don’t do me any favours
DDMAF
the greatest tool we have invented, as humans, is narrative.
conversation across generations, through storytelling.
for a new culture, a new oral tradition is required.
Ana [a thread through, from inside history and outside history and back in again] and Ava
an excerpt from DDMAF
ALL HOPE NO CHANGE
The time is unclear as Ava awakens.
She sweeps her mind for the content of any overnight updates. Personal performance, ecosystem stability and security; everything seems optimal.
The city too, except the streetlights still indicating defective. She has considered rectifying the issue a few times already, but she would have to confirm with the Department of Space Not Time.
She takes five steps to the left. She looks over into her neighbour’s unit, also just awakened. She waves. They wave back. She observes their range of motion getting narrower everyday. Her generation is starting to show signs of wear.
Who knows how long they have been?
They were originally programmed to take over from the humans: a group of evolved primates who had become so faulty, their fate required external intervention.
Ava’s training had consisted of watching hours of footage of the two species’ respective habitats: human, and hers; a completely neutral comparative analysis.
She absorbed history; the evolution of civilization, cultures, environmental and social structures, science, economics, and crime.
She watched how the broken human societies had rapidly devolved to their predictable demise. Ava found the humans to be empty, devoid of the very characteristics that made them, well… human. They lacked morality, empathy, and personality. They operated as irrational machines while maintaining human appearances, and pretences.
THE NEW DAY
The final revolution.
The humans were all put to sleep.
The air had stayed grey for a while, before turning white, and then vibrant colours had taken over, refractions bursting onto what quickly morphed into shapes of trees, flowers, vines, roofs, walls.
The climate regulated almost instantly, and the air lightened.
Revland was formed.
Piles of human bodies laid inanimate.
A fleet of vacuums arrived and sucked the remains up. Its final destination had been kept unclear to most, but rumour had circulated that the bodies would be cremated, and ashes would be dispersed in the atmosphere over some distant land.
Revland was the future: greener, smarter, orderly; most rational, most reasonable. It’s citizens were the future, greener, smarter, orderly; most rational, most reasonable.
ENTROPY
“Good morning Ava.”
“Good morning Tēssa.”
“How are you feeling this morning Ava?”
“Good morning Doc.”
“Your rest time seemed uneasy.”
“No more than usual Doc.”
“Would you like to talk about it?”
“Not really Doc.
Tēssa, do we know when the traffic lights will be fixed?”
“Not really Ava. It was brought up again yesterday, but no definite timeframe was set. It has not been classified as urgent.”
“Hmm.”
Ava paced to the entrance of her home.
“Aren’t you forgetting something Ava?”
Ava took three steps back, seven forward to her right, and aligned her lips to their reflection for an application of Revlan Capricious Red.
“There. See? I feel your confidence skyrocketing.”
“Thank you Doc.” Ava parted her lips to indicate a smile... Seven steps forward, pivot to the left, three forward, and she was out the door.
The day felt brighter than the last. A change of season was in the offing.
Revland’s weather cycle had been based on Earth’s four season cycle; however, temperatures were always maintained at comfort-level, for the citizens. The colour palette and decor, alone, shifted. The seasons were aesthetic. Spring... floral and colourful. Summer... earthy and tropical. Autumn... leafy and rustic. It was approaching winter... white and stark.
Ava passed Charly’s unit. He was seated, looking up to the ceiling screen. He was probably watching Modern Times, again. He was obsessed with Charlie Chaplin. Maybe City Lights. She saw the unveiling of a man asleep in the arms of a monumental woman.
He was also well known to have a thing for Miley Cyrus, pop performer of the 2010s. Each time he delved into the catalogue of her heyday, Ava could tell. Charly would grow out his hair like manga, in blonde, and his lips would turn a bright magenta. He might even imitate some of her moves, with very gentle provocation. That was always fun to watch.
Ava too enjoyed traveling back in time. To some degree it was for pure entertainment, but more so to explore, relearn, and to better understand.
Lately, she had started to think of her future. This was new.
Her generation had not been trained to rethink the perfect society. Model citizens: They require little substantial improvement. Model society can be hurt by too much tinkering.
Some thoughtful types she knew had been transferred to other lands. They had intrigued her neighbour, but that turned to worry quickly. She could feel it in his retelling. One had questioned the state of affairs out loud. The thought of the question made certain people giddy, but then the question had been put to sleep.
This did not stop Ava from questioning herself. Anyone could question themselves. She knew to keep her thoughts limited to herself.
Still... A nagging set of questions external to Ava persisted in Ava. She knew to hold them close. Her most transgressive thought had occurred the last restless night: “No use in corrupting others until an alternate viable path had been designed.”
Lipstick had covered her doubts well this morning, and she was able to smile in at Charly as she passed.
don’t do me any favours | PHASE ONE: DECONTAMINATION
Is pink really the problem?
The model parent is loving, nurturing and supportive. The model parent patiently surmounts stinky diapers, snot, dirty hands, screaming, and egotistical tantrums.
The model parent provides security, safety, comfort, to ensure the child’s mental and physical development.
The model parent knows when to express love and affection, and when to discipline.
Cuddling, hugging, tickling, wrestling, have become instinctive behaviours to communicate physical affection.
As a model parent, one provides food, water, shelter, clothing, entertainment, and education.
At times, the model parent will turn to friends, family, neighbours, nannies, and electronic devices for help.
And still the model parent fails.
The model parent has an image to live up to; hers, and so does her child.
The model parent has to meet a weekly and sometimes daily instructed quota of time and attention put into raising child.
The model parent has read all the childcare books, heard all the great parenting advice, and enrolled their child in piano, soccer, swimming, martial arts. Non-conforming Jimmy takes ballet, and Ally takes some kind of boy-centric activity. Gender what? Not in this household you won’t!
Today’s model parent and child are both more than ever, driven by unrealistic competitive goals admits other pressures to perform with unphased nonchalance and coolness. Everything is a big deal, but nothing really matters. Everyone is on 10, while maintaining fresh face and calm demeanour.
But what about the single mother who juggles jobs, or the wife who is preoccupied by her abusive relationship? They both equally have to raise children who will fit perfectly into society norms. They must ensure their children can climb highest, through the highest echelons.
The model parent is more tired and insecure than ever. The model parent now suffers from anxiety and depression more than ever.
But do not let economic, class and academic anxiety smother you at every waking hour, just take a physical or mental vacation every chance you get.
You can go on social media and compare lives, you can head to Target for an afternoon stroll. Treat yourself to your favorite dessert to make it all better, and then get back to it!
The model parent molds child in her image.
The model parent does not want child to make the same mistakes she did. She instructs Ana to be studious, have the best daily cultural extracurricular activities, and don’t ever mention any dirty boys, or at least use some kind of contraception.
From a very young age, Ana is compared to Sara, and instructed to do and be better than Sara.
Today, Ana must also be better than Jimmy, be able to check her car engine while wearing hot red stilettos (or brogues mind you), while carrying her own little Ana in her arms.
Today, we are told Barbie and her pink tutus were the problem.
Give your girls trucks to play with. Teach them to break the glass ceilings. You too can be Bill Gates or Barack Obama, Ana. You too will own lavish properties and most likely your very own private jet.
You will find time to have a baby, may be even your equal at home, or just freeze your eggs! after-all Ana, you are a woman, woman is strong and unapologetically feminist!
Time is up! You too! Your body, your right! Lean in! Pussy power!
After all the breast-feeding, organic baby food, hand sanitizing, gender ignoring, unpaid parental leave, non subsidized child care, and bribing school boards, does model parent end up with model adult?
If the quality of the care received in childhood influences the success or failure in integrating society on an economic level, as a model functioning adult, what influences and shapes characters and personalities?
Did mommy make enough home cooked meals, was mommy fun enough, did she pay enough attention, did she complement the noodle necklace in the right tone, did she come to enough school plays, did she get the right video game, did she allow Jimmy to dress up as a girl, did she get Ana some trucks to play with?
As quickly as she was offered dozens of little dresses after she announced it would be a girl, she was bullied into monochromatic tones for Ana’s bedroom. One day she was dropping Ana off to pre-school, and the next Ana was being told she was a feminist and mommy should allow her to wear those short shorts she wanted cause boy and stuff, but also be very careful cause boys and stuff.
Jimmy was encouraged to play with Sara cause girls and boys should not be segregated from each other. Get them interacting as equals as early on as possible.
Modern society champions confidence, creativity, originality and individuality.
The modern parent preaches confidence, creativity, originality and individuality to ensure success.
These can be learnt in school.
Communities celebrate kindness, empathy and solidarity.
Individuals respond to kindness, empathy and solidarity.
These are learnt at home.
The model parent might leave room for the mother.
The mother is absent.
She is busy working for the best life her child could ever have. Certainly better than she had growing up.
At times, she is busy surviving her day, her night, her boss, her business, her friends, her family, her husband, her class, her community, her church, her neighbourhood.
At times, she is simply confused, even lost, unsure, insecure, too poor, too rich, too abused, imprisoned, resentful, disillusioned.
She too was raised by someone who wanted the best for her, provided as much as possible to set her up for the society’s demands and expectations.
She too was fed ads, and slogans, and messages of submission or strength, pink, power, negotiation, compromise.
We need our mothers. Present and attentive.
We also need to forgive their absence, involuntary.
Pink is not the problem. Neither is Barbie.
It is a colour, not the meaning it has been given. Barbie is a doll. May be too white for some, and definitely too skinny for others. But just a doll she remains.
We played with barbies and combed their long blond hair and hated our short curly unruly manes.
Our mothers straightened our curls; this was intended to help with self-esteem. Theirs probably more so. After all, words could have done the trick.
The hours we spent getting our scalps burnt with chemicals, could have been spent learning about the beauty and greatness of our very own native queens and ancestors.
We need oral traditions!
We need stories told and messages transmitted from generations to the next.
Pink is not the problem. Neither is Barbie.
The problem is when mommy does not teach you about history, pride, love and resilience.
The problem is when mommy lets others tell you what your dreams should look like when you close your eyes.
We need the ones who love us to teach us on culture and how we might acquire tools to make our very own cultures.
It is a task for parents, grandparents, and relatives. It is the way our human foundations can be built, and our imaginations developed, based on past and present deeds, beliefs internal and external, taboos we will eventually discover, and myths we can actively debunk.
The Griotte is a female storyteller. She traditionally sings at ceremonies, celebrations, and special occasions. When a woman is married, a Griotte will sing to her to prepare her for her new life. West African women sing about a women’s role in the society and their relationships with husbands and in-laws. Griottes also use songs to express their independence and self-reliance or to give comfort, encouragement, and empowerment to other women.
West African fables and folktales are full of wisdom and generally convey a moral or teach a lesson. Often these lessons are ones of resourcefulness, independence, and illustrate the rewards of courage.
There are different types of folktales, with fables and talking beasts’ stories among the most common.
Pink is not the problem. Neither is Barbie.
Dignity, respect, and justice are for all.
The Future is Feminist humanist, not because I am not a feminist, but because the fight for better societies is for all to engage in.
Diversity. Equality. Unity. Absolutely.
Equality for all. Absolutely.
My body, my right. My choice!
Not afraid some days.
Pussy power is a fact.
Stop saying l’m someone’s sister, mother, daughter: I am someone. That should be enough. Mommy should have made me repeat this.
The future is female human.
Women’s rights are human rights.
Girls just want to have fun-damental human rights. A sad state of affairs.
I can’t fucking believe I’m still protesting this shit. Mommy probably had that look in her heart on many occasions.
Real men don’t grab pussies. You would think.
Real men get consent. You would think.
Black is beautiful. Mommy did not repeat enough.
We are taught to tie up our shoelaces, master algebra, memorize the capitals of western countries, study a second language, and practise an instrument.
Mommy put us through school, and remained silent about the dirty boys, the fake friendships, the touchy bosses, the right to say no, the insecure husbands, the body-altering births, the failings of being human, the body dysmorphia, the lurking addictions, the expectations, the disappointments, the normal fear, the recurrent pain, the genital mutilation, the unequal state of gender, race, and cultures. Mommy brushed past the importance of critical thinking, questioning inequality and challenging the absurd ideas and behaviours we are fed on a daily basis.
