BEYOND THE MIRROR

PART ONE: JULY 2020

​It’s a mystery why some humans are called in their lifetime to end their personal suffering; called to awaken to their true nature; called to discover true freedom.

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I.  SATURDAY JULY 4TH, 2020

​“The entire universe is God's cosmic motion picture, and individuals are merely actors in the divine play who change roles through reincarnation. Mankind's deep suffering is rooted in identifying too closely with one's current role, rather than with the movie's director, or God.”
 
— Paramahansa Yogananda (1893-1952)

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The main lights of The Garden Cabaret dim. The crowd shuffles and coughs in anticipation of the imminent spectacle they’ve all come to see.
            The entire cast and crew have worked tirelessly for the past fortnight to get my show, “The Garden of Eden Spectacular: Part 1,” ready for the official opening of TGC tonight. Preparations for the show had started well before the coronavirus pandemic had erupted in March, and disease and death had come to New Eden. For most of April, May, and June we’ve all been self-isolating, social distancing, and generally marking time. The official announcement of the re-opening of bars, restaurants, and clubs in New Eden City had been made two weeks ago, and tonight we’re all pumped and excited to finally perform the show live in front of a socially distanced audience, as well as livestreamed on FaceGram. None of us has any clue that this window of re-opening will only be short-lived.
            As the curtain rises the stage is dark and empty. A black fly with two empty doorways is positioned mid-stage. The orchestra begins to warm up then tune to the oboe’s concert A.
            A bass taiko drum, slow and ponderous—lub-dub, lub-dub, lub dub—like a heartbeat, penetrates as the other sounds fade. Next, a melody played by the cor anglais with a tremolo strings accompaniment. Just sixteen bars that build then fall on top of the now fainter taiko heartbeat. It’s a haunting melody, but it’s also inviting somehow, and it ends with an unanswered question that’s curiously optimistic. 
            During the second half of the short musical overture a simple wire-framed bed rolls through the stage left of the two doors in the fly. The bed is on the revolve, and it comes to rest in a spotlight, downstage center. 
            The occupant of the single bed is curled up under a jaunty blanket and has their back to the audience; they appear to be sleeping. Curled up like this the occupant of the bed appears to be small, most likely a child, but it’s impossible to say for sure.
            “Angelo!! Wake up!!” a raspy female voice calls from offstage as the orchestra pauses. It’s Miss Sommerville from the Mercy Home for Children in Queens, though no one knows this, no one will ever know this, and no one needs to know this except Angelo himself.
            The body in the bed sits bolt upright, stares straight ahead towards the left wing for a few seconds, then slowly turns their head to look at the audience. It’s a teenager, around thirteen or fourteen years of age. The teen’s gender is unclear; they look androgynous. Their skin color is also indeterminate being a honey-caramel color somewhere between dark and light. The teen’s facial expression, however, is clearly startled. Looking directly at the audience of The Garden Cabaret now, the teen starts to speak. 
            “Have you ever woken up from a dream and not been sure whether you’re awake or still dreaming? I mean, right now, am I asleep and dreaming this, which would mean that all of you are characters in my dream and none of you are real?” Young Angelo slowly scans the audience, then winks and smiles. Continuing, more playfully now, “Or are you,” pointing to a woman in the front row, “dreaming this, in which case I and everyone else here are characters in your dream and none of us, including you, are real?” Angelo pauses pregnantly . . . then laughs, breaking the tension. “Or are we all awake and no one’s dreaming anything, which I imagine would be a great relief for some of you but a bit embarrassing for me?” Angelo scans the audience again grimacing, then smiles slyly. “Or are we all asleep and dreaming, in which case none of us has any clue what reality is?”
            Young Angelo stands now and moves to the apron of the stage. “What if I was to invite you, all of you, right now, just as an experiment, to imagine that you’ve just woken up in your own dream. So, you’re still asleep in your bed at home and you’re dreaming this. Close your eyes and think about it for a minute,” pauses for effect. 
            “What if the one who’s sitting there in your seat hearing these words is just a dream character in a dream that’s taking place in your mind? I’m also a dream character in your dream, as is everyone and everything you see around you, so nothing here actually exists. We’re all just made of thoughts, fleeting mind objects made of nothing substantial.
            “So, what would you do if none of this is real? How would you behave? If everyone and everything around you are all just aspects of your dream, how would you treat them? Would you be mean and selfish, or kind and loving? And can your actions, as a dream character in a dream—awake or not—affect anything in any meaningful way? Are you actually in control of anything if this is all just a dream?”
            Young Angelo freezes now as a dazzling and radiant angel—Archangel Raphael, to be precise—appears out of the upstage darkness suspended from a trapeze. S/he looks resplendent in crimson and gold, her/his translucent wings trailing behind. Raphael lands gracefully next to the frozen teen Angelo who s/he embraces lovingly, then whispers in their ear, softly enough so as not to be audible from the audience. Young Angelo re-animates as Raphael disappears back up into the upstage darkness once more. 
            Smiling broadly now. “I just had a great idea!! I’m going to tell you a story.” Angelo is clearly excited. “Once, there was a place forgotten to human history, in a time outside of what we generally think of as time, where everyone and everything lived in peaceful harmony…”
Spotlight off as the bed and actor are whisked through the stage right door in the fly and the stage transforms, in a blaze of lights and color, into the historical/biblical Garden of Eden. Thus, the premier of my opening night show at TGC gets underway.

Most of us, particularly if we grew up in a culture where the Old Testament of the Bible was a part of the religious canon, know the allegorical story of the Garden of Eden from kindergarten, or Sunday School. We’re all familiar with Adam and Eve’s temptation by the serpent-devil, of their eating the fruit of the Tree of Knowledge of Good and Evil, and of their subsequent expulsion from the garden and so-called fall from grace. But how many of us have stopped and considered the deeper meaning of this allegory? 
            The fall from grace could refer to any of a number of aspects of human development and evolution, but for me it principally represents the falling asleep that happens when the ego develops, as it naturally does in all modern-day humans, in early childhood. Prior to this falling asleep, an infant is ontologically merged with its mother and its environment, and lives in a pre-rational, pre-verbal state of oneness. The ego, which is essentially a software program in the mind, is an upgrade of the operating system, if you like—from the mammalian operating system to the human operating system. 
            In terms of the story of human evolution, the ego’s development coincided with the expansion of the neocortex in the brains of early bipedal hominids, and it appeared around the time of the arrival of the Homo sapiens species: say a few hundred thousand years ago. 
            The function of the ego is simply to support the survival of each individual human organism. As an evolutionary adaptation, this mental software upgrade has clearly proven to be highly successful. It includes, but is not limited to, abstract thinking, complex memory recall, future planning, and progressively more sophisticated social structures. All of this is contained within a linear, time-bound story of me. While the development of ego-identification has clearly given humans an evolutionary advantage over all other species on the planet, it is only a stage in the evolving story of the human species, and—most importantly to this story—it is the root cause of all human suffering. 
            The falling asleep of humanity into being identified as a somebody— Original Sin, if you like --and the repercussions of this up to the present day is what’s portrayed in tonight’s show at TGC.
Part two of the show, which is yet to be written, will show the resolution, the redemption— Spiritual Awakening. Has the freedom and fulfillment that’s inherent in true awakening from the shared trance of separation that mind-identified humans currently live in been conveyed in such a way that everyone can be touched and inspired by it?
            The Buddha pointed to it in his teachings over 2500 year ago, but his core message has become significantly diluted in the mire of religion, dogma, rituals, and practices that now characterize the various branches of Buddhism.
            The epic Hindu poems, Mahabharata and Ramayana, also first told about 2500 years ago, use story and allegory to depict the true nature of reality. They can still be seen performed on occasion today, but they’re not practically accessible to most of us. 
            The historical man named Jesus is said to have used myth and allegory to point to the truth of reality. His teachings have, however, been interpreted and reinterpreted for more than two thousand years, and while the core details might still be found in parts of the New Testament, its transmission has also been significantly diluted as the various Christian religions developed over that time. 
            In the past century, organized religion in general has lost its appeal to a large percentage of the human population for a multitude of reasons, especially with the rise of science and rational thinking to explain why we're here. The prevailing institution of worship in the early years of the 21st century, however, has shifted from both traditional religion and science to what might best be called the religion of me, supported, as it is, by the three core egoic survival drives: money, sex, and power. Modern-day humans are, by and large, narcissistic, avaricious, pleasure-seeking control-freaks, are we not?
            We’re currently in a time of deep crisis in the unfolding story of human evolution, with increasing suffering showing up on all levels of society all over the globe. Each of us individually, as well as humanity as a whole, is desperately in need of the great good news of the possibility of awakening to one’s true nature, and the discovery of the freedom and fulfillment inherent in that awakening. In fact, it’s possible that humanity needs the evolutionary leap out of the mind-identified state now more than ever before in human history, or we might well die out by our own hand. 
            If original sin was the reboot of the mental operating system needed for the development of current day humans, then spiritual awakening is the reboot now required for us to move on to the next chapter of the story: a collective, harmonious humanity united by the understanding of the interconnectedness of all things. The plan for part two of my show at TGC is to show the possibility for both the individual and collective awakening of humans out of the trance of ego, and what the next phase of human evolution might look like.
            My name’s Angel O, and I’ll be guiding you through the twists and turns of this story. You’ll be finding out more about me as we go along, but if you’d like to know my full story before proceeding any further—which could be fun and which would most definitely be useful—then you could start by reading The Story of Angel O, then coming back here when you’re ready to proceed with Beyond the Mirror.
            Curtain down at TGC.
            “Oh, my goodness; what a blast!! Thank you all so, so much, all of you. You’re all amazing!!” I say to the cast and crew after applause and curtain calls. “I’m so proud of each and every one of you,”
            “And we’re proud of you, Angel O,” calls Adam from the rear of the cast and crew gathered on the TGC stage. “Thank you!!” The others cheer and applaud enthusiastically in agreement. The audience had clearly loved the show, and we’re all on a high as we leave the backstage area en route to our various dressing rooms.

As I enter my dressing room I’m humming and feeling exhilarated. I cross to the dresser, sink into its adjacent armchair, and let out a long sigh as the tension trapped in my body from the recent performance is released: “Aaaaaaarrhhhh!!!”
            I’ve always loved the thrill of performing, but my physical body can experience considerable stress and tension each time I do so, even though I’m not essentially anxious or nervous on any level other than the physical.
            My dressing room at TGC is not at all what people expect. It’s a circular room that’s modelled after the Salon de la Lune—the Moon Salon—at the Palais Garnier of the Paris Opera. The colors are dark and muted—crimson, gold, purple, rich brown, antique silver—with disguised mirrors and hidden lighting to accentuate the mood. There’s a large, curved, black leather sofa occupying most of the side of the room opposite the dresser, as well as various lamps, rugs, plants, and objet d’art.
            The most prominent feature of the décor of my boudoir, however, is a large wooden cross that stands in the center of the space. The cross is oriented as an ‘x,’ rather than a ‘t,’ so there’s no sense of evoking Christian imagery, more of a BDSM vibe. This gives the room an almost sinister feel, like just about anything could happen at any moment. What can I say? I designed my dressing room to reflect my shadow, my inner darkness. This darkness within me needed to be acknowledged, allowed, accepted, and finally embraced before I was able to experience true freedom, so I’m eternally grateful for it, and I celebrate it here in my inner sanctum. 
            The other prominent feature of note in my boudoir is a large triangular mirror above the dresser, its apex pointing downwards like an arrow into the earth. The mirror is surrounded by lights to assist with makeup application and removal. Apart from this bright feature, however, the room is quite somber. A contrast—so I’m told by those who know me and who’ve been inside my boudoir—from my naturally bright and bubbly personality. I gaze into the mirror briefly and smile. “I love my life,” I say out loud to my reflection.
            In the back of my mind, I’m aware that the Eco-Vigilante Action Group planning meeting is due to start at Bernard’s Bookstore in less than half an hour, so I really need to motor if I want to get there on time. My dear friend—and the main speaker at tonight’s meeting—Lola Chu, will not be happy with me if I’m late. I glance at the time, gasp, then switch gears and start the process of changing out of my costume, removing makeup, and generally transforming into my non-performing self. 
            You’ll either know by now—or you’ll find out very shortly—that I’m a chimera: a true hermaphrodite. I developed from two separate zygotes that fused just a few days after their dual conceptions. Essentially, I’m fraternal twins who occupy one body. Sound confusing? Oh yeah!!
            By day, I’m Dr Angelo Williams, a neurosurgeon currently employed by Jersey City Medical Center. By night, I’m Angel, the proprietor and headline performer of The Garden Cabaret in the East Village of New Eden City.
            To give you an idea of the degree of integration of my two selves as I navigate the 57th year of my life, let’s just say that when I’m at the hospital, as Dr Williams, I’m quiet, reserved, intellectual, kind, and I love supporting others to experience optimal health, and there I dress as a man; when I’m on stage, as Angel, I’m outgoing, playful, funny, generous, and  I love ensuring that others are optimally enjoying themselves, and here I most often dress as a woman. Don’t get me wrong, Angel and Angelo are both always fully present these days—that’s where the name Angel O comes in—but to most of the world I look like Angel when I’m performing, and I look like Angelo the rest of the time. I’m having a lot of fun letting these boundaries become progressively more blurred, however, and I’m eternally curious about the energy that’s arising more and more as the polarities of Angel and Angelo are more fully embraced, merged, and ultimately . . .  transcended.
            Angel—who could be described as a heterosexual, cis-gender woman—is an actively engaged member of the LGBTQIA+ community; Angelo—who’s essentially a homosexual, cis-gender man: that’s the ‘G’ in LGBTQIA+—tends to be more neutral about gender politics, and prefers to steer clear of the drama that can arise in that space; Angelo O—that’s the integrated me—could be described as intersex (I), though queer (Q), is probably more accurate, and truthfully neither of these terms define me that well. Personally, I find hermaphrodite is the best descriptor, but people pretty much universally freak out when they hear that word, so I use it selectively. I know, it all sounds a tad confusing, doesn’t it? Well, don’t even get me started on my pronouns!!
            Midway through my transformation I’m stopped in my tracks by another, bigger, wave of gratitude that gushes up out of nowhere, and which brings with it a wash of tears; I can’t quite believe how lucky I am. When I look back at my life—from the idyllic-though-flawed ashram in my early childhood, to the oppressive orphanage in my teens, to contracting HIV in my twenties, to landing in a successful medical career in my thirties, to nearly dying in a house fire in my forties, to two cancer diagnoses within two years in my fifties, and the painful story of shame and worthlessness that’s woven its way through it all—it’s almost unbelievable that I’ve ended up here: happy, fulfilled, at peace, in love.
            “Thank you, thank you, thank you, I’m so grateful,” I say out loud to the empty room as I press my hands together on my heart and look up towards the heavens. I’m not looking up towards a disembodied god or deity of any sort, rather I’m acknowledging the mystery that is life, both within me and all around me, known and unknowable.
            My phone vibrates silently on the dresser, and I glance at its illuminated screen. It’s a message from my husband, Amir:
             [sufiloveamir] Great job, my lover; a triumph!! Have you looked at FaceGram comments yet?
           [angel_o] not yet, I quickly send back as I flick open the app and start scrolling through the comments posted during and after the recent livestream.
            [ericahytes] Thank you so much @angel_o, it was so good I cried!! 😍
            [broadwaybaby13] fantastic show @angel _o; can’t wait for part 2. 🌹🌹🌹
            [philip1973] So excited for you @angel_o. Inspiring stuff!! 🥰
            [silenceinwashington] May all beings be happy and free!! Om, Shanti!! ❤️🙏🏻
          [dwp666] Stop now and close your stupid club forever, or everyone will know your dirty little secret.
            I inhale sharply and bring a hand to my mouth as my eyes widen. “Oh, no!! Damn it!!” I look up into the mirror once more as a different flavor of tears well in my eyes. I exhale deeply, a heavy sigh: “Nooooooooooo!!” My head drops and I bury my face in my hands. “I knew this would happen; I just knew it.” After a few seconds I lean back in my chair once more, a pained expression on my face.
            What I want more than anything in this life is to stand up in front of the audience at TGC—and finally, in front of the whole world—and let everyone know the great good news of the possibility of waking up and being free from suffering. If it’s possible for me—as flawed and undeserving as I was . . . as I am—then it’s possible for everyone.
            Spiritual awakening is no longer reserved for monks in mountain-top monasteries, or priests in secluded hermitages. Now is the time of the awakening of ordinary humans. It’s possible for everyone to awaken and realize their true nature as love, as peace, as wholeness, and to experience the deep sense of freedom and fulfillment that this realization brings with it. Each of us can then use our lives to discover what it means to live responsibly, and to be in service to the well-being and happiness of all beings everywhere. One possible outcome of this burgeoning collective awakening is that humans might eventually come to live together peacefully and share the earth harmoniously once more.
         This collective awakening, which is already well underway within the greater body of humanity, is one possible outcome of the unfolding genetic programming encoded within our DNA. Awakening has gained significant momentum through the second half of the 20th century, turbo boosted by the mind-expanding drug-taking hedonism of the ‘60s and ‘70s. We’re now headed inexorably towards what one of my teachers—Richard Rudd, author of the Gene Keys--calls the Great Change, by which he means the flowering of the next phase of human evolution. 
This turning of the era was pointed to by the Vedic priests thousands of years ago when they described the movement from the Kali Yuga—the epoch we’re currently in which is characterized by conflict, division, pain, and suffering—to the coming Satya Yuga which will be characterized by unity, harmony, peace, and love. 
            Well, that’s my interpretation of it anyway. Everyone’s free to have their own view of where humanity is headed, of course. Even belief in the reality or non-reality of spiritual awakening is everyone’s choice. Just the slightest possibility that this is the direction life is heading, however, is enough for me to put all my life’s energy towards supporting this vision into form, hence me telling this story and creating my show at TGC. Luckily, there are now many beautiful souls awakening all over the planet, and each one adds exponentially to the momentum of this transition; it’s an exciting time to be alive.
            Reading the threatening comment on FaceGram, however, I’m reminded that the exposure inherent in following my vision into the limelight could potentially bring with it a boatload of unwanted negative attention. Suddenly, out of nowhere, I’m full of self-doubt, feeling agitated, terrified, and frankly overwhelmed. 
            The familiar desire to curl up into a ball and hide from the world arises strongly. I inhale slowly and deeply, trying to consciously relax my body and mind, but it’s no use: I’m triggered, and at this moment I’m fully identified with, and fully believing, my sad stories of self-hatred, injustice, resentment, and suffering.
            Angel, still sitting in the armchair by the dresser, squints her eyes, shakes her head, reaches into the dresser drawer, pulls out a colorful pair of prescription glasses, and puts them on; Angelo, dressed all in black and hidden in shadow on the curved leather sofa, squints his eyes, shakes his head, reaches into his coat pocket, pulls out a black-rimmed pair of prescription spectacles, and puts them on. My two separate selves—Angel & Angelo—are now fully back in separation, fully back in suffering, fully back in samsara.
            My vision issues have been with me since I was a teenager. It was at age fourteen—the same year I’d discovered my hermaphroditism—that my vision had started to become problematic. Curiously, Angel is long-sighted, while Angelo is short-sighted. This has been the cause of great confusion over the years, especially for my optometrist. Interestingly, I—Angel O—am neither long- nor short-sighted; the two refractive errors miraculously cancelling each other out when I’m fully present and surrendered in the moment. Consequently, the clarity of my vision without glasses has become the yardstick of how open and centered I am in any moment.
             Angel & Angelo now, individually, go over in my mind the shameful, painful story of being a hermaphrodite once more. It’s so familiar . . . and so boring: Poor me!! Why me!! What did I do to deserve this!! I’m such an abomination!! What if people find out? Will I lose the respect of my colleagues and patients, and lose my position at the hospital (Angelo)? Will people no longer love and admire me, and want to come and be entertained by my shows (Angel)?
            “Can I really do this?” Angel asks, looking up to the heavens. “Can I actually go through with this?”  
            Angelo stands and moves towards Angel. Gazing intently at each other from close range now, they both question: “Can we really do this? Can we actually go through with this?”
            At this exact moment, Archangel Raphael appears and descends silently into my boudoir. Raphael is garbed, as always, in glorious crimson and gold, with hints of emerald flashing from her/his breast plate. Her/his magnificent wings shimmer brilliantly as s/he lands, lightly and gracefully, beside me. 
            Raphael embraces Angel & Angelo lovingly, then looking from Angel to Angelo and back again states formally:
            “You’re fabulous!! Of course, you can do this!!”
     Angel & Angelo are momentarily shocked by Raphael’s pronouncement, then both simultaneously squint their eyes, shake their heads, remove their glasses, and put them away. Angelo disappears into shadow on the black sofa and . . . I’m back, fully present as Angel O once more, fully back in the experience of oneness.
            I look up at Raphael feeling humility and gratitude. How is it possible that this extraordinary angelic being has been watching over me my whole life, and continues to do so, even today. Raphael smiles broadly and we embrace once more. “You know what, Raphy? It’s time to reclaim my birthright. I’m going to step fully into that spotlight and hold nothing back.” Humming again now, I compose a FaceGram post: 
            [angel_o] I hope you all enjoyed the premiere of tonight’s show. I’m so excited to bring you part two very soon; stay tuned. Oh, and by the way . . . I’m a hermaphrodite.
            I look up at Raphael once more, lift my chin and straighten my posture, take a long deep in-breath which I hold . . . then hit Post as I exhale forcefully.
            Instantaneously Angelo shakes his head on the black sofa, squints his eyes, and reaches into his coat pocket for his glasses.

