001
The Currency of Currents
an undersea occurrence of interventional divinity
The Eve Of
Legend has it that when Primus Hammershøi defected from TEoG to join his brother (Vilfred) and The Belanoc [Severus], he stole the prized possession of King Magnus, his weapon for thousands upon thousands of years, a legendary halberd called Aphelion. As the story goes, Primus hid it within the bowel walls of a ship headed from the Auckland Islands [south of New Zealand, north of Antarctica] to Siberia, ultimately meant to find its way to Severus. The vessel never reached its destination, and the event(s) that led to her unmarked watery grave have long been a ripe source of delicious mystery and exciting speculation {among those of us “in the know”}.
With some help from the internet, I believe I know where she went down: in French Polynesia between the islands of Maupiti and Bora Bora. Yes, I know, much like anything named the same word twice, it sounds ridiculous. I just hope it’s less than 80 meters down. Anything deeper wo{uld}n’t be worth the risk. Learning the ratios of its elemental composition would prove most useful, surely. Should I get lucky and find it, I’m expecting that a combination which features tungsten, silver, chromium, nickel, and/or platinum will be observed {not by me, but by the nerdiest members of the current Bessi}.
There is an ever so slight chance that the weapon was recovered and stashed in a cave, so I’ll check there first because I prefer to remain in my own domain when risking life/limb.
As much as I want it to be, the ocean is not my domain—not underneath the surface anyway. Barring the ready inhalation of available oxygen and (solid) ground beneath my feet, I am out of my element. I guess I’m needy like that.
Day Zero
Up at 04:15, Uber away around 05:50. Uberaway at 08:10. UBERAWAY @ 14:25.
Why am I doing this? Why do certain strings of text seem coded?
Blanks will be left, always and forever. You may fill them in as you see fit. You’ll be right (enough).
Broke fast way too early, but feeding habits generally get tossed out the window when pretending to travel for pleasure. Gut flora exhibiting symptoms of confusion if not unrest.
By page 4, Carl is already speaking to me—i.e. exacerbating my enlightening burden of prophetic delivery.
I see snow-capped mountains underneath my winged passenger vessel—the nostalgic draw on my soul is real. Indeed, the mountains are calling and, soon, I must go.
Hiding amid a plain site can at least sometimes offer bursts of bemused amusement.
A few people might freak out when I‘m forced to abandon my false identity and enter the global stage as your reluctant savior. “Jesus” saves you from yourself sometimes, but I could one-up the long-dead old-timer by saving you from nothing, all of things!
If the moon is the earth’s lonely buckler, then the asteroid belt is the sun’s radially passive shield—possibly even its stealth field generator (against detection by hypothetical life in galaxies far, far away)—from runaway starborn objects that amount in scope and power to anti-creation bombs.
This is like venturing to a new world. Eat your heart out, Christopher.
Suddenly I’m wondering if Ballantine would publish my stupid book. I would insist that they source the paper from hemp.
No one always knows anything, but, more and more, I’m realizing that I‘m getting to know “always.”
Film directors should consider dividing their focus among more people when applicable. For instance, in a duo, one director could focus on the cerebral aspect and shot composition [what’s shown on the screen] while the other director would work with actors to evoke the right performances [what’s shown through heart and in the eyes].
On the plane, I watched movies. Bumblebee, Big Tuna. Vice. An anonymous quote sticks out. It begins, “Beware the quiet man,” before continuing [paraphrasing now] to add that when others speak, he listens, and while others act, he watches. While others rest, he strikes. I’ll almost certainly make an effort to ingest the next piece of filmed entertainment by A.M. He is clearly aware of shit. [As is J.P.]
My “real life” MP is a miracle for thinking I’m MM. Clearly I’m not, but I think I should father a silly number of kids, so I dunno how that’s gonna work yet. It’s an increasingly strong emotional urge, the escalation of which seems to portend the eventuation of cultural complication.
Day One
The temperature change has been a challenge. I haven’t had to acclimatize this rapidly in decades. In other words, already, unexpected worth bursts forth with the eruptive power of a turkey tail mushroom.
