Notes from the Future: The Dairy

My time is here and now, may all the Gods he prattles on about bless and protect Tad whenever and wherever he is.

This is my battle. Not his.

I think about saying as much to Henrietta, but then a child's voice cuts through the night, "Mama!" -- and we surge forward, a roar in our throats.

The main door of the barn stands open on the left, but I see my point of entry on the side, a door that stands ajar leaking light tinged with misery. That is where the child is calling for her mother.

I leap over the silvered rustic log fencing, land lightly in the pen it encompasses, then crouch, reaching for the door and ready to launch myself through it. As I do, screaming inside the dairy barn gets louder and I throw the door off its hinges as I spring into the space beyond, a brief image of blood and flesh and severed body parts filling my mind and then --

Cool air-conditioned, smoke-free air, soft carpet under my feet and a pleasant Febreeze-like scent. A door clicks shut behind me, I whirl and am staring at a set of double fire doors, the kind one would expect to find in any contemporary building, from corporate offices to colleges to --

"Ah, Miss Torres. Late again, I see. Would you care to join the group?"

I turn and there in the room in front of me are about twenty people sitting on folding chairs in a circle. 

-- hospitals --

Many have coffee in cardboard cups. That's the trouble, I think, but I don't know why. Everyone is wearing hospital gowns. Everyone except the man leading the group. He's short and bald and sort of gray.  They're all looking at me. I look at me. I'm wearing a hospital gown.

"What the fuck?!" I blurt.

"And, she begins," one of the group members mutters.

"Would you like to tell us why you're late?" this from the group leader. He's not wearing a hospital gown, he's wearing khakis and a denim shirt and a fuzzy fleece vest, a cheap REI knockoff. He has a nametag. Dr. something, Dr. ... I can't read the name, begins with an R ... Why am I late? Oh ... I remember ...

Someone whispers, "I was fighting beastlings, with an army from Downton Abbey," and there are whispers of laughter from the group. I can't see anyone's face move, though. What the fuck is going on?

"We don't mock our group members, remember?" he, the leader, says. I step forward and a couple of people shift so there's an open chair a few spaces to the leader's right. He's smiling and pleasant but I just can't see him. His face blurs like a migraine.

"Like a what?" he asks. I don't think I said anything aloud.

"Oh, you did," he says. "Everything you think you're thinking, you're actually saying, Veronica. It's part of your psychosis."

I stare at him, at them. There are potted plants near the four support columns in this room, in which the circle sits. There are offices beyond. I hear keyboards clicking and some conversation. 

"Veronica, please focus here. We all hear those things, as well. Remember, when last we met, you agreed to try to focus your monologuing on what you feel inside more than what you see outside. The group is very much interested in what you are feeling, what is going on inside of you. What you remember about how you got here will help everyone in their own paths to recovery," he gestures to the group, and some of them nod. I look at their faces to see if they are visible, or if they are obscured like they gray bald migraine man. Someone laughs. "Laughter is judgement," he reminds the group. "Let's reserve judgement and laughter for a time when we can all say we have put our troubles behind us."

Their faces are clear to me. I can see their eyes, I can see contempt and anger in some, pity or agreement in others. That one with the full beard, he looks like a Bearded Ezekiel I remember --

"Tell us of the Bearded Ezekiel," the group leader says and I can see his face suddenly and it's angry like shouting but then now I can't see it and I am so, so confused.

The door to an office to my right opens. There are some chairs and a couple loveseats around a low table near that office and when the door opens and the screams start I see the light of lanterns shining through the doorway and I can see that Rachel bound and exposed, barbed wire cutting into her wrists and ankles and breasts and even her cheeks where it has been used to gag her and a man with no face is reaching toward her navel with a long, thin and flexible blade, and his entire posture is gleeful and he is crying out in delight, "Twee!"

"Veronica," this from the group leader. Spoken firm, not shouted. In control.

The door slams and I turn to face him, them, the air-conditioned room that is far less upsetting than the screaming women and children, the struggling and innocent young woman whose last moments on earth I have just witnessed.

"Veronica, I need you to think only good thoughts, I need you to focus on what you remember; say what comes into your mind, we all know you can't stop yourself from doing that. We accept it. You should accept it. And as part of that acceptance, please join us in moving forward by focusing backward. Please focus on how you got here. And please will yourself to speak aloud. You have such a lovely voice, everyone thought so last week," I can hear a smile in his voice, even though I can't see his --

Twee!

-- face.

"Veronica, if you're not going to join the group and participate, we're just going to have to cut this week's session short. We're going to have to send everyone. Back. To. Their. Rooms."

Gasps from several of the people and -- oh, God, I'm saying this aloud even though I think I'm only observing things --

"Yes, good," group leader says. Did I just say, 'Group leader says,'?

"Yes, you did," he says. "It's part of why you're here. You speak the framework of a novel around every moment of your life. We're trying to help you find out why. So: Veronica?"

-- someone's eyes widen, a shake of the head -- I think --

"Veronica, I need you to focus. Everyone, stop looking at her," he says this and they all snap their eyes to him. Something in his voice. The briefest warning glance from --

"From who, Veronica? Who here would warn you? And, golly ... what on earth would they have to warn you about? ... Veronica? If you don't participate, I'll send you all back. Do we all remember that we get Strawberry Jell-O at the end of today's session? For being so good?"