Meanwhile, next door in the male/non-binary dressing room, Adam McCall, William Chu, Alex Abercrombie, plus several other cast members are also removing costumes and makeup and changing into street clothes.
            “Hey Adam, what’s the deal? Do you have something you want to tell us?” asks Alex, pulling a long blond wig off his head and running his hands through his hair. Alex’s role in my show is Eve, which he finds highly amusing as his twin sister’s name is Eve, and in his costume and wig he looks uncannily like her.
            “What do you mean, Alex?” inquires William, curious to know what secret his best friend might be keeping from him.
            “He slipped me the tongue again; that’s three times this week. If I didn’t know any better, I’d say he has the hots for me.”
             “I’m so sorry, Alex,” responds Adam sheepishly, “I just couldn’t help it. When you’re dressed like that, with that wig and makeup, you look just like the girl in my dreams.”
         The girl in Adam’s dreams has been visiting him every night for months now, and he’s developed a well-established dream-fantasy relationship with her. Adam has been utilizing this inner fantasy life to help him endure the imposed boredom and sexual abstinence of the coronavirus lockdown. The boys all know that Adam is a highly sexual being, and that the lockdown has been seriously challenging for his libido. 
            As Adam finishes telling them all about his dream girl he makes the most adorable face, like a puppy, and everyone jeers and pats him on the head, shoulders, back, and butt.
            “Oh boy, Adam. You really need to meet my sister,” says Alex as the clamor settles.
            “What? You have a sister? Does she look like you?”
         “Man, we’re twins; we look exactly alike. Well, almost exactly. I mean, she’s got real long blond hair,” Alex holds up the blond wig he’s still holding, “and real . . .” holding up the fake boobs that are an integral part of his costume with a cheeky expression on his face.
            “What? No way!! You gotta introduce us right away!! Tonight!!” 
          “Hold on, Romeo, settle down.” Alex pauses as he looks Adam up and down, then nods his head in agreement smiling amusedly. “OK. I’ll set it up for Tuesday, Central Park, 11am. We’ll meet you on the bridge; you know the one.”
          “Thank you so much, Alex; I owe you one!!” Adam gives Alex a bear hug, lifting him off the floor as he does so.
            William, glancing up at the clock on the wall of the dressing room, suddenly jumps up and shouts, “Fellas, we gotta go. We’re gonna be late, and you know what my mum does to latecomers!!” William, Adam, and Alex all grimace as they mime slitting their throats, then they run out the door.

The three young men plus four other members of TGC cast who are also members of the Eco-Vigilante Action Group meet me outside the stage door. “Well, my friends, what do you think Mrs. Chu has in store for us tonight?”
            “I know a part of what mum’s planning,” says William, “but there’s something she hasn’t even told me; she’s being very secretive about it all.” 
            “I can’t wait; this is gonna be so good,” says Alex, rubbing his hands together gleefully.
            “OK. Let’s go,” says Adam animatedly.
            We start to sing and dance along the East Village streets on our way to Bernard’s Bookstore on the Lower East Side; a brisk fifteen-minute walk from here. Inside I’m feeling conflicted and out-of-sorts, but I try to put on a happy face and join in the spirit of our usual joyful going home song.
            Just minutes later, however, I stop the others and say, “You know what, beautiful people, I’m not feeling so good. I’m sorry everyone, I really wanted to be at tonight’s meeting to hear Lola's announcement, but I’m going to have to head home. William, please give my apologies to Bernard and your mum.” 
            “OK, but you’re gonna miss some fireworks; they’ll be disappointed,” states William wryly.
Angel & Angelo have been ruminating on the FaceGram threat again, and their painful stories of suffering are back up and running in my mind. It only takes me a few minutes to arrive home to our East Village apartment. Angel immediately pulls on her Mickey Mouse costume—a lifelong security blanket in times of stress—and throws herself dramatically on the sofa; Angelo, still dressed all in black, sits quietly in a shadowy nook at the rear of the living room. They both close their eyes and start to inquire into the barrage of thoughts and turmoil of emotions that they’re experiencing. The one word that arises for both, and which most accurately describes the gestalt of what’s present is . . . dread.
            In these moments of being triggered into painful mind-identified separation, it feels like all the work I’ve done on myself—all the discipline I’ve acquired through meditation and other practices to no longer identify with my thoughts and emotions; all the meeting and completion of traumatic and painful memories from my earlier life; all the integration of my male and female polarities; all the quietening and simplifying of my life, both internal and external—simply flies out the window. In these moments I feel like two separate individuals, with two separate life stories, being told from two separate points of view, both of whom are contracted, complaining, blaming, and suffering: Angel, full of pride, anger, and resentment; Angelo, full of shame, worthlessness, and self-loathing. The degree of regression into past tendencies that Angel & Angelo experience now is extremely painful, but that’s nothing new . . . for either of them. One thing they’re both quite certain of, however, is that there’s an important lesson to be learned from this situation.

As Adam, William, Alex, and the other E-VAG members make their way across Tompkins Square Park they see the face of Ken Abercrombie—Alex’s mega-wealthy and uber-famous politician father—appear on the huge public viewing screen that’s set up in the park; a sight that’s become progressively more common as COVID-19 restrictions on indoor gatherings have persisted into July. It’s a live broadcast from the Partisan National Convention, a scaled down version of which is taking place at the Lincoln Center this weekend.
            “Thank you all so much. It is with great pleasure and enthusiasm that I accept my party’s nomination to run for President of the United States of America in November: Abercrombie 2020!!” Ken states earnestly through the Perspex screen attached to the lectern he’s standing behind. He steps back and fist pumps the air above him as a roar of excitement explodes from the speakers. The face-masked and socially distanced members of the small audience in attendance at the Lincoln Center go wild, jumping up and down and throwing red and white merchandise into the air. 
            “I’m so honored to represent this great party, the Partisan Party, and the great American people. I want to take this country back to prosperity and greatness once more; I plan to make you all proud!!” 
            “Way to go, dad!! You’re such an f’ing hypocrite!!” Alex shouts at the screen. Adam puts his arms around Alex who is shaking visibly. Alex Abercrombie hasn’t seen or spoken with his father in months, and the animosity, anger, and pain he’s feeling after his father’s betrayal and rejection is yet to find resolution.
            Ken pauses as he allows the wave of applause and cheers to recede. “Now, the news I know you’ve all been waiting to hear. Who will be my running mate? Well, let me introduce to you the future Vice President of the United States of America . . . and my extraordinary wife, Faye Abercrombie!!”
            Faye is smiling broadly as she steps confidently onto the stage and approaches the lectern. This is no fake smile, not tonight. Ken’s formal announcement as the Partisan Party candidate for November’s presidential election is thrilling; it feels like her whole life has led up to this perfect moment. The added excitement of possibly becoming the first female Vice President in history—not to mention the first person to be both Vice President and First Lady—is beyond exciting for Faye. Beginning to feel dizzy, she grasps the lectern tightly with both hands to steady herself. Faye can already taste victory, and she has no problem imagining how sweet it will be when she and Ken win the election in November and are inaugurated in January.
            Faye elbow bumps Ken peremptorily then turns to remove her face mask. Barely a flicker of acknowledgement of other passes between the two in the awkward moment. Ken promptly exits the stage leaving Faye alone in the spotlight. She slowly turns to face the audience, deliberately swinging her head in such a way that the fringe of her bob hair style—think Vidal Sassoon circa 1965—cascades seductively across her face before settling itself in perfect position to frame her cherubic features, and she smiles even more widely. The crowd in attendance at the Lincoln Center continue clapping and cheering for some time, even after Faye has raised a hand to indicate that she’s ready to speak; she’s clearly popular with this crowd.
            Faye’s address is centered around her bold vision for universal world peace. This is no hollow beauty pageant call for peace—although some haters on FaceGram are already having their doubts about Faye’s integrity and gravitas—but a true desire to change the world for the better. Faye is not in denial of the fact that there are billions of individuals to convince about her plan, but she knows deep in her bones that she can do it. In fact, it feels to Faye that her life’s purpose is to help everybody in the world get along with each other, and at this moment she’s quite convinced that she can achieve this.
            Faye’s speech includes what she calls her Prescription for Peace, which is the core message and strategy of her newly founded personal charity: Let’s All Get Along, or LAGA for short. Faye Abercrombie wants everyone in the world to spend three minutes each day spreading joy and kindness. She goes on to invite everyone to find a partner—either in-person or online via the LAGA app—then: 1) spend one minute gazing silently into their partner’s eyes; 2) spend one minute hugging their partner (or hugging themselves if online); 3) spend one minute laughing, singing, dancing, and playing together. So simple, but Faye is convinced that her Prescription for Peace can catalyze the burgeoning of a peaceful humanity and world.
            “Now,” she states more solemnly after the excitement in the room has died down a little, “I’d like to invite you all to stop for just a moment and recognize that beneath all our surface differences of skin color, race, gender, sexual orientation, work roles, political affiliation, etc., beneath all of that we’re all made of the same substance, the same systems and organs, the same molecules and atoms, the same vibrating emptiness. It only makes sense to love your neighbour as yourself because, finally, they are yourself. Same. Really, there can be world peace for evermore.”
            Having finished her speech and received an enthusiastic response from the audience at the Lincoln Center, Faye invites Ken back to the stage. “Please, make some noise for my husband, and your next President, Ken Abercrombie!!” 
            A moment of silence falls over the auditorium as Faye scans the wings of the stage for her husband. With a sickening sinking feeling in the pit of her stomach, Faye realizes that Ken has already left the convention to be with his evil mistress, Lobida, at her sinful club, The Dark Side. Faye turns to face the cameras and audience once more, gives one last gleaming smile and a victorious double fist pump, “Abercrombies 2020!!” at which the crowd goes wild once more, and she rushes off stage in a rage.
            William exclaims to the small group gathered near him in Tompkin’s Square Park, "I like her; she can stay. But him, he's gotta go." All the others, except Alex, agree in unison. Alex is frozen, and clearly in shock. 
          “Not only is my arrogant, bigoted father going to be President, but now my mum—sweetheart that she is—is going to be Vice President? Mamma mia!! This nightmare couldn’t possibly get any worse.” 
            Alex had been the one to reject his famous family less than a year ago after his father had asked him to publicly deny his homosexuality in order to buoy Ken’s popularity amongst his conservative Partisan Party compatriots. Alex had been horrified and outraged that his own flesh and blood could even suggest such a thing. Along with leaving the family home and cutting all contact with his family—except his sister, Eve—Alex had leaked the story to the left-wing press, which had caused a minor scandal in the media for a few days.
            Luckily, Alex has found a new, less morally corrupt, family—the extended McCall clan—through his friend and dance partner, Adam McCall. He now spends most of his free time with them at Bernard’s Bookstore on the Lower East Side, or at my club, The Garden Cabaret, in the East Village, where Alex has recently started working as a backup dancer to pay his way through his final years of medical school.
            “Don’t get too down about it, Alex. They have to win the election first, and if my mum has anything to say about it, that aint gonna happen,” says William reassuringly. The small group crowd around Alex and give him a hug of encouragement, then they all turn and continue their way to Bernard’s Bookstore.

In the privacy of her dressing room backstage at the Lincoln Center, Faye sits and stares stonily into the mirror, breathing heavily. She’s fuming, seething, angry like never before.
            “How dare he? How dare he publicly humiliate me? After all I’ve done for him, for us, for his campaign!! He would be nothing without me!! Nothing!!” Faye slams her fist onto the table with the second ‘nothing,’ causing a clatter of objects to fall to the floor.
            It’s perfectly clear to Faye that her husband would not be in the powerful position he is today without her. When Ken fails to be respectful to Faye and acknowledge her contribution to his success—which happens on a regular basis—Faye is not backwards at letting him know about it. Indeed, Faye’s appointment as Ken’s VP running mate was not entirely Ken’s decision. Faye has been leveraging staying quiet about Ken’s unethical tax practices and his ongoing affair with Lobida for years to claim an ever-increasing share of power from her husband. Truthfully, Faye loves the idea of being famous and adored, and being both Vice President and First Lady would make her enormously famous. 
            Faye closes her eyes and for a moment and envisions herself as her heroine, Eva Peron, stepping onto the balcony of the Casa Rosada and waving to her adoring fans. Faye can easily see herself sitting behind the desk in the Oval Office one day . . . but she’s not about to let Ken get wind of that just yet.

As Adam, William, Alex, and the others burst noisily through the front door of Bernard’s Bookstore it’s one minute past 11pm. Bernard is standing at the front of the small gathering and is preparing to introduce Mrs. Chu, who is standing stiffly off to the side of the room, the tight expression on her face currently covered by a medical-style face mask. Present in the audience, and also wearing face masks, are my sweet husband—and the bookstore manager—Amir Nazzim, plus three other E-VAG members. Bernard stands behind a Perspex shield on a stand.
            “Angel O sends her/his apologies; s/he isn’t feeling well so s/he went straight home after the show,” William announces to the group as he takes his seat, clumsily putting on his face mask.
            “What a shame,” says Bernard sincerely. Then continuing formally, “Welcome everyone to the first Eco-Vigilante Action Group planning meeting for 2020. A brief reminder of E-VAG’s mission: To save planet Earth from calamitous global warming by discrediting and taking down the individuals and corporations most responsible for polluting our atmosphere. Now, without further ado, I’d like to introduce tonight’s keynote speaker. You all know her only too well, direct from the Capitol building in Washington, our precious Egalitarian Party member of the House of Representatives,” then whispered conspiratorially out of the side of his covered mouth, “and E-VAG’s top-secret consultant and collaborator,” then in full voice once more, “Mrs. Lola Chu.”
            Mrs. Chu steps onto the small riser that is the impromptu stage in Bernard’s Bookstore tonight. She acknowledges Bernard’s introduction with an elbow bump, then turns to face the expectant gathering removing her face mask as she does so. Bernard puts on his mask and joins the others in the audience. 
            Lola remains quiet as she allows the room to fall completely silent before speaking, her facial expression the perfect marriage of resolute and hopeful. 
            “I’m so proud to be here, on this historic night, to tell you two very exciting pieces of news. Firstly, after the success of E-VAG’s first campaign—the public shaming and subsequent deportation of illegal immigrant, planet polluter, and general bad guy, Ha Long Tran—in December, I have great pleasure in announcing E-VAG’s second target. The next omnipotent, earth-destroying scoundrel we plan to discredit and take down is perhaps the single biggest polluter on the planet—and now the Partisan Party nominee for President—Ken Abercrombie.”
            A surprisingly large amount of noise is generated in response to Mrs. Chu’s announcement, as the small group huddled in the humble bookstore goes completely wild, howling and screaming, jumping up and down, and throwing things into the air; they're clearly eager for blood.
            Mrs. Chu, Bernard, and William now take turns in outlining the plan to gather the evidence that will cause the press—and hopefully also the US justice system—to take Ken Abercrombie so far down he’ll be off the map completely and forever. 
            Anyone who reads the news even a little these days knows that Ken Abercrombie’s high-tech artificial intelligence, robotics, and nanotechnology company, Abercrombie Industries (AI), operates well outside the current moral conscience of the western world by displacing its enormous greenhouse gas emissions load to developing countries for the right price. In fact, it’s rumored that AI may be the single greatest greenhouse gas emitting entity on the planet. Bernard, who had worked as a researcher for Ken and AI for a handful of years in the early 2000s, knows full-well the extent of these ethical transgressions, and he has ample evidence to support such claims.
            The second component E-VAG's plan concerns the speculation that’s rife in the left-wing press at present about Ken Abercrombie’s less-than-legal tax evasion strategies. While Congressman Abercrombie is yet to be forced to publicly disclose his tax records, Mrs. Chu has recently procured a direct line of communication to a disgruntled former Abercrombie family accountant who’s willing to spill the beans on Ken in exchange for a voice in Congress. 
            The third component of Mrs. Chu’s plan—yet to be finalized—is to obtain evidence of Ken’s morally questionable extra-marital sex life, speculation about which has appeared in the tabloids on and off for years. She’s sure that a bit of saucy sex scandal will make the whole story just that bit juicier, and give rise to more moral outrage, for a greater percentage of the American people. 
            It’s been almost fourteen years since the Partisan Party-sponsored dirt piece about Mrs. Chu had been published on the eve of the 2006 congressional elections, which Lola had lost by the smallest of margins, and which had resulting in her withdrawing from politics entirely for the subsequent six years. Payback is going to be sweet, thinks Lola to herself as she steps off the dais.
            Alex Abercrombie now steps forward and announces the core detail of E-VAG’s plan that’s just come to light. “As you all know, my dad’s highly controversial mistress, Lobida, owns a questionably legal establishment on the Upper East Side of New Eden called, The Dark Side. Well, I just heard from my sister—who’s a hostess at the club—that one of the male dancers broke his ankle rollerblading this morning so they’re in desperate need of a replacement at short notice. What do you say, Adam? Are you in?”
            All eyes shift to Adam who’s sitting, shirtless and muscle-bound, by himself in Bernard’s office nook in the far-left corner of the bookstore. Unlike his father, Bernard, along with Mrs. Chu, William, Alex, and Amir, Adam is not particularly political by nature, so he’s not terribly engaged with the energy of the E-VAG gathering tonight. Adam also didn’t hear Alex mention that his sister is an integral part of the proposed plan, or he might have been more enthusiastic. Adam, knowing that tonight he can actually go out and meet women in person for the first time in three months, is more intent on scanning his Trendr profile than listening to the proceedings of the evening’s meeting. Truthfully, at this moment Adam’s just feeling horny.
            “What? Me? Nah, sorry, not interested. How about Stu?” Adam indicates one of the other male dancers from The Garden Cabaret with his thumb, then goes back to scrolling through Trendr.
            William smiles cheekily, winks at Bernard and Amir, and the three converge on Adam who eyes them suspiciously.
            Adam’s father and his two closest friends now use their intimate knowledge of his sizeable ego and his naive desire to be the hero who saves the day—to be a real-life version of his actual hero, Captain America—to convince Adam that he should go along with the proposed plan. They invite him to imagine that he’s the hero not only for E-VAG, but for the whole city, the whole county, possibly even for the whole world, and to imagine the benefits this would bring with it; Adam’s interest is piqued.
            Bernard then reveals his latest inventions which he’s created especially for E-VAG’s plan to take Ken Abercrombie down: a microphone and a tiny camera concealed in diamond earring studs. Adam smiles admiringly at his reflection in the mirror adjacent to the office nook after Amir and William have inserted the studs for him. In his mind’s eye Adam sees himself infiltrating the enemy stronghold James Bond-style and returning home to a hero’s welcome with both the treasure and a beautiful maiden on his arm.
             “Alright, alright. I’ll do it!!” cries Adam heroically; cheers and applause.
           Mrs. Chu steps back onto the riser at the front of the E-VAG gathering now and claps her hands sharply together: clap, clap, clap!!
         “There’s more good news.” The group instantly falls silent and attentive to Mrs. Chu once more. “Guess who’s been asked to run as James Brody’s VP?” She pauses for a moment for effect, then pulls a blue and white placard from behind a stack of books: BRODY & CHU, TRUE BLUE, 2020!! Another huge cheer goes up and more things are thrown into the air.

