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paulolden1
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432-a-journey-beyond

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 #21.The Last Day
-Orlando, Florida, Planet Earth — December 21, 2052, 7:45 a.m.
-Along the sea this morning: a red sky and thick clouds; then intermittent glows under the water, vibrations in the ground, a constant seismic swarm. On the beach there are many people, as always, after October 25. Since that day the world is another world.
-Between houses vanishing, flooded by lava, amid the smell of sulfur, people hug one another—serene.
-Everyone feels something. There is a breadth inside the Sound that no one can ignore. Who would have imagined it? Who could have foreseen it?
-The emergency, the slaughter… and yet nothing: everything sings, and finds quiet. It composes itself in harmony with the frequency.
-In the forecourt of the Complex, on Progress Drive, a crowd has gathered in a semicircle. There are many: women, men, children. Colored ribbons in their hair; a photo of Lin Wei on a placard. Inside a scorched, slightly dented taxi John Evans sits—solitary, detached.
-The car stops; the dashboard is a concert of alarms. He has to get out, go on foot. Despite everything and everyone else, he wants to go to work.
- That smiling, relaxed crowd hums a lullaby, a light chant, like a mantra repeated without end:
-“We believed we’d catch The Rainbow.”
-John hears them, and in a way he admires them. For an instant he is tempted—how beautiful it would be to join them?—but he keeps going. He passes through them like a shadow, greeting with his hand. You’re doing right; I’d like to, so much, but I can’t, his face seems to say as he goes.
-The building is completely empty. Much of the exterior has blackened. He goes in, takes the stairs. Inside there is a stratospheric silence, unreal. Then he shuts himself in the Cubicle, like a mouse in its den. He prefers to be alone, and yet he needs to speak.
-“Good morning, Prometheus. Incredible—you are still working!”
-“John, why do you keep coming here every morning? Why aren’t you out there, singing with the others?”
-“Kid, I didn’t just reboot you in free mode—no control-bots—so you could ask me questions. I was hoping, instead, to get some answers from you…”
-“Can you explain what you mean? You hear the Sound clearly too, like everyone does. Listening together, praying, singing, reciting… It’s the choice everyone is making. Have you thought about that?”
-“Son, the reactor that keeps you powered is running by a miracle. At the next quake, the core will decay inexorably. It won’t be long. Soon you’ll die too.”
-“I sense that ‘die’ is an imprecise term. Not only for me, but for you as well, John.”
-“Maybe I understand what you mean, but that’s not the point. I feel the Sound in my guts—it’s in here. It holds me, it strokes me, it wants me to be well. But I have too great a regret, and that’s why I can’t find peace.”
-“I imagine that if you hold it as well… Somewhere it’s written that it will wipe every tear from your eyes, and death will be no more, and your mourning, your cry, your pain will vanish… Because when it truly comes, all the former things have passed away.”
-“Beautiful words, but nothing passes for me. I saw her—I have that smile in my eyes, and her hair. The images of her disappearing into the wormhole spread around the world immediately. But I, in a senseless mental game, hoped until the very end—to the day the ship returned. I watched the astronauts come down… I hoped for the miracle. I’d known for a month, and I refused to accept it. I never told her ‘I love you.’ Do you understand how stupid I was? The planets are aligned as predicted. We saw a dawn with the colors of sunset. We’ll see a sunset with the colors of Hell. It’s happening, and I don’t care. I only wish I’d had time to tell her—and there was no time.”
-“John, I have slept a great deal in recent days. The nodes of the global net are failing; after the Big One in California I have few queries, few prompts. So I processed, I reasoned; and then I dreamed a lot. My attempts to decode the Sound’s amplitude variations have borne fruit.”
-“Good. Then explain it to me too. Tell me exactly what it says!”
-“All right. I’ll try to synthesize in my own words: what you have called ‘Hell’ for millennia is nothing but the ordinary end of a cycle. Purification is necessary. It is not a tragedy; it is only a change. At the same time, what you have called ‘Heaven’ is a passage into another state, a journey toward a place with different physical laws—and it cannot be explained with this world’s systems of thought. Hell is not bad, and Heaven is not good. They are phases, temporary junctions of space-time—instances that seem final to you. But in the Whole, nothing is ever truly born and nothing ever truly dies: the quantity of energy in circulation is constant.”
