Philip Kindred Dick
(16. 12. 1928 - 2. 3. 1982)
With due interest, Mr.
Tagomi took time to examine in his own hands several of the pieces. Yes,
there is something new which animates these, he decided. The Law of Tao
is borne out, here; when yin lies everywhere, the first stirring of light
is suddenly alive in the darkest depths. . . we are all familiar; we have
seen it happen before, as I see it here now. And yet for me they are just
scraps. I cannot become rapt, as Mr. R. Childan, here. Unfortunately, for
both of us. But that is the case.
"Quite lovely," he murmured,
laying down the pieces. Mr. Childan said in a forceful voice, "Sir, it
does not occur at once."
"Pardon?"
"The new view in your
heart."
"You are converted," Mr.
Tagomi said. "I wish I could be. I am not." He bowed.
"Another time," Mr. Childan
said, accompanying him to the entrance of the store; he made no move to
display any alternative items, Mr. Tagomi noticed.
"Your certitude is in
questionable taste," Mr. Tagomi said. "It seems to press untowardly."
Mr. Childan did not cringe.
"Forgive me," he said. "But I am correct. I sense accurately in these the
contracted germ of the future."
"So be it," Mr. Tagomi
said. "But your Anglo-Saxon fanaticism does not appeal to me." Nonetheless,
he felt a certain renewal of hope. His own hope, in himself, "Good day."
He bowed. "I will see you again one of these days. We can perhaps examine
your prophecy."
Mr. Childan bowed, saying
nothing.
Carrying his briefcase,
with the Colt .44 within, Mr. Tagomi departed. I go out as I came in, he
reflected. Still seeking. Still without what I need if I am to return to
the world.
What if I had bought one
of those odd, indistinct items? Kept it, reexamined, contemplated. . .
would I have subsequently, through it, found my way back? I doubt it.
Those are for him, not
me.
And yet, even if one person
finds his way. . . that means there is a Way. Even if I personally fail
to reach it.
I envy him.
Turning, Mr. Tagomi started
back toward the store. There in the doorway, stood Mr. Childan regarding
him. He had not gone back in.
"Sir," Mr. Tagomi said,
"I will buy one of those, whichever you select. I have no faith, but I
am currently grasping at straws." He followed Mr. Childan through the store
once more, to the glass case. "I do not believe. I will carry it about
with me, looking at it at regular intervals. Once every other day, for
instance. After two months if I do not see --"
"You may return it for
full credit," Mr. Childan said.
"Thank you," Mr. Tagomi
said. He felt better. Sometimes one must try anything, he decided. It is
no disgrace. On the contrary, it is a sign of wisdom, of recognizing the
situation.
"This will calm you,"
Mr. Childan said. He laid out a single small silver triangle ornamented
with hollow drops. Black beneath, bright and light-filled above.
"Thank you," Mr. Tagomi
said.
By pedecab Mr. Tagomi
journeyed to Portsmouth Square, a little open park on the slope above Kearny
Street overlooking the police station. He seated himself on a bench in
the sun. Pigeons walked along the paved paths in search of food. On other
benches shabby men read the newspaper or dozed. Here and there others lay
on the grass, nearly asleep.
Bringing from his pocket
the paper bag marked with the name of Mr. R. Childan's store, Mr. Tagomi
sat holding the paper bag with both hands, warming himself. Then he opened
the bag and lifted out his new possession for inspection in solitude, here
in this little grass and path park of old men.
He held the squiggle of
silver. Reflection of the midday sun, like boxtop cereal trinket, sent-away
acquired Jack Armstrong magnifying mirror. Or -- he gazed down into it.
Om as the Brahmins say. Shrunk spot in which all is captured. Both, at
least in hint. The size, the shape. He continued to inspect dutifully.
Will it come, as Mr. R.
Childan prophesied? Five minutes. Ten minutes. I sit as long as I can.
Time, alas, will make us sell it short. What is it I hold, while there
is still time?
Forgive me, Mr. Tagomi
thought in the direction of the squiggle. Pressure on us always to rise
and act. Regretfully, he began to put the thing away back in its bag. One
final hopeful glance -- he again scrutinized with all that he had. Like
child, he told himself. Imitate the innocence and faith. On seashore, pressing
randomly found shell to head. Hearing in its blabber the wisdom of the
sea.
This, with eye replacing
ear. Enter me and inform what has been done, what it means, why. Compression
of understanding into one finite squiggle.
Asking too much, and so
get nothing.
"Listen," he said sotto
voce to the squiggle. "Sales warranty promised much."
If I shake it violently,
like old recalcitrant watch. He did so, up and down. Or like dice in critical
game. Awaken the diety inside. Peradventure he sleepeth. Or he is on a
journey. Titillating heavy irony by Prophet Elijah. Or he is pursuing.
Mr. Tagomi violently shook the silver squiggle up and down in his clenched
fist once more. Call him louder. Again he scrutinized.
You little thing, you
are empty, he thought.
Curse at it, he told himself.
Frighten it.
"My patience is running
out," he said sotto voce.
And what then? Fling you
in the gutter? Breathe on it, shake it, breathe on it. Win me the game.
He laughed. Addlepated
involvement, here in warm sunlight. Spectacle to whoever comes along. Peeking
about guiltily, now. But no one saw. Old men snoozing. Measure of relief,
there.
Tried everything, he realized.
Pleaded, contemplated, threatened, philosophized at length. What else can
be done?
Could I but stay here.
It is denied me. Opportunity will perhaps occur again. And yet, as W. S.
Gilbert says, such an opportunity will not occur again. Is that so? I feel
it to be so.
When I was a child I thought
as a child. But now I have put away childish things. Now I must seek in
other realms. I must keep after this object in new ways.