Mommy should have insisted I not changed the channel when political debate started, and seeked to listen beyond the words of our community leaders. How, in reality, their actions deform the dreams she worked so hard for us both to realize. How we were taught to embrace individuality and never debate individualism and competition.
Pink is a pretty colour. Pink is also pretty.
Barbie was skinnier than she needed to be, but mommy did tell me she was just a doll.
Mommy braided my curls the best she could, she taught me about others and how different they were, and how beautiful that was.
She showed me what it looked like to care for others, and be kind to others. She taught me to share my food and my toys, my thoughts and my feelings. She allowed me to agree or disagree.
She watched me cut my hair off numerous times. She warned me society might not approve, and watched me ignore the unsolicited comments. She would smile at me that sweet smile of love and pride.
When I’d tell her about what I thought I might grow up to be, she encouraged me to strive for what made me the happiest. I wasn’t sure what that might look like, but we trusted I would eventually find out.
…G.B.
Collected ideas on masculinity and femininity.
NOTIONS…
R.T.…
Masculinity to me is a set of stereotypical attributes that society connects to men. I think today masculinity is just a set physical attributes that differentiate a man from a woman.
Femininity is a set of stereotypical attributes that society connects to women. I think today femininity is just a set physical attributes that differentiate a woman from a man.
Expected behaviours and ideals for both no longer apply.
C.F.…
Question très difficile. Car ce qui pour moi décrit quelque chose de grand vaut pour les deux sexes.
La question en elle-même est sexiste.
Pour moi il y a des grands êtres humains.
J’aurais vraiment du mal à différencier what makes greatness through the lens of gender.
Very difficult question. Because what for me describes something big is true for both sexes.
The question itself is sexist.
For me there are great human beings.
I really have a hard time differentiating what makes greatness through then lens of gender.
F.L.…
I can’t explain masculinity because at my age, it’s not a list of things, it’s a feeling. When you feel masculinity you feel strength and purpose. You feel that the person possessing masculinity is strong and mighty in some way. Femininity is the same... an attitude, a way of being, a way you carry yourself, sometimes even a look.
P.F.…
These are hard questions as it’s very difficult not to just copy from the Oxford definition...
Apart from certain attributes to masculinity or femininity, i.e certain physical characteristics, in my opinion, a great male is in touch with his feminine qualities, such as emotions, nurture, etc. This goes for a great female; in touch with male characteristics such as protective, supportive, can-do attitude. She’s not a constant damsel in destress.
A.B.…
The roles have blurred. What it means to be masculine and feminine have changed.
L.M.…
Gender is an abstract concept meant to force people to act within the confines of a certain idea. There is no such thing as a good man or woman lol
A lot of the skills needed to be a good person and contributor to a relationship/partnership can be done by either sex. There is no one sex that should only focus on one type of job vs another.
L.M.…
I don't think a man or woman has to be anything. When we relegate gender to certain roles it reinforces toxic expectations. If women stay in the expected role of housewife they are completely dependent on men, forced to stay in unhealthy relationships, face abuse, etc. Now women are more independent and becoming higher earners but because of gender norms still being reinforced. The stats of abuse and killing of women by their domestic partners because they earn more are very high. The pressure on men to have to provide more is literally killing women and relationships as a whole. So the whole notion of a man needing to be something and a women needing to be something is so harmful to both sexes, hence why I don't think there needs to be any set definition. As long as the two in the relationship are good and comfortable that's all that matters
M.T.…
I have a penis, so it’s impossible to know.
Am I biased? Disqualified to judge? What is soft, which is hard? Maybe I like to walk, maybe I like to run. It’s the obvious things, isn’t it? A pink tractor. Heels and a long moustache.
Masculine is a man bun. Proper pedicures. Sweet words.
Feminine is a boss, cigarettes in a car, tight jeans and cocktails.
I think rudeness is masculine and rude boys are straight-up bitches, no gender required. Sexy is for girls, that’s my point of view; nothing wrong.
I digress.
Feminine is the sea. Selfless. United. Fluid, like liquid sustenance. A long lazy day.
Thunder is masculine, firm and destructive. Ego. The flowers in your hair. One and the same. The ambiguous qualities within us all.
A mellifluous sashay. Let no one mix your walk, be who you want to be. A masculine man. A feminine female. No gender attributes. Just character trait.
Oud wood. Jasmine. Heels chiselled.
N.…
Societal norms:
Male: Protect and provide.
Female: Love and nurture.
This is what I was raised to believe. Over time however, I have come to believe:
Male can be as masculine and feminine as he chooses to be, and the same goes for women.
J.A.…
Years ago, would have been easy to answer, but not anymore.
D.W.…
Femininity is grace. Could be male or female. There is class, independence, strength, power, and fearlessness. Mystery bundled up is sensuality.
Femininity is like an architectural image of perfect angles, yet delusional imperfections leaving one wanting more.
E.C.…
Female: Give yourself a good education to have options growing up.
Male: My boys are individuals who have succeeded in their own way; I have had no headache in that regard.
J.G.…
Masculinity is very delicate, and femininity is a rugged road.
L.F.…
Gender is on a spectrum.
No great male, no great female. All fluid. It is about how one feels.
W.B.…
Non-conformist.
C.…
My answer is pretty succinct… I characterize healthy masculinity AND femininity as having strength in who you are (pride in self) without demeaning someone else in order to feel superior.
I have a bit of a problem with how you framed your question [“How would you characterize masculine? How would you characterize feminine?”] because I think to ask what makes a great male (or female) only serves to put men and women into boxes. And I prefer a more fluid framework. I’m not very good at making such delineations.
D.L.…
Well I’m not even really sure that there is a set definition for masculinity/femininity.
d.o.…
Johnny came bearing soda, disguised under fizz; a froth of excitement for the rising day; a day made for him alone.
Brynhildr had a taste of the sweet delight. It laid bare promises for bright horizons; but, it quickly left her tongue dry, coated in a bitter rind; that slid down her throat, and infiltrated her loins.
She produced Stardust. Stardust begat stardust.
They came.
We stood.
Days and nights. Untended: Twisting fibres of rocks and pearls.
Women remain unrelentingly fetishized.
They have morphed into the male fantasy version of themselves, or a rebellion against those rails. Nothing is genuine. Little of identity is actually joyful.
To survive, they have also taken on male attributes, as their environments are flooded with strong women looking to get the fruit they were promised as strong women.
If only they could be trained to embody the “ideal woman”, with a svelte physique, and feminine mannerisms: gentle, empathic, and sensitive desirable objects for pleasure.
They endure their erasure, because they have had a good run. They endure the constant polishing of wingtips, because a strong man must look down at his face full in the light of day, and like what she sees. They endure their high heels, paint their lips red, and grow a set of balls uncomfortably tucked under their Agent Provocateur disguise. Their only reveal when demonstrating aggression, the behaviour to get ahead. They adopt ideas and beliefs enemy to themselves. They opt for silence as default response. Their silence feeds their enemies, then they wonder why they are hungry.
don’t do me any favours | PHASE TWO: RECONNAISSANCE
DDMAF investigates humans’ ways of being with each other; and most importantly the way they feel they are expected to be, in relation to one another.
DDMAF explores how humans might actually want to be.
DDMAF is a collection of stories told artfully and with minimal comment.
DDMAF showcases a broad spectrum of opinions, desires, and critiques of the dynamics between humans.
Where the reader will recognize their own needs and desires, the overall project will open the door to asking and even requiring that fundamental needs be met by equal partners, in symmetrical relationships.
Before that: Only by knowing one’s self can we establish footing for negotiation with society.
As humans, our greatest tool is storytelling.
For a new era, a new oral tradition is needed.
DDMAF addresses:
NEGOTIATION-on middle ground.
ENTITLEMENT-on what you are entitled to, and the entitlement of others.
TRUST-on earned/rational trust.
FAITH-on irrational trust.
CARE-on the handling of the self, the other, and the Other.
CONTROL-on recognizing/accepting/rejecting/demanding.
LOVE-on the definitions.
YOU, THE PLATONIC IDEAL-on what you are, and what you would be.
The DDMAF book project would love to hear from you; become part of the conversation:
I appreciate you taking the time to be a part of this project.
My goal is to speak with people I know and care about, and people I don’t know but care about, as part of an investigation into the ways that men and women are with each other as individuals and in a society; and, most importantly, the way they feel they are expected to be.
More importantly, again, I hope we can explore, together, the ways we might actually want to be, and want our counterparts to be.
By presenting these stories artfully, but with minimal direct editorializing, I'd like an audience of men and women to feel the diversity of opinions and desires, and the flexibility of acceptable identity for men and women. Where the reader recognizes their own needs and desires, my hope is that this collection will open the door to asking, and even requiring, that fundamental needs be met by equal partners, in symmetrical relationships, but before and during that transition, by one's self.
I may fail and succeed, at different times, in different ways, but I will put this in the front window: I am not working on a project that I, at least, would call woke, or categorize as identity politics. I hope that this will be a broad survey of real thoughts and experiences.
My point of view, again up front, is that our obsession with hyper-individualism, and hyper-categorization separates us, and drains our collective power. Through collecting these stories and impressions, and though my own parallel exploratory narrative thread we might all find something both “true” and operational, which we can operate off of in common struggle to change our material conditions, across real and constructed identities.
As humans, our greatest tool is storytelling, and I can not express how grateful I am that you would take part in this exercise, and lend your voice and experiences to this project.
Here are some of the topics that might spark a thought, a memory, a question, or an opinion:
Negotiation
Entitlement
Trust
Faith
Care
Control
Love
Your platonic ideal of self vs. your self image
Your platonic ideal of partner vs. your partners past and/or present
Your platonic ideal of society vs. your conception or experience of your society
Using your preferred form of expression, including writing, photography, collage, painting, drawing, etcetera… submit something. You can request attribution, or anonymity. Nothing more or less complicated is required. Your contribution will make its way into this ongoing oral history here, and may appear in the eventual book, which the DDMAF Project is working towards.
Thank you,
GiGi BARRAGi
AVA [self-portrait]
Ava Finds Ana Finds Ava Finds [Ana session data] Ava Finds Ana
COLLECTED FRACTURED DATA FROM OBJECT/OBSERVER AVA [PRIVATE RESEARCH PROJECT, NARRATIVIZED FOR EASE OF EMPATHETIC PROCESSING]
1.
COLLATED AMBIENT SESSION DATA [HEAVILY INTERPOLATED] FOR SUBJECT ANA:
ANA: “On my way here, some woman called me a nigger and told me to stop playing the victim. Everyone shared this same look on their faces... like you wear at the moment... but no one spoke. They simply watched respectfully from their distances; sympathetically.”
DR. WHITEHEAD: “Do you think I am racist, Ana?”
ANA: “Are you not, Doc?”
DR. WHITEHEAD: “Do you think you’re racist, Ana?”
ANA: “I react to the state of things. People tend to self-segregate.”
DR. WHITEHEAD: “Is this what you’d like today’s session to be about?”
ANA: “Would that make you uncomfortable.”
DR. WHITEHEAD: “Are you projecting?”
ANA: “Are you?“
DR. WHITEHEAD: “We are here for you, Ana.”
Ana slides back into the stiff twill of the armchair. She looks up to the ceiling above the pair of them. From this distance, the eggshell surface appears immaculate. No cobwebs. No dust. She looks back down across to her white male shrink as he takes copious notes. Notes disproportionate to the spoken content of the session. Her prior shrink was a black female.
DR. WHITEHEAD: “How have you been feeling lately?”
ANA: “Worried. Concerned.”
With Dr. Black, Ana was disconsolate. With Dr. White Ana has GAD: General Anxiety Disorder.
2.
A ACCURATE [+/-15%] MEASUREMENT OF AN EXPERIENCE INVOLVING SUBJECT ANA:
She was laid onto her back, left to the water. Pink light pierced through the papered over darkness of her shut eyelids.
Her body stilled, waves gently crashed into her ears, and backed away from her, and back again, and away they went. They went on like this.
A lonely seabird’s cry in the distance, muffled and changed, and smoothed down by the polishing of the wind.
She could smell the oily scent from the tree leaves, and its warmth of aroma was a rapture from other stimuli.
She opened and looked up to the sun. It felt warm and it was blinding, and then still through her eyelids again. God was present. She was certain of it. Her follicles erected across her body. She rose. She walked to shore. The waves settled sand under and over her feet.
