The Controversy Surrounding Happiness

Swatting at cherry blossoms, camelia bushes and random insects with a stick, Fiona trudged along Merriweather Street - still seething at the so-called "intervention" in the guidance office that the rash Mr. Girello had so vainly attempted, with his smarmy, obsessive need to "change the course of destiny" for students unlucky enough to be sent his way. There was much to resent as far as his method was concerned: his love of numbers and hard data, his need for "track records" and "proven statistics" as a measure of his own aptitude as a cartographer of human productivity,  his harsh manner of badgering people off of their "wrong course" onto his "proper path" - transporting them, like rabbits in some ill-conceived, tortuous lab experiment, from their familiar grassy knoll into a foreboding, dank, dark, sterile, steely, indoor environment; how she disdained his middlebrow conception of the "good life for all." From a distance, she saw her calm, serene, empath/friend, Marci,  sitting cross-legged on her front lawn, with eyes closed and chestnut hair pulled back into braids, half-smiling and somehow taking in all of the surrounding universe, especially the school bus dropping off grade-school kids a half-mile away, anticipating their scampering past, slightly in advance of Fiona's arrival. The children marched by as expected at 3: 17 p.m. And then came Fiona with her dark cloak green sweater, ruby-red shoes and autumn-inspired baseball cap. Almost hyperventilating, she found herself walking swiftly up the driveway to the place where Marci sat meditating, glaring down at her intently without speaking until Marci said "Let me guess..." and Fiona said "Walk with me...I need to vent concerning that stupid manbeast... " and so the two began their daily ritualistic foray (repeated on alternating days) in search of miniscule edible items of sacred importance, including, but not limited to, various flavors of gourmet gelato and/or coffee. Without provocation, Fiona went on about this stupid man, this wretched meddler...this macho poseur with the short-cropped hair and the form-fitting Armani sweaters, how unforgivable it was of him to accuse, to intimidate, to harass, with his arrogant, unremitting tone - barely allowing for replies - shutting down any hint of real conversation, revealing with every bromide his condescension toward the impaired, misguided younger generation. What was it that he said that upset you so much? I mean...usually...you can just tune people out... Marci just had to find out. Oh well - with him - everything is a travesty - Haven't you gotten trapped in his little office - ever - with the door left open so other people can listen in on the conversation? He was - just - atrocious - especially what he said about happiness and what all people need to do as part of some recipe for happiness. It was so wrong...I could even begin to explain it.  - And were you able to even give your opinion? - Oh I gave him my opinion. I always give my opinion. I wanted to say 'Look Freak!' but I held my tongue. I said: isn't it obvious that there cannot be a single life-script or formula for success that everyone has to follow...I said happiness takes an infinite number of forms...and who are you to say that there is only one "responsible path" to follow. I hate that term!  And he kept going on about the "rules" and "parameters" that limit and confine and hem us in - as if we were all chickens in a coop! I lost it at one point. I said: I'm not interested in your logic. I don't care about what other people do...and where they go to school... what kind of car they drive...what they wear... what souvenirs they collect ... how they recreate...what their perfect diet is... what they hope to accomplish or not accomplish...how they define misery and failure. It has nothing to do with me...I don't follow other people's rules! And that really annoyed him. And he came back with What are you - some kind of Anarchist? And I said. I don't follow other people's rules. There are no rules to follow (except the unwritten ones that no one ever mentions because they're too self-evident). But for some reason - Marci  - usually so sympathetic - was not quite satisfied - could not leave it as is - without excavating an ounce of plausibility within Mr. Girello's generally flawed and blusterous argument. She just had to play Devil's advocate...But don't you think, she said, that some people are like... just kind of lost... and they DO need advice...a certain kind of advice...to steer them off of an extreme self-destructive path? You know the people I mean...just aimless, floundering...craving direction... Yes, yes. yes! came the reply Fiona was more than a little annoyed. You think Mr. Girello and his ilk is going to offer real help - useful advice - to these poor, unfortunate dregs that the high school spews out every year. Marci  - you can't be serious. Marci spied the gelato shop two blocks off. It's just that when you say that there aren't any rules to follow.... - Except for the unwritten ones - please don't misquote me - Okay except for the basics that everyone understands - but to say that we don't have things in common - like wanting to avoid needless suffering --- well, it just makes me wonder ...because these poor unfortunates that we keep referring to - I mean - they sort of do need structure - I mean guidance - to help them avoid the worst possible scenarios - and yes - they want people to tell them what to do (or what not to do rather) - They appreciate that - if not from their local guidance counselor then from someone else...

Mr. Sympatico or The Agony of Egos

Rumors swirled around Mr. Sympatico and his storied past. Some believed that, with his "far-away stare" and walking-wounded gait, he had done time with the army,  had seen death up close, by way of some accidental tour of duty involving hand-to-hand combat in some forgotten war...or had lost a loved one (a spouse, a child, a sibling) quite recently in fact; that he had been committed, albeit briefly, to a mental institution, that he had served time on a chain gang in Alabama; that he had been a drug rehab counselor until relapsing on oxycontin; that he had seen a UFO; that he believed in magic crystals; that he had once lived out on the streets; that he worked for the circus, first as a juggler, and later as an acrobat until his back gave out.  The students wanted to know the truth about him, but they were as yet unable to find out. Everyone had a theory about this lanky, erudite, easily-distracted and somewhat disheveled, benevolently grumpy middle-aged teacher whose career seemed to be on a steady downward slide ever since what became known as "the incident" - about which, likewise, no one could agree. A vague cloud of controversy followed him everywhere - and seemed to be tangentially related to his obstinately "philosophical" attitude - a skeptical habit of mind that inevitably aroused suspicion insofar as it found opportunities to challenge Humean nay-sayers as often as suspected true believers.  They called him Sympatico because no one could pronounce Symkomniak - his real name. He was said to be in a relationship with various eccentric suitors, (and perhaps most recently in a secret liaison with Ms. Veridian) but beyond that, his own familial connections and romantic involvements remained fuzzy at best. Like Immanuel Kant on his daily rounds in Konigsberg, Mr. S. could be seen on a regular basis fervently meandering down select hallways and corridors, working his way from one end of the school to the other, until arriving at his normal snack-time perch - a bench opposite the exit door near the gymnasium, where every morning at 10:05 a.m. he would make use of that briefly-alloted, 10 minutes interval by scrutinizing the plaques and trophies along the wall,  staring fixedly at a glass display that he deferentially called the "haunted photographs" - a set of long, rectangular, black and white portraits encased in glass - mementos of clubs and teams and superlative students of prior decades. At such moments, it was not uncommon for him to meet up with students passing by him seemingly at random - usually members of the fledgling prophecy club - who sought him out as their unofficial mentor - and could not help themselves from gathering facts and anecdotes as to what exactly "the incident" entailed. The old soul, who prided himself on being the the most far-sighted and philosophically curious of his peers with the possible exception of Simon - made a point of seeking out Sympatico - if only to find an audience for one of his precocious insights. And Tuesday, February 5th, made room for one of these encounters. "Mr. S. Do you know all these people..."  - "Well - I know most of them. They were all here not so long ago..."  They both glanced at the faces from the basketball team of 1989 - which for some reason made up a dilapidated-looking black and white photograph from a bygone era - the year when the cold war had officially ended. Sympatico was already beginning to feel sucked back into that time of maximum nostalgia and pain,  reliving the slights and scars that had become such an overlay upon his psyche, like a musty security blanket with an odor of familiarity. "It's weird to look at these faces - frozen-like in the snapshot - and then to think how old those people must be now..."  - "Ah - a man after my own heart. At last I meet up with someone equally transfixed by time. I thought I was the only one."  -"No. It bothers me in fact."  -"Indeed. Indeed. I know exactly what you mean. Time unfortunately always wins. But there's drama in that - I suppose."

