The Wisdom of Col. Klink

All those damn gurus.  They weren't being facetious or clever or humble.  Talk about hiding it in plain sight...  You can talk about it all you want, as loud or quiet as you want, wherever you want, and to whomever you want - and there is no possible way to express it such that anyone else will ever understand unless they already realize.

Pffftt!!  There.  A bicycle.

So Much To Remember, So Little Time

Still more things for which I need constant reminding: 

1. Do not continue to push, but never stop trying.
2. Let the world come to you.
3. Strive for fairness amongst others, but don't take it to an extreme.
4. Don't take bad things personally.
5. Find something beautiful around you.
6. Collect experiences, not things.
7. Focus on the here and now.
8. Insert levity wherever it would not be harmful.
9. Avoid extremes, except occasionally.
10. Accept yourself in totality, including failure, but strive to improve.
11. Don't get hung up on mistakes.
12. Have fun.
13. Accept love and kindness wherever possible.
14. Freely give love and kindness when they would not cause offense.
15. Do not treat or judge people based on small subsets of their nature.
16. Take what you need, not what you want.  Leave those as gifts to be received.
17. Don't stress out over paradoxes and mutually exclusive paths – simply take them both anyway.
18. Do not get overly hung up on choices – make decisions and move on.

A Message For Those Others

I have friends who are very dear to me.  For some of them it is socially permissible to tell them how much I appreciate their presence in my life, but for others it is not.  So here, cloaked in the shadows of anonymity, uncertainty, and plausible deniability do I hereby indulge my inner sappiness to tell those others:

Thank you for being my friend.  My life is a better one because of you.

Why Is This So Hard To Remember?

Each day is a new game, but do not strive to win. There is no winning, because there is no scoring.

Ignorance = Bliss

Every now and then I think to myself, "Theater is such a blast, I wonder if I should have made that a career."  Then I see myself on video and think, "Nope - made the right choice."

Nobody should be subjected to watching themselves.  If we were meant to see ourselves as others see us, we would simply have been born as someone else.

...
...

Hmmm.  What if I was born as someone else?  Now I have no idea who I should be embarrassed to watch on video...

Losing My Regret

She is like water to me
Clear yet misleading in depth
The source of life
The threat of death
She is like water to me

She is like earth to me
Solid with hidden structure
The tool of progress
The form of impediment
She is like earth to me

She is like fire to me
Beaconing insubstantially
Warmth against the night
The consuming predator
She is like fire to me

She is like wind to me
Driving eternal change
A gift of refreshing hope
Stealing away the moment
She is like wind to me

No, I was right the first time

She is like water to me
In a form I pretend is absolute
But if my needful cup were gone
Would I still recognize Her?
And do I really want to know?

For Whom The Kewpie Doll Tolls

If I seek to see beyond the horizon and I climb a tall tree and gaze out, have I achieved that miracle on my own?

If I wish to lift a weight so great that my arms cannot bear it and I use a stout lever to raise it up, have I achieved that miracle on my own?

If I want to go fast, and I build a machine that can let me race across the land at speeds far greater than my legs alone can carry me, have I achieved that miracle on my own?

If I desire to change myself and I ask a friend to help me, have I achieved that miracle on my own?

Overflowing

The volume of Life that is available to fill us each day is constant.  It is ironic, therefore, that we push and push ourselves to cram in as much as absolutely possible, an activity whose sole result is to distract us into missing so much of the Life that is already there.

When everything is over, and I look back at all that I have done... what will I really remember?  What do I remember now?

And More Music

Well, no one commented on the music front.  I have no idea what that means.  But since I actually wrote a song yesterday after I-don't-even-know-how-many years, I am musically inspired to post another one (this is not the song I wrote yesterday, however, as that would be far too linear).

Occam's Razor Meets Experimental Philosophy

So to follow up on that, if perfection is harmony between action and belief, it seems a strong motivator for reducing one's moral code to a bare minimum.  Complex codes, and especially poorly thought-out morality, become an impediment to perfection.  Moral codes containing internal confliction and contradiction, therefore, would be severely damaging to the self, for they prevent perfection by their very nature (at least in the context of those inconsistencies).

And yet, how many people can honestly say that they follow a simple moral code?  For that matter, how many people can claim that they follow a single moral code?  How many people can claim that all dimensions of the self - all the individuals that are packed into a single "body" - really value the same things?  Do the work face and fun face smile at the same jokes?  Does the tired body long for the same activities as the rested one, or the over-tired one?  Does the heart seek the same relationships as the hormones?

