RE: Vox Mentis
04-24-2015, 03:21 PM
(This post was last modified: 04-24-2015, 06:04 PM by Douglas.)
(04-24-2015, 06:26 AM)Schazer Wrote: »The best case for you, oddly enough, is comparing yourself to Eliot or Jane. Their inability to check your behaviour - knowing your set of 220, predictable behaviour - would indicate you can surpass anyone at the academy. Which marks you as a threat, sure, but in theory Thoreau here can still control you, channel your latent "220-ness" in a direction that serves his motives while still leaving you satisfied with life.
Thoreau'd know better than anyone - even you probably - as your studies continue and you demonstrate your abilities, where "satisfaction" lies for you and whether that's above Eliot, or even at the point you'd threaten Thoreau (haha, good one. This guy scares the shit out of you.)
I'm not sure you actually know what you want to do with all this power you're acquiring, but it seems clear enough at least that you want to surpass Jane and Eliot; you're not going to be satisfied raising young wizards. Let's be honest, you might not even be satisfied being Thoreau's second-in-command, if that's what you're capable of. Whether Thoreau can control your desire to best even Thoreau, that's something our shark-eyed friend here knows.
The organisation can't just be composed of 13's and 42's, or other sets with an inclination to be content to work within a given system. Sure, your new school might teach you that public education is just a factory line for people, but that doesn't stop the academy being a similar bunch of arbitrary social constructs. Just because their final product is a superior version, doesn't mean that your not fitting its mould makes you a reject.
Your throat loosens. You cough, to prove it. You say, "Ug." It feels good to make that sound. Thoreau waits patiently. It'll take one hell of an argument to convince him of anything, you think. You've been in situations like this, where people say, Convince me, and in none of those situations have they actually wanted to be convinced. You could lay down a perfect argument and they would just invent new bullshit on the spot to justify why the answer was still no. When people say, Convince me, you know it doesn't mean they have an open mind. It means they have power and want to enjoy it a minute. You don't know if that's true of Thoreau. But you feel like it's going to be difficult to talk your way out of this.
"Eliot and Jane didn't see me coming," you begin. "Despite them supposedly being able to tell my set, they still couldn't predict me. I think that means I'm better than anyone else here, and I think you know that. And sure, that means I could be a threat. I could tell you I'm not, but we both know I'm probably that good. But I think you know I'm no threat to you. You clearly have some control over me here, so I'm a threat that can be mitigated. And besides, wouldn't having a potential threat within the system be better than having one outside? The devil you know, right?"
Thoreau continues looking at you. If anything you've said so far has made an impact, you certainly can't tell. His eyes still scare you, but you press on.
"The organization shouldn't just be made up of 13's or 42's or other sheep sets. Maybe the public school system is just an assembly line for functioning adults, but if you're limiting the organization to specific sets of people willing to do whatever you say, then how are you any better? Just because I don't fit your prescribed mold doesn't make me a factory reject. It makes me superior. And you know that, don't you?"
"Enough."
Your mouth closes.
Thoreau looks at you awhile. You can't read him. You don't know whether you've lived or died.
"I have a name for you," he says, "when the time is right." He walks away. You hear him reach the door but can't turn your head. "You may move, in a while."
Some time passes. A bird lands near the golf clubs and begins to hop hopefully around the little green mat. You breathe. Your chest loosens one muscle at a time. That's how you get yourself back. Filament by filament. You've survived, somehow. You're still here.
~
You're collected by a woman you've seen once before, stepping out of a black town car alongside Thoreau that time he visited the school. She doesn't introduce yourself but you already know her name is Plath. You'd asked. Plath is all cheekbones and elbows and gives you the feeling that she would push you in front of a train for a nickel. She has cruel shoes and a phone and looks at you in a way that reminds you of being stepped over on a San Francisco sidewalk on a bad day. "Can you move?" she says.
"Yes."
Plath beckons. You follow. There are stairs and they you're in a parking garage. A car you know well is there and your heart leaps. It's the first moment you truly believe you're getting out of here. You look at Plath and Plath says nothing so you walk to the car. Its engine turns over. You open the passenger door and inside is Eliot. "Hi," you say. You want to kiss him.
