her. “It’s OK to make elaborate guesses, but there are universal laws, honey.” Teresa finds this weird cause she always figured logic was a universal law.
“Today we are going to begin our focus with Plato, the broad foundation upon which nearly all Western philosophy rests. The mathematician-turned philosopher Alfred North Whitehead once said that all Western Philosophy is but a footnote to Plato. His Platonic solids, which we will look at in Timaeus, are still taught in engineering and physics as the fundamental shapes of creation. Geometry, mathematics -- these are examples of abstractions, the higher echelons of ideas for Plato. Here we see the utter power of the idea. The idea, at the very top of his hierarchy, is simply called the Good.”
“The Good...” Teresa repeats it to herself.
“...It is perfect in function unto itself...”
The students hastily advance their notes, building cathedrals of theory with small pillars of ink.
“...Plato saw the sublime elegance of mathematics as one of the best reflections of that perfection. For instance, he believed ten was a perfect number. What do you think of ten? You have ten fingers for instance.”
The girl in the purple dress at the front of the class shrugs, putting up her hand. “What about six?” A coy smile flashes across her face as she brings her thumb to index, fingers spread.
Going through her first couple days of real class the first year had noticed some of her teachers really stressed attendance. This is one of them. Looking down on her syllabus she sees that Dr. Adam Vance had devised a clever way in which to deduct points from those who did not show up for class. Not overtly or substantively harsh, just clever in the sense that ignorance of the spoken word of class is booby trapped to the rest of the semester. There is a certain warmed passion which radiates from Mr. Vance as he starts the attendance. He truly enjoys his job, the little nuances that come from being a steady hand in a world in a world sparse of his type, charged with flying the banner of the ancients, in all their wisdom.
Dr. Vance is so much different than Dr. Gaard, whose literature class Teresa had just attended prior. Dr. Renso Gaard is a name the first year had heard a couple of times independent of her class, all of the occasions in regards to the woman’s tremendously agile intelligence. She has written a number of books, some of which the College use for instruction. From the podium she lazed at earlier Teresa caught whiffs of resentment, alcohol, and other foreign particulates. Dr. Gaard spewed forth pure genius of a texture too raw for most to handle, like a computer barking out prime numbers. In the first class, someone asked about attendance: “Attendance? Does the amount of time you sit in those chairs relate to how much you learn? Are you an empty cup into which information is poured at a steady rate? No, there is no attendance. There is only the language of the course and what you choose to do with it. It’s all public; I wrote it, and if you apply logic to it you will pass this course. Feel free to get up and leave at any time if a novel idea fancies you. Feel free to restrain from anger if I choose this option as well.”
“All right. I see most of you are here now. For those of you who have arrived late please see me after class and I will add you to the attendance.”
Dr. Vance is medium build if not a little slender. He’s not entirely comfortable teaching, but he’s forgotten this over the years and let a personality develop that is. He walks slowly over to the chalkboard, waiting for the voices and noise to die down. The traditional chalkboard Teresa was used to from High School had been replaced with the white felt marker board. On it, Professor Vance had previously written ‘Philosophy 101’ with a black marker. He motions to the word now as he stands beside it, repeating the words aloud.
Philosophy is a subject Teresa had always had a bit of an interest in, but whenever she asked her mother questions along that line it seemed to strike a nerve with her. “It’s OK to make elaborate guesses, but there are universal laws, honey.” Teresa finds this weird cause she always figured logic was a universal law.
“Today we are going to begin our focus with Plato, the broad foundation upon which nearly all Western philosophy rests. The mathematician-turned philosopher Alfred North Whitehead once said that all Western Philosophy is but a footnote to Plato. His Platonic solids, which we will look at in Timaeus, are still taught in engineering and physics as the fundamental shapes of creation. Geometry, mathematics -- these are examples of abstractions, the higher echelons of ideas for Plato. Here we see the utter power of the idea. The idea, at the very top of his hierarchy, is simply called the Good.”
“The Good...” Teresa repeats it to herself.
“...It is perfect in function unto itself...”
The students hastily advance their notes, building cathedrals of theory with small pillars of ink.
“...Plato saw the sublime elegance of mathematics as one of the best reflections of that perfection. For instance, he believed ten was a perfect number. What do you think of ten? You have ten fingers for instance.”
The girl in the purple dress at the front of the class shrugs, putting up her hand. “What about six?” A coy smile flashes across her face as she brings her thumb to index, fingers spread.
Vision
Jacob was right about Hoit and his fabled glasses. They are unique -- futuristic-looking, even.
The dean stands in the same position as last time, watching just like last time. Hoit is taller than Jacob, with blonde hair instead of brown, and European from the sound of his accent. The administrator has to admit Hoit makes the whole technician image look a lot more suave than Jacob had. No anecdotes or paradoxical shirts, just a straight-to-the-point attitude and a crisp, ironed, nondescript uniform. Fully grounded. He didn’t even have to say anything and the dean knew he was going to fix this problem.
With Jacob it had been the other way around.
The Fed peers into the open panel of the plastic bell, his attention on the small LED display. The colors of the interface dance off the thick, narrow glass in front of his eyes, creating precious gems of different varieties. Jacob was right, it does look like a Japanese animation, or some sort of cartoon, or something. He has not said much since arriving on the scene, but despite the spectacle, he doesn’t appear to be so bad. They are fraternal brothers by a sort of loose but binding order, as it turns out. They confirmed this in the initial, somewhat robotic handshake.
The dean finds himself now where he stood last time with Jacob: just inside the door to the stairs. He is still reluctant to get too close to the machine, and the ominous humming. He thinks back to what Jacob said.
The Fed leans back from the control panel, turning to the dean with a neutral expression. “What...did Jacob tell you specifically? I see the readings are off...” it seems like he is going to say more, but he does not.
The question seems urgent in the deans opinion, despite Hoit trying sound flat and formalistic. “He said the problem was in your area, in the emergency channels.”
“That’s it?” The words fly out of the technician’s mouth suspiciously fast. He exhales, looking around trying to appear natural. His eyes finally settle on the blanket which he blinks a couple times at.
“Well...yeah. I mean he mentioned he was a graduate of the school, but he came, he assessed the problem, then he left. Pretty straight forward.”
Taking out a small notepad from his back pocket the guarded individual writes something down, trying his best to appear relaxed, his eyes flickering somewhere behind the gleam on his strange glasses. “Of this school?” Hoit nods at his own rhetorical question. “Ok.” This time the response is finally unreadable.
The dean wonders what other school he could mean.
Grabbing his small metal tool kit on the ground, Hoit removes what appears to be a circuit. It is pressed in plastic, seemingly brand new. He sets it on top of the array, turning to face the dean again. “I need to shut off the array to put in the new Chrysopoeia transponder. It is due to go in soon anyways. It will replace the old, faulty chip.
“Ok...”
“So if you need to make a call in the next ten minutes you should do it now.”
The dean stands in the same position as last time, watching just like last time. Hoit is taller than Jacob, with blonde hair instead of brown, and European from the sound of his accent. The administrator has to admit Hoit makes the whole technician image look a lot more suave than Jacob had. No anecdotes or paradoxical shirts, just a straight-to-the-point attitude and a crisp, ironed, nondescript uniform. Fully grounded. He didn’t even have to say anything and the dean knew he was going to fix this problem.
With Jacob it had been the other way around.
The Fed peers into the open panel of the plastic bell, his attention on the small LED display. The colors of the interface dance off the thick, narrow glass in front of his eyes, creating precious gems of different varieties. Jacob was right, it does look like a Japanese animation, or some sort of cartoon, or something. He has not said much since arriving on the scene, but despite the spectacle, he doesn’t appear to be so bad. They are fraternal brothers by a sort of loose but binding order, as it turns out. They confirmed this in the initial, somewhat robotic handshake.
The dean finds himself now where he stood last time with Jacob: just inside the door to the stairs. He is still reluctant to get too close to the machine, and the ominous humming. He thinks back to what Jacob said.
The Fed leans back from the control panel, turning to the dean with a neutral expression. “What...did Jacob tell you specifically? I see the readings are off...” it seems like he is going to say more, but he does not.
The question seems urgent in the deans opinion, despite Hoit trying sound flat and formalistic. “He said the problem was in your area, in the emergency channels.”
“That’s it?” The words fly out of the technician’s mouth suspiciously fast. He exhales, looking around trying to appear natural. His eyes finally settle on the blanket which he blinks a couple times at.
“Well...yeah. I mean he mentioned he was a graduate of the school, but he came, he assessed the problem, then he left. Pretty straight forward.”
Taking out a small notepad from his back pocket the guarded individual writes something down, trying his best to appear relaxed, his eyes flickering somewhere behind the gleam on his strange glasses. “Of this school?” Hoit nods at his own rhetorical question. “Ok.” This time the response is finally unreadable.
The dean wonders what other school he could mean.
Grabbing his small metal tool kit on the ground, Hoit removes what appears to be a circuit. It is pressed in plastic, seemingly brand new. He sets it on top of the array, turning to face the dean again. “I need to shut off the array to put in the new Chrysopoeia transponder. It is due to go in soon anyways. It will replace the old, faulty chip.
“Ok...”
“So if you need to make a call in the next ten minutes you should do it now.”
Lateral Movement
Eugene is walking through the campus courtyard with his friend Nathaniel, who lags behind engrossed in his cellphone. “Man, I can’t get any reception...” Nat complains.
