III.
Aye, Too, I Level
And so, too, may you!
(Sound it out. Be brainy.)
Indeed, on/up we go.
Feel free to join.
Okay. So. I’m making progress. One baby step/giant leap at a time.
Two days ago, I was under the impression that I had fallen in love with an exceptional model of wholly human manhood.
However, way back then, I also thought humankind ruled the celestial rock which grants us both a place to live and room to breathe.
Wow. Wow. No. No.
How do you feel about summaries? I’ll do my best.
And bear with me, won’t you? This is for my benefit as much as {y}ours.
Here’s what I’ve learned (about the real world) during my time spent with Atlas on the road over the last couple days. Wait, have only two days passed? Perhaps three if not four. Or one? Five? Eh, doesn’t really matter at this point. (By the way, I’m driving Gloria and she’s amazing.)
Forgot what I was {going} on about. Oh, right…
The earth formed approximately 4.6 billion years ago.
Fun fact{s} we like to reference: 1 million seconds equals 11.5 days. How long is 1 billion seconds, might you wonder now that I’ve asked (with emphasis) on your behalf? Uh, try 31.7 years.
Million, days; billion, years. My eyes bug outta my skull every time I think about it.
Like right now. Buggin’.
To understate an obvious fact for no good reason other than to illustrate an obscure point, our planet has been around for quite a long while.
For the last million years or so (at least), Earth has spent approximately 75% of Her time in an Ice Age.
Life arose roughly 4 billion years ago. Around 3,000,750,000 years later, a certain species from the taxonomic family known as “great apes” figured out how to stand up on two feet and put their vocal cords and glutes to work and what have you. That’d be us, Homo sapiens. Took us a hot minute to show up, eh? Wrangling fire may have saved us from extinction and led to freakishly abrupt cerebral growth because—semi literally outta frickin’ nowhere—it allowed for the consumption of mammalian proteins without disagreeable bacteria ravaging picky innards.
So, yeah. Our most ancient peeps learned how to make nasty shite taste good enough to stomach.
Hang tight. That was a necessary evil. Thank god for problem-solving skills. I’m eternally grateful for ancestral sacrifice. We stand upon the shoulders of giants. By the grace of their failures, we have been awarded recipes for success. Why we can’t seem to apply these lessons could be a story for another book, but we’ve got bigger fish to fry, don’t we now?
Man, salmon sounds delicious at the moment. I’ve perfected a recipe that incorporates rosemary and ginger. It pops. I’m salivating.
In any event, after the discovery of agriculture 10,000 years back, people abandoned nomadic lifestyles in favor of settling near crops/water sources, and once writing developed almost 7,000 years after that, human civilization was off to the races. Written language permitted us to record, document, chronicle, look back and reflect—in other words, to pass down knowledge.
Expressed another way, human beings taught themselves how to learn.
Then, in the 1800s, the onset of the Industrial Revolution—followed most importantly by the invention of the lightbulb—shot us out like an unnatural, misguided rocket. Now here we are—overpopulated and understimulated, overworked and underpaid, and catastrophically imbalanced as a whole.
Hode up. Let’s backtrack.
There’s another noteworthy species along humankind’s branch—and much, much closer to the trunk—that (almost) nobody knows about. (Hey, you’re special.) This one’s way, way older and a bit more, shall we say, “reptilian” in nature.
Oh, by the way, this is fun—guess who else knew:
- Henry David Thoreau
- Vincent Van Gogh
- Charles Darwin
- Gregor Mendel
- Theodore Roosevelt
- Albert Einstein
- Stephen Hawking
That’s what I heard, anyway. A few of those are just…duh. And, yes, more people did know; those are just the names that stuck stick with me. Atlas rattled off like thirty in as many seconds. One sec; forgot something.
“Atlas?” Mmm. I love saying his name, but I’m trying not to wear it out. Moderation, folks. A key to balance.
“Hi.” Mmm! Plus gimme yer babies right meow, boi.
I’m kidding. (I am but I’m not.) I play it so fucking cool [nope]: “Remind me when galacians became a thing.”
He’s suspicious of my wandering thoughts but acts like himself: “Speciation or civilization?”
Anddddd I’m wet. No, drenched. Soaked. No. Like I need to change. This is not okay.
(And yet it so is.)
LEAVE ME ALONE—I CAN’T HELP ANY OF THIS.
At least not in terms of physiologically hard-to-believe responses to the mere presence of another’s magnetic energy. The body isn’t smart enough to lie, kids.
Whatever. Back to playing it cool. “Speciation.” First time I’ve ever uttered that word aloud. Ayyyy. (Hi, I’m five.)
“Eight million years ago, give or take four. Ish.”
Yeah, so, he means four million, just to clarify. Was that confusing? No idea. Fossilized g/b remains have never been found; consequently, regarding certain facts (such as this), they [Atlas and the (assumedly) fine folks at the Global Department of Galacian/Belanoc Analysis/Investigation, a.k.a. “Bessi” {because it used to be called Belanoc Studies & Surveillance Institute}] have only been able to formulate highly educated guesses. What they do know, however, is that the current king, Magnus Rex, my boy’s grandpappy, has been in power for about 700,000 years. But, depending on when you read this sentence, he’s most likely the opposite of thawed while sawing logs. Galacians spend like 2% of their lives awake, scurrying about, prowling around, doing icy things and gross stuff. I dunno, details.
