Chapters 11-13

Chapter 11

Fun. That was always the real goal. Just have fun. With everything. For Marta that was the whole point to existence. And, while the rest of the group generally accepted that notion, they all agreed, even Marta, that finding fun in everything … everything? … would be quite a challenging undertaking. Sure there are the moments.
Marta enjoyed her sports, her music, her movies, her vodka. But she knew these diversions amounted to just bits and pieces of pleasure, moments that come and go. Just flashes – a breath, a sneeze, an orgasm. What about the rest of the time, she thought? What about the rest of the day? The week? What about the oncoming winter?
Suddenly, doubts and fear of the future, and the likelihood of financial and health concerns filled her head. These increasingly recurring thoughts almost never seemed fun.
With each passing day, the 55-year-old Marta realized how easy it is to become consumed with aging and death.
“Nobody thinks that’s fun,” she thought. “But it must be.”
As she worked toward this end, Marta sensed increasing resistance. The latest
blow came during a recent routine day at work. It proved devastating.
While delivering pizzas to some nursing home employees, Marta, as she had dutifully done for 17 years, raced from her parked car to meet the customers inside the building. As she arrived at the entrance, she noticed her car, the green Subaru, old Fred, slowly going up a slight hill. The now driverless car had not been put into park, but was still in drive. Before Marta could get to it, Fred reached the hill apex, and then like a cruel, possessed rollercoaster, sped down the hill, crashing into, and totaling two parked vehicles below. The once proud and mighty driver Marta, who had never had an accident in her 17 years, tried to keep this rather routine incident in perspective, but underneath her calm exterior she was consumed by her old ambivalent friends, fear and doubt.
“OK,” she thought, “no big deal. It’s just an accident. Happens all the time. No biggee. We’ll make it fun. Outside forces are wanting to mess with us, to test it’s all good. Well, bring it on, I’m ready. Bring it on, dammit! Let’s have some fun.”
Only she realized she was not ready. Fun was hardly the word for it.
Marta was well aware that being involved in some mundane accident that didn’t really hurt anyone, at least not physically, really couldn’t matter much in the overall scheme of things. Still, the reality-challenged Marta couldn’t help but see the incident as some colossal disaster in which all mankind might be threatened. She thought of a gasping Burt Reynolds after he had just broken his leg in one of her favorite films, “Deliverance.”
“Now, we get to play the game,” he tells his panic-stricken friend, played by Jon Voight. “Yes, a game,” thought Marta. “It’s gotta be a game, somehow, a fun game.”
Instead it was torture. After all those years delivering food without any trouble, Marta now felt her great empire at Pizza Hut quickly crumbling away. To make matters worse, both her insurance company and Pizza Hut were denying coverage of the claim, saying Marta had failed to state on her forms that she was delivering pizza, a fact Marta reluctantly admitted “may be true.”
“Yeah, looks like I’m out $20,000,” she sadly explained to her mother, Pat. “And now I’m probably out of my job, too. That’s all I’ve got, Mom.”
Pat, as well as Marta’s other friends did their best to comfort their fallen heroine. All expressed hope that “things are bound to get better,” but for the most part they were unsuccessful in rectifying the problem. While a seemingly insignificant event, the incident revealed that for once – and maybe once and for all – the mighty, invulnerable, Godly Marta was now a soundly beaten shell of herself.
“Emily would be especially disappointed,” Marta admitted as she discussed the matter with Pat. “This is the exact thing Emily hates in human beings. We’re all completely attached to all our bullshit. And sadly, I am no different. Not at all. Just some weak hypocrite who talks a big talk, but can’t get outside my emotions and all my petty selfish needs.
“All these ridiculous attachments,” Marta continued. “I’m not wanting this to be good or fun. I can’t stop worrying about losing money or my job. Everybody loses what they have. I know I’m gonna end up losing everything, even you, Mom. Yes, I’ll lose you, too. So why not figure out how to enjoy that instead of dreading it and being consumed by it. And yet it’s like I’m powerless to stop it. Did I think I would never have an accident? Do I think I’m not gonna die? Everybody dies! And I’m telling all you people I’m God. Yeah, right?”
To her credit, Marta did not back away from the backlash. A part of her wanted to suggest that evil forces, resistant to the concept of it’s all good, had forced Fred to assume control of the car, making it crash. But she knew that for once perhaps it was important to live in the real world. She would just take her lumps, like everyone else, and bow to the gods of fate. She was not God, of course. What on earth was she thinking all these years? Her brother and sister were right. Marta, or Martin as they still referred to her, was completely crazy.
“No wonder I’ve never had a family, a lover, a real job,” she thought. “I must be nuts. I had my fucking dick cut off, for Christ’s sake. What am I thinking?”
Just then the phone rang. It was Anne. As always, she was completely honed in on Marta’s predicament. But unlike the others, Anne saw this as a great opportunity, not a minor crisis. Having confronted obstacles of her own – domestic violence, working for a time as a stripper, overcoming an addiction to crystal meth, owing more than $100,000 dollars in college debt, and, most challenging of all, giving up her beloved autistic child, Damon – Anne understood suffering, and was devoted to ending it, not inviting more of it. She knew the true motivation behind her profound friendship with Marta, as well as their latest project. This was all about finding unconditional love, not a time to complain and self-destruct.
And, even though Marta was losing faith in herself, Anne reminded her friend of their true purpose. She alone understood the deeper ramifications of this seemingly innocent car mishap. Anne knew it was indeed a big test, maybe the biggest ever, and that it would have a profound butterfly effect on all of civilization. She posed a rhetorical question that instantly made Marta weep tears of joy.
“But it’s all good, right?”
In that instant, Marta’s self-wallowing came to an abrupt halt. The teacher and student became one. The two were equals at last. Anne’s perfect, understanding voice triggered in Marta an outpouring of seemingly unbounded memories. She remembered her friends, her parents, siblings, her pets, her home, her co-workers, her youth. With Anne’s simple, beautiful, teasing question, Marta’s entire life was somehow relived in an instant. She saw herself as a child, yes, even the asthma attacks and bed-wetting, but also sweet holidays and sports and games and Johnny Nasser, her best friend for life. She saw terror upon entering the Navy during the Vietnam War as a teenager, but also great joy in the friends she acquired along the way. She saw her life at the newspaper in Terre Haute. Her first love, Patti, was there, as well as “that unforgettable kiss on the Michigan City pier.” She saw her sex-change operation in Montreal, and all the beautiful, frightened gender-challenge beings, hoping their suffering would come to an end. It wouldn’t of course, at least not yet, but still, somehow it didn’t matter. It was a show, a great, Oscar-worthy presentation.
Like an unlimited visual memoir, Marta could see her pains and pleasures, defeats and victories, all racing into her mind in that tiny, near-limitless slide show. The show finally came to an end with the final scene. It was Fred, her beloved green Subaru, slowly climbing up the notorious hill and then speeding down it, crashing into the two parked cars below. Only this time, the image was not a nightmare. It was … amusing.
“Yes,” Marta joked to Anne. “Fred needed some time alone.” The two laughed acknowledging Fred’s brave, albeit possibly misguided break for freedom.
In unison, the two agreed. “It’s independence day.”
But Marta knew it wasn’t just Fred who tasted freedom. Now, Anne, too, had cast off Marta’s annoying puppet strings. Instead of feeling regret, Marta was reborn, enlivened with hope and strength.
“Dear, Jesus,” she said. “There is a way.”


