Surrender Aurora

by W. Strawn Douglas

  Because my past includes this sort of thing as reality, I take a sprout of reality and grow it to be a tree of delusion. With that said, I am a bit of an acquired taste for the folks at MCTC, but I feel they will like what they are getting from me. All I need is my computer and a sketchpad and an MP3 player with a radio in it. My needs are small and I can bring or leave my delusions however I choose.

  I remain open to your suggestions. I have a great book on spies coming out soon. Ray Kraker read a rough draft of it, and he actually found it to be a good read. It was filled with sneaky people doing nasty things to lots of people. Filled with drug network imagery and drug folklore, it works well as a cloak-and-dagger espionage piece that can be sold as science fiction.

  These books are in part a code. Many lines of code.

  Blog Post Seven

  Adventures of Conventionality

  A more tame view of symbiosis between species can come in the form of variations of the heuristic algorithm. A heuristic algorithm is the mathematical formula by which a computer achieves consciousness and thus a form of life. Nobody has fully figured out how to get a computer to come to life yet. If you could do that, then you could work on variations like how does the human race relate to such life forms as a field of wheat or corn or soybeans and yes, even coca bushes. We eat the corn and relate to it any time we plant seeds, but how can we tap into that shared life status? How can we see these two species relating to each other?

  If the corn has us humans planting fresh seeds and defending that species from pests and disease, then that species will go on and on forever. As long as there are humans, there will also be corn.

  Ultimately the same is true for coca bushes and poppy flowers. In China there is the Ah-whang plant, which is the source of ephedra, which is used to make all forms of amphetamine. Thus these herbs and foodstuffs have figured out how to survive as servants of humanity. We exist in concert and in shared states.

  The real issue is not one of space aliens creating genetically modified vegetation but of where does that heuristic algorithm come from. Did it come from the space aliens or from four billion years of evolution? Who programed those human computers? Was it natural and slow or did we get life to come in from an asteroid? What of prebiotic molecules coming in from asteroids? The pre-life material may have come from other places.

  Is there a symbiosis algorithm?

  * * *

  Sean finished reading the posts and wrote in a small blank book the words Peyote, Patty, and Symbiosis.

  Sean began to type an answer to his friend via the blog’s ability to log in responses. “Clearly you are stoned and fixing your mind on whatever fascinates you while you are high. You have taken drugs and are now thoroughly enchanted with the kaleidoscope view of the world from the perspective of habitual drug use.”

  Sean summed up his thoughts. “The question I want to put to you is: Do you ever feel like getting off the carousel? In your note on peyote I see a national war on drugs with you as a drafted soldier. In the note on Patty I see bitter anguish. In the note on symbiosis I see facts but also hypothesizing way beyond your educational level. You smoke pot to avoid the anguish and slavery of a nation’s conflict but also your escape technique is to pontificate beyond your level of education. One can call that ‘pedantic.’ ” He looked over what he had written and hit the ‘publish’ button with the cursor linked to his computer mouse.

  CHAPTER THREE

  Similar observations have also been made in studies carried out on autopsied brain specimens obtained from human subjects. In schizophrenic patients chronically treated with antipsychotic drugs, a significant increase of homo-vanillic acid is found in cingulate and frontal cortex. But not in the putamen and nucleus accumbens, suggesting a possible locus for the therapeutic action of these drugs and providing the first direct experimental evidence that antipsychotic drug treatment increases the metabolism of dopamine in the human brain in a regionally specific manner.

  Friday morning the 13th of November had arrived early for James. He’d smoked with Frog last night. Slept soundly after that. His alarm went off at 7:15. He dressed, smoked a hit of pot, and made coffee. He watched the cream make clouds in his coffee cup. He finished that cup, poured another, packed another hit into his one-hitter, and lit it up. He felt great: caffeine and grass, a wonderful way to wake up.

  There was terrible news in the world. A terror strike had hit Paris. The American band “Eagles of Death Metal” had been playing a concert that was struck by suicide bombers. All told there were over 170 dead and 340 or so injured. It was a terrible way to start the day. Not a day to trip on acid, but a small amount of pain reliever might be in order, thought James.

