The Square Mile (Fiction)
It’s 2079, the world is no longer at war, and the happy-marriage rate sits at ninety-nine point nine-nine-nine-nine-nine (99.99999) percent, yet 10-year-old Carl Frice is still finding trouble.
8/2021 (Substantial Revision 8/12/24); 6,050 words
By John Corry
The Square Mile
Time: June 2079
Space: An elementary school in a small American town
Carl sits on a bench with his headphones on (Pat Metheny). He scans the playground as the other kids hold hands and look happy. For a moment, Carl wonders why they look so happy, but he knows why: close to ninety-nine-point-nine-nine-nine-nine-nine (99.99999) percent (%) of all people find their soulmates before reaching adolescence.
His friend, Suge, sits down next to him, says: “So did you hear the president’s announcement last night?”
“Nah. What happened?”
“Well, apparently–and this is just what my mom and dad told me, so, hopefully, they’re not lying to me, heh,” and Carl chuckles as well. “But I guess the president signed this thing in China, along with all those other places, promising to never, ever go to war– ever again. Can you believe that?!”
“Isn’t that already what we have?”
“Yea, but now it’s, ‘for sure’ or whatever–”
“There hasn’t been a war for, like, forty years–”
“I dunno, it’s what my parents told me–”
A ball flies by Carl’s head from a group playing box-ball a few feet ahead of them. Box-ball is where you have four five-ish square-foot boxes all facing one another, and you try to bounce the ball into other people’s squares without catching or holding it. Anyway, The Kid-Who-Missed-His-Shot gives Carl a nod and a wave as he runs past. Then he goes back and starts talking to this girl from the box next-door, Nicole.
She shoots Carl a smile (J).
Carl shoots one back (J J)
…
Suge: “So, you figure out what to say to her yet?”
Carl: “No.”
“Dude, I think she likes you.”
“You think so?”
“Totes.”
Carl hesitates.
Suge: “Well, if you don’t do it soon, somebody else is gonna snatch her up,” and he pulls out his phone. “With how quickly all my other friends are finding their soulmates lately, I’m surprised she of all people hasn’t found someone yet. You know, if you want my advice…”
But Carl’a not paying attention. He’s still looking at Nicole– the streaks of blonde banneret in her hair, the grace of the flow in her red dress and bow. He’s so engrossed that he doesn’t even notice that she’s stopped smiling at him and has evidently since gone back to talking to this other dude, Pete: surely not ironically the same as the aforementioned so-called Kid-Who-Missed-His-Shot.
…
“Carl?” –Suge.
…
“CARL?!–”
“What’s up?”
“You gotta stop doing that.”
“Doing what?”
“Trailing off. You just turned ten,” and he hits him on the chest. “Me, I got a lady meeting me by the swings in,” and he looks at his watch, “thirty seconds–”
He stands up.
“Uh oh.”
…
“I’ll see you later, man,” as he walks off: “We gotta grow up, Carl! War is over!”
“Yeah,” but his smile does not dissipate, nor does his heart rate slow. There is not enough galaxy in the world to overshadow this moment. Briefly, he fears an unforeseen repercussion to such an attitude, that it can’t be as simple as it seems, that there must be something hiding ‘behind the sun’, or ‘before the shadows’, so to speak. But it’s a nice day out, and he’s got a few more friends he hasn’t talked to yet this recess. ‘Never will this same moment repeat’, he thinks to himself, ‘that’s a point.’
May not matter much, Carl figures, but it’s still a point.
***
Time: November 2080
Space: An elementary school in a small American town
“It’s not that I think there’s something wrong with him, I’m just worried that he’s not progressing as he should be.”
Carl’s parents sit across the desk from Carl’s current General-Director, Mrs. Gobbes. It’s been proclaimed ‘Strongly Recommended’ that all parents meet with their child’s primary ‘Director’–be she ‘General’ or ‘Interest’, depending on age–at least once every quarter. For reference: ‘General-Directors’ guide the child until she finds her ‘Interest’, and ‘Interest-Directors’… well, one may potentially a posteriori ascertain. There are stacks of papers about the room, and the walls and bookshelves are cluttered with pictures and other framed documents.
