In Dreams, Part 3- The Rundown

I had deposited the check from Brigthon at the bank, signifying to myself if no one else that I would take the case. Brighton seemed to take it as a matter of course that I would. As I rode the subway back from the bank to my office, I reviewed the file that he had provided me. Sarah Brigthon, age 22, no arrest record, attended Springdale Academy, graduated with honors, currently working on an MBA at Stone College. Both prestigious schools, I noted. Mother deceased ten years ago due to lymphatic cancer, (bummer) father never remarried. I began to get a picture of the dynamics of the Brighton family. Brighton obviously regarded his daughter as his legacy, and wanted her to take over the business, whether Sarah was interested or not. It seems her life was planned out for her beforehand, and the death of her mother probably didn't help matters any. Living this sheltered life, always being the good daughter, had obviously begun to chafe, and she rebelled in the only way she could find.
The file, conveniently, also contained some information on the Sunrise Church- founded just three years ago, it had purchased up land outside the city, and registered as a non-profit organization, and currently owned and operated a large farm on the property, growing, among other things, tobacco. Interesting. I glanced up as footsteps approached- just another salary man, probably heading home for the night. I still had a couple things to do back at the office. I had hoped it might have been Tabatha, though of course she has her own car, for one thing, and for another doesn't work on the subway, at least not the parts that have been already completed and are up and running. Still, dare to dream, as they say. Mr. Salary gave me a tired nod and sat down a little distance away.
Back at the office, I put together everything I had on the case so far and got ready to lock up for the evening. Kurt had already left, off to class. I put the ever-expanding case file into my briefcase (also black, incidentally) and went down to the garage for the drive homewards. I usually managed to miss rush hour by staying a little later at work, and this was a typical day. Home was just outside the city, well worth the drive for a little more space. I climbed into my car, a three-year old Chevy Vega- small and humble, but pretty reliable. Homeward bound, I thought to myself.
When I pulled into the driveway of our house about 20 minutes later, having successfully avoided rush hour, Tabatha's funky F150 was already in the driveway. Always the country girl, I thought with a smile, and went in. As I opened the door, a sound like thunder announced that the dogs had been alerted to my arrival. They came bounding up, full of energy and doggy enthusiasm as only dogs can be. Eris, our boxer-something-or-other mix came charging up, wagging her rear half in paroxysms of joy at the family being reunited for yet another day, and Hercules, who could have stood over Eris with room to spare, right behind her. They climbed over each other, each one vying for attention and a scratch behind the ears. Life should be so simple, I thought, that everything can be solved with a pat on the head and a little affection. I removed my coat and shoulder holster, hanging both on a hook by the front door. The pistol butt poked out, black and mute. It was a black Heckler and Koch VP70Z, a 9 mm pocket monster that I had finally traded in my old .38 snubnose revolver for a few years back. "It's got a heavy trigger pull, so a lot of people don't like them," the gun shop owner who sold it to me had said. "Can't seem to move them because of that". It was actually lighter than the .38, but did have a larger carrying capacity of rounds and a heavier trigger pull. I had yet to find the need to shoot something or someone 18 times without reloading, but you never knew.
I went into the kitchen, where Tabatha was standing at the stove, looking like a domestic goddess in jeans and a tie-dyed shirt, having changed out of her work clothes. I moved behind her and put my arms around her, knowing full well that the dogs had pretty much announced that someone was here to the whole neighborhood. She leaned back, a smile on her face. "Hi baby, how was work?" she asked.
"Not too bad, got another case, apart from that, nothing much new." I said, squeezing her around the waist.
She turned around in my arms, blue eyes looking deep into mine, and gave me a kiss. "Anything interesting?" she asked, not removing her arms from around me. I reached up and brushed a lock of reddish-blonde hair away from her forehead. Her hair hung down almost to her waist, and was tied back in a ponytail at the moment. As always she looked like a million bucks, without trying. She leaned her forehead against my shirtfront, which was easy for her, at 5'2", head and shoulders shorter than me, but with more iron in her spine than a lot of people I knew twice her size.
"Not really, sounds like the plot of some bad film noir movie- rich guy, sinister cult, heroic private eye", I said, smiling.
"You're always my hero," she said. There's a good deal to be said for married life, I thought.
"What's cooking, babe?"
She smiled again. "Chicken. Dinner. Then us. In that order."
Like I said, a good deal.

