Commence Cerebral Streaming--Session One
I have a name, and it is Dob-Dec. Listeners, if you could see into the distant realm of space, approximately one-hundred and twenty-two light-years from the Pleiades, you would find my ship HaYax—a vessel built to soar efficiently, like an Andean condor of the tiny Blue Earth.
To some, the ship is nothing more than a glorified bus. I, however, marvel at its beauty and intricate design, a model that almost defies description. Other Beings think the inner workings are simple.
They are not simple to me.
Geometry and quantitative problems bewilder me. However, I love to learn. Space travel is the best way to increase my brain’s neuroplasticity. My mind expands at least ten percent on each mission, like the hippocampus of a pigeon navigating the tiny Blue Earth.
All avifauna is fascinating to me. Do you know that the Arctic tern flies the equivalent of three trips to the earthly moon and back in its lifetime? The bird’s journey is overwhelming. How does it navigate so far? My mind would atrophy if I had strong wings like an Arctic tern because I wouldn’t need brainpower for levitation.
My position as an accumulator brings joy to me: discovering new and mysterious specimens, cataloging flora, and fauna, harvesting DNA, and over-seeing the insect drones that provide Beings with an infinite amount of earthly information. We—the Beings of planet Pleione—have studied creatures from many galaxies, but none are as curious as the meat-eaters that roam the tiny Blue Earth. Beings know everything about meat-eaters, as we have studied them since their primitive beginning—along the way, acquiring expectations and hopes for their advancement that date back centuries.
I have decided to record my musings. You may not understand my language, but I am fluent in yours. I know universal languages from inhabited planets, strange other-worldly customs, the names of billions of magnificent beasts, and the terms of an infinite number of trivial samples. However, many samples are of grave importance to our terraformers.
Additionally, I have assimilated knowledge that, for some, is forbidden. I should not dwell upon this data for fear that others will understand. Neural processing is one of the reasons why I cannot sleep. I should not be juggling so much data before I close my eyes. Often, it is problematic to tune out the day’s infestation of ideas.
But there are other reasons. Here, in the realm of infinite black, the undisturbed stillness of space, it is always night; that is another reason why sleep eludes me like a slippery eel. I’ve already mentioned the overuse of beta waves. But there is a final reason, and it breaks my heart—yes, I have a heart—to admit it. The cause is loneliness: a pervasive feeling like a parasite eating my organs from the inside out.
Sula is also lonely. However, she has a family. I do not. The other Beings aboard HaYax may be lonely too. But I do not linger long enough on their neural surface to discover how they feel about the isolation, the almost surreal emotion of feeling lost. Sometimes, during the cruel silence of the night, I imagine the possibility of never reaching our destination, just floating alone, with time stretching in front of me for all eternity.
I pray the others feel only peace.
But with Sula, it is different. Her mind is in perfect balance, like the perpetual and regular course of the universe. I wish I could pass through her vast and beautiful brain like a neutrino particle, residing with her thoughts until the end of time. I need to be careful when I communicate with Sula. She has a mate. If she read my thoughts as I read hers, she would know that I love her more than our planet—more than the suns. Her mind is the most beautiful place I have ever experienced, and I have visited many flexible minds during my travels.
Tonight, I wandered the
ship for hours. I go everywhere, even to the locations where I am not supposed to go. The crew tolerates my nocturnal safaris. At first, they reprimanded me. But now, they oblige my curiosity. Often, they say, “Dob-Dec, you have a curious mind.”
Being curious is positive. However, I would not need to be curious if I were smart enough. I would know the things that elude my understanding.
Listeners, our ship has no straight corridors; it resembles a serene—yet industrious—beehive. Tonight, I levitated into the mechanical heart of the vessel, observing the liquid nitrogen chamber and the mercury swirling like a mythical dragon’s breath. I floated to the viewing glass—the large domed eye of the ship—and watched the trajectory of a distant asteroid, curious about its unknown path.
Before returning to my chamber, I wandered past Sula’s door. Knowing that Sula—our ship’s healer—deserves undisturbed rest kept me from entering her mind. Last week, her thoughts were inquisitive, ‘How could Dob-Dec get a sliver so deep, made of wood, when there is no wood aboard HaYax? —not even a slip of paper.’
Sula thought this with patience and curiosity. That is Sula’s way. I wish I could have answered her. But then, she would know I was listening.