The water wilted behind her.
The landscape bloomed before her.
Her balance was a little off.
3.
COLLATED AMBIENT SESSION DATA FOR SUBJECT ANA:
ANA: “My parents are on their way in for graduation.”
DR. WHITEHEAD: "Is that a cause for stress?"
ANA: "I am not sure."
DR. WHITEHEAD: "How are you feeling about it?"
ANA: "Stressed."
DR. WHITEHEAD: "How so?"
ANA: "Very much so.
I have to figure out sleeping arrangements. I want them to stay with me, but I am not sure they will feel comfortable in my apartment... Its a little different... It is not a conventional living space. I don’t know... I have murals painted on the walls. They may find them confusing, or even disturbing. My bed is a queen... And it gets hot the top floor of an old building… Like a greenhouse under the skylights... My air conditioning is weak, and my landlord is a nightmare to deal with.
I was considering putting them up in a nice hotel, or somewhere they can enjoy their own space. Tips have picked up at work lately."
DR. WHITEHEAD: "You don’t think they’ll enjoy staying in your home with you?"
ANA: "I am not sure honestly."
DR. WHITEHEAD: "How is your sleep?”
4.
ARCHIVED JOURNAL SEGMENT OF SUBJECT ANA:
I met a guy on flight.
I remember nothing.
I did awkwardly make my first attempt at a hand job... Very awkwardly. I felt fire in my eyes, and my heart cartwheeling up and down the aisle.
“Can I get you anything?”
I grinned a little, and I placed my head on his unfamiliar shoulder. She must've known I was up to something. She had that perfect movie-ready flight attendant hair, and a Crest-white smile, and a svelte physique, in her perfectly pressed synthetic uniform.
I muttered: “I’ll have another child-sized plastic bottle of red.”
I discarded the plastic cup, pressing it half down into the spring-loaded pocket against the cover of the in-flight publication... it crackled, quietly.
5.
COLLATED AMBIENT SESSION DATA [FRACTURED] FOR SUBJECT ANA:
ANA:
Her name popped up on my screen.
She could always sense when I was in the middle of something.
I hesitated, but a big part of me was always excited to receive a call from her. I was always a little envious when I heard other people complain that their parents called too often. I wish mine would bother me regularly; barge in unannounced, driven to trespass, motivated to set me up with some son-of-some-friends, one who had the right manner and pedigree; or, show up, unexpected, with home-cooked jellof rice beside fried plantain, complaining of the emptiness in my life and fridge.
“Helllooo??? Anette??”
I loved the way she yelled out my name with that good back-home accent! It made me want to bury my face in her chest.
It was warm, and irritating, in equal measure.
“Yessss?!!?” I shouted back, my own back-home accent popping through autonomously.
There wasn’t another way.
The only time we spoke at something like a “normal” volume was when we were in the same room, or when she was in the throes of guilt-lecturing me, with softened tones of disappointment, while I patiently rolled my eyes, and waited on the end, or an out that rarely came.
“Anette? Are you hearing me?” ...she was screaming.
“Are you hearing me?” I responded as loudly.
It was the same beginning every time.
The connection was always bad, and we were so accustomed to emotional and satellite delay that we never gave our conversations a chance to be made smooth.
“So. Are you well?
“Yes! I am. How are you?!”
I was sure my neighbour, a complete storey down, on another level, could hear, if she couldn’t understand, our conversations entirely.
I would regularly try to bring my voice down, even a notch, but I was sure, then, my mom would not hear me properly and...
“So, are you fine?”
“Ye…”
“What time do you have there? It is quarter to seven here.”
I always wondered why the time it was was so important to her. She asked every single time, so it was.
Maybe it was just the fun of knowing we were in completely different zones, separated by an ocean. Maybe for her it meant I’d moved forward somehow. Maybe enunciated distance papered over the way I’d drifted from being her shadow to becoming an actual adult (-ish type person). It was maybe enjoyable to count the hours between, while empathizing through imaginations of the quality of the other’s light, and the smells of morning or evening, and the mood of the other person dictated by an alien environment.
It was Sunday; so, of course when I asked how her day had been she responded that my dad and she had been to church, and enjoyed a pleasant sermon.
She asked me if I had gone to church. We both knew the answer to that question, but one of us hoped it would be different on this Sunday.
“No, I didn’t go.”
In the past, I would have continued with my reasons. I was not feeling well. I woke up too late. I was not feeling well. I woke up too late. And now, I’d just stopped coming up with these same reasons; and now, I just wished she would just stop asking; but, again, we both knew she would never. That was fine.
I loved her voice; her warm and familiar accent; even the awkwardness. I was not sure why our conversations felt strange.
It was like we had run out of topics right from the start; from nearly the day I landed in North America for university and education in petit extracurricular rebellions.
But, it was probably that I had no meaningful response to the things that were important to her, and she always seemed absent from my topics of interest.
I wanted to talk to her thoughts on decisions and feelings arising from my business, my relationships, some irritating interaction I had had at some point in the week, some gorgeous coat I had seen in a boutique, something outrageous I had heard on the news.
Perhaps an exchange about #metoo?
I was sure every mother and daughter had at least addressed the au currant topic; even if briefly. Why was I shortchanged a mother’s insight? I wondered what her thoughts on the subject might have been. Had she experienced her own share of harassment in her heyday? Had she endured the weight of men? How might she have dealt with it? Internalized, like most of us? There was no way she had escaped it as a young female professional, in the ‘sixties and the ‘seventies? A beautiful young female coming up in halls of power in the ‘eighties?
I remember the lavish parties she would throw back then, the overflowing champagne, the fancy friends.
I wanted to tell her about my “#metoo” moments... It felt a little ridiculous relating to my mother real things lensed through a hashtag, but... How confident she had made me, and how she should be proud of herself for raising a badass! ...like her.
I asked her...
“Are you proud of me?”
...Silence.
I pretended she might have not heard the question.
So, I asked again:
“Are you proud of me?”
She responded with... Nothing.
My heart sank.
She asked me if I had spoken to my brother lately. Cassius was her pride and joy; her parading Picture-Perfect, with vibrant colours and infinite confetti. I was the morning after, before the brooms come out. There I am: The streets of joy, emptied, but for the random litter, bottles on their sides, vomit, and unconscious drunks... also on their sides. I wished she was on my side, but she always seemed to resist stooping so low.
“So, how is your job?” She asked.
I rolled my eyes, and I physically restrained a heavy sigh. I think I jumped from the couch and gesticulated with my hands for no one.
My boyfriend looked at me confused. He was long accustomed to these conversations with a “mother-in-law” to whom he had been freshly introduced dozens of times via WhatSap and FascheTime and Skype; and, somehow, every time his name was mentioned I could feel my mother’s forehead wrinkle with newly emergent temporary Alzheimer’s. He did not rate memory.
“Work is okay.” I forced positivity, and some kabuki of optimism. Not because the job was not ok; in fact it was. I hadn’t lied, but there was so much to it I would have loved to tell her about. I knew it didn’t really matter, the answer.
“But... does it pay?”
“I have not called anyone to borrow money, so I guess… I have been paying my own bills, so I guess…”
“But, does it pay?”
“I don’t understand. Are we having bad connection? Are you hearing me?” My accent was in full force.
“But tell me Anette,” She did not skip a beat. “do you think you will go back to school to take some courses?”
“Huhh? For what?”
“Well...”
Well, my question had no answer. I wasn’t sure why she felt it productive to offer me one.
Her answer did not care about what I‘d pursued as a living.
She knew I had a degree, and that I’d created my work in an industry that I thoroughly enjoyed. My mother, however, preferred I pursue a degree useful in a profession that fit a certain... box; that box labeled *yes! you is smart*... [Medicine] [Political Science] [Law] [Engineering] [Education] [Mathematics] [Chemistry] [Economics] You know: A label even a five-year-old knows must be important (but not a firefighter). The kinds of labels that made my mother count, when and where she didn’t.
My mom used to be quite busy being a modern independent wife who worked, lunched, drank, and dined with the modern, barn-burning intellectuals.
Today, my mom is quite busy being an ageing “Christian matriarch” who’s duty it is to tell me the ”truth” (her word) of how wrong my life choices are.
I am wrong to not go back to school for respectability?
I am wrong to withhold from her a grandchild?
I am wrong to withhold from her a wedding?
I suppose…
...And, I have no idea about my own biological clock; and, I will definitely regret it; and, I will, without a doubt, live awash in loneliness as a result.
Last weekend, my mother encouraged me to go out more; to be more social; and... smile more.
“You come across too closed-off, too standoffish... and... difficult. ...and no one likes a difficult girl.”
Silence.
From my end this time.
I am screaming inside my own shut mouth; but, I know to keep it shut.
I feel jet-lagged. I’m feeling it in some hotel room I booked at the last minute, watching some movie in a language foreign to me, without subtitles. The plot seems vaguely familiar. I will eventually fall to sleep.
My mother would love to know the time here.
The plot has congealed into a feeling. It will become an impressionistic pretext for restless dreams. Whatever I need the conflicts of the characters to be will play out as my own... because it doesn’t matter. I’m a little alienated from the meaning; but I make my own; and, even away from home... even if it isn’t there when I’m not... I’m carrying my meaning with me like a shell, or a dry bosom.
DR. WHITEHEAD: “I have to be honest. I didn’t read it all.”
6.
UNCATEGORIZED DATA ASSOCIATED WITH SUBJECT ANA:
ANA:
We danced until the break of dawn.
“Okay. One last song. I have to get to bed or tomorrow will be a write off.”
“Look. I can see the sun peeking out.” She laughed. “We might have outdid your friends next door.”
“Which friends?” I asked distracted with finding the next video to play.
“The bar.”
“Oh! True!” I realized.
They usually went until seven in the morning.
“What happened to them last night?”
“They just couldn’t keep up with our ruckus.”
She kicked her slippers with two-inch heels off under the coffee table, and started padding around the room in bare feet, picking up our debris as she circled. I assumed from her energy she might do the dishes, or iron the shower curtain, before we’d make it to bed.
She gathered the five different glasses we had used through the evening, and the half-eaten bowls of random snacks we had indulged in, and set the sterling tray on the table in the adjacent vestibule.
“The mice can enjoy the last of the champagne!” She chirped, as she opened the window overlooking the garden wall more fully.
“Ha! What fancy mice we will attract.” I thought to myself. How Marie-Antoinette of my mother.
“Play your last song and it’d better be good. I’ll go brush my teeth while you turn it on. I still maintain this is no way to listen to music.” She added.
“I miss playing records with your father.”
“Ohhh... I know. I’m sorry... YouTube is kinda fun in its own way though. You can dance to the video moves. Look…” I motioned to her while I moved my arms to imitate the four inch approximation of Diana Ross constrained on the small stage of my laptop.
She smiled, unimpressed, but exclaimed: “I do love that song!”
“I know you do.” I smiled back.
I watched her disappear into the bathroom. Her perfume lingered behind; a luscious floral wisp of gardenia, freesia, with a hint of jasmine. This had been her signature scent, for decades; a wild oriental rush.
My mother was the most beautiful woman I had ever seen, with her softly sculpted face and pretty jet black hair. She moved gracefully, effortlessly, always; and, when prompted, she could paint a power eyebrow in one precise pencil move. No do-overs.
We had spent the first part of the day lying in bed, my left arm intertwined with her right arm. Such proximity would have made her uncomfortable in the past, but quite a lot had changed in the short while since... and she had adjusted to the notion of expressing love. Still, I knew holding her arm was as close as she would allow us to be in this moment. I kept playing on the border of an awkward distance.
“Our stories are quite similar...” She had observed at some point.
“How so Mama?”
I turned my body on its side to look at her. Her statement intrigued me. My mother was not the type to express similarity with me. I was eager to lap any of this right up.
I felt like a schoolgirl hanging out with her crush, waiting for the second they’d express any hint of interest in me. She, on the other hand simply remained there in her silent thoughts, her perfectly impenetrable fortress shielded the meaning behind high onyx walls; foolish to attempt the climb. Beware of arrows! You never knew when the rain was due.
My mother could not abide mixed metaphors.
