Otherworldly Maine

by Noreen Doyle

  They found the curious gray figure, its chest wide where Samuel had broken it, resting on the rocks above the water, where it had been before. Samuel walked out across the perilous stones and stood over the thing. He took the icy broken heart of pinkish granite from his pocket and was about to return it to where he found it, when he stopped and turned to his sister with a look of dismay. He had expected to find the old yellow bones lying there in the hollow of that strange gray encasing, but instead found a heap of wilting human hearts.

  ALTERNATE ANXIETIES

  Karen Jordan Allen

  mortal anxiety: anxiety based in the fear of death

  mortal anxiety: anxiety rooted in/stemming from the uncertainty of life

  rooted, stemming—significance of organic metaphors?

  Possible book titles:

  Mortal Anxiety by Katherine Smith

  The Anxiety of Mortality by Katherine Smith

  BIO (or introduction?)

  Katherine Smith’s life has been profoundly affected by mortal anxiety. She traces this back to the age of four, when the family beagle broke its leash while Katherine’s mother was walking it. The dog ran in front of a dump truck and was flattened. The family got another dog, a docile and middle-aged shelter mutt, but thereafter Katherine gave herself the job of making sure the leash was in good repair and properly fastened before the dog got out the door. She didn’t trust her mother, who had already proved herself incompetent in Katherine’s eyes; she didn’t trust her father, who claimed not to be a “dog person” and had grumbled about the new dog; and certainly her little brother, who was only one-and-a-half, couldn’t be expected to keep the family dog safe. Thus Katherine appointed herself: She Who Makes Sure Bad Things Don’t Happen.

  But her anxiety was such that even when she grew old enough to walk the dog, she refused, because she did not think she could bear the pain if something happened to the dog while she was on the responsible end of the leash. Still, she inspected the leash and collar every time her mother (or father, or, later, her brother) took the dog for a walk. At least, she thought, if the dog gets away and gets hurt, it won’t be my fault. I’ve done all I can.

  This continued through a succession of family dogs.

  mortal anxiety comes from:

  1. the impossibility of knowing whether from moment to moment we (or our loved ones) shall continue to exist

  —how can I relax and wash dishes, knowing that I could die any moment of a burst brain aneurysm, or that a stray undetected asteroid could kill me and most other life on Earth, or that one day the Earth will burn to cinders in the death throes of the Sun?

  —note micro-concerns (personal death) vs. macro-concerns (fate of the Earth/Universe)

  2. the impossibility of knowing when the simplest of daily choices (e.g. to leave the house at 4:04 instead of 4:03 or 4:05) is a life-or-death decision

  —I could die in a car accident at the treacherous Outer Ave. blinking light at 4:08 that I might have missed at 4:07 or 4:09

  —so how do I/we know when to leave the house? (consider relationship to agoraphobia)

  Better title: Living with Life’s Great Impossibilities by Katerina Smythe

  could choice of title be a life-or-death decision?

  —I could get up from this chair now and fall down the stairs and break my neck, whereas if I ponder titles for five seconds longer I might successfully negotiate the stairs to make a cup of coffee

  —likely both trips will be safe; 99,999 times out of 100,000, I won’t fall, but who knows when that 100,000th time will be?

  (opening chapter: “Lessons from a Dead Squirrel”) A TRUE ANECDOTE

  One Thursday morning the squirrel with the broken tail, surely the same that frolicked for weeks in my back yard, dove under my Honda’s right front tire as I hurried to Deer Run Community College to give a lecture on apocalypticism to my World Religions class. The squirrel met its personal apocalypse with a sickening thump. I said “oh!” in a pained voice, and glanced into my rearview mirror, hoping that the gray lump on the pavement had suffered no mortal injury, and after a stunned moment would leap up and run into Mrs. Healy’s lilac bushes. But no. I could see, even as they receded in the distance, four little paws, motionless, straight up in the air.