Did you know our evolving concept of redefining the way parentheses are used was born in my brain? Yup. Wut up.
Beggin’ yer pardon for singin’ me own praises, but I reckon I have to feel like I’m serving some kind of purpose here because of Jesus Fucking Squared over there.
Don’t get me started (unless you want I should go).
Trust me because I wouldn’t fuckin’ know: never bite off more than you have previously and reliably demonstrated a capacity to chew agreeably into digestible morsels.
Eek, I’ve forgotten the exact topic of our discussion.
This never won’t happen, by the way.
Emotionally speaking, I’m in flux, one might say. All over the place. Everything at once. Ahhh! He calls me a “lightning rod of emotional energy.”
DAFUQ DOES HE KNOW??
Ha, I’m just kidding. Duh. I’m going cross-eyed.
But.
Let’s get serious. Because this is serious.
Above a vast pit of swift doom, I’m hovering upon a cloud that rightly owns the number nine. Suddenly, as my whole life falls apart and into place, nothing makes sense—it actually does.
Nothing. In and of itself. As a concept. I get it. I’m getting it, rather.
Can’t help but wonder if you think I’m kidding, asshole.
I’m just kidding.
Except in regard to nothing making sense; definitely not joking about that.
And I wouldn’t have it any other way. Not right now.
Hey, interestingly, my old accent has started flaring up on occasion.
And I’m feeling an odd sense of self-confidence. Haven’t felt anything like it since I was 17 and had an entire childhood’s worth of dreams to go realize into magical fruition.
Life didn’t happen according to plan. Does it ever?
Damn, this car is fun to drive.
Seems like so much time has passed since I saw terrain like this. Flat, wide, open. In the Deep South, it’s just—how shall I put this—thick. Everywhere and from multiple angles. Life looks basic. People seem sleepy. And it’s no wonder. The area is densely saturated with anything you might automatically assume after three seconds of stereotypical consideration. Out here, westward, it’s the opposite. I can breathe.
Whoops, easily distracted. But you know me (by now [don’t you?])!
Anyhoo.
Oh, by the way, Atlas is an observant shitter who notices things about me that I’ve never noticed about myself. For instances:
- When (90s) Mariah hits my ears and I can reach the volume controls, I’m turning that shit up. And he’s a fan of my lip-syncing [not to mention my “singing”] as well as my imitated diva-moves. Per his unmistakable fandom, I’m more and more prone to perform. (Notably, Whitney [R.I.P.] and Céline can also get me hype.) Apparently I’m coming out of my shell. Better late than never, no?
- I have a signature pose when I’m standing still (and usually talking {about anything unimportant}). Dunno how to explain it really. My left leg just kinda drifts off and only my innermost toe [the biggest of the bunch] touches the surface. God, I’m probably doing it right now. AM I? Oh, I’m not standing. Hush up.
- Often, I say things that a well-adjusted, normal person might take as a joke. In these cases, typically, for the sake of clarity, I’m compelled to add, “I’m not joking.” Example: once in a blue moon, for one reason or another, I have no choice but to point out that “I will destroy” someone. When I forecast this possibility, I do mean truly that I will shatter a person mentally/emotionally, but never unless the chore has been justified through continually poisonous behavior and I know that s/he [usually she] could be better off after getting slashed in half. I’m not joking. No, I’m not joking—I will destroy someone who could benefit from destruction, including (and especially) myself.
- When I’m tipsy and in a good mood, I tend to twirl while prancing to and fro. A. Ray suspects that it’s only when I’m wearing (sun)dresses, which adds up because—not even tryna lie—I do like a soft, cozy dress with a cute pattern. I
haveused to have about 25 such garments. Currently: zero. Now I wanna go shopping, but that seems unreasonable under the circumstances. I’ll just look at clothes online later; might even add a few items to my cart in spite of no realistic plans to purchase anything ever again BECAUSE RIP, WORLD. I’m overreacting. Calm down. We’re okay.
So do you think he likes me?
SORRY. (I’m really not.)
As I was about to say before interrupting myself, galacian psyches are virtually exempt from emotional turbulence. Rather, they had been immune until the generation earmarked by Severus and Liana began exhibiting undesired traits in this regard. For the first time in a while {if ever}, The Empire of Galacia had to deal with the emergence of deviant behavior {as defined in the context of their time-honored societal standards}. So, uh, yeah—apparently they just started tossing the unruly sorts into underground prison freezers, essentially, until they could figure out what to do about the “issue.”
Ya see, galacians view emotions as little more than a weakness. Feelings sabotage rational thought processes. Duh. We all know that. But Atlas insists [okay, and when he insists, lemme just tell ya, believe him] this is one of the main (two) reasons—the other being sheer numbers—that we can win (Earth War One).
Humanity, 7.7 billion. Galacia, 600 million. The Belanoc, 70 million. All ish.
What an insane equation. [More on that in here somewhere. I can’t be arsed to keep up with specifics; I’m too darn busy living through every single solitary moment as it disappears in front of my lagging eyes.]
The separation of “b” from “g” is a long story that should be told on/at another page/time; as such, I’ll make it confusingly brief, probably: Severus ended up in the slammer then Liana ran away from home.
Wait, hang. I’ll ask:
“How long after your uncle went to jail did your mom decide to peace out?”
