Monday, June 30, 2025

"free stuff"

 

Nobody is getting free stuff. This idea is a shared illusion. Everyone is getting paid. Those who produce and sell the products, those who work and pay taxes, those who are paid to contribute economically as consumers while keeping their dysfunctions out of the workplace, are all being paid. No one is losing. It's a win/win/win.
Many of the people reviled with concerned that they get "free stuff" are working very hard; and not getting sufficient compensation to pay for basic needs. Others are seriously disabled, requiring major accommodations to be effective employees. Most employers prefer not to make such accommodations (quite understandably), so these people can not be employed. Government or private concerns could develop special training and projects to employ those who could work, but rarely do.
Others, though not traditionally disabled have such chaotic lives (for any of many possible reasons) that they are unemployable.
Others will be employed and able to make their own contributions to the general revenue; but for right now that has not happened.
Yet, these people are all actively contributing to the overall economy while their lives are sorting out.

Saturday, June 21, 2025

Spring into Summer

 

how is it that so  many "God-fearing" Christians 
believe their mission to be defining and punishing
the sins of others rather than look to their 
own soulless acts to ask for forgiveness?




I've been writing a dystopian fiction story, to escape from 
the dystopian reality ( or rather, AI made post-reality)




I suggest the kind of ambition we would want to encourage 
has nothing to do with acquiring monetary wealth, which, 
after all, is really a social fiction, and likely to lead to the kind 
of greedy bad behavior we abhor. We need that equality of 
resources that would encourage everyone to use their abilities 
in socially beneficial efforts, because that is the social fiction 
we have mutually beneficially agreed to live by.



Don't hate.
Or, rather, hate bad acts, and their terrible results,
not the actors, who may be persuaded to change,
but not be treating them as unmitigated adversaries.


How do we recognize and train social  thought
based on a kind, empathetic, morality?


Taxes are meant to support the background structure
that allows "your" money value. If you don't like what
they pay for, you are within your rights, in a democracy,  
to say so, find and engage like-minded others to get
together and change what is collectively paid for, and
how it is paid.


If you live in an autocracy, this money thing is only
a small part of your restrictions.


Seems to me, if we don't want people engaging in
potentially dangerous behaviors for the high,
we ought to issue everyone dopamine, bypass
the seeking behaviors.


Of course there are idiots on "both sides" in every
massive group of humans. Under all the hype,
we are not Republicans or Democrats, but stupid
f'in' humans.


We complain about the Democrats, but who didn't
do their due diligence and elected these people?
And, most likely, those very reps. you complain of,
are just what others wanted.  It's We the People who
are in charge, whatever we choose to do with that.


Democrats may want to consider educating the 
electorate -- not just about their candidates; about
our nation's blueprint of how our Democracy is
set up to work, how laws and policies happen,
what they can do, individually and in groups,
to impress their will on those who run.


Attraction
Attunement
Attachment
three stages of relationship
build upon each other
intersect



Why should any of us agree the conversation
is over, when we have not been heard?


dumbing down, 
locking in, creating a failed democracy in favor of 
might is right where the greatest might is the wealth 
to pay desperate soldiers


5/22-6/18/25

Friday, June 13, 2025

act 6



Act 6: Conclusions






Angeleen



I am Angeleen, manufactured bride, though

completely human. I don't mind.  Custer is 

quite the catch, and not just because I was so

told, over and over by my AI tutor, grown to

be his one true love. He has always been kind,

generous, sympathetic, understanding, though

there is probably no one else he shows these

qualities. He is beautiful, with wavy reddish brown

hair he wears flowing just below his ears.

piercing blue eyes that smile on me, a godlike

form, as I've seen in art, muscular but not too

much. I, created for this one job, to love him,

be his love, raised gently under his guiding

care, do share those intimate feelings, not

because made to. This man I have gotten to

know all through my life, is ultimately lovable

when given the chance. We have been happy

together, within our private romance, mutual

muses, wrapped in our ecstatic dance. Until,

that is, I was struck down by illness unknown

to our medical geniuses, or all the AI annals.

Suddenly, I could no longer do much of

anything. Even breath was a struggle, though

not so terrible that I would want it to stop, or

feel in danger that it might. My mind, however,

does not appear afflicted. My thoughts are clear,

abundant, creative as before. I try to abate

Custer's fears, speak, as I can, haltingly, but

with utmost clarity, let him know I am here,

fully aware, glad of his presence. He wants to

raise my comfort level, offer distraction from

my obvious pain. He perfumes our atmosphere

with beautiful scents that leave no residue to

cloud the air. He covers me with the softest

materials he can command. Feeds me

ambrosial delicacies, of easily absorbed

consistency, does everything he can think of

to intimate a paradise for my pleasure, that

I hopefully not notice what I miss. As part of

this distraction, I know only for my benefit,

since he has no interest in City scandals, he

has arranged a 3D display of that ubiquitous

entertainment, 24/7 Gossip I can passively

enjoy while I lay in bed. I often find their

stories amusing, not a waste of my attention.

When it is on, I let it just a background drone 

unless a feature captures and holds my interest 

for a moment. It's not as if I was ever a part of their 

avid audience. I might have watched it for

occasional entertainment when Custer was

otherwise occupied. Today, as I allow the

stories to play, strangely, as if

synchronicity reached out to touch me,

I see, hear the commentary, a young woman

in the Barro is healing people with incurable

diseases. Of course, Barro medical expertise

is severely hampered by our technologies

being forbidden. Perhaps these illnesses she

cured would have been easily alleviated in the

City. It was but a short clip, not offering much

pertinent information, only meant as

entertainment. They did, as an aside, remind

us that features from the Barro are quite rare,

since their City audience knows no one there,

unless a City migrant worker is heavily involved.

The last time, in fact, was before I was aware of

such broadcast stories. Apparently, this one was

unique enough to be on the loop for close to

two weeks, according to the time stamp, shown 

randomly, depending on programming priorities. 

As it happened, we had not seen it before. It's not 

as if we spent much time watching gossip, nor are 

we generally aware of what everyone currently knows.  

Custer, of course, immediately seized upon the meat,

the possibility of healing me. He called forth servants

to investigate the particulars, to discover if what the

commentator said was true. When the basics were 

confirmed, medical professionals were queried for 

recommendations. With this information, he knew

what he must immediately do. "I will send

representatives to bring this girl here, ascertain for

ourselves her ability to make you well," he exclaimed,

filled with elation. I countered, as strongly as I 

could muster, demanded he understand the 

unfairness of his plan. I entreated that if she were

transplanted from her Barro home to serve us here,

she would never be allowed to return to her life

as before. We cannot do that to this beneficent

innocent. What a horrible reward for her curing

me, I implored! Because it was me making this plea, 

he agreed. He altered his vision, insisted we fly to

the City Compound in the Barro, along with servants

to make appropriate arrangements once there. They

would need to secure a place for treatment, locate

this girl and tell her where and when to meet us.

A'glee with happy anticipation of me, hopefully,

emerging from this curse, to return as all I was,

he sends a man to do as he has decided must be

done, arrange for a robocar to fly us to the Compound 

on the morrow, execute his plan. I feel some trepidation. 

What if this situation does not play out as he expects?

How will he be assuaged, his sorrow mollified?

Yet, I also feel excited, in mind if not body; maybe

my plight might disappear. I may regain my life

and his. At least we have a changed perspective, if

only for this interim, a chance to break out of our

current limited routine. It all, this whole interval,

somehow seems unreal, as if an extended dream,

from the time I fell ill through this new

eventuality. Perhaps tomorrow I will awake,

unharmed, uninterrupted. In any case, tomorrow

will be an adventure. Late Spring, they say, warm

and sunny weather to enjoy on our way to what

may greet us across the River.




Bonnie



Curiouser and curiouser, a season of change?

New challenges, terrors, every day? I was

well adjusted to my job's errata. One expects

medical needs to show up unexpectedly, to

present without warning, be overwhelming, not

subject to following routines. My family dramas,

especially regarding Alee, have been difficult,

but not outside what I can absorb, deal with

usefully Yet, too fast, picking up speed, is how,

more and more, that situation seems. I had

never imagined my private concerns would break

out publicly, to, without consent or consideration,

turn our already confused, upset family into

somehow accountable celebrities. Sophia told

us about Alee's appearance on the City broadcast,

"24/7 Gossip". She assured us City folks would regard

this as mere entertainment, their healthcare options

so much better than ours. Meanwhile, we have more

immediate issues, here. The Stakeholders' Meeting

did calm our neighbors' agitation for the most part,

yet pockets of complaint persist. Now, today, I 

encounter this new twist. Some Upper's servant 

has come to the Clinic to insist I provide a treatment 

suite for his employer and wife to meet with this Barro 

healer. She is perilously sick, has been for months 

without relent, appears ever less alive, so I am informed.

Of course, they had consulted with their City practitioners

of Upper privileged medicine, but found no relief,

no cure. Obviously, the next step, now that they

have been made aware of her existence, is to find,

try, this unlikely healer's ability. I grant access to our

facility, as I appear to have no other recourse. I don't

know what to say about Alee, our relationship, her

situation, so I remain professional, give only what

I am asked for. The interview concluded, the stranger

departs, after ascertaining a block of time on the

morrow for his employer's reservation. I take a long

breath, call Sophia. I have too immediate a need for

information; a text won't do. She, of course, is busy

at the School all afternoon, but understands I must have

her attention. She advises me to calm myself, relax, get

back to my job. She will be here with me to discuss what

has happened as soon as she can. Naturally, I call Cas.

I know he can help me relax just with the support of his

soothing voice, almost hypnotic aura of peace. I tell him

of my meeting with the Upper representative, that I didn't

know how best to respond to him, so I told him nothing of

my knowledge about Alee. Cas, as always, understands my

emotional overload. He assures me we will figure out how to

proceed. I inform him of my call to Sophia, that she intends 

to join me as soon as she can get away from the School,

her job obligations. Then she will be able to speak with me,

offer what she knows of how Uppers operate, what ought

be my best course when they arrive. Having shared my

fears, ameliorated by panic, I do as advised, get back to work.

Certainly my ordinary chores still need doing. Their

familiarity will keep me steady while I await my family's

aid in preparation for tomorrow. Alee is still to weak to

access her healing power, though every day she promises

she feels it almost ready to emerge. She says she sees this

image in her mind of a potent candle to be re-lit, that she

tries to find the right ignition, keeps moving closer as she

dances in a trance of inner exploration. We can see she is

so very tired, yet at least equally inspired by her mission

to regain her mojo, as those in need of her help wish for 

her as well. She seems so small, frail, and yet still magical. 

I believe, we all do, that she speaks from visions she has

the ability to manifest, but how long will that take?

People, in aggregate, are not patient, get testy when made

to wait for what they think they are owed. Presumably,

Uppers, arrogant by nature and long experience as 

self-appointed superiors, are not about to tolerate delay.

I finish my professional obligations for the day, make

space for Sophia and I to strategize. Then, we head home

together, to share what has happened, elicit a greater

circle to advise.




