Excerpts from In Eddy We Trust
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Excerpts from The Hour of Noon
Sure, I sold out and abandoned my vision. Isn't that how life works in the evolved West? Set aside beliefs, values, and fairness to finance your slice of me and mine, regardless of the eventual consequence to yourself, society, and the world. It's the new American dream.
~~~
"How much are you paying for schooling? Because you're getting cheated. You don't need to learn how. You do it every day when feeling you are in a situation through no fault of your own or when you accomplish something you knew was possible. You have the power. You can decide, and you can act on your decision. You can stand up and walk out of this life, any life, right now. But, it all starts with one important thing."
Wide-eyed and hungry for real answers, preferably painless ones, I waited.
"You have to believe. Wishes and dreams don't do anything. You have to believe things can be different. That's when the magic starts."
Eddy continued and shared what sounded like an elementary, although supreme truth—a fact that couldn't penetrate the brain of a confused adolescent. He explained that an unseen force controls everyone. Some call it divinity, some call it science, magic, or the law of attraction or vibrational energy, and some have no name for it. Eddy explained that the core of this power is belief—what we believe becomes a reality, be it good, bad, evil, constructive, or damaging. "It's powerful," he said, "Beyond imagination."
~~~
Cortes ordered the sinking of his ships when he arrived for battle with the Aztecs over control of Central Mexico. His men would win, or they would die. Julius Cesar led his troops across the Rubicon River, past the point of no return. They would be victorious or suffer execution for violating a strict rule against crossing the watery boundary into the home territory of the Roman Republic in Italy. When nothing is left to lose, absurd possibilities become viable options.
To Eddy screamed the purple cursive dedication on the back of the album.
"To LA," I whispered in reply.
~~~
Thirteen weeks after the incident with Lester, Conrad and his team again patrolled the same village. New orders dictated going door-to-door in a perverse game of trick-or-treating. The trick—Marines kicked in your door. The treat—you lived if you complied. Patience had worn thin, and Command wanted numbers, needing official enemy combatants behind bars for photo opportunities and headlines. The mistakes of the Vietnam War, where the enemy lacked a face, were to be avoided at all costs.
"We bust through this one door at dark ugly, pre-dawn, and in front of us is that gray-bearded piece of shit sitting at his table, drinking tea with his wife. My guys looked at me, and, instantly, psychically, we arrived at an identical conclusion: Light them up. We all opened fire, and bam, they're dead, just like that. The killings were revenge for Lester, and it felt incredible. But it wasn't enough, you know? Vengeance is like swallowing salt water to quench thirst—there is never enough. You get consumed. Once you give in, you switch into something less than human. You're like an alcoholic trapped inside a bottomless, life-sized liquor bottle, and you can't drink fast enough."
As soon as the old couple dropped on the dirt floor, dead, Conrad noticed a solitary figure cowering in the corner. It was a little girl, twelve or thirteen years old. "She was beautiful. Flawless brown skin, coal-black hair, big dark eyes, wearing a simple, clean white dress. She looked so innocent and sweet and tender and confused. She chewed the lower corner of her lip. And I shot her."
A man with a camera walked in front of us. I noticed Conrad paid no attention, so I looked the guy over before chalking him up as a tourist. However, my peripheral vision kept tabs until the stranger walked far down the beach.
"It was a microsecond of a microsecond. That's how fast it all happened. But in that fraction of a fraction, I knew—I fucking knew—I wanted to wipe that goatherder's DNA off the face of the earth. I wanted his genetic code erased. That towel-head was responsible for butchering the friendliest, nicest, most gentle boy I'd ever known, and I wanted his memory and all proof of his existence extinguished. Immediately. Forever." Conrad was calm in the retelling. His breathing didn't increase, and he didn't become agitated or hurried as he spoke. His voice came out in a monotone. Conrad's tone was flat, but the remorse that radiated from his spirit screamed. He had relived the moment thousands of times, if not hundreds of thousands.
"I meant to kill that little girl. Understand there was nothing accidental about it. She wasn't a casualty of war. It didn't just happen. I was a professional with almost twenty-five years as a trained warrior in the United States Marine Corps. My preparation and experience took over precisely as it was supposed to. I paused long enough to consider the threat and my options. She wasn't menacing, and she posed no danger. Nothing about the moment was instinctive or reactionary. It was deliberate. I killed her dead. Do you understand? I murdered her. If I'm honest, I was happy—satisfied for a moment. But just for an instant. I was dead in all but actuality by the next day—an oxygen thief.