Eliot doesn't speak. But he looks at you and you know you're safe. He's still angry with you, of course. But he's not dangerous. You can relax in a car with Eliot. When the car exits the garage into bright sunshine, you close your eyes. Somewhere in the snarl of streets, you fall asleep.
~
You open your eyes and are somewhere else. "Where are we?" You see a road sign. "Are we going to the airport?" Eliot flicks on the turn signal. The car drifts toward a lane marked DEPARTURES. "Hey," you say. "Eliot. Thoreau said I could still be a poet. He tested me and I passed. I don't have to go away." It's like talking to a wall. "Eliot, I can go back to the school."
He pulls alongside the curb and takes something from the seat pocket. "This is your passport. This is your confirmation number." A blue booklet with a white business card tucked inside. The card has a string of letters and number in blue ink above TOM ELIOT, RESEARCH ANALYST. "Use the machines inside to check in."
"Talk to Thoreau. Eliot. Call Thoreau. He'll tell you."
"These are his instructions."
You stare. "But I passed."
"It's temporary," Eliot says. "You can come home in a few years."
"Years?" you say. "Years?"
"Please appreciate that this is the best possible outcome."
"No. Eliot. Please." He won't look at you, so you put your hand on his arm. He doesn't say anything. He doesn't move. Eventually, you understand that this is final. "Well," you say. "Bye, then."
"Your bag is in the trunk."
"Thanks." You open the door. It's difficult, as if everything's gotten heavy. Your hands are numb. You drag yourself from the car.
Eliot says, "If you work hard, and discipline yourself, you can conceivably return in-" You shut the door on the rest.
~
First the red-eye from DC to Los Angeles: six hours. You land at dawn and spend half a day moving the two hundred yards from Domestic Arrivals to International Departures. You hadn't slept in the air so you curl up in a seat, but there are families and kids vibrating at high frequency and men with booming laughs. A younger couple discusses in-flight movies in a flat, broad accent. You're going to Australia. Your boarding passes tell you so. "We should get Lord of the Rings," says the man. Lawwwd, you think. Lawwwd of the Reeengs. They sent convicts to Australia, right? It had been a penal colony. A place of banishment.
The desk calls for first- and business-class passengers and you trudge to the gate. When you surrender your boarding pass, though, the woman smiles and hands it back to you. "We'll be boarding economy in a few moments." You look at her dumbly. You'd just assumed. You walk back to the seats.
"Nice try," says the man beside her, the one hoping for Lord of the Rings. He's friendly, and you smile back, and it's the most fake thing you've ever done.
~
You sleep fitfully, disturbed by rattling food trolleys and people squeezing by your seat. The flight time according to your screen is fourteen hours, which you think has to be wrong, like maybe that's including the time difference. You don't know enough to sleep properly.
Somewhere over the Pacific, a flight attendant bends to your ear. "Excuse me. This is for you." You, tangled in dreams of golf and Thoreau, stare at the woman without comprehension. It's nighttime; the only light comes from the screens in the backs of people's seats and the little yellow glow lights embedded in the aisles. The woman hands you a folded piece of paper. It's an odd texture, thick, stamped with an aviation authority logo.
"Thank you," you say. The attendant leaves and you unfold the paper.
ELISE YOU ARE TO LIVE IN BROKEN HILL
AUSTRALIA THIS IS TO BE YOUR HOME
UNTIL YOU ARE CALLED FOR NO
PREPARATIONS HAVE BEEN MADE YOU
ARE TO USE YOUR OWN RESOURCES
YOU CAN DO THIS
ELIOT
You put the paper away and pull your knees to your chest and silently cry into them. If you were at the school, you wouldn't have been able to do this. You would have had to control yourself. But here you indulge. You let yourself sob. After this, things are going to be difficult, and you'll have to concentrate, so it's probably your last opportunity.
