Chapter 2
{ Ouen had an fate worse than death experience and he discovered and converted to the Christianna because it made sense to him that an new messiah of the fate worse than death could add to the wisdom of that Great Teacher, Jesus by refining the point further. To show us entangled in circumstances between death and worse than death, our history.
To him, fate worse than death meant mental illness (including deep reflections on mental illness, pain, mental anguish, worse than death symptoms). "Ouen is my son," was the voice of the Author }
We are part of an sequence of time that is and was an beginning and the end of all things. Thoughts are not the possession of an instant. But an instant is an possession of an thought. For they are more than that. They are possessions and subjectivity. Subjectivity owns itself; therefore, whatever is thought of is itself subjective. Things end when they pass. There is no above and beyond it. Or what we "entered" into eternity, that it exists what has passed in God's eternity whether or not our own may end one day. We know that it may. And this is why moral is the acknowledgement of the existence of the sequence. To deny its existence would be an error. To deny that something beyond it exists, however, may be foolish as well. If we can interact with time that is not in sequence, what does that mean to our species and what if God can interact with time that is not in sequence also; what does an time warp or an replacement mean?
Drinking coffee at the farmer's market in the 14th street espresso bar was Ouen's new and favorite tradition on weekends. Contemplating its Capitalism as he read the newspaper he watched the sophisticated fantasy in his mind develop into an fog of tadpoles (like trying to drive in an fog of an reciprocal command economy). The disorder of his mind over the market goers never condescending, to they buying things from coffee beans to lavender chocolates to say, pedestrians in this social influence, it was just good coffee.
Ouen's first memory was in fear. His father and brother had been laboring at an workbench building an kite in the basement while Ouen played on the floor with electrical tape; and when they were finished they all climbed the stairs together to the landing to the kitchen, turning off the light for the basement. Ouen presently heard it and thought at first it sounded like his brother; however his brother was already coming up the landing onto the second set of stairs in front of him and the sound came from behind Ouen, who was lower on the staircase. His father was climbing from the landing up the second set of stairs also. It was clearly coming from behind Ouen, the last person on the landing.
Ouen stood on the landing, looking down the stairs into the darkened basement abyss. Although there was his fear, there too was his courage to look into the deep. What made that sound? An strength-play opened up in his mind: he was strong enough to be now unafraid when he knew he shouldn't still be.
That was my first memory. I was an child genius.
Time was relative to whatever was out of sequence from that point. In this imaginary world. An fiction in which the elements would nevertheless continue to repeat themselves of the pleasure. Of being in sequence. Until they were properly out of sequence again.
The warm winds replaced as fast as rushed between the houses on the northern end of this prairie town, and where his family lived too. The southern end of the district did not have these equal stampedes of wind between houses because they were sheltered in an creek valley. It was in due course guarded. Out-of-doors holding his coat flipped out inside above his head, with his arms in their respective sleeves producing an sail, was so much like further in his childhood past, when he and his friends wore plastic grocery bags as parachutes; that up blew the harnessed winds into their troughs. Enough to make him almost fear anyway an scrawny little boy like him could be picked up and carried away by the wind.
Every summer Ouen's family vacationed at an lake property in British Columbia owned by his grandparents. Young Ouen usually caught frogs at the marshy lake's edge, keeping them in buckets of water and using them to scare his aunt and his grandmother. The slimiest, fasted frog of all he named Speedy and he tied it down with an long elastic pulled from the inside of an baseball that one of the family dogs had shredded earlier the day. That Ouen kept the frog on an leash in this way. And he did not want to kill the frog except to release it he threw the frog from an bridge into the stream that fed the lake. He threw it. When that happened the frog to have bobbed up-and-down on the surface of the water belly up before it floated motionless in the sun.