As the E-VAG meeting draws to a close, and those in attendance congratulate Mrs. Chu and start to drift away, Bernard ushers Adam into his office nook and closes the door behind them. Bernard’s face is a mask of fear as he gestures for Adam to sit in his office chair, then squats awkwardly in the cramped space at Adam’s feet, his arms resting lightly on Adam’s thighs and his head bowed. Looking down at his father Adam is suddenly nervous, and he shifts uncomfortably in the chair. 
            “What’s the matter, dad? What have I done now?”
            “Son,” Bernard begins, looking sheepishly up into Adam’s puzzled face, “it’s time. I’m so sorry that I’ve kept this secret from you for so long; honestly, I’ve tried to find the right moment to tell you this a thousand times over the years, but it's never been quite right . . . until now.”
            “You’re scaring me, dad. What is it?”
            “Adam, your mother is alive, she’s in New Eden, and she wants to meet you.”
            “What!! No way!!”
            Adam is gob-smacked, incredulous, disoriented, overwhelmed. He’s heard his father tell the story that his mother died giving birth to him from the youngest age. The painful truth—which Bernard had historically wanted to keep hidden from Adam to protect his feelings—was that Adam’s mother had abandoned him with Bernard when Adam was just four months old and disappeared from their lives forever. Bernard, who’s never been good at having conversations that involve actual emotions, has managed to avoid raising the issue with Adam for more than twenty years.
           After an initial outburst of anger and disbelief, Adam literally starts bouncing around the office nook, he’s so excited. He opens the door and runs into the main part of the Bernard’s Bookstore where the stragglers from the E-VAG meeting are still in conversation.
            “My mum’s alive!! My mum’s alive!1 My mum’s alive!!” shouts Adam.
          “We know; isn’t it great,” says William as he jumps up and down with Adam and hugs his friend.
          “Wait. What do you mean, ‘you know’?” asks Adam suspiciously, suddenly motionless and glaring intently at his friend from close range. 
            “We know. We all know. We’ve all known for years.”
          “Dad!!” Adam turns to confront Bernard. “I can’t believe you; you’re completely hopeless!!” Then softening once more, “I love you, though. I love all of you. I’m so damned happy right now!!”

Meanwhile, uptown on E 72nd between Madison and Park, Lobida is so full of hubris tonight she feels invincible. She can’t wait to perform on the main stage of her BDSM cabaret club, The Dark Side, for the first time in more than three months.
            Ken Abercrombie, modestly disguised behind sunglasses and a cap, arrives at TDS and is ushered through a side entrance by security. As he’s making his way across the club to Lobida’s boudoir—from where he can view her imminent performance in private—Ken spots his daughter. Eve had worked as a hostess at TDS for almost a year prior to the COVID lockdown, and she loves the role; it’d given her a new lease on life and helped lift her out of the melancholy she’d been wallowing in following a suicide attempt two years ago. Ken taps Eve on the shoulder, and as she turns her head to see who it is she lights up.
             “Daddy, you made it; I can’t believe it!!” Eve is wearing a black and white French maid’s outfit with a plunging neckline and matching fascinator pinned in her hair, and she looks fetching.   "Congratulations, by the way, Mr. President.” Eve puts her arms around Ken’s neck and dances seductively, à la Marilyn Monroe, in front of him for a few seconds.
            “Thanks, Pumpkin,” says Ken pulling away from her grip nervously and glancing around him to see if anyone had been watching, “but I’ve got to win the election before you can call me Mr. President. Anyway, that’s enough about me. Right now, it’s all about you; I wouldn’t miss seeing you perform tonight, not for anything.”
           “But you’re so busy, daddy, what with the nomination and all,” Eve’s energy drops, “and I have no talent to speak of anyway.” She looks at the floor, deflated. 
            Ken sweeps Eve into his arms and, gazing directly into her eyes at close range, says, “You’re the most beautiful and talented daughter I’ve got, Pumpkin. Really, you’re incredible. And by the way, you look spectacular in that outfit: quite the grownup.”
            “Oh, daddy, thank you,” replies Eve, smiling brightly. “I’m so happy you’re here; I just love you so much.” Eve hugs Ken tightly for a few more seconds then releases him and returns her attention to taking a drinks order from a newly arrived table of patrons.
            Ken continues across the club and enters Lobida’s boudoir using the private passcode. As he’s closing the door he glances back and spots Yantra Srinivasan, the manager of The Dark Side, in the elevated control booth at the rear of the club. Yantra is watching Ken intently, and in this moment her gaze is full of venom . . . which she unsuccessfully tries to disguise as their eyes meet through the smoky haze of the club. 
            Hmm, Yantra’s mad at me; what’s that all about, I wonder? thinks Ken. I must speak to her about it when I have the chance. She was such a great nanny to the twins back in the day, so loyal and trustworthy.
            Bringing her attention back to her work now, Yantra makes an announcement over the club’s PA: “Ladies and gentlemen, masters and slaves, mistresses and shadows, subs and doms, angels and demons, everyone. Welcome to the grand reopening of TDS. We’re so happy to have you back; thank you all for being here.” Loud applause. “And now, the moment you’ve all been waiting for. Please put your hands together for the star of The Dark Side, the Mistress of Darkness herself, the one, the only . . . Lobida!!”
            The crowd rises to its feet as one and cheers exuberantly as Lobida appears center stage in the spotlight. She’s dressed in a magnificent floor-length royal-purple velvet gown which is lavishly adorned with leather straps, metal studs, and exquisite jewels, and which somehow perfectly marries the normally opposing polarities of elegance and deviance. She’s surrounded by five backup dancers—a mixture of male, female, and non-binary—all dressed in skimpy, sexy, outfits made from purple leather and latex, adorned here and there with studs and jewels. The six remain unmoving, waiting for the clamor to settle. The crowd re-take their seats and fall silent, the atmosphere thick with anticipation. Lobida turns her face, slowly and silently, towards the audience. 
            Lobida holds nothing back in making it quite clear to those in attendance at TDS tonight that one-pointed attention to her clitoris and skillfully performed cunnilingus are the most important offerings one can make when pleasuring the Mistress of Darkness. In fact, she goes into extraordinary detail about how one should proceed if one were ever to find oneself between her thighs; faces stare wide-eyed and incredulous at her audacity and chutzpah.
            Ken watches the show through the one-way mirror in Lobida’s boudoir. He can sense his mistress’s incredible energy and power through the glass, and his body twitches in anticipation of the humiliation he’ll receive under Lobida’s dominating presence in just a few minutes time. 
            There’s no sign that Ken’s addiction to Lobida’s presence in his life is waning in anyway. In fact, it excites him more every day. Tonight is the fourteenth anniversary of the day of their meeting—the day that Ken had chased Lobida down in Central Park and literally thrown himself at her. Over the course of these fourteen years Ken has discovered that the power he wields daily in the public eye is boosted in direct proportion to the degree of submission to Lobida’s magnificence that he allows in the privacy of her boudoir on a thrice weekly basis.
            Ken turns away from the spectacle of Lobida’s performance for a moment and takes in the décor of her inner sanctum. What a paradox. The circular room is minimalism at its finest. In contrast to the exuberant and colorful décor of the main space of TDS itself, the stark white of Lobida’s boudoir is jarring. White wall panels separate matching panels of mirror. The floor is also white, with a luxurious white fur rug occupying the central area. A mirror ball is spinning in the ceiling creating a dazzling display of pinpoints of light. The overall effect is of being inside a snow globe, or on a winter merry-go-round in the snow. 
            The ceiling of Lobida’s Salon du Soleil—the Sun Salon—is mirrored. This isn’t something you notice right away upon entering the space, but the realization of which slowly creeps up on you in a haunting sort of way once you’ve been in the room long enough, as if you’re being watched and you continually have the urge to look over your shoulder to see who’s there.
            On one side of the room is a table strewn with makeup, jewelry, lingerie, shackles, and whips. On the wall above the table is a large triangular mirror, its apex pointing upwards towards the heavens. The mirror is surrounded by lights, so theatrical in appearance, which illuminate the station brightly. A laptop computer stands open on one end of the table, the screensaver currently displaying a moving collage of white doves and snowflakes. 
            In the center of the cylindrical space, hanging by fine wires from the ceiling, is a harness made from white leather. The harness has snow-white fur lining the main body of the sling. Stirrups, also in white fur and leather, are present to support the feet of the one being dominated. Something about the sling looks so inviting . . . for anyone feeling up to the challenge of receiving the full force of Lobida’s attention. 
            The pristine room is fully soundproofed from the outside club, making the exaggerated gyrations of Lobida and her backup dancers on the stage appear comical in their exuberantly mimed silence; outside in the main part of the club the music is loud and high energy as the show comes to a rousing climax.
            Penetrating the silence, Ken notices, is a low background hum of male voices chanting, deep and guttural. He recognizes the Gyuto Monks easily as Lobida frequently has them playing in her boudoir. The quality of the sound is so soothing, and it adds to the deep sense of serenity within the space. Ken smiles: this is his happy place.  It’s the one place on earth where he can let down his guard and be small and vulnerable. This is the place where Ken Abercrombie recharges.
            As soon as the performance is over, and she’s happy that she’s whipped the audience to the pinnacle of frenzy—"to the verge of orgasm,” as Lobida likes to say out loud as often as she can—Lobida enters her boudoir and goes directly to Ken. She pins him to one of the mirrored wall panels with the full-length of her ample body, eyes ablaze; Ken shrinks from her in justifiable fear. 
            “Well, my naughty little boy. Does mummy have to undress little Kenny and put on his diapie for him or is he going to do it all by himself?” says Lobida in a surprisingly sweet voice. 
            “Oh, please undress me mummy. Please!!” replies Ken in an equally soft and sweet innocent little boy’s voice.
            “But you’re such a bad boy, yes you are,” continues Lobida as she slides off his tie and starts to unbutton his shirt. “Once you're undressed, I’m going to have to spank you, and spank you, and spank you. Oh yes, I will.”
         “Yes please, mummy. Please spank me. Please!! I’ve been such a bad boy.” Ken bats his eyelashes seductively at Lobida.
            Lobida uses a phone app to change the music in the boudoir now, and an upbeat version of her just completed performance is heard. The lighting shifts too, and the couple fade into a tapestry of mood-enhancing light and shadow as they begin to play out their well-practiced BDSM scene. Once Ken is dressed in his adult-sized diaper and baby bonnet, a pacifier in his mouth, and laying spread-eagled in the sling, Lobida picks up a spiked paddle and uses her phone once more to turn on the video camera that will film their interaction as usual. As she’s doing so a FaceGram message arrives. It’s from Lobida’s sworn mortal enemy, Angel O . . . from me. Angel has sent it in a moment of rage and despair from her sofa in the East Village: 
            [angel_o] Leave me alone or else!!
            “What the hell!! I haven’t heard a peep from that cretin, Angel O, for almost a year. What’s it going on about now? Always bitching and whining about something; makes me sick. No, actually, it makes me angry. She's never going to let go of that incident, is she? Alright, this is it!! If you’re going to aggravate me for no reason, bitch, you better be prepared to get back more than you bargained for!!” Lobida sends her reply:
            [mistressofdarkness] Leave you alone? Ha!! On the contrary, I will humiliate and annihilate you!!
            “This town aint big enough for the both of us.”
            Lobida returns her attention to Ken who cowers, ecstatically, under the full force of her fury.

Meanwhile, backstage at TDS, Eve Abercrombie is sitting quietly staring into a small mirror. She’s not in a dressing room as the club doesn’t have space for her, but in the wings of the stage. Eve is alone and preparing for her first solo singing performance since junior high, more than five years ago. At this moment Eve is terrified to the point of hysteria, and she’s feeling sick to the pit of her stomach. 
            Eve inhales deeply, straightens her posture, and gazes directly into the mirror smiling brightly for a few seconds. Her face and body quickly fall again, however, and Eve buries her face in her hands, letting out a small cry as she does so. She slowly looks up into the mirror once more frowning and says scoldingly to her reflection, “You’re so ugly; you’re pathetic!!” Then, more inwardly, “I know they’re going to hate me; I just know it. I wish I could die right now.”
             Eve slides up the skirt of the stylish little black dress she’s changed into for her performance exposing her upper thighs, which are extensively bruised; the bruising is easily visible through her dark stockings. She carefully takes a spiked leather strap out of her handbag, unfolds it methodically, looks cautiously around to make sure no one is nearby, then applies the strap to one of her upper thighs. As the tension of the strap reaches a certain point, Eve inhales sharply and her body stiffens. A few seconds later she exhales loudly, releasing the tension in her body with a shudder.  She slowly loosens the strap once more, her face a mushy mask of bliss, high on endorphins.
            “Everyone please welcome to the stage, in her debut performance here at The Dark Side, the very beautiful and immensely talented, Eve.”
            Eve’s body stiffens once more as her eyes widen in terror. She steels herself, stands slowly, and walks stiffly onstage.
            Eve performs beautifully, her voice pure, clear, tender, and full of emotion, but tonight she’s feeling—and projecting—more self-doubt and worthlessness than she can recall feeling for years. Not since the night of her suicide attempt has she felt this level of self-loathing. The audience, not surprisingly, are unengaged by her performance, and as she concludes they are only loosely appreciative of her efforts, applauding with a fraction of the enthusiasm they’d offered up to Lobida just a few minutes earlier.
            Eve bows slowly and deeply to the already inattentive crowd, then trudges offstage. Her mind has already started pulling apart and judging her performance negatively. The harsh critical voice inside Eve’s head has also dredged up the old story of her being completely talentless and a despicable person, and in this moment it’s abundantly clear to Eve that it’s all true. She vows never to sing in public ever again . . .

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For those who are called, it’s possible—through self-inquiry—to recognize that there is a veil of separation between ‘me’ and the world which has been present since early childhood, and which distorts and colors our experience of life. ​

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II.  SUNDAY 5TH JULY, 2020

"We realize our freedom when we live as individuals who have a personal life that is true and authentic, and that, at the same time, expresses the infinite vastness of Being manifesting its possibilities and its nature freely without constraints."
 
— A. H. Almaas (1944–  )