“Best guess,” he begins [and I already know his answer will be specific as hell], “approximately two hundred and forty-three years.” God, I’m smitten. This can’t be normal. I should be locked up. Break the key in the door.
Near the mid-fourteenth century, the most significant security breach in the history of (any) civilization (ever) occurred. Pretty much every last one of Galacia’s inmates escaped, but some were hunted down and slain soon thereafter. Still, all told, this youthful population of aberrant galacians, these emotionally unstable dickwads, about 35 million of them, evaded capture/death and fled into the lower-upper/upper-mid latitudes, all the while fanning out across the world. Since then, they have doubled their numbers, expanded south slowly, and become what we now know as The Belanoc, 3 outta 4 of which are female, by the way; otherwise, there would be many more of them! Not sure if that has been mentioned elsewhere yet. The males surely must be satisfied sexually. Oh, and belanoc don’t bother with hibernation. No, these hangry, sweaty devils are up and at ‘em until gravity sucks the light from their overtaxed bodies. (Average lifespan: ~700 years [highly dependent upon exposure to warmer climates].)
Atlas assures me that humanity can triumph in the struggle brewing on the horizon, the war for the planet, our fight for existence; and, whether you like it or not, you will play a role in this. But you and yours will more than likely die horribly lest we learn, as a whole, to elevate consciousness. In other words, unless we get wise enough to group up, hunker down, recognize our strengths, and outwit the physically/mentally superior species that would farm all of us solely for our outstanding caloric provisions, then, aye, indeed, I’m afraid that we’ll be{come} dead meat.
Heh, no pressure, eh?
Relax, we’ve got some time before the galacians trigger a 5-/10-year volcanic winter that envelopes the whole globe. I don’t blame you if you’re wondering whether I’m being metaphorical. But that’s another story. I’m sure it’ll come up soon enough.
Did that count as “foreshadowing”? I only ask because I don’t pretend to know; I’m not big on conventional narrative flows.
I appreciate what Jack Kerouac once said. “Fuck structure and grab your characters by the time balls.”
Pretty sure he said that. If he didn’t, then he should have.
No matter your place in space, the time has come—the music must be faced.
With the volume cranked to a degree that catalyzes her urge to belt it out, I dare anyone to watch/listen to Thierry sing SWV’s greatest hit while trying not to melt.
Accept my challenge.
In other words, get reduced.
Indeed, savor the presence of failure if only for its undeniable potential to be spun into future growth.
You’re not alone.
You are never alone.
There’s always somebody; otherwise, you wouldn’t still be here.
The need to reach out auto-justifies reaching.
Folks, connect to your people before it’s too late.
I’m laughing aloud for like the third time in 24 hours and the sixth time in the last decade.
Math can go fuck itself already. I’ll push.
I’m incorporating words like “like” in light of her influential force upon my innate nature.
TNT affects ARK.
There.
I’ve stated the obvious.
And in the third person, no less.
Not to mention with one of the most elementary verbs imaginable.
I feel ridiculous and, oddly, I’m okay with that.
I hope that you are happy.
Anyhow, now that we find ourselves relatively up to speed on historical happenings, then, onward we may march.
Presently riding shotgun—a distractingly foreign condition in and of itself [but I’m hangin’ in there without sweating too much]—I’m composing a coded message (on an obscure text-based fantasy role-playing website) to my long-lost comrade, Ernest Quinn. Almost finished. I’ll read it once more then implement minor tweaks before transmitting:
Lyten Guideway, the Wayward Warrior from the land of Weonise, finally encountered his sworn enemy, the dark drow prince, Stu Piddidiut, after a failed ambush at a local tavern spilled into the surrounding village, resulting in the tragic forfeiture of both his prized blade and, most crushingly, the element of surprise; however, courtesy of remarkably good fortune, he and the fair maiden narrowly escaped. Since then, the pair have been inseparably adrift, looking for allies, a certain vigilante in particular, the one and only Sergeant Nightshade. The jig is up. Cover has been blown. Fate: set in motion.
Making two important tweaks—changing “the fair maiden” to “his bunny lass” and “the element of surprise to “our long-anticipated stealth opener”—prior to posting.
Posting.
Posted.
I am exceedingly disappointed with/in myself. I could’ve eliminated Severus, but no, I attacked with a precision-gated upthrust instead of a wild-ass swing. I didn’t plan that; it just happened. Vaguely I recall the narrowness of the hallway factoring in to my tactics. In retrospect, it wouldn’t have mattered—a wild-ass swing would have landed, and then I could’ve critically wounded him it, stabbed its disgusting forehead, and followed up with a swift and clean decapitation.
Sorry if I blew it, humanity.
No telling what it’s doing now.
Let’s think.
I would assume that the epic, breaking news spreads like wildfire among high-ranking belanockian officials while bleeding into the general population, and that Thierry and I are being hunted, triangulated, sought aggressively using every resource available—all the while trying (probably) to keep me off the Galacian radar for as long as possible; TEoG undoubtedly has spies embedded within The Belanoc, and vice versa. Furthermore, I must assume that Bessi has been infiltrated as well.
In other words, intelligence is being shared behind closed doors, and it’s impossible to keep track.
This is all so very slimy.
And we find ourselves in a bit of a pit facing an uphill battle against a slippery slope.
Oh my holy mother of hell, I’m suddenly horrified. The correct spelling is “bonnie (lass).” Cringing. Can’t deal. Editing. Sweating.
