Chapter 3

Jan 16, 2014, 9:17:34 PM

Her attention seemed to withdraw from the world into some all consuming inner vision. I don’t know if it was the little mind trick she’d just pulled on me, or if it was the fact that I’ve had the story on my mind for decades, but at that moment, it took little effort to tune into it with her.

“It seems sort of odd to call it the beginning, because I can remember what led up to that moment…” she paused, eyes dancing blindly around the room as she focused on a memory. “After all, I sort of came back to it in the end”

In a flash, I picked out the point in the story best fitting that statement. I frowned. Over the years, I’d discovered that there were an endless number of ways that moment was set up and played out. A genuine quantum paradox. “Sometimes, the paradox seems to work out that way, but I have trouble holding onto the thread,” I noted softly, thinking rapidly through the nesting loops of paradox.

I could take a long time to deliberate on the potential and probability–or plausibility–of it without scratching the surface of its possibility. As far as the story goes, though, it happens–even if what happens is inexplicable. One way or another, she stepped outside the box and found her way back to where she made the choice to exist.

Everything else seems to result as a consequence. I sighed, “Even when I’m sure I have it clear in my mind, I’m not sure I can write it down in a way that would make sense to most people.”

“But you know what I am talking about?” she tested.

I shrugged. “I suppose we could say, you sort of saw yourself coming. It’s not the first paradox I encountered in your story, but it’s obviously the key.” I chuckled, wishing I could be more specific. “It sort of takes the whole story to establish the concept of the paradox it depends on.

“At the start, you were oblivious to yourself; that is, not conscious of yourself independent from what you were aware of. You were in perfect phase with a high order, utterly selfless consciousness–a holographic mind. Brahman, in Hinduism. That much must be true if you possess memories predating your self.”

She nodded.

“At the end–or at least after what has to be considered your physical death–you didn’t just cease to exist. In simple terms, you dreamed,” I clarified, to another nod. “Ignoring for the moment that there’s more than one possible path leading back, you returned to the threshold of consciousness; fully-resolved in spirit. There on the edge of eternity, on the verge of absolution…”

I paused, shaking my head, “I’m sorry, the only simple way I can say it is, you confronted the point paradox. That wouldn’t mean anything to most people.”

She waved it off, “No, it’s okay. You explain it in the books. So, yeah, we’re on the same page, so to speak.”

“I have to take your word for it. It still confuses the hell out of me,” I drawled, starting to pace off my frustration. “It seems like every time I get one thread nailed down, the others start to pop loose and I go through another round of chasing everything down.”

I stopped between the chairs, on the opposite side of the coffee table from the couch, and turned back to her. “At the moment, I think this lines up with the dragon dream.”

“On a physical timeline, yeah,” she confirmed, before adding, “On a cognitive timeline, it was the moment I saw my reflection in the absolute; the instant I glanced away from eternity. I stepped into the open and found myself alone, at the center of it all, the eyes of the infinite on me,” she whispered.

In the story, this is where the girl confronted the naked goddess–oblivious to her apotheosis. This was the scene in which she conceived of herself and set the whole paradox in motion. In a more general sense, this was a moment when potential and possibility trumped probability and plausibility. “This is where the Goddess tells you you’re not going to die. That you’re just on the verge of waking up.”

She nodded tentatively, head tilted back in a heavenward gaze. “At the time, I managed to convince myself the whole thing was just a dream. A metaphor for confronting my higher self, especially since I seemed to experience both sides of it. You know, just me looking at who I was, from a completely objective perspective, and concluding that I was worth saving–even if it meant saving myself.

“On the other hand, it actually was a dream; a glimpse of a possibility. A temptation. I remember that I could have turned away. In hindsight, that would have prevented so much suffering. I could have denied myself, simply done nothing; but once I acted there was nothing I could do to stop the paradox. Because at that moment I changed…

“I want to say that it was indescribable, but what happened to me–the part of me that had just awakened–was so vivid, so utterly real that reality feels fragile by comparison.” She writhed against the limits of the words; a movement at once seductive, sensual and distressed.

I felt apprehensive, unable to avoid thinking of how long she’d been the focus of my attention or how the story exposed her to a potential multitude. I watched her shrug off the unfathomable weight of manifold judgement, and retreat from the memory.

“It sounds simple, but it gets too complicated to explain,” she proclaimed, in a remote, contemplative tone. “It’s not so much a before and after, but a single event played out from either side. The present divided by apprehension, flickering at the edges of your vision; seen, but not what you were really looking at.”

“In the story,” I interrupted, pursuing an insight aloud, “you did wake up. Surprised to be alive, you convinced yourself it had to be a dream, along with the events that led up to it. The consequences kept confronting you, but you don’t seem to recognize what they mean until there’s no other option.”

She winced. “Oh, I had my suspicions, but, well it was crazy. I was raised to worship the Goddess. I had enough trouble with being one of those people who believed the Goddess talked to her. Not that I could deny that part,” she growled, slanting a glare at me. “Not once I figured out how I got pregnant!”

