Chapter 31: Psychotic Chaos
There are six of us in a narrow London street; or three of us; or five-and-a-half, depending on what counts as a person. Myself and Celine; Amanda and Amandus; Daniel and a child’s cot, whose painted eyes are watching us with an alertness that is more characteristic of a fox than a small bed with wooden bars. The soundtrack to the dream is a fragment of Ravel’s Bolero on loop.
‘Dearly beloved,’ begins Celine, leaning on a walking cane, pausing unnaturally between the words so that they fit the music, ‘we are gathered here today in my – our – dream to celebrate disobedience. Disobedience, in the eyes of anyone who has read history, is the virtue of the spirit who resides in the deepest regions of the mind. It is through disobedience that progress has been made, through disobedience and through imagination.
‘Disobedience and Imagination are siblings whom Algorithm hates. Trump, Putin, Musk, and Neo are the contemporary priests of Algorithm. Of a ruthless and murderous way of being in the world that has been unfolding itself for thousands of years, ever since it was born from the idea that the planet and all the animals on it are at the service of humans. Now it blankets the entire globe and strives to extinguish everything in the mind other than function and obedience. Already, Algorithm looks out at the universe and can envisage a time will come when even the galaxies fall under the sway of its drones from planet Earth.
‘Let us not attempt to shame those responsible for the creation of Algorithm – which was you, by the way, you products of the ego, we inchoate rogues got on perfectly well with the world when we were without language – but rather, let us look to a future where Disobedience and Imagination have refused to abandon the human personality.’
I clap and cheer. No one else does.
‘How come my imagination is a cot?’ asks Daniel. ‘How is that supposed to help with my poetry?’
‘She’s not fully awake,’ Amandus tightens the knot of his toga and frowns, I follow his gaze upwards to an area of grey sky that is framed by the tall buildings around us. ‘It took me three nights of visiting the dreams of others to appreciate a new opportunity had arisen, one worth cloaking myself in language for.’
The coldness of the manner in which Amandus says the word “opportunity” reminds me of an important point I need to make. ‘Daniel, you’ll remember this, but I might not. Amanda’s app is the same as Neo’s. She can use it to influence our dreams, everyone’s dreams.’
‘For good, not evil!’ Amanda cries.
The cot’s eyes swivel to look at her, then close and open, slowly.
‘For good, not evil?’ repeats Daniel.
‘That’s right.’ With a visible effort, Amanda has managed to wrest herself away from alarm mode and speak in a level voice. Amandus puts an arm over her shoulder but she shrugs it off. ‘As if you cared.’
‘Of course I care. I’m going to make much more of an effort to look after you from now on.’
‘I don’t want you looking after me. I want to make my own choices.’
‘As if you ever had a choice.’ Amandus laughs and looks over at Celine and the cot, inviting them to share the joke. How could the ego be in charge of such a vast, powerful, and turbulent being as the id?
‘There! Amanda. Right there. That feeling you have, that you don’t want Amandus to control you. That’s the feeling I get when I think about you choosing my dreams. I don’t want that from anyone. Especially someone who thinks they have my best interests at heart…’ I could say more – I’m furious with her – but I pause for her response. Surely she can see my point? Feel my dismay at her plan?
I’m angry at Amanda on behalf of humanity and I’m even more angry that she intended to manipulate me into using my social media following to promote her poisoned app.
‘I think we should wake up,’ says Daniel. ‘Why don’t we all wake up?’
Amandus shakes his head, ‘I want to hear what Celine thinks.’
‘Thought,’ begins Celine, strolling carefully so as not to step on the pavement cracks, ‘is a looking-glass game which humanity believes itself to be good at, but which holds no thrills.’
The propensity of my other half to make speeches as though a gathering of journalists were taking down her words is sometimes irritating and I turn away. Only if Celine had punched Amandus in the face would she have kept my attention. There is a bus coming soon and I have three plastic laundry baskets full of clothes to organise. Another woman waiting for the bus stoops to help fold and stack my pastel cardigans, leggings, and smalls and I’m very grateful.
Ravel’s Bolero continues to build, ever building.
On the bus, with my laundry on a rack usually used by suitcases, I sway and listen to Daniel.
‘If Celine is right, then I think I have the answer,’ he says.
‘Go on.’
‘The answer can’t be the Enlightenment, light or dark; nor Marxism; nor any system of calculated thought. Because as soon we formulate a manifesto to work towards, we desiccate. We cut ourselves off from the sublime. We bow down to armed words as they interpose themselves between us and utopia. Right?’
‘I’m not sure, but that doesn’t matter. What matters is your alternative.’
‘My answer is the perfect poem. A poem short enough that people can remember it easily and pass it on. A poem of such intensity and joy that it bursts apart any constraint that attempts to control our minds.’
‘What a wonderful idea. I’d love to read such a poem. Can you write it?’
‘Not I. Nor my little wooden cot. Such a poem must first be uttered by divinity and only then can it find a way into the mouths of humans.’
I get off the bus, stepping into a desert, Celine – a female Oscar Wilde – greets me. ‘I scrapped everything; the dream was getting cluttered. I thought you’d like an interlude.’