The brightness of the day is turned up a bit, along with the blood flow. The band plays: significance and memory wail away, dueling solos on infinite banjos. The usual pupil dilations.
The dress of an attractive brunette grabs Eugene’s attention as she walks by. There is something in her motions that Eugene finds captivating: it is not one movement in particular; it is a way of moving.
“Hello.” She smiles warmly at him, meeting his gaze exactly halfway. Such a beautiful voice. Symmetrical, in so much as sound can be.
“Hi.”
Eugene continues on, another step, and another. Thousands more, shuffling across the pavement, in and out of the auditoriums and gymnasiums. Who moves like this girl does? She does, of course, but he has seen it before. In thinking about this Eugene sees something play out: the chemistry, year after year, every year the school has been. The infinite. Infinity? A number of ways he sees his peers, all of them proportionate to one another. So perfect. Movement and the paths upon which it all happens. Like his walk to class. Like that girl.
All of it.
He finally stops to see himself sitting in a chair in room 9202 of the Arts and Administration Building. It is completely empty save for the girl sitting in the chair next to him. There are no windows in the Cave, but it feels like nighttime -- the fountain is not running and what remain of the lights are being turned off.
The girl nods at the janitor positioned at the light switch panel knowingly.
“What are you doing here, mate? I have to check. You shouldn’t be here. It’s against the rules.” The janitor gives him a funny look, his finger on the last light switch. He flicks it off.
Eugene turns, back to the light, to face Nathaniel whose face looks worried. His friend stands there calmly on the college walkway. Outside, of course. “Hey, man...are you OK? You look white.”
“I just... saw this.” Looking past his friend, Eugene can see the the girl walking on towards the Arts and Administration Building. “...and her.”
“You saw what, and whom?”
Deja-vu drowns out Nat’s questions and everything else. Eugene’s vision locks into place: one still picture, a snapshot to be viewed in time, but perhaps another time. It’s all just a bunch of snapshots and they are all collapsing back towards him now. Quite a few; a few too many: the horizon, the A&A Building, the girl, Nathaniel -- all of it an avalanche, a great accordion.
Everything gets folded up, and really this is the end right here.
The brightness of the day is turned up a bit, along with the blood flow. The band plays: significance and memory wail away, dueling solos on infinite banjos. The usual pupil dilations.
The dress of an attractive brunette grabs Eugene’s attention as she walks by. There is something in her motions that Eugene finds captivating: it is not one movement in particular; it is a way of moving.
“Hello.” She smiles warmly at him, meeting his gaze exactly halfway. Such a beautiful voice. Symmetrical, in so much as sound can be.
“Hi.”
Eugene continues on, another step, and another. Thousands more, shuffling across the pavement, in and out of the auditoriums and gymnasiums. Who moves like this girl does? She does, of course, but he has seen it before. In thinking about this Eugene sees something play out: the chemistry, year after year, every year the school has been. The infinite. Infinity? A number of ways he sees his peers, all of them proportionate to one another. So perfect. Movement and the paths upon which it all happens. Like his walk to class. Like that girl.
All of it.
He finally stops to see himself sitting in a chair in room 9202 of the Arts and Administration Building. It is completely empty save for the girl sitting in the chair next to him. There are no windows in the Cave, but it feels like nighttime -- the fountain is not running and what remain of the lights are being turned off.
The girl nods at the janitor positioned at the light switch panel knowingly.
“What are you doing here, mate? I have to check. You shouldn’t be here. It’s against the rules.” The janitor gives him a funny look, his finger on the last light switch. He flicks it off.
Eugene turns, back to the light, to face Nathaniel whose face looks worried. His friend stands there calmly on the college walkway. Outside, of course. “Hey, man...are you OK? You look white.”
“I just... saw this.” Looking past his friend, Eugene can see the the girl walking on towards the Arts and Administration Building. “...and her.”
“You saw what, and whom?”
Deja-vu drowns out Nat’s questions and everything else. Eugene’s vision locks into place: one still picture, a snapshot to be viewed in time, but perhaps another time. It’s all just a bunch of snapshots and they are all collapsing back towards him now. Quite a few; a few too many: the horizon, the A&A Building, the girl, Nathaniel -- all of it an avalanche, a great accordion.
Everything gets folded up, and really this is the end right here.
Perception
After about ten minutes or so Hoit seems to have the new chip installed. Unlike Jacob he does not say too much, let alone anything too outlandish. He just seems to do his work.
“So, hey, Hoit, where did you get your glasses? They’re interesting.” The dean asks out of boredom more than anything, trying to keep a straight face for the response.
Hoit looks up quickly, his flashlight still lazily pointed inside the plastic bell. “Uh, wh- why do you want to know?”
“Oh just curious. As you can see I don’t wear glasses. It’s not that I want yours, I am just fascinated by them.”
Hoit looks back down at the ground in thought. “I got them in Europe,” he says finally. It seems as if he might say more but he does not.
After performing what appear to be a few safety precautions the technician reaches inside the open panel one more time, and with a quick twitch of the muscles in his arm, the array is brought back to life. The loud humming rushes past the dean’s ears, cascading down over the edge of the cellphone tower.
Hoit gives a slight nod to himself, punching a few things on the LED display before finally shutting up the panel all together, making the bell whole once more. “Well, I think that should do it.” He gives the dean a small smile, the first he had seen from the tall blonde. There is a sense of pride from the completion of a job that emanates from Hoit, and the dean can respect that.
Still, there is something...off about the man.
“That’s great, Hoit. I really appreciate it. Didn’t take too long at all. You can tell you know what you’re doing.”
He quickly nods at this. “Yes. I mean...thanks. So...” He starts packing up some of his stuff and putting it back into the toolbox. “Who uh, was this NGO group that contacted you?”
The dean blinks a couple times, trying to slow time down. He had forgotten about the NGO group. When he had contacted the Department of Communication he had not mentioned it. He didn’t even mention it to Jacob.
Hoit blinks expectantly behind the thick glass suspended in front of his eyes.
The dean has two options here: ask Hoit how he could possibly know about this, or pretend not to have noticed the mistake.
“I don’t remember the name, Hoit. Not off the top of my head. It was more the insistency on their part that got me to act. I suppose I just thought a checkup couldn’t hurt, you know? Sort of an intuitive thing.” The dean pauses, his suspicion wafting. “Didn’t you get the numbers we sent?”
Hoit shuts the toolbox with an edge of veracity, taking a few steps towards the dean, and the stairwell. “Yes, but...there was no name. ” He hands him a rather plain looking card white card with a feint but shiny pattern of grey triangles in the background. On it, along with his name, it reads ‘Department of Communication’ in black type. “We need the name.”
“So, hey, Hoit, where did you get your glasses? They’re interesting.” The dean asks out of boredom more than anything, trying to keep a straight face for the response.
Hoit looks up quickly, his flashlight still lazily pointed inside the plastic bell. “Uh, wh- why do you want to know?”
“Oh just curious. As you can see I don’t wear glasses. It’s not that I want yours, I am just fascinated by them.”
Hoit looks back down at the ground in thought. “I got them in Europe,” he says finally. It seems as if he might say more but he does not.
After performing what appear to be a few safety precautions the technician reaches inside the open panel one more time, and with a quick twitch of the muscles in his arm, the array is brought back to life. The loud humming rushes past the dean’s ears, cascading down over the edge of the cellphone tower.
Hoit gives a slight nod to himself, punching a few things on the LED display before finally shutting up the panel all together, making the bell whole once more. “Well, I think that should do it.” He gives the dean a small smile, the first he had seen from the tall blonde. There is a sense of pride from the completion of a job that emanates from Hoit, and the dean can respect that.
Still, there is something...off about the man.
“That’s great, Hoit. I really appreciate it. Didn’t take too long at all. You can tell you know what you’re doing.”
He quickly nods at this. “Yes. I mean...thanks. So...” He starts packing up some of his stuff and putting it back into the toolbox. “Who uh, was this NGO group that contacted you?”
The dean blinks a couple times, trying to slow time down. He had forgotten about the NGO group. When he had contacted the Department of Communication he had not mentioned it. He didn’t even mention it to Jacob.
Hoit blinks expectantly behind the thick glass suspended in front of his eyes.
The dean has two options here: ask Hoit how he could possibly know about this, or pretend not to have noticed the mistake.
“I don’t remember the name, Hoit. Not off the top of my head. It was more the insistency on their part that got me to act. I suppose I just thought a checkup couldn’t hurt, you know? Sort of an intuitive thing.” The dean pauses, his suspicion wafting. “Didn’t you get the numbers we sent?”
Hoit shuts the toolbox with an edge of veracity, taking a few steps towards the dean, and the stairwell. “Yes, but...there was no name. ” He hands him a rather plain looking card white card with a feint but shiny pattern of grey triangles in the background. On it, along with his name, it reads ‘Department of Communication’ in black type. “We need the name.”
State of Seige
Eugene, Nathaniel, and another friend of theirs, Cook, are seated at a booth at ‘State of Siege,’ a pub in downtown Castle.
It is known in town as a spot of student congregation, and Eugene himself had been witness to quite a few memorable intellectual debates in the past. The fourth-year surmises it is because the music is kept at a nice ambient level; even on busy weekend nights it was possible to talk comfortably. He remembers one time standing in the circle of people which had formed around a particular table where a couple of grad students had been debating current topics.