Edited. (I survived.)
I blame Thierry. She likes the bunny emoji.
Blaming her amuses me. Don’t tell.
I should try to sleep for five hours twice tonight because I’m neither sharp nor fresh and, starting tomorrow then the next day plus the day after that, I have to be both.
I’m at a loss, it seems. Despite knowing what to do, I’m not sure how to go about getting it done. I need would very much like for EQ2 to respond a minute ago.
Where the hell are we?
Ah, 86 miles from Amarillo, Texas. Should’ve known.
Our destination, incidentally {and unbeknownst to Thierry}, is the Grand Canyon. It’s #1 on her current bucket list.
Humans like to be pleasantly surprised, right? Not sure if this means that I’m on a mission to “woo” her.
Several years ago, on the fateful road trip that led her to where she is now [and me/them to her, ultimately], she was unable to convince her lone traveling companion to flex toward visiting a once-in-a-lifetime natural wonder a whopping 108 miles (roundtrip) off their plotted course. Unacceptable.
People can be breathtakingly stupid, too.
Thierry, on the other hand, takes my breath away every day.
Easy conclusion: she will see the site; I’m taking her.
And via her sparkling eyes—predicting the future here; feeling confident—I’ll see it again for the first time.
For/In completely different reasons/ways, the sight in question glows majestically both during the day and amidst the wee hours of morning. If you haven’t already, then you should go check it out before it’s too late. During the day, look down. Marvel away. At night, look up. The experience can be described as nothing more accurately than spiritual.
Ah, here we go: a response to my post—has to be Ernest:
The Midnight Rider, Lieutenant Dingleshank, responded seriously in coded jest to the distress signal with the word choice that follows hence: “Greetings. I’ve ridden into town on a low mule and I’m strapped. Catch my drift? Are you leaking? No matter the hole, I’ll find a way to plug that puppy. Barking is optional. Ruff. When I’m done massaging that sucker, it’ll be as watertight as a frog’s butt, so make me some pudding and I’ll sample it. Chocolate or vanilla. Don’t care as long as it’s thick and gooey. Please respond swiftly, for I don’t have much time. The Nether-Aether Goblin-Lord’s fourth cousin, Calvin Jenkins, stalks me across procedurally generated plains.” Lt. D. rode into a stormy landscape, ripe for the picking, there for the taking, eyeing a vacation but primed for a baking, a chime in the making, climbing the forsaken, rhyming incantations, sliming with duration.
Firstly, WTAF? [An acronym I picked up from TNT meaning {in case it can’t be decoded on the spot} “what {in} the actual fuck.”
Secondly, at a glance, I don’t know whether the mysterious lieutenant meant “planes” because either spelling of the homonym makes sense, arguably. I’m perplexed! I’m also curious (from an academic perspective) about the author. Which is annoying. Ergo, I’m doubly annoyed.
Turns out, we don’t have time for shenanigans.
Thirdly—and most obviously, I’m quite sure—I stand corrected. It does not have to be Ernest. Because, decidedly, it isn’t.
I glance over at Thierry. She feels my eyes, meets them with hers, smiles. I try not to smile—no idea why—but my facial muscles have other ideas. Fine. I’m losing control; how wonderfully discombobulating. For no apparent reason, we laugh at the same untold joke. Who’s the invisible comedian? Good guess. I’m just over here hearing voices unheard. Nobody utters a word. A state of disorientation assails my overall perception. Should I choke myself out?? Hmm, I wonder if that’s even possible. (Recommendation: do not attempt.) I hate to say this, but, “The struggle is real.” I didn’t utter that phrase aloud; I merely thought it loudly. It’s such a meme, you know?
If it’s not too much to ask, would you please end my suffering since I’m not worthy of my body?
Thankfully, she goes back to driving, i.e. listening to music. It’s one of her favorite things to do, evidently. Ride and jam. She’s happy, and I’m glad.
When she’s content, I relax.
Currently soaring across our shared airwaves: recordings by a redheaded Englishman whose powerfully sincere vocals do not match his face. Indeed, an anomaly. On that basis alone, I’m a fan. Plus, I appreciate his talented, creative output.
And I’d ride with this girl anywhere, anytime.
(Especially in a vehicle that doesn’t burn fossil fuel.)
When the trip itself provides the reason for embarking, gas cannot be wasted.
Ah, neat, another response to my post—let’s hope it’s Ernie:
Sgt. Nightshade faints from disbelief, shits a hard brick, regains consciousness, gathers wits, questions sanity, scrambles headfirst into a concrete wall, bleeds profusely, guffaws, recalls reason for fainting, re-faints extra, shits a softer brick, hates it, wakes up again, orders a cheap blender, longs for a mercifully swift death, craves creamy milk, judo-chops own face, embraces delirium, shits half a brick in liquid form, loves it, goes to hell, somehow stays woke, dry-heaves forever, wonders silently or aloud [who gives a shit which], “WWJRED?”
Ahh, sweet relief.
My lofty wish has been granted (namely in the form of a female human being presently incapable of recognizing her own beauty).
Naturally.
But I know how to lead her (to safety).
Oh. Yes. I know where to go. Did you doubt that? Fuck off all over again. (Please stay.)