Later on that night, we discussed the case. I felt comfortable telling Tabatha about the case, as she kept what she knew to herself. Still waters, and all that. She raised her eyebrows in surprise when I mentioned Brighton.
"That Brighton?" she asked, surprised. "He just landed the contract on our latest project. What's he trying to do, keep it secret?"
"Apparently so. So you keep it secret, I don't need a lawsuit on top of everything else."
She gave me a look- please, husband. "What do you think, I'm going to go blabbing at the steno pool? Come on, babe, seriously?"
I suppose I deserved that one. "I know, hon. Just business, I know."
"So tell me about this cult. Resurrection? What's that about?"
I reviewed the file in my head, trying to remember all the important details. "Well, there's this guy, Ethan Strom. Used to be a doctor, I think his license to practice got suspended. He used to do pharmaceutical research, then after he got canned, started a church. Something about bringing the dead back to life. Kind of creepy, if you ask me."
"With what, drugs? What is he doing, making a zombie army to take over the world?"
"It's a cult, my love. Nothing would surprise me. Cults tend to run off of a charismatic leader, and people will try to justify their belief in that leader, no matter how crazy he sounds."
She considered this for a moment. Hercules walked into the room, looked at us curiously, and turned around and went back the way he came. "Well, be careful. I don't want to be widowed by some crazy religious nuts." she said, leaning over and putting her arms around me.
"No problem, my love. I don't want to be killed by nuts of any kind, religious and crazy or not."