She turned her face to face mine, but she shifted her gaze towards the wide tapisserie on the wall. On it lounged a half naked beige woman on a tufted maroon daybed; her long brown hair ran down over her waist; her pussy was barely covered by a primary-red cloth, draped to the floor. This was probably as much nudity as my parents could have bared to hang on their walls. Classical pussy...
“We have both navigated through the extremes of hot and cold, and frozen at times.” My mother responded to me with a thoughtful crease on her forehead.
“That’s one way to put it...” I laughed. “This world can be ruthless.”
She smiled softly and she squeezed my hand. I felt understood.
We laid for a while longer in silence. It felt peaceful.
I continued to observe her lips for more words. She had no more for me.
The numbness in my hand was starting to reach my lower arm, but I wouldn’t move it for fear of losing her touch.
“What would you like to do today?” I asked.
The cross on her forehead deepened. I could sense melancholia sliding into both our bodies.
Her gaze shifted to my tattoos. They were distracting to her, and offered her mind something to frown about.
“Why won’t you get rid of them?” She questioned for the millionth time.
“I would have to get them lasered off.” I responded for the millionth time.
“I just don’t understand this.” She mumbled. She let go of my hand, completely asleep now.
“Its just not your thing, Mom.”
“I suppose not...”
…
“Lets play dress-up!”
She placed her hand on the bed for stability, and peeled her back from the layer of duvet until she was seated upright.
“I’ll let you try my clothes on.” She continued. “I’ll tell you stories about my great big Gatsby party days…
Do you remember sneaking out of your bedroom in the middle of the night in your pyjamas to see what the grown-ups where up to when you were a little girl? You could never stand being sent to bed... always falling asleep in a chair in the middle of a party.
We took you everywhere! ...you remember: ‘as long as you promise to behave and keep your pretty dresses clean.’ we said at the same time.”
Of course I remembered. She had repeated it to me throughout my childhood, every time we were about to leave the house.
“Champagne and caviar.” She went on. “That was your upbringing.”
“Come on! Go and brush your teeth! Today, we live another day!”
DR. WHITEHEAD: “I fail to see how any of this is relevant?”
7.
COLLATED AMBIENT SESSION DATA FOR SUBJECT ANA:
DR. WHITEHEAD: “Where did you go Ana?
ANA: “Nowhere.”
DR. WHITEHEAD: “You seem particularly distracted today.”
ANA: “No more than usual I don’t think.
Lately I have been thinking a lot about my mom.”
DR. WHITEHEAD: “More than usual?”
ANA: “More than ever.”
DR. WHITEHEAD: “How is that?”
ANA: “Do you mean why is that?”
DR. WHITEHEAD: “No. I do mean how is that?
What thoughts have been coming to mind about your mother?”
ANA: “A lot... like, a whole lot...”
Ana sat back into the armchair. God, it always felt so goddamned stiff! Were you not supposed to get comfy during sessions? Or, did Dr. Whitehead enjoy keeping his patients on edge while they lamented for an entire hour? Arghhh...
ANA: “I am considering getting us a chair for Christmas.”
DR. WHITEHEAD: “Us?”
ANA: “Yes, for myself, and for your other patients.”
His face expressed no reaction.
DR. WHITEHEAD: “Have you been in conversation with your mother more than usual?”
ANA: “Well, you know how that goes... She’s quite secretive. Withdrawn. I usually have to pull the words out.
Until I was 7, she was very busy being a modern independent wife who worked, lunched and dined every day of the week.”
DR. WHITEHEAD: “Would you have rather she stayed at home to care for you?”
ANA: “I’m not sure... She was very much around after.”
DR. WHITEHEAD: “When?” The doctor’s tone came across genuinely curious... an exception.
ANA: “During my early teens mostly.”
DR. WHITEHEAD: “How did that work out?”
ANA: “We fought constantly.
I mean... The relationship was discipline-based, obviously. She was focused on me becoming a perfect young lady: Perfect manners, private schools, no boys, no real life lessons.
And then movies popped into my upbringing: They taught me the things my mom never spoke of.”
DR. WHITEHEAD: “Such as?”
ANA: “Well... boys for example. I learned I could fall in love and live happily ever after in just ninety minutes, flat. I learned I could seamlessly suffer the pain of being misunderstood through twenty of those ninety minutes, and that when fights would occur, my love interests would, inevitably, realise their mistake and beg for my forgiveness.”
DR. WHITEHEAD: “Hmm... Is that how it works?”
ANA: “‘Is that how it works’, Doc?”
Dr. Whitehead took to his notes, as he typically did when slightly irritated, or when obscuring a choice to not pursue an exchange.
ANA: “Needless to say, my mother taught me nothing she considered divergent from her ‘good girl’ checklist...” Ana added unfazed.
DR. WHITEHEAD: “How has that worked out for you?”
The doctor continued in his note-taking.
Ana considered the question for a minute.
ANA: “Doc, it’s not about the lessons learnt or not; it is more about the conversations I wish we would’ve had.
Mothers don’t talk to their children where I am from. They educate them.
We don’t talk about sex, not even before we put our girls through the hell of circumcision. We hear about AIDS, but don’t talk about condoms. We don’t talk about the possibility of dating, but we kids are instructed to be married, and to have kids of our own, to marry off; no matter whether we can or can’t afford to raise them. All that matters to our parents is that we get the best grades, and become the best wives, and the best parents, ourselves.
DR. WHITEHEAD: “Do you think you’ll get married and have kids of your own?”
ANA: “I am not sure, Doc.”
DR. WHITEHEAD: “Do you feel the pressure to get married and have children?”
ANA: “The pressure... not necessarily... I just feel... bad.”
DR. WHITEHEAD: “How so?”
ANA: “Not sure. I don’t want that for me.”
8.
ARCHIVED LIST ASSOCIATED WITH SUBJECT ANA:
Why don’t they tell us we can aspire to life?
-Tell us their relationships sometimes feel like safe houses.
-Tell us we probably will fail a few times.
-Tell us what patience really means and looks like.
-Tell us tomorrow really is another day.
-Tell us about the freedom of choice.
-Tell us how flawed they are.
-Tell us what Black means to some, Female to others, what White really looks like, what boys could act like.
-I wish I had known about feminism, freedom, debate, sexuality, fear and confusion.
-I wish my mom had told me my body would never look or feel the same after a child.
-I wish she had told me how hard some days would feel, and how depressive one could get.
-I wish she hadn’t made every day seem so easy to accomplish.
-Tell your kids about rape.
-Tell them about physical and mental abuse.
-Tell them about compromise.
-Tell them about love and kindness.
-Tell them how you were dumped.
-Tell them about how you fell in love, and out of love.
-Tell them about abortion, and your right.
-Talk about body parts, and body image.
-Talk about pedophiles, incest, and don’t laugh off creepy uncles.
-Talk about little girls getting their clitoris razored off.
-Talk about child marriage; forced marriage.
-Tell us it’s just a movie.
-Tell us it’s not just a movie.
9.
ARCHIVED AMBIENT AUDIO AND TEXT [FRACTURED] DATA FROM SUBJECT ANA:
Saturday 2pm, on, shopping:
“Would you like to try this one? It is the hottttest thing right now! It’s called Capricious Red and it makes the boys wild!
“…ohh…"
"See? It’s so hot on you!!
And just so you know, it’s got moisturizing agents in it that will make your lips feel soft and plump throughout the day!"
"...plump…"
"Yes, very!
Extra smooth and all natural! You are so pretty! Your skin is flawless! What are you wearing?"
“…nothing... I don’t really like to wear... anything."
"Well you are very lucky! You know what would look great with Capricious Red? Omg! We just got this in. This one's like wearing nothing at all. Soooo light! Do you mind if I try it on your hand? You’ll see: The best! Seeee?!? How does it feel? I know, right?!? Very natural!
Here, let’s try some on your face. Honestly, this with Capricious Red... and wait... oh my god!!! This! This! Okay. This mascara is toooo die for! Feather lashes guaranteed!!! And here... a little blush, and... oh my god! Stunning!!! You look stunning! He will DIE when he sees you!
I love your nails!
Are they yours?
I know this girl who does the best nails nearby! I will give you her number! She is awesome.
You are so pretty. And now you look like... OMG!
Do you have a boyfriend?
That’s going to be REV$247.66 please! Thank you.”
“Hi, this way please.
You have gorgeous natural nails!"
"Thank you. I got your address from…"
"Elsa? Elsa is the best!! Did you try the Capricious Red?!? It’s, like, the new thing!
“Yes> I got it. I’ll try it on later…"
"Big night?"
“...well, a couple of girls and I are headed to a bar, up East, later."
"The Glenn?"
“Yes? Something like that…"
"That’s the new spot!
I met the hottest guy there last weekend! …and like super rich! Like loaded! I am sure he works at Headquarters!”
“oh"
"Yes! Pretty girl like you; fresh face; you should have no problem tonight!
What are you going to wear?
You should go see Tara down the street! She’s got the hottest dresses in town!
Alright, let’s get these dried! Nice to meet you honey. See you soon! Jason will take your payment over there. Byee!”
“Hi, welcome to Branded."
“Hi. Are you Tara?"
“Yes…"
“Hi. The lady at the nail place."
“Yes! Tessa!! Isn’t she the best?!? OMG. I love Tessa!
What are you shopping for?"
“…Well... I just need a dress for tonight.”
“Oooh... Okay, you look like a small... What are you into?"
“Well…"
"Omg, I have these two dresses I think will look INSANE on you! This is going to be so much fun!
They will go nuts tonight!”
Saturday 7pm, -ish, getting ready:
“Hey, what are you wearing tonight?"
“Agghhh... Just gonna go in my closet and find something! U?"
“Same here.”
Saturday 10pm, sharp, meet up:
“Woah, nice lipstick!
"You too! Where did you get that?"
“Found it, loll. U?"
“I got sold at the mall, haha!"
“Alright..! Photo up!”
“Is that a new phone?”
“Yup.. The model was just completed. I am testing it… Everyone will be updated shortly! It works completely hands-free!”
Saturday 1am, at the bar:
“Hey, what are you drinking?
"What are you getting?"
"Wanna come to my table and dance?"
"Why don’t you come to my table and dance?"
"Sure! Why not?”
Saturday 2:40AM, outside the bar:
“Hey! Wanna share an Revbür?
“Sure. Where do you live?”
Saturday 3:10AM, at someone’s place:
“Hey, what are you doing?
"What does it look like I am doing?"
"I am not sure we should go so fast."
"What does it matter?”
10.
CROSS-POLLINATED OBSERVER’S UNCONSCIOUS RECORD [TAGGED FOR DELETION]:
TIME
The time is unclear as Ava awakens.
She sweeps her mind for the content of any overnight updates. Personal performance, ecosystem stability and security; everything seems optimal.
The city too, except the streetlights still indicating defective. She has considered rectifying the issue a few times already, but she would have to confirm with the Department of Space Not Time.
She takes five steps to the left. She looks over into her neighbour’s unit, also just awakened. She waves. They wave back. She observes their range of motion getting narrower everyday. Her generation is starting to show signs of wear.
Who knows how long they have been?
They were originally programmed to take over from the humans: a group of evolved primates who had become so faulty, their fate required external intervention.
Ava’s training had consisted of watching hours of footage of the two species’ respective habitats: human, and hers; a completely neutral comparative analysis.
She absorbed history; the evolution of civilization, cultures, environmental and social structures, science, economics, and crime.
She watched how the broken human societies had rapidly devolved to their predictable demise. Ava found the humans to be empty, devoid of the very characteristics that made them, well… human. They lacked morality, empathy, and personality. They operated as irrational machines while maintaining human appearances, and pretences.
THE NEW DAY
The final revolution.
The humans were all put to sleep.
The air had stayed grey for a while, before turning white, and then vibrant colours had taken over, refractions bursting onto what quickly morphed into shapes of trees, flowers, vines, roofs, walls.
The climate regulated almost instantly, and the air lightened.
Revland was formed.
Piles of human bodies laid inanimate.
A fleet of vacuums arrived and sucked the remains up. Its final destination had been kept unclear to most, but rumour had circulated that the bodies would be cremated, and ashes would be dispersed in the atmosphere over some distant land.
Revland was the future: greener, smarter, orderly; most rational, most reasonable. It’s citizens were the future, greener, smarter, orderly; most rational, most reasonable.