It seemed so smart, but that was a couple years ago. Now it just sounds like a lot of people talking.
“He shouldn’t be drinking after just passing out.” Cook, a med student, and another of Eugene’s friends shakes his head slightly, taking a sip of his own beer.
“Ok...I told you...”
Eugene starts to explain the story again, but Nathanial cuts him off. “Listen, it’s not like he hit his head. Something happened. There is a difference.”
“Is there? Alright.”
Nathaniel continues on, ignoring Cook. “What you need to do, Eugene, is use this.”
“How?”
“Carve out your own little...existential erosion into the rock bed of the absurd, be that water particle that connects with something instead of choosing the path of least resistance. It’s like if life is the river, and you can only step in it--”
“Ok...” Cook interrupts the prosaic rambling, having heard enough several times over from the musician. “...So how did this happen again? I mean tell me exactly.”
Eugene shuts his eyes, inhaling, looking to his soul rather than memory banks for the story. He continues to let Nat field the questions.
“Man, it just...happened. We walked by this girl, she said ‘hi’, and then our friend here got hit by a fold in space time. She had these eyes...I noticed her too.”
“What eyes?” Cook gives a doubtful glance to Eugene, biting his lip a bit in thought. “The girl has nothing to do with this, you both realize that, right?”
Nat is unfazed. “It is a sign. Maybe they are supposed to meet, or something?”
“I doubt it.
“You doubt everything.”
“Eugene, you were walking to class and you lost consciousness. I’d get that checked out.” Cook takes another swig of beer.
Nat shakes his head at this. “The inspiration of random happenstance should not be explained in scientific terms.” He makes a pow sound after this, striking at some unseen symbol in the air with his hand. “This is art.”
“I think you should get checked out too.”
“Listen, guys...” Eugene interrupts. “Something happened. I’ve passed out before, Cook, I know what it feels like. This was different. I just can’t put it into words.”
“I say if you can’t put it into words, it’s worth writing down.” Nat nods sagely at this.
“Maybe a novel...” Eugene concurs.
Cook furrows his eyebrows, looking around for help.
It is known in town as a spot of student congregation, and Eugene himself had been witness to quite a few memorable intellectual debates in the past. The fourth-year surmises it is because the music is kept at a nice ambient level; even on busy weekend nights it was possible to talk comfortably. He remembers one time standing in the circle of people which had formed around a particular table where a couple of grad students had been debating current topics.
It seemed so smart, but that was a couple years ago. Now it just sounds like a lot of people talking.
“He shouldn’t be drinking after just passing out.” Cook, a med student, and another of Eugene’s friends shakes his head slightly, taking a sip of his own beer.
“Ok...I told you...”
Eugene starts to explain the story again, but Nathanial cuts him off. “Listen, it’s not like he hit his head. Something happened. There is a difference.”
“Is there? Alright.”
Nathaniel continues on, ignoring Cook. “What you need to do, Eugene, is use this.”
“How?”
“Carve out your own little...existential erosion into the rock bed of the absurd, be that water particle that connects with something instead of choosing the path of least resistance. It’s like if life is the river, and you can only step in it--”
“Ok...” Cook interrupts the prosaic rambling, having heard enough several times over from the musician. “...So how did this happen again? I mean tell me exactly.”
Eugene shuts his eyes, inhaling, looking to his soul rather than memory banks for the story. He continues to let Nat field the questions.
“Man, it just...happened. We walked by this girl, she said ‘hi’, and then our friend here got hit by a fold in space time. She had these eyes...I noticed her too.”
“What eyes?” Cook gives a doubtful glance to Eugene, biting his lip a bit in thought. “The girl has nothing to do with this, you both realize that, right?”
Nat is unfazed. “It is a sign. Maybe they are supposed to meet, or something?”
“I doubt it.
“You doubt everything.”
“Eugene, you were walking to class and you lost consciousness. I’d get that checked out.” Cook takes another swig of beer.
Nat shakes his head at this. “The inspiration of random happenstance should not be explained in scientific terms.” He makes a pow sound after this, striking at some unseen symbol in the air with his hand. “This is art.”
“I think you should get checked out too.”
“Listen, guys...” Eugene interrupts. “Something happened. I’ve passed out before, Cook, I know what it feels like. This was different. I just can’t put it into words.”
“I say if you can’t put it into words, it’s worth writing down.” Nat nods sagely at this.
“Maybe a novel...” Eugene concurs.
Cook furrows his eyebrows, looking around for help.
The Happy Ending Problem
“Party!”
Within the bowls of indulgence the acids are held by a lining so thick: reverberating base. In this place there is no weekday gravity, no natural light, just perception and delight strung through bodies in the vacuum. The dance, the peristalsis prance. Keep it all moving downstream. Beats and rhymes for the sponge-soaked minds of the college. So that they might unwind: open themselves completely.
Teresa’s mother would have her believe that astral ‘manipulators’ hide behind the scenes of places like bars, and clubs, and casinos, playing on people’s frayed emotions for energetic sustenance.
“Why do you think liquor is referred to as spirits?” Susan had asked this of her daughter one time. “Drugs, they open you up.”
“Exactly.” Her daughter would always retort in the spirit of escapism. Teresa is quite sure her strings are not connected to the wet whims of carnal desire unless she wants them to be, and sometimes she does.
“Two more shots of tequila!”
Earlier in the day it had come to the attention of Teresa and her friends that a second year physics student named Meredith Kabah had solved the Happy Ending problem, a famous geometry puzzle. Teresa has only met her once, randomly (walking to a class), and none of her friends know this girl, or the puzzle for that matter. Different degrees, but one lucid, seemingly universal message had emerged by six o’clock: ladies night out. In fact, Teresa and her entourage soon discovered that most of the college was using Meredith’s success as a reason to party, and why not?
“To happy endings!”
Teresa taps martini glasses with her friend Kylene. They slam back the contents. The bartender gives a knowing nod, bobbing his head to the music.
Kylene is a relatively new friend. Part of the original assembly at the start of the night, the two girls are now presumably the only ones still partying, but definitely the only two which had stumbled off the beaten path and into the fraternal labyrinth they find themselves in, yelling over the impact of the relentless base drum. It is the so called ‘Cellar’ room, deep underground the fabled Phi Delta Kappa House. Her friend, a chemistry major, reaches into her purse and takes out something very small and shiny. “This is for you,” she says to Teresa, handing over a small piece of folded tinfoil.
“What’s this?”
“It’s...yours. These things decide themselves. Take it.”
“What, now?”
Kylene laughs at his, motioning around with her hands to the music and people.
“What will happen?”
“It’s like a...game with your own mind.”
“Where did you get this?”
“I made it myself.”
Teresa nods, thinking this over. Kylene is some sort of chemistry protegé from what her friends describe. Her friend is actually a year younger; strange, how she feels like the older sister right now. Teresa knows what is in her hand, but her mom’s stories had always kept her somewhat at bay from that which sheds the veil.
Kylene continues on. “It was easy enough. I thought: why not? Call it a hunch....call it the martinis!” With this she dances off into the shifting curtain of limbs and torsos. Her friends say that Kylene parties way too much, and way too hard, and is in danger of losing her scholarship, but it seems to Teresa she is going to be fine.
It also seems that she is gone.
Dancing grows foreign quickly, and the crowd seems to simply expel her towards the exit like a chemical reaction. Teresa is content enough with this. The gift has been found and it’s time to leave, apparently. Amidst this process she looks down at her hand, unclenching it to make sure the small tinfoil package is still in her possession.
Clearing the threshold of The Cellar Teresa spots two males that look to be upper-years within Phi Delta Kappa are leaning against the wall near the exit, one of them waving a near-full beer, shouting into it like a glass microphone: “...she doesn’t deserve that genetic cocktail mix of intelligence she has. No ambition, no....anything. Just some no one. It’s not fair. It should have been me.”
“Let’s not get carried away.”
“Well definitely not her!” He shouts this, seemingly as loud as he can, which doesn’t end up being that loud over the party noise. “I can’t believe she solved that equation. No one has ever completed that theorem.” With this he throws the beer against the opposite wall and simply starts cursing uncontrollably. “How did she do it?” he yells the question furiously at Teresa as she approaches.
Within the bowls of indulgence the acids are held by a lining so thick: reverberating base. In this place there is no weekday gravity, no natural light, just perception and delight strung through bodies in the vacuum. The dance, the peristalsis prance. Keep it all moving downstream. Beats and rhymes for the sponge-soaked minds of the college. So that they might unwind: open themselves completely.
Teresa’s mother would have her believe that astral ‘manipulators’ hide behind the scenes of places like bars, and clubs, and casinos, playing on people’s frayed emotions for energetic sustenance.
“Why do you think liquor is referred to as spirits?” Susan had asked this of her daughter one time. “Drugs, they open you up.”
“Exactly.” Her daughter would always retort in the spirit of escapism. Teresa is quite sure her strings are not connected to the wet whims of carnal desire unless she wants them to be, and sometimes she does.
“Two more shots of tequila!”
Earlier in the day it had come to the attention of Teresa and her friends that a second year physics student named Meredith Kabah had solved the Happy Ending problem, a famous geometry puzzle. Teresa has only met her once, randomly (walking to a class), and none of her friends know this girl, or the puzzle for that matter. Different degrees, but one lucid, seemingly universal message had emerged by six o’clock: ladies night out. In fact, Teresa and her entourage soon discovered that most of the college was using Meredith’s success as a reason to party, and why not?