Chapter 12

The snow was coming down heavily and the going was difficult.
“If I was an experienced guide I'd have thought of snow shoes,” Steve thought, “and I sure as hell would have sprung for that snow suit.”
He was well bundled, his body core was warm, but the wet had soaked his trousers wicked down through his thermal underwear into his boots.
His extremities had started to go numb long ago, when there was still a chance of turning back, but he'd soldiered on. Now he couldn't feel his feet at all anymore; they were like stumps that still somehow managed to keep him upright and propel him forward. They needed to reach the monastery by nightfall or he didn't know what would happen.
He stopped to survey the landmark he was steering toward – a long finger of rock on the horizon. He could barely see it through the whirling snow. Turning around the line of his companions and their heavily burdened yaks were mere shadows, only guessed at in the general whiteness. Fear clamped around his heart; a fear not lessened by the
knowledge that it was he who had led these people into this mess, and that it was his responsibility to get them out of it – or die trying.
At least it wasn't his idea to undertake this insane expedition in the first place, that was Marta's brilliant idea, damn her.
They were all tied together by a rope with thirty feet of slack between them. Every once in awhile the rope would pull taught as one member of the party or another would stumble, or stop to adjust a scarf or something, or just to take a break. They were all exhausted, particularly Pat and Beth. The rope’s sporadic action was reassuring to Steve, reminding him that he was not alone. But it also served to prick his conscience.
Now he hadn't felt that tug in quite awhile and stopped to look back. He couldn't see anything amid the swirling flakes.
“Hello!” he yelled. “Hey guys, how're you doing?”
There was no answering sound but the wind. He started drawing in the slack on the rope and was startled when there wasn't any tug of resistance. Horrified, he yanked the frayed end of the severed rope into his mittened hands. He stood there dumbstruck for a
second, then went leaping down the path as fast as he could.
Surely, he thought, they must be just below him, following his track. “What
could have happened?”
But as he ran on it was apparent that the track through the snow was only his, not widened by the passage of anyone else. “How long have they been gone?” He asked the storm, receiving only a mock howl.
Eventually even Steve’s own track disappeared, filled in by the wind and the
still falling snow. His fear was augmented now with grief.
“I hope you guys survive,” he said out loud, as if his friends were near him and
the wind wasn't howling, “but there's nothing I can do for you out here. I've got to try to save myself. When I get to the monastery they'll surely send out a search party.”
Now resuming his climb alone, Steve felt the darkness approaching. He couldn't see his landmark at all anymore. What choice did he have but to keep trudging on in what seemed the right direction, hoping for the best. Trying to avoid the thought, he realized he was truly and utterly alone.
Finally a break. A cave in the distance. An ice cave.
“I’m here,” he shouted. “I’m alive. I made it!”
It was an ice cave. Light filtered through from outside and the going was easy on a flat floor. It was warm, too. He could see his breath but was perfectly comfortable, enough to throw back the hood of his parka. At last, he could feel his feet again. His bright red fingers would take longer to thaw.
The cave was a labyrinth of branching paths. He was searching for something, or someone, but in his emaciated state couldn't remember what, or who. It was beautiful. The thick ice was faceted, like crystal, and fractured in the movement of the glacier. He thought he was imagining it at first. Vague images would appear on the faceted surfaces inside the ice and be gone again as he moved. It was unnerving but also fascinating.
At first it seemed that he was seeing through the ice to the outside but then he realized that couldn't be the case. Instead, he was seeing a summer landscape not in the Himalayas, but in the low leafy hills of … where? Oh, now he recognized it.
“That house, that barn, that's Sunman, where I used to spend my summers as a kid!” and he realized that the images were not just of southern Indiana landscapes, but of interiors too, and there were people. This was Memory.
He continued on his unknown quest, partaking now of the images flashed around him, which increased in both frequency and clarity as he went. He didn't analyze any of it but just felt the emotions that the scenes aroused in him; mostly pleasant; some terrible. He chose a direction at the intersection of three branching paths. As he turned a
corner he was surprised by the presence of a man standing there. The man wasn't surprised though, he seemed to have been waiting for Steve. He seemed sinister, with a smirk on his face and a deranged look in his eye.
With some relief Steve realized that it was just a reflection of himself. The path was a dead end and the smooth wall of ice before him acted as a mirror. He raised his hand and the man, now less sinister, also raised his hand. He let his hand fall and the man let his hand fall. But did the man wink as Steve turned to try a different path?
“Must be my imagination,” he thought.
As he moved on, Steve encountered more and more dead ends, and always
there was a reflection of himself, somehow sinister when first seen. The atmosphere of the cave was now becoming increasingly unpleasant. New images surrounded him that were less personal, more like he was watching documentaries of dirty politics or of industrial environmental abuse. He saw himself running – from what, or whom, he didn’t know. That didn't seem to matter anymore, if it ever had.
Finally he came to a place where there were no exits. He was trapped in … a cave? No. This is no cave. And then he saw something he didn’t expect. Deep in the ice, was a small child. It was himself as a child.
“I loved that kid,” he said.
Before being consumed with nostalgia, Steve suddenly noticed the severed rope in his
mittened hands.
“I'm lost on the mountainside,” he thought. “I'm freezing to death and this is the dream at the end before my spark flickers out.”
He let himself slide down against the ice to the cold floor and leaned against the wall. He was giving in, but not giving up. Not completely.
“What is it you're supposed to do when you're lost?” he asked the walls. “You're supposed to sit tight, wherever you are, and wait for help. Oh, Emily, send St. Bernard. It’s OK if you wanna rescue me. I’ll let you.”


Chapter 13

“This is gonna be too hard,” Beth thought. “I am no writer.”
But she said yes, and to Beth, a promise is a promise. She reread her notes:
“Two pages on the ego and pride, and three on the supernatural.”
That was the request coming from Anne.
“Now I’m supposed to put all this in their book,” she thought. “Why would I agree to this? They know I can’t write. What am I doing? This is getting silly.”
She looked again at Anne’s request.
“Just write whatever you want,” the notes read. “Anything. Put in your life story, we don’t care. Just so it ties in with pride and the supernatural. Those areas are the big ones. They have to be explored.”
Beth understood agreed with that. At least the part about pride and ego. That should be no problem. Hundreds of conversations with her daughter, Emily, and a few with Marta – and all her discussions about being God – had given Beth a strong background on that subject.
But the supernatural? I don’t even know what that is? I don’t even believe in God.
Again, she scanned the notes.
“There has to be some way to get outside the box. Not in logical, limited terms. We want to connect with the unlimited. This is about unconditional love. That means we can’t be tied to traditional, conditional thinking. So maybe the supernatural comes into play – we don’t care if it’s magic, angels, higher levels of consciousness, aliens, alternative universes, ghosts, death, afterlife whatever. It just has to be explored and included in a way that’s plausible and interesting. It’s all good, remember? Just a few pages to get things going.”
Beth remembered the meeting with Anne and Marta. Having only met Anne twice before, she was surprised that she, and not Marta did most of the talking. Right off, she sensed the two shared almost the exact same core beliefs, including this latest book project, right down to phrasing and speech patterns.
A little too creepy, she wondered, thinking maybe she had indeed gotten herself sucked into a Manson-like cult. Still, for some reason she tagged along, trusting Marta as a good friend of Emily, and appreciating everyone’s strong conviction to the it’s all good framework.
Plus, if it gets too weird I can always say no, she thought.
“So why don’t I?” Hmmm.
The daughter of a renowned Christian minister, Beth Montgomery Selke, was taught that pride was perhaps the biggest stumbling block in man’s advancement. Being important is OK, she believed, but being more OK than someone else – that’s what’s getting everybody into trouble. Just ask Lucifer, Adam, Eve, Cain, Aaron, Herod, Judas, Hitler, and yes, maybe even the self-promoting Marta.
Her religious background, and the fact that Beth had written a children’s book called “… And That’s OK,” made Beth the perfect choice for this particular assignment. The children’s story, simply but effectively written and beautifully illustrated by Beth, describes how all of us, with our deeply personal “differences and preferences” belong in this world together. That all of us are special, but not better than someone else.
Now Beth began typing on her latest literary endeavor:
“So what exactly is the ego and pride, and why do people think they’re better than others?”
“Oh, no,” she thought. “No, no, no. That’s way too boring. Sounds like I’m some expert.”
She went back to the children’s book for inspiration. Vaguely remembering her college creative writing class, she decided to try a little stream of consciousness:
“Does a squirrel think it’s better than another squirrel? Or a cockroach? Or a beaver? ‘Listen, beaver community, I’m taking over this dam because I’m stronger and I’m better and I can take it over… The other beavers may let him do so, maybe because he is bigger and stronger but certainly not better. Can he crochet a rub, for example? Well, some other beaver can crochet a rug, so he’s not better. If you think about it, a beaver who can crochet … that’s really something. … And then I guess wars are started because one beaver can lift weights and another can crochet and then sides are drawn, do I wanna do the weightlifting or the crocheting? Some will say the weightlifting is better others are convinced it’s crocheting. And then the wars happen. That’s kind of fun, seeing that war. I bet the crochet army will have way better uniforms.”
Beth smiled at the strange image she was creating. She paused.
“Oh, God no,” that’s ridiculous. “They’ll all laugh at this. I’m just not good at this. What am I doing? People are gonna assume I’m in some cult … anyway, maybe I should just bow out of this whole thing.”
Instead of deleting her beaver analogy, and the project as a whole, Beth took another sip of tea. She attempted to regroup, forcing herself to understand what the assignment was really for.
“Have we taken sides with Marta?” she wondered. “If so, are we crocheters or weightlifters?”
Beth smiled again, this time proudly acknowledging that probably unlike anyone else on the In Search of Emily team, she did in fact know how to crochet.
“Oh wait,” she remembered. “Marta’s mom Pat (whom Beth had never actually met). I bet she knows how to crochet.
“Anyway,” she added, “we’re still gonna be on the crochet team. I don’t wanna lift weights.”
Again, Beth tried to get serious, and “stay on message.” “How do we enjoy our strengths and preferences without letting the ego take over?”
She was convinced her children’s book and her theory that we all have an important place on this planet despite our differences is crucial in helping end suffering. It IS absolutely a worthy goal, she thought, even in the form of this possibly misguided new book project. She was reminded of the current, nasty state of politics, and of all the domestic and international struggles plaguing the world.
“Everyone wants to think they’re better,” she realized. “OK. We know this as the problem, but how do we fix it?”
Beth began to feel overwhelmed. She understood how some could view all of life as a constant war, something she remembered Emily discussing frequently throughout her Buddhist studies. Also, to her surprise, Beth unintentionally was finding herself thinking in dualistic terms. These philosophical “meanderings” were something she had always shied away from in the past.
Now, however, she couldn’t get away from it. Democrats versus Republicans, blacks and whites, Buddhists and Christians, good and bad, old and young. Does it all matter? And, more importantly, is it all EQUAL?
Again, thinking maybe she was getting in way too deep, Beth continued to question her role in Marta and Anne’s project.
“Maybe they should just keep me out of it,” she said aloud to her computer. “At least change my name so people won’t know it’s really me.”
Beth continued to worry about long-range repercussions of the project. Marta, and now Anne, aren’t aware that people might get hurt, especially if we’re using their real names. It’s just fiction, well, some of it is and some isn’t. It should all be fiction. Just don’t embarrass anybody.
Writer’s block continued to reinforce Beth’s negativity.
“They’re just sucking me in to brainwash me,” she thought. “And it’s working, I’m starting to sound just like them. This is crazy. … But am I crazy, too?”
And again Beth could not stop thinking about dualism and conflict and suffering.
“But are they right? And is this a war we’re starting?”
Beth looked at her children’s book. She slowly began leafing through the 24 pages. In spite of her resistance, she felt proud of what she had created. More importantly, she felt right. She knew she had chosen the right side.
“My intentions are good,” she thought. “But is it all good? How can that be, and should it?”
Now Beth was feeling a growing anger and even some jealousy. Maybe the others, notably Marta and Emily, and now, apparently Anne, had achieved some deeper awareness. Do they have some understanding of the whole picture? Something they could see, something Beth could not see?
Beth did see Marta’s smug arrogance, and her daughter Emily’s near-constant disapproval of humanity (derogatorily referred to as “the hobby lobby”). Was Beth part of the lobby? Was she inferior, somehow?
She continued scanning the children’s book. But this time, the wording seemed deficient, trite and childish – and the pictures uninspiring and even ugly.
“That’s why no publisher wanted it,” she sadly realized. “People just said they liked it to be nice. They were feeling sorry for me.
“God, it’s terrible,” she thought. Now quite discouraged, Beth angrily tossed the book on the sofa.
Saddened, she took another sip of tea. Before deleting her entire written essay, she took one last look at Anne’s assignment request:
“Just write whatever you want. Anything. Put in your life story, we don’t care. Just so it ties in with pride and the supernatural. Those areas are the big ones. They have to be explored.”
“Put in your life story,” she shrugged. “What is that? My life story?”
She looked around her house at all the things, knickknacks, antique furniture, memories. She stopped to gaze at a picture of her family. She saw the eyes and smiles of her true friends – her beloved husband, Bill, who had died 10 years earlier, and their two children, Hank, now an Indianapolis physician, and her estranged daughter Emily. All four were smiling quite broadly. Beth instantly remembered the occasion. They were in Denmark where Bill was doing research as a college professor. That day, eight-year-old Hank had won a hockey gam.They were all being treated to a feast of Danish licorice at a favorite candy shop.
“Hah!” thought Beth. “Oh, God. Look at us. We’re smiling. All of us. Even Emily. Even Emily.”

