Monopolised no more

I think it’s time we unplug the oil/petrol companies from the monopoly of market price fixing but I don’t know if I have all the facts.

In other words, if I have an oil well in Texas and supply petrol to gas stations in Tennessee, then I set my own prices at the pump, regardless of some arbitrary barrel price for crude oil that doesn’t reflect my economies of scale, right?

Same for corn, soybean, and other imaginary future prices…

It’s my supply-and-demand that puts food on the table because of my smart business practices, not at the whim of market speculators/manipulators who may not have me and my family/community’s best interest in their interest.

Sometimes, the simplistic viewpoint helps me make better decisions.

Hmm…

AK-47 or Turing machine — which would you rather have when you’re under attack?

Attack is a word that needs a good adjective — verbal, military, viral, bacterial.

Let’s go in another direction, instead — the debate about Calvinism.

No, let’s go one better — the extended order of human cooperation (aka capitalism).

The toughest yards

For those who write, whether for business or pleasure, is there a congenital condition that drives them (us!) to put chalk to slate, pen to paper or finger to touchscreen?

Writing, in whatever form, with whatever instrument, is meditation to me.

I meditated upon the benefits of organised sports when I covered high school sports for the Huntsville Times newspaper in the mid-90s.

I meditated upon the benefits of technology when I wrote computer code, starting in the 1970s entering opcode for microcontroller systems built in my and my friend’s basement.

I meditated upon symbolic writing when I drew artwork or made stop-action animation in the past few years.

Meditation is still a perplexing activity to me, as strange a label as chemicals listed on a shampoo bottle (“I’m putting what in my hair?”).

Writing and meditation are interlinked and mysterious, as they should be.

I receive emails written by anonymous people, covering topics that are the same to me but in apparent opposition to each other, including ones from a group called the Presidential Prayer Team (“Mobilizing America to Pray”) and ones from a group called the Brights Network (“illuminating and elevating the naturalistic worldview”).

Is meditation simply one way amongst many to learn?

The older I get, the more I realise the less I know.

I want to believe I am personally wise but keep opening myself up to letting the wisdom of strangers and friends/family enlighten me, taking time every day to reflect upon my ignorance.

If meditation is how to handle ignorance, I am happy.

Would you rather…

Would you rather pursue, be pursued, play hard to catch or ride the train to work?

Do you trust your computer’s hard drive is spinning for your sake and not the sake of some other entity to your detriment?

I want to wax poetic surfboards today but a storyline, especially new insight into a character, waits for my typing skills…

Off to my fictional parallel universe I go!

Xemit

Three sounds my ears-to-brain connection cannot easily distinguish from the other: the roaring sound of a jet flying high overhead, the sound of hard plastic wheels of a baby carrier my neighbour pushes down the street, the sound of the heat pump through the house walls.

Soon, I shall be back on course, having achieved an important goal, and can return my character Lee to his Martian settlements.

What is the difference between meditation and prayer?

My GP M.D. gave me a book titled The Power of Habit by Charles Duhigg.

As I flip through it, I ask if the difference between meditation and prayer is like the difference between Ubuntu Linux and Microsoft Windows operating systems.

Since everything around me is the illusion I want it to be, then I get to choose to say what differentiates meditation from prayer, taking into consideration all the billions of folks like me in order to keep my illusion in relative peace with itself, more and more free of unnecessary conflict as the measured changes between sets of states of energy we call days pass by.

Understanding that the semipermeable membranes we call cultures filter how the changes pass from one set of billion to another.

In this meditative moment, I let contradictory thought patterns pass through each other with ease, able to watch them reverberate out of phase with each other secure in my beliefs that who I am is who I am and who you are is who you are, no need to feed natural levels of insecurity, happy to build up our healthy level of support for our comfort zones.

I used to fear not having the right answer for questions, quite possibly due to my school-age training when being a people pleaser meant wanting to provide the learned responses to questions taught to us by our authoritative, grownup teachers, and get immediate approval from them for my support of the teachers’ participation in the education system upon which they depended for their livelihood, mental health and social acceptance.

The path toward my eventual demise takes many detours.

Luckily, despite some of my unhealthy habits, I am, at 51+ years of age, healthier than I should be.

