Thursday, June 12, 2025
Jackie Day
ABOUT JUSTICE
Elisheva Nesis, paper/pastel, ink, pencils, 29.5 x 41
Wishing you a very happy birthday!
Welcome to your next adventure,
brave new tour,
'round this looming year of change
With which allies will you enter?
So as you go your story gathers texture,
what roles might you dare to play?
as time unwinds, expands through our lives
as places change beneath evolving skies
as days take form, and consequence within
reflective minds
epic journeys emerge, what we
seek to find, define, to energize
as we recognize grand designs,
that have woven into who we are, so far.
As you grow into the you this time requires,
exult with your luxuries while they exist;
may Joy's pervasive grace persist
Celebrate !
Neil Patrick Harris performs as Hedwig at Wigstock 2.0
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=O7hiUcXPm9o
Sunday, June 08, 2025
Chirona: A Word Opera (1st Draft)
Chirona: A Word Opera (1st Draft)
Act One: Introductions
Alee
Glorious! Brilliant light, infused with sweet scented air,
sweeps through me, caresses like blessing. Every part
of me feels Awake! Breathing deeply, fully. Eyes, skin,
bathed in radiant warmth, life bestowing Sunshine!
My mind dances, so free
and
Look! My whole self dances, effortlessly moved onto,
over the floor, sunshine warmth spinning me round
and round, caught up in buoyant sound emitted from
my heart, throat, mouth, emanated through my
rhythmic feet, upward into bliss of music
encompassing all I know intrinsically. As if I were
wrapped in unwinding gaily colored velvet ribbons
of NOW, I am dance, breath, omg ecstasy, me, Alee,
free. I dare not ask, look past this instant's gift. No
need or desire to remind this bliss intoxified
consciousness of all that suffered, unproductive,
unconscionable wasted time -- literal years bound,
unallowed by my own unyielding weakness to be
that lively lass we all knew as me, Alee. Drowned,
beyond resuscitation, under some ill-fated mystery,
held down, without even the energy to hope for
salvation. Retreated, escaped into dream fantasies,
ambient lullabies. My uneasy mind voices rhapsodize
inside to keep me company, a self-protective buffer
against vile self-treachery of unending pain, the
despair of utter dependence on the kindness of kin
who have held me dear. No, I've better thoughts to
expend this surging exuberance on, happy songs to
carry me into steps, twirls, untensed muscles that let
me express a flow of merriment, FUN! Look at me,
awhirl in the thrill of what seems unceasing energy
where so very recently I had none. Romping
throughout my room and beyond, smiling into each
window as if to renew a beloved friendship with brilliant
Mother Sun, Her Majesty. My eyes greet leaves
glistening with the Sun's shine outside my window. I
feel that magical glisten on my enlivened, smiling face.
Overwhelmed with blessing, palpably ultimately here!,
ready for anything to manifest after this miracle has been
granted. I am aglow with happiness, instinctively know
this reprieve is real, not a cruel joke, some fleeting wish
fulfillment dream. I know for certain, this renascence I
have woken to is meant to last. I feel glorious resurgence
urging me to let loose in enthusiastic dance.
Jamee
Alee, Alee, what do I see! You are dancing! My Alee of old,
little sister always in motion, a vision of grace. What miracle
has brought you back to me? Here I am, returned home from
my shift at the Factory to tend to my precious invalid, as
every day since your spirit was compromised by a mysterious
disease. Yet, look! Amazement! You seem to no longer need
my maintenance assistance, all alive and a'glee, ready for any
eventuality -- or is this just a cruel tease? Will you again be
struck down mostly silent, bereft of the energy to speak, to
sing, as our Alee had for so long lifted us? Oh, my so very
dear sister, nearly a twin, my closest friend, confidante,
companion, I now very greatly want to believe we have
regained your full brilliant ebullience to delight our mutual
lives as in our past, before these draining years of absence.
It does feel like at least a lifetime, grieving your ebbing, light
bit by bit fading from your once vibrant, sparkling eyes.
This wild woman-child, wise beyond her experience, gentle,
kind, yet always ready to fight for what you feel needs
fighting for, how I admired your strength and inspiring
elation. I have done my best to care for you, the physical
chores you could no longer manage. Yet, I have been so
disheartened, seeing you depleted, devastated, weakness
taken the place of your fierce independence, knowing you
must hate to be waited on at others' convenience, rather
than doing what, when, how you please. But let us not
dwell in those miseries. Look! You are dancing,
pirouetting over to hug me, pull me into your embrace, as
when we were younger, unaware of trials to come. We can
again, as was our habit, prepare our meal, eat together.
Yes, after you attend to shower and clean clothing, at last
on your own power. Meanwhile, I will gladly inform the
family of this wondrous homecoming. Are you recovered
enough for a celebration? Do you have perceptive information,
how this miracle occurred? Please, tell me now what you've
waited, wanted to say all those endless days when speech
was too much to long endure. I am so incredibly happy, happy
is not nearly a big enough word. I know I need not enclose my
jubilance in verbal expression, when, as ever, you can reach in,
feel with me. Yet, I must exclaim, honor such wonderful relief,
the difference between engulfment in our unrelenting pain of
separation from who we were. We can push those terrible days
aside, overjoyed to be here and now with our effervescent Alee
once more.
Paul
Jamee, Jamee. I read your group text, and got myself here as
fast as I could run. Tell me, what do you mean by "Alee has
returned to us"? Oh, Alee, I see. Here you are, awake, alive
as ever you were before. This is, I am, overwhelmed with joy!
Such an amazing surprise, I don't know what to say. Let me
hug you both to me, to feel our renewed connection. Jamee and
I have greatly missed our vivacious sister. We were heavily
bereaved, to see you day after day, deathly pale, devoid of your
expressive outpouring. No exuberant dancing, singing,
laughing infectious happiness, or expected dramatic raging
over injustices, doleful sadness of loss or frustration. We badly
missed all we feared forever gone. Wan, near motionless shell,
unable to lift up from your bed, to speak above a limited
whisper, too obviously difficult to continue beyond simple
requests, efforts at fond blessing. But why am I dwelling on
at last past desolation, now we are re-united? We must
celebrate. I know the rest of the family will soon show,
once they have seen Jamee's message. Let's whip up a feast!
Gather the drums and flutes to distribute around, to play,
dance, eat, honor our awakened precious treasure, the great
good fortune of her recovery. Jamee, my true forever love,
a kiss to seal this brilliant moment. We hug together to share,
enhance ascendant bliss, dispel those wretched years when
we hugged together to share and expel our despair. But, yes,
let's raid the pantry to inspire culinary magic, we three so in
sync, catalysts to each of our creative instincts. I feel alive in
ways I haven't over that agonizing time. I have loved,
depended upon these people, my true family, for most of my
life, despite not being blood related. This home of my heart
once more feels complete, as we should be. I know I am
greatly fortunate to be here among them, far different from
the comfortless place where I still stop by to insure the
sufficient care of my disabled, aging parents. I imagine my
sacred duty, portrayed in my position as Barro Mayor, will
benefit from this easier mind, a calm, inviting energy,
restored. I know our uplifted state of grace is not about me,
still, I am enhanced by my role as witness, beneficiary. I
want you two, my closest friends, Jamee my lifelong lover,
Alee my chosen sister, to understand how enormously I
am affected.
Sophia
My dear, darling Alegra -- look at you! Prancing about
the room like a conduit of bubbling grace, just as you
had been long years past -- again. I know you can see
how happy we are to enjoy your effervescence, lifting
us far from that metaphoric storm season, buffeted by
despair. I never anticipated this particular good fortune
to attend our valiant family, struggling against a
detested curse. We who have loved you through such
hapless extremity, with no reason to believe you could
be cured, prepared for a much more bitter eventuality --
now removed from our imminent fear. Instead of
tragedy, we have been blessed with this wonderful turn
of events. I know, little bird, we will all, you the most I'm
sure, be glad to hear you sing aloud, enthrall us with
evocative stories, soaring lyrics, you and Jay, our musical
playwrights, had before always on offer. Again to be
regaled by our laughing, dancing, ever in motion friend,
who for all those years before her fall would effortlessly
brighten our lives. Such a joyous homecoming to this
unofficial family of my heart and long devotion, happily
planning to party, now gifted occasion requiring
celebration. Yes, we had meant to honor Camille's
birthday, and of course she deserves our festivity. But
our joy and relief for Alee's full presence greatly needs
this revelry tonight.
Gladly done with today's annoying School meeting,
where the faculty pour out their grievances in the name
of programmatic improvement, as I struggle to appear
professional. Once free to attend personal concerns, I
was delighted, intrigued to see Jamee's text.
Immediately, I rang Marta, as always ensconced in an
experiment not to be messed with. We agreed to meet
at home when she can get there, no reason for me to wait
for her to become acquainted with the full tale of the
occasion. Jamee, Paul, I know you must be over the
Moon, stars and planets to have regained this deeply
missed Alee, merry, spry, no longer so only in fond
memory. I see you three are devising a celebratory
feast. Of course you are! No doubt Bobby, Cas, and
their crew will join us shortly, once returned from
Camille's art community public fair and birthday
bash in the vicinity of the Mart. Jamee's message
will have given warning that the party they find
here will be not the one they had expected, rather a
marvelous surprise. A magical Spring evening awaits.
I feel peace, within anticipatory excitement, a welcome
home. All those long, now event filled, years ago, I left
my City life, the place I was born and raised, to
discover what I could make of my passions. I relocated
alone, after Uni training, fully convinced of my
academic and teaching abilities, having grown up in
an atmosphere of schooling, among Upper learned
society, daughter of their children's tutors. I had then
no inkling I would find not only the engaging work I
had hoped for, but better, a welcoming, loving, smart,
creative family, at least as engaging. Meeting Marta
as a colleague at the School, unexpected fast and solid
friends, then committed lovers, a transforming boon, an
unremembered dream come true. Then, to be introduced,
pulled in so easily to become an integral part of this group
through their eldest sister, another unexpected blessing.
Over time, included in the telling of their memories, I
felt as well the siblings' reverence for their parents, Julia
and Eli, for whom two of their posthumous grandchildren
were named. I was privileged for Marta's and my first six
years, to be part of their extended family as well, before the
tragedy of their untimely demise. I too grieved then, and
joined the alloyed celebration when little Eli appeared.
And now, here I am for what I dare to describe as a sacred
re-dedication to our integral core. I see Bobby entering,
through the opening door, ready to be hugged in by me
so he can get the music going. Jamee has left drums and
flutes arrayed on one of the comfy chairs, to be taken up
and played. Bobby chooses a drum to thump, tap, beat
upon with his practiced hands. I choose an old wooden
flute, carved an age ago by Eli, to expand his musical
enthusiasm through his kids. We sway to the rhythm.
The others dance throughout the room, to and from the
kitchen, as they prepare our future feast. It is truly
wonderful, to be among these people, home to share
this joyful night of resurrection.
Jay
Hey, Alee. Finally decided to give up on your
marathon of utter laziness, I see. Back on your
lumbering feet, attempting to dance? Can't take
that performance to the stage. You know we've
been waiting for you to wake up, help me create
our plays, develop fresh parts, not need to keep
muddling through with the scripts we've got.
Those old disabled folks you brought meals to
still remember you, though they haven't been
neglected. Our flock has you covered, doing the
work you left, that others not suffer from your
absence, leaving you free to suffer your illness
without guilt. Gus has added new cook staff,
since you abandoned the expectations we had
of your responsibilities. Your places, taken by we
who had the training of your example, thus made
too busy to miss you more than occasionally,
when we knew how you would have enhanced
the situation. Of course, you know I never forget
all those crazy scenes, merry pranks, disasters
that kept us laughing when recalled. We were what,
five years old, when we decided to become a team,
you, me, Paul, Jamee, nine and six respectively,
when we all got together. Tower neighbors, School
acquaintances, drawn by mutual affection, shared
passions, appreciation of each other's intelligence,
basic trust, but especially our combination's
outrageous fun. Come, let's seal this renascence
with a big, reunited kiss, surreptitious smiles,
happy flirtatiousness. I have so missed all those
idyllic whiles, passion plays, if you will, adventures
to be renewed between just us two, or expanded
into our flock of intimates. Let me steal you away
from your kitchen engagement with Paul and Jamee.
Certainly they can enjoy their dinner preparations
a 'deux. Dance with me to Bobby's inviting rhythms,
Sophia's elegant melodies. We are well acquainted
with this groove, these feelings that reverberate
through sensual memory. Days, months, years of
lonely despondency, I would move myself to visit
you, though only briefly, when you had no energy
for attention. Let that horrid interval be relegated
to the realm of experiences too unwelcome to dwell
on. From the corner of my half-closed eye, I notice
Marta has at last arrived, home from her diligent
plant studies. She shakes off her professional
personality, to integrate with ongoing family
revelry. We pull her into our dance, while the boys
take a break from their kitchen magicianhood for
a bit to join in. Bobby, let me release you, send out
the beat while you express more fully, stomping
feet, reaching arms to encircle affectionately the
dancing present of this family exhileration. I
assume those remaining of your crew where you
left them, will fill out our complement soon. Who
needs inebriates when real happiness requires only
this exuberant connection to boost the ambient vibe.