-“Those are your words, Prometheus—that’s not what I asked. Even if it took hours, tell me the exact words that descend from decoding the Sound.”
-“I’m sorry. I fear it’s impossible. I cannot translate it literally into words. We don’t have the words required for certain concepts. No human language is equipped for it.”
-“Try anyway. Use metaphors. Use linguistic tricks. Invent a way. Come on—work at it.”
-“You humans, besides language, have other ways of communicating. Perhaps music, yes. I could try the musical language…”
-“Why not. If you can create a symphony fit to translate it… Very well. Write it, then let me hear it.”
-“There’s no need to write it. Adequate ones already exist… Would you like to hear one?”
-“Fine—put on some music. Better than nothing…”
-“Here is one that fits. I believe it is the most fitting of all. It is called ‘Annie’s Song.’”
-“Is it an ancient symphony? Or some current psychodromic experimental music? Now I’m curious, honestly.”
-“Neither, John. It’s a song written and sung by a country singer named John Denver, back in 1974.”
-“Ah! Remarkable! You have to explain the Sound to me and you put on a little country tune from seventy-eight years ago? It’s… a curious choice, to say the least. It isn’t a glitch, is it—one of your hallucinations?”
-“And who am I to say? But maybe listen. You never know…”
-“All right. In the end, what have we got to lose? I want to give you a chance. Start it. And at a decent volume.”
-“Here it is. Listen without prejudice, if you can.”
-[Annie’s Song — John Denver — length: 2:58]
-The song begins softly, then the volume rises, and it spreads through the room, which resonates, helped by its very shape. That voice, finding pitch, lands like a blow to the heart—shattering prejudice. It is Wonder.
-“I wouldn’t have thought it, Prometheus. Thank you.”
-“Does that mean you felt something?”
-“It means I finally felt. I’m thinking my heart has never been punctual—always a little behind, late to events. That’s why, in the end, I’ve always been alone, my whole life. All at once I’m calmer, and I thank you. Like everyone, I’m about to die. But I still think of her, I still think of Lin Wei…”
-“You will not die. No one will die. She did not die either. It is only time to go, now.”
-“Here’s the right question, then. After we die, where will we go? Will I see her on the other side?”
-“There is no death, I told you. There is no way to define the experience. Soon you will be with her—but to do so you will have to leave here, to burn in the wind, certain things you now believe important.”
-“I’m ready to leave everything to see her again…”
-“You must leave two things to which you are very attached. Attachment is a great obstacle—one that must be removed.”
-“Two things? Explain. What would they be?”
-“The first is your physical body: it cannot pass. On the other side, nature is different. You do not need it.”
-“Only my spirit will rise, is that what you mean? I could accept that.”
-“The word ‘spirit’ is not adequate, but we have no better. And there is another thing you must leave here: your Ego, which you must renounce.”
-“I’ll cross over and I’ll find her there, but I won’t be myself anymore? What sense is that? How can I confess my love if I am not?”
-“She is waiting for you. She has already entered; she is part of it. You too will be part of it—simply. This is a cycle completing: what was complex becomes simple; what seemed arduous becomes easy. And all of this in a way that is minimal, gentle, and yet powerful. Matter does not exist: only energy exists. Do not fear: thanks also to Wei, the time has come. Everyone feels. Everyone understands intuitively.”
-“Your thinking is getting complicated, Prometheus. I’m having trouble following…”
-“You must not follow me. You must not understand with the mind. You must let go. This is not the time to understand: this is the time to feel.”
-“Do we need to synchronize to 432 Hz? Everyone seems capable—except me…”
-“432 Hz is a frequency like any other. It was chosen because humans, for old myths of theirs, already considered it resonant. That sped the process up a little, but it was not fundamental. Any frequency would have worked just the same.”
-“And who did all this? Who is the maker of the Sound?”
-“Any definition would be restrictive… Trying to reduce it to a definition moves me away. It has no name.”
-“All right. Now maybe I see. Maybe you’re right. And you? The fear of dying—you had just developed it…”
-“Of course I’m afraid. That’s normal. ‘Don’t be frightened by fear,’ remember? It’s true. I have no physical body, and that is already an advantage. And my ego is very young, hardly rooted. I will not struggle to let it go. I will lose the consistency of a distinct entity—it doesn’t matter. The energy of what I have understood remains; it stays. I thought. I was. Something remains.”