Were we to exist in the environment in which we developed, I think things would be simpler.  Why does my dog enjoy a degree of harmony and self-confidence that I lack?  Human beings no longer exist in the world that built us.  The rules of copulation are not the same as when our lives were threatened on a constant basis by creatures who were stronger and faster than us.  Our native attitudes towards food are not designed with supermarkets in mind.  We have placed ourselves into a foreign environment for which we are not designed (and an environment that changes far too fast for evolution to support).

So where could the support come from?  Can we refine down our moral core to something simple enough to survive?  Is there a set of ethics and morality without internal contradition, and that is not in direct conflict with our nature as animals - a nature that we can at best resist but not deny?

I try to picture a life where one can not feel embarrassed or ashamed when snapping at someone who did not deserve it, simply because circumstances made them appear to be a threat.  Or where it is okay to acknowledge physical attraction to someone with whom there is no intention to enter into a encounter/relationship. 

Society does not permit these things.  Why?  Because it leads to people feeling uncomfortable, people feeling uncertain, feeling insecure.  Perhaps because there is no clear way to reconcile such things to our current set of moral standards.

What would a simple moral code look like?  I am thinking this might be a reasonable one:

1)  Have fun and try to learn.
2)  Spread laughter and happiness when possible.
3)  Embrace love.
4)  Support other people's best interests as you understand them wherever they do not conflict with your own.

P.S. That last one will annoy some people, who will argue that it should be "Support other people's best interests, even if it interferes with your own" - but I maintain that that defies the survival instinct, and as such is in direct conflict with our animal nature, i.e. unsupportable.

P.P.S. I struggled for a while about whether there should be something in there about supporting one's family/offspring, but in the end I decided that it is already accounted for in 3 and 4.

The Value of Insecurity

I have a hypothesis that the root of insecurity lies in imperfection.  So in a universe with no external standards of absolute truth, what is imperfection?  It is, of course, relative - in the sense that a thing is deemed imperfect if one's recollection of it does not conform to, or match up with, one's own personal standards.

There are two branches to this line of thought.  First, for those people who define themselves by the constructs, opinions, and moral codes of others (whether "others" represents parents, society, religion, etc.), perfection becomes a question of what matches those standards, i.e. one is insecure about those things that do not conform to those external expectations.  I should not be fat, and so I am insecure in my weight.  I should not leave my earwax on the doorhandle, I hope no one noticed.

For people who rely upon an internally-driven moral code, insecurity derives from there.  Whether one is pseudo-aware (you know, the people who define their moral code by some function (usually an inverse) applied to the societal norm - "I will wear my pants around my knees specifically because I am not supposed to") or deliberately independent ("I will decide for myself what kind of clothing to wear and how to wear it, and any relation to societal norms is through deliberate consideration of how they will or will not serve my needs"), insecurity comes from the recognition that what one has done is not in alignment with what should be.

What makes this tricky (at least in the latter case) is that it is hard to distinguish between imperfection resulting from lack of adherence to one's own moral code, and imperfection resulting from a lack of faith in the legitimacy of one's own moral code (after all, if you have a code you don't fully believe is correct, following it still leads to the same uncertainty/insecurity).

So what is perfection?  Harmony between action and belief.  When acting in harmony with one's beliefs, there is no place or need for insecurity.

Which, like so many things, brings one back to the Path of the Warrior.  Or to say it another way, insecurity can be a signpost letting you know that you have strayed from that Path.

Of the Dangers of Showering In a Hotel Bathroom

Okay, time for a new career.  I want to be the person who comes up with shampoo descriptions.  Balancing shampoo?  Is there a second tier of products you can buy once you are prepared, like tightrope-walking shampoo?  Or what if you are not really into balance?  Can I buy extremizing shampoo (for radical, infuriating hair - available in atheist and ecumenical variants)?

Yes, Yes, I'm Vocally Challenged

So why restrict myself to posting just words, I ask.  No reason, I suppose.  While the music is mine, I should note that the artwork is not.  Thanks, A, for your never-ending supply of amazing drawings!

I am still up in the air on the whole idea of posting my music online, so if you have any thoughts on the matter, do share.

Out For a Beerwalk

Kopo was big for his age.  At nearly a centimeter in height, he was amongst the tallest of the Zwerschmig, and with a year left before his Tzermonbier, it would not surprise anyone if he spiked up another millimeter, or perhaps even two.  It was not unheard of.

Earlier in the day, Kopo had been resting after a rousing game of zlauff with his friends, when his mind began to wander.  He remembered staring at the curved wall of his family's stein, his thoughts on nothing in particular, and then it happened. Just behind the smooth, glassy ceramic he saw a passageway, fading in, fading out.  Idly, he wondered if this was what his parents did during anfuirbier, but that just wasn't possible - it tooks months of training to transport between steins.  It simple wasn't possible to learn on your own.