Chapters 6-10

Chapter 6

(The Story of Anne)

No. That wasn’t me. That’s not what I mean. Now hold on, what exactly do I mean?

Let me try to answer it right.

“Uhm. I don’t know. It was metallic, silvery. One end was pointy, and the other rounded. Like the ‘Star Wars’ ship.”

Marta looked puzzled. She just shook her head at me. God, for such a big movie buff, you’d think she’d seen “Star Wars.”

“Was it like a blimp?”

“No, not at all.” Geez. She’s not listening. “Like a ship. Only seamless, rounded and somewhat flat. … My mother saw it, too.”

“Your mom saw it?”

“Yes. And my father. We all saw it.”

“And how old were you.”

“Let’s see, it would have been in 1976, so I was five.”

“And it was just this ship? No people, creatures?”

“Right, just the ship.”

“And did anyone believe you?”

Aha. Finally. This seemed to be the gist of Marta’s questioning – credibility.

“Now let me try to remember,” I thought. “I wanna be honest.” Finally, the answer came.

“It’s not that they didn’t believe us,” I said. “They just thought we were mistaken.”

Marta’s interview continued in this vein. The questions were vague and extremely meandering. I didn’t understand completely what she wanted. The essence of “me,” is how she vaguely termed it. So why this persistent interest in the UFO incident 30 years ago?

“It’s all about trust,” Marta repeated. “No one’s gonna believe us, Anne. It’s gotta connect with – everything. We gotta come clean. The world has to trust us. This is your chapter. Your life. It’s time to share it.”

Hah! My chapter? Obviously, this was hard to imagine. Clearly, Chapter Six, like everything else, would be about Marta. Don’t get me wrong. Despite her narcissism and claims of being God, I always believed in Marta. To be included in her strange “projects” always seemed fulfilling. There was something bizarre and exciting about them, something mischievous perhaps, yet something that always seemed to lead somewhere positive. The latest book project was no exception. A group of us seekers – the chosen ones – would join forces in search of finding our long-lost friend, Emily. Still, like Steve, our “guide,” I wondered, who am I in this endeavor, and what exactly is my role?

Marta, as always, seemed honed in on my every thought.

“Anne, are you a follower or a leader?”

The question, from far left field, was harder than it sounds.

“A leader,” I said confidently, knowing that’s what she wanted to hear. Marta smiled. The smile made me wonder, “Is it an approving smile, or sarcastic?” And, of course, this was the ironic test I had just been set up to lose. But did I lose?

Marta knew this conflict was constantly going on in my head. She knew that my doubt, however infinitesimal, was the difference between us.

Understanding my disgrace, she switched the subject, back to her. She began speaking in the third person. Again, I was not fazed by this odd yet familiar tack.

“Tell me how you and Marta met,” she asked.

“It was the personal ad.” Marta, in the early 1990s submitted a personal ad in the Bloomington Voice, an underground newspaper. It read:

“PreOpTS ISO m/f for intimate phys or non-phys relationship. ‘A tender hug is all we need to uncomplicated the mysteries.’”

In recalling this memory, Marta and I both laughed. Even she acknowledged her corny words. The ad, translated, means pre-operation transsexual in search of male or female for sexual or non-sexual encounters. It was written as part of an exercise on behalf of Marta’s psychologist to explore Marta’s social and sexual identity. She seemed proud that several life-long friendships resulted in the ad, and that we could both recall the ad so vividly after so long.

“That was creepy,” she laughed affectionately. “So then what happened, after you saw the ad?”

“Well, I’d never responded to a personal ad before,” I said. “I would just read them for fun, especially the weird ones. I didn’t know what a PreOpTS was. Still, the silly words maybe did inspire me to call … Marta. I thought, ‘that’s someone I’d like to meet.’

“It wasn’t a physical relationship I wanted,” I continued. “I think I just needed someone to hear me. I was having a tough time with my husband and my autistic son. If I recall, the first time we met, all I did was vent. Since then you, I mean, Marta and I have had ups and downs, but we always address all our problems and now I feel like we are best friends. And we always will be.”

Marta seemed pleased with my recollection. But I sensed she was getting lost in nostalgia as she tended to do. For the longest time she sat silently absorbed in the past. For once, I was the one getting us back to our mission at hand.

“What about Emily?” I asked finally. “Are you wanting us to write about our lives, and include it the book? Is that what we’re trying to do here?”

Marta remained silent.

“Marta? What about our story? I thought you said that our own personal memoirs somehow lead to a universal connection, and that we all end up on Emily’s metaphorical mountain somehow?”

I did think this was the general plan. That by coming to terms with both our ordinariness and our greatness we would find salvation, and that it would perhaps help others. We would all contribute our limited, weak “essences” to make a stronger, unified character that all the world could identify with. Chapter Six was to be the Story of Anne. I was proud to add my two cents worth, and earlier, before Marta arrived, assuming this was the plan, I jotted down a few of my own personal narrative points to be included in the story. I began reading my “story” aloud to Marta:

It’s always something — deadlines, illness, schedules, setbacks, obligations, fatigue. I always feel that I’m frantically racing to try to get all the pieces of my life to somehow fall into place. Most everything I do is done in “crunch time.” It’s how I perform best, but it takes a toll on me. It pushes the limits of my optimistic tendencies, takes me away from the thoughts and feelings that I enjoy, makes me feel less and less like the me I used to know, makes me feel trapped.

I love Emily. I miss her. But really, I could almost feel envious of her -- isolated, having all the time in the world to meditate when I often I don’t have time to pee. Does she really need rescued from her simplified existence? I always felt that Emily went on these seemingly crazy retreats only to escape living a life like mine. It makes me realize just how subjective “crazy” really is.

I paused for a moment to notice that Marta hadn’t been listening at all. Finally she looked at my notes and began reading what I had just read.

“No,” she said firmly. “This isn’t it. This isn’t it. This won’t work. No, Anne. This isn’t you. This shit’s been done before … a zillion times”

I was devastated. Her instantly abrasive review came as quite a surprise, especially considering the time and passion I had devoted to my few words. I remained silent, hurt, unable to respond. This reaction seemed too harsh and much too serious for our fantasy project.

