by David Arnold
1899. (Or 1900, depending on the source.) Sigmund Freud publishes a book called The Interpretation of Dreams, in which he refers to this effect as hallucinatory. His book touches on other topics such as condensation (when a single object within a dream represents multiple ideas or feelings), displacement (when the dreamer substitutes one thing in their dream for another), and wish fulfillment.
Freud began his clinical work as a hypnotist, until one day a patient just wouldn’t shut the fuck up long enough to be hypnotized.
Freud realizes that if you let the patient talk, uninterrupted, there is no need to induce a complex state of consciousness in which the individual morphs into a very compliant puppet. Just talk. Eventually, those talking will let down their guard and raise the curtain on the unconscious self.
Freud would go on to abandon hypnosis for psycho-analysis.
Dreams remind me of being underwater, how everything close to me slows down while the world above continues its frenetic trajectory. And when I swim, I think of words like inwardness and peace and solitary, and in this place it doesn’t matter if the population of the world is seven billion or seven; I am free to start my own trajectory.
I don’t really miss swimming. But I do miss that.
27 → application
The cover of David Bowie’s biography is a barrage of bright pinks and blues, like a rainbow having an orgasm, and I think, Here is a cover befitting the man himself. I’ve read it a few times. Some books are songs like that, the ones you go back to, make playlists of, put on repeat. And then sometimes I just pull the book off the shelf and hold it, knowing that’s as close as I’ll ever get to Bowie himself.
I bring the book to bed with me, crawl under my covers with all my clothes on, burrow into those white sheets and blankets, shut down power, and imagine the mute bark of a dog, the soaked person in the corner, the blinding tornado of colors. And while I can write about dream theories until I’m blue in the face, the truth is, I don’t feel much like falling asleep tonight. Because I don’t know how many nights in a row constitute a recurring dream, and I don’t care to find out.
NOW FOR → PART THREE
Mod: During an interview with the Portland Press Herald, you’re quoted as saying, “Sometimes writing is quitting. You know how many times I’ve quit? Thousands, just for the good of my own soul.”
Henry: Yeah.
Mod: For someone who so clearly believes in the magic of writing, the magic of storytelling, I wonder if you might explain what you mean by that.
Henry: That was what—a decade ago?
Mod: So you don’t think it anymore?
Henry: I don’t know.
Mod: Come on.
Henry: Saying I don’t know isn’t a non-answer. I don’t really know how I feel about writing. It’s like . . . any other love.
Mod: In what way?
Henry: It’s like a pendulum, I guess. If the bob swings hard one way, it’s going to swing hard the other eventually. Now, if it’s just barely swaying, sort of caught in the middle, it doesn’t go very far in one direction or the other. This is why a casual acquaintance might cause only minor irritation, while someone we truly love can induce murderous rage. Do I want to quit writing? Absolutely. Do I fucking hate my life some days? Sure. But that’s because I love it. And I trust the pendulum.
Mod: So when the pendulum swings the other way, when it’s not about quitting—when it’s something you love—what is writing?
Henry: I think . . .
(Silence)
Mod: Yes?
Partial transcript from “A Conversation with Mila Henry”
Harvard, 1969
(Henry’s last known public appearance)
28 → I think writing is less about the words and more about the silence between them
Over the next couple of weeks, I saw changes everywhere I went—understated, yet undeniable—and it reminded me of something Henry said in one of her final public appearances about words being less important than the silence between them. And in some cases my changes were like that, like the silence between the words: like how Christa and Carla now chatted up study hall with their dreams of a Venice honeymoon, whereas before it had always been Paris; or how Rawlings the quarterback (I never knew if Rawlings was his first or last name) now greeted me daily with a “’Sup, dude?” in the hallways between third and fourth block; and some were more physical, like I could swear Benji Larkin had never been that tall, and Rachel Dillard had never worn glasses, and so on, like that.
I sent Circuit a quick Facebook message (apparently we’re “friends,” though I have no memory of this happening) asking for his phone number. I didn’t want written documentation of this conversation. I’d considered walking over to Piedmont, confronting him in person, but that house loomed too large in my mind.
The first time I called, I was keyed up, and he answered on the first ring, which just keyed me up even more.
“What the fuck did you do to my head, Circuit?”
“What?”
“You heard me, motherfucker.”
And that was about the extent of things.
I kept calling, one day after the next. He never answered after that first time, but I liked the thought of him feeling his phone ring and hoping it wasn’t me again. I liked the thought of his face when he saw my name on his screen, and I liked him knowing I was present. And maybe because the changes were more trivial than monumental, these unanswered phone calls were enough.
For a while.
29 → ch-ch-ch-ch-ch-ch-changes
“You ever notice how artificial peach flavoring tastes like how earwax smells?” asks Alan, contemplating the lollipop in his hands.
“What?”
“You know, peach candy,” he says. “It tastes like how earwax smells. That can’t just be me.”