In saying this he was seized by a peculiar pang of anguish welling up as it always did from the same considerations, evoked so frequently in strolls down corridors of buildings such as this. I wish I could relay something to this one about my own struggles - he seems a tormented soul like me...but I don't even trust that he'd understand THE ISSUE at hand, what had always been at issue, and at the root of every little defeat, the cause of the loitering despair - that knowledge of the impossibility - the sheer impossibility of ever being a truly decent person within the minefield of the social world as presently constituted, the impossibility of ever being "good and true" on your own terms, without feeling like a prisoner under surveillance or a servant indentured to the whims of necessity, to the caprice of the anonymous crowd. Unless it was of course a matter of privation - the absence of a skill that came naturally to others. Nevertheless, simply the knowledge of THAT - the sheer debilitating knowledge - that I cannot be good, the way God must be good, the way they say that Jesus was good or the Buddha was good. How hard it is to show that purity of character without putting on an act for oneself, without becoming an out-and-out fraud, without retreating into mere cowardice or playing it safe and avoiding difficulties. How absolutely futile to preserve one's integrity and make through the crucial years without becoming a stooge, a sell-out, a one-dimensional prop, a silly farcical half-wit. You have to learn to play the fool somewhat or else go insane or get angry, have a meltdown or "sell out" entirely. The stupid need of mind to be good! to have integrity and honor, to stand above the fray - is it not just another typical pathetic little example of a little man's pathetic vision of vanity and self-glorification? If one could just let go of the need to be good, would that be the answer - going beyond the civilized straight-jacket of the knowledge of good and evil? But would this young chap understand my dilemma? Oh, who knows, he might...The inner conversation was again interrupted...

-Mr. Sypatico - I need your advice....I know you're not technically a guidance counselor, but you do have that office..." 

- "Yes - part of my demotion." 

- "So I know that you see a lot of people already."  

-"Yes. I'm becoming quite the people person ever since my initial humiliation...Please don't ask me about the incident..."  

-"No sir..."

Oh that dreaded blasted incident - confirmation of a lifetime of minor missteps and blunders causing needless derailments and change of plans, making time move as a haphazard sequence of stops and starts, of zig-zags and backward steps, of circles and semi-circles and redundant u-turns, born of silly emotional breaking-points, ridiculous impulsive reactions and general somatic instabilities.

-"But you've got something philosophical to share with me. I can feel it."

-"Well - it's just that...I've been thinking about what makes so many people so unhappy...and it sort of has to do with the emphasis placed on the individual..." 

- "The primacy of the individual - ah yes, quite a western idea, I'd say..." 

"But that's just it. Everyone builds up these expectations about life and success - and how it all boils down to individual accomplishment and reaching a certain degree of prominence or popularity..." 

-"I like where you seem to be going with this. Please continue..." 

- "But what ends up happening is that on some level - everyone understands that it's not about them in the long run. As individuals, most of us that is, we're going to live and die in some anonymous fashion without gaining the recognition that we crave. And this fact is terrifying and horrendous and completely unacceptable to each person's ego. And even though the community counts for more, in the sense of enduring longer, and the species counts for most of all, it's not like we can just be happy with that. Being a mere contributor to one's tribe or family or community or country or the species itself is not an adequate form of compensation. We're still going to be miserable - just knowing that we as individuals are, for the most part, anonymous in terms of the role we play, and will vanish into oblivion." 

-"So - in the grand scheme of things - it's not about us then - is it?"

-"No - it really isn't, Mr. S. But this is what's so hard to accept. Like I say - it's unacceptable. How do you cope with that, how can people just accept THAT?" 

-"But are you saying there's no place for collective memory - for at least a partial form of immortality. Have no never heard of fame - of monuments and memorials? There's a reason for books and libraries and archives you know!"

-"Yes - but even then - how many people make a point of remembering anyone from earlier centuries. A handful of names that most people latch onto ... and then only on a superficial level. The bulk of humanity lies and dies in oblivion..."

-"Well - let's back up for a second .... I want to ask you a few questions if I may...Now...to what to you attribute this tendency -this unfortunate habit of assuming that the universe  revolves around us as individuals?" 

-"Survival instincts, I suppose. The body conditions us to react a certain way to outside stimuli, to regard the external world as, by turns, friendly or hostile, and to take offense at whatever curve-ball nature  decides to dish out..." 

-"Very good. Very good. So it gets personal when we don't get our way..." 

-"Exactly." 

-"And you seem to be saying that the body forces us to be conscious of certain basic needs and thus to be pleased when these needs are met and miserable otherwise - but that it would be better if we had remained only semi-conscious of our ill-treatment at the hands of nature - because then we would never have invented unhappiness for ourselves?" 

-"Something like that - yeah - I guess that's it." 

-"But if I may - are you not also implying here that it was not on some level beneficial for human beings to have adapted and developed  a more finely-tuned sensory apparatus, to have become creatures famed for taking notice of other entities as individuals. Was this somehow a catastrophe for us?" 

-"Well - we paid a price for it - didn't we? Wouldn't you call that kind of progress tragic to a degree?" 

-"Ah - tragic - because we are cursed with a level of consciousness that forces us to regard entities in and of themselves and their well-being as individuals - and to compare one creature's lot with another's - to project our own feelings and aspirations onto every entity that surrounds us? And is that such a bad thing - such a terrible outcome?" 

-"Well I'm just saying..." 

-"Yes. I see what you're getting at - but one could reverse the question and ask - what sort of happiness would be available to us if human life had ceased from striving from aspiring - if it had merely plateaued at the level of brutish, herd-animal subsistence?"

-"What do you mean by that?" 

-"Well - if we just had remained complacent herd-animals on the order of sheep or cows  - having no ambitions beyond the survival of the group?"

-"... But let's get back to this business of anonymity. That's what's really bothering you. What's it's all for - in the grand scheme - if nothing gets remembered - if the contributions of most people fall by the wayside and never get noticed or validated in any way? Is that a fair summary?"

 -"Yes." 

-"Well - if I may ask - do you have any spiritual or religious insights that might provide some source of consolation?"

- "You mean like "God watching over us and keeping tabs on everyone?" 

-"Yeah - something like that - for sure."It sounds great - but when you consider how miniscule people's lives are - it would be sort of demeaning to God as Ultimate Mystery or Absolute Intelligence - to be some sort of divine stenographer or census-taker - keeping stats on people." 

-"I see what you mean. You have a point there." 

-"It would help if there some kind of celestial butler or numbers-cruncher out there...but just the sound of that seems implausible." 

-"Well - people do believe in angels you know..."

One Voice Creates a Ripple Effect...