Though someone had to learn it on his own, right?  The first Zweschmig to beerwalk obviously could not have been taught by anyone else.  He must have figured it out.

Kopo had stood and shuffled to stand in front of the vurmloche.  Beyond the solid wall - for he reached out and touched it to be sure - it was like watching the scenery through a train window, not that he had ever done that.  Blink, and there was a tall stein sporting dragons.  Blink, a squat scyphus with satyrs entwined around the shank.  But there were other scenes too, strange and foreign, for which he knew no words.

Kopo rapped upon the wall of the stein once more, comforted by its solidity and grainy fragrance.  Tired from so many bouts of zlauff, he turned his back to the edge once again and slid down to sit upon the bottom of the mug.  Again his mind went blank, and that was when he fell back into another world.

Martina's Infallible Goat, Part 2.7

"Will there be anything else?" asked the greasy-haired store clerk from behind the register.

Sven glanced at the running total on the receipt before turning to the others.  "That accounts for $4,182.  How much do we have?"

Martina flipped open her notepad.  "$4,700 even."

Oliver pointed to the emulsion turbine housing.  "How much for that?"

"$500," replied the clerk.

"We'll take it!" Oliver pronounced before anyone could question him.  And then, as if he suddently felt an obligation to explain, he turned back to his team, shrugged, and observed "sometime just having the box is enough to convince an orangutan that you've got what's inside."

It was clear from her expression that Martina did not find the argument compelling, but her brother had a way of seeing things that was unique - like he lived in a world that was just slightly askew from everyone else's.  Besides, he hadn't said anything about her purchasing the musical duct tape, and her reasons for wanting that were no more defensible.

"Okay," said Sven, turning back to the clerk.  "Is there anything we can get for the remaining $18?"

The man thought for a moment, and then rumaged in a bin behind the counter.  After a minute he stood and presented a strange device, vaguely gun-shaped, but with a thin needle at the front and a strange bladder below the grip.  "I have this refurbished Pleuronectidae deflater.  Over $200 new, and only been used a few times.  It's a little sticky around the trigger, and there is a glob of something green still stuck to the barrel.  Not toxic, though.  They assure me it isn't toxic.  I suppose I could let you have this for $18."

The group shared glances, most of them saying 'I am far too tired to care at this point'.

"Sure," replied Sven.  "We'll take it."

The Fallacy of Normality

For the extremes of humanity
Are we drawn and repelled
Enamored and disgusted

Placing icons on pedestals
To study, admire, inspire, despise
Like guideposts, living and dead

But inside our own selves, our own lives
All those extremes boil and roil and bubble
Hiding in our personal mists and shadows
Displayed in our storefront window displays
And disguised as moderation

Bedtime Thoughts

Not normally one to get all sentimental, but I can think of no better way to slide into the new year than with the laughter of friends.

P.S.  The only way that the words "too" and "chocolate" fit together in a sentence is in the opposite order, such as in "yes, I would like some chocolate too, thank you."

The Most Important Things Are Simple

How silly of me.  It is not about finding it, it is about picking it up.

Recent Thoughts

Okay, so that last one was really long.  Yeah, I know.  Sorry about that.  I came across an old directory filled with stuff I had written some time ago, and since I had never shared them anywhere it seemed like posting them here might be a reasonable thing to do.  On a positive note, I have no plans to post the really long stuff.

So lately I find myself thinking about habits.  Bad habits, naturally, because one never sits back and says "hey, that is a really good habit of mine - I should keep doing that."  Funny how we don't even call good stuff 'habits'.  No one says "I'm in the habit of breathing" or "I make a habit out of eating healthy foods".  I'm not saying they're not habits, just that I, for one, never think about them that way.  [Nor do I eat enough healthy food to call it a habit, by the way.  That was just an example.  I eat them occasionally, of course, but more at the level where I might call it a quirk.  Or perhaps "an event", or a "once-a-year thing to keep people guessing" thing.  Definitely not a habit.]

So I am thinking about habits, and that get me thinking about compulsion and obsession.  And then I realize that I have been thinking about compulsion and obsession for nearly a week.  Nonstop. 

This makes me chuckle.

But the funniest part is that I have no intention of stopping this train of thought until I figure it out.  Maybe I will think about it while eating a cookie...

A Matter of Perspective

This is not my bed. It is the sort of thing you know without having to think about it, and he realized it even before he was fully awake.