“It can just be you.”
We came to the library this morning instead of the Alcove. Alan’s idea. He said it was best if I avoided Val for a day or two. Apparently she was still stewing over our argument in the kitchen yesterday.
Alan bites into the hard candy and stares at the little white stick all pulpy from having been in his mouth so long. “But I prefer peach, which seems . . . disturbing. Like, I choose it over, say, lime, which actually tastes like limes.”
“Feels like we’ve talked about this before,” I say.
“Now, obviously I’d choose to eat a real lime over earwax, but in candy world I choose peach—which tastes like earwax—over lime, which tastes like limes.”
“Who can explain the curiosities of the human body, Alan?”
“We are a weirdo species, yo.”
“So when did you sell your comic collection?”
Alan looks at me like this is the strangest part of our conversation thus far. “What?”
“You sold them, right?” I ask. “Or traded them for another collection?”
“Dude.”
“So that’s a no, then.”
Alan, distracted, looks around the library. “Listen, let’s keep this whole thing under wraps. I don’t like all the whispering in here—too many suspicious ears, you never know who’s listening.”
“So you did sell them?”
“What? No. I mean about the earwax thing. Last thing I need is something like that getting around school.”
I briefly consider the possibility that I was wrong in the first place, that Alan has always loved Marvel, always hated DC. But we’ve gone to all the Batman movies, debated the better Joker; we saw the latest Superman only to walk out of the theater with a pound of kryptonite dangling from our necks; and we even saw the Batman v Superman bullshit cash cow, which we agreed was worse than the Superman reboots.
I’m not wrong about this.
Alan points to the next table, where a couple is hunched over a textbook, clearly flirting. “What do you t
hink’s going on there?”
“Probably one of them prefers booger-flavored potato chips.”
Alan shakes his head. “Weirdo species, yo.”
* * *
I eat lunch in my car for a few days, and it’s peaceful, the solitude of the school parking lot; I listen to music, revel in the sameness of everything. Third day in, I have the Beatles on shuffle when “Across the Universe” comes on and, like a flashback, the snap of a finger, I’m transported to a snow day last winter when Val had braved the elements to come over for a movie in our basement. Alan was sick, or something, so it was just the two of us.
“Oh, let’s watch that,” she said.
The icon for the movie showed a couple about to kiss in the middle of a heart-shaped apple. “Val. Come on.”
“Uh-uh, wait. Read the synopsis. The whole movie revolves around Beatles songs. You love the Beatles.”
“Of course I love the Beatles. Who doesn’t love the Beatles?”
“People who hate music, I guess.”
“I’m just not sure I love the Beatles enough to watch a romcom.”
The movie was called Across the Universe, and we ended up watching it, and it wasn’t a romcom at all, and I loved it. Val too. And when it was over, we just sat there on the couch in the basement, Val’s legs propped up on my lap, and I listened to her amazing insights on cinematography, the different shots and lighting, and as always, I felt lucky to be in her orbit.
“It could be like a movie-music crossover post,” she said, talking about her plans for an Across the Universe photo. She was wide-eyed and keyed up, and I loved when she got this way. “Who do we know who has a vinyl collection?”
“My dad,” I said.
“Really? You think he has the White Album?”
“Probably. Is ‘Across the Universe’ on the White Album, though?”
Val said it didn’t matter which album that particular song was on, since the whole movie was filled with Beatles songs. She was more concerned with the artistic direction of the shot, how the colors of the DVD cover (which she’d already ordered on her phone) would need to pop against a stark white background. “Will you find out if he has that record? I’ll need to buy it otherwise.”
Dad was away for work, so I texted him.
Me: Do you have the White Album on vinyl?
Dad: Does Harry Connick Jr. have one luscious head of hair?
Me: Um.
Dad: Is nutritional yeast the secret ingredient in vegan mac and cheese?
Me: Dad.
Dad: Yes. He does, and it is. And I have all the Beatles’ records on vinyl. (Except Magical Mystery Tour, which doesn’t count.)
Val was glowing. “It’ll be perfect.”
In the car now, I turn off the song, stick a half-eaten sandwich in my lunch bag, and pull up her Instagram—scroll through hundreds of photos of records and bands, thinking maybe this one will still be there. It is relevant to both music and movies, so it’s possible. And maybe more than any other photo Val took, this one made an impression on me. I’d witnessed its conception, watched the seed of her idea germinate and ultimately blossom. Whatever the case, I remember the post well and Val was right: it was perfect.
I stop scrolling, click on a photo, and there it is, her Across the Universe post complete with DVD and vinyl.
But it’s not the White Album. It’s Magical Mystery Tour.
That’s the last day I eat lunch in the car.
* * *
I’d pretty much ignored Penny back on the first day of school when she’d commented on Fluff’s newfound agility, but as the days wore on, I couldn’t help noticing it myself. Before, if there’d been some rando pit to fall into, or wet cement to get stuck in, or a banana peel to slip on, that dog had been sure to find it. But recently there was an undeniable sense of cool about him, like he’d been injected with a B12 shot or discovered the fountain of youth.