The women came to that exclusive gathering that warm September evening as though they were making a sacred pilgrimage to the interior of some ancient temple where a living oracle would be, perched upon a throne of sorts, silently welcoming pilgrims and wayfarers, holding herself in deep reverie or meditation for long intervals, before finally emerging, consenting, selectively offering her sporadic snippets of esoteric wisdom to each guest according to her need...It was the spacious, warm, inviting lounge making up the west wing of the student center - once known as the largest Victorian house on campus that served as the chosen venue of this watershed event. The older women happily sat on pillows or cross-legged on the rug, comparing notes, while younger ladies scrunched together on the long leather couches or found space to huddle in various corners of the room until they had exceeded the fire marshal's recommended number. The center of everyone's attention was an charismatic (dare one say: attractive) elderly woman with dark braided hair, searching eyes, a well-defined jaw and a beaming smile; she wore a multi-colored shawl, blue jeans and sandals as she greeted various regulars with ecstatic small talk, kisses and familiar embraces, stopping to comment on scarves, jewelry or other special features of fabulous colleagues and returning students. And with the crowd spilling out of the side back entrance, one of the late arrivals - the only one of the male persuasion (so far as anyone knew) - with much assistance pursued a reluctant sort of forward motion, walking arm in arm between two close female friends who like bodyguards escorted this short-haired oaf through the distracted crowd as he - with cap pulled down over his face - hunched over hyperbolically so as not to reveal his true height, kept tugging at his dark baggy sweater as if it were a cloak until the trio found welcome rest kneeling beside a lamp where even the most devoted acolytes do not usually kneel or ensconce themselves. One of the aforementioned bodyguards winked at the other with secret pride ("We made it..."), while the hapless male remained docile and subdued- and truth be told a little unnerved by this strange spectacle that he was somehow intruding upon against his will. The room had that hum of polite excitement that takes place before lectures, ballets, classical recitals; Katherine Bourgeois-Pain - the evening's speaker - surveyed each individual guest, slowly taking in the scene. Suddenly a few shrieks were heard as the audience roused itself into a fit of sustained applause and fun-loving hoots and claps such as one still may find in folk music circles. One of the undergrads rose to the makeshift podium and meandered through a nervous introduction repeating as she went about what a life-altering event this night was destined to be. The hapless male interloper's attention span was held spellbound by the sheer variety of womanly forms and faces. Clearly out of his element, he looked around for any signs of other uninvited male guests - but when none were forthcoming, he surmised that at least a few other clandestine party-crashers were indeed present.  Perhaps some are here, he surmised, but "under wraps" like me... The talk had been heavily advertised of course - but as with other such on-campus activities, this proved something of a foreboding enticement even for sensitive, sympathetic males. After the cries had subsided Bourgeois-Pain stepped forward and began to speak, slowly, emphatically..... Well, she began...I must warn you that what I am about to say is not for the faint of heart... (laughter)...As you know I have been dubbed "controversial" (much laughter) and "incendiary" - someone who loves to go against the majority opinion. And yes - I do proudly wear this mantle of heretic and gadfly. But if what I say does sound strange at first, or does make you uncomfortable, please realize that what I say is simply trying to tap into feelings and reactions that perhaps you are already experiencing or have experienced. Because you already know in a sense everything that I am about to suggest to you as true. You know (in advance) the reasons why we are here, she began. And what must be done. And who must be reminded, and enlightened or shall I say confronted (much laughter). Looking around the world today, you all have your eyes wide open - I say that with deep faith in the quality of our young women. Before I have even begun to try to explain anything at all to you amazing ones - you beautiful, curious ones, you wise women, you bright, faithful ladies...You have understood pain, the pain that comes from being slighted, from being relegated, from being pigeonholed and underestimated....And you have come here tonight because the paradigm man-beast-behemoth-leviathan cannot prevent you from feeling whatever it is that you feel in your innermost psyche which is the true dwelling place of the spirit....You feel it within, but I would wager that you also feel a tug, like a guilt, pulling you away from truth, pulling you away...And stopping abruptly she looked around - seemingly for signs of which had already made up their minds, having agreed with her and which were skeptical. And were there some there as well - enlightened-progressive colleagues, mind you, who were somewhat more antagonistic in their silent glares. Was it true, what some had said, that this wave of feminism had died out years ago and was in dire need of a theoretical re-adjustment, or had it simply been eclipsed by other concerns and formulations brimming up from the imperatives of popular culture and the current vernacular? And was this formidable woman, looking perhaps for an heir apparent or sorts, some dynamic younger woman or woman's coterie to whom she could pass the torch of radical activism? The faces of other male interlopers were beginning to emerge from hoodies and hats, whispering under their breath to one another "This is so weird. This is so weird..." while Bourgeois-Pain continued in her measured, mellifluous tone:  And now I arrive at what some - even some of you here tonight - will consider controversial... because of my choice of words (laughter). I come tonight to tell you something of man-beast and man-child. I use both terms in order to be fair, in order to acknowledge the spectrum of possibility, in order to make clear what the matrices of biological mutations have wrought.  I know there is a part of you, as women, to extend compassion to all - especially to man-child. This loyalty you feel as you look out at innocent manchild and his early promise in life. And some part of you, indeed, understandably, may even want to be a caretaker,  friend, confidant, muse, patron  and so you do what so many women do at this crucial age, at this irrevocable moment in their young lives, when destinies are forged...namely, you give yourself over to someone else's imperative; you put yourself on hold; you squelch the voice, you suppress it believing you have done the right thing - you have become a "moral person" - This is morality and respectability. So you say. But even at the moment when you do so, some discomfort remains because you cannot deny to yourself the unfairness, the injustices, the havoc and the chaos - the sheer violence that is wreaked by man-beast and his tendencies. And so - you scratch your head and you ask why? And what can be done about this - you say. But even knowing the problem that exists you cannot bring yourself to conclude that it is a global phenomenon with global ramifications or a historical problem with historical reach or a biological problem to some extent with anthropological consequences...you do not perhaps wish to envision the parameters of the power differential that is involved in all this. You perhaps would rather believe that no one is responsible - therefore even the perpetrators are innocent - Because it is a matter of education after all - and proper upbringing - perhaps you've told yourself. And so many of these men are poorly educated and grow up to be (as a result) - let's face it - problematic males - dare I say - toxic males - dare I say troglodytes (much laughter). No really. Think about the damage done, the wreckage that is heaped upon our collective memory - think of the infected who walk around with negative labels who are basically of the same mindset as those on top....And what do we sometimes call these wretches? Punks, derelicts, criminals, stalkers, control-freaks, muggers, thugs, abusers...I can't even bring myself to mention the other ones. From whence do these male mutations emerge given all of our efforts - given that we know in theory that theses types are unacceptable? Why can't our educational system handle them and re-make them? Does it all go back to biology? I know already how some of you in your weaker, more desperate moments are tempted to answer. But suppose with me for a moment that a system underlying this mess did in fact exist as we all think it does exist - as the product of some vile inheritance, a curse, a pestilence that is passed on, that is foisted on us really - an absurdly burdensome legacy of social roles and gender practices, of rules and strictures and expectations, of threats and  punishments and innuendos that you have been taught to accept unthinkingly as NECESSITY - as BIOLOGY as DESTINY  - forgetting mind you, what great labors are expended, what sheer continuous effort is spent showing us that we ourselves have consented to beliefs and practices that we did not invent....Imagine the sheer dimensions of this system, this apparatus, with all of the protocol that goes with it and then ask yourselves --- does it not require a web of enforcers to promote, defend, maintain this false world - think authority figures, fathers, coaches, elder clerics, cops and soldiers and of course, those aging politicians, our so-called leaders (rudderless dregs really) - from the stodgy CEO's in board-rooms to football players and star athletes etc. etc.- these male charismatics, these desirable types, these huckster golden-boys, these corporate power-brokers for lack of a better name - as such - have their influence on the way that things are done - That these powers,  have their henchmen, their overseers, their drones and their mouth-pieces and their hacks - their representatives who are so necessary as pillars of the system - of a system that is designed to keep a majority of the population thinking as servants....loyal servants of manbeast disguised as manchild -  because manchild always presents as having good intentions...when young...And this is the great delusion...So what happens...This is what we are here to discuss...This is part of the great research that takes place at this university at least in our department....thank the goddess - in our department!  What I hope to show you is a true radicalism that is continually reinventing itself, constantly groping for air and open space, a radical psyche that simply is, that exists, that asserts itself, and that, by virtue of evading altogether the trappings of manbeast, represents as itself the great alternative to the delusion. Imagine the reaction to a single person who dissents, who really decides whether out of frustration or exhaustion or simply out of whimsy - pure impulse - to be herself - to move against the tide. This is a revolution, mind you, that begins everyday, that has begun, that has been moving forward for decades now, but which is in constant danger of being squashed and repressed at any given moment. And even tonight I fear - nay - I know with absolute certainty - that my adversaries are poised and waiting for me to falter.  If it not a major crime in itself that I am a woman who dares utter these things, my critics mention my age as well as some sort of evidence against my credibility... For you see... But at this point a figure rose up in back of the room, pointed a long, pinkish finger and spoke in an ambiguously feminine voice: I think you've had your say, m'um. I think you've said enough for one night! Adding drama to insult, Bourgeois-Pain remained calm, impassive, nonplussed by the outburst, nodding her head as if expecting such an outburst on cue. "It was almost prophesied, one might say, that someone here, in our midst, would betray me. The hecklers started laughing; there were at least two or three of them, wearing hoodies,  rising out of their formerly inconspicuous postures. My only question is whether you be hired drones - representatives of manbeast  paid to harass and bully me or would you happen to be a sampling of those lost, misguided unhappy  weaker vessel sellouts acting out your codependent martyr fantasies on the altar of man worship? The hecklers continued, their booming androgynous, inexplicably British-sounding voices -  emanating from behind where an exotic indoor plant was standing: We've heard your views - now we could use a discussion. Will you answer questions? "Before deciding to railroad this intended lecture - you might have the decency to state your real agenda. " But at this point the audience was reacting against the disruption - in a show of rhythmic clapping on behalf of Bourgeois-Pain. The hecklers looked at one another, but could not decide whether to unburden themselves of their disguises and reveal their true identities. It was evident that half the crowd was perhaps somewhat  unemphatic and conflicted in their views. The murmur of the audience's confusion began welling up into a crescendo of voices - unsure of what to do next. One young woman suddenly stood up - took off her hat and sweater - literally let down her long chestnut hair - and began speaking as if called upon - "Yes..hi...hello... I just wanted to say that a lot of us here respect what you represent here at this university - Katherine. You're like a living icon of some huge event in history that none of us were there for. And we thank you for that...Uhm...we're well aware of your integrity as a radical critic of the establishment - the man problem and all that - but without denying the need for solidarity and higher awareness of inequity and mysogyny, etcl, honestly - some of us here just don't feel the need to go in the same direction - if that makes any sense. Maybe we just haven't experienced enough of these injustices directly to know what you mean - but for the time being - we're comfortable taking another path - less political perhaps - I guess you'd call us "practical types" - but you know, it's a different time - and actually I think people out there are getting the message or have already gotten the message - so I'm very hopeful. I guess I or we don't feel the need to be as radical. Because if everyone knows and accepts the ideal of relations between men and women - then that sort of has to have an effect eventually....doesn't it? Does that make any sense? Several young women beside her slowly nodded in the affirmative. Katherine Bourgeois-Pain let out an uproarious belly laugh. "Bless you - all of you young "practical moderates" of the third wave! If only theory guided practice so smoothly as you imagine...When you start to sense the delay in the wished-for outcome (that you all claim to be fighting for) - you come see me!" "But we do support you in spirit." - said another young woman, wearing a RedSox jersey and a baseball cap. "We've chosen our own path...and we feel that real progress is being made. We're comfortable with men - because we don't allow them to threaten us. We won't permit it. Are you saying that you think us naive?" "I am not here to incite or re-ignite a generational quarrel...among the sisterhood. But I do plead with you - my ladies - to compare - your fortunate and somewhat fortuitous positions - with the hundreds upon thousands of millions of women, workers, housewives, young girls, mothers, daughters,  - all of them persecuted, marginalized, thwarted, scapegoated  in countries all over the globe that remain culturally backward - permeated by the spirit of manbeast and his co-hort, misogynist. Are you seriously going to sit here and say that because you don't personally feel the heat or encounter their misfortunes that - this threat is not real, that your support and solidarity is not absolutely essential?" "Okay ...wow...I suppose you DO have a point. But...I just think that every generation has their own method for dealing with the problems...And I'm just saying this to explain that we're not against you necessarily even if we take a different tack...Because we've read your books and all. It's not like we're forgetting you." But at this point, the hecklers had successfully organized themselves and agreed upon a plan...One of them took off the hoodie to reveal the pale, pasty, curly-haired head of a goof, half-smiling and half-confused. 
"Hey - everyone - we decided to crash this shindig...uhm ...because we believe  us guys have a right to be here...and I don't agree with what was said about manbeast...I'm mean c'mon...that's not right...You can't lump us all into that category...." Another heckler was even less kind and diplomatic. "Your time is up, I'm afraid, my dear, dear lady. You've had your say. Let the younger generation speak. Give them your blessing....step aside...retire...." And so the chant began: "retire....retire... the old and weathered must retire..." and ceased after only a minute. But Fiona was in the crowd as well. Incensed by the rude treatment her aunt was enduring, she stood up on a chair and remarked: "Observe ladies, how these thuggish interlopers, these beastly ones have come to fleer and mock at our solemnity...You will not erase my auntie's wisdom by trying to shout her down. Rise up and fight! Rise up and fight!"