“What the hell does she want?” I thought. I was afraid she would be equally insensitive if I verbally posed that or any other question. And now, on top of everything else, Marta proclaimed the interview was over. Did I disappoint her, I wondered. Mostly the disappointment was my own.

My frustration began to grow. I didn’t get to include any personal details about my life. My background … just who the hell I was.

“We have to include this,” I thought. I was convinced that Chapter 6, “The Story of Anne,” was indeed that, so let’s get it on. Here I am, Marta. Ask away.

Instead, Marta seemed oblivious to my “essence.” She knew what giant obstacles I had to overcome to get this place in my life, yet she seemed completely uninterested and unwilling to share them with our global audience. No. No interest in that whatsoever. No interest in my legendary problems with men, nor in my work as a speech pathologist, nor in my involvement with crystal meth and a gang of outlaws. Hah! That was a wild period. … Nope. She didn’t ask about my peaks and valleys.

Mostly she failed to ask me about my three children, whom she, knows I adore beyond anything ever created, and who are the true inspiration in my life. This was too big an omission, I thought. Yet I did nothing to question her, afraid Marta might dismiss me even more.

I sat wondering these thoughts, replaying a thousand relevant scenes of my life in that brief moment. It was as if I was on my death bed reviewing it all before Peter at the gate. Did it all matter or not? Did I matter? To Marta, evidently not. To me it did. But compared to others, I began to wonder. Yes, I matter, absolutely. … Or do? Dammit, I’m screwed!

Then I reconsidered our project. I remembered reading the earlier chapters, and feeling perhaps there is a common thread and a contribution we are all making on some deeper levels.

Her comment kept resurfacing: “This shit’s been done a zillion times before.” Marta was known for thinking outside the box. Clearly this new project belongs out there with her other bizarre schemes. I realized her criticism was aimed at normal-thinking society, not me. She knew that drifting outside the mainstream was one of my strengths, too, not a weakness, and that perhaps my writing reflected a desire to merely please her and other readers. Anybody can tell a story, I realized. We are here to change the world.

Reluctantly, I set my ego aside and accepted her critique. The truth is there is no place I’d rather be than out on that fragile limb than with my crazy friend.

“What do you want?” I finally asked. “What about the rest of us?”

She remained silent.

“I mean, where are WE?” I persisted. “Is it always you, Marta?”

Again, Marta sat silent, smiling. Perhaps she was still stuck in her own nostalgia or maybe focusing on my UFO responses. In either case I was afraid to question her further. Her happy expression was now beginning to morph into the one I’d seen before, the scary one, where she seems to detach herself from reality. It is a look of mischief and self indulgence. Whenever I see it I am reminded of insane cult leaders like Charles Manson and Adolph Hitler and Jim Jones. The smile remains but the connection is lost. Or is it?

“Are you a follower or a leader, Anne?” she repeated on cue this test that was already going on in my head.

“A leader,” I said confidently. But again, like countless times before, we both knew I failed.

“I understand what’s going on with you,” she said. “I understand everything. Everything, Anne. It’s all good.”
“Suddenly, I’m not feeling so good,” I admitted. “I’m starting to lose it a bit. My faith, my confidence.”

“It’s good, Anne. It’s working perfectly. Don’t worry. It’s still your chapter. You belong.”

“But maybe we’re in over our heads,” I warned.

“No, no, no. That’s just the resistance. Brace yourself, it’ll be bumpy.”

“But what about me? The interview? Where do I fit in? How’d I do?”

Again Marta laughed. It was that unpleasant, condescending smirk that I so hated.

“You fit in perfectly,” she said smugly. “You’re just not the writer. At least not yet.”

“Not the writer?” I repeated the words to myself.

She then got up, went to her car and drove off, back to Bloomington, seemingly abundantly pleased with the interview.

Over the next few weeks this bizarre encounter would be replayed in my mind repeatedly.

“Not the writer, what does that mean exactly?” I kept wondering. It pounded in my head like a noisy train several towns in the distance. I could feel it inching closer and closer to West Terre Haute.

“Not the writer indeed.”

Chapter 7

Several weeks had passed since Emily received Marta’s initial letter detailing the “In Search of Emily” project. With the time, Emily’s outrage about the project had subsided. It was unlikely any additional mail would arrive for months due to the remoteness of her primitive living quarters. The monks, whose larger quarters were a mile from her cave, kept an adequate supply of essentials. As it had for thousands of years, if something broke it was simply jury-rigged or not fixed until reinforcements would arrive with new supplies from the larger communities down below. This was the obvious trade-off of living the hermetic life – what you gain in privacy you lose in convenience. And Emily was completely happy with this situation.

The rare times she would get a piece of mail it would remind her of those civilized luxuries she had taken for granted, but, as was clear with Marta’s latest note, it also reminded her of all the silliness that goes with living in the “Hobby Lobby.”

Now, four weeks removed from Marta’s ill-conceived book, she had all but forgotten about it and the Lobby in general. Her focus was on meditation, prayer, mental and physical discipline. She diligently strove to preserve and sustain this continued growth toward enlightenment. Having caught glimpses of “the absolute” throughout her life, she knew her quest was completely attainable and felt she was making great progress. Yes, Marta’s letter and the book had sidetracked her a bit, but after time she forgave her friend. Emily knew Marta’s project was probably just a well-intentioned exercise in Marta’s imagination. Like always, Marta just needed some attention. And, like most of her projects she assumed it wouldn’t be finished. Furthermore, she could use the experience to strengthen herself from temptation. It could be used as a learning experience.

Such wasn’t the case at first. Instantly after receiving the letter, she couldn’t stop thinking about the harm it was causing. Even her meditation was affected.

“What is she thinking?” Emily would ask herself of Marta’s intentions. “She has to know what this will do. Isn’t it obvious that I DO NOT want any association with you people. Why else would I dash off to another part of the planet and hide out in the world’s highest mountain range? And to involve all these other people, most of whom I barely know?”

Mostly she was afraid of what others would think. The dedicated porters who risked their lives taking essential items up to the monks, now might think this on-going correspondence from Marta is important, and risk their lives getting it up to her only to find out Marta is just playing out some role-playing fantasy game.

“Your actions could actually kill someone, dumb ass,” she said harshly during those early days.

In addition, on the off-chance that Marta’s story was actually being read by others or involves others, as she claims in the story, these people might develop attitudes about Emily that may be inaccurate. She knew Marta had a way of stretching the truth, or in sharing information that was once thought to be very, very private. Marta always had a blurred sense of vision between the real and the unreal.

On top of everything else, Emily was deeply concerned Marta’s self-interests might somehow cause harm or embarrassment to her mother, Beth, whom she knew Marta had roped into playing her deranged “game.” The fact that Beth’s name was among the list of participants was deeply disturbing to Emily.

Accordingly, shortly after reading the first installment, Emily dashed off a scolding letter of reply, urgently ordering Marta to desist of her plan. She trekked down to the monk’s postal area, and in her limited Tibetan language, she fervently tried to describe her disapproval with Marta’s project to the confused monks. The monks, unable to understand her, just smiled, amused by her flustered appearance.

But that was a month ago, and now, as Emily prepared a meager bowl of rice for dinner, she realized the event was becoming a vague and silly memory.

“Who cares,” she laughed. “I got to feel some anger. Maybe that’s all Marta wanted.”

As she prepared to take her first bite of her sparse dinner, she heard a commotion up the trail. It was Drahka Dorje panting, struggling through the brush to get to her cave. He smiled and handed Emily a package. It was the second installment of “In Search of Emily.”

With great shame, Emily accepted the unopened mail, apologizing profusely to her spiritual friend. She offered him 50 rupees, which to both of them was a lot of money. Of course, Drahku would not accept the offer. He just smiled and took a cup of Emily’s watered-down tea. It was clear to Emily that the young monk wasn’t happy about taking time out of his schedule for such a pointless errand. Emily didn’t like this either, but if nothing else, at least Marta’s package did allow a rare visit with a fellow human which she greatly welcomed despite the obvious language barriers.

After Drahku left her cave, Emily was now left alone with Marta’s letter. Like a predator eying her captured, helpless prey, she stared at it angrily for the longest time. A battle was going on in her head. Perhaps she should just throw it away. Forget about the whole thing.

“That’s what I should do,” she thought. “They don’t know if I’m still alive. I don’t have any obligation to these people. There is no real need to get sucked back into all that. Marta’s just playing games. I don’t need to play.”

But, like the starving tiger, she knew her prey had to be eaten. Suddenly a new hope entered her thoughts.

“Maybe it’s just a follow-up note to explain the initial project had been scrapped. Yes, Marta could feel my negative vibes from across the world and she has understood the folly of her project.”

But clearly the envelope was too thick. It was much larger than the initial package.

“This thing is picking up steam,” she thought. She slowly removed the contents from the envelope. “I better get it over with.”

