The summer passed like winter. The top half of the Earth receded from light, obeying the game of polarity, and oscillated, some say closer and closer some say farther and farther, around, to, or away from the Sun.
Fused against his own will to the upper crust of Earth was a colorblind man whose hair stood on end. He climbed into the passenger door of the gray or green Chevrolet, that by this time shared hood designs with Pontiac, that had responded to his thumbs up on the northern termination of what used to be the Atlantic Highway.
Inside resting his hand on his khaki covered thigh and his neck hidden in a tightly wrapped grey or red scarf was a very pedantic looking young man who was not the type to do such a thing.
The color blind man’s goosebumps settled in the conditioned interior.
Where are you headed?
Where are you headed?
Depends.
Generally.
I’m on my way to the Training School.
Just take me out of Aroostook.
It’ll have to be Canada then, I’m not turning around.
Okay.
The 4:30 sunrise was exactly what it should be, which is too early. And the stunning or bland yet unnoticed colors stood sharp.
Leaving the county, country, and state, behind.
II.
Cutting out a mindset proved difficult, especially under questioning. Finding that ridding oneself of what once was is like forgetting how to ride a bicycle: a long process that is basically impossible, though feasible in the cases of concussions, contusions, amputation, or death. His well chosen words still tasted like apples and his voice sounded blue in color and emotion. Describing this condition and sensation to others was even more onerous than leaving it behind.
Interrogations serve as reminders.
But solace could be found in what Glasnost brought him. Solace could be found in Nabokov. Daydream of Lolita, circumvent confrontation. Sit under a tree like Aaron and Abra.
William was Lolita.
Onomatopoeia ensued.
The Harvest Bug.
Die on Christmas day, or coronary thrombosis like Humbert Humbert.
At least he got what he wanted.
III.
When rotation made the sun go down on the day that the sun came up, Canada’s freezing grayness or fiery paintedness reflected faintly upon the black-ice-asphalt.
There was the exit for Eagle Lake.
And later there was the border, the point where William, the scholarly pilot of the gray or green Chevrolet, had to feed the colorblind man to the back roads at the mercy of Earth. They were the only inhabitants until the invisible line cut him off from the United States and inflexibly left him in someone else’s country.
Sorry about this, I need to get to school, my semester already started, I’m already late.
It’s okay, really. Thank you. I’m on my way now.
You want a jacket? It’s below zero out there.
I wouldn’t want to burden you. You’ve done enough.
No no no no. Take the one in the back seat, please, it’s the last thing I need on my conscience.
Well, thank you, if ever-
No. You’re welcome. Thank you.
…
Oh, and like I said, I’ll be at the training school. You can reach me here on this number if you ever need help.
Yeah sure, thank you.
And Oliver.
Yes?
Good luck.
Whether or not the Boston originated twenty-dollar reserve note in the inner pocket was purposely placed remained a mystery. Charity or payment?
IV.
Both.
V.
Robert Erskin Childers was wrongly executed for carrying an automatic pistol in 1922. He was filled with bullets by non-automatic weapons and men with whom he shook hands and joked about proximity in a firing line in a place called Beggar's Bush Barracks in Dublin, Ireland, but that was a few decades ago (to the day) and after he had told his son to acquaint himself with the men who signed his death warrant.
VI.
So the black or midnight blue sky watched a lonely and passive colorblind man meander; only partially navigating, over a river, neglecting to hitch a ride on the dirt covered but paved roads that buzz cut through Canadian mountain forest with the logging trucks that almost hit him every time. The same dark sky that witnessed Childers’ death so long ago, and witnessed his son attempting to find the men who unobjectively executed his father, was witnessing a colorblind man attempt to remove himself from his unviable frame of mind.
How could the word ‘blue’ appear burgundy in his mind? How did he know what burgundy was when he could not see any color?
The only thing to signify an oncoming truck was the faint smudge of smoke against night sky that turned black when it backfired and hung out of tree tops like the assistance flag of a lost crop-mazer.
You could only witness the mini smokestacks from hilltops, rendering auditory senses the sole perception of approaching traffic when in a valley.
And sound waves can be deceiving in the wilderness, where they echo invariably from trees and mountainsides and cliffs. The sound comes from all sides, but the trucks only from one. They sound like a deep ocean purple asymmetric sine wave that gurgles inconsistently, turning a blinding red to white and spiking on a backfire, like lightning. And that was all around him.
And above him were owls, grey, or grey. Their quiet wings sounded like an ethereal off-white, his feet felt red, and his newly jacketed torso felt red, but a red with a different personality.
Leaving Fort Kent felt magnificent.
VII.
He, who felt like he did not have any right or authority to tell anyone what The Bible or God meant, had his hand in the red-felt bottomed gilded offering plate that he had just passed around after a dubious sermon that he had given to an unresponsive yet malleable audience the day before the anniversary of the death of Robert Erskin Childers.