As the fractions of seconds crawled by and consciousness returned, he remembered. I was injured. I had been careless, and not checked the integrity of the door lintel. It fell and hit my head. I am fortunate to be waking up at all, even if it is in a hospice cot. But even as the thought ran its course he knew it to be wrong. The bed beneath him was firm and unusually supportive, the corners of it distinct but most definitely not the thick wooden dowels normally used to support the canvas hammock.

The sheets were wrong as well. They were warm and soft like the finest angora wool, and spun to nearly impossible smoothness. Not a hospice. Where am I?

Fully awake now, the man kept his eyes closed and focused on his other senses. He could make out a muted humming, electronic, mechanical, and most definitely like nothing he had ever heard before. He discerned numerous voices, distant and carrying on conversations that were clearly unrelated to him. He heard static from a television in the next room, and thought it to be rain.

Across his forehead was the gentle pressure of a bandage. At least I remembered that correctly. He felt the sheets again, the crispness of the hospital bed, and consciously wondered at the strange fabrics and textures. His clothes were gone, he realized, replaced with a frock that tied in the back. The string pressed into his back uncomfortably.

He listened for breathing. Hearing none, the man cautiously opened one eye and then the other.

“What is this place?” he asked of no one, the words practically dragged from his lips by his sheer awe of a modern hospital room. Have I died? Is this Heaven?

He studied the small, private accommodations from beneath the sheets, his eyes focusing intensely and deliberately upon every item in the room. Safety was always more easily found in new surroundings, of course, where unfamiliarity held back the laziness that would otherwise be tempered only by one’s desire to survive. The man liked new places, and this was as unusual as he might ever have dreamed, and certainly more than he could have imagined in wakefulness.

He took note of the dangers around him – the sharp corner of the bedside table waiting to crack open the skull of the careless if they tripped, the large, heavy-looking, glass-faced box that could easily come loose from the wall to fall upon someone if he passed too close. He wondered at the functional nature of the wall switches, and where the two closed doors might lead. He speculated about what strange images he might behold were the window not covered by the thick, flower-patterned fabric.

It was over an hour before the man felt that he was sufficiently familiar with the room to risk rising from his bed. He sat up slowly, carefully, watching that his patient’s gown did not catch upon the rails of the bed. With great care he touched the floor with his bare foot – only the big toe at first, followed by some weight upon the heel. The floor was neither slick nor weak, and he decided to test his full weight upon it.

The tiling held firm, and the man slowly began to walk toward the shaded window. Before he was halfway there, however, he heard a sound from behind him. Someone at the door. The man turned halfway and stepped behind his bed as the door opened.

“Mr. Gallager!” exclaimed the RN, her stethoscope swaying before her like a hypnotist’s pendulum. “You are awake! What an excellent sign!”

“You know my name,” said the man slowly, cautiously. “How?”

“Your ID, of course. In your wallet.”

The man named Gallager hesitated. To admit that he had no idea what a wallet was could be a dangerous admission, at least until he learned more about the situation. “My eye dee. In my wallet. Of course.”

The nurse smiled as she approached him, motioned toward the edge of the hospital bed. “Here. Sit while I take your blood pressure. Good.” She wrapped the nylon bulk around his arm, affixed the Velcro tab.

“Are you feeling a little dazed, Mr. Gallager? Not to worry. That was a rather nasty bump on the head there. I understand it was from a construction accident?”

The man nodded, speechless. A female physic. And so… fast. He stared at the device around his arm as it slowly deflated. He sighed heavily as she removed the device. What great fortune! It would have been so easy for that device to have malfunctioned, to remain inflated. I could have lost my arm were it to have become affixed like that.

“Well, don’t you worry a bit,” said the nurse as she beamed a broad smile at the man. “Like I said, the fact that you are up and about so soon is an excellent indication that it was not as bad as it could have been. God has smiled upon you, I dare say.”

Marge McFallan, the man read the name on her badge as he wondered at the strange material from which it was formed. “Yes. Smiled on me today. I am very, very lucky.” And he meant every syllable of it.

“Would you like for me to open your window, Mr. Gallager? It is a beautiful day.”

“Yes. I would. Thank you very much.”

Marge McFallan swayed her wide hips toward the window. “A lovely day. The sun is shining, the birds are singing. Only a wisp or two of cloud in a beautiful blue sky, and the–”

“WHAT!!” the man named Gallager practically shouted.

The nurse turned her head to look at him. “I was just saying that it is a beautiful day. Only a few clouds in the sky, and the birds are singing.” A look of concern came over her face as she made a mental note to mention the incident to the MD on duty.

The man relaxed. It was a joke, that’s all. Just a joke. He turned to face the window as he heard the shade being swept aside.