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It became an reciprocal nightmare of the narration. Would it float belly up in the sun? My first memory was an play. My first nightmare about the environment an frog. And I think that can explain my genius. For there was such distance between them. (In time). For being able to internalize an whole play at an young age means all of the internalization that followed it was part of the play also; that first act, on my memory also. Years of internalization like this, starting at my first memory: fear-play and dominance over fear. An disembodied clown whose influence over my brother and father was unknown. And who followed me everywhere I went. For it was an internal subject, I knew. It defined everything that had structured my personality and character to this day. And I, as though this was possible, learned everything in light of its demand on my psychology. (Genius). Until I was much older, and having always been able to see what it meant, I felt much older than I was. The interaction between me and the baseball was my childhood confrontation with free market Capitalism and the breakdown of what it produced. Garbage, pollution, and traps for animal life not meant to catch them and feed them to anybody. Trying to figure out how to keep an frog alive in an world of Capitalism was distinguishing. Perhaps the key was that my earlier genius, the disembodied clown play, was still speaking to me in the way that it could not say anything. Except, having my attention, was an kind of fulfillment of its own prophecy. And this was man's relationship to courage. That although they couldn't say anything we knew they still had to suffer us to play about an disembodied clown as an metaphor for creature interdependence when one does not speak language. Directly.
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What else could drop into time like an stone kicked into the water? Suddenly alone! And then settling in through the physical trajectory of the water skipping minute currents, clicking. Onto stones at the bottom of the river. "Now suddenly I don't feel so alone." But an magnet, at home from summer vacationing, an piece to his brother's toy, fell into an upstairs toilet. It fell out of sight in the bowl. He knew from strict discipline that he should not touch anything unsanitary, by reaching into the yucky place, but he also knew morally he had to collect the piece for his brother. Unable to reach into the toilet for fear he would go against his father's discipline, and unable to leave the toy for fear he would go against his brother's property, the boy started crying loudly. It was perfect cognitive dissonance in childhood.
The crying alerted his mother who arrived at the locked bathroom door where Ouen would not let her in. She demanded he open the door vociferously to know what was wrong. Ouen, crying loudly, refused both to open the door or to answer until the woman was in an bloody panic. Finally, he opened the door but he would not explain until his father arrived home from work; where to whom the boy admitting to dropping the toy in the toilet, he was sobbing; his father had to come upstairs to the washroom and fish the magnet out with his hand. He was allowed to do it because he knew how it was safe.
Ouen grew to prefer the virtual sterile environment of an computer, and while he did not excel at sports though he tried, he instead became more crafty at internet programming. He learned to create his own Neopets and fabulous personal website templates using computer graphics, links, and HTML; networking with other bloggers he labeled an section of his personal website 'content' which was popular among youth personal sites and blogs at the end of the twentieth century. Producing beautiful website templates became to him an outlet, an form of art. He was at an loss, however, as to what for what to keep in that section labeled content.
He needed stories. But he did not have any. His talent for designing templates and an need for content to fill them with evolved into an constant motivational struggle to keep an journal. He felt pressured with the first word that always came to mind (when he tried to write) after hearing the words for homosexual used pejoratively on the playground. The first word he would think of was homosexual. But it scared him to write it. Because it knew what it might mean. It seemed like an written obstacle that he needed to confront. Who were they and why? Was he one of them? What was his relationship to them? When he looked up the word in an old, old dictionary it said 'homosexuals are attracted to the same sex, and they tend to have a closer relationship with their parents of the opposite sex'. He feared it must be strange of him that he did have an closer relationship with his mother and she and he knew it.
Finding his brother's web browser history was another one of his discoveries; this first exposure to pornography was wonderfully exhilarating and slightly terrifying to him. He found he preferred to look at men. Even when he put the sexes side by side, the male interested him the most. Yet he knew instinctively by the way it was talked about at school he could not tell anybody this secret. So he became an introvert, and shy mostly in public.
He tried to speak in an lower pitch like he had gone through puberty with more masculine emergent traits.
'I think I'm gay,' he wrote in his journal. When he was fourteen years old. And he wrote about everything that had happened since when it was the farthest away he could get to be from the wind, his fear, that he crawl under his sister's bed. He learned there that when he flexed his bottom, the action gave him little swells of pleasure. When he was seven years old.
