Inoculating my Daughter

          Inoculating my Daughter

 

I once had the honor of giving my daughter Hannah an inoculation against a common teenage ailment. I refer to Objectivism; for she asked me about Ayn Rand, and I gave her my informed opinion.

Specifically I told Hannah about the infamous railroad scene in “Atlas Shrugged”. I detailed the set-up; the dangerous tunnel, the idiotic bureaucrat’s suicidal demand, the chain of buck-passing, the fatal go-ahead, the complaisent workers, the train’s doom... all of which I described with admiration for Rand’s meticulousness (for once not tiresome) and her passion. A death machine of incompetence and spinelessness, clickety-clicking right there before your eyes! A masterpiece of eldritch horror! That scene was this close to Literature!

But the moment the train entered the tunnel, her writing all went horribly wrong! For Rand then focused on the passengers; a risky move if you do it wrong, and she did. For what if (I asked Hannah) that train had been full of good people? Or perhaps even a few of them super-virtuous by Rand’s elitist Objectivist standards? For them to die alongside the idiot bureaucrat would been supreme injustice; a raw red wound, an affront against humanity! What if Rand had raged and wailed against the sick cruelty of the idiot world? That (I told Hannah) would have been writing!

But no! By the way Rand told it, everyone on the train was an idiot moocher, as bad as the bureaucrat, and so everyone got what they deserved! (Hannah rolled her eyes upon hearing this.) Instant justice, automatic karma, all’s well with the world! Rand got that close to Literature, but at the last moment she turned it into Propaganda!

The trainwreck scene was itself a trainwreck!  And that (I told Hannah) is Ayn Rand.

Waking Up Next To A Zilchbill

Waking Up Next To A Zilchbill

 

           Attached find a master sheet for the “Zilchbill”, plus a large zilchbill, both sides. L'art pour l'art: art for its own sake!

I finished this in grad school, the day before my paycheck cleared. There was little left in my account, so I drew it down to the minimum, and I went to the copy shop. I finished the zilchbill by emptying my wallet, then I went home, to my small upstairs apartment.

The next morning, when I awoke, I could see my breath condense in the cold bedroom air; I could see through the doorway to the kitchen, where there was no food on the shelves; and next to me on the bed was a Zilchbill. I cried out, "I did it! I'm a starving artist in a garret!"

That day my paycheck cleared, and I went shopping. Poverty's an interesting place to visit but I wouldn't want to live there.

 

 

 

 

Does Berkeley Exist? 8 of 8: Skeptical Summary

Skeptical Summary

 

So there you have it. Time control, a unicorn, a ten-second vacation, mammary planet, a dream room, and the ghost of a ghost; I witnessed all of those marvels in Berkeley.

In each case, the true weirdness wasn’t the weirdness; it was the suspiciously brisk resurgence of normalcy. The clock beat me, the unicorn was a goat, I zapped back to the street corner, women shape-shifted back, the dream matched the room, and Walter spooked me by not being a spook. How neat! How convenient! How life-like!

It all made perfect sense at the time; but now that I look back, I’m skeptical. Are such shenanigans possible?  Is Berkeley?

I doubt it, but even so, I was there. I lived in Berkeley. I saw those things. So if Berkeley doesn’t exist, then neither do I. What’s more, I wrote these tales, and you’ve read them; so if I don’t exist, then neither do these tales, and neither do you.

If you’re real, then so are these stories, and so am I, and so is Berkeley; but so, too, were the preposterous events here described.

So I ask you, dear reader:

Does Berkeley exist?

 

Does Berkeley Exist? 7 of 6: Ghost of a Ghost

          Ghost of a Ghost

         

          It was the day before scattering the ashes of my friend Walter. I visited the grieving, turbulent family’s street. I write ‘street’, not ‘house’, because they had two houses on that street, at opposite ends of the block. Such was his family’s turbulence. I could say more, but that would be a long story.

          The ash-scattering was to happen far away, early the next day. We all had to start out early in the morning, so I stayed over for the night. The only bed free for me was Walter’s.