On the Tahitian nap’s heels, I’m the equivalent of sticky shit on a shitty stick. Overly warm sleeping conditions. Usually I require 69 degrees and I’m not trying to be funny. At 70, I itch and have difficulty achieving a state of stable slumber. At 71 I will wake up scratching my testicles—to the annoying tune of superficial wounds on more than one occasion. (And my fingernails are never sharp.) Inside this domicile, the temperature won’t fall below 76. I’ve embraced the alertness.
Obviously.
Because here we are again.
Communicating.
I’ve been asleep only 8 of the last 48 hours. Somehow I don’t think I’ll be able to log 16 tonight. I’ll have to catch up slowly.
Specifically targeted aside: remember Cezán? Something about fengshui, too. What does any of this even mean? Hopefully we’ll figure it out sometime later—preferably any time now, to be honest.
Suddenly I understand that since I’d rather not become a martyr, maybe my body doesn’t have to expire ahead of its potential. This is comforting.
The Airbnb contact’s 06:00 taxi arrangement fell through. I found myself wandering toward the airport hauling two hard-shell suitcases, a duffel, a heavy-duty plastic bag of wine and spirits, and a leather satchel. Normally, I don’t sweat this easily.
Occasionally you may wonder why I’m doing anything, as sometimes I do, too, particularly in real time. Even I can’t always work out what I was thinking in retrospect. The way my brain works allows for continual leaps across untold train cars in average processes of thought.
I’ve begun to understand why people around me have found this frustrating for the last 96 years or so—other intelligent lifeforms can’t retroactively piece together the steps I skip by critically thinking very, very, VERY fast.
I’ve been forming complex sentences since my third year on the planet.
By 06:28 (and for the third time in my life) I had to hitchhike.
I don’t mind the sweat today. I’m viewing this whole excursion as a symbolic release of toxins.
Incidentally, I do have small venom glands, but my fangs are underdeveloped and incapable of eruption.
Many of my bodily fluids—the ones assumed to be potentially useful in the future—were harvested and stored at Bessi; so, in truth, for all I know, I’m father to a whole gaggle of Fourthers—in my dreams: half-breeds.
Finally we’ve landed on the next island in the journey. For the first time, I’ve accepted a lei. The smell is nice, but it irritates the back of my neck.
Time to get on a speedboat and get to our theoretical island of discovery to continue fleshing out the enlightenment of all time. Should your eyes want to roll, let it happen. In the future, this may mean something other than what it means to you/us/me now.
A bald man told the joke about wind messing up his hair. Quite unlike the 11 full-blooded humans on the vessel with me, I cackled. I must be in a good mood, which is weird given that my internal body temperature feels normal. Understand my humor here? I’m implying that I’m only in a good mood when feverish. But that makes no sense.
Or does it?
Also, in case it’s not glaringly obvious, yes, I am acutely aware of the tense changes. As I’ve mentioned elsewhere, tenses change. Tense changes. In other words, meanings may differ.
(Is)land ho!
We’ve been welcomed ashore by a local blowing a conch shell, plainly looking like he’d much rather be someplace other than this tropical paradise. He looks about that age where people often feel like they’ve got their whole lives ahead of them. In a number, 24.
By the way, dogs come with 42 teeth, usually, I think.
Does this mean anything (yet)?
I’ve been issued a complimentary beverage that tastes like sweet tea and sugary cereal marshmallows—you know the ones? They’re almost crunchy out of the box. Once, I conducted a year-long test during which I ate like an American child so that I could know definitively the impact of an average American diet. Besides the brain fog, weight gain, and hugely oscillating energy levels, I felt terribly normal.
A tender lady called Léa [unless her name tag has been a curious deception] shied away not from one single moment of eye contact. At this point, for all I know, she peered into my soul and saw the future. Also, she might be a spy. I will watch her closely.
Now that we’ve interacted with hotel staff, and 10 minutes after 4 ounces of mysterious liquid sugar, I need a nap. Still, I must admit {evidently—since here we are and all} that were she to make an effort, I might relinquish my seed.
Day Two
Léa is looking at me funny while I stumble across our resort’s well-kept grounds at 05:47. I’m pausing in a damp hammock. Seems too early for her to be here. I know she sees me. Yep, here she comes.
