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.

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.