  If only I had taken my usual route to work. Normally I pulled out from my driveway and turned right, but this morning a large semi-trailer had filled most of the street in that direction, and while I likely could have gotten by it, I decided instead to go left and around the block, and I was directly opposite my own house (though with three houses and their yards between) when the doomed squirrel threw itself under my radials.

  The bright sunlight that had so lifted my spirits when I stepped out of the house suddenly fell flat and harsh, illuminating both happiness and tragedy with indifference. If I had taken my usual route, the squirrel would still be frolicking, I would still be smiling to the lively Haydn sonata playing on public radio, and all would be well in my world. At least as well as it ever was. But the event shadowed my day.

  Just as the beagle’s escape forever shadowed my life.

  the eternal moment

  the moment out of time

  when the universe held its breath

  when the universe stopped

  definition of word to be coined: that pause identified only in retrospect, immediately before the life-altering/ending event, the point or fulcrum upon which all turns, before the phone call, the knock on the door, the breaking of the leash, the leap of a squirrel, when one feels certain that the disaster could have been averted had one just been alert enough to perceive that moment and turn it aside

  BIO/INTRO cont’d.

  Years later Katherine would awaken in the middle of the night, remembering the moment when the beagle strained at the leash, just before the leash snapped and the dog leapt away. That she could not go back and fix the leash, stop the disaster, change the story, seemed not only unfair, but wrong—as if she had been shoved in error into a fake world, a counterfeit world, a world that was a mistake. Somewhere, somehow, she thought, the dog must still be alive and happy.

  the alternate universe theory: in some science fiction (and some science), it is posited that events may have more than one outcome, with each outcome spinning off its own universe, so that millions of universes are generated each day; perhaps the squirrel with the broken tail and/or the flattened beagle frolic still in some of those universes

  —equally possible: I lie dead, having noticed the squirrel a half-second earlier, twisted my steering wheel to avoid it, and rammed myself into a tree

  am I in an “alternate” universe? alternate to what?

  A DISTRACTION/DISLOCATION

  Mother called, told me to sit down. “They” found a lump (I didn’t even know she was going for her mammogram); “they’re” going to do a biopsy. But it’s small, don’t worry, it’s a long way from Maine to California, it would be expensive. Your father and brother and his wife are all here, they’ll look after me, I’ll be fine. (But what about me? I’m not fine with this at all, I want to be there. No, that’s not true, I don’t want to be there, I don’t want to be in this universe. But if I have to be, I want to be there, not here, not alone, waiting.)

  the moment: there it was, before I answered the phone, distracted, absorbed in making my coffee, contemplating my book

  I might have turned it aside, but I missed it—

  what if I determine to be alert to those moments, those fulcrum moments (ah! a name!), those pauses in existence before the universe bifurcates, and bifurcates again?

  eternal bifurcations

  eternal, infinite bifurcations

  take this universe back, please, I would like another—

  (chapter title: “The Fulcrum Moment”)

  ANOTHER MOMENT MISSED

  At the Goodwill store the skirts are jammed so tightly I can hardly wedge my hand between them. The metal skirt clips on the hangers catch on one another, locking all the skirts i
nto a long, solid row. I wonder who hangs them, how they think customers can possibly browse with pleasure when they risk physical injury just getting the damn clothes off the rack.

  Irritated, but determined not to be defeated, I claw at the hangers with both hands and force open a few inches of space. I jam my elbow against the skirts on the left and check the size of one on the right, a pretty thing of peach-colored chiffon. Yes, a 10. Just the thing to match a jacket I found here last week.

  Then I see the blood well up under a flap of skin on my right index finger. It oozes out, trickles down my nail, and hangs perilously, a swelling crimson droplet.

  With my other hand I dig in my pocket for a tissue. I catch the blood just as it falls. The peach-colored chiffon is saved.

  In my mental rearview mirror, I glimpse again—belatedly—the moment, the fulcrum moment when in frustration and impatience I grabbed the hangers—not a mortal moment, but still. In another universe, I am already in the dressing room trying the skirt on.