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  Being high up above street level, the apartment that Amir and I have shared in the East Village for the past eleven years is quiet, especially early on a Sunday morning. I really haven’t slept at all through the night, however, so I’ve been up for hours. Possible responses to my FaceGram post have been playing over and over in my mind but, so far, I’ve resisted the urge to check FaceGram directly; I learned that painful lesson some years ago. As a result, I’m burning in a fire of not-knowing, and my mind is fluctuating between telling stories of indignation, anger, and injustice—thank you Angel— to telling stories of rejection, shame, and humiliation—thank you Angelo.
            Amir and I had spent some time discussing the situation when he’d returned from the E-VAG meeting late last night, and, as always, his calm and clear view had supported me to find equanimity amid the mind storm I’d been caught in. Now, in the light of a new day I’m less agitated, but a dense heaviness has settled onto my shoulders, and the world looks, and feels, dull and gloomy.
            As the first rays of the rising sun reach tentatively into the upper corners of the apartment I’m triggered, and fully identified with my mind and my stories of suffering . . . which for this hermaphrodite means that Angel and Angelo are bickering.
            “You didn’t even consult me. This could be the end of my medical career, Angel. You know that as well as I do; we’ve been over this a thousand times. But it’s all about you these days, isn’t it? You and your glamorous career as a cabareeeeeeeeeet performer.” Angelo lengthens the word ‘cabaret’ to be as mocking as possible.
            My medical colleagues at Jersey City Medical Center have no idea about my double life. As far as they know, when Dr. Angelo Williams leaves his role as staff neurosurgeon for the weekend he goes home to his husband, Amir, and their cocker spaniel, Sophie, and they enjoy a few days of domestic bliss, perhaps with a visit to the theatre or opera on special occasions. None of them have any idea that most weekends, I—Angel—put on makeup, a wig, a frock, and high heels, and perform not only at The Garden Cabaret in the East Village, but also at queer venues all over the country. 
            Angel, who’s wearing the same colorful Mickey Mouse outfit from last night, is completely happy with her decision to finally come out publicly as a hermaphrodite; Angelo, now dressed in a black Diablo costume complete with hoofs and horns, is not at all happy about it. It’s been years since Angelo has had his devil outfit on, but this morning it was the obvious choice of attire to match his dark mood.
            “You can be so incredibly selfish sometimes, Angel. You know that don’t you?” Angelo spits the words at Angel who hisses in response.
            “Oh, chill out, boo-boo head, and stop being so dramatic and uptight!! And you call me the drama queen!! I can’t believe that we’re 56 years old and you’re still wanting to hide the truth about us from the world. Well, our secret’s out now, Sunshine, so you’ll just have to suck it up and make do. This genie’s finally out of her bottle, and she aint never goin’ back.” She pirouettes on her stiletto heel and moves toward the French windows that lead out onto the small balcony above E 12th St.
            “Oh, how I hate you sometimes, Angel!! And will you move away from that window. Please!! You’ve always loved embarrassing me, haven’t you, ever since we were a kid. Go on, admit it. Your favorite game in the whole world.”
            Angel reaches out a hand and opens one of the glass doors, begins to step across the threshold, then pauses and looks back over her shoulder at Angelo grinning.
            “Ha, ha, so funny,” he says drolly. Then, with venom, “You drive me batshit fucking crazy sometimes!!”
            It had been Yogini Amani, on the Swami Primananda Ashram in upstate New Eden, who’d made my first Mickey Mouse costume for my fourth birthday. It had consisted of cheap black fabric glued to cutout cardboard ears that were attached with safety pins to a bulky black cap of sorts, a lumpy tail made from the same cheap fabric stuffed full of screwed up newspaper and pinned to the back of a pair of women’s sports bloomers, a black t-shirt, grey tights, and tiny black ballet slippers. Since my Mickey Mouse debut I’ve owned four further iterations of the Disney-inspired costume, all handmade by yours truly for various parties and performances. The most recent one—which Angel is wearing today—I created about four years back for the 2016 New Eden Pride march. This version is particularly opulent and includes fully sequined red shorts held up by gold sequined braces, oversized and generously padded black velvet ears sewn neatly to a snug black-sequined cap, short white statin gloves, and fluffy yellow faux-fur shoe covers that make it look like I have massive yellow feet. This outfit turns heads and makes people smile whenever I’m out and about in it. 
            These various Mickey Mouse costumes have not only been Angel’s go-to attire in times of stress over the past 50+ years, but they’ve also been her primary strategy for boosting her self-esteem in moments of gloominess and negativity. This strategy, however, has irritated Angelo more and more over the years, and recently he’s become completely intolerant of it. His rage bubbles to the surface now, and the argument escalates exponentially. They throw ever meaner taunts at one another, belittling the other’s character, and poking at each other’s most morally questionable habits and tendencies in a series of ever-lower blows—you might call it the Battle of the Shadows.
            Angel & Angelo have argued and fought ever since my hermaphroditism was first revealed at age fourteen, and the schizophrenic nature of my mind had finally made sense, so it’s no surprise that they’re going at it full tilt today given the stress that’s been precipitated by the FaceGram threat.
            On a deeper level, the thing that’s been revealed overnight, and which I—Angel O—have been inquiring into, is the awareness of a dark aspect deep inside of me that I’ve never fully seen or faced before. Having been exposed, this dark aspect—which I’ve discovered is inherently cruel and full of rage—is engaged in a primal fight for survival, ducking and weaving, and trying with all its might to avoid direct engagement with the full focus of my conscious attention.
            I’ve also discovered that this dark aspect—which I could call my shadow, or perhaps the daemon—is full of animalistic instincts and desires that were inherited, or so it seems, along with my physical body and its DNA. It occurred to me at one point during the night that this is the part of humans that’s responsible for all violence and war.
            This darkness doesn’t feel personal or wrong, it’s simply an aspect of who I am, and an integral part of my survival mechanism. What this part of me has to say is: “If there’s nothing left to fight for, I’ll cease to exist.” This part, clearly, will fight to the death, and in this moment is doing just that through both Angel & Angelo and their shared physical body.
            Having degenerated to medium level violence, as our arguments frequently do, Angel is in the middle of attempting to strangle Angelo when Amir hurriedly enters the living room from the adjacent bedroom, having been awakened by the hubbub of Angel & Angelo fighting.
            To Amir, of course, I always appear as one body, one person, even when I’m triggered and there’s major drama going on behind the scenes. Luckily for me, these days I can describe to Amir what’s occurring, and he readily accepts the frankly schizophrenic façade that I present to the world at these times without judgment.
            “Angel O, what would Raphael say?” asks Amir breathlessly clutching one of my shoulders.
            Angel & Angelo stop mid tussle, look into each other’s eyes at close range, then say in unison, “Breathe.” As they breathe deeply together each gives up their side of the struggle, and I relax visibly.
            After a few seconds Angelo says softly, “I’m sorry, Angel. I love you.”
            “I love you too, Angelo,” replies Angel, melting. “I love all of you, including all your darkness.”
            “And I love all of you, including all your big, bright light,” responds Angelo.
            They hug, and . . . I’m back. Angelo disappears into the shadowy nook as Angel removes her glasses, drops them casually onto the coffee table, and slips out of the Mickey Mouse costume.
            It’s quite extraordinary to feel the physiological shifts that occur in my body along with this transition to wholeness that occurs when I stop struggling with life and surrender fully to what is. As mentioned previously, at these moments my eyesight becomes crystal clear, and I no longer need prescription glasses. In addition, my breathing slows and deepens, I feel physically lighter and more energized, and my mood spontaneously elevates as my mind quietens and my heart opens. 
            This back and forth I’m describing—where one minute I’m triggered and separate as Angel & Angelo, believing my thoughts and stories, stuck in suffering; versus the next minute when I’m present and whole as Angel O, with a quiet mind and open heart, abiding in and as freedom—is my current experience of life. The spiritual journey for me has been less about attaining anything, and more about letting go of everything. The result is an ever-deepening discovery of what it means to have no history and to not know anything. Interestingly, as I continue to explore this back and forth, life continues to throw me increasingly gnarly challenges in addition to the usual ups and downs inherent in the mind-identified state. Let’s just say it’s been, and continues to be, a bumpy ride.
            Archangel Raphael appears out of the ether again now. As Amir and I gaze at the shimmering apparition, Raphael adjusts her/his outfit and composes her/himself, as if s/he’s been rushing.
           It’s only been in the past year that Raphael—who seems to be my personal archangel—has started appearing to me and Amir without first stopping time. As a result, we’ve both been able to make her/his acquaintance properly, and we love it when s/he drops by, even if it’s when Angel & Angelo are squabbling or there’s some major life challenge to overcome. Raphael’s presence always brings us both more deeply into the present moment, and with this a deeper and more embodied experience of joy and peace.
            Also as Raphael started to turn up more regularly, I’d realized that it’d been Raphy who’d whispered in my ear in Nepal back in 1983 and told me to become a doctor; that it’d been Raphy who’d whispered to me in Australia in 2003 and told me I was going the wrong way in looking for happiness in the external world; that I’d been Raphy who’d whispered in my ear in the house fire in 2006 confirming my true nature to be the peaceful, radiant, loving light of Consciousness; and that it’d been Raphy who’d whispered to me in New Eden after my cancer surgery in 2014 and asked if I’d finally gotten the message about stopping everything in order to discover true freedom.
            “What’d I miss?” asks Raphael, looking from me to Amir and back. “Oh, you got it already. Nice going, Amir. Well done.”
            “Thanks, Raphy,” replies Amir coyly.
            “Now, Angel O, I have another important message for you. We’ve discussed previously that your purpose in this life is to reclaim the innocence of childhood, and to express that in the world, right?”
            “Right.”
            “Well, I’d like you to contemplate what it would mean to be a Warrior of Light. Will you do that for me?”
            “Sure, Raphy, it would be my honour,” I reply humbly, bowing my head silently for a few seconds. After this silent pause, I continue. “It really is time for me to meet all the obstacles that appear in life without resistance, and to surrender my stubbornness and fear once-and-for-all.”
            “Yaaas, queen!! That’s what I’m talking about,” responds Raphael enthusiastically.
            “You know what I see when I look at you, Angel O?” asks Amir. “I see a beacon of light, like a lighthouse.”
            “That’s so sweet, Amir; thank you.”
            “OK then. Looks like you two have it under control. Bye for now.” With this Raphael disappears back into the ether once more.
            In response to Raphael’s invitation, my mind starts to wonder: What could happen if the energy of the dark animalistic aspect of myself, the energy of my primal desires, is put into the fight for good, for awakening, instead of for my selfish pleasure? Maybe that's what Raphy means by ‘Warrior of Light?’
            “So, how are you feeling now about going public with your secret, Angel O?” asks Amir, bringing me out of my thoughts as we relax back onto the sofa.
            “Well, I must say that finally getting it fully out into the open feels great, very liberating. Angelo, understandably, has been concerned about what his work colleagues and patients will think and say about it if they find out.”
            “Reminds me of one of my favorite quotes, from Dr Seuss, which seems perfect for this situation: ‘Be who you are and say what you feel, because those who mind don’t matter, and those who matter don’t mind.’”
            “So, if some of my colleagues at the hospital don’t respect me anymore if they find out I’m a hermaphrodite, then they don’t matter, right?”
            “Absolutely right, Angel O. You can fully be yourself, exactly as you are. No more secrets or hiding needed anymore.”
            “That’s it!! That’s what I needed to hear. Thanks, my love. What would I do without you?”
            Amir knows as well as anyone that my intention for creating the show at TGC comes from a deeply genuine and loving place. The desire to stand up and speak the truth about the possibility of all beings waking up and being happy and free comes directly from my good heart. 
            “I just can’t believe that some bully is trying to stop me from going ahead with the show and getting my message out there.” I’d been extensively bullied throughout high school, and as I say these words, I realize that it’s the trauma of these years that’s been triggered by the FaceGram threat. “And who is it that’s threatening me, anyway?” I ask indignantly. “It must be Lobida; she’s the only person I know who’s that cruel and deluded. But why? Why now?”
            “Well, Angel O, just keep in mind that I want you alive and in one piece for many years to come, so take good care my love.”
            “Of course, Amir, you know I will.”
            “Why don’t you go and meet with Bernard, or Lola? I’m sure that either of them could help you find clarity.” Amir knows from personal experience how supportive both Bernard and Mrs. Chu can be when something challenging is going on in one’s life. The three of us had undertaken the Deep Listening training with our spiritual teacher, Evelyn Bourne, a few years back, and it’d permanently changed the way we all interact with the world.
            “That’s a great idea, Amir. I’m going to do just that.”

Meanwhile, Eve Abercrombie and Adam McCall are both waking from sleep, rising, and preparing to go to the gym for an early morning workout. 
            Eve, in her bedroom in the Abercrombie penthouse on the Upper West Side, screws up her eyes as she examines her reflection in the mirror. “God, you’re ugly,” she says, scowling at her reflection, collecting her things, then heading out the door; Adam, in his bedroom above Bernard’s Bookstore on the Lower East Side, flexes and kisses his bicep as he smiles at his reflection in the mirror. “Looking good, buddy,” he says, winking at himself, collecting his things, then heading out the door.
            Eve had been attending Pump Gym on W 44th St in Hell’s Kitchen for some months prior to the March lockdown commencing. She’s excited about getting back to her workouts today even though deep down she knows that it doesn’t matter how much effort she puts into being fit and healthy, it won’t ever make her look, or feel, more beautiful; Adam is excited to try Pump Gym on W 44th St in Hell’s Kitchen for the first time today. He’d been invited to train at the gym by its manager—a fellow competitor in the 2018 NBA bodybuilding contest that Adam had won—back in December. He’s excited about getting back to his workouts after a three month hiatus even though deep down he knows that he’s going to win the National Natural Bodybuilding Federation contest in Philadelphia in September no matter what.
            Pump Gym is surprisingly crowded for such an early hour on a Sunday morning. As he exits the male change room Adam accidentally bumps into a young woman who’s exiting the female change room. Their eyes meet and . . .  time slows to a crawl, then, stops altogether.
            Somewhere off in the distance Eve hears strangely familiar words, “Don’t forget me, Eve, my love.” She looks around quizzically, trying to locate the origin of the voice and to try and determine why everyone around her—except for the cute guy who’s just bumped into her—are suddenly all frozen like statues; somewhere off in the distance Adam hears strangely familiar words, “Adam, I will never forget you.” He looks around quizzically, trying to locate the origin of the voice and to try and determine why everyone around him—except the pretty blonde he’s just bumped into—are suddenly all frozen like statues. 
            A moment later life returns to its normal pace and rhythm. Eve shakes her head in confusion and wonders if she just imagined the ethereal voice and the world freezing momentarily. She notices the young man, who is exceptionally handsome and well-muscled, is still holding firmly onto her elbow and, embarrassingly, is staring vacantly off into space. Eve wriggles awkwardly free of his grip and turns away towards to the yoga studio; Adam shakes his head in confusion and wonders if he just imagined the ethereal voice and the world freezing momentarily. He notices the young woman, who is exceptionally attractive and fit-looking, is squirming to extricate herself from his grip on her elbow, and that she has a sour expression on her face as she heads one-pointedly for the yoga studio.
            "Excuse me, miss. I’m sorry.” 
            “Whatever,” replies Eve dismissively without looking back.
            For the next hour, both Eve and Adam engage in their usual exercise routines, but something is bothering each of them: a nagging feeling that won’t let them be comfortable. From time to time, they each search for the other across the large spaces of the gym and yoga studio, or in one of the many mirrors that line the rooms.
            Eve knows this feeling, the excitement and terror that she associates with the early moments of falling in love, and she’s taken aback. Sometime later, as she’s drinking from the water fountain, Eve spies Adam in the main part of the gym with his shirt off, flexing and posing in front of a full-length mirror. He’s smiling cheekily as he poses, and he’s clearly admiring his own reflection, occasionally touching a part of his body playfully. Another gym member is filming Adam as he poses, and the scene is quickly becoming the focus of attention of several other gym attendees. Eve is suddenly struck with a painful, sickening feeling in the pit of her stomach. “He only loves himself; he’s just like all the others,” she says out loud to no one in particular. Eve puts the ridiculous idea of finding love with this handsome stranger out of her head and goes back to her Pilates workout feeling nauseous, and more than a little bit disgusted with herself; Adam knows this feeling, the excitement and terror that he associates with the early moments of falling in love and it’s making him playful. Sometime later, as he’s drinking from the water fountain, Adam notices Eve standing motionless in front of a full-length mirror in the yoga studio. She’s intently gazing at her reflection, and occasionally touching a part of her body tentatively. Adam is suddenly struck with an exhilarating, alive feeling in the pit of his stomach. “She’s perfect; she’s unlike all the others,” he says out loud to no one in particular. A minute passes as Adam stares enraptured by the grace and beauty of the young woman before he notices that his mouth is open, his tongue is out, and he’s dripping water onto his shoes. He shakes his head and returns to his workout feeling frisky, and more than a little bit chuffed with himself.
            The next time Adam looks for the pretty blonde, however, she’s nowhere to be found. He searches frantically, asking another female gym member to check the female locker room for him, and even running out onto the street in front of the gym to try and find her, but it’s no use; she’s gone. How am I going to find out more about her? thinks Adam despondently. She’s the girl in my dreams and perfect in every way. “Damn it!!”

At about the same time that Adam is scouring W 44th St, uptown at the Abercrombie penthouse on Central Park West Faye is ripping into Ken.
            “How dare you, after all I’ve done for you. How dare you!!” shouts Faye at the top of her voice. “How dare you humiliate me in front of my friends and family, in front of my peers, in front of the whole world. Everyone knows that I’m the true power in this partnership, Ken Abercrombie. Everyone!! Don’t you ever forget that!!”
            “How many times do I have to say I’m sorry, Faye, honey. You know I love you. It’s just, I also love Lobida. Do we really have to go over this again? Isn’t Mrs. Vice President and First Lady enough for you? What else can I give you? My Centurion Amex card? My cock? My reputation?”
            “Sure, let’s start with that; I’ll take the lot. That might just about even out the balance sheet,” says Faye smiling, and starting to relax her posture a little; the peak of the emotional storm having passed for now. “Oh, my charming husband. I love you too, but you left me on that stage all alone before I’d even finished my speech. How inconsiderate can you be you brute, you addict, you narcissist.”
            “Yes, yes, yes. Brute, addict, narcissist. Yes, your Honor, guilty as charged. But I’m also about to become the most powerful man in the free world, and you know that we could never attain that achievement without me at the helm, right?” Ken points to his chest as he turns his head sideways, showing Faye his profile and winking conspiratorially at her, doing his best to embody the word cocky.
            “Yes, it’s true, my charismatic other half. Note other half, not better half. We’re an incredible team, together, Ken Abercrombie. But if you ever disrespect me again you better watch out. There’s still one secret I know that you don’t ever want the world to find out about, right? So, show more respect or it’s public knowledge and your political career will be in the toilet.” Faye leers down her nose at Ken, doing her best to embody the word menacing.
            Faye’s threat reminds Ken of the fact that the SARS-CoV-2 virus currently causing the COVID-19 pandemic and killing hundreds of thousands of people around the globe daily, had been synthesized in his research laboratory in Poughkeepsie back in 2001. A few years later, when Abercrombie Industries had experienced near financial ruin in the wake of the Augmented Intelligence Plus (AI+) © disaster, Ken had surreptitiously sold the novel coronavirus to an eager buyer, without checking any credentials, for an exorbitantly high price. The fortuitously timed off-the-books sale had been the only reason AI had remained solvent through the crisis. Truth be told, Ken Abercrombie is almost entirely responsible for the current global pandemic, and Faye Abercrombie one of only a handful of humans alive aware of the fact. Furthermore, Faye is capable and willing to let the world know the truth to save her own skin—not to mention boost her own political standing—if needed.
            Without so much as a flicker of acknowledgement of Faye’s loosely veiled threat, Ken turns on his heel and exits the apartment. He’s overdue for a meeting with his accountant about the hubbub in the press over his personal finances and tax practices, and Ken is anxious enough about this meeting without having to deal with Faye’s amateur power posturing as well. 
            Faye, quieter now, braces herself on the kitchen bench and sighs heavily. She really doesn’t enjoy conflict, but she’s also not about to allow Ken to get away with bad behavior. 
            Faye walks to the mirror in the hall and adjusts her hair, her pink Chanel suit, and the single string of pearls she’s wearing around her neck. She smiles broadly at her reflection as if posing for a photograph, or a crowd. 
            Everything’s going perfectly to plan. Faye is happy with her performance during this morning’s angry outburst, and she giggles coquettishly. She knows full well that Ken would struggle to win the presidency without her capable assistance and abundant popularity with the voting public. “He would be nothing without me,” she says to her reflection; “I’m the power behind the throne. And if he thinks that witch, Lobida, is going to be a part of the Abercrombie administration, then he’s deluding himself; I will not share the White House with her. Never!!”
            Outside on the sidewalk of Central Park West, Ken pauses and gazes back over his shoulder, looking up at their penthouse apartment. He smiles crookedly to himself, a half sneer. Everything’s going perfectly to plan. Even Faye’s prideful explosion at him today is exactly the reaction Ken had expected and wanted from her and he laughs, an iniquitous snicker. Ken knows that Faye is entirely correct about him not being able to attain the presidency without her; Faye’s sweet, helpful demeanor is most assuredly an integral factor in Ken’s popularity. Once he’s elected, however, Faye is dispensable, and the divorce papers are already drawn up and ready for serving. Ken can then move Lobida into his bed on a more permanent basis. Ken flinches with excitement at the thought of being dominated by Lobida in the Executive Residence. “She has no idea!! She’ll never even see the inside of the White House; I will not share the White House with her. Never!!”