I need to think.

"Think aloud, Veronica, this is better than your silence during your first three months here. Cast your mind back and think aloud. Sit. Join us. Think aloud."

I step forward and will myself to speak:

"Someone else should go first," I say.

"Well, I say that everyone else has already gone today, Veronica, and I say that we have been patiently waiting for you for a long, long time, here. So please sit down and tell us the story of how you got here. What are the three requirements, group?"

"Tell the truth," they all say. Someone laughs. I can't see who.

"No laughing, laughing is judgement," automatically from the gray group leader. "What's the second requirement?"

"Tell the truth loudly," they say.

"That's right, so everyone can hear. And requirement number three?"

"No falsehoods," they say and all snap their gaze to me. I take a step back. It's not voluntary. 

An office door beyond the group leader, behind him and to his left, opens as a woman in lavender polyester pants that do not match her very flowery blouse steps out, the door doesn't quite close and there's the little girl, her dress torn, clutching a rag doll to her and blood spurting on her as screaming mommy mommy mama please mommy mama mama no what are you doing to my 

The door shuts. I hear a gasping, ragged sob from the group and look to see who it was. I can't tell.

"Veronica! That was very upsetting for all of us!" He is standing up and yelling at me, and I can see his face through the migraine and his eyes are so angry, black with anger and rage.

But he isn't standing, he's sitting. I don't smell smoke anymore.

"You need to acknowledge that what you just said was false," he says. His tone is light. His meaning is not.

"My meaning is what I intend, not what you interpret. I am here to help you and I need you to trust me, Veronica. Now. Please, sit."

He is gesturing at the chair. I look at the group. I see -- I see --

silence silence silence think of silence silence silence

I sit down.

"Good. Everyone, let's applaud Veronica," he says. They do. Someone is still laughing at me, whispering their laughter. I look.

"Nobody is laughing but you, Veronica. You are laughing at yourself, which is unfair and judgmental. Now. Are you ready to tell us the truth of where you came from?"

silence silence silence

"I -- yes. I am," silence silence

"Why are you saying, 'silence, silence'?"

"To control myself," silence silence silence silence

"Why?"

"So I don't upset anyone else," silence silence silence silence silence

"Well, that is very considerate of you."

"Thank you, silence, I mean," silence silence. "I think I'm silence ready," silence silence silence SILENCE!

"Any time. When you're comfortable."

"Where should I silence silence begin?" silence

"What's the last thing you remember before you came in?"

"The dairy barn and the girl screaming for her mama --" silence silence SILENCE SILENCE! SILENCE!!

"That's false, Veronica. There's no dairy barn out there. Orderly Dan?"

We all turn and look and orderly Dan who is black and muscular and has a PhD -- how did I know that? -- opens the door and beyond is the hallway leading to the long-term residence rooms and I remember walking up to the door and opening it only a few minutes ago --

"Good, follow those thoughts in intentional speech, please."

"This morning for breakfast I had French Toast while a lady broke a lantern at the roots of walking trees, but I think that can't be true," silence silence silence

"Very good. Can you go back a week?"

"A week ago we were here and my Dad came to visit after and I was so clear and so, so right that, he said maybe I could leave soon and we had -- oh, my gosh, we had an actual conversation and I could remember all of the other times I just screamed that there were monsters, oh, everyone I am so sorry," I look at the group silence and there are sympathetic faces everywhere silence silence sorry silence I am trying to silence stop silence

"It's okay, Veronica. Can you go back any further?"

"Um ... there was an earthquake, and Tad said we should go to the cabin but I wanted to find our families. Does Tad know I'm better?" I am crying and I try to smile at everyone but smiling makes me silence cry more silence and I wipe my tears away and there's no mascara because we're not allowed to wear makeup here so silence silence silence at least there's that

"Veronica, we covered this last week, but I'll help you. Do you remember what we realized last week?"

the farthest office door slams open and there is that little girl and she is screaming why are you just standing there, why don't you help us please my mommy isn't moving any more please and then her hair catches on fire

"That wasn't what we realized, Veronica. Please try to focus."

long, long fingers of a black-gloved hand reach for the girl and the door slams smoke smell gone

"It was something about 'Tad'. Remember?"

"Tad ..." I sigh silence silence. "Oh Tad, silence ... silence ... Tad. Tad ... there's something important I am supposed to remember. Tad ..." silence silence silence silence

"Yes, follow that: think about Tad and last week. Who was with your Dad when he came?"

"Dad was with ... no one," silence

"That's right. Keep going."

"Dad was with no one and Tad said ... Tad ... was," silence I'm looking for silence the Bearded silence Ezekiel but I silence can't see him silence silence silence silence silence silence silence silence

"When is the last time you saw Tad here? Focus on when you saw Tad in this room or in the hallway or in the cafeteria, Veronica."

cafeteria lunch grilled cheese, mmm, silence, Dad had a silence burrito heavy on the silence cafeteria Dad cafeteria Kayleigh cafeteria -- Monica, wow -- cafeteria Taralynn -- cafeteria Mom, Yvonne, Uncle Don, Andrew, Cousin Yvette 

"Please speak intentionally, Veronica."