"I died when I killed that little girl. My body just didn't know it."
~~~
The next day became the next week became the following month, and I fell into a soothing rhythm, but one chosen by another. Abril's tune was a lovely, seductive song I couldn't sing. Although the surroundings were magnificent and the company intelligent, loving, witty, and sexy beyond belief, the world she lived in didn't match my idea of a happy future. The lap of luxury would ultimately unleash a side best left in my deepest, darkest shadows. More and I weren't meant to be together, no matter how alluring or comfortable.
I understood the environment and its perks weren't my future, but I couldn't deny time with my new friend felt fulfilling and serene and second nature. Like two melted chocolate candies, we meshed. Like Goldilocks in Baby Bear's chair, Abril and I were just right. Our conversations interlaced, our interests were mutual, and our values were comparable. The two of us encouraged and challenged one another in a healthy, positive fashion I'd read about but didn't believe existed. Unfortunately, we lived on two different planets. By contrast, Katelyn and I were always more akin to sand and oysters—annoying the hell out of one another but producing a positive result.
~~~
Cornelia Dietrich enjoyed peace and contentment. Although most endure life's given limitations, a few, like her, embrace and cherish the imperfect nature of being a flawed being. Everyone isn't beautiful. Everyone isn't talented or gifted. But not everyone can accept the reality of being inadequate in some fashion. Our world seems increasingly frustrated with limitations, perhaps due to ever-sophisticated consumer marketing, which, by nature of the craft, plants discontentment and hunger into the psyche. Cornelia would likely have led a different existence if she had been born in the current century. As much as we think we're more evolved, more accepting, and embracing differences, a quick scan of reality indicates otherwise. Physical looks matter more than ever. We have become a permanently dissatisfied society, and this discontent benefits no one except manufacturers of alcohol, anti-depressants, television shows, and cigarettes. Perhaps, that is the point. Cornelia Dietrich is a physically repulsive person, unsightly by any objective standard. There can be no argument. She is someone you would avoid staring at if you passed her in a park. She is also lovely. Eddy's words changed her sixty-two years prior and set free a level of self-acceptance that erased her mortal shortcomings and unleashed a torrent of love and inner contentment. She was a person with more serenity than anyone I knew.
Cornelia hugs her truth and never laments what could have been. Much like Abril and Conrad, I realized. But not like me.
~~~
I anticipated a muscular, tattooed, intimidating monster when meeting Tradamian Laundry, thanks to movies and television. The thin, unmarked black man who sat across from me was the antithesis of expectations. Calm and civil, easygoing and relaxed, well-groomed and smiling, he appeared average. He looked normal. But he was convicted of multiple murders—shooting two teenagers at a Chicago park because they refused him the loan of a cigarette lighter. The convict hadn't balked when Abril's public relations manager asked for an appointment to do background work on a possible movie script. Those who stack time will do anything to pass the hours, even visiting with a frightened, young writer.
"Mind if I smoke?" he asked after a guard handcuffed him to a metal table bolted to the concrete floor. His eyes locked on me like a guided missile.
I shook my head no. "Thank you for meeting me, Mr. Laundry."
He leaned back in the metal chair, laughed, and exhaled smoke without breaking his stare. "Mister Laundry. That's funny. I'm a convicted murderer serving double life. Ain't no mister in my name."
"Did you do it?"
"Do what?"
"The crimes you got convicted of.
"I'm here, ain't I?"
"Lots of people are falsely convicted."
Tradamian laughed again. His eyes remained glued to me. I understood how a gazelle must feel when noticing a pack of lions peering from under a shade tree, and I glanced toward the locked door separating us from the hallway and the guards.
"Think you can make it?"
"Make what?"
"The door, man. If I get out of these cuffs, think you can make the door before I snap your neck? It's what you're wondering, right?"
I was.
"I don't do evil no more. Another man in another time. Relax."
Adult diapers have always seemed sad and pathetic and the line of demarcation for when I intend to eat a bullet and check out of Hotel Life. Just then, however, I'd have paid large sums of money to have an absorbent undergarment appear beneath my jeans. "You write stories about conversations with a man named Ed."
