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
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)
No comments:
Post a Comment