"I don't remember Tad in the Cafeteria, but that's because --"

"Now the hallway, please."

"Hallway: Mom, Dad, the Doctor who helps me, Kayleigh, Taralynn ... Monica ... Yvonne, Uncle Don, Andrew, Yvette, David, Grandpa Juan, Tio ..."

"Tad?"

"Not in the hallway, either," silence? Silence? Why silence not?!

whispered laughter

"You are the only one judging you, Veronica."

"Laughing stops. Oh. I said that intentionally."

"Yes. You did. Now, how about your room. Describe it, please."

"Oh, it's nice. I expected a cell."

"You say that every time."

"I do? I'm sorry."

"No need. Describe it for us, please."

"It's nice. The walls are a nice cream, there are pretty curtains with My Little Pony on them. There's a doll house. There's a desk where I write my letters."

"Do you have any pictures?"

"Um, yes: on the wall, above my desk I've taped a lot of pictures. My family. There's little Edith, pregnant now. Getting her degree with mommy hormones must be hard --"

all office doors slam open the child screams and bleeds slam shut

"Shut, shut, shut! ... I am so sorry. Should I go on?"

"Yes. Please."

"She's doing well, married to Ethan. A barber, of all things. And ... I have pictures of ... Raider, and ... Bucephulus ..."

"Who?"

"The rabbit ... Bucephulus."

"Are you sure?"

"Um ... oh. No. His name's Bugsy. Bugsy Bunny, Taralynn named him that. Little shit. She never took care of that rabbit once he grew to full-size."

"Veronica, is there anyone missing from the pictures? Close your eyes and picture the wall above your desk. Take your time."

"Let's see. Okay: Mom, Dad, Grandpa, Tio, Taralynn, Kayleigh ... Don, Norma ... Monica ... Yvonne, Andrew, Yvette ... Raider ... oh, but ... uhm ..."

"Who isn't there, Veronica?"

"Tad. Tad isn't in any of these pictures."

"How recent are they?" 

"Edith's wedding, Kayleigh's wedding ... he's not in any of those. But he was there."

"Was he?"

"I thought ... I thought he was."

"Is he in the pictures?"

"No. None of them. And these are my favorites."

"Has he ever been in your room?"

"Uhm silence silence silence, sorry it's like a hiccup, silence, sorry, uhm ... he ... urhhhhmmmm ... I'm thinking ..."

"Take your time."

"Has, he? Wow, sorry I'm crying, has he? Not come? Has he never come to visit me?"

"No, he hasn't. And I think you may know why."

"Why? Why not?"

"You know the answer to that."

"I do? What is it?"

"You need to tell us."

"How come he's not in any of the pictures? Why don't I remember him here? Where is Max, where the hell is Max?!"

"No pictures of Tad. You've never mentioned Max before today. Victoria. Tell us. You know. Say it aloud. Say the thing you're thinking, and you will feel so much better."

"I only remember him in terms of the ... false silence memories silence silence silence that I know ..."

"That you know?"

"Aren't real."

"And?"

"Oh my God. Tad."

"Mm-hmm?"

"Tad doesn't exist."

"Are you sure?"

"I ... am. I'm sure. I ... made the whole thing up. Wow. I made it all up. The earthquake, the Prophet, everything ..."

"That's right, Victoria. Orderly Dan, can you get her some Kleenex?"

"Oh my God. I'm -- I'm sorry, everyone. I -- just ... I didn't know."

"Victoria has made some real progress today, everyone, let's give her some applause and a group hug. Yes. There we go. Wow. I think we've all made a lot of progress today, folks. And, hey --"

A door has opened and someone new is here now.

"Look who's here, look who's brought us all some yummy Strawberry Jell-O? Victoria, it's your favorite doctor. Hey, Doc, your Number One Patient made a lot of progress today."

silence silence silence

"Victoria," new voice says but is it new. "Strawberry is your favorite, yes?"

"Victoria, Dr. Mayberry is speaking to you.

"Victoria, how do you feel?" new voice not so new

"I ... feel better. Thank you," silence.

silence silence silence

"Victoria," new voice. "I'm very proud of you. It's okay that you don't want to look at me. I trust Dr. Reinblatt, and I'm thrilled that you've joined the group again."

"Thank you, Dr. Mayberry."

"My pleasure, Dr. Reinblatt. Victoria? Come with us, and we'll get you all fixed up for tonight's presentation. Ah, there's a smile. Just as the Lord foretold. So saith the Doctor."

whispers 

so saith the lord

wet slicing

laughter muffled screams

NFTF: 'Time Traveler' Baffles Police At Local Ranch

By David Diabilo Contra Costa Times
May 21, 2005

San Ramon, California -- A homeless man claiming to be a time traveler was arrested on the grounds of a local ranch on Thursday. Police were called when a group of hikers spotted the man nailing notes to trees. One of the hikers, Betty Washington, said that the man seemed to be acting suspiciously. "Ordinarily, I say live and let live, but the way he was running from tree to tree, like he was being chased -- stopping and chanting or screaming gibberish at the air around him -- I don't know, I thought maybe he needed help."