Guidance

Travis Sharpie sat there in Mr. Girello's  cramped, stuffy guidance office with both hands pressed against his forehead, fidgeting wildly, while Mr. G opened the door a crack so that others waiting in the open area conference room could hear what was going on. On the wall he looked up at a poster of three bright young undergrads striding arm-in-arm across some well-manicured college campus. Slumping over in his chair, Travis stared down at his shoes and dithered with his shoelaces.

-I've got nowhere to go, he lamented. Nobody wants me. I can't get in anywhere. My grades are so messed up. My test scores are in the toilet. None of my top five schools will accept me...I've got no scholarship...No offers...What have I done? What have I done, Mr. G.? Why didn't somebody tell me two years ago that I'd have no chance. Now all I can do is go to a stupid on-line school... 

Girello leaned back in his chair slowly,  calmly, rocking back and forth, staring at the wall behind the his visitor with a look of confident, masculine, self-satisfaction. Here at last was the mighty Trav Sharpie, humbled, abased, brought low - the same insolent wunderkind who so joyfully had wreaked havoc with teachers and administrators for years at a time, the one who knew how to violate the dress code in every particular, the one who had so gleefully destroyed computer equipment, trashed cafeterias, subverted bus rides, made a point of sliding down stair railings and raiding faculty lounges just to spite the administration; the cad who wrote graffiti on bathroom walls and left odd paraphernalia like cactus plants and blow-up dolls in other people's lockers, the unruly derelict who made a point of always mocking his English teachers relentlessly for their frumpy, frilly attire and needlessly unimaginative hair, the oaf who cursed in mock Spanish, mock Russian or mock Mandarin during math exams to confuse his instructors, the provocateur who filibustered for non-existent constiutional rights or defended the great villains of history until his teachers sent him out, the wise-guy who broke test tubes and depleted fire extinguishers during science lab, who fake vomitted and feigned panic attacks during midterms and finals week - he was finally walking out the door - but he would not be holding his head up high. Nothing pleased Mr. Girello more than the sight of this now overripe hooligan - bumping up against the hard wall of adult responsibility. This was cosmic justice at work. Cases like this served to clarify - if nothing else- that cosmic justice did in fact exist.

- I'm sure you'll figure this out as time goes on, Trav...It's not like we didn't try to warn you. 

-  Yeah - sure - you people said this and that - but you didn't stop me from crashing and burning like this! 

- Well - like I say,  I'm very sorry that it has come to this - but sometimes (like they say) you have to hit rock bottom to get yourself on a better path. I hate to say I told you so... 

 - I've got nothing Mr. G. I'm done. Just stick a fork in me! 

- Now don't say that. There are plenty of things you can do in life - it's just going to take you a few years longer than everyone else (heh, heh, heh) to get straighted out, that's all. You're going to need some adult ed and remedial classes at a local community college - maybe some personal counseling. You know it's still only February - I can give you some referrals... 

And with that big, bad, annoying Travis began sobbing uncontrollably while the sound carried out into the large waiting area. The other students were incredulous - with big smiles appearing on their faces. This was one of those I-can't-believe-I-was-there-in-the-same-room-when-it-happened experiences that they would doubtless tell or text their friends about. The "incident" would spread like wildfire. T.S. would never live it down. And with that Girello glanced outside - somewhat annoyed by the smiles and giggles. His mood changed back to one of grim determination....

- I'm very sorry Tad...Travis that is...but I've got some other customers waiting...  

It was oddly cathartic and entirely customary for him to watch, year in and year out, as various seniors, one by one, virtually crawled out of his office - realizing their mistakes and missteps - after four years of naysaying and resisting his advice. Soon afterwards, Mr. Girello could be seen frenetically pacing back and forth, while Ham Palumbo  sat sullenly, staring at the college posters on the wall - all of happy undergrads on idyllic campuses, comfortably ensconced into newly formed peer groups, surrounded by stately brick buildings, immaculate walkways and lush vegetation.  Ham was another one of those typical sophomores at a deceptive crossroad in life, having to make a big decision on whether to "get serious" about his future or continue on a path of aimless drifting and "creative destructive" lethargy.

-I'm looking at a set of statistics that I want you to hear....

-Okay.

-What if I were to tell you that taking everything we know about you, your background, your family situation, your peer group, your test scores, and your progress in school thus far - we could predict just about everything that is bound to happen to you over the next 30 years....You'd say I was crazy. Am I right?

-No offense, Mr. G. You're a smart man and all, but that does sound a little far-fetched.

-Good. Good. I knew you wouldn't like what I'm saying, but just listen for a second. Just listen.

Ham could see Mr. Girello grabbing his clipboard and scanning the paperwork for salient numbers; it was at such times, that he reached for a comment totally off-topic just because it seemed the right thing to do at the time.

-That girl in the poster. Did she go here? I think I know her sister.

-What? Now just listen for a second. Forget that girl in the poster. She's been on this wall for the past 10 years. What I want to tell you Ham is that we know all about what will happen to you after you walk out of this building. Can you wrap your mind about that for a second? We know what will most likely happen to you.

This had Ham laughing: "No you don't - heh, heh, heh."

-Yes. As a matter of fact, we do.

-What do you know really?

-Ever heard of Leibniz, Travis. The famous German philosopher? 13th chapter of the Discourses on Metaphysics? Ever hear of Baron d'Holbach (ha, ha, ha) or Spinoza or B.F. Skinner or any of those other great determinists from years gone by?

-Huh?

-No - of course you haven't. If I had more time, I'd show you this book I bought on those guys...Oh...Why do I even bother with such extra-curriculuars? What I want to mention is this guy Leibniz who had this notion that if we understood enough about what defined a given person, place or thing or an event - we could predict with certainty everything that would ever happen in the future to that same entity. Do you believe that?

"Do I believe what?

-Do you believe me when I tell you that we can predict the future?

-My future? That would be awesome if you could - but - do you see - like good things happening to me?

