by Novo Dé
THE eNTROPY sESSIONS
A Series of Simple Conversations,
Spiraling Into Oblivion
A Novel
By
Novo Dé
Dedicated To:
Love and Loss
Without you, I would have never had the
inspiration to write this book
Contents
Title Page
November 1st, 2051
November 1st, 2051
November 2nd, 2051
November 3rd, 2051
November 5th, 2051
November 8th, 2051
November 13th, 2051
November 21st, 2051
December 1st, 2051
December 2nd, 2051
December 3rd, 2051
December 5th, 2051
TERMS AND CONDITIONS
December 13th, 2051
December 21st, 2051
January 1st, 2052
January 1st, 2052
January 2nd, 2052
January 3rd, 2052
January 5th, 2052
January 8th, 2052
January 13th, 2051
January 21st, 2052
February 1st, 2052
February 1st, 2052
February 2nd, 2052
February 3rd, 2052
February 5th, 2052
February 13th, 2052
March 1st, 2052
March 1st, 2052
March 2nd, 2052
Footer Note Reference
November 1st, 2051
“…amn dragon. I, I can’t stop thinking about that damn dragon.”
I pause for a moment, lower my head, smile to myself, and release a small laugh through my nose. As I look up to meet the gaze of the doctor, I know what he’s going to say before he even says it.
“Let’s, umm, let’s focus on that,” he replies. And I smile again, followed by a quick smirk.
“I still can’t shake it, can’t shake that fuckin’ dragon. I felt it then, when I read the book decades ago, and I feel it now. It haunts me. Even to this day.”
The Doctor of course chimes in, “why do you feel like it haunts you?”
I hate this part. I hate trying to explain how I feel about something.
I imagine that sentence is the first thing psychiatrists learn when they get to school; learn how to push the conversation forward with as little effort as possible. And of course after the grind of years, I imagine it’s become a tool to push the conversation to that hour mark so he can bill appropriately.
His gaze is sharp as I sit thinking, carefully gathering my thoughts for a proper rebuttal. In fact, I don’t think he’s even repositioned himself once. Much like a statue.
Just stoic and staring.
He stares at me with his head tipped down, slightly to the left, reading glasses near the end of his nose, digital tablet in hand, a caricature, a cliché if you will, of what people think about when they think of a psychiatrist.
Dr. Christopher Cohen is his name.
With his white button-up and khaki pants, it’s almost like he’s trying to fulfill such a look. But why? He must know he fits this stereotypical image. But he never really changes. Same look, every session. The worst part is…why do I even care? I think that says something about me. He finally uncrosses his legs and re-crosses on the opposite side, breaking the trance of my tangent.
Time to speak.
“Why do I feel like it haunts me?” I say to myself in a whisper before beginning. “Why do I feel like it haunts me? Because his actions make no fucking sense. He just sits on his treasure and does nothing. Yet he knows everything. He has all the answers. The past. The present. The future. He sees all but he does nothing.
Now allota people say that it’s exactly why he does nothing – he can see through the universe, knows the fate of all existence, so he doesn’t have to act. But the day a slave steals one piece of his treasure, everything just suddenly changes – makes no fucking sense. Why such a fuss over a pretty little cup?”
I pause, looking up to find the gaze of the doctor again.
“Y’know it’s funny too…strip away all that analytical bullshit and all you’re left with is a simple plot devise, a simple means to further the story and allow the hero to step in and save the day. Everything works out. Everything in its right place. But, for people like me, it’s never that simple. I want more. I need to understand the dragon. Why then? Why that cup? And of course the more I thought about it, the more I began to realize the fundamental flaw in trying to understand the dragon – I was trying to understand him from the outside, as little ‘ole me. But I realized I would never understand him that way. So I began to think about his motives, his actions, as if I were the dragon.”
And the doctor begins typing in notes again, clearly summarizing the idea of such a statement.
“I had to become the dragon. And the deeper I went, the more I understood the character, analyzing it from what I considered the inside. But no matter how far I got, I still never understood that moment.
Most people, most people don’t even bat an eye at that part of the story. It’s always the other end. It’s always Beowulf. But I think the idea of Beowulf is easy to understand. On the superficial end, he is glory, he is righteous power, he is good putting an end to evil. Blah Blah Blah. All that shit. But on the deeper end, and most importantly, the more interesting end, he is the conceptualization of death.
Beowulf’s demise is one of the first times in literature that begged the question, ‘with the idea of death, where do you stand on life: does everything matter…or does nothing at all?
Now that’s the question that usually haunts people. Because in the end, that’s just something everyone has to find for themselves. But that’s the thing, everyone can find an answer to that question. I even found an answer, as strange as it may be – I found peace in the idea that everything mattered and nothing mattered all at the same time.”
And the doctor begins to type in notes again – lost in his thoughts he has to get down – his eyes cold, face emotionless.
I pause as a cue to allow him to look up at me.
