Tate:

Fantasy is a fascinating thing

Imagining

Imagination

It is eleven thirty on the thirteenth day

And I think to myself

Lydia creates thoughts from seemingly nowhere

She writes our lives

The unimaginable occurs

But an occurrence unimaginable

Is an imaginable occurrence

There are depths to discover, to tread, to conquer

All is imaginable all you have to do is dream

Aéolyn

Her insides constricted around me

Noises come from inside of her

From where I touched her

Up to her stomach

Enveloping everything adjacent

Then up threw her

Collapsing her lungs

Echoing through her larynx

Speaking to me

I didn’t stop

She didn’t quite kick me out

Her eyes rolled into her head

Some of her limbs went limp

Her nails clawed into my back

In a toxic haze

We found ourselves levitating

It felt no different from the bed

No less safe

Just a larger canvas to stimulate her on

Her purple eyes almost black from the dilation

Her skin was glowing

We were rising closer and closer to the ceiling

Our skin becoming familiar with the design

I couldn’t stop now

I couldn’t separate from her

She looked at me and smiled

Her glow now pulsing

She looked down at the layout of my room

Then she looked back at me

She constricted herself

I leaned back and let out a groan of ecstasy and surprise

Then she fell to the ground

Separating from me

Her body violently connecting to my wooden floor

Then she shifted in pain

Then she started to scream

Like the screech from a swarm of sirens

Slowly I came back down to earth

Her eyes sprang open to me in fear and anguish

Her eyes fully purple and pale

With merely a dot to show the residence of her previously dilated eyes

I covered her with the sheet on my bed

She didn’t push me away

But she was fighting violently inside

By herself

Then she stopped

Just like that

Like nothing happened

Her eyes still fully purple

Her demeanour calm and determined

She got up, dragging the sheet with her

I tried to stand up

I couldn’t

She turned to me

Then began to levitate

My eyes rolled looking at my brain

I shuttered

Then this rage filled me

I felt as if I was fighting for my life

All these monsters surrounded me

They changed me

Hate, manipulation, frustration, anguish

It drank my blood

It became familiar with all I was

To survive, I had to kill them all

My eyes opened

Rolling back to the pale eyes of Aéolyn

Like an angel her body towards the sky on an angle

Her face towards mine

She kissed me and held out her hand

‘We have to kill them all.’

Her voice angered and determined

I looked at the clock

Day fourteen

We walked into the living room

A suit dressed the first couch

Placed there like a ghost was once in it

Looked black

But glared with a blue

A white shirt with soft silver pinstripes

And a blood red tie

I looked over at Aéolyn’s gift

A slim white dress

Cut for her body

Only hers

A thin strap and the front a perfect heart shape

Flared at the bottom

Two tickets sat on the night table

Accessories

And one note ‘A ballroom massacre.’

It burnt and shrivelled in my hand

Aéolyn:

We went outside to a brand new expensive car

And my eyes told Tate where to go

We got there and someone opened my door

I let out my hand

He held it, I felt him, held him

Tate came around and grazed my hand

I took our tickets out of my clutch

And we went inside

It was a simple concept

Eight huge chandeliers stormed the ceiling

One candelabra hung in the middle

Red candles

We looked around the room and I shuddered

Heavy energies

Eyes smiled at me

Mouths moved for me

Champagne glasses like jewelry in everyone’s hands

I looked at the floor and it was white and soft teal marble

Tate squeezed my hand

‘We’re going to have a lot of fun very soon.’

He stood in front of me

Pushed his hair back

Let out his hand

‘Would you care to dance?’

He pulled me into the crowd

We began to dance

Right under the candelabra

As we danced we scoped our crime scene

We admired our victims

We planned a massacre

Then we looked at each other

We started dancing around and around

The images around us blurred

They became smaller and smaller

Our victims

They gasped, screamed, their groans overcame the music

We floated fifteen feet above their heads

We could feel the heat from the candles

We floated higher

Everyone watched in shock

We separated and reached for a candle

Then blew it towards the doors

Fire charred the doors shut

The servants disappeared

None of the women in elegant dresses

None of the men in handsome suits

They started to panic and I willed them to just stop

To stop and stare at us

We descended to the beautiful marble floors

Their heads followed us

Their bodies in tune with ours

Their feet encased in a box motion

I touched three of them

Willed them to follow me

Tate touched four and did the same

Tears fell down their eyes

Sweat gleamed their heads

Fear quivered in the fat of their lips

Then we stopped

I looked around

I wanted to see what I was really dealing with

We unlocked them

And they all came charging

Ice and fire in their eyes

The men the women

They wanted to do terrible thing to us

They gave me so many ideas

They stretched their arms towards us

Plunged their bodies

All in vain

We couldn’t be touched

We smirked

They swore, women’s hair became dishevelled

Their makeup melted showing their demonic faces

The seven we picked walked mindlessly to the far wall

They pressed against long white curtains

Four women, three men

The nine of us were in our own world

As the chaos lingered outside our cocoon

We would deal with them later

‘Hello Harry Hawson.’

His wet eyes tortured me

I stood back

Watched them aligned in front of Tate and I

‘All of you, just like Harry, will tell us why we chose you. You will tell us with complete honesty. You will tell us out loud why you should kill yourselves.’

A shutter in all of them croaked the cocoon

‘Harry, begin.’

‘My name is Harry Hawson, I am a son of a legion of men that sought out to destroy anything in their quest of life. Men of pillagers and plunderers, men who infect, murder, rape and steal, I not only condone and admire their actions, but I perpetuate them. We are all unstable, insecure, aggressive and angered at the world for dragging us out into the light. Our mission is to subject our sleepless nights onto the rest of the world. ’

I looked down at my white dress and smeared my hands down the cloth

I looked up at Harry

Then I walked up to him

Grabbed him by the throat

My nails broke through his skin

Tate held my back with his palm

‘Harry, give me your spine.’

Just like that

He began

He took off his coat

Pulled down the suspenders off his shoulders

His blue eyes glistened

Cold and upset

He undid his dress shirt

Scolding me

I smiled

‘Give it to me Harry.’

Then he turned around

His nails began to scratch at the skin that protected his spine

A red light peeled through him

Then he dug his fingers into the base of his spine

And tugged at it

And ripped it out of his back

A wind of pleasure penetrated every pore of me

Harry handed it over to Tate

Once he let go

Harry

He just crumbled to the floor

A red misty light releasing from him

The chaos outside us ceased

They all back as far away as the crowd would allow

The six left tried to nestle with the white curtains in their paralyzed state

Tate:

Her name is Karelle Marcus

A seductive body, soft lips, entrapping eyes

‘My name is Karelle Marcus, I take what I want from others, sexually. I like to take the things I can’t have, I use them for days, I tie them up, penetrate them, I keep them. I don’t care about what they want or need, what they feel. I love every second of it.’

I walked up to her

Pushing her deep into the curtains

Hiked up her skirt

Then I dragged it off her body

Aéolyn touched my shoulders

‘Karelle, give me all your sex organs.’

Her long violet skirt was like confetti at her feet

I stepped back

Then she braced her nails just above her pubic bone

Her nails just made a light dent

Then she looked at me

I nodded and she shoved her hand into her lower gut

Orange blood leaked out of her

She looked at both of us in shock and pain

‘Give me all of it.’

Aéolyn serenaded me

She held out her hand

Like a demanding parent

She gave it to her

Orange painting

Staining Aéolyn’s hand

When all she asked for was in hand

She fell back

Slamming her head against the white curtains

Then we walked over to another woman

‘Samantha Arquette.’

She sang her name

‘My name is Samantha Arquette, I haven’t done anything.’

She paused

Looked at Aéolyn

Her eyes sparked fires

‘But I have made others do things for me. In the name of lies, faith, promises, and through regimented and thought out manipulation. I am the queen of parasites, the one that wills others to kill the innocent, run cities dry, to steal for my own needs. I have transformed this planet through nothing but my words. Not only do I not have the strength to go out and get what I want, but I haven’t the courage, but I always had the power. All I had to do was sit back and wait.’

I looked around then held Aéolyn’s hand

‘Give me your stomach.’

She began to take her shirt off

Her defiance sank to the bottom of her empty soul

She kept her bra on

Then she placed her hand onto her stomach

Above her navel

‘Hurry up!’

Aéolyn was becoming impatient

She dug her nails to the side of her stomach

Then tore the skin off

Then aimed for the sack

‘Leave the acid.’

I looked passed her eyes

She frowned

Tore the bag open

It leaked all over her close organs

It leaked down her legs

We stared

Fascinated

The acid was bright yellow

It picked away at everything it touched

Some places more than others

She placed what I asked for in my hand

Then every other organ fell out of her

And she fell onto them

Aéolyn:

‘Hi Alexander Roberts. Take off your coat and shirt.’

Tate demanded him

We were becoming impatient

They knew the drill

They aren’t special

They’re disgusting

‘My name is Alex Roberts, I murder people that fall in love with me. I kill them violently in the end, it is better than any orgasm, better than any drug. I do it for no other reason other than the fact that I enjoy it. My body wills me to do things, things out of my control, and manipulating women into loving me, then murdering them in any setting, during sex, after sex, in the woods, or in a basement. Whatever my body wants. I have no regrets it was the only thing that made me feel alive, only thing that made me feel real.’

I demanded his heart

His shirt was already off

His chest breathing out to me

He shoved his hand into the slight left of his ribcage and took it out

It still thumped as she bled

It was green

Like a rotten organ

When he placed it into my hand

He stepped back

The second step his chest exploded

The next was Kaisa Lordes

A beautiful woman

In a beautiful red dress

Her voice pulsated in the cocoon

Laced in the stench of rot and copper

Blood

‘You’ve got the wrong person! I’m a good person, nothing like these others, I’ve got two kids, a husband.’

I glimpsed her bare fingers

All bullshit

I walked up to her and smiled

‘Your poor family.’

Tate pulled me away from her

‘Give me your throat.’

She looked at him

Angered

‘Give it to him now.’

I looked behind me

Everyone still as far away

Yet fascinated

Like gridlock during an eight car collision

Morbid

Curiosity will let them know their fate

She scraped at her throat

Like she had moths and maggots moving around

A white light blared out of her mouth

Then shined through her perforated neck

She gave it to Tate

Then her head spun around

She collapsed

Tate:

‘Jourdan William and Chlöe Sovigny, tell us about each other.’