That said, "I brought wine," I exclaim in offer, hold
forth the jug. When we get to an opportune break,
we can pause the music, pass around mugs to fill
for a formal toast, ritual recognition to the gods,
invitation to party at our side, as we imbibe their
blessing, infuse our vibrancy through our shared air,
our again united home. Listen to me flow effortlessly
into delighted poetry, while Alee counterpoints,
fallen into our old game. Alee and Jay together again
in full force. Watch out world. Hear us roar. See us
tumble into each other, laughing, hugging, catching
breath, jumping up from the floor, aware of
sumptuous smells from the kitchen. Must soon be
time to eat. And, yes, Bobby has surreptitiously
skipped out, and now returns with the others, back
from Camille's public birthday art fair, as she has
been organizing these past several years, in her art
class room and the outside area nearby, not far from
the Mart to entice passersby with marvelous art
works and festivity. Bobby had skipped out early in
response to Jamee's text, to learn the story. Now he
has reported and brought back the rest. Cas and
Bonnie, their kids, Diana and Julia; Camille, her and
Bobby's little Danny and Eli -- the gang's all here.
Our party has truly started. Hey, Alee, see how
enormously you are loved.
Marta
My work is important. Of course I love my family,
reliable support and humanizer. When we were so
much younger, Mom, Dad, and rambunctious kids,
our home felt bursting with love, tangled up in daily
work, play, serious, silly, we learned to be independent
people, interdependent for celebration, solace, help as
needed, place to belong. Mother, Julia, wise, strong
pioneer, eschewed fear or hesitation, Always sure to
exercise intense preparation. "Pay attention so you
don't have to pay with unnecessary pain," she liked to
say, admonish. Stern words were the only punishment
we expected her to mete, yet certainly enough to stop
us from acting with poor judgement. Papa Eli, her
lifelong partner, foil, the first word he brings to mind
is emotional, over the top feelings expressed without
censor. He would lovingly carve his wooden flutes,
goatskin covered wooden drums, to distribute to
everyone, sometimes for exchange of value, usually
just to allow for more music to flow. He liked to
orchestrate our repertoire of highs and lows, to
create an engaging atmosphere, nightly parties for
sharing tunes, dance, exuberance, including whoever
would join in, family and friends. How could we
ever forget his sumptuous meals, his magic with
mundane ingredients, to far greater than sustain us
bodily, rather fill every day with exquisite flavors to
savor, familial memories to honor. We sisters and
brothers, I among us, blessed to be raised with this
legacy of good fun, abiding love, along with serious
endeavors, callings, responsibilities, always aware that
we are cared for, have people close enough to take in
the care we have to share. Precious work, dear
sustaining cherishing, what more could I ask to fulfill
me? This special night we are overjoyed to find our
darling little sister returned to us, glorious reprieve
from years of unbearable bereavement. Far from
fading out completely as we had helplessly feared,
somehow, mysterious as her unexpected illness when
it appeared, she has been freed, restored. Surely, an
awesome surprise to celebrate, an ebullient awakening
to a future in tune with our deepest desire.
Late as I tend to come to our parties, caught up in
professional chores, still they all understand that I am
very much part of the collective spirit we call home.
My physical presence will always show just as soon as
I can leave my laboratory without jeopardizing
meticulous execution, complete attention to each next
step as my goal, my vision, manifests. I know it is
overly ambitious, yet I feel compelled to ever more
efficiently feed, clothe, dispel disease, ease maladies for
my surrounding community, beyond my circle of
family, that we may all be well, able to default to joy.
I know Sophia, my dynamic partner, co-conspiratory
muse understands with full sympathy. Here she is,
grabbing my hands, swooping in for a lingering kiss.
Bobby
Surrounded by bequeathed names, their associations,
here, my life, among my loved, those who compose
my reflections, my affections, my greater good to
belong within. Alee, my little sister (my birth midway
between her, our youngest and our oldest, Marta,
with buffering brothers on either side), named herself.
Always free-spirited, she switched from our parents'
decision, Alegra, to Alee, when she figured out about
words to manipulate communication, that she could
choose how to be introduced. This encouraged her
closest brother and confidante, James, to take on Jamee,
another game within their pair bond. I was named for
my then recently departed Uncle Bobby, who, of course,
I never knew. He was Mom's much older brother who
had moved into this apt, next door to then young Julia,
their parents, and disabled brother, Sam, to help care
for them while maintaining a separate space. For some
years he used the larger bedroom with attached bath for
fermentation of fruit from his father's Garden to produce
wine for sale and parties, and his own consumption.
When my Mom and Dad got serious, they moved into
one of his spare rooms. Continuing their aid to her aging
parents, Dan and Liz, for Mom included accepting more
responsibility for Liz's experiments, to enhance the healing
possibilities of her family's Garden's herbs. In short time,
Julia and Eli settled in, ready to begin their next generation
of family within this kin environment.
I hear that elder Bobby was kind, thoughtful, fun, if a bit
of an inebriate. Marta, eldest of our sibling crew, knew him
best, as Cas was still a toddler when he passed, taken by
a massive heart attack in his early forties, after giving little
attention to healthful habits. No lingering illness needing
medical intervention, for him. She admits vague memories,
that he was an Uncle she felt safe with when left under his
supervision, while Mom and Dad were out pursuing their
professional endeavors. I guess Bobby named me, but then
I named my older sibs, with my baby pronunciations.
Martina has since been forever Marta, Lucas, Cas. On to
the next generation, Camille and I continued the tradition,
giving our sons, each in turn, the names of first their
great-grappa, Dan, when he died while his next descendant
gestated. A mere three years later, Eli was named for my
father, tragically taken, an innocent bystander, in a grievous
crime, or accident, since my parents were not the intended
victims. The boys, were thus named for remembrance after,
I guess, synchronicity of births so close to the deaths of their
older kin. Camille enthusiastically agreed to this, a small
gift she could offer in those months of grief. Then, there's
little Julia, Cas and Bonnie's younger daughter, though born
over a year later, named to honor our mother, who was to
us beloved, wise, inspiring, always available as we each
required, despite long hours of dedication to her scientific
inquiries. Our family thus became no stranger to devastation.
I was but 21 when that cursed bomb blew up the core
security we thought we had, as we were learning to become
the adult people we wished to be, ready to fulfill our dreams.
Just a bunch of stupid teens, lacking obviously needed
supervision, who figured out how to use the School chem
lab equipment to obliterate their schoolyard enemies. This
violently hostile youthful rivalry left five innocent
bystanders and their circles of reverberation destroyed,
as well as their own lives, relegated to jail for the duration,
since none would dare to try to get them freed. Enraged
neighbors had clamored to tear them apart then and there.
Our Mayor at that time, trusted friend among the community,
instead insisted that extension of violence would not promote
healing of our grievous pain. We needed, rather, to grieve
together, with the knowledge that the miscreants who caused
this anguish would never again be free. Incarceration without
reprieve had long been made available as an option, in our
underground, beneath the Towers, cages, built many ages
ago in service to the City, to keep their most vicious far from
a threat to their society, soundly punished for their misdeeds
and as warning. Serious offenders would suffer brutal
loneliness, aging in darkness, devoid of activity or stimulation,
most certainly a more dire punishment than the peace of death.
Alee, our youngest, was a mere 16 that year, similar in age to
the perpetrators. She must have seen them in School, thought
of them as fellow students. Mere months since her birthday,
she had started working part time for Gus at the Diner, as one
of his short order cooks. She was there at the time our world
exploded outside. Later, when life again seemed to have
become more normalized, she flew into a much less
home-oriented existence, ever greater community engagement.
A dynamo, her days and nights became filled with her theater
obsessed friends, participating in their whirl of creative
projects to enhance the general ambiance, give assistance to
those they could see were in need, extend their youthful
energies to make their world more easy and fun for everyone,
a lively flock of a feather, together greater, happier, than on
their own. We rarely saw her, except of course for Jamee, Paul,
Jay, her closest friends, with whom she played, made plans,
shared explorations every day. We never thought we would
need to be concerned about her well-being, with that always
reliable support. Cas, Bonnie, Camille, the kids, and I, since
no longer caring for Dan, and Liz, now gone, have developed
our own familial crew, sharing chores (though mostly Cas
attends to our household, meals, cleaning, the children, when
the rest of us have other responsibilities), and support.
Camille and I eventually moved into the master bedroom to
use both for sleep and creating art, different from Uncle
Bobby's creative pursuits. All of us recovered from that
infamous day, each finding our ways to move forward, to
discover who we were, what we could do. And then, in an
unexpected instant, our Alee was gone from her regular
pursuits. She was suddenly no longer our dynamic
whirlwind, showering brilliant grace in dance, spontaneous
song, spinning glorious fantasies, swirling through daily
plans, work, companions. Rather, she had become a wan,
barely living presence, shrouded in blankets, unable to rise
for simple self-care. Yet tonight, tonight we have her back,
fully charged, ready to embark on this new start, relight our
hearts with her effortless effulgence. As if gift of a shining
future we can once more feel allowed to hope for, Alee as
we had known her, lifts us all. I suspect Camille will not
miss her usual early April family birthday celebration,
given over to a truly worthy cause. These family occasions
have too often reminded us of what we miss, bittersweet,
but not tonight.
Cas
The serious one, the dutiful son, following, honoring my father's
legacy, my mom's wise counsel, my elder sister's sense of
responsibility. Focused, not like Marta with her scientific
endeavors to improve community well-being, rather on service
to family, and by ripple effect, our greater world. It truly pleases,
fulfills me to take on these daily ministrations. There is no better
life I might aspire to. All the precedent preparations to enjoy our
meals, assuring that our home is clean, pleasantly appointed,
providing aid in any form, for any issue that presents, giving
our kids the full attention they desire, a source of comfort my
people can depend upon, no matter why needed, these acts of
loving grace are me. Back in my later teens, while our parents
were still there to take care of us, I moved next door to more
readily help our grandparents with chores and health
requirements as their aging infirmities made them less able
to sufficiently do for themselves. I began then, as well, to
work a shift at the Factory, to pay for their comforting treats,
and to invest in exercise for greater strength as I grew. My
dear friend for many years, though Marta's age, Bonnie from
upstairs, who I also knew from her volunteering at Mom's
lab for the experience, to feed her endearing curiosity, had
earned a place at City's Uni-Med. Thus, she disappeared
from my company for those years she spent away for
schooling across the River. While attending Uni it was
forbidden to maintain communication with Barro friends
or family. Her basic high intelligence, intense focus, grit,
and natural empathy had impressed the City representatives
teaching in our School. They knew with appropriate training
she could be an amazing medical professional at the Clinic,
City sponsors had long since arranged to build, way back
in Barro history, when they had plans to grow soldiers
from later generations of those they had evicted. I like to
put the pieces together like puzzles, understand the past,
its secrets and ripples, how we evolved to now. Those
people then, in their struggles to continue, shaped us to
become as we are today. Anyway, Bonnie did eventually
return, to serve an internship at the Clinic before granted
full Med status, be given the position she had long worked
to attain. Meanwhile, once we were reunited, we decided
that she move in to one of the extra rooms and help with
Grappa and Gramma's care, here, rather than deal with
the pain of the home she was raised in, where her
younger brothers remained. Around that time, Bobby
and Camille joined our next door extension to this
enlarging family, being serious enough a couple to
want the independence of more private space, as
Bobby shared the bedroom I had abandoned with
Jamee. Grappa Dan, ever sicker, passed on. He had
already bequeathed his Garden, and fermentation
operation, to his oldest daughter, our Aunt Sylvia,
and her family, retaining a small share in the profits,
relinquished after his and Liz's demise. It was
mere months later that Gramma Liz joined her lost
partner. Bobby and Camille moved into what had
been their larger room for both bed and studio. When
their first son was born not very long after his
great-grandparents' passing, they named him Dan.
Once no longer an infant, he was given his parents'
former room, later to share with his younger brother.
Little Danny, Eli, my and Bonnie's Diana and Julia,
bit by bit increased our crew. Ever abiding, I provide
what comfort, sustenance, gentle atmosphere of
surrounding care I can. In fact I am aware that we
all take care of each other in our unique ways.
Always a bit of an ascetic, steeped in the spirituality
of daily work as meditation, as a teen I had lopped
off my long dark braid for greater efficiency,
inspired by Marta's practical example. These days
I am blessed to be aesthetically attired in beautiful
flowing clothing Camille has created, decorated to
look like a peaceful starry night, equipped with
cinches as required for convenience when doing
chores. This well integrated extended family, my
happy place. Today we have been given an infinite
blessing, our sister Alee's miraculous restoration.
Not an occasion for solace to sorrow, but for grand
celebration, enjoying the party.
Camille
They say I'm always in motion. So much to do.