According to new guidelines, there seems to be no more reason for me to take the blood pressure and cholesterol lowering medication that had been prescribed for my former unhealthy habits.

If I paid for three months’ worth of the medicine and have used a month of it, should I go ahead and finish what I have, throw it away or give it to someone who might could use it (I love the colloquialism of that last phrase)?

Regardless, it is, as the whisper said, time for me to step up to the plate and be a man.

Tonight, I take an important step in that direction, having postponed this step because of a habit in my childhood of being ornery to keep a small distance between myself and my father’s stern shadow hanging over me, matching passive-aggressive response to passive-aggressive paternal discipline system.

What happens next is a series of decisions that divert/reduce childish/immature behaviour and encourage childlike wonder/amazement in accomplishing mature tasks.

All while focused on a major event 13286 days from now.

How will I include my sardonic/sarcastic/wry humour in this new direction I’m taking?  Perhaps by saying it’s time I pass the zeitgeist humour making to others so I can spend more time on timeless issues in which humour is incorporated at a less obvious level, in the whole shape of society rather just in sarcastic throwaway headline news.

I don’t have a ready answer and I’m learning it’s okay to say I don’t really know what’s going to happen next.

I am secure in knowing uncertainty is a key component of my future.

Is that the difference between meditation and prayer?

Is meditation simply accepting the here-and-now as it is and prayer a request for a certain change to occur?

No, that’s not it.  In both cases, gratefulness is accepting what is and being thankful for it.  Meditation may be a request for peace in a troubled life.

How about if I just lean my head back and take a quick nap?

Withdrawal symptoms

Lee looked at the Moon.

Full.

Its face lit from ear to ear.

He sipped unsweetened tea through a straw.

He had acclimated to the planet’s atmosphere.

Listening to conversations at nearby tables in the Mediterranean cafe, he asked himself what drove the animals to sit upright in chairs, stabbing food with forks and lifting it to their mouths, a seemingly inefficient method of fuel consumption.

Which Lee was he?

He knew he was not the first, the original version of himself lost to the ravages of natural body aging processes, close approximations stored in ISSA Net database structures for replication and ability to stay in play during the ongoing chess match of life in the inner solar system.

He observed the dense mats of water vapour greying the sky, low clouds passing right to left or southwest to northeast in his view.

The weather forecast predicted heavy bands of rain, the unstable air mass collision between two temperature zones.

Lee took stock of his external covering.

Were the layers of clothing sufficient to keep him cool during the warm weather today and the cool rainy weather later in the evening?

How much protection did he need?

Would he avail himself of the dominant species’ infrastructure or forego ready-made transportation networks and walk to his next destination?

The “muscles” of his legs had accumulated toxic chemicals that prevented him from long distance running across the local terrain.

He missed the gravity of Mars but not the uniforms that allowed him to breathe and survive the temperature swings and solar radiation on the surface of Mars.

Developed to handle many a Martian sol, he still had body connections to Earth’s environment due to his link to the original Lee.

He rubbed his thighs.

A perceptible ache throbbed below the skin.

His body had been running for days.

He needed a break but had to stay on schedule.

Lee wondered if he could find what he was looking for.

The schedule left no room for doubt.

He had to acquire his target, no question about competing against the weather or aberrations in his body’s behaviour.

Lee hadn’t slept well for three straight nights.

He was suffering a type of withdrawal, a homesickness he had not been trained to anticipate and compensate for.

He sorely missed the touch and voice of Bai, he had an almost daily addiction to Guin, and the familiar smells of Martian food were not refreshing his memories in normal patterns as he was used to.

Lee was no trained special agent or spy. He was not a highly-skilled militaritian sent to keep the ISSA Net finely-tuned.

Lee was on Earth to accomplish a mission for the future, his role purely temporal, sent by his original self in the past to return to the home planet and retrieve a milestone buried behind the cornerstone of a prehistoric building almost guaranteed to exist regardless of the wax and wane of civilisation.

The original Lee had not accounted for checkpoints and tracking systems that analysed the movement of the bipedal animals and predicted their behaviour.

Lee did not want his movements to predict his destination in case someone or some algorithm in the ISSA Net perceived Lee’s plans as a threat that needed to be stopped.

