BIT-STRING ENTRY #8
I ride the Ural-71 back down the coast highway toward Santa Monica, Jeremiah slumped in the side car nursing the bottle of electrolyte-infused water that I dropped in his lap. Not a word is said until traffic backs up at the light governing the lane winding up the California Incline toward Wilshire Boulevard.
“Why’d you follow me?” he finally asks.
“Because your aura spelled game over,” I say. “Color me concerned.”
He looks away, not keen on discussing his near-fatal error. The trauma of nearly drowning still has him on edge. “Who are you?” he asks, eyes glancing at my six-fingered gloved hands gripping the handlebars of the Ural.
I dance a bit, tell him that I’m a life coach, an empath for wayward souls. He eyes me with guarded curiosity. “Just think of me as your personal Custodian,” I say. “Someone here to mop up the mess you’ve made of yourself.”
He asks how I was able to communicate with his dolphin-saviors. “Six weeks of Rosetta Stone,” I toss back. Bad joke. No smile. I remind him that surfing should be food for the soul, not a means of paddling out into oblivion.
“Yeah, I know,” he says, embarrassed now.
Still, Jeremiah’s deliberate knock on death’s door showed him something few ever get to see, much less begin to comprehend.
THE SOURCE CODE OF THE PROGRAM.
I draw his memory back to those hieroglyphic neural-chemical drippings he saw leeching down the walls of that dark ominous tunnel. He curls up in the sidecar, blurts that he’s not sure what he saw. Clearly, The Program has rebooted. It’s already pulling him into subdirectory called DENIAL.
I challenge him to keep an open mind — and if that’s not possible to at least engage in a little role playing with me for a moment. “I’m Spock. You’re Captain Kirk. Now imagine if we just came across a map to a Brave New World…”
I reveal to him that the planet’s unwritten history had two interplanetary species fighting over Human evolution. After tweaking the 21st chromosome, the FORCES OF DARKNESS wanted to enslave Humanity. However, the FORCES OF LIGHT came along in the nick of time and made every effort to enlighten Humanity. A war ensued, the radioactive effects of which forced both sides to vacate Earth – but not before the Forces of Darkness embedded Humanity’s genetic code with their malware… i.e., a program intent on keeping the species enslaved until their return.
Jeremiah appears dubious, at best. I ask him to consider the fact that his brain is a magnetic property. Case in point: his 6th sense. His brain also has the neurochemical capacity to encode speech. The Program has corrupted that code (i.e., his “inner dialogue”) with neurochemical prompts that fuel a far-reaching range of consumptive desires, as well as addictions to various chemicals, digital platforms, dramas and emotional pains — all of them intent on severing the Human connection to the Unified Field — that ever-expanding universe fueled by love and all its delicious entrails (empathy, generosity, creativity, joy).
The end result?
A “SELF” CREATED; A “SELF” ENSLAVED.
And you wonder why history repeats itself.
Jeremiah stares at my six-fingered gloves again, one part of his brain trying to come to terms with what I just threw down, the other part still trying to grock the cetacean chit-chat I had with his dolphin rescuers a few hours ago. “My species, huh… What about yours?”
I hedge a bit. My Chosen One is still in a fragile state and I’ve spooked him enough for one day.
“For what its worth, I understand perfectly what its like to be human,” I say. On that note, I gun the Ural up the California Incline and swing a hard left onto Wilshire Boulevard.
“You’re completely whacked, aren’t you?” he says.
“Hey, I’m not the one who just tried to kill myself, am I?”
He doesn’t have a comeback for that one. “Numbing is for numbskulls,” I add. “The question is, what now? Do you want to garner some meaning from everything that’s gone down today, or do you just want to continue self-medicating your way into oblivion?”
I pull into a Best Buy parking lot. He looks around in confusion as I shut down the Ural-71’s engine.
“What are we doing here?” he asks.
“Introduction to Digital Photography. I believe you’re enrolled. Class starts on Monday. You’ll need a camera.”
He hits me with another incredulous look. “You know my schedule?”
I inform him that I arranged his schedule, adding that going after a Pre-med major was all well and good, but now it is time to break from his parents’ agenda and find his own way.
He looks off into nowhere. “I don’t know what I want.” he says.
“No better place to start,” I reply, getting off the bike. “And since I’m holding you hostage for the moment, let me share a bit of subversive knowledge that might dial down the shame factor here.”
He looks at me, ready to receive.
“Art, creativity – they’re both alleyways out of The Program. They’re both gateways to meaning… which, when you get right down to it, is a helluva a lot more important than being happy.”
He looks at me, and then down at his lap.
“And given your shitty outlook on life, maybe a new camera and a wide-angle lens might offer you a fresh perspective.” With that, I walk toward the entrance to Best Buy, not sure if he’s bought what I’m selling… pretty sure he’ll bolt.
I hear the sidecar door slam behind me… and then a reluctant shoe shuffle. I glance back to see Jeremiah following me.
Well, what’dya know… The kid still has some life left in him.