Sophia


Bonnie had called me in a panic. She has been

approached by an Upper servant who flew here

from the City with his employer to demand she

reserve a treatment suite in the Clinic for a meeting

with this Alegra, the healer. She complied, having

no idea what else to do. After he left, apparently

satisfied, she contacted me to verify her suspicions,

the efficacy of her response. At that moment, I was,

unfortunately required at the School to teach my

class. As soon as that ended, released, I met Bonnie 

at the Clinic. By then her shift was done. We spoke,

for a bit in her office, then on the walk home. On

arrival, we discovered our news was but a piece of

a reason for concern. Alee had, in her turn, received

the Upper's messenger's command to meet with his

employer and ailing wife to perform her cure. Alee,

knowing she is in no position to fulfill this command,

having yet to regain that power, tried to decline. She

attempted to explain that she was not yet ready, despite

her efforts to relight that faded flame. She promised,

assured, when she was able, she would immediately

inform whatever agent they might provide. The servant

would have none of it. He was clear on his mission, that

Sir Custer not be given cause for disappointment. He

warned Alee to be at the appointed place and time, on the

very next day, mid-morning, so preparations could be

arranged before she arrived at the Clinic treatment suite

Bonnie had made available. Having nothing he would

hear to offer, Alee made no reply. Taking silence for

assent, he left, presumably to inform his employer of

what had been done. I've never met this Custer, though

I've known of him from common knowledge, historic

tales. He is an elder, from the first generation born on

City soil. Life extension technology has presumably 

advanced since back when his pioneering parents had

started using it, before their relocation, and for their son,

once he was gestating. However he has managed it, he has

been around for a very long time, well over a century.

Thus there are stories dating from his later youth, once

he was noticed enough to be spoken of. Youthful

appearing still, having stopped his aging once he

reached his physical peak, while continuing

challenging activities to maintain his strength,

endurance, physique. Considered arrogant, even

among a class strongly associated with that trait,

he was not generally well liked, or welcomed, in

social coteries. This was fine for a time. He preferred

his own, to him superior, company. Then, I suppose

after a great many decades, his solitary ways become

less ideal. A few decades ago, he began to make plans

for a companion he would create from selected DNA,

eugenic magic, to be his perfect mate. No robo-woman

to pretend to be his friend, but fully human, conceived

and raised to his specifications. Eventually his plan

attained fruition. Now he would be able to enjoy his

folie a 'deux, his imagined blissful union, without 

deference to social conventions. Thus, Angeleen, a

graceful beauty, raised to be happy to fulfill her duty

to the benefactor who made her to be his. Unfortunately

for that charming fantasy, not many years after they

were wed, she fell ill.  Something like Alee's affliction

if reports of her sudden symptoms, ever greater

draining of energy, muscular pain, wan responses,

are accurate. Now this particularly unpleasant

demanding Upper has learned of a Barro healer,

certainly far from a secret at this point, anywhere.

He has decided, in his entitled manner that this is

the cure he has sought, belongs to him to satisfy

his urgent desire for his lover's recovery. Alee

continues to insist that she feels ever closer to finding

inside her mind that image of a candle wick she may

relight, to regain what she must to aid those 

desperately imploring her for a cure to end their

suffering. I tell her, and the rest here gathered, what

I  can from Upper lore I've learned over years of

study. Alee, Jamee, Paul, Cas, Bonnie, Jay listen, ask

questions, worry, searching for a way to make this

situation turn out well. Marta had retired after our

initial revelations, saying it all made her feel ill, that

she had nothing of value to add to our deliberations,

so would take leave of us to lie down. Bobby, Camille,

and the kids, next door, busily crafting preparations

for the Solstice party at the Fire Pit late next week, 

making artistic decorations for the event itself, as well as 

Solstice themed wearables and wares to sell at the Mart

in anticipation of the celebration. These otherwise 

occupied relations, we will tell what we decide, when

we do. Cas looks pensive. He hugs Bonnie, stays close

to her side, holds her hand in his to calm her after her

ordeal, consequent fear. He tells us clearly that worries

won't help us focus as we must. He suggests, leads

group meditation, to raise a more peaceful, productive

vibration. What we can do, so far a mystery, we need to

manifest quickly, aware tomorrow is far too near.




Cas


We, Jamee, Paul, and me, went with Alee to meet with

the Upper, Custer, as we were told he was called, who

had demanded her presence at the Clinic. We thought

to provide her emotional support, back up if necessary.

He was much as we imagined from Sophia's description.

Proud, arrogant stance to emphasize his grandeur, his

ultimate power, yet a man, despite his position, engulfed

in fear, pain, trepidation for a loved one's safety. He

made imperious demands, yes, from vast decade's of

practice; but here and now, it is all about getting the answer

he so desperately wants, to restore what he had thought

lost, to repay his urgent prayers. In the face of his obvious

hostility, I countered, offered my gentling aura of peace.

We made our best effort to assure him we meant no ill or

resistance, that, simply, in this instance our sister no longer

possessed the ability he had counted on. He appeared to

calm a bit, though maintaining his superior air. When he

deigned to speak to we inferiors, it was quietly, with dense

iron behind. He warned, forcefully, yet not much above a

whisper, not to toy with him, that his retaliation would be

swift and likely more than we could bear. Then he stormed

out, left us in a state of puzzled paralysis. Alee began to cry.

Jamee moved to hold her, share their tears. Paul looked on,

painfully helpless. I just stood, waited for the fullness of

this event to make sense of it, to develop a forward plan.

Nothing more to be done here, we went home, after reporting

to Bonnie what had occurred. Marta and Sophia would be

at work at the School. Bobby and his crew were at the Mart,

selling their Solstice themed art before the Fire Pit party at

the end of next week. This salute to Summer celebration is

every year a big deal. The whole community gets together

in an atmosphere of gleeful fun, more than a little

inebriation, for those who so choose, a sacred supplication

for a wonderful Summer, a time of warmth, light, easing

of cares, that joy pervade. I have always loved this coming

together, communal accord, shared celebration, dedicated

to our hopes for happy days ahead. As the interval from now

to then passes, preparations escalating, I am fond of spending

hours at the Mart, watching people display their festive wares,

chatter of this and that, act as a happy collaboration, readying

to each be part of our yearly rite. Over these days of greater

sunlight, when all ought feel benign, I notice a mounting

dissatisfaction, hostility toward my family, questions from those

I work with at the Factory, not with anger aimed toward me,

who they know to be a friend, but still, tinged with suspicion,

with growing, if otherwise directed, ire. At the Mart, after

my shift had ended, I wonder what I  watch as a developing

crowd surrounds a loud speaker, increases as more people 

move closer to listen. There appears to be a contagious agitation, 

unlike any scene I have previously witnessed here. I recognize

the booming voice as that Upper, Custer's. I had heard that

after our meeting he sent his ailing wife back home, to the

City, with their servants, while he remained, staying at the

Compound dorm. I supposed he meant to ascertain how we

might be persuaded to do his bidding, come to his aid, or

maybe undertake an investigation, if he believed we were

faking our inability to comply. Apparently, his strategy is to

incite our neighbors to cry out against us, apply pressure we

cannot ignore as we could a stranger, or escape. To that end,

he exhorts them, invents vicious lies about our motives,

characterizes Alee as a heartless player with lives in peril.

I listen a short while to figure out what he intends, how his

falsehoods are being received by people who should know

better, having lived all these years within this shared

environment. I speak, somberly, quietly, my familiar calm

demeanor a counterpoint to the Upper's screaming wrath.

Those nearest me, here on the open path between Gardens

and Mart, where people tend to gather, listen, assent to

my clear sense. I deliver silently a prayer for peace, while

expressing a public plea for their remembrance of reality,

adherence to sanity. My words of reason ripple through

the short distance to the ever more unsettled group of

Barros that are assembling to figure out what is occurring

here. I metaphorically feel their rising temperature mellow,

if only momentarily. I understand this situation, power play,

Custer's angry answer to not getting his way, may prove

a danger to our communal happy plans, as social unrest

is raised. I wait, patiently, wrapped in my practiced calm,

for Custer to have his thorough say, provoke praise from

his enthralled audience. Once he departs our vicinity,

presumably to the Compound for what he would consider

appropriate sustenance, having no trust for local

establishments, I share my disbelief, correct disinformation

he has spewed, to rip the veil of heightened emotional 

tactics he employed to spread falsehoods, vilify my family.

I see they listen with agreement that this City stranger has

no idea who we are. I behoove them not to lose our festive

mood, not to allow this agitator to disrupt our Solstice

merriment.




Paul


It's less than a week until our big celebration. As I enjoy

my morning perambulation of our commons immersed

in gay preparations, I feel an unexpected pall, almost a

seething veil between what should be a warmly happy

occasion and something, dare I even think it, evil. I keep

hearing an ominous "Custer says" as I wander familiar

spaces along Garden paths. This Upper apparently means

to terrorize our family, out of some weird retribution for

not succumbing. He has stayed here, in the Barro, after

sending his wife and servants back to their home. Now

he hangs out where people tend to gather, drawing crowds

of listeners with his loud voice, imperious stance. I have

not been among them, having better, more productive

uses, for my attention. Still, every day I become more

aware of this disturbance rippling through our common

air. People already working through despair brought on

by loved ones' illness want more gratifying answers than

we have been able to give them. We tell them, truthfully,

Alee is doing her best to regain the ability they ask for,

but it will take time. We don't know how long. I have

experienced no overt hostility, but feel a pervasive

bitter edge in every conversation, as if below their

surface rationality. Despite the urging of seasonal joy,

they appear, subconsciously, ever closer to the

emergence of expressing a desire for restitution or

revenge. These are the people I have been greeting,

working with, serving, always. I have been ever aware

of their appreciation, their respect for me as Mayor.

Yet, these before me today are not behaving as those 

I have forever known. They exude a coldness, even in 

this warmth of Summer's closeness. I want, wait to hear

the joyful noise of holiday gaiety. I fear a very precious

solidarity, communal sanity has been driven toward

a breaking point. This is not the world I have grown

as part of. My people, those I have known for all

these years, I thought well, break my heart. I feel

an urgency of tears brim into my eyes, but decline to

allow them to fall. Instead I head for the Fire Pit to 

watch those who retain the celebratory spirit decorate,

in rhythm to the jamming musicians, taking a festive

break from rehearsing their repertoire for the big

occasion. I wait pensively, knowing Jamee will arrive

after his shift at the Factory, a fair walk to the South,

where he will be coming from. The late Spring weather,

once again halcyon. This season has been filled with

such glorious days, as if wanting to call us out of our

dark thinking. I stand here, alone, looking out at my

people at play, hoping this beauteous Spring a 

harbinger of good fortune, a Summer, a future, in 

which these stupid hostilities have been exchanged 

back to the community I envision.



Jay


Hey, hey, to the longest afternoon of this perplexing

year. Here am I, not soaking up the Solstice sunshine

before the big party, but cooking in the Diner for the

pre-festival crowd. As ever, on such special occasions,

the Diner overflows with hyped up customers who

enjoy this eating together with friends in public as 

entrance to the celebration. This increase in people

requiring meals means Gus must call in relief staff.

Greta and I both support Joseph for his today

elongated shift, extra hours to take us until early

closing to relocate to the Fire Pit. That way, Terry

won't need to come in for a short shift, gets to have

a special day of play. Joseph doesn't mind the extra pay,

nor do Greta and I, who normally would not be working

here these hours. When called to come in, I left Alee,

as usual for her lately, dance trancing on the Theater

stage. She is engrossed in this ritual she believes will

reply with the answer she seeks, the path to re-light

her gift.  She keeps saying she feels ever closer to her goal.