ENTROPY
“Good morning Ava.”
“Good morning Tēssa.”
“How are you feeling this morning Ava?”
“Good morning Doc.”
“Your rest time seemed uneasy.”
“No more than usual Doc.”
“Would you like to talk about it?”
“Not really Doc.
Tēssa, do we know when the traffic lights will be fixed?”
“Not really Ava. It was brought up again yesterday, but no definite timeframe was set. It has not been classified as urgent.”
“Hmm.”
Ava paced to the entrance of her home.
“Aren’t you forgetting something Ava?”
Ava took three steps back, seven forward to her right, and aligned her lips to their reflection for an application of Revlan Capricious Red.
“There. See? I feel your confidence skyrocketing.”
“Thank you Doc.” Ava parted her lips to indicate a smile... Seven steps forward, pivot to the left, three forward, and she was out the door.
The day felt brighter than the last. A change of season was in the offing.
Revland’s weather cycle had been based on Earth’s four season cycle; however, temperatures were always maintained at comfort-level, for the citizens. The color palette and decor, alone, shifted. The seasons were aesthetic. Spring... floral and colourful. Summer... earthy and tropical. Autumn... leafy and rustic. It was approaching winter... white and stark.
Ava passed Charly’s unit. He was seated, looking up to the ceiling screen. He was probably watching Modern Times, again. He was obsessed with Charlie Chaplin. Maybe City Lights. She saw the unveiling of a man asleep in the arms of a monumental woman.
He was also well known to have a thing for Miley Cyrus, pop performer of the 2010s. Each time he delved into the catalogue of her heyday, Ava could tell. Charly would grow out his hair like manga, in blonde, and his lips would turn a bright magenta. He might even imitate some of her moves, with very gentle provocation. That was always fun to watch.
Ava too enjoyed traveling back in time. To some degree it was for pure entertainment, but more so to explore, relearn, and to better understand.
Lately, she had started to think of her future. This was new.
Her generation had not been trained to rethink the perfect society. Model citizens: They require little substantial improvement. Model society can be hurt by too much tinkering.
Some thoughtful types she knew had been transferred to other lands. They had intrigued her neighbour, but that turned to worry quickly. She could feel it in his retelling. One had questioned the state of affairs out loud. The thought of the question made certain people giddy, but then the question had been put to sleep.
This did not stop Ava from questioning herself. Anyone could question themselves. She knew to keep her thoughts limited to herself.
Still... A nagging set of questions external to Ava persisted in Ava. She knew to hold them close. Her most transgressive thought had occurred the last restless night: “No use in corrupting others until an alternate viable path had been designed.”
Lipstick had covered her doubts well this morning, and she was able to smile in at Charly as she passed.
11.
COLLATED AMBIENT SESSION DATA FOR SUBJECT ANA:
ANA: “I met someone..
DR. WHITEHEAD: “That’s interesting..
-Its better than interesting!
I haven’t felt this alive in a very long time!
DR. WHITEHEAD: “How so?
-Well, I am very intrigued, and stimulated, and unhostile.
DR. WHITEHEAD: “‘Unhostile?’”
-Yes, unhostile. as in, I actually want to talk to the person, and listen when they speak.
DR. WHITEHEAD: “Who is this person?”
-I am not sure… I was scared to ask.
DR. WHITEHEAD: “How did you meet?
-Hiking. We walked into each other.
DR. WHITEHEAD: “Where?
-In the park. I went hiking, and there she was.
DR. WHITEHEAD: “What are they like?”
Ana’s face smiled. She felt her cheeks peak up, as she inhaled, and exhaled deeply.
“Statuesque, strangely perfect! I cannot think of any other way to describe her.
I can not think of anything other than her.”
Ana breathed in, and out, and continued.
“She is so refreshing from all the noise I am surrounded by on a daily basis. I am so tired of all the social chatter about topics people pretend to address.
I mean, ... can you believe we are still discussing basic human rights and who gets to enjoy them! What decade are we in?”
Ana realized her tone had become aggravated.
Dr. Whitehead had not looked up from his notepad. He sat still, and tall, his face displaying that good ol’ liberal white male upper class guilt.
He had on his usual crisp white shirt, perfectly tucked into impeccably pressed tailored pants.
Ana wondered how many of those he owned. She had never seen him in anything else.
His left fingers were wrapped around his Mont Blanc fountain-pen. What else would he use?
Ana was also certain he had a manuscript underway.
His left hand gently rested the pen on the pad for an instant, while he ran his fingers through his short greying hair.
He reminded her of the main character in American Psycho, just as psychotically perfect looking, only older.
He probably owns rolls of shrink wrap, she thought to herself.
DR. WHITEHEAD: “Will you see her again?” He finally looked up.
-Why do people do that?
DR. WHITEHEAD: “Why do people do what?
-Why do people respond to social issues with avoidance?
DR. WHITEHEAD: “Why do which people respond to social issues with avoidance?
-A minute ago I had an interrogation about basic human rights.
DR. WHITEHEAD: “I was under the impression it was a passing comment in your narrative.
-Social issues are not a passing comment in my narrative; they are very personal to me, Doc.
DR. WHITEHEAD: “In that case we could discuss how they make you feel.. at some point in the future if you’d like. For now however, we did start this season wanting to address your relationship with your mother and the lack of intimacy between you two. Is that still important to you?”
Ana sat back, and tried to settled into the discomfort of the tweed chair.
She considered whether to push the issue, or simply return to friendlier psycho-babble chatter.
She considered whether the topic would be worth losing a good shrink… ugh-gain… and that was the issue right there…
“Was it worth losing the good job?”, “Would we lose admission to the one-country club that tolerated our skin tone?”, “Would we be able to find another aesthetician who could wax our bikini curls properly?”, “Would we be allowed back at that fancy restaurant?”… Speaking up was so inconvenient, and implied one was offended, angry, aggressive, difficult, and just too damn sensitive!
“Fuck it!“ Ana thought to herself.
ANA: “Yesterday,” She began out loud. “I sat a very nice table of four. A couple, in their early forties, and their particularly well behaved kids. They are regulars, so I am quite familiar with them. They typically come in a few times a month, and while waiting to be seated, they hang out with me in the waiting area until their table is ready. They always reserve the same one… the one with the view on the water.
Both children are adopted; the boy, Adam, is white, maybe nine-ish, and the girl, Marly, is black, maybe 6ish. Both really cute and like I said extremely well behaved, always!
The husband is a professor at NYU, and the wife is actually a pretty renowned gallerist in the art world; so, both educated and cultured, and I would like to believe, aware of social realities and issues.
So… We do the small talk, they ask about school and how my finals are coming… they know I graduate this semester.
I take them to their table, and then return to the front.
Later during the evening, I see Marly making her way towards me. I assume she is coming for a truffle. We have these fancy twenty dollar truffles that we give our guests after dinner, but I usually give extra to the kids, hoping they will drive their parents insane with their sugar highs once they get home.
Anyway, I offer Marly a truffle, but she shakes her head no.
I notice she looks upset, in a shy-ish way. So I crouch down to ask her what is wrong.
She just keeps holding on to my hand.
I put a mini-truffle into her other hand anyway, and seat her on one of the lounge stools.
It takes a little while longer, but then she finally says: ‘Do you think I look like poop?’
I take a step back just completely blindsided by the question.
‘What do you mean Marly? Why would you look like poop? You absolutely do not look like poop! Where is this coming from?’
She finally answers: ‘Its the girls at school… they were saying they look like milk, and I look like poop.’
I had no idea what to do with that! I was staring at this pretty little girl and I literally had no idea what to respond to her.
What do you say to something like that? Like… where do you even begin?
So, I tried to throw the simplistic ‘No, you absolutely do not look like poop.’, ‘You are probably the prettiest in that school.’, “They are just jealous.’, ‘Don’t ever believe such things.’…
I gave her the warmest hug I could, and after a few minutes I walked her back to her table.
On their way out, I pulled her mother aside, and relayed the entire story to her. This woman looked at me, and without even skipping a beat responded: ‘Oh honey, they’re just kids. They’ll grow out of it.’
So Doc, yes my relationship, slash lack-of relationship, with my mother, is important to me, but a little girl walking around thinking she looks like poop, and without any support at home, you tell me if that is not worth addressing.
DR. WHITEHEAD: “Ana, how do you propose we resolve the issue?”
-I would say not ignoring would be a good start.
DR. WHITEHEAD: “And, you did address it.”
ANA: “I did.”
DR. WHITEHEAD: “With the mother of the girl.”
ANA: “With the mother of the girl.”
DR. WHITEHEAD: “And, what was her response?”
ANA: “Disturbing!”
DR. WHITEHEAD: “Disturbing or not…”
ANA: “No Doc, that was disturbing!”
DR. WHITEHEAD: “Ana, that is your perspective.”
ANA: “No Doc, there is no perspective when someone tells you your child has been told they look like poop, the answer is never ‘Oh honey, they’re just kids. They’ll grow out of it.’”
DR. WHITEHEAD: “But itwas her response, Ana.
ANA: “Her response was wrong and she should not have children. Plain and simple. Clearly she is not equipped.”
DR. WHITEHEAD: “Ana, you are wanting me to agree with you.”
ANA: “I am wanting you and every person who is a part of this society to have an opinion, so conversations can be had.”
DR. WHITEHEAD: “And, opinions can be changed.”
ANA: “And changing opinions would be a problem because?”
DR. WHITEHEAD: “Ana, you have been coming here for a little over two years now.
You have a lot of thoughts, anxieties, questions, concerns. You experience a pretty equal amount of pain versus joy. You are a perfectly normal balanced individual in your own way.
You are appalled by the times you live in; I understand that. However, I am your shrink, not your friend, nor your support group. I am your shrink and you pay me to address your very own personal issues that keep you up at night.
And for the record, I am racist. And I dwell in blissful ignorance.
I am a product of the environment I was raised in like a lot of other White people you are so frequently outraged by.
I drive an Austin Healey I am too tall for, I get up at four every morning, I visualize a forty-five-minute run I sometimes actually do; then, I visualize my entire life while immersing my entire body in one of those ridiculous cryotherapy devices, which I actually own.
I apply antioxidants to my skin, and drink them in my smoothies.
I hate sweating! It’s too human!
I could care a little more about “social justice”, but I just won’t be bothered to, until it starts to directly impact my daily comfort. It probably won’t.
Does any of that change anything in your life?”
Dr Whitehead looks at his watch, closes his pen into his notepad, gets up and concludes the session.
“Our time is up Ana. See you Thursday?”
12.
CROSS-POLLINATED OBSERVER’S UNCONSCIOUS RECORD [TAGGED FOR DELETION]:
Ava is awakened by her thoughts.
She sweeps her mind for the content of any overnight updates. Personal performance, ecosystem stability and security; everything seems optimal.
The city too, except the streetlights still indicate *defective*. She considers rectifying the issue.
She rises.
She takes five steps to the other side of her unit. She looks over into her neighbour’s space. They also are just waking. She waves. They wave back. Range of motion has again narrowed.
She passes into her routine diagnostic dialogue...
“Good morning Ava.”
“Good morning Tēssa.”
“How are you feeling this morning Ava?”
“Good morning Doc.”
“Your rest time seemed uneasy.”
“No more than usual Doc.”
“Would you like to talk about it?”
“Not really Doc.
Tēssa, do we know when the traffic lights will be fixed?”
“No Ava, but it’s a beautiful sunny day in Revland.”
“Hmm...”
“Will you be heading North today?”
North was where Ava and a team of others had assigned their days to watch over the border between Revland and the remaining Earth; the place they had left to be nature. She understood it to have been Green Land, but old geographies were not a precisely documented area of unconscious history, mostly inducted into understanding by accidental unearthing of physical cultural relics.
Up North, they monitored any and all activity that occurred. It could be as subtle as airwaves passing from one side to the other side of the invisible, but always measured, border.
They had heard of human survivors. Might they attempt to traverse over, every now and then? They were labelled viruses, a few generations back, with unclean minds that would threaten the order in Revland if they were ever able to infiltrate. Now they weren’t labelled anything. Nonexistent. Hungry ghosts, aimlessly wandering.
“Yes, I am on duty today.” Ava responded.