We do have wood on our ship; I brought my collection. Sometimes, after my preparations for the new mission are complete, I inspect my wood fragments, seeds, shells, various metals, dried insects, and living ants. I also love all matter of rocks, even the ones with weak magnetic properties. Quartz and natural, compressed carbon are the most prized, but all stones are fascinating.
Since it is my job to collect, decontaminate, and catalog samples of every size, shape, color, and form (the perfect job for a curious mind!), it is not a stretch that I might acquire a sliver. I told Sula it happened while examining the bark of an earthly redwood tree.
In truth, I injected the bark into my hand. I should feel ashamed, but I do not. I have ingested unfamiliar nutrition samples and exposed myself to countless questionable microorganisms to see Sula. But everything heals with time.
Dob-Dec activates the temperature neutralizer on his sleeping platform, and there are friction sounds while he slips into bed.
I should not have accepted this mission. The Chooser didn’t fully understand my state of mind. I don’t bury my thoughts; they remain audible, resting on my neural
surface like loose grains of sand. Beings do not invade another’s privacy; lingering is only allowed during games and educational proclivities. We can think like a murmuration of starlings, as a unified group—a single, undulating organism—but only when permitted.
I should have stayed home and made myself available to a potential mate. I have never had a family of my own. My education comprises a complicated, one-thousand-piece puzzle of beautiful minds: my parents’ elders and community members, some of whom are very sage and old! But the puzzle could never be whole, even if it contained one million perfect pieces. There are two missing parts, and I still feel their absence keenly.
As you may have guessed, I accepted this mission to be close to Sula.
Now, alone in my quarters, I am tormented. The parasites are eating me. Ironically, sometimes, they are genuine. I find them in my collections. But, of course, I speak figuratively.
The loneliness grows. I fear I wear it like a stain. And it is not suitable for my health to yearn so deep, as bottomless as the oceans of the tiny Blue Earth, for something I cannot have.
Sleep eludes me, and there is much to prepare for tomorrow.
I wish Sula could mend my heart.
Universal Translation Mode--End of Session.
Esme
Esme’s stomach dissolved into gelatinous goop when the cameraman held up two fingers; her final two life-changing minutes had begun. She inhaled deep into her diaphragm, pumping her icy fingers while surveying the quiet chaos surrounding her.
In the back of the room, computers and flatscreens flickered an eerie blue, and encircling her, three cameras on wheels loomed like one-eyed robots. Above her head, an oppressive maze of cables and lights dangled. Sitting directly across from Esme were Sidney Stone and Brooklyn Struthers, the hosts of The Morning Show: Live!
“You know, I used to do magic tricks as a kid,” said Brooklyn, taking a delicate sip from her coffee mug and peeking at the camera through false eyelashes.
Sidney flashed his brilliant white teeth and swiveled on his stool, grabbing the glass table with his hand. “Viewers, prepare to be blown away as our marvelous magician completes her final trick,” he said, smoothing his tie.
Half smiling, Esme thought about all the eyes watching her face and body—thousands? Millions? No matter. It was time to defy gravity.
Esme stood, adjusted her skirt, and picked up her prop: a plastic glitter ball the size of a cantaloupe. She glared into the nether regions of the studio, wishing her agent were there with a wagging thumb or a smile of encouragement. Instead, there was only a black void and a man scarfing a doughnut.
Esme signaled for the hosts to move into position and nervously glanced at the cameras. Don’t fall off the platform. Smile and suck in your stomach.
Descending the stairs, she hit her mark: blue tape forming an “x” on the shiny, black floor. Sidney and Brooklyn dispersed to the far corners of the studio while Esme focused on the ball. A clock ticked inside her head.
She extended her arms, cradling the ball between open palms, envisioning its path around the studio. “Viewers, this ball has a mind of its own. Let’s see where it flies today, shall we?” said Esme, closing her eyes and humming, concentrating on the ball like it would be the last thing she’d levitate on planet Earth.
In her mind’s eye, she could see the ball flying, zigzagging through the rows of LED gaff lights above her head. She directed the ball around Sidney’s legs, then sent it underneath desks and tables before hovering the ball over the camera crew. She squeezed her eyes tighter and focused on her humming, the sound vibrating loudly in her throat.
Finally, she imagined the ball settling onto Brooklyn’s outstretched hands. Esme inhaled and opened her eyes; confident she had left the viewers and crew awestruck.
