by Ray Deeg
“You’ll learn about the Fibonacci sequence and see the spiral, the flower of life, in everything. You’ll see the perfect balance of this sacred math demonstrated everywhere. You’ll begin making your own observations. You might even visualize the spherical shape of the measurable universe and the quantum energy fields that operate inside and realize how similar it is to the spherical shape of our own brains and the synaptic action within. Then you’ll come to know that the smallest pieces we can measure with our most precise instruments—atoms, quarks, and protons—behave very much like planets, spinning around stars, circling like galaxies. You’ll discover that all energy spins, and you’ll see everything as a reflection of itself, a giant playground where we live and die and are reborn until infinity.” Divya paused. “Are you with me, Randall?”
“Completely.”
“In just the last hundred years, we have grown closer to understanding our own creation. What are the odds, Randall, that you would be here at this precise moment, lucky enough to witness the very pinnacle of civilization’s evolution? Have you ever asked yourself how it is that this Earth of ours so perfectly circles the sun at the right distance? If the Big Bang had happened even the slightest bit faster, the universe would have torn itself apart. Any slower, and it would have collapsed in upon itself. Gravity had to be strong enough to cause stars and galaxies to condense, but not so strong as to force a cosmic collapse. If electromagnetism were only slightly stronger, all the stars in the universe would be red, likely too cold for supporting life; slightly weaker, and the stars would be blue, intensely hot and only able to burn for only a few million years—far too short a time for intelligent life to form. These margins of speed, time, energy, and gravity are so finely tuned in our universe—so perfect, Randall—that there is less than a seventeen-billion-in-one chance for this formula working so perfectly. Given these facts, you should be astonished by your own existence. But most people are zombies, worried about interest rates and FICO scores.”
Randall could only stare.
Divya stood up, selected a book from a shelf, and handed it over. “Now that I’ve saved you some steps, you can start here.”
Randall accepted the book. “I can see you’ve been through this before,” he said. “I appreciate the abridged version. My grandfather spoke of a key to a heavy door. Do you know what this means?”
“One meaning comes to mind,” Divya replied. “The entrance to the garden of paradise is blocked by a heavy door. To open the door requires the key.”
“What is the door and garden?”
“Symbols of the quest to awaken oneself from the long slumber. The thirst to understand human nature itself, to understand all of nature’s creation. It is the door to life, an entrance through which all things made their way onto this cosmic stage of manifestation and through which they shall return for all eternity.”
Randall nodded, pretending to understand. “I have one last question,” he said.
Divya smiled. “Another pattern; there is always a last question.”
Randall’s smile disappeared. “If someone with great technology could create a window to access the consciousness you speak of, to tap into God, what might be possible? I mean, could you affect people’s thoughts? Travel through time? Read minds? What is the true power of this consciousness on the other side, and what are the rules?”
Divya straightened a length of decorative string dangling from an incense holder at the center of the table. “This, I must admit, is a new question. But if the consciousness on the other side can simply will all things into existence, I can’t imagine there would be many rules. This is pure imagination, nothing less. There are no rules for that which makes its own.”
“No rules, all powerful, and driven by pure imagination,” Randall said out loud. “And if you had a portal to tap into this consciousness, would you use it?”
Divya looked stern. “Now I want to meet your grandfather, Randall. You are speaking of man reaching God through technology, but without acquiring the knowledge, discipline, and character to do so through his own mind. Man is not ready for this. As I said, we need to cook for a while. Look at our world—rather chaotic, don’t you think? We are still animals, albeit with spirits. Our mental capacity is primitive, as is our ability to channel consciousness. We are scared: we build shelters, walls around our minds, to hide ourselves from light and truth. We swim in a deep sea of false options we think are truths. We are dysfunctional, selfish, angry—even vengeful. We wouldn’t know what to do with a portal to possibility other than serve our egos. Men would kill and be killed. No, we are not ready. These things take time.”