Chapter 8

Schizophrenia: One of the most damaging of all mental disorders---causes its victims to lose touch with reality. They often begin to hear, see, or feel things that aren't really there (hallucinations) or become convinced of things that simply aren't true (delusions). In the paranoid form of this disorder, they develop delusions of persecution or personal grandeur. There is no cure. Severe attacks may require hospitalization. … healthsquare.com

While little actual writing had been done, Marta could sense great progress being made in the Search for Emily project. With the exception of Steve, the team’s “guide,” Marta conducted multiple private visits with the other members of the project – Beth, Pat and Anne. In each case, whether conducting formal interviews (as with Anne), or merely carrying on typical activities with them, Marta was pleased with the results. As she predicted, she was experiencing a growing resistance to the plan, but this was something she deemed crucial to its development.

Emily’s mother, Beth, was a perfect sounding board to reinforce Marta’s controversial it’s all good theories. On the surface Beth was the most resistant to it, but she was a polite listener, and would always encourage Marta’s seemingly diametrically opposed ideas.

“The human nervous system is a beautiful, complex organism,” Marta said during a recent visit. “Like all matter in our science/logic-based universe, it is limited. Yes, we are matter to be defined conditionally. But of course we are unlimited, too. This is a problem for most rational beings to accept. Our nervous systems have trouble appreciating that we are both sane and insane. Limited and unlimited.”

Rather than renew her objections, which were strong and obvious, Beth often would let Marta drone on until another, more relevant discussion would evolve. Why she would put up with Marta’s relentless, outrageous and repeated sermonizing was a mystery, especially since Beth disagreed with most of them. Perhaps these discussions reminded Beth of her estranged daughter. Marta’s philosophies seemed similar to the Buddhist teachings Emily devoted her life to. These family discussions between Emily and her Christian mother and college professor father (who died 10 years earlier), would often escalate into volatile, intellectual battles that contributed to their family’s dysfunction, and many believe inspired Emily’s retreat into the mountains.

Marta didn’t care. She knew that once the true concept of it’s all good seeps in, it’s hard for anyone to reject. It is important to share this philosophy, that was Marta’s lifelong crusade.

It was also Beth’s great conflict. She was always taught to be good and to do the right thing. The Bible and the 10 commandments mattered to her. Now, at age 62, at least according to Marta, perhaps they didn’t matter or shouldn’t. As her Buddhist daughter was preaching for years, maybe nothing really matters. Or, worse yet, as Marta keeps saying, maybe it’s all “good.” Yes, even murder and rape and pedophilia!

Beth reviewed her options. Do I fight to retain everything about what I know, and who I am, or do I suddenly follow these sketchy ramblings of a transsexual pizza driver from Indiana who thinks she’s God? The answer was simple. Not Marta.

Marta sensed resistance from the other members of her party, too, even Anne and Pat, Marta’s own mother. On the surface, the two are clearly Marta’s staunchest supporters. But underneath, like with Beth, all was not well.

During a recent discussion with her own mother, Pat, Marta admitted to feeling strong opposition to the new project. She told Pat her body and her mind were struggling to carry on, especially in regards to her writing tasks. Originally she attributed her increased blood pressure, irregular heartbeat, fatigue, and mental confusion as simple exhaustion and stress. This diagnosis was shared by a physician who told her “all your tests come back good. It’s probably psychological.”

At first, Marta accepted this explanation, admitting she had taken on more hours at work, and recently had to deal with her beloved cat, Jasmine, being euthanized. It was the second cat to die in six months, leaving Marta for the first time in 30 years without a roommate.

This wouldn’t be the first time Marta had psychological and physical issues. Not by a long shot. As a youth she struggled with asthma, panic attacks, fainting, and of course, the gender confusion, for which she received therapy from 1983 to 1993.

Now, as she worked on “The Search for Emily,” Marta continued to wonder why these struggles were all returning. She began developing a new theory, contrary to her doctor’s. Finally, it hit her, and she shared the news with her mother.

“I think you’re all trying to kill me, Pat.”

Chapter 9

(Pat’s Test)

At age 76, Pat seemed an unlikely candidate to be included in Marta’s quest for Emily. Obviously, she couldn’t physically make the trip to Nepal. But even vicariously, or as part of some deep, metaphorical adventure, Pat had doubts that she was among the “chosen ones” involved in a plot to change the world and end suffering.

But Marta knew her mother’s inclusion was critical. And to her credit, Pat followed along, not as a way of humoring Marta, but as legitimate contributor to their now-mutual quest. Why? The reason was simple. They simply liked playing together.

Ten years earlier, after Marta’s sex change operation would shatter their family’s once peaceful existence, Pat and Marta vowed to extend their relationship. They would work very hard to become good friends, a journey that would continue to this day. Mixed between their glorious casino trips, movies, TV game shows, and over-abundant meals, they had engaged in conversations about hatred, dysfunction, Charles Manson, rejection, panic attacks, suicide, alcoholism, and incest, among many other non-typical mother-daughter discussions. The topics were generally, but not always, initiated by Marta, and were appreciated on different levels, always with a spirit of collaboration and learning, not condescension or one-upmanship.

Frequently they talked about death and fear. These were the sticky subjects they both knew they were here to study, confront and overcome. Pat assumed this was the main reason she was part of Marta’s team. Marta was different, not crazy, she thought. But even if Marta was crazy, she was convinced it wasn’t a dangerous crazy, so she would usually just play along. She knew she could always just say no.

As such, unlike most moms, she was not the least bit shocked by Marta’s latest, seemingly outrageous claim.

“What do you mean, we’re trying to kill you?” she asked.

“We’re getting too close,” Marta said. “It’s getting dangerous. I might be going crazy, Mom. You’re all trying to kill me. That’s why I’m getting sick.”

Instead of trying to comfort or reassure her daughter, as most moms would, Pat actually considered Marta’s charge. Was she unconsciously wanting her own child dead? Is that possible? I’m just some old grandmother. Could I really be that evil underneath all this?

Marta chimed in on cue, as if creepily reading her thoughts.

“Yes, Pat, this is it. You’ve admitted you’re the devil. At least a part of you did last time I came up here. Do you remember? When you confessed that you cuss at the Governor Mitch, or you eat too much pie at the boat or you con other people into filling up your gas tank because you’re too afraid to do it yourself. This is the evil in us all. Take it to the ultimate level. It goes past these petty transgressions. You’re Satan, too, don’t you see? You’re Satan, too, mom, and you totally want me dead, because we’re getting too close, and the work is getting too hard. But we have to fight through it. It’s like everybody’s children not wanting to go to school, but we all have to go.”

Again, rather than argue the growingly outrageous point, Pat just listened. To her surprise, Marta noticed that her mother’s demeanor was not the least bit flustered by these accusations. This was a good sign, Marta thought. There’s a part of her that believes me. She wants to be whole. Let it out, Baby. Be cruel, be ugly, be evil. Be my friend, Satan, not just my evil mom.

“But it’s OK, Pat,” Marta said aloud. “I’m right here and I always knew this dark secret about you. … Just stop trying to kill me or we won’t get to play the slots anymore.”

This friendly reminder put a smile on Pat’s face, a nervous smile, but filled with hope, too. She looked up and stared at her daughter who was once her son.

“But what do we do?” she finally asked, as a student would her teacher.

Instead of accepting that too-limited role as teacher, Marta responded instead as a collaborating friend.

“Well, what I’ve been focusing on is fear,” she said. “I’ve been doing a lot of work in this area. It’s hard but rewarding. It’s becoming quite obvious that I have an addiction to fear. I secretly love it like nothing else. But at least finally I’m starting to acknowledge that. … Now with you, let’s see, I know you’ve been working hard in the areas and health and death, and maybe fear, too. But I like what’s happening with this new evil stuff. I have an idea, it’s a hard one, but I think we can both have some fun with it and it’ll tie in with what we’re doing. The thing is, it’ll test our nervous systems and you won’t wanna do it. I think it’ll help the project. But we don’t have much time.”

With that, Marta instantly unveiled an exercise – they would watch a movie together. But not just any movie, it was “The Exorcist,” a film he knew would stir resistance in his mother. And Marta was right. Suddenly, Pat said “NO.” She did not want to play anymore.

Pat was adamant.

“No, that’s silly. I’m not gonna do it. I don’t wanna watch that.”

Marta tried to explain why she thought watching that particular movie on that particular day seemed to have some cosmic relevance, but Pat wasn’t buying it. For years she’d heard her four children and many others saying “The Exorcist” was the scariest movie ever. For that reason, and the fact that it depicted Roman Catholics in some negative way, she decided it “wasn’t something I needed in my life.”

Still, Marta persisted.

“Mom, c’mon. It’s just a stupid movie. We LOVE watching movies. We’ll make popcorn, and I’ll be right here. We have to start branching out. It’ll strengthen our nervous systems, we can get in touch with this part of ourselves. We’ll have fun.”

“No,” Pat repeated. “I don’t wanna watch that movie.”

And again Marta persisted, pulling out all the stops. “Think of the soldiers who are risking their lives for us in Afghanistan,” she said. “Don’t you think they get scared? And this is just a dumb film. We can turn it off if it gets too creepy. We can do this, Pat.”