Back in the day at Bessi, the troops kept up with carefully selected television shows as a way of maintaining a finger (or two) on the pulse of popular culture. One of the last such examples that we watched together (before the earth-shattering incident {in London} that precipitated my self-imposed exile) is entitled Dallas, a main character of which was called JR Ewing. “WWJRED?” What would JR Ewing do? Well, Ernest, my dear {and} oldest friend, I suppose he’d go to Dallas. Pretty simple. So that’s what we’ll do, too.
From where we are now [McLean, TX], Dallas lies 321 miles southeast.
In contrast, the Grand Canyon looms 857 miles to the northwest.
For me, this decision requires the bare minimum in terms of brainpower.
The ability to prioritize anything in order of importance exemplifies a useful skill that too many humans seem to lack.
With that in mind, we will not deviate from our course—in other words, we’re about 13 hours from the Canyon, and that’s where we’re headed.
Hi. I really can see the future. “Sorry”?
I’ll take the graveyard shift behind Gloria’s wheel. Thierry should fall asleep before we turn right and head north toward the surprise. She’ll awaken moments after {or as} we arrive. I have a feeling that stopping the car will rouse her from slumber. The luminous glory of our Milky Way will blindside her senses. She’ll stargaze in unexpected wonderment. We’ll most likely camp there comfortably; shockingly enough, I packed top-notch supplies.
It’ll be an evening to remember.
Not like that. My intentions are pure.
Anyway, that’s my hopeful plan.
Listen, I don’t know jack about courtship, all right? You all invented it. I’m doing my best not to drown in a surging wake of lost time.
Just like everyone else, I suppose.
And now back to my futurecast.
After sunrise, Thierry and I will begin the thousand-plus mile journey to Dallas. Off the top of my messy head, we’ll break this leg into top-heavy, unequal portions, probably hunkering down in Lubbock on the first night.
Ernest won’t understand the delay at first. He’ll think I’ve lost my marbles. He’ll worry. (He’s a worrier.)
But then he’ll see me with Thierry. Soon after, he’ll get it.
She is (my) everything.
Hmm, I wonder if/when I should tell her about that.
Anyway, I should respond to Ernest’s original, pressing question. Phrase it however you like; make it fit your narrative—hell, pit it against the obvious. At this point, I’ll just be blunt because I know not what else to do:
Designate rendezvous point, allow exactly 46 hours, trust me.
I’m just…watching him. I’ve never seen him like this. He doesn’t even realize what I’m seeing.
Holy shite.
In a weird way, he actually does need me.
HOLY.
My “savior” needs me??
Well okay den.
I like this place anyway. Might even spruce it up a tad. Hmph.
Oh, he’s already excited about whatever he’s about to read:
Coordinates incoming in EXACTLY 45 hours. WTF, halfie.
He laughs to the point of wheezing, catches himself, looks at me as if his feelings might not be seen as okay. My eyes become friendly daggers as I set his fine ass straight right then and there.
He surrenders.
God.
I have to be strong.
Because this fucking literal superhero needs me to keep him in line. No big deal.
I can do this.
Less than a minute later, another message comes through:
Just call me ASAP. Mother of Pearl. Area code your bday in local format, 486, last four Connie’s SUPPOSED bday. FECKKKKKKK.
His “code” is a bit too obvious for my comfort level [even knowing that the phone number will be nullified straightaway post-conversation]; nevertheless, very well—I will call ASAP {whatever that means}.
I’m already strangely nervous.
If being apart from someone doesn’t hurt, then perhaps keep your distance.
Time can necessitate its own passing while in isolation from loved ones.
When a missed connection is real, separation only solidifies the bond.
Know what/who you need by feeling the truth inside yourself.
===
Passing through Albuquerque, New Mexico, Thierry spies a location once visited by her past echo. “Aw, I stayed there with Riley.” Her lower lip shifts into a condition of prominent expression; as you may be well aware, the tale involving Riley evokes a somber memory.
My eyes find the location in question. An inn. Wait.
I recognize that place. I’ve crashed there.
My heart invades my throat.
To confirm what I already know, I stutter, “That place? Right there? That one exactly? With the sign?” Already I hate myself for the offensive disaster my mouth just spewed.
And, appropriately, she gives me a funny look—I’m (almost) never so needlessly verbose. Sensing my inner tumult, she just nods.
Please indulge my clarification, if you will. When Thierry Nova “just nods,” it’s never just a nod—it’s much, much more. It’s a precisely apropos, perfectly timed response. It epitomizes economical communication. It’s a layered gesture. With just a nod—in tandem with her unparalleled, expressive eyes [duh]—she always tells me (more than) everything I need to know.
I follow up my most recent verbal catastrophe: “When did you lodge there again? Specifically. Have dates?” Did I just have a stroke? Did my voice just crack? Surely the fuck not. No, yeah, I think it did. That hasn’t happened since I front-flipped gracelessly into puberty around age 33. (I’ve always been a late bloomer.)
After a moment of thought, she answers, “Twenty-twelve. May.”
That’s what I thought. Destiny seems to be either showboating or mocking my ignorance. I’m racking my brain.
Also why isn’t she freaking out? I guess she can’t read every thought that stumbles through my head. Her eyes are open, inquisitive, curious, and it’s almost as if she’s smiling brightly despite next-to-nil lip-/cheek-flexing.
Intrusive thought: she’s a terrorist.
Welcome reinforcement: I love her.