To reduce endangering the schedule milestone retrieval, he had randomised his direction, assuming the role of a vagabond, a wanderer, passing near his destination several times without stopping, spending days in one spot doing nothing but sitting and observing, then running for weeks from place to place, expending energy he wanted to conserve, wearing out his body parts without access to replacements until he returned to Mars.

He decided it was time to approach the destination.

He shook his head from side to side to pop a vertebra back in place.

He wanted to send a thought to Guin, feel Bai’s hand running down his spine, but he could not risk the lives of the future Lees because of his personal needs.

Lee breathed.

He smelled the air.

Olive oil. garlic. Perfume. Sodium chloride. Styrofoam. Grilled chicken breast.

He had stored enough fuel in his body to last a few days, compensating for his worn legs, to give him a chance for long distance running again, if not a few sprints, too.

Lee stood up.

Time to go.

Get the milestone on time and he could return to Mars.

If not…?

Lee pushed doubt out of his thoughts.

He always achieved his goals.

Lee never planned to fail.

No one can break the cycle but me

So, I have been able to hide from myself under the guise of my subculture for most of my life, the true self revealed in quiet, out-of-the-way moments, in foreign lands, under the influence of being under the influence.

It’s easy to sit in a cabin in the woods, free to let my true thoughts wander, find their way here, rather than have to face truth-or-consequences in society at large with my actions.

When I jumped back on Facebook for a day, reading the posts of people from my past — childhood friends, classmates, neighbours, workmates, etc. — I can only guess they are who they say they are.

I was never quite myself with them.  I was the people pleaser, seeking to perpetuate the image I was raised to project — a white, middle-class, monogamous Protestant American man/boy.

In my thoughts, though, that’s not who I am.

“Actions speak louder than words.”

True, I derive some comfort from seeing the subculture in which I was raised is still loved and cared for.

I admit affirmation of my external self is a form of comfort food.

But it only lasts so long until the internal selves are torn by the conflict.

There are only a few reactions between sets of states of energy that I expect to be shared on this planet and then only in the context of my safe, sheltered subculture — equal treatment of members of our species whilst recognising that competition for resources is inherently unequal (for many reasons, geography chief amongst them); that is, life is unfair.

Otherwise, I don’t personally practice any particular religious rituals except when needed to motivate people to accomplish tasks for the sake of populating the inner solar system; I don’t personally work for a military organisation that needs to demonise people in order to build market share but I benefit from those who do; I don’t personally have a stake in political officeholders but I once financially contributed to the campaign of one political party while at the same time was paid to deliver pamphlets for the opponent’s political party.

I am a people pleaser and I am an opportunist.  I am neither psychopath nor sociopath but can study their behaviours and act like one if it means we get a permanent Martian colony in return.

There are days when pretending to care about my subculture is a real drag, but I realise the alternatives can be much worse.

I often wonder why I stay married except I fear that if I, an Eagle Boy Scout who once received a U.S. Navy ROTC four-year scholarship to Georgia Tech, don’t believe in marriage, who will and if nobody does, what’s going to happen to the moral/ethical/religious fiber that we have said historically binds our subcultures together?

But then I look at our American society, which is supposedly composed of 46% of the population that is not married, and it’s doing all right.

Of course, it’s not the same as it once was.

Historically, the American Century was a geographical miracle of wars devastating foreign governments, creating global business competition which gave the impression that the American people (“give us your tired, your hungry, your poor”) were extra-special.

Having a monoculture that dominates the mass media (creating/perpetuating mass hypnosis) will give the impression that the monoculture’s unique traits are the ingredients that make people who they are; thus, premises can lead one to conclude that the American people were extra-special because the dominant monoculture was extra-special and the impression many had was the dominant monoculture was related to Judeo-Christian principles (and some would say it was 98% Christian and 2% Jewish (in fact, a few down here in the Deep South would shout it was 100% Christian but let’s not shout too loud just yet without the facts)).

I can only speak from experience and, in my five+ decades of living, I have observed that many who enjoy a relatively troublefree life of conformity to the Judeo-Christian subculture(s) are happy when they fully believe in and want to stay within the boundaries of those belief sets, regardless of small differences that have arisen over the years due to interpretation of the major religious texts and its various translations.