In Dreams Part 2- Take The Case

2 weeks prior
The intercom on my desk buzzed. "Hey, Jacob, your two o'clock appointment is here". My secretary, Kurt's, voice came over the tinny-sounding speaker. I looked up from typing a background check report and into the eyes of my wife. Well, her picture on my desk, at any rate, taken at our wedding.
"Okay, send him right in", I answered. Kurt worked part-time for me, and the rest of the time was a college student, studying psychology the last I had heard. I had no doubt the 'I-work-with-a-private-investigator' line went over big at the bars he sometimes would frequent on a Friday night. Hey, I'm all about helping the younger generation. And besides, Kurt's near-pathological organization skills proved invaluable. I stood up and stepped around my desk, opening the door to an office decorated in what I hoped was a professional but reassuring style- a large ficus plant by the window, a few watercolor prints on the walls and nailhead and leather chairs all lent an air of competent professionalism. Opening the door, I was met by a face with a square jaw and broad features who regarded me with a solemn and intelligent gaze from steel-gray eyes. His hair was close cut and dark, just starting to gray at the temples. I noticed he wore a dark blue pinstripe suit. Who the hell wears pinstripes anymore? I thought. The rest of my visitor resembled his face- square and broad.
"Mr... Cruz?" he said, his voice a surprising tenor that didn't quite seem to match the air of quiet and undisputed authority he gave off. He extended a thick-fingered hand to me, the one not holding a black briefcase. This guy was either old money or working for the mob, I thought.
"Yes, the same," I said, taking his hand. Two firm pumps, and he released it.
"I'm Charles Brighton", he added, with a tone that this was all the introduction and identification that would be required. "I have some business to discuss with you."
"Of course, Mr. Brighton. Have a seat." I said, indicating a chair. He sat, putting the briefcase to one side of the chair, then resting his hands on the arms of the chair, seemingly ill at ease- perhaps in such plebeian settings. I walked around the desk, and drew a blank legal pad towards me.
"What can I help you with?" I asked, sitting down and hunting on my desk for a pen. Kurt's organization had not yet migrated to my desk today.
"I need you to find someone for me, and if possible, return her home to me. If you are not able to do this second, very well, yet I am assured you can do the first with considerable efficacy." said Brighton, continuing to study me from his steel-colored eyes.
I wondered at this last. Possibly a wayward spouse, grown bored with the charmed life, and running off with the gardener. Sometimes the literary cliches held true in this line of work.
"Okay, who is this person, first off?" I asked. I had written 'Missing Person' on the pad in front of me, though there was no indication that this person was missing, or for that matter, who she was.
"My daughter. Sarah." said Brighton, at the same time swinging the briefcase up to his knees and opening it with that distinctive sound that means only one thing- let's get down to business. He removed a slim manila folder and passed it across the desk to me. I paused a moment before opening it and let him continue.
"I have reason to believe she has become involved with a cult."
Crap, I thought. Cults were a tricky business. "I see. You realize, Mr. Brighton, that cults can be a somewhat delicate affair. If your daughter has joined a group like that of her own free will, it may be difficult to prove otherwise."
Brighton offered a grim smile with no trace of humor in it. "To explain, Mr. Cruz, the organization my daughter has become involved in may be less than legitimate, and more than it appears to be. If necessary, I want you to expose them. Of course, I'm prepared to compensate you for any expenses you may incur in this undertaking."
My initial impression of old money returned. I pushed my glasses up on my nose and continued.
"I'll do what I can, and investigate this group. However, it's possible that there may be nothing to find. If that's the case, and you believe your daughter has been brainwashed, I recommend trying legal channels to remove her from the group."
Again, Brighton offered his humorless smile. "This is actually one of the reasons I came to you first. Between us, I know how an official investigation can be influenced, shall we say, to a desired outcome. I believe an uninterested third party, or failing that, one with my interests, is the way to go."
I didn't like where this was going. My job was to find out information, not be a hatchet man. "I'll do my best, of course. Now, your daughter..."
"Sarah." he said, indicating the folder on my desk.
I opened it and found a picture of a young woman, with dark hair cut in a pageboy cut that framed pixyish features. Presumably the Sarah in question. Underneath was a piece of paper, which I scanned quickly. It detailed one Sarah Delia Brighton, and was similar to the background check I had been working on not long ago. "I believe she is involved with the Sunrise Church," he went on. "Perhaps you remember the stories the papers carried a while back?"
"I do. Sounded like they were trying to use science to justify a crackpot religion, to tell you the plain truth." I said. The Sunrise Church was what Grace would later identify as 'one of those resurrection cults', actually the original resurrection cult. Any good idea was bound to have imitators, it seemed. It was founded by some eccentric MD who had specialized in pharmaceutical research for one of the big drug companies. Right up until the point he had been fired amid a big media circus of a scandal, something about misappropriation of funds. He had also appeared before an ethics committee. Then, about a year later, no longer practicing medicine, he was back in the news, having founded some odd religious movement- something to do with bringing people back to life after "the spark of life has left the mortal frame" as he put it, or something like that. He was treated as an eccentric laughingstock by the papers, and the media had soon lost interest. Brighton's daughter, it seemed, had not.
"Indeed," said Brighton, "yet from the sparse letters I receive from her, this Dr. Strom claims to be on the verge of a breakthrough. How legitimate, or even existent, this 'breakthrough' is, is immaterial to me. What I want is my daughter brought home safely."
"Of course. And you believe the discrediting of this organization..."
"Cult, Mr. Cruz. Let's not mince words."
"Cult, then, is the only way to bring your daughter home? Perhaps if you were able to see her, it may save the time and expense of an investigation."
"My daughter, as you may already know, is my only child, and as such, heir to Brighton Industries. I came to you because first, I require discretion in this matter. Second, I need to protect my interests, both personal and business. This Strom represents a threat to both."
THAT Charles Brighton, I thought. Brighton Industries was a heavy hitter in the construction materials market, and Tabatha had mentioned they had landed a lucrative contract for the Transportation Commission's latest expansion project. I raised an eyebrow.
"I see. Well, Mr. Brighton, I'm prepared to provide you with all the information I can. If that means exposing illegitimate practices, so be it. Has Kurt informed you of my fees?"
"Yes. I'm prepared to compensate you your daily rate, plus expenses, plus a retainer. Check in the folder."
I did, and found a very hefty check. Clearly this was a hush-hush case, one that needed to stay out of the papers. "I see. No doubt you'll want this kept as quiet as possible, what with your upcoming Transportation Commission contracts?"
Brighton studied me a moment, then smiled. "I see we have an understanding, Mr. Cruz. When shall I expect your first report?"
Clearly, Brighton was not used to hearing no for an answer. "Give me two weeks, and I'll be able to get a good deal of background information on the Sunrise Church." I said.
"Very well. Enclosed in the folder is also my business card and private phone number. I'll be looking forward to hearing from you." he said, getting up and picking up his briefcase, moving towards the door.
I picked a business card up from my desk, and handed it to him. He tucked it into a breast pocket. I extended my hand, and we shook. "I'll get started immediately, Mr. Brighton. Here's hoping this case comes to a quick conclusion." I said.
"Indeed. Good day, Mr. Cruz." He stepped out of the office, scarcely glancing at Kurt on his way out, who watched him passing with an air of undisguised interest.
After the outer door had closed, Kurt turned to me. "Who's that guy? Looks like trouble to me." he said. Kurt was on the thin side, with brown hair and eyes, and a narrow but handsome face.
"Luckily, I don't rely on you for character judgements, dear boy. Just a client, that's all."
A frown crossed his face. "No sense prying, I guess."
"I'm afraid not. You know confidentiality is one of the services we provide." I said.
"But you tell your wife everything, don't you?" he persisted.
"True, but that's different. We have a nondisclosure agreement." I replied, with a slight smile.
Kurt sighed. "All right, well, I'll get to your desk this afternoon. Anything else you need out of the ordinary?"
"Just do water the plant, please." I said.
"No sweat, boss, " he answered. It was going to be an interesting assignment, digging into this cult. I turned back to my office and picked up the folder. Sarah Brighton looked out at me from her photograph without comment.