“To happy endings!”
Teresa taps martini glasses with her friend Kylene. They slam back the contents. The bartender gives a knowing nod, bobbing his head to the music.
Kylene is a relatively new friend. Part of the original assembly at the start of the night, the two girls are now presumably the only ones still partying, but definitely the only two which had stumbled off the beaten path and into the fraternal labyrinth they find themselves in, yelling over the impact of the relentless base drum. It is the so called ‘Cellar’ room, deep underground the fabled Phi Delta Kappa House. Her friend, a chemistry major, reaches into her purse and takes out something very small and shiny. “This is for you,” she says to Teresa, handing over a small piece of folded tinfoil.
“What’s this?”
“It’s...yours. These things decide themselves. Take it.”
“What, now?”
Kylene laughs at his, motioning around with her hands to the music and people.
“What will happen?”
“It’s like a...game with your own mind.”
“Where did you get this?”
“I made it myself.”
Teresa nods, thinking this over. Kylene is some sort of chemistry protegé from what her friends describe. Her friend is actually a year younger; strange, how she feels like the older sister right now. Teresa knows what is in her hand, but her mom’s stories had always kept her somewhat at bay from that which sheds the veil.
Kylene continues on. “It was easy enough. I thought: why not? Call it a hunch....call it the martinis!” With this she dances off into the shifting curtain of limbs and torsos. Her friends say that Kylene parties way too much, and way too hard, and is in danger of losing her scholarship, but it seems to Teresa she is going to be fine.
It also seems that she is gone.
Dancing grows foreign quickly, and the crowd seems to simply expel her towards the exit like a chemical reaction. Teresa is content enough with this. The gift has been found and it’s time to leave, apparently. Amidst this process she looks down at her hand, unclenching it to make sure the small tinfoil package is still in her possession.
Clearing the threshold of The Cellar Teresa spots two males that look to be upper-years within Phi Delta Kappa are leaning against the wall near the exit, one of them waving a near-full beer, shouting into it like a glass microphone: “...she doesn’t deserve that genetic cocktail mix of intelligence she has. No ambition, no....anything. Just some no one. It’s not fair. It should have been me.”
“Let’s not get carried away.”
“Well definitely not her!” He shouts this, seemingly as loud as he can, which doesn’t end up being that loud over the party noise. “I can’t believe she solved that equation. No one has ever completed that theorem.” With this he throws the beer against the opposite wall and simply starts cursing uncontrollably. “How did she do it?” he yells the question furiously at Teresa as she approaches.
The Writing's on the Wall
Welcome to Bell mobility. You have - three - new messages. Press ‘One’ to pl-
Beep.
“Hey Geno, it’s Dad. Listen I’m just at the office, so I gotta make this quick, but I haven’t heard back from you about graduation. We haven’t heard from you in a while, actually. I hope you are staying on top of everything. You’ve...made it this far buddy, now let’s not have any sl--
Beep.
“Hey, it’s me, come on...pick up I know you’re there...anyways how is the whole muse thing going? Oozing with the existential nectar yet? I hope to god you’ve breached the realm of the true artist, cause I can’t write songs at all lately. I think it’s from hanging around with Cook too much. That guy is an alcoholic. Anyways, give me a call.
Beep.
This is an automated message from Bell mobility. You have --twenty five-- airtime minutes left this month. Bell reminds you these minutes do not roll over, and recommends you use them in the next fifteen--
Beep.
Eugene stands beside his bed watching the phone as the voicemail screen clears to his wallpaper: a space shuttle in flight. The user tosses the soaring rocket onto his desk, watching the device slide across the glass surface.
The aching in his heart forces his attention back to the novel at hand. Before him, on the bed, a stoned tablet of reality has been etched incomprehensibly with pure emotion. Though not arrived at yet, there is a perfect combination of words that will convey the feeling which he experienced. There has to be. The last couple weeks had been amongst the most intense of his life, as he has worked on this project. Some part of him, however, is forced to concede the intensity has been waning as of late. A reluctant pawn to his emotions, he falls over on his bed and falls over into the dream.
Beep.
“Hey Geno, it’s Dad. Listen I’m just at the office, so I gotta make this quick, but I haven’t heard back from you about graduation. We haven’t heard from you in a while, actually. I hope you are staying on top of everything. You’ve...made it this far buddy, now let’s not have any sl--
Beep.
“Hey, it’s me, come on...pick up I know you’re there...anyways how is the whole muse thing going? Oozing with the existential nectar yet? I hope to god you’ve breached the realm of the true artist, cause I can’t write songs at all lately. I think it’s from hanging around with Cook too much. That guy is an alcoholic. Anyways, give me a call.
Beep.
This is an automated message from Bell mobility. You have --twenty five-- airtime minutes left this month. Bell reminds you these minutes do not roll over, and recommends you use them in the next fifteen--
Beep.
Eugene stands beside his bed watching the phone as the voicemail screen clears to his wallpaper: a space shuttle in flight. The user tosses the soaring rocket onto his desk, watching the device slide across the glass surface.
The aching in his heart forces his attention back to the novel at hand. Before him, on the bed, a stoned tablet of reality has been etched incomprehensibly with pure emotion. Though not arrived at yet, there is a perfect combination of words that will convey the feeling which he experienced. There has to be. The last couple weeks had been amongst the most intense of his life, as he has worked on this project. Some part of him, however, is forced to concede the intensity has been waning as of late. A reluctant pawn to his emotions, he falls over on his bed and falls over into the dream.
Peer Reviewed
Teresa is in Professor Vance’s philosophy class again. As a result of the ridiculous syllabus, and partly due to her own developing interests, she has stayed on top of her readings. The first year works through her texts, ravaged by the desire to know. Squirming around within the confines of her seat, vapors of curiosity begin to rise. The girl in the purple dress finally raises her hand for some sort of release. As she formulates her question there is a rush of energy which rises from within. Oh pleasures of the mind! The river of thought pushes through stagnant mental plating, a geyser which cannot be contained.
“Yes, Teresa.”
“What might Plato say about psychics?” She is breathing heavy now, the attention of the class crashing over her in a Heisenberg tug-of-war.
“You mean reading minds?”
The words fly out of her: “I mean...all of it. If the world of our senses is an illusion, hiding the eternal forms, then we know everything already. Plato says knowledge is an act of remembering, so, really, I could know what you’re thinking right now.” Her heart is racing; perspiration.
A few kids look around nervously.
“It was said that Plato’s mentor, Socrates, was advised by an oracle -- a psychic, by today’s standards. I think such a view is compatible with Plato’s writings. It is ironic, Teresa, that the oracle would tell Socrates he was the smartest man in the world because he realized that he did not know anything at all.”
Teresa bites her lip, confused.
Dr. Vance continues, occasionally looking around to the rest of the class. “In a sense there is the only one thing to know: it’s all an illusion. Socrates brought the eternal back through the fog of the human experience with the path of his questioning. This is the power of the dialectic. It is movement home.”
Teresa laughs, starting to get it. “So essentially the purpose of paying all that money to come here is to learn that I don’t know anything at all.”
“Should one realize this fully, it is my belief that we would behold them as the Philosopher King, or Queen.”
“Yes, Teresa.”
“What might Plato say about psychics?” She is breathing heavy now, the attention of the class crashing over her in a Heisenberg tug-of-war.
“You mean reading minds?”
The words fly out of her: “I mean...all of it. If the world of our senses is an illusion, hiding the eternal forms, then we know everything already. Plato says knowledge is an act of remembering, so, really, I could know what you’re thinking right now.” Her heart is racing; perspiration.
A few kids look around nervously.
“It was said that Plato’s mentor, Socrates, was advised by an oracle -- a psychic, by today’s standards. I think such a view is compatible with Plato’s writings. It is ironic, Teresa, that the oracle would tell Socrates he was the smartest man in the world because he realized that he did not know anything at all.”
Teresa bites her lip, confused.
Dr. Vance continues, occasionally looking around to the rest of the class. “In a sense there is the only one thing to know: it’s all an illusion. Socrates brought the eternal back through the fog of the human experience with the path of his questioning. This is the power of the dialectic. It is movement home.”
Teresa laughs, starting to get it. “So essentially the purpose of paying all that money to come here is to learn that I don’t know anything at all.”
“Should one realize this fully, it is my belief that we would behold them as the Philosopher King, or Queen.”
The Registrar of Delphi
The student services representative at the registrar’s office is a rotund, jolly woman who seems to be hard-wired to radiate a lack of apprehension. ‘Sibyl’ as her name tag reads, like the others present, has a ground floor office where she facilitates the logistics of youthful potential of those attending Castle. When sitting with Sibyl, you’re more than just a number in a lecture hall; she can see into each file, each subtle trend. She is there to help you make sense of the complexities between ignorance and knowledge.
The Registrar’s Office is also where you go to pay.
“Well, Eugene, I didn’t suspect that I would find anything wrong, but things all look good. Provided that you pass all your courses you are all prepared to graduate. I have your robe information so...I think that’s it. Just pay the graduation fees sometime between now and when you go to pick up your robe.”
Eugene nods like something has just changed. He doesn’t think it has. He will graduate middle of the pack. He will get some disappointing job. Maybe a janitor. Things will happen, him living westward of creation.