“I guess the point there is, I found an answer. I know it’s an abstract one, but it’s still an answer. But with the dragon, I just, I just, there is no answer, even to this day. And the worst part is, I don’t think I’ll ever find one. But that’s what I’m starting to think the point is, or always will be, never to find an answer.” Stopping, I find my head rocking back without a thought, my line of sight meeting the ceiling.
The doctor looks off for a moment, and then back at me again, squints his eyes, and with his mouth partially open, you can really see the wheels spinning in his head as he gathers his thoughts.
“Y’ know, I read Beowulf when I was in high school too, but I’m not sure if I got what you got out of it,” he replies.
“Well. What ‘chu get?”
“I mean, just that, a story. I remember Beowulf, the dragon, and that one, um, character…” he stops for a moment, frozen in thought. You can tell that the name is on the tip of his tongue. I tip my head to the right and smirk.
“Grendel.”
“Grendel, yes yes, that’s him…” his eyes widen a bit “…I just remember it as this fantasy. Some say, one of the first of its kind or genre or something. But that was it. A story. With characters, a conflict, a climax. Just a story.”
“I mean, yeah, but, isn’t there somethin’ out there, that had a similar effect on you? Something, that just, umm, got a hold of you?”
“Well sure,” he says with a higher pitch to his voice.
“Well that’s just it doc. That’s my point. That’s the first time I felt that way and more importantly, that’s the one that
continues to stay with me. I’ve never quite figured it out. And, and I don’t think I ever will. And that’s special to me in a way. Because it’s shaped who I am, and who I’ll continue to be.”
Pausing, I look up at the doctor and smile.
“And that’s what did it,” I begin again, “That’s what inspired me to become a writer; I wanted to be the creator of worlds. My own universe. A place where I could instill that in others. I wanted to be able to change someone’s life with the simple means of a story.”
A smile looks like it wants to emerge from Dr. Cohen, but it doesn’t quite get there.
“Don’t you see the power in that?” I continue. “And all it is…is an idea. Mere words on a page. But to the reader, it becomes something more, the idea, everything. And therein lies the power. I wanted that. I wanted to use that to become omnipotent. Grand. Fantastical.”
Cohen can’t help but type in more notes with such a statement.
“But umm, I don’t think I ever got there. I’ve written a lot of stories in my career, but I don’t think I’ve ever written that story. And when I realized that, that’s when everything began to, to lead to. That’s when I began to…that’s when I…”
And I trail off, lost in thought, lost on how I was going to finish that sentence, and my eyes begin to water. Soon, I find myself starring at the walls. I hate this fucking room I soon think. It reminds me of a classroom detention hall, the same kind of classroom that reminds others of a prison.
Sterile. Concrete slab walls. Very little decoration. No windows.
Week after week, I ask myself the same question: why this room? Why do we always have to have our sessions in this fucking room?
Cohen decides to bring me back to reality nonetheless, back to the room.
“I know it’s hard. I know it’s hard to open up to someone, to anyone really. But this is one of the few times we’ve really began to make some real headway. And we need to continue to break ground. I mean, think about it, think about how far we’ve come – when we first started, there was very little exchange between us, if any, right?
But now look at us; what started with the occasional back n’ forth, and of course the occasional outburst, is now full length conversations. And based off your digital representation imaging, and the inevitable effects of the medication, we’re beginning to see real change, change for the better. But you do know it’s only by a small magnitude; we’re progressing very slowly, and it’ll continue to be that way, if you don’t start thinking about meeting me halfway.”
I nod ever so slightly. My eyes begin to water again. I’m trapped.
“How often do you take my DRIs?”
“Once a week.”
“Once a week,” I repeat.
“Currently, that’s all our budget allows for. A reminder though, as a patient, you do have access to all your DRI records.”
It used to be that big brother was watching. Now, it’s big data. And they’ll sell your soul to the highest bidder. Doesn’t even matter who anymore. Those records wouldn’t tell me shit anyways. I know it’s not the same records he gets to see. But I wouldn’t waste my time. I could find the same thing on the internet. Plus, neither of us have clearance for the really good stuff.
Digital exhaust is what they call it.
I just call it another algorithm. I never thought a series of zeros and ones would know me better than me. But they do. Big data. Big Big data. I notice Cohen is staring at me again, waiting for a rebuttal.
“Oh ah no, I don’t need to see those DRIs. I’m good.”
“So then going back to ‘meeting me halfway’…” he says with a squint in his eyes again.
I look at the floor and my demeanor grows cold, silent. My fingers are circling my scalp now, ever so gently, creating that massage-like feeling – I can’t help but think about the simplicity of such a pleasure. I miss those feelings, those worlds.
Now I mostly just have this fucking room. My eyes close as I think about what to do, what to say, my hand now holding my head, fingers resting snuggly through my hair on the skin of my scalp.
I know I’m trapped. I still have a choice. But at the same time, I don’t.
“Alright. Sure. Halfway.”
“Let’s try to go back then?