By 06:19, for all I know, she’s pregnant with my mutant, which will probably kill her within seven months. I’ll give her a good sniff before I depart in 5 days to make sure she’s not (in danger). If she is, well, heck—I have no idea—perhaps I’ll recommend a steroid shot.
I don’t own the voice you hear; I just happen to be the freaky geek channeling the message(s).
There was a time when I thought I’d take pleasure in separating the head from my most currently antagonistic family member. Now, I know that carrying out the act itself will—should my cookie crumble to its execution (as I’m more and more inclined to believe it shall)—pain me as surely as I feel that it will come to pass out of sheer necessity.
Indecisive ignorance has led me to a crossroads.
As a half-human being, I must creatively assemble the greatest achievement in history of humankind.
Seems simple enough, no?
It doesn’t, yes?
I’ve eaten many mangoes in my day. Pictured above: the tastiest specimen to ever inflame my buds.
Day Three
The Pacific is even bluer than I remember.
The sea itself is a siren, calling out to humans for a reason. It’s in all of our heritage, our blood, our DNA. It’s the place from which/whence we came/sprang, the molecular soup of organic magic, the depths that gave rise to life 4 billion years ago and evolves still today in a remarkable display of impossibly improbable continuity.
Earth is a miracle, and we are lucky to be here.
As a kid, my favorite color was yellow. As an “older man” in a young body, I identified with shades of blue like turquoise and aqua. Last year, I began gravitating toward greens.
Yellow, blue, green. The middle of the (in)visible spectrum. Now, the shade I most appreciate is an even mixture featuring all 3 middle bands of color. In my eyes, there can be no hue more visually appealing than teal. I’m sure that’ll change tomorrow.
Ever since I left home, the mountains have called out to me. Now they scream. I will return. As the globe’s fever produces warmer, wetter, thicker conditions, the cool, dry, thin air will feel even better when it hits the lungs in deep breaths.
Seemingly, cold showers have a way of resetting your entire sense of self. Someone told me that once. Smart kid, that one. I think he was the son of a bricklayer.
Day Four
Otemanu looms. This climb will be difficult. I’m going to scout it tonight. No idea whether this is obvious, but I’m looking for some{one/thing} beyond Aphelion. What, I’m not entirely sure. It could be an unknown lesson. I just know I’m supposed to be here. The summit beckons, invites, taunts.
Perhaps I’m supposed to learn that I can’t always trust the signs I perceive in cosmic nature.
Perhaps it’s time to venture outside the lagoon in which our accommodations are idyllically situated.
By the way, Notre Dame is on fire. I’ve little doubt that folks who once visited will act like they’ve just lost their beloved pets in tragedy. It’s kind of like a man getting shot in public and people posting on social media as if they’ve narrowly escaped with their lives because they merely “thought about” considering a visit to Home Depot two miles down the road near the time of the incident.
Yes, the previous block means that I’ve written (certain) posts months before posting. I had been incorrectly assuming that these “blog entries” were to be part of a book, which, as you ingest this sentence/thought, may or may not have been released into the wild. But nope, this here is its own thing.
Hi. Again?
Just swam with a big lemon shark 15 meters below the surface. That was a first. This one, in fact:
Midpoint Summary:
- Weather: cooperative
- Water Clarity: glass
- Locale: seems fake
- Views: stupid
- Amenities: ridiculous
- Atmosphere: hypnotic
- Relaxation Factor: involuntary
- Regret Level: hahaha
- Bucket List Impact: critical hit
- Overall Experience: (in)valuable
I’m thinking that I might start using semicolons twice in the same sentence; it’s the separation tactic classic writers used to insert relevant interjections; but I’ll probably only incorporate this sentence structure when necessary [just like anything else that conflicts with my irksome obsession with maximum efficiency].
I haven’t sweated this much since the Chicago heatwave.
Actually, I just remembered a day of sweltering heat during my traversal through Charleston swamps in July of last year. Or maybe it was the year before. Anyway, I was searching for an artifact, which I didn’t locate—something far less important than this.