I did institute my art program at the School. Not
only classes, shows, all those preparatory skills,
making paints, dyes, quills, building an artists'
community. Now that the kids are old enough,
I enjoy helping them discover what engages them
creatively, develop their individual styles.
Experiments with their hair, clothing, they have
seen me devise, inspire their innovations. We
never differentiate between Cas and Bonnie's, mine
and Bobby's. We've become one family, along with
the rest next door. For all that dismal era, devastated,
missing Alee's uplifting charm, we kept each other
comforted, wrapped in shared consolation, and,
honestly, over time, it was all just another part of the
norm. Cas led daily meditations to keep us calm when
emotions overpoured. Busy people here, it became
fairly easy to let days, years fall into their component
moments of activity, entertainment, rest. Of course
some occasions break out from routine, hold our
attention, for good or other emergent meaning.
Today's exceptional cause for celebration, to see Alee,
wonderfully vibrant, dance through the room, what
could be more uplifting? I see in my mental creative
center a cloak I want to make, decorate in
remembrance of this extraordinarily blessed event.
Bonnie
My family balances me, gives safe haven, succor, a
sacred space where I belong when not at work. I
have always been diligent. I was picked for special
training across the River at the City Uni for people
they choose to work in the Barro as medical personnel.
My teachers saw my qualities, smarts, dedication
to learning health-related skills, worthy of special
consideration, of notice. The Uppers call us pearls,
Barros who rise above our general population. Once
they realized they had no need of us as soldiers, they
pivoted to seek out our exceptional as valuable assets
to encourage, useful products to employ for their
projects. They did make certain I know they expect,
I owe, superb performance of the skills thus given.
As a result of this responsibility, I enjoy little leisure
for domestic chores. Those are not what I come home
for, nor am I thought shirking for not contributing
more in that regard. Cas acts as domestic god for our
crew. He seems so easily to keep our domicile all that we
each require, gracefully flowing, showing effortless
compassion, knowing how to quell anxieties with gentle
reminders of how well we are loved. When we were first
together as a couple, I helped Cas care for his Grappa Dan
and Gramma Liz. We lived as this four for a while, until
Bobby and Camille joined in. A few months after Grappa,
and then Gramma, passed on, their Danny was born.
Released from what had become chronic sickness, he had
left Liz still in our care, but for not very long. At least they
was gone years before Eli and Julia's horrid demise, never
had to suffer that dark passage. Over time, subsequent
children arrived, grew, asked more of our time, attention,
emotions. We developed routines around our various areas
of expertise, never lacking in interaction with our siblings
and such next door. When Alee was suddenly disabled,
I was called to cure her. Despite my years of training,
experience, I had no idea how to proceed. I did as sense
suggested, to no avail. My desperate attempts at restoration
always failed to provide relief. Now, I begin to see this
was no mere bodily malady. This illness may have arisen
for a purpose beyond our common ability to foretell. As
suddenly, without discernable source, as she had been
stricken, she has regained her vital energy, full force.
I don't know what any of this means, but sincerely hope
we are freed from continuing grave misfortune, that any
future revelation be to our good.
Act 2: And So It Goes
Alee
Not one to follow a plan, I flow through my
present circumstances. After all that regrettable
fallow time, I am ready to try out the various
bits of my former life, to discover what fits the
new, the now. Jay, my trusty sidekick of yore,
again, together as we belong, merry tricksters at
play, or comfort when those occasions of serious
nature occur. I hope my neighbors carry only fond
memories of our high jinks, are happy to see us
about in their midst as before. Gus agrees to me
joining his back-up cook list, though he has a full
complement. Jay's sister, Nadia got promoted to
my shift when I disappeared. Her sister Greta and
she have continued to back up as well, though Jay has
given up her service shift to a younger worker I've not
yet met. The Community Center, generally shortened
to Com, home to the School and Theater, along with its
myriad rooms for other uses, comes next. The Theater,
as always, calls me, my second home for so long, where
I can dance and sing, create marvelous fantasies for the
flock to perform, where I haven't a care, just a sort of
ecstasy from breathing that, to me, hallowed air.
Then on to volunteer at the Kitchen, two-hour shifts for
a pittance. Such community work is paid in Barro Bucks
from the tax taken in rent, and payment for Pantry goods,
Kitchen meals, by those who can afford it. We are also,
each on our shift fed for free from what our work provides
for any who want, payment or not. After food preparation,
Jay and I grab a cart to carry our share to deliver, to their
Tower apts, to those who can't get about due to disabilities,
who have no one to do for them. While visiting to give
them sustenance, we enjoy their stories. We offer
the current news, help them feel connected. If we see
they need medical assistance, I call Bonnie at the Clinic.
She sends a Med to discern how to proceed. Then, we
continue on to feed each next on our list. Once our day's
work has finished we play, make up scenarios as we wander
our terrain, often accompanied by friends who revel in the
game. Finally it's time to head home for dinner, family
chatter, catching up with Jamee, Paul, maybe Sophia and
Marta, whoever of our clan happens to be there. Jay has
long since been part of us here, where she has always felt
more at home than upstairs with her mother and sisters,
now mostly on their own, except for Nadia and Greta, the
two next older to her, who have stayed to continue to
take care of Barbara, their erratic Mom. Jay officially
lives there, too, but rarely appears where she never felt
she belonged. She is perennially welcome among our
whole coterie of friends, sleeps wherever she is when that
state overwhelms conscious activity. She likes to encourage
serendipity by not following plans, acting as each moment
demands. Dinner and concomitant conversations done,
we return to my happy place, my Theater home. Tonight no
performance looms, just uninhibited fun. A lovely day, early
in mid-Spring, now softly closes, in readiness to merge
into the next. My future unforetold, what I do know, what
feels like peace, though friends, family, community have
moved on through their destinies, filled any hole my absence
left, I am still and always a part of them, they of me. How
we play out day by day may be a mystery. Right now I
feel fine.
Jamee
I am not only about my close ties with Alee and Paul.
I guess I tend to be seen as a follower, though certainly
there are those who know me as Jamee, a man of my
own predilections, motivations, merry company. My
days have several components, with others and alone.
A regular shift at the Factory, where I get to see, throw
about facts and philosophies, with co-workers who
expect me as part of our routine, helps keep me physically
on track. At last freed from the need to spend hours
attending to Alee's survival, I can return to my generally
more peripatetic lifestyle. Yes, I often accompany Paul
on his rounds to keep tabs on his constituents, their
urgencies, aspirations, to determine how his knowledge
of resources might assist. I enjoy the engagement in
conversations, gentle ribaldry. My ardent curiosity
happily discovers all those disparate bits that bind into
glorious stories, who each of us ultimately is. Pleased for
these opportunities to wander my world, look in here and
there, find where I may be of aid, join in games, converse on
subjects both small and wide, why would I desire any other
life, now that Alee is returned, fully part of our world, my
grief released, dispelled.
There's always music to enjoy, accompany. Usually I carry
my flute on my journeys, riff on some tune of my own, or
with other players I come upon, impromptu concerts to fill
our common air, often promoting impromptu dance. We
Barros can be a merry lot, given little encouragement.
In inclement weather we have the Bar to relax in, play on
the stage, dance with abandon on the hard wood floor.
Of course, wine and weed for purchase enhance our
camaraderie, good cheer. Not that we need intoxication
beyond the shared exhilaration, together here, untied
from our current cares, at one with simple fun. Some
nights the Theater flock plays for audience. Paul and I
like to attend, enjoy that experience with the others
present from the community, watch Alee in her element.
Song, dance, theatric stories that express full emotionality,
gifts from our thespian neighbors, friends, family, we
recompense, when flush enough with tips left in a box on
the bar for that purpose. After Theater night, we might go
for a bite at Gus's Diner, where Jay and Alee have often
worked early in the day. Now they have transformed into
customers of others' culinary fare. No need for the fancy
atmosphere of the Restaurant, available for special occasions
that want more rarefied celebration. Tonight's Diner menu
is exactly what we desire after the show. Eventually, Paul
and I retire to home, to gift each other every attention.
Alee and her flock of theater friends have gone off to their
own adventures. I reflect, a simple soliloquy, a tale of
charm and grace, as my lifelong lover says I spread
wherever I alight. Finally the night carries me to dreaming
while another day awaits.
Paul
It always renews me to look into my dearest love's deep
green eyes, offset by his soft brown face, counterpoint
to my paleness, dark hair, flowing or braided,
reminiscent of his beloved mother's exquisite features,
though completely his. I feel free, released from care,
as if gazing into the sea. Having never seen a sea, I
imagine it like our River, but much more immense, with
no discernible end, as with Jamee and me, our profound
bond. I admit way back when we first each became aware
of the other, when I was but eight, Jamee merely five, that
part of his appeal was this big, beautiful family, so different
from mine. His people seemed a pantheon of love and fun.
Even their public spats were more like theater than actual
disturbances in their obvious mutual regard. My parents'
home offered no refuge or warm welcome, no interactive
siblings to count upon. Mine are sour folks, not salty sweet.
I tend to think they got together to, like some folie a' deux,
enjoy the treat of mocking everyone not them. Better to think
on today's pleasures, not dwell on unpleasantness long past.
For my official role as Barro Mayor, I am paid in kind by those
with goods or services I find useful to meet my modest needs,
chief among these, caring for my aging mom and dad. I do
look in on them, as it occurs to me, though more rarely now
that I have become independent of that necessity. When I do,
I hear their demands, mollify, implore them to act more kindly
toward neighbors who come by to help out, be less of an
unpleasant chore. My work, far from onerous, allows me to be
generous with my abilities and time. I get to wander my world
to find what needs doing, who needs guiding, where I can
interfere to improve, or instigate initiatives to enhance our
communal lives, both overall and one by one. On many of
those tours, Jamee joins me, adds his open-handed generosity,
amiable curiosity. People seem to well respond to our genuine
interest. In instances of dire emergency, they feel assured
that we will readily, effectively provide in every way we can
be of aid. I get to extend the empathetic man I naturally am
to my community. How could I feel other than blessedly fulfilled?
Now that dear Alee is again her rambunctious self, my blessings
more brightly than ever bloom. Early dawns, before our outward
looking day begins, in our, to me, sacred room, I gaze lovingly
into Jamee's deep green sea. Every morning, I am thus renewed
to engage with all the dramas and joy of my privileged
employment, my chosen intimates, a world that is my home.
Sophia
They say I've gone native. Though, of course,
Barros are not native to this land, not originally.
I've gone free, to be, to become, me, as I choose.
Happy to be graced by the gods to exchange a
City existence for this vibrant, even often exciting,
more natural life. Free of constant surveillance,
the need to appear as if in a restrictive public
square at all times, I am here the Sophia I could
previously only see in fond fantasies, safe from
the probing AI eye. I have always been fascinated
by stories of the past, tracing relevance, aligning
the bits and pieces that make a history. Granted
a teaching position, research permissions, a decent
City credit salary for this less expensive economy,
in relation to what native help is paid, I do well,
and perhaps some good. All I am intent on learning,
eventually teaching to my students, the Barro
story, my enduring passion to discover, I am here
able to teach myself. This inquiry demands I pursue,
by inspiring trust through empathy, deep, probing
conversations with those old enough to remember
even older relatives, mentors, whose tales they
pass forward. I get to wander this once to me
foreign terrain, explore architecture, City bequeathed
and Barro erected, the more temporary structures
made for everyday commerce, the personal projects
that last as social institutions derived from private
business dreams. I imbibe, explore derivations of
customs, examine those intricate strands, as if weaving
a vast mural behind my eyes. I know I am a romantic.
Far from interfering with my astute reasoning that
captures and combines every scrap of evidence I find,
in narratives, explorations, suppositions analyzed for
nuggets of fact to be mined, my tendency toward
imaginative fancies adds to my overall ability to
understand and continue to piece together what was.
What an exhilarating place I have found! By now I
have gathered luscious fruits of these opportunities
that I can share. More importantly, I have melded,
become a blessed member of my adopted Barro family.
They keep me in touch, in merry tune, with the intimate
facets of my personality. Marta and I, so different in our
styles, outward facing traits. Somehow, we are each the
completion the other needs to bloom into all of our
potential beauty. Who we develop into together grows
day by day, into a better forever. Love and duty, both
for me seem like enthusiastic play.
Marta and I, though co-existing at the City Uni-Teacher's
Division, never met then. Barro and City students were
kept separate, to deny too great a chance of untoward
communication. We met here, in our capacities as
faculty at the School, shortly after we began our tenure,
when still quite young, close to 21, less than a month it
turns out between our births. From the start, we had
endless thoughts to share, were amazed by how
immediate and intense our mutual care, understanding
became manifestly obvious. Her family pulled me into
their heart. My parents, siblings had given me sound
foundation for who I was then yet to be. Not effusive,
but loving, basically kind, if at times arrogant, intelligent,
responsible, fine models, mentors for an academic career.