In Dreams, Part 1- Grace

I pushed open the glass and chrome door, the same as I had done countless times before. And as always, above me the large sign buzzed quietly and spelled out in blue neon Grace's Last Chance Diner, the same as it had since I had moved to the city, and found here the best coffee in town. And the food was great, too. Inside, the diner looked like an art-deco version of the 1950's- all long lines of chrome and Formica. A long counter stretched the length of the room, with red vinyl stools at regular intervals along its length. Behind the counter two polished steel coffee machines reflected the room back blankly, catching the light and colors from the surrounding area. Colored neon chased itself along the back wall, between the coffee machines, a milkshake machine looking like some War of The Worlds invader in miniature, and a glass-fronted refrigerator sitting on the rear counter, containing jugs of half-and-half, ice water and juice. A black swinging door, complete with a round porthole window, led into the back, the domain of the cook. I heard the faint sound of zydeco music and the loud voice of the cook discussing something with one of the busboys. I had met Henri the cook on a couple occasions, and knew loud was his natural volume. I inhaled a deep breath redolent of coffee and fried food when the woman at the end of the counter glanced up from her newspaper, smiled and reached behind her without looking to take two coffee cups off of a nearby stack and plunk them down on the counter, pausing for a moment to finish whatever she was reading before moving down the counter to fill them at the machine, earning her a couple appreciative glances from the customer. Grace, she of the coffee cups, was the owner and sometimes- waitress, and ruled over the counter with an air of royalty. I sat down nearby and craned my neck to see what she was reading, setting my black fedora on the stool beside me. Grace looked up with her remarkable green eyes and frowned.
"First off, why do you never use the coat rack for that ridiculous thing? And second, why do you insist on dressing like a private eye?"
I grinned at her. "Because I am a private eye. And second, it's not ridiculous".
"It's 1978. Or did you miss the last 20 years?"
The whole exchange had the feel of exactly what it was- two old friends with no secrets, and a long history of shoulders both offered and cried on, and having seen it all before. Grace, at just under six feet tall, looked for all the world like a redheaded version of Julie Newmar, and as Irish as they come. Her bright orange-red hair, which frizzed out when it was down, forming a nimbus around her narrow face, was tucked away under a hair net, which in turn was tucked away under a Dragons ball cap, which she wore in fond remembrance of her deceased husband, who picked it up on one of his frequent business trips. Her long legs were clad in a pair of gray jeans, and her upper half was wearing a red apron and black t-shirt. She looked beautiful, but such thoughts were not for married men like me.
As if reading my thoughts, she asked, "How's the wife doing? Still plugging away at the mysteries of engineering the state?"
"She's doing okay, keeps the trains running on time", I answered. My dear wife, a good deal shorter than Grace, thought the world of the independent and smart widow, who had turned the diner into a profitable success. My wife, for her part, worked for the Transportation Commission as a structural engineer for the city's complex and massive transit system. With a PhD in engineering and a master's certification in welding, she was a formidable intellect. We had moved to the city primarily for her, and the job opportunities the growing demand for public transportation provided. For my part, just shy of 40, perhaps not as young as I used to be (but I still worked out like I was 20, thank you very much) with a top-secret clearance and years of intelligence work, had found myself at rather loose ends, so I set up shop doing what I knew how to do-find out things that were not generally available to the public. I had worked my share of humdrum cheating-spouse cases, with a few missing person and criminal cases thrown in. All in all, it was a good if somewhat unpredictable life, and running background checks and tracking down parole jumpers meant we lived a pretty comfortable life. There were, of course, what I had mentally come to call the "Black Files", those cases involving more sinister and dangerous elements that had taken me to all corners of the state, into a couple situations I'd rather forget, and on a few rare occasions, in fear for my life. Grace's voice brought me back to the present.
"Sounds like business as usual. It's been kind of quiet here," she said, gesturing around at the handful of customers at the counter and at the booths on the opposite wall, and the waiter, young looking, with a dark complexion and the looks of some old movie star- perhaps, as Grace liked to point out, from my own 1950's. I didn't consciously dress like some film noir character, but did make a habit of wearing a shirt and tie to work, or out on a job. Never hurts to look professional, and besides, a jacket can be tailored to cover a shoulder holster, which I also made a habit of wearing.
Grace sighed. "I guess the weekend will pick up, must be the middle of the week slump".
"It always does," I said encouragingly. And it was true- the place was a favorite hangout of college students, artsy-beatnik types, and blue-collar working class guys who regularly endangered their cholesterol and arteries with Henri's masterfully grilled fare.
"Anyway," she said, raising one eyebrow and looking intelligent and beautiful without a trace of self-consciousness, "What's new?"
This too was part of the routine. Grace, like my wife, loved to hear the juicy details of my more interesting cases. Though of course I couldn't endanger confidentiality, most of the cases I worked on never made the papers, so I could usually provide some interesting stories. Today was no exception. "A man came into my office today, set me onto an interesting one."
"Sure he wasn't just looking for the bathroom?"
"Ha ha. Very amusing. Actually, it's in regards to a missing person. His daughter- he thinks she got swept up into one of those weird resurrectionist cults that you probably read about in those yellow-journalism newspapers you're so fond of."
Her eyes widened. "Actually, yes, I have heard of them. Is any of that stuff true?"
"I doubt it. You know how it usually goes- contrived miracles for the masses, that kind of thing. But still, if this guy's daughter is there, I'll do what I can to help. There's really getting to be kind of a gray area between brainwashing and joining of your own free will."
The sound of the door opening behind us interrupted, and Grace broke into a wide smile. "Look who it is!" she said, and I turned. Tabatha, my dear wife was heading over to us, having changed out of the coveralls she wore to work every day and having put on an equally fetching pair of jeans and a black shirt that brought out the deep blue of her eyes. She walked over to us, leaned over me and gave me a proprietary smooch, and sat down, tossing my hat onto my lap. "What's doing?" she said, accepting a cup of coffee from Grace. Though Tabatha pretended a jealous streak where our friendship was concerned, I knew that both of them knew my heart was only in one place, as the stainless steel ring on my left hand attested to.
"Well, your husband here was striving to live in the current decade, and failing miserably. Apart from that, not too much. How's it going with you, hon?"
Tabatha rolled her lovely eyes dramatically. "Well, you know, upholding the cause of the common man, working for peanuts, slaving away at a labor of love," she said. I knew she was kidding, though she pulled it off without a hitch. She loved her work, and was the best in her field at it.