Not wanting to force the issue, Marta realized it was a lost cause. Later in the day,

however, she made one final, admittedly manipulative attempt.

“I’m going for my walk at the beach. Can I borrow your library card so I get that DVD?”

Pat was silent for a moment, then noted, “It’s in my purse, in the red pouch.”

Marta thought, “Did she hear me?” Then she realized, that after a few hours to think it over, maybe Pat wanted to play Marta’s game after all. And in that instant Marta could feel her ailments leaving her body.

“Holy shit, this is really happening!” she thought. Her strength was indeed returning.

Following an anxious, hope-filled walk along the shores of Lake Michigan, Marta found an old copy of the horror masterpiece. With Pat’s approval, the curtains were drawn and the seats were set up in front of her high definition television. The next two hours were spent, almost chat-free (a rarity in Jasicki movie-watching tradition) watching sweet Regan MacNeil spit up green vomit, shove a crucifix into her vagina and spin her head around her neck while sickly Max Von Sydow tosses burning holy water all over the demon-girl’s chest.

And, just like that, the movie was over.

Letting her mother absorb the event, Marta finally spoke.

“See, it wasn’t so bad,” she said. “Well, what did you think?”

“It wasn’t scary at all,” Pat noted, almost proudly. “Actually, it was pretty boring.”

Marta smiled with some disappointment. She’d hoped that Pat would at least like the movie. Mostly she wanted her mother to identify with the ugly Satanic imagery in the film as they applied to their earlier discussion.

Still, the exercise proved an overwhelming success. Normally, Marta hates having people do things just to appease her, but in this case she felt it was necessary. She would play the role of teacher one last time. She knew Pat dreaded watching that film. Earlier in the day, they discussed the dread they both shared about death.

Granted it was just a dumb movie, but getting past this long-time fear would go a long way toward getting past other fears, they both realized, hopefully even past the fear of death.

Pat agreed to do the work, that’s what Marta liked. At age 76, risks were still being taken, tests conducted. Passing with flying colors, Marta proudly could see her mother/student was now becoming her friend. Pat did, indeed, belong on the dream team. And both were starting to see that the once-dim future loomed an even bigger playground.

Chapter 10

It was dusk when Emily finally decided to read through the latest chapters of “In Search for Emily.” Drahku had long ago returned to the monk’s village, seemingly unaffected by the pointless errand. In preparation for her read, Emily had a long meditation to clear prepare her mind and body. She wanted to be strong, knowing there would be much work to deal with. The previous letter had only included a description of her book project, and the opening chapter. Hopefully, this letter was just a lengthy discussion about Marta’s failure to complete projects.

She began reading Marta’s introduction. There was the usual updates on mutual friends, acquaintances, relatives, work, etc. OK, so far so good. “But please tell me you’ve terminated the book project. No. Uh oh. Here we go.”

She read further:

By now, perhaps you remember the project I’ve started. It’s sort of a book thingie, which I expect has pissed you off a great deal since I decided to make you the central focus of it without your permission. While at your mother’s, I discussed my reservations about resuming the project. I told her that I was 99% sure this is the sort of thing you would absolutely detest being a part of, and probably was the exact reason you trekked across the globe. To get away from us “hobbyists.”

Still, for some reason, I feel compelled to continue. Do I wanna make you angry? Force you into some sort of action? Sabotage any remaining vestiges of a friendship? Hopefully not, but maybe. As we have often discussed, a part of me acknowledges my sex change is probably an unconscious desire for me to cross the ultimate line, to take the “unconditional” love test to its limit. I realize that such actions are incredibly selfish, clearly my brother and sister would agree. I’m probably guilty as charged. So if that is going on here, too, I am very sorry in advance. I love you, this I know on all levels.

And so there’s more. Emily turned the next page to see it begin with “Chapter 2.”

The next several hours would be spent absorbing the details of those 11 pages of copy. Emily was conscious of her simmering emotions. She would become angry any time her mother was mentioned, or if Marta was deliberately misleading the reader. She didn’t like how Marta portrayed her mountainous surroundings. “The cave is a complete miss,” she thought, “it’s not like that at all. How dare you take these creative leaps!”

And again her skin began to boil when she turned to the description of the gentle and good monks, who “don’t deserve any of this nonsense.”

“Chrin-She, hah! What the hell is that! That’s not even a Nepalese name. And the town of Prevlisha? Excuse me, Prevlisha? That’s supposed to be a nearby town. Why not do at least some research. Prevlisha, Chrin-She? If you’re gonna be that lazy why not just say Ellettsville and Johnson? Here’s an idea – Google search.”

“Ooops,” she thought, “the anger’s coming back. Now calm down. They’re just words. Marta knew this. She just wants to get a rise out of me. Let it go, Ems, it’s all good … I mean, it’s not all good. Dammit, Marge. I hate you so much.”

Chapters 3, 4 and 5, were much less stressful. Yes, there was much to contradict, question or challenge, but Emily felt her anger subside greatly. In fact, as she slowly inched her way to the end, she even found herself smiling occasionally, not just at Marta’s creative clumsiness, but also perhaps at her good-intentioned attempt to keep her in everyone’s memory despite the distance that separated them.

But was this surprising positive response enough to permit an ongoing correspondence? She remembered the porters who would be affected, and suddenly the anger returned.

She spoke to herself out loud, hoping Marta could somehow hear her.

“OK, Marta. I get it. You wanna remember me, somehow. That IS sweet and kind. I love you. We love each other, yes. But you gotta stop. The mail system here is very backward. The porters shouldn’t be climbing mountains. They think this stuff is important. They might fall off the goddamn mountain getting this here. Do you really want them to die for this?”

Since she was so alone, Emily was enjoying the conversation. It forced her to think of her friend in all the usual ambivalent ways. She continued.

“So, in conclusion, stop writing to me. Stop it. Just let go. Let it go. If you have to, just keep the damn thing there and save it. Maybe some day I’ll get back and read the whole thing then. We won’t be friends, of course.”

She smiled, hoping Marta would sense her sarcasm. But as she reread the story again

(something she would do several times in the next few days), she started to feel sadness for Marta.

“Oooh, she is really out there,” Emily thought. She knew Marta always envisioned herself as a wannabe Hemingway or Steinbeck, but her writing was a far cry from that. She was lazy with her structure, her grammar, her characterizations, her details, and even her plot. The biggest problem, however, was that Marta’s stories always had to deal with Marta and Marta’s annoying philosophical meanderings.

She realized “In Search Emily” was no exception.

“Marta,” she pleaded, “It’s even called ‘In Search of Me.’ But it’s about you. You have to come up with a story that people are really gonna be interested in. Please, for once, get outside your own bullshit.”

It was at that precise moment that Emily heard a very strange rumbling coming from outside her cave entrance. She got up feeling quite anxious.

“Is that an airplane?” she wondered, seeking its source. The sound was getting closer. “That’ll be a tight fit getting through this range. Maybe a helicopter. … But why? Nothing ever comes up through here. Especially at night.”

Now the sound was louder, almost deafining.

“Jesus,” Emily said. “What the fuck?!”

Finally, through the clouds, Emily saw something she had never seen before. Incredibly large, and squeezed between her mountain and the adjacent one, it hovered just over her cave.

It was metallic, silvery. One end was pointy, and the other rounded. Like something out of “Star Wars.”

Chapters 1-5

9

                                              In Search of Emily

                                                                     By X 

  

                                                               Chapter One

     It was like a chorus.

     “Not again.”

     That was the general response. And not unexpected. Marta knew her “plan” would be quickly dismissed. Still, like most of her ideas, there seemed to be a flicker of interest. Some mild curiosity.

      Beth, Emily’s mother, was the first to hear of it.

      “So it’s another book you’re writing? Is that it?”

      Beth knew Marta saw herself as some great, misunderstood writer. The truth was Marta was quite lazy, and quite limited in any particular skill, notably writing. She dreamed big, but always her plans would fizzle out. Marta and Emily were alike in that way. Yes, they could dream with the best of them, but living in the real world, that was another story.  Beth knew this all too well.

     “Well, in a way, I suppose, but not really a book,” Marta said of her newly hatched project.  “I mean there are literal elements. I suppose, yes, maybe … it’s like the ’Wizard of Oz,’ or maybe  ’Heart of Darkness.’ Only this time Kurtz has gone happy/good crazy instead of evil/weird crazy. It’s like Emily is the anti-Kurtz and our mission is to find her and bring her back home.”

     The anti-Kurtz? Clearly Marta was quite proud of her literary allusion, although Beth wasn’t exactly sure who Kurtz was.

     She understood that with Marta and Emily it was best not to inquire too much.

      “So you’re wanting to go to Nepal to write a book or maybe do a movie script about it? Is that it?”

      “Sort of.” Marta was typically cryptic. “Only you’re involved, too. We all are. And it actually involves us visiting her in some tangible way.”

     “Hah!” Beth’s laugh was strong and quick, with a tinge of cackle. “There’s no way I would ever get up those mountains. That’s ridiculous. I’m 62 years old.”