Ssssssssssssssss.
Today during the ceremony he noticed how the holy water that seemed thinner and colder than standard tap water, which is exactly what it was but with a different name, pooled and ran through the innumerable creases of his hands, and how deep the gentle cracks cut. The water ran thinner, it beaded in smaller bulbs and streamed in less broad ravines without overflowing the walls of the growing soft fissures.
Maybe three stars were lining up and eggs would stand on end or planets would collide or he would become an honest man.
As the crowd filed out one stayed and mimed sleep or slept or prayed in the center back row of the left side where no one ever sat because it was dark and there were signs of other life, or maybe because strange men that appeared sporadically, seemingly taking weekly shifts so as never to materialize on the same day, like that one there now, usually occupied those seats.
And very few people enjoy the company of strangers, they’re nihilistic, even if they’re at church.
And in this case, people are correct.
Daydreaming of a Julia to save him, he attempted to avoid confrontation, walking the aisle towards his pulpit then his chamber and his comfort and his warmth and his wine.
But the chances were shot because the man wanted to talk.
Excuse me, Father.
The Julia in his mind skipped away, tired but conscious, reluctant, and afraid, but aware of the always different man of the back left center seat.
Yes, my son.
I am without hope.
Hope of what?
Is there anything unpredictable left?
Nothing is predictable, the only thing predictable is that what should happen, will happen.
Such predictions steal freedom.
Habit and desire. Those are the only self-inflicted conditions of man. System and impulse are purely human. Human foible, or virtue, depending on your intentions. The rest of character is governed by something higher.
Are you Hopeful and Honest like you suggest I should be?
Just don’t be guided by impulsivities if they are dishonest, it’s Evil’s way, and it’s your choice whether or not you are.
Is avoidance impulsivity?
If the question avoided suggests a doubt in purity, then no.
You have confirmed a theory.
You approached me for advice and now you ignore it.
Are you here to judge or to promote self-judgment?
Are you challenging my ordainment?
Should I not?
You have crossed the line.
Should I not?
Leave.
We are already gone.
IIX.
If you read in your books over the weekend you would have now read the simple, concluding words of Part One:
“Of course the conviction of the "truth" of geometrical propositions in this sense is founded exclusively on rather incomplete experience. For the present we shall assume the "truth" of the geometrical propositions, then at a later stage (in the general theory of relativity) we shall see that this "truth" is limited, and we shall consider the extent of its limitation.”
The 325th rotation in our path around the sun is the annual anniversary of the publishing of Einstein’s equation of special relativity that contradicted all science based on Newtonian Mechanics.
This told us, as Einstein told us:
“Very small amounts of mass can be converted into very large amounts of energy.”
Because mass, moving or static, is energy. That was proven by The United States’ biggest military science experiment.
Unsure laughing.
Turns out they won the fair.
More laughing.
So, my friends, take your body and donate it to Boston, because if you do, and at some point they find a way to demonstrate this equation on basic matter, it could power the city for a week.
Pause.
But that is theory, a sort of, as the author states about geometrical propositions, “limited truth.” There is “incomplete experience” in some fields, and in those fields we find that theory is insufficient.
What is more reliable is prediction. Call me crazy, but, preceding the Cold War we predicted a Cold War, before worldwide nuclear proliferation we predicted worldwide nuclear proliferation. Submarines, airplanes, helicopters; all predicted.
Predictions are not limited, because the scenarios they lay out are broad, and rarely, due to the vagueness, do the actual events fall outside of the prediction‘s realm.
And, for some reason, Humans are very good at fulfilling their own forecasts. It seems our prognoses are not so much predictions as they are game-plans.
But I may just be falling victim to a violently illusory correlation.
So think about that during the time you would be spending in my class today, because, fortunately, I’m dismissing you early, predicted or not.
See you Wednesday.
IX.
Wonderful speech professor.
Well hello, Dr. Oliver. Do you normally attend my class?
I'm just here to say goodbye.
What?
X.
The long arms that cut the paper in the center heat of the factory reminded her of guillotines, more in shape than in function, without the red, and they were so frightening in the early morning that she found it difficult to work. Wet moist morning light came through the single pane warped-glass windows and reflected off of their blades, knifing into eyes and making them wince. But by the time noon came and the insides of the warehouse were purring and the squeaking joints of the machines and workers were gliding rhythmically, all to a different chaotic tempo, it was intensely peaceful; she would train herself to filter out all senses, becoming a robot of muscle memory, repeating the same task over and over until it just happened, and she was free to wander amid her thoughts, forgetting her body, leaving it behind.
So it was now. Her arms pouring buckets of bright dye into a drum and watching the colors dissolve, rushing to the beat of the hidden propellers underneath, dancing across her eyes with the grace and energy of fast water.