“I mean he reads Hegel for fun,” Carl’s mom continues.
“Mrs. Frice, I feel for you,” Gobbes begins with a head nod. “Truly, I’ve seen your predicament on numerous occasions. It’s been a long time since we realized that if we let children have an equal… stake, I guess we’ll say, in their activities–but only as equal a say as their parents, their teachers, and the rest of society, of course–that they tend to enjoy it far more, and, as a result, Resent, in most circumstances, far less. However, it can be difficult to acquiesce to the nuances of this process–”
“Yeah, we know that already–”
“Well, then, as I’m sure you also know, studies have shown that this process has been gradually introduced and proven increasingly effective over the course of the last two decades, ever since the Catastrophes. It helps the child not only to Learn, but to want to Learn, far more than when she’s told simply what to Learn, preparing her for her evolution into a more caring, three-dimensionally ‘conscious’ human being in every sense of what makes her just that: ‘learned-consciousness’. Studies have shown that it’s not so much telling kids what to learn, or how to behave, only that doing so, without giving the child a reason, or without allowing the child to come to a realization on her own–and fully, consciously, on her own– regarding what those potential reasons might be for her being taught any specific thing at any specific time– that the child becomes confused, and, perhaps, even… misguided.”
“I don’t think my son is confused,” retorts Carl’s mom. “Just…” and she looks off.
Gobbes: “Mr. and Mrs. Frice,” as she leans forward, folds her hands on her desk. “I think we can all agree that one of the biggest problems in the early years of this century was that very few people wanted to, or perhaps had the time to, put any thought into what their children were learning, and more importantly: how they were learning it. What we’ve discovered since the end of the wars is that when you tell a child what to learn, without the child’s having any recognition for the potential for the recognition of any active natural interest in the thing she is immediately learning–in that moment–then the child will forget it– with the SNAP!” and she SNAPS along with the word, “of a finger. And then resent you for it. It’s a subconscious intellectual self-defense mechanism–”
“But he’s not bitter,” says Carl’s dad. “I don’t think he’s bitter at all.”
Gobbes: “And I agree–”
“So, do you see why my wife and I might be a little concerned?”
“Of course, I can understand–”
Carl’s mom: “Oh, you do?–”
“Yes,” and her eyes shift. “When so many children find their callings so early in life, I can only imagine what it must be like for the parents of those extremely few who don’t, but I can tell you this: I’ve met many children, just like your son, who look around at their friends and wonder why they aren’t like them, why they can’t talk like them, why they can’t laugh like them. Personally, I didn’t find my soulmate until I was fourteen, as you know, four years after the Statistical Vast Majority. I know what it’s like to feel forgotten about, like you’ll likely never find your soulmate. That’s why I would never let Carl fall into the grips of contradiction as such apparent ‘loners’ so often did in those dark days so long ago. My only concern–right now–regarding his lesson plan, is that giving any child too much attention may result in a Physiological Attachment to Intellectual Authority–”
Carl’s mom: “Oh, don’t give me that–”
“–In the child, one completely subconscious–”
Carl’s dad: “I’m out–”
“–And which was the direct cause of so much pain and suffering all those decades ago,” Gobbes concludes. “We must let Carl feel as though it’s okay to not be normal. Because it is. Isn’t it?”
The Frices lock eyes.
Gobbes: “It is not a rule that Carl stay in my class,” and she leans back in her chair. “I can easily transfer him to another General-Director.”
…
“Only two weeks in like this? Happens all the time.”
Carl’s mom sighs. She knows that if Carl were to transfer to another class, it’s likely they’ll still run into Mrs. Gobbes: in addition to her role as General-Director of what was formerly known as (roughly) the sixth grade at the beginning of the twenty-first century, she’s is also the Head of the Education Interest (colloquially: ‘directing’), as well as one of its most active Interest-Directors.
Carl’s mom: “No. It’s fine.”
Carl’s dad: “Babe–”
“No,” and she waves his hand away. “There’s no such thing as a Director not caring about her students anymore. I know enough of them to know that firsthand.”
Gobbes smiles.
“Mrs. Frice,” she says. “I promise you that nothing will stop me from making sure your son gets the tools he needs to be happy–just as everyone else–so long as you’re with me.”