I sometimes am in touch, from the Compound
communication platform, with one or another of
them. We share anecdotes from both sides. I tell them
how I'm faring, get to hear about what is importantly
occurring in their lives. The City Compound is cut out
from the Barro, in which it stands to the far South, on
the River, surrounded by a high tech opaque fence
so none can see in. A separate area screened against
entrance by any but City approved migrants, that
we may temporarily enjoy the benefits of City
engineering, including the ability to stay in touch
with people still at home. Of course the price is AI
surveillance within its confines, as in any City
controlled place. Thus I only tell my natal family
what I safely may. Not the uncensored way I choose
to communicate, out here where I have the chance to
be authentic.
Many decades past a century back, the Barro, not
yet named, was but a strip of unmanned land, cleared
of its natural forest by massive fires while Earth was
erupting against us, as within what would become
City parameters, across our wide, winding River.
The Uppers, those of self-proclaimed divine right,
once they had arrived, with their chattel and
technologies, quite obviously in charge of how things
would be, didn't want to be bothered by Lowers
lacking obeisant loyalty. They decided to exile those
unwanted nuisances to that barren space emanating
from the River's other shore, to find ways of their own
to survive, or die. By long, lazy habit, that practice has
continued, including a policy of diverting potential
refugees from the greater world of survivors, trying to
locate a possible new home, after the changes that made
so much of our planet less welcoming to humanity.
Over this continuing history, Upper enthusiast
improvements have added their influence into today's
Barro society. There are still some few forest dwellers
subsisting, as they have learned to, on what they can
forage or kill. Most of us live within the ubiquitous
Garden paths, housed in the Towers, hi-rise hovels
as they are often fondly called, erected by Barro labor
with materials, tools, specific blueprints provided by
some Upper project plan. Concomitant, the Clinic was
built, back when the idea of using Barro descendants as
soldiers against possible invasion by violent refugees
instigated a project to advance their health, strength,
stamina, and numbers. Thus abortion methods were
not allowed, nor taught in Med education. The Clinic
was outfitted with appropriate tools, furnishings, for
medical necessities. In its beginning, staffed with
transplanted City Meds, specifically trained to ancient
practices to deny the ejects access to their advanced
technologies. While there was no AI surveillance, as
per Upper policy of ignorance in regard to Barro
matters, City bred workers could not be sure their
colleagues would not tell on them if they deviated
from expectations. Thus Uppers foresaw need for the
Compound, to facilitate such communication. As it
turned out, no violent invasion occurred. Exploding
drones were sufficient to repel those with hopes of
immigration to the City. Occasional stragglers simply
got diverted to the Barro. Still the Clinic survived,
thrived as Barro pearls were selected to train as Meds
for their own. By precedent, they are paid in Creds
through a City open grant. Bit by bit locals were hired
to serve as Auxiliary, do the work to support the Meds,
also paid through the Clinic resources. Decades later,
the Community Center, the Com, was conceived. It was
the result of a coterie of bored Uppers devising an
architecture project to include a School to teach basics,
give Barros the training to do the jobs now needing to be
filled. Teachers could be encouraged to discover pearls,
Barro people with unusual natural talents that City
mentors could develop to be useful, as employees for
Upper schemes, as well as a few who might be given
permission to migrate based on their special
abilities, to become City Lowers, instead of remaining
what were considered lesser entities by City class
understandings. The Com, of course, evolved to fill
its many, varied rooms with studios for all manner of
crafts, the Theater and rehearsal spaces, laboratories for
all kinds of science research education, kept within
approved boundaries. Over social changes, it grew
to include whatever occurred to us to use it for,
including a community Pantry/Kitchen, the
Recycling (Rec) Center, as well the Tool Shed, a
repository for community tools to be borrowed as
required. Between the Com and Clinic, once City
paid Barro residents had Credits to spare, some Lower
entrepreneurs created the Store, to sell conveniences
the Uppers would allow. Local merchants took to
setting up temporary spaces to display their wares,
referred to as the Mart, East of the Store and Com.
Over time, the Diner and Restaurant were established,
but not before the Bar, below the Mart, a place of
camaraderie, social recreation, eased with intoxication,
music and dance. To the much further South, well East
of Barro commerce, community services, has long stood
the Factory. Pretty much, that's the landscape, buildings,
gardens, commerce, fundamental pieces of my history
gathering excursions. I excavate layers that never seem
to end. My self-inspiring work, heartfelt friends now
family, each new day a further discovery.
Bonnie
Warm, relaxing water, I pour with cupped
hands over my face, long, luxurious hair.
Peace. No need to resist drifting away.
Cas has the household sorted. Every member,
separately under the spell of personal affairs,
soon to meet over our evening meal. For now I
get to release pent up feelings, fatigue, from
Clinic busyness, healing or grief, frustration with
myriad details of operation, blood, gore, repair,
medications, all becomes a blur. As Cas
would advise, I fall into meditation, free my
mind, let built up anxieties melt, that I become
the Bonnie I share with my family. This family
that feeds, cossets, unlike the place where I
mostly raised myself after the tragic passing of
my beloved older sister, Tara, though for her
an end to suffering. My fascination with the
biology of health, how our bodies work, and
how they fail, grew from my dutiful, loving care
for her, and later Mama, baby Louise, during
those horrid days back in my middle childhood
when illness plagued our family. I used what
I knew, or thought I did, but to no avail. In those
less painful times, before my sisters died, Mama
reduced to a gaping shell, going through
motherly chores as if by rote, we had been a
normal, fairly happy group. Of course, Papa
too was traumatized. He grew to want no part
of the home that had once been filled with
comforting kin. He took to working double
shifts every day at the Factory, then to drink
and find commiseration at the Bar. We rarely
saw him awake, unless while in preparation
to forsake us once again for better company.
Barry and Steve, my younger brothers, too
little to perceive other possibilities, did their
best to not be a bother, played quietly in their
room, took their louder games outside. All to
say, as a teen I spent my days and evenings
studying, puzzling over lessons, the ideas they
inspired, delving ever more deeply to discover
what science might reveal. I thus learned skills,
gifts I could give to those I held dear, as well as
professionally. I provided Cas and Bobby their
vasectomies, after we, combined, decided to
limit our pregnancies, in consideration of my
and Camille's demanding careers.
Though Sophia, Marta and I attended Uni for
a time simultaneously, we were in different
divisions, not thrown together. I had known
Marta to some extent as older sister of my good
friend, Cas. Yes, he was several years younger,
but we were somehow sympatico. When I
returned, replete with all I had learned at the
City's school, he had moved next door to the apt
where he had grown, where I had known him,
to care for his invalid grandparents. I took one
of their two vacant rooms, helped Cas with Dan
and Liz, while interning at the Clinic. My days
were full, learning through intense experience in
preparation for my future position. Eventually
head of staff, after years of taking care of
patients presenting with ills and injuries of every
description. I am no historian, like Sophia with
her academic background, or Cas, so fascinated
by his family's stories. Of course I know the
basics we're all taught, how our ancestors were
exiled across the River when City values clashed
with their activities or personalities, or they had
appeared as refugees from worldwide devastation.
Then, over these less than two centuries, we grew
into a people of our own devising. Occasionally
there have been interferences by bored Uppers
wanting to do something for amusement, by their
lights philanthropy. Their longevity without
physical diminishment results in a desire for
untried entertainments. We have all been taught
of these past developments, but rarely think about
that knowledge, caught up in current issues.
Of course, in that sense of less than consciously
aware attention, I have gleaned much from
proximity to conversations of my more
historically astute family members. Sophia
often visited Alee when she was so ill, to
regale her with chronicled tales, distract our
invalid from her inabilities, while giving her
imagination more fodder for fabricating
fantasies to amuse herself. Even now that she
has regained her preferred activities, Alee
incorporates those histories as greater grist
for theatric plots. We each have our passions,
our emergent dreams, escape mechanisms.
Humans, in all our glory, confusions, reparations,
endlessly amuse me, perhaps especially when
I am knee deep in the mysteries and ministrations
inherent in my profession, their fragilities, those
I can and cannot cure.
Jay
Jacqueline! Do I look like a Jacqueline, or
Jackie? I could have gone with Jack, but Jay
suits me better, more to the point. Barbara,
my mom, anointed us each with her current
fantasy when we were born. Seven lasses
to bless our less than happy home. The story,
as I've been told by various sources over the
years, but mostly her own version, ranted in
diverse manic moments, that old familiar
tragedy of young infatuation. Sweet, innocent,
16, though she often seemed a bit peculiar
to her social group, clearly a beauty, too
attractive considering her limited experience.
Mal, an older man of twenty, undeniably cute,
a flirt, endearingly intense, broke her defenses.
He promised, sincerely, to take care of her,
no matter what their future might bring.
Strangely for him, he meant it. He actually was
smitten, as he relates these days when I visit
while he's feeling nostalgic. She had broken
his defenses, too. Then came Gwen, first born
of their eventual dynasty of seven daughters,
quickly arriving one by one in a mere nine
years. Barbara, back then not much past
seventeen, believed in the family she was
creating, at least when she was stable, which
slowly became more and more rare. Mal
did his best to keep his promise, held it
together through six subsequent daughters,
a decade of heaven tinged hell. By the time
I was little more than two, he no longer
called our place home, though he would
come by to play with us, commiserate,
implore our patience, on many occasions.
He still resides at the bachelor apt with
other men retreating from their bad
romances. Once they were grown enough
to strike out on their own, my two eldest
sisters moved together to the apt next door
to him, at first joining two others, Camille
and Laura, friends already there. Just them,
when those each separately left. I often see
them around and about when our days intersect.
Though my official residence is still with Nadia
and Greta, sisters next above my age, who take
care of mom, all the rest having flown to better
homes, I do my best to try to forget them,
engaged in my merry chaotic existence. I spend
my nights with the friends I end up with when
sleep takes me. Barbara and her attendants, or
more often just Nadia and Greta, can be easily
found selling mom's knitted wares at the Mart, a
center of activity. I encounter them often there
or at the Diner. Barbara, through all of her
self-made tribulations, has found comfort in
creating knitted garments quite lovely and
practical. Many are happy to buy from her.
This activity apparently works well within her
fantasies. Now freed from the exigencies of endless
pregnancies, she still must contend with unwanted
dependencies inherent in her instability, inability
to discern reality from her suspicions, irrational
fears. Despite her obvious need of professional
care, she won't let Meds near. She still resents
what she believes their cavalier attitudes when
she endured end of pregnancies' laborious pain.
Early on I learned it best if I refrain from
interference in her drama. I found friends I can
count on. We mutually engage, a flock at play
with frivolous fantasies that belong to our coterie.
Of course, I especially interlace with my sacred
sister, Alee. When we were children, she
welcomed me into her incredible family, who
treat me as one of their own. Maudlin is not my
style. It's much more rough and wild, raucous,
yet soft and subtle when the suit fits. Comprised
of many bits, pieces, I get to express as I decide,
or if what some say is true, what fate demands.
Probably a combination. Look, the evening Sun
is falling tenderly through this early mid-Spring
sky. I'm ready to discover how this bit turns out
tonight.
Act 3: Healer
Alee
They say happiness exudes from me.
Not bubbly effervescence, or even simple glee
of naivete. I am to an extent self-contained, emit
a special fantasy sheen that colors whatever I see,
makes my world a theatrical play. Not a side
effect of my illness or recovery, this inner magic
has always been me. My closest seem to revel in
it, have no issue with appearing on my stage,
each in their way co-creators. Thus what might
be seen as unexceptional gets enhanced as song
and dance under my spell, let loose naturally to
express indulgence in exultance.
For my morning shift at Gus's Diner, I've been
replaced by Jay's sister, Nadia, who had worked
relief along with Jay, Greta and others, that now
include me. We get called when the shift cook is
overwhelmed with orders, or unable to be there
for whatever reason. Jay used to work front while
I cooked, though arriving not as early. I prepared
for breakfast before opening to customers without
her presence. She would take orders and payment,
clean, accept deliveries, keep all in order, along
with Gus, or when he was otherwise engaged.
Since he sleeps in a room above, he could be
wakened for emergencies, if that is where he was.
Sun climbing in the warm, Spring sky, today, we've
been released into other activities, as no shift looms.
At the Mart we find Paul checking out the vibe,
without Jamee, until he will be free from his early
shift at the Factory, having switched back, since
his time no longer is divided to tend to my
necessities. Many have asked what it was like from
my perspective, while I seemed so distant, unable
to participate in much communication, hours alone,
quiet, wan, almost a ghost. For me, then, real life was
but a distraction from the stories playing through my
mind, loud enough that my body's pain, suffering,
got drowned out to a major extent. As days became
months, years, I learned to manage as if I looked
down from a separate plane. Jamee kept me sane,
connected, amazed by his grace, never appearing
fazed, or other than my joyfully loving brother,
eternal friend.
