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.
Tuesday, August 3, 2010
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?”
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