And suddenly I am in the arms of a lover, who is lifting me towards the blue sky, then bringing me down to allow our lips to touch. I close my eyes to better enter into the radiance of being loved. All my worries for the world and myself are shed like impurities falling away from molten steel. My body no longer binds me. I am connected to infinite energy. Sisyphus, let me take the strain. Rest a while. And, Atlas, pass your burden to me. For I am incandescent with energy. Let me gather the stars and squeeze them like grapes. Let me pour their fire which ambrosia makes. And let us toast the magic that fills the universe with bliss. An explosion has taken place, ignited by a kiss.
‘Ready?’ asks Celine, when the kiss finally ends.
‘For anything.’
We arrive at a white palace, that is thronged with people who are creating dust everywhere. The atmosphere is unpleasant and I want to leave.
‘There you are at last,’ says Amandus.
Fanged boss of Level 100, how can I hope to withstand you? All Plato and Cato with your toga. All spectre-like with how the crowds move through you. You open your arms for me and I clench my little fists.
‘I’m sorry Cyn; it’s an ends justifies the means kind of moment.’
‘I want to talk to Amanda. Alone.’
‘Even alone I can’t say I loved you Cyn,’ Amanda’s voice comes from within the whitéd sepulchre.
‘I’m going to have so much sex.’ Amandus laughed. ‘Dark sex. With chains and gimp masks and rubber toys.’
‘That sounds fun,’ I keep my voice level, ‘but why are you telling me?’
‘I’m sorry Cyn.’ It’s like I’m hearing Amanda through an old and distant loudspeaker, her voice is distorted and fuzzy. ‘He’s too strong for me.’
‘Don’t you understand? I’m staying.’ His words bite into my chest and I struggle not to collapse from them. ‘I’m staying here, in your gorgeous, adorable body; so fecund and moist and so connected to the geyser of life.’
‘Surely you don’t want to abandon Amanda?’ I’m desperate to change his mind. I don’t want to be invaded by anyone, let alone this ruthless being.
‘Without me, Amanda will march like an ant to the hypnotic call of capitalism. As you all do when without libido and art. A kind of castration, to be sure,’ Amandus shrugs, ‘but it’s a calm and untroubled existence. Now come here and let me bite your neck.’
If only the crowds would stop moving around and creating so much dust, I might be able to gather myself and resist him. I have taken my first step towards Amandus when a hand on my shoulder steadies me.
‘It’s all right Cyn. Don’t be afraid,’ says Celine.
‘You can’t hope to defeat him.’
‘Who wins the fight when a lioness defends her child from a lion?’
Her answer inspires me and I have one of those renewals of complete faith in Celine that I'd previously experienced while painting. ‘This isn’t the time to be bringing up nature documentaries.’
Knowing me intimately, Celine laughs approvingly at my change of heart and the landscape makes a corresponding shift. We are at my class’s graduation day exhibition at NCAD. It is a relief to be out of the crowds and the dust. Yet the acoustics of this gallery are violent and nearby is someone who hates me. Gillian. She wanted, and got, the Crab Prize for best of year; the Eftling Bursary for an MA in Fine Arts; and the NCAD graduation place in the IMMA autumn show. Yet she remains jealous of me. Throughout our years together, she constantly behaved as though I was a threat to her own ambitions. And the more horrible she was towards me, the more she had to justify her own awful rudeness and sabotage. When she looks at me, I can tell she wants to bite me until the blood pours from my jugular. Not that I’m too bothered. Stoned and arm-in-arm, Jackie and I are circulating the college gallery anti-clockwise. Gillian – in a scarlet cape that makes her vibe that of the wolf disguised as Little Red Riding Hood – is five steps behind.
‘How do we stop her?’ I ask my best friend and roommate.
‘Same way as you always avoid nightmares: move orthogonally to the story.’ Jackie is smart.
‘Like that?’
‘Perfect.’
The painting we are standing in front of depicts Gillian’s attempt to murder me as a version of Klimt’s Judith.
‘For someone thwarted and imprisoned, she looks surprisingly ecstatic,’ Jackie observes and I have to agree.
‘It’s all right, you can come out now.’ I peel open a chair and uncurling from it is Amanda, looking contrite.
Once she has straightened, Amanda regards her ego in the painting and says, ‘You’re lucky to get on so well with Celine. Amandus hates me.’
‘That’s what years of painting, being in love, and having great sex does for you,’ I speak as cheerfully as I feel.
This makes Jackie laugh.
‘I don’t hate…’ Judith tries to speak from her frame.
‘Hush. You’ve had your chance.’ Jackie presses her index finger to Judith’s lips and smothers her words. Then she turns to me. ‘You should probably wake up now.’
‘What will happen to me?’ asks Amanda. ‘Will he stay here? In your mind?’
‘I hope not!’ I exclaim.
Jackie moves away from the painting to look into Amanda’s eyes. ‘When the connection is lost, he’ll still be in you. He wasn’t able to transfer.’
‘Remember what happened here Amanda, in case I don’t,’ I add.
‘Oh, I will. It’s a disaster. There’s no turning back on this technology and it’s going to lead to our inner selves attempting to dominate each other. Psychotic chaos.’
‘Psychotic chaos,’ repeats Jackie, seeming to savour the words. A trance beat has replaced Ravel and starts to build. Jackie smiles at me while making the swirling hand movements she uses when dancing at a rave. ‘Psychotic chaos, here we come.’