-If I were to tell you that with 95% accuracy we already know the following about you and your life story...That unfortunately, as things stand now, you will not be famous, you will not earn over a million dollars a year at any time of your life, or anything approaching a million dollars, that you will not earn a college degree, you will not become a professional of any kind, or join a country club or win awards, or be interviewed by the media or appear on television or radio or create your own website, that you will never live in a large house or a mansion....

-Whoa there Mr. G. You're really laying it on thick.

-Just listen for a second. You are about to walk out of here, thinking of yourself as a totally free entity who can create your own reality at the snap of your fingers. But the truth is that:  A.) You will walk out of hear in three years time and will apply to a local community college program. B.) After one-year you will drop out and take a low-paying job with some local box store or outlet, based on a friend's recommendation. C.) A year after dead-end career path, you will find yourself co-habitating with your girlfriend, someone you have met on the job. D.)  One year after that you will find yourself a parent-in-waiting, although no marriage plans have been set.

-Wait. Wait. Wait. Mr. G. This is weird, okay. That's not me. You can't sit here and tell me that my life is going to pan out just like that.

-Oh but I can. The statistics tell the story. The door is closing shut on your life, my man, unless you act now to reverse the situation.

Still distracted by various external stimuli including the fake flowers on the table, the bowl of mints and the mysterious stack of red files, Ham suddenly blurted out yet another seeming non sequitor:

- Hey, Mr. G. Wouldn't it be neat...If you could like...go back... say 40, 50, 60 years... and just sort of, like find a person who went to this school...and see how they did and what happened to them after high school and then go find out if they had children or not, and see how those kids turned out and if they had kids...look at what happened to them. You know like track certain families and follow them from one generation to the next. That would be cool - wouldn't it?

Suddenly Mr. Girello's face broke out into a loud and sustained grin, accompanied by a rapid nod of the head in the affirmative direction, a clasp of the hands together and an low-pitched, but unmistakable grunt of joy.

- Ham, my friend, you have just put your finger on my life's work. I am in the process of doing this very thing you speak of - on a scale that has never been attempted at this school at least, something that no guidance counselor  has ever done before.

- Because like - after you had traced things back a couple of generations - you could like - make predictions - it would be all scientific - I guess - Wouldn't it?

- Ex-act-ly! Exactly! Exactly.

Girello was on top of the world to have found a student who actually got him talking about the one topic he enjoyed more than anything - the mapping out of necessity as it applied to human beings and human behavior - what some might call sociobiology via statistics. He was on a high of sorts for the next several hours. He decided to eat his favorite tuna salad sandwich with extra crunchy potato chips at 11:00 a.m. instead of noon. He even allowed himself a strawberry soda from the vending machine. His first visitor, after lunch, unfortunately, was not so receptive to his big ideas.  Fiona Webber - a  troubled sophomore who wore a dark cloak and ruby red shoes was having none of it. It was one of those "don't even try to get near to me" cases. Don't try to know me. Don't offer any help or advice. Don't waste your time.... She was already chanting such lines before Mr. G. even had a chance to over-awe her with his macho inflections.  

- This office is quite dumpy. I don't see the jar full of lollipops for your compliant drones. -

- Alright there Fiona. Let's get to know each other a little better. I've pulled your file as you may know. I'm looking at your most recent test scores here. Oh yes...Well, well, the grades have been slipping...Oh dear. I see that you are a quick-witted girl...an opinionated young lady who doesn't appear to suffer fools gladly... The good news is that I'm here to offer you some helpful advice...Ya see, I've actually been around the block a few times. I can offer you some, good, solid pointers if you'd only put your 'rebel pose' on hold for a second. 

- Don't bother. You might as well cut to the chase. How do you propose to bribe me into submission? You: the male overlord using not-so-subtle weapons to intimidate a young girl... 

- Now. Now. Let's not get melodramatic all of a sudden. 

- My apologies to your sensitive ego and all... it's just that I don't believe in your world, your guidance, your system of morality, your brand of rationality...Your decidedly old school MALE view of the world...that permeates the hallways around here, the very air we breathe... Your staff along with all the teachers here are not role models for ME...they do not have anything of value to impart aside from dreary anecdotes from their narrow lives. 

- Young lady...I'm going to put 90% of the rhetoric you've been spewing on hold for a sec - just to ask you a simple question:Were you listening to what just happened in here in this office of mine? Did you see that overgrown little tadpole, Trav Sharper crying his eyes out and moaning with regret? And now you're going to tell me that I don't have a leg to stand on, that I don't have the right to call YOU out on some of your glaring deficiencies?

- STOP RIGHT THERE! Fiona was shouting and pulling on her hair.

- Am I going to have to watch you break down and cry two years from now? C'mon Fiona. You've got TIME to turn this thing around. Are you just gonna sit here with that ridiculous smirk on your face and try and defend you sorry record here thus far? 

- Stop, she said, this time more calmly. Don't try to reach me. I don't want your help. 

- Fiona. Look. You're grades are slipping. Your mannerisms are becoming more and more eccentric based on what your peers have been telling me. 

- Spies. Narcs. Great. That's just wonderful of you to conduct surveillance on us helpless sophomores! 

- Fiona. We need to make an intervention with you - before it's too late. You may not believe it - but we want you to be happy. Yes, happy. 

- You and I are as far removed as two species of space aliens. What  would someone of your ilk know about MY HAPPINESS? 

- Well - actually - I have files and cabinets full of DATA on what makes for a happy and successful life after people leave this place. So - YEAH - I know a thing or two about your happiness. 

- You know nothing about what happiness is for me or for others like me. What you call happiness is something I would shun like the plague. Not everyone pursues the same goals in life, I mean, isn't that obvious?  

- I hate to rain on your diversity parade - young lady - but I happen to know for a fact  that most of us humans share the same goals in common.... 

- Happiness differs like DNA. Don't talk to me about MY HAPPINESS. It has nothing to do with you!

-Just listen for a second. You can rant and rave all you want, but I've got the stats on this...Most people rate the following as necessary ingredients of true satisfaction: love or companionship, a family with children, productive work, a good career, friends, health, financial stability, a senses of community in that order... 

I'm going to scream. Look Mr. G. Everyone pours something different into those categories. Okay? Those words mean different things to different people! You want some kind of wretched, cookie-cutter, one-size-fits-all mode of contentment. It's not real. 

Oh but IT IS REAL, young lady. I build my career on.... I stake my reputation on these facts and figures. I am right and you are .... you are young and inexperienced in these matters. 

- You are a SLIMY Trog! I dismiss you. Begone. You do not EXIST! You are detritus, white noise!

- What did you call me? What did you just call me? 

- You are a Trog - just like all the other Trogs in this building. And if you don't let me out of here, I'm going to scream! - 

Girello momentarily stunned by the unexpected and indecipherable insult he had received was caught off guard, unsure whether to laugh or retaliate. But by then Fiona had begun to scream. And scream. And scream. The fish in the fish tank outside swam haphazardly around the tank. Agnes, the guidance secretary rushed over to see what was wrong, but Mr. G. just waved her off.

- Okay. Whatever. You may leave, Fiona. Get out. I'm done with you. We'll talk down the road... I have no doubt... I'll get the kleenex ready... 

****

Meet The Grown-Ups Involved

Another bright sunny afternoon, part of a typical workday commute, finds a middle-aged man and a mature, if somewhat younger woman, cozily ensconced together driving homeward down a country road right outside the main drag of town, past what the man calls the frozen emblems of sheep and cows on the soon-to-be dying family farm. The man, as usual, intense, distracted, brooding upon the upcoming holiday, sarcastically yearning for other, more obscure official respites (Flag Day, Arbor Day) the woman, upbeat, frenetic, smiling, humming a song quietly to herself, happy to be in the carpool absent two of its regular members...  The man lanky and uncomfortable, mildly disgruntled and part-way resigned to fate, the woman, impulsive, chatty at times but also thoughtful,  at ease in her own skin, [A perfectly detached observer of this mundane scene no doubt would notice the apparent stark contrast raised by divergence of gender - with the old stereotypes about male and female coming into play - but perhaps these two were so very dissimilar as glaring externals would indicate...] She was inexplicably glad to be alone with him, sharing the non-eventfulness of their not-implausible ongoing friendship that still had yet not blossomed into romantic involvement - and he, happily griping to her in anticipation of those intimate, pensive pauses that long drives engender...the usual complaints about getting old and tired, bemoaning his fleeting job security and the lack of respect, the general anonymity, being stuck in a rut, and blah, blah, blah. The woman however is looking out the window at a group of boys trudging along, each one with a stick in their hands, hovering over some small, squirming, unidentified sentient creature - perhaps a cat, perhaps a squirrel. And somewhere in the midst of their always rambling, half-mundane, half-philosophical conversation the woman observes:

"Did you hear that Donny Constable - our local drive-by artist - got arrested for what happened the other day...You know, he was caught pilfering auto parts..."