By extension, in larger subcultural subtextual context, we have belief sets associated with musical tastes; e.g., are you are Garth Brooks or Beyonce fan?  Is there any reason you can’t be both?

Can you be both a Christian and an atheist?

Does the way Miley Cyrus or Beyonce shakes her booty on stage teach feminist values better than a lifelong politician like Margaret Thatcher or Hillary Clinton?

In other words, our associative comparisons make us who we are.

By hiding here in the cabin in the woods, I can compare myself to the rest of the world and see I’m happy by comparison because I don’t have to do much to prove myself day after day.

In the 27+ years I have been married, there have only been two women who virtually held a mirror up to my face, asking me if being married to my childhood friend who has stood by me in my best and worst moments is the woman I want to spend the rest of my life with: Brenda and Abi.  In both of them, there was never a request to divorce my wife and marry one of them, instead, so I have been able to safely and happily use their unspoken question about my relationship to my wife as not personally motivated by them.

Their lifestyles not associated with a church, free from many expectations of social conformity, were the mirrors.

Both have been married and are divorced.  One told me she loves women.  The other told me she recently discovered she’s polyamorous.

I, too, love women.  I, too, recently [re]discovered I am polyamorous.

Therefore, it behooves me to ask myself the question, if my marriage bed has grown cold, if monogamy has lost its meaning to me, why, except for perpetuating my subculture and its current/historical ties to society at large, except for the comfortable financial conveniences that marriage still affords, except for the fact that my wife and I have known each other since we’re 12 and are generally compatible, am I still married?

My wife wants me doing something that brings more income into our household.  The last time I was in that situation, I saw how much I could afford to separate myself from her and put my childhood community behind me…permanently.

I admit it scared me at the time, traveling and working internationally, how much I desired to cut [some but not all] ties with a subculture I no longer believed in but was willing to keep up appearances for friends and family of old because it really isn’t all that bad but I might disappoint a few people if I acted upon my beliefs and not theirs.

When I jumped back on Facebook, I realised that with the hundreds of people there, I was accepting of whatever changes they had made from when I lived in the same community with them — married, divorced, childless, grandparents, nonheterosexual, godless, etc.

In other words, what am I worried about?  Why this unfounded fear of one particular change in my life?

I can talk until I’m blue in the face or, as encouraged by a woman who whispered in my ear this week, I can act on the belief it’s time for me to step up and be a man.

Ultimately, all I want is for our species to expand into the universe.  The rest of this is forgotten jibberjabber.

If I spend time worrying about hurt feelings, I’ll never get anywhere fast.

Cyclical

Appropriately, this blog entry starts while Piano Sonata No. 14 In C Sharp Minor (“Moonlight”), Op. 27/2, by Ludwig van, plays in the background.

Melancholy fills the airs.

The interplay of friendships and miscommunication fills my thoughts.

The renewed sensations of polyamory I first experienced in kindergarten when we took turns being boyfriend and girlfriend on playground swings, in cafeterias, lunchrooms and school buses…

He loves her, but not like that, she loves him unconditionally, he’s got more than one girlfriend, she has more than one boyfriend but wants only him for once.

She wants him, needs him, now more than ever.  Forever and ever, lovers and dance partners, alone on the stage making beautiful music together.

He wants to spend time with friends he hasn’t seen in months in her town after traveling across the Big Pond while she travels out of town on business the same weekend, knowing her best girlfriend wants to spend time with him.

Her best girlfriend remembers what she felt like after her divorce — disoriented, lost, afraid of crowds, wearing headsets to drown out the noise of loneliness and despair.

A word fraught with pregnant meaning and cultural connotations — hope — waits with anticipation.

It doesn’t help when insecurity makes her back itch in unreachable places.

And I, the author, like the best friend, am in the middle of all this, no one knowing my name, looking for a cogent storyline, something to hang onto, some hope that someone will remember my name when I’m dead and gone, knowing it doesn’t matter but it feels good to pretend it does while I’m alive because, gee, what else do I have going on in my life right now…really?

If we can’t find meaning, we can make meaning in our lives.