Adam’s appointment to audition for the backup dancer role at The Dark Side had been arranged by Alex, through Eve, for 1pm. He’s feeling mixed emotions as he makes his way across town from Hell’s Kitchen. He’s aware of a lot of fear—understandable given the completely unknown situation he’s above to dive headlong into—but he’s also feeling a lot of excited anticipation, as if something of seismic importance is about to happen to him.
            Adam keeps both feet planted firmly on the pavement of E 72nd St as he peers through the open front door of TDS, taking a moment to size up the situation before taking the plunge. After a minute he stands tall, inhales deeply, and strides confidently into the interior of the seemingly empty club.
            “Hello? Is anyone there?” Adam calls into the cavernous darkness.
            “Over here!!” comes a muffled reply from behind the bar. Yantra, who’d been stocking one of the low fridges, stands and reaches out her hand to Adam across the bar as he approaches.
            “Adam McCall. I couldn’t see a sign outside. Is this place called The Dark Side? ‘Cause if it is, I’m here to audition.”
            “Yantra Srinivasan, manager of TDS. Thanks for coming. That’s what we all call it by the way: TDS. Take a seat. You want somethin' to drink?”
            “Sure. Mineral water, thanks.”
            “Good, not an alcoholic; I like that. How did you hear about the position?”
            “Oh, through a friend of a friend,” replies Adam evasively. He hadn’t thought this line of questioning through prior to arriving, and he now finds himself scrambling to make up a plausible answer.
            “Who?” asks Yantra, suddenly suspicious, and wary of bringing a stranger into her and Lobida’s private world. 
            Yantra can quickly become territorial when it comes to Lobida. As far as she’s aware, not a soul knows about her ongoing BDSM relationship with her boss, not even Eve, and Yantra wants it to stay that way. She’d dearly like to progress their intermittent play dates—where, in a distinct reversal of her usual role Lobida submits herself to be dominated by Yantra—to something deeper and more permanent, but Lobida is currently intent on achieving more power and fame through her relationship with the guileless politician, Ken Abercrombie. Yantra is biding her time and waiting for the right moment to make her move. She knows she must be mindful of her sometimes-fiery jealousy, however.
            “You know, I can’t think of his name offhand. My friend is Sally Jorgenson, from Abyss.” Yantra stares blankly at Adam. “You know that cool new club on E 11th St.” Nothing. “In the East Village.”
            “I know the East Village, sweetheart, but I’ve never heard of Sally Jorgenson or that club, whatever it’s called,” Yantra snaps back curtly. Adam opens his mouth to rename the club but is silenced by a raised hand and a “shush” from Yantra.
            “So, can ya dance?” Yantra asks sardonically, changing the subject.
            “You bet; I’m the best in the business.”
            “Hmm, confident. Well, you look the part. Why don’t you show me some moves?”
            Adam, always happier to speak with his body and movement rather than with his mouth and words, quickly agrees. He pulls off his sweats and jumps up onto the runway of the stage that extends out into the audience of the club.
            It’s at this exact moment that Lobida arrives and enters TDS from the street, taking off a large sunhat and sunglasses, and squinting into the gloom. She shouts, in her usual manner, “I’m here, Yantra, hon!! Where you at?”
            “We’re up front, mama; come join us,” Yantra calls back, waving both her arms like a windmill to help Lobida locate her in the dimness. 
            As Lobida is making her way towards Yantra’s flailing hands, she spots Adam—who’s looking particularly hunky now, dressed only in a tiny pair of shorts and a skimpy tank top—on the stage. “Oh, my goodness. What is this delicious morsel I see before me? Yummy, yum, yum!!” Lobida’s eyes bulge lecherously out of their sockets as she pauses her forward movement for a moment to take Adam in.
            It would be an understatement to say that Lobida is a highly sexual being. She’s unmatched in her capacity to turn any situation into an opportunity to flirt with, or sexually arouse, anyone in her general vicinity.
            “I was just going to have him dance for me,” says Yantra over her shoulder. “Come watch.”
            Lobida continues to move, surprisingly quickly now given her generous physical proportions and the multiple obstacles in her path, across the club to where Yantra is sitting at a table adjacent to the stage. Lobida sidles into the seat alongside Yantra without taking her eyes off Adam, and somehow manages to merge herself into Yantra’s hip and shoulder. “Wadda ya think?” she purrs into Yantra’s ear. “He looks the goods. You might be jealous if we hire that one, though, hon. How does he move?”
            “We’re about to find out.”
            At this Yantra activates the sound system via an app on her phone, and a high-energy ‘80s-style disco track starts to play. Having simultaneously activated the lighting rig, Adam is momentarily caught like a deer in headlights, but he shakes himself off quickly and starts to move. It’s mesmerizing: pure animal, pure sensuality, pure sex. Lobida howls and starts rotating her hips in time with the music. “Yeah, baby!!” she shouts, shimmying forward to the edge of her seat. “You work those gorgeous muscles of yours, big boy!! Yo!! Ya mama loves ya!! Oh yes, she does!!”
            Moments later Lobida leaps out of her chair and runs up the short flight of stairs to the stage where she starts simulating having sex with Adam; the temperature in the room rises exponentially with each gyration of their interlocked hips. In the front row, however, the temperature is icy, and Yantra is fuming. How dare she be so into him, she thinks. How dare he be so goddam good looking and such a fucking great dancer. Arrrrrrrggghhh!! I don’t trust that one, not one little bit.
            It’s at this exact moment that Eve arrives at The Dark Side in preparation for her evening hostess shift. Her mood is dark after the recent encounter with the narcissistic pretty-boy she’d bumped into at Pump Gym. As a result, she’s feeling angry at the world, and is fully in her victim. Just inside the door of the club Eve freezes in her tracks as she recognizes Adam, center stage in the spotlight, almost naked now that Lobida has removed his tank top, rubbing his body erotically against Lobida’s. “Oh, my God!!” Eve whispers under her breath. “How disgusting!! How could I possibly have been attracted to that. Yuck!! Just loathsome.” She runs quickly to the backstage area without being seen and hides.
            Lobida, panting with the exertion, indicates to Yantra to shut the music off. “Congratulations, kid, you’re hired,” she says between gasps for air, and shakes Adam’s hand vigorously. “You’ll rehearse here all day tomorrow to be ready for your first show with me tomorrow night. Wadda ya say?”
            “That’s great!! Thanks for the opportunity; I won’t let you down.”
            Yantra glares in disbelief at Lobida. She doesn’t trust Adam, and her gut is clearly telling her it’s a bad idea to hire him . . . but she’s not the one in charge. We’ll see how long he lasts she thinks to herself.

Later the same afternoon, Faye Abercrombie has finally decided, after fourteen years, that it’s time to confront her nemesis.
            As she takes a cab across Central Park to the Upper East Side, she’s feeling nervous, though also highly energized. Truth be told, Faye Abercrombie has no idea why she’s following this impulse into action today; it really makes no sense at all, what with the election campaign now fully underway and the press popping up at every turn wanting to know what she’s thinking and who she’s wearing.
            Faye slips through the open front door of TDS unnoticed and finds Lobida at the bar drinking whiskey, smoking a cigarette, and perusing the club’s financials.
            “So, finally we meet; you’re even uglier in person than I’d anticipated,” declares Faye, trying to sound as tough as possible. “I really have no idea what on Earth he sees in you.”
            Lobida whips her head around to see who’s insulting her in her own club. “Oh . . . my . . . God!! Look what the cat dragged in,” she snarls. Then, smiling balefully, “To what do I owe this unexpected pleasure?”
            “I’ve come here to tell you . . . to back off!!” Faye delivers the words with such venom she surprises even herself. Her hackles are up, and her claws are fully out. This faceoff has been more than a decade in the making, and Faye intends to make the most of the opportunity. “I will not share the White House with you, so back off bitch, or else.”
            “Or else what, sister? What? You’ll hurt me? You’ll expose me? You’ll tell the world what a terrible person I am? What? Whatcha ya got?” Lobida chides back to Faye. “I aint got nothin’ to hide; you got nothin’ on me. Won’t share the White House!! As . . . if . . . I . . . care!!” Lobida takes her time delivering her full endowment of loathing for Faye along with each syllable.
            Faye and Lobida, both standing now, start circling one another. They instinctively adopt fighting postures, unfamiliar to Faye but as natural as breathing to Lobida. It’s clear from the first moment that Lobida would win any physical altercation, however, so Faye softens her posture and tries a different tack.
            “So, how is it having sex with my husband anyway? Do you get your rocks off together?” Faye asks sourly.
            “Why, Miss Ann,” Lobida purrs sweetly, “I don’t suppose you even know what it’s like having sex with your husband,” then with mocking delight, “am I right? 
            “Well, I suppose there must have been that one time, given you’ve got kids. But are they even his? That’s what I wanna know.” Lobida leans forward, smirking mockingly.
            “How dare you cast aspersions at me,” decries Faye in disbelief, clutching at her pearls. “You could be the most morally corrupt person on the planet, with all your covetousness and debauchery.” Faye’s lips are severely pursed now. “Really, how dare you judge me?”
            “Is that all you got? Covetous? Debauched? What’s wrong with covetous? What’s wrong with debauched? Sounds like a recipe for some fun times to me,” Lobida growls, starting to warm up towards the message she’s been wanting to deliver to Faye for years now. “Yes, I covet. Yes, I’m debauched. Yes, I know how to have a good time. Yes, I know how to help others have a good time. Yes, I know how to pleasure your husband.” Overflowing with rage now. “Yes. Yes!! Yes!! But what about you, little miss perfect? What do you bring to the table? Your sweet little cutie-pie fakeness? Your sanctimonious judgments? Your Let’s All Get Along empty promises? You make my blood boil. You’re nothing!!Nothing!!” Lobida thumps the bar with each ‘nothing,’ and a clatter of objects fall to the floor. “And by the way, you should know better than to threaten the devil!! Now . . . get out!!”
            Lobida has opened to the full force of her fury now, and she towers over Faye as she delivers the insults which rain down like a WWII bombing raid. Faye recognizes that she’s well-and-truly outgunned, so she turns to leave. With one foot out the front door of the club, however, she stops, turns to face Lobida one more time, and, like David taking aim between Goliath’s eyes, unleashes her most lethal weapon, just one word: “Whore!!” With this, she’s gone.
            Lobida, seething with rage and hubris, erupts into maniacal laughter. “Just you wait, Faye Abercrombie, just you wait. We’ll see who’ll have the final word. We’ll see who’ll be sharing the White House with your husband. We will see!!”

At about the same time that Faye Abercrombie is being bawled out by Lobida at The Dark Side, I’m sitting facing Bernard and Mrs. Chu across a shaded picnic table in a quiet, leafy corner of Central Park. It’s hot and steamy out today, but there’s a pleasant breeze flowing through the trees that’s keeping us cool.
            Bernard and Lola are sitting quietly and listening attentively as I describe my previous 24 hours. The three of us have been close companions on our respective spiritual journeys over the past fifteen or so years, and we’ve seen each other through both good times and bad. To have had Bernard and Lola’s unwavering support over this time has been invaluable for me, and we easily fall into this familiar dynamic now.
            “As you both already know, I was extensively bullied at high school. Well, it just occurred to me as I was speaking with Amir this morning that last night’s FaceGram threat has triggered this bullying trauma in my body, which explains why I’ve been thrown for such a loop by something so relatively small . . . in the overall scheme of things.”
            “Well, thank you for sharing this with us, Angel O. How does it feel now, having gotten it all out in the open?” asks Lola.
            “Oh, so much better, thanks Lola. I did some work on this trauma with a hypnotherapist a few years back, and generally I can stay present and clear when there’s bullying energy going on around me, but this one snuck under the radar."
            “If you’re willing, Angel O, I wonder what it's like to think back to those years of bullying now?” asks Bernard.
            “Well, I feel tension and agitation in my body. I’m also aware of some anger, and quite a lot of fear. Oh, and a whole heap of shame, too. I can also see clearly from here that I don’t need to react or do anything with any of that; it’s all OK as it is . . . so long as I don’t follow my mind stream back into the stories it wants to start telling about it all.”
            “Yes, that's right, there’s tension, agitation, anger, fear, and shame. And I’m curious, Angel O, where do you feel these things in your body?” inquires Bernard.
            I close my eyes briefly to inquire before I respond. “Well, the energy’s mostly focused here, in my solar plexus,” I put a hand on my upper abdomen, then shift it lower, “and some a little lower down here in my pelvis. It mostly feels like fear and rage, but surprisingly it also feels a lot like love too.”
            “Yes, fear, rage, and love, that’s right,” responds Lola caringly. “And Angel O, would you be willing to try something for me? Would you play through the memory of those years of bullying again now?"
            “Sure.”
            “I wonder if there’s anything you can learn about it from here, and anything you might do differently?”
            “OK.” I close my eyes and allow the internal images and associated body sensations of those memories to run through me once more. I see it as a movie of one core memory that is somehow a composite of the five years of bullying. I run this short movie from the beginning now, keeping an eye out for the moment where I could have acted differently. I see it . . . and I’m surprised.
            “Wow."
            "Would you like to share what you saw, Angel O?" asks Mrs. Chu gently.
            "Well, I saw that the bullies were acting out of their own fear of not being good enough, or tough enough, or safe enough. Then as I continued to play the memory through, instead of trying to run away I turned and faced them, held up my hand, and said ‘No.’ Then seeing their fear, pain, and suffering, I felt compassion for them and was drawn to love them unconditionally. The whole thing just disappeared then, and now I feel very light and free. That’s amazing!”
            “That’s beautiful, Angel O. So, when you think about last night’s FaceGram threat now, what do you find?” asks Bernard.
            I close my eyes for a few more moments, then say, “Well, whoever is threatening me is simply acting out of their own fear of being vulnerable, or powerless, and I feel compassion for them.”
            “Sounds very clear to me. Is anything else needed?” asks Lola.
            “No, that’s it. Thank you both so much; I’m so grateful.”
            We hug.
            “But how lucky are you having your own personal archangel?” asks Lola smiling playfully. “I must say, I’m a bit jealous of that.”  Mrs. Chu doesn’t know it yet, but it won’t be long before she’ll be in the presence of an archangel or two herself.
            “Me too!! If I had my own personal archangel, they might be able to help me with this existential dread and terror that seems to have taken up residence in my gut; it’s exhausting. On a cheerier note, however, listening to you just now, Angel O, reminded me of something that I realized yesterday,” says Bernard. “This whole spiritual journey, the whole business of discovering one’s true nature, of waking up.  Well, it can all be boiled down to just two words,” states Bernard solemnly.
            “And what, pray tell, would those two words be?” Mrs. Chu asks drolly.
            “Yes, Bernard-ji, enlighten your friends,” I add in a playful tone.
            “Stop thinking!!” replies Bernard, attempting to maintain a serious demeanor. After a few seconds he can’t hold a straight face any longer, and a stifled giggle escapes his lips. The three of us proceed to fall about laughing uproariously. 
            It really is hilarious to think about all the meetings and retreats we’ve each attended, all the practices and meditations we’ve each engaged in, all the treatments and healings we’ve each experienced, and all the realizations and a-ha moments we’ve each had along the way, when, finally, the whole process can be summed up with one simple instruction: Stop thinking!!
            The human mind, of course, can’t be willfully stopped—by anyone or anything, least of all its owner—and directly suggesting so is of no use to anyone; the analytical mind would never be satisfied with such a simple instruction given its inherent tendency to make everything infinitely more complicated than it is or needs to be. More subtle invitations are realistically needed to bypass the thinking mind to discover the truth of Reality, but it is hilarious to think of all the time and effort we’ve each poured into trying to be enlightened when it can be boiled down to these two simple words.
            “No,” says Lola between fits of giggles, “it’s not two words. It’s just one word: Stop!!”
            We double over with laughter again. This time Bernard laughs so hard he falls off the bench onto the grass. Mrs. Chu and I join him and the three of us roll around laughing together like lunatics.
            How I love Bernard and Lola; I’m so grateful to have such kind, supportive friends to navigate life with, and to laugh with whenever the mind is humbled.

As the three of us regroup and gather our dignity once more, Mrs. Chu takes the opportunity to ask Bernard and I for advice about the vision she’s developing for the future of American politics.
            Mrs. Lola Chu is an extraordinary human. She’s been passionate her whole life about all aspects of human rights and social justice, not to mention her burning desire to save humanity from extinction due to global warming. She’s even willingly entered the generally narrow-minded and chaotic arena of American politics, having been elected to the House of Representatives in 2014. For a second-generation Chinese American woman, this is no mean feat in and of itself. When you then consider the impact that Lola has already had on policy reform in Washington in the past six years, it’s clear that Lola Chu is on a mission, and it’s a mission she intends to achieve within her lifetime.
            Mrs. Chu has also been passionate about spiritual awakening and true freedom ever since our chance meeting with renowned spiritual teacher, Evelyn Bourne, back in 2006. Over the past fourteen years, as her two core passions have merged and marinated, the seed of an idea has been formulating for Lola. The idea is about how the current political system in America—and finally, globally—might shift to support a peaceful, united, awakened humanity: the next phase of human evolution.
            It’s clear to Lola—and to anyone who’s paying attention—that the ever-deepening divide between the left and right factions of American politics is leading to more and more dissent, rebellion, violence, and poor governance, with less and less consensus, co-operation, peace, and effective governmental outcomes. What Mrs. Chu is proposing is to abolish the hierarchical partisan political party model altogether and adopting a synarchy. What is that, and how would that look? Good questions. Let’s find out, shall we?
            “Now, in terms of our ongoing conversation about what to do with American politics, I want to propose that we abolish the current hideous hierarchical system entirely and adopt a synarchy, where a council of officers is nominated and decided upon based on the individual’s integrity, their combined emotional and intellectual intelligence, their capacity to see both sides of any argument, and their intuition, rather than continuing to elect politicians based on their popularity, their mental intelligence alone, their one-sided opinions, and their personal agendas.”
            “And I’m not talking about some group of elite superior beings either, but a council of everyday individuals chosen for their inherent goodness and innate wisdom. What do you think? I know it’s totally out there, but to me it’s the only way forward. I really need your feedback on this, and I trust you both implicitly.”
            “Brilliant!! Yes!! Bring it on!!” I respond enthusiastically.
            “It’s an aye from me too,” replies Bernard, his broad Scottish twang more pronounced than usual today. “You know it’s Ken Abercrombie’s goddam company, Abercrombie Industries, and that abomination he helped create, FaceGram, that are responsible for the mess we’re in, don’t you?” says Bernard. “This deepening left-right division is a direct result of social media algorithms and AI out of control. Humanity’s being controlled by its own creation."
            “It’s completely horrifying,” responds Angel O.
            “All right then,” says Lola, her excitement building, “let’s get rid of FaceGram as well as Ken Abercrombie.” She claps her hands together excitedly, then thumps Bernard on the back so forcefully he staggers forward to steady himself. “And you’re smart enough to come up with the perfect alternative to replace it, right Bernard?”
            “Absolutely!! I’m on it.”
            “While we’re at it, why don’t we get rid of Trendr too?” I add. “If I’m not mistaken, Ken Abercrombie was behind that hideous dating app too. I feel it needs a serious update.”
            “That’s a great idea, Angel O,” agrees Lola.
            “I’ll consult with B on that,” I reply excitedly, “and we’ll get back to you with some ideas tout de suite.”
            Bernard turns on his heel and runs off without even saying goodbye, eager to get back to his office nook at the bookstore to give this new task his full attention; there’s nothing Bernard likes more than putting his mind to a challenging mental conundrum.
            Lola and I look at each other silently and smile. We link arms and start to stroll leisurely under the canopy of trees. Seconds later my phone beeps. I hesitate, then pull it out and read the message:
            [dwp666] Very clever, exposing your dirty little secret like that; touché!! If you continue, however, your life will be in danger. ☠️😈👺
            I gasp, stop walking, and show the message to Lola. She frowns and gazes at me intently but says nothing.
            A barrage of emotions—disbelief, outrage, fear, despair—start to well up inside me, but this time something deeper kicks in; a resolve that’s clearly beyond my conscious control takes charge. I find myself remaining unmoving and open, and choosing not to touch or indulge any of the thoughts and emotions that are vying for my attention.
            I stand tall and take a deep centering breath. “No, I’m not going to be knocked off balance again by another ridiculous threat. I’m going to stay true to love and peace no matter what.” I delete the message, and as my gaze turns to meet Lola’s we both smile. 
            “I guess this is also what it means to be a Warrior of Light, right? Phew. Life really is testing me at present, isn’t it?”
            “Yes, but you’re strong enough to do this. I know you are.”
            “Thanks, Lola. I know I am too, but your support means the world to me.”
            “May all beings be happy and free, my friend.”
            “Om, Shanti,” we say in unison, then continue to stroll casually through the park arm-in-arm.