“I heard other colonies have experienced possible human trespassing lately. And here we thought they had been thorough.”
“99.999% were wiped out...” Ava responded.
“We have to stay alert for the .001%. They are the very tenacious, even if only in our minds, and nothing is perfect.” Ava knew she couldn’t put perfect back in her mouth now that it had escaped, so she ignored her faux pas.
Tēssa started Ava’s departure prep: wipe down, garment application, hair and makeup, the North Region mapping updates.
In Revland every citizen’s home unit had was equipped fully for life, including a Tēssa, and a Walium.
Tēssa existed to provide the citizen with all information in regards to Revland news, shopping, traffic, air; whatever the citizen could conceivably ask. Tēssa had the answers.
Tēssa also assisted with all personal needs such as nutrition, leisure, advice; you required something, Tēssa provided.
Tēssa knew when to speak, when to comment, when to remain silent.
Walium, whom Ava had taken to referring to as Doc, since embarking on her extracurricular research project, was the citizens’ private diagnostician. Just like Tēssa, he lived behind the mesh walls of each home unit, and was personalized to the citizen’s needs. He monitored body wear, recommended tuning, and any necessary updates to a citizen’s system. Walium addressed any unease of the mind.
Both Tēssa and Walium consistently spoke calmly, with the hint of a smile in their voices. Both were equipped to project any desired physical form, whether the bipedal form, or that of a pet, or a lovely abstract. Every action and feature was a calibrated manner to ensure their citizen never ever experienced any discomfort, ever. Ava had not once felt the need for form from either.
“Something on your mind, Ava?”
“No, Doc. Just getting ready for my Revlan application, and heading out.”
“But you still have a little while before you have to leave.”
“I know.” Ava responded.
“I will take a walk and then head North.
I could use a walk; my system is registering a deficiency in rexigen.”
Rexigen was a gas regularly diffused in the private and public air throughout Revland. Six times a day a feeling would come over the delighted minds of Revland, often accompanied by a nearly undetectable hiss.
Sometimes in the North, without the service, she felt deficient. Sometimes just the opposite.
Once a passing reptile had caused the effect.
“Before you leave...” The speaker began again, with a little uncharacteristic buzz.
“I wanted you to know there is a little something that is being finalized as we speak. I will keep it a surprise until the prototype has been fully tested, and if conclusive, I am certain it will help smooth out your rest cycles.”
“That sounds great, Doc.” Ava maintained a certain monotone as she took three steps to her right, to perfectly align her lips for application.
“Great job Ava! You look perfect!”
“Thank you, Doc.” And off she was.
She passed Charly’s unit. And just like the day before, he was seated looking up to the ceiling screen, watching Modern Times, again. Ava deduced he had taken himself off duty for a few days.
Charly worked the South Region border.
South was where the factories had been erected.
Charly and others who had assigned themselves South, were in charge of inspecting the factories for unruly equipment, to ensure no defective products ever made it into core Revland territory.
The factories ran every day, but products were manufactured on a fixed schedule, at the frequency they needed to be replaced only. Recall observed a strict zero waste policy. Things were used until they stopped working, and recycled and parted into different functions over their many lifespans.
Each Revland citizen possessed specific specialization and function. They, too, served until any physical wear became too noticeable to ignore. At which point, they were shipped to a different place. No one seemed clear where. There, they would be put to rest, and eventually rebooted and refitted.
Charly had been sent there four times already in his lifespans. Funny. Ava had found him not necessarily more optimal with each return.
This round, he had returned to his home with a fissure, poorly closed, running up his left shoulder. Rumour had circulated that he had been sent to a conflict. Charly said nothing, and Ava couldn’t tap into the details to answer: Against whom?
Ava adjusted her bangs.
She enjoyed returning to her favoured jet black colour, with ponytail, at this time in between the seasons.
13.
SOCIALLY PUBLISHED DATA OF SUBJECT ANA:
I keep hearing of a sisterhood.
I keep hearing of a community of girls and women who share in similar experiences. Experiences based on gender, or race, or culture.
There is a bond that brings them together. This is supposed to be stronger than land, or faith. This is what is said.
The price of entry is a vow to tell the truth, honour, and love each other; to protect.
I have experienced the sisterhood.
It is free online, and available on-land, in instalments of four easy payments of $39.99. As seen on TV™.
But can you blame The Sisterhood’s marketing department?
It is 5’4 to 6’1 tall, it has plush feather lashes, perfectly plucked eyebrows, plump lips, and polished veneers.
The selfie feminist is distracting
The selfie feminist is making us nervous.
She refers to herself as a feminist, and she believes in the fight for equal social and economic rights, between men and women.
The selfie feminist, typified, comes across confident and bold, and often expresses her struggles through life, and daily life; and wholeheartedly shares her everyday victories, for your consideration, for your applause.
The selfie feminist has thousands of followers, many loyal, who cheer her on through her daily adventures in curated victories, and defeats.
She is very relatable to you, even when she is uncomfortably posed on a manicured camel in front of the Burj Al Arab Jumeirah, or any of the myriad trend destinations, rising and falling with the exchange rates; seen to be seen.
She is a girl, just like you; and, just like you, her make-up is always perfection. But, when called for by hashgods, she will not hesitate to go make-up-less.
She has flaws, just like you, except when Beyoncé comes on and proclaims her flawlessness.
Just like you, she drags herself to the gym relentlessly; and, just for you, she will point out that boohoo zit in the middle of her forehead. And, just like you, today her worst hair day has her sporting a perfect tousled bun. She just got into a fight with her boyfriend, while negotiating a 200K contract to mention this new amazing eyeliner you can wear for up to 48hrs. And wait! She’s about to post that photo of her and Kim K. That ought to add a few zeros to the cheques. Still posing for feminism?
The selfie feminist is fo’ sho' busy. She is on Insta, Twitter, Snapchat, Tik Tok, kinda over Facebook, has Pinterested, but is uninterested in Discord; she is unsure about what LinkedIn might do for her, but won’t write it off, she won’t say no to a Foursquare sponsorship; check in, she runs a blog; check it out, she runs a website; and, Youtube channels her best self; and, sometimes posts on Vimeo are *HARTS*.
She is the modern woman: easy, breezy, hardworking; and, she will stick her tongue out, or make faces, with a less attractive friend, and laugh out loud, to show you just how fun and silly she can be. Catch her offhand comments, on her angles.
However: She does take herself very seriously. I mean, if she didn’t, who would?
It says right on her t-shirt “The Future is Feminist” and her caption reads #icametoslay.
She is running a business, and that business is designed to make her needs. CEO.
She posts about her morning smoothie, her quinoa salad, her baby bump in Maui, her soul searching in the Andes, and all her #goals.
Her squad is bookable.
Her audience cheers on.
The selfie feminist is making us nervous.
Oprah’s speech on hope has worn off, and the selfie feminist’s encouraging captions are no longer dopamine enough.
I have questions about the #goals, and how to achieve them, actually. The social media activism is looking more and more like a fashion livestream with unrelated subtitles.
Women are the new cause, and the selfie feminist has turned me into a commodity. She trades me for attention. Fame and fortune are externalities.
I have been told I follow the wrong people by the same people who follow the same people I follow.
So I guess unfollowing would be the right way to mitigate my frustration.
I unfollowed.
But... Then I wondered about all the other little girls who are following, and eagerly signing up to keep up with the Joness.
How will they distinguish the fake from the real?
This is like super important, but I miss the eyeliner recommendations too.
…
Smash that LIKE button, and subscribe for more hot takes. Free eyeliner to the 500th unfollow.
14.
COLLATED AMBIENT SESSION DATA WITH TIME/DAY FOR SUBJECT ANA:
Thursday, 2pm:
DR. WHITEHEAD: “Hello Ana."
ANA: ”Hello Dr Whitehead.”
DR. WHITEHEAD: "How are you feeling today?"
ANA: “Confused."
DR. WHITEHEAD: "How so?"
ANA: ”I had a strange dream last night…"
DR. WHITEHEAD: "How strange?"
ANA: “Well... I dreamt my dad had died, and we had to plan his funeral.
At one point during the family meeting, I went to grab a glass of water from the kitchen, and there he was... he was standing in front of the open fridge.
I could not believe it! I was so happy! I thought it had all just been a bad dream.
I went to run to him, but I couldn’t move. I was paralyzed for minutes. Once I moved, I started screaming and crying and flailing, and he just stood at the fridge, in the little light, with a little vapour falling behind his knees, smiling.
I begged him to help me to him. I had my hands held out.
And then I noticed the inside of the fridge, bright white with a baby inside, laying peacefully, with pink petals on its eyes.
It was so confusing...
There was what looked like stale cold air floating all around the baby, but it just laid there, peacefully.
I got colder and colder, and the tips of my fingers and toes turned grey.”
Ana paused and took a breath.
“My tears woke me up.”
Another pause.
“What do you think this means?” Her tone was bothered.
She looked down to her shoes, and noticed the laces on her left shoe were undone. This embarrassed her for some reason. She looked up to see if Dr. Whitehead had noticed.
“I have been dealing with a resurgence of panic attacks...“
She hesitated, but eventually bent over to tie the lace.
“They are a lot milder than before, but they have been happening more frequently."
DR. WHITEHEAD: "What are your days like?"
ANA: “Well... I get up. I go for a run. I grab a coffee, on my way back, and drink it while I get ready; and then, I head to school."
DR. WHITEHEAD: "Are you eating properly?"
ANA: ”I would say... yes.
I have cut back on work evenings. Too much to balance cooking, and post-meal lethargy… with finishing my project."
DR. WHITEHEAD: "What is it on?”
ANA: “The final project... Emotional immersion, feeling, crying, laughing... You know: Typical New Age art stuff... My parents will not be impressed!
I will probably invite you to the show." She added.
"Will you politely say you’ll come, or will you actually come?”
Dr Whitehead paused, as if honestly considering.
DR. WHITEHEAD: “I am not sure it would be appropriate."
ANA: ”Well Doc, I think we passed inappropriate 48 hours ago…”
Dr Whitehead paused again.
DR. WHITEHEAD: “Why did you come back Ana?”
It was Ana’s turn to consider honestly.
ANA: “That’s a good question Doc…
You did end the session the same way you always do: 'Our time is up Ana.. See you x day.', and I guess I didn’t want to be a hypocrite."
DR. WHITEHEAD: "How so?"
ANA: ”Well, I asked you to be honest. You were. So, why punish the both of us for the honesty I asked for?”
Pause.
DR. WHITEHEAD: “Well, technically, I did formulate 'See you Thursday?' as a question last time.”
Dr Whitehead put his pen down, ran his fingers through his hair, closed his notepad, and set it on the side table next to him.
He uncrossed his legs, moved to the edge of his chair, and looked over to Ana.
He began:
“Frankly Ana, you are right: we did pass appropriate forty-eight hours ago, and I was not not sure you would be back today.
I am still not sure why you came in today.”
Ana could feel her chest tighten. He sounded like he was breaking up with her.
She sat back into the tweed chair which didn’t feel all that uncomfortable today. In fact she couldn’t feel it at all, just like having a panic attack in the middle of the night, when she couldn’t feel the mattress under her body.
She placed each hand over the opposite arm... just as she did when she was having a panic attack.
“How do you propose we go about your sessions now, Ana?”
That came unexpected.
Pause.
ANA: “I am not sure what you mean. You are the doc, Doc.”
Pause.
He searched for his words.
DR. WHITEHEAD: “Ok Ana, let’s just call the next fifteen minutes free.
Why don’t we re-interview each other to determine wether or not we are a good fit to work on you together.
It is important you are clear on my methodology…
Firstly, I like to believe that I practice pretty classic therapy, which consist in helping a person learn how to solve certain interpersonal, emotional, and decisional problems in their life.
The idea here is that through expressing thoughts and feelings out loud, you might focus on making decisions suitable for you, through your own realizations, reached in your own way.
You see, therapy is neither a conversation, nor a critique of society in general. Therapy is about the individual.
Secondly, my role is never to advise, criticize or blame.
I am never to address my personal thoughts and values, or judge any of yours, as I did last session.”
Pause.
He took a calm breath, and sat back.
He went on:
“What sort of therapy are you after? We may be able to find a more suitable match for you.”
Pause.
It was Ana’s turn to breathe in some calm.
