Jan 21, 2014, 12:12:17 AM

“I would hold off on trying to answer that for a moment, to confront what you missed,” he told me when I picked up the thread the next day. That’s the funny difference between a written scene and reality. Even though I took a break–ate dinner, watched a movie and went to bed, then woke up grateful that Monday was a holiday and I was not obligated to spend the day job hunting–I never really left the point we’d reached in our conversation.

I had an idea of what he wanted to address, since I could hardly ignore what was on his mind as he smoked a cigarette before he let me start writing. “Since you insist on bringing it up, I might as well admit you’ve already got me thinking about it,” I teased, allowing myself a smile.

He responded by giving me a mental shake. “I don’t mind you dressing the scene–I’m sure the reader appreciates it–but see if you can do us both a favor and try not to get distracted.” I rolled my eyes and urged him to spell it out. “This part of the story can play out one of several different ways. Since you only have a third to go, saying this now could make a huge difference. As you pointed out, reality presents itself to us as an accomplished fact.”

He gave me an indirect look in the eyes, and I nodded, so he continued, “That happens also to be what you did when you confronted yourself in the dream. In spite of the fact that you and I were not able to write it, the dream confronted us with the entire story as an accomplished fact in the person of the main character.”

I could see his point, and even explain it thus: The story existed in an abstract form somewhere in my subconscious. From the perspective of my avatar, the protagonist of the story, the form it took was a collection of books in the library of my memory and imagination. What made it real–and paradoxical–for her was accepting the context, and the perspective she was in, as all of us accept reality. “So, you’re bringing this up as a way of saying I already have my answer?”

“Almost,” he qualified, fidgeting a bit as he wrestled with apprehension. “Let’s just say that it serves as an example of subordinate reality. We have to acknowledge that we can’t explain the process that put us in a real position to imagine it. Aside from that, and keeping in mind the truth of the story, when you put yourself in her position you made a choice to conform to it that gave her that reality.”

I paled. “And that’s why confronting me the way she did, she ran the risk of dying.”

He nodded. “If you had not been willing to accept what the story proposed, the experience would have destroyed her. Fortunately you weren’t embarrassed to admit that you created everything, including her, to express yourself when you had no expression in this reality. So, she was just you coming back to yourself, knowing her existence has meaning.”

I grimaced, realizing that in the terms of the story, she woke up trapped in her nightmare. “God, what a horrible ending!”

He shrugged, “If it ended there, it would certainly seem that way. On the other hand, she may have saved your life. Because you had so little hope in life of ever being true to yourself, you’ve been on the brink of just giving up. It wasn’t in you to kill yourself, but if there was one hope that reality promises, it’s that one day this life will end. There is no shame in dying if you get too broken to live.”

I kind of wanted to cry at that, and for once my body seemed willing to oblige, but I held back the tears and accepted his point, and silently kept typing. I also acknowledged how she saved my life; she convinced me the story was important enough for me to live long enough to tell. I could not help asking, “So, what happened to her?”

“She woke up, and in a way she’s carried you for the past five years,” he told me.

I blinked at that a few times, trying to wrap my head around what it actually meant in terms of events that filled the years in question. If nothing else, it proved I could surprise myself, and that was something worth noting. “Okay,” I protested, pushing the point, “but what I wanted to know is, where is she now? Is she still, well, herself, I guess; and how on Earth can she do that?”

He sighed and pushed up the sleeves of his shirt, and we paused for a moment unable to type; uncertain who was in control. “Talk about obvious explanations,” he smirked. “You are who you think you are, and you think as more than one person. Not like, MPD. You wear a persona like a story wears words, and you respect our reality.”

I got it at once, but it didn’t hurt to spell it out, “I only let myself know what’s appropriate for the perspective I’m in. Isn’t that sort of like lying to myself?”

“No, it’s just following the rules of a game. The point right now isn’t to know it all. The truth doesn’t need explaining. The purpose of what you’ve been doing here is to figure out what it takes to do what you ultimately have to do if you have any hope of surviving,” he explained. Although that touched on an unspoken truth, he was only elaborating a strategy.

“I swear, every paragraph of this makes me want to jump up and run around screaming,” I mumbled.

“Sometimes, that’s the price of dreams,” he consoled me, “but that’s just where things start to get interesting.”