~
You grow hypnotized by the in-flight map. The red line begins in Lost Angeles, curves across the ocean, and terminates at a cartoon plane that never seems to move. The screen occasionally switches to statistics, like how fast you're moving and how cold it is outside, and these are fascinating because the numbers seem made up. It doesn't seem possible for the cartoon plane that doesn't move to be traveling at 580 miles per hour. But it is. The flight is fourteen hours.
Your first problem, you realize, is that you're landing in Sydney with no return ticket, no luggage, wearing a school uniform. You don't know what the Australian immigration service is like, but it seems probable that you will raise a few flags. You'll look exactly like an overprivileged white girl disappearing in a cloud of petulance on Daddy's credit card, and they will ask you why you're here and where you're staying and when you're leaving. If they don't like your answers, they'll turn you around and put you on a plane back home. Which, of course, superficially sounds like a great idea, except for the part where you fail to LIVE IN BROKEN HILL and USE YOUR OWN RESOURCES. Eliot told you, Please appreciate that this is the best possible outcome, and you've come to believe that. You need to get through Immigration.
What do you do?
"Eliot and Jane didn't see me coming," you begin. "Despite them supposedly being able to tell my set, they still couldn't predict me. I think that means I'm better than anyone else here, and I think you know that. And sure, that means I could be a threat. I could tell you I'm not, but we both know I'm probably that good. But I think you know I'm no threat to you. You clearly have some control over me here, so I'm a threat that can be mitigated. And besides, wouldn't having a potential threat within the system be better than having one outside? The devil you know, right?"
Thoreau continues looking at you. If anything you've said so far has made an impact, you certainly can't tell. His eyes still scare you, but you press on.
"The organization shouldn't just be made up of 13's or 42's or other sheep sets. Maybe the public school system is just an assembly line for functioning adults, but if you're limiting the organization to specific sets of people willing to do whatever you say, then how are you any better? Just because I don't fit your prescribed mold doesn't make me a factory reject. It makes me superior. And you know that, don't you?"
"Enough."
Your mouth closes.
Thoreau looks at you awhile. You can't read him. You don't know whether you've lived or died.
"I have a name for you," he says, "when the time is right." He walks away. You hear him reach the door but can't turn your head. "You may move, in a while."
Some time passes. A bird lands near the golf clubs and begins to hop hopefully around the little green mat. You breathe. Your chest loosens one muscle at a time. That's how you get yourself back. Filament by filament. You've survived, somehow. You're still here.
~
You're collected by a woman you've seen once before, stepping out of a black town car alongside Thoreau that time he visited the school. She doesn't introduce yourself but you already know her name is Plath. You'd asked. Plath is all cheekbones and elbows and gives you the feeling that she would push you in front of a train for a nickel. She has cruel shoes and a phone and looks at you in a way that reminds you of being stepped over on a San Francisco sidewalk on a bad day. "Can you move?" she says.
"Yes."
Plath beckons. You follow. There are stairs and they you're in a parking garage. A car you know well is there and your heart leaps. It's the first moment you truly believe you're getting out of here. You look at Plath and Plath says nothing so you walk to the car. Its engine turns over. You open the passenger door and inside is Eliot. "Hi," you say. You want to kiss him.
Eliot doesn't speak. But he looks at you and you know you're safe. He's still angry with you, of course. But he's not dangerous. You can relax in a car with Eliot. When the car exits the garage into bright sunshine, you close your eyes. Somewhere in the snarl of streets, you fall asleep.
~
You open your eyes and are somewhere else. "Where are we?" You see a road sign. "Are we going to the airport?" Eliot flicks on the turn signal. The car drifts toward a lane marked DEPARTURES. "Hey," you say. "Eliot. Thoreau said I could still be a poet. He tested me and I passed. I don't have to go away." It's like talking to a wall. "Eliot, I can go back to the school."
He pulls alongside the curb and takes something from the seat pocket. "This is your passport. This is your confirmation number." A blue booklet with a white business card tucked inside. The card has a string of letters and number in blue ink above TOM ELIOT, RESEARCH ANALYST. "Use the machines inside to check in."