  He looked around at his apartment and noted the accumulation of lumber and dead TV sets, amplifiers next to a stack of stereo speakers. He’d be back in time to finish the coffee. He set out to the Malcolm Moos Medical Center. Across the campus, over the bridge, and sociologically speaking, into a different world.

  A land of medicine, hard-core med students, doctors, and patients. As he walked inside to the elevators, the halls were antiseptically clean, with institutional red brick walls. An elevator opened with the ring of a bell. He looked at his watch and noted the time: 7:53. Early, he thought.

  The crowd was clustered around a door, Room 213.

  Most of the people were working on paperwork, filling out forms. As James leaned inside the door, a woman both round and short gave him a manila envelope, stiff with paper inside.

  “Fill out these forms and we can make you a program candidate,” she said. James walked over to an open chair in the reception area, where he began filling out forms. Last hospitalization, diagnosis, current medications, allergies, birth date, and Social Security number were all required. At the end of each form was a small paragraph stating, Selectees for this program will be notified by mail of their status.

  James noticed the man next to him. Middle-aged, brown hair, medium height, round face, blue wool cap pulled over the ears, blue North Face down jacket. The man looked over at James, extending his right hand. “Hi there, my name’s Phil. I hope I make the cut,” he said.

  “James, James McGregor. I hope we both make it. There seems to be a lot of competition.” James leaned forward and shook Phil’s hand.

  “Sure. Six hundred’s a lot of money if you’re on Social Security. My illness has had me on federal welfare since 2005. How about you?”

  “2009, myself. Wasted two years at Anoka, but I am on risperidone now so it really doesn’t matter. How about you?”

  “Zyprexa, but they’re talking about phasing it out because of the cost. The infinite wisdom of the state.” Phil shook his head despairingly. “I hope this new stuff turns out to be good. Do you know what it is yet?”

  “Yeah,” said James, leafing through the pages of documents in his package. “Syntheris.” James looked at Phil and said, “Ever heard of it?”

  “Never. I am totally clueless on that one.”

  * * *

  One week later James could feel half his mind arise from sleep. Last night had been alcohol-driven. A pitcher of beer with Frog and shots of Jägermeister liquor. The sweet, syrupy licorice flavor played on his tongue, mixed with cigarettes and beer. Chris, the ambulance driver, had once said that the smell of beer and pizza revolted him after giving mouth-to-mouth respiration to a drunk regurgitating such a combination. He thought of Chris and got up out of bed, went to the kitchen, and drank a mouthful of orange juice from a wax paper carton, put scoops of Arabic coffee into the coffeemaker, and then poured in the water. It perked to life, and the flavor wafted through the air in the kitchen.

  Sunlight came in through the picture window. He walked through piles of lumber and dead TVs and out onto the balcony. The thermometer needle pointed at 35 degrees. He pulled open the sliding door and felt a rush of cool, crisp Minnesota fall air brace against him. Brisk, he thought. He took in a few deep, cool breaths and went back inside. The coffee was still burp
ing and coughing in the coffeemaker. He slid the door shut and marveled at the sun coming in and hitting the balcony wall; red metal bars with cement on all walls, floor, and ceiling.

  In the kitchen he poured himself a cup of the brew, then proceeded, coffee mug in hand, back to his bedroom and sat in his desk chair. His one-hitter was in the cleaning tray Frisbee. He pinched off the top of a bud, and he packed the one-hitter full and spun around in the swivel chair. Picking up his pilot’s jacket from the floor, he reached into its inside pocket and retrieved a lighter. Holding his left thumbnail up to the port, he watched the reflection of fire in the shine of his thumbnail. In the reflection, he saw the fire go out. He had caught a buzz, gotten high. He leaned back in his chair. This is the good life, he thought.

  He sat there for several minutes. It’s a Monday, and that means mail.

  Out the door he went and into the elevator, down thirteen floors and left to the wall covered with modern brushed-aluminum mailbox doors. 1313, the box said. Pulling out his key ring, he slid the key into its slot and twisted it open. Five letters. Columbia House, CCHR, Belle and Blade, Quartermaster, and Bryce Pharmaceuticals. He put all but the last in his inside jacket pocket. What does Bryce Pharmaceuticals want with me? he thought. He tore open the spine of the envelope. He pulled the letter out and read. The first paragraph said it all.