Randall stared at the woman’s face. He studied her mouth, nose, and eyes. He saw her wisdom, her patience. And he became angry. You’re wrong, lady, he thought. I have the key to the door, and my time is now.
CHAPTER 10
JOLANDA KULISH WAS working at her computer when the e-mail appeared in her inbox. She quickly compared it to a web page and beamed with satisfaction. “Bingo,” she said out loud. She thought about whether she should relay any of this new information to Randall, given what she’d already observed. She was sure he was in over his head, into something much bigger than he could handle. He was doing wrong, and uncovering it could be a boon to her career. Kulish knew the only way to become a real agent, with the respect of her peers, was to foil something real. Uncovering something like this was exactly what she needed in order to get the attention she craved. But his crime wasn’t big enough yet. In fact, she wasn’t even sure there was a crime. Give him enough rope to hang himself. She decided to allow things to proceed, even to fan the flame a little. She pressed some keys on her phone.
Randall was walking down Lexington Avenue when his phone began to vibrate. “Kulish, what’s up?”
“I got a reply from McAlister, Shuman, and Bock. That’s the law firm handling the Lemily estate. I found some interesting facts. Here’s the thing: Everett Lemily was the son of Howard Lemily. The Lemily family lived in Tuxedo Park, New York, in the 1920s and ’30s. Howard Lemily had done some accounting work for a Wall Street millionaire named Alfred Lee Loomis, a real tycoon. He was also a scientist and inventor; he ran a laboratory in Tuxedo Park and collaborated with all kinds of scientists—people like Albert Einstein and Robert Oppenheimer.” Randall stepped into an alley so he could hear. “According to the case file, Tesla died in 1943. Everything he’d made that wasn’t confiscated by the FBI remained in the possession of Howard Lemily. Howard Lemily died in 1965, and his only son, Everett Lemily, inherited everything—including devices and electronic components built by Nikola Tesla and the other scientists from the Tuxedo Park lab.”
“I didn’t see anything about that in the case file,” Randall replied.
“It’s not from the case file. I have a list of the decedent’s assets from the law firm handling his estate. Everett never wrote a will, so everything defaulted to the state. That’s the description for a lot that was just auctioned and shipped to some antique shop.”
“Auctioned! When?”
“Yesterday.”
Randall was pacing in the alley now. “Tell me you followed the trail, Jojo.”
“Of course. The house went cheap, and the furniture too. There was this beautiful Tiffany lamp that I just loved; it had these amazing patterns—”
“What about the device? Who bought the machine?”
“They’re listed as parts, components; not as a whole machine.”
“Who bought the lot?”
“I knew you’d want that. That’s the reason I called.”
Randall listened intently to Kulish, jotting down her information, but a feeling of anger had set in. That’s my legacy. When he hung up, he realized he was sweating. I can’t see straight. His heart was pounding so hard he could see the veins in his retina superimposed over his vision. With each beat, the world seemed to echo from the middle outward like a ripple in a pond.
Kulish hung up the phone wearing a coy smile. She
noticed her reflection in the window and quickly resumed her usual solemn expression.
CHAPTER 11
PINK FROTHY LIQUID gave way to large chunks of ice spinning up onto the sides of the blender. Tom Hartger’s Saturday was just starting, but he was already excited about the road trip to New Hope. “Where are my sunglasses?” he asked out loud. He searched halfheartedly for a few minutes before he remembered: the armoire—where they always are. As Tom opened the armoire, he noticed a stack of photos, taken several years earlier with actual film. He flipped through them, stopping at a series from the period he and Gwen had been together. They’d met at a record shop across the street from Columbia, become fast friends, and eventually started dating. Tom didn’t have much back then. He was a struggling student anxious to make something of himself. She cared for me when I had nothing. He was suddenly feeling grateful for yesterday’s chance encounter. What are the odds?