"So?"
"He sounds like someone I once knew."
"So?"
Another peek at the door reminded me of the faint line between life paths. If I got caught stealing or discovered having sex with a sixteen-year-old when I was twenty or arrested any time I drove intoxicated, Tradamian's life could have been mine.
Every choice matters, Eddy once said. They all lead somewhere.
"Thought you was here about some movie. It's what the woman told me."
"Mr. Laundry, I won't lie to you. I'm trying to find Ed, Eddy. He played a huge role in my life, in many lives, and I'd like to talk with him. Ask some questions. Learn. You should understand if the man I'm seeking is the one you write about."
He lit another cigarette and stared past me, through the concrete walls, and into a free world not seen in years. "We speak in the library. He's a smart man—he showed me a different way of thinking, a new way of living. He got me out of prison."
I stared, perplexed.
He pointed at his temple. "The mind, baby. I'm free up here. These walls can't hold a free man, and I am free. He reminds me every time we talk."
"How do you visit with him? Does Eddy come here?"
"Every day, man. Every day."
I'd left the comfort of Malibu, abandoned a woman I'm confident I could love forever, sold my home, ended a relationship with the sexy, black-haired girlfriend, and embarked on a journey without a destination to find Eddy. The diapers would have come in handy, as I'm confident I peed ever so slightly with excitement. "What time is he here? How could I meet up with him?"
He looked at me with amusement, and his eyes glowed with humor. "You one dumb white boy, ain't you? Ed is everywhere, man. I talk with him in the library because it's quiet there. Ain't all the screaming and crazy talk in the library. A man can concentrate in that room."
"What do you mean he's everywhere?"
"Dumber than a bag of bricks."
"You seem at peace, Mr. Laundry. Is that what Eddy gives you? Serenity? Salvation?"
"Salvation lies within."
"So, you are saved?"
He chuckled and lifted a shackled arm. "What I am is fucked."
The possibility that Tradamian Laundry was a lying, homicidal psychotic registered, but the more he shared about ongoing conversations with Eddy, the less likely it seemed. Justifiably confined behind impenetrable walls, he embodied tranquility and appeared as comfortable as a patron in an air-conditioned movie theater on a scorching summer afternoon. The man seemed unaffected by his surroundings and stifled future. We went in circles over Eddy's location. Each time I pushed for specifics, he talked in riddles. "He's where you want him to be, man. Ain't no place to find the dude."
"Is Eddy real?" I blurted out. The question felt logical, and one asked of myself for months but never vocalized. "There are no photographs of him, no video recordings. Nobody even has a last name. I've visited many people, just like you, who share a similar story, but no one has any proof he exists other than their recollections. Is Eddy real?"
Tradamian's explosive laughter caused a guard to look into the room. I waved meekly and indicated all was well. His hilarity would have been infectious if I hadn't missed the punch line. "Why are you laughing?"
He took a deep breath and calmed himself. "Because I know exactly how Ed would answer the question, Is he real?" He took a long drag from the cigarette. His eyes still laughed at me, although his mouth had stopped.
"How?"
He formed a mental picture. "Ed, he'd let out a big breath and relax, like he was wrapped in a warm blanket. He'd smile and look at the floor, shaking his head back and forth, real slow like he just heard the dumbest thing ever. Then those dark eyes would rise and look at you, the way no one but your mother can, and only when she knew you'd messed up, and it was pay attention or get your ass whipped. That kind of look. And he'd say, Fuck you."
~~~
For those inexperienced in lifelong hopelessness, comprehending deep-set, limiting negative beliefs is impossible. Eddy attempted to impart this lesson when he shared an analogy.
Imagine you take the train to work every day. You have no car, no money for a car. Buses don't run in the area, and you have no one who can drive you. It's the train or nothing.
You arrive on time as always, one morning, but the train is late. So, you wait. And you wait. Ten minutes, thirty, ninety. How long do you wait before you believe the train will not arrive? Regardless of why it didn't come, only an insane person would wait all day. Only someone in denial would fail to accept the truth—for you, the train isn't coming on that day.