Well, that's about all I've got for now, dear readers. Grace is a complete work of fiction, the diner is a fictionalized account of a real place, and I actually am married to a very attractive blue-eyed woman named Tabatha. And my wedding ring actually is stainless steel. But hey, what's life without the daydreams? I'll see what else I can come up with for this fictional self- I'm not a private eye, and I work in transportation, not intelligence. I'll try and keep up the thread of this story, as I can describe the scene, but coming up with a plot is hard. Hope you enjoyed this first somewhat scattershot effort, and stay well, as always!

The Hermit and The Ox

Today another thought occurred to me- this is getting serious, a virtual epidemic! But seriously, something or other put me in mind of the Ten Oxherding Pictures, which date back to the Sung dynasty in China, and are ten pictures representing the discovery and taming of the mind. The ten pictures tell a story of a man looking for an ox- in the first picture, the man is looking for the ox, yet doesn't really know what he's looking for. This represents seeking out some deeper meaning to life, but not being certain of where to start- kind of square one, as it were. The next picture shows the man finding ox tracks- he begins to understand what he's searching for, though as yet it remains elusive to his mind. The third picture shows the man catching a glimpse of the ox- his (or her) ideas of what this truth is become clearer, and better defined. The man can now draw some tentative conclusions about the nature of what he is seeking, and can improve his search accordingly. Next, the man catches the ox, but the ox, being an ox, is stubborn, and he finds he can't control the ox. Clearly, he has to understand more about the ox to learn how to control it, or work with it. This represents the difficulties of any spiritual practice- attempting to tame the unruly mind, which, being a thing of habit, is sometimes difficult to change. Yet with patience and understanding, we find the man in the next picture leading the ox along- the ox has not changed its nature, that is, mind is still mind, with all its miracles and pitfalls, but the man has discovered a great deal more about the nature of the ox, and in this way has gained understanding, and with understanding, learns how to work with the nature of mind, not in opposition to it.
Now that the man has mastered his ox mind, the next picture shows him riding the ox- that is, what we would generally refer to as self and mind are one, moving in the same direction. Notice here that there are still two separate figures- the ox and man, that is, mind and our perception of mind, ego, perception of ourselves, however it's termed. In the next picture, a change has occurred- there's no more ox. The ox mind didn't go anywhere, rather it has been integrated into awareness- our mind, our thoughts, are no longer perceived as separate, rather there's just a state of being. Yet we maintain a sense of "I"- ego, perhaps. But we regard the world and ourselves as separate. The eighth picture is no picture- nothing there. Here the duality is completely gone, we simply see, and do not apply the label of self and not-self to what we experience. It's interesting to note that all the references of self we make are essentially not-self statements- like, "This entry is not-me, as I'm the one writing it. This computer is not-me, as I'm writing on it. These hands are not-me, as they are directed by mind to type the right letters," and so on and so forth. But where is me, then? When do the not-me statements stop? Actually, they don't. The self seems to be little more than a point of reference to understand the rest of the world. The second to last picture is sometimes called Returning to The Source- despite this long spiritual journey, we find that the world is still the same, it turns and life generally goes on as it always has. We find that spiritual truth is not on the mountaintop- it's been in everyday life the whole time, but our perception of it has changed. What was once mundane to us is now filled with profound meaning, and we see an underlying order and truth. Now the last picture is of the man going back to his hometown and sharing his learning with other people- this represents the Buddhist principle of service to others.
So what does all this have to do with the Hermit? Well, being a Major Arcana card, the Hermit deals with more of an abstract concept than a person. Here, the Hermit bears two symbols that give us a clue to his nature- a staff and a lantern. The staff represents will and authority- much like the Wands represent willpower, passion and action, here the staff represents a desire to find the truth, to seek out, and to persevere in pursuit of understanding. The lantern represents, well, illumination- the path at our feet becoming clear, and leading us ultimately to a higher place. The Hermit represents our higher spiritual natures, and moving towards that nature. What the Hermit shows us is that it's not always a four-lane blacktop; sometimes the road ahead is hard, or unclear. Those times, we need to rely on our staff- will, determination and stick-to-it-iveness. Perseverance is always rewarded, I've found. Sometimes it's rewarded in the form of learning that you're heading in the wrong direction, but every obstacle can also be a moment of learning as well.
In this world, we're all here for a purpose. It may not be clear at first, and is not as simple as a set of instructions- often we have many complex roles to fill in this world, sometimes overlapping and difficult to reconcile. But in this life, underlying it, is an order and plan. It may not always be clear to us, but it's always there. Anyone who's walked into the coffee table in the dark will tell you just because we don't see it doesn't mean it's not there. Life is both a journey and a destination, as well as a learning experience. What lessons each of us takes away depends on our own circumstances and experiences- but remember that no matter what, like that pointy coffee table corner in the dark, it's always there. Hopefully for all of us it'll be a good deal less painful though!