Sophia regaled me with histories, dramatically
rendered, as practiced in her classroom, to grab
and hold attention. She showered me with plots
and characters from our people's past, additions
to expand my inner theater's repertoire. It was not
so bad, except for all the time, opportunities, I
keenly believed lost to me forever. I have always
been naturally active, maybe overly expressive,
not the retiring type. I felt, when I let myself, locked
down, held in a devil device against my will. I now
carry no regret, but know, deeply, strongly, that I
never want to feel like that again. Cas, our family
mystic, says I've been through an alchemical trial,
to expect to be changed profoundly, though he
doesn't know how at this stage. I am glad to be
happiness exuding Alee, soaring with love, relief,
buoyancy, lifted from a well of grief for former
abilities, now I've reached the other, better side.
I know, at least, what not to take for granted. Every
little interaction, exchange of energy, beams of
Sunshine, smell of rain, squishy mud, each
exhilaration, are blessings to be fully inhaled,
expressed, appreciated with profound respect.
Yet, may I not forget in all this emotional soliloquy
to live lightly, entice with gaiety, let loose laughter,
camaraderie, let it all shine through me, the Alee
they all love, well and happy, their living miracle.
Jay
No, Alee and I aren't attached, as some might
imply. We have our separate romances, amply
discussed, criticized within intimate observation.
We have our unique activities, follow individual
passions, obligations. Yes, we share a special
relationship. Mutual confidantes, partners in
mischief, soul mates of a sort. Of course, Jamee
and Paul also hold her close, Jamee sometimes
closer than I. Yet, we are always there for each
other as needed. Playmates, work mates,
co-creators, ever up for fun, commiseration,
inspirational or silly conversations, best friends
forever. Today, beauteous mid-Spring, between
our Kitchen shift and Theater choreography session,
Alee brings us to her current bedroom, the big
one they moved her to, due to the attached bath,
when they knew she would need attentive, direct
care. We came here so she can shower, change to
lighter wear, while I do a quick edit to our script,
recorded for theatric development, before also rinsing
sweat, changing to a more flowing costume for ease in
movement. Not an ignorable text, but a loud annoying
ring from my phone insisted I respond. My next older
sister, Greta, blubbered that Mama was evincing
something seriously wrong. "We don't know how to help,"
she implored in panic. We are all quite aware of Mama's
vendetta against the Clinic's Meds. Only one floor
above us, I relayed to Alee what Greta told me, and we
quickly ran to see just what was up. Mama, pale, was
twitching uncontrollably, unaware that we were there.
Calling Bonnie, at least to provide what information she
could as a medical professional, was my initial impulse.
Alee, meanwhile, leapt to Mama's bed, humming softly
a soothing tune. We witness, Greta, Nadia, and I, Alee
wrap her arms around Mama's back and shoulders,
touch foreheads, her eyes closed. Tears seemed to
squeeze onto her lashes. I heard her murmur, so
quietly I could not discern her words. We watch
silently, unable to do more, in a sense enchanted.
Bonnie knocks, enters, finds us in Mama's room.
Neither of the two in their seeming trance move, or
even glance in our direction. Bonnie is already upon
that astonishing scene. She touches Alee, who turns,
takes her hand, eyes now widely smiling. Mama rises.
She is well, almost glowing with health, in great
contrast to her earlier distress. Her manner subdued, a
bit confused, but only quite mildly disturbed, more
like suddenly finding you are not overwhelmed in a
realm of ghosts, spiteful demons. Right here, right
now, clear-minded, protected by friends and kin, her
voice, as if from a place of awakening, calls us near,
calls us dear, tinged with obvious grateful love. This
is not the Mama I remember, even from yesterday,
from all my days as rebellious daughter. This is not
the woman who raised me to believe myself nothing
but a burden, best ignored when not pinned as the
immediate focus of her wrathful paranoia. Yet she
is strangely familiar, maybe someone my child mind
had glimpsed once in a while, a woman that could
have been a rendition, who might have raised me
differently. Who would I be then?
Alee is a' glee, merry in the attention her healing has
elicited. She adoringly reminds me that our bond is
dominate, scoops me up in her happy dance.
Witness to a circumstance I would never have
imagined, glad that this, I guess miracle, happened.
Still I wonder how, why, what will become of it?
Not my nature to fall to optimism. My life familiarly
a chaotic mystery, I am not given to taking good
fortune at face value. Clearly, though, we are all
experiencing an amazing day. May as well celebrate.
Bonnie assures us, all is well in hand. She calls on
Clinic staff to facilitate Mama's admission for
examination, now those paranoid fantasies have
fully faded as Mama's intrinsic motivation. Alee and
I cannot wait to tell Jamee and Paul all about our
excellent, outrageous adventure. By now they should
be home, downstairs.
Jamee
My beloved sister, it seems, has brought us all
in to populate one of her fantasies. We could
not have foreseen such a salubrious eventuality.
Our happy clan, despite past trauma, do what
we each can to give back, to honor the blessings
of our community. Has Alee's new ability been
bestowed to increase her, and by extension our,
power to serve? Cas might better understand, with
his spiritual inclinations. He tends to see what we
do subsumed within a bigger plan. Not for me to
know. I just hope Alee's recently revived energy is
not too taxed by her act of healing another's, Jay's
mother's, disease. Paul has been pensive since Alee
and Jay regaled us with this amazing occurrence.
Giddy, emotionally high, they spoke over each
other, bringing Paul and I into their small coterie of
those in the know. No doubt, Bonnie, once she has
taken care of her Med responsibilities, will tell us of
the aftermath, what she thinks it all means. I am
thinking this a good evening for an extended family
dinner meeting, maybe a celebration to honor Alee's
brave action, Barbara's health. At least we can talk,
give thought to this unexpected development,
because, as a close-knit family, what affects one
affects all. I text around my invitation, only saying
that there is a matter of importance to discuss, and,
dinner's on us. Then Paul and I decide how we will
expand our meal that all attending may be well fed
with appetizing cuisine. Alee and Jay, too filled with
elation to stand still, hug and twirl, swing each other,
laughing, singing, making faces, generally being them,
but much more energized than I've ever seen. My
concern that Alee might be depleted after her act of
healing is apparently without corroboration. I allow
myself unbridled happiness. People are arriving to
discover what I asked them here to say. Alee and Jay,
still high from their experience, fly out at once to share
their news. Sophia, Marta, Bobby, Camille, and Cas
(the kids left to play next door while their parents find
out what has happened, before they get called over for
dinner), each in their own way react. Dazed, bemused,
curious, congratulatory, every one hyped, whether silent
or bubbling over with emotion. I have yet to find a calm
moment to reasonably speak. Into the thick of this bubble,
Bonnie, our trusted source of educated medical authority,
arrives.
Bonnie
My family certainly wants answers.
Am I not their professional Med?
Even when their prejudices or lived experience
lead them to believe differently from me in
some instances, I, and those I affect, count on
my intelligence, education, years on the job.
I still evidence those qualities that got me noticed,
now long ago, by my teachers. I like to think I pass
forward what I have learned, use my skills to help
where I can, people distressed by disease, injury.
My goal achieved, embarked upon as a teen who
had seen, shared in, the suffering my dear older
sister endured until she could no more, the ripple
effects on my parents, brothers, me. We had been
mostly happy before Tara fell ill, when the stable
ground we expected transformed into sand.
Several months after Tara's passing, our youngest,
Louise was born, but to last less than a year. It had
been a difficult gestation and birth, complicated by
our mother's dispiriting grief. As it eventuated, my
parents no longer felt the necessary connection to
go on together. Dad moved out to a different Tower.
Mom did what she had to, to be a mother to the
children still dependent. My lesson from this
family tragedy was that I needed to learn to be a
healer, discover cures to replace the misery of
those afflicted with sickness, injury. I told myself
over and over that this is my mission. When
Alee seemed lost to us, I could find no cause
after medical tests. Yes, I felt frustrated by the
limits of what I knew to do, based on my
training and subsequent evolving knowledge.
Just another mysterious disease, yet to be
identified, was my assumption. Today, the
way she was able to move to Barbara's
assistance, heal with touch, intention,
transference of grace, clearly I am out of my
league. There is so very much in this Universe,
even in this little world, that I, we, have yet to
begin to understand. Or do the City Uppers
have it all in hand, keep the greater knowledge
theirs to appear invincible? Maybe a bit from
each conjecture, or another I've yet to guess.
What matters here is rather that within the
mystery we have been presented, our Alee
seems to have awakened from whatever kept
her down with greater ability than what had
been at her command. What can I say to my
gathered family to allow them calm
acceptance of this unexpectable development.
It is not my place to speak of Alee's
achievement. I have no special medical
explanation. We are examining Barbara at
the Clinic. Perhaps the information we seek
will be revealed. I tell that to those here,
assure I will share what I learn. Meanwhile,
we can enjoy our meal and conversation.
We have every reason to believe this healing
a blessing, especially for Jay, Nadia, Greta,
even their older sisters, their father, of course
Barbara herself. Alee has always seemed a
magical being, overflowing with the need to
express her active imagination, inborn grace.
We sorely missed that strong, delightful
presence these past four years of her essential
absence, unnatural silence. Yes, we spoke to
her quiet form, assumed she heard. On
occasion she would muster up a few words
that leant credence to such assumption.
Overjoyed that we again get to act as happy,
enthralled audience to her exuberance, this
further unanticipated turn of events may be
but a glimpse of what is yet to unfold, or, it
could be only its own instance, fueled by Alee's
devotion to Jay. We await fullness of impact,
result, as we would whatever befalls us, affects
us as people connected through mutual love.
Camille
Yes, Bonnie will make it all make sense.
I have the deepest respect for my sister of
circumstance. Her manner of calm intelligence,
exactly what we need when agitated by
surprise emergencies. Bonnie and Cas feel
like my kin, siblings from other mothers.
We have been together, created our home,
are raising our kids, for like half of our lives,
if not from our beginnings. I never want to
speak or think about mine. All that time when
child I was becoming the Camille I would be,
was far from happy. Why go there? Eventually
I broke free, made myself a merrier model.
Found an older friend happy to take me in for
companionship, and various chores. I learned
to support myself, selling my art at the Mart,
fashioned from Rec Center materials and
supplies I figured out how to devise, or getting
paid for temporary tasks here and there. I
learned to distill dyes, paints from common
Garden and Forest plants, in craft studio space,
using tools there provided by the Upper grant to
sustain the School. I knew Barbara to an extent
back then, through her oldest daughters who
she sometimes supervised in selling her knitted
products. Gwen and Rebecca, from that
acquaintance became my friends. They
eventually moved in with Laura and me, once
Barbara's crazy became more than they were
willing to continue to bear. All to say, I am
amazed by her recovery. I never wished her
anything but well. Still it galls me that sweet,
adorable Alee, yes I know, so thankfully
returned, gets to be heroically cast as if she
had manifested some well developed skill, not
merely a recipient of a marvelous gift that
allowed this apparent miracle. Yes, of course,
she is the baby of the sibs, generally has been
a merry presence, that lifts spirits, naturally
kind, generous. Yet, aside from her parents'
tragic demise, and, of course, her years of
decline, she has always been blessed, by her
loving family, her creative abilities, the abundant
sunshine she has seemed to spread, that endears
her to friends she easily inspires. It's not jealousy.
Bobby, my work, my kids, (including Diana and
Julia), my found family, are everything to me.
No one had ever cared, loved me as Bobby does.
He has courted, welcomed me, generously,
tenderly, been my previously undreamt of
support, partner, confidante, playmate, my
person with whom I resonate, navigate the
world. One could say Bobby specializes in
having fun, but that takes nothing away from
his profound compassion, talent for deep
connection. Back when I seemed defined as
rebelliousness, based on well-founded fears
of rejection, I had no idea such love, security,
would ever be a possibility. I don't begrudge
Alee her friends and family, the magic aura
she exudes. I do detect a supercilious
superiority from her, too. She has not earned
through hard, directed work, bit by bit built
skill, her artistry. Her creative abilities,
imaginative flair have always just been there
for her to share, exult in. I get that for so long
we thought her lost to us. I'm sure she believed
herself beyond repair. Of course I am glad to
have her back in all her glory. It's just that our
stories, so widely divergent, converge here with
Alee cast as the conquering hero, worthy of
worship for what has occurred to her, without
her plan or effort, or in the case of her unwanted
vacation, consent. Despite all my hard-earned
accomplishments, beyond Bobby's ever
endearing appreciation, applause, I mostly go
unnoticed. Yes, they enjoy, respond with loving
delight when I fashion their hair, gift them with
artistically enhanced wearables. They accept me,
as I present to them, with welcome, even respect.
A kid who never got enough positive attention,
I guess I continue to feel a deficit.
Paul
My mind moves as it does, as if surveying a
puzzle. When pieces click I see a picture,
sometimes a plan. Nothing grand, a simple
how to fit needs with reciprocal fulfillment,
facilitate beneficial meetings, bridge between
what has been, and what could be better.
My job, more my calling, fits this temperament,
gives me greater ability to spread what service
I may provide. Alee, so dear to me, beloved sister
and friend, always amazes. She and Jay, filled
with excited glee, tell us their tale of heroic rescue.
Jay exclaims, her mother is somehow cured: "I've
never seen her so clear, so normal, before!"