“Eugene don’t be afraid to smile, either. You look like you are caught up in the dire. Are you always so...” she smiles slightly, laughing a little. “...so serious?”
This elicits something in the young man, and a quick small smile is the end result. “I’m sorry.” He shrugs slightly, glancing past the woman through her office window to the courtyard. There is a horse out there, calming walking along the path. “I’m just sort of preoccupied.”
“What class?”
“No, this is extra-curricular. I am trying to write a story.”
“I like stories.”
“But this is all just a story, you know?” The student motions around the room. This room. “It’s all just words, but there is something more than this. You catch a glimpse of it, and you try and write it down, or convey it to someone, but you can’t.”
Sibyl pauses with this, unsure of what to say.
“...And then you come to the realization that you probably never will. It’s impossible, except in sparse instances of fleeting.”
“What about love?”
“I’m talking about love.”
“Oh, Eugene, love is everywhere, but do not try and understand it. You will not succeed.”
“Then what is the point of art?”
“To confound the mystery.” She laughs at this, and part of Eugene wants to as well. “Life is short. I see a lot of kids --especially in this place-- who, you know, they sort of let knowledge sour them.”
“Which knowledge?”
“No, I mean just...knowledge.” She trails off deliberately, making a couple final keystrokes into the computer. “Alright, we’re all done.” Her smile is unfaltering, and she points to the glass jar on her desk filled with treats. “Would you like a sucker?”
The Registrar’s Office is also where you go to pay.
“Well, Eugene, I didn’t suspect that I would find anything wrong, but things all look good. Provided that you pass all your courses you are all prepared to graduate. I have your robe information so...I think that’s it. Just pay the graduation fees sometime between now and when you go to pick up your robe.”
Eugene nods like something has just changed. He doesn’t think it has. He will graduate middle of the pack. He will get some disappointing job. Maybe a janitor. Things will happen, him living westward of creation.
“Eugene don’t be afraid to smile, either. You look like you are caught up in the dire. Are you always so...” she smiles slightly, laughing a little. “...so serious?”
This elicits something in the young man, and a quick small smile is the end result. “I’m sorry.” He shrugs slightly, glancing past the woman through her office window to the courtyard. There is a horse out there, calming walking along the path. “I’m just sort of preoccupied.”
“What class?”
“No, this is extra-curricular. I am trying to write a story.”
“I like stories.”
“But this is all just a story, you know?” The student motions around the room. This room. “It’s all just words, but there is something more than this. You catch a glimpse of it, and you try and write it down, or convey it to someone, but you can’t.”
Sibyl pauses with this, unsure of what to say.
“...And then you come to the realization that you probably never will. It’s impossible, except in sparse instances of fleeting.”
“What about love?”
“I’m talking about love.”
“Oh, Eugene, love is everywhere, but do not try and understand it. You will not succeed.”
“Then what is the point of art?”
“To confound the mystery.” She laughs at this, and part of Eugene wants to as well. “Life is short. I see a lot of kids --especially in this place-- who, you know, they sort of let knowledge sour them.”
“Which knowledge?”
“No, I mean just...knowledge.” She trails off deliberately, making a couple final keystrokes into the computer. “Alright, we’re all done.” Her smile is unfaltering, and she points to the glass jar on her desk filled with treats. “Would you like a sucker?”
Alchemy
The girl in the purple dress sits by herself on a bench in Castle’s famous ‘Amor Park.’
She’s been here for a while now, but just now notices the abundance of quartz in the soft, dusty texture of the small circle of sand around the oak bench. Teresa wiggles her bare toes pushing the sand around, watching the minuscule pieces of crystal light up around her feet. The nearby chrysanthemums massage away stagnancy with their bright pedals: each one a little etheric fan powered by gusts of wind. Teresa is not cold, but goosebumps want to join in on the action anyways. They want to peak out to glimpse the wonder.
The explorer spots a large bumblebee, slowly traversing some electric path on it’s way to land on the head of a nearby flower -- as a child Teresa and her mother would often watch the bumblebees; Susan would always say things like “Much replicated, never duplicated,” or, “Honey is actually created in another dimension, you know?”
I know, Mom.
The humming pulsates against Teresa’s forehead, starting to get louder. She can no longer tell if it is coming from the bee, or if she is simply hearing it within. Is the whole flower buzzing? She looks up from the flower’s vibrations but they do not stop. Nothing stops. As the panorama of the park scenery comes into view she wonders just how long she had been watching the little creature, the little world that she can see herself in now.
A couple minutes? A lifetime?
Still sitting on the same park bench, but things are definitely much different now. Teresa spots a thin layer of film over everything. Why had she not noticed that before? She decides to take a peek, just to see what is behind there. What she finds is most welcoming: love -- such a massive idea, it juts into our reality like the corner of a tesseract. THe young girl stands to enable all of this, the current flowing in fractals past her towards their opposites.
At this exact realization her eyes fall upon a priest slowly walking along the garden path with a small grey dog which hobbles along at an equal speed. The sight seems strange to the young girl for some reason. She cannot remember ever seeing a member of the clergy with a pet before, but there is also something else, too. The old man notices her and begins to make his way towards the park bench. The closer he gets the more she seems to see it, whatever it is.
“Mom, what is it...?”
Susan clutches her head, rocking back and forth in her favorite armchair. Her eyes wide at something unseen yet inhabited.
“Hello, my child.”
“Hello, Father.” Part of her wants to be afraid, and another part of her is afraid, but the old man seems to prevent this somehow. She feels safe with him.
“Father.” Teresa starts, “Forgive me for asking, but are you...really a priest?”
He looks around, lowering his voice slightly. “Well, I am actually a janitor, but I certainly play a priest.” The holy man looks her over, the judgement of a self-appointed grace. “Ultimately, everyone plays something. That’s the good thing about working at a school: everyone is in the process of getting there.”
She’s been here for a while now, but just now notices the abundance of quartz in the soft, dusty texture of the small circle of sand around the oak bench. Teresa wiggles her bare toes pushing the sand around, watching the minuscule pieces of crystal light up around her feet. The nearby chrysanthemums massage away stagnancy with their bright pedals: each one a little etheric fan powered by gusts of wind. Teresa is not cold, but goosebumps want to join in on the action anyways. They want to peak out to glimpse the wonder.
The explorer spots a large bumblebee, slowly traversing some electric path on it’s way to land on the head of a nearby flower -- as a child Teresa and her mother would often watch the bumblebees; Susan would always say things like “Much replicated, never duplicated,” or, “Honey is actually created in another dimension, you know?”
I know, Mom.
The humming pulsates against Teresa’s forehead, starting to get louder. She can no longer tell if it is coming from the bee, or if she is simply hearing it within. Is the whole flower buzzing? She looks up from the flower’s vibrations but they do not stop. Nothing stops. As the panorama of the park scenery comes into view she wonders just how long she had been watching the little creature, the little world that she can see herself in now.
A couple minutes? A lifetime?
Still sitting on the same park bench, but things are definitely much different now. Teresa spots a thin layer of film over everything. Why had she not noticed that before? She decides to take a peek, just to see what is behind there. What she finds is most welcoming: love -- such a massive idea, it juts into our reality like the corner of a tesseract. THe young girl stands to enable all of this, the current flowing in fractals past her towards their opposites.
At this exact realization her eyes fall upon a priest slowly walking along the garden path with a small grey dog which hobbles along at an equal speed. The sight seems strange to the young girl for some reason. She cannot remember ever seeing a member of the clergy with a pet before, but there is also something else, too. The old man notices her and begins to make his way towards the park bench. The closer he gets the more she seems to see it, whatever it is.
“Mom, what is it...?”
Susan clutches her head, rocking back and forth in her favorite armchair. Her eyes wide at something unseen yet inhabited.
“Hello, my child.”
“Hello, Father.” Part of her wants to be afraid, and another part of her is afraid, but the old man seems to prevent this somehow. She feels safe with him.
“Father.” Teresa starts, “Forgive me for asking, but are you...really a priest?”
He looks around, lowering his voice slightly. “Well, I am actually a janitor, but I certainly play a priest.” The holy man looks her over, the judgement of a self-appointed grace. “Ultimately, everyone plays something. That’s the good thing about working at a school: everyone is in the process of getting there.”
Certainly
The dean finds himself in his office on the phone with Hoit, once again demanding the readings from the NGO group. The dean isn’t even sure it exists, at least in any sort of namable sense. The email, as it turns out, came from within the school, and there’s no one enrolled named ‘Babs.’
None of this matters to Hoit.
“I don’t care, and I don’t need to explain myself. Don’t forget your overarching responsibilities. You know as well as I do the consequences are of mortal consideration.”
The dean can picture the blonde man sitting there on the other end of the phone, gemstones hovering in front of his face. He assures Hoit of a response soon and hangs up, exhaling. These constant reminders of his function are annoying. He is certainly not headmaster outside of the school.
“Who was that?” The question comes from the only occupant in the administrator’s office, a friend and co-worker, Dr. Femer. The philosophy professor finds himself staring into old photograph he has taken down from its position with the others hanging on the wall. Dr. Femer often hangs out in the office to kill time, but he has never noticed this particular photograph before.
“That was...no one.”