The ball still hovered above her fingers. It had barely moved an inch. Across the room, the cameraman twirled his hand again; he flashed ten fingers—ten seconds, nine, eight—Esme gulped, silently imploring the glitter ball. Move. Go. Fly!
Seven, six, five fingers. Fly. Fly. Go!
“Folks, we’re going to take a quick commercial break. We’ll be right back with the cast from The Real Housewives of Fargo,” said Sidney in his best anchor voice.
The cameraman in front of Esme flashed three fingers, then two. She stared at the ball with laser focus while sweat trickled over her lips and down her chin.
The studio erupted into movement and sound. Sidney tossed Esme a sympathetic look and
held up his arms in mock defeat.
Simultaneously, Esme’s glitter ball escaped her fingers, flying, hitting Sidney smack-dab in the face. The ball bounced and rolled out of sight.
Sidney reached for his glasses, blood dripping from his nose. The man looked helplessly at the crew. Esme covered her mouth; she couldn’t feel her feet. What was she supposed to do? If she stood there long enough, would she turn into a pillar of salt or stone?
After an awkward beat, a young woman vigorously chewing gum approached and ushered her offstage. Esme’s feet wobbled like she was recovering from surgery; she imagined her bare butt peeking from an open hospital gown. She was naked, wasn’t she?
Esme shuffled along, spying her glitter ball wedged in a corner. She cradled her hands, and the ball lifted, flying directly into her grip.
She emitted a long sigh.
Joseph
Joseph exited the subway, climbed the stairs into daylight, bright and hot, and pulled his sunglasses from the V-neck of his shirt; his stomach growled. The aroma from the bag of churros he’d purchased at his favorite bodega in Queens made his mouth water.
The brown bag swung at his side as he crossed Church Street. He lingered on the sidewalk for a moment, staring at the building before him. Joseph climbed the steps with noodle legs, stopping near the large, golden doors and laying a palm on the rough surface as if he might dissolve through it. His hand moved to the handle, hanging in mid-air, unworthy to grip it.
Joseph didn’t open the door.
Instead, he bit his lip and returned to the steps, sitting beside a gray concrete column. He slipped his backpack from his shoulders, positioning it between his sneakers. Dipping his nose into the sack, he pulled a gritty churro to his lips, taking a big bite. The cinnamon sugar melted over his tongue. For several minutes he ate slowly, savoring every morsel, licking his fingertips. Joseph rubbed his hands together, turning to stare at the golden doors.
Mass started in approximately thirty minutes, but he wouldn’t attend today. Rubbing his knees, he stared across Barclay Street, thinking dark thoughts. Joseph didn’t deserve communion. Whatever possessed him had no business attending mass with the good people of St. Peter.
A senior couple with clasped hands climbed the stairs beside him. The man winked at him. Joseph smiled back. Ultimately, he sat for thirty more minutes, watching miscellaneous souls file in through the golden doors. After the last straggler slipped inside the church, Joseph stood, slinging his backpack over his shoulder, and left.
Joseph circled the building, walking the short distance to Mitzi’s apartment, pausing at the double doors. “Good afternoon, Joseph,” said the doorman, swinging the door aside.
“Hi, Howie. How are you today?”
“Hungry,” said Howard.
Joseph laughed, passing through. “Have a good lunch, Howie,” he said, his voice trailing behind him.
When he reached the front desk, Joseph placed his hands flat on the cold marble counter. “Hi, Ruthie. Are there any packages for Mrs. Ferndale?”
They exchanged knowing looks. Ruthie retrieved a small box from a stack near the mailboxes and handed it to Joseph. “Thanks. I wonder what it is today?”
“Purple hair dye,” said Ruthie with a playful look.
“Hmmm. I bet it’s a pet rock,” said Joseph.
Ruthie giggled. “No, candy, I think. Save me a piece, okay?”
“No way!” said Joseph, smiling with all his teeth and slapping the counter with his hand.
Joseph left, heading for the elevator. He took it to the nineteenth floor, then veered towards Mitzi’s door. Using his key, Joseph entered her apartment. “It’s me, Mitzi!” he shouted, wiping his feet. He walked through the hallway lined with original Georgia O’Keeffe paintings, arriving in the living room. The room smelled like burnt toast.
“Shhh. I taped The Morning Show. Aren’t you early?” asked Mitzi without turning her head.