Mrs. Frice smiles.
“Call me Linda.”
***
Time: March 2084
Space: An elementary school in a small American town
Brian: “Your Interest is Gymnastics? There’s no use for that anymore.”
Nicole: “Sure there is.”
“What?”
“People watch it.”
“I’ve never heard of it–”
Evan: “You’ve never heard of gymnastics?”
“No, I’ve heard of ‘gymnastics’, I’ve just never heard of it as anything more than a hobby. Who cares how good you are at it?”
“Uuh, people who recognize talent,” Nicole answers. “I mean do you have any interest in giving it a try?”
“Absolutely not–”
“Exactly–”
“What does that have to do with it?–”
“You’re biased. You’re subjectively ‘unconscious’,” and the gallery laughs. “That’s why you don’t care. Or why you can’t see why other people might.”
“I guess that’s a point?–”
“Yea, you should make that guess,” says Evan. “Since it proves you wroooong.”
The peanut gallery, once again, collectively laughs.
Nicole: “Don’t feel bad. When, inevitably, you want to see what it’s about, I’ll help you out.”
Brian: “Don’t count on it.”
Carl is fourteen (14) and nearing the end of General-School, though no closer to finding his soulmate, nor his Interest. Almost everyone else has found both, including Suge, and, yes, Nicole: she is to be a gymnast, In-Love with her soulmate, Pete, since 2081.
Lunch is ending, so the gallery is slowly disintegrating (featuring, but not limited to: Brian, Nicole, Evan, Carl, Brittany, Jordan). En route, Carl walks with Nicole, whom he’s gotten to know quite well since their first meeting in 2079.
“You don’t see any problem with being a gymnast, right?” she asks.
“No. Looks like a lot of fun.”
“It is a lot of fun, you should try it.”
“I plan to.”
Nicole: “So, are you any closer to finding your Interest?”
Carl has been getting a lot of this by now. By age fourteen (14), if a child hasn’t yet found her Interest, she’s chosen one via collaboration between her parents and the school. He’s leaning in the direction of Education, primarily because such is the most generally applicable Interest there is in the current environment, covering the largest amount of material, and the largest variety of material, which is Carl’s main prerogative. On the other hand, Carl’s mom has been whispering in his ear, and Mrs. Gobbes and her soulmate are over for turkey dinner every other Sunday night, so there may be several factors contributing to that consternation.
“Not yet,” Carl answers.
“Why not? You must have something you’re interested in, and I know it’s not directing.”
“Yea, I dunno…”
“Well, what is it??”
He looks off.
…
“Carl?”
“Well, I’m thinking–”
“PETER?!?!”
Pete is ahead holding flowers. Nicole DARTS off to meet him with a JUMP-hug and a kiss.
Carl waves as he passes.
He catches eyes with Evan a few feet up with his arms crossed leaning on a locker.
Evan: “You’ve really gotta get over that one, man.”
…
“I dunno what you’re talking about.”
“Sure, you do,” and he starts following him. “You’re In-Love with her, dude. Nothing wrong with it.”
“And what would you know about it, Evan?”
“You know, there are lotsa kids in your situation.”
“Oh yea?”
“Yeah, man. Most of ‘em are homeschooled by now, but that’s cool too.”
“I’ll take your word for it–”
“Look,” and he GRABS Carl by the shirt, holds him still. “Patricia’s right over there. I know she’s still lookin’.”
Patricia’s down the hall, her hands laced behind her back, eyes dead at the ground, kicking her feet around for no apparent reason while her friends talk amongst each other as though she doesn’t exist.
Evan: “We’re less than two years until it’s all Interest-Studies, and if you don’t find a soulmate by then, well, then– HEH!... heh…”
…
Evan: “…Uh, well… Well, good luck–”
The bell rings. They’re late for class.
Carl: “You know, Evan, you’re kind of annoying.”
“You’ll learn to appreciate it.”
“You think so?”
“Everybody does!”
***
Time: March 2084
Space: Frice family home
Carl’s older sister and their parents are in the living room watching the news. Mr. Frice raises the volume from his phone.
Reporter: “Twenty years in the making, the declaration has been contributed to by over one-hundred (100) both former and current world leaders. However, President Abbott admits that the success of the legislation is far from their doing alone.”