What if the train didn't show up the following morning? Or the next week? Or the next month? How long before you stopped going to the station? How long before you quit believing in the train? How long before you accepted that you were forever stuck?
Those always possessing hope cannot understand the mindset of one never knowing anything positive. For the hopeless, there is no reason to expect change. It is irrational. One can view this power of belief in third-world zoos, where elephants spend decades chained on a stake with a limited radius for walking. Remove the chain, and the animal is prone to wander the same narrow circle forever. They no longer believe anything else is possible.
If we want to alter the future, we must modify the past. Marty McFly tried telling us. He surely did.
She sat alone.
Lori Cavanaugh watched mourners trickle past to pay final respects to her daughter's casket, the sole occupant on the church's front pew. Not one person in the procession extended a sympathetic look. No one offered consolation. Each had plenty to say, but they spoke only silently or to others nearby. Lori heard every word, every exchange—every accusation. She had listened to them all week.
How horrible must her life have been to commit suicide at 13?
That pervert was in their house all the time, you know. He practically lived there.
The man in the newspaper?
Yep. I hear the girl slept with him, and Lori knew. Disgusting.
It should be the mother in the coffin instead of that beautiful child.
Amen, sister.
Even if they knew the truth, Lori understood these people would not grasp the inevitability of her daughter's passing. She barely comprehended the unavoidable certainty, and she had experienced events leading to the death. My baby doesn't belong here. Not anymore. That sounds horrible, but it's true. It's true.
The mother had a broken heart. Her daughter had peace.
Instead of extending calm and comfort, the house of worship underscored her loss and forced isolation. The setting was her Mount Calvary. An unpadded bench dug into Lori's backside, the surrounding dark wood and dim lighting added to her gloom, and a poorly heated nave caused her to shiver. When she stared at the crucifix on the wall behind the minister, her face looked back, not a savior. The group would soon nail her to the cross.
Lori half-listened as the Reverend eulogized Cassi, Cassiopeia, legally, but the child refused to acknowledge the formal name. Her daughter opposed most of what Lori wanted, most of what she suggested or thought best. Still, she always cherished the girl. From the day the pair left the hospital, they were a team at war with the odds and the world. Brighter and more grown-up, Cassi raised the woman as much as the mother raised the daughter. The reversed roles were a source of embarrassment to the twenty-eight-year-old, but sometimes she didn't want to be in charge. Sometimes she needed to be free. Cassi had been mature, intelligent, independent, pretty, cheerful, and well-liked. She had been everything Lori once was but would never be again. Not after becoming pregnant at fifteen in a town of twenty-two hundred. Not after raising a child who chose death over life with her.
Lori recoiled as she remembered fantasizing about life without the restraints of parenthood. Her stomach tossed when she recalled imagining a childless existence—sleeping in, taking road trips, and wasting time like others her age. She had been a child raising a child. Not that anyone ever offered to help.
"You created this mess. You deal with it," Lori's family said.
Dreaming about life without a kid is normal, right? That doesn't make me a monster. Of course, she had such fantasies.
Daydreams can come true. They can also turn into nightmares.
Vista Grande, Colorado, is a typical small town where gossip is the primary form of entertainment, self-righteousness pervades most opinions on morality, and the locals rarely move beyond youthful mistakes. Cassi's suicide confirmed what most decided years prior—the mother was trash. Lori could have rehabilitated her reputation if choosing to evolve beyond immature impulses and irresponsible behavior, but carousing and cavorting made her feel young and wanted, not old and ignored. Although an inconsistent, occasionally absent parent, Lori loved her daughter. She worked hard and regularly pulled a double shift at the bar. Her clothing came second-hand from the thrift store, while Cassi's threads were always new. She dreamed of Cassi attending college, far from the scenic yet unpleasant town. The girl would have a life of adventure and fun and thrilling experiences--an existence her mother never knew.
On the day of Cassi's birth, Lori's inner child died, and her offspring became a living memorial to bad choices and wrong turns. She frequently resented her daughter's existence, even while adoring the teen. I'll never have to resent her again. Lori's tense shoulders slumped at the realization, and the weight of reality pulled her head down. An ample chest caught her chin. Overwhelmed with pain, anguish, and loneliness, denied soothing words from those nearby, the church walls closed around Lori, forming a coffin of grief. Gone forever were the intense struggles between parental duty and personal fulfillment. Her child's broad, innocent smile would no longer light up dark days, and the two would never again argue about loud music, clothes, chores, or lifestyles. The only laughter echoing throughout her house would come from memory.