I was torn between taking a step back for a bit, and the impulse to keep exploring. I could have just sat there staring into space, or peeled the curtain back to see where all of this was going. I wondered how much of my blindness was just the writer’s craft, or if I really fooled myself into ignoring the full grasp of my consciousness. I mean, this story did not have room for the thousands of times I confronted myself–awake or on the edge of sleep–in the guise of one of my personas.

I guess I was taking advantage of the fact that I was being honest through the guise of fiction. Did it hurt to admit how often I talked with my avatar late at night when I could not rest? Was I brave enough to face the consequences of sharing all the paths I took in my search for a practical miracle? Should I confess my fear that at the end of this tale, there’s a gap too wide to jump without a hell of a lot more momentum?

I could almost feel her waiting in the wings, like a silent promise ready to step in as soon as I was ready to hear her. I tried to imagine what it would have been like, to gradually confront godhood and just when you could begin to accept that power, wake up as someone else in this reality. Then I had to slap myself. It wasn’t something I had to imagine; I experienced it every morning. An endless stream of tiny drops; so harmless, and so devastating.

“Interesting,” I finally said. “Also known as the prelude to awe and terror–and eventually exhaustion.”

“A mind has amazing powers, but a brain gets worn out,” he noted. I agreed in silence and took a few moments to let my mind settle. I headed downstairs to the kitchen and stared into a cupboard until I found something I cared to eat. I made a couple of peanut butter and jelly sandwiches, and ate them standing at the counter while the cats meowed at me for treats. They always do that, and they were getting kind of fat, so I tried to ignore them.

I stepped outside for fresh air and a smoke–you can enjoy both if you’re willing. I contemplated what I’d written so far, wondering if I should try to shape the end or let the surprises keep coming. When the dream sequence ended, it seemed as if my avatar’s part in this was over. But if my male alter ego was right, she was capable of putting in another appearance. More important, she could give her perspective on the mystery of creating reality.

I had not come to a decision, nor committed to a plan of action, when I returned to my room and settled in once more at my computer. A few paragraphs was enough to cover my detour from the conversation. Then my brain locked up, so I went back to the start of the chapter. He quietly stepped out–stopped asserting himself–to let me think. As I read, I surprised myself with a few insights into some vintage understandings, and tried to grasp the one that seemed crystalize all of them.

As he pointed out, I was good at acting. I’d always had a talent for putting myself into the mind of another–to think and feel, even identify, as someone else. As I used to say, all the people in my head are me. I’ve gotten so deep into some of my roles that I trapped myself in them. I was capable of infinite identification, but I truly claimed only one identity. Without it, I have no integrity, no sense of purpose or meaning.

While playing goddess, I discovered I was not limited to conscious identification. I would create a character and unconsciously assume its persona–or something else stepped in and asserted itself. The latter seemed a plausible explanation in the case of more willful characters who made their own decisions–damn the story–and turned into zombies if I tried to force them into line. They may only exist when I look at them, but their spirit–that kind of will–always has a truth of its own.

“You’re going to run out of time if you keep staring into your blind spot,” she broke in, as I chased my thoughts around in circles.

I clamped down. I couldn’t help it. I honestly had not known if she would assert herself, and wasn’t prepared for her to be this abrupt. Then I relaxed and tried to go with it. There was only one thing to say, “I know. This is… different from the other times we’ve talked.”

She smiled gently, “Only because this time it could have a consequence you can’t see from where you’re at.”

I shook my head. “I know there’s something I’m seeing, I just can’t focus on it.”

“I told you it was like that,” she turned up her smile, showing her teeth in a wide grin. “You are all knotted up with tension. You need to try and relax. I know this is a difficult process, but if you try to control it, it can’t play out.”

My eyes went wide. “Wow. Isn’t that just screaming with implications.”

“Perhaps, but we might as well address the problem you’ve created for yourself,” she declared, settling in to discuss something that had always been on my mind. “We both know that you did not set out to write a story. You wanted to have a life in which you were as true to others as you were true to yourself. Your frustration with your situation may have put you on my path, but your intent called for something that could not be satisfied by my life.”

I chewed my lip grimly, nodding in resignation. “It wasn’t an accident you came back to confront me, and it wasn’t because you knew I’d need your help,” I acknowledged.

She narrowed her eyes at me, as I edited a thought out. Instead of challenging me, she confirmed at least the first part. “I had to be true to myself. I did not set out to escape reality, I just needed to figure myself out. When I said you were the end of me, it was implicit that you’re my beginning as well. That isn’t just a linear progression, but a process with continual feedback. The paradox of my story lies in a pocket of time out of phase with your reality.”