     “No. Don’t you see,” Marta continued. “It’s a metaphor. The ultimate metaphor. Climbing the mountain to find …  it.  That’s what this is all about. Everybody’s involved. Not just Emily. Like a team quest. Yet it’s tangible. Somehow doable.”

     Beth could see Marta’s tone was changing. Tangible? Doable? Not a good sign. She was aware that Marta spent several years in therapy. Her ideas and philosophies, like her daughter Emily’s, were probably well-intentioned, but often came out as selfish, childish, anti-social and even borderline cruel. Here, it was best to change the subject.

      “It sounds like quite a project,” she pretended. “Anyway, how are things at Pizza Hut? Did you and Misty solve your problem with putting away the truck?”

                                                                             ---

      Anne worked as a speech pathologist in Terre Haute, Indiana. She was the quintessential devoted caretaker, providing quality time to her clients – mostly elderly stroke victims living out their final days. That job, and trying to raise three children, had taken its toll on Anne.  Only 39, she already lived many, many lifetimes in just the one well-worn body.  She sought refuge in cigarettes, boxed wine, and whenever she got the chance, Marta’s company.  Their affectionate reunions always revived them both.

     During a visit to Bloomington, the two enjoyed a cigabration on Marta’s porch swing.

     “Sounds exciting,” Anne said about the new plan.  Unlike Beth, and most others, Anne was always instantly receptive to Marta’s ideas. The new book proposal, which had developed a running title, “In Search of Emily,” was no exception.

     “It’s all good,” Anne continued, as she heard the early, vague details.

     They both chuckled at this response. The innocuous and ubiquitous term “it’s all good”  actually reflected a deep-rooted inner philosophy they both shared.  Marta had always dreamed that this guiding principle could be fully embraced by not just the players taking part in her latest project, but all people. She knew, however, that the full ramifications of “it’s all good” terrified most people. It’s hard to see murder and pedophilia as good. Such required highly evolved nervous systems, she thought.

     “Who’s on the team?” Anne asked.

     “There’s you, of course, and me,” Marta said happily. “And Em’s mom, Beth. And my mom, too. I’ll talk to her tomorrow. Just the four of us for now. But the others will want in later.”

     “Of course,” Anne added. “And what about Emily? What does she think about it?”

     Marta smiled.

     “We’ll get to her later, too.”

     Marta felt good. As she predicted, she felt instant, unquestioned support from Anne, as well as an untapped, underlying resistance from Beth. This balance was required for the plan to work, Marta thought.

                                                     

                                                                ---

      Patricia Jasicki was born Patricia Grott on January 19, 1933 in Michigan City, Indiana, USA.  Though she didn’t know it at the time, her arrival on the planet at that particular place and time in history couldn’t have been more perfectly arranged. At least that’s what Pat’s 55-year-old daughter, Marta, thought.  Marta knew many things, one of which was that Pat was Jesus Christ reincarnated.

      “It’s gonna be called ‘In Search of Emily,’” Marta said. “And so you’re in right, Mom? You’re coming with us?”

     The invitation was less a question and more of a command. As always in recent years, Pat obliged.  Marta knew it. Agreeing with Marta’s projects seemed to have a residual effect on the two of them. Their relationship had evolved from mother/son to mother/daughter to now, a near-unconditional friendship.  Clearly they had survived many tests. But now Pat was old. This latest project may be their most important one yet.

     “I thought Emily was very happy over there,” Pat noted. “She doesn’t want us in her life. Wasn’t that her whole point in moving over there?”

     “It’s not about being happy,” Marta said.

                                                                     Chapter 2

     It was where she belonged. Up there, way up high. And alone. Away from people, cars, noise, light. Sometimes, even thought. Released from all attachments, in that "other" place. Still, there were reminders, and the invitation to return. But when? Or, more importantly, why?

     Gravity had become her ambivalent friend.

     "You mother-fucking cock!"

     The rare gust of wind had blown the pages from her grasp. As she reached for them, she kicked her precious tea kettle. It tumbled down the slope 20 meters from the cave entrance. Thank god it didn't break.

     "Jesus H. Mother of God. Give me a break." As she retrieved the pages, she realized she had not been angry for a while. "What the hell," she thought, "might as well enjoy it."

     She screamed as loud as she could, beginning with the familiar expletives then morphing into undecipherable bursts.

     "Fuck ass, fucking shit, fuck, fuck, fuck, foooooaaaaaaahoooooooahohahaoh." She realized she wasn't far removed from a chorus of yodels, so she threw that in for good measure.

     What did it matter. The monks, all but Chrin-She, had trekked to the nearby town of Prevlisha for supplies. Their huts were several hundred meters from the cave. And Chrin-She liked it when Emily made noise. It reminded him that she was all right.

     "Fuck you, too, Chrin-She," she yodeled, knowing he didn't speak a word of English.

     Emily's bad mood was actually started by Marta's letter.

     "Why, Marta?" she asked aloud. "You can't be serious. Again you wanna start up with this nonsense? Put it away. Grow up, girl."

     Luckily there were only the three pages, which she finally succeeded in locating. More troubling was the tea. That was the last of it until the monks got back tomorrow evening.

     "You're gonna bring this shit back up here? Fuck all you people."

     Emily went back inside and tried to read by candlelight. The print was eight-point, another bone of contention.

     "And now I can't find my goddamn fucking glasses! Yeeeeooooooooowmiiiiiiing."

     She smiled vaguely recalling an image of the giant, Chinese basketball player.

     She resumed reading the note:

       "...Anyway, I hope to see you soon. If not, I’ve started a new project, basically to kill some time in your absence.  It’ll probably piss you off, and make you lose any lingering respect you may have saved for me. Or, maybe it’ll be amusing. Either way, it’s ok. Judge on, young one. And yes, I know it’s a few more ounces for the porters. Hopefully, it’ll be amusing for them, too. Or you can all just wipe your bums with it."

      "Bums… young one. Hah, hah. I get it," she said. "You're trying to be cute. Kiss my ass, Marta."

                                                           Chapter 3

     Marta learned the secret first. But knowing and becoming are two different things. Currently her focus was fear. How to love it. How to have fun with it.  How not to be controlled by it.

     Her unconscious mind was the key. For years, she would awaken from her dreams overcome with tremendous dread. Occasionally this powerful feeling would be accompanied by a recalled nightmare, but generally she would be unaware of its specific source. The feeling was quite overwhelming, and seemed to wrap itself around her body from skin to core. At first, she would spend the rest of her day absorbed in activities, “hobbies,” designed solely as a distraction, to rid herself of this burden. And, usually, by the end of the day she would succeed in forgetting the feeling ever existed. But the next morning, sure enough, the entire scene would be replayed.

     After several years in therapy, and now well into her 50s, Marta finally could admit that she was addicted to fear. She knew she wasn’t the only one. This was the world’s great secret toy, she thought. Recently, on a casino outing with her mother, Marta made what she thought was a key discovery. In their hotel room at the Grand Victoria, she cleared her throat and turned down the volume on the TV.

     “Pat, did you ever wonder why when we get old there’s all this weird stuff associated with it?”

     Surprisingly, perhaps because she had just won a bundle at three-card poker, Pat was all ears.

     “Like there’s this great pain,” Marta continued. “Our body breaks down. People are confused. There’s  panic, terror. Nobody wants to die. Instead, everybody buys a million drugs for this and that, to put it off as long as possible.”

     “Yeah, so?”

     “So? But everybody dies. We’ve known this since day one. So? So why worry, Mom?”

     “People don’t wanna die,” Pat noted honestly. “I know I don’t. We’re afraid of what comes next.”

     “Bullshit,” Marta replied briskly. “We don’t give a rat’s ass what comes next. All we want is to be afraid.”

     “Speak for yourself,” Pat chided. “That’s just you. You and your theories.”

     “Come on. Think about it. We go to bed every night not knowing at all what comes next. We could have some beautiful dream, a nightmare, or some stranger will come into our bedroom and slash our throats.”

     “Marta, don’t talk like that!”

     “No. My point is, if we’re so damn trusting with our nightly ventures into unknown sleep consciousness, why is it such a stretch to trust it between life and death?”

     “I still don’t know what you mean.”

     “It’s because we don’t care about life or death … only fear. That’s our only drug right now. It’s not about death, it’s about fear.”

     Pat was tired, and could see her daughter was frustrated and determined to make her point.

     “Suppose your right,” she conceded. “Then what?”

     “I think it’s easy.” Marta was grateful to use Pat as her sounding board. “Here’s the solution. We, or at least I, have given fear too much importance. Way, way, way too much. That’s my addiction. I’ve made it more important than everything else.  It’s more important that even you, Pat. I’ll abandon you in a second for it. This is my drug, and I’m hooked.”

     They both looked at Pat’s drug collection on the nightstand. It had multiplied since their last trip. Pat hated that Marta acknowledged her mother’s dependence on these chemicals,  as if it represented some failure on her part.

     “Some things become too important,” Marta said. “Even for you and I. We can’t let that happen. We matter, too, don’t you see? ”

     Pat didn’t see exactly, but she knew Marta was sympathetic to their mutual struggles  with aging. Besides, deep down Pat didn’t like the idea of needing her pills to stay alive.