They held hands

We let them

Comfort in times like this

Gives you hope

When it’s in vain

‘Jourdan’s a racist, he hates he hates more than he loves. He’s harmed people in the name of anger, fear, aggression, stupidity, and false superiority. His ignorance, and primitive actions has ruined lives, has spouted lies and he’s a reflection of years of oppression and regression.’

‘Chlöe has no moral compass, she’s an artist of all trades, and she prides herself in her ability to lie, steal, manipulate, kill, exploit, and destroy anything and anyone in the way of the things she wants from this life. She follows no codes, she is her own ruler, and this planet is hers to rule.’

Aéolyn and I said it at once

‘Kill yourselves.’

They looked at each other

Let go of each other’s hands

Let go of their hope

Held onto each other’s heads

Then tore them off

Slowly

Painfully

The strings, the arteries, the ligaments and muscles, the bones

They all slowly ventured away from each other

Violet and Indigo sprayed all over the white curtains

They gave us the heads they took

Then they stood in front of us

Like mannequins on display

We placed all the organs given to us in order on the floor

Then a shell of a woman cupped them

An empty shell of a woman

Then it all started to fill in

She came together, full, solid, human

A beautiful woman

She wore nothing

Before she spoke to us

She crawled over to the liar and took her red dress

Then she put it on

She turned her back to me

‘Tate, could you zip this up for me?’

That was the first thing she said

The dress slightly changed on her body

She admired it

Then she started talking

‘I came for my own reasons, my own revenge.’

‘Who are you?’

Aéolyn spat her words into the air

She went towards the rapist and took her shoes

Ignoring Aéolyn’s interruption

Her body curved in all the right places

She was tiny, cute, petite

Her breast were big

But perfectly

She had a thing to her

She was sexy and cute all at once

Mystical and fascinating

Then she stood towards us

In front of us

‘Tate, how do I look?’

Her eyes, black spheres

All black

Safe

Her skin dark and luminescent like Aéolyn’s

She smiled at me

Excited to hear my response

‘You look gorgeous.’

The words graced her ears

‘Thank you.’

I could feel the heat

The heat rising off her flustered skin

‘Aéolyn, Tate... I’m Lydia December.’

Aéolyn’s eyes admired

She looked at her and it felt like she forgotten I was there

Aéolyn always admired Lydia’s presence

‘I created all of this?’

She looked around questioning herself

‘Aéolyn, Tate... I want to tessellate these bodies.’

She looked over at the rainbow curtains

Then towards the frightened bodies

Panicked, anxious, sweating profusely

You could feel their fear

‘Tate... Aéolyn... Do you trust me?’

She looked back at us

Looked from our feet

To our eyes

Each eye individually

‘I swear I have passion.’

She looked away

‘Move.’

She spoke to the force field and walked to them

All of them

We followed her

A man breached the crowed

Then ran towards her

With ignorant aggression

Poor testosterone

Mindless thoughts

He ran into her

Her body slamming into the marble tiles

His body devoured her

Then it began to float

Lydia pried him from her

Held him by the neck

Pierced him with her oil eyes

‘I know what you’ve done, I know what all of you have done.’

She whispered it into the air

But all heard

‘Your fates, all your fates, are mine to write.’

She looked back at him

Rose higher into the air

Looked at Aéolyn

Then looked at me and smiled

Then dropped him

Without thought

And before his head slammed against the marble

The rapist heel’s was there to impale his skull

One woman screamed

Then the rest immediately scattered

Lydia grabbed two and broke their necks aggressively with her hands

Then she looked back at us

‘Only this moment exists, make something of it.’

On Wed, Mar 4, 2015 at 6:05 PM, Donne Marshall <48donne@gmail.com> wrote:

141 Galloway Rd, Scarborough, ON M1E 1W7

UNIT 87

SEEK GOD NOT SHELTER, the sign read. Stuck to the underbelly of the rusty bridge above them. Dusted with dirt and irony. CHRIST HAS RISEN AND HE NEEDS YOU, another said. COME TO THE HILL. Both signs scrawled in blood.

She turned around towards the hill, her dirty blonde hair cascading over her tired eyes. She turned like it was beckoning her, calling her name through the wisps of wind that whiplashed her skin. She saw them all heading towards the hill, the preachers in white, the others in whatever they could scavenge.

"Are you sure we're doing the right thing?" she asked.

"Yes."

"They say he's risen, why couldn't it be true?"

"Look around."

He watched her eyes move across the landscape like drifting tumbleweed. He watched her see it all again. The empty sky. The pillaged streets above them. The ribcages. Broken. Poking out of the bodies smeared on the ground. The snow melting into murky water, digging potholes into the muddy earth. The sky mimicked their souls. It was sad. Ugly. Gray.

"Do you believe me now?" he asked her.

She looked at him. She felt everything, but she felt nothing. She was hollow. Emotionless. She grabbed his hand.

"There is no God," he went on. "No man with the power to create a galaxy would build a wasteland."

"Maybe."

He looked at her. He wanted to tell her, doubt will kill us. Doubt will kill us before they do. But he didn't tell her.

"Don't say that. You have to believe it. You have to believe me. Do you?"

She gripped harder. Looked back. Pointed towards the city.

"They all say he's risen. All of them. They say he's here. That he's walking with us. Maybe they're right."

"If Christ has risen, where are his footprints?" he asked.

He watched her eyes shift towards the untouched snow stretched ahead of them.

They walked on.

All was gray the next morning. Dirty. Dead. She woke up to silence. The sleeping bag beside her was empty. Cold. They'd camped under an old bridge, shielding themselves from view if one were to pass by quickly. But maybe someone had meandered on by slowly. She was the lookout.

She pushed herself up on her elbows, about to get up and investigate when he showed up, dripping wet. Chilled to the core with icicle hair. He sat down beside her, emptying his socks of the pounds of snow inside them. Finished, he placed his hands back inside his soaked jacket pockets.

"We need to eat," he said.

"You need to warm up."

"I was looking for food."

"Nothing?"

"Nothing."

He rubbed his eyes, running his hands through his melting hair as he spoke. "There wasn't a single car out there today. Wasn't anything."

She pulled her body up, pressing herself against the graffitied cement wall. GOD IS GOOD sprayed in red. Scratched out ten times over.

She peeked around the wall and stood up. "We have to go, then," she said. "We have to go to the next town."

"Do you know what town?"

"No."

"Okay."

They both stood up, packed their things into their backpacks and pockets. The lighter. The wire. The canteen. The switch knife. The socks. The earmuffs. The sheets and blankets. Sleeping bags on top.

They walked on.

Sometimes they remembered the days before the destruction. They'd reminisce. Drink nostalgia from their canteen instead of the limited supply of clean water they were carrying. They'd remember the smells. Roses. The tastes. Fresh bread. Fresh water. The sounds. Laughter. Music. The sights. The blue skies. The flowers growing between the sidewalks, before they became splattered with blood. They remembered when everything was beautiful.

Other times they would forget.

"What's green look like?" she would ask him.

"Green."

"You don't remember either."

The conversation would end, and they would walk on.

They reached a town a day later, weak from hunger. Running on empty. No different than any other day.

They walked down the lifeless but dirt street, full of bones and skulls and more bones and more skulls. He grimaced. Shifted his eyes towards his naked feet.

She saw the pain reflecting in his eyes. "Don't look," she said.

"They're already there."

"Where?"

"In my head."

She glanced at the bodies then, laying in piles. Hundreds upon hundreds. Laying on top of each other, placed as if built by careless giants trying to make a castle out of a deck of cards on a windy day.

Bones protruded out of each of them in the same place. All ribcages were slashed in half, dangling out of the chests like a man dangling off a cliff. Strings of dried blood clots hung off the ripped tissue, silk gossamer off the heaps.

He looked up, then quickly angled his gaze down once again. His eyes stumbled to words etched into the brown ground.

GIVE BACK TO GOD, it said.

He spat on it. Stamped it out with his foot.

"What's going on?" she asked, turning around.

"More propaganda,'" he said, clenching his hands.

"Don't get angry. Save your energy."

"They want us to praise god."

"I know."

"Do you know something?"

"You refuse."

"Yes. I refuse. Do you praise a fire for eating the trees? Oceans for swallowing cities? No. And so it goes. One does not deserve praise for turning the world into a wasteland."

She grabbed his hand, tried to calm him down. Rubbed his palm. Looked at his grimy fingers.

"Your ring is gone," she said.

"I lost it. In the last Reckoning."

"How?"

"In the paint jar when I stuck my hand in."

He remembered the feel of it. The thickness of the dye on his hand when he brushed it on his forehead. He didn't want to put the mark on, but blending in was key. Vital. It was the only way to survive.

The whistle blew after that, the high-pitched screech slicing through the air. The men had begun pouring out of the buildings, racing down the streets. He had turned to her, grabbed her by her long hair.

"Cut it off," she had said.

And so he did, in one swift chop. Then they were handed the blades and pointed towards the rebels.

"God needs us," one of men in white roared.

GOD HAS RISEN AND HE NEEDS YOU, the men chanted in reply. One of the men held their arms up high, making the symbol with his fingers. A cross. Two hundred more jutted out into the sky. It started.

And so they charged toward the small pack of rebels, holding their knives high above their heads. He blended in. Had been one of the first to reach them, had been one of the first to tackle the shaking man begging for food to the ground. One of the first to plunge the knife into a chest, to watch the blood bubble up from harmless veins and ooze out of the wound, bursting like a fireworks display neither of the men had witnessed in years.

She'd started pulling him. Yelling into his ear to STOP STOP STOP because WE CAN GO WE CAN RUN NOW THEY WON'T NOTICE and IT'S TIME TO GO and most importantly DON'T BE LIKE THEM. In a split second he'd stood up. She grabbed his sticky hand. They ran.

He fell back into reality as he felt her grip on his hand loosen. He looked at her. Collapsed at her touch.

"I'm sorry."

"I know."

"I'm sorry. I'm sorry."

"It's alright," she said. "It's alright. You're alright."

He looked at her. Lifted his lips a little like he used to do.

"Do you want to put the paint on again now?" she asked.

"No."

"It's safer."

"I refuse," he said. "I don't want the sign. Putting it on the first time was a mistake, even if it was safer. I was weak. Wanted bread. Now I want sustenance and Christ is not in my diet. There might be a soup kitchen somewhere near here."

Sometimes she worried he was too radical. Like the others, but on the opposite end of the spectrum. Sometimes she remembered he'd killed a man.