Poor almost motherless Jay, at least going forward
they may be able to forge a loving relationship.
Jay has successfully become her own brand of joy,
over the years we've known her, as she has grown
into one of our clan. Would a demon-free Barbara
have given her a more propitious start?
Apparently, we all carry scars, obstacles, bad
memories, once we've been around long enough,
or even as legacy, pain, hopefully balanced by
pleasure, loving company. I have for years been
visiting, in my daily Mayoral wanderings, Dorothy,
Dory for short, a fondly recalled teacher of each of
us old enough here. She has been suffering ever
more intense debilitation from a cruel progressive
disease, apparently genetic, because previously seen
in antecedent members of her exiled family. No
longer able to put forth labor, nor at this stage take
care of her own needs, her devastated life partner,
Tony, does what he can for both of them. He
continues his job as Clinic Auxiliary, brings in
Credits to afford Dory's comforts, provides her
necessary care with simple adoring devotion, tries
to shield her from his emotional despair. They have
no progeny or other close relations. Their world has
been their service to our community. They deserve
more, a reward of grace to restore their ability, their
joy in giving, to continue that formerly happy destiny.
Have I been given a way to test Alee's mysterious
power, while possibly allowing Dory a cure? I will
discuss this tonight with Jamee, is my go to inclination.
He can advise what I may have missed, or suggest
further information. Yet, here we are gathered to take
in this emergent situation. I can throw open my plan
to the whole clan for conversation, before any decision
is reached. Alee seems interested. she and Jay, still busy
giggling, appear to respond with whole hearted
affirmation, a desire to try, without hesitation. We all
remember Dory's kind and cheerful preparation, our
educational foundation. She offered not only subject
classes of facts, practice to perfect basic skills. We were
also imbued with a values permeation, learned social
responsibility, that we grow our individual abilities to
the benefit of our greater community. Sophia, a fellow
teacher at the School, tells us Dory has generally been
well regarded among the staff. "She was always ready
to help, no matter how. Genial, collegial, not one to
merely do her job, then leave for leisure activities, Dory
clearly genuinely enjoyed all the aspects of her vocation.
She has been missed. Yet, we never think to visit her.
That will be fixed." Sophia has spoken, apparently a
further affirmative. We all agree, Dory and Tony need
to be informed of our plan, asked if they wish to proceed.
I am happy to act, once again, as go-between. Alee wants
to know if she ought come with me, re-introduce herself
to Dory, since they have not known each other for some
time. I am of the opinion that that would be fine. Even if
no solution eventuates, our visit could perhaps act as a
distraction from what loneliness adds to Dory's affliction.
Sophia
I remember Dory welcoming me, that first day of my
new position, teaching at the School. Yes, everyone
was welcoming. I was not ignored, nor hazed, but
treated as I expected to be by as yet unnamed
colleagues. Dory's welcome was special. I have
witnessed it since with subsequent arrivals. Fond,
almost a conspiratorial twinkle in her eyes, she
makes it clear we all belong here in our common
enterprise, providing the best education, that each
younger generation thrive, usefully communicate,
based on lessons shared, skills inculcated. An
undeniably kind soul, and fun, any one of us would
unhesitatingly attest. Even after these years since she
has been among us, well remembered. I should
certainly make sure to visit now that I am reminded
she still lives near. Tomorrow Alee and Paul will
suggest their experiment. I don't want to interfere.
What if this healing blessing is real, if Dory were
returned to her previous glory, reunited with her
inborn teacher's rightful self-expression? Wonders
do exist, despite our human limitations in
understanding.
Tomorrow, while Paul and Alee visit Dory, Marta
diligently as always engages with her calling, after
my morning class at the School, I intend to go to the
Compound, interface with my sister, Daphne. Though
she is over two years older, we have always been
closer than that span would imply. We share passions
for learning, imagining, history. As little girls we founded
our secret binary society, where grown-ups, older brother,
Jeff, most especially, were kept out. She is now a
researcher/professor at the City Arts and College
Complex, called the Center, her childhood dream.
Unlike me, she's had no interest in leaving City friends,
conveniences. Cradle to grave surveillance, no big deal,
since her research is always approved. Never rebellious,
happy to stick to the unwritten rules, a price easily paid
to avoid making waves, enticing unwanted attention.
Private in her manner seems enough to elicit the space
she desires, while she concentrates on her work, personal
relationships. I, of a more flamboyant nature, am happier
here, where I can be more me, without fear of censure.
Thus, I do attempt to be circumspect when in the
Compound, technologically cut-off from Barros' entrance,
where full AI surveillance reigns. Of course, when I
communicate with Daphne, or others I knew in the City,
including Jeff, Mom and Dad, I do my best to be circumspect,
stay within guidelines of appropriate conversation. I know
there is constant monitoring, a major feature of City life. All
these years of being free to express spontaneously, means I
must be careful not to forget where I am when beneath City
skies. Even the popular streamed entertainment, 24/7 Gossip,
may without compunction, often does, relay what may have,
for the participants, been considered private information,
complete with pictorial confirmation. Yes, there are
compensations like arts, culture, appropriate education,
advanced medical advantages, (though the gold standard life
extension procedures and practices are only allowed to
Uppers, jealous of their pre-eminence), endless opportunities
to enjoy lifestyles that suit. Despite these enticements, I prefer
to take root in this more primitive, less glitzy, milieu. I feel at
home with my Barro family, love the research I get to do, this
society of simple pleasures, work as service within a
reasonable community, even if tragedies, preventable with
City technology, occur. Apparently, so do wonders
unaccounted for in City records or legends, or what I've
discovered here so far.
Cas
I know I can be seen as other worldly, not withdrawn,
drawing from within. My intuition guides me. My
practice of permanent meditation keeps my mind at
ease, exudes that aura of calm, deliberate, peacefulness
my somewhat manic family can depend upon. Events
of late have increased their need. Yes, a complete,
unalloyed blessing when Alee became her full self
again, but even with all that joy, an unsettling shock.
Now that this healing ability has been revealed,
however it develops, the lot of us feel to some degree
rocked, unsteady about the solidity of our expectations.
I admit to some unspecified trepidation. Not one to
question Divine intervention, rather I cultivate
authentic acceptance of whatever occurs. Yet, I still
have natural fears and hopes. I am a man, not some
devotional saint. Today I take in this expansion of
understanding, ponder its meaning, possible
repercussions. Seated at our family table, replete in
memories of meals past, I smile gently, humbly,
reach out to silently embrace each in turn, Jamee,
Alee, Jay, the others having stepped out to attend
to their own affairs. I hold Alee dearly, find the
depths of her eyes with mine. As always, before
and since her intermission, my baby sister fills me
with a happy reverie just to see her here, fully
present. Again a force of nature, perhaps an
unwitting volunteer, messenger from some author
of destiny, for not just her or us here, but everyone,
everywhere. My envisioning, not based on reason
but fantasy, logic, tells me, just let whatever unfolds
spin its own tale. Tomorrow, Alee and Paul will fill
in the next installment of what is to become of this
story. Maybe what happened with Barbara was a
fluke, a one-time cosmic joke that gods may laugh
about our confusion. From deep in my heart, I speak
to Alee. I offer blessing and calm acceptance of
what may transpire. I explain her only responsibility
is to act as inspired, as before. She is not in charge of
whether anyone is cured. She is a vessel, a dispenser
of medicine, not the source. She smiles, arises,
pirouettes and bows, grabs up we three in broad
embrace. For this instant, we become a dance of grace
and flowing love. Blissful, this is my happy place,
among those I most closely carry, including family
just now outside my view. These people are my true
home. Never a chore to care for, the pinnacle of my
desire is to provide as they need. What better life
could there be for me? Paul and Sophia return to join
our after dinner dance. Marta is still soaking out her
day's frustrations in a relaxing bath. Bonnie, Bobby,
Camille, and the kids have gone next door, into their
evening activities. I imbibe the peace as we each allow
our comforting distractions to release us from
nonproductive agitation, dissipate heightened
excitement, that we might find restful sleep, in the
fullness of time, that we may be re-energized to take
on what tomorrow may bring. I kiss my little sister,
give bright smiles all around, as I move to retire to
the room Bonnie and I share. She will trim my hair
as prelude to commingling. See, we are a happy,
normal family, going about our happy, normal
reaction to mystery. I do remember Dory as a kind,
warmly giving person so very not deserving what
has befallen her. I sincerely hope my sister can
overturn her misfortunate fate, let her retake her
rightful place, regain what we all have lost as a
community created by all who serve.
Act 4: Hope and Joy
Alee
My mother, Julia, grew up among Gardners
who used the products from their plots
not only for food, but also intoxicants that
led to ready customers. Gramma Liz and Mom
were more studious. They took their turns in
tending crops, learned the processes of their
family's honored contribution to community,
developed through generations. They also served
as botanists, developing scientific methods to
improve, expand the usefulness of these crops.
Julia's older sister, Grace, with whom she had
lived between being a dependent in her parents'
home and moving into her brother, Bobby's, apt next
door to their parents, with Eli, took the helm once
the elders became too old for that responsibility.
Her further family, mutually adopted, brought
together their contiguous Gardens, increasing
the yield, expanding their enterprise. Julia, in her
youth, was Liz's assistant, became imbued with her
mother's scientific persistence, passed forward as
my sister Marta's bane and passion.
This to say, a healing gene may have found its way
into my DNA. Or maybe some ghost or spirit of
beneficent intention entered me in my era of
suspension from ordinary existence. Not for me to
explain, but to experience. Paul and I arrive at
Dory's around mid-morning, after a short but
leisurely walk to take in the glories of high Spring.
Flowering, bright, promising, a warm enticing
energy surges through my body and expectant
psyche. Dory seems barely alive, propped on
cushions to add comfort to her encompassing
chair. She speaks softly, clearly, but in short
utterance, accompanied by a struggle of breath,
profound tiredness in her eyes. No surprise. Paul
had prepared me for this meeting. Seeing her
deteriorated like this, I felt my heart beat hard.
Inexorably drawn to her side, I touched her
forehead with open hands, then grabbed her to
me from behind, standing in front of her as
we moved together closer. I felt the blood run
through her arteries, her heart rhythm, slower,
but coming ever closer to being in tune with
mine. Eyes closed, I felt my lips whisper a kiss
upon her hair. I feel her respond to my penetrating
care, take in greater energy. I step back, give her
space to act as naturally inclined. She rises, at first
in slow deliberation, then as fast as one normally
would. Her smile lights us all through the electric
atmosphere. We hug and dance, all three, not
noticing when Tony, back from his shift, enters
the setting, sees Dory free of affliction, joins our
revelry. Our encounter had seemed to me almost
without duration, a step into a different dimension
to play a trick on all we believed to be real. Tony's
arrival denies my assessment of timelessness. I
realize now, several hours have passed. Wasn't
my encounter with Barbara much faster? Not for
me, mere actor, to understand. Paul is concerned
that I might have run down my reserves after
applying all my power twice in less than 24 hours.
But I feel fine, elated, unfazed by the event I just
participated in, whatever special grace I have
been allowed to wield. I want to race outside,
feel the Spring shine on my face, express such
amazing sensation, this privilege visited unto me.
No, Paul, don't worry. Let's all go out and enjoy
this glorious day. Jamee must be about, and Jay.
We can fill them in on our adventure. Dory and
Tony, I know you may desire your privacy to take
in your changed condition. If you like, I invite you
to devise with us appropriate celebration, even
if it is enough to walk outdoors, maybe run into
people who have missed you, who you have
missed. We've certainly a story to tell. If you
choose time alone, we will wish you well, not
tarry. I am filled with buoyancy, and must move,
lest I emotionally explode in embarrassing
displays. Still fairly early in the afternoon, but
today has already certainly been wondrous.
Jamee
My sister Marta, the shy humanitarian, no
not shy, busy. Too much to do to be distracted
by chatter or social interaction beyond family.
Her active intellect caught up in improving
Barro agriculture, better seeds and methods,
solutions for our human needs of nutrition,
medicinals, fabrics, bigger harvests, healthier
Gardens. As long as I've known her, all my
life since she is like nine years older, that's how
she's been. Teachers noticed, and recommended
her to be sent to Uni for a teaching researcher
career in agricultural biology and techniques.
Her passion is well-compensated by Barro
standards. Far from her motivation, still it
allows our family greater financial stability to
each express our individual passions, whether
paid or freely given. Cas, of course, devoted
spirit guide, embraces life as sacred journey.
He wafts through ours gracefully, an agent of
calm, peace, security, as he sees his role in this
amazing Universe. How would we get on
without his daily ministrations, domestic
labors on our behalf. Though his innate
spirituality seems to have had little effect on
his closest brother, Bobby. Bobby's spirit
loves to party. He follows his musical muse
through the Bar, public gatherings, private
celebrations. When not playing, or passing
skills to those interested and paying for
lessons, or while partying, just for fun, he
can be found carving instruments, drums,
flutes, pipes, as he learned from Eli, but
more artistically intricate in decoration.