“I think he needs a new name,” says Penn. We’re in the backyard, watching him defend a small nest of baby birds against a stray cat.
“You can’t just rename a dog, Penn. Especially not one as old as Fluff.”
“He just doesn’t seem like a Fluff anymore.”
She’s right. He seems different, like a pup again. “Okay,” I say. “How about Hepburn? Heppy, for short.”
“Doesn’t fit. But that reminds me—did you read my letter yet?”
“What?”
“The pros and cons list.” Penny sighs dramatically. “You didn’t read it.”
“I did, actually. Just sort of forgot about it.”
“Well, I didn’t want to bug you.”
“That’s very generous, Penn.”
Penny looks up at me, unwavering. “And?”
“You just said you didn’t want to bug me about it.”
“And you just said you read it. But hey, far be it from me to act the part of the annoying little sister. Forget I asked.” And then, a minute later: “So what should we call him?”
“Who?”
“Our dog?”
“You really want to change his name?”
Penny taps her chin. “Who’s your favorite actor? And don’t say Bowie.”
I have to give Penny credit for even knowing David Bowie was an actor, too. “Okay, well, if not Bowie . . .” Boogie Nights was one of the older movies Val insisted I watch, and one of my favorites. “Mark Wahlberg.”
Fluff abandons the baby birds, runs straight for me, sits on his hind legs, and gazes lovingly into my eyes.
“Mark Wahlberg,” I say just to see what will happen.
Fluff barks once.
“Mark Wahlberg.”
Fluff barks again.
“Well,” says Penny. “Guess we found the name.”
* * *
My parents: Mom’s scar was still a mystery, and at first I thought maybe Dad was off the hook, that for whatever reason he’d proven immune to this epidemic of subtle modifications.
But then, two nights ago, on my way to the bathroom in the hallway, I heard that nineties sitcom canned laughter coming from inside my parents’ bedroom. Single episodes of Friends often turned into late-night marathons, but something sounded different. I tiptoed up to their door until I was close enough to hear clearly. It wasn’t Joey making them laugh, or Phoebe, or Chandler. I’d never actually sat down and watched a full episode, but I’d been around the show so long, heard it in the background, seen clips while walking through rooms, that I was pretty familiar with it.
And this sounded new. Some guy talking about how he liked sports, how he thought maybe he could be a professional color commentator, when someone else explains to him that those jobs are usually given to people in broadcasting.
I knocked lightly on the door.
“Come in,” said Dad between laughs.
“Hey,” I said, a prolonged glance at the TV.
Mom paused the episode. “You heading to bed?”
I nodded. “Just wanted to say good night.”
“Noah,” said Dad, clearing his throat. “We wanted to give you some time with the offer. But have you had a chance to consider?”
“Hmm?”
“Coach Stevens’s voicemail. It’s huge news, bud. Just wondering what you think about it all.”
I nodded toward the TV. “What’re you guys watching?”
They gave each other a quick look like I was playing a prank or something. “It’s Seinfeld, Noah.”
“Oh, okay. You taking a Friends breather?”
Mom said, “What’s a friends breather?”
“No, I mean—you’re taking a break from watching Friends.”
“The TV show?” asked Mom.
I tried to read her eyes. In addition to the scar she wouldn’t talk about, lately it seemed she was avoiding me. I’d walk into a room
just as she was walking out of it, and I don’t know—we’d always been friends, ever since I was a little kid. She’d sit on the edge of my bed at night and tell these amazing stories, and when I found out later she hadn’t actually made them up, but had just regurgitated the synopses of her favorite movies, I never called her on it. Because I didn’t want the stories to end, and because I’ve never been the kind of person to care where stories came from so long as they kept coming.
“Noah?” said Dad, but that’s when I saw it: on the dresser, next to their trusty old DVD player, there was no Friends DVD box set; in its place, there was Seinfeld: The Complete Series.
“You okay, bud?”
I said I was, but I wasn’t, walked back to my room where it was okay to not be okay, crashed in bed with my laptop, clicked play on the Fading Girl video.
A knock on my door, a muffled, “Noah?”
“Not now, Penn,” and I felt like shit, just watched the video until I began to feel I was the Fading Girl: my face became hers, and I stared into the camera every day for forty years while the world around me revolved and evolved, revolved and evolved.
30 → between my sixth viewing and falling asleep
I realize Penny still wears the same brightly colored outfits, maintains an unnatural obsession with Breakfast at Tiffany’s, carries around the same ten-pound persona in the same five-pound sack: so far as I can tell, my sister hasn’t changed at all.
31 → between the moon and LA
“You know how people use putting a man on the moon as their benchmark for what’s possible?” asks Alan. He’s holding up his rectangle pizza, staring at it like he’s about to make out with it.