I'm not as sure of that reality, yet I do feel something like

greater energy emerging, as if from an undersea journey,

near to surfacing. Perhaps my desperate imagination, but

Jamee has quite recently said he feels it too. Maybe 

Summer's beneficence will fulfill our hopes, Solstice

wishes. Here and now, at work in the Diner, I feel uneasy.

The mood is not the cheerful, hale and breezy I expect

on this festive occasion. Instead, the waves of conversation

wafting through to my ears appear agitated, even hostile,

the words "Custer says" a repeated theme. This Custer is

the one who had imperiously threatened Alee, the whole

family, when she disappointed his demand. I heard he sent

his ailing wife back to the City, while himself remaining on

this side of the River. He has been raising crowds, curious

about who he is, why this stranger berates their neighbors,

loudly, in our most populated public spaces. Then there

are the malcontents, happy for an excuse to dissent, applaud

their own opinions as they assume Custer's sentiments

reflect them. Dumb asses interfering with our annual festive

community activities, elated mood. I try to ignore their

annoying folly, concentrate on my anticipated evening to

come. I look forward to partying with my people at the Pit.

Alee will be awaiting me there, as Paul and Jamee have arranged

to take her along with them. She seemed more cheerful, flashed

an impish smile when I left earlier. Perhaps this fortuitous

shortest night will be the one we pray for.





Alee


Lights dim, quiet except for the reverent melody I sing as I

dance, slowly, swiftly, intensely, as my body leads me. I try

to discover in trance where that power on switch, magic wick

candle can be found, revived. Isn't this the shortest span of

darkness for the year, a powerful reset between Sun and

Earth? A sacred day we celebrate, open our souls to all

natural blessings, enhanced by the work we add, 

adapting what we need with what we have. My people

feel a simple spirituality. We create rituals, ceremonies,

stories to aver our appreciation, pray our greatest wishes

be fulfilled. In this way, we become more in tune with who

we truly are, with the majestic Universe, Creator, Destroyer,

All That Exists. With a sparkling fondness, which doesn't

interrupt, rather ripples through my trance, I recall Solstice

parties past. Dancing, singing, around the brilliant Fire Pit,

sharing specially made delicacies, jugs of wine, pipes filled

with potent herb, as the ever morphing band radiates our

communal vibrations, players dropping in and out,

continuing the jam we, in concert, dance with. A treasured 

treat we all anticipate through the days between, because,

ultimately, we love the fun, camaraderie, joyful uplifting 

shared together that turn us from our everyday worries into

momentary ecstasy, what celebration is meant to be. I

anticipate this evening, feel a smile's happy glow, when

my friends and I will join in, become our part of the revelry,

free and easy community at one in exuberance. I let this

delight fill me, surround my twirling form, allow profound

peace. I need not be so intent on my mission that I forget

to take in these effulgent blessings of being alive, in touch

with what living means. Wrapped up in this reverie, I don't

know when the Theater's quiet shifted into loudness

from the entering of something like a dozen men of various

ages. Moving toward the stage, a mass of sound and fury,

I could barely make out what they were saying. Angry

epithets became more clear. What had so riled them was

less apparent, until that Upper, Custer, who had

previously tried to terrorize me and my family, made

his way to the stage to stand beside me. I stepped back,

stopped my dance, as I became aware of my less than

pleasant audience. Perhaps, in fact, they were here to be

entertained, but not by a Theater play of fantasy. They were

after an immersive experience of their own self-expressive

devising. Custer stood by, not looking at, me, scanning

his men to ascertain how to proceed with most impact.

He was not so much seething as emanating an outraged

confidence in his speech. His audience seemed quite

appreciative, punctuating his oration with screams of

assent, bitter sneers directed at me. I knew not what to do,

how I might appease them. I had done nothing to invite

such ire. They seemed to believe I was purposely

withholding what they quite obviously desired, deserved.

I knew I would not be able to penetrate their pre-decision

of what was their right, who was the villain. Still,

I courageously tried to explain I was on their side. I was

not denying them their boon out of willful meanness, or

other untoward motivation.  I am simply not at this time

able to comply. I don't know if they even heard me. What

I said made no difference to their menacing demeanor.

I felt an urgent desire to cry, to release my fear. I just stood

there, looking out on these, my people, though I realized,

I truly recognized maybe one or two of them, knew them

maybe not as well as I believed. The men who stood here, 

cursing, grumbling, were not among those who stood out 

in our community. These were just regular guys, now 

transformed, mesmerized, part of an entrained mob. 

They had been brought to this state by the urgings, 

exhortations of hate, infused into them by this Upper 

puppet master. I had never witnessed such a display, 

had no idea my people could act, their good sense nullified, 

this way. Custer at last took a breath from his haranguing

monologue, turned to face me. Spit falling from his mouth, 

along with his hyped up imprecations, he accused with force.

"She claims to have no energy to supply what we need from

her.  Yet, LOOK! Here she dances! Obviously, she is 

entertained by our tragedies. I had to send my dear,

grievously ill, Angeleen back to our home in the City

to be more comfortable, as much as she can be, knowing

her supreme hope for a cure destroyed." He points at me:

"Angeleen would be already healed, had you done as told.

All these people's loved ones could be well. You have no

right to so cruelly play with our grief. We have given you

every opportunity to relent, to be the healer we were

promised by your previous good deeds, before your 

abhorrent bait and switch." He momentarily turned his

head from me to face outwardly. Anger emblazoned voice, 

adding emphasis "Are we going to let her get away with 

such egregious heartlessness?" he blared, not so much 

question as command. I saw the mob of Barros listen, 

applaud. A dire tension extended throughout the room. 

Someone had turned up the Theater lighting. It was now 

as bright, though harsher, than outside.

The mob, as one, moved closer to the stage where Custer

and I stood, face to face. His shoulders began to shake. Out 

of nowhere, he struck me, hard. The mob cheered. He

 struck again, less unexpected. Deliberately, again and again, 

he struck, drawing blood across my face, amid wild applause 

from below. Some, and yes, very few, jumped up to grab the 

stage edge, pulled themselves up to confront me. 

Apparently, walking up the stairs, as Custer had, was not 

manly enough for their performance. I knew, had no doubt,

this confrontation would not end well. I knew it pointless

to yell for help. Everyone else was too far to hear, out

preparing for this evening's festivities. The Com, where

the Theater is located, was otherwise empty, with

everyone's focus on the far to the East Fire Pit. Jay would

still be at the Diner; Jamee, Bobby, Paul at the Bar, all too

far to hear voices, even screams, from the Theater. It

seems unlikely that anyone out there is aware of these

men's intentions, or, for those who know my habits,

that there is anyone here but me. My face hurts from

Custer's heavy hand. Now, these others stand within

easy reach, their faces contorted with rabid hate.

I feel weak, nauseous, plead with my brimming eyes,

my voice unable to comply with my desire to speak.

What could I say, anyway? They don't want to know

that I am a real human being, as they. They fall upon

me in concert, screaming so close to my ears, 

"Fake Healer!" "Bait and switch!" "What will it take

for you to relent!" they insist, folks I had believed my 

neighbors, eyes ablaze with hate. Still shrieking, they 

move closer, leading with closed fists, until I fall

to the floor. I know better than to try to rise, to offer

resistance that might greater inflame them. Yet,

despite my obvious helplessness, a couple kick me

where I lay, repeatedly, as I feel my consciousness

fade.




Jamee


What a glorious day for our big party at the Fire Pit!

Done with this morning's Factory shift, I wander a bit.

to enjoy the busy preparations, the Mart ablaze with

decorations, themed wares of vast varieties. The Sun

does its part, shining above, not a cloud to be seen.

Yet, not so much a pall, a maybe less than expected

merry atmosphere, I'm sure it will all clear, as our

celebrations move forward. Getting quite warm, here

in the Summer air, I stop in to the cooler Bar for a

mug of wine, maybe to flute into the ongoing jam,

hang with the guys, regulars and some who have

dropped by to imbibe to toast the holiday. Everyone

here seems to be properly enthused. I happily engage

in light conversation, while sipping my wine. There

will be plenty of intoxication tonight, no need to

overindulge this early. I see Terry, from the Diner,

arrive. He has no shift this evening, since Gus will

be closing early to relocate to the Fire Pit. Thus,

he has Joseph taking a few extra hours, allowing

Terry to slide. Apparently, Terry, out doing errands,

has stopped in for refreshment. I signal from my seat

to come join. As he orders his wine, I notice some

agitation coming from him. He turns to face me, 

smiling, but nervously, as he explains he's glad I'm

here. He has a queer incident to relate.

"I was at the Com, picking up some spare instruments

from one of the School's rehearsal rooms." I could see

he carried them in a sack, strapped across his

shoulder. He continues his anecdote: "As I left,

ambling back to the path to the Mart, I became aware

of a pack of surly men, most likely drunk, entering

the Theater. I don't know what they intended,

but I doubt it is good. Doesn't your sister hang out

there with her actor friends?"

A warning sign flashed in my mind. I feel foreboding,

a cloud enveloping my sunny sky. I immediately

jump up and run to the Theater, not knowing

what I might find. What I do find inside, is nothing

I could have ever expected. In the bright light I

witness over a dozen screaming men, brutally enraged

beyond reason. There would be no talking them down.

They surrounded the target of their ire, asserting their

desire to destroy her. Cheering them on from above,

the Upper, Custer, exercising his belief that wielding

power means inciting brutality. My sweet, loving sister,

one who would never willingly cause harm, had been

pulled from the stage where she had been innocently

dancing. It was a mob of like fifteen men, not a true 

contingent of we who live here, none I consider friends.

Over the years, I'm sure I've seen them here and there,

but never like this: insane with rage. Though fifteen or

so them surrounded to terrorize, only very few

actually beat upon her. But fifteen big, strong men,

even if it was only a few delivering blows, ganged up

against one smallish young woman, already weakened 

from what she has freely given, healing people in need.

I strive to move through the crowd, to get back to 

where she is lying, to help her. When I am able to

reach her, I try to avert my sight, find the denial of

disbelief. All I could hear, over the angry shrieks of

these people I had thought part of our community,

was the screaming within me:  Too Late Too Late Too

Late! Alee made no sound. A couple of those

surrounding her kept kicking, stomping her inert body.

Her skull broken, as well as rips throughout her skin,

oozing viscous blood. I understood, there had been no

beneficent spirit guiding us through a mysterious

journey to ultimate good. This is a Trickster, evil,

merry sprite. I fall to the floor, silently, cover my

sister's torn body with my own, trying to hug, kiss

her back to life. I barely notice, intent on Alee's missing

breath, as the men disperse, leave me alone.






Angeleen


 

What an amazing, glorious (is it Summer now?) day!

Sun streaming through my open window, I gaze out

to take in this perfection. My perfect sky view, birds

fly, sing arias, enchanting. Full consciousness shows

me this is no dream. First thing I notice next, no pain.

As I attempt to move out of bed, oh, my, marvelous!