Like a goddamned angel, she emits, “Atlas?”
Okay—fucking fresh bloody hell—when she says my name, is she doing what she does on purpose!? Whatever. She’s a goddess; I’m her servant. I don’t care anymore. (I care.) I think I’m experiencing acid reflux. Where’s the nearest apothecary? My body never requires drugs, but I could use a hefty dose of something that tranquilizes anything. Somehow, I manage to muster, “Perchance, do you have any pictures that were taken during your stay?”
She squints. Why is she {pretending to be} so relaxed? Maybe she is relaxed. Maybe she’s not sane. Maybe I’m the insane one. Maybe I can’t think/talk. Maybe shut up just a little bit. Not you. Me. Well, you, too, quite honestly, but only if you’re giving me shit while I’m at my weakest.
Finally [but really after no more than three seconds], she states, “I think so; lemme check my old email.”
I don’t even remember what I asked.
She accesses her cellular device while operating our automobile, and I’m not even twitching. Time becomes a lazy sloth.
An unsuccessful initial search elicits her request: “Hang on, don’t leave.”
Um. Definitely won’t (ever).
Either fifteen more seconds or seventy million hours elapse; I have no friggin’ clue.
At last, she holds up her left index finger, signifying a pertinent discovery, then informs, “Found a pic; I think this is the only one, honestly; it was taken by a stranger in the parking lot before we left.” She hands me her phone and continues, “He was a character. Tried to hire us to work on a website he was launching. Assured us that we’d make a hundred million dollars within a year. Very convincing, lemme tell ya. What was his name? Italian bloke. Papa something. That sounds ridiculous. Actually—”
“—Thierry.” I had to interrupt her.
When you’re on the right track, the natural flow of the cosmos will highlight your path forward.
Just start with one foot.
Put it in front of the other.
Proceed accordingly.
Okay, what am I missing? He doesn’t usually interrupt me—in fact, this truly might be the first occasion—and his face is ghost-white. That’s new.
Yeah, this is not normal.
Now my heart races.
He returns the phone to me, takes a moment, then identifies, “The dark green SUV in the background.” I see it. “See it?” I nod.
Atlas Knight stares blankly into space. I’ve never seen him caught off guard like this.
My eyes/thoughts wander as my brain loses itself in a meteoric hurricane of chaotic focus.
Hmm…
Oh.
Oh.
Oh, shit.
Shit.
No.
No way.
No.
Also duh!
My eyes meet his. I think I know why he’s spooked. His gaze can’t fib. Okay, yup, I do know; I knew I did. Pretty damned obvious. He senses it, nods. I definitely know. I think I’m about to die.
And, well, by his standards, he’s not in the best shape of his life, either. Yup, this is a first. All around. I’ve never seen his mouth hanging even slightly agape, whether involuntarily or jokingly. Also, quietly, his eyes scream, “WTF!”
Hi. So. Maybe this won’t kill me. But I think I’m having a heart attack. Or did my lungs just collapse? Both? Not sure. Either way, what {in} the actual fuck, universe!?
WE STAYED IN THE SAME HOTEL ON THE SAME NIGHT IN 2012.
(The present year, 2019, has entered its final quarter, by the way.)
W.
T.
F.
…
For a lifeform who understands everything, suddenly, as if for the first time all over again, I know nothing.
I know her very well.
I could have crossed Thierry’s path several years ago. But I didn’t. Why? I’m questioning every second of my life. Recently intaken calories might race up my esophagus within thirty minutes—a highly inconvenient realization—nevertheless, I must prioritize.
I’m not even hungry, but I know that I need energy.
At least she sleeps. She must be exhausted. Long day of singing and dancing.
I wonder about the time of day.
Who cares—night has fallen.
Tonight, the weather promises to behave.
Closing in on our approximate parking spot at a southern edge of the Grand Canyon, I could be no more awake.
Oh, yes, by the grace of this night, stars will align.
A harmonic frequency will be achieved.
Heartbeats will sync in unison.
I realize that I’ve been asleep as my eyelids flicker open.
Rapidly, I grasp my place in space and time. I see stars. (Meanings.) Oh—wait—all of the stars. No, more than that: ALL OF THE STARS. Holy. I know where I am. I’m surprised; also I’m not, because he’s who he is, duh, whatever, give me a break—right then, on this very spot, I weep.
Yeah, I didn’t ramp up with a measly few tears—nah, when I saw what I saw, I wept. Just…let it happen. Gave in to the kind of weight that can’t be ignored. It was the right decision.
My imagination runs wild. Never have I ever witnessed a sight more fucking beautiful. I can’t think of a better way to put it, and it’s still nowhere near good enough. Not a single cloud obstructs my panoramic view. The entire dome above me sings thanks to a sparkling concert of radiant starlight. I’ve been imagining this moment for years, and it has exceeded every expectation.
There you are, galaxy. Hi. I love you.
And {OMG} I will love him forever. He could vanish without a trace and never speak to me again and the sentiment I just expressed would remain no less true. I could spontaneously combust—it’s still real. No, I’m not joking.
“Thierry,” Atlas says softly, “you should know something.”
Cool. Just kill me now {but do me first}.
Gulp. I look at him. In this moment, I can’t use words. He recognizes my condition, my handicap, my frailty.
“You’re right.”
About what?? I asked him with my face, I’m sure. I’m a tearful puddle of vulnerability. Can’t talk.