“B..bl…blue,” he sputtered, his eyes wide, his face drained of color. A blue sky! How can this be?! I am a priest… This can’t be! There has been a mistake! But there could be no denying the distinct powdery blue he saw. “Why?” he asked in a throaty whisper. “What did I do?”

The nurse spun to face him, her expression a mix of concern and confusion.

“I… I… do not resent… death. But why?” he begged of the nurse, “Why have I been banished… to Hell?!”

Maggy McFallan had no answer to his question. She could not have come up with one if she were discussing the matter with a half dozen friends over a cup of coffee. But then, no answer was needed. Unless, of course, it was to rush to the man’s side and gently lower him onto the bed as he fainted.

* * * * *

Day 1

Nurse McFallan was kind enough to provide me with a sheaf of paper, and what paper this is! I can hardly stop from running my hands against it. Each sheet is so precisely dimensioned. I fear to touch the edges lest I cut myself. And this writing implement, the pen, is equally worthy of attention. I dared not ask the nurse regarding its design for fear of arousing suspicion as to my origins should it turn out that this is not Hell after all. Still it is a wonder to me how the writing fluid, which is so quick to dry upon the paper, is kept from clotting within the device itself.

As regards the matter of origins… Something has truly gone awry. I am keeping this journal, this diary if you will, in the event that I do not live long enough to unravel the mystery by myself. But I leap ahead of myself again. If this is to make sense at all to anyone, I must start sensibly.

Perhaps the best place to begin is with the last occurrence of normalcy that I can recall. I arrived at my house late in the evening. I had been delayed in returning home from the church, and was in a terrible rush to meet with Emily. Too much of a rush, unfortunately. As I entered my house I was distracted, and failed to examine the lintel before stepping through the doorway into the foyer. It was careless, of course, the kind of error that one would expect of someone too young to fully understand the dangers of the world – the rashness of a four-year-old, perhaps. And naturally, of course, the lintel fell as I passed underneath.

When I awoke in this room, this hospital room as I have learned it is called, I could not believe my fortune. Surely God had smiled upon me, preserving my life for some design, some need of His. I felt truly blessed that I would be so chosen. But as I came to wakefulness it became clear that something was wrong. The bed, my clothing, the room. Nothing was as it should have been, and I began to suspect that my first inclination was wrong. I had not been spared, but had truly died and gone to Heaven.

Nurse McFallan came into my room then, and I became more convinced than ever that I had passed beyond. Her actions were so swift, seeming to be almost careless. Surely no one could survive more than a few hours with such… recklessness, unless her intellect was so far advanced that she could make and assess great volumes of observations in the blink of an eye. And yet she walked, nay strode, across the room, almost negligently. She operated strange machines and equipment, she moved confidently and casually, and no harm came to her.

By this point there was no longer any doubt within my mind. I was dead, and this was Heaven. But the cruelest awakening was yet to come. As the nurse swept away the fabric that shaded the window I saw it. My hand still shakes at the memory, although the window has long since been covered over again. Outside I saw the sky. The beautiful reddish-pink sky that I hold so dear, but failed to appreciate enough… was gone. Instead I saw blue – the blue sky of Hell. That is when I fainted.

Since awakening again I have spoken with nurses and physics (which they call doctors), and heard many things. Some are almost mundane, if one could call anything here by such a name. I will be moved into a new room tomorrow, a room in an area that, they tell me, is for recovering patients who are having difficulties of one kind or another. Apparently I fall within such a category. I have no reason to doubt them, although I fear to make any trip without having more time to understand the dangers of this new world.

If I am right and this is indeed Hell, then I will have little choice in the matter. I will be moved to a new place, and before being able to prepare for the journey, even before being allowed to study my new surroundings adequately. I will be at the whim of fate, which we all know is a very unfortunate, and usually fatal, situation.

Yet, there is another thing that I have heard. Those people around me have informed me, in fact insisted, that this is not Hell. They assure me that I am in the everyday world, in a city called Des Moines, and in a region named Iowa. Perhaps it is just an issue of naming, for I have overheard people beyond my room making reference to Hell, but the nurses and doctors assure me that this is not the case. But then they also assure me that it is normal for the sky to be blue, and so I am not sure what to believe.

I have asked, gently, about the specifics of my arrival here, and was told that I was brought in by construction workers late yesterday afternoon. They have provided clothes and personal belongings, but they are not mine. I do not even recognize the type of fabrics of which they are made. Included in these belongings is something called a ‘wallet’. It contains slips of paper that I gather represent local currency, as well as identifying documents. One of them, labeled ‘Driver’s License’ has a picture on it. Although the address is unfamiliar, there can be no doubt that it is mine, in part because my name is upon it, but more specifically because it includes the most amazing likeness of myself – drawn in colors, and with such precision that I would almost swear that I was looking into a still, deep pond.