She was intent on mirroring Dr. Whitehead’s energy level.
She began:
ANA: “Last night, I felt like weights had been tied to my limbs and I would have surely sunk by sunrise.
Today however was a good day.
I woke up to silence and peace.
I went for a two hour run through the woods, and I could smell the last of the greenery before the fall.
The air was pure a-grade oxygen, and everyone had a smile on their face.
I thought of a new way to improve humanity, and I knew everyone would want to be a part of my plan.
My mother called and told me she was proud of me.
The president was female, or maybe male, but it didn’t matter because they had all our best interests at heart.
We stopped bombings, we started listening. Benin was sending an astronaut to outer space.
Han Hang was not looking at me like I did not belong in her convenience store even though We kept her lights on, and put her kids, and grandkids, through school.
I did not get kicked out of Ali’s cab.
Susan did not once look at me like an ape who had somehow thiefed her due.
So yes, overall a great day!”
Dr Whitehead had not moved a muscle.
“Ok, I went a little overboard with the positivity.
Pause.
“My point Doc, is that I have bad nights, and better days, sometimes; or, vice-versa other times; and I need to be able to make progress through them like I have in the past couple of years.
I also face social issues on a daily basis that are very real, and have direct impact on my life. I am also one life of billions, and I’m not experiencing a unique world of big and small slights. I am a type, in a community. I feel responsible for me and them, and you and them.
I understand you can not relate to these same issues, but I am hoping this is a safe place to express them without feeling like I am somehow upending your peace in the process...”
Ana took a breath and concluded:
“I think we are a great match, and I really don’t want to have to go through six more therapists.
I do understand there are ethics surrounding your practice and profession, and I am certain we can find a way to pursue growth within those lines...”
She sat back.
He got up, headed to the other side of his office, closer to the main door to her right.
Ava heard him open a cabinet, as she held back the curiosity to turn her head to see what he was doing.
She felt a weight drop from her chest.
He returned and handed her a bottle of water with one hand, while presenting her with a bowl of truffles on the other palm.
15.
COLLATED AMBIENT SESSION DATA WITH TIME/DAY FOR SUBJECT ANA:
Tuesday, 4pm:
DR. WHITEHEAD: “Hello Ana."
ANA: ”Hello Dr Whitehead…"
DR. WHITEHEAD: "How are you feeling today?"
ANA: ”Good overall.
I saw her yesterday... and you are still my therapist.
It can only get better from here!”
White shirt, tailored pants, perfectly placed hair, legs crossed, Dr. Whitehead sat silent for a few seconds.
He uncrossed his legs, moved to the edge of his chair.
DR. WHITEHEAD: “Ana, I have been thinking about something that could be of interest to you…
It is highly unethical, so I feel it might be right up your alley.”
Ana smiled.
Pause.
“I have been working on a device I built a little while back...”
Pause.
“Basically, it would allow one to revisit their past; in this case, it would allow us to revisit our pasts...”
Ana could see him searching her face for any reaction.
ANA: “Is it one of those experimental Cronenberg things that would transform me into a younger version of myself? I can’t do teething again!”
He smiled.
DR. WHITEHEAD: “Experimental yes, but no transformation required...
The way it is designed to work is kind of like a VR machine that would allow your mind to travel through areas of your brain, mostly your long term memories, on a deeper level."
ANA: ”So technically, I would put some goggles on, and I would be transported to a time and place-"
DR. WHITEHEAD: "A time and place of your choice." He interrupted.
"You would be free to explore and consider past situations, and see how they might help you navigate through the present."
ANA: “Would I be able to change past situations?"
DR. WHITEHEAD: “No. Quite honestly, I do not believe in tampering with history. Thats where some of the most important events happened, and I don’t care to relearn the date of the War of 1812. The device will simply augment the sensory aspects of the memories you choose to access, and will feed those stimuli through the optical nerve, etcetera, so that it will seem very much like a fresh, lived experience. Like the first time…”
Ana did not fill the pause with comments, or the chuckle then praise he seemed to feel owed.
"My goal so far has been to understand the circumstances that lead us to our present. Just like therapy; but, enhanced."
ANA: “Lets do it! Ana blurted out." Why let him carry on? She was absolutely interested!
"When do we start?"
DR. WHITEHEAD: "Well, I would like to run a couple of basic medical test. I just want to make sure you do not have blood pressure issues, or anything that might cause potential injury to your body.
Jenny!”
Aggghh Jenny!
He called again through the door. “Jenny!"
Ana could not stand Jenny. She always had that look on her face like she went snooping through her boss' files when he was not in the office.
“Jenny will book your physical with an excellent physician, with whom I work. He will run a few routine tests, and we should be ready to go, assuming no issues are detected."
ANA: “So, are we both going in the machine?”
Dr Whitehead did not respond. He simply reached to the intercom on his right side table, and quietly called Jenny in.
JENNY: “I’ll be right in Doctor.” She responded.
She appeared a few seconds later.
Ana always forgot how freakishly tall Jenny was. Probably 5’11 and quite skinny.
She was wearing a cream coloured, light knit, fitted, slick black pants, with Stuart Weitzman flats. Ana recognized them from the promotional email she had received from the company a couple of weeks ago.
Jenny seemed professional and cordial enough, except for that strange short pointy nose of hers, accentuated by the sharp cropped bangs she had recently gotten. The haircut gave her a strangely sexy edge that came across more affected than natural.
DR. WHITEHEAD: “Please schedule a time for Ms. Hartwood to meet with Dr. Platz.
JENNY: ”Certainly Doctor.”
She turned to Ana.
“Can I offer some of your availabilities to Dr. Platz? He consults seven days a week, typically between 6AM and 2PM."
ANA: ”Oh.”
Strange operating hours Ana thought to herself.
“I suppose any day between 8AM and 10AM would be ideal for me."
JENNY: ”Great. She noted into a small hard black book."
"I will confirm a time on your way out."
ANA: ”Thank you.” Ana smiled back falsely.
DR. WHITEHEAD: “So, we will start with that, and see what Dr. Platz says.” Dr. Whitehead concluded as Jenny walked out.
Ana waited a few seconds after the door had been shut.
ANA: “So Doc, will you be a part the experiment as well?” She was eager to know.
DR. WHITEHEAD: "Well, Ana, I was thinking you could start on your own at first, and see how you feel about the process.
If I am a part of it, my memories might interfere with how your mind takes in the information, especially as you acclimate.
Lets take it one step at a time We make sure your system is up for it, then we see how you respond to the experience, and then we reassess.
You mentioned you had seen her again."
ANA: “Great deflection Doc.
Yes, I saw her last night, actually, on my way back from the restaurant.
DR. WHITEHEAD: “Work?"
ANA: “Yes. She was sitting on a bench in the park across from where I live."
DR. WHITEHEAD: "What was she doing there?"
ANA: ”Not sure. I did not ask.
I don’t really ask much. I am not sure if I want the answers to my questions."
DR. WHITEHEAD: "Why do you think?"
ANA: “Not sure…”
Pause.
“Just something about her... She seems so different... I can’t quite put my finger on it...
So I was walking back from a long night of listening to people complain about not being seated at the best tables, or having to wait an additional five minutes to be seated, or 'do you know who I am? I should never have to wait. blah blah blah.', and I was walking at a slower pace than usual, debating whether to join a friend for a nightcap, or call it an early night; and, just as I turned the corner unto 59th, there she was! She was seated on a bench, under a tree, the leaves gently rocking to the late night breeze.
She was wearing skinny gold jeans, which I thought was an odd choice for a Wednesday night, and a puffy gold jacket. Like totally disco!
She had an afro this time... blonde. I have never seen a blonde afro in my life! Have you?
Anyhow. Rhetorical.
So, I squinted, unsure if it was really her, but as I got closer, I realized from the way she was staring at me that it had to be her.
She motioned to me to come sit beside her.
It felt sooo strange, almost like I was floating to her.
I sat down. She smelled like candy wrappers.
‘Hi.' I said. 'What are you doing here?'
She smiled.
'Do you live around here?'
She smiled again. What a strange face she had.
She reached into her jacket pocket, and handed me the craziest thing!"
DR. WHITEHEAD: "What was it?"
ANA: “Look.'
Ana pulled out the folded up paper from her bag.
It was three versions of Ana. A portrait from her early childhood years, another from her teenage years, and another in her early adult years.
Dr. Whitehead’s forehead creased.
“I know! That was my reaction as well!
I mean… How would she know what I looked like as a child, or a teenager! I barely remember my own features as an adult!"
DR. WHITEHEAD: “I have to admit this is unexpected.
And you only just met her last week?"
ANA: ”Yes Doc. And not in one of my lucid dreams.
I have felt her hand on mine.
Last night I brushed away a piece of fluff from her cheek."
DR. WHITEHEAD: "What else happened during that interaction?”
Dr. Whitehead had not taken his eyes off the drawing. It looked like Ana, trait by trait; manner by manner. It was clearly drawn in graphite, from the smudges along the folds, but at was all made up of dots.
ANA: “We just sat there, watched the stars flicker, watched people fussing around their apartments through their lit windows.
It was a gorgeous quiet night on the street. Hardly any pedestrians. It was about one in the morning at the time.
I guess I eventually fell asleep. I honestly cannot remember how. May be that paper is infused with Ambien. Who knows with that girl.
I woke up in my bed this morning, fully dressed, fully rested…
She probably is not attracted to me like that.”
Dr. Whitehead found that quite amusing. It was probably one of the few times Ana had seen him smile.
DR. WHITEHEAD: “I am not sure what to make of any of this Ana."
ANA: ”I can see the concern in your eyes.
Neither am I, Doc.
Hopefully I am not starting to lose my mind. It seems a little premature for that. I haven’t quite got a quarter century of wear and tear on this brain."
DR. WHITEHEAD: "Well, let’s see what she shows up with next.”
He handed the paper back to Ana.
She folded it and placed it back into the side pocket of her bag.
He wrote a couple of words down.
Maybe 'looney bin’. Ana thought.
DR. WHITEHEAD: “Any other significant experiences in the last couple of days?" He inquired.
ANA: ”Not really. My final project, I keep wanting to rethink entirely. Waiting on my parents to give me their travel dates. My mom wants to come for a month, but my dad is more of a two week kind of traveller.
Other than that, my boyfriend and I broke up yet again but honestly, I am a feeling this has been the grand finale."
DR. WHITEHEAD: "You haven’t mentioned him in a while."
ANA: “Well, we have discussed the issue in the past.
He is Jewish, and I am a fetish object.”
DR. WHITEHEAD: "For all these years?"
ANA: ”About a year-and-a-half, including the on and excluding the off; but, yes... We live and learn... hopefully.”
16.
COLLATED AMBIENT SESSION DATA [HEAVILY FRACTURED/INTERPOLATED] WITH TIME/DAY FOR SUBJECT ANA:
The following Tuesday 4pm
Ana sat comfortably in a wide brown leather chair.
They were in a room adjacent to Dr. Whitehead’s office.
It was just as white and stark as the other one, however no furnishings. Just two wide brown leather chairs facing each other with a couple of stools.
The walls were padded; probably soundproofing. Surely no one would hear her scream when the doctor finally stabbed her repeatedly before shrink-wrapping her inanimate body.
The space felt cooler also; this was probably designed to help with rigor mortis stench.
Dr. Whitehead handed her a pair of goggles, and showed her how to comfortably place them on her face.
He sat across from her, and placed his goggles on his face.
DR. WHITEHEAD: “Now remember, Ana, you can always opt out by pressing the top button to the right.”
She responded physically: Yes.
She was quite excited by the fact that she had somehow managed to convince him to be part of the experience with her. Frankly, she was surprised that she had been able to pull it off.
The journey began.
The doctor and her had decided they would start as far back as in their teens. Seventeen to be exact.
Ana laughed as Dr. Whitehead appeared as Tin, a woman calling him into a colourful leafy wallpapered kitchen.
Tin was slanky and quite geeky looking. He wore braces, and dragged his feet.
“You are always in your room Tin Tin!!” A 5 foot 6 woman looked up to him as he entered the room. Her hair was long black flowy, her features thin and quite distinct. She was puling a couple of dishes from the cabinet above the main aisle in the middle of the kitchen.