  You have been selected as a candidate for a six-month test of the Bryce Pharmaceuticals product Syntheris. Please check in at Room 213, Malcolm Moos Medical Center, between the hours of 8 a.m. and 4 p.m. Monday through Friday for scheduling.

  “Yippidy-skippidy,” James said out loud, “thirty-six hundred bucks!”

  He headed across the campus to the medical center. This time there was no crowd. He dug the letter out of his pocket and said to the receptionist, “Excuse me, ma’am, I got this acceptance letter this morning telling me to report in for scheduling. What does that mean?”

  “We need to do a complete physical exam. Blood and urine specimens will be taken, and we need a baseline EEG.”

  “What’s an EEG?”

  “That’s an electroencephalogram. It’s sort of a snapshot of your brainwaves.” It was the same short, round receptionist who had given him his forms to fill out a week ago. “Are you free next week?”

  “Yeah, anytime,” said James.

  “Then I’ll put you on the calendar for Monday, nine a.m. Report here next Monday morning. You must not eat anything after midnight the day before. You have to fast for this.”

  “I understand.”

  “Well, I guess we’ll just see you on Monday then,” she said.

  James turned and headed for the door. “See you all Monday,” he said and left.

  The air was crisp, cool, and invigorating as James left the medical center. Bright sun streamed down through the old trees of the campus. The grass was a mix of tans and greens. A breeze was blowing gently. It was a great day. James walked past the campus quad and onto the Washington Avenue Bridge. He dug a cigarette from a pack in his jacket pocket and lit it, cupping his hand against the breeze. He walked slowly on the sunny side of the bridge. He thought about how fortunate he was. He walked slowly back to the West Bank, soaking up the sun and breeze and marveling at the bright golds, reds, and greens in the trees on the riverbank. He passed other walkers on the south side of the bridge. He noted the graffiti. No new marks. He reached the other side and into the parking lot and the view of the Hard Times.

  Shadow engulfed the north face of the Hard Times as he looked at it over the roofs of the cars. A bus pulled up in front of it. The number seven, he thought. He skirted around a Caprice and a Jeep, and walked on the grass to the street. Traffic was light, and he got across without having to wait. He walked in and saw Janet, Kira, Jerry, and Shelly. A game of chess was on with several spectators. Alice was stocking the cookie display case. Huge six-inch peanut butter and chocolate chip cookies were now on sale.

  Jerry turned away from the conversation at the bar and said to James, “I hear you’re going to be a guinea pig for the ‘U.’ ”

  “I just got accepted this morning. Thirty-six hundred bucks. I gotta do a physical, but from then on, it’s just one day per month. Easy.” James turned to the worker behind the counter, a mulatto woman, twenty-ish, with tattoos circling her neckline; very tribal and clean, primitive. He paid for a cup of coffee and re-engaged the conversation with Jerry. “The documents they gave me say they’re trying to actually rewire the brain to accept prosthetic limbs and the wires in the brain that control them. They say that curing mental illness is an unpredicted side effect. Imagine being cured of craziness by accident.”

  “You could actually have to get a job and work for an honest wage,” said Jerry with a hint of a jeer.

  “Let’s not get carried away, now. I’m happily retired.”

  “You’re happily lazy,” said Jerry.

  “That’s a part of it, but no one ever wants to incur a handicap,” said James.

  * * *

  Over the next few weeks, James went in for his physical and got his first $600 check in the mail. He celebrated by going out for breakfast at Al’s with his friend Frog and buying three new pipes for smoking marijuana. He also bought three new small sacks of that grassy weed from his favorite dealer, DJ.

  On weekends James stayed up until dawn and slept the day away, waking at 4 p.m. November 21 was one of these weekend days, and on this Saturday of the pre-Thanksgiving holiday he rose, went through his usual routine of waking, smoking, and coffee. He turned on the radio and tuned in 97.1. Natalie Merchant was singing “Carnival.” He went to his balcony, retrieved his bicycle and rolled it through his junk-strewn living room, opened the door, and headed down to the first floor.