The shot switches from the reporter to Abbott in a group with at least three-dozen other world leaders.
“The participation from the world community has been amazing,” Abbott starts. “I cannot thank enough the millions of citizens across the globe for being so helpful throughout this process. Your willingness to participate in the monthly voting, the near daily surveying procedures, even the personal growth and the groundbreakingly intellectual research you’ve each individually put in. This is indeed a day for all of us–Representative and Citizen alike–for everyone here, there, or everywhere, across the universe–”
Carl’s dad: “You know how many hours I had to put into those surveys?”
Linda: “Cost of living in the country–”
Carl’s sister: “Cost of living in general–”
The front door opens as Carl walks in, THROWS his bag on the ground, FLIES up the stairs.
“Carl!” Linda calls.
Carl STALLS, squeezes his old 2020 mass-market paperback copy of Ulysses in his pocket like a stress-ball.
Carl’s mom: “How was school today?”
Carl: “It was fine.”
“What’d you learn?”
“Uh… Plato.”
…
Linda: “Carl, could you come down here for a moment?”
He walks down.
“Carl, you’ve been learning about the psychologist Carl Jung recently, correct?” says his dad. “I thought you said you liked Jung?”
“I’ve advanced to Freud.”
Linda: “Carl…”
“You said were in love with Jung’s ideas,” his dad goes on. “I remember two years ago, you said they were changing your life.”
“And they were–”
“Then what’s changed?”
“Nothing’s changed–”
“Clearly something has changed–”
“Nothing has changed, DUDE!” and the room quiets. Abbott, on the TV, is off on the importance for continued resolution and diplomatic relations, which goes on for the remainder of the Frice’s conversation. Linda tightens her curl on the couch.
“Carl,” she starts. “Are you any closer to finding a soulmate?–”
“Oh, mom–”
Dad: “I told you not to ask him that–”
Linda: “I’m just trying to be supportive.”
Carl’s sister: “LOL–”
Carl: “Why is it that everybody keeps thinking that all of existence is about finding an Interest and a soulmate and nothing more?”
“Because those are good things,” says Linda. “Are you saying that learning what you’re interested in or the fact that so many people find their soulmates so early in life are bad things?”
“Well, they’re not unique–”
Carl’s Dad: “Carl, this months’ annual Prime Survey said that eighty-nine (89) percent (%) of people alive in the world today consider themselves Generally-Happy. Crime, drug use, suicide; it’s all virtually nonexistent now, all over the world, as you know very well–”
“Well, I’m not too sure how actually good that is overall.”
…
The three (including Carl’s sister) stare until Carl’s dad nods to signify the appropriateness of Carl’s running OFF and up to his room. He would spend the next hour concluding Joyce’s Ulysses for the fourth time, followed by another three of juxtaposing it against Wittgenstein’s Philosophical Investigations, Vivekanand’s Yoga Sutra Patanjali, and, of course, Homer’s ‘Odyssey’.
Linda, once Carl’s door has been shut: “What do you think should we do?”
Carl’s sister: “I say let him figure it out on his own. It’s not like he’s an idiot.”
“But he needs guidance, Karen–”
“Why?”
“Because he’s a child–”
“So?” Karen says. “He’s clearly different than most kids. You can’t force a kid to grow up, can you?” and she pulls out her phone. “Or onto them the knowledge how.”
Linda: “Karen, you found your soulmate at six, that’s even earlier than your father and I–”
“Exactly! It was a completely and subconsciously My choice–”
“Bill, what do you think?”
Mr. Frice doesn’t move, has his hand over his mouth in very deep contemplation.
“I dunno,” he says, eyes slimmed.
He takes a breath.
“But I’ll visit Gobbes tomorrow.”
Linda: “You think that’s a good idea?”
Bill: “I mean I guess, but…” and he grabs the bag of potato chips from the table next to him.
Karen: “Careful not to piss her off–”
“I’ll look into after I finish those reports tonight,” and he stands, tosses the chips. “It’s a big deal what’s happening now in the world. Hopefully, we can work something out.”