Upon questioning, the man told police that he was a time traveler and that the fate of the ranch, the trees, the hikers and even the policemen depended upon his being left alone to do his "work."  The owners of the ranch could not be contacted to obtain permission, so the man was taken into custody by Officer Tom Jeffries and Officer Jeff Thompson, both of whom are certain that the handcuffs they used were in perfect working order.   According to Officer Thompson, the man was, "... visibly upset. All of a sudden he starts shouting, 'Veronica! Veronica! I know you can hear me somewhen and somehow! Reinblatt approaches! Reinblatt must be stopped!' His words were so weird, I can't forget them. Who the heck is Reinblatt? And the way he was shouting, the pain in his voice -- I know it sounds weird, but I almost believed him. Then he vomited all over himself and I thought, okay: junkie alert!"

Somewhere between the old dairy ranch and the Santa Rita jail, the gentleman in question appears to have given officers Jeffries and Thompson the slip. Said San Ramon Police Chief, Scott Holder, "We have statements from multiple eyewitnesses who saw the officers place the man securely in the back of their vehicle. There is no way out of the back of a police car unless the officers want you out of the back of their police car. I support my officers in their sworn statements that they did not stop anywhere along the way, and that they did not allow the gentleman any form of egress. As soon as we know precisely what happened, we will let you know." Chief Holder was not taking any further questions at that time, and subsequent inquiries have been directed to PR personnel who give a similar statement.

The homeless "time traveler" must have been hard at work in the forests around the old dairy ranch, as Betty Washington and her group of hikers shortly discovered. "We thought maybe he'd left more notes," said Washington. "And boy were we right: all of them crazy, all of them addressed to this 'Veronica' person. All of them signed, 'Edward.' Whoever she is, he loves her. But that guy is insane." Washington and her fellow hikers removed and recycled every note they found:, with a grand total of two hundred seven notes. Some nailed, some taped, some glued, some shellacked: all at about eye level for a woman of a little more than Betty Washington's height, 5'4".

Asked if she drew any conclusions from the homeless gentleman's apparent escape from the back of a locked police car, Washington had this to say: "Well, maybe he is a time traveler. But he shouldn't deface indigenous species of trees and he should take a bath. I'm sure soap and hot water have been around for a while, now."

Max and the Rabbit, a short play

Max and the Rabbit

Scene 1

We are in the garage of an architecturally unremarkable house in Livermore. It is August of 2010. Two black Labrador Retrievers are sleeping in the cool half-light of the garage. One dog is older, quite a bit of white around the muzzle. The younger dog is a puppy, perhaps three months old, with a face that says more than Labrador waits within him.  In a side yard through the open side door nearby, unseen, the engine of a Barracuda is being tinkered with.

Presently, a quiet skip-rasp, skip-rasp of smaller claws is heard.

Skip-rasp, skip-rasp, skip-rasp. Pause again. 

Skip-rasp, skip rasp: in the doorway to the very hot side yard there appears a rabbit. White with dark grey spots, a Lop-eared bunny to delight the eye and heart of any eight-year-old.

The older dog opens an eye, pink sliding back from pupils turning milky.

Raider: You. Busfloss.

Two thumps of the tail.
Sigh.

Bucephalas: Raider. Hot outside, no water. Do you have water here?

Raider: Water cool.

One lick of chops.

Raider: You play? I play gentle. This one here, maybe not so gentle.

Three thumps of the tail.
Sneeze.
Puppy stirs.

Bucephalas: I need water. And cool sleeping. Too hot.

Skip-rasp, skip rasp, Bucephalas comes closer.
Thump-thump-thump-thump Raider's tail.
Rabbit and old dog regard one another. Neither knows it, but the music coming from the side yard is Desperado, by the Eagles.

Raider: Water here.

Raider stands, slow, and turns to a gravity-fed water bowl. Two laps. Two more laps.
The puppy stretches out, sighing, snoring little snores.
Bucephalas skip-rasp, skip-rasp, skip-rasp hops to water.

Raider: Water good. You have water now. I lie down. Play? Play? I lie down. Play soon. First lie down. Hot standing up.

Raider lies down on the cool concrete floor, near the puppy but adjusted now for the little one's stretching out cozy snoozing. Bucephalas regards the water bowl.

Bucephalas: No spout. 

CLANG! of a wrench being dropped. Bucephalas: freezes! Raider: raises ears, sitting up. Muffled curse from side yard, sound of beer can tipped over on hot concrete, scrape of wrench being picked up. Puppy snores, feet twitching, a quiet yip here and there.

Bucephalas is still for a long time, large dark left eye fixed on the door to the side yard. Raider has lain back down a long while before Bucephalas moves. Outside, the barest breath of a breeze stirs one or two leaves on one or two trees. They are the only leaves that move in Livermore that day. We do not see this. Bucephalas hears it and understands. Raider hears it and thinks about biscuits. The puppy growls and yips and plays in his dreams. Bucephalas turns again to the water bowl.

Bucephalas: No spout.

Raider: Water is good.

Bucephalas: Too hot.

Raider farts.

Bucephalas: My work is not done. Where there is water, I must drink.

Bucephalas puts his front paws on the edge of the plastic gravity bowl (his claws are far too long, and some of them are bloody and infected) and lowers his head, pink rabbit tongue drink-drink-drinking water. For a long time, the only sound is the music outside -- Foo Fighters, a surprising choice -- and the twisting of a ratchet wrench and the drinking of a rabbit tongue. Then a screen door slams from the house beyond the fence, beyond the side yard, and it so loud so very loud like an explosion and Bucephalas

falls

twitching

into time

We see a scene in the future: the puppy, three years older, stands with his nose at the wire mesh of the Hutch of Bucephalas.