Later that night, back over at The Garden Cabaret in the East Village, cast and crew are backstage preparing for this evening’s performances. Mrs. Chu, Bernard, and Amir are in the audience again tonight.
            Adam is enjoying his last night being and performing with his friends and family before heading off for an unknown period undercover at The Dark Side. He’s in the wings of the stage with William and Alex.
            “I’m not kidding, fellas. She looked exactly like the girl in my dreams. No, I take that back. She is the girl in my dreams!! Truly, it’s her; I’m sure of it. I held her arm, right here in my hand.”
            “OK, we believe you, Adam,” replies William looking sheepishly towards Alex and grimacing, “but what are you going to do about it? How are you going to find her?”
            “I don’t know, Will, that’s the problem. The staff at the gym weren’t at all helpful; I guess they’re worried I might be a stalker, or something. I suppose I’m just going to have to hang out at Pump Gym a whole lot. Maybe go back next Sunday morning and hope she shows up. I can’t believe it, though. She’s real, man!! Real!!”
            “Well, I’m happy for you, Adam,” interjects Alex. “Changing the subject, though—and you probably won’t be interested in this, Adam—but we’re all going to ambush my dad with a news crew outside Abercrombie Industries head office tomorrow morning. It should be epic; I can’t wait to watch him squirm in front of the cameras. You gonna join us, Adam?”
            “No time, my friend. I’ve got rehearsals with your dad’s scary mistress, Lobida, at The Dark Side all day tomorrow. She’s freaky, man, but I can see what he sees in her. There’s this magnetism about her, and she’s damn sexy for an old broad.”
            “Well, just be careful while you’re undercover, Adam,” says William. “Don’t do anything stupid or risky, OK?” 
            “Will do, brother.”
            I’d decided at some point in my overnight musings that “The Garden of Eden Spectacular: Part 1” needed a warmup number, so we’re trying something new tonight. This number wrote itself a couple of years back when plans for TGC had been in their infancy, and I was having visions of shows that I wanted to create. It’s a bells-and-whistles production number about Aphrodite, the Greek goddess of love, and it includes lots of color and movement. Quite simply, it's an uplifting four minutes and thirty seconds of decadence. I, of course, will play Aphrodite, who’s been my favorite goddess since I first discovered her as a teenager when investigating the etymology of the word, hermaphrodite.
            The number includes a depiction of the story of Antony and Cleopatra, which is a love-at-first-sight tale not based so much in historical fact as in entertainment value. It does, however, demonstrate the lengths that humans will go to in the name of love. As Aphrodite, I use my magic girdle, along with Cupid’s assistance, to lure the unsuspecting couple to fall in love. Our version of Antony and Cleopatra’s story ends in tragedy. The moral of the story, however, is simple: ordinary, everyday, garden-variety neurotic human love can be the doorway to discovering the unconditional love that is one’s essential nature.
            The show, once again, is clearly a triumph with the audience at TGC, but as I and the cast are taking bows, a bomb explodes backstage. The sound is deafening, and smoke and debris pour over the stage, filling the club. Screams fill the air as panic grips the audience and cast members alike, and pandemonium ensues.
            In the middle of the chaos, in a pile of rubble in the center of the stage, Angel sits shivering, frozen with fear, squinting her eyes, and wishing she had her glasses with her; in the shadows in the wings of the stage, Angelo sits shivering, frozen with fear, squinting his eyes, and pulling his glasses out of his coat pocket and putting them on. 
            Suddenly, everyone except Angel & Angelo, Lola, and Bernard freeze in place as an eerie silence falls upon the club. This phenomenon of time stopping is so familiar to me by now, and it is usually accompanied by a visit from Archangel Raphael. It is, however, entirely new for Lola and Bernard, and their eyes widen in wonderment.
            There’s something else that’s different about the timeless experience tonight, however, as the air has a definite chill to it—which is the opposite of the warmth that usually accompanies a visit from Raphy—and I notice ghostly wafts of mist starting to accompany Lola and Bernard’s breathing. 
            Out of the ether now an apparition appears—clearly an archangel, but not one I’ve ever seen before—wearing a dazzling white winged outfit, holding aloft a flaming sword, and riding a magnificent white horse. The archangel’s wings are not as large as Raphael’s, but the overall appearance is awe-inspiring. S/he floats gracefully down to the stage between Angel & Angelo. Mrs. Chu and Bernard stare up in amazement, then run up the stairs and onto the stage to get a closer look. 
            Without saying a word, the unknown archangel conjures a mirrored portal that hovers in front of us. The doorway is large enough for an average-sized adult human to walk through without needing to stoop. It shimmers iridescently, and sparkles brilliantly around its ghostly periphery.
            “I am Archangel Mikael.” Bernard and Lola look at each other grinning from ear to ear. “I’m here to test the purity of heart of whoever feels they are ready for liberation. Whoever is without vanity may pass through the portal and enter Nirvana,” states Mikael authoritatively.
Angel looks questioningly towards Bernard and Lola, who both nod enthusiastically in response. She stands shakily and, looking directly at Mikael now, points to her chest, asking for confirmation. The radiant archangel nods solemnly and indicates that Angel should step up to the shimmering portal. 
            The cor anglais solo that had opened the show at TGC just the night before mysteriously begins to play now despite the orchestra members all currently being frozen statues. Angel stands shakily, composes herself, then steps confidently towards the mirrored doorway. Before she reaches it, however, she’s thrown backwards onto the stage amid a shower of sparks and flashes of lightning, accompanied by an ominous crash of thunder; she lands heavily on her back on the debris-covered stage.
            Bernard and Lola quickly move to see if Angel is alright, and Angelo approaches and kneels and hugs Angel tenderly.
            “You still think you’re in control,” growls Mikael sternly. “Your heart is not yet pure; you may not enter.”
            Angel is crestfallen. Angelo rolls his eyes and shakes his head. “Jesus. I thought we were done with all this you’re not worthy bullshit. What more do you want from us?”
            Mikael remains silent and unmoving, scanning the other humans who are present and animated.
            Lola and Bernard look incredulously at one another, their eyes almost bulging out of their sockets. Bernard grins and says, “Why don’t you give it a go, Lola?” 
            “Not on your nelly, my friend. There’s an ego well and truly still in charge here; I’m not under any illusions about that. What about you, though?” She winks conspiratorially at Bernard. “You have the purest heart of anyone I know.” 
            Bernard is taken aback for a moment, and his body shudders as a wave of terror rises out of the depths. “Me? You must be joking.”
            “Why not you?”
            Bernard is unable to find words in response in the moment, but Lola’s invitation starts his mind thinking about the possibility.
            Seeing that there are no other takers of his offer, Archangel Mikael turns and disappears into the ether once more.
            “You know what, Lola?” whispers Bernard, wide-eyed and shaky. “That’s not the first time I’ve been in the presence of Archangel Mikael.
            "Oh no. Not you too," says Lola holding her face in both hands . . .

---

Once seen, it’s possible to penetrate the veil, heal the wound of separation, and return to the lived experience of unity, of oneness. All that’s needed is to see the veil in its entirety: see all its stories and strategies, its achievements and failings, its desires and fears, its woundings and healings, its projections and its judgments, all of it.

---

III.  MONDAY JULY 6TH, 2020

“Whosoever does not fast as regards the world, they will not find the kingdom. Whosoever drinks from my mouth will become like me, and I myself shall become he."
 
— Jesus, from the Gospel of Thomas​

---

The start of a new week and the drama at The Garden Cabaret continues. A bomb squad arrives to investigate, and tape is put up as the club is officially declared a crime scene.
            This morning Angel is feeling more anxious and jumpier than she can recall feeling in years. It’s clear, however, that she’s been traumatized by the bombing so she’s being gentle with herself, and Angelo is supporting her whole-heartedly for a change. 
            Safely behind the locked door of our East Village apartment, Angel is dressed in her seldom-used black Mickey Mouse costume as it best reflects how gloomy and defeated she’s feeling. Angelo, paradoxically, is feeling a sense of lightness and relief in response to the bombing. He can’t explain how, but he somehow knew that it was coming, an intuition, and it’s a relief for him that it’s happened, is out of the way, and that no one was seriously injured. Angelo is dressed in one of his business suits as he’ll be speaking at a Medical Advisory Committee meeting at Jersey City Medical later in the morning. 
            As Dr Angelo Williams, I’ve had a career in the medical field spanning decades, mostly spent working as staff neurosurgeon at JCMC since receiving my specialist qualifications back in 1994. It wasn’t until the Voice of the World singing contest in 2018, which—as Angel, clearly—I’d narrowly missed winning, that my career as a cabaret performer had taken off. I truly love my work as a doctor and surgeon, which generally happens through the week; I also truly love my work as a singer and performer, which generally happens on the weekends. These two worlds, however, rarely, if ever, overlap.
            This morning, rather than it being Angelo’s fear of being publicly outed and shamed fueling the painful state of separation and suffering I’m stuck in—as was the case a few days ago—it’s Angel’s fear of being physically injured or even killed by whoever’s threatening me that is the cause of the painful state.
            In stark contrast, Ken Abercrombie is feeling on top of the world as the new week commences. He’s officially in the running for the presidency—something he’s had his eye on since he found himself the most popular boy at Brookhaven Boys School back in the late ‘70s—and he’s already commanding a healthy lead in the polls. In fact, both left and right factions of the political press are buoying Ken’s popularity without him needing to make any effort whatsoever. The decision to name Faye as his VP running mate is receiving widespread acceptance and approval, and at this moment the outlook for Ken’s immediate future looks to be entirely positive.
Ken and Faye ride in their newly commissioned chauffeur-driven limousine to Abercrombie Industries’ New Eden head office on 6th Ave in Midtown. Ken plans to spend an hour in the office tying up some loose ends before turning his full attention to the strenuous four-month campaign trail that lies ahead of him. Faye, unusually, is joining him this morning. She likes to show her face at the office from time-to-time—despite Ken keeping her largely in the dark with regards most of Abercrombie Industries’ affairs—and it’s a safe place for her to begin her first morning on the campaign trail. In truth, Faye’s feeling nervous about the public and media scrutiny that will be a necessary part of her journey through the coming months. It’s not that Faye has any problem meeting with the public and the press—her personality is naturally sociable and engaging with the world as a whole—it’s more that she likes to engage is such activities on her own terms and in her own time.
            As the Abercrombies exit the limo, pedestrian traffic on the sidewalk is moderate. A group of out-of-towners recognize Ken, and they huddle together and whisper conspiratorially to one another. Some turn and ogle openly; others giggle and cover their mouths coquettishly; a few take photographs. Ken loves the attention, and he puffs out his chest as he starts to stride across the wide pavement towards the building entry. Faye, not so enamored by this immediate show of public scrutiny, puts her head down and partially covers her face with the newspaper she’s carrying as she follows Ken across the sidewalk.
            After only a few paces, however, a TV news reporter and cameraman step in front of the Abercrombies, causing Ken to abruptly halt his forward momentum, which in turn startles Faye who is still looking firmly at the pavement. The petite brunette news anchor thrusts her microphone towards Ken. 
            “Mr. and Mrs. Abercrombie. Angela Baxter, NENBC. Congratulations on your nominations. Mr. Abercrombie, do you have anything you’d like to say to our viewers?”
            Before Ken has time to compose himself and respond, a group of a dozen or so protestors gather in a tight circle around the Abercrombies and the news crew, hoist up the placards they’re all carrying, and start to chant loudly: “Planet Polluter. Tax Evader. Sexual Deviant.” 
            The entire E-VAG membership, except myself and Adam, is in attendance for this morning’s protest; the first step in their plan to publicly shame and bring down Ken Abercrombie and Abercrombie Industries. The presence of the news crew on 6th Avenue this morning is no accident either, an anonymous tip having been left with the NENBC Breaking News Hotline overnight. 
            Bernard and William are leading the charge this morning, while Alex is enjoying witnessing his parents being ambushed from the rear of the small gathering. Mrs. Chu—heavily disguised under a large-brimmed hat, colorful scarf, and sunglasses—has chosen to view the spectacle from a respectable distance and is standing adjacent to the box office of Radio City Music Hall, the building next door to AI’s New Eden headquarters.
            Ken recoils in shock, but after only the briefest of pauses he gathers his pride around himself like a tulle petticoat and puffs out his chest once more. He shouts his response at the protesters: “Don’t you people have anything better to do than to sit around fabricating lies and spreading unfounded rumors about honest folk like my good wife and me? How dare you!!” Faye is deathly pale and appears to be in shock. She cowers behind Ken’s left shoulder, mortified.
            The news anchor, who is not a personal fan of Ken Abercrombie or his politics, takes advantage of the awkward situation and thrusts her microphone at Ken once more. “So, Mr. Abercrombie. Is there any truth to these allegations?”
            “Rubbish!! It’s all rubbish!! And yes, Angela Baxter of NENBC, I do have something I’d like to say to your viewers. You know who these people are? These people are finger-pointers and hypocrites!! That’s all. They’re nothing. Spreading dirty rumours about me and my beautiful wife; we’re honest, law-abiding people. It’s all just a pack of lies!!” 
            Angela Baxter turns her microphone towards Bernard for E-VAG’s response.
            “This man and his company are ruining our atmosphere. They’re producing huge amounts of greenhouse gases then illegally offloading them by trading carbon credits with the developing world, the whole schmeer.”
            William steps forward and continues. “And Ken Abercrombie hasn’t paid personal income tax for decades. He’s rorting the system en masse, then behind his wife’s back he’s playing the field and getting lots of booty.” William’s words penetrate Faye’s imagined personal protective bubble and her eyes widen in horror.
            “And we want the whole country to know,” adds Amir animatedly, “that Ken Abercrombie plans to reduce minimum wage if he’s elected.”
            “These people are poisonous, to them it’s all just a show,” states Bernard emphatically. “That’s the only reason they’re in politics in the first place: so they can look good.”
            “So shallow,” adds William derisively.
            Ken has turned his full attention to the E-VAG gathering and their placards as the others have been speaking, and he pulls out his cell phone and starts filming the protesters. “You’ll all be hearing from my lawyers; I will sue each and every one of you for every penny you’ve got. Mark my words.” He pauses momentarily as he spots his son—who is clearly enjoying the spectacle from the rear of the gathering—then continues expressing his rage and contempt. “You’ll rue the day you tried to discredit Ken Abercrombie!!”
            Ken returns his focus to the news crew, but this time bypasses the news anchor and her piercing gaze altogether, speaking directly to the camera: “It’s sad what the world has come to. If you elect me President in November, which, given that it’s the only intelligent option available to you, I know you will, then you can be sure that I will do everything in my power to rid America of these no-good hypocrites.” Then fist-pumping the air, “Abercrombies 2020!!”
            Angela Baxter from NENBC shifts her microphone towards Faye. “Mrs. Abercrombie, do you have anything you’d like to add?”
            Faye has retreated inside herself once more, and her mind is ruminating on Ken’s extra-marital sex life—something that has been the bane of her existence for more than two decades now—and she’s on the verge of a full-blown panic attack. At the intrusion of the news anchor’s microphone into her personal space she loses her composure completely, turns on her heel, steps out into traffic on 6th Avenue, waves down a cab into which she dives, and speeds away leaving Ken alone on the sidewalk with the media and his tormentors.
            William, who has been uncharacteristically quiet for the past few minutes, uses a fist to wipe away the beads of sweat that are running down his forehead, then, releasing a stifled moan, clutches his chest and slumps heavily to the sidewalk. Bernard whips his head around to look at his young friend and instantly drops to his knees, his fingers expertly seeking out William’s carotid pulse. Mrs. Chu, throwing off her disguise, dashes across the sidewalk and pushes her way through the E-VAG throng. She falls to her knees beside Bernard and her son’s limp body. They glance wordlessly at one another, the fear on Bernard’s face enough to confirm Lola’s worst suspicions, and the two immediately begin a clearly well-practiced CPR regimen on William.
            “Someone call an ambulance!!” shouts Mrs. Chu between breaths into her son’s purple lips. “He has a severe heart condition.”
            “I’m on it,” calls back Alex who’s already dialing 911.
            William Chu had been born with Tetralogy of Fallot: a major developmental disorder of the heart’s anatomy that requires urgent surgical intervention as a baby or it’s invariably fatal. William had undergone his first open heart surgery at just three weeks of age. A second procedure had been deemed necessary by his care team just before his first birthday. That had been more than twenty years ago, and William hasn’t experienced a single twinge of trouble with his heart until today . . . though the possibility of it has been firmly in his mother’s mind on a daily basis.
            The cameraman turns his camera to film the sidewalk drama. Angela Baxter, who has been uncharacteristically silent for the past few minutes, appears to be frozen on the spot and staring blankly into space, a puzzled expression on her face. Ken Abercrombie, recognizing that the woman currently giving mouth-to-mouth to the unconscious young man on the sidewalk is one of his main political adversaries, reacts excitedly. “There!! There’s the real truth here. Lola Chu, Egalitarian snake-in-the-grass and vice-presidential candidate!! She’s the one you should be questioning about moral standards, not me. I can tell you some alarming truths about her involvement in any number of completely nutty conspiracy theories . . .”
            Before Ken can finish his sentence, however, my sweet, gentle husband, Amir, steps forward and lands a right hook firmly on the angle of Ken’s jaw, causing him to cry out with pain as he spins in a wide arc and lands heavily on the footpath, blood seeping between his pursed lips and making its way down his chin. “Why don’t you put a sock in it, buddy,” shouts Amir heatedly, shaking his fist behind himself to dissipate the sting.
            Ken spends a moment gathering his pride petticoat once more then stands unsteadily, all the while holding his jaw and pointing an accusing finger at Amir and the E-VAG group. But no one is paying Ken any attention at this point, so he seizes the opportunity to cut his losses and lopes haltingly towards the rotating entry door of AI headquarters and disappears from sight.
            As Bernard and Mrs. Chu continue CPR, William finds himself floating up out of his body and looking down on the sidewalk tableau from a few feet above everyone’s heads. He’s not overly surprised by this turn of events as he’s seen near-death-experiences dramatized several times in movies and documentaries, but William is surprised at how ecstatic and peaceful it feels to be dying.
            William hears a familiar voice now that brings with it a rush of emotion. It’s his long-dead father, Lawrence, calling out his childhood name: “Willie!!” Looking up towards the comforting voice, William sees the bulky silhouette of Lawrence Chu in front of a dazzling white light. He finds himself being drawn inexorably towards his father’s voice and the light, but simultaneously a second invisible force arises that holds him back. For a few seconds it feels like William will be pulled in two, then something gives, and he finds himself abruptly back in his body on the footpath with Bernard and his mother.
            Just a moment before Mrs. Chu had indicated to Bernard that he should halt his chest compressions, and she’d leaned forward impulsively and thumped the center of William’s chest with her fist—as she’d seen done on several TV medical dramas over the years. William’s response to this intervention had been to cough violently, then start gasping for breath as he tried to sit up off the pavement. He opens his eyes now and smiles cheekily up at his mother who leans in and hugs him tightly, relief written all over her face. Moments later, however, William collapses to the sidewalk unconscious once more, and Bernard and Lola are forced to recommence CPR all over again.
            A team of paramedics arrive and take over from Bernard and Mrs. Chu. As William’s ECG trace now shows his heart to be beating regularly, despite him being unrousable, the paramedics load him onto a gurney and transfer him hurriedly to a waiting ambulance; Mrs. Chu accompanies William to the hospital in the rear of the vehicle. 
            The remainder of the E-VAG team turn and walk solemnly towards the nearby subway station, their mood significantly more subdued than when they’d been on their way uptown to the Abercrombie ambush. 
            Angela Baxter continues to gaze unfocusedly off into space even after everyone except her cameraman have departed from the sidewalk of 6th Avenue. 
            “Are you OK, Angela?
            “I’m not sure, Kirk,” NENBC’s award-winning news anchor eventually mumbles. “I don’t know what just happened, but whatever it was, it was incredible!!”
            “Wadda ya mean?”
            A wide-eyed smile is all that Angela can rustle up in response to Kirk’s query. Her breathing is shallow and rapid, her face beatific, and a flood of unanswered questions are bouncing around inside her blown mind. As it turns out, Angela Baxter’s life was never to be the same again after this July morning on 6th Avenue. I heard she’s living a reclusive monastic life in a nunnery in northern Thailand searching internally for the true meaning of life.