No hesitation, no lassitude, fatigue; my body moves

smoothly. I am alive, lively, revived! Able again, at

last, to sing, dance, twirl like a ballerina, be me.

Overwhelmed by joy, the survival of my spirit through

such a strange ordeal. I feel not just elated, energized,

also triumphant. I know I was not responsible for my

illness, or its disappearance. To some extent, I guess,

I have been both abused and blessed -- a metaphor of

my story. While laid low, unable to express myself

to any but my active consciousness, I was far from

bitter, nor did I entertain anger against some evil

deity. Basically, I maintained equanimity, fine with

whatever I was given to adapt to. I was carefully

raised to fall back on that attitude. I was never meant

to be concerned about myself. All of me belongs

to him, my dear benefactor, Creator. I have no higher

god, or goal. While unable to fulfill what he desired

from me, he, as always, took my full focus, what little

I could give. Now, of course, I am supremely happy,

all my bright, brilliant shine revived. Gloriously

glad to resume my fairy tale, happy ever after life,

Custer provides, our beautiful folie a 'deux. I have

no idea what any of these changes mean, or if there

exists any available reason, explanation. I twirl about,

breathe deeply, my whole being a wide, wide smile.

I have never felt so overbrimming with pride, joy,

effervescence. I can't wait for Custer's face of pure

love and amazement when he returns from the

Barro, most likely tonight. I know he will be 

wonderfully overjoyed to see me so vibrant, alive. 

We will fuse our shared exhilaration, celebrate as 

never before. What more could either of us ask, but 

that the destiny Custer most elegantly mapped be 

restored.



Sunday, June 8, 2025

Act 5



Act 5: Complications




Alee



In the Theater, dancing out the fear

that needs to leave me. It's a bright,

sunny afternoon early in the glorious

month of June, outside. In here, lights are

dim, so as not to distract me from cleansing

reverie. Jay is out and about being Jay.

She says she'll be by later, after I've had my

exercise in catharsis. She knows I want to

have this time alone, to let movement take

me, without regard for her shared space

onstage. All those too long, empty days,

I and my inner music played in dreamlike

trance. I return to that place of peace as I dance,

unattached, unaware of a world out there.

Breath attuned to limbs, feet, a whirl of

scenery from behind flickering eyes, I gift

myself to fate, as if fate cares for the autonomy

a gift implies. It's been a swirl of activity, these

weeks, this invigorating Spring, filled with

surprises. I can't pretend to have had a hand in

what has occurred. More like I was overtaken by

forces beyond my understanding, beyond explanation

or experience of any of our family. Of course I

always enjoyed the appreciation of audience, large

or intimate.  I like that people like my presence,

my happy attitude they say I exude to bring them

uplifting. I know I am overly self-involved. I try to

provide balance by focusing on dispersing those

shareable qualities people respond to by smiling,

when appropriate, applause. A sense of emotional

balance is far from my current situation. The relief

I dispense is not from my talents, experience, nature.

There is an unsolved, maybe unsolvable, mystery

at work, creating this vital service it manifests through

me. I feel this euphoric spirit fill every bit of my being,

demanding I act, connect, allow it forward expression

to join that healing power it infuses with the person 

in need. This blissful blessing seems to invigorate, give

me sacred energy, not of my own. No surprise, I guess,

that once it has passed through me to fulfill its purpose,

I am left drained. At first recovery occurred quickly.

Dory took longer than Barbara because the interval 

between was so short. It seemed like as long as I had

adequate time to rest, sleep I could continue to give

what this spirit sought from our arrangement. But

the twin calls of people's needs and my own growing

addiction to the processes' euphoric effect made it feel

impossible to keep to a healthful schedule, to keep me

whole, well rested, properly restored. And now it has all

snowballed. Everyone's buzzing the word of my results

that cured their neighbors, gave renewal to people

struck down by illness the Clinic was helpless to defeat.

They seem to think I somehow owe this healing to those

they know who could benefit. They show no compassion

when I or my family explain my dilemma of fatigue.

My natural inclination is to help, but that is less of an

option, now that the necessary spark of energy, that which

allows the spirit to emerge, that must come from me,

has been exhausted, at least at this time. Bobby and Cas

have started talking with people they know to be

reasonable, civically astute, who know and trust them.

They will figure out what to do, plan a Stakeholders'

Meeting at the Theater. Thus, we will soon have the

chance to state the facts of the case, answer questions,

assure all that our goals are the same. I am not withholding

a boon for some nefarious motivation. I am, as always,

doing what I can to improve our community with the

abilities I possess. These people have known me, in their

midst for so many years.  Yes, I was to their eyes gone for

quite a while, perhaps forgotten by some for whom I had

been but another youngster. Yet, I have been back these

weeks, in which I have done everything asked of me,

healed their friends, family members, when that talent

manifested, with no question or demand. Here I am, the

Alee many have claimed to love, appreciate, not some 

stranger they might fear to trust. Or, if I am not someone

well remembered, our whole family is well known to be

good folk. Bobby plays with exuberance at parties public

and private. Bonnie treats your wounds. Marta works and

works, demanding science provide better Garden seeds,

techniques to feed us all with improved means of production,

distribution, that we have greater opportunities to thrive.

Our Stakeholder selected Mayor, Paul is always looking out

for all of us. Every day he makes his rounds to check out if

anyone has issues to be solved. Jamee spreads amusement,

his lilting flute, peaceable presence, eagerness to be everyone's 

helpful friend, join with good humor in executing whatever

chore is being currently addressed. In any situation, he is

an excellent listener, one who makes us feel heard, cherished.

And all the rest of us, interactive in daily occupations, well

meaning neighbors, happy to lend a hand, an ear, a musical

interlude, to grace our common space with our creativity,

intelligence, good will. I don't recall their ever arising a

contretemps between our clan and anyone else. Jay has

arrived as promised. She hugs my swirling form from

behind, smiles, suggests, her voice caresses me with loving

kindness, we get back to the apt that I may take in

nourishment, sleep, be at peace.




Jamee



People can be surprisingly kind, reasonable, when given

reason to be so. My friends came through for us in the end,

not just sympathetic, but what friends ideally are. Alee,

Cas and I gave our testimony, shared our plight

forthrightly, with kind regard against the animosity of

some, perhaps among those who don't know us well.

There were questions from some of those, spit out as

though a weapon of hostility. They were more than

balanced by people who needed greater clarity to

understand their options, our positions, how it could

be possible for everyone to win. After all, until this recent

seeming miracle, Alee's emergent skill provided, we had

contended with these illnesses in a state of hopelessness.

We, our family, among those afflicted, resigned to never

have Alee as we had known her again. Our friends

remember our suffering. After all, it was not long ago,

but up until very recently. We have no way of knowing

how her miraculous recovery occurred for us, or

subsequently those now cured by Alee's intervention.

We have no interest, nor cause to keep this healing from 

them. We are all in this together, visited by a mystery

that appears to mean us well. There is no reason for

animosity, no foe to retaliate against. Rather, we ought

to be engaging in reverent celebration of the happy change

we witness in those thought lost, the further possibilities

if only we show patience toward one recently recovered 

woman who is doing all she can. She is no benevolent

deity of unending power. She is our Alee, a bright sprite

of a girl, who used to twirl about, shining like an

emissary of the Sun. My beloved sister, a solid friend

to many here, how could you doubt her? Gossip only

tells a condensed, if possible shocking, part of the truth.

To get to the same page, we engage in conversations,

each to express our questions, what we feel, suggestions

to progress beyond private fears, public misconceptions.

I lie here in the quiet of night, while everyone else

appears to be asleep, thinking over what has transpired,

but hours since. Alee seems less agitated, more secure,

as do we all. We, the community, have agreed to wait

and see how Alee's power fluctuates, how we, together

may best figure out what she can manage, what duration

between healing sessions allows her enough rest. Yes,

those few sour complainers continue, as is their

annoying nature. They are not about to change who they

are. More and more, though, surprisingly I find,

generally people are essentially kind when not responding

to the challenge of hostility. Some amazing few even

rise above the sounds of fury, kindness shining through

their wise, abiding eyes. Cas is like that. His calm, peaceful

demeanor, enhanced by his constant meditation practice,

but his from the start, never seems to leave him, no matter

the provocation. I know he feels pain, in body, mind,

spirit, as appropriate to the exigencies of reality. Still,

he holds those feelings under the control of his greater

motivation to provide a continuity of grace that emerges

from his essential core. His perception of what life is for

is far different from mine. I can't say I understand how

he is as he is. Each of us siblings exudes our own natural

talents, passions. Better together, to share what we have on

offer, to expand our combined hearts, the whole enhancing

the parts. Feeling this through, I am gladdened, blessed with

exhilaration that releases, replaces, fear and sadness with

peaceful somnolence. Paul gently moves in his sleep, beside

me. I feel the safe presence of those I most love surround,

This soothing bliss I've found for now to carry me into

tomorrow's adventures, takes me into easy dreams, even

breath, musical interlude.





Cas



I sit in contemplation, calm, focused, after

my regular, daily, formal meditation. Of course,

my flow of activities are each their own meditative

practice.  Bonnie has passion, to ease the ravages

of disease, heal injuries, generally do as she can

to promote a well community. She feels driven by

a self-imposed destiny, in honor of her long deceased

sisters, her formative disaster, her family's legacy of

pain, dissolution.  Her passion does not bring her

peace; that is mine, to help those within my influence

to find their peaceful place, ease their minds when

issues agitate and keep them from the calm focus

needed, to ameliorate, sooth, solve, move beyond.

Today I contemplate our neighbors' recent

deliberations, their change in attitude after clear

communication. From outraged fear to mellowed

sense, people get roused, overwhelmed, when

triggered with emotional manipulation, not 

necessarily derived from some foul motivation,

more usually coming from their own unthinking

reactions to what goes around, surrounds as 

ambient contagious panic, sadness, celebration,

dedication to rational consideration, whatever the

currents demand. Always I do what I can to counter

turbulence with balance, to encourage stronger

attention to their core of reason, amiable relationship,

kindly automatic default. People often say my presence

gives temporary pause in jumbling thoughts, enjoyable

feelings of peace, lightness, a moment of gentle clarity.

If only such a moment would expand into a constancy

of lasting revelation, a self-companionship that reminds

us who we are, how we ideally prefer to live. Yet even

within my intimate family, consistent recipients of my

influence, my concern, they don't, for the most part, 

exemplify emotional control. They fall into each their 

own well traveled patterns of effusions, immediate 

enthusiasms, unfounded barriers of fears, unbound 

intense reactions when unresolved traumas are triggered. 

My joyful service, ever renewed blessing to my evolving

consciousness, does not falter nor get bogged down

in thoughts of fault, impatience with human

imperfections. These fluctuations of temperament,

moods, instigations to dismay, deny best acts, in

favor of retaliations or self-flagellations, are not foes,

but friends to show me the infinite, intricate

machinations, why I've been gifted this precious

conscious humanity. As Fate reveals her patterns,

day by day, I stand amazed.




Bonnie



Another of those sparkling days outside. This

Spring has been full of them, cloudless sunshine,

merry breezes, birds and bees abuzz, singing.