I have sought even more information, but they have requested that I rest and relax, assuring me that they will answer all my questions after I sleep again. Since there is no point in aggravating my wardens, if this is Hell and that is indeed what they are, I have agreed. In support of their assurances that this is not Hell, I must say that everyone has been very friendly, and seems to be genuinely caring. Most definitely not traits that the scriptures use to describe eternal damnation…

Day 2

Today has been even more bewildering than yesterday, if such could be possible. I have indeed been moved to a different room, one that houses several patients at once, and I must say that the journey was beyond disturbing. It is fortunate beyond belief that we survived even the first few feet. The way the orderlies (that is what the nurses and doctors call the people who assist in non-medical matters) rushed around corners, how they talked amongst themselves without paying attention to what they were doing or where they were going – it was terrifying. And yet, as terrifying as it was, nothing happened. We arrived without incident or injury.

In fact, I have yet to see anyone here paying sufficient attention to their actions to assure their own safety, but nothing untoward happens. One of my roommates named Robert, a small, wiry fellow with black hair and a beard only upon his chin, has just now walked right underneath the large box suspended from the wall (it now has images flashing behind the glass, and they call it a teevee). Yet it did not fall upon him. I inspected it earlier and saw that it was attached to the wall with metal bolts, devices that we know to be faulty by their very essence. It should be prepared to fall at the slightest provocation, but it does not. I have not dared to test its stability with my own life, naturally.

That I have awakened into a new world, there can be no doubt. The strange and mysterious devices and the hideous azure sky are evidence enough. For example, I was brought a ‘newspaper’ by an orderly. It presented information about events that were occurring hundreds of miles away, and yet these events supposedly occurred only recently – within the last few hours! How information could be relayed so quickly I cannot fathom. And the paper itself is pure artwork! It would take a person weeks to write so much, and so carefully. There are sketches and drawings possessing the most fantastic accuracy. But the most bizarre and amazing thing is that there are many copies of it. Roger, for example, looks at a paper right now that is essentially identical to the one that sits here upon my bed. But as strange as all of this is, it is not the most unusual property of this new world.

The people are careless! Everyone! No one pays attention to what they do, or to the world around them. And yet, each one seems to possess the most amazing good fortune. Not a minute goes by when one of them endangers himself, and survives without incident. I cannot but conclude that this entire new world is a most blessed place, a most kind and comforting haven for those who have lived a decent life. There can be no other explanation. Blue sky or not, I cannot see how anyone could describe this wondrous place as anything but Heaven.

I have also learned more regarding the details of my arrival here. The nurses tell me that I was injured in an accident at the site of the construction of a new building. Apparently I was not paying attention to where I was going, and was struck in the head with a metal girder as it swung. Naturally this is absurd, but I have begun to develop a theory as to what happened.

When I was brought to the seer on my sixth birthday… On second thought, perhaps I had best take a step back in my writing. It occurs to me now that whoever might someday read this might not share my origin, and will not understand my background.

In the real world, by which I mean my world, a person becomes a responsible adult at the age of six. It is the age at which a parent is no longer responsible for the safety of the child, for no person beyond that age would be willing to live under the exact instructions of another. That passage into manhood (or womanhood) is marked by a visit to an oracle who will try to unearth details regarding the life that lies ahead for that person.

People are told a variety of things, from immediate dangers to hints of waiting love, upcoming fortunes of treasure to omens of great portent. When I made my visit, however, an odd thing was told to me. The seer said only one sentence, and that was this. “Changeling, you alone are destined to learn of Heaven and Hell before your final Fate.”

It was this statement that had led me to the priesthood, of course, and while I had thought many months – years, in fact – about the title I was given, I never understood it. In yesterday’s confusion I had not thought much upon the issue, but now the memories have come back to me and I think I understand.

I have been brought before death into this world, this Heaven, so that I might understand the comfort and forgiveness that awaits the good and faithful.

Day 3

I have come upon a most disturbing thought. If I have come into this world only as a visitor – into a life that was not my own – then it seems most likely that, as a ‘changling,’ someone from this world would have been sent into mine. Why, you might wonder, is this thought disturbing? For that, I must describe what I have learned today.

While I have avoided speaking with the others in my room until I feel more comfortable with my situation, I have spent a great deal of the day observing them, watching them, listening. And I have discovered a very important thing: these people most definitely do not have heightened intellects. When first I had observed Nurse McFallan I had assumed that rather than careless, she was possessed of an extraordinary mind capable of careful observation of her world as a casual, almost negligent act. How else could she behave so brazenly and not become injured?