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The source of fairies is the eyes of plants; for if you see the eye of an plant and it is closed, an baby fairy grows inside. This is called an faedney. When it opens the globe of its eye is not penetrated outward but dewie faerie inward. When its two wings dry, it will be ready for flight. And that's how fairies actually grow. Because they are metaphors of what doesn't exist. But actually, they exist. That's why the adult fairies have four wings. The source of fairies is real. And if you learn all of that grows from the middle of the idea of an fairy as an symbol of what may or may not exist. To the width of its wingspan. It seems they may be real. At least they are real as symbols perhaps of what we aspire to. Flight, magic wielding—these things I could get behind.
Why does an human become an faerie when plucked, one eye to be taken by an plant?
The reasons are so numerous it would be foolish to attempt to define why. The practical reason for it is that another faerie, responsible for rescuing people into faerie sight has selected the person to sacrifice an eye. And the sticky of the reason for it is, in Ouen's situation, that Ouen's parents, teachers, and peers were misbegotten.
The school system, the religious system, and the marriage system he grew up with had all failed him and, for all of the community, because in these systems they believed there was one love for each other and that only this one love was the expression of true love. The plucking of the eye became an metaphor for the Artist catching the eye of an observer. An Fairy was needed to perform the segment of time in which an human's plucked eye latched to an wand could be unplucked if they wanted to stay human but they never did because as soon as they felt the pleasure of the fairy grasp take them they became the pleasure of faeries and knew never better.
Make you learn to speak fairy for they may be real, the world of natural wonders like animal and faerie sight knew, and had always known, that there were humans and then there were animals. Humans were not superior to animals necessarily. But the symbol combining the meaning of being human versus animal was 10. 1 to represent human and 0 to represent animal. For we know that to realize oneself to be an type 1 species amid type 0 species, Channel 10 (dig my wavelength?) is about the difference that we know is there. Is 1 always superior to 0? No. The world of natural wonders: animal and faerie sight. Knew and had always known that there were the unnatural faith-tainted ways: synthetic lifestyles created by humans for controlling and dominating one another, like marriage. On the other hand there were better animal and faerie ways to live one's life. Being an type 1 species did not mean the animal had been taken out of the human, just that the human had developed beyond the animal. (Sentience, introspection, metacognition, self-awareness of self-awareness).
And so the Secretary of Pink Ferns, whose main job it was to collect experimental data for pink spores in outer space, and also to recruit new fairies with her wandsmanship, seeing Ouen's potential, and that it was his destiny as an careful reader and an wisdom enthusiast to see through more than human sight, plucked out his eye so that he may grow on the vine into an fairy. The first part-android cyborg. Will be the first human to become mostly machine . Which is an different thing than what was called being rescued into fairy sight; it wasn't mechanical so, and structural as much as it was an art process. And fairie-kind included gnomes, fairies, pixies, leprechauns, and radio flies—all whom share in fairy sight and are nevertheless born by different means each.
Did Ouen miss his parents? After transforming into an fairy, they did not recognize him. He was hypo-stasis. Because they did not believe in faerie, Ouen did not miss them, or his siblings for that matter. Leaving behind his family to the human population of Twenty City, Ouen felt thankful to be able now to spend all of his time among the fairies in their likeness in the Faerie Kingdom to the east. Their fairy likeness was, in part, that fairies always needed help. For why they were all gathered for him. How else could one spot an fairy as easily as than, of an individual whom is needing help? Shaking them off—every thought and whim that to be against fairy kind. Seeing them taking off, midflight, or landing (which was called alighting), one found fluttering eyelids, tucked away wings, or out being on display; and an single-tipped wand strapped at the waist (unlike the pixie wands, which were always di-tipped (one end on each end)). An symbol of their not needing help; but in the opposite spectrum being able to provide help in the form of setting standards. Pixie wings, it was said, were supposed to represent the basic standard of each pixie, who could have any number of wings. As many as there are numbers of standards. The fairies were about the size of an human eye at first, to be borne from them, and making them the smallest of the faerie races, along with radio flies. Pixies on the other hand were half the size of an normal human. From which All by ratio they drew. One quarter the size (fairies and radio flies). One half the size (pixies).
