J.A. Pak's Blog

Stage 4

Copyright J.A. Pak

In Stage 4 Cancer, words are hard dream cliches.

“I’m sorry. I have no good news.”

“6 months”

“rare form of cancer”

Movie Land

And yet, liberating:

Hospital says, “Sign here. And here. And here.” I sign with abandon. Fine print is future worry in a reality no longer mine. Just one wish: no pain.

One can indulge. One can be guiltlessly selfish.

Except the slips into the futures of others. Overwhelming sadness. A bereft state is immersion into agony. Breaths are tears, piercing regrets inevitable.

Too cruel, to have only words when cellular expression is suddenly so abundant. The storms of Jupiter is in my right eye. And in my belly, many dances, tonality off, limited space, a crowded ballroom. The walls are bursting. How will I join in? To finally being a participant and no longer an observer.

In the hospital exam room, large plastic curtains billow around me. Giant dandelion flowers printed on opaque white. 1970s psychedelic optimism. Awaiting diagnosis I think these are curtains from my childhood. Odd cinematic visual cliches. The wistful playfulness of the brain. The journey towards final release is full of laughter. Enlightenment. Chaos back to me.

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Stage 4 was originally published in Triple Eight Palace of Dreams & Happiness on Medium, where people are continuing the conversation by highlighting and responding to this story.

Love Notes

Copyright J.A. Pak

Love Spiegel

I dreamt I married a man whose family name was Love Spiegel. He was some 20 years older, independently wealthy. We lived in a semi futuristic world, and my mother was a successful business woman who worked in a Metropolis-style office building. She was glad (relieved) we’d married. She took us to her CEO office to celebrate. In her luxe car. 10 floors. Climbing dramatically up the stairwell. More fun than the elevator, she winked. More terrifying, I thought. He was calm and dignified. She was controlled-reckless. I was still me.

Love Spiegel. I woke up enamored inside that name.

Love Spiegel. What is the secret of why we married? The matte shine of silver and how I am placed against the reflection of marriage. Pierced.

Love Spiegel. I am the ancient tale. The birds have messages. The mice, droppings of good fortune. Underneath graying matte silver, raging corvids drown out song birds, song birds are cell phones, power drills too, man machines. And yet. Love exists. Good deeds, sine waves that warm weathered steel.

Love Spiegel. We are married and married and married and married and time spins out of control like a lazy carousel of ponies and mermaids. What is the secret to our love? I am denied the past and futures inosculate the present. All slow euphoria.

I wake and I am alone. Love Spiegel. You are too dignified to thin-air vanish.

Love Spiegel put me in a dream box gleaming matte silver, an escape from the only future awaiting me. How is it possible such a world exists? The world of Love Spiegel. Such is the future.

Love Indigo

When you’re young sometimes you have nothing but pretensions so you grab them hard. The World gives you nothing but expects everything and if you accidentally win some pot of shit you’re supposed to publicly announce how humble you feel. I won’t feel humbled because I won’t share my love. I won’t be humbled by games. I work hard to love. Grating fingers into cheese soufflés. Staying up nights, holding another’s body and soul in my arms so love won’t jump out the window in a delusion of loss. Arrogant. Proud. And what of it? Humble is to be controlled, tricked into eating shit instead of honey.

Love Tap

Reaching out in the middle of the night.

The shimmer of energy.

A cold nose, moist breath, night a river, my last days eternal.

Love Spasm

Love cycles in the linear accelerator. If you move, you lose the coordinates. A black dot tattooed on my hip, left and right.

Love Spiral

Does love spiral up or does love spiral down or is it an optical illusion, spiraling simultaneously up and down while remaining still? We spiral. Grabbing love with our fingers and toes. Love, a phantom sap.