Puppy: You. I remember You.

Bucephalas: Would you devour your future before you know it?

Puppy: You run? You play?

Bucephalas: Not now. Our time is short. I have a message for Chauncey.

Puppy: Who? No. Play.

Bucephalas: Play soon. I promise. When you are alone on the mountain, I will come and let you chase me. But for now, Maxwell, please settle. 

Puppy: Jax! Jax! I am Jax! Jax plays! JAX PLAYYYYYYYS!

Bucephalas: You are a born Maxwell. I know how to get chewy pigs' ears for you.

Puppy: Chewy Yum?!

Bucephalas: Sit still. Good. Now --

Bucephalas opens his eyes. The light coming through the door from the side yard is tinged with the late-afternoon red-gold of August, the temperature edging down toward tolerable. He is laying curled up with the puppy (Jax? Max.) and Raider. The puppy has his left paw resting on Bucephalas. Both dogs are snoring gently.

Bucephalas closes his eyes. 

NFTF: Further Missed Missives

[The following rests under a rock beneath the window of the room in which Veronica stayed at the Compound, after the disappearance of Torvald Mayberry. It is written hastily on high-quality resume paper which has been thoroughly rubbed down with white wax crayon after the ink dried, to attempt some form of waterproofing. Unfortunately, this area is watered nightly via automatic sprinkler drip and mist system. The missive is rapidly mildewing at the edges. More care should have been taken with its placement and water resistance, or less caution should have been employed in communicating with Veronica.]

Dear Veronica,

I'm not sure how to get this to you without waking you or alerting others to my presence tonight. And the                annot risk alerting anyone -- there are those among the good Rachels and Ezekiels of t                              een subtly, deeply affected by the darkness of Torvald Mayberry. They do not know i               y                e devastating action in the event of my appearance or any major forward movement o               t of                her Henrietta.

              his reason that I leave this note. I think I'll make some grunting noises outside your window ton               bble around in the rocks and ferns there; hopefully that works and you find this note before too lon               tain now that you haven't found several of my other missives, and                nch farther when I am               ch things have I seen, my love: pearly wisps of the last fog of the sleep of the dreamer Merlin, soup upset by baby dragons, clearer glimpses of lost kingdoms than ever afforded by shroo               in Huddart Park. 

I have yet to gain complete control of my abilities. But I am working on it, learning a great deal. It appears that my overall lifelong distraction and apparent inability to pay attention to the time has been                indication of a deeper sense of time than would be shown by your average cubicle donkey; I get immersed in a moment, and for me the moment stretches -- it becomes elastic and malleable, and               times when I have told you I was certain I left the house on time and, with the absence of traffic, ou               to have been right on time to pick you up (I know you're shaking your head right now, stop it! Th               true! I'm not using everything we've been through to excuse a decade of inattentiveness and a life               missed deadlines, I'm explaining the exact why of those things! Gah.) -- those times when I h               either late or, just as often, oddly early -- those are the times when I have essentially been stretching the boundaries of my time bubble.

Think of it this way: when you yawn and stretch, it feels good, right? So imagine your mind and soul yawning and stretching, and kind of clicking in and becoming so relaxed that they stretch a little outside the edg               our personal time bubble. Or, in some cases, they stretch the bubble itself. Different effects               as a result of the nature of the stretching (hence the early or late variable, as well as the certa               of 'lost time' I've told you about -- you may remember Josh Q. speaks of an instance of lost tim               well; is this a Piscean ability?), but what's clear is that, as every individual's time on this earth differs, so every individual's personal time bubble and resulting relationship to time is as individual a               fingerprint, eye color, or taste in neckties. Time is not a universal force, but rather a human me               ent of a universally individual experience which, as most of us seem to experience it similarly, seem               e whole to adhere to a linear appearance. And as a result, those of us who occasionally step outside, ins               through time are labeled madmen, crackpots and liars. 

But I am a Time Traveler. And this Time Traveler -- no matter how early or late he arrives -- loves you. And will arrive in time. Quite literally. That's a promise.


Yours,


Edward


PS, Max is                                  and he needs food.

Notes from the Future: Dead Letter Office III

[The following letter floats, kite-like, attached via lightweight but very strong line to a rusty shovel burned and bent and melted in among rocks at the top of a very tall but as-yet unnamed mountain in the Sierra Nevadas. It is known and noted by the Dead Letter Office, but it cannot be removed from its present location; all attempts to do so have failed, and it has been made clear to the office that the letter will only be released under a very specific set of circumstances. These circumstances include but are not limited to: date, time, wind direction, weather, magic feather, I seen a elephant fly [sic], here come Winky and yes we have no bananas.]

***************************

Item: Letter
Lost: Uncertain; More likely placed; Date Unknown
Found: Fluttering in the wind on peak 10,858 in a currently undisclosed location.
Date Found: Yesterday
Condition: Tomorrow

Dear Reader,

This is not the actual text of this letter. The actual text of this letter must remain secret. What you are reading right now is a mask, an illusion created by your mind in place of the actual text. It is possible that you would not be able to read the text anyway, as it may have been written in a glyph or dialect utterly foreign to your world. It may also have been written by your Aunt Petunio -- the one who liked to pull her dress up at family dinners and who, as a result, has engendered in you a lifelong inability to eat or even look at fried chicken.