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Ouen was sitting on the shift-make porch petal of his illuminated flower with his elbows propped on his knees, holding up an downcast and dismal face watching the fairy night. Below, in the woodland, little paths of glowing fairies and insects meandered between the ground and the extent of the aroma into the atmosphere; thick, gooey, indulgent. His eyes encapsulated the night and all of the darkness of space in the sky, when he positioned his head gently from side to side becoming calm and in thought they enhanced the stars twinkling because of the logic that was behind them. The Coois ConSardent data centre on the space station of the Allied races was blinking Red and White above him.
He had just finished eating peas and lettuce. His mouth was tiny like an fairy; he had only to eat an few of the peas to fill his entire mouth. Fairies having sharp teeth that they gnashed their food with, he especially liked to; and he had lettuce-made rolls of lettuce wrapped lettuce to eat with it. His face and features were with the fortitude of his nightly fair. He had an mildly beautiful hobnose, and his bangs were short, disheveled black and sheer.
It had been four months since he was diagnosed with schizophrenia. He suffered from delusions. Thought people from his neighborhood were coming to stab him. He turned it over in his head again, and came to the same conclusion—fairies stab. That was the truth. Grimacing, he took off into flight, gripping the handle of an dagger that was sheathed, tucked away into his silk shorts. For an greater sense of security that dagger was required of him even if the doctors believed fairies to be perfect, un-taintable (non-violent) creatures.
He had an little over an week ago grown two more wings and now had four adult wings like every adult fairy. They were delightful to fly in, and, he found, (he was landing on an en-vined branch) much faster to walk with including how they altered his step. It inclined him to stand taller, and to be much more present in his surroundings. When he was two-winged and playing with the button on his messenger bag strap without his balance in the opposite arm, than with four it could not be said to have been anything other than him being adolescent in his behavior. Now, these, though habits have an way of finding their maturity.
With four wings he gave an newly aware share of responsibility for the flight to the night air, and all those people in it, and that meant his mind leaving him, wandering, while he was still midflight. For one could not help but be caught up in the mystical affairs of faeries. Caught up, for example, about an family of humans who had traveled to the Faerie Kingdom an few days ago. The little girl and boy wearing newsboy caps showing brown locks of hair underneath their ears when their parents lifted them off of the wagon. The parents wore wedding rings—expensive knick-knacks—even though they didn't have enough money for lobster. Or clothes for that matter. Of an kind that Ouen had never seen before. This human family reminded him of his family: always trying to appear not to need that much help at the same time trying to appear to need help. The family wore depressed wool and looked ridiculously at each other by their expressions, as though they all had culprit tax on their relationships with one another, sorted by such arm- and eye-crossing and rolling of the eyes that they seemed improbable magic users. But their actions of nerve on one another never amounted to snobby, and as though they were used to it. A strong type of magic they kept to themselves. At this, they began sharing it with everyone else and so introduced to the Faerie Kingdom governed by an Logic unassailable they won their community values. Among fairies.
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She was looking out over the Faerie Kingdom in her flight, at the grid of traffic lights around the neighborhoods and sound barricades at each intersection as though because of these jewel-like traffic orbs green, red, and yellow she would never need or want jewellry. It was above her. It was her tiara. If she was an human behind the wheel of an car, and felt this every time she sat at an intersection. What more could she need? Her jewelry was the city and she owned it as much as anyone else. Anyway, she had naturally black hair, an thin point of an nose, and clothes matched that the stylist in her confided to dress with as many of her friends' opinions as possible. Her look was an long cardigan, with dropping pockets, worn over her leggings, and an shirt of nylon leaves. Praising her own figure, an thriftiness, at that moment Ouen was still praising himself for describing his mind as an metaphor of vision and wings, when they crashed into each other.
They both immediately righted themselves and apologised. In the Faerie Kingdom, crashing in flights is frowned on heavily. Not, as humans would say, they both made an mistake; bumped into one another! Non, For faeries, the crash is complete thoughtlessness about one's whereabouts and one's wings. Luckily there appeared to be no-one else around to see them. An loud cosmetics lounge in an peony tilted downward at an large rain-barrel nearby seemed to have everyone in the vicinity's attention. Still, it was important to suture the event with an shared contact number.