They trekked through the filthy streets towards the innards of the city, peeking into the alleys and buildings. Performing the routine checks. Looting the houses around them and checking for anything useful. Coming up with nothing.

And so they went. Trampling on down the empty road, each step more of a burden than the last.

At the start things had been different. They had worn shoes and mittens and scarves and hats. Had kept crates of vegetables, jars of fruit. They had been exponentially prepared. But supplies dwindled over the course of the years. Thieves. The needier. Shoes wearing out. Until all that was left was a pack full of nothing.

A man in white sat in the ditch of the road ahead of them. Two hundred feet, maybe two-fifty. She looked at him, pulled him off the street into an alley.

"There's someone there," she said.

"I see. He's one of them."

"What do you want to do?"

"Keep going."

"Could be dangerous."

"I'm starving."

They carefully trudged towards the man. He fingered the switch knife in his pocket.

They treaded closer and the man came into view. He was chubby. The first tip-off. Abnormal for times like these. The man rolled his head, caught sight of the pair. He angled his gaze towards them.

They inspected him more profusely. Saw the scarlet cross painted in blood on his forehead. The second sign. The man began to move. Shuffled his stained hands and extended his two pointer fingers. Held one up and put the other over it. Made the symbol.

They were supposed to sign back to the man. They were supposed to silently let him know that they were not searching for shelter, they were not scavenging for a morsel of food, they were not running from the preachers. No. They were supposed to sign, let him know they were heading towards the hill. Making their way to the place where they'd give their heart to the ghost of a ghost.

The man in the street waited.

Waited.

Waited.

He didn't sign.

She didn't either.

The man stood up. Placed his hands in his pockets. Brought out his whistle. Blew it.

People exploded into the street, all dressed in white. All wearing red symbols on their foreheads. Blood glistening in the sun.

They surrounded them, instructing them as they moved closer and closer. Hands up. Legs apart. Don't move a muscle. I said don't move.

They took their packs and sliced them open, flipped them upside down and watched their precious items plummet into the dirt with a dull thud. They stepped on them, rubbed their sheets into the grime. Poured their canteens into their mouths, gulping the water down like it was their own. One licked his lips while another began the interrogation.

"What were you doing out of your territory?

Why aren't you heading north?

What gives you the right to search for food on your own?

You are not God.

God will provide for you after it's over.

You are wrong. This is what God wanted. Thy will be done.

We are doing this in His holy name.

We all have to make sacrifices. We all must learn to live for Him."

He was out of saliva to spit. The man kicked him to the ground.

"Take this one first. Then the other."

The men followed his commands. One revealed a trash bag, heavy and dripping crimson. The others came forward towards the couple with silver knives. They slashed their clothes and dragged them off. Stabbed their chests, crushed their ribs, carved the hole. Reached in and plucked out their hearts and dumped them in the bag. Pulled out their scarlet blades and wiped them off. Dipped their fingers into their chests until they were dripping rubies. Reapplied the cross on their foreheads, and then

they walked on.

I-Programming

The theatre of entrainment covered all fronts. Church, home, friends and family, school.

Church

Mom quizzed me daily, holding her hand over the text while I memorized the Bible picture and Scripture accompanying it. I learned every Bible verse for 13th Sabbath because it was fun to say them faster than the teacher could flip the page.

I sang “Away in the Manger” with my mother in church when I was a year old because she made it a game to alternate words and tones with her. She coached me in the shower, at meals and in the car.

(mom)”Awayyyy in a...”

(me) “MANGE-er.”

(mom) “No crib for a…”

(me) “BED!”

Every week we went to church and sat in the second pew from the front. My parents were elders and mom was faithful in reminding us that “We are leaders and must set a good example.” That meant sitting quietly and coloring or reading our Sabbath School quarterlies and remaining motionless during prayer which often lasted upwards of five minutes. I spent a lot prayer time trying to tap the soles of the deacon’s shoes in front of me without them noticing. Most of the time they ignored me, but occasionally, they’d kick at my hand. The exhilaration made my body crack with excitement.

Around half-way through the following sermon, I’d lay my head on mom’s lap and try to nap while she fished bobby pins from her purse and tried to clean my ear canals. I wanted to wake up when the hypnotic droning was over; instead, I moved carefully to escape her probing. Sometimes she’d go painfully deep when flipping to a scripture and I’d squeal. “Shhhhh” she hissed. “Sorry honey.” And go right back to it.

Home

On the home front, mushrooms provided one of my earliest classrooms. I sat in the backyard, surrounded by provocative toadstools while my mother lectured me on how poisonous they were. “Do not eat them Jaime,” she warned, shaking her head slowly, “They could make you sick or die.”

Die. Even at two the word had ominous overtones that made me shiver. But the mushrooms were so round. When mom came back outside and saw several mushrooms without their tops, she assumed the worst and fed me an entire bottle of Ipecac. I remember violently heaving my guts out and sobbing between gags because it was uncontrollable. I learned not to eat from anywhere but the table or her hand. At least not in front of her.

That was alright because she served Fri-Chik with Mac and Cheese and I loved it. Adventists invented fake meat. We were regular customers at the ABC, Adventist Book Center, where vegi-food could be purchased by the case. Turkey Style, the Adventist answer to turkey sold in plastic wrapped logs, and tomato sandwiches with pickle always pulled me in from the forest. I adored the way my teeth sank into the spongy fibers, how they tore, leaving an edge like those fuzzy tube dresses popular in the 90’s.

Looking at the sun came next. I’d ride in my car seat and stare at the light. It pulled me deep and I marveled at how big it felt, the grandeur of it. Mom caught me once and said frantically, “Don’t Look At the Sun, Jaime! It will burn your retinas! Burn them!” She tried to cover my eyes from the front seat, I tried to obey, squinting as tightly as I could. Mom took the battle to heart. Every time she’d catch me squinting, she’d raise the tone of her voice and bring a tremor to the word “burn”.

Friends and Family

It never dawned on me that something was strange about my love of processed soy and gluten until I went to my only non-Adventist friends’ house and felt frightened when their mom announced there would be meatballs for dinner. I prayed my mom would pick me up before I had to confront real meat. The only meat I’d ever seen was beef stick from Pepperidge Farms that dad ate around the holidays. It smelled amazing but mom assured me that it was “icky, pleh, pleh!!” I’d sneak smells of it at night and occasionally touch it with my finger and lick it when no one was around but I knew I was playing with fire. The rest of the playdate was shot because I couldn’t stop worrying about the dead cow waiting in the kitchen. What if I accidentally LIKED it?

It was more complicated at Grandpa and Grandma Mathis’ house.They were my dad’s parents and decidedly un-Adventist. Grandpa would usually ply us with candy and gumballs and send us home hopped up on sugar, but occasionally we’d arrive for visits that overlapped with Grandma making dinner. All the Lincoln Logs and licorice paled in the dread of chicken and noodles. I played quietly, going out to stand by the creek and pray that we’d leave before things got uncomfortable.

The one time my sister and I were left alone with Grandma, a mealtime rolled around and she placed the dreaded chicken and noodles before us. The smell made me lean over the bowl and inhale deeply. I was terrified and touched the spoon to my lips, praying that I’d not go straight to hell. The taste made my mouth yawn for more. I gobbled the noodles down while Grandma smiled. “See, we heathens aren’t so bad, are we?” With vanilla ice cream and chocolate sauce for dessert, I knew I was in trouble.

As I got older, I would think of my mother, who gave up meat for Jesus when she was a kid, and how you had to fight to stay out of Satan’s snares. “He’s sneaky, Jaim.” Mom warned us, “Even the Very Elect will be deceived.” I was on constant lookout for possible traps and meat was the perfect slippery slope to Satan’s lair. So many people ate it who were Christian, or even Good People, but they weren’t Adventist. They didn’t know they were being deceived. Several years later, I was told Adventists were vegetarian because Adventism’s prophetess, Ellen G. White, frowned upon eating flesh. It didn’t matter much, I’d felt the pull of something more tantalizing than Turkey Style and it frightened me.

School

It was foreordained that I would attend an Adventist school and Rivergate Adventist Elementary was the selected institution. I had visions of how I would accouter myself for the first day of school. I’d wear my favorite pair of soft corduroy pants with a cozy flannel shirt and let my long hair cascade down my shoulders. I would sweep into the classroom and read beautifully from a book of fairy tales for Show and Tell. They would let me skip several grades and I would become known an enchanting story-teller.

Mom got to me first with a pair of scissors and a plaid skirt with matching ivory sweater trimmed in lace. Whack! The blades sliced clean, leaving me with bangs straighter than the Narrow Way we were supposed to stay on. “Why do I have to wear this!” I hollered in dismay. “Because I’m the mother and I say so. Besides, you need to look perfect. You are an Example.” She stood in front of me, her hand dead center on my forehead and sighted down her fingers. She parted and re-parted my hair until the line was completely straight. Then she gathered each side into a perfectly smooth pony tail, braided them tightly and wound matching rubber bands around the bottom. As I struggled to get out the door, she handed me a mutant squash from our garden and smiled. “It’s for Show and Tell. I’ll be watching.”

There were six kids in my grade at Rivergate; I didn’t stand a chance of outgrowing the reputation of Geeky Squash Girl until I lost my moral bearings at twelve and became a black sheep.

By then, the programming had settled deep and was starting to run on its own steam. I was terrified of missing out on being kissed or knowing what made life rich before I died. I was also hyper-aware that boys and burgers put me on a dangerous road away from The True Church.

II-Implementation

Train up a child in the way he should go and when he is old, he will not depart from it. -Proverbs 22:6

Cancer

Two months before I was diagnosed with Non-Hodgkins Lymphoma, my mom mentioned a church member dying of cancer. “That’d be the worst thing I can imagine.” I thought clearly, “If I had cancer, I’d die.”

The Christmas I was 8, I wore my new Sabbath dress to church and returned home to the news that I had one of the rarest cancers out there. We left immediately for Stanford Medical Center, the first non-Adventist institution I’d met in more than passing. Suddenly, I was expected to accept a monthly pilgrimage to a land of heathen spinal taps and godless doctors and act grateful.

I rode in the backseat of Grampie’s maroon Plymouth Reliant and stared at my cousins and sisters as dad encouraged them to wave from the driveway. We always spent Christmas in the Napa Valley with my mom’s parents, so the sun was shining and I had to squint to see them. Mom and Uncle Monti chatted quietly in the front seat about the “tests they needed to run.” There was no specific mention of what kind of tests they would be, but I was positive they wouldn’t involve me on a treadmill eating ice cream.