I blinked and shook my head. “When I try to think about being you, I can never taste the reality. But, whenever you speak to me, it’s weird; it really is real for you,” I marveled. I could be frank about that. Her perspective of this was radically different from mine as a writer. I couldn’t resist giving her a mental poke and asking, “How the hell do you do it?”

She sighed and rolled her eyes, finishing off with a tilt of her head. “There’s no trick. I’m just being me,” she replied, ironically quoting her signature line.

“Unbelievable,” I muttered, gesturing for her to continue.

She raised an eyebrow, almost shrugged, and chuckled, “I see why you get so distracted. And would you please stop trying to peek into my head–or planning your thoughts–and just listen?”

I sucked in a deep breath through my nose, and apologized, “I’m sorry. I can feel you think and things keep catching my attention.”

She wanted to shake her head and mutter, “Unbelievable.” When I wrote that down she changed her mind and envisioned throttling me.

“Sorry. Sorry. Trying to write this, remember?”

She composed herself, waving her head. “No. No. You’re right, I don’t want you to stop writing. There’s a reason to get into my head. Just… try to stay focused. Hmm?” I nodded and she took a moment to regain her train of thought.

There was a lot for each of us to consider, so I left her alone and took a moment to gather my perspective. I doubt I could describe the process by which we both could think at the same time without mentally colliding. All I could say was that we returned to our task with different things on our mind. I hit the keyboard and reset the stage, then let her take over.

“I meant to work my way up to this, but that won’t make it easier,” she began. “I was hoping he would get to address this, and I’m sure he was working up to it. As I already said, your original intent was, in simplest terms, the pursuit of power. You want people to be able to see you for who you really are in reality. You sought the power to physically change, to embody your true identity.

“While forced to conform to reality, you asserted yourself in the best way you could. In truth, you’ve been acting on many levels, working on multiple angles. You harnessed the power of your imagination, and borrowed liberally from reality. The thing that made your creation real was the extent to which you participated in it. So you became me, but in a way that ultimately forced me to confront you.

She took a deep breath and composed herself to tell me what I knew had been coming, “I’ll let the story speak for all I’ve been through, but through me you confronted power. In the context of your life, it was just the power of imagination; not something that could alter your physical reality. And just so we’re clear, that doubt threatens my physical reality–and all of the people I care about. As a facet of you, I can cling to my mental reality and share your ordeal with you.”

I could not argue with any of that. The insanity of it did not change the fact that I could only guarantee her reality as a part of me. My own reality was supported only by the fact that I suffered agony if I denied my own identity. I smiled for a moment at the thought of the two of us, trapped in my head, identical in everything but experience. On impulse, I finally had to ask, “Do you actually have a male half? I see him in the story, but I hate the idea I wrote him in as a consequence of my experiences.”

When she just raised an eyebrow at me, as if to say, “Seriously?”, I apologized for the interruption. She shook her head and smothered a laugh. “How many times are you going to stop me from saying what you’re so afraid of?” she asked, then held up a hand to cut off any answer. “It’s okay. It’s perfectly normal for you to think, if what I went through had been real, I should have had the power to confront you in the flesh and not in dreams.”

“Let’s be honest,” I said, “the truth of it is–and in accordance with the philosophies and theories I explored through you–I hoped to unlock my own power. I hoped to grasp it through you, unconsciously, if I could not confront it consciously. I tried to give you all the power I could access, but that’s the thing. The demon of doubt. What power do I have access to?”

She raised her eyebrows and smiled, nodding. “That’s a bitch of a question, isn’t it?” I gaped at her for a moment, and then we both laughed. When we recovered, she cleared her throat and said, “At the moment, I think it’s safe to say you have the power of your mind. That counts for something.”

I sighed, but it was as much in relief as in dismay.

“Also,” she added, as serious as could be, “if we want to be fair, we should say you have the power of your soul. We could debate what that power can achieve, but it’s intrinsic to you; and you are the access.” She clasped my upper arms reassuringly. “But, the question comes down to application. In my world, your mind is the foundation of reality. So tell me, what is the foundation of your reality?”

Original author’s note: I am slowing down a bit as a consequence of how this is writing itself. I may take even longer to get through the next chapter, since there’s job hunting to do. I’m already seeing readers. No comments at this date, so I can only guess what people are making of this. I’m still on target for 30K words, and down to the last two chapters. I’m curious to see how this turns out.

Funny, I know.