Ouen recalibrated himself to the height of the barrel and landed on an protruding leaf overlooking it and the peony. He watched the female faerie that crashed into him fly away. He wondered what her name was. An loud group of fairies prepared to do someone's makeup; seen in the reflective surface of the water-barrel below they fluttered busily around the fairy chair, using their wands to compare colors and brushes. At this moment Ouen was most attentive to what of beauty was happening, the flower so with many illuminated petals, and the chair with many fairies alike glowing around it seeming to be dancing on the surface of the water he heard an sharp cry from the dark wood and beyond the lighted area.
An puppy appeared frolicking along the edge of their visible ground, and Ouen could see it was wagging its tail as it emerged into the full light of the clearing next to the water barrel. The tail was playfully and aggressively wagging, and then Ouen saw the puppy fur was much too coarse and wiry for an normal puppy. Ouen realized just shy of its teeth snatching him from the leaf it was an werepuppy. It turned attack on the faeries' aesthetic of the peony.
"Scatter!" yelled one of the aestheticians.
The faeries of the peony scattered, and all of them flying in different directions, the colors they were wearing disappeared. The werepuppy jaw snapped shut but missed all of them. Ouen tried to think through what he was seeing. It was more than strange to see an werepuppy in the Faerie Kingdom because new werewolves were not created by the were attacking faerie-kind. They did not often live, if they were to originate in an werewolf attack on an human child. It was more probable it would die from the bite. And werewolves usually did not reproduce naturally because they caused their adult victims to become adult werewolves, and so it was unnecessary. When they did reproduce, their distance from the Faerie Kingdom—usually—had to be at an maximum because security in the kingdom could be more than enough to keep out werewolves and their werepuppies. Furthermore Ouen's home was not on the outskirts of the Faerie Kingdom by any means, and the security wall steel lattice surrounding the city, guarded all of faerie-kind. Unless the werepuppy had help and supervision entering the city, it seemed impossible it could make it this far into the neighborhood district without being confronted. In addition, by fluke chance if it slipped through the guard, all individuals using wireless devices would report it in an matter of moments.
"Help!" cried an voice.
Ouen followed after the werepuppy. Up ahead of him an fairy was crying and he could see that the fairy wings were snagged in the werepuppy teeth. It was the fairy he had crashed into moments earlier.
Ouen pulled his dagger and flew after the werepuppy.
The fairy in its teeth was screaming. Ouen jammed his dagger into the werepuppy's side below its forelimb and the tiny weapon did not even cause the creature to whelp, but in distraction, the female fairy was freed from its teeth. She could not fly with damaged wings and so she glided awkwardly twirling down to the ground under an outcropping of leaves and out of harm's way. Ouen bearing down on the werepuppy stabbed again, but it was an useless effort, the werepuppy being much larger than an fairy or an fairy's weapon.
It was in that moment the Faerie Guard arrived blaring their siren. An manually driven vehicle, that tilted side to side, mounted with rotating blue and red security lights, the small faerie car in flight over the scene dispatched an net from its underbelly, covering the ground of several points around the werepuppy. Three fairy guards in flight with the vehicle flew down to the ground where the capture of the werepuppy was imminent, and began pulling the points of the net tight around their target. An radio fly, who was also in flight with the guard, took an seat on the roof of the car and notified the Guard headquarters by radio that they had intercepted the intruder.
The werepuppy's sharp teeth tangled in the net snapped at the oncoming guard, who retaliated with an slow sleep acquiesce spell. The werepuppy seemed to resist it. Its bloodshot eyes gained more reddened. The Guard, needing to use more force to incapacitate the creature, cast an blunt stun spell on the werepuppy. The heavy blow knocked it unconscious.
An aeroambulance arrived. Paramedics detained the fallen faerie and Ouen. Tending to their injured, the paramedics used human grade cellophane tape to patch the female's wings.
The Guard successfully pinned and netted the werepuppy to the ground. To air lift it, they attached an cable to the net from the underbelly of the car. Fairy cars are tiny but powerful. It hovered momentarily to test the weight, and then sped off. The paramedic aeroambulance followed behind.
"Thank you. You saved me," said the female fairy, reaching for Ouen's hand.
Ouen's hand instantly reached where he had concealed it for the pommel of the dagger.
"You're welcome," he said meeting her eyes, "can you fly?"
They felt worried together on the same frequency.