I thoroughly basked in that pleasant scene, before

starting my shift at the Clinic. Right now is a

quiet interlude, no emergencies or planned

examinations, procedures. I can reflect, let my

thoughts wander. I like to think things through,

extract any nuggets of truth, follow streams of

information gathered into questions, investigations,

what may become the basis of new treatments,

improvements of what we have learned to do

to keep our neighbors well. I always feel so

inadequate, letting people down who have

sought me out to relieve their suffering, when

what I know to do is not enough. Now, more and

more when that occurs, I am asked if Alee could

be their cure. At first I would bring them together,

when only very few presented with such pleas.

These past several days, since the gossip has

permeated, I am forced to face all of these in

need with no easy answer. Alee's degenerative

fatigue goes unabated despite her attempts at

restorative rest. I have no idea how best to treat

her, either. At home, buffered by Cas' s soothing

company, I release these anxieties. When we met,

as teens working out our identities, I immediately

realized, while I am clearly quite intelligent, he

is wise, has always been so, well beyond his years,

even as a child. Though he is years younger than me,

I knew back then, when first acquainted, becoming

intensely solid friends, I needed his wisdom to be

complete, to reach my best me. Every day we spend

together proves that again. Of what use would my

fine mentality be if undermined constantly by deeply

held fears, demanding panic of inadequacy, without

the calming tools he provides for me to use as needed?

My life is so blessed, yet still I easily fall into a kind of

depression when too tired to think clearly. I surmise

Alee's debilitating tiredness, with the added pressure

of knowing there are those desperate for her aid, feels

like more than she can bear. All of these miraculous

happenings, with Alee at their center, perhaps the next

chapter will allow her to regain, even to a greater

extent, energy enough to cure all of those who now

suffer without recourse from diseases for which we 

at the Clinic have exhausted our known treatments.

Cas assures that the Universe is moving as it should

to insure the ascendancy of good, that we can trust this

guiding light of truth to reach us. I don't know what

this, hopefully beneficial, Universe wants from me.

My best plan, I think, is to follow my heart and reason

where they lead.




Camille



The day Alee rewoke, by chance my birthday, I

gave myself a party/art show, presented my work

and some from promising students. Yes, that night

we had a grand family celebration, though not

for my new year. I am truly grateful, unusually

happy for me as previously, now all these years

of having family. Back then, these people welcomed

this unruly stranger on Bobby's word, when we

were teens in love. He rescued me from my demons,

gave me more than a home, a chance to grow into

a much better me. Though he insisted I made the

greater gift to him, of purpose and partnership.

A far from ambitious middle child, among such

intense company his family provided, he felt he

drifted from one pleasant scene to the next. In

music he found a relaxing, if often loud and

evoking perspiration, occupation for much of

his time, passed on from his encouraging father's

influence, how he learned to be himself. I

never took issue, was in full agreement, about

naming our children for his grappa, and later

dad, in our bereavement, each in their turn.

I was sad with him, with all of them, glad for

this symbol to give in remembrance. I see

them as my heroes, who were the first to show

me how a family can work together, after having

basically raised myself. I've had great sympathy

for Jay, in some ways similar to me, in escaping

a miserable home. Though she has been less on

her own with Alee's companionship from 

childhood, and the wonderful homelife she was

able to share, as Bobby gave me, but much

earlier in their journey. Long before I became

their extended sister, I would notice those two,

mischievous, elated kids, about the Mart and

here and there, engaged in their imaginary

adventures, later organized as plays for

theatrical endeavors with their acquired

thespian flock. I would often see Jay without

her alter ego when she visited her sisters, then

my apt mates, and her father who resided 

next door. I knew their family history pretty

well, from Rebecca and Gwen's sneering

recollections. At least my mom left me out of

her miseries, dying when I was so young, but

Gramma Carolyn more than made up for her

reprieve. Barbara, their mom, was well known

for being crazy and mean. During the years when

their dad, Mal, was still able to deal, apparently

she seemed more stable, though not enough for

him to stick it out forever. When he left, Gwen

and Rebecca, the oldest two of the sisters, were,

though children, old enough to be aware, share a 

plan to get out when they could. We met during

that escape process for all of us, as teens. My

acquaintance with Jay helped me to see Bobby

as more than some younger than us good time

kid. His being younger never mattered once we 

became friends, then hot lusting teen lovers.

Once we knew we were us, we moved in with

Cas and Bonnie, Gramma Liz and Grappa Dan.

To the extent we could, we helped out with the

old folks' care. Secure in this arrangement, I

settled down into figuring out how to make

my art a popular commodity, even build an

art community, dreams I could realize bit by

bit. And, after years of patient work, here we are,

the strong central part of an artistic guild. My

days filled with busy activities, finding potential

customers for work displayed at the Mart and

arranging shows, accepting commissions, creating

and teaching classes. I am awash in passing 

conversations, neighborly chatter, the buzz of

gossip, that cements community commerce.

 These days the main buzz concerns my family.

People learned, from the meeting, or the

pervasively circulating word, of Alee's

inability to continue her healing of those in

need. The prevalent demeanor suggests they are

willing to be sympathetic, but wonder how long

it will be necessary to wait for her recovery. 

People generally don't like to be patient, though

they know at times they must put up with delays.

People prefer their demands met quickly, then

on to the next. Alee, sadly, despite her recent

emphasis on rest, seems slow to progress. She

appears to be falling toward depression, unlike

the Alee we all expect. We had been overjoyed to

have her returned to us well and energized. 

We have been wary, but happy to accept when

she evidenced this beneficent gift of Fortune.

Those amazed days now fade into apprehension,

growing tension through our surrounding

atmosphere. I gravely hope we may again find

happy blessing, our nurturing clan able to devise

an efficacious plan that creates better futures for

all concerned.




Jay


 

I sit in this low-lit theater, cool due to climate

control, in contrast to warmer climes outside

in the afternoon sunshine. I watch Alee trance,

dance as her body commands, her mind clearly

elsewhere. She has confided she has reason to

believe she can find that deep, deep core of

healing energy, re-light it, make it roar once

more, that she might extend it into those in

need. I do sincerely hope this intuition speaks

truth, that she is re-gifted that agency before

its absence consumes her, as I see it already

does in the sense of growing desperation. 

Dance seems to sooth her, at least in the

moment. All she seems to desire to do is this

trancing out here, or sleep for the dreams,

the peace. In-between she agrees to nutrition,

brief conversation. It is better than when she

barely existed, but terrifying us that she might

get lost again. Those years I learned to depend

on myself, discover resourcefulness built from

early experience, when despite our houseful

of sisters, I was alone. I think my siblings held

it against me that Dad, their buffer from our

horrible mother, left when I, the youngest, was

too young to remember a better home. 

Fortunately, but a few years later, Alee and

I combined. I was able to remove myself to

her wonderful world, welcoming kin. Though

I know I am still welcome, without her to anchor

me, I drifted into random activities with friends

from our theater flock that missed her too, yet

without the immediacy of grieving family so

I could remove myself from that greater, 

escalating pain. We from outside got to

grieve together, find mending, fall into this

new reality, different enough to be ours

without her inspiring charm. My solo

performances, on and off stage, allowed me

to hide behind the part I played. That inner

place where I kept what consciously would

mis-serve me to dwell upon, gave me instead

fantasies to share with the flock. I continued

as a back-up cook for Gus, along with two

of my sisters, and others, but cut back my

front fill-in hours without Alee to give me

reason of her company to continue as before.

I kept up my time committed to the Pantry/

Kitchen, and bringing meals to the disabled

because it felt good to bask in community

spirit, to speak with these fascinating people,

whose stories I could mingle with mine in

that mental factory producing scripts to

perform. Of course, now the background 

conditions have changed. Our world is abuzz

about Alee, her strange journey, how it will

continue to progress, if in the end our friend

will be the sort of savior our neighbors hope

for, or if that miraculous glimpse is all we get.

She dances on our familiar stage until ready

to go home for dinner and bed. I am truly

glad to have yet this much of her still left

to notice we who love her, respond to our

concerns and affection, what the affliction

of her addiction, denial of her drug and

the continued execution of her mission,

 has left us, but a small retention of what

we had believed to be re-found.



Sophia


 

What a beautiful early June late afternoon. My 

School day done, while Marta works away,

I take a perambulation, lazy, easy, onto the

well-worn path NorthWest of the Towers,

beside the River, almost touching the Forest.

I watch the River flow a while, feel the fragrant

breeze that wafts through blooming trees, the

brilliant Garden flowers to my immediate

South, hugging the path, then down over

plants and paths, seeming forever. A bright

blanket of later Spring growth both soothes

and excites my eyes. My thoughts wander,

along with my feet, which unconsciously lead

me. I get caught up in the fantasies of how I

surmise this place would have been in previous

times, as my research suggests. I always love

listening to the stories elicited from elders with

long memories. Often they have records of sorts,

left by those once older, now gone. My history

studies, back when I was a City child, helped me

to develop a structure on which to build a picture

of this land before, long before, I arrived. The site

of the City was discovered, repurposed, by

survivors of a world wide climate holocaust.

Our Uppers, their descendants, and perhaps even

some old timers themselves, thanks to their life

extension practices, are proud of these 

accomplishments that produced a new beginning,

giving no credit to the Lowers, servants, who 

actually did the work. Many of them tend to be 

horribly arrogant, entitled, humorless when it comes 

to their prerogatives. They expect unquestioned

obedience and admiration, supplication as if toward

gods, from we they consider beneath them. Jealous

enough of their inherent superiority, they demand

clear understanding that their enhanced power will

not tolerate dissent or less than expected behavior.

When incensed by Lowers who annoy them, those

miscreants get relegated across the River, banned

from City advantages.  Not at risk for this exile,

the merely indigent, unable to work for the necessary 

creds to pay their way. Such unfortunates, to remove

the blight of their existence from public sight, were

sent to a dormitory facility, dubbed the Poor Dorm,

far enough NorthWest of centers of activity, to never 

enter our thoughts. Over the past less than two centuries, 

changes have occurred, not imagined at the founding 

of our society. The class divisions remain. The rest of

us live at the pleasure of our betters. Utmost loyalty

is assured by unabated surveillance, everywhere in

the City, where AI senses never sleep. Because the

Barro was created to distance the disloyal or

otherwise vexing from Upper interest, such spies

were not employed here, except for the Compound,

under City control for those transplanted to fill

certain vocations. Separated from Barro interference

by an opaque high tech fence, rendering this City

outpost invisible, off limits to those not City raised

and in good graces. Over Barro history, various Uppers,

individually or in concert, out of concern based in

boredom, found use for this newly forming society,

in their endless quest for entertainment, to produce

projects, experiments, gave themselves praise for such 

proof of their humane intentions. Then there is the

Factory to our South and East, beyond where most

Barro people tend to conduct their affairs, except, of

course, during their hours working there. I guess, these

jobs were to some extent meant to repay Upper largesse,

though they also agreed on the need for encouragement

with good wages (at least for this economy) for hard

labor that supplies energy to everyone's benefit. The

Clinic, originally conceived to birth and grow healthy

potential soldiers, became a means to satisfy curiosities,

to see how we learned to manage our medical issues

with the limited skills education and materials they

allow. Meds must be trained at Uni, separated from

everyone else for that duration, only exposed to 

pretty much 20th century methods, to keep these

exiles and their descendants from advancing too far. 