I felt like puking so I laid down and tried to sleep. I knew it wasn’t going to change anything but it was the only trick I had. My Gunnysax dress wrinkled around me and I yelled demon curses at the nurses when they tried to remove it to start an IV.

I was the kid who hated doctors on sight. From infancy, all mom had to do was mention the word and I lost it. Sewing needles were cause to avoid a room altogether. After that first IV, I stopped feeling. From ages 8-11, I knew that every twenty days I was heading into a stretch of pain and things I dreaded most.

In the hospital, voices remained at an even timbre while physical pain ran arpeggios under my skin. I was quiet there- a child who’d been talking since age one. The quieter I was, the quicker things got done and I could leave.

For my 11th birthday, the florist at Safeway hand painted an almost life-sized carousel horse that I hung my wigs and scarves on. One of my favorite activities before cancer had been to play Mermaid in the bathtub. I had long red hair that waved about like titian seaweed as I swirled my head back and forth in the water. The first time my hair started falling out, my heart melted. I couldn’t bear the thought of mom crying over it too, so I pulled it out by the fist-full in front of my mirror, whisper-weeping at another awful trick.

Silent God

I got baptized a year into chemo; it was best not to take chances. Adventists go for full immersion so I knew I’d have to hold my breath while the pastor dunked me and called down the Trinity to watch. I was ready for fireworks and a baptismal certificate that showed I was saved. When the water closed over my head I told myself to get ready for angelic voices welcoming me back. The sensation of water leaving my ears created a momentary buzz that I took as a sign.

Mom made fresh blueberry pie for my Baptism Reception and people handed me cards with gift certificates to the Adventist Book Center. I stood still, trying to feel changed, more connected to hearing God’s voice, but all I could detect was the sound of people devouring pie. The Bible said that we must become like little children to truly experience God, but cancer grew me up fast while my body remained a kid. I felt cheated out of the spiritual benefits of being dependent and helpless. I felt the exact same as I did before being doused. As far as I knew, that was the pinnacle experience for Adventists outside the Second Coming. I started to wonder if it was possible to spiritually plateau before I got my driver’s license.

I don’t remember deliberately trying to stir up dissention until cancer happened. I asked questions and crossed lines if clearly marked out, but I figured that’s normal kid stuff. When I got sick I asked teachers and parents to spell it out. “What did I do to make this happen?” “Why did God let my biggest fear come true?” Church People told me they were praying for me, they sent cards, they brought balloons, they told me, “God has a Great Purpose for you because of this.” I knew to smile and say thank you. All I could think was, “Why don’t you know anything useful?”

Somewhere in the middle of winning Bible verse duels in Sabbath School and losing my hair for the second time, I began to foment. I’d sit in a pleather chair every Saturday, studying the Bible for answers as dreadful paradoxes popped up to stir my angst, “He was oppressed and treated harshly, yet he never said a word. He was led like a lamb to the slaughter. And as a sheep is silent before the shearers, he did not open his mouth.” Why would God want us to be like sheep? Even I knew sheep were notoriously dumb but that was never part of the answer. We are supposed to be like sheep. Not goats. Goats go to hell. So we choose slow and saved or smart and lost? God stayed mute on the subject, his followers dumb. I was mad.

I prayed for my Adventist elementary school to burn down as my prayer request in Sabbath School. My soul tingled as I spoke, wondering, if I was putting my salvation in jeopardy. Mom and dad were told and I was informed in a hushed whisper, “Dad will deal with this when we get home.” After church, I was driven home while the two of them argued over who should discipline me. Dad lost and I got spanked with a leather belt on the bare ass. I made sure to take my wig off so it wouldn’t get in my eyes while I squirmed.

Emotional Incest

Mom and dad fought like a tsunami hitting land from before I can remember. They’d yell about everything from money to religion and circle back around just to hear the windows shake. At first I’d crawl to the bannister and try to see them in action, but eventually I’d head back to bed for fear of being discovered.

When I got sick, the fighting continued but the intervals between rounds were longer because mom came with me for the five day stretches in hospital. I don’t recall any specific situations that pre-empted mom’s pronouncement but she started saying that I was making everyone’s lives a living hell. I took that to mean that I was the cause of their arguments. Neither tried to correct me.

Mom would complain to me about how mean and emotionally abusive dad was to her. He never listened, he took out his anger on her, he didn’t support her in front of us kids. She bashed him when we were riding in the car to the hospital or would show up in my room after a fight, crying and raging. After hearing the gamut of her grievances for years, I started suggesting divorce. “There are no Biblical grounds for that honey.” she’d explain with a quivering lip. “So you’re just supposed to stay and be miserable?” I wanted to know. “He makes me feel crazy.” she’d whisper and go right back to it. By the time I was eleven, I could recite the litany of specific wrongs he’d committed in their relationship. I also knew, per my mother, that he was “great in bed.”

The Road to Hell.

Make-A-Wish Foundation gave me a horse when I was 11 because it was my second round of chemo and I qualified as having a “life threatening condition.” It was the first time anyone asked me specifically what I wanted without God or unselfishness being part of the discussion. I made a list on wide-ruled notebook paper of my wish contenders. Chincoteague pony, see the Lipizzaners perform in Vienna, Morgan horse. The horse won because I wanted a wish that would outlast cancer. If I was going to die, I would go out with a spectacular wish.

I got more brazen after the wish. With a bobbed red wig and a horse all my own, I’d had a lick of freedom that was intoxicating. I was sick of bouncing from hospital to classroom to church to home and being told what to do everywhere. In 6th grade, I started to get creative.

That spring, I convinced my entire class to get up and leave the school at 1.30. Just walk out the doors without saying a word and run to the rocks at the edge of the sports field. There was no plan after that, I just wanted something that said, “So there.”

When the principal came out twenty minutes later and yelled to come inside, I was kept by. Her face was pockmarked and her skin shook when she spoke. “I know you have an interest in being a class leader.” She wore a bisected neon pink/orange tent dress with large buttons down the center. “You can either cooperate or I can make sure you never get what you want.” I stared at her, clicking through the gears. She’s threatening an eleven year old with cancer. But I really wanted to be the 8th grade class president. Her control rankled my intestines, a growl rippling across my body. I folded my arms and glared. “Sure.” I said, “Thanks.”

I did not become the 8th grade class president despite the fact that there were no further uprisings. Eric LaPlante assumed the position and I experienced a sexual awakening instead.

In the midst of being 13, cancer-free, and having hair down to my shoulders, Eric found me appealing enough to kiss on a church campout at the beach. Fifteen adolescents crammed into a tent and started playing “Spin the mousse can” after a rousing game of strip poker. I showed up with my friends April and Monica, bobby pins and barrettes attached to our belt loops so we wouldn’t actually risk nudity. I kept wiping my hands on my jeans so they wouldn’t be sweaty if Eric tried to hold them. God could kiss my ass, as long as it wasn’t bared in front of everyone else.

Elizabeth Shreeve was already naked under a blanket by the third hand. She had huge boobs and the Bobby Pin Gang flashed knowing glances amongst our ranks. Slut. We may have been in the game but we were not going to be easy. Eric sat by her, but when I spun the mouse can, it pointed to him and he smiled at me.

His lips were hot velvet on mine and his tongue moved like a wave.

That was it. Nothing up to that point came close to reproducing the current running through my body. “This is what being saved is supposed to feel like.” I thought as he slowly pulled away. I tried to beam him the idea of an alluring walk along the beach so we could keep kissing but he was already snogging Elizabeth and I had to wait another six months before we kissed again.

These were not church sanctioned activities. We had youth pastors talk to us about keeping ourselves pure for marriage. I nodded right along with the rest of my classmates, but the lure of Eric’s lips was stronger. Guilt knocked occasionally when I’d read my Bible, but I knew that remission was no guarantee that cancer would stay away and kept kissing.

Fall from Grace-High School.

Mom had plans for me. I was to be popular and involved in enriching activities. Sports, leadership, choir, band. The more things I could do, the better. College would be paid for with scholarships. Academy started with her parting words, “Just remember honey, these will either be the best or worst four years of your life.”

A schism in my soul widened over the next four years. On the one hand I was playing the part. Honor Society, Senior Class President, elite choir, varsity volleyball, cross-country, worship team, drama club, school newspaper, you name it. On the other, I was breaking out of our locked down campus at lunch to drive topless with my best friend Angie Bixel as we flashed anyone looking. I didn’t drink, smoke, do drugs or have technical sex-those things were equated with cancer. Anything else was fair game.

All the smart kids were expected to attend Joann Wall’s college-prep course that she held in her living room. Joann had jowls and a powdered face and funneled students to Occidental, Pepperdine, Marquette and Drake. My SAT scores were fine but not stellar, the ACT went slightly better. In a pantheon of intelligent teenagers my stats placed me at a solid overall B+.

Mom was deeply disappointed. Up until the PSAT, I’d consistently tested at the 99th percentile on every standardized test. She was counting on my brain paying for college and despite the fact that I was being offered sizable scholarships for my overall profile, they weren’t to Adventist schools and they weren’t full rides. I was grateful with getting through the tests, period.

I went into the first round of PSAT testing with another choice phrase echoing in my ears. “If you do well on this Jaim, you’re set.” As soon as I sat down and the timer started, my hand flew to my eyebrows and started picking. My life flashed before my eyes, the only shot of living free riding on a few graphite circles rubbed onto paper. The minutes crawled, my eyebrows diminished and I blankly filled in the testing card. When the results came back I’d landed right at 86%. Screwed.

Before the test, I’d had an epiphany. For the last three years, mom and I had participated in The Witness, a musical play on the passion of Christ. That year, I’d landed the lead role and was intoxicated by the lights, the music and the dark womb of a silent audience right before I started singing. I was destined to be an actress. New York City, a world of sound and beauty. It was all I thought about for months.

“I want to be an actress.” I announced to my parents.

“A what?” mom and dad’s faces were flat.

“I want to go to acting school and get a degree in theatre.”

Mom fidgeted, dad shook his head.

“How will you support yourself?”

“I’ll act of course. Be in plays. I love it so much. It would be amazing.”

Mom bowed her head.

“But Jaim, none of the Adventist schools have Theatre degrees.”

“I don’t want to go to Adventist school. I want to go to New York.”

They both sat up straight in their chairs and made noises in their throats. Mom recovered first.

“I’m sorry honey that just isn’t a good idea. You don’t want to end up being a crack smoking lesbian do you?”