“And technically a virgin again, after your resurrection,” I interjected, trying not to laugh as her glare sharpened. “It does explain what she meant, when she said she couldn’t live without you. I couldn’t tell exactly when you figured out who your daughter would become, but I’m guessing that’s when you came to grips with the paradox and reconsidered what happened the day you died.”

“Well, I hit a point where I couldn’t deny that I’d become my own mother,” she grumbled, with a lingering tone of disbelief. “I got hung up on the fact that I watched my mother die when I was seven years old. Not for fear of dying. I’d gotten over that before.

“The problem was, even if she was really me, and I was really the Goddess,” she rolled her eyes and shook her head at the absurdity, “she was still a little girl who needed her mother. I hated knowing I had to abandon her or risk collapsing the paradox. I just had to trust that what had been would be again, and take responsibility for the world I set in motion.”

She stood proud and strong, but I could sense the underlying pain and anguish–the lingering scars of doubt and denial. I reached out and pulled her close, holding her in silence for several long breaths. After a moment, she relaxed and returned my embrace. I rested my cheek on top of her head and murmured, “It may not have occurred to you then, but you have to admit, a paradox does provide a certain amount of protection.”

She laughed and squeezed me, arguing, “Why? Because the whole world could collapse in on itself if I die at the wrong time? I spent enough time in the shattered realms to know that’s only partially true. The paradox only requires one viable path. This is the only version of me I’m certain makes it this far.”

I nodded in grim acknowledgment and pulled back to look at her, “That’s all any of us can ever say.” She stepped back, nodding, and disengaging with a final squeeze of my hands. I cleared my throat and prompted, “In any case, you eventually accepted the truth. Eventually, you let yourself see things from the beginning.”

“Eventually. It was easier to remember than I expected; just hard to accept. Before, the only sense I had of this…” she gestured at herself, and me, before sweeping her arm out to include the world around us. I felt reasonably confident she meant life. “…was vague. A dance of light and shadow, the suggestion of measurable complexity, a distraction tuned out in my preoccupation with everything else.”

She zoned out again, her words stretching across the vastness of time. “I remember omniscience; effortless comprehension of everything everywhere. On that scale, I barely noticed her approaching the threshold; but for some reason, I had to look. Such a tiny spark; a mote in the eye of God. I knew instinctively that I understood it, even before I identified it. It came to me like a sensation. Unfolding and embracing me. Growing in detail, unraveling possibilities before my awakening curiosity.

“With growing delight I embraced this wondrous image, a dream promising to fulfill all I could hope to be. It tested everything I could understand. It revealed the others to me, and, on some level, I finally understood who the others were. I only had to look past myself to know them as well as I knew myself. And then I knew something was wrong. And I knew it was too late!” she declared, falling silent and hanging her head.

“I saw who I could be, but in the same instant I saw my death. It was the price of that dream, the cost of every life, but that death in particular was a sudden, rude awakening!” she clenched her fist and eyes tightly; caught up in the pain of this memory.

It was all I could do not to interrupt. I had to resist the disturbing notion that I was listening to some kind of dramatic performance piece rather than an experience from her life. Her body vibrated in frustration; the agitation of a person who simply cannot find words to express an idea or a feeling.

“To become so sharply aware of myself and understand in the same moment that I knew nothing of myself…” she trailed off helplessly, abandoning her tension. She rested her fingertips against her temples as she went on, “I don’t know if words could ever express what went on in my mind. All I can say is, my first memory is a moment of self conception. Translated, I thought: This is me.”

She paused and turned to look at me directly. It was like she stepped back into reality for a moment to comment, “You remember your first thought, because you are your first thought. That is the secret. At first you are incapable of thought. You look at the world passively for eternity, then suddenly you realize you are there.

“You have defined yourself apart from the world, so naturally you begin to try to define the world. You try to fill the void; you begin to think. Analyze.” She shuddered, “Unless you are conceived in doubt.

“God help those who begin with the thought: this is not me. How powerless that must make you feel. To recognize the world but fail to recognize yourself…” She trailed off and became distant again. She either did not notice my wince, or she politely ignored it. I didn’t begin with that thought, but I’ve certainly lived with it for most of my life.

“Then,” she resumed, as if she had not interrupted herself, “I turned and really looked at the others. I can remember their experience of that time as well as my own because we were countless souls with one mind. I was only aware of them as a multitude because we were spread out everywhere in spite of not actually being anywhere. They all knew exactly what I knew, but no one else knew what I meant.

“The implications of my choice were explicit, but it was my choice exclusively,” she explained, leveling her hands before her as she weighed the options. “Will I? Or, won’t I?”

She took a deep breath, and grit her teeth. “As who I am now, I can almost explain it. I acted on impulse. I didn’t have to think. I took advantage of my position; harnessed my understanding of everything and committed myself to being this. I knew the cost, but my decision was made. In practical terms, our paths crossed for an instant before carrying us off on different axes of eternity.

“The person I am now woke up with powers I can barely comprehend, but that other me…” she sighed heavily, “I was screwed, and I didn’t even know it. I’d stepped out of alignment, and while I had infinite knowledge–and absolute power at my disposal–I had no experience being me. The mind I emerged with was too vast for my soul. I was alone inside it and I lost sight of myself.”