Femer forces a laugh, somewhat insulted. “Um...” Ignoring his preoccupied friend he stares at the picture further. It is an old black and white photo of thirteen men standing in the courtyard what looks to be some time ago. The professor does not recognize any of these individuals --the picture has no marking-- but he cannot not help but be taken with the intensity in which they stare back at him. That human energy is something he finds lacking in pupils these days. “So did you hear about the proposed theorem to the Happy Ending Problem?”
“Yes, I heard about it, somewhat.” The dean rubs his forehead, slightly impatient with the small talk. He needs to succeed with his problem rather than engage in the success of another. He wonders if he can get an email trace from Bell, or maybe even Charlie’s number? Something, hopefully.
Dr. Femer waits for the headmaster to say more, which does not occur. “I guess you’re not that impressed,” he says, rolling his eyes.
“What do you want me to say? It was one of many unsolved problems. All problems have solutions. I mean really, there is nothing new under the sun. The physical laws haven’t changed since the inception. I would bet it’s all been figured out several times over by now.”
“There is always something new: a life, like Meredith, for example. Apparently she is quite the young eccentric...”
“My friend, you are right: a life hangs in the balance here.”
Dr. Femer exhales at the sarcasm, putting the picture back up on the wall. “So who was that?”
None of this matters to Hoit.
“I don’t care, and I don’t need to explain myself. Don’t forget your overarching responsibilities. You know as well as I do the consequences are of mortal consideration.”
The dean can picture the blonde man sitting there on the other end of the phone, gemstones hovering in front of his face. He assures Hoit of a response soon and hangs up, exhaling. These constant reminders of his function are annoying. He is certainly not headmaster outside of the school.
“Who was that?” The question comes from the only occupant in the administrator’s office, a friend and co-worker, Dr. Femer. The philosophy professor finds himself staring into old photograph he has taken down from its position with the others hanging on the wall. Dr. Femer often hangs out in the office to kill time, but he has never noticed this particular photograph before.
“That was...no one.”
Femer forces a laugh, somewhat insulted. “Um...” Ignoring his preoccupied friend he stares at the picture further. It is an old black and white photo of thirteen men standing in the courtyard what looks to be some time ago. The professor does not recognize any of these individuals --the picture has no marking-- but he cannot not help but be taken with the intensity in which they stare back at him. That human energy is something he finds lacking in pupils these days. “So did you hear about the proposed theorem to the Happy Ending Problem?”
“Yes, I heard about it, somewhat.” The dean rubs his forehead, slightly impatient with the small talk. He needs to succeed with his problem rather than engage in the success of another. He wonders if he can get an email trace from Bell, or maybe even Charlie’s number? Something, hopefully.
Dr. Femer waits for the headmaster to say more, which does not occur. “I guess you’re not that impressed,” he says, rolling his eyes.
“What do you want me to say? It was one of many unsolved problems. All problems have solutions. I mean really, there is nothing new under the sun. The physical laws haven’t changed since the inception. I would bet it’s all been figured out several times over by now.”
“There is always something new: a life, like Meredith, for example. Apparently she is quite the young eccentric...”
“My friend, you are right: a life hangs in the balance here.”
Dr. Femer exhales at the sarcasm, putting the picture back up on the wall. “So who was that?”
A Corridor in the D.H. Lawrence Arts and Administration Building
Eugene is walking through one particularly brightly lit corridor of the Bell building on the way to class. His feat produce light squeaks on the sparkling tiled linoleum floor. His mind whispers small, localized excitements. Things such as: this floor must have just been cleaned.
He is alone in the hallway save the approaching footsteps from around the corner just ahead. Suddenly the deja-vu. Again? He knows before he sees her who it is. It is as if, for this split second, he can see through the wall. He can see through the wall.
The young man stops to allow his transcendental liaison to turn the corner so as to avoid a collision, but also to gather his thoughts about what to even do or say. Time will not slow time down, it marches right on through his road block, unimpeded, like her feet do the line. The girl of his dreams, his writing, and his confusion -- she is not smiling, nor does she even seem to notice him, standing there on the polished tile floor.
She doesn’t see him at all, continuing by without pause.
Eugene watches the stranger as she turns another corner, and out of his life. Their moment was so intimate he just sort of assumed that the girl would, at some level, recognize her involvement in his life. The fact that she would have no reason to recognize him is the one thing Eugene had not considered.
It was just a ‘hi,’ after all.
Eugene does not feint again. The image of her tired-looking face floats around in his mind, a foreign element now, untying itself from emotion in a final tryst. He considers, as a final parting thought, what their collision may have resulted in. The physics in all of this reveal an immensity far beyond any ocean of his own love, or the scope of what any novel could be. It is utterly defeating, yet freedom all the same. The rest of his walk to class is normal enough: the narrative in his head the most banal of presuppositions, and there is something about this which is welcomingly sufferable.
He is alone in the hallway save the approaching footsteps from around the corner just ahead. Suddenly the deja-vu. Again? He knows before he sees her who it is. It is as if, for this split second, he can see through the wall. He can see through the wall.
The young man stops to allow his transcendental liaison to turn the corner so as to avoid a collision, but also to gather his thoughts about what to even do or say. Time will not slow time down, it marches right on through his road block, unimpeded, like her feet do the line. The girl of his dreams, his writing, and his confusion -- she is not smiling, nor does she even seem to notice him, standing there on the polished tile floor.
She doesn’t see him at all, continuing by without pause.
Eugene watches the stranger as she turns another corner, and out of his life. Their moment was so intimate he just sort of assumed that the girl would, at some level, recognize her involvement in his life. The fact that she would have no reason to recognize him is the one thing Eugene had not considered.
It was just a ‘hi,’ after all.
Eugene does not feint again. The image of her tired-looking face floats around in his mind, a foreign element now, untying itself from emotion in a final tryst. He considers, as a final parting thought, what their collision may have resulted in. The physics in all of this reveal an immensity far beyond any ocean of his own love, or the scope of what any novel could be. It is utterly defeating, yet freedom all the same. The rest of his walk to class is normal enough: the narrative in his head the most banal of presuppositions, and there is something about this which is welcomingly sufferable.
Listening to Profanity
Eugene sits with Nathaniel and Cook on the front porch of the coffee shop nestled into the side of Mt. Ajour. It is the first they have all hung out together since the incident. Eugene had suggested the meeting because he wanted to recount to his friends of his emotional diffusion: a return, once again, to the so-called real world.
Across the street a construction crew has been moving custom order boulders of various sizes to allow for an expansion of the park gardens. As a result of the logistics of the location more boulders are being moved back and forth to allow for the passage of another stone, or the personal and vehicles, than there are the right stones being moved to their precise and appropriate locations. It is, in essence, a puzzle to be solved in a narrow space. To make matters worse, because of the steep nature of the hillside there are several points where the boulders risk rolling off the ledges all together. Popping over to get some coffees, Eugene had heard one of the construction workers explaining to the cashier that one of the rocks had already escaped them.
“Took me a whole workday to get that sucker back up to the site.”
The occupants of the coffee shop are treating this event as a sort of intellectual game, indeed some of the students sitting nearby openly declare they had solved the puzzle.
“Well, I’m in engineering...”
“So...that’s the story.” Eugene concludes to Nathaniel and Cook. He had been trying to tell his friends of the passion that was his plight into the introspective abyss, but the excitement of the modest construction worker is stealing his thunder. He tries to convey the passion which came and went but they just don’t understand -- and hey could never convey it.
“That’s it?”
“That’s it.”
“So what about your story?”
Eugene shrugs.
“Man, that sucks it was, you know, anti-climatic.” Cook shakes his head slightly, content to leave it at that. His attention drifts back to a foreman who is now shouting about a missing set of chains.
“Yeah...” Nathaniel adds.
Across the street a construction crew has been moving custom order boulders of various sizes to allow for an expansion of the park gardens. As a result of the logistics of the location more boulders are being moved back and forth to allow for the passage of another stone, or the personal and vehicles, than there are the right stones being moved to their precise and appropriate locations. It is, in essence, a puzzle to be solved in a narrow space. To make matters worse, because of the steep nature of the hillside there are several points where the boulders risk rolling off the ledges all together. Popping over to get some coffees, Eugene had heard one of the construction workers explaining to the cashier that one of the rocks had already escaped them.
“Took me a whole workday to get that sucker back up to the site.”
The occupants of the coffee shop are treating this event as a sort of intellectual game, indeed some of the students sitting nearby openly declare they had solved the puzzle.
“Well, I’m in engineering...”
“So...that’s the story.” Eugene concludes to Nathaniel and Cook. He had been trying to tell his friends of the passion that was his plight into the introspective abyss, but the excitement of the modest construction worker is stealing his thunder. He tries to convey the passion which came and went but they just don’t understand -- and hey could never convey it.
“That’s it?”
“That’s it.”
“So what about your story?”
Eugene shrugs.
“Man, that sucks it was, you know, anti-climatic.” Cook shakes his head slightly, content to leave it at that. His attention drifts back to a foreman who is now shouting about a missing set of chains.
“Yeah...” Nathaniel adds.
Lonny's Embrace
The dean considers the purpose of his journey tonight, away from the comforts of the school and into the unyielding force of nature. He has quite an extensive knowledge base, acquired through years of immersion in academia and a few other nameless places. He knows, for example, Meredith didn’t complete the Happy Ending Theorem. He knows many secrets; Jacob might know some others.