  I check to see if I left flesh or blood on the metal skirt clips. No, but the clips are discolored, rusty. Thoreau’s brother died of tetanus after cutting himself with a rusty razor. I try to remember whether my tetanus booster is up-to-date. With a free-flowing wound like this, the danger is minimal. But what a bizarre and banal death that would be.

  In another universe—

  Perhaps a mortal moment, after all.

  therapeutic value of the alternate universe theory:

  —a sophisticated illusion (?) to help us manage the pain of uncertainty/finality

  —helpful only if we believe we can choose the “better” universe (or does just the vision of, say, the squirrel still frolicking somewhere ease our pain?)

  —not a defense against the eventuality of death, unless we posit universes of impossibly old people (and squirrels and beagles)

  but mortal anxiety =/= anxiety about death

  —the “good” death, quiet in bed at ninety or one hundred, that one is “ready” for (at least some have said they are ready); that death does not inspire mortal anxiety

  —the young death, the accidental death, the “wrong” death that comes before we are finished, before we even know who we are; and the impossibility of foreseeing and avoiding that death, of controlling the terms of our existence—

  New title: Mortal Anxiety and the Alternate Universe by E. K. Smythe (would appeal to multiple markets: psychology, philosophy, science, science fiction; the cover needn’t tell that E. K. is a woman—if that matters)

  BIO/INTRO cont’d.

  Mortal, or existential, anxiety destroyed Katherine’s marriage of five years to “Steve.” He knew of her anxiety when he married her, but neither thought that it would come between them and having a family. “Steve” dreamed of becoming a father. At first Katherine wanted children, too, despite her terror of taking on responsibility for their safety (if she couldn’t trust herself with a dog—then a child?). Then their friends “Bridget” and “Dennis” lost their infant son to the flu. Every year a few, very few, children succumb unpredictably to influenza; theirs was one. Katherine had never seen such intense grief. She kept waiting for time to bring healing, but it didn’t. “Bridget” sank into depression. “Dennis” sought distraction in an affair. They divorced. “Bridget” moved in with her parents and spent her spare time drinking.

  A bottomless well of anxiety opened up in Katherine’s heart. How would she ever survive such a horrendous loss? She knew that people did, that not everyone destroyed themselves or their marriages. Some families circled, like wagons, embracing each other until they could move on. But could she?

  “Steve” mourned the loss of his friends’ child, even tried to help them patch up their marriage. He spoke with Katherine of the risk of that awful pain, the risk of loving as a parent loves. Still, his longing to be a parent survived his contemplation of the risk. Katherine admired his bravery, but could not find it in herself. “Steve” finally left. Now he has a new wife and a six-month-old son. He is happy. Katherine is glad he is happy. But when she contemplates having her own children she falls back into that terrible well of anxiety and only by promising herself childlessness forever can she pull herself out.

  how can I with words open up that bottomless well?

  perhaps I should keep it covered and let those who can maintain their illusions keep them

  or is it the well itself that offers a way into other universes?

  (chapter title: “Creating the Alternate Universe/s”)

  A TEST SITUATION

  My mother awaits—hence I await—the biopsy results. I go online to check prices to fly to California. Then I realize this is the ideal test situation. How many universes can I create, spin off, as I make my reservations? I select “search by price” for a Boston–LA flight and am rewarded with a plethora of possibilities. Overwhelmed, I should say. Which airline? Which day? Which flight? My life will turn out differently depending on the choice—perhaps only a little differently, perhaps a lot. Perhaps end. But I cannot tell unless I peer into those other universes.

  I select a date at random, choose another a week later, look for a flight leaving neither too early nor too late. I take it all the way up to “Click to buy ticket” and my hand freezes over the computer. This is it, a fulcrum moment, I can buy or not.

  And even if I buy, I can go or not.

  Which life, which universe do I choose? To buy this ticket, go on this flight? To buy this ticket, then choose later whether to go or not? To start over?