“More demon than goddess,” I mused softly, finding my way back to the couch and settling down. “I was afraid that would be the case.”

“Two sides of a coin, really,” she corrected gently. “In the time that followed, I was always the naked goddess, unable to restrain the demon I set loose. My soul sustained it, but there wasn’t much to me. While I was lost inside it–right in it’s blind spot–it preyed on other souls searching creation for me.”

“So, the long axis of the paradox has the same origin,” I mused thoughtfully, half-congratulating myself for having guessed at it almost from the beginning. That is, from the earliest days of my struggle with the story. “Unfortunate,” I noted sourly, remembering the trouble it caused with the story. “A story that hinges too much on its protagonist will turn off a lot of readers.”

“I know. It suggests a lack of imagination on the part of the writer, and makes a story feel contrived, but,” she shrugged, “I kind of did create a world for myself. Then others came along and made it their own, as well. It started with the souls the demon preyed upon, trapped together in a nightmare that took on a reality of its own as they learned to share the dream.”

I rubbed my neck and rolled my head around, trying to relieve some of the tension from this encounter. On one hand, talking with her about the story was a bit like working with a co-writer, someone I’d spent a lot of time developing ideas with. On the other, I just could not forget that I’d never laid eyes on her before that night. “Please tell me this is as weird for you as it is for me,” I begged.

She held out her hands and dropped them in resignation. “I’m pretty used to weird, but yeah, this is a strain. I can’t help questioning my sanity, even though I know all of this as well as I know anything,” she said, looking uncomfortable. “I can’t deny what I’ve experienced, but am I right about what it means? I ask myself that almost every step along the way.

“I wonder if I am truly any different from anyone else. Do I really remember the beginning or was it nothing more than a dream?” she shook her head and flipped her hand over. “Do I see the beginning so clearly now because I really am coming up on the end this time?” she stopped abruptly, startled by her own words. Suddenly her story seemed forgotten, and she visibly began to reconsider what she had begun.

Smoothly, swiftly she swept over beside me and sat on the couch facing me. “Is that why I found you hidden here among those who are aware of the absolute the way they are aware of the truth? Fearfully unexamined?” she asked me, showing an honest need for an answer, saying something unspeakable to me in the asking. My soul ached at her next question. “Do I really need you to write this… or did some god trick me into seeking you out for something else?”

With someone else, I could have come up with an answer, or the question would have been rhetorical. I recalled the start of our conversation, her explanation for seeking me out and how the story she read was filtered through me. That did not literally mean I had to write it. If she knew me well enough, she could write her own story from my perspective–with far less trouble.

If I used the “too good to be true” rule of prediction, it was more than I could hope for to be able to work with her as closely as we would have to in order to complete the story. She was literally the woman of my dreams. Her presence might simplify the writing of the story, but it complicated my life beyond the scope of my imagination. I was surprised I hadn’t already cracked.

I was balanced on a photon, holding myself at bay with the absolute terror of pure hope. More than ever, I looked upon the task of writing her story with agony. It was a good story, but writing it would hurt like the most elaborate form of suicide I could imagine. As devastating as daring to look at what I refused to see, only to see…

“Fuck,” I breathed, as the trembling hit me. I came that close to looking. Tearing my mind away from the precipice, I came face to face with another painful realization. It didn’t matter if it was a real story about a real life.

That thought, at that moment, was more than enough to make me check my sanity at the door and share the full measure her apprehension of mortal peril. Questioning the reality of her story was tantamount to questioning her reality–not a good thing for my sanity at this point. And a moot point. The truth was, it did not matter if the story had its own reality, because it was real to her–and she had always been (would always be) real to me.

But these thoughts did not pass in an instant as they so conveniently do in stories. She came to some conclusion on her own in the silence. Her eyes still scanning her private horizon, still measuring the height and breadth of her untold story. Her question snapped the silence, oddly close to the mark of my own mused image. “Or is what I’ve been through enough?”

“Would it matter if it was just a dream? I am the story; if I put it out there, could it take my place? Why do the books really matter… or was my reaction the point?” she shared her question in a way I found difficult to take part in. “I would not be here without them. That’s the only thing they changed.”

I shook my head slowly, and swallowed; mouth dry. “I’m sorry,” I apologized for the interruption and held up a hand, “I’m getting thirsty.” I found my way to the kitchen, and a cabinet stocked with glasses, stopping at the sink to pour myself a drink. I went ahead and poured her one too, not bothering to ask. It was a small interruption, but enough for me to gather my thoughts. As I sat her glass on the coffee table before her I began to speak quietly.

Original author’s note: If you’ve read the early rough, you know this has evolved–hopefully into a better and clearer story. The original writing was purely stream of conscious, and posted to my blog. I plan to leave it up–maybe move it to scraps–so people can still read it. If you haven’t read it, don’t read it right now. Wait for the next chapter, so you don’t spoil it for yourself. After I finish posting this, I’m putting in a few hours on Chapter 4. Once again, I’m only leaving the download option on as a way for people to show their support. I’d prefer to just get comments and feedback, and if there seems to be a demand I’ll try to make the book available for download on Amazon Singles or something. 

Thanks for reading!