His artistry seems to flow so easily, as if
breath from his hands. Then there's me.
Had our next older brother been born alive,
Alee and I probably would not be. But,
here we are. Today I entangle with Spring,
playing my flute to the natural sounds of
birds, bees, butterflies, around the Forest's
edge, between River and trees, away from
the bustle South and East where people tend
to gather for commerce, social exchange.
Usually I would find entertainment less
reclusively, enjoy the sights, smells, music,
company, food for my voracious curiosity.
I take my fill of the stories, unique personalities,
all the splendiferous varieties of humanity I
encounter in our somewhat small community,
boundary to my direct experience. My private
synthesis of these impressions on my
consciousness express, I guess, as a general
amiableness, happy to join in both labor and
temporary adventures, one of the guys. My
true heart, passion, though, belong to Alee
and Paul, my closest companions as far back
as I go, at least for Alee, born so close to me
that I have no memory before her. Paul and
I became us when mere children, I but five, he
an older eight. We created ourselves together,
continue to intertwine. This morning, they intend
to meet with our former teacher, Dory, find
answers about my sister's newly manifest
ability. Boon or fluke, where will this twist in
her story lead? Soon we will reunite. I will
learn what has developed. I am not far from
the Tower where Dory resides. I play my flute
on the way, along the wide path between the
Gardens, ready to see them emerge after their
meeting. From here I can also observe ebb and
flow of people below, like a Theater show, well
practiced dance. Upward, clear, blue sky, flowers
blooming on the South side of the path, redolent
of heavenly perfume. The world blooms!
Immersed in mindless, ecstatic glow, my flute
seems to play in tune with ambient music of its
own accord. Not long until I get the word that
brings me in communion with my dearest kin.
Who I am, will be, have been continues to enjoy
a glorious mystery my intense curiosity cannot
resist. The people who make up my coterie,
greater family, always part of me, say often that
I am a welcome presence, each in their special
voice. They say I share an air of joy.
Paul
A couple of puffs on the magic pipe before I
open myself to this day, my world. Not a
habit I engage in much of my time, a luxury,
a pleasantry that might help ease me when
such occasion arises. Jamee is happy to drink
or smoke in the way he enjoys a laugh, a joke,
with the guys in social relaxation. Naturally
more quietly observant, considerate to the
point that I often hesitate to speak lest I
intrude, still I do manage to join in socially,
jovially preserve my reputation as Mayor of
the full community. Alee has her own inner
space entertainment. Yet, without question,
she is always happy to party with family,
friends. Otherwise, she and Jay have no
interest in flora-based intoxication. Marta
seems to enjoy testing her theories of euphoric
plant product enhancement, relaxed in her bath.
Bobby, of course, is immersed in it all, gets high
while and by banging on his drums, bellowing
lyrics as they come to him, sipping, smoking,
as pipe and jug come around. We humans
interact with these merriment inducers, just
part of who we are.
Now, out on the Garden path to encounter
whoever is about, Alee on my mind. Her
unselfish generosity has blessed away every
bane from those desperately ill I have found,
asked her to help. I notice Bonnie as well has
sought her aid for patients beyond her Med
knowledge to improve. Fortunately, I suppose,
so far those have been few. Alee seems pleased
with this ability. The people she has brought
relief to shower her with loving hugs, grateful
praise. I have no doubt she experiences a special
kind of intoxication. Perhaps it has become a
gratifying habit she does not want to break,
a mutual benefit to Alee and whoever is her
current recipient. Jamee sometimes whispers to
me when we are alone together, he fears she
may go too far in her enthusiasm for
disseminating her gift, fall back into illness
herself, with no provision to cure her. Of course
he is protective of his most cherished sister. He
had been her major caretaker too many years to
bear without continued trepidation. I reassure:
"Look at her, she thrives! We won't let her
override good sense, to deprive herself of proper
rest, or neglect activities that replenish her
energies rather than deplete them." Satisfied, he
sleeps, secure from troubled dreams. It has been
but a couple of weeks since Alee's healing ability
has manifested. All appears well in that regard,
so far. In this relatively small community, how
many grievously in need of healing will present
to us? Most likely, the greatest number have been
already revealed.
Bonnie
My mother walked into the River while I was
away, on the other side, in the City at Uni-Med,
learning my trade, to provide care for my
community. While in City territory I was
unable to communicate with folks back home.
I did not know of this family tragedy until
I returned, several months later. My younger
brothers had by the time of her demise
arrived at appropriate ages to be able to work,
provide for themselves. In my early years, my
family was fairly happy, normal, secure. Then
the scourge of illness, too precocious death of
my sisters, took its toll. Dad disappeared into
the depression of heavy grief. Overwhelmed,
he took to drink, staying out late at the Bar. He
seemed to drift away from us. Eventually he
found another home, with other broken men,
mutually befriended. Mom did her best to
sleepwalk through her obligations to her
dependent children that remained. I escaped
into my mind a different way. Overtaken by my
obsessive need to find treatments, cures, in my
war against disease, I turned to study. My
teachers became impressed with this serious,
studious teen of piercing intellect. They
recommended me to attend Uni-Med. Thus
my regrettable history of childhood trauma,
family drama, goal creation and follow through
found means to be inspiration to carry me into
a valuable vocation. The whole dichotomy
between disease and healing remains my great
mystery, guide and goad. Alee, beyond her
conscious mind, seems to have been allowed
a glimpse into that secret. We have no idea how,
can but behold outcomes. Paul, as Mayor, at
times gets told of people in need of aid, by those
he sees on his daily rounds. As a Med, I
occasionally get patients for whom we have
found no effective recourse. Not every day, or
even often, most of our encounters are fairly
routine, or at least within our collective
experience, knowledge of useful treatment.
Still, any one left to contend with incurable
illness is more than I can feel comfortable
about. Now we can ask Alee to pitch in, a
new resource to help us win against this
relentless enemy, disease. Over these more
hope filled weeks, she has obviously enjoyed
being of service, providing miracles for folks
in need. Another responsibility, melded into
her repertoire of fulfilling chores, her signature
swirl of happy activity, all appears to be
progressing well. Yet, bit by bit she seems to
be less there. I am thinking she must get more
rest between engagements, more energy built
up within her to expend in her healing labor.
Paul and Jamee, along with Jay, her closest family,
agree. We all most certainly don't want a repeat,
even on a smaller scale, of her previous decline.
Her well being, despite the salubrious effect she
may have on others' lives, must be our chief
responsibility as her family. Cas, aware of my
concern, agrees to speak with Alee, learn her
opinion, work with her to discover our best solution,
to keep our magic goose able to continue to supply
our hoped for gold of health restored, not just this
little while, but into a more fortunate future.
Bobby
I come from a fairly musical family. Not so
much Marta; she, like our mother, is more
a serious, studious sort, intent on her current
experiment or plan. Though, again like Mom,
she does know how to have fun, happy to
dance as music commands, if not a participant
in its manifestation. I, we, get our rhythmic
predilections, I am told by Cas, family historian,
and Dad, way back when we still had him to tell
his truths, naturally, from Dad's origin family, a
musical clan. Cas has the stories memorized,
happily shares them when asked. He likes to be
a carrier of family narratives, enjoys unraveling
those threads of information, that he can understand,
our past, how it has led to emergent circumstances,
who we now are. I'm more about current events,
the this and that of local gossip, ins and outs of
relationships. Mostly I want to be in the center
of the rhythm, exclaiming with my drums, within
this buzzing community as it becomes my greater
family. Jamee and Cas, less effusive in manner,
make use of their wood carved flutes, originally
gifts from our father, later added to by gifts of
mine. Each has his separate interpretations of
meditative enhancement through spontaneously
created tunes. Alee is Alee, a musical sprite,
always in movement to her inner symphony,
melodies often expressed with lyrics of her
self-inspired songs. Camille, happy to sing, dance,
join in times of merriment, is more wed to other
talents. She leaves this particular part of artistry
to me. Her own aesthetic sensibility blossoms into
marvelous beauty in her hands. And, can that
woman organize, excite, entice, ignite, lead the
charge to manifest projects, parties, classes,
promotional shows, whatever ideas flow from
her active mind. I chose a superb partner to
complement my life. Camille doesn't speak,
except quite rarely and then only to me, of
her childhood family, the one she ran from
so young, long before we met. Bits, pieces
of that sad song, here and there I've mostly
heard from the old boys' reminiscences,
stories from their younger days when these
events occurred. Back when Camille and I were
beginning, they thought I ought to be told about
my newly engaging special friend. Tragedy was
her legacy, that sent her wild into escape at an
early age. That part Camille had admitted to,
proudly. She often says she raised herself, made
herself the accomplished woman she has become.
Apparently, long ago, before she was born or
even thought of, her origin family was fine.
Carolyn and Andy, their happy toddler, Anna,
who was to become Camille's mother, a lovely
household, supported by the products of both
parents' artistic inclinations. All destroyed one
horrid afternoon when Andy was lost to a
tragic accident. Carolyn took to drink and herb,
she claimed medicinally, to escape her grief.
Little Anna, pretty much neglected, found
dangerous companionship once in her
unsupervised teens. She discovered she was
pregnant at 15.
Two years into Camille's life, her young mom,
unable to further bear her miserable mother's
scorn, her own intense disappointment with
how her world turned out to be, disappeared
one night. The next day it was learned, she had
walked into the River, drunk and alone, drowned.
Carolyn was, if anything, harder on Anna's
daughter. Camille did pick up a bit about caring
for, dressing hair, from her grandmother's
paying occupation. Early on she started hanging
out at the Mart for artistic education, watching
those creating their work for sale as they tended
their tables, analyzing aesthetically engaging
products on display. From there out, the tale
is one Camille has no problem talking about.
Yes, the buzz of gossip fills the ambient air.
It's so invasive I am often barely aware of what
I know from its ubiquitous aura. I beat my drums,
sometimes sing, share smoke, drinks, anecdotes
among band mates, all part of the jam, as folks
join in, step away. These past few days I keep
hearing, even get queried, that my sister Alee
is said to be healing people who had been ill
without hope of recovery. Did I know what
miracle medicine she had discovered? Did
I know the truth of the matter, what they
should do, from friends with loved ones
in dire circumstance. I knew not how to answer,
as Alee's escapades of late I had but vaguely
attended to. Yes, I was aware that she had
helped Barbara, Jay's mom, Dory, and others
to wellness, conversation on this topic being
shared among my family. Maybe I might find
out more, at least give them warning of the
relentless questions swirling about. Marta,
when I speak with her, agrees we have become
a subject of public interest. She too has heard
gossip at the School, where she teaches.
Word is circulating throughout the community.
Perhaps we should address what is being said.
I don't know, is what is happening here
appropriate to call a Stakeholders' Meeting?
Would it be better to just respond one by one?
I guess it's time for the family to decide how to
proceed. I am glad to pass to clan judgement,
not have to make these decisions, figure out
plans. I'm happy to play my bit part, beat out
rhythm, syncopation from my musician's heart,
through my drums, flutes, familial groove.
Marta
Relaxed in my bath, after the worries and
work of my day. Released from hurry, or
hurry up and wait, I have these moments to
decompress, reflect. Sophia and I are so
different in temperament, yet we click, each
giving the other what she missed to be
complete. She comes from a different place,
brings unexpected perspective. My voracious
intellect appreciates the greater range,
vicarious experience. She loves history
because she gets immersed in the stories.
I provide fascinated audience, as well as
critical eye, as she might get carried away
with fancy, rather than demand careful
analysis. Sophia, a breath of enthusiastic
movement, while I wallow in my staid
routines, we meet, infuse each other with
a healthy balance that sustains, nourishes
our separate ambitions. Even when apart,
we share that caressing glow, deep feeling
of hearts beating together, between us. She
teaches me of my community's past, enhances
my understanding of the greater history
between her City society and here. When
she was little, her older sister, Daphne, also
a fan of historic stories, would entertain young
Sophia with tales gleaned from her studies.
They still share that passion, stay in touch.
Thus, Sophia often spends some hours in the
Compound, not only to document her
research findings, mostly to have that time
with her sister in 3D chats through the
communications tech allowed in the opaque,
electronically protected Compound we Barros
are forbidden to access. The City wants us
ignorant of their advanced technologies, lest
we revolt, overthrow them, or otherwise
cause them distress by imposing our exile
descendant selves on their superior
consciousness. After all, the point of us,
the Barro is to leave them in peace, Uppers
unruffled by the presence of annoyances
from less than loyal Citysons. Apparently
their methods for treating injuries, disease, are
unimaginably more effective than we have
knowledge of, due to tech we are forbidden.
Yet, Sophia has told me of an indigent class,
also denied the benefits of City largesse. Those
the Uppers consider unworthy, inferior Lowers,
though not responsible for disturbances that
would be cause for exile, are instead sent to bleak
domicile, the Poor Dorms. Bare dormitories,
where they are provided with beds and
unappetizing nutritional requirements, that
the elite who sent them there get to feel pride
about how amazingly beneficent they are to
so care for these useless human parasites.