In The Flux

Recently I was reading a book, which is not really unusual in and of itself. However, this book was somewhat unusual-the book was Driving Mr. Albert by Michael Paternini, and chronicles a cross-country drive with the pathologist who autopsied Albert Einstein, and subsequently took possession of the deceased physicist's brain, preserving it in formaldehyde. It's interesting to note that Albert Einstein's brain was really not that different from any number of other brains, save that it had a significantly larger number of glial cells. These are the cells that feed neurons, which are responsible for thought. As an interesting aside, this is why brains are convoluted and ridged. The cortex, the outermost part of the brain, is covered with neurons- think of it like a big sheet of paper. Now, if you lay a piece of paper out flat, it covers a certain area. However, if you crumple it up into a ball, it covers much less space. The same idea applies to brains- the convolutions allow for many more neurons to be packed into a smaller area. Whether the larger number of glial cells is a cause or an effect is speculative- it could be that the more you use your brain, the more power it needs, so glial cells would have to be denser.
But at any rate, the story reads more like Jack Kerouac than just your run-of-the mill trip across the continent. It's interesting, that driving across the country produces such profound reactions from people. I've done it myself, and it's quite an adventure! There are always those curveballs that life will throw at you- it could be breaking down in the Nevada desert, or visiting the Garden Of Eden designed and created by S. P. Dinsmoor, in Lucas, Kansas, and constructed out of concrete. But there seems to be a balance in traveling like this, as there is in the rest of life.

The American Heritage dictionary defines flux as:
1. a. a flow or flowing
b. the rate of flow of fluid, particles or energy through a given surface
I find a similar state of awareness, kind of like one of those Magic Eye pictures- once you see it, you can't not see it anymore. Actually, I could never find the hidden picture in those, but you get the idea. We are in a constant state of flux- surrounded by energy, it moves around us and through us. I find this, see it, am aware of it, whatever the right word is, when I do Tarot readings- it's possible to do them without it, but becomes much easier when I'm able to concentrate on it. We are in the energy of this world, and occupy a two-sided position. We can both actively manipulate this flux, and can move with it. We exist between passivity and activity, and can do both. We can set in motion, then ride the waves we create. Start with a goal- set that goal into motion, and like a stone thrown into a river, it creates waves of effect, stretching outwards to eventually affect the entire river. And we in turn are affected by the waves that other people or events have caused and set in motion.
So in this life, we are neither passive spectators entirely, or controlling forces- rather it's a mix of both. We need to strike a balance between non-action, letting things happen to us, and attempting to control every last minute detail. Rather, act to change your world, and be flexible enough to deal with what the waves bring you. All reading the Tarot really involves is taking a look at this flux- what's going where, what's in motion around a given point in the river? I keep getting a weird mental image of a purple and black river, moving quickly, and we are deep in that river- it flows around us, and through us, and we can reach out and manipulate the currents around us. The trick is, know where and when to manipulate it. I don't think the Tarot is the only such system of taking a look at these things, it just happens to be the one I'm most familiar and comfortable with. We are not so much islands as we are whirlpools in this ever-changing flow of energy- we are affected by the currents around us even as we create our own changes. So remember, as long as you can act, as long as you have the power to change your world even a bit for the better, you're not hopeless. One change leads to another- every cause has long-reaching effects. And so it goes- find a starting point, and eventually you can move the earth itself.