“Go back?”
“Yeah. Take me back. Let’s…walk me through the days leading up to the breakdown?”
“Alright,” I say, pausing. “I ah, I noticed things began to change when I decided to write the one. The story. My Beowulf. I hated my fuckin’ job, my career was going nowhere, felt like my marriage became stagnant – it was time for a change. And I thought this story would be the way out. But it only made everything fuckin’ worse…” I say with a small laugh.
“How so?”
“Well for starters doc, I had writers block. Had no idea what I wanted to write really. I mean, when someone makes a work of art, they don’t say to themselves, ‘alright, I’m gonna make the next big thing.’ Y’know? They usually just create somethin.’ Something that is hopefully honest to their vision.
But of course, the mind I get stuck with actually decides to take on that level of ambition, ‘I’m gonna create the next, big, fuckin thing,’ I used to think, which inevitably turned into this curse. I mean I look back now and it makes perfect sense. The writer’s block was a direct result of the ambition. Ironic right? Every idea was never good enough. I really think that that was one of the major contributing factors of all this shit.”
“How was your marriage at that point?
“Like I said, ‘stagnant,’ not bad per se. I mean, we’ve always had our problems, like any other couple. But honestly, the worst of it...was the routine of it all. The routine and schedules. I mean I actually began to look forward to heated, passionate fights, because one, those would break us from going through the fuckin’ motions of our mundane life together. And two, it reminded me of the love she had for me once, even if it was a just glimmer of the past. I mean ya gotta understand doc, the woman stopped loving me a long time ago. I think she still cares about me in some weird way, sure, but the love, the love’s been gone for a while now. And you’d think we’d divorce, like most do nowadays. But we’ve stayed together, and we’ve stayed together for a lot of reasons, some superficial like financial ties, but mostly, it’s just what we know. Routine.”
Cohen types in a couple more thoughts again on his tablet on that note.
“So I thought I’d kill two birds with one stone: break the writer’s block and break the prison that the routine of my marriage had become. So I began to do what a lot of writers do – research.
I needed something to spark the idea. So I looked at fuckin’ everything. I knew I needed a foundational concept. Something to hold the piece together. But everything’s been done.”
I feel a boiling inside me. I never know exactly what it is, but I know it’s never good. I feel the same way I did on that day, 9 months ago.
“I wanted to make literature, literature again. Cause I had nothin’ else.”
“So how’d you get there?” the doctor replies. His eyes sharp again, almost piercing. His stare, never staggering.
“I went where most writers go in the beginning – Identity. Look inward to find something outward. All that metaphysical shit.”
“And?”
“And. I don’t feel like I found much. Well not enough to create an entire story around. Because no matter what, there’s always going to be a part of you in the story anyways. Y’know, every story is a confession.”
And Cohen smiles.
Cohen actually smiles. No teeth visible. His lips, still firmly in contact with one another. But for a second there, you could see his cheek lift to one side, and the corner of his lips point to the ear. It was definitely a smile.
“Well, what did you find? You wouldn’t have premised it that way if there wasn’t more to it.”
“I found…”
Stopping mid-thought, I begin to notice a cascade of event
s that’ll inevitably bring the conversation to a close. They’re subtle, but people forget that communication goes beyond mere words.
Everything tells a story.
He ever so gently repositions himself in the chair. His left arm gently pronates, which allows the hands of his wrist-watch to meet the gaze of his eyes as he slowly lowers his head down and to the left. The facial muscles surrounding his eyes contract very delicately to help sharpen his vision. His nostrils slightly dilate and his lips begin to purse.
Everything tells a story.
Microgestures is what they call it. Non-verbal language.
I know what he’s going to say before he even says it.
“I hate to do this, but I actually have to stop you right there. That’s actually time.”
Usually at this point in our little chats, I’m elated at the idea that I get to be far away from this fucking room. But not today for some reason.
“Time? What do you mean it’s time? I was just about to go—”
“Now you know it’s nothing personal. We can just simply pick up where we left off tomorrow at the next session.”
“No – Not this fuckin’ time. Can’t you just push the next patient’s—”
“Now you know I can’t do that sir...”
“Sir? Sir! Isn’t this what you wanted. You just said. Y’know, I’ve come in here week after week, month after month, to this shit. And it’s the same thing, every time. And the day I’m actually ready to—”
“Sir, now just calm down—”
“No, you fuckin’ calm down! If it wasn’t for that court order, you know I wouldn’t be wasting my goddamn time like this. And what is this? What is this really? We talk and we talk and we talk. You say I’m getting’ better, but I don’t feel any better. I feel, I feel like this really isn’t doing anything to be honest doc. Same thing, different day. And for what? So I can—”
“Now Mr. N—”
“Just shut the fuck up and listen! Isn’t this what you wanted anyways? A little more emotion right? Talk more right? Open up? All that shit. Well hear it is doc. Just what you wanted. Cause I’m not sure if I can keep doing this shit—”