Love Field

His arms reaching out as the rest of him disappears. His eyes asking me to take his hand: come with me. He did not say he was an exiled prince, and when he did, with such earnestness and force, I thought he was delusional and believed him and not the delusion. He was from another world. Another world I interpreted as country, too small for a map except a map of delusion. He didn’t say ‘think in dimensions’ though we glide in dimensions and uncertainty, scientific theories making reality awkward. In his arms, and in rapid kisses extending like serifs, what I thought was the pulsing scent of us was alien reality, though no longer alien as shifting perspectives became our own sphere, the strong force of desire chromodynamics that notch two realities separated by dimensional shutters pulling and binding, tension of magnetized bodies, bodies always alien until that first electrifying touch — flowers, he discovered, amused, are nothing but the sex organs of plants — in our walks, our bodies fed off the spectacular heat of the sun (his skin, like the moist silk of flower petals, my fingers addicted).

It’s easier to touch him, his words, too intense, voice inside your cells, your thoughts inside his even before you knew they were yours. Most turned away, disturbed. I couldn’t. His being is a song rambling inside my head or a dream that still whispers to me as I fight the morning sun. Love’s been hybrid all along. We wanted distracted connections, like the stray dog he made friends with, the dog that came and went, disappearing without warning. How does casual desire lock so seamlessly so that only violent expulsion will break the bonds?

I held his hand first. He was lost with his hands. O, then, dear saint, let lips do what hands do. What do hands do in another world? Will we still lock, him and me, our realities in excitation or is it repulsion? His head is gone — I no longer see his eyes, the colors dissipating from my mind —

We’re used to this, saying goodbye, our fingertips stretched until that final breaking when only a lingering electrical current radiates. And then times when we can’t say goodbye, fingertips bonding, bodies pulled together and locking —

would we look the same, feel the same

— that day of muted sun, the creek between us, its bubbling water the articulation of thoughts inside us. It seemed an illusion, the play of light and shadow, you standing on water. In the dream, I was next to you, on water, the water tickling feet, legs, eyes, senses — and when I woke the sun was down and the creek still between us­ —

you’re pulling my memories towards you

— can we love here and there or is it either or? Will I see things in him, a reality shift, which could be pleasing or discordant, maybe burning with ice or heat, a color that can’t exist but does and love/hate is too intense, bodies dissolving — this is too intense, to imagine horrors beyond accustomed reality — hyperventilating uncertainties — how can love last, how can love ever last though it sometimes — he’s slipping away — how long will his fingers reach out? Come with me. Yes. No. Simple binaries, switching states locked in eternity —

Love Tattoo

You sucking up spiders with a vacuum you’ve lugged up a flight of stairs; emptying out mouse traps, surprising me with new ones. Chic little black things you’ve named the guillotine.

Love is asking me what happened to the dead rat you left up in the attic that morning:

‘It’s not there? Are you sure it was dead?’

‘Stiff as a board. The trap’s gone too.’

‘The rat must have taken it — a souvenir.’

And we wonder, cats together.

Rats in the attic, mice under floorboards — rustle, rustle, snore, snore — flicks of love.

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Love Notes was originally published in Triple Eight Palace of Dreams & Happiness on Medium, where people are continuing the conversation by highlighting and responding to this story.

The Ecosphere of Katmai

Copyright J.A. PakCubby Power!

The Katmai brown bears? The legendary brown bears of Katmai, Alaska? No. No. Completely different story. They were one of the first to be put in their own ecospheres. That was around 600 years ago. Their wow factor is still staggering. The way they can balance themselves on the lip of a waterfall and tear fish out of the water. Form strong bonds of friendship. Used humans for their own benefit. Mischievous, clever, formidable, endearing. 1000 pounds, ten feet tall, lightning fast, with astonishing communication skills. Too unique, too precious not to preserve. And yet forgotten. Until about a hundred years ago.

Blame the Kronus Administration. What a political mess. Pure bureaucratic shitstorm. Kronos geniuses absorbed the Department of National Parks into the Department of Museums and Tourism. Outrageous. Protests after protests — years and years before we were given our own department back again. But by then chaos. The good news: we had 323 ecospheres thriving. The bad: A third had completely vanished from our records. Katmai was one of them. Probably would still be lost if it weren’t for Park Ranger 821. As a child she’d read a book about Otis, the Zen Fisher Bear of Katmai. Totally one with the river, he could catch over 30 salmon while barely moving. Salmon that weighed 10–15 pounds each. Silver lit beauties exploding with orange roe. All the young bears watched him with awe. Who was this wizard who entranced salmon, the best of the best dancing into his mouth?

