Wake Of Liberty: 17 – Eye In The Sky
Cooley and Smyth are sitting in the dark, discussing what happened
Cooley, did all those things happen to me or did I dream them?
“Which things, Mr. Smyth? Be more exact, please.”
He smiles. He either knows exactly what I’m talking about or he’s being his usual elusive self.
Cooley, did you or did you not assault my mind with some kind of conjuration? I want to know if it was real or if I just dreamed it.
“Why do you ask? Does it feel like you dreamed it?”
Yes. I mean, you yourself told me I would receive a lodge vision. Then you made a fire, something you were stubbornly against earlier, plus a whole lot of noise, which you were also against, and then everything went berserk, orange and mad, like my mind caught fire, and I found myself waking up over there, in that corner, shaking and sweating.
Cooley says nothing.
I must have dozed off at some point, right? Or something in that soup must have disagreed with me. Either that or…
I wait for Cooley to respond and set my mind at ease. You’d think I’d know better by now.
“Well, maybe you imagined everything, maybe you didn’t. Maybe you did have that vision after all. Does it matter? Visions and dreams are real too, in their own way.”
Stop toying with me, Cooley. I am trying my best to make sense of things. I’m just doing it, like you said, so how about a little help, please.
“Ok, here’s what I have to say about it. It makes no difference if you dreamed those things or if they came naturally to you, or if the soup gave you nightmares, because you experienced everything like you are experiencing this very moment, and the next one, and the one after that. This entire tour is a dream for all you know, yet everything feels real, doesn’t it, like the sting of the fire I am just about to light?”
Cooley picks up a rock and strikes the rubble. A little flame bursts out of nowhere and a spark flies across the room and bites me on the hand. I flinch and move back, holding my arm. It stings badly and I spit on it to ease the pain.
“See, Mr. Smyth? Reality in all its glory. Memories are real, as real as they can get. Look at you, you have stepped back to protect yourself from things you think you have dreamed. And I have made fire despite my earlier caution. And your mind is telling you this is for real, unable to tell where dreaming ends and reality begins.”
He points at the room and everything around us, then at his head.
“Choose your next moves carefully and with a clear mind, Mr. Smyth. Follow my lead or rebel against what I say, your choice, but, please, choose carefully.”
I feel my emotions sweltering again but I keep a lid on them. I fall back to the pillar and look at the fire. It crackles smoothly, as if my presence has pleased it. I pass my hands over it, warming them.
Cooley is watching closely.
“Rebellion, Mr. Smyth, is tricky and righteous business, violent, tumultuous, and protracted. It usually takes years to pan out, confusing the hell out of those caught up in it. It can escalate and drag on, making life harder and conditions tougher, forcing players to seek quick solutions, eventually leading to rash decisions and grave errors, if not disaster.”
The notion of a democratic France ignited people's lives and rallied individuals round a common cause
I say nothing, keeping my attention focused on the soothing, flickering flames.
“At the end of the day, it’s all about the light at the end of the tunnel. Everyone seeks it, everyone claims to see it, rallying people round and bidding them to do things in order to attain it. People are happy to oblige.”
Cooley rubs his hand and thin, gossamer filaments rise and billow into the room, adorning the dark that blankets it.
“It seldom works, of course. Most quick answers are illusions and people find themselves going round in circles, chasing flickers in the dark.”
He flicks his hands and the filaments evaporate.
“Just like that, Mr. Smyth. Gone in a flash.”
Nice trick, but I’m not impressed. Though it does make me feel eerie.
I decide to speak to occupy my mind with rational thoughts. I tell Cooley that it’s better to chase illusions than not believe in anything at all, than chase nothing and stay put forevermore. Given the chance I will always go for the light and make the best out of a situation, always.
“Indeed you might, Mr. Smyth, and kudos to you. But here’s the thing. People, like fish, like most life on earth, are attracted to brilliance. It is a natural, inbuilt biological mechanism that has been guiding you for millennia. Seek the light, they say, and you shall be free. Unfortunately, not all that shines is gold. Sometimes it’s an illusion, or a devious trap. Sometimes the lights are not there to guide you out of the darkness but, alas, to bring you in, like moths to a flame. Zang! An elaborate, cunning game set up by supreme hunters. One must be careful what torch to follow, what smile to respond to, what promise to believe in, what hostel to seek refuge in. Appearances can be deceiving, like I have already said.”