The Com, Community Center, which includes the

School, the Theater, studios, rehearsal rooms, labs

with appropriate equipment, and other amenities,

was part of a master scheme a bunch of culturally

motivated Uppers devised to find talented "pearls"

through observing students learn from the provided

basic education. Later, over the many decades, 

other diverse projects of community involvement 

evolved. Eventually the Store was set up, a space for

entrepreneurial Lowers to sell approved City made 

goods, once the Factory workers had creds to spare 

for such luxuries. A much older institution, more 

important for Upper comfort were the Jails, in the 

subbasements of the Towers. The whole Tower 

complex may have grown from that initial idea. 

Not happy to have dangerous Lowers in their midst 

when violence erupted, the Uppers felt it best to send 

such across the River, not as mere exiles, but confined 

to below ground cages. Once the idea of building 

structures to that end became commonly discussed, 

some who had interest in social engineering 

envisioned the Tower complex as housing for the 

populace. Despite adherence to a policy of disinterest,

City representatives have, in certain instances, 

greatly interfered with Barro development. My 

rambling imaginings have taken me rather far to the 

East along the path between Forest and Gardens. 

I start to hear and see festivities from the Fire Pit, 

where people often like to gather for outdoor parties, 

far enough away from the center of community 

activities, that partiers can pretend this space more 

private sanctuary than it really is. I begin to retrace 

steps, head toward home. We have all been worried 

about Alee's struggle to regain her special energy. She 

seems barely there, not so severe as when she could 

hardly move, do much of anything. She moves, dances 

at the Theater for hours. She speaks, asks our advice 

within rants about how she can practically feel her 

power's source deep inside, getting ready to re-light. 

She eats meals with us, nutrition to build her strength. 

She is here, but not completely, not the Alee we had 

such hope for when she awoke from those years of 

bare existence, showed us our friend, our sister, again, 

for that precious while. Maybe she is right, her power 

will re-light, she will once more be restored.




Custer



They say I'm arrogant, as if a sin. How am I

different from them. Raised to my elevated station,

I am who I have been made. That is not, though,

the arrogance they object to. It is my supercilious

stance in their regard, in their midst. I am a man

who knows my value. Too highly intelligent to

put up with fools, hypocrites, shallow thinkers,

absence of refined aesthetic taste. With the

abundance of time I have arranged through

science, and not bothering with social

engagements, I am able to reflect, subject my

precious mind to all kinds of knowledge,

subtleties. I cannot respect those who merely

flitter, fritter away endless days based on

nothing more than random pleasure. Yet, I

am the one punished for my eccentricity of

demanding meaningful existence, by a kind

of exile from my social peers. In an effort to 

understand my fellows, their attitudes toward 

me, I voraciously studied human psychology. 

I see, these so-called elite Uppers, for the most 

part, do not have sufficient personal worth to garner 

the attention necessary for power.  Their unlimited

wealth does.  It influences the behaviors of those 

who hope for a boon, or get terrorized by mercenaries 

working for elevated wages.  For me, with all that 

wealth also at my disposal, they offer no incentive to 

alter my ways for their approval. Small minds, easily 

swayed by fashion or temporary fidelities, not worth 

my time or persuasive abilities. Over and over, in all 

these years, I have tried so desperately to find

those of fellow feeling, of thriving intellect, a mind

and psyche I can easily relate to. I have dabbled

in romances that always seem to miss the point.

How can I join in intimacy without there being

a meeting of truths, yearning searches for clarity

of purpose, stimulating conversations, moments of

pure devotion, unadulterated emotions, not so far

evident within the scope of those I have known.

I don't know how it took me so long to give up hope

of satisfactory companionship. I suppose my abject

loneliness to be at fault. Despite what I have been

denied, I do enjoy my solitude. Independent

physical activities, like long River swims, Forest

hikes, a great diversity of exercise as each previous

palls, keep me fit. I am well versed, have immersed

my astute senses in glorious art, from ancient primitive

expressions, through every era's most exquisite

representatives. Visual, musical, tactile, odors ordered

to deliver stories by curated scent memory, ambrosial

flavors, my well-honed tastes lead me to some ephemeral

intimation of ecstasy -- a sacred release from human

limitations into a purer realm. Yet, here where I reside

can feel like a sort of purgatory, where my abiding,

even at times exciting activities won't provide fulfillment

of my greatest desire. I have wandered lonely, through 

what seems to be my destiny, losing any hope of relief.

Because I am a monumentally stupid fool, it has taken

so many precious decades to figure out my solution.

Yes, I have participated in our people's technologies,

practices that extend our youthful days for decades,

maybe, ultimately, centuries. Several decades past my

first century myself, I maintain my appearance and 

energy from my physical peak. My strength, stamina, 

have never waned. I know there are many of us Uppers 

who have invested in progeny, descendants, increasing 

their genetic line, with the precaution of testing for 

unfortunate hereditary traits, or just deciding on the

child they would prefer with genetic editing. Why 

should I not take advantage of our techno-knowledge, 

not for my next generation, but to arrange for a mate 

who meets my idiosyncratic specifications? For several 

years, then, I found great pleasure in essentially 

blueprinting my bride to be. She must, of course, be 

lovely, in every dimension. Her intelligence must shine, 

at least equal to mine. Her artistic sensibilities need to 

be superb, perhaps selecting for ancestry with strong 

creativity and grace. I put out search for such 

characteristics, once I decided clearly what they 

ought be. My embryos thus formed were subjected 

to all the tests and refinements I considered necessary. 

Of course, once thus bred and born, my darling must 

be provided appropriate education to stimulate her

intellect, expose her to the finest beauty, sublime

experience, fodder for her expressive nature to 

blossom. I named her Angeleen, my angel of

Earthly creation. Throughout her childhood, 

as she grew into an amazingly beautiful and 

cultured woman, I often visited. Though vastly 

distanced in age, we developed an easy rapport,

a real friendship, based on mutual admiration, 

binding love. My plan advanced marvelously. 

After she was fully grown, fully prepared, we wed. 

Our ceremony was magical, sweet, beautiful as she.

We fell into our happy routine, domestic bliss.

At long, long last, I have my realized dream, my 

beloved life companion, to fulfill my forward

days. No more to feel alone, unwanted by those

petty folks who spoil my solitude with nothing

to offer but annoyance. See, all of you who thought

me unlovable never knew who I could be with

appropriate motivation. All was going so well. Then,

suddenly, tragically, my angel turned ill. It was as

if she were taken from me, lying so still as if barely

living. Our vaunted Upper technology, modern

medical knowledge, had no answers, no cure.

How could this be happening to me, to us, after

all my machinations toward relief from my previous

misery? There appears to be not even anyone to

blame, to castigate, as if that would in any sense

make this situation better. Yet, at least such angry

retribution would act as distraction, temporarily,

from despair. I have never been aware of any divine

being out there, to hear prayer, offer surcease of

suffering. Still, I am willing to try anything in my

desperation for my love's recovery, for our blissful

existence to resume. Day by day, now, I watch over

her nearly inert form. Occasionally she has been able

to speak, with difficulty, lets me know her mind persists

despite her long silences. I gaze upon her beautiful face,

making useless wishes. There is no other here to share

my lamentations, to offer caring succor. Servants,

only at my call for their generous pay, know to stay

out of my way as I contend with this special brand of

grief for one still present, but not. What will become of

my silly, stupid story, a destiny of bitterness, unabated

rage against cruel fates?

 



Friday, June 6, 2025

act 4



Act 4: Hope and Joy


Alee


My mother, Julia, grew up among Gardners
who used the products from their plots
not only for food, but also intoxicants that
led to ready customers. Gramma Liz and Mom
were more studious. They took their turns in
tending crops, learned the processes of their
family's honored contribution to community,
developed through generations. Julia's older sister,
Grace, with whom she had lived between being
a dependent in her parents' home and moving
into our apt with Eli, now has the helm, along 
with her further family, mutually adopted and 
extended. Julia, in her youth, was Liz's assistant, 
became imbued with scientific persistence, passed 
forward as my sister Marta's bane and passion. 
This to say, a healing gene may have found its way 
into my DNA. Or maybe some ghost or spirit of 
beneficent intention entered me in my era of 
suspension from ordinary existence. Not for me to 
explain, but to experience. Paul and I arrive at Dory's
around mid-morning, after a short but leisurely
walk to take in the glories of high Spring.
Flowering, bright, promising, a warm enticing
energy surges through my body and mind.
Dory seems barely alive, propped on cushions
to add comfort to her encompassing chair.
She speaks softly, clearly, but in short utterance,
accompanied by a struggle of breath, profound
tiredness in her eyes. No surprise. Paul had
prepared me for this meeting. Seeing her like
this, I felt my heart beat hard. Inexorably drawn
to her side, I touched her forehead with open
hands, then grabbed her to me from behind,
standing in front of her as we moved together
closer. I felt the blood run through her arteries,
her heart rhythm, slower, but coming ever closer
to being in tune with mine. Eyes closed, I felt
my lips whisper a kiss upon her hair. I feel her
respond to my erupting care, take in greater
energy. I step back, give her space to act as
naturally inclined. She rises, at first in slow
deliberation, then as fast as one normally would.
Her smile lights us all through the electric
atmosphere. We hug and dance, all three, not
noticing when Tony, back from his shift, enters
the room, sees Dory free of affliction, joins
our revelry. Our encounter had seemed to me
almost without duration, a step into a different
dimension to play a trick on all we believed to
be real. Tony's arrival denies my assessment of
timelessness. I realize now, several hours have
passed. Wasn't my encounter with Barbara much
faster? Not for mere mortal me to understand.
Paul is concerned that I might have run down my 
reserves after applying all my energy twice in
less than 24 hours. But I feel fine, elated, unfazed
by the event I just participated in, whatever
special power I have been allowed to wield.
I want to race outside, feel the Spring shine on
my face, express this amazing grace, this
privilege visited unto me. No, Paul, don't
worry. Let's all go out and enjoy this glorious
day. Jamee must be about, and Jay. We can
fill them in on our adventure. Dory and Tony,
I know you may desire your privacy to take in
your changed condition. If you like, I invite you
to devise with us appropriate celebration, even
if it is enough to walk outdoors, maybe run into
people who have missed you, who you have
missed. We've certainly a story to tell. If you
choose time alone, we will wish you well, not
tarry. I am filled with buoyancy, and must 
move, lest I emotionally explode in embarrassing
displays. Still fairly early in the afternoon, but
today has already certainly been wondrous.