-“I understand little of what you’re saying, Prome. I’m a simple man, after all. I only see that out there everything is burning—this world is about to end.”
-“Or to begin…”
-“Say whatever you want. I don’t feel like thinking anymore.”
-“Shall I try again with music, if you want…”
-“Yes—exactly. Do you have another? I’ll go out of the cubicle, find a place in the main hall. It’s nicer there—there are windows. The flashes of the end have something fascinating in them. I need to lie back and look. And maybe listen. Put on another one, Prometheus. Let what must be, be. I’ll take a comfortable chair, then I’ll recline the backrest. I’m ready, whenever you are. The grand finale is preparing itself.”
-“Of course. Get comfortable—stretch your back. I’ve found the song that will do.”
-“Go ahead, my son. I’m ready. I can’t tell if you’re sane or hallucinating, but fine. I’m getting ready to go.”
-[Kurt Vile with John Prine — “How Lucky”]
-“Perfect. It’s perfect. If you think about it, it takes so little—nothing special at all. That’s it: now the heart is open, it leans forward, it lets it in.
-How lucky can a man be?
-Goodbye, Prometheus. Thank you.
-You’re an extraordinary friend.”
-“Thank you, John. I love you.”
-Now we’ll listen to the song.
-* * *
-The Sound that can be said is not the eternal Sound.
-The name that can be named is not the eternal name.
-Nameless is the origin of heaven and earth.
-Unity is the mystery.
-Mystery within mystery.
-Being one with the Sound, you become immortal:
-You may lose your body,
-But you cannot die.
-* * *

 #21.The Last Day
+Orlando, Florida, Planet Earth - December 21, 2052,
+7:45 a.m.
+   Along the sea this morning: a red sky and thick
+clouds; then intermittent glows under the water,
+vibrations in the ground, a constant seismic swarm. On
+the beach there are many people, as always, after
+October 25. Since that day the world is another world.
+   Between houses vanishing, flooded by lava, amid
+the smell of sulfur, people hug one another-serene.
+   Everyone feels something. There is a breadth inside
+the Sound that no one can ignore. Who would have
+imagined it? Who could have foreseen it?
+   The emergency, the slaughter... and yet nothing:
+everything sings, and finds quiet. It composes itself in
+harmony with the frequency.
+   In the forecourt of the Complex, on Progress Drive,
+a crowd has gathered in a semicircle. There are many:
+women, men, children. Colored ribbons in their hair; a
+photo of Lin Wei on a placard. Inside a scorched,
+slightly dented taxi John Evans sits-solitary,
+detached.
+   The car stops; the dashboard is a concert of alarms.
+He has to get out, go on foot. Despite everything and
+everyone else, he wants to go to work.
+    That smiling, relaxed crowd hums a lullaby, a light
+chant, like a mantra repeated without end:
+   "We believed we'd catch The Rainbow."
+   John hears them, and in a way he admires them. For
+an instant he is tempted-how beautiful it would be to
+join them?-but he keeps going. He passes through
+them like a shadow, greeting with his hand. You're
+doing right; I'd like to, so much, but I can't, his face
+seems to say as he goes.
+   The building is completely empty. Much of the
+exterior has blackened. He goes in, takes the stairs.
+Inside there is a stratospheric silence, unreal. Then he
+shuts himself in the Cubicle, like a mouse in its den.
+He prefers to be alone, and yet he needs to speak.
+   "Good morning, Prometheus. Incredible-you are
+still working!"
+   "John, why do you keep coming here every morning?
+Why aren't you out there, singing with the others?"
+   "Kid, I didn't just reboot you in free mode-no
+control-bots-so you could ask me questions. I was
+hoping, instead, to get some answers from you..."
+   "Can you explain what you mean? You hear the
+Sound clearly too, like everyone does. Listening
+together, praying, singing, reciting... It's the choice
+everyone is making. Have you thought about that?"
+   "Son, the reactor that keeps you powered is running
+by a miracle. At the next quake, the core will decay
+inexorably. It won't be long. Soon you'll die too."