She'd never again know love.
Lori jolted as if pinched when the preacher quoted Ecclesiastes 7:1: A good name is better than precious ointment, and the day of death than the day of birth. It seemed that even the representative of God thought her guilty. Everyone knew they knew why Cassi took her own life. Everyone in the tiny town was confident about the details—the why and the what.
They know nothing. Cassi is dead, the only indisputable fact. No one would ever hear the real story of what caused her daughter to end her life. If Lori even hinted at what led to the suicide, family and friends would think she was insane. They couldn't.
The scent of murderous thoughts wafted through the chapel. Lori felt knives shooting from the eyes of others—into her back and under her throat, where they dragged the blade with glee. Invisible hands tore at her skin, pulling her to the ground and holding her tightly despite feral kicking and clawing. Lori heard herself screaming as nails banged into her hands, and she listened to the collective cheer while she bled out for their perverse satisfaction. They'd already lynched her. The grieving mother sensed condemnation from the preacher, conviction from the crowd, and throbbing from her backside. The wood felt as cold and hard as the hearts of those behind her. When the ceremony concluded, Lori remained sitting, unmoving, eyes straight ahead, unwilling to make any motion that might incite the crowd gathering in the aisle. She observed the opposite pew with peripheral vision as the mass attempted to console her inconsolable sister, Rene. Of course, they did. Lori was the sinner, and Rene was the saint. She deserved punishment, her sibling a reward. Everything was as it had always been, as it would be forever. Only now, Lori grasped the complexities of life and death in a way few could. She had seen behind the curtain.
The drive to the cemetery took less than five minutes—down Main Street, across Highway 2 towards Revenant Pass, and a quick left on Calumet Street, before the golf course. Nothing in the town took more than five minutes to reach. Lori considered skipping the internment but continued after reminding herself the ceremony was for Cassi, not the mob assembling to attack her with not-so-quietly-spoken words and glares of hatred.
The girl was into occult stuff, you know. I heard it from Lori's sister.
The child would be alive if Lori spent less time drinking and whoring around.
I know. It's tragic. Just tragic.
Established in the Victorian era at the foot of Jasper Mountain Range, Pleasant Ridge Cemetery emerged when Vista Grande began to prosper with mining. The area now booms with tourists, churches, and upscale West Coast transplants intent on reshaping the historic mountain town into their version of California perfection, but the graveyard remains unaltered. Preternaturally picturesque and serene, the burial ground provided much-needed comfort to Lori. Snow-covered mountains served as a beautiful, eternal backdrop to faded wooden crosses, tombstones, flowers, and her daughter's gravesite.
After final words from the clergyman, pallbearers lowered the casket into the ground. The crowd of non-elected jurors sobbed loudly, her sister most of all.
Lori did not cry.
Cassi isn't here—she's where she is meant to be. Despite the despair ripping through her heart, Lori refused to unleash the gallons of water pressuring the backs of her eyes. She blinked continuously and bit down hard on her tongue. Long, chipped, unpainted fingernails dug into her palms, and she clenched her teeth until it felt like the molars would shatter. Every muscle shook with tension, but not a scrap of emotion would be exposed to the hungry pack. The tears did not belong to them. They were not hers, either. The muted sobs were for her daughter, and Lori would not share them with these cruel people. Her daughter was free, and the scales of karma were balanced. Nothing else mattered--not being convicted without a trial, not losing everyone she held dear, not suffering the loss of her baby.
Long after the last person ignored her on their way out of the fenced grounds, Lori remained sitting on the black plastic chair provided by the funeral home. Oblivious to the setting sun and the plummeting fall temperature, she stared at the headstone of the only person she ever loved, the only person who would ever matter.
Cassiopeia (Cassi) Grace Cavanaugh
Beautiful Daughter. Beautiful Soul.