“About everything,” he elaborates. “Energy, emotion. The soul. The space between. Light, consciousness. All of it.”
The night goes silent.
My entire life flashes before my eyes.
Time itself comes to a screeching halt.
I’m frozen. I’m also liquefied. I’m also overheating. My thoughts explode in slow motion.
“You felt the truth,” he caringly adds, expanding upon his previous point before ramming it home: “You’re right, Thierry.” His sincerity levels me. “You’ve been right all along.”
Okay, so, previously, I was weeping. Now I’m sobbing uncontrollably. But these tears are filled only with joy, goodness, and thankfulness. This is the best night of my life. Finally. To know beyond any shadow of a doubt that I am not crazy. Oh, my god. The sense of relief washing over me is indescribable. (Unless you count the last sentence.)
For what feels like an eternity, I have been waiting for this moment.
This one.
Right now.
It’s happening.
My existence has been validated.
I love his soul. Mine. (Must this mean I love myself?) He’s my person. Why can’t I be with him?? Wait, can I? I don’t know! What good is any reality that cock-blocks a girl from her twin flame!?
My legs are done; I plop down on my ass. I’m beyond grateful. Who do I owe? My karmic checkbook is safely in the black and I’m ready to dispense repayment—bill me. And I can’t stop crying. I’m sad. But I’m so happy. I have no words.
Sometimes, words aren’t good enough.
Sometimes, emotions run deeper than any description.
Sometimes, an experience can only be felt.
Hmm, yeah, this sentient organism’s an absolute mess. What should I do?
To reiterate, I wasn’t trained for this.
But I suppose that no one could be prepped for the impossible.
To say admit the least, I’m stressed.
But I was trained for stress; therefore, the immense pressure I detect presently must be unreal.
Nope, this is all in my head.
Eh, I think I’m fucked.
Hell, I’m just guessing at this point. Survival mode kicked in while I was still on vacation.
Let’s focus on what I know. That’s a good place to start.
At the moment, it’s all I’ve got.
Ah, her. I know her. Indeed, she’s familiar.
And, although presently she radiates an emotional upsurge that would make an active caldera blush, she does not scare me.
Naw.
To her lifeforce, amidst all this uncertainty and in the face of grave peril, I am attracted.
I surrender to natural instinct.
I kneel, joining MAD/TNT{/whoever she wants to be} on the dusty ground, at which point I put my arm around her—awkwardly, I must assume.
She falls into me as her outpouring intensifies. I think she’s happy, though.
I hold her. Both arms.
Ah, she seems to like that.
Tighter, then.
Yes. Seemingly, I’m doing it right.
We say nothing.
In essence, we live in the moment.
Together.
One.
This could last forever.
Sometimes, you simply must need a break.
For taking time to reflect.
And then process.
Dawn has come and gone.
Thierry and I enjoyed our early-morning, sunbathed glimpse of the Grand Canyon almost as much as we cherished the starlit view afforded by our serendipitously shared perspective the night before.
Now we’re on the road again, headed toward Dallas, less than a hundred miles into the journey.
TNT really wanted to drive (again); therefore, she’s driving.
Genuinely, I like when she deejays because, from her eclectic song selection, I can further decipher her enigmatic splendor. She connects with particular rhythms, but only when the accompanying lyrics resonate—there’s a pattern here—typically beyond her comprehension upon the initial discovery of a particular tune. And no track she plays damages my drums, so that’s a plus.
In other words, we get along famously.
At this point, using a phone I’ll destroy less than a second after the forthcoming hypothetical exchange ends, I think I’m about to dial the number “hidden” yesterday by Ernest in boring code.
Damn it—I just fell asleep for at least two seconds.
I’m weirdly nervous, and I don’t quite understand why.
This conversation should be exceedingly brief.
Fuggit—pressing send.
After five rings, right when I’m less than a second from ending the call, Ernest answers with an overly dramatic sigh. Right on cue, he is himself: vintage, grumpy, calming. Perfection. Holy hell, I have missed this miserable bag of ass. I must be grinning like a giddy schoolgirl. I’m not about to cry. No. Not even close. I start babbling like the coolest talking cucumber that ever got its climate controlled: “I’ll explain everything in person. It’s a lot.”
I could die laughing at my criminally inadequate summary, but we don’t have time for that.
“You think I don’t know that?” Ernest quips. Since last I heard his voice, it has changed, deepened, but I recognize him. “On a scale of one to ten, how numb are your nuts?”
“Eight. No, three.”
“Gah, I still hate you.”
I can feel his energy through the phone. Nobody’s laughing now, but we each sense the strong chance of hysterics in the immediate forecast.
I smile because I know exactly what he meant when he reminded me of his undying “hate”: he loves me more than ever.
Ha, he’s such a glorious piece of shit!
Look at me—I’m energized or something! (Two straight exclamations, let alone three consecutive, denotes a highly unusual pattern of punctuation in my case!)
Roughly 15,000 days absolutely devoid of vocal communication, and we haven’t missed a beat.
Interpersonal relationships can be weird.
“So much to unpack,” I state vaguely. “Mind is blown—”
“—try mine on for size—”
“—but I still believe that we can win. I know we can. I have some ideas.”
“You? Ideas? Golly, I don’t even know who you are anymore.”