"Talk to Thoreau. Eliot. Call Thoreau. He'll tell you."
"These are his instructions."
You stare. "But I passed."
"It's temporary," Eliot says. "You can come home in a few years."
"Years?" you say. "Years?"
"Please appreciate that this is the best possible outcome."
"No. Eliot. Please." He won't look at you, so you put your hand on his arm. He doesn't say anything. He doesn't move. Eventually, you understand that this is final. "Well," you say. "Bye, then."
"Your bag is in the trunk."
"Thanks." You open the door. It's difficult, as if everything's gotten heavy. Your hands are numb. You drag yourself from the car.
Eliot says, "If you work hard, and discipline yourself, you can conceivably return in-" You shut the door on the rest.
~
First the red-eye from DC to Los Angeles: six hours. You land at dawn and spend half a day moving the two hundred yards from Domestic Arrivals to International Departures. You hadn't slept in the air so you curl up in a seat, but there are families and kids vibrating at high frequency and men with booming laughs. A younger couple discusses in-flight movies in a flat, broad accent. You're going to Australia. Your boarding passes tell you so. "We should get Lord of the Rings," says the man. Lawwwd, you think. Lawwwd of the Reeengs. They sent convicts to Australia, right? It had been a penal colony. A place of banishment.
The desk calls for first- and business-class passengers and you trudge to the gate. When you surrender your boarding pass, though, the woman smiles and hands it back to you. "We'll be boarding economy in a few moments." You look at her dumbly. You'd just assumed. You walk back to the seats.
"Nice try," says the man beside her, the one hoping for Lord of the Rings. He's friendly, and you smile back, and it's the most fake thing you've ever done.
~
You sleep fitfully, disturbed by rattling food trolleys and people squeezing by your seat. The flight time according to your screen is fourteen hours, which you think has to be wrong, like maybe that's including the time difference. You don't know enough to sleep properly.
Somewhere over the Pacific, a flight attendant bends to your ear. "Excuse me. This is for you." You, tangled in dreams of golf and Thoreau, stare at the woman without comprehension. It's nighttime; the only light comes from the screens in the backs of people's seats and the little yellow glow lights embedded in the aisles. The woman hands you a folded piece of paper. It's an odd texture, thick, stamped with an aviation authority logo.
"Thank you," you say. The attendant leaves and you unfold the paper.
ELISE YOU ARE TO LIVE IN BROKEN HILL
AUSTRALIA THIS IS TO BE YOUR HOME
UNTIL YOU ARE CALLED FOR NO
PREPARATIONS HAVE BEEN MADE YOU
ARE TO USE YOUR OWN RESOURCES
YOU CAN DO THIS
ELIOT
You put the paper away and pull your knees to your chest and silently cry into them. If you were at the school, you wouldn't have been able to do this. You would have had to control yourself. But here you indulge. You let yourself sob. After this, things are going to be difficult, and you'll have to concentrate, so it's probably your last opportunity.
~
You grow hypnotized by the in-flight map. The red line begins in Lost Angeles, curves across the ocean, and terminates at a cartoon plane that never seems to move. The screen occasionally switches to statistics, like how fast you're moving and how cold it is outside, and these are fascinating because the numbers seem made up. It doesn't seem possible for the cartoon plane that doesn't move to be traveling at 580 miles per hour. But it is. The flight is fourteen hours.
Your first problem, you realize, is that you're landing in Sydney with no return ticket, no luggage, wearing a school uniform. You don't know what the Australian immigration service is like, but it seems probable that you will raise a few flags. You'll look exactly like an overprivileged white girl disappearing in a cloud of petulance on Daddy's credit card, and they will ask you why you're here and where you're staying and when you're leaving. If they don't like your answers, they'll turn you around and put you on a plane back home. Which, of course, superficially sounds like a great idea, except for the part where you fail to LIVE IN BROKEN HILL and USE YOUR OWN RESOURCES. Eliot told you, Please appreciate that this is the best possible outcome, and you've come to believe that. You need to get through Immigration.
What do you do?