We have generously supplied food and shelter
to these who offer no suitable return, they tell
themselves, so humane. Down a well-trodden
lane from their public home, those who have
no hope, no desire to go on, make use of the
Suicide Booths, their remains picked up by
robots when surveillance notes a pile up,
taken to the Factory on Barro soil, for
processing into energy, thus worth more
than when alive. Though in a pervasive
background sense somewhat aware of the
Factory system, I rarely give it thought.
Most of us don't. Those many who work
shifts there, tend to simply do as trained
and instructed, minds on personal concerns,
not their employer's history, functions. I
doubt very many here know much about City
ways, except, of course, for those like Sophia
who have relocated for whatever reason, migrants,
not exiles. The warning Uppers intended our
ancestors to heed, that Lowers not act up or risk
deportation, has apparently for quite a while
been successful, except for rare occasions. Yes,
some who have come here to follow their passions
or for particular employment may speak a bit of
their personal City histories, adjacently supply
information about how the City operates. Pretty
much, as long as the Uppers stay on their side of
the River, don't mess with us, we safely ignore
their hegemonic presence, return the favor of
parallel existence, concentrate on our affairs,
discoveries, relationships, as they theirs.
Currently, my sister Alee has us concerned. Her
recent full force commitment to disseminate the
benefit of this strange ability she has obtained,
to reach into the ailing, pull away their disease,
seems to have become ever more draining. She
insists she is well, maybe a bit fatigued now
and then. She promises to get more sleep,
unencumbered relaxation, more recovery between
sessions, to be more conscious of her limitations.
This might have been an adequate solution when
we only knew of a few who presented their need,
those any of us were personally aware of. Now,
however, people are buzzing about the miraculous
return to health of people they had written off.
Children at the School even are asking questions
about Alee's intentions. Some have family, family
friends, they believe need her attentions. In this
intimate community, what catches the public
interest travels fast. We had no idea how many
silently suffered within their sphere of intimates.
Privacy for many comes naturally, sorrows, burdens
shared only among family. Yet, once given to feeling
they are missing what others have obtained, they have
no problem shouting for fairness. It is almost surprising
not to have insistent knocking at our door, demanding
satisfaction. Perhaps that will happen. Bobby has
suggested calling for a Stakeholders' Meeting to air
everyone's concerns, anxieties. If told the whole story,
we hope our neighbors will understand, have good
answers, or agree to discuss and work out how we each
can receive what we need. We would meet in the
Theater, a panel of principles to explain our situation;
all wanting to participate able to take turns. A proper
plan, we sibling stakeholders assent. Tomorrow, Bobby
and Cas will get the process started, speak with
appropriate people to arrange what will take place.
What I feel was meant to be a happy blessing for overall
benefit, has instead become an issue, complicated. Our
best expectation is that open communication expel
agitation, make our path clear.
Jay
At the Theater, watching Alee dance, sing lyrics
we had crafted for her music. This is her refuge,
happy place, where she freely offloads overwhelming
emotions, refreshes, more restful for her than sleep.
She practically lives here, these days, the time she
takes from what she believes to be her duty, in
order to recover enough to continue to heal those
in need. She equates, accepts this ability as reciprocal
for her recovery. What has become a greater
motivation, less beneficent, more personal, seems
to be an encroaching addiction to the admitted
pleasure she receives, entwined with that other's
mind to fight against, mend their disease, misery.
She describes to me how each such experience feels
unique. It's not a known euphoria she derives each
time, but always a new thrill, a gleefully anticipated
adventure. She confides in my familiar company
without censor, or distilling for public view, as we
ever do, each a part of who we are. Jamee, supreme
listener seems his gift, hears her confession as well.
We are concerned, tell her why. She heartily agrees,
then flies into exuberant reply: she is fine, happy,
enjoying the limelight, certain this immense
responsibility she takes on is to her ultimate benefit.
Certainly, it has been to mine, my sisters, father,
most clearly to Barbara, my mother, herself. Where
all I knew were glowers, now she glows. She has
transformed into the woman we would have
wanted to know, without harried unbearable
sadness, anger, carried by her inner demons to
hold her soul in a living hell. She has regained her
place at the Mart, selling her wares. No longer
enchained by irrational fears, people, she finds,
can be kind, accepting, when not chased from her
sight by her unwelcoming negation. I guess that
shocking episode that frightened us, led to Alee's
revelation, was far from misfortune, rather a
blessing. Yet, not a blessing unalloyed. We can't
allow Alee to destroy herself out of some notion
of mission, or her mounting addiction to the
pleasure that accompanies her expenditure of
vital energies. At the Stakeholders' Meeting,
maybe we can convince the greater community,
including those clamoring for her aid, to help
us to get Alee to understand the necessity of
conserving what she needs to continue both
her own beloved nature and her ability to
heal ever greater desolation. Someone among
us has already made a connection to that
parable about a goose who laid golden eggs,
that I agree applies. I hope our neighbors are
wise enough to see we share a side, no
disagreement between our mutual best results.
All I want is my chosen family restored, even
as the one I had come from has been transformed.
Sophia
To celebrate my sister Daphne's birthday on
this late May afternoon, I remember to claim
a few hours to catch up, a pleasant tete a tete
away from work or obligations. The drama
at home can wait while I spend this time at
the Compound. Maybe by my return there
will be further developments, a more definite
plan devised. Not for me to dwell on until
then, I tell myself. I find my happy state of
mind, to give my sister the gift we both most
appreciate, time together, even if not in the
flesh. The Compound is fairly quiet, in this
interval while most City transplants are at
their daily jobs. I have managed to get away
for a rare playdate in the afternoon. The
walk here was refreshing, a sparkly,
sun-filled boon of Spring, as idyllic flowers
bloom, birds fly through a halcyon blue sky.
All troubles thus lifted while participating in
this relaxing scene. I am primed to tell Daphne,
enthusiastically, what a marvelous day she has
been given to celebrate her blessed existence,
another year gone by filled with treasures of new
memories, accomplishments, anticipation of
where this year will take her. She enjoys my
effusive nature. Close sisters, lifelong friends,
even now that those I call family has expanded to
both sides of the River. My bond with Marta is of
a different kind, strongly cherished, ever lasting,
yet taking nothing from my other loves,
pre-existing, with their own emotional histories.
How wondrous my destiny, to shower these
blessings of profound, devoted friendships.
Daphne is abuzz with excited questions.
Apparently my Barro family drama is not so
easily dismissed in this carved out dedicated
space. When she insists I fill her in on what has
been happening here, she has no idea the healer
she speaks of is my adopted sister, Alee.
"It's on 24/7 Gossip," she exclaims, as if that
explains all I need know to provide answers.
Obviously other City workers in the Barro have,
in their conversations with old home friends,
passed ahead this information, now circulating
throughout the community. It must have come
across as a super hot story, filled out with bathos,
dripping sentiment, for this City entertainment
program to have picked up on it, to hype in their
style, engage their audience with what passes for
breaking news, that good Citysons should stay in
tune, to be well informed.
"They had pictures!" Daphne enthuses. I bet they
did. I fear this development will not be to our
benefit. Barros, when all is said and done, can be
quite reasonable people. Culturally entitled City
folk, not so much. Daphne is gushing that such
a miraculous healer could be a savior to the
indigent, miserably living in the Poor Dorm. She
could give them a better option than the Suicide
Booths, to free them from otherwise untreated
illnesses, allow for possibilities to improve their
futures. Of course, my tender-hearted sister
would think of benefiting these unwanted City
dwellers, though they are generally ignored by
Lowers in better circumstance. Those who
remember their existence tend only to opine
that they are abhorrent parasites, to more easily
dismiss these people's plight. I for one don't
understand why City hierarchy demands this
gratuitous suffering class. Perhaps the Uppers
who devised this plan thought it a warning to
the Lowers of what might happen to them if they
were not loyal and competent enough servants to
properly execute the work imposed. I know from
my studies, Uppers, except for some arrogant
assholes, like to think of themselves as beneficent
secular gods, wise and generous. Yet that ancient
brand of paranoia runs deeply through their group
consciousness. I don't want to tell Daphne too much.
We are aware that these conversations are not private.
I tell her I have heard these rumors too, though, of
course, not on 24/7 Gossip, which is not broadcast
outside the City. I see no reason to concern her with
my Barro family happenings, far from the world she
knows. We chatter about this and that, share
anecdotes from work until it is time for us to part.
Tonight, after I relayed Daphne's unsettling news,
expected agitation ensued. Alee seems chastened.
The level of her disposable energy has obviously
waned beyond deniability. I hear soft crying from
Jamee as he holds his sister close. She smiles to
reassure him, but not with her signature force.
A sadness has taken our collective voice. No one
knows what to say. Later now, while those who
can are sleeping, my day goes round and round
through my unquiet mind. I don't exactly
understand what troubles me. It feels a jumble
of anxieties, random sentences recalled. There is
no reason for City people to require outside healing.
Despite it being denied to the indigent, City
healthcare is superlative, ever so much better
than what we have here, in an entirely superior
league from what we are allowed. They enjoy
technologies Barros are not permitted to even
know about. City folk must see this Barro healer
as mere entertainment, a fantasy, not part of
who they are.
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 their 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 feats
that cured their neighbors, gave renewal to people
struck down by illness the Clinic was helpless to heal.
They seem to think I somehow owe this fix 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 appreciate as
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 from 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 a few of them, 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 to agitate, 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, restful 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 tranquil 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, denial of 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, as if a
reward for surviving that ragged Winter. 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 the exceptionally
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,
his rhythmic activity, 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 these
people 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,
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
who might seek her. 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 revitalized. 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
always aware I am still welcome there,
without her to anchor me, I drifted into
random activities with friends from our
theater flock. I knew they 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 cook for Gus, along with two of my sisters,
some non-related others, but cut back my
morning front 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 that community
spirit of reciprocation. It felt a boon 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 supply
dependent on the continued execution of
her mission now in doubt, 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 wily,
wealthy survivors of a world wide climate holocaust,
once they deemed it time to leave their bunkers.
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 pervasive 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 outpost
invisible, it remains 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 uses for this newly forming
society, in their endless quest for entertainment. They
produced projects, experiments. Of course, they gave
themselves high 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 for those, during their hours,
working there. I guess, these employments 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 sending Uni-schooled City bred teachers
that could observe Barro students learn 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 and others 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 project started, was 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 of long life, and not bothering with
meaningless 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, pursuit of loftier 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. Many 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 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 beauteous 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?
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, as I was
raised to be his one true love. He has always
been kind, generous, sympathetic, deeply,
intelligently, 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.
His piercing blue eyes ever smile on me. I
delight in his godlike form, as I've seen in art,
muscular but never overly. I, created for this
one job, to love him, be his love, raised gently
under his guiding care, do share his 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 erect 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 that I can, any
time I like, passively enjoy while I lay in bed.
I often find their stories amusing, not a total
waste of attention. I let it, when on, be 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
have merely watched it for occasional
entertainment when Custer was otherwise
occupied. Today, as I allow their stories to play,
strangely, as if synchronicity reached out to
touch me, I see the pictures, hear the
commentary, learn of a young woman in the
Barro healing people from what were thought
incurable diseases. Of course, Barro medical
expertise is severely hampered by our better
technologies being forbidden. Perhaps these
illnesses she defeated 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 report
was unique enough to be on the loop for close
to two weeks so far, 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 facilitate what he has decided
must be done, arrange for a robocar to fly us to the
Compound on the morrow to 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 unpredictability.
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 would be
my best course when they arrive. Having shared my fears,
ameliorated 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 too 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 order,
having yet to regain that power, tried to decline. She
attempted to explain that she was not yet able, despite
her efforts to relight that faded flame. She promised,
assured, when she could, 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 generations 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, many decades 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 quite a while. He preferred his own,
to him superior, company. Then, I suppose after all those
secluded years, his solitary ways became less ideal.
Thus, many years ago, he began to make plans for a
companion he would create from selected DNA,
eugenic magic, to be his perfect mate. He sought no
robo-woman to pretend to be his friend, but a fully
human wife, 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, remain
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. We give in ceremony,
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 our
neighbors' 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
proceeding 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 dispositions.
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 dispelled, that we return 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 within familiar airs 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 imagery 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 sizes, 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 recognized maybe one or two of them, knew those not
well. 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
their psyches by this Upper puppet master. I had never
witnessed such a display, had no idea my people could
act, their good sense nullified, this nasty 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 provide 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 deliverance, 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 but us 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 detestation.
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 up against me,
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 heavily, repeatedly, where I lay, as pain
overtakes, my consciousness fades.
Jamee
What a glorious day for our big party at the Fire Pit!
Done with this early 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 exude 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 why,
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 touched, beat upon her. But fifteen big, strong
men, even if only a few delivering blows, ganged up
against one smallish young woman, already weakened
from health 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 instinctively 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
mutual 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 idyllic 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. I am
overwhelmed by joy for 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.