I must’ve cackled. Probably even threw my head back. (Oops; dangerous.) Can’t help any of that right now.
Meanwhile, Thierry, listening intently, can’t help but smile.
And that’s all she’s doing.
When she approves, breathing gets easier.
Too, her knowing gaze never falls anything short of hypnotic.
For a second that feels like a lifetime, we communicate with our eyes. Could we be more on the same page? Often, I think not, and then it happens.
A new page.
More of the same.
Only this time, it’s extra bold. More colorful.
Our foundation ever-strengthens.
I tend to lose track of time when I stop trying to keep it.
Ernest snaps me out of my love-trance by issuing another intentionally exaggerated sigh, but this go-round, a hint of laughter betrays his charade by bleeding through at the end.
Blood be damned—he’s more than a brother to me.
Time to wrap it up. “Provide a safe number or email address.”
He obliges my request for new contact information. Courtesy of my hyper-photographic memory, I store it securely before adding, “Be in touch soon.”
“Yep. Can’t wait.”
Ha, what a bastard. I can feel his eyes rolling into the back of his head. Such a delightful shithead. Still, I know that he’s grinning from one ear to the other. I end the call.
When it comes to words, invariably, the deepest meaning{s} must be derived from the vast space (of infinite potential) that may occur exclusively between the lines.
Well then.
On the edge of my seat, I just listened to Atlas utter, what, 42 words without caving in to my profound desire to interrupt him {but only lovingly}?
The sum of which made my heart happier than I can express in print!
Yeah, hode up (again). Don’t get me wrong, okay? He leads; I follow. Rinse and repeat for all eternity. Done. He’s all details; I’m a sideways shitshow. He organizes the chaos in my head without even trying.
But.
Sometimes he’s like a child. He needs guidance. That’s where I come in. I can’t explain this right now. It’s too much. (I’m “only” human.) I’m still sorting it out myself. Maybe later?
But try to imagine being him, the only known specimen of his kind, a mind-boggling prototype, a world-changing unicorn, a ghost, a half-man (who is all man, bee tee dubs {but shush}), a myth, a legend, separated for over four decades from his consistent family (of almost sixty years), finally taking the first step toward a long-awaited reunion. Dunno about you, but I’d be ugly-crying; he’s just kinda smirking while reminiscing silently.
I already know what’s about to come outta my mouth and you’ll have to excuse me for gettin’ excited in advance: “Atlas?”
“Just keep going straight.”
Perfect. Easy. No problem. I gotchu, boo. Hell, I’ll even accelerate.
Foot, meet pedal.
I don’t have to know where we’re going. As I stated gladly, I follow his lead. Not even a decision. Comes naturally. I said that, right?
By now, I have learned that he will tell me what(ever) I should know at the appropriate time—always just before I can apply the knowledge at some brilliant fundamental level that he saw coming well in advance. I’m getting used to it. Kinda like it. It’s a cozy spot.
See, Atlas has a penchant for comin’ in hot {AF} in the nick of time; his timing falls nothing short of lifesaving.
Heartfelt reunions symbolize one of many possibilities that make life worth living.
I mean…
Fuck it.
Have I made it clear yet?
I’m his. Always have been. He’s my sun and moon. This, I know.
Tomorrow I’ll know it more, which is just another level I can’t handle right now.
Tomorrow, my knowledge will reinforce itself in ways that I can’t foresee. That’s fine. I submit myself to cosmically undeniable flow. With an open heart—and through an enlightened mind—I trust the universe. Mother Nature knows me better than I know myself.
And he knows Her better than anyone.
All life needs reasons but one reason to trudge ahead.
Especially when facing seemingly insurmountable odds.
If you can imagine it, then, one way or another, it is possible.
Stick around and you will get lucky.
That’s physics.
I’m an old soul marching to the beat of a young heart.
Of much, I have eclipsed the point of certainty and left it rightly in my dust.
Of the following sentiment, I could be no more sure:
I belong with/to her.
Now.
Today.
More than yesterday.
More than ever.
I don’t know what else to say except for probably that I do.
Perhaps I’m saying all that needs to be said.
Conversely, maybe I’m tying my own, frayed knot.
How will any of us ever know?
Wild-as-fuck, hellbent, rosy rainbow though I may be—one thing I know for sure from a weatherbeaten shipdeck braving the relentless assault of an incomprehensible storm [pfft, nice try]—without her beautifully imperfect essence, the heavenly echo calling out to me from across the (a)eons, the constant source of my gravity—THE LITERAL REASON FOR MY BEING—I could not exist.
Cheers.
Here’s to nature.
Stripped down.
That’s who we are.
Now explain to me why (all of a sudden) I feel the presence of our unborn (first) child daughter.
I know, right?
Given how numbers always unfold, everyone has but one single soul to/with whom they may (re)connect most deeply.
Unsolicited advice: keep your eyes peeled and your heart open.
When the time comes, be ready to move.
Anyway, as I may {not} have been hinting, freely, I bow to milady’s magnificence, for only she may tempt my our fate.
For her, I {re}charge.
For our future.
For us.
Hmm…
Next time you threaten to convince yourself that something is impossible, do yourself (and all of us) a favor by remembering that it’s not.
I mean, you thought of it, right?
Yeah, call your own damn bluff.
Okay?
Envision the life you want need.
Excellent work.
Sounds good.
Now make it happen!
After all, you are the only one who can.