She pushed the lever of her electric wheelchair, moving closer to the giant flat screen; voices filled the room like helium. Joseph rolled his eyes.
“A little,” he said, walking through the dining room and into the kitchen. Joseph set down the box and pulled a large plastic container of partially frozen soup from his backpack.
After extracting two white ceramic bowls from the cupboard, he opened the soup, poured it into a saucepan on the stove, and ignited the burner. Joseph prepared
the dining table and checked on Mitzi.
Joseph watched the television over her shoulder with furrowed brows and returned to the kitchen, started the coffee pot, and retrieved the orange juice from the fridge. Joseph poured himself a tall glass, smiling and nodding when she muted the television. Several minutes later, Mitzi rolled to the dining table. He met her there.
“We can’t eat until you open the box,” said Mitzi.
Pinning a cloth napkin to the collar of her dress, Joseph winked at her.
“Stop that flirting. You’re too young for me.”
“Maybe, you’re too young for me,” he replied.
“Poppycock!” shouted Mitzi, laughing.
“What’s inside the box?”
“Open it!”
Joseph retrieved the box from the kitchen and opened it. He pulled out a skinny jar and held it towards the light; a gooey liquid sloshed.
“Make some toast. We can have the new honey with our lunch. Boy, your soup sure smells good.”
“It’s my mother’s famous pozole,” Joseph stated solemnly, looking up.
“She must have been quite the lady to raise such a great kid,” Mitzi said, looking at Joseph with expectant eyes.
Joseph nodded imperceptibly. “I loved being in the kitchen with my mother. The smell of cilantro—we always had bunches of it. She used fresh chipotle and ancho peppers, and everything had onion. I’ve never been able to make a chocolate mole as good as hers. I didn’t get her recipe; it was all in her head,” he said, pointing at his skull.
Thinking about his childhood, Joseph smiled and rubbed his lips as if tasting every forgotten crumb. “Me and my mother, we really connected in the kitchen. When I cook, her spirit warns me not to burn the garlic!”
Joseph returned to the kitchen, making toast, dicing onions, and shredding cheese. He rummaged through the cupboards for tortilla chips but abandoned the effort, carrying everything they needed for lunch to the dining table. Joseph sat and buttered their toast, placing the slices on two small plates. Finally, he opened the amber-colored honey that Mitzi had received from Savannah.
“You know, you can’t get good honey in New York. Oh, they try. They have rooftop hives. They even have hives in cemeteries. Can you believe that? I don’t trust it. One time, they discovered a honeycomb that was lime green. What do you suppose the bees got into to turn it that color? Ack! Don’t trust it!” she cackled.
“Mitzi, have you seen the bronze bee sculpture at 9th Avenue Station? It’s called Bees for
Sunset Park.”
“No,” she said, shaking her head.
“I’ll take you to see it.”
They started eating, slurping soup. The room grew quiet, except for the drone of the refrigerator and a ticking clock.
“This is chicken in the soup, isn’t it? I thought you were giving up meat.”
“I don’t deserve meat,” Joseph muttered, crushing his napkin.
“What did you say?” Mitzi asked, her spoon paused and ready by her lips.
“It’s weird; some days, I can’t stand the sight or smell of meat. On other days, I wonder what I was thinking and make a big batch of carnitas. I guess I’m a little loco.”
“Well, I hope you don’t give up meat because your carnitas are heaven on a plate,” said Mitzi.
Joseph smiled.
“Hey, you always talk about your mother, but what about the rest of your family? What about your dad? You’ve hardly mentioned him.”
“No siblings. My father is working in Guatemala. He’s an archaeologist on a team researching an ancient site called El Mirador.”
“Joseph! Why haven’t you mentioned this before? That is so interesting. Is he like Indiana Jones?
“No, not really. Archaeology is boring,” said Joseph, pushing his plate away and fumbling with his placemat. “My father and I don’t get along. I wanted to be a chef when I was a kid, but my dad discouraged me. I still want to cook, but now, I also want to take care of people—well, here I am in your living room. Growing up, my father would come home and shoo me out of the kitchen. Cooking is an art—it feeds the body and soul. He didn’t understand that. Plus, he’s been gone so much of my life. Sometimes, I feel like I don’t really know my dad. But I do know he’s disappointed in me.”
Mitzi stared at Joseph, chewing, a look of disbelief lining her forehead. ...
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