H(A)PPY Page 3

  For a brief second I gaze up into the ‘sun’ and wonder whether the planet Mercury is related to the planet Mira A. Two big, red planets, remember? Big. Boundless. Volatile. Mercurial. But Mars may always be seen, is always visible (unless it draws too close to the sun). Mira A oscillates.

  She oscillates.

  And Mira B? What of Mira B? That strange sister planet. Does she oscillate?

  Brief moments of volatility aside, The Graph at the farm is relatively stable. No pun intended. And that is a relief. That is a great relief. I don’t want to disrupt The Graph. I don’t want to be the weakest link. I want to play my part. I am so grateful to be one of The Young. I am not proud. Pride is unhealthy. I am grateful. I am honoured. And I want to do everything I can to keep The Graph strong.

  All those bad feelings . . .

  Don’t push them away, Mira A. Remember: a push is almost a shove and a shove is far too aggressive.

  Just turn away from them.

  Just turn away.

  Don’t push.

  Never push.

  Just turn.

  Gently turn.

  It is surprisingly difficult to explain our loyalty to each other – as a tribe, as a Community, as a race (for who may truly understand The Young except The Young, after all? We do not crave understanding. We are without need. We are complete. We do not require constant validation). We are never encouraged to be too loyal or too devoted (to anything or anyone), to form too strong an attachment, except to The System. If one’s happiness becomes too dependent upon – or too invested in – another person, then one loses the ability to control one’s own destiny. And that would be unhealthy. For the individual. For the object of desire. For the group. For the society. For the race. For the planet. We are a Whole. The System is our reason. It is our answer. It is our hope. It is our strength. The System contains everything we might possibly need. It completes us. We complete it.

  That is all.

  That –

  is –

  all.

  I cannot remember (although The Sensor is, of course, nudging me with information – but I choose to ignore it, I choose to dwell, just briefly, in forgetfulness) when I first began to hear The New Song. Perhaps it was on the farm. Perhaps I started to hum it under my breath on the dawn stroll with Lorca for the early milking. Yes. There is something clean and haunting about the start of the song. It is a waltz that is both strangely innocent and oddly knowing.

  I call it a song, but it has grown much bigger than that. It is slowly swelling within my mind. It is a whole new repertoire – something far more complex, more convoluted, more ambitious than anything I have ever engaged with before. You might call it a mosaic – a musical mosaic. There are many parts to it. Six at the very least. Six strong voices. And each plucks and hums in a different way – resonates at a different level. There are six main instruments – but they are all the guitar.

  Of course The Young are not generally encouraged to experiment with music from The Past (although they are not discouraged from this practice, either. We are never bound or curtailed, we are always at liberty – we are perpetually free). We understand that all composition must, at some level, refer to The Past – to a particular instrument’s Body of Work (for example), to Classics of the Idiom. We are – we must inevitably be, at some level, however much we might resist the notion – the Sum of Our Influences. But The Young are Clean and we are Hopeful and we are Unattached. Our music must, by necessity, reflect this freshness (my Language Graph pinkens at the word must, then pinkens still further at necessity. Too trenchant – too . . . ah yes – too mercurial).

  The Cultural Edifices of The Past are a warped and diseased outgrowth of the Hopelessness and Corruption of History (I say this very slowly, very calmly). For how might they expect to be otherwise? They are (very calm, very slow again) spoiled and bruised by association in much the same way a ripe peach – in all its innocence, in all its purity – will be bruised and spoiled by the greedy fingers of a coarse and acquisitive hand.