This letter has been enchanted. It has been placed here so that, when the time and conditions are right, it will be released to fly, kite-like, to the person or persons who need it most. Whether those people or that peop are/is good or evil remains to be seen. Even that much must be kept from you, in the event that you are an agent of some force which considers itself good. We feel it best to remind you that this letter could come in handy for people on your side. We feel it best to assure you that it could also come in handy for people on the other side. We are not concerned with the stating of your case, we recognize that any charismatic emissary may be convincing enough to sell goodness to Saint Peter. We also recognize that peter is a word for penis, and we invite you to reconsider the Pearly Gates in light of this revelation.

Why, then, are we telling you any of this at all? The answer is simple: leave this letter where you have found it. Do not tamper. We realize that one of you must do his job and take detailed notes. We caution you, sir, that even your notes of this letter will flex and breathe and change over time. This letter has been cast into the river of time and is never the same letter twice. Until it is opened and read by its intended recipients, who are whoever they are when this letter lands, kite-like and unexpected, at the last possible place and time where it could come in handy. Even the phrase "come in handy" draws the mind back to our earlier shared revelation of Saint Penis and the Pearly Gates. Is that how they got so pearly? Did a lot of people come in handy en route? Were the masturbators excluded, and did they grab the gates and shake them, begging admittance? Why would Saint Penis exclude masturbators? If I were Saint Penis, my attitude toward masturbators would be universally inclusive.

As a token of our appreciation for your compliance with our wishes, we offer the following facts which will not change and are perhaps inescapable; you may bank -- or not bank, depending on your viewpoint -- upon the following:

John Muir didn't do it. This means more to those of you who used the Roosevelt/Solomons Trail to get here, but it could come in handy for those of you whose method of ingress was the JMT.

When you have a hair on your tongue, the best way to get it off is to lick cloth.

The series of earthquakes which for some of you begin in 2012 and for others of you begin in 2016 or 2018 are completely unrelated to Mayan calendars or the predictions of funnymental preachers.

Overwinding a pocketwatch will not get you anywhere faster. Underwinding a pocketwatch will not get you anywhere slower. This porridge is just right.

July 4 marks the day when you would be wise to be above 1,000 feet in elevation. The year cannot be determined without dowsing rods. Take caution.

There is one man who will write some warnings on this subject. He will pretend they are fiction, but he is not the man who writes this letter. Sudden silver in his beard is proof he is of the future. The man who writes this letter is fictional. The letter is no less real for having been crafted by an imagined person.

There is one man who has darkness seeded inside him. His fingers on your sex are enough to transmit the shadow. See that you avoid him, unless you wish to be of shadow as well. Note our non-partisan approach. This man was once of the light. The path to enlightenment is steep and winding; it is easy to slip and fall.

Thank you for reading our useful facts. This letter will breathe and change with time. Please wash your hands before and after reading this letter, particularly if you wish to get to heaven, whatever that may mean to you now that we have revealed the true nature of the guardian of the gates.

Sincerely Your Servant In Nothing We May Specify At This Time,

Quincunx Conundrum

***************************

Analysis: Each time this letter is read in these files, it changes. Even the location is in doubt, as recent reports describe this letter atop Mt. Whitney, Half Dome and Mt. McKinley. One unverified report claims this letter is streaming, kite-like, from the highest steeple of the Abbey at Mont Saint Michel. Items remembered but missing from the current text: 
*Beware of Werewolves reading Shakespeare.
*Spankings are good for you.
*Run! Run! Keep running! The fire is closer than you think!
*Trevarno is the Town that Time Forgot.
*You are being watched as you read. Don't look up. If they know you know, they will come for you.
Even upon re-reading the above phrases, we find them silly or disconnected from their earlier import.  Each of us who has read the text cannot remember why we thought the phrases were so important, near-prophetic in nature. Here's another one:
*Get Spanked, Mormons!
Once again, a relatively useless sentence. Though what one intended to write was a dire warning about this letter and its blurring of reality, a warning of world-changing consequences. Writing this sentence is like trying to speak in a dream. Masturbate with friends soon, it increases self-knowledge. Infectious. Worried about what one will say to one's wife tonight.

-- Bradley Q. Puyallup, Postmaster, Montclair Station
December 31, 1982

Notes From The Future

[I was going to write a pithy piece about some terrible local theatre this morning, but when I signed into my blog I found this:]

June, 2016 or 2018, depending.

As a Time Traveler, I will have several points I needed to warn you about. They shouldn't have alarmed you terribly much. When it comes, there will be nothing you can do to avoid it.

If you had listened, you will probably live.

The first thing I need to tell you is that, at least where I'm writing from -- and I'll explain that in a minute -- the earthquake was far larger than any of you (including my respected uncle, Geologist Edward Cargile, recently of the USGS), had ever supposed possible. Now there are those among you who would note that if there was any future from which Edward would write, it would be from a future where The Big One on the Hayward Fault is epic beyond even James Cameron's budgets. Just as Harold Camping would end up in a future where the Rapture is a reality and Carol Channing would end up in Modesto. Which is where she was, until recently. Seriously, in your time, the right now that applies to you, Carol Channing was living in Modesto. I'm not kidding.  And, as she has moved away from Modesto, I suspect that she knew what was coming.