I decide not to respond. My hands are warming up and I am feeling a little better – I don’t want to spoil it. Cooley says nothing more and takes off for his usual glide around the room. He cuts it short by stopping behind a broken, crooked table, on which he leans with both hands. I wince, expecting it to collapse noisily under his weight, but his touch seems to have no effect on it whatsoever.
I rub my neck softly with my fingers, it is still throbbing from the attempted strangulation. So is my head from that godforsaken mirror, or whatever it was. I remind myself that it was all in my head, that it wasn’t real, but I have a hard time convincing myself and an even harder time getting it out of my system. The only thing that soothes me is the small fire.
Cooley smiles as if something amuses him. I have a feeling it’s my thoughts, which he has been reading all along. It makes me nervous, uncertain of myself, and very self-conscious.
For a while I fidget around, getting up, walking to the window, then across the room, round the pillars, unsure of what I’m doing, until I realize what I’m doing and snap out of it. I return to the fire and sit down, staring into the flames.
I cannot relax, something is bothering me. I look up toward Cooley. He is now hovering above the table, drawing something on its surface with his fingers. I get up and go see what it is. It looks like two animals, one chasing the other. He flicks his fingers and the drawings come to life.
“Wolves, Mr. Smyth. They can be very scary creatures, especially to sheep, a fact which they are aware of. They stalk their prey masterfully to get close to them, battling sheepdogs and shepherds along the way, getting better in the process or dying while trying. But the smartest and most cunning of them eventually figure out an easier way to eat. They drop the raw pleasure of the hunt in favor of the clinical efficiency of wit, wearing their victims’ skins and changing their tune, bleating and charming their way into the next flock. From then on it’s simple daisy-picking, or, if you prefer, a case of wolves to the dairy farm. One cannot tell predator from prey, or see the wood for the trees, and the lupines mix with the ruminants, gobbling them up in broad daylight. And so do the criminals – they mix with the rebels, doing their thing, and the tyrants diffuse into the leaders, creating one very confused and paranoid flock that doesn’t know a bleat from a growl or a fang in the throat.”
Wolves, shepherds and sheepdogs are involved in killing in order to sustain their way of life
He flicks his fingers again and the dust animals disintegrate.
“So who’s the villain, Mr. Smyth? Who’s the lackey? Who’s the savior or the victim? Where does right end and wrong begin?”
I have no answer.
It seems to be the right response.
“Right you are. It’s hard to say and even harder to ascertain.”
I remain silent. If only he knew I am completely lost for words. He probably does but isn’t showing it, for whatever devious reason.
“Humanity, Mr. Smyth, is a partial system, and so is reality. For something to exist, from personal belief to social cause to way of life, a certain perspective has to drive it. There is no such thing as pure objectivity. Everything depends on the eye of the beholder and on the way things have been set up. Villains and heroes are the byproducts of different points of view interacting with each other, with no clear lines as to who is who and what is what.”
The notion makes me uneasy again. I have a hard time accepting such relativity.
Cooley, some things must objective, they have to be. Love, for example. Whoever you are, whatever you do, wherever you come from, love is love. So is justice, happiness, peace, family. Things like these are what they are, irreducible, period – regardless of the beholder.
“You truly think it is that simple?”
Yes, I do.
“Let me tell you something, Mr. Smyth. I knew a person once, who killed someone. He did it to get some money and buy food to feed his starving family. He did it out of love. The court superseded that love and called it a crime.”
Yes, and rightly so, because the law takes precedence. Without it there can be no order. Without order there can be no love, only anarchy.
“Let me tell you something else then. King George III, ruler of England, kept law and order in America. He was doing a good job, or so he thought. One night, the Patriots took his tea and threw it in the Boston Harbor in protest at the stamp duty he was imposing on them. In response, he deemed them criminals and thugs, ordering his troops to destroy them.”
I see what you’re trying to do, Cooley. But you are confusing the issues again. May I?