Saturday traffic was a breeze. As he pulled up to the sidewalk in front of Gwen’s building, she appeared immediately; she’d been watching for him. They took the short drive through the Holland Tunnel, feeling free of their routine lives. Gwen rolled down her window, allowing her brown hair to swirl around her face. Tom stole glances, remembering the precise shape of her nose—he adored that miniature ski slope at the end. He remembered their name for it: zwiebacka, a word meaning “ski slope” in Swedish. “Remember zwiebacka?” he asked.
“Yes, my dad’s cheese,” she replied.
Tom felt slighted. “No, I thought it was the slope of your nose.” Tom made the curve shape with his finger.
“That’s right,” Gwen recalled. “But it started with the uneven dents that house guests would make in my father’s cheese wedge. My God, would he get angry. It’s just cheese, for God’s sake.”
“I remember,” Tom laughed. “Your dad would take the slicer away and spend ten minutes making it level again, mumbling profanities under his breath. Speaking of talking to yourself, what’s this thing you’re doing, ‘living in real time’?”
Gwen stared forward, not making eye contact. “It’s a framework for thinking about how you’re thinking. It’s a method for processing the information life feeds you and for realizing what’s actually happening, rather than simply trusting the default personal interpretation. I teach people, mostly patients, how to interpret life’s live stream to help them understand how and why their mind reacts the way it does so they can start catching these constant distortions.”
“Is this for anyone, or for people with some sort of—condition?”
“It’s for anyone with a human mind; everybody has that condition. You see, everyone shortchanges themselves, but they don’t know they’re doing it. The lessons I teach are personalized, designed to help people recognize life’s real opportunities and understand its sorrows. Some of it’s about allowing people to become aware of the altogether unnecessary suffering they cause themselves. Other parts involve allowing people to see, hear, and perceive what’s actually happening rather than the preconceived movie reel we use to fill in the blanks. Bottom line, real-time therapy allows my patients to understand that all their tomorrows are based on how they react to information today. It helps them understand that they can live a life of their own design, without all that noise and unnecessary suffering.”
Tom thought on Gwen’s words. He found the idea fascinating, but there was something about it that conjured visions of brainwashing and cults, hypnosis and chanting. “Sounds interesting,” he replied. “How would someone know if something like that could be useful for them?”
“Let me prequalify you.”
“OK…” he replied reluctantly.
“The voice in your head—do you notice how it takes on both sides of the conversation?”
Tom nodded. “Um, yes.”
“OK, you qualify.” Tom laughed playfully, and Gwen grinned. “The habit begins in childhood, with what we call private speech,” she said. “We all did it, speaking to ourselves out loud while playing with cars or dolls or just looking out the window. The ego self, which is pure illusion, pushes reality out. It constructs a future from random expectations and a past from regrets, fear, and pain. As we grow older, the habit solidifies. Most of us still converse with ourselves, but we do it silently. We talk to ourselves, and more often than not, we don’t realize the voice is us. The moment you relax and it’s silent out here, the voice starts a conversation in there. It sounds like this: ‘Why didn’t I call the mortgage company? I was supposed to do that today. I’m so irresponsible—it’s probably because I’m not happy in my job. I need to stop all these thoughts and get some sleep. Then why did you not remember to call the mortgage company? I need to lose weight. What’s wrong with me? Shut up; just shut up. Am I insane? If I had a better credit score, I could get lower interest rates. My life has been one big nightmare.’ Then it’s five in the morning, and you’re exhausted.”
Tom was shocked. “Now I get it. It’s funny—that’s actually not far from what I do to myself. How can I stop it?”
“First, you should know it’s not really you doing the talking. What you’re doing is a little like putting your arm in a sock and making the sock talk. You’re not the sock, though. The voice can say anything it wants—good things or bad things. It can ridicule you, compliment you, make you feel guilty, call you a loser. You have to realize that it’s talking and that none of what it says has value. You have to understand that you are the one controlling it. Make it say something right now. Make it say ‘New Hope, Pennsylvania.’”