          As I prepared for bed, I wondered if I would dream of him. Will I meet his ghost? In Walter’s turbulent circle of dramatic fantasists, for him to become a ghost would be normal. But I wasn’t scared. In fact I welcomed a spooky encounter. I turned off the light, laid down in Walter’s bed, and closed my eyes.

          The next thing I knew, it was morning. I was awake and refreshed. My mind was clear. I remembered no dreams at all.

          That’s when I knew, deep down, that Walter was gone. Ever since then I have been haunted by the presence of his absence.

 

Does Berkeley Exist, 6 of 8: Dream Room

          Dream Room

          I was sitting up in bed, reading a book. It was late, I was tired. Then I noticed something odd; the words of the book were changing and shifting. But why? Then I noticed something even stranger; my eyes were shut. I felt my eyelids firmly sealed together; yet I could see. But how?

I realized that I was asleep and dreaming. Within that lucid dream, I looked up from the book and scanned the room. There was the bookshelf, there were the knick-knacks, there was the couch, there was the computer desk, there were the windows and shades… all dreams.

          Then I willed myself awake. I opened my eyes, and the first thing I noticed was that I was slumped over. I sat up, closed the book, and looked around. Same bookshelf, same knick-knacks, same couch, same computer desk, same windows and shades.

          The two rooms were identical.

 

Does Berkeley Exist? 5 of 8: Mammary Planet

          Mammary Planet

 

          The nurse said, “You need to schedule another blood test next week.”

          I shrugged. “OK.”

          “And to test hormone levels,” she continued, “you’ll have to abstain from all sexual activity.”

          “All sexual activity? For a week?”

          “Mm-hm.”

          “Including masturbation?”

          “Mm-hm.”

          I shrugged. A week without masturbation sounded easy enough. We scheduled the blood test, I went home and put away my one-hand magazines. (This was before the Internet.)

          A day came and went without inconvenience, then another. But on the third day something odd happened. I was walking down Telegraph Avenue, and I noticed that every woman on the street had unusually large breasts. Not just some of the women; all of them. This strange change in half the human population of Berkeley persisted all day, and I realized that it wasn’t them, it was me.

          My perceptions were distorted, due to hormonal imbalance. Every woman’s breasts weren’t really bigger than before; they just seemed that way to me. I was hormone-addled, and seeing things oddly. I knew this, but knowledge did not decrease the perceptual distortion. 

          This effect increased on the fourth day. Every woman, everywhere, had an amazingly ample bosom. I knew that was an illusion, but it was a very convincing illusion. I tried not to look, or seem to notice; but my judgment was probably as impaired as my perception. I hope that the women of Berkeley ignored my astonishment, or forgave me.

          By the fifth and sixth days, I was adrift in an impossible parallel world of fantastic mammary antigravitation. As before, knowledge of illusion did not dispel illusion. I knew that I was hallucinating, but still I saw the mirage as plain as day. I was amazed by how florid the hallucination was, yet also how clear and specific. Nothing else looked any different.

          On the seventh day I went to the clinic and gave a blood sample. Then I went home and got out the one-hand magazines.

          The very next day, every woman’s breasts had returned to their normal size.

 

         

 

 

Does Berkeley exist? 4 of 8: Ten Second Vacation

Ten Second Vacation

 

I was standing on a street corner in Berkeley. There was noise, crowds, and traffic. I had places to go and things to do, but the WALK light had not yet turned, so I had nothing to do. It was a moment that did not count, and I had no expectations of it.

I looked up, I looked down the street, and there beyond the end of the street, beyond the edge of town, across the bay...

... a mountain.

It was small and blue with distance. It was streaked with brown and green. Its profile was rough and fractal.

I tuned out everything but the mountain and the WALK sign. Anchored to the sign, I mentally leapt to the mountain. I took a vacation there. I bathed in its blue, brown, and green. I hiked up and down the mountain, I inspected its plants and rocks, I climbed to the top...

- then BLINK -

... and I was back on the street corner, looking at the WALK sign, which had just turned. I looked both ways, stepped off the curb, and crossed the street.