The Night Castle

We're rapidly going towards the end of the month, and with that, all the logistical Gordian knots we untied getting our gear, equipment, weaponry and everything else over here we now get to go through again. But well, we did it once, so we can do it again. I'm going to kind of miss Jennifer, the name we unanimously gave the turret-mounted machine gun. Named after my ex-wife, bless her heart, we picked the name without malice, as machine guns are pretty scary things. Well, I suppose that might have some negative connotations, but your weaponry is your best friend, be it rifle or mounted gun. I shipped a big box back to the US recently, which proved to be also a chore. It wasn't anything to do with the military, rather personal effects that have accumulated during my time here in Afghanistan. There were books and a couple old issues of Heavy Metal magazine, which is kind of an odd comic book- described as "mature fantasy", it's composed of very good artwork and bizarre story lines. I had always associated the name with the VHS movie of the same name starring Lita Ford. Fans of '80's heavy metal may recognize the name. Also in this box was a mint-condition copy of The Wizard of Oz, which a Navy friend passed along to me. It's not a first edition or anything like that, so I'm not sure if the term mint condition applies to it. But it was a pretty good read, at any rate, and I hope my family will enjoy it as well! I learned you can't ship herbs or plants, at least not via the carrier I used. I have some incense that the folks at Circle Sanctuary sent me- I'm not sure how to get that home just yet. Plant matter is kind of iffy to send back to the states for safety reasons, though in fact this particular plant matter originated there. Well, I'll figure something out. I also learned you can't ship rocks or stones, but they can be brought through customs, assuming they pose no threat to the local ecosystem. Again, said stones are quartz and various non-precious polished stones that are all native to the US, so I can't imagine them posing any threat. But the people who work at the shipping office sign a form for customs that says they have verified the shipment as containing no hazardous material or anything not allowed, and since they are accountable as well as me for anything like that, it makes sense that they would not want to take chances.
Interestingly there is also some incense, unfortunately I haven't been able to use it, as it requires a charcoal burner, which I don't have. Perhaps someone could use it in a hookah, for a good smell if nothing else. I wouldn't recommend smoking it, I don't think it's designed for that. One issue I can foresee is that the bag says "herbal blend" on it, which, in the state of Oklahoma, has a largely different meaning. A recent trend in 'recreational drugs' is a synthetic marijuana (also identified as incense and/or herbal blend) sold under the name of Spice containing as an ingredient salvia divinorum- also known as Diviner's Mint. It can induce hallucinations and suggestibility when ingested, and is not in common use. The Army declared it illegal for safety reasons after there were incidences of people having 'bad trips' on it. Diviner's Mint has been used by shamans in some cultures since time immemorial, though I don't know much else about its effects. But after thoroughly inventorying the contents of the box, I left a considerable sum lighter and the box is currently in Leipzig, in Germany. Interesting that it's following largely the same route I did on the way over here, and will likely follow on the way back home! I think that it's ok to say where it's going, as it's along a main route back and forth from here. However, revealing specific flight information could get me in trouble, at least on a public medium like this one, that anyone can read. Email should be ok, as it's a good deal harder to get into. But I'll keep that in mind- this is more than likely why that helicopter was shot down last year- such information is not common knowledge, so tragically it would seem that someone knew where and when to be to take that helicopter down. But never fear, dear readers that I know personally, I'll be sure to keep you up to speed by a more secure means! Well, off to dinner, then more than likely sleep and lots of it. I'm still trying to figure out the best workout schedule with this new day shift- I'd like to do it in the early morning, but for one thing, gravity seems to double when I have to get out of bed in the morning. I'll clue in the Department of Defense scientists to this, and see if it has any military applications. Besides that, it's cold as the lowest level of Hell in the morning! Well, that'll wake me up, at any rate. But there's always the afternoon, when I get off shift.
In the meantime, I'll keep looking forwards to that bright future, whatever form it may take, and am very much looking forwards to getting home to my family! Sometimes you have to travel far and wide to realize what you were looking for the whole time was right in front of you.