New Hope, Pennsylvania, Tom thought to himself.
“Now make it whisper.”
New Hope, Pennsylvania.
“Now make it scream.”
NEW HOPE, PENNSYLVANIA!
Tom blinked a few times and then grinned. “After my sock puppet screamed, it started singing: ‘Clap your hands everybody, and everybody clap your hands…’”
“Oh, it’s very talented. All of them are. And no matter what it says, none of it is the right thing or the wrong thing; it’s just meaningless words. But if you’re wondering, the real you is the one that listens, the observer. The real you is the one that sees and hears. There’s only one real you, but the mind does funny things to confuse you into believing that just because the voice comes from inside your head, it’s you. The main point, Tom, is that the only real you is the observer.”
“Torture! Why do we do this to ourselves?” Tom asked as he changed lanes. “It’s like the talking navigation system in this car—it’s usually not helpful, and often it’s just wrong.”
“A perfect metaphor” she continued. “It’s an intruder saying stuff at the most inopportune times. It’s like having a squatter in your mind. It’s always with you, chattering away at everything you see and making useless observations. The squatter can be petty and bitter and passes judgments of all kinds. We partition the world into inner and outer experience, a mirror of our own inner division. We embrace this separation without realizing there is only one reality. The world is a single process occurring in our consciousness, and it is only by realizing that process that we can finally grasp what’s really happening, know who we really are.”
She pointed to the other side of the highway. “Look at that guy weaving all over the road. He’s probably an alcoholic. I wonder if I could be an alcoholic. My mother was an alcoholic—it runs in my family. Look at that house. Those bushes are so manicured, they probably have a landscaper. Landscaping is expensive; I’d rather do it myself and save the money. But if you work sixty hours a week, you need to have some free time. But if you don’t save enough for retirement, then you’ll be working at Dunkin’ Donuts when you’re sixty-eight. That would be terrible; I’d eat everything there and just gain more weight—when will I take my health seriously? I never go to the gym; I have no discipline; my life is not satisfying.” Gwen shrugged. “You see? It starts with things you see and hear, but they’re not really the point. No matter where you start, the squatter in you
r head takes you down the same road of useless suffering.”
“You’re amazing at that,” he said. He was genuinely impressed but suspected that she was telling him this for a reason. Perhaps she was trying to help him see his own flaws. He wondered if she could somehow sense how afflicted he was by his own inner squatter.
“The voice makes you feel connected to the things you see,” Gwen continued. “It gives you the illusion that you have control; it makes you think there’s something you can do in there to change things out here, as if there were a way to connect you with the things out here. Now it’s no longer just a random car driving down the highway. It’s a car you’ve seen. It’s passed through your sea of opinions; you’ve given it a label, categorized it, judged it. Those thoughts you brought in from the outside become integrated with all your thoughts and make up your unique value system and experiences. Understanding this can take several sessions, but this is the beginning of understanding the insanely terrible thing we do to ourselves each waking moment. The suffering we put ourselves through and the opportunities we squander pile higher than we realize or admit. Once you understand how much time and energy you’re wasting, you can begin to focus on what’s truly important to the real you, the observer. You can literally begin to hear the real you talking when things quiet down in there.”
“I’m totally floored,” Tom said. He was having a terrific time. He’d forgotten how intelligent Gwen was—and how attractive. Tom exited the highway and followed a rural road lined with fruit stands, florists, farmers’ markets, and other familiar sights of rural life.
As they passed a small wooded area, a baby-blue water tower came into view. Embossed on the side of the tank in large letters were the words New Hope. The vision instantly captured Tom’s imagination. The water tower was completely familiar, but he wasn’t sure why. As they moved closer, Tom predicted how the pattern of steel girders and support cables would become wider toward the bottom of the structure. “I’ve seen that water tower before,” he said.