“What are you talking about? I want to do theatre!”

They both stood up and that was it. Dad was resolute.

“If you decide to pursue this course, we will not be providing financial assistance. You’ll be on your own.”

I had no idea what to do. Taking out loans was impossible, having been raised with an inherent terror of debt. None of the guidance counsellors at my academy were versed in non-Adventist colleges and I was drowning in a sea of angry self-doubt.

There was one thing I was clear about. I would never attend Walla Walla College. This was the default for Adventist kids in the Pacific Northwest. I’d been accepted to Marquette, Drake, Syracuse and Bryn Mawr, but Mom wasn’t impressed. I was furious. “Why did you even want me to go to Joann’s class if you weren’t going to support the results?”

“I wanted you to have all the opportunities possible. Why don’t you just think about Walla Walla honey? It’s a good school.”

“I’d rather die.”

We left it at that and I left the offer letters to pile up without response. The deadlines came and went and I focused on anything besides choosing a college.

The day after graduation, I was off to Europe with my best friend Lynsey. We were unchaperoned for three weeks. Never once did we touch alcohol, boys, a dance club or a night on the town. Not even in Paris. We did dye our hair bright red in Dublin and took luxurious bubble baths, but the sight of pubs sent us racing in the opposite direction. I started to wonder if something was wrong. The world was at our feet and no one would ever know what we’d done but we couldn’t seem to cross the line between buying scarves and being 18.

Upon returning, I went to work at Big Lake Youth Camp, the premier Adventist summer camp in Sisters, Oregon. At the end of the summer, I was told that “Where there’s smoke, there’s a fire” and not invited back. The only college that would take me on such short notice was Walla Walla. My mother was thrilled. Though my soul shrieked “Sell-out!” I convinced my brain that it was just for a year and then I’d figure out a better next step.

Critical Mass-University

My Freshman year heralded a depression that stuck like wet leaves on a windshield. I was still on the Honor Roll, still travelled with the religious drama team but I started blowing off art class and living on donuts, skittles and bottled water. My boyfriend refused any attempts to push physical boundaries and asked me why I tried to tempt him. “I just want to live.” was my answer. We broke up shortly thereafter.

I applied to Newbold College, a liberal Adventist school in England and was accepted. Any Adventist kid was. It wasn’t a brilliant next step and I knew it. Mom was reticent to send me so far. The debate raged over the summer until it was again too late for me to go to England. I flatly refused to return to Walla Walla. The only option left was Portland State University.

Mom accepted on the condition that I live at home where she could keep an eye on me. I trembled during the first meeting at the Honors College. The students looked like me. They were funny. Knowing that they were likely godless inflamed every evil sensing skill I had. I prepared to be tempted on every front but when no one tried to pass me vodka in class, I quickly relaxed. They were far more engaging than any in my Adventist cohort.

Rolf Skyberg charmed his way into my orbit before I could prepare a defense strategy. His brown eyes sparkled and his easy company erased any fear of being tainted. We’d walk through downtown Portland laughing about our professors and flirting without restraint. I felt safe with him and we never discussed religion. When we were both offered full-ride scholarships through the Honors College I could easily imagine spending the next three years together.

He kissed me just before the school year ended and I reveled in it. When we finally got around to discussing religious beliefs, I found out he was a confident atheist. I couldn’t imagine spending eternity without him, but I’d felt more alive with him than I ever had in Adventism.

Mom liked Rolf in spite of his obvious damnation. It bothered her so much she kept pestering me to head to Newbold the following year. I relented because it was England and because I knew I needed to give salvation one final try before jumping ship for my heathen love. My brain said I’d made the right choice, but my heart wasn’t buying it.

I got drunk and abdicated Adventism the first year at Newbold. I wasn’t convinced that Rolf was going to hell. Learning about religious economics exposed me to the marketing and calculation involved in gaining converts. Bile and rage flooded my throat, I was done being exploited for my belief and faith. I informed mom of my decision on my 21st birthday. She was devastated and didn’t speak to me for six months. A satisfying lightness blew through my chest. It hurt her. I was a free agent now, a fully emancipated adult raging like an abused puppy.

As I considered my options, it became clear that I needed to completely re-imagine reality.

I can’t compare myself now to life before leaving Adventism. I’ve got to start a new timeline and adjust my expectations accordingly. From that moment on, I had my overall age, my Adventist age, and my age as a non-Adventist.

I decided to stay at Newbold because I didn’t know where else to go without getting into debt. Portland was not an option. The fireworks with mom had been too spectacular to return without reconverting.

Rage tightened my lips, laced words with arsenic. I was itching for a fight without a clue how to throw a punch. Instinct honed in on hypocrisy. Girls were allowed in boys’ rooms and vice versa but they had to leave by ten. Fornication apparently kept strict hours. Chapel was still mandatory but students regularly frequented the pub down the road and teachers looked the other way. The outgoing student body president had been gay but was forced to resign before I arrived.

I decided on a campaign to get mandatory chapel revoked but failed at every turn. There was a large contingent of “badventists” but not enough to change protocol. It chafed every fiber of my soul. I didn’t belong there. Still, the thought of leaving for a secular university left me nervous. How did one pay for non-Adventist education? Could I do it without my parent’s co-signing a loan? I knew they never would.

“How the hell am I supposed to escape this world?” My heart had started racing over Christmas and my right leg throbbed. Memories of cancer surfaced and with them, a paralyzing dread. Doctors found nothing wrong and recommended counselling. That revealed a mounting fury at my lack of control growing up.

By the time I graduated I had no plans for the future. I couldn’t bear the thought of further study at an Adventist university but the thought of accumulating mountains of debt from attending a secular university made me blanch. I graduated with no debt because I worked and mom was a teacher for the Adventist school system which gave me a tuition subsidy.

When my parents showed up for graduation, I knew I couldn’t go back to the US, period. There was too much drag, too much history and energy being beamed at me, no room to breathe and consider what I wanted. Karen and I flew to Thailand two weeks later.

The first night in Bangkok, I awoke unable to breathe, certain my demise was imminent.

“I’m having a heart attack. I’m going to die in a shitty hotel on the far side of the world without being able to call for help.” I was being punished for my rebellion, punished for venturing into the world without God. It was time to pay Him back for my lease on life.

III-Reprogramming

“I am not unaware that faith makes living supportable, can make sense out of death, can make any communication both possible and worthwhile…I am looking for faith.” A.L. Kennedy

The Darkening Well.

“I want to die somewhere they know my name.” A place where they would fight to keep me alive. It could only be Portland, Oregon, the last place on earth I said I’d go. I recognized my failure but was too desperate to care.

For the next 36 hours I flew from one city to the next, buying tickets along the way. Perhaps I wanted an adrenaline rush to convince me I would live a bit longer. I was certain that death crouched at my heels, waiting for the divine mandate to put its paws on me. “I don’t even believe in God!” I whispered to my reflection in the plane lavatory. The nagging thought that God was coming to collect on my disloyalty remained.

Nothing appeared in the sky, no messages or pronouncements either way. At 23 I was back at home, paralyzed with fear and indecision, certain I was dying because of a failed bargain with God. Mom and dad were unconvinced I was about to die but mom drug me to all my old doctors out of habit. There were no blood clots, no irregular heart function and no lurking cancer. Counseling and anti-depressants were prescribed for panic. I wanted neither. Mom drove me home and patted my hand rhythmically the whole way. She was praying. I could feel my lungs constricting, vision narrowing to a point. It was happening again.

I read up on panic attacks and kept wondering why I wasn’t dead.

After cancer I decided I could accomplish everything I needed to by 30 – in case remission didn’t stick. I’d even made a list of the things I wanted to do before I died. The list was lost to time but I knew I hadn’t accomplished half of the contents.

I’d been a non-Adventist for 2 years and had yet to live outside of the Adventist world. Even now I was holed up in my Adventist parents’ home, patiently waiting to die on holy ground. Fear coated me like icing. What was chasing me?

And then, a flicker...

As I lay in bed, shades drawn, feeling like the invalid Mrs. Snow in Pollyanna, anger began to beat my ribs. It was stronger than fear, more alive. It burned holes in my pajamas and raged through panic. If I was going to die, I would re-write that bucket list and get some life experience. And this time, it was going to be free of Adventist flavoring.

I stabbed letters onto paper, the smooth flow of cursive refusing to come. Every dream was machine gun print, each idea, an indictment of how little I knew of the world.

Write a book, go to Spain, act professionally, write an album of songs, be in a long term relationship with someone I’m wild about, live on my own, sing solo in public, learn another language fluently, paraglide, walk the Camino, become a Reiki practitioner, try anything that looks fun.

God was still there, dogging my choice to leave the fold. Every action, a lifetime of prayer before meal and bedtime. Each desire, driving from school to church to the doctor and back home to the Bible playing on tape in the background. When I grabbed a guitar, my fingers automatically strummed the chords to “Lord I lift Your Name on High.” Sometimes I’d find myself chanting the books of the Bible forwards, backwards and at speed.

Adventism was my A track. The B track was pitifully small and insanely tainted with Adventist references, even when I tried to create something purely mine.

My head drooped against cotton pillowcases I’d slept on since childhood. The web of feelings, a sopping blanket covering my head, blocked air. I was doomed to chase backwashed dreams I couldn’t be certain were mine. Did I really want to write a book or was that a tactic I had unconsciously devised to give my convoluted world some sense? Was it even possible to start a new track without Adventism?

The ceiling drew closer, offering to crush me in the artificial night of my curtained bedroom. I was too tired to fight, too disgusted with my weakness to lunge for safety. I wished I could drink myself into a pleasant stupor, but fear interceded. The cancer, think of the cancer. The fact that I’d just flown half-way around the world certain I’d be dead in mere days did not free up space to live.

At least there was a list to follow. A direction to limp in. Sleep finally offered escape and no one came knocking on my door to drag me to the bathtub for a scrubbing.

Upon awakening, I plunged back into anger. As I ragefully stalked through memory, looking for any positive contact with the Real World, I realized how complete my isolation in Adventism had been. The moments were sparse and I clung to them.

During Cancer Round 2 my parents took me to the Wheeler Clinic in San Diego, an alternative medicine institute that introduced me to massage. I was the model because I was the smallest human there. It was divine intervention. I had never been touched in such sweeping, nurturing strokes. My body tingled with pleasure from the deep uncurling happening beneath the masseuse’s fingers. I slept without anxiety for the first time in my life. I prayed it would last forever. Twenty years later I still remembered her name, Mary, but had never had another massage.