"Think so," she said. She stood up, as she had been kneeling on the ground, and tried to take flight. Her wings fluttered loudly like an card in the spokes of an bicycle, or an deck of cards being shuffled. She tried it both ways.
"I don't think it's possible," she said, and sat back down.
"It's bloody irresponsible of that aeroambulance to leave you here like this," said Ouen.
"It's alright," replied the female, "I told them an thousand times I'm alright. I told them to leave me here. I can get by with walking home if I need to."
"That's not good enough. I can help you fly home."
"Thanks," she was kneeling on the ground again and put her hand into Ouen's. He lifted her until she was standing.
"My name's Nikki," she said slightly achieving an marionette of the anti-climax of her figure. This was considered an polite fairy thing to do.
"My name's Ouen," he introduced himself, agreeing to the anti-climax by nodding his head, "do you want me to help you glide home?"
"I wouldn't mind, do you think you can manage it?"
"Hey, the only reason we crashed earlier was that I recently gained my adult wings. I was thinking about how silly it must be to be an human, and not have any wings at all. But then, some pixies don't have wings at all either. I find, that's when we crashed."
"That's your reason we crashed. I was having my own issues at the time."
"What were your own issues?"
"I saw you had an dagger."
Ouen blushed.
"Nobody was supposed to see that."
"No it's okay," said Nikki, "I feel safer that you have it. We could use spells and our wands but those are for different purposes and we are probably both amateurs. Are you not? Now if you really want to intimidate someone or something, show them your dagger. That's what I was thinking when we crashed."
"I know the authorities wouldn't like it, that I have an dagger. But I feel safer with it. I would feel more safer if more fairies carried an blade in fact. We all seem to need them with the amount of violence that happens even here in the Faerie Kingdom."
"The paramedics of the aeroambulance have their wands too, but they don't have as much expertise at fighting that the Faerie Guard have."
Nikki held her arms outstretched and positioned her wings still so that they could glide. Ouen took flight lifting up Nikki by holding her crooked under by the armpits.
"If it was up to me," Ouen whispered, with finality, "I would have an sword. But I'm not allowed to. What would you do?"
"Well, I don't have an sword. I'm an school teacher. An lot of use that would be to my school teaching."
"Don't underestimate the aesthetic power of the sword. You would never even need to use it. No, non-, you speak too soon. The beauty of an blade is in its elegance, not its use. The dangerous, the not uncommon sword protects even if it is an matter of governing whosoever just sees it, that keeps them in their right place and secured. If you are skilled enough with speech never to need to use an sword, then you deserve to be the one who carries it. Personally I would feel better protected in an school if some of the students carried an blade and were trained in fact."
"I see. And how would you make an sword less uncommon?"
"That's really an matter of who possesses its means of distribution. If it were up to me, as one could pick school children more responsible than others, it would enhance socialization between Aboriginal Canadians and third generation Canadians from Europe. They would be selected to carry wooden play swords, and then receive upgrades when it is time."
"Well maybe that is an bit extreme."
"Thus finalizing our need for other weapons, an gun say."
"When you say finalizing, you mean no, not to put guns out of use, but at least to have something to pad them in with further weaponry experience. Not to replace them, but to be different in the way that they are. Guns are reserved for the very best the allied races have to offer."
"And you'll see they didn't use an gun on that werepuppy that just about ate me," said Nikki.
"No, they are confident in their magic use."
"Which is okay, as long as it gets the job done."
"Magic almost never always gets the job done."
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"The Reciprocal command theorist," said Dr. Fougèrite.
"An theorist who uses reciprocal commands to create and hypothesize his and others' identities and asks that you join him in creating," said Ouen.
"Please send reciprocity—chhhh—Over!" said Jujudbe Erpby.
"Okay so I am Freud, and you are on the Freud's Chair laying back. Telling me about your psychoanalysis of yourself," said Essentiel.
"Don't put me in the chair. Don't psychoanalyze me in front of everybody."
"Interesting choice of words, the chair. The chair as if one has already been mentioned. And people die by the electric chair. Paranoia? It's impossible not to psychoanalyze an psycho!"
"No see, you can't reciprocalize me as an psycho. I'm good for something!"