"I'm not surprised..."

"And it was weird because he didn't understand why...it's like he thought he was doing someone a favor."

"Ha. That's what they all say!"

"And little Ned. He was caught vandalizing - spray-painting - oh I forget what business it was..."

"There must be something in the water that these boys are drinking..."

"Oh good. You see the same pattern developing here. These aimless males running amok."

How strange that such playful, half-contentious banter could revive John's spirits - could fend off for another hour the onset of an ongoing malaise. He appreciated the strange, uncalled-for optimism lurking beneath even her highest pitch of concern. It was odd that so attractive a woman, could somehow be unattached - currently single, single for the long-term - openly flirtatious yet entirely wholesome and well-mannered. And yet - he had made no move to confirm her affections, had rather remained happily transfixed by their weird carpool friendship - as it bounced along from month to month. Was there ever a time to stop for coffee or a bagel or find a reason for some ridiculous errand that they both could perform? No doubt, yes...yes in fact they found themselves shopping together on a few occasions, but nothing ever progressed passed a certain juncture. Propriety preserved and heightened an almost unbearable tension that seemed to be channeled into their lively extended conversations.

"It's an old story of male adolescence...but thankfully, Martha, we're witnessing only a mild form of its greater excesses."

"But you know, John,  it occurs to me that men are the more dangerous vessels in our society..."

"Vessels - you say?"

"You know - vessels, repositories, sponges...

"You mean vessels - as in crucibles, conduits?"

"I mean vessels of mischief and mayhem..."

"As opposed to what exactly - Martha?"

"What I mean - John - is - you know... there's a difference between men and women..."

"Oh that. Well...I see...ah ha...uhm...well, Martha... that is...very..."

"Ha. Ha. You're tongue-tied."

"Yes, well, I seem to agree with what you're saying here. I'm somewhat relieved that you acknowledge this great unheralded truth...please continue..."

She was looking at him now the way passengers in cars often look at drivers without drivers being able to reciprocate...It was a long affectionate glance taking in his wrinkled attempt at spiffy dress shirt with large belt, corduroys and some type of comfortable desert shoes. Just the sight of him made her laugh - but there was somehow a deep admiration there, as if to represent a stamp of approval from her heart of hearts as to his lowly, underpaying career-path - a calling that she shared with him and perhaps excelled, at due to her reservoirs of patience, kindness and generosity and an impressive background in psychology, sociology and anthropology. He enjoyed the way she always seemed on the verge of laughter even when making serious conversation. The car felt bigger somehow, more spacious and comfortable. And he allowed himself momentary glances at her newly styled hair and green shoes. As it happened she was wearing an eclectic array of green all in one outfit -  green cotton sweater unconsciously paired with green cotton socks, green bracelets, green earrings. Make a mental note - he thought. Green her favorite color...

"No - really - I'm actually quite interested in what I have a feeling you're about to say..."

"I know it sounds kind of obvious, John, but you have to admit: men are the destructive ones - and why is that you men should be the killers, the fighters, the violent, creepy, problematic types..."

"And don't forget to mention: the warriors, the builders, inventors, protectors, defenders of -"

"Yes. Yes. Now don't get all insecure on me here."

"Okay. Okay. We men are the ones who kill and destroy, who pillage and plunder and vandalize more and commit those other more unmentionable crimes...who pull wings off of butterflies and set abandoned houses on fire... and dip ponytails into ink wells and...."

"You're not trying to be sarcastic are you?

"No no - I appreciate your honesty - really."

"But it's true. Men are the more destructive creatures..."

Though he had known her in this strangely casual capacity for some years now, he could not help but reflect on certain gaps in their friendship. What exactly were her feelings about men, and what kind of history did she have with them? Did she come from a big family - full of brothers and uncles? Had she entered into an early marriage that ended badly? Did she privately recoil in horror from the onerous habits of the foolish, uncouth, backward, boorish male slackers and hooligans that she counseled every day? He knew of at least two siblings - sisters apparently - and possibly one brother - but little mention of prior relationships. Never thought to pry past a certain point.

"I have a theory myself about all this stuff... But just so's I understand you: men, you're saying, commit the bulk of the crime - we kill,  maim,  torture, pillage, plunder, stalk, assault, threaten, harass, extort, lie, cheat, steal...Oh what am I missing here?"

"Now you're sounding like my sister..."

"It's okay really. I'm not going to even try to defend my fellow neanderthals ... But may I ask one simple question. Where is the incentive for all this chaos? Who encourages it, who applauds such behavior?"

"What? Are you expecting some magic word?"

"And who is it that is always egging men on in these endeavors? Who is it? Huh? Huh?

"I don't know what you're getting at....Other men I guess...."

"I mean who are the enablers that look the other way so often or actually get excited by said destruction?"

"Peers...miscreants... other criminals...sociopaths...insane people?"

"Nope. Wrong answer."

"What are you getting at?"

"I don't want to have to say it..."

"So -?"

"So we men must be punished, or rather have been punished by way of the by universal guilt emanating from the now irreversible late-historical consensus...there's no running away from that"

"I think you're misunderstanding . It's not a criticism. We have to take stock of the fact that men are the carriers of evil...it's almost like we expect them to do a certain amount of damage. It's not a complete and total shock to us. We see it coming. It's just that we have to allow for that burden to some extent - without making excuses for it."

"Thank you."

"Your Welcome."

"But as for women...they don't carry a similar burden?"

'Oh - it's different with us...but that's another matter..."

"What I mean, Martha dear, is that they too are linked to all this male-driven chaos."

"Yeah...so...what's your point..."

"Well this brings me to my freight train theory of men."

"Freight train theory?"

"Or if you like the cheetah in the jungle theory."

"I'm completely lost."

"Well - what if by some sort of insane biological script - women were fascinated by (notice I don't say approving of, but fascinated by) a certain type of male with a pronounced single-mindedness."

"O-kay."

"Just think of a freight train moving across the prairie. A cheetah sprinting across the jungle. A caveman with a stick marching into danger."

"Oh no. I hope you're not going with this where I think you're going."

"I'm saying there's something about these wild risk-taking tendencies that aren't completely negative - that hold others spellbound."

"Be-cause..."

"Because it's like watching that first person dive off the cliff..."

"I really think you should consider - helping out with that club again. They could really use your guidance you know."

"You want me to re-live my nightmare of a few years back?"

"No. It would be different this time."

"I'm not the same man. You seem to forget. I'm lucky to have still had a job after that fiasco..."

"Well. The situation is even crazier now, isn't it? I mean with those college kids involved."

"Yeah. I mentored those guys. They're my responsibility...even now, I guess."

"That's what Ron thinks."

"Oh great, one more reason for Ron to be on my case."

"Now don't get all flustered by this. I think you're still a great mentor. I mean, you're almost sort of a de facto clandestine guidance counselor."

Awkward Silence.

"This just reminds me of how I can't take this time of year...It makes me think of my paltry faith...and how unable I am to join in the celebrations..."

"Watch it!"

"What?"

"Are you okay? You're driving like a lunatic..."

"I saw it..."

"One thing we don't need is a dead squirrel..."

"Um...it was a cat. I'm a cat lover. Don't worry....I ran over a cat once...and I don't want anymore guilt."

"I bet those boys are up to no good already." she says.

"Oh sure, those derelicts, the usual crew." the man replies.

"Are they poking something with those awful sticks?"

"Someone needs to make another intervention..."

"It just proves my point...about men... that is..."