***
Time: April 2084
Space: An elementary school in a small American town
Bill sits slouched in Mrs. Gobbes office. It’s near the end of the day, the sun etching glowingly from the bottom of the window.
Bill: “May I see what he’s learning lately?”
Gobbes: “Of course.”
She fumbles in her desk for a moment, ends up with another stack of papers she promptly PLUMPS on the desk.
Gobbes: “Just to note, these have all been in your Personal-Parenting Box in the Directing-Parenting Portal online. You and your wife signed off on them in 2082.”
“Yes, I recall,” and he starts looking through them. “I just haven’t had the time lately.”
He pauses at the Interest Curriculum Recommendation page:
To supplement 8-10 hours of weekly Program-Writing.
September-December 2084: Recap of Descartes; Plato’s Parmenides; Brief recap of Old & New Testaments; MLK Jr.: Strength to Love; American Founding (cont.: emphasis on Hamilton/Jefferson relationship)
December 2082: Jung: The Archetypes and the Collective Unconscious; Intro to the Koran
January-March 2083: The Autobiography of Malcolm X as told to Alex Haley; Arendt: On Violence
April-June 2083: Marx: Capital (cont.); Hayek The Pure Theory of Capital; American Founding (cont.: emphasis on Washington/Franklin relationship); Intro to Sowell
Gobbes: “Again, this is all based on the interests your son has shown throughout his time in school since he started attending, as well as, of course, imperative input from you and your wife.”
Frice reads on:
September-November 2083: Recap of the Vedas; Arendt: The Origins of Totalitarianism; Juxtapositions of the American Civil Rights Movement of the 1960s with all Revolutions, including Communist & Post-Catastrophe Capitalist, Following Marx; Juxtaposition of the American Revolution of 1776 with the French Revolution of 1793
September 2083-February 2084: Hegel: Phenomenology of Spirit; Kant: Introduction to Logic and Prolegomena to Any Future Metaphysics; Jung: Aion; Intro to Eihei Dogen
“Mr. Frice, may I ask what your Interest is again?”
…
March-April 2084: Wittgenstein: Tractatus Logico-Philosophicus (including brief Juxtapositions against Descartes and Hegel); Schimmel: Mystical Dimensions of Islam; Hofstadter: Gödel, Escher Bach
“Mr. Frice?”
“Um– Political Critique, I’m sorry.”
“So, you’ve been involved in the recent Delegations?”
“I am. It’s been a busy few months,” with a laugh.
“More than a few.”
“Is it really a good idea to be directing him in quantum physics in a few months?”
“That’s what we agreed to, Mr. Frice.”
…
Gobbes: “If you could excuse my frankness, but: may I ask you how long it is until you Retire?”
This is weird. It’s considered impolite to ask a person when they’re retiring, especially if they’re over the Prime Director Request in which all Citizens are Greatly Encouraged to Retire after the age of fifty (50). Bill has never thought about it much, another contemporary par-for-the-course.
“I’m not sure,” Bill responds.
“Are you considering not Retiring?”
“I don’t see what that has to do with anything–”
“I’m just not sure we’re doing everything we can at this point,” and she leans in. “Mr. Frice, Carl has displayed extraordinary capabilities, but he needs to reign them in. As you know, the Interest Curriculum Recommendation is not binding. However, Carl has requested significant changes to it over the past two years, and many of those requests were granted, primarily at your insistence. While I am certainly not trying to insinuate anything foreboding upon which it is not my place to comment, I do wonder if Carl might be better served if we approached with a more, call it, unique style.”
“You think we need more Directors involved?”
“Not necessarily.”
“How about a change in the Curriculum?” Bill asks. “Something Carl has a bit more of a say in?”
“Carl’s already had a lot of say in the Curriculum as it stands now. Plus, most kids, when they reach stage, require something like a more Psychological approach– which is not exactly what I’m proposing for Carl– although perhaps something just a tad less Economic in some small sense.”
“He won’t listen to Linda or I on that front,” and he takes a breath. The two share a brief look before Bill scoffs and looks off.
…
“You ever wonder what they did in situations like these before the Catastrophes?” Bill asks.
“A bit. I figure their methods were similar, at least in kind, to ours. Perhaps a bit Primitive, of course.”
Bill laughs.