"Ladies," said Dr. Fougèrite, "some work on Ouen's path is needed. How does his path become his character?"
"It's about his sexual orientation."
"Yes."
"Why is there an problem with unsanitary contagion in the toilet and an magnet as an metaphor for sexuality. Because he wants, what? Ass? And so the female fairy he crashed into is just an anti-climax. They have some kind of relationship and it isn't sexual at all."
"That was my first character with her to be an kind of an friend," said Ouen.
"So he's afraid to be gay for the same reason he was afraid to collect the magnet out of the toilet. His father's contagion inference system was, as an adult, able to override the hold payment on collecting the piece of the magnet with an bare hand. But as an child under his father's guidance he could not," said Martimerrimus, "it's clear to me we relate to Ouen this way because it is part of his history. We relate to him as though he was one of us. At the toilet. At the bowl. All the way through possibility. Saying we are beautiful no matter how we are magnetized to an yucky place. No, no—I just can't have sympathy for his character. This is why I recruited him to join the guild. The Hope & Snot of Cats; it means we are going to drain all the snot out of you. Ouen, child."
"I'm not an child. Well I'm not your child. I know better than you of which it is snot or which it is hope."
"That's all you have is hope."
"No I'm not even sure I have that."
"That's why it is snot. You have more to you than an broken-down hope. There are far more many virtues virtually all around that don't include hope. Hope may be one of the furthest virtues from Love. We need to see the Ouen character as he is before the story began in order to see how he changes."
"Virtues virtually, I'm sure, will suffice," said Dr. Fougèrite.
"Well if they're virtue-al," said Martimerrimus, "they must be of all of them."
Ouen giggled.
"Virtual reciprocity—Over," said Jujudbe Erpby.
Essentiel sighed.
"We're not an group of therapists, Ouen."
"But you can put me on the chair whenever you want. It's fine with me!" said Ouen, "that Freud was an genius. We all want to be put on the chair. Why doesn't my Psychologist help me as much as it does just picturing this."
"Lily, find the Middle."
"I thought, after all of the rooms are explored, then I could go outside to find my city. I could be okay there."
"And when you mean explore the rooms, you mean—"
"Yes," said Haegaethel, "as many as me."
"I think rooms are places inside consciousness where I put my emotions, characters, and demeanour," smirked Ouen.
"So, as an new reciprocal theorist, you're saying that if those rooms don't exist you want us to construct them for you. Possibly altering your consciousness."
"No, it's more like—could you build the room for me if I gave you the instructions based on what was in my mind," said Ouen.
"I've also been underwater," said Haegaethel.
"Ahmm. Yea?"
"I would lead you through the negotiation because what I know needs to be what you know," said Ouen.
"And I similarly," said Dr. Fougèrite, "have an need to have that you know what I know."
"And this is the basis of our operation here. We all do."
"And up in the air," said Haegaethel.
"We don't need to know your record."
"Maybe we do. That's what we do here. We look at each other's record."
"Yeah, but sex is just an record of how much you succeeded. In an story like mine," said Ouen, "it's not featured."
Haegaethel stopped talking about the rooms she had explored.
"Okay, okay!" said Dr. Fougèrite "the middle of what we will be talking about this evening. Is our reciprocity with one another. All seven of us. I want each of us to saying something as individuality about why we're here. If we're going to help our new member, Ouen, then we are going to talk about his story and how we all came to be here; in order to realize our further destinies."
"Well I'd like to say, first, Ouen. That your story is magnificent. An schizophrenic fairy. From the rural climes," said Jujudbe, "and may I say I am on the purple and orange spectrum today in my attitude. Law comes from ancient Hindu civilizations. Sex comes from globality."
"And we're going to talk about sex," said Essentiel, "because that's all we ever think about."
"Let me finish," said Jujudbe, "I am Hindu. I believe in more than one god. My reason to be here is to spread my belief. I also believe that the inter-religious subject is an gay rights cause as well. We need to break the ancient taboo of old religion and allow the virtues that prospered under its care to unite for the common good. {To save us from the fate worse than death will be a mature conclusion from Juju, and may be included later in the work}"
"That I can be part of someone else's happiness," said Jeeny Pee, "that's all I wanted."