I look at Cooley closely, trying to gage whether to continue. I want to speak but the orange glow of the fire is now giving me an eerie feeling of déjà vu.
Washington and his troops crossing the Delaware
He chuckles.
“Relax, Mr. Smyth, I never respond badly to inquiry or skepticism. Don’t be nervous, feel free to speak your mind.”
I don’t know whether to believe him or not. Is this an invitation? An indirect apology? Perhaps a trap laid elaborately for little sheep to fall in. The last time we mentioned America and the British I almost had my head smashed in and my brain violated.
Cooley shakes his head and hovers closer. He grabs me gently by the shoulder.
“I am not here to intimidate you, Mr. Smyth, if that’s what you are afraid of. My sole purpose is to mirror your take on the world and make you understand it a little better. You keep it clean, it remains clean, understand? Now speak your mind, if you want to.”
I am not sure what that means or how to react to it. The words he spoke in the alleyways of Paris are suddenly echoing in my head. “One wrong word is equal to one wrong turn.” They suddenly seem very relevant.
I decide to pay closer attention and not be afraid. I have a feeling Cooley responds badly to fear, or to the wrong kind of emotions, the wrong kind of answers. I can’t put my finger on it yet, but I’m getting a strong sense I should watch for clues.
I nod to him to continue. I want him to set the pace, say what he has to say. If there’s anything I missed the first time I’ll spot it and keep this conversation smooth, maybe that will do the trick.
“As I was saying, Mr. Smyth, the Patriots rose up in arms against England out of love for their land and family, to protect their interests and shape their destinies. As far as the law was concerned, it was an abominable act of treason – until they won. Then it became an act of triumph.”
So what are you saying Cooley? That victory writes history?
“Yes, of course, Mr. Smyth. Victors create the future by seizing the past and present. Like it or not they seize the day and, if they can withstand the pressure long enough, they set root, consolidate their standing and record things according to their belief systems. Until the next victors come along.
“In the meantime things settle down and order is restored. Brawn and muscle take a back seat and common sense returns, realigning society around constructive processes. On that you are right, yes, some things are larger than life, upheld throughout time, irreducible and pure. You’ve mentioned some of them already: love, happiness, justice, family values. All these concepts can be best summed up as values that exist when common sense prevails. At least one hopes so – civilized life seems to depend on them. If they are not there, if they get forgotten or abused down the line in whatever way or form, chances are that things have taken a detour and that another cause has wrapped itself around people too tightly, making way for a period of suppression or a wave of insurgency.
“And onward society goes, exercising its way through the gym of time, breaking down and building itself up again.”
Mars , god of war, is pacified by Venus, goddess of love, and the three Graces
Cooley, I have to be honest with you. You have a way of depressing me with your words. I mean, the way you put it, it seems that the future was written a long time ago, and that we are just going through the motions, playing out different versions of it as the years go by.
“I know, Mr. Smyth. It’s not a very attractive way to frame humanity. But it is necessary. To venture ahead you must first know where you stand, where you’re coming from and what you are really all about. Only then can you truly talk about moving forward. For now consider yourselves limited and moving in spirals, round the same axis, recycling your history, going nowhere. Come, come, it’s not all that bad a process, or as glum, I have to give it to you. You have achieved much through this approach. It could have been so much better, true, but this is why I am here. To test your preconceptions and offer you choices and insight. Like I said, take it or leave it—”
It matters little to you, I know.
I feel the sharks in my blood circling again. I cannot stand hearing him talking humanity down like that, it flips something inside my brain. But I have a feeling that this is exactly what triggers the nasty reactions from him. His words echo in my head again. “My sole purpose is to mirror your take on the world.” Perhaps I should take him literally and give him nothing nasty to work with, see what that does.
Of course, staying calm doesn’t mean acquiescing to every stupid thing I hear.
It matters little to you, Cooley, I repeat in a calmer voice, but your actions spell otherwise. You seem to care more than you let show – there’s something about the way you act that is a little over the top, even for a volatile spirit like yourself. Would you like to tell me what it is? Or are you going to stick to your convenient story that it’s all part of the lesson?