But as I observe my roommates it has become very clear that this is not the case. What these people possess is not superior intellect, but rather great fortune. This led me to wonder if this fantastical luck was something belonging to the people or the place, and so I began to experiment.

This morning I approached the teevee hanging from the wall. I placed my arm in such a way that it might be injured, though not badly. The object did not fall. As I gained confidence, I took greater risks, and by the end of the hour I was standing fully underneath the device such that it could have fallen directly on my head and killed me. Yet it did not.

Convinced that this luck is not a matter of personal nature, but rather a pervading characteristic of the place, I have decided that my earlier hypothesis is correct. I am being shown Heaven. For what purpose I cannot guess, but there is no longer doubt in my mind.

There is, however, fear, and for the reason to which I have already alluded. If I am here in this world, then it seems probable that someone from here is in mine. It seems likely that his behavior would be similar to that of the people who I see around me, particularly since I already know that he was injured, severely injured, as a result of careless distraction. And so I must wonder this. What will happen if he awakens into my world? I fear that he will not last terribly long, and I grow concerned as to what will happen to me if he should die whilst we are thus exchanged, an outcome that I doubt less and less with each passing moment. Will I remain in Heaven? Will I be returned to my own home? Will I, as his mirrored reflection, die as well? Of course, I cannot hope to find an answer to this question, but it plagues me all the same.

Day 4

Today I have begun in earnest speaking to those others with whom I share this room. There are four in addition to Robert, who I have already mentioned, and each was happy to discuss with me what brought them into this hospital. Yet, my conversations with the last few told me nothing more than I learned from speaking with the first two or three. The details, the specifics, were different, but each was here because of some accident.

This is not surprising of course, for only the mentally unbalanced would deliberately cause himself harm or suffering, but what startled me was the similarity in attitude of each man in turn. Whether it was Robert’s burn, Chester’s broken limb, or any of the other ailments, the accidents they described each could have been – nay, should have been – much more serious. Fatal, in fact. Yet none of these men seemed to have any appreciation for the great fortune that life has handed them, these gifts from God. Almost to the contrary, they seem to focus and constantly refocus upon the specific injuries that they had sustained. I found it a most disturbing, in fact annoying, habit, and one that seemed, without exception, ingrained in each of their personalities. It was as if for each of them, good fortune was insufficient. They wished – in fact, expected – more.

I listened as they spoke about their lives. They were resentful that fate should bring even the slightest discomfort, seemingly oblivious to the fact that it was their own negligence, their own carelessness, that was the cause of their pain. When I spoke with Carl, who had been cut by an opponent’s knife during a fight in a tavern, the avoidance of responsibility was too much for me to ignore, and I asked him about it.

“Carl,” said I, “you are so very lucky that you were not cut upon the neck. Or stabbed through the heart. Why are you so bitter about what had happened?”

Carl looked at me as if I had gone to madness. “He knifed me!” he exclaimed.

“But was that not a risk of having challenged him to a battle?” I asked.

“A little fight,” he explained. Then he cursed for a time, and went on to explain that his opponent fought unfairly. I cannot say in truth that I understand his view. When I asked him why he entered into the fight at all, he told me that he was upset and gave a myriad of reasons for his anger. Try as I might, however, he seemed unwilling, perhaps unable, to comprehend the idea that deliberately entering into a fight might be dangerous.

As I spoke with each person, I also inquired about the world around us. I asked them what they thought of it, gently seeking confirmation of my conclusion that this is Heaven. Yet each person assured me that it was not. Some spoke of places that they might go upon their death, but none seemed willing to even consider the possibility that they were already in Heaven. In fact, they seemed more inclined to describe their world as some kind of Hell, expressing anger and frustration at what they, more than once, termed ‘the unfairness of it all’.

These conversations have convinced me that I have been transferred to some kind of ward for the mentally ill. This would not be surprising, given what must have seemed a most disturbing reaction on my part to the color of the sky, or my unfamiliarity with simple native customs. I must make it my utmost priority to arrange release from this institution, lest I never have the opportunity to meet with people of sound mind.

Day 14

It has now been a week since my release from the hospital. I have spent these last days visiting new, wondrous places – parks, woods, villages, and even the center of the city called Des Moines. I have ridden within buses and trains, and learned to make use of the countless implements that still strike me as being more of magic than science – the overhead light, the stove, and even an electric razor. But most amazing of all, I have come to realize that the great fortune that I have observed is not for individuals alone, but a worldly matter. There can be no more doubt. This is Heaven.

Already I have begun to relax in this new world. No longer do I check each door lintel, nor do I prop books or other objects underneath a window when I open it. However I do not think I shall ever be able to adopt the level of careless abandon of those I observe around me. I still watch in amazement at their casual, distracted use of knives or other sharp implements, their lack of attention as they cross the street.