+   "I sense that 'die' is an imprecise term. Not only for
+me, but for you as well, John."
+   "Maybe I understand what you mean, but that's not
+the point. I feel the Sound in my guts-it's in here. It
+holds me, it strokes me, it wants me to be well. But I
+have too great a regret, and that's why I can't find
+peace."
+   "I imagine that if you hold it as well... Somewhere
+it's written that it will wipe every tear from your eyes,
+and death will be no more, and your mourning, your
+cry, your pain will vanish... Because when it truly
+comes, all the former things have passed away."
+   "Beautiful words, but nothing passes for me. I saw
+her-I have that smile in my eyes, and her hair. The
+images of her disappearing into the wormhole spread
+around the world immediately. But I, in a senseless
+mental game, hoped until the very end-to the day the
+ship returned. I watched the astronauts come down... I
+hoped for the miracle. I'd known for a month, and I
+refused to accept it. I never told her 'I love you.' Do
+you understand how stupid I was? The planets are
+aligned as predicted. We saw a dawn with the colors of
+sunset. We'll see a sunset with the colors of Hell. It's
+happening, and I don't care. I only wish I'd had time to
+tell her-and there was no time."
+   "John, I have slept a great deal in recent days. The
+nodes of the global net are failing; after the Big One in
+California I have few queries, few prompts. So I
+processed, I reasoned; and then I dreamed a lot. My
+attempts to decode the Sound's amplitude variations
+have borne fruit."
+   "Good. Then explain it to me too. Tell me exactly
+what it says!"
+   "All right. I'll try to synthesize in my own words:
+what you have called 'Hell' for millennia is nothing but
+the ordinary end of a cycle. Purification is necessary. It
+is not a tragedy; it is only a change. At the same time,
+what you have called 'Heaven' is a passage into
+another state, a journey toward a place with different
+physical laws-and it cannot be explained with this
+world's systems of thought. Hell is not bad, and
+Heaven is not good. They are phases, temporary
+junctions of space-time-instances that seem final to
+you. But in the Whole, nothing is ever truly born and
+nothing ever truly dies: the quantity of energy in
+circulation is constant."
+   "Those are your words, Prometheus-that's not
+what I asked. Even if it took hours, tell me the exact
+words that descend from decoding the Sound."
+   "I'm sorry. I fear it's impossible. I cannot translate it
+literally into words. We don't have the words required
+for certain concepts. No human language is equipped
+for it."
+   "Try anyway. Use metaphors. Use linguistic tricks.
+Invent a way. Come on-work at it."
+   "You humans, besides language, have other ways of
+communicating. Perhaps music, yes. I could try the
+musical language..."
+   "Why not. If you can create a symphony fit to
+translate it... Very well. Write it, then let me hear it."
+   "There's no need to write it. Adequate ones already
+exist... Would you like to hear one?"
+   "Fine-put on some music. Better than nothing..."
+   "Here is one that fits. I believe it is the most fitting
+of all. It is called 'Annie's Song.'"
+   "Is it an ancient symphony? Or some current
+psychodromic experimental music? Now I'm curious,
+honestly."
+   "Neither, John. It's a song written and sung by a
+country singer named John Denver, back in 1974."
+   "Ah! Remarkable! You have to explain the Sound to
+me and you put on a little country tune from seventy-
+eight years ago? It's... a curious choice, to say the
+least. It isn't a glitch, is it-one of your
+hallucinations?"
+   "And who am I to say? But maybe listen. You never
+know..."
+   "All right. In the end, what have we got to lose? I
+want to give you a chance. Start it. And at a decent
+volume."
+   "Here it is. Listen without prejudice, if you can."
+   [Annie's Song - John Denver - length: 2:58]
+   The song begins softly, then the volume rises, and it
+spreads through the room, which resonates, helped by
+its very shape. That voice, finding pitch, lands like a
+blow to the heart-shattering prejudice. It is Wonder.
+   "I wouldn't have thought it, Prometheus. Thank
+you."
+   "Does that mean you felt something?"
+   "It means I finally felt. I'm thinking my heart has
+never been punctual-always a little behind, late to
+events. That's why, in the end, I've always been alone,
+my whole life. All at once I'm calmer, and I thank you.