Then there was Scotland and a Reiki Master named Helen I met during university. She was a silver-tongued poet that radiated goodness. I trusted her before I knew anything about her healing gifts. Reiki was a system of energy healing that could be done on plants, animals and humans. Distance didn’t matter, the energy was universal and moved with a benevolent wisdom that practitioners merely channeled.

That kind of power suggested bargaining with malevolent forces, but I felt so peaceful in its presence, I ignored the internal critics. The insomnia and tension I’d been carrying for the last six months dropped away the moment I entered her home. When she utilized Reiki to cure me of chronic menstrual cramps, I cried.

B Track Rising

Now that death seemed imminent, I hurled myself towards gathering life experiences outside The Church. It didn’t matter what they were, so long as they were not under an Adventist umbrella.

I signed up for a Reiki initiation with Christmas money my Adventist grandparents had given me. The first time I sat in a room with my teacher to receive the attunements, my scalp tingled and my hands grew warm. “That’s normal,” she assured me. “Some people see ascended masters, some don’t feel anything; it really doesn’t matter. The energy knows how to support healing.” My body relaxed the entire time and I left with a ringing “yes” in my mind. I’d felt my heart softening and my ears rang. It was the first enjoyable sensation I’d had in the six months since the Great Panic.

I flung open the doors to whatever life offered, sucking in the unknown as fast as I could change jobs or move cities. Yogis, sword fighters, dancers, astrologers, unplanned pregnancy, Buddhists, intuitives, psychics, acupuncture and shamans, I welcomed them all. Every night I placed my palms over my eyes and opened myself to healing. My breath deepened, the panic subsided, and a vista unfolded, an open plain with room to run.

In the midst of past-life regressions and learning to discern my voice from the A track, I vacillated between inhaling life and standing frozen in space while my Adventist programming screamed, “Devil! Devil! Do NOT go to the astrologer!” Anger at still feeling the control of Adventism gave me courage to keep exploring. I started recognizing the imbedded religious default sooner and sooner and willed myself to continue accumulating experience.

Climbing Over the Edge

After years of field research in the theatre of Life, it was time to make some choices. I wanted to connect to spirituality with a relaxed mind and heart, free from the niggling Adventist by-line. I had enough inspiration to create a plan, but I needed a final piece to bring it to life. Deliberate Practice provided the missing element.

If you want to get good at something, you have to practice the parts you’re bad at. I knew I was only average at trusting in the goodness and safety of The World. I struggled to achieve ease with myself, others, and information that did not fit the Adventist paradigm. It felt like a battle to know my own mind. I knew I resented being raised in a closed system.

I’d also spent so much time viewing myself externally, I had no idea how to get internal bearings. There were no meet-up groups for ex-cult members seeking a new life.

Hi, I’m Jaime. I’m a religion addict. I haven’t touched the church in ten years. I’m figuring out why I became an addict. Now, how do I start living a healthy, clean life?

This was a decade before The Secret came out, so I intuitively offered up my wish. I want to get good at trusting myself, my body and the world. It felt about the same as wishing to see a unicorn. Unexpectedly, things began to roll.

I started seeing co-incidences in my life, too powerful to ignore. I’d meet a stranger in a bookstore and he’d spontaneously tell me about a book that changed his life. Two weeks later, I’d have read Autobiography of a Yogi and be reeling from the possibility of levitation or being at two places simultaneously. Instead of depending on a disembodied deity to purify my dirty soul, I now knew a tradition that taught personal empowerment and ascension.

I met a Theoretical Physicist who was also a Qi Gong master after wishing for a job that bridged the scientific and spiritual worlds. I was offered a job on the spot.

It was difficult to remain untouched by the vastness of Consciousness when I listened to Dr. Lo describe the internal physiology of patients he’d never seen an MRI or x-ray of. He used

Qi, the universal life force energy, to identify problem areas and stimulate self-healing in people. Prostate cancer patients lowered their T-counts, models stalled the aging process, my heart was healed from chemotherapy damage.

After three treatments and practicing his system of Quantum Qi Gong, I went in for an Echocardiogram. The results came back, “Test normal. No further testing required.”

While I still heard the whispers of Adventism condemning “Eastern Religion” as dabbling with the devil, the physical realities of my explorations began to speak louder.

You can bet I wasn’t making a lot of money following these threads, but they were too compelling to ignore. It was as though a large and benevolent force was listening to what I said and felt, shifting the fabric of probability to facilitate my adventure.

One of the most important things Dr. Lo taught me was the importance of knowing the things you have control over when trying to achieve a specific outcome. Once you know where your power lies, you make deliberate choices to enhance your probability of success. The more I looked at life, the more I realized there is always some aspect of your existence where your authority reigns supreme. You can’t always choose your location, but you can chose which thoughts to re-enforce.

A memory bounced to the surface, “By beholding we become changed.” Adventists were talking about the same thing with one minor difference. In the quantum approach, choice and personal power were emphasized. You can affect the outcome by choosing things like your thoughts, your timing and your practice. With Adventism, it was a cautionary tale, highlighting humanity’s sinful tendencies, Just remember, that you become what you spend time with so be sure you pick the Right Side.

Different sides, same coin. My Sociology professor once told me a story which rammed the point home.

Once, there were three blind men who were led to an elephant. Each stood touching a different part. “What is this?” they wondered aloud. One man encountered the leg, “It’s a tree!” he exclaimed. “No,” countered the second man whose hand rested on the trunk, “It’s a serpent!” “You’re both wrong!” cried the third man who clung to the elephant’s tail, “It’s a rope!”

I’m now 14 years old, post Adventism age. According to Rudolf Steiner, this is when humans begin to see the world with a desire for Truth. I’m aware that I am embedded with certain Adventist relics, like an uncanny knowledge of the Bible, and probably always will be. I’m also cognizant of the fact that the rigorous demands of Adventism taught me a kind of discipline necessary to persevere towards a goal. But above all, I know that there is more to the religious pachyderm than meets any one set of eyes, blind or not.

The thick silk dress found its way over my body and draped itself effortlessly down towards the floor. The colors imitating late spring: a cream, square top, fitting dress with apricot flowers and green leaves patterning the material. Three lines of ruffles decorated the top and the edge of the sleeves. Simple but elegant. Diana's signature style. Diana always comes up with the most beautiful dresses I've ever seen. Always perfect, right down to the hem. Her mother used to sew clothes for her when she was a little girl, and her father was a very talented artist. She doesn't talk of them much. She says they're in the past and it won't hurt for them to stay there. I think they died in a building fire when she was eight but I haven't asked Diana about her parents in years. I made the mistake of prying once, and for her sake, I won't make the same mistake again. But my guess is that's where she got her talent for turning me into some kind of goddess whenever I have to somewhere to go. Creating beautiful things is in her blood.

"What shall we do with your hair today, Miss Bay?" Diana asks. Pulling a few of my auburn strands back, as if showing me rough drafts of the million and one things she could do with my pathetic excuse for hair. "You're the expert, not me," I say, giving her a familiar smirk. She gives me a teasing glare. "Very well," she grinned back ruthlessly. As if she knew something I didn't. Suddenly a blur of her two hands are teasing my hair and turning it into what would appear to anyone else as a bird's nest. A scream of laughter escapes my mouth as I try to swat her hands away. "What?" She questions innocently. "You said I was the expert and I say this is perfect." I laugh at her as I stare at my reflection in the vanity mirror. Brown heaps of hair are scattered all across my head, giving me the look of just getting up out of bed. "This is the style these days, you know?" she jokes. "Exactly what Do- uh, Detective Alexander is expecting." I feel a wave of nausea that i thought had passed wash over me, despite her joking tone and the very light atmosphere. My green eyes gaze back at me and I watch as the happiness that was there just a moment ago dissolve into anxiousness and anxiety. Diana must pick up on this- as she usually does- because she begins to stroke my hair thoughtfully.

"It'll be alright, dear." She says with an amount of sincerity that's always surprised me. She begins working on my hair, talking while brushing out the tangles she caused earlier and pulling various pieces back to braid them. Forming something like a crown from my temples to the back of my head. "I'm sure Sir William hasn't gotten far," she continues cautiously. "He's always been one to run off from time to time, you know that. Don't worry too much about it." All the laughter from minutes ago has been stripped and her voice is wearing nothing but worry.

Diana finishes fastening the braids and curls the ends of my hair slightly. She places small flowers in my hair that looks like a pastel fire burning against my burnt wood colored hair. She makes me face away from the mirror so she can paint my face with natural earthy tones: browns and greens are spread and blended across my eyelids, making me feel like one of the nymphs in the picture books my brother, William, used to read to me when we were kids. Diana dabs some pale pink gloss across my lips. She gives a comforting smile and tells me I can look now. I turn around to see a stranger in the mirror. Diana has been dressing me and making me look at my best for as long as I can remember. I used to go to my father's parties and balls, and Diana was always there saying and doing the things a mother would usually do. Diana's always been there for me, even when I couldn't be there for myself.

"You're beautiful." she whispers.

"No, this dress is beautiful." I say breathlessly. "My hair and makeup and flowers...all of this is what you've done. "I am simply the canvas, Diana. A canvas is not beautiful, the art placed on it by the hands of an artist such as yourself is what makes it beautiful." I tilt my head around to see her face directly. There's such wisdom and time in her eyes that you could say anything and she might make you change your mind. Even if you pointed out the sky is blue she could look at you and you'd feel as if you've just said the stupidest thing ever said throughout mankind. She takes her hand and rubs the back of her knuckles against my cheek. They're soft and frail and smell of the garden. She makes a slight tsk-ing sound and kisses my forehead. "Nonsense. You know better than to say such foolish things." She says that as if she was having a conversation with a bird in the trees and it just sang a response that she disagreed with, though to anyone else she would seem like a mad woman. "But I am nothing but a foolish girl," I tease. "Surely that's a fitting title." I stare into Diana's hazelnut eyes and she removes her hand from my cheek and pats my hands, as they've been sitting in my lap, fiddling with one of the extra flowers that she placed in my hair with expert's hands. Her hair is graying faster than I remembered it had been, but she has aged gracefully and is the most beautiful person I know.

She gives a tight smile and says, "'You are only foolish if you choose to believe it.' That's what my father used to say." Her smile fades, then grabs my hands and helps me into a standing position. "Come now," Diana says. "You don't want to keep Detective Alexander waiting."