May 8, 1998 – November 22, 2011
​
~~~
​
Some of her reading felt more provocative, like works exploring whether Jesus taught reincarnation and if early church councils purged such teachings for political reasons. Gnostics, one of the first sects of Christianity, ultimately destroyed by the Roman Orthodox church, believed reincarnation to be a fundamental fact of existence. Ancient writings, discovered in 1945, appeared to connect difficult-to-explain passages in the modern bible and tied them with the belief that lives occur as cycles instead of singular events. Cassi learned those teachings disappeared from the religion during ecumenical conventions to determine Christianity's future.
After consuming the material, Cassi felt more at ease with her strange recollections, especially when learning that a quarter of all people believe in reincarnation and that most religions have rebirth within their teachings, even if on the fringes. She excitedly realized that the earliest revival accounts were taught nine hundred years before Christ. The research consumed her free time, and Cassi poured over theories and stories, focusing on specific recollections by children like her. One story fascinated the teen and confirmed she was not a freak or just making things up as a childhood friend had suggested.
​
~~~
​
He looked dapper in his uniform, standing at attention in the final parade for family and friends. He was brave and handsome and strong. And he was terrified.
She felt intense pride when he announced he had volunteered. The war to end all wars had started. Her husband was doing his part to protect the future of humankind. Following her suggestion, the man did not wait for the draft. Instead, he marched to the enlistment office and signed his name at the top of the list. Now a rifleman in the British Expeditionary Force, he would soon head to France. He would give those nasty Germans the what for, and then he’d return to begin a family. She could not recall standing taller or feeling more pleased with his initiative and bravery. Walking into the church the Sunday after his departure, she held her nose higher than usual. Unlike the others, her fellow did not hide behind draft boards and official notices. Her husband was a take-charge, get-it-done, real man. He would win medals and return home a hero, a fact she intended to remind every woman about for the rest of all time. They would never laugh at her again—not at her worn clothing, not at her Cockney accent, and not at her husband’s job sweeping floors in the factory. Her man would show them the meaning of robust, brave, and daring. They would see.
She never knew the details of his death. Such records didn’t exist in 1915. She never knew he and the other soldiers faced starvation from day one—food shortages as usual for British troops as trench foot, fevers, and nephritis. Suffering was as much a mantra as any battle cry. The men subsisted in mud, misery, and pain, fighting the elements as often as the enemy, which meant daily. He was always afraid. He grew constantly numb. He transformed into another shell, joining millions of fighting corpses struggling for survival on both sides of the nightmarish line. When shot during an ill-advised nighttime assault, he immediately thought of her. Lying in the mud amidst screams and cries for mothers and the sounds of explosions, watching helplessly as other soldiers moved past him towards their death, he thought only of his wife. He hoped she’d finally be proud of him, an official hero.
The doorbell rang Tuesday morning as she pinned laundry to the clothesline outside their apartment window. A little boy handed her a telegraph inside an unsealed envelope. His tiny voice whispered, Sorry, mum. There would be no medals, no parades, and nothing to lord over others. In the end, her only companion was knowledge she had encouraged—silently demanded—her man to volunteer for death.
As she held the gun to her head, the one her husband gave her before he left, she remembered the words he spoke when gifting her the piece. Can’t have harm coming to m’wife.
The knowledge she had failed him yet again attacked her.
Darkness.
​
~~~
​
Nothing made sense.
As if awakening from deepest sleep while cold water pours from an unseen hand, the being was instantly aware. Panic was immediate, yet no pounding heart accompanied the feeling. Confusion and terror engulfed everything, but senses were not on edge from an adrenaline dump.
Eyes did not open wide in search of answers. Lungs did not gasp for air, and hands did not tremble. A head didn't rotate in multiple directions, attempting to orient.
There were no facts indicating what was happening—or where, when, or why.
Existent, yet not. Awake, yet asleep. Formless yet cohesive. It existed everywhere and nowhere. There was no sound, and light was a foreign concept. Body and shape and hands and feet were not inklings of ideas. The being simply was, and it was in a land of fear and disarray and incomprehensible questioning—queries with the cohesiveness of fog.
Alone.
Unaware of awareness, lacking words to encapsulate emotions, merely floating through the void of existence. Nameless, ignorant of monikers' notion or purpose, the presence grasped at perceptions lacking definition. Everything lacked meaning in this state of nothingness—there was only sentience.
It waited.