  I hold my hand motionless, letting my thoughts pour into the moment and fill it, nudging me into this universe or that. Or at least opening a tiny window, a hatch, into other possible universes, so that I know what I am choosing.

  The universes close up tight.

  Tell me, God, tell me what to do.

  God, as usual, is silent. Or not there.

  segue to: “God and Mortal Anxiety”

  —are there universes in which God is, and universes in which He/She is not? or universes with many Gods? or one God for many universes?

  —religious people have been found to be happier, less depressed, less anxious; check research

  —is it the belief in God as such, or the existential certainty that accompanies such belief, that relieves anxiety?

  —atheists are likewise certain; are they less anxious?

  —agnostics, the uncertain, the know-nots: if uncertainty breeds anxiety, then anxiety must trail them like a hungry dog

  (yet more) BIO/INTRO

  Because Katherine teaches religion, her students—and others—assume her to be a religious person. She is a religious person in the sense that the deep questions of life concern her greatly, and she seeks the subjective responses of religion and philosophy, not just the objective answers of science. But so far her studies have shed no light on the question of God. Despite—or perhaps because of—years of religious study, Katherine finds herself a thoroughgoing agnostic. Faith in God and the prospect of heaven, being unreal to her, can neither comfort her nor calm her anxiety.

  could it be belief in heaven, rather than spiritual certainty or belief in God, that relieves mortal anxiety?

  —heaven: a kind of alternate universe accessible primarily through death, perhaps also through trance or vision

  —carrying heavy moral weight (unlike most other alternate universes)

  —pre-existent to this universe? i.e. not a result of bifurcations of it or of universes preceding; or perhaps a very early bifurcation

  but a universe accessible by death is not therapeutically useful when the interior aim is to avoid untimely death

  ways other than death to access alternate universes:

  —inward: meditation, hypnosis, trance, aided by fasting, drugs, pain

  —outward: specialized technology (not yet known), travel at a particular speed or direction, key geographical points/gateways, transitional objects

  is belief in the alternate universe necessary to rea
ch it (as perhaps to reach heaven)?

  —then the agnostic is doomed; neither science nor theology can save her

  (unless in writing this book I find a way—)

  AN OUTSIDE TRIP

  Despite Katherine’s anxieties, she persists in the belief that only total immersion in the vagaries of life will eventually bring security. She knows she thinks too much. To get out of her head, out of her anxieties, she goes to the supermarket. Instead of imagining the universes that may be splitting off as she chooses to take this road instead of that, this parking space instead of that, this shopping cart instead of that, she focuses on the tastes she plans to bring home: mango, pineapple, strawberries. Plain first, then with vanilla yogurt, then whipped with a little sugar and spice into an East Indian lassi.

  Her mouth waters.

  The man in front of her in the checkout line has a basket full of hamburger, a dozen packages. None have been put into a protective plastic bag, although these are provided in the meat section. When Katherine buys hamburger, she pulls a plastic bag over her hand like a glove, picks up the package of meat, then pulls the bag back up, never touching the original plastic-wrap packaging. Who knows, a little juice might have dripped out, a little meat spilled, bacteria-filled, contaminated.

  Katherine has never contracted food poisoning at home.

  She watches the man load the hamburger onto the conveyor belt, notices the wet spot underneath when he shifts the packages to make room for more, a crumb of red that might have oozed out of the plastic-wrap. She looks at her mango and pineapple (there were no strawberries today). Alternate universes spin before her: Despite the hamburger, nothing happens, she washes everything thoroughly and stays well. Or she has a touch of food poisoning, recovers. Or she dies of a new modern virulent form of E. coli. Or—

  She excuses herself from the line, mumbling something about a forgotten item. But she forgot nothing. On the contrary, she remembers too much. She heads for another line, stops in her tracks. Who’s to say the customer three or four places ahead of her, already in the parking lot, didn’t leave the cashier’s hands and the conveyor belt already contaminated?