Jamee


My sister Marta, the shy humanitarian, no
not shy, busy. Too much to do to be distracted
by chatter or social interaction beyond family.
Her active intellect caught up in improving
Barro agriculture, better seeds and methods,
solutions for our human needs of nutrition,
medicinals, fabrics, bigger harvests, healthier
Gardens. As long as I've known her, all my
life since she is like nine years older, that's how
she's been. Teachers noticed, and recommended
her to be sent to Uni for a teaching researcher
career in agricultural biology and techniques.
Her passion is well-compensated by Barro
standards. Far from her motivation, still it
allows our family greater financial stability
to each express our individual passions, whether
paid or freely given. Cas, of course, devoted
spirit guide, embraces life as sacred journey.
He wafts through ours gracefully, an agent of
calm, peace, security, as he sees his role in
this amazing Universe. How would we get on
without his daily ministrations, domestic
labors on our behalf. Though his innate
spirituality seems to have had little effect on
his closest brother, Bobby. Bobby's spirit
loves to party. He follows his musical muse
through the Bar, public gatherings, private
celebrations. When not playing, or passing
skills to those interested and paying for
lessons, or while partying, just for fun, he
can be found carving instruments, drums,
flutes, pipes, as he learned from Eli, but
more artistically intricate in decoration.
His artistry seems to flow so easily, as if 
breath from his hands. Then there's me.
Had our next older brother been born alive,
Alee and I probably would not be. But,
here we are. Today I entangle with Spring,
playing my flute to the natural sounds of
birds, bees, butterflies, around the Forest's
edge, between River and trees, away from
the bustle South and East where people tend
to gather for commerce, social exchange.
Usually I would find entertainment less
reclusively, enjoy the sights, smells, music,
company, food for my voracious curiosity.
I take my fill of the stories, unique personalities, 
all the splendiferous varieties of humanity I
encounter in our somewhat small community,
boundary to my direct experience. My private
synthesis of these impressions on my
consciousness express, I guess, as a general
amiableness, happy to join in both labor and
temporary adventures, one of the guys. My
true heart, passion, though, belong to Alee
and Paul, my closest companions as far back
as I go, at least for Alee, born so close to me
that I have no memory before her.  Paul and
I became us when mere children, I but five,
he an older eight. We created ourselves
together, continue to intertwine. This morning,
they intend to meet with Dory, find answers
about my sister's newly manifest ability. Boon
or fluke, where will this twist in her story lead?
Soon we will reunite.  I will learn what has
developed.  I am not far from the Tower where
Dory resides. I play my music on the way, along
the wide path between the Gardens, to be able
to see them emerge after their meeting. From
here I can also observe ebb and flow of people
below, like a Theater show, well practiced dance.
Upward, clear, blue sky, flowers blooming on
the South side of the path, redolent of heavenly
perfume. The world blooms! Immersed in
mindless, ecstatic glow, my flute seems to play
in tune with ambient music of its own accord.
Not long until I get the word that brings me
in communion with my dearest kin. Who I am,
will be, have been continues to enjoy a glorious
mystery my intense curiosity cannot resist.
The people who make up my coterie, greater
family, always part of me, say often that I am
a welcome presence, each in their special voice.
They say I share an air of joy.



Paul


A couple of puffs on the magic pipe before I
open myself to this day, my world. Not a
habit I engage in much of my time, a luxury,
a pleasantry that might help ease me when
such occasion arises. Jamee is happy to drink
or smoke in the way he enjoys a laugh, a joke,
with the guys in social relaxation. Naturally
more quietly observant, considerate to the
point that I often hesitate to speak lest I
intrude, I do join in socially, jovially preserve
my reputation as Mayor of the full community.
Alee has her own inner space entertainment.
Still, she is always happy to party with family,
friends. Otherwise, she and Jay have no 
interest in flora-based intoxication. Marta
seems to enjoy testing her theories of euphoric 
plant product enhancement, relaxed in her bath.
Bobby, of course, is immersed in it all, gets
high while and by banging on his drums,
bellowing lyrics as they come to him,
sipping, smoking, as pipe and jug come
around.  We interact with these merriment
inducers, just part of who we are. Now,
out on the Garden path to encounter whoever
is about, Alee on my mind. Her unselfish
generosity has blessed away every bane from
those desperately ill I have found, asked her
to help. I notice Bonnie as well has sought her
aid for patients beyond her Med knowledge 
to improve. Fortunately, I suppose, so far
those have been few. Alee seems pleased with
this ability. The people she has brought relief
to shower her with loving hugs, grateful praise.
I have no doubt she experiences a special kind
of high. Perhaps it has become a gratifying
habit she does not want to break, a mutual
benefit to Alee and whoever is her current 
recipient. Jamee sometimes whispers to me
when we are alone together, he fears she may
go too far in her enthusiasm for distributing
her gift, fall back into illness herself, with no
one to cure her. Of course he is protective of
his most cherished sister. He had been her
major caretaker too many years to bear without
continued trepidation. I reassure: "Look at her,
she thrives! We won't let her override good
sense, to deprive herself of proper rest, or
neglect activities that replenish her energies
rather than deplete them." Satisfied, he sleeps,
secure from troubled dreams. It has been but
a very few weeks since Alee's healing ability
has manifested. All appears well in that regard,
so far. In this relatively small community, how
many grievously in need of healing will present
to us? Most likely, the greatest number have been
revealed.



Bonnie


My mother walked into the River while I was
away, on the other side, in the City at Uni-Med.
Learning my trade, to provide care for my
community. While in City territory I was
unable to communicate with folks back home.
I did not know of this family tragedy until
I returned, several months later. My younger
brothers had by the time of her demise
arrived at appropriate ages to be able to
work, provide for themselves. In my early
years, my family was fairly happy, normal,
secure. Then the scourge of illness, too early
death for my sisters, took its toll. Dad disappeared
into the depression of heavy grief. Overwhelmed,
he took to drink, staying out late at the Bar. He
seemed to drift away from us. Eventually he
found another home, with other broken men,
mutually befriended. Mom did her best to
sleepwalk through her obligations to her 
dependent children that remained. I escaped 
into my mind a different way. Overtaken by my 
obsessive need to find treatments, cures, in my war
against disease, I turned to study. My teachers
became impressed with this serious, studious
teen of piercing intellect. They recommended
me to attend Uni-Med. Thus my regrettable
history of childhood trauma, family drama,
goal creation and follow through found means
to be inspiration to carry me into a valuable
vocation. The whole dichotomy between disease
and healing remains my great mystery, guide
and goad. Alee, beyond her conscious mind,
seems to have been allowed a glimpse into that
secret. We have no idea how, can but behold
outcomes. Paul, as Mayor, at times gets told of
people in need of aid, by those he sees on his
daily rounds. As a Med, I occasionally get patients
for whom we have found no effective recourse.
Not every day, or even often, most of our
encounters are fairly routine, or at least within
our collective experience, knowledge of useful
treatment. Still, any one left to contend with
incurable illness is more than I can feel
comfortable about. Now we can ask Alee
to pitch in, a new resource to help us win
against this relentless enemy, disease.
Over these more hope filled weeks, she has
obviously enjoyed being of service, providing
miracles for folks in need. Melded into her
repertoire of fulfilling chores, her signature
swirl of happy activity, all appears to be
progressing well. Yet, bit by bit she seems
to be less there. I am thinking she must get
more rest between engagements, more
energy built up within her to expend in
her healing labor. Paul and Jamee, along
with Jay, her closest family, agree. We
all most certainly don't want a repeat, even
on a smaller scale, of her previous decline.
Her well being, despite the salubrious effect
she may have on others' lives, must be our
chief responsibility as her family. Cas,
aware of my concern, agrees to speak with
Alee, learn her opinion, work with her to
discover our best solution, to keep our magic
goose able to continue to supply our hoped
for gold of health restored, not just this
little while, but into a more fortunate future.



Bobby


I come from a fairly musical family. Not so
much Marta; she, like our mother, is more
a serious, studious sort, intent on her current
experiment or plan. Though, again like Mom,
she does know how to have fun, happy to
dance as music commands, if not a participant
in its manifestation. I, we, get our rhythmic
predilections, I am told by Cas, family
historian, and Dad, way back when we still had 
him, naturally from Dad's origin family, a musical 
clan. Cas has the stories memorized, happily 
shares them when asked. He likes to be a carrier 
of family narratives, enjoys unraveling those 
threads of information that he can understand 
our past, how it has led to emergent circumstances, 
who we now are. I'm more about current events, 
the this and that of local gossip, ins and outs of 
relationships. Mostly I want to be in the center 
of the rhythm, exclaiming with my drums, within 
this buzzing community as it becomes my greater 
family. Jamee and Cas, less effusive in manner, 
make use of their wood carved flutes, originally 
gifts from our father, later added to by gifts of 
mine. Each has his separate interpretations of
meditative enhancement through spontaneously
created tunes. Alee is Alee, a musical sprite,
always in movement to her inner symphony, 
melodies often expressed with lyrics of her 
self-inspired songs. Camille, happy to sing, dance, 
join in times of merriment, is more wed to other 
talents. She leaves this particular part of artistry 
to me. Her own artistic sensibility blossoms into 
marvelous beauty in her hands. And, can that 
woman organize, excite, entice, ignite, lead the 
charge to manifest projects, parties, classes, 
promotional shows, whatever ideas flow from 
her active mind. I chose a superb partner to 
complement my life. Camille doesn't speak, 
except quite rarely and then only to me, of 
her childhood family, the one she ran from 
so young, long before we met. Bits, pieces 
of that sad song, here and there I've mostly 
heard from the old boys' reminiscences,
stories from their younger days when these
events occurred. Back when Camille and I were
beginning, they thought I ought to be told about
my newly engaging special friend.  Tragedy was
her legacy, that sent her wild into escape at an
early age. That part Camille had admitted to,
proudly. She often says she raised herself, made
herself the accomplished woman she has become.
Apparently, long ago, before she was born or 
even thought of, her origin family was fine.
Carolyn and Andy, their happy toddler, Anna,
who was to become Camille's mother, a lovely
household, supported by the products of both 
parents' artistic inclinations. All destroyed one
horrid afternoon when Andy was lost to a 
tragic accident. Carolyn took to drink and herb,
she claimed medicinally, to mask her grief. Little
Anna, pretty much neglected, found dangerous
companionship once in her unsupervised
teens. She discovered she was pregnant at 15.
Two years into Camille's life, her young mom, 
unable to further bear her miserable mother's 
scorn, her own intense disappointment with 
how her world turned out to be, disappeared
one night. The next day it was learned, she had
walked into the River, drunk and alone, drowned.
Carolyn was, if anything, harder on Anna's
daughter. Camille did pick up a bit about
caring for, dressing hair, from her grandmother's
paying occupation. Early on she started hanging
out at the Mart for artistic education, watching
those creating their work for sale as they tended
their tables, analyzing aesthetically engaging
products on display. From there out, the tale
is one Camille has no problem talking about.
Yes, the buzz of gossip fills the ambient air.
It's so invasive I am often barely aware of what
I know from its ubiquitous aura. I beat my drums,
sometimes sing, share smoke, drinks, anecdotes
among band mates, all part of the jam, as folks
join in, step away. These past few days I keep
hearing, even get queried, that my sister Alee
is said to be healing people who had been ill
without hope of recovery. Did I know what
miracle medicine she had discovered? Did
I know the truth of the matter, what they
should do, from friends with loved ones
in dire circumstance. I knew not how to answer,
as Alee's escapades of late I had but vaguely 
attended to. Yes, I was aware that she had
helped Barbara, Jay's mom, Dory, and others
to wellness, conversation on this topic being
shared among my family. Maybe I might find
out more, at least give them warning of the 
relentless questions swirling about. Marta, 
when I speak with her, agrees we have become
a subject of public interest. She too has heard
gossip at the School, where she teaches.
Word is circulating throughout the community.
Perhaps we should address what is being said.
I don't know, is what is happening here 
appropriate to call a Stakeholders' Meeting?
Would it be better to just respond one by one?
I guess it's time for the family to decide how to
proceed. I am glad to pass, not have to make
these decisions, figure out plans. I'm happy to
play my bit part, beat out rhythm, syncopation
from my musician's heart, through my drums,
flutes, familial groove.