Gobbes: “I’ll talk to him by the end of the week. See where he’s at.”
“You think he’ll get out of it? That he won’t end up like Them?”
“They always do.”
***
Time: April 2080
Space: An elementary school in a small American town
“Carl Frice,” over the loudspeaker, “please report to the Post-Education wing. Carl Frice.”
He wanders the halls, unsure if where’s he’s headed is where he’s supposed to be headed, but headed there steadfast with his headphones BLARING at full volume (Sleep Token). With every passing couple, he metaphorically feels his innards melt and drown in-placebo, his soul falling In-Love and ‘out-of-love’, or whatever, with every passing breath, as he considered his peers’ only most probable newfound judgment, their hatred, their worry–However Justified–their subconsciously projected fear-disguised-as-comfort as gasoline onto which anything presented ‘in-itself or for conscious apperception to them as ‘different’ or ‘repressive to the mind’ catapulted up and OUT as naturally as anything one does not immediately understand must be.
He reaches Gobbes’ office, walks inside, sits down.
Evan is three empty chairs down.
“Carl!” he exclaims. “What are you doing here?”
“Me?” Carl responds. “You’re a priss; what are you doing here?”
“I got my Quarterly Parent/Director Meeting. Didn’t you just have yours?”
…
Evan: “Carl?–”
“Carl Frice?”
Carl turns. Gobbes’ secretary is standing with a clipboard in the now-open doorway leading into Gobbes’ office.
“Mrs. Gobbes is ready for you.”
Evan, just before the door closes: “Good luck–”
“Carl!” says Mrs. Gobbes. “Thank you for coming.”
The door closes. She’s is shuffling papers on her desk. It’s still unorganized, but not nearly as much as when Bill was there. She looks more ‘sheveled’, (as opposed to: ‘disheveled’?), lets her sixty-five (65) year old eyes glitter out like they haven’t aged a day.
Gobbes: “Do you know why I called you in here today, Carl?”
“No.”
Gobbes gives him an Eye (o.OO).
Gobbes: “Really?–”
Carl: “You want to tell me I’m an idiot? That I need to buckle down and figure out what my Interest is, because without an Interest, how will I ever find a soulmate? And if I never find a soulmate, how could I ever be of any help to the World? We know how monsters form, the human kind, at least: they create Worlds of fear, Worlds of ‘no-love’. How could a person know what love is if she hasn’t found her soulmate? How could we ever trust her if she’s fundamentally incapable of loving anything but the ‘fear’ concept? Of knowing the fear of ‘not-loving’? How could she not turn into a monster?”
…
Gobbes: “‘Interest’, singular?”
“What?–”
“No, that was not what I was going to say,” and she shuffles in her chair. “Carl, what do you think of… the species? What do think of the ‘human’ concept?”
“What do you mean ‘human’?” Carl responds.
“What do you think I mean?”
“Well, there are lots of theories about what it means to be ‘human’. Do you mean ‘human’ in terms of humanity’s stance in relation to other concepts or species’? Or of the individual/collective dichotomy or paradox? Do you mean how those of us who ‘do’ want to know everything about everything in some healthy, ‘in-time’ type of way are reminded on a moment-to-moment basis of the sacrifice we’re forced to continuously give up day-in and day-out since before we were able to think: the sacrifice of our individual happiness, our intellectual survival, for the sake of the mere material survival of the collective? At the further sacrifice of collective sanity? Of our conscious/subconscious individuality which makes axiomatic subjective perception of the World inevitable? Of our ‘conscious’ ability to choose something like ‘living-life’ as a constant rather than as an abstract ideal?–”
“You mean your conscious ability to feel alive?–”
“Yes, of course that’s what I mean–”
Carl scoffs.