  There are many Art Forms that are no longer compatible with The New Path. Art is, by its very nature, an expression of Ego. Art describes the world – it is once removed from the world (it cannot be in This Moment. But The Young live in This Moment, so our Art must, by sheer necessity, be improvised and impermanent). That once-removedness of Art is an expression (a validation, a celebration) of a kind of difference, a kind of vanity. It is interpretation. It is embellishment. It is cynicism. It is ideology. If Art may exist among The Young, then it needs to Shine A Light on to The New Path – to bring greater dispassion, freedom and clarity (if such a thing is possible – the Path is Perfect, the Path is Freedom, the path is Clarity). So The Young study forms, they process archetypes (we understand the lie of Art – how it points to an escape. But we do not want to escape. Our reality is good enough. If This Moment is perfectly satisfactory, why might it require further augmentation?). When we access songs and other musical compositions from The Past we embrace them as mere skeletons. Their bones have been scraped clean. They are boiled down, just vague semblances of their former gaudy selves. Mere nuclei. Mere marks on a page. And we experiment with them. But we do not create Art for posterity. Nothing is permanent here. Nothing is embedded. Everything is in This Moment. Everything simply floats in the perpetual shelter of The Present.

  Even our buildings are mutable. All structures – narrative, musical, architectural – must contain within them the capacity to be remade. There are no permanent edifices. Only The System. Only The Young. Only these two may remain indefinitely.

  I have searched for the nucleus of The New Song –

  Why is that capitalised? –

  I have tried to uncover its clean bones so that I might work with it and make it sing again. But I cannot find it. I have searched and searched. Perhaps I should simply let it go? As we are taught to. Perhaps I should have quietly turned away by now. Because are these not the Manacles of The Past affixing themselves to me? Weighing me down? But The Graph . . .

  The Graph is stable.

  Yes. So I have crafted it from memory –

  Ah, but I am getting ahead of myself. I must find the ‘sun’. I must stare into the ‘sun’. So that I can extrapolate a little. So that I can be truly candid.

  I found the girl! There. Now you know. I found her on The Stream as I was lucid dreaming. I didn’t plan it that way, although it wasn’t entirely accidental. But it wasn’t calculated, either. I think you might best call it almost . . . almost, well, a kind of H(A)PPY accident. And the music . . . Ah the music washes around her, with its metallic jangle, its curious sad-happiness, its odd teetering between worlds, between knowing and unknowing. Its abundant mystery. But these are very early days. There is still much to . . .

  Oh.

  The Graph has purpled.

  I must’ve turned away from the light. Just for a second.

  Breathe

  Breathe

  Let’s just . . .

  Try and . . .

  Something . . .

  Ah yes . . . Did I mention that Kite visited?

  Did I . . . ?

  How odd.

  Kite’s name has pinkened.

  Just very slightly – ever so slightly.

  And again!

  But why would . . . ?

  I don’t . . .

  Why would . . . ?

  Is it . . . ?

  Might it . . . ?

  Am I . . . ?

  While I’m on the subject . . .

  Remember that dolly? The dolly she held? The little girl? Her dolly? Well, it wasn’t a dolly. It was a baby. A tiny baby. But the pixellation is really intense. The baby flashes in and out of focus, very rapidly. It . . . it vibrates. And when I look at the child my eyes, as I dream, begin to flicker, quite uncontrollably. My heart pounds. And I know that there is some kind of confusion – an awful misunderstanding, a heavy cloud, an obfuscation, that is swathed around (that swaddles) all this . . . this apparent innocen
ce . . .

  A minor chord. That is how I hear it. That is how I feel it. As a minor chord.

  She calls to me, this child, in a strange, scratchy waltz. Her song.

  The subject?!

  But was I even on the subject?

  Oh shut up! Shut up!

  Push it away!

  Push it away, Mira A!

  Don’t let it . . .

  Try not to let it be . . .

  Breathe

  Breathe

  Because while The Sensor isn’t . . .

  Which conversation is this? I feel lost. How many . . . ? Which . . . ?

  Push it away, Mira A!