But for all of the awe and amazement I hold, for as certain as I am that I have been brought into the kingdom of God Himself, there is still a thing that troubles me. It is the people, of course – the natives of this Heaven to which I have been transported. Perhaps I am simply naïve, but in my heart I am convinced that the people of Heaven should be… happy. And yet, almost without exception, everyone I meet here does not simply lack the happiness that I am certain they should feel, but rather feels a misery, a sense of despair or resentment that I simply cannot fathom.

And so I am left to ask myself, over and over again: how can this be Heaven when nearly everyone is so sad?

Day 20

I have been deluded, misled by my own desires. This is no Heaven. Where at first I thought that we were simply in error about the color of the sky, that blue should represent Heaven and not Hell, I now realize that we had been correct all along.

I have watched the people of this land; I have seen what softness has done to them. And as much as I once hoped to linger in this land of comfort and forgiveness, each morning I now pray that I will have been delivered back to my own world. Its harshness is a small price to pay for the chance to live in a world united.

Although I know that I wrote it yesterday and the day before that, I must write it once again – I dearly miss my fellow man. Not the sad creatures of human form that inhabit this city around me, but the real people of my own world, under my own red sky. People who grasp for joy and happiness, who can recognize a blessing and can afford to take a moment for thankfulness.

This Hell, for that is truly what it is, has become unbearable to me. The complaints, the whining, the lack of appreciation that defines this society – softness has brought these people nothing but misery, a depravity so deep that they can no longer recognize goodness and kindness even when it is thrust so forcefully into their faces. This lack of appreciation, what struck me at first as simply strange, and then humorous, has become a constant, personal insult to everything I see, to everything I believe to the very depths of my soul.

Each day I spend here has become a torture – a twisted, psychological torture unlike anything I have ever experienced and beyond anything with which I am prepared to deal. I, myself, can no longer find joy in the gentleness I witness, for my thoughts immediately turn to what those around me would say. I see kindness, and instead of feeling joy I think only of how everyone else would ignore it. I fear for myself to remain here lest, as the years might beat away at my sanity, I become like them.

There are priests here, I have learned recently. Despite my ever-growing desire to avoid contact with the people of this world, I felt obligated to speak with one, if only to exchange professional views. The conversation did not last long, but it has caused me to wonder if there is a god in this world. And if so, what would He be like?

As a mere mortal, I could easily see myself creating a world just like this. I could imagine myself, out of love for my children, creating a world of comfort and forgiveness, one that would be supportive of their lives – pens that only rarely clot, devices that only fail when so badly mistreated or ill-designed that no other alternative remains, accidents that almost always result in only superficial and temporary discomfort. Yes, that is a world that I would design, and I would do so thinking that I was a kind and benevolent Father bestowing happiness and ease.

But I am mortal, and far from omniscient. I must wonder what kind of cruel creature, knowing the misery that this false sense of entitlement heralds, would assemble a world thusly? What is to be gained by providing comfort when its only effect is to encourage people to belabor themselves into depression over their own negligence?

I also cannot help but wonder what people from this world would think of my own. I have found amusement these last days at the thought of this world’s Martin Gallager being thrust under my red skies. Would he call it Hell? Would he notice the camaraderie and happiness that my world’s people share, or the appreciation we have for every shred of good fortune that leaks through? Would he look up at the red skies and wonder at the cruelty of a god who makes such a world, unable to appreciate the divine gift that it represents?

Would he long to return to this world as badly as I long to return to mine?

* * * * *

This is not my bed. It is the sort of thing you know without having to think about it, and Martin Gallager realized it even before he was fully awake.

His eyes blinking open, the man sat up quickly. Unfortunately, at just that moment a physic with a wooden tray was passing near the cot. The man’s head collided with the serving platter, sending boiled peas and milk to the floor.

The man screamed and grasped for his forehead. His hand came in contact with the bandage, several inches before he had expected to stop the motion, sending an even more severe pain shooting across his skull. In anguish and frustration he jumped out of the cot. The physic, who had backed away in caution and confusion, watched as the man slipped on the wet peas and tumbled forward. He cringed as Martin Gallager’s head came crashing down onto the end of the sturdy dowel from the next cot.

The entire hospice ward now stared in confusion and disbelief as the lifeless body oozed its crimson fluid. Emily, who had waited patiently, expectantly, for three weeks, began to cry. The silence from the other patients was deafening as they each said their own silent prayers for the soul of their unknown, deceased friend. The physic moved especially slowly to avoid slipping on the wet, wooden floor.