In that regard, we’re all the same even if we’re all different.

Today, I die another death, another forgotten day of hopelessness that stretches until the end of my days.

The joy of forgetfulness is not knowing how many of these days I’ve already died over and over and over and over and over…

…how many days I’ve picked myself back up, the hole in my thoughts of the death of my fifth grade girlfriend reminding me that life is an illusion of happiness that so many people perpetuate it almost feels real.

I take this imaginary dagger and jab it through my ribcage, ripping my heart apart, the pain searing my chest, filling my thoughts as the lights fade, my eyesight dims and…

Stir up, stirrup, syrup, make Seven Up Yours!

Bai flipped the wall light switch with her elbow to light her bedroom.

Lee looked over her shoulder at a contraption.  “What’s that?”

“It’s my exercise machine.”

“It’s looks like a headless mechanical bull.”

“Sort of.  A horseless bucking saddle.”

“How does it work?”

Bai set the drink cups on her dresser.  “You sit on it and I’ll tell you.”

Lee threw one leg up and straddled the device.  “Like this?”

Bai snickered.  “No.  You’re backwards.  But it might work.  Grab the handle and hold your legs up in the air.  I’ll turn it on.”

As the saddle rocked forward and backward, Lee tried to hold his balance, sliding from his butt and onto his back, his feet pointed toward the ceiling.  “Whoa, Nellie!  How do I stop this thing?”  When the saddle started rocking side-to-side, Lee lost his grip and slid, falling flat on his coccyx.

They both laughed at Lee’s ridiculous position on the floor as Bai bent over to turn off the machine.

Lee pushed against the machine as he slowly stood up, feeling a stinger in his lower back, scrunching his face in obvious pain even though he kept laughing uncontrollably.

Bai reached out to steady Lee and stopped laughing.  “All you all right?”

“Sure.”  He stood up straight.  “I think you may to start over on me.”

“I can do that, if you’ve got time.”

Lee looked down at Bai.  “Thanks.  Give me a minute…”

“You know, I’m surprised you didn’t ask.”

“Didn’t ask what?”

“Everyone who sees the machine asks me if I’ve tried to have sex on it.  And…”

“Well, I guess I…”

“…you can see why I haven’t.  It’s not that kind of machine.”

Lee felt a jolt of pain and his voice fell to a whisper.  “Maybe later…”

“What?!”

“Maybe later…”

“Are you sure?  You saw what you just did.”

“Practice makes perfect.”

“But I just said…”

“Oh, yeah.  I see what you mean.  Sorry, I guess I can try it again later after another massage.”

“If that’s what you meant…”  Bai seized her cup and finished all the water.  “I’ve gotta pee.  You can look in my room but don’t try to make my bed.  Alaur can do that for me.”

“No problem.”

Lee looked around the bedroom.  A paisley suitcase and a pink Helly Kitty makeup case were open on the futon bed.  The pair of folding closet doors, painted robin egg’s blue, were pulled open and the closet light was on.

In the middle of the closet stood a shoe shelf, every hole, meant for a pair of shoes, stuffed with four or five pairs of shoes — sneakers, dance shoes, dress shoes, sandals, boots — about eighty pairs in total.  To one side of the shelf were three special hangers designed for scarves, including the handmade ones Bai had shown Lee and his wife the last time they had visited.

Next to the scarves were six or seven party dresses.

To the other side of the shelf hung pants, blouses and coats, hidden in shadow because of a big box blocking the closet light.

On the floor were more boxes, some with the lids off, containing belts and yarn.

Lots of yarns.  Yards and yards of yarn — thin yarn like wire, yarn with thread as thick and hairy as a cat’s paw, shiny yarn, dull yarn, matted yarn and yarn neatly wrapped around a spool.

Lee stepped forward and one of the spools of yarn moved.

At first Lee thought the yarn had merely fallen.

He leaned over to put the yarn back in the box when it rolled out of his reach and into a dark corner.

Lee felt a hand in the small of his back and almost jumped.

A voice from nowhere whispered to Lee.  “Whatcha doin’?”

He thought it was Bai and turned as he stood up, planning to put his hands on her shoulders and ask about the yarn.

No one was there.