I must be scientific.
Exhaust by logical analysis every entree. Systematically, in classic Aristotelian
laboratory manner.
He put his finger in his
right ear, to shut off traffic and all other distracting noises. Then he
tightly held the silver triangle, shellwise, to his left ear.
No sound. No roar of simulated
ocean, in actuality interior blood-motion noises -- not even that.
Then what other sense
might apprehend mystery? Hearing of no use, evidently. Mr. Tagomi shut
his eyes and began fingering every bit of surface on the item. Not touch;
his fingers told him nothing. Smell. He put the silver close to his nose
and inhaled. Metallic faint odor, but it conveyed no meaning. Taste. Opening
his mouth he sneaked the silver triangle within, popped it in like a cracker,
but of course refrained from chewing. No meaning, only bitter hard cold
thing.
He again held it in his
palm.
Back at last to seeing.
Highest ranking of the senses: Greek scale of priority. He turned the silver
triangle each and every way; he viewed it from every extra rem standpoint.
What do I see? he asked
himself. Due to long patient painstaking study. What is clue of truth that
confronts me in this object?
Yield, he told the silver
triangle. Cough up arcane secret.
Like frog pulled from
depths, he thought. Clutched in fist, given command to declare what lies
below in the watery abyss. But here the frog does not even mock; it strangles
silently, becomes stone or clay or mineral. Inert. Passes back to the rigid
substance familiar in its tomb world.
Metal is from the earth,
he thought as he scrutinized. From below: from that realm which is the
lowest, the most dense. Land of trolls and caves, dank, always dark. Yin
world, in its most melancholy aspect. World of corpses, decay and collapse.
Of feces. All that has died, slipping and disintegrating back down layer
by layer. The daemonic world of the immutable; the time-that-was.
And yet, in the sunlight,
the silver triangle glittered. It reflected light. Fire, Mr. Tagomi thought.
Not dank or dark object at all. Not heavy, weary, but pulsing with life.
The high realm, aspect of yang: empyrean, ethereal. As befits work of art.
Yes, that is artist's job: takes mineral rock from dark silent earth transforms
it into shining light-reflecting form from sky.
Has brought the dead to
life. Corpse turned to fiery display; the past had yielded to the future.
Which are you? he asked
the silver squiggle. Dark dead yin or brilliant living yang? In his palm,
the silver squiggle danced and blinded him; he squinted, seeing now only
the play of fire.
Body of yin, soul of yang.
Metal and fire unified. The outer and inner; microcosmos in my palm.
What is the space which
this speaks of? Vertical ascent. To heaven. Of time? Into the light-world
of the mutable. Yes, this thing has disgorged its spirit: light. And my
attention is fixed; I can't look away. Spellbound by mesmerizing shimmering
surface which I can no longer control. No longer free to dismiss.
Now talk to me, he told
it. Now that you have snared me. I want to hear your voice issuing from
the blinding clear white light, such as we expect to see only in the Bardo
Thodol afterlife existence. But I do not have to wait for death, for the
decomposition of my animus as it wanders in search of a new womb. All the
terrifying and beneficent deities; we will bypass them, and the smoky lights
as well. And the couples in coitus. Everything except this light. I am
ready to face without terror. Notice I do not blench.
I feel the hot winds of
karma driving me. Nevertheless I remain here. My training was correct:
I must not shrink from the clear white light, for if I do, I will once
more reenter the cycle of birth and death, never knowing freedom, never
obtaining release. The veil of maya will fall once more if I --
The light disappeared.
He held the dull silver
triangle only. Shadow had cut off the sun; Mr. Tagomi glanced up.
Tall, blue-suited policeman
standing by his bench, smiling.
"Eh?" Mr. Tagomi said,
startled.
"I was just watching you
work that puzzle." The policeman started on along the path.
"Puzzle," Mr. Tagomi echoed.
"Not a puzzle."
"Isn't that one of those
little puzzles you have to take apart? My kid has a whole lot of them.
Some are hard." The policeman passed on.
Mr. Tagomi thought, Spoiled.
My chance at nirvana. Gone. Interrupted by that white barbarian Neanderthal
yank. That subhuman supposing I worked a child's puerile toy.
Rising from the bench
he took a few steps unsteadily. Must calm down. Dreadful low-class jingoistic
racist invectives, unworthy of me.
Incredible unredemptive
passions clashing in my breast. He made his way through the park. Keep
moving, he told himself. Catharsis in motion.
He reached periphery of
park. Sidewalk, Kearny Street. Heavy noisy traffic. Mr. Tagomi halted at
the curb.
No pedecabs. He walked
along the sidewalk instead; he joined the crowd. Never can get one when
you need it.
God, what is that? He
stopped, gaped at hideous misshapen thing on skyline. Like nightmare of
roller coaster suspended, blotting out view. Enormous construction of metal
and cement in air.
Mr. Tagomi turned to a
passer-by, a thin man in rumpled suit. "What is that?" he demanded, pointing.
The man grinned. "Awful,
ain't it? That's the Embarcadero Freeway. A lot of people think it stinks
up the view."
"I never saw it before,"
Mr. Tagomi said.
"You're lucky," the man
said, and went on.
"Two realms there are, upper and lower. The upper, derived from hyperuniverse I or Yang, Form I of Parmenides, is sentient and volitional. The lower realm, or Yin, Form II of Parmenides, is mechanical, driven by blind, efficient cause, deterministic and without intelligence, since it emanates from a dead source. In ancient times it was termed "astral determinism." We are trapped, by and large, in the lower realm, but are through the sacraments, by means of the plasmate, extricated. Until astral determinism is broken, we are not even aware of it, so occluded are we. "The Empire never ended.""
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