  Breathe

  Breathe

  Because while The Sensor isn’t (to use the rather unhelpful, over-simplistic and old-fashioned formulation from The Past) ‘censored’, there is still a whole world of information out there that is not readily available. Not quite. It is certainly present. Of course. It is existent. It is open. It is extensive – in fact it is voluminous. Almost infinite. It is not ‘forbidden’ or ‘out of bounds’ – nothing is forbidden or out of bounds to The Young: we are free – but it may still, nonetheless, only be acquired gradually, carefully, through an easy and natural progression of thoughts. And at every turn The Graph will ask the enquirer how helpful, how appropriate, how beneficial, this information is both to themselves and to The Young (because The Graph is The Young, after all. We are one). So, to put it simply (to break it down into its component parts), the enquirer thinks (they enquire, they ponder, they speculate) and The Sensor automatically responds. It fleshes things out or it offers tiny, factual interjections. For personal use. For simple, day-to-day decisions. But for larger, more obtuse or abstract ideas and formulations, a series of gentle, neural pathways must slowly be established (imagine cutting down a tree and then chiselling a chair from it, very quietly and patiently, slither by slither). A kind of gradual validation must take place. Because we (The Young) cannot (and should not) move from a standing start to an all-out sprint without due care and consideration. We don’t ever want to risk the threat of social or psychic injury. So first there must be a slow walk, then a gentle trot, then a steady jog. The enquirer will not want to pinken The Graph by dint of asking anything too brash or too startling. The enquirer must be tentative. Modest. Helpful. Appropriate. Knowledge must be gained through a natural, cautious, gradual progression of gentle mental movements, tiny pulses. It must not jar. Because that would be unhealthy. That would be (please forgive my lurid language) wrong.

  It is not that The Sensor or The Information Stream or The Graph or, indeed, The Young (for what are The Sensor and The Graph and The Stream if not The Young – our united consciousness, our core selves?) are against flights of fancy, per se, or crazy spontaneity, or bright flashes of inspiration – it’s just that The Ego, the Selfish id, is often most readily and most easily expressed on a sudden whim, arbitrarily, brashly, without due care or thought. The Young need to be more wary, more intelligent, more considered.

  We cannot stand guard over others (that would be nothing short of bullying, of oppression) so we must all stand guard – first and foremost – over ourselves.

  In The Past people were suddenly able to make instant connections – for a Golden Period, at least, before the onset of the Slow Epoch (when the corporations bought up and owned all seeds, all growth, all hope, all water, all clean air, all assets, all thought). During this Golden Period, The Old were completely awash with facts and non-facts. They asked a question and it was promptly answered. A fountainhead of information was released. But was the water clean? Did it quench, revive or simply deluge? Did it not often threaten to saturate and drown?

  We have constrained the fountainhead. We have not stopped it. But we have inhibited it. We have redirected its flow. The Young accept that this is necessary. To be unconstrained – to expect total liberty – is not a healthy or a fruitful way to coexist. Because The Young do not believe (as The Old once did) that they have a natural right to information. Information – like all the other Old Vices (money, lust, possessions) – can be stored up – amassed – and exploited, or used to manipulate and undermine others. Information is dangerous. It is a weapon. It is explosive. Implosive. It must be handled gingerly. And it must be reliable. But who decides what is to be relied upon? Information is wanton. It is just as likely to be untrue as truthful. So we need Perspective. And The Graph provides The Young with Perspective. We can trust in it. We know that it may be depended upon. So we no longer need to worry.

  We must trust The Graph because it is us. We must move forward gingerly, cooperatively. Because we are only strong if we are one. This sweet, fragile, honest organism – The Young – can only survive if it is compliant, subservient, obliging, calm, selfless, logical.

  So, yes, yes, I have been dreaming her of late. The Graph is less sensitive to our dreams – allows greater leeway. Of course there will be a pinkening, but it is only slight. And I have discovered that I may explore the ideas that now fill my mind – that smoulder within me (forgive this phrase. It is wholly unnecessary. I get carried away with myself. The Graph instantly threatens an EOE) – if I transform the lucid dreams into music. So I am composing. And I find that I can compose, if I am very careful, without affecting the graph too dramatically. Kite tells me . . . Oh, I saw Kite again. Didn’t I mention that already? I bumped into Kite at a most informative seminar about beneficial fungi. Kite tells me that The Graph automatically accommodates creativity. The Graph allows Creatives a tiny amount of extra leeway. Although The Young are all creative. It’s written into our basic DNA – to evolve, to create. Because The System is, in essence, a creative entity; a truth, an aspiration, a hope, an imagining. And The Young must be creative to remain abreast of change, of variations, of threats, of nature’s vagaries. So The Young are encouraged to be creative. And this is built into The Graph. If it were not, Kite says, then The Graph would be our jailer, surely?