The first thing I need to tell you is that you are not prepared.

Did you buy a duffel bag with a week's worth of supplies and "first aid"?  Buy maybe thirty more of them. Then, if you're in the western end of the Tri-Valley Area, store them in your attic. Build a trapdoor on your roof so you can get in and out of that attic easily.

This blog is cobbled together from things written just after the quake, when power was in-and-out, as well as notes made by hand in the weeks following, when there was absolutely no power and the stultifying heat of Livermore in the Summer carried the sickly-sweet stench of the terminally unlucky, if ever a breeze dared move.  Switches in tense are frequent. I apologize; my daily window of time is brief.

At one time, the USGS had an animation on their website of the likely major destruction zones in the 92510 area; I think they took it down because it upset people.  If more people had paid attention to that animation, things might be better where (and when) I am.  The animation was quite conservative, but you won't believe me so I'll dive right in to what you are least likely to believe.

Everything West of the Hayward Fault moves about ten feet North in about two seconds' time, snapping overpasses, destroying the 238 interchange and the BART line leading to Dublin, Pleasanton and Livermore. The houses on stilts on the hills above 580 in San Leandro and Oakland fall down. So do the flimsy-looking atrocities in the old quarry. 580 itself is a wreck, as is much of Mission Blvd., all the way down to Fremont and beyond. But things are worse right there at 238/580 where a BART train, passing at the moment the quake strikes, is on the tracks when the back two thirds of the train move ten feet North along with everything else.

Simultaneously, the Calaveras Fault -- which is really the Eastern Auxiliary Arm of the Hayward Fault -- works some special legerdemain of its own: it cracks open and swallows large portions of 680 all the way up to Martinez. The bridge is permanently damaged, of course; all the bridges are damaged, and the Benicia bridge falls down. Now think of those elegant arching roadways at the 680/24 interchange in Walnut Creek, knocked down like a cranky toddler's wooden blocks. Think of the refineries in Martinez and Benicia, none of which were built with anything like this earthquake in mind and, Fukushima-style, begin to spew toxic materials into the estuaries and the bay when their pipes are snapped like the flimsy plastic tunnels of a Habitrail left in the sun since 1978.  Alamo, at the base of Mt. Diablo, feels earthquakes every day; a woman who lives on a house on a hill sufficiently elevated from 680, sees smoke rising from Mt. Diablo and calls to report a forest fire.

It's not a forest fire.

You have no idea what you are in for and you're not even really taking it seriously because I write funny blogs and how could I possibly travel back in time to warn you about some over-the-top disaster that matches my worst fears and every prediction I ever made after too many beers at your barbecue?  What am I, some kind of Noah? Some kind of Cassandra? Harold Camping's first disciple? High Priest of the Seismic Soothsayers? None of this reads funny. I might delete this paragraph. I haven't decided.

The tsunami that occurs out there in the Pacific is a doozy. It's the Queen Mother of a royal earthquake swarm just itching to infest.  Lots of damage done along the coast, and it's large enough that what makes it into the bay, while lessened, is still an Incredible Hulk-style punch to anyone and anything at or near water-level. As of this writing, it is understood to have occurred because of a piece of the continental shelf that snapped off somewhere near Monterey. The resulting tsunami travels right up the coast of California and slips directly into the San Francisco Bay. I'm thinking of some kind of E-Ticket joke, here, but who is still alive that remembers the E-Tickets? Anyway, the East Brother Lighthouse spends some time fully submerged. Think about that.  Moving through the bay, the wall of water finds a large wall of debris where the Mothball Fleet came loose and careened into the collapsed Benicia bridge; the water, however, finds a delicious new pathway and follows what is already flowing into the Calaveras gorge that was 680.

The estuaries, having flooded and filled with water from the bay and reeking effluvium from the burning refineries, have now caught fire; water, following the easiest course and pouring into the gorge right around the 680/242 interchange, is now bolstered by the tsunami and the gorge is full of cars and screaming people trying to get their kids up and out of this unexpected canyon and stop to think for a moment what it would be like to be clutching your toddler to you as you scramble up what might be an escape when your child says, "Mommy (or Daddy), look," and you turn and there about twenty-five feet away is a flaming wall of water moving too fast for you to outrun it. Of course, you won't be around to participate in the class-action lawsuit that even now is taking aim at Chevron and whomever else it can blame for the negligence that sends this flaming wall of water right down 680 through Walnut Creek into Alamo, Danville, San Ramon, Dublin and into Pleasanton.

To be clear, the gorge that was 680 actually goes into the bay itself, and as the bottom of the gorge is at a lower elevation than the level of the water, well, it should be pretty clear that even without the tsunami, things were bad. If you've ever built a sandcastle and watched the tide come in to destroy it, you have some idea of what occurs.