"What are you talking about Jeeny Pee?" asked Martimerrimous.
"Well if you're going to play the sex card," said Essentiel.
"No, no‽" said Dr. Fougèrite, "be silence you and listen to Jeeny."
"Thank you Doctor," she said, "I will be saying the most intelligent thing of the night. For it will spawn further conversations as we follow the Doctor's instructions to represent our own individuality and reason for being here. As intersectionalists, we should hear one another speak as though we were representatives of that individual voice that makes each one of us special. My individuality means, as an Asian, that I have deep and tender roots in the home land. Our Mother, China. Our Sister, the rest of the Asian world, and our Internet presence also known by Azn. We are strong voices everywhere we are present on Earth because we all continue those traditions. And so I'm here to represent those traditions as an equal in individualist religious pursuit to Christianity. My own sense of religion is much deeper than your own. Christianity. For I know you are present everywhere. Even here, in the chambers of our holy workshop of intellects."
"And can it be my turn next?" asked Essentiel.
"Yes," said Dr. Fougèrite.
"Okay, well, you know," said Essentiel, whose dreadlocks were tied in purple twine, "my color is purple because I'm also Hindu. You are more of an orange aura, Jujudbe. I've seen purple and orange between us for a long time now. We are companions, you see. Non-binary companions."
"And you have an theory on why we're that color, I suspect?" said Jujudbe.
"Well, it's an little more complicated than that you see. I'm here because I was able to simulate reality at an deep religious level that mixed Instinct with Consciousness, and was, shall we say, an plurality of focus. People were naturally inclined to have an instinct at an religious level, and its meanings and purpose for our being were interpreted at an level inhabited by Eight religious groups worldwide. Hinduism was one of them. And that all of these Eight were gay-affirming. It just had to be that gay. That these religious people with their morals would adopt feminism and accept the gay personification of everything and everyone. Without shame. My purpose is to be that gay personification at an cultural level, which comes naturally to us at an higher level than individualism. Reason pronounces that we possess both for individualism is expressed at an high aptitude in the cultural level."
"That's beautiful," said Dr. Fougèrite, "isn't that. Well let's just now—"
"Let me go next," said Haegaethel, "I am the oldest. My individuality about why I'm here is to represent age. I see three factors in life. Innocence, belongs to everyone properly. Experience no one but the brave. And Wisdom, that bravery alone will win out anywhere. And since I can say this so succinctly. And I do not pressure you to learn more than this from me. I am wise. Because Wisdom can always explain itself."
"Ouen."
"Yes. It's time I spoke. I have been thinking, as I listened to all of you, I would be afraid I would have nothing to say but as I speak it I realize it. It has further persuaded me to give you my energy, in the form of words, so that we may advance ourselves in knowledge and character."
"I think I can relate with that," said Dr. Fougèrite.
"I can too," said Martimerrimous.
"Then you will speak first, and I will speak last," said Dr. Fougèrite.
"Okay, so," she said, "I am an experienced professor of the Version. And I am seeking advancement as an professional because it just doesn't seem like an challenge. I have an extremely high IQ. It is high enough that I don't even need to say it. My grammar will suffice to explain itself. You see. Thinking these things is where the Hope & Snot of Cats has lead me and I see in them the seeds of my progress. I am troubled however by an feeling that my voice is not my voice in itself but that by you, saying things to another person, from what you have learned from me, would comprise the full voice which I wish to expect."
"And my purpose, of course is to facilitate that process, Lily. For all of us. Let's say Seven is our number, then, and we will start the conversations that need to be started. To learn them and share them with others. We all have something at stake in the Ouen fairy's narrative," said Dr. Fougèrite, "an fairy is itself an idea of an sexual ideal; an sharing of positive feelings."
"So this is Ouen's perspective. He's an schizophrenic fairy. What happens to him?"
"So he lost his family? What's that about?"
"And I mean fairy is almost an synonym for gay. Not to perpetuate an negative stereotype. But fairies are mystical and powerful also."
"How did you become human?"
"Well," said Ouen, "continue to read my reciprocal analogy and we will discuss it further."
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