Specimens

As Miles recalled, the first time he saw Edward was while walking along a stretch of posh stores and upscale bakeries in that well-known getaway town/enclave whose name I can't recall....he was decked out in brightly clashing shirt and pants with his beautiful mother and handsome brother in tow or should I say he was giving his beautiful mother and handsome brother (so perfectly in-sync color-wise) some competition with his own attention-grabbing wardrobe... that cap and scarf of his for example...the high-end sneakers.. etc. Well, it seems that Miles and Edward struck up some random conversation about one of the store-front mannequins, and were both commenting on the sad posture of the torsos in relation to one another - the first with clashing plaid and stripes, the other with the tight dress shirt so poorly draped over it and a hideously oversized tie drooping down over the pants, the absurd backdrop of palm trees and parrots or some such nonsense, which led to first a fit of laughter and secondly a wildly spontaneous, yet erudite discussion of Art and the rudiments of good composition...an extended tete-a-tete dragging on for some 20 minutes while Edward's mother and brother disappeared to buy sunglasses (almost as if to match Edward's own inimitable pair, one might be tempted to say);  and Miles pulled out his red notebook and proceeded to show Edward some of his etchings (so cliche I know but oh so spontaneous); it was all going quite swimmingly when Edward said out of the blue for all to hear hey, then there,  my good fellow, my goodly young artist, you are so uhm, just so.... refreshing-delectable! (he always said that)  not like the other bores and poseurs and tedious freaks we meet in these parts...oh can we take him home with us Mums, just for a tour of the grounds...I have no one new to talk with about...you know...my new favs, Bonnard, and Matisse...those champions of color ...oh can we Mums, can we? He is obviously the real McCoy - let me show him your statues...those prints of you on the beach... while his mother, all smiles, treating it half-seriously at first, looked the frumpy-if-half-amusing stranger up and down, and smiled because her son was smiling, thinking to herself, well he doesn't seem to know who we are (what's up with that?) but oh well, I guess...you can show him the garden sculptures for starters...Oh the sculptures, the sculptures, my Mums is always bragging about her precious feminine "forms" you see they were made FOR her they're based ON her form...ha..ha.ha....No - my dears I have some special paintings in mind to show our young artist. You have such an exquisite sensibility about you...I would guess an artist or a writer. ...You DO call yourself an artist don't you? Miles smiled self-consciously and looked around to see if anyone were trying to have him arrested. A researcher, he said calmly. Oh don't call yourself a researcher - how drab. Now I'm tempted to cancel the whole thing! Ha, ha, ha. Well, Miles had to explain, yes an artist, sure... but also an investigator, a collector of forms if you will.  I am looking for SPECIMENS, he explained inscrutably. You might say - AESTHETIC SPECIMENS.  Each type take together forms a mosaic that is necessary to finish the puzzle, for lack of a better metaphor... Edward was of course momentarily thrilled, entranced, intrigued but after the conversation ends, strangely enough, he had forgotten all about the use of the word SPECIMEN - never suspecting that what such a term may have connoted....Well, the before the sun had even moved an inch in the sky, the two aesthetes were sitting down to a catered lunch outdoors near the pool back at Edward's place - back at "the rolling estate" as they called it - with Miles scarfing down a specially-prepared tuna salad sandwich on whole wheat with endive lettuce and freshly-fried potato chips and Edward sipping expresso and picking away - like a little bird - on a mediterranean platter with all the fixings (dolma, tzadziki, hummus, fresh pita, etc.) Miles found himself staring off at the ocean across the vast expanses of lawn and garden and landscaped hills - noticing, cherishing the absolute sense of privacy that the property afforded - as if an entire morsel of coastline had been cordoned off to help form one large edifice of art. He was suddenly drowsy and dreamy - his face mesmerized by a rush of sensations - mostly centered on the garden labyrinthine path that housed an amazing collection of sculptures - feminine forms all somehow - according to Edward - inspired by the same woman.  I don't mean to rush lunch, so to speak, but may I sample those statues you had mentioned before? Oh - my dear - what a polite relic you are. May I this, and shall I that? and please sir, just a few more chips? Ha, ha, ha. I was hoping to give you the tour myself - but I fear I may disturb your private reveries. Now don't you go developing any crushes - mind you! Ha, ha. ha. I will leave you sir to these - your investigations, but after a given modicum of time, we must discuss. There is much more to show you...You are not averse to painting I hope - or to sketches....Oh - no, no, no! It's just....there is something about your description of this collection that caught my attention - that's all. The fact that they all refer to my Mums - is that it? Well what can I say? She's the lady who launched a thousand ships as we say. Ha, ha, ha. Don't imagine for a second that SHE'S the ONLY one in our family who has ever inspired an artist. No my dear...you will discover....if you look hard enough...that I too have become muse to an artist or two...There is no doubt in my mind...But Miles, at this point, giving in to his absent-minded preoccupations, was already rising out of his seat, literally being pulled in the direction of the garden and the sculptures....

*

And so it happened (the next morning, in fact) that young Edward, who had been sauntering across the grounds of the estate with his typical side-to-side hither and thither glances, draped in silken robe and slippers preparing for a "dip" in the heated pool near the garden before breakfast, carelessly grasping his foamy expresso, waiting for Kyra and Kay - his de facto courtiers - to catch up with him,  barking orders at Roger, the still-absent, but officially hired household servant, waiting for his audience to go on about what a "mess" the art show had been last night,  a complete "waste" of time really, and how "beastly" rude certain otherwise attractive fellows had been, as usual, oh yes, my dear, and the pieces so "tired,  pompous, derivative, predictable" - enough to make a person want to scream, want to scribble all over the canvas, and besides you can't find reliable curators these days who want to soil the arena with their plebeian interests, not to mention those "imbeciles" who pass for caterers (does anyone know what it means to throw a good party?) ...but oh well at least Theodore was there, that incomparably "exquisite" artist/demi-god, who was gracious and perfect as usual and who not only smiled at everyone, but greeted them warmly, regaling them with "amazing" anecdotes and really very edifying "little lessons" on Matisse and Bonnard... this same Edward, the privileged, aesthete and sensitive connoisseur of all things beautiful, was startled to find a rather drab, frumpy, long-haired, middle-aged diminutive figure in a wrinkled suit, hopping nimbly along the garden path (more to avoid injury on the uneven stones than anything else),  approaching in a sort of rodent-like manner with jerky leaps and bounds. At first Edward thought he was having another of his bizarre hallucinations such as had afflicted him more of late due to a change in the medication he had begun to control his high-strung moods, but now the figure was coming into focus and with him another, slower, equally frumpy companion, a woman perhaps with short hair and apparently some kind of business suit, the pair of whom offended Edward by their apparent mockery of formal attire. These ridiculous functionaries were oddly corporate, dronish, like cubicle-dwellers,  therefore staid and stoical enough to rule them out as stalkers or out-and-out crazies.  As goes without saying, Edward was not amused and proceeded to ignore the strangers for as long as possible, until they had sidled up beside the others, pretending to listen to his ongoing narrative, without any sense of being interlopers on someone's private property - without appointment, without portfolio.  The reptile in the wrinkled business suit seemed to be fiddling with a shiny, golden business card; the woman had a tablet and pen and was busily taking notes.  Finally Edward began staring them down. This produced an awkward smile from the scaly gentleman and no response whatsoever from the short-haired woman. Well. Well. Well. "A pleasure, sir. You must be Edward." "Enchanted.... and you all?" "I apologize ...your mother made this appointment on our behalf." "Ah. You want to see my mother...That can be arranged....Darling Mums! They're here for you...those people." "Oh - well - actually - sir we're quite happy to make your acquaintance. It's you we have come to see about our "project." "Projects, projects. How do they involve me? Landscaping projects, gardening projects, flower arrangements, pool cleanings...What is it this time?" "None of the above, sir. we're working on a project for the archive..." "Ah. You're with an archive? And you need my cooperation? You mean money - of course." "No sir. Well - we're here to begin our studies..." "Oh my...well... look here my dears. I'm getting a little creeped out by this already. I have no idea what this archive project of your is all about -" "I assure you sir, this has all been approved ahead of time." "By whom?" "By your amazing mother, sir. You see...we are here to perform certain investigations - all for the sake of a good cause." "Charities. Charities. I should have known. What are you then - artists?" "Well you might say so - I like to think of it as our work - our investigations..." "And how am I involved in all of this? Well - we'd be studying you in part? Studying me?  Just what I need during this fragile phase of life." "What - are you making a documentary of my life or something?" "If you like, you can think of it as that... You make a fine specimen...." "A specimen - huh? A fine specimen of what per se?" "We are here to find out about you - how you came to be yourself. You're not delving into my -----" "Your  ------- ?" "My ----------------- how shall I say _________" "Your preferences, sir?" "Yes. That's a good way of saying it."
"Well - everything's on the table for us. We take a holistic approach. I assure you, with your complexity of character, you make an outstanding specimen."

Later - after the strange frumpy man had left, a woman appeared from the garden wearing a robe and slippers similar to Edward's and strode on elegantly toward the pool.  Morris and Bea - as usual - were somewhat dumbstruck by her presence, by her sheer physical beauty and statuesque posture, her elegant dark hair and porcelain skin, the full almond-shaped eyes, the high cheekbones and the serious ethereal stare, the long legs so typical of a fashion model. When Edward saw her he nearly screamed:

"Darling - oh darling why? Why do you send these strange creatures to torment me?"