The driver turns the taxi onto Ajour Pass, the mountain road. “You said it was three streets past the coffee shop?” The cab driver, a natural blonde in her late thirties, flashes the dean a grin through the rearview mirror before returning her eyes to the road.
“Hi there, stranger. My name’s Lonny. I’ll take you anywhere you need to go,” she had explained at the onset, taking a sip of something from her mug with one hand, the other hand firmly gripped to the wheel as it is now.
“Yes. Or at least that’s what my note here says...” The man in the back seat plucks a piece of paper from the inner pocket of his raincoat, double checking.
“Sure thing, stranger.”
“I’m not even sure if this man will be home. He’s not expecting me --he barely knows me-- I just need to ask him a couple questions.”
Lonny does not say much now, but there is something mixed with the faint scent of perfume and which says more than enough to keep one’s attention. Instead of watching her cleavage through the rear-view mirror, or the faire meter’s one trick tick-by-tick, the administrator leans his head back, content to grovel about Jacob not answering his phone. Perhaps Bell had given him the wrong number? Still, you think someone would pick up. Perhaps he is out of town? We’ll see, I guess.
The cab turns onto Kasparian Ave and pulls up to the aforementioned address. It is older house which sits back from the road a bit, due in part to the slope. There is a winding driveway with a walkway along the side which leads to the darkened premises -- not a single light on inside or outside.
“Doesn’t look good...” Lonny reaches down to stop the meter. ‘$7.10’
“No...it doesn’t,” the dean concurs, exhaling most of his possible excitement at the empty-looking house.
“Ok, do me a favor and wait here? I’m going to go and make sure.”
“Yeah, sure, Stranger.”
The dean pulls his raincoat tight, opening the cab door to dart up the driveway, through the frenzied liquid hail, to the door. The the house is rather flat, with few windows. A rather lonely and unused looking ladder leans against the structure. There is a small portion of roofing which extends to give shelter above the front door, and the man with the questions runs up the driveway quickly to its dry sanctuary. The administrator knocks with a few brisk pounds, placing his ear to the cool polished wood to listen for footsteps. He hears none. The dean decides to take out his cellphone again for one last attempt at trying Jacob’s, but, to top things off, finds there is no service here. Uttering a curse word he stuffs his hands in his pockets, turning around to look down towards the lights of the town, and the swirling grey superimposed onto the black where he knows the ocean is. Unsure of what to do he stands there on the front step of the technician’s house for a period of time, just staring. Several minutes go by, and nothing. The cab gives a honk. It is getting late. The storm is getting worse, and it’s always worst at the end. Finally, hearing another honk from the cab, the administrator exhales and plunges into the grey wall of rain.
Lonny smiles warmly, turning around to face her passenger from the front street as he climbs in. “No Jacob, huh, stranger? What kind of answers are you looking for anyways?”
The dean scratches his neck, considering the question. “I’m looking for the conclusive kind.”
The driver grins, checking him over. “Shall we conclude this then?”
The driver turns the taxi onto Ajour Pass, the mountain road. “You said it was three streets past the coffee shop?” The cab driver, a natural blonde in her late thirties, flashes the dean a grin through the rearview mirror before returning her eyes to the road.
“Hi there, stranger. My name’s Lonny. I’ll take you anywhere you need to go,” she had explained at the onset, taking a sip of something from her mug with one hand, the other hand firmly gripped to the wheel as it is now.
“Yes. Or at least that’s what my note here says...” The man in the back seat plucks a piece of paper from the inner pocket of his raincoat, double checking.
“Sure thing, stranger.”
“I’m not even sure if this man will be home. He’s not expecting me --he barely knows me-- I just need to ask him a couple questions.”
Lonny does not say much now, but there is something mixed with the faint scent of perfume and which says more than enough to keep one’s attention. Instead of watching her cleavage through the rear-view mirror, or the faire meter’s one trick tick-by-tick, the administrator leans his head back, content to grovel about Jacob not answering his phone. Perhaps Bell had given him the wrong number? Still, you think someone would pick up. Perhaps he is out of town? We’ll see, I guess.
The cab turns onto Kasparian Ave and pulls up to the aforementioned address. It is older house which sits back from the road a bit, due in part to the slope. There is a winding driveway with a walkway along the side which leads to the darkened premises -- not a single light on inside or outside.
“Doesn’t look good...” Lonny reaches down to stop the meter. ‘$7.10’
“No...it doesn’t,” the dean concurs, exhaling most of his possible excitement at the empty-looking house.
“Ok, do me a favor and wait here? I’m going to go and make sure.”
“Yeah, sure, Stranger.”
The dean pulls his raincoat tight, opening the cab door to dart up the driveway, through the frenzied liquid hail, to the door. The the house is rather flat, with few windows. A rather lonely and unused looking ladder leans against the structure. There is a small portion of roofing which extends to give shelter above the front door, and the man with the questions runs up the driveway quickly to its dry sanctuary. The administrator knocks with a few brisk pounds, placing his ear to the cool polished wood to listen for footsteps. He hears none. The dean decides to take out his cellphone again for one last attempt at trying Jacob’s, but, to top things off, finds there is no service here. Uttering a curse word he stuffs his hands in his pockets, turning around to look down towards the lights of the town, and the swirling grey superimposed onto the black where he knows the ocean is. Unsure of what to do he stands there on the front step of the technician’s house for a period of time, just staring. Several minutes go by, and nothing. The cab gives a honk. It is getting late. The storm is getting worse, and it’s always worst at the end. Finally, hearing another honk from the cab, the administrator exhales and plunges into the grey wall of rain.
Lonny smiles warmly, turning around to face her passenger from the front street as he climbs in. “No Jacob, huh, stranger? What kind of answers are you looking for anyways?”
The dean scratches his neck, considering the question. “I’m looking for the conclusive kind.”
The driver grins, checking him over. “Shall we conclude this then?”
The Beautiful Game of Chess
“What a storm this is shaping up to be.” Gabby muses looking out the window.
Susan Liev sits with her sister-in-law playing chess in the living room of her house. An hour from the college, the mother of one had picked the spot herself what seems like not so long ago. It sits just outside of the ordinary, but it is close enough to decent schools and family rules. The two of them wait for Teresa to arrive home for the first time since she left for college. She travels alone by her own insistence, and by taxi of all modes. Taxi. Why couldn’t her own mother come pick her up? Susan’s heart is lacquered with a thick coat of anxiety by this. Unsettled by her reflection in the mirror, she had phoned Gabby, whom she knew would not want to be alone during the storm either.
Susan nods, following Gabby’s gaze to the dark clouds for a second. “So how did you learn chess, anyways?” Susan brings her attention back to the game at hand, considering her next move.
“I’m glad you asked.” Her opponent looks up from pondering the board, pushing up the pair of sunglasses she wears. While Gabby’s eyes do not work, she is not blind. Her sister-in-law has certain unique qualities that, to this day, Susan has seen in no other aura. Michael was like that as well. His sister is surprisingly self-sufficient, and often uses this fact as a lesson to those around her. “...because life is chess.”
“It is? I always thought life was more than seeing in black and white.”
“There is actually a line of grey between the white and black squares on the board.” Gabby shrugs. “Sure, it’s mostly one or the other, but that space is there.”
Susan squints at the board. “How can you see that?”
“To see without eyes, Susan, that is not so much the problem, but as Aristotle once said, ‘a soul without a picture cannot see.’ You see everyone’s picture, everyone’s unique splash of, not grey, but swirling color. I see the rules. That is, I learned to see them, and the grey.”
The anxious mom sighs, leaning back in her chair. “That barely makes sense to me.”
Gabby laughs, making a move.
“So, who taught you how to play?”
“Michael did.”
Susan nods, her heart embracing the memories of her white knight. “Of course.” It’s been years since Michael was killed, and the widow knows she will never get over it. Not in this lifetime. There is only one Michael, her soulmate. They created miracles together, they created life itself. “Michael was always so good at chess.” Susan smiles, thinking back.
“Michael was psychic...” Gabby laughs again at this, “...but yes, he was.”
Susan laughs too, happy that she can right now.
“The reason I always beat you isn’t because I’m better, though, it’s because you’re unwilling to define yourself. You react to me instead of making me react. You are always watching for danger, protecting your pieces instead of using them. Everything has a purpose, Susan. Even in death there is the opportunity for rebirth.”
The mother grows silent for a long time, looking at the pieces left in her own game. “I want to tell her, Gabby, I want to show her everything...”
“You love her, you want to protect her.” Her sister-in-law starts, stopping her, “...but what is protection? The hovering hand of the parent is a balance, and when you achieve it things just feel right. Does this feel right?”
Susan doesn’t answer. She can’t. She just breaths, letting the words of her good friend soak in. “Thanks for coming over, Gabriella.” The expectant mother rises, about to ask her sister-in-law if she is thirsty, but just then a car’s headlights brush past the front room, interrupting the question, the drink, the game, the storm, and everything else, as it turns into the driveway. The vehicle is yellow, a checkered strip along the side --it is the cab, surely-- but yet is has the paintings of foul, known magic. Surely not her daughter? The two auras present in the car dance amongst themselves and the other components of the storm which encircles the ominous metal cage. It is difficult to discern whose is whose.
Without a word Susan makes for her coat and outside.