A few hours later, back downtown on the Lower East Side, Bernard is in his office nook at the rear of the bookstore as usual. Alex and Amir enter the store from the street. They’d stopped in at TGC on their way back from Midtown, and both have uncharacteristically serious expressions on their faces. Bernard joins them in the front of the cluttered store.
            “What a terrible couple of days,” states Amir dolefully. “First Angel O receiving those awful FaceGram threats, then the bombing, now poor William. Have you heard any news from Mrs. Chu?”
            “I’m afraid William’s still in a coma, Amir. All we can do is pray that he’ll wake up soon; he’s in good hands,” replies Bernard. 
            “Well, please let me know if there’s anything I can do, Mr. McCall,” chimes in Alex. “I feel so helpless.” 
            “Yes, me too,” adds Amir.
            “Thanks, boys. We all feel your support.”
            The old-fashioned doorbell attached to the front door of Bernard’s Bookstore sounds again as the door from the street is pushed open once more. Lobida pokes her head through, peers around sheepishly, then spotting Bernard relaxes and says, “Oh, there you are. I can’t believe I made it all the way down here; what a hike!!”
            Bernard had recognized Lobida—or Zoe Parker, as Bernard had known her when they’d dated briefly more than two decades ago—coming out of Saks Fifth Avenue just a handful of days back. Before he’d thought it through, Bernard had launched himself into Lobida’s path and had almost been crushed by her sheer size and vitality. 
            Bernard had been looking forward to this moment of reunion with Zoe Parker for literally decades, but it had quickly turned uncomfortable for him. He’d been burning a candle for Zoe—the only true love of his life . . . besides Adam, of course—ever since their torrid three-month affair at MIT back in 1997. Unfortunately, the image of Zoe Parker that Bernard has stored in his memory banks bears little resemblance to the person that is Lobida today.
            For Lobida, who’d never really cared that much for Bernard in the first place, their chance meeting on the pavement of 5th Avenue had only served to make her even more confused as to why she’d ever seduced this funny looking little man in the first place. In fact, in the moment of their reunion the very thought of making love to Bernard had been enough to make her stomach churn. Having gotten past the initial shock of Bernard’s unexpected reappearance in her life, however, Lobida had quickly realized—with rapidly mounting excitement—that this geek-of-a-man in front her was the key to finding her long-lost son.
            Bernard and Zoe’s unplanned son would be 22 years old by now, and recently Lobida had become aware of some unfamiliar sentimentality—along with an intermittent ache deep in her pelvis—creeping into her awareness whenever she thought of the perfect little blue-eyed baby boy she’d given birth to back in her youth. Lobida’s body was clearly calling, in a primal mammalian sort of way, to be reunited with its offspring.
            Zoe had nursed and cared for her baby boy for four months after his birth before delivering him into Bernard’s care at his post-graduate bachelor digs on the campus of MIT. In the wake of the separation, Zoe had become acutely aware of the limbic bond she shared with her offspring as she experienced intense pangs of physical and emotional pain which had taken years to dissipate completely. Now, finally, she’ll be able meet her son in the flesh once more and she’s overflowing with anticipation.
            They’d exchanged numbers, and Bernard had invited Zoe/Lobida to visit Bernard’s Bookstore on Monday afternoon. Unfortunately, with everything that’d happened in the intervening days, the arrangement had completely slipped Bernard’s mind until Lobida arrived on his doorstep just moments ago.
            “Bernard, darling. So lovely to see you again. What a treat, us bumping into each other after all these years. My, don’t you look good; have you been working out?” Lobida piles on the charm as is her natural way of interacting with the world, especially when the world has something she wants.
            Bernard steps up the two steps from the bookstore floor to the entrance landing and takes Lobida’s hand. He pauses, looking into her eyes at close range.
“Hello Zoe.” Bernard begins nervously, pauses again, then continues determinedly. “I know you’ve changed your name more than once since we knew each other, but I just can’t bring myself to call you by any other name. I hope you’ll be OK with that.” 
            “Call me whatever you like, sweetie, just don’t call me boring!!” Lobida laughs at her own joke so hard she almost falls over. Bernard suspects she may be drunk, or high, or both. In truth, the only way that Lobida had been able to get out the front door of her apartment today to meet the fully-grown son she’d abandoned twenty plus years ago was after a double shot of bourbon and a spliff. This afternoon, buried well beneath the layers of bravado that define her public persona, Lobida is terrified. This is, in fact, a novel experience for Lobida who has no memory of ever being consciously afraid of anything her entire life. As she puts out her hand to take Bernard’s, it feels a lot like a pair of chipmunks have just started fornicating in her lower belly.
            “So, is he here?” asks Lobida, getting straight to the point.
            “Come in,” says Bernard bowing slightly, and waving Lobida into the main part of the bookstore. “Thanks for coming all this way downtown. Here, let me straighten up a bit.”
            Bernard races past Lobida and frantically starts tidying the bookstore counter and its surrounds. He unearths a small rickety stool from behind the counter which he places in front of Lobida and indicates she should sit on it. Lobida squats awkwardly on the stool, almost falling off as it buckles under her weight. She manages to salvage the situation by squeezing her glutes together tightly enough so as to wedge the stool under her ample frame and using the adjacent wall as a brace point.
            “So, is he here?” asks Lobida again, looking around the cramped pair of rooms that make up Bernard’s Bookstore. Cluttered and chaotic are the two words Lola generally uses to describe Bernard and his life, and they’re the exact same two words that come into Lobida’s mind as she takes in her surroundings.
            “I’m so sorry, Zoe, but he left about a half hour ago. I didn’t notice him leaving or else I would’ve stopped him. I was just so caught up in reading this incredible article about nano-robots being used to deliver immunotherapy directly to cancer cells in vivo; it’s extraordinary stuff...”
            “Hon!! I’m here about our son,” interjects Lobida, “not some breakthrough in cancer treatment.”
            “Oh, right. Sorry. I just get so excited about new tech, and want to share the good news with everyone,” explains Bernard sheepishly. “He was really excited today as he just landed a new role, and he was heading out to his first rehearsal. He’s a dancer, you know.” 
            “Oh, really, a dancer. Nice!!” says Lobida sincerely. “Is he hot . . .?” she starts to ask inappropriately, catching herself partway through the question and quickly holding her hand to her mouth and coughing. “. . . hmmmhhmmmhhmmm. So, how are you? You know you were cute back then, in ’97. A huge geek, but you were a cute geek. How are you?”
            “Oh, you know. Same old, same old. Still a geek just less hair. And you? How are you? You look amazing, by the way,” By now Bernard is starting to feel more relaxed, and he rounds up another rickety stool which he places close to Lobida’s. He sits and rests his head on his hands, staring up at Lobida wide-eyed and unblinking. Bernard is starting to feel some of the warmth and passion he’d experienced during their torrid sexual affair back in his MIT days. Unfortunately, Bernard has placed his stool too close to Lobida’s for her social comfort, and she starts to feel angry at having her personal space invaded. She leans casually backwards, looking away from Bernard towards a nearby bookshelf, and almost toppling off her precarious perch in the process.
            “You know that it took me until your Academy Award acceptance speech to be sure she was you,” Bernard continues. “I mean, you were her. I mean, she was Zoe. I mean . . . you know what I mean!! I had an inkling, of course, after watching your Benazir Bhutto role—oh, congrats on the Oscar—but when you publicly annihilated your whole family and most of your ex-lovers in that speech, I just knew; thanks for not taking a swipe at me, by the way. How are you?”
            “Phew, where to start? Let’s just say it’s been a wild ride and then some. How is he? What’s he like?” asks Lobida, shifting the subject again. Uncharacteristically, Lobida is feeling mushy and sentimental. Tears well in her eyes as a wave of guilt and shame passes through her body. The wave of emotion is simultaneously both foreign and familiar. The guilt and shame of willfully abandoning her own child as a baby has been consistently pushed into the depths of Lobida’s subconscious for more than twenty years. In this moment, however, it’s making an uninvited appearance on the surface.
            “Oh, he’s a great guy,” pipes in Amir from where he’s shelving books and trying not to be conspicuous. “And he’s the very definition of hot, just by the way. Yowza!!” Bernard glares at Amir who returns his attention back to his work.
            “He’s such a good kid; a total sweetheart. Good to the core he is. You’d be so proud of him.”
            At this Lobida breaks down and cries openly. She reaches forward and clutches Bernard in a tight embrace . . . almost sending them both toppling to the floor.
            “I’d hoped to meet my son,” she whispers emotionally into Bernard’s ear, “I’m disappointed he’s not here.” Leaning back on the rickety stool once more, this time looking Bernard directly in the eyes, she experiences another upwelling of emotion which overflows now. “I’m so sorry that I abandoned you!! Can you ever forgive me?”
            Bernard hesitates, then starts to speak. “You know, it hurt for a while; I won’t say it didn’t. But it was clear that you had other things to do with your life than to be a mother.” Bernard pauses as a wave of pain passes through his body, then he smiles brightly and says, “He’ll be so excited to meet you. When I told him you were alive and in New Eden he nearly jumped out of his skin.”
            Lobida beams and embraces Bernard once more, a little more affectionately this time. They make a date to meet at the bookstore again on Thursday and Lobida heads out the door.

At the exact moment that Lobida is pulling the bookstore door open to leave, Angel & Angelo are about to enter Bernard’s Bookstore from the street. I’m tipped off balance by the unexpected disappearance of the door handle from my grip and Angel staggers forward, landing on her knees at Lobida’s feet; Angelo manages to catch his balance on the threshold. Angel glances up, sees Lobida’s face, is genuinely shocked, and recoils in horror.
            “What are you doing here?” Angel asks incredulously.
            I’m still wearing Angelo’s suit after this morning’s MAC meeting at the hospital, but despite my outwardly male appearance Lobida recognizes Angel instantly—they’re long-time enemies by now.
            “Oh, is this one of the hovels you hide out in, you vile two-faced creature. Haven’t you died yet?” loathing thick in Lobida’s voice. “You’re like a venereal disease only less fun,” she spits the insult down onto my face.
            It’ll be two years in September since I was publicly humiliated on stage by Lobida in front of the whole world. The inaugural Voice of the World singing competition had catapulted us both into internet fame for very different reasons: Lobida as the winner, the star; Angel as the loser, the laughingstock, the one who’d tripped and fallen face first onto the stage, her wig flying off into the orchestra pit.
            Not surprisingly, Lobida’s presence in my life can easily trigger me into my stuff, and out of nowhere Angel is possessed. The flash of rage that arises is sharp and forceful. She reaches up and grabs Lobida by the throat with both hands and pulls her gagging to the floor beside her.
            It takes Lobida a moment to regroup, but once done she pushes back with everything she has, and the two roll out the bookstore door and onto the Eldridge Street sidewalk. They continue to fight like alley cats as they roll along the pavement, pulling at each other’s hair and clothing, and hissing obscenities at one another. 
            Out of the corner of my eye, Angelo notices a man is standing nearby filming the altercation with his cellphone. He’s also, I find out later to my horror, livestreaming it on FaceGram. Great!! Angelo, ever aware of the importance of maintaining a decorous and dignified image in public, immediately takes charge. He disentangles me from Lobida’s grip and hurriedly stands, brushing dirt from the shoulders and arms of both his suit and Angel’s black activewear. Angel turns her head and smiles cordially at the man who’s filming and gives a sarcasm-loaded wave. Angel & Angelo then dash through the door of the bookstore, slamming it closed behind them. 
            What Angel is feeling in this moment is almost an exact replica of the shame and humiliation—not to mention disgust at herself—that she’d felt when she’d exploded and attacked Lobida on the stage of Radio City Music Hall at the VotW finale two years ago. Admittedly Lobida had just tripped Angel up as she was making her way across the stage to accept her runner-up flowers. She’d been completely humiliating in front of the packed house as well as the millions of online viewers. The comments on FaceGram that night had been damning, to say the least. Truthfully, it’s taken Angel two full years, and many therapy sessions, to recover from the incident, and she can still feel the shame and wounding of it, even now. 
            The flash of rage that had just erupted through Angel still has some charge left in it, however, so she opens the door and shouts at Lobida’s retreating back: “Stop bullying me!!” Angelo observes that the man is still filming and quickly slams the door closed once more. They turn and slide my back down the bookstore door, sinking to the floor, my head in their hands.
            “Stop bothering me!!” Lobida yells towards the closed bookstore door making an obscene gesture with her arms, before storming off to find a cab.
            After a minute or so Angelo looks up sheepishly at Bernard, Amir, and Alex who are all radiating deep concern and care, but Angel is feeling completely ashamed of her behavior, so she stands, yanks the door open, and runs out into the street; Angelo gives a quick goodbye wave to his friends as I leave. They rush back to the apartment, which is only a few blocks away, where Angel immediately pulls on her Mickey Mouse costume for the third time in as many days.

Around twenty minutes later, Lobida storms into TDS in a rage. She goes directly to the bar and pours herself a large whiskey which she slams down. 
            Yantra is drying glasses behind the bar. Eve is also working, preparing the club for the upcoming evening opening with the other hosts and hostesses. Adam is backstage.
            “So, how’d it go?” inquires Yantra laconically.
            “Fuck I hate that bitch!!” chides Lobida. “Aaarrrggghhhhh!!!”
            “Who you talkin’ about, boss? I thought you were going to meet your long-lost son.”
            “He wasn’t there, but that prissy cunt, Angel, showed up and got in my face. Jesus, I wish she’d just die!!”
            “So, whatcha gonna do about her, then?” inquires Yantra.
            It’s at this moment that Adam, again looking incredibly muscular and hot, steps out onto the TDS main stage and starts stretching and warming up. Lobida’s jaw drops, and she shifts all her attention to Adam, ignoring Yantra completely.
            “Well?” asks Yantra, trying to bring Lobida back to the conversation.
            “Honey, right now I don’t give a shit about that bitch; it’s all about what I’m gonna do to him!! Yummy, yummy, yummy!!”
            Later in the evening, Lobida steps onto the main stage of The Dark Side once more. Tonight’s show, entitled “I Want to Possess You,” is a sizzling, sensual number written and created in just 24 hours by Lobida, and inspired entirely by Adam, who, in his TDS premiere, is the primary object of Lobida’s attention and affection. The five regular TDS backup dancers are not at all impressed by this obvious show of favor, and Yantra has had more than her fair share of disparaging comments to say about it throughout the day . . . but everyone knows who’s the boss, so not a word of dissent has been uttered in Lobida’s presence.
            Moments before the show commences, Angelo, Bernard, and Amir arrive at TDS and are escorted to a table adjacent to the stage. Angelo, dressed all in black, has been curious about The Dark Side ever since he first heard Angel speaking about it back around the time of Voice of the World in 2018, and he’s feeling decidedly excited to finally be here. 
            “Good evening, friends, and welcome to TDS,” states the smoldering androgynous host/ess who’s accompanied the trio to their table. “I’m Fear, and I’ll be your host this evening. Please feel free to order your heart’s deepest, darkest desires using the QR code on your table. If what you’re after isn’t on the menu, be sure to let me know and I’ll do my best to make it happen for you. Enjoy the ride!!” With this they’re gone, and the music swells.
            Lobida is dressed tonight in head-to-toe black velvet, an oil-slicked mermaid, a gothic siren, exuding power and sexuality. She eyes Adam across the stage looking all sweet, muscle-bound, and naïve.
            Bernard gags on his drink as he sees Zoe Parker lecherously eyeing his son. "What!?!" He turns and looks at Amir, who is clearly flabbergasted beyond words.
            "What's the matter, guys?" asks Angelo, puzzled by the looks of horror on his friend's faces, but the show starts before either Bernard of Amir can reply.
            “Some days something comes along that makes life all seem worthwhile,” sings Lobida as she starts to seduce Adam, holding nothing back and fully committed to the moment.
            Two minutes later, and Adam is naked apart from a tiny G-string and spread-eagled on a wooden crucifix that’s attached to an elaborately decorated circular wooden frame.
In the audience, Angelo smiles and whispers to himself: “The Vitruvian Man. Nice!!” He's completely captivated by the dark beauty and sheer chutzpah of the whole spectacle and thinks: Wow, nice going, Lobida!! That is HOT!! Is she going to remove the G-string too? Damn, she’s got some guts; I love her!!
            Halfway through the number, Eve, who’s working the main floor of the club as usual, glances up at the pelvic gyrations and simulated sex on stage and is repulsed to the core. How dare this narcissistic muscle boy insinuate himself into the center of my private world, she thinks angrily to herself; it’s not fair!! 
            It’s at this precise moment that Adam glances down from the stage and sees Eve looking up at him. Their eyes lock, and the curious phenomenon of time slowing down occurs once more: Lobida, all the backup dancers onstage except Adam, and everyone in the club except Eve, start to move in slow-motion. The soundtrack of the show slows and fades until it’s just a faint muffled doof doof somewhere off in the distance. The lighting in the club dims too until just two spotlights remain—one focused on Adam onstage, the other on Eve in the middle of the club.
            The couple stare at one another across the eerie quietness. The bubbly, excited energy they’d both felt at Pump Gym yesterday returns. Eve hears the familiar melody she’d heard yesterday but this time with different words: “I remember you, Eve, my love.” In that moment Eve’s mind is blown so far open she has no idea who she is, and her regular life feels like a dream that’s happening to someone else. In the same instant she recalls a scene from her far distant past, where life was harmonious and she was blissfully happy, without a care in the world. She sees herself frolicking naked through a verdant forest with Adam. “And I love you, Eve, my love.” Something deep inside Eve relaxes and looking directly into Adam’s eyes she says simply, “Yes!!” Love pours in.
            Simultaneously, Adam hears the familiar melody he’d heard at Pump Gym yesterday but this time with different words: “Adam, I remember you.” In that moment his mind is blown so far open he has no idea who he is, and his regular life feels like a dream that’s happening to someone else. In the same instant he recalls a scene, from a far distant past, where life was perfectly harmonious and he was blissfully happy, without a care in the world.  He sees himself frolicking naked through a verdant forest with Eve. “Adam, I will always love you.” Something deep inside him relaxes and looking directly into Eve’s eyes he says simply, “Yes!!” Love pours in.
            They continue to gaze intently at one another across the frozen and eerily silent club, feeling an extraordinary rush of energy and light inside their bodies. 
            The onstage show suddenly springs back to its former movement, color, and volume, and comes to a rousing conclusion. The crowd goes wild. Lobida is exceedingly pleased with herself, although she’s annoyed that Adam seems to be staring at the Abercrombie girl rather than giving his full attention to her.
            Both Adam and Eve are aware that something extraordinary has just happened to them, but neither can make any sense of it with their minds, it’s more of a feeling in their bodies. The awareness of each other’s presence in their lives, however, heightens exponentially from this moment onwards, never to recede into the background again.
            After receiving a standing ovation and milking the crowd to the max, Lobida takes hold of Adam’s leash, leads him to her boudoir, and locks the door behind them. In the quiet privacy of her inner sanctum, with the Gyuto Monks chanting plaintively in the background, Lobida takes her sweet time in seducing Adam into full submission, executing a magnificent shibari rope scene, and humming all the while. She’s deeply in lust, and Adam is not saying “no” to any of it, though his mind is distracted and keeps thinking about a certain blonde.
            Outside in the main part of the club, Yantra and Eve are both feeling sick to the pit of their stomachs. They glance towards each other briefly, recognize the shared horror and disgust they’re feeling, shake their heads, then return to their work fuming and feeling betrayed.
            "Well, she’s fabulous; I love this place!!" exclaims Angelo excitedly.
            Bernard and Amir glare at Angelo horrified.
            "Don’t let Angel hear you say that!! She’ll kill you . . . and us!!
            "But Angelo," cries Bernard, "you don't understand. That's Zoe Parker. That's Adam's mother!!" 
            It takes a few moments for the enormity of Bernard's statement to sink all the wayin, but as it does so Angelo's face turns into a mask of pure horror. "NO!!"