Marta


Relaxed in my bath, after the worries and
work of my day. Released from hurry, or
hurry up and wait, I have these moments to
decompress, reflect. Sophia and I are so
different in temperament, yet we click, each
giving the other what she missed to be
complete. She comes from a different place,
brings unexpected perspective. My voracious
intellect appreciates the greater range,
vicarious experience. She loves history
because she gets immersed in the stories.
I provide fascinated audience, as well as
critical eye, as she might get carried away
with fancy, rather than demand careful
analysis. Sophia, a breath of enthusiastic
movement, while I wallow in my staid
routines, we meet, infuse each other with
a healthy balance that sustains, nourishes
our separate ambitions. Even when apart, 
we share that caressing glow, deep feeling
of hearts beating together, between us. She
teaches me of my community's past, enhances
my understanding of the greater history
between her City society and here. When
she was little, her older sister, Daphne, also 
a fan of historic stories, would entertain young
Sophia with tales gleaned from her studies.
They still share that passion, stay in touch.
Thus, Sophia often spends some hours in the
Compound, not only to document her
research findings, mostly to have that time
with her sister in 3D chats through the
communications tech allowed in the opaque,
electronically protected Compound we Barros
are forbidden to access. The City wants us
ignorant of their advanced technologies, lest
we revolt, overthrow them, or otherwise 
cause them distress by imposing our exile
descendant selves on their superior
consciousness. After all, the point of us,
the Barro is to leave them in peace, Uppers
unruffled by the presence of annoyances
from the less than loyal Citysons.
Apparently their methods for treating
injuries, disease, are unimaginably more
effective than we have knowledge of, due
to technology we are forbidden. Yet, Sophia
has told me of an indigent class, also denied
the benefits of City largesse. Those the Uppers
consider unworthy, inferior Lowers, though
not responsible for disturbances that would
be cause for exile, are instead sent to bleak
domicile, the Poor Dorms. Bare dormitories,
where they are provided with unappetizing 
nutritional requirements, that the elite who 
sent them there get to feel pride about how
amazingly beneficent they are to so care for 
these useless human parasites. We have 
generously supplied food and shelter to 
these who offer no suitable return, they tell 
themselves, so humane. Down a well-trodden 
lane from their public home, those who have 
no hope, no desire to go on, make use of the 
Suicide Booths, their remains picked up by 
robots when surveillance notes a pile up, 
taken to the Factory on Barro soil, for 
processing into energy, thus worth more 
than when alive. Though in some sense 
somewhat aware of the Factory system, 
I rarely give it thought. Most of us don't. 
I doubt very many here know much about 
City ways, except, of course, for those like 
Sophia who have relocated for whatever 
reason, migrants, not exiles. The warning 
Uppers intended us to be, that Lowers not 
act up, has apparently been successful,
except for rare occasions. Yes, some who have 
come here to follow their passions or for 
particular employment may speak a bit of 
their personal City histories, adjacently 
supply information about how the City 
operates. Pretty much, as long as the Uppers 
stay on their side of the River, don't mess with 
us, we safely ignore them, return the favor, 
concentrate on our affairs, discoveries, 
relationships. Recently, my sister Alee has 
us concerned. Her usual full force commitment 
to disperse the benefit of this strange ability 
to reach into the ailing, pull away their disease, 
seems to have become ever more draining. 
She insists she is well, maybe a bit fatigued
now and then. She promises to get more
sleep, unencumbered relaxation, more
recovery between sessions, to be more
conscious of her limitations. This might have
been an adequate solution when we only
knew of a few who presented their need,
those any of us were personally aware of.
Now, however, people are buzzing about
the miraculous return to health of people
they had written off. Children at the School
even are asking questions about Alee's 
intentions.  Some have family, family
friends, they believe need her ministrations.
In this intimate community, what catches
the public interest travels fast. It is almost
surprising not to have insistent knocking
at our door, demanding satisfaction.
Perhaps that will happen. Bobby has
suggested calling for a Stakeholders'
Meeting to air everyone's concerns,
anxieties. If told the whole story, we hope
our neighbors will understand, have
good answers, or agree to discuss and
work out how we each can receive what
we need. We would meet in the Theater,
a panel of principles to explain our situation;
all wanting to participate able to take turns.
An apt plan, we sibling stakeholders assent.
Tomorrow, Bobby and Cas will get the
process started, speak with appropriate
people to arrange what will take place.
What I feel was meant to be a happy
blessing for overall benefit, has instead
become an issue, complicated. Our best
expectation is that open communication
expel agitation, make our path clear.




Jay


At the Theater, watching Alee dance, sing lyrics
we had crafted for her music. This is her refuge,
happy place, where she freely offloads overwhelming
emotions, refreshes, more restful for her than sleep.
She practically lives here, these days, the time she
takes from what she believes to be her duty, in
order to recover enough to continue to heal those
in need. She equates, accepts this ability as reciprocal 
for her recovery. What has become a greater
motivation, less beneficent, more personal,
seems to be an encroaching addiction to the
admitted pleasure she receives, entwined with
that other's mind to fight against, mend their
disease and misery. She tells me each such
experience feels unique. Its not a known
euphoria she feels each time, but always a
new thrill, a gleefully anticipated adventure.
She confides in my familiar company without 
censor, or distilling for public view, as we 
ever do, each a part of who we are. Jamee,
supreme listener seems his gift, hears her
confession as well. We are concerned, tell
her why. She heartily agrees, then flies into
exuberant reply: she is fine, happy, enjoying
the limelight, certain this immense responsibility
she takes on is to her ultimate benefit.
Certainly, it has been to mine, my sisters, 
father, most clearly to Barbara, my mother, 
herself. Where all I knew were glowers, now
she glows. She has transformed into the woman
we would have wanted to know, without 
harried unbearable sadness, anger, carried 
by her inner demons to hold her soul in a 
living hell. She has regained her place at the 
Mart, selling her wares. No longer enchained 
by irrational fears, people, she finds, can be
kind, accepting, when not chased from her
sight by her unwelcoming negation. I guess
that shocking episode that frightened us,
led to Alee's revelation, was far from
misfortune, rather a blessing. Yet, not a
blessing unalloyed. We can't allow Alee
to destroy herself out of some notion of
mission, or her mounting addiction to the
pleasure that accompanies her expenditure
of vital energies. At the Stakeholders' 
Meeting, maybe we can convince the
greater community, including those
clamoring for her aid, to help us to get
Alee to understand the necessity of
conserving what she needs to continue
both her own beloved nature and her
ability to heal ever greater desolation.
Someone among us has already made
a connection to that parable about a
goose who laid golden eggs, that I agree
applies. I hope our neighbors are wise
enough to see we share a side, no
disagreement between our mutual best
results. All I want is my chosen family
restored, even as the one I had come from
has been transformed.




Sophia


To celebrate my sister Daphne's birthday
on this late May afternoon, I remember
to claim a few hours to catch up, a pleasant
tete a tete away from work or obligations.
The drama at home can wait while I spend
this time at the Compound. Maybe by my
return there will be further developments,
a more certain plan devised. Not for me
to dwell on until then, I tell myself. I find
my happy state of mind, to give my sister
the gift we both most appreciate, time
together, even if not in the flesh. The
Compound is fairly quiet, in this
interval while most City transplants are 
at their daily jobs. I have managed to get
away for a rare playdate in the afternoon.
The walk here was refreshing,  a sparkly,
sun-filled part of Spring, when flowers
bloom, birds fly through a halcyon blue sky.
All troubles thus lifted while participating
in this relaxing scene. I am ready to tell 
Daphne, enthusiastically, what a marvelous
day she has been given to celebrate her
blessed existence, another year gone by
filled with treasures of new memories,
accomplishments, anticipation of where this
year will take you. She enjoys my effusive
nature. Close sisters, lifelong friends, even
now that those I call family has expanded to
both sides of the River. My bond with Marta
is of a different kind, strongly cherished, ever
lasting, yet taking nothing from my other
loves, pre-existing, with their own emotional
histories. How wondrous my destiny, to
shower these blessings of profound, devoted
friendships. Daphne is abuzz with excited
questions. Apparently my Barro family drama
is not so easily dismissed in this carved out
interval. When she insists I fill her in on what
has been happening here, she has no idea the
healer she speaks of is my adopted sister, Alee.
"It's on 24/7 Gossip," she exclaims, as if that
explains all I need know to provide answers.
Obviously other City workers in the Barro have,
in their conversations with old home friends, 
passed ahead this information, now circulating
throughout the community. It must have come
across as a super hot story, filled out with bathos,
dripping sentiment for this City entertainment
program to have picked up on it, to hype in
their style, engage their audience with what
passes for breaking news, that good Citysons
should stay in tune, to be well informed. 
"They had pictures!" Daphne enthuses. I
bet they did. I fear this development will not
be to our benefit. Barros, when all is said and
done, can be quite reasonable people. Culturally
entitled City folk, not so much. Daphne is
gushing that such a miraculous healer could
be a savior to the indigent, miserably living
in the Poor Dorm. She could give them a 
better option than the Suicide Booths, to free
them from otherwise untreated illnesses, allow
for possibilities to improve their futures. Of
course, my tender-hearted sister would think 
of benefiting these unwanted  City dwellers, 
though they are generally ignored by Lowers in 
better circumstance. Those who remember their
existence tend only to opine that they are
abhorrent parasites, to more easily dismiss
these people's plight. I for one don't understand
why City hierarchy demands this suffering
class. Perhaps the Uppers who devised this
plan thought it a warning to the Lowers of what
might happen to them if they were not loyal
enough servants to properly execute the work
imposed. I know from my studies, Uppers,
except for some arrogant assholes, like to think
of themselves as beneficent secular gods, wise
and generous. Yet that ancient brand of paranoia
runs deeply through their group consciousness.
I don't want to tell Daphne too much. We are
aware that these conversations are not private.
I tell her I have heard these rumors too, though,
of course, not on 24/7 Gossip, which is not 
broadcast outside the City. I see no reason to 
concern her with my Barro family happenings, 
far from the world she knows. We chatter about 
this and that, share anecdotes from work until 
it is time for us to part.  Tonight, after I relayed 
Daphne's unsettling news, expected agitation 
ensued. Alee seems chastened. The level of her
disposable energy has obviously waned 
beyond deniability. I hear soft crying from
Jamee as he holds his sister close. She smiles
to reassure him, but not with her signature
force. A sadness has taken our collective voice.
No one knows what to say. Later now, while
those who can are sleeping, my day goes
round and round through my unquiet mind.
I don't exactly understand what troubles me.
It feels a jumble of anxieties, random sentences
recalled. There is no reason for City people to
require outside healing. Despite it being denied
to the indigent, City healthcare is superlative,
ever so much better than what we have here,
in an entirely superior league from what we
are allowed. They enjoy technologies Barros
are not permitted to even know about. City folk
must see this Barro healer as mere entertainment,
a fantasy, not part of who they are.