The woman laughingly replied: "Darling? What creatures, darling?"

"You know darling - those awful frumpy people and their nefarious research. ... something about I'm a worthy specimen....darling....what is the meaning of all this?"

"Oh darling - I knew you'd be surprised..."

"Surprised? Darling - Why not just hire a stalker? Why not just lure some riff-raff off the beach to come follow me around all day...Darling I won't. I can't. I will not submit myself to this crazy intrusion on my privacy...This crazy scheme of yours, darling, whatever it is....  I'm too busy for starters and-"

"Oh Darling - it's for a good cause. And you'd be perfect."

"For a good cause - darling...yes that awful man said I'm a perfect specimen!"

"Yes he likes that word, I know. It's all very scientific..."

"I don't care about science mother. And neither should you. We have given our souls to ART..."

"They are artists - darling. Think of them as starving artists. They have a strange art to be sure - a blend of art and science and anthropology as they like to say - for their archive project."

"What is this blasted archive mother? Who are these pod-people???"

"My dear...they are meticulous collectors. They go about looking, researching, acquiring..."

"They are intrusive pod-people - scaring away all the fun..."

The Craziest Gathering

[A Gathering]

The open field was suddenly filled with dutiful young scavengers spreading out in all directions, meticulously uncovering various objects, natural and otherwise, berries, gourds, vines, rocks, twigs, discarded junk  - in search of hidden signs and wonders. R.J. was in front as usual accompanied by the giddy twins, K.C. and J.B. and the ever-serious, somewhat silent Sarah beckoning upward to the sky as if soliciting an otherwise unscheduled celestial intervention. Murmurs could be heard from among the flock... "Here's a weird shape..." "This leaf is magical..." "Hey...there's a shape on these rocks..." "Listen for a voice..." "This glass-color is unprecedented!" "I think I may have something here...." "Look at my find..." "I feel a presence here." "A portal for the spirit..."  R.J. was beside himself with glee. "Gather up anything that looks significant, my fellow prophets and seers..." he chortled, "however small it may seem, everything here is relevant and what we gather from this little 'harvest' of ours shall be used as evidence..." As if on cue, little groups hurried on into the adjoining woods, working themselves into a frenzy of delirium. Youthful shrieks, yelps, laughter,  barking of orders and instructions, panting, out of breath explorers. Sarah meanwhile was walking in long deliberate steps around a strange crevice she had spotted, followed by her two "servants in waiting" as everyone called them, the dutiful twins.  Everyone wanted to impress R.J. and Sarah. The twins were like quality-control inspectors overseeing the day's discoveries. "R.J. look at me. Look what I found." "R.J. I think I may have something here." "Sarah - uh - does this measure up?" And R.J. patiently having to remind the novices that it wasn't so much about the external findings as it was the honing of interior powers, the opening of the soul to the "hidden possibilities" The best action is receptivity...Gelassenheit... What's the goal other than that? Nothing left to do, nothing to be done.  Better to avoid "conventional dronish chores" that lead to dead ends, that give rise to despair. The twins couldn't help staring at the spectacle of it all as it unfolded. What other club had this much fun? (Well perhaps many other clubs, indeed, but to those involved in this unusual foray, conventional ideas of "fun" and "recreation" were quite beside the point. The real question was: what other club had such "inklings" of "uncanniness" to fall back upon?) Sarah - the serious mystic - was clearly about to have one of her many revelations. Simon was due for some sort of communion with a higher dimension... R.J. was giggling at regular intervals while the twins kept him up-to-date on who was finding what. The old soul looked on half-amused, half-incredulous. So this was the prophecy club on one of its typical excursions. This was what people did on their free Saturdays to keep from falling into despair, to maintain their faith in the spiritual side of things, the only rule of the club being that one could not be a strict materialist. Belief in a higher dimension was the prime directive, emanating from a shared acknowledgement of the sacred hen-kai-pan. Inspecting the internal dynamics of this motley bunch, the old soul, more than the rest, had noted that about a third of the members were restless introverts or non-social climbers looking for a sense of belonging, another third had a romantic interest in metaphysics or the supernatural,  and perhaps another fifteen percent were focused on finding an alternative to the drab mainstream; that left a strong remnant of a minority of true-believers also known as the "ascetics," "heavy thinkers" or "beliefniks" intent upon making the club a last-ditch bulwark and countervailing force to the relentless (or as some would say: already-victorious) onslaught of secular humanism in America; neither were they deterred in any respect from advancing this self-declared "radical agenda" against the Tide despite the freewheeling, carefree, sometimes whimsical tendencies of R.J., Katie-K.  and the twins. The ascetic-minded members sought to demonstrably forego certain pleasures, to set themselves against the typical teenage stereotypes - to shun popular music, fast food, designer clothes, jewelry, electronic gadgetry or any indulgence that could link them with the vast majority. When the club had first started, the inner sanctum had spent long hours hammering away at a charter that everyone could agree upon. After much lobbying and parsing of various doctrines and quotations, it was Simon who came up with a line that took the others by surprise. "Our mission" he had said was "simply to rescue people from the hell of their own making on a case-by-case basis and thereby to fight against the materialist denial of the higher dimension as our ultimate destiny and goal." This pronouncement was seen as at once all-encompassing in a theological sense, but also specific enough to unite the members into a common mission. Despite the strange coalition and the uneasy tensions housed within, the club members were united in their shared perception of themselves as an embattled, somewhat marginalized, albeit growing institution. Their nemesis in all of this was the ever-expanding Free-Thinkers' Consortium - the yin to the Prophecy Club's yang - made up of the usual crew of atheists, agnostics, skeptics, naysayers, science geeks, mockers, poseurs, hedonists and disgruntled, embittered refugees from organized religion...The tension between the two factions had been rising gradually because of several incendiary incidents involving would-be prophets and seers on one side and activist skeptics on the other. F.G. was concerning about the escalating skirmishes; R.J. seemed to be excited by them. And of course, given his last encounter with Veronica - it was clear that he was being heavily recruited for some reason - perhaps to be a high-profile "convert" to the free-thinkers, perhaps to become a double agent of sorts, perhaps to be Veronique's special confidant. And would was to be made out of that last, unexpected, mysteriously silent display of affection she had left him with? It was clear he was having big doubts about the club about the people in the club, about everything surrounding the club - but something was keeping him loyal in a visceral way. He reflected back upon a conversation he'd had with one Simon on a windy November day. Simon was going on about the "horrors" of the past day's news cycle -  executions by the drug cartels, gangs of pirates on the Liberian coast, human traffickers targeting women from Eastern Europe,  elderly patients being locked in warehouses and forgotten, teenagers in Chicago being charged with murder and mayhem, children neglected or forced to work in seedy dens making high-end clothing... That's why I'm in this club, he said. To deal with the horror - the absolute terror of life on this planet. You really think it's that bad? I mean how much evil have you seen up close? Oh I've seen. I've seen too much. That's why I joined. What have you seen really? I am privy to some shocking information...Yeah?

The wildflowers on this particular day were intoxicating. The twins began collecting samples (violet, yellow and fuschia)  holding them in bundles and leaving trails as they scampered, at this point, lost amid the charms of the endless blueberry field that seemed to extend eastward toward the shoreline and westward ended in woods and the horizon...The flowers became the focal point...many were commenting on the technical names for the specific colors, on the inner shapes of the flower petals, on the length of stems,  on the textures and fragrant smells - as if these were part of a revelation they were yet to received. Only Sarah held back while the others tossed samples back and forth, laughing, trading, exchanging souvenirs. Sarah had that sudden serious look on her face such as oracles and dream interpreters assume during moments of irrevocable insight. She seemed bemused by the flower-gathering and yet her mind was elsewhere as if to say that all this was indeed child's play compared to what she and her unrelenting stare were focused on. She seemed to be staring into the distance as she spoke, looking briefly at Simon and then at no one in particular. It is better that I say this now, perhaps, while we are all gathered here...out in this, our sacred field, our hidden field...Many prophets in ages past were said to have disappeared for days at a time and to have communed with God or the higher powers, were said to have been taken by God for days, months or years at a time....And to some of you, although at first it may sound contrived, it has been disclosed to me that one of us will soon disappear for a time, but that we are not to grieve or panic, that this too shall yield a fruitful harvest of the sort that R.J. has been telling you about....One of us will what? - Yes...it is troubling to hear at first, but it shall of a certainty come to pass that one of you, one of us, rather, will be called to commune with the higher Spirit, for a time...only when this happens, you must not panic, nor shall you tell any adult person or go to the authorities, but this shall be...