Lee shook his head and turned to see if the yarn was still in the corner.  It was gone.

He walked over to the measuring cup and finished the water, which tasted sweet and cold as if fresh from a mountain spring.

The bathroom door opened.

Bai stood silhouetted by incandescent light from the bathroom.

Draped around her neck, the multicoloured scarf hung down from both shoulders.

The pink cashmere scarf was tied around her waist.

She wore brown boots with leopard print cashmere lining folded four inches over at the top.

Lee felt light-headed — the image of Bai seemed to float toward him.

“Did you finish your water?  Do you want more?”  Bai took the measuring cup from Lee’s hand.

Lee noted that Bai had removed the barrettes from her hair.

“What do you think?  Do you like my hair?  Thanks for letting me take the time to work on it.  Did you have fun in my room while I was gone?”

Lee stood motionless, as if he was frozen, although his insides felt like they were warming up.  “You…uh…”

“Uh-huh?  I what?”

“You’re wearing the scarves.”

“You noticed!  You aren’t a zombie after all!”  She spun around and around several times, sending the multicoloured scarf out like bird’s wings from her neck.

In his daze, Lee thought he had never seen so much of Bai’s body before.  He had yet to capture and record a good label to describe the colour of her skin which was brown, but brown was too generic, it didn’t describe the angelic figure in front of him who still floated like a spinning top, a gyroscope pirouetting down on an imaginary rope.

The brown of her hands was different than the brown of her forearm, upper arm and shoulders, different than the brown of her face and her neck, different than the brown of her back and her waist, different than the brown of her legs, calves and feet.

If there was a rainbow made of brown colours, then Bai would be the essence of the rainbow — from light browns like the dry soil of an ancient forest, medium browns like an oak tree, to dark browns like a mug of hot cocoa.

Highlighted by the best colour that accented her face — blue eyeshadow.

Lee was losing his train of thought — purple, blue and brown seemed to fill his world.

Like a tornado, or the Tasmanian Devil, Bai swirled into Lee and pulled him into the piles of yarn in the closet.

Lee had already lost track of time, not able to synchronise the time Bai said she had spent in the bathroom with what felt like the few seconds Lee had looked around her bedroom.

The swirling continued.

Blues, browns and purples mixed with reds, yellows, greens and blues.

Feathery boas tickled Lee’s nose.

Spools of yarn awoke from a deep slumber, dancing in Lee’s face, rolling down his arms, bouncing up and down his legs.

Lee’s eyesight dissolved away, his five senses cooked into one extrasensory stew, touch, taste, smell, hearing and sight blended into a window onto a new universe.

Scarves talked to the inside of Lee’s skull.

Suddenly, he was a waterfall carving a path out of the bottom of the closet.

Bai was laughing in his ear like she was a horseback rider having the time of her life, riding free in the wild.

Lee wanted to be confused but he had no time, becoming thousands of water droplets cascading over a rock precipice, oxygenated by the pure air, headed toward a pool at the end of a ravine, feeding a herd of feral horses.

Lee left the ravine as a gamma ray burst, traveling across the universe like a beacon with a message searching for a recipient.

He began to feel his heart’s rhythm again, his temples pounding.

He opened his eyes.

Bai pressed the top of her hand on his forehead.

The fringes of a scarf brushed against his eyelashes.

She held the back of his head with her other hand, which rested on her lap, the warmth of her leg pressed against his back.

“How do you feel?”

Lee laughed.  “I don’t know.”

“What?  You mean the Great Lee doesn’t know?  Did you actual lose control?”

“I did?”

“I told you that you were mine until I said otherwise.”

“Yes, you did.”

“You aren’t the only one who has been taught how to access ancient pathways through our universe.  You aren’t the only one practicing the ancient arts.  I, too, am a Mesmeriser.”

Lee closed his eyes and relaxed into Bai’s body.  A fellow Mesmeriser?  Lee let the idea sink into his thoughts.

Lee gave his body to Bai, every last atom of his set of states of energy was hers.

How many Mesmerisers were there?

He knew the answer.

He also knew the answer wasn’t available in a database attached to the Internet or stored in some deep cavernous treasure trove in forgotten lands.