  A short pause. A nervous laugh. Was it nervous? A nervous laugh?

  I should push that thought away. It is unhelpful. Although I find that the more I write the song the harder it becomes to push these thoughts away. The song is ever-present – tingling in my fingertips – and yet still it eludes me. The thoughts, though, the thoughts, they tumble forward, panting, like a stream of notes, a vast and indigestible symphony.

  There are so many things I need to explain.

  The lucid dreaming.

  The story of the girl.

  The song.

  The second meeting with Kite.

  And yet ever since I have been composing the song – The New Song – I find it difficult to think about anything else. The New Song consumes me.

  Almost an EOE!

  I must stop for a while. I must pause. Please forgive . . .

  Consumes.

  Me.

  I was . . . I was . . . oh . . . oh . . . overwhelmed.

  Kite sits me down and shines a laser into my eyes.

  ‘You are building a Cathedral in your mind,’ he says, quite matter-of-factly. ‘Soon you will want to fill it with people. And then, when you have established a congregation, you will finally open it up to God.’

  He turns off the laser.

  Cathedral?!

  God?!

  I glance over towards his Graph in a blind panic. But it is void. It is blank.

  ‘I have temporarily deactivated our Graphs,’ Kite says.

  What? De . . . ? I gape. Mine too?

  ‘Yours too,’ he says.

  It’s as though Kite knows what I am thinking before I even think it. As if Kite is The Graph.

  I gaze at him, questioningly.

  ‘I am The Mechanic,’ he explains. ‘I serve The System. I fix leaks. You are leaking, Mira A. It’s nothing too serious at this stage. At worst, I think we may simply be dealing with a minor endocrine fail.’

  Nothing too serious?

  ‘Is it my fault?’ I ask, lifting a trembling hand to my throat.
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br />   Have I betrayed The Young? Have I betrayed myself ?

  ‘You’ve felt an itch,’ he says.

  ‘Yes. An itch. You’re right.’ I nod, remembering that itch. ‘Is it a symptom?’

  ‘You have constructed a narrative,’ he continues.

  I look slightly confused.

  ‘Sometimes you talk to yourself.’ He smiles.

  ‘Oh.’ I frown.

  ‘I have inspected the narrative,’ Kite continues, ‘I have studied it carefully, in quite some detail. And it’s very . . . its flow is, well, it’s plodding – pedestrian – fluctuating – halting – occasional. It’s intermittent, at best.’

  ‘Oscillating,’ I murmur.

  ‘Narratives are not your speciality.’ He glances over at me, almost pityingly.

  ‘Music is my main . . . my main . . . preoccupation,’ I stammer, with a slight shrug.

  Yes. Music. That is where my talent lies.

  Talent.

  I glance over at The Graph but the word hasn’t pinkened. There is no word.

  It feels strange.

  Hollow.

  Cold.

  Dreadful.

  ‘Of course you will be familiar with the narrative form, per se,’ Kite airily expands, ‘you will have studied the Map of All Narratives. You will have familiarised yourself with it. You will understand the rudiments, the bare bones of all those curious narrative structures employed so often and so successfully in The Past. The narratives of family and romance and adventure, the masculine and the feminine narratives, the narratives of class, of nationalism, of capitalism, of socialism, of faith and myth and mystery, historical narratives, science fiction narratives, experimental narratives, horror narratives, literary narratives, ‘reality’ narratives, crime narratives . . . The Sensor automatically deconstructs these stories for us, so that we may fully comprehend their true meaning, their immense reach and their invidious power, their ultimately deeply conservative urge to comfort and pander and bolster and reassure. To understand them is to disable them. It’s how we stay safe. By knowing. By being aware. It’s how The Young remain strong and Clean. By keeping vigilant. But still, even knowing these things – as you do, as you must – narrative is not really your speciality, Mira A. Your story is only half a story. Occasional. Trite. Partial. Meandering. And, strange as this may seem, this is actually a very good thing.’