Monday, June 30, 2025
"free stuff"
Saturday, June 21, 2025
Spring into Summer
how is it that so many "God-fearing" Christians
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?