  The sky was overcast as he headed out on his circuit of the city. First it was a ride over the Washington Avenue Bridge to Dinkytown. Then he went up 4th Street to Saint Anthony on Main. From there it was up Hennepin Avenue to downtown, and through to uptown. He stopped in for a beer at the Uptown Bar and then went east on Lake Street to Chicago Avenue. It was north on Chicago to Franklin Avenue, and on from there to the walk bridge over the highway connecting the Phillips neighborhood with the West Bank. Then it was on to the Hard Times, and people and socializing.

  He found Frog and Jerry talking about thermodynamics and entropy. Deep in mathematical theorems, they were. They hardly noticed him as he sat down. Jerry was trying to point out that through entropy, all of humankind’s accomplishments were doomed to chaos, and in that chaos all things eventually would fall apart. Frog asked Jerry, “If entropy is going to destroy all things, then how long has the dishwasher got to live?”

  James offered an opinion and a question. “Don’t be silly, or I mean do be silly, but separate your mirth from your philosophy for a moment. I have a problem in the real world that deals with philosophy and symbiosis. There is a drug trial of a psych med called Syntheris. It is being called an anti-seizure drug that accidentally acts as a mood stabilizer. They are saying it’s like Depakote and Tegretol in that regard. They also note that it was developed as a neuro anti-rejection drug for work with brain implants for prosthetic limbs. They stick little wires into the brain to control fake arms and legs. Totally experimental stuff. This Syntheris was designed to counteract the body’s tendency to reject things like wires into the motor function parts of the brain. They were even coating the wires with the stuff.”

  James bought a cup of coffee. They talked for 20 minutes, which is a long while to linger over a cup of coffee. James put his empty cup into a black Rubbermaid tub for dishes and coffee cups. He left his friends and walked down Riverside to visit DJ. He found her in the living room. “Wake and bake,” she called it. Getting baked on marijuana and waking up at the same time.

  “Care to join me in a buzz?” she said.

  “Don’t mind if I do.” James sat on the couch while DJ roosted in her favorite chair.

  “Just how did grass get illegalized?”

  “Herb
has a long history, going back to very ancient cultures. The horsemen of southern Russia used to make hemp bonfires and breathe in the smoke. That was about the time of the Roman Empire. Before that, it was used by Indians. Not our local type, but the real Hindus. They called it ‘Soma.’ Here in the States, it was first made illegal in the Mexican border states to try to discourage Mexican laborers from settling down near good-old white America. Then in the thirties, it got tied up with blacks. Here in America, it’s always been tied to racism. First the Mexicans and then the blacks. Most recently, it’s been tied to liberal politics. During the Vietnam War, it was a talisman of sorts, a mark that stated opposition to the war. But that’s forty-five years ago. It’s legal in Vancouver in Canada and in Amsterdam, Holland, and now in Colorado, Oregon, and Washington State. California has it for medical purposes. Twenty-three states allow it for medical reasons. It’s the new Prohibition. Lots of people smoke and accept the black market status of weed. Muslims smoke hashish rather than drinking alcohol.”

  “Do you ever think it will be fully legalized?”

  “Not for a while yet. Let all the sixties radicals become senators and then maybe something will happen.” She lit her pipe, filled her lungs, and passed the pipe and lighter to James. He did the same.

  As she reached for the pipe she said, “They first had state laws against grass in Mexican border states with lots of migrant workers. Then in ’37, the feds got mad at the blacks for smoking it and passed the Marijuana Stamp Act. To possess grass, you had to have a stamp. The farce was that the feds wouldn’t sell stamps to anyone unless they had hemp in hand. You’d get arrested before you got the stamp. They came up with this bright idea from the success they had regulating machine guns with a similar stamp system. Timothy Leary challenged it all in the late sixties and the law was changed, but grass was made just as illegal.”

  James responded, “I was pretty sure it had to do with racism or some other evil. Just another case of white men on whiskey trying to take over the world.” James had no idea as to the prophetic nature of his statement.

  * * *

  The most distinguishing quality of the doctor’s office was its sameness. The white-painted drywall on windowless walls. The exam table and the desk. All summed up by the eye chart of continually smaller letters to guess at. All of this said “medicine.”