I step outside the carriage and into the crisp April air and immediately the wind is cool and refreshing against my face. The wind doesn't cut through my clothes like late January's did. Instead it fills my lungs and seems to be the only thing keeping me from fainting. I take shallow, shaky breaths as I walk up the the old, little building's doors and give it a firm knock. When I pull my gloved hand away I see a light layer of dust littered across my knuckles and attempt to dust it off, but my attempts are cut short when a tall, slender man in a pair of tailored pants and a white, open collared shirt answers the door. His thin glasses rest just on the bridge of his nose. His dark hair is disheveled and seems to glow from the fire slowly burning out in the living room.

"Yes, what can I do for you today?"

"I'm Veronica Bay. I'm here to see you about the disappearance of my brother, William Bay."

He looks dazed and distant. As if he's spent the evening out of his body and in another demintion. Just as I'm about to ask him if he's alright, something has snapped him back into reality and I'm face to face with a young, grey eyed detective that will hopefully bring me closer to finding my brother.

"Oh yes, of course! Please, come in."

I enter the cramped space and the smell of weathered pages and brown sugar assault my senses and cause my head to spin. But it's relaxing in a way. Almost familiar. Seeming to calm my hiked nerves. "So what exactly can I do for you, Miss Bay?" He says as he clears off a stack of geography books from a large, maroon apollstered chair, with gold buttons with intricate designs, tattered down the sides. His voice is low but full of youth. He couldn't be much older than William, I conclude.

"Well, actually I was hoping you could tell me." I say hopefully. Taking my seat in the apollstered chair. He makes his way over to a small, heavy wooden desk. It's covered in various papers and what appears to be a logging book. There's a small plaque that has Alexander's name on it. There's something else written across it but he turns it on its face before I can finish reading it. He looks up at me with thoughtful, yet concerned eyes as he pulls up an worn, wooden barstool next to the chair he placed me in. "You see, my brother has made a habbit of running off whenever he feels like it so it makes for a very hard time to get someone to care that he hasn't retutned. And I was hoping you might assist me in trying to discover the whereabouts of him." I try to keep the aching feeling of dread out of my tone and I'm fighting to keep my voice even, but I'm afraid my efforts only caused me to sound more frail. "And what evidence do you have that your brother, Mr. William, is not just out roaming the streets of Manhattan? That perhaps it had just slipped his mind to make someone aware of his whereabouts?" There was no judgemental questioning in his voice, just simple curiosity and knowledge needed for the proper procedures to be carried out.

"My brother and I are very close. He always let's me know where he's going and when. This is not like him. He wouldn't just leave," my voice sounds hesitant and shaky in my own ears. But Detective Alexander hasn't taken his eyes off me. He's paying close attention and keeping on my every word, but, "I see," is all he says.

The sun has begun to drift off into a hazy sunset of violets and golds, the rest of the sky is a dulling gray that seems to hang in the air like factory smoke. The light of day is fading and this is one more day of no answers.

After Diana helps me out of my dress I run a bath and silently slip into the warm, inviting water. The soaps smell of dogwood and orange blossoms, both bubbling up and popping against my skin. But even with smells of home taking hostage of my body something still smells faintly of old books and brown sugar. An odd combination that seems to linger far into the night.

I dream of oceans dropping off into nowhere and my brother's voice calling to me from somewhere I can't see. I can hear William's distant words echoeing across the water but they don't quite reach me. His words fall into the depths of the sea. I try swimming after them, pumping my arms and legs, willing myself to catch the words he said and bring them to shore, but I can't go anywhere. I'm stuck underwater with no way out. I try turning around but something grabs at my legs and pulls me further down into the abis. I see William floating towards the bottom of the sea, his blonde hair around him like a halo. I try to call to him but my voice has gone mute. I try to scream, but my efforts are in vain. The world is blackening around me.

I wake up to Diana shaking my shoulder and and placing a wet cloth against my forehead and collarbone. My throat is hoarse and dry, I can feel a layer of sweat covering my body. The room is still dark. If it wasn't for the lamp Diana turned on I wouldn't be able to make out the outline of her features.

"Are you alright, Veronica? You were having quite a fit in your dreams tonight. I could hear you all the way down the hall." She places her hand on my forehead on down through my hair. "I'm sorry, it was just a dream. I hadn't meant to wake you." She seems saddened. Almost absent, but I can't tell its intentions through the night. "Diana, what's wrong?" She looks at me with glassy eyes but turns away from my face. "Its nothing, dear. It just seems I can in never sleep these days." She gives a sad smile and makes a motion to say more but seems to decide against it. "Can I get you anything?" Is all she says. "No, no. I'm quite alright," I manage to say. "I'll be heading back to bed now." "Very well, Miss Bay. Goodnight." I give her a slight nod and she turns off the bedside lamp. As soon as Diana exits the room I let out a shaky sigh that I hadn't realized I was holding in. I glance around my room and then close my eyes. An image of William's dead body comes to mind and it makes me shake. Why had a dreamt him dead? My brother's not dead. He's... Wait, where is my brother? Confusion fills my mind and I can't focus on anything. I hear Diana's voice in my mind. "William's dead. I'm so sorry."

Dr. Charles Xavier decided it was an all-nighter sort of evening, most certainly, after he'd read several articles by a Mr. James Randi dismissing the supernatural, paranormal, or what Charles called “trans-mystical.” He proceeded to enter the library and, for the next 10 consecutive hours, exhaustively researched, reasoned, and wrote:

...James Randi is perhaps the quintessence of this opposing worldview. He first made an international name for himself as an escape artist and magician. Today, Randi devotes his time and effort to debunking trans-mystical claims with his James Randi Educational Foundation, which serves as “an educational resource on the paranormal, pseudoscientific, and the supernatural” – which, according to my definitions of trans-mysticality and epistemic normativity, and considering the track record of JREF,16 translates to “an educational resource devoted to disprove any epistemic normativity related to trans-mysticality.”

While the image of this organization appears to take a neutral, objective, unbiased, and open-minded stance in assessing the truth-value of trans-mystical claims, this does not seem to be true, for several reasons. The foundation’s most well-known offer, perhaps, is one million dollars for any individual who demonstrates to its team, in a systematically controlled scientific manner and setting, that his or her supposed trans-mystical ability is real. For the past fifteen years, hundreds of claimants have attempted to demonstrate their ability in accordance with such a structure – but no one has convinced Randi and his board of anything paranormal, pseudoscientific, and/or supernatural. This fact seems rather strange considering the amount of evidence suggestive of trans-mysticality’s epistemic normativity but, when considered more thoroughly, actually makes simple psychological sense.

Randi and his foundation are not and cannot be as truly neutral, objective, unbiased, and open-minded as it would like the public to believe. The reason why this statement holds true is even simpler: Randi, and the worldview that he represents, does not want to be proven wrong. Ironically, science, which in theory should be totally objective, is in many ways far more enslaved by its own ego than is the individual who claims egoic transcendence.

Psychoanalysis on the language of JREF’s articles webpage painfully indicates an immense amount of negative emotion, namely ridicule, projected in response to the claimants who have recently been “debunked,” as evidenced in the titles to these articles. “Journalist Promotes Nonsense,” “Down-Under Developments,” “Dump This Series,” “Apologies,” . . . “Dumb Is As Dumb Does,” “Geller Reviews,” “Australia Takes a Backward Step,” “Those Stupid Patches,” “Hot Item,” “How to Swindle the Suckers,” “Another Healer Blooms,” “Sentenced,” “That Bogus Patent,” . . . “Magic Rebuffed,” “The Bates Debate,” “Sylvia In the Suds,” “Buy Now,” “Enough Damn Lightbulbs,” “More Patent Office Nonsense,” ...

Science – true science – has no business messing with ego, emotion, and ridicule – or so it would seem relative to what science is in theory. Yet far too often, what may be true in theory does not translate as being true in practice. This unscientific contradictory language may in fact be most illustrated in Randy Moore’s article “Debunking the Paranormal: We Should Teach Critical Thinking as a Necessity for Living, Not Just As a Tool for Science.”

I believe that the language and logic underlying Moore’s work here is indeed quite reflective and accurate of the general viewpoint crusading against this possibility that not all trans-mystical experiences are crazy or stupid. The article begins by noting “our” gradual decline of scientific literacy throughout the decades. “Pseudoscience” has gained more and more prominence, brainwashing more and more people to be simply delusional. For instance, “The popularity of astrology and similar pseudoscientific shams attests to the unwillingness to think critically.” As Moore sees it, astrology is not real science because it has much more to do with the categories of business and fantasy than with those of truth and reality. Just look at all the pop astrologers who make their living by adding color and excitement to their customers’ lives. For Moore, the fact that something like astrology is so commercialized means that it has more to do with emotion than with reason. For Moore, such con-artistry leaves otherwise innocent agents of reason tragically vulnerable to being ripped off.

He continues by sarcastically explaining that if someone wants to know the sex of his or her unborn child, and if this person believes in trans-mysticality, then (s)he might as well ask a so-called fortune teller about it rather than have the doctor check its DNA structure – since, clearly, if trans-mysticality is at all real, then it should have the same practical utility as conventional science. This belief assumes that “science,” whatever that should mean, is not only the best means for acquiring knowledge and understanding, but is also the only means, really.

Why? Because “There are no sacred truths, no forbidden questions and no testable issues too sensitive to be questioned. Unlike religion and the paranormal, science values criticism and thrives on debate.” Indeed, “science” has absolutely no dogmas, no biases, no fallacies, no neuroses, and no psychoses of its own, no “forbidden question” that its adherents are too afraid to ask. Even though fear of ostracism is certainly at play (and currently winning the game), there is no “testable issue too sensitive to be questioned,” despite that “science” is worried frantically in the back of its collective mind that, in parallel, its most dominant worldview relative to more recently emergent ones is being outdated and replaced, just as the Church’s most dominant worldview succumbed to the Renaissance, Reformation, Scientific Revolution, Enlightenment, etc. Moore rhetorically asks, “What’s the evidence for talking with dead people or predicting the future? None, of course. Moreover, psychics and ESP violate the commonsense knowledge that all communication requires our normal sense.”

Yet alas, this statement is based upon two dogmas or assumptions: 1) that there in fact is no evidence for talking with dead people or predicting the future, and 2) that all communication really requires only our normal sense. Moore responds by proclaiming that, “If you’re going to accept spirits and ghosts as real, you might as well accept headlines such as ‘Elvis’s Ghost Is Caught in Mom’s Vacuum Cleaner.’” Yet alas, again, the statement makes a category judgment before that statement is even thought through or written. This category judgment, using my terms, is that trans-mysticality is fantasy and science is reality. Moving along, “Paranormal hokum is a multi-billion-dollar business [taking advantage of] people’s inability or refusal to think critically...Nevertheless, the paranormal will probably remain a big business because it provides a convenient blue sky and rainbow.”