Gobbes: “Continue–”
Carl: “Everybody walks around feeling great because they ‘know who they are’, because they don’t need to do anything more to understand that. And they of course shouldn’t be forced to, that’s not what I’m saying,” and he shakes his head, “but because that’s how everybody tends to ‘be’, conformity is what moves you forward, whilst to be different, to be fearful enough to think new, however be it most oftentimes wrong, thoughts, gets you alienation. It makes you an unalterable and only-natural, unchangeable, product, and therefore purveyor, of the unconscious, regardless of how much work you might be doing or how much potential ‘good’ you might be understanding or putting forth. Eighty-seven-point-three-two-six-nine-six-nine-four (87.3269694) percent (%) of people in our World consider themselves happy today. Nighty-nine-point-nine-nine-nine-nine-nine (99.99999) percent (%) of people find their soulmates before even starting Interest Studies! But does that automatically mean that ‘questioning’, in itself, and as an inherently new thing and therefore not without its inevitable setbacks, should be considered offensive, and the people who do it deservedly ostracized??–”
“Well, I don’t think anyone would call it deserved–”
“How did the world stop bombing after the Catastrophes? How did the climatologists figure out the planet was warming? And how did the economists and the psychologists and phenomenologists and the logicians and the dialecticians and whoever the heck else figure out what to do about all of it? Was it by sitting around all day saying: ‘well, it seems difficult; and I have a pickle ball class to get to later’? NO! They worked at it, and they told all those who tried to force them to follow the norm to take a hike! Despite existential, life-or-death ramifications and an even potentially heinous misunderstanding of the psychological implications on society preceded by their seemingly fundamental inability to convey why they said what they said in the way in which they said it! And without their actions we would never have survived! People might be happier now, but that doesn’t mean that we’re any more capable of understanding the universe, or of understanding the inhabiting of the universe, intellectually or otherwise, or of stopping those same things which were so destructive before from germinating again; it doesn’t entitle us any smarter! Why do I have to find a soulmate just because everyone else does? Maybe my version of a ‘soulmate’ is different? Maybe I don’t even want a soulmate in the colloquial terminology? Or maybe I’ve already found my soulmate, and the only way that I’ll ever be able to recognize that concept in another person is if ‘she’s’ already found ‘hers’ too?! And, so, doesn’t attach to it such an emphasis.”
Carl stops, takes a breath. Looks up to Gobbes smirking at him with her hands folded and raised before her mouth….
Carl: “It’s alright. You can tell me off.”
“And why would I do that?–”
“I’m a monster. Even smart people with no ethical distinction between layers of consciousness turn into monsters. Hitler, Stalin, all those people during the Wars? Humans don’t think like that anymore. We’re past it.”
…
Gobbes: “Carl, what are you reading now?”
“Well, we’ve been reading a lot of logic and dialectics. I genuinely like both of them. We just started Schimmel’s intro to Sufism, which is very–”
“No, Carl, what are you reading?”
…
“I think,” Gobbes starts, “when I was your age, I was in the middle of Mein Kampf for the second time, because the first time I read it, I got so wrapped up in how, just– utterly refined Hitler’s monstrous qualities were displayed in it– which is pretty reasonable, mind you, the guy was patently terrible– and then the fact that that filled up, like, literally ninety-nine-point-nine-nine-nine-nine-nine (99.9999) percent (%) of the thing, that I couldn’t allow myself to believe that there was something to learn in considering such a monster a human being. As a result, I, obviously– and fairly naturally in fact, I’d say– chose rather to ignore than to learn.”
…
Carl: “You read Mein Kampf twice?”
“Didn’t say I enjoyed it.”
“I could barely read it once. Anything interesting is so mired in ego and intellectual elasticity that you’re gonna learn more just by knowing the fact that he blamed random, innocent Jewish people for his crappy life.”
“So, what does that tell you?”
“I’d say more than the book, but, still, somebody’s gotta read the thing–”
“That’s right,” Gobbes says. “That’s right.”
…
Carl: “What is this?–”
“You know, back then, I don’t think I ever even thought about finding a soulmate. I mean, of course I cared about it, how could you not? I just knew that it would take me a little longer than it took most people. Naturally, my parents worried. They didn’t understand that I was fine with ‘enjoying the ride’, so to speak, I think because it implied something they fundamentally couldn’t understand, or at least not without sacrificing something which they did, and for which they had to try very hard, and which took an exponentially long time, to understand in the first place. They were not wrong for not understanding, or for not being ‘capable’ of understanding, it’s not ill-founded or monstrous in any way– in fact, it’s exactly what we need: humans wanting to know What’s Going to Happen is a survival instinct, and a basic one not likely to evolve separately from any form of Intellect. In fact, learning to live with it is one of the basic and fundamental foundations on which any Intellect must stand, because, without it, intellect has no purpose in ‘perceived reality’, or ‘reality’ as consciously apperceived. But that doesn’t mean that we don’t also need people to question that– to question the question that is this ‘intellect’ or its practical applications– humans who push ideas farther, and into new ideas, and who refine our understanding of life and the universe now and always, and who then provide the basis for any future perception built from or through time.”