     “So what do we do?” Pat asked humbly.

     “It’s possible to love something too much,” Marta smiled. “I think the key is loving everything equally.”

     “But is that possible?”

      “Exactly,” Marta laughed, again looking at the symbolic drug emporium. “I think, maybe Jesus could. Yeah, maybe the Jeebster could do it.”

                                                          Chapter 4 
 

     Steve’s reaction to Marta’s proposal was typical – “Not again, another of Marta’s quests.”

     His first thought was that they were the ones who needed rescuing, not Emily, but he realized that was probably the point, or part of it, and didn’t comment. He was on the border of patronization when he suggested that if they were literally, or figuratively, taking a hike deep into the Himalayas they’d need a guide. To his surprise, Marta liked the idea and instantly proclaimed that that was Steve’s job – the Guide.

     “Yeah right,” was all Steve could say, though his ego was buoyant with the thought that HE could be thought of as a guide, of any kind.

     Marta promised to email Steve the text of the project to date. It was left at that. Steve had almost dismissed her idea that evening as a pipedream product of the vodka screwdrivers she drank. Still, it crossed his mind time and again, and truth be known he was sort of anxious over it. He wanted to see what Marta had done, or maybe he just wanted the affirmation of his own worth that receiving those pages would imply.

     He’d all but forgotten about it when The Search for Emily appeared in his inbox. With some enthusiasm, he downloaded the document to his word processor. There were a couple of working chapters, fairly well written to the ear, though spelling and grammar seemed to be lacking throughout.

     Steve seemed to instantly understand the project’s concept. The first chapter detailed Marta’s attempt to recruit participants and the recruit’s reactions to the project. In the end they were all inducted, whether or not they agreed. It seemed to Steve a reasonable assessment of the personalities involved, some of which he knew.

      It rang true, yes.

     The brief, second chapter seemed problematic, though. He always assumed that one meditated in a cave in the Himalayas to get beyond base emotions, like anger. Certainly,  Emily seemed quite furious upon receiving the initial description of Marta’s “important” project. Still, the fundaments of human existence persist, he supposed, and wondered too if their relationship mightn’t have more to do with Emily’s retreat than he knew.

     What really did ring true were the details. The names of the monks and the particulars about Emily’s living arrangements.

     “Marta and Emily have definitely been in correspondence,” he thought.

     But as he continued to read, Steve became more and more disappointed. He selfishly hoped Marta would continue her critique of the quest members with a paragraph or two about him personally. He wanted to see himself through her eyes. But there was nothing.

     Then it dawned on him – maybe that was part of her plan, to get him involved.

     “Oh brother,” he said aloud to himself. “Do I really wanna get involved in this?”

     Steve didn’t understand Marta. He never really did. Was she a leap ahead of him or just crazy? Like the “It’s All Good” thing, Marta’s overreaching philosophy. Ultimately, in a cosmic sense, he could accept that rape, murder and the holocaust were a part of the universe, therefore validated just by being. To try and understand this he called upon the scene in The Bhagavad-Gita where God is revealed as both creator and destroyer, beneficent and terrible.

     Steve could accept that, in an abstract sense. But every fiber of his being screamed against embracing such moral largesse in the everyday world. Just because something was didn’t make it good.

     So okay, “good” and “evil” were often value judgments. Steve thought of the example of “honor killings,” which were surely thought “good” by the atavistic people who perpetrate them. It made his head spin. He had to put his foot down, stake out some territory he could stand on. He’d read somewhere that the universe inherently tends toward greater and greater complexity. It seemed to him that if there was “design” behind the world then it amounted to precisely that. Evolution was a part of that movement and he considered that evolution was now occurring in the cognitive/social sphere. So “good” would be anything that supported that trend, and “evil” would be anything that thwarted it, including human actions in society.

     There were still too many counter arguments for Steve to rest.

     “Okay then,” he said to himself, “What about the concept of justice?” He didn’t give a hoot about compensation or retribution, but simply consequences. If the holocaust was good, then what about the suffering of its victims?

     “Damn you Marta,” Steve said aloud. “I’m exhausted!”

     The point was moot anyway. Marta was a gentle soul and certainly not planning any mass murder just for fun. Perhaps all that “It’s All Good” amounted to was a Taoist acceptance of whatever life threw at you. He doubted that Marta would agree to so simple an assessment. Maybe Emily. Marta always seemed to make things more complicated than they were.

     No, Steve didn’t understand Marta at all. And what the hell was this whole Search for Emily thing anyway? What was the point? He snickered to himself over the thought of himself as the guide. “Me, a lazy alcoholic who can’t run his own life, guiding a party of misfits into the Himalayas! The blind leading the blind.”

     He began playing with the idea in his mind. “Let’s see, what would we need? Warm clothing and boots, for sure. Camping equipment, food, and don’t forget waterproof matches! We might need climbing gear. Lots of rope and those carabiner things – maybe cleats and ice picks, even oxygen if we have to go too high. And we’d need mules to carry all that stuff. Mules? Maybe they use yaks in the Himalayas or something?”

     Then he thought, “Hell, it was only a day’s walk to the nearest town from Emily’s cave. Maybe those monks chose to walk. Maybe we can simply catch a bus from Katmandu.”

                                               
Chapter 5

     The problem with a never-ending story is that it actually never ends. Try
as you might to put a stop to it, it goes on and on. This was Emily’s dread. Existence meant suffering, struggling, having to do things. Anything. To walk, talk, think, breathe. To be. Who wants “to be” forever. What a terrible idea.



     Yes, she understood Hamlet’s dilemma. For her, in the battle of nothing versus something, nothing must win. It is absolute, it is perfect. Unbounded nothingness, this is the true aspect of God, she believed. No constraints, no limits, no attachments, no suffering.



     Her meditations and her lengthy Buddhist retreats brought Emily closer to this conclusion. But now, as she sat on her mountain perch looking down at the asylum below, Emily still had doubts and fears. Marta’s tiresome book project added to these nagging emotions.



     While enjoying a deep respect for her distant friend, whom she once proudly claimed as a mentor, Emily, like the other members of Marta’s project, now saw Marta as a bit deranged, perhaps even dangerous toward society. Nevertheless, she, like the others, seemed unable to remove herself from Marta’s ever-growing web.



     Emily hated the notion of reducing beings to devils and gods. She understood that this duality mindset was embraced by most human beings, and was probably the source of their downfall. Never is there peace unless you are removed from taking sides, she realized. But now, she herself was falling prey to this backward thinking. She too, was taking a side – this time against her one-time friend.
 


     
“Yes, I see you, Marta,” she thought. “Of course you are the devil wanting my soul. You tempt me to act, to respond to your silliness. To bring me back to your sadistic, hobby-lobby world of conflict and war.”



     “Damn you,” she screamed at her estranged friend. And yet, there still arose that familiar mischievous smile. In her mind, Emily could not completely erase the image of her odd friend, they way Marta wanted to be seen, as good and bad, strong and weak, male and female. This was the nature of existence, she knew.



     “You are a dick,” she laughed. “No one gets to have this much power, Marge. Not even you!”

                                                                     

                                          

                                                         
-- -- --



     Three weeks had passed before any more chapters were added to In Search of Emily. Nevertheless, at least according to Marta, the project was “working to perfection.” With the exception of Anne, all other quest participants had shown enthusiastic support for what little they had seen.



     Beth and Pat, Emily and Marta’s mothers, respectively, were not prone to latching onto Marta’s creative endeavors. Now, however, they had shown reluctant, anxious curiosity, and expressed a desire to see more. Steve, meanwhile, had done the unthinkable. Not only had he added his own detailed and colorful version to the storyline, but he also began imagining the long-range aspects of  the plan. He darted off an early email to Marta:



      Hey, this is fun. but I'm afraid your guide is already lost. I don't think I said anything new in what I gave you. I'm impressed with Beth's contribution. I'm curious about its original form because I assume that you made it your own, as you did with mine? I like the project and although I can't see where to go from here that doesn't matter. I will contribute what I can, when I can, and leave it up to you whether or not and how to use any of it. Also, when I started to read chapter 3 I first opened it as a Google Document which I found out meant that it was available "open source" to anybody, anywhere in the world to edit. I deleted it from the web and read it in html. Have you thought about going global with this project?



     Global? Global? The word echoed throughout Marta’s massive ego. Like all aspiring writers, she wanted to share her story with an audience. But global. Global? Wow.



     And what about Emily? Having a single person involved in her hermetic life was the last thing Emily
wanted. Now Marta and Steve were involving her with the entire planet!



                                                            
-- -- --




    Early on, Anne was absent from the project. She was invited to participate, but showed little interest. In fact, up to now she had not read a single page. Marta was disappointed, but not surprised. Anne was always busy. Too busy. The children, the work, the routine. It had gotten to her.



     All that would soon change, Marta knew. Soon, the two friends would begin their greatest collaboration. It would alter the human experience.








                                                         
Chapter 6

                                                
(The Story of Anne)