The latter part of this claim further reinforces the aforementioned category judgment – that “a convenient blue sky and rainbow,” or whatever myth this phrase signifies, is not nor cannot be real in the same way that pure, infinite energy, infinite simplicity, transforming into differentiated, infinite phenomena, infinite complexity, can itself be “real.” But if the obedient scientist were to rethink his own deprived mythology such to reinterpret it as something as wondrous and fantastical as the myth/idol/joke that Moore means by “convenient blue sky and rainbow,” then perhaps he would come to realize that, from one perspective, even the big bang theory is proof of “magic” – proof that while science is supposed to map reality, reality is not necessarily “not-fantasy.” This category judgment is so simple – yet so subtle and determining, simultaneously. If fantasy can equal reality, then the psychological or emotional resistance against opening one’s mind to the first-, second-, and third-person evidence indicative of trans-mysticality’s epistemic normativity significantly lessens.

Moore adds “...we can’t force students to submit their beliefs to tests of scientific reasoning and logic. Many people’s beliefs are much stronger than their willingness to think, their desire to learn or their ability to reason.” Psychoanalytically, this statement could easily and (again) all too ironically apply to Moore himself and the worldview that his article so captures. His belief that trans-mysticality is fantasy and science is reality may indeed be much stronger than his “willingness to think,” his “desire to learn,” or his “ability to reason.” But there is hope for the crusade against trans-mysticality – for “...we can teach students the value of basing their decisions on logic and evidence rather than on blind faith, hocus-pocus, mythology, religious dogma and fantasy.” Again, as evidenced in this last remark by Moore, trans-mysticality is fantasy and science is reality and, even more psychologically entrenched, fantasy cannot be reality. Nietzschean pacification has indeed lulled the soul’s once ecstatic love affair with goodness, truth, and beauty.

While I could cite more examples of discourse that make a case against trans-mysticality, I do not think that this is needed. I have provided ample first-person, second-person, and third-person evidence pointing to the reality and value of trans-mystical experience - which is essential, in this case, because the stance that I have taken throughout this research faces the burden of proof far more (on the surface) than does its opposition. Still, to illustrate the logic and psychology of this latter stance, the fewer sources that I have incorporated nonetheless compensate for such quantitative deficiency, by their exemplifying this particular worldview, and from my in-depth conversation with and psychoanalysis of them. The remainder of this project shall engage in a dialogue between three most relevant worldviews in hope of assessing their respective “pros” and “cons” in relation to the subject of trans-mysticality, and then using this assessment as conclusive testament to the present essay. The reader now has a much more comprehensive outlook on the research topic as a whole. It is time to determine how this individual should interpret such a topic.

Contributions and Shortcomings of Three Main Perspectives on Trans-mysticality Francis Fukuyama implements a strategy in The End of History and the Last Man that I seek to utilize for this final section. He acknowledges three most relevant, or encompassing, ideologies that have been in conflict with one another especially throughout this past century. These ideologies are traditionalism, liberalism, and postmodernism. The method is particularly effective because it not only acknowledges the “biggest players in the game,” so to speak, but it also compares and contrasts them. I shall do likewise for the remainder of this paper. These three perspectives are to be called anti-trans-mysticality, neutral-trans-mysticality, and pro-trans-mysticality. Moore epitomizes the first view, for reasons already stated, while Wilber epitomizes the third view, for reasons already stated. For reasons now to be stated, Foucault epitomizes the second view.

The process/system-oriented holism in Foucault’s epistemic style moves him away from considering matters of positive goodness and truth. Foucault abstains from making any deliberate normative assertion both epistemically and ethically. Instead, he – and the perspective that he represents – chooses to analyze preexisting norms and their relationship with the historical structures and processes that led to their construction and perpetuation. Foucault’s ideology epitomizes the neutral-trans-mysticality view because it could care less about the epistemic/ethical normativity of trans-mystical experience; it cares only about analyzing and understanding how this subject has become so abnormal and taboo – for the most part. Someone like Foucault chooses to suspend judgment concerning what Moore and Wilber instead choose to judge. Moore prejudges that trans-mystical claimants are all full of shit, put crudely. Wilber judges that some trans-mystical claimants are actually full of truth. Foucault would judge that trans-mysticality is definitely far more abnormal and repressed than the gross majority of academia gives credit – but without the intellectual strength and courage that Wilber has. Please know that while I already see more comprehension and value in Wilber’s position, it would be improper and irresponsible of me to dismiss the other two ideologies just as immediately, without any regard for their respective contributions along with their respective shortcomings.

Starting with anti-trans-mysticality, it is plain to see that this viewpoint is valuable because of its skepticism and reliability. Skepticism, arguably, is equally as important for any intellectual dilemma as imagination or realism. Skepticism serves a natural/inherent and useful function – that is, skepticism in appropriate moderation. Anti-trans-mysticality’s skepticism makes its method most substantial and reliable, which reinforces public respect and trust for conventional science, and convention in general. However, the skeletons of this perspective’s pros have grown excessively in direct accord with its very flaws and contradictions. These shortcomings, put simply, are absolutism and extreme bias. I cannot help but think that many scientists and people in general who fit this ideological category share roughly the same mindset/worldview as an absolutistic, extremely biased priest alive during medieval times, except their religion or mythology has shifted from absolute overemphasis of the Above, of Platonic idealism, to absolute overemphasis of the Below, of Nietzschean materialism.

Neutral-trans-mysticality’s positive features, or contributions, include flexibility and concreteness. This perspective shares the same empiricist/overemphasis of the first perspective, but its holism (rather than reductionism) allows it to be significantly more fluent or flexible than anti-trans-mysticality because, understood plainly, systems/contexts – relative to this “human condition,” at least – are changing far more rapidly than are the universe’s more inherent tendencies. Foucault’s worldview demonstrates both such flexibility and concreteness. However, neutral-trans-mysticality commits the same absolutism as anti-trans-mysticality does, except not from regarding only the Below and not the Above, but from absolutely overemphasizing the Many over the One – intersubjectivity over both subjectivity and objectivity.

If intersubjectivity is all that matters, if there is only context and our being conditioned by it, and if there is no such thing as “truth” or “goodness” in some inherently normative sense, then trans-mysticality becomes meaningless despite all the evidence that implies its meaningfulness. However, if subjectivity, intersubjectivity, and objectivity (“I,” “We,” and “It(s)”) are valued just as much as intersubjectivity alone, then the postmodern ideology that Foucault represents, in alignment with this second possible way of interpreting trans-mysticality, ceases to be postmodern and, in light of this topic, it ceases to be neutral. So the second major shortcoming of neutral-trans-mysticality is not extreme bias (or anywhere near the same degree as with anti-trans-mysticality), but instead, for lack of a better word, apathy. Yet – the time in which we now live does not call for apathy – it calls for curiosity, spontaneity, courage, action, wholeness, wisdom, love.

Perhaps my understanding of psychology does not apply here, but I am convinced, based on first-person account, that simply realizing the greater possibility that trans-mysticality is real can transform that individual for the better, enhancing or incepting qualities such as spontaneity, courage, action, wholeness, wisdom, and love. I am also convinced, based on second-person evidence, that experiencing and living the reality of trans-mysticality oneself brings exponentially more goodness and truth than merely realizing its greater possibility. We live in a context that is dominated by anti-trans-mysticality and neutral-trans-mysticality. Either “fantasy” is unreal, or we can never know for ourselves and should not even bother trying. Yet, as pro-trans-mysticality, Wilber, a rapidly growing community of others, and myself agree, the previous statement/inference/belief should be, and is in fact, “either ‘fantasy’ is real, or we have nothing to lose and the opposite to gain from attempting to know ourselves.”

Granted, we must of course honor all unique contributions that the other two perspectives bring. There is value in a moderate degree of skepticism; there is value to concrete demonstration; there is value to scientific convention; and there is value to flexibility or fluency due to acknowledging the importance of systems, relationships, and collectivity in general. But there is also value to seeing the coherence and connection between two seemingly indifferent or contradictory worldviews (in addition to seeing the two in the first place), so as to synthesize one that both transcends and includes them in apposite moderation and optimal wholeness. Perhaps an entirely new worldview or evolution in collective consciousness is, and has been, emerging. Perhaps the emergence of this new, comprehensive, holistic, and integrative way of thinking and living shall positively transform today’s global society/culture exponentially more than the emergence of modernity/liberalism positively transformed the unhealthy, outdated, and/or exhausted society/culture of its time.

Make no mistake; my intention with this work, as a whole, is not to convince the reader that trans-mysticality definitely has epistemic normativity. Rather, it is to show the anti-trans-mysticalist and neutral-trans-mysticalist hold subtle flaws in their worldviews in relation to the greater completeness and unity of the pro-trans-mysticalist’s worldview, as epitomized by Wilber and defined by holisticity. My goal with this paper is to inspire its reader to see that 1) trans-mysticality’s taboo is excessive and for the most part unuttered (especially within the intellectual community), 2) there is a vast, integrative, and comprehensive amount of legitimate evidence that gives reason to see beyond this taboo, and 3) there is immense value to opening one’s mind more and expanding one’s conscientiousness toward the possibility that one’s (most influential) worldview is really inadequate to maximize this opportunity that we scholars, and agents of positive global change, have before us.

This opportunity as I see it is quite literally – and likely – a Second Renaissance, a Second Reformation, a Second Enlightenment, a Second American Revolution, a Second Industrial Revolution, etc., but relative to this pluralistic, global, exponential context that marks planet Earth at this time. This opportunity, these opportunities, are such that we individuals can co-create a world in which the human potential is maximized and all life on Earth is allowed to thrive and flourish in fantastical equilibrium and abundance. Perhaps now is finally the time when humankind can wake up from its cocoon and emerge soaring as a magnificent butterfly. In light of such speculations and such emotional and hyperbolic language, know with certainty that I myself hold with maximum conviction that addressing and fixing trans-mysticality’s taboo is ineffably worthwhile, especially for anyone intelligent and privileged enough to have just processed all of this information.

Feeling satisfied, the young scholar concluded his all-nighter by emailing the work to Mr. Randi - then passing out on his dorm bed.