Carl looks off. He’s got a pretty good idea of where she’s going with this.
“It’s without these people that humans go crazy, Carl. These people who want to Learn, subconsciously, both in practice and theoretically, who want to Experience simply for experience’s Sake, and whose Expounding of Knowledge is but a by-product of a ‘Life Worth Living’– and yet who know– and feel– that collectively subconscious infinitely-fluctuating balance between right and wrong: that’s who we need running our World. That’s who we need making policy, and maintaining it: those for whom Learning, giving, enjoying, crying, living, and dying are all parts of the same process, and whom in turn are never distractedly questioned, or questioning, because they are too busy questioning everything else. Those for whom Love is synonymous with life, and for whom finding a soulmate is not a necessity, but an Undeniable Right of Birth which is recognized as potentially in everything, another person simply being of the highest order…”
…
“Do you know what I’m telling you, Carl?”
He looks back to her.
“I’m saying that you’re a doer. A ‘thinker’, an artist! Your Interest is life itself, and where you go from here is simply to Learn as much as possible, to grow into one of the General-Directors of our World. Does that sound like something you might be interested in?”
He looks off again, stumbles across a picture on Gobbes’s wall. It occurs to him how happy she looks in all those old pictures of her with her family, taken in different parts of the world on various diplomatic missions and peace conferences, and how in each one of them they were smiling, even with the burning cities and the flying bombs in the background.
“So, I don’t have to worry about finding a soulmate?” Carl asks.
“That’s up to you.”
***
Time: April 2084
Space: Frice family home
Carl gets home to his sister and two friends in the living room on their phones. In a relatively rare happenstance, he pauses after shutting the door.
Karen: “Oh, what’s up, Carl?” without looking up. “How’d your meeting with Gobbes go?”
Carl: “Kinda weird, actually.”
“I would bet,” said one of Karen’s friends with a laugh. “I used to have a friend like you, had an unscheduled meeting with her Interest-Director, and she told me they tried to, like, Deify her; turn her into this pretentious, philosopher God or something. She was so thrown off by it that she stopped reading altogether.”
…
Carl: “Damn. That sucks–”
“Yea, it does–”
Karen: “That was you, Sabina. By the way, Carl, Nicole stopped by earlier. Left you a note. It’s on the kitchen table.”
He grabs the note, reads:
Love you
<3
– Pete & Nicole
Karen’s other friend: “So you guys still wanna see Are You Going With Me? at The Incubator™ tonight?”
Carl squints.
Karen: “We should leave soon if we are–”
“Are You Going With Me?” Carl asks, turning his head to her. “Like, the Pat Metheny song?”
“Yea,” she responds. “That’s where they got their name. I’m Emma, by the way–”
“Well, are we going or what?” –Karen. “Cause it takes twenty (20) minutes to get there, Carl’s shirt has chocolate on it, and they start in, like, thirty (30)–”
Sabina: “It does not take twenty (20) minutes to get there; fifteen (15) tops–”
Emma: “It’s like, six (6) turns, with ten (10) lights–”
Karen: “Exactly. That’s what I’m saying, it’s…”
Carl puta the note down, walks back over, and they reach no conclusion on that subject. The Incubator™ is a music venue where eighty-point-three-four-six-one-zero-nine-nine-eight-two (80.346109982) percent (%) of people on any given night, by median, say they’d Generally-Particularly enjoy the acts they’d seen, with only one-point-eight-five-seven-six (1.8576) percent (%) saying that the act was terrible, and an equally demonstrative thirty-one-point-four-five-three-seven-eight-nine-eight-four-two-two-two-one-four-five-nine-five-zero-six-eight-six-six-six-eight-four-seven-nine-five… (31.453789842221459506866684795…)… (…)