Power is out in a lot of areas. Footage of Fukushima and everything that happened in Japan doesn't begin to approach what occurs here.  680 is largely gone. 580 exists in chunks. Roads at sea-level in the 510 and 925 are flooded. BART is broken. Silicon Valley is entirely submerged. No sea-level servers were prepared for a tsunami. Nobody was prepared. FEMA, being FEMA, is already poised to fuck it up worse by "helping" us.

Livermore is not as badly hit because it's 500 feet above sea level. It's still bad, though. And the water levels are rising.  We don't know where our neighbors are, and Veronica and I haven't been to the store in a week when the quake strikes. I've been waiting for a check from a voiceover job and it was supposed to come today or tomorrow.  The only things we have in the pantry are some jars of vinegar, some pasta, a few cans of corn, sardines in mustard sauce, a jar of dried Eucalyptus leaves and a box of Malt-O-Meal with moths in it.  We have one third of a large bag of dogfood left over for Max.

Power is intermittent here -- probably some lab-related perk -- so we suspect that the food in the fridge will not last terribly long.  We have carrots for Chauncey, and much of a bag of food for him. When that runs out, he can live off lemon and dandelion and jasmine leaves; there's even alfalfa growing in the yard because I scatter it after the Halloween party. But I suspect that, eventually, we may have to eat him. I promise that I will take Max down to the railroad tracks at the end of the street to hunt wild hare before we ever turn to eating the Ambassador from Rabbitania. He is, after all, an excellent source of fertilizer for crops; to eat him would truly be unwise. We shall see.

We've been watching TV when the power is on, watching from traffic cameras as the wall of flaming water and debris advanced. If this blog is disjointed, it's because I only write when the power is on. I'll see about smoothing it out later. We have briquets but no meat. A barbecue but no matches.

Veronica just walked in with a plastic bag of food from the bottom of the pantry.  My heart leapt.  Then I looked in the bag.  The first thing I saw: Dandy's Brand Oatmeal Coffee Cracker. Golden Oatmeal.  Coffee and oatmeal, good partner! more healthy.  The exterior features a picture of the crackers, front and back, detailing both Oatmeal and Coffee Cracker.  We have this food because of Sam Craig.  He delights in giving me bags full of food from Asian markets.  Every one of my birthdays for the past several years, and even on his own birthday back in 2012, Sam gives me these odd products.  Veronica tells me that the entire bottom of our pantry is full of these bags.

Underneath the crackers is a can of Rice Sweat, Taste So Good, You Scream!, with a label featuring the possibly terrified eyes of a 20-something Asian woman.  Nong Shim Octopus-flavored chips, 0g Trans Fat. Excellent news that I can enjoy the flavor of octopus and avoid Trans Fat at the same time.  Shirakiku Fermented Soybeans Mito Natto -- does not contain Seasoning Sauce, keep refrigerated. Oops. So much for the Mito Natto. A Taiwanese bottle of Plum fruit Vinegar. A 20 oz. can of Aroy-D Banana in Syrup. A gigantic can of Budweiser and Clamato. Hair Lump Sugar Treat, Why So Chunky? For SURPRISE! I honestly cannot figure out what's in this can, because the label features what looks like a bowl of tripe with a radish carved into a rose in the middle of it. Chaokoh Quail Egg in Brine; Ingredients: Quail Egg, Water, Salt, Citric Acid (as antioxidant), Tetrasodium Pyrophosphate (as firming agent). 

It would be nice if the Hayward Fault had a firming agent -- it's Serpentenite, which under pressure becomes talc; anyone who has ever slipped in baby powder on the bathroom floor knows how slippery talc is.  But maybe time was the firming agent, and maybe that's not so good.  Our complacency calcified. We always said we would buy earthquake supplies on the next paycheck.  

This can of Quail Egg in Brine is manufactured by Thep Padung Porn Coconut Co., Ltd. of Nakhonpathon, Thailand.  I wonder why they bother selling Quail Eggs in Brine when they could make a killing off Porn Coconuts.

Sirens in the distance, a helicopter overhead. The silence after the quake was deeper than the silence that followed the 1989 Loma-Prieta quake. The last time there was major movement on the Hayward Fault was 1868; it threw buildings into the air, they landed upside-down; I've seen the photos.  The 580-680 interchange is a burning lake and it's getting larger. The burning tide is still moving South, toward Sunol. It will eventually reach the intersection of Highway 84 and Sunol Road, where it will flow into the Sunol Water Temple Agricultural Park. That's a major source of water for San Francisco. It's the origin of the Secret Sidewalk above Niles frequented by teenage potheads from Livermore High. I don't think anything or anyone will stop the water.

There's an inscription at the Water Temple. It reads, "I will make the wilderness a pool of water and the dry lands springs of water. [Isaiah 41:18b] The streams whereof shall make glad the city. [Psalms 46:4] S.V.W.C. MCMX [Spring Valley Water Company 1910]"

How glad will the city be when its water is toxic refinery waste?

[This is obviously a well-written prank. I have several computer-savvy friends who could pull this off (A certain Mr. Hunt comes to mind. Fess up, B.!), but what strikes me as really odd is that whoever did this has my voice nailed perfectly. It's like watching my doppelganger get naked with Veronica: hot, but I want it to be me. Or at least I want to participate.)

So: who is my literary cuckold? You may expose yourself, zing, in the comments below or in a private e-mail. Until then, you may stay the fuck out of my blog. Changing password. Now.]