Fear Of The Dark

We got snow out here in Afghanistan- bully for us. It was quite a storm, actually! And I found out the hard way that the turret leaks. This is kind of an involved story, but here goes- I was up in the turret, then took my helmet off and set it down on the gunner's platform- a raised platform between the rear seats (there are four in an MRAP) that the gunner stands on so he can see out the turret. So there I was, scanning my sector, not a care in the world or a heat signature on the thermal, when the midnight chow rolled up- referred to jokingly as the Midnight Meat Train in reference to the Clive Barker story about a serial killer who frequents a late-night subway train, it's a bus that gets loaded with hot food and sent around to the guard towers- we usually meet up with them and eat at night. This may seem strange, but I've found your body will get pretty hungry in any 12 or so hour period. At any rate, I shut the hatch, and left my helmet where it was, then went to eat. I came back to the truck, during which time snow continued to fall with great enthusiasm. It accumulated on the hatch and, since the heat was on in the truck, melted on the roof. And of course the one place I put my helmet was where there was a drip- my helmet filled up with water! I found this out when I reached over to pick it up by the straps and found my hand in icy water up to the wrist! Quite a funny surprise, I found. But luckily I was able to dry it out on a vent, and the helmet itself is Kevlar, with a waterproof coating, so water doesn't actually affect it. The pads are not, however, but really needed to get a run through the washing machine anyway. So that was one fun evening, as always. I'm now as of tonight on the day shift, which is a nice change- it frees up daylight hours to go to the gym- it'll be good to get back on that night-day cycle, I think the proper term is a Circadian rhythm. I'm sure it'll help with the remaining days here in Bagram. I still miss my family, though! Well, that's why I guess we're supposed to be a breed apart- soldiers and military men and women, that is. We're tough because we have to be.
At any rate, snow aside, there are a couple movies I'm looking forwards to seeing. First up is The Devil Within, kind of a takeoff on The Exorcist. Often considered the best demon possession film, I found new levels of creepy seeing it in the theater, with that great Dolby surround sound. So this movie deals with a young gal, as many horror movies do, whose mother is apparently demon-possessed. Not knowing what to do with her, having tried exorcism, which resulted in three murders, the church locks her up in a mental hospital. Very sad, I thought. Her daughter is somewhat estranged, yet fears that since her mother is either suffering from a ripping case of type 2 schizophrenia or actually possessed, that the same fate may be down the road for her. So the resulting non-authorized exorcism (presumably not authorized by the Catholic church), forms the basis of the movie. From the previews I've seen, looks like it runs high on creepy and make-you-jump type scares, somewhat along the lines of Insidious. I think the idea that demons are that interested in humans is an interesting one- the Keys of Solomon indicate that calling up demons is rather like herding cats- unless you have something they want, or are strongly compelled (the latter is the case in the Keys) they really don't give a rat's tail about humans. Presumably the demons that warrant exorcism are either really ticked about being disturbed, or are highly malevolent, seeking to do harm for harm's sake.
Next up is a film coming down the road a bit, but I think worth a look- another 'remake', this one is of the Evil Dead movies. There were two, the second with a somewhat larger budget and a little bit of a different take on the same idea. For those not familiar with them, both feature the incomparable Bruce Campbell as Ash (or Ashley, his full name used exactly once in both movies), a kind of fall guy who gets beleaguered by demons called up by the reading of an ancient Sumerian grimoire. The result is again, demon possession, and Ash fighting to stay sane and in one piece. The second, remade film sets up the premise for Army Of Darkness, and has a trend of occasional slapstick physical comedy and kind of off-color humor. At one point Ash fights his own severed hand (it got demons in it, had to chop it off), with a double-barreled shotgun. His hand sits and drums its fingers, waiting for him to reload, then gets caught in a mousetrap. Ash laughs derisively, and his hand responds by giving him the finger. I thought it was a riot, anyway. The first film, the original Evil Dead, had a much more hopeless and grim tone, as well as much gorier special effects. There's also a lose-your-hand scene in the first one, though much more gruesome than the other. Though the special effects are not as high-budget as the second, relying on prosthetic makeup and a good deal of stop-action Ray Harryhausen-ish effects, this movie remains in a category all by itself.
The remake is not, fortunately, just a rehash of the original premise. This would surely have disaster spelled all over it in big letters. It actually takes the premise of the movie, that is, read from the grimoire and get a bunch of pissed off demons on your case, in an interesting direction. Both the original movies take place in a cabin out in the middle of nowhere, where the original discoverer of the book went to translate it. And of course, read it out loud. Bad idea. At any rate, this new version also deals with an isolated cabin, and a young woman(!) who is a recovering drug addict. She goes to the cabin to detox and attempt to get on with her life, providing an interesting turn on the weird stuff that went on when the demons show up- moving trees, reanimated dead bodies, general craziness. No one believes her, believing she's still suffering some aftereffects of her addiction. After all, who would believe someone who said the trees were moving around, and there are monster dogs out there trying to get you? I think it could be worth a look, though many hardcore fans are unimpressed. If it were just a Nightmare On Elm Street type remake of the original story, I too would be much more cynical. But at any rate, that's my take on the world of cinema so far.
So apart from that, I'm looking forwards to a quiet night of sleep, and maybe catching up on some reading- I'm currently plowing through For Whom The Bell Tolls, by Ernest Hemingway. Though I like Hemingway, it is for some odd reason not an easy read for me. But a good one! So for now, in the words of the late great Frank Zappa, good night Austin, Texas, wherever you are!