A few hours later, Lobida finally cracks the door of her boudoir and heads for the bar where she pours herself another large whiskey, lights a cigarette, and sits on one of the bar stools luxuriating in the afterglow. She’d kept Adam bound and gagged in various positions for more than two hours, and they’re now taking a much-needed bathroom break. She’s still humming and smiling cheekily to herself.  He’s physical perfection, she thinks. “Ridiculous!!”
            The evening’s clientele has all departed, and the club appears empty. Yantra is squirreled away in her office at the rear of the club where she’s been watching the boudoir shenanigans via CCTV with mounting rage. Yantra had been adamant that CCTV be installed in Lobida’s boudoir for her own safety some years ago. Tonight, Yantra realizes why she’d been so insistent. Eve is also still at TDS, though she’s been sound asleep for the past hour in the private little corner she’s eked out for herself behind the props and stage pieces at the rear of the stage. This is Eve’s safe spot, her refuge when needed in moments of self-doubt, anxiety, or rising panic.
            Adam shakes himself back to a relatively sober reality and takes the opportunity to do some snooping. He’s confident that the material E-VAG needs to successfully blackmail Ken Abeercrombie is to be found on Lobida’s laptop, or possibly on a portable disc drive that he’d noticed sitting in the drawer of Lobida’s dresser. What Adam doesn’t know as he starts to look around is that his every move is being scrutinized, with rapidly mounting excitement, by Yantra.
            “There!! I got you; you rat!! I knew it!!” Yantra claps her hands together excitedly, opens the bottom right-hand drawer of her desk, and pulls out a swaddled pistol from behind some bottles of whiskey. She caresses and polishes the handgun with its cloth as she unwraps it. “Let’s do this, shall we baby?”
            Adam’s pulse is racing, and his heart is pounding out of his chest as he opens Lobida’s computer. “Yes!!” he hisses excitedly. “No password!!” He does a subdued happy dance.
            The desktop file named Baby Kenny immediately catches Adam’s eye, and within seconds he’s hit the jackpot—hundreds of photos and videos of Ken and Lobida playing out all manner of outrageous BDSM scenarios. "Can it really be this easy?"
            Many of the images show Ken dressed in a diaper and baby bonnet with a pacifier in his mouth, and in many he’s being spanked or whipped by Lobida. Adam finds himself becoming sexually aroused by the imagery he’s seeing, and he readjusts himself awkwardly; there’s no question that Lobida has what it takes to stimulate the sexual beast in him. He snaps a couple of images of the computer screen with his earring camera and transmits them to Bernard back at the bookstore in doing so.
            “Hey, dad. Not sure if you’re listening—it’s late for you—but I found what you’re looking for. I just sent some pics through,” Adam whispers to the earring microphone in his opposite ear lobe. “Oh, by the way, something just occurred to me. You gotta put some sort of speaker in this setup, dad, so I can hear from you; it’s lonely in here without you. Perhaps put the microphone in a nose ring? I don’t know how you missed that little detail, it’s most unlike you.”
            As Adam is opening the dresser drawer, looking for a disc drive he can copy images and video onto, Yantra bursts through the boudoir door yelling like a banshee and brandishing a large, shiny, silver pistol before her. 
            “Aarrrgghhhhh!! Hands up where I can see ‘em, scumbag!!” Yantra points the very impressive looking handgun, now complete with a menacing looking silencer, directly at Adam’s chest, breathing heavily. She’s angry like she’s never been angry before, and in this moment the rage Yantra is feeling is so intense she’s even scaring herself.
            “Put both your hands on the top of your head.” Adam hesitates. Yantra steps forward brandishing her gun. “Now!!” Adam complies reluctantly. 
“Now, very slowly, I want you to fetch those handcuffs from over there and put them on with your hands behind your back.” Yantra remains motionless throughout, the very picture of concentration. “And don’t even think about trying anything funny; I know how to use this thing, don’t think I don’t.”
            Adam does as he’s told and handcuffs his hands behind his back. In truth, Adam is not someone who’s terribly brave despite a superficial level of bravado that he tends to throw around in public at times. At this moment he’s terrified to the point of wetting his pants . . . if he’d been wearing any pants, that is. His mind starts repeating over and over: How did I get myself into this mess? Get me out of here!! How did I get myself into this mess? Get me out of here!!
            For a fleeting moment Yantra feels sorry for Adam. She’s found him to be a sweet kid over the past few days, and in this moment, he looks scared and helpless like a small child. “What the actual fuck, Adam, baby? Whatcha thinkin’, snoopin’ through the boss’s computer like that? Hell to the no!! That aint on!! You’re in deep trouble, my friend. Who you workin’ for, anyway?” No answer.   “Whatcha got to say for yo’self?”
            Yantra continues peppering Adam with questions and accusations; Adam continues to stand frozen in terror, unable to speak. Getting nowhere with her questioning, Yantra finally directs Adam out of Lobida’s boudoir, still at gun point, escorts him down the rear stairs of the club, and guides him into the little-used basement. The basement is dank and musty, cobweb-ridden, and dimly lit by a single naked lightbulb hanging from the center of the ceiling. Yantra shackles Adam’s cuffed wrists to a large, rusted metal ring that’s anchored into one of the rock walls, then leaves him alone in the dark as she flicks the light off and crashes the door loudly closed behind her. 
            Dappled streetlight seeping through a crack in a ground-level delivery door above Adam's head is the only light, and the muffled rumble of distant traffic the only sound. Adam is still feeling terrified, but now on top of the terror he experiences a bone-crushing sense of defeat; his dreams of being the hero who saves the day smashed to smithereens. He slides to the dirty floor of the basement, drops his head between his knees, and sobs quietly to himself.
            Eve had been awoken from her slumber by Yantra’s cries, and she witnesses Yantra escorting Adam down the rear stairs of TDS and locking him in the basement. As she’s observing it all Eve makes no move to assist Adam in any way, but it’s clear from the upwelling of emotion she feels in her chest that she's undoubtedly in love with him. She’s also curiously happy about Adam being taken prisoner as she realizes that he’ll be spending time in close proximity to her for as long as he remains locked in the basement.
            “Pain, you cruel giver,” Eve sings softly to herself with a half-smile on her face. “How you make my body quiver. Please give me just a sliver. Pain my only friend.”

Later the same night, back downtown at Bernard’s Bookstore, Bernard, Amir, and the rest of the E-VAG contingent have gathered for a candlelight vigil. Battery-operated candles have been placed strategically around the bookstore which, despite their obvious 'fakeness,' are creating a mood that is not only subdued but also calming. Someone is strumming a guitar in a back corner, and a few are singing or humming along valiantly.
            The old-fashioned front doorbell jingles as Alex bursts into the bookstore, and everyone turns to see who it is.
            “Adam’s been taken prisoner at gunpoint at The Dark Side,” spurts out Alex breathlessly. “They’ve locked him in the basement. It’s the manager, Yantra whatever-her-name-is. Apparently, she’s gone crazy!!”
            “We know, Alex,’ states Bernard equanimously holding up one hand, trying to calm Alex with his voice and his gestures. “I heard the whole thing through Adam’s earring microphone.”
            “It sucks big time, poor Adam,” adds Amir heatedly.
            “Do you think he’s in danger?” asks Alex, genuinely concerned. “Should we call the police?” 
            “He’s safe for now, Alex, but this is very serious,” replies Bernard. “There’s no simple solution. Come, sit quietly with us. Let’s all focus on sending Adam, William, and Mrs. Chu our loving support, shall we?”
            Before they can even move to sit, the bookstore doorbell jingles once more, and all heads turn to see who’s arrived now. There, with an enormous grin on his face, stands William, with Mrs. Chu right behind him. Everyone except Bernard jumps up and rushes to greet the duo. William and Lola step down into the bookstore proper where they’re engulfed in a sea of bodies all cheering and yelping excitedly. Bernard stands separate from the group, hunched and frozen. His head drops as tears well silently in his eyes, and a deep wave of relief passes through his body with a shudder. For a few seconds Bernard allows his tears to flow freely onto the bookstore's wooden floor before he regroups, stands tall, wipes his nose and eyes with the sleeve of his shirt, then smiles widely and joins in the celebrations.
            As the initial surge of excitement over William's healthy return settles, and the human knot untangles itself, Mrs. Chu speaks. “The doctors are happy it’s only a minor heart conduction issue, nothing major, and not at all surprising given the severe congenital heart abnormalities he was born with. They’ve given William some tablets to take, and he’ll have more tests in the coming days.”
“It’s likely I’ll need a pacemaker at some point, but I’m going to be completely fine.” More cheering and hugging. 
            I enter the bookstore from the street now—"jingle, jingle"—feeling tired and energetically drained after the highs and lows of the past three days. Seeing William I'm stopped in my tracks, and a huge wave of love rushes up inside me. I run to William and hug him tightly; how I love this human. I can still vividly recall the day Lola and Lawrence had brought William home from the hospital just a few days after his birth—omg, he was so cute—so I’ve known William his whole life. I've witnessed every milestone along the way, and he—along with Adam—are like sons to me. 
            Even as a newborn William had been full of joy, his smile and gaze magnetic to all those in his general vicinity. His whole life William has been a focus and source of light and optimism in whatever arena he's tried his hand at: as a chef; as a standup comic; as a snowboard instructor; as a tantric love-making instructor. Yes, it's true William Chu can easily be distracted by the next shiny thing, which can tend to make him seem flighty and ungrounded at times, but truth be told, can't we all in our own way?
            “Thank God, William,” I say, brimming over with emotion.” Boy, you scared the pants off us.” I hold him tightly in a bear hug and won't let him go.
            “I know, and I’m sorry for that," says William through the squeezing. "Take a seat, though, Angel O, I have something I want to say to you all.” Everyone sits and gives William their full attention. 
            “Well, I can’t even begin to tell you how happy and grateful I am to be here seeing all your beautiful, shining faces right now,” begins William then stops as he wells up with emotion. Mrs. Chu hugs him tenderly, resting her head on his chest. “I love all of you!! I really do,” through tears and sobs, “from the bottom of my heart. I’m so sorry if I’ve ever been rude, or selfish, or a jerk, and I want to ask you all for forgiveness; I’m so sorry.”
            William pauses again, looking slowly from face to face, making deliberate eye contact with each of his friends and family in turn. More emotion bubbles to the surface as this silent, reverent ritual continues. Then the tears turn into laughter, and William’s cheeky smile re-emerges and broadens across his face until he’s grinning from ear-to-ear.
            “Oh, my goodness. I love all of you sooooooo much; I can’t believe it. What a lucky life. To have died . . . and then been blessed with the opportunity to come back. Wow!!” William walks slowly around the small bookstore as he speaks now, engaging everyone in turn. None of the dozen or so present has ever experienced William demonstrate this degree of emotional depth, presence, and gravitas before, and everyone is keen to hear more about what just happened to him. 
            “In the moment of the death of who I thought I was—as my physical body was on the verge of dying—I realized that who I truly am doesn't die. Yes, the body will die. Yes, the flesh and bones of this body"—he looks down at his body and slaps his thighs—"the atoms and molecules, will change from one form into another when my heart eventually stops beating, which it will at some point, but they’ll only change into another form of the same thing: into energy, into more life, into more vibrating emptiness." A long pause. 
            "In that moment of death there was also a remembering that who I am, who we all are, what everything is, is light. We’re all just light. Some frozen and dense, some ethereal and insubstantial. Most of it we can't even see with our eyes . . . but we can feel it with our hearts if we're quiet enough. And this light is benevolent, and loving, and peaceful, and pure. There’s nothing to be afraid of in dying,” states William quietly but firmly. "Finally, there’s no such thing as death."
            William pauses and you can hear a pin drop. No one is moving. No one is even breathing. They’re all staring at William in sheer amazement. 
            After a few silent moments William claps his hands together and laughs once more. “Thank goodness, hey? We don’t have to worry about a thing, and we can all just care for each other and enjoy ourselves. Right?”
            “Well, almost right, William. Adam’s been taken hostage at TDS, and he’s locked in the basement,” states Alex solemnly.
            “Damn, no way!!” says William in disbelief. “Well, we gotta go get him out, yes?”
            “No, not right now, William,” replies Bernard. 
            “Jesus. Really? We’re just going to sit around here and wish him back? Is that it? Sometimes I don’t get your pacifist inaction stuff, Bernard. I know you can’t win a war with more war, but he’s my best mate, and your son. Don’t we have to at least try and save his ass?”
            “When the time is right, William, and not a moment before.”
            “OK, I trust you,” says William softening his posture and hugging Bernard sweetly. "You know what else I realized today in my brush with death? You gotta make each moment count. You gotta live every moment of life to the fullest, because life’s short, man, and it'll be over before you know it.”
            Mrs. Chu returns from the bookstore kitchen holding a plate piled high with toasted crumpets oozing with butter and honey, William’s favorite food in the whole world. 
            “Life’s too short to . . .  not eat crumpets,” adds William as he takes the plate from Lola, picks up the crumpet atop the pile and bites into it, allowing butter and honey to run down his chin and drip onto his t-shirt.
            “And life’s too short to dwell on the past,” adds Angel O.
            “Life’s too short to stay inside when the sun shines,” chimes in Alex.
            “And life’s too short to let it be run by fear," states Amir solemnly.
            As everyone adds their five cents worth to the developing conversation, and the guitar-playing E-VAG member starts to weave it all together with music, the whole gathering in the bookstore bursts into song: a not uncommon occurrence during group gatherings at Bernard’s Bookstore. The camaraderie and bond that glues this group together displays itself fully now, and the declaration that love, peace, truth, and beauty are all that really matter to these Bohemian-spirited souls is made loud and clear.
            Partway through the evolving song, Bernard feels a rush of energy, and everyone around him—including myself, so Bernard told me later—freezes in place. Archangel Mikael descends silently, and lands lightly on the floor of the bookstore next to Bernard; the hairs on his arms and neck standing on end, and his eyes widening comically.
            “I am Archangel Mikael,” they begin while simultaneously conjuring a sparkling mirrored portal out of thin air. “My role is to test the purity of heart of whoever feels they are ready for liberation. Whoever is without vanity may pass through the portal and enter Reality!!”
            “I know,” states Bernard drolly. “It’s nice to see you again, truly it is, but why me?”
            “Because the plan has chosen you. Are you without vanity, Bernard McCall?”
            “I’d say that vanity isn’t my thing, for sure, but I’m terrified out of my wits right now. Does that make any difference?”
            “Do you want to be rid of this fear?”
            “Not particularly. It’s been with me my whole life, and I’d say it’s not going to go away any time soon. Not until I’m dead, right?”
            “Wise indeed, Bernard McCall. So, you have no vanity, and you’re terrified and that’s OK.”
            “Yes.”
            “Well, do you want to know true freedom?”
            “Yes, you bet I do.”
            “Then step forward and pass through the portal.”
            Bernard turns to face the shimmering portal face on, takes a deep breath, leans slowly forward until his forehead is gently touching the shimmering mirror, closes his eyes, then steps through.
            As he opens his eyes once more, Bernard finds himself in what appears to be a vast black space—though it's hard to tell how big it is without any reference points for the eye to work with—that’s devoid of all objects except the radiant figure of Archangel Mikael. Bernard himself is standing in a dazzlingly bright beam of white light. Mikael starts to sing now:
            “Inside this new love, die.
            Your way begins on the other side.
            Become the sky.
            Take an axe to the prison wall.
            Escape!! Walk out like someone suddenly born into color.
            Do it now!! You're covered in thick cloud, slide out the side.
            Die, and be quiet."
            Bernard tries his best to relax as the angelic song unfolds, but a rising panic grips his throat, and with this last invitation from Mikael to die, Bernard's doubting mind grabs control of the situation.
            "NO!!! I'm not ready. I haven't said goodbye to my friends and family. I'm not ready to die."
            Bernard turns and plunges back through the shimmering portal from the other side, unclear as to whether this is the right thing for him to do to get back to his previous reality, but ready to give it a go if it means avoiding confronting death for now; beads of sweat dot Bernard's forehead, the effort to stay calm has been so great.
            Bernard is instantaneously back in the bookstore surrounded by his friends and family who are continuing to sing joyfully:
            “We’re one human family, all striving to be happy and free.
            Come on let’s share the Earth graciously.”
            Mrs. Chu notices the puzzled and disoriented look on Bernard’s face, and she raises her eyebrows quizzically. 
         "Are you OK, Bernard? You look like you just saw a ghost."
         "I’m fine, Lola, but I have a story for you, and it's a good one. And it was an angel, not a ghost!!"
            Bernard and Lola join in the finale of the uplifting song, the first of many songs sung on this night of relative celebration at Bernard's Bookstore on the Lower East Side of New Eden . . .

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PART TWO: NOVEMBER 2020

If we then no longer identify as any of this—if we no longer identify as a separate somebody at all—then the realization can naturally arise that who we are is the conscious, loving, intelligent presence that’s been shining through the veil all along.

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IV: TUESDAY 3RD NOVEMBER, 2020

"You are what you think, so think only of freedom."
 
— Papaji (1910–1997)

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