Day Five
Encountered a well-to-do lady from London today. She happened upon me minding my own business and politely asked if she could stop minding hers by engaging me in idle chatter. Having missed hearing the accent, I granted permission quickly. Evidently the universe compelled her to ask if I had children [because that’s what she did] and, after I looked at her as if she were a lunatic [she was is might be], she vocalized her approval of my lack. We established an immediate connection, and then I never saw her again. According to Gillie, almost all kids are “fat, ugly, spotty, and dreadful.” I don’t necessarily disagree, yet I still feel an obligation to procreate, if my DNA will even allow recombination.
For some reason, I’ve “borrowed” a Jeep and find myself driving around Bora Bora. The scenery is truly breathtaking. This place almost justifies France’s existence. A native told me the first car arrived on the island in 1977. Though you may be, I’m not compelled to fact-check his claim.
Day Six
Undetected by any humans, I crept out of the bungalow at 02:00 then borrowed a personal watercraft and came ashore at the base of Otemanu less than a half hour later. I made it to the cave by 04:00.
Clear skies this morning. I haven’t seen stars like this since camping for a fortnight in the Grand Canyon two decades ago.
The Southern Sky is different than its Northern counterpart. I can’t be certain whether this is common knowledge, but I’m inclined to believe it isn’t; ergo, the previous sentence has been included {obviously}. In other words, constellations aren’t all the same. I’ve never seen The Milky Way quite like this. Staring up at the night sky with my newfound appreciation for the spectrum of time, it’s entirely possible that if I concentrated really hard and allowed it to happen, a single tear might roll down my cheek. Were I fully human, I’d sob like a little bitch, I’m sure.
Galaxies (and by {sub-}extension solar systems) are too flat for any star or planet not to be round, let alone a tried and true globe such as the earth, whereupon we perceive four dimensions.
Turns out, no wonders have awaited my discovery in this boring-ass cave. Tomorrow I’ll try to find the sunken ship, but I’m not expecting much, so I won’t be holding my breath—I’ll use scuba gear instead; that way, I’ll be able to maintain blood oxygen levels and thus increase my chances of avoiding death.
Disbelief in manmade climate change isn’t quite as ignorant as belief in a flat earth, but it’s no more than two steps removed.
Acceptance in a tribe does not mean that each member should agree on every issue. That’s not a real tribe. It’s mental/emotional slavery.
At the same time, I’m routinely right about every-/anything; therefore, this will likely become extra confusing upon first sight of the tenth color. Don’t fret. You are not being brainwashed; you are awakening. We’ll figure it out.
Day Seven
It’s 01:00 and overcast.
Again with the borrowing—this time a fully equipped scuba craft. My heading is due West. Will adjust based on instinct.
I’m veering north at 01:33.
At 01:59, I’ve found the shipwreck with serendipitous ease. I even laughed about it for at least five seconds, possibly seven. In fact, I can barely claim to have “found” it. It’s just here. Down below. Flanked by a tiny uninhabited archipelago. Pretty much where the internet{/facts} told me it’d be, and at a depth of 14m less than 80. It’s as if I’m merely along for the ride; I have to go down—fate has decided on my behalf. Shouldn’t be too taxing on my equilibrium given the sub-80m depth.
Armed with a flashlight and harpoon {and standard scuba gear, of course}, down I go.
I seem to gravitate toward writing in the present tense, but it’s hard to stop and contemplate sentence structure while underwater in a dark ocean. If you can think straight, then you’ve likely already surmised that I’m not about to die, but I legitimately thought my time was up in a few (or more) seconds.
As soon as I laid eyes upon the ship, I sensed something else coming from the north. Something that didn’t make any sense at the time. Something anomalous. I sensed danger. As I accidentally just now hinted seven blocks prior, I’m rarely wrong about anything. I’m never wrong about danger.
I do not reckon that great white shark sightings in Polynesia, no matter the time of year, could be considered anything other than abnormal.