Anxiety caressed nonexistent hands, and trepidation stroked invisible hair. Timeless time whispered in ears without form, attached to a body yet to be imagined, let alone created. The state of nonexistent existence lasted until it did not. A sentence served without days or years or decades, only lingering. When clarity peeked through the fog, it pierced the soul, startling the entity. Answers trickled to unasked questions, and meaning without context coalesced, pushing the existence towards a non-conceptualized destination. Initial insights arrived, and a vague understanding penetrated the awareness, temporarily reducing anxiety and calming terror. The being commenced comprehending what lay ahead. It knew why, not knowing how or when or where, but it relaxed, inherently understanding these answers, all answers, existed and would come when destined.
Color arrived first.
The thing felt joy and gratitude and happiness with each new hue, unable to express the emotions, as it lacked words, but having them nonetheless.
Red—vibrant, sharp, intense, shocking.
Yellow—warm and inviting and cheerful.
Green—reassuring, comforting, natural.
Brown—peaceful and consistent and unobtrusive.
Purple—exhilarating, exciting.
Blue—gentle, sweet, embracing, incredible blue. The being felt an affinity with blue, instantly at ease with its indefinable presence.
Color was. Nothing else mattered because there was nothing else. It wrapped itself around the tones and held tight, unwilling to lessen its grip on something substantial for even a moment. Glorious color accompanied the entity through timelessness, making existence robust, expressive, and focused. Its world was full of shades and tints. There was no body, no time, no one, and no thing—only color. Color was life. The being and the hues embraced one another—coexisting, intermingling, nurturing, encouraging. There was the being, and there was color — the two defined life. Color and the being had mutual adoration. Everything was simple, understandable, and unspoiled.
Then light arrived.
Light barged into the perfectness with the subtly of trumpets and cymbals interrupting
morning meditation at a monastery. Light showed their world to be deficient. Light presented color differently, making it appear more and less, brighter and darker, harsher and gentler.
A change came to the being with the appearance of light as it recognized there was a realm beyond. If this new thing existed, what else did the entity not know? This knowledge left it feeling weak, sad, again alone.
Light gave birth to a crude comprehension and transformed everything. With light came an additional dimension of awareness and a new concept. It was less and more existed. Light was new and different and unusual and expansive. The entity was aware of awareness, not understanding the meaning or the purpose, but grasping it existed.
Sound startled the being, bringing back chaos and terror and panic. When sound burst through, waves of new understanding washed over the creature, shaking its core with an unmistakable message—You are not alone. Sound generated new emotions—joy and excitement and wonder and passion. It elevated the being to a new level of existence and tied color and light together with a rhythm of tension and tenderness, highs and lows, interruption and cooperation. Sound gave meaning to 'new.' Where color was predictable and reassuring, sound was erratic and unsettling. Where light was warm and comforting, sound could be startling or soothing or penetrating. It was different, always fresh, and left the being longing. The more sound it heard, the more it wanted to hear—it became ravenous. The entity was immediately addicted to the sensation and craved the novelty each interaction carried. Sound completed the creature, bringing fullness and offering an addition to emerging sentience.
Energy did not show up with pompousness, as had sound. It did not burst through as had light. Energy was not proud and arrogant, as was color. It arrived quietly and snuck in like a shadow. Energy rattled the creature, providing something unexpected and creating hunger. This hunger led to a craving, the being now mindful it was capable of something. What, it couldn't fathom. But something else, something more. Energy felt thrilling, kinetics stored until the entity had unappeasable restlessness. As with the first sexual longings of a virginal teen, the creature needed what only energy could provide, but it didn't understand why, it couldn't define what, and had no idea of where or when or how. But it wanted. It needed to move a nonexistent body and desired to engage a world it could not know existed.
Consciousness provided the hints of answers to questions created by color, light, sound, and energy. It became utterly aware. Panic and terror revisited. Neither ever disappeared; they only retreated to the background, waiting. Consciousness gave context. It made the entity see what it was and what it was not. The creature understood that color was a handrail, necessary to examine the abundant possibilities existence offered through perception. Light was an illuminating force, showing what little was known, the excitement of new and the dangers of shadows, preparing the entity by exposing its ignorance. Sound provided depth, intensified feelings, generated passion and longing, and offered a teasing glimpse of the infinite possibilities life could provide. Energy gave potential. Consciousness gave it all meaning.
It was. Now, it knew.