There was only one Mesmeriser.

Lee didn’t need to hide the answer because he knew the universe was what is was, the embodiment of the Mesmeriser which in turn reflected itself in every ounce of its being, being both the parts and the sum and more than the sum of the parts.

Lee rotated his head, rubbing his hair in Bai’s palm.  “I am the Mesmeriser.”

“I know.  And now we both are.”

Lee opened his eyes and looked up at Bai, who was bent over, her chin just touching his stubble beard.

They smiled at each other.

Lee’s heart began beating regularly again for the first time in weeks. He was finally in synch with Bai.

For the first time in two years, he understood why Guin made his heart leap from his chest every time he saw her or thought about her.  After all, she was Guinevere, the White Enchantress.  She had stepped into his life or the other way around, it didn’t matter.

From the beginning, there was a familiarity with Bai that Guin had prepared him for, as if an imaginary triangle had been trying to form for millennia and found its shape when the three of them met, their friendship cemented out of reach of spacetime when Bai and Lee discovered they were each other’s Mesmerisers.

An enchantress and two mesmerisers.  Magic labels for special friendships.

If labels are signposts that don’t exist, then what was magic about friendships that have labels?

Guin held out her hand across the miles and minutes, connecting her heart to Bai, Lee and a endless line of friends.

If Lee was ready, she wanted to return to Mars again and write their stories together.

Bai lifted Lee’s head out of her lap.  “I think we’re done here for now, don’t you?”

Lee gripped Bai’s elbow and lifted them both up.  “I don’t know.”

“And that’s a good thing!”  She laughed and led them to the kitchen to refill their cups.  “You need to drink lots of water…just like the doctor ordered!”

Lee held onto the kitchen counter as Alaur walked back into the flat.

She stopped and looked at him, wobbly on his feet.  She upturned an inquisitive eyebrow.

“Alaur, I think it’s your turn.  I’ve had just about all I can take.”

Bai laughed.  “But look how much straighter he is!  Next time, I’m going to work on your hips to get that curve out of your lower back.  Alaur, get on the table.  I’ll be there in a moment.”

As Lee pulled on his Irish winter parka, wrapping the Munster rugby scarf twice around his neck, he saw an older Orlando Jones on a TV show for a couple of minutes, then watched as Bai started rotating Alaur’s arm, Alaur’s purple-and-black eyelids shut tight as she attempted to conceal the pain.

“Lee, Bai doesn’t know it but I have two massage therapists — her and a guy who gives me the kind of massage that makes me relax…”

Bai interrupted.  “Hey, I give the kind of massages that I like to get!”

Lee nodded in agreement.  “That you do! So, Alaur, does he use aromatherapy and relaxing music?”

“Yes.  He pretty much puts me to sleep every time.  I tell him he gets me in such a mood, he could do anything to me and I wouldn’t object.”

Lee replied with a smile in his voice he directed at Bai.  “I know what you mean.”

Bai looked up from massaging, texting and changing the TV channel at the same time, giving Lee another one of those mysterious messages from women he didn’t know how to interpret, which probably meant…

“Well, I better go.  I’ve got things to do at home.”

Alaur looked up in surprise.  “Leaving so soon, Lee?”

“Umm…yeah…I should go.”  Lee was getting warm again.

Bai held her look at Lee, as if she was half paying attention to Lee and half somewhere else.  There were times when her exotic, Filipina face froze Lee in place, wanting as he did to trace the outlines of her eyelids with his fingers, to get to know every pore, every wrinkle on her face, every chapped crevice of her lips, the feel of her skin above the weeping cherry tree tattoo running down her back, kiss the butterfly tattoo on her wrist and feel the touch of her skin on his lips.  That is, if he hadn’t already?  Had he?

He raised his eyebrows slightly, asking Bai what had just happened.

Denying him a direct answer, Bai broke their stare and glanced down at her smartphone.

He took it as a signal.  “Yep.  Time to go.”

“Oh, okay.”  Alaur turned from Lee to Bai, as if she wanted to say something else.

Lee walked out of the flat without another word from Bai.  If she had said anything, he would have stopped in his tracks and completely vanished into his Mesmeriser role, changing the direction of the major channel of the river of history.