Cooley sniggers. Have I gone too far? I don’t know, but I have to test the boundaries. I mean, what if everything is a test, a trick to get me to denounce everything I know? Wouldn’t that make me a sheep and prove the worst about humanity? My gut instinct tells me to keep pushing, sternly but politely, when things don’t feel right. I clench my fists and brace for a response.
Cooley is looking at me calmly. Nothing in his gaze reveals he has been bothered by what I just said. He continues unabated.
“The gym of time, Mr. Smyth, is the safest indicator of what you refer to as progress. In your case, based on your understanding of the world through the biological and mental apparatuses you wield, it brings about a subjective kind of development that claims to be objective because it is based on what you refer to as essential laws, perennial values, and inalienable rights. It is all very human, semantic and limited, unfortunately, but it has its merits, I have to admit. Being the inquisitive and resourceful kind of species that you are, you constantly update your databases, adding wonders to what you already know, and your world changes continuously with your every discovery, invention or insight. Not just in the present, mind you; the past changes too, according to your findings. The victorious write political, cultural and social history, changing the way you understand the present and the past – scientists write physical history, enhancing the way you perceive the world. With every insight and addition, your presence in the world changes, and the probabilities of the future are greatly affected.”
He pauses for a moment, stoking the fire, then continues.
“What will the results be? No one knows. It’s all a game of chance.”
Let me tell you what Einstein said about that. He said that God does not play dice, Cooley.
“Einstein was a genius, not infallible. He said a lot of inaccurate things, among them the notion that God does not play dice, which, like it or not, He does – only it’s not God as you understand it but reality, the whole framework in motion.”
You are talking about quantum theory. I’ve read about it but never really gotten my head around it. It’s completely bizarre. How can everything be the function of subatomic statistics and probabilities?
“The same way society is the function of individual persons coming together in various ways, creating a number of outcomes along the way. The universe works in a similar manner: it is a complicated collection of probabilities, from top to bottom, and we are nothing more than the outcome of those numbers, manifesting as we observe ourselves, and each other, into form. Every time we see or measure something we affect reality by injecting a certain possibility with outcome. Existence precedes essence – and observation creates form.”
But this theory talks about things existing in two places at the same time, and everything being instantly connected through invisible forces, coming to life only when observed.
“It truly is very bizarre. Let me tell you what Richard Feynman, the mathematician, said about it. He said, I think I can safely say that nobody understands quantum mechanics. All the same, it’s the farthest you have gone through the core of reality so far, bar some mind-blowing instances of meditation and intuition some of your sages have performed. You’ll be surprised how the two work together – science and intuition. But that’s another tour. If you think the French revolution is hard to handle, wait till you do the scientific one. It will blast your top off.”
I’m sure it will, Cooley, and that you’re itching to take me there. But let’s put that aside for a minute, shall we? Let me tell you something else Einstein said. He said every time a mouse opens its eyes, it changes the universe with its observations.
“And he was very accurate, even though he meant it sarcastically. You see, when a mouse looks at the world, it does affect it. Literally and metaphorically. And when a housefly, or an eagle, or a snake, or a human being opens its eyes and observes the world, it, too, changes it.”
I fail to see how.
“It’s very simple. Imagine you turn around and see a great eye in the sky watching you, recording your every move. Will you behave in the same way as before? Chances are you will not – that your behavior will change. It is only natural for the subject under observation to react to scrutiny, especially when that scrutiny comes from something huge, menacing, or totally unfamiliar to the subject.”
Cooley’s eyes flicker orange for a moment. A nasty feeling seeps through my veins, sending chills through my spine. I try not to give in to the sudden terror that has gripped me, urging myself to stay focused.
I draw a deep breath and sit upright, staring Cooley in the eye. I must remain calm. Every bone and sinew in my body wants to unwind and disintegrate, but I must remain calm.
FOR MORE: Wake Of Liberty
Images:
Eye In The Sky by Gavin Denman
http://upload.wikimedia.org/wikipedia/commons
[...] progress from being made. Humanity would be better off having societies that are open, yet, which value outcome over the right to endless debate. That is a whole article unto itself, if not a whole book. All in [...]
[...] sure enough, everything remains and nothing is lost, except appearances. Forms shift and names change as things transform from one to another in a cycle that never [...]