The sky is dark yet illuminated and pours down the perspiration of giants as they fight in the heavens, their swords cracking thunder. Susan rushes down the pavement to greet her daughter: her purpose. Clutching the handle on the back passenger side door she has the most dreadful feeling that it is too late, that Teresa has been changed irrevocably. She tries to open the door but it locked. In the tinted window she can’t see anything beyond own her blurred reflection. The rain obscures everything as it pours down her face, hiding what would otherwise be tears. Her face contorts to surprise when the front, instead of the back door opens and Teresa pops out to meet her mother eye to eye. “Hi, Mom!” she exclaims over the force of the wind with a smile her mother has never seen before. After clutching her mother for a quick hug Teresa runs off to the trunk of the cab to get her bag.
Susan leans into the field of astral garbage emanating from the driver. “How much?” she asks, glancing around the fragranced front seat. What sounds like teen pop plays innocuously on the radio, and there is a furry butterfly which hangs from the rearview mirror.
“Seventy dollars, eleven cents...” The driver puts her coffee mug into the cup holder and stops the meter. It’s all very casual; not a care in the world. She is a gorgeous entity, this woman of the ages.
Susan is now genuinely worried, and hastily gets the money from her wallet as both the storm and the taxi driver continue.
“...Your daughter is extremely intelligent. So much potential there, don’t you think? So much curiosity. So many questions. I saw it all. Really saw it, you know?” The stranger picks up her mug again, taking a sip of the contents. “Well, of course you do.”
She places four wet twenties on the dashboard and then Susan slams the door of the cab shut.
Teresa runs by her mother, deftly cutting through the rain as if avoiding every drop, carrying what appears to be all of her bags with little effort. In contrast, Susan cannot move at all, the soaked wood of her being turning to stone. The cab pulls away, soon lost into the electric grey horizon, leaving the mother-of-one standing in the square of her driveway.
“Come on, Mom!” Her daughter beckons her inside with all the power in the world but Susan cannot move. Not right now.
Teresa smiles, waiting.
Susan Liev sits with her sister-in-law playing chess in the living room of her house. An hour from the college, the mother of one had picked the spot herself what seems like not so long ago. It sits just outside of the ordinary, but it is close enough to decent schools and family rules. The two of them wait for Teresa to arrive home for the first time since she left for college. She travels alone by her own insistence, and by taxi of all modes. Taxi. Why couldn’t her own mother come pick her up? Susan’s heart is lacquered with a thick coat of anxiety by this. Unsettled by her reflection in the mirror, she had phoned Gabby, whom she knew would not want to be alone during the storm either.
Susan nods, following Gabby’s gaze to the dark clouds for a second. “So how did you learn chess, anyways?” Susan brings her attention back to the game at hand, considering her next move.
“I’m glad you asked.” Her opponent looks up from pondering the board, pushing up the pair of sunglasses she wears. While Gabby’s eyes do not work, she is not blind. Her sister-in-law has certain unique qualities that, to this day, Susan has seen in no other aura. Michael was like that as well. His sister is surprisingly self-sufficient, and often uses this fact as a lesson to those around her. “...because life is chess.”
“It is? I always thought life was more than seeing in black and white.”
“There is actually a line of grey between the white and black squares on the board.” Gabby shrugs. “Sure, it’s mostly one or the other, but that space is there.”
Susan squints at the board. “How can you see that?”
“To see without eyes, Susan, that is not so much the problem, but as Aristotle once said, ‘a soul without a picture cannot see.’ You see everyone’s picture, everyone’s unique splash of, not grey, but swirling color. I see the rules. That is, I learned to see them, and the grey.”
The anxious mom sighs, leaning back in her chair. “That barely makes sense to me.”
Gabby laughs, making a move.
“So, who taught you how to play?”
“Michael did.”
Susan nods, her heart embracing the memories of her white knight. “Of course.” It’s been years since Michael was killed, and the widow knows she will never get over it. Not in this lifetime. There is only one Michael, her soulmate. They created miracles together, they created life itself. “Michael was always so good at chess.” Susan smiles, thinking back.
“Michael was psychic...” Gabby laughs again at this, “...but yes, he was.”
Susan laughs too, happy that she can right now.
“The reason I always beat you isn’t because I’m better, though, it’s because you’re unwilling to define yourself. You react to me instead of making me react. You are always watching for danger, protecting your pieces instead of using them. Everything has a purpose, Susan. Even in death there is the opportunity for rebirth.”
The mother grows silent for a long time, looking at the pieces left in her own game. “I want to tell her, Gabby, I want to show her everything...”
“You love her, you want to protect her.” Her sister-in-law starts, stopping her, “...but what is protection? The hovering hand of the parent is a balance, and when you achieve it things just feel right. Does this feel right?”
Susan doesn’t answer. She can’t. She just breaths, letting the words of her good friend soak in. “Thanks for coming over, Gabriella.” The expectant mother rises, about to ask her sister-in-law if she is thirsty, but just then a car’s headlights brush past the front room, interrupting the question, the drink, the game, the storm, and everything else, as it turns into the driveway. The vehicle is yellow, a checkered strip along the side --it is the cab, surely-- but yet is has the paintings of foul, known magic. Surely not her daughter? The two auras present in the car dance amongst themselves and the other components of the storm which encircles the ominous metal cage. It is difficult to discern whose is whose.
Without a word Susan makes for her coat and outside.
The sky is dark yet illuminated and pours down the perspiration of giants as they fight in the heavens, their swords cracking thunder. Susan rushes down the pavement to greet her daughter: her purpose. Clutching the handle on the back passenger side door she has the most dreadful feeling that it is too late, that Teresa has been changed irrevocably. She tries to open the door but it locked. In the tinted window she can’t see anything beyond own her blurred reflection. The rain obscures everything as it pours down her face, hiding what would otherwise be tears. Her face contorts to surprise when the front, instead of the back door opens and Teresa pops out to meet her mother eye to eye. “Hi, Mom!” she exclaims over the force of the wind with a smile her mother has never seen before. After clutching her mother for a quick hug Teresa runs off to the trunk of the cab to get her bag.
Susan leans into the field of astral garbage emanating from the driver. “How much?” she asks, glancing around the fragranced front seat. What sounds like teen pop plays innocuously on the radio, and there is a furry butterfly which hangs from the rearview mirror.
“Seventy dollars, eleven cents...” The driver puts her coffee mug into the cup holder and stops the meter. It’s all very casual; not a care in the world. She is a gorgeous entity, this woman of the ages.
Susan is now genuinely worried, and hastily gets the money from her wallet as both the storm and the taxi driver continue.
“...Your daughter is extremely intelligent. So much potential there, don’t you think? So much curiosity. So many questions. I saw it all. Really saw it, you know?” The stranger picks up her mug again, taking a sip of the contents. “Well, of course you do.”
She places four wet twenties on the dashboard and then Susan slams the door of the cab shut.
Teresa runs by her mother, deftly cutting through the rain as if avoiding every drop, carrying what appears to be all of her bags with little effort. In contrast, Susan cannot move at all, the soaked wood of her being turning to stone. The cab pulls away, soon lost into the electric grey horizon, leaving the mother-of-one standing in the square of her driveway.
“Come on, Mom!” Her daughter beckons her inside with all the power in the world but Susan cannot move. Not right now.
Teresa smiles, waiting.
Epilogue
The solution to the Happy Ending Problem came at the end of my exposure to chess, which I still love to a degree, but it was even more so in my childhood. I believe it to be perfect insomuch as a game can be. It taught me a great many things: patience, forbearance, and the limitations of mathematical merit -- geometry, what a ruleset, as I would later come to fully recognize.
The point of any game, I believe, is to transcend it, and that is exactly what needed to happen for me me at least -- something had to give. I was more or less homeless, living on the school’s campus in a sort of economic stalemate. Instead of worrying about a lack money, or my unlucky positioning in the world, I just played. It was my one worldly ambition to become a champion chess player. I beat our president, and famous players such as Joseph Blackburn, Henry Bird, and Allison Yeux. I practiced relentlessly every day; the fervor of humanity for this, my desired goal. One day I finally had the opportunity to attend a tournament in Berlin. I saw the masters -- one, shabby, snuffy and blear-eyed; another, a badly-fitting would-be spectacle, shoddy; a third, a mere parody of humanity, and so on and so forth for the best. These were the people whose ranks I was seeking admission. ‘There, but for the grace of God, goes Meredith Kabah’ I exclaimed to myself in disgust, and there and then I registered I would never play another serious game of chess again.
---Meredith Kabah, “Memoirs.”
The point of any game, I believe, is to transcend it, and that is exactly what needed to happen for me me at least -- something had to give. I was more or less homeless, living on the school’s campus in a sort of economic stalemate. Instead of worrying about a lack money, or my unlucky positioning in the world, I just played. It was my one worldly ambition to become a champion chess player. I beat our president, and famous players such as Joseph Blackburn, Henry Bird, and Allison Yeux. I practiced relentlessly every day; the fervor of humanity for this, my desired goal. One day I finally had the opportunity to attend a tournament in Berlin. I saw the masters -- one, shabby, snuffy and blear-eyed; another, a badly-fitting would-be spectacle, shoddy; a third, a mere parody of humanity, and so on and so forth for the best. These were the people whose ranks I was seeking admission. ‘There, but for the grace of God, goes Meredith Kabah’ I exclaimed to myself in disgust, and there and then I registered I would never play another serious game of chess again.
---Meredith Kabah, “Memoirs.”
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