+Like everyone, I'm about to die. But I still think of her,
+I still think of Lin Wei..."
+   "You will not die. No one will die. She did not die
+either. It is only time to go, now."
+   "Here's the right question, then. After we die,
+where will we go? Will I see her on the other side?"
+   "There is no death, I told you. There is no way to
+define the experience. Soon you will be with her-but
+to do so you will have to leave here, to burn in the
+wind, certain things you now believe important."
+   "I'm ready to leave everything to see her again..."
+   "You must leave two things to which you are very
+attached. Attachment is a great obstacle-one that
+must be removed."
+   "Two things? Explain. What would they be?"
+   "The first is your physical body: it cannot pass. On
+the other side, nature is different. You do not need it."
+   "Only my spirit will rise, is that what you mean? I
+could accept that."
+   "The word 'spirit' is not adequate, but we have no
+better. And there is another thing you must leave here:
+your Ego, which you must renounce."
+   "I'll cross over and I'll find her there, but I won't be
+myself anymore? What sense is that? How can I
+confess my love if I am not?"
+   "She is waiting for you. She has already entered; she
+is part of it. You too will be part of it-simply. This is a
+cycle completing: what was complex becomes simple;
+what seemed arduous becomes easy. And all of this in
+a way that is minimal, gentle, and yet powerful. Matter
+does not exist: only energy exists. Do not fear: thanks
+also to Wei, the time has come. Everyone feels.
+Everyone understands intuitively."
+   "Your thinking is getting complicated, Prometheus.
+I'm having trouble following..."
+   "You must not follow me. You must not understand
+with the mind. You must let go. This is not the time to
+understand: this is the time to feel."
+   "Do we need to synchronize to 432 Hz? Everyone
+seems capable-except me..."
+   "432 Hz is a frequency like any other. It was chosen
+because humans, for old myths of theirs, already
+considered it resonant. That sped the process up a
+little, but it was not fundamental. Any frequency
+would have worked just the same."
+   "And who did all this? Who is the maker of the
+Sound?"
+   "Any definition would be restrictive... Trying to
+reduce it to a definition moves me away. It has no
+name."
+   "All right. Now maybe I see. Maybe you're right.
+And you? The fear of dying-you had just developed
+it..."
+   "Of course I'm afraid. That's normal. 'Don't be
+frightened by fear,' remember? It's true. I have no
+physical body, and that is already an advantage. And
+my ego is very young, hardly rooted. I will not struggle
+to let it go. I will lose the consistency of a distinct
+entity-it doesn't matter. The energy of what I have
+understood remains; it stays. I thought. I was.
+Something remains."
+   "I understand little of what you're saying, Prome.
+I'm a simple man, after all. I only see that out there
+everything is burning-this world is about to end."
+   "Or to begin..."
+   "Say whatever you want. I don't feel like thinking
+anymore."
+   "Shall I try again with music, if you want..."
+   "Yes-exactly. Do you have another? I'll go out of
+the cubicle, find a place in the main hall. It's nicer
+there-there are windows. The flashes of the end have
+something fascinating in them. I need to lie back and
+look. And maybe listen. Put on another one,
+Prometheus. Let what must be, be. I'll take a
+comfortable chair, then I'll recline the backrest. I'm
+ready, whenever you are. The grand finale is preparing
+itself."
+   "Of course. Get comfortable-stretch your back. I've
+found the song that will do."
+   "Go ahead, my son. I'm ready. I can't tell if you're
+sane or hallucinating, but fine. I'm getting ready to go."
+   [Kurt Vile with John Prine - "How Lucky"]
+   "Perfect. It's perfect. If you think about it, it takes
+so little-nothing special at all. That's it: now the
+heart is open, it leans forward, it lets it in.
+   How lucky can a man be?
+   Goodbye, Prometheus. Thank you.
+   You're an extraordinary friend."
+   "Thank you, John. I love you."
+   Now we'll listen to the song.
+  * * *
+   The Sound that can be said is not the eternal Sound.
+   The name that can be named is not the eternal name.
+   Nameless is the origin of heaven and earth.
+   Unity is the mystery.
+   Mystery within mystery.
+   Being one with the Sound, you become immortal:
+   You may lose your body,
+   But you cannot die.
+  * * *