Initially, I thought seeing a 13-strong school/shiver of these near-perfect killing machines was very foreboding, to admit the least. Immediately, I accepted my fate. I might’ve even chuckled [golly, I’m so jolly tonight] at the ironic nature of my impending death. There I was, 50m below the surface with nowhere to hide [couldn’t have reached the ship in time to seek refuge inside], carrying our planet’s greatest secrets, and I was about to become minced meat. Even wearing fins, I can’t swim half as fast as a great white, which can hit speeds of 35 mph. For reference, the fastest human swimmer ever could barely eclipse 20% of that speed, and not for long. For additional reference, I’ve never gone faster than 9 mph in the water with no aids. These days, I’m horribly out of practice, thus I would have all sorts of trouble achieving a pace of 7.5 mph. Even so, toss me in the pool at the next “fifty-meter free” Olympic final and I’ll prove my unusual heritage on (inter)national television.
Watching these predators knife through the ocean like aimless torpedoes, instead of wondering whether they’ll rip me to shreds, I’m feeling sad that artificially influenced climate change [only assuming by then—possibly still chuckling mentally—it was all happening so fast] has (in)directly routed them to these coordinates.
Then I heard the sound of teamwork as immense relief washed over me. An enormous pod of killer whales—there had to be over forty of them [damn numerical symbolism]—tracking and herding the school/shiver, wearing them down, a battle of attrition.
In Hawaii, this might make slightly more sense, but over 2,500 miles south? Let’s just say it reeks of destiny (and a once-in-a-lifetime caloric opportunity). It’s why I might seem crazy. This is what I was meant to see—not Aphelion, though by then I became all but certain that I’d soon find it.
SPOILER ALERT:
I found Aphelion.
The sharks were too busy fleeing for their lives to bother attacking me, I guess, though I’m positive that the calories would’ve come in handy after burning so much energy to get away. Orcas, you see, have been known (recently) to enjoy white shark liver; it’s like a fatty delicacy apparently; they extract them with almost surgical precision. These animals are the ocean’s most apex predators. Not “Jaws”; rather “Willy.” Score one for Mammalia!
The “encounter” ended quickly. The beasts came and went. The frightened frenzy of ferocious sharks was herded south by the shepherding whales. I was just a bystander, a lucky viewer of an utterly weird event.
I’m glad I only had to dive to 66m. The pressure from 60 to 66 was immense. I could not have gone past 70. I overestimated myself. Lessons for days on this trip.
I swim inside the ship and commence my exploration.
And thar she blows, if you will, clear as day to me, incorporated into the boat’s aesthetic design. Perfect condition. This is the first galacian weapon ever recovered by a sentient being who carries human DNA.
But I can’t recover it now.
But I know someone who can and will spearhead its recovery.
Since 1995, my “best friend” from back home “at the academy,” EQ2 and I have been in touch secretly and through coded messages in obscure corners of the internet. Currently we communicate through a site devoted to text-based roleplaying games. Soon (enough) the frequency of our correspondence will see a significant uptick, I suspect.
I can envision too many ways that this could play out. In this regard, I look forward to handing myself over to nature and seeing where I’m taken.
Return Trip
Pray tell, have you ever noticed how the introduction of a single variable can upend your entire perspective on an equation?
Take for instance the fact that I’m only just now explicitly informing you, curiously intelligent reader, that the kind human woman who agreed to take on my alias surname, and who has often displayed a fondness for my assumed persona, accompanied me on the trip. This was our vacation. She thinks today is my fortieth birthday. One day she may learn that on our Polynesian getaway, I was still approximately 15 months from 100.
In San Francisco, I have officially—or perhaps “unofficially” [kinda hard to keep up at this point]—disappeared. It had to be this way. In time, if/when she understands, I’ll double-back and collect her in what some folks might term a “reunion.” Seems unlikely, though.
No matter who I become or where we go from here, “I” will only ever have (had) one traditional wife. She has been exactly who I’ve needed her to be. She deserves (her version of) better (than me). She’s the best friend any of her friends have—not kidding. And I hope she keeps my fake name forever. Feelings are weird.
I’ve noticed a tendency among heartbroken humans to invite even more despair into their lives. Perhaps sometimes that sort of behavior is necessary to expedite healing. Still, I can only hope that she doesn’t make any self-defeating, dumb decisions while blinded from dust left behind by the loud absence of my quiet presence. If she does, then give her a break. Treat her rightly and quite appropriately like a saint, whirled world. At her core, that’s who she is.
Lastly (for now), teal remains my favorite shade in/of our visibly electromagnetic prism.