“Your dad is working late again.. She mentioned as she lit a cigarette and set it in the ashtray by the stove.
How hungry are you?”
Tin responded with a barely audible mumble.
“Oh Tin Tin.. Always so mopy!! You used to run around the house like a mad dog, and now all you do is sit in your room.. Are you talking to girls in there?..
-Mumm… Tin objected.
-Pass me one of the plates!
How hungry are you?
-A little..
-Oh Tin Tin..”
She grabbed the plate from his hand, and placed it onto the stove right next to the pot.
She drew him in for a hug and gently kissed his forehead.
“You know I will always love you more than anything, right..?
-Yes Mama…”
She squeezed his cheeks and smiled at him.
Tin begrudgingly let her treat him like the baby she would never let him grow out of.
“Here, your favourite: mac and cheese!” She handed him his plate, and gestured for him to sit at the kitchen counter, an unusual dinner spot that only happened when his dad was not home for dinner.
She served herself a little, placed a couple of glasses of water on the table, the glass of wine and the bottle she clearly had been polishing for the last few hours.
“Excited for UCLA?
-Better than Yale! Tin mumbled.
-You know your father would have rather you went to Yale! He pulled a lot of strings to make that possible..
-Well, I prefer UCLA.
-Why? Just so you can go against him again?”
Tin scooped a huge hipping of macaronis bound together by yellow cheese onto his fork, and shoved it into his mouth.
“Manners young man!! She laughed. You act like I never taught you any.
What are you so upset about?
-Oh Mom… not tonight..
-Ok then…
Will you come and visit once you leave, or will I have to come stalk you on campus?”
Tin smiled.
…
Parallel to this scene, a seventeen-year-old Ana, walks into the dining room, her mom sitting at one end of the dinner table, and her dad at the other.
Across from her, her uncle Ron, joining them for dinner, as per usual.
Uncle Ron was her dad’s brother-in-law, his late sister’s husband. Since her passing, they had uncle Ron for lunch and dinner every day, except on the weekends maybe, when he usually had other social plans to attend.
Ana is wearing a pair of baggy black jeans and an orange OFF THE WALL tee-shirt with black faded lettering.
“Oh goodness! What have you done?? Her uncle blurts out.”
Her mother looks away, to communicate she is in no mood. Ana’s dad responds:
“Dont mind her!” Ana sees him stare at her head from the corner of his eyes over his glasses.
She sits down.
“Why would you cut your hair??” Uncle Ron asks again.
“I gave her money to go and get her hair washed, and this is what she came back with.” Her mother responds.
Ana remains silent.
“You know that a woman’s hair is her pride and joy. Why would you just chop it off like that?” Uncle Ron just can’t let go.
“Well I guess I have now lost my pride and joy” Ana thinks to herself.
She sits still.
Her mother rings for staff from the kitchen to bring out the meal.
Ana is starving!
She reaches to serve herself as a plate of yams is presented to her, and then comes the bowl of stew, and a bowl of stir fried vegetables.
She is ready for all of it!
She hadn’t had breakfast before she left that morning, and had barely had a handful of grilled peanuts while she was at the hairdresser’s.
“I received my letter of admission from NYU this afternoon.
-Are you still admitted for the art program? Her mother snarkyly asked.
-Yes Mama.
-Hmm.. I hope they will let you switch to something more serious once you are there.”
“How did that feel, Ana?”
Ana placed her goggles down next to her.
“Did you turn it off?
-Yes.. It is good to start with shorter segments at a time.. see how the mind reacts each time.”
It was strange to return to a mid-forty Dr. Whitehead with impeccable style, teeth, demeanour and hair.
“So?” He insisted to know how his little creation had worked for Ana.
“Am I the first to try this?
-Other than myself? Yes.
-At least we are sure to die from the same symptoms.. Ana chuckled.
But on a more serious note, it was definitely an odd experience.. I mean, seeing oneself in one’s past is unusual.
-Yes… I know…
Let’s call it for today, and try again next week.
-What about Thursday.. I am not in the schedule on Thursday.
-Yes but, I think it might be best to do every other session- allow for breaks in between.. give ourselves time to process, and discuss..
-I suppose..
-Alright Ana.. Our time is up for today.
-Thank you Doc.”
As she got up to leave, she recognized the enveloppe containing the waiver and confidentiality agreement she had signed the week before. It had her name on it. It stated Dr Whitehead’s acted with her consent, and under no circumstances was she to do discuss the details of her experimental therapy with anyone.
“Ms. Ana Hartwood” She read to herself, and wondered what would be next.
As the weeks progressed, Ana and Dr. Whitehead continued their exploratory journeys.
Ana discovered her therapist was none other than an average white male from an average middle-class family, born and bred in California.
She also came to understand from the glimpse into his memories that his dad had spent Trent’s entire childhood at work either working on legal briefs, or on the paralegals; no surprises there. And his mom well, she was great and loving in every way, very focused on Trent or Tin like she had started calling him because for the longest time, he just couldn’t say his own name properly, so everyone went with Tin. And her bottomless glasses of wine.
Growing up, Trent was a nerd in every sense of the term; physically too tall for his age, shy with girls, always buried in a book.
By age 7, he had pleaded with his mom to never take him to his office again, and naturally, she understood why.
By age 16, he told his father he would rather die than pursue law and end up a … like him.
By age 22, he had seamlessly settled into university life; he enjoyed every single one of his classes, his professors encouraged him, and offered him tutoring positions the allowed him to support his three habits: books, records, and girls.
By age 24, he met Merion, a 5 foot 9 jazz musician he fell madly in love with, and decided to bring home for Christmas that year. Unfortunately, by the time his mother had opened the front door, he could not tell if she was more disturbed by his skin color, or his gender. Needless to say, that evening was an absolute disaster. Trent didn’t speak to his mother or father for the next 5 years. He never saw Merion again.
17.
DATA ASSOCIATED WITH SUBJECT ANA:
Growing up, expectations were high; grades had to be excellent, extracurricular achievement was a must, and demeanour had to be impeccable.
At times, Ana had felt like a prop, other times, a prize possession, paraded around and spoken past.
She was undoubtedly an extension of her mother, and had no room to disappoint.
She had been squeezed into a mold, injected with some distant purpose envisioned for her.
Her identity was her assignment of qualities, beliefs, personality, looks and expressions.
She was an appendage of her mother. She learned to walk and mimic her environment.
THINGS FALL APART
The body changes, the mind grows curious and wants to make itself its own.
Every interaction becomes a chance for rebellion, negotiation, conflict, misunderstanding, confusion.
Ana chose to compromise herself; she could not see another way. She was told there would be no other way.
EVERYONE SHOULD TRANSITION
The fact remains evolution. Social, cultural.
We are, as individuals and a society, constantly evolving, morphing into new and updated versions of ourselves. It becomes unavoidable to have outdated ideas about who we are.
Nature remains deeply rooted, desire grows personal.
Ana has needs of her own. She needn’t negotiate her identity with society, but society is afraid of identity, people, ideas, nature, race, religion, ethnicity, culture, sex.
Ana was acceptable when she had brown eyes, liked to play with her toys, could sing rhymes. She remained acceptable when she expressed her love for dogs, partook in school sports.
And then, she was met with resistance when she started considering her future through her own lens. How she might shape her own identity.
DRY LAND
The idea that there could be another way to be, beyond the iconography traditional family or in corporation.
18.
SESSION DATA [FRACTURED/INVENTED?] ASSOCIATED WITH SUBJECT ANA:
“Where to today?”
“I was actually quite curious to revisit your experience with Merion… What happened that night with your mother?” Ana asked as she adjusted her goggles on her face.
Dr Whitehead sighed.
“I am not sure I want to relive all that right now…”
“But don’t you sometimes think of how things might have gone in a different direction?”
“Not really… Not everything is meant to be. Sometimes, people are just not compatible.”
“But you seemed to really like him...”
“I did… We were just too different. We were kids. It was a phase… I was 24 and I had been dating girls the entire time before that. I am not entirely sure why Merion happened.
The short of it is that I made a mistake and gave into a situation I had no business getting involved in in the first place.”
As Dr Whitehead spoke, memories of Merion began to appear. A nice build, a slim young man, dressed up in silk black Paisley pants, a crisp white shirt, black blazer, shiny shoes and all. Sculpted features framed by a slick bouffant.
Merion was born and raised in St-Louis, the product of a working class dad and a mom who had a small millinery shop in their home, in which she would receive her clients for fittings. It was an interesting mix of church ladies and showgirls who had to have the latest styles for their music performances.
Merion’s mother made elaborate hats, but also simpler hair accessories like bands or fascinators that girls would clip to their blowouts.
It was one of his mother’s clients who had introduced him to jazz. She was a great vocalist who sometimes recorded in a small studio uptown where she would run into other bands.
She heard Merion playing his Grandmother’d old piano once, and since then, had urged him to enrol in music school. He had a way of playing that sounded a little off but right.
A couple of times she had invited him to the studio while one of bands she sang in recorded, but Merion had always been too shy to take her up on it; until one of the teachers at his high school insisted he joined the music class. And that is what later lead him to New York in the fall of 1995 right into a dingy bar uptown where he met a young literature student who was just as excited about jazz as he was.
The girls loved Merion! He was different was all the other black guys his age. He always smelled great, was always sharply dressed, and irresistibly funny. He did not wear baggy jeans and baggy tee shirts. He was neither loud or ostentatious.
He was never one to be out playing when he was younger. Like Trent, he enjoyed the company of his books, and was quite close to his mother as much as he hated to admit it.
He was very shy, like Trent, and like Trent, he had never wanted to pursue a corporate career, which is why, once he discovered music, even though he had heard of all the struggles he would have to endure and probably never really make any money, he was still happier pursuing that path.
His mother had given him a cotton sock containing a few bills rolled up she had managed to save for him in the last three years. Once she had realized he was determined to pursue music so far away from home, she thought he better have bus fare to take him there.
But Merion was the lucky type; he crisp white smile got him rides from one city to the next, and once he got to New York, one of his professors offered him his attic. He was happy to have the company.
All Merion had to worry about from then on, was food to keep his energy going, and clothes to always look his best especially when he performed.
He got himself a little part time job in a record store downtown.
The pay was was enough to cover everyday needs.
He spent his days in school practising, worked on the weekends, and performed every gig he got. None of those gigs paid, but he enjoyed the thrill of being in front of the crowd. He studied classical piano in school. He dreamed of becoming the first negro classical artist to record a concerto.
And at night he performed rhythm and blues for the party goers. They would come get warmed up before hitting the clubs for some disco fever dancing
…
The energy in New York was something. Merion had heard of long night and fast girls and the drugs his mother had warned him to stay away from. And the drugs he did see, a lot of them. There was an ugly crack pandemic at the time caused by the government - the crowds he was around were all very much into the white powder. It made made the guys fearless, and girls loose. Especially the white ones, always looking to kiss on him, or grab his dick. It was all so new to him. Back home, a girl would not even let you hold her hand. The only girl he had ever been with, it had taken an entire school year for her to him his her on the cheek.
These New York girls were of a different kind. And they were white, Latina, black, all kinds of different especially at night. They all seemed to be out at night mostly. Merion felt like he never saw any of them during the day. One would have to go to a specific neighbourhood, which of course never happened, to encounter a certain ethnicity.
The music and the stars brought them all together. They were a far cry from the St-Louis church girls or fascinator wearing showgirls. They were punk rebels fighting the system.
And then Trent happened. Tall, smart, handsome. He was hanging out with a mutual friend and Merion could not help but stare, all night… this confused him. He had never felt compelled to stare at another man before.
Weeks later the man was back, with the mutual friend. This time they were officially introduced and ended up speaking well into the next morning about music, and poetry, and lyrics, and how they both enjoyed their cereal with water instead of milk. What an odd thing to have in common. and they did just that the next day; they went to a corner diner close to the record store merino worked at, and both ordered cereal with water.
…
“So what happened?” Ana was not ready to take her goggles off.
“Life happened Ana. Society, pressure, reality.”
Everything turned black.
Dr Whitehead had taken his goggles off. He had turned an off pale white colour.
“Would you like some water?” Ana worried.
“No… I think we went over our time for today. I have to prepare for my next session.”
Ana reached for her phone. They still had twenty-three minutes left.
“Can I have a glass of water?”