Master Otis! Master Otis! Tell us your secret! Tell us!

Hard work, Children. Hard work. And patience. Now SHHH! I’m fishing!

Extraordinary Park Ranger 82l. It was as if the Katmai bears had been waiting for 821. Being a park ranger was her third, perhaps fourth, career. She’d had successful careers in media, politics, gender reformation. She was enjoying retirement and getting her paperwork ready to write her memoirs when she came across her beloved childhood book Otis, the Zen Fisher Bear of Katmai. She’d never forgotten her bears and she thought this was the the ideal time to visit. What wondrous things were the children of Otis doing after so many generations in the Katmai ecosphere?

Katmai ecosphere? Whadd dat???

Yup. That was the response she got from department after department. And she had some pretty high connections in gov. After a second of fury, Park Ranger 821 did what Park Ranger 821 always did. She got productive. Analyzing her options from every angle inside and out, she decided to become a certified park ranger. Took years for her to get what she wanted. It was hard graft being a ranger. People to direct, animals to direct, maintaining park property, filing report after endless report. Slowly she made her way up into the Office of Park Management History, working with several nonprofit conservancy groups and igniting enthusiasm for Master Otis and the Katmai bears where ever she went.

Finally. A clue that broke through the bureaucratic chaos. The granddaughter of a retired ranger sent her a corrupted data file labeled ‘brown bears’. Strange strings of symbols, characters and numbers. She forgot about the file until two years later. At a lecture on ancient Near East language scripts, it dawned on her that the file was a compilation of geo locations. For what? Could she? Would she hope that the geo locations led to ecospheres?

Well, from this end of the story we know they did. But it took her another year to line up all the marbles. The compilation 821 had been sent was a system of cataloging ecosphere geo locations that no one used anymore. It took a whole lot of research and talking to people before she could make sense of it all. So what was the next step? To visit the ecosphere. Only way to find out what was really going on. Was it still operating? Why wasn’t it transmitting?

821 wrote up her proposal. She’d be a one-person exploratory mission. Are you nuts??? Of course, she was, she said. And because she was a nut, she wasn’t going to give them a second of peace until she got her okay. Fine, they said. But you find the money. Well, darn it, she already had. She’d been raising funds for the Katmai Rediscovery Fund from day one. And like I said, she had powerful friends inside and out of gov. The money, it turned out was the easy part. But it always is for the powerful.

It took 8 months to reach the ecosphere. A cozy, relaxing trip that required nothing from her but to enjoy herself. So she watched ancient videos of Katmai, familiarized herself with all the bears. How would any of this ancient history help her mission? Well, that’s always the fun part, finding out.

Miraculously, her little pod attached perfectly to the ecosphere’s observational station. 821 spent the next 6 weeks doing a systems check. Meticulous. She was so damn meticulous in everything she did. Much to her delight, the sphere was in working condition. Its self-repair program had grown, adapted. In fact, she was loathe to touch any part of the sphere, fearing more harm than good. But there were components that needed to be replaced, filters that needed cleaning. She did it all with a light touch.

Satisfied that the ecosphere was performing well, 821 was now free to enter the main body of the sphere and observe the bears first hand. And she did, to her heart’s content. Nothing could have prepared her for what she saw.

First, let me tell you that the bears did not know she was there. All the equipment, including her echo body suit, was modified so bears could not see, hear or smell it. Even so, she kept to a safe distance. Bears could move astonishingly fast, and she didn’t want to be caught surprised. Not by these humongous bears. Coddled in paradise, the modern Katmai bears were now twice the size Otis had been. And with very little to worry about, the bears were relaxed, playful, eating when they wanted to, sleeping when they wanted to. Nature wasn’t brutal in the sphere. There was snow in the winter, but not a real live-or-die reason to hibernate. Which meant no need to frantically stuff their faces in summer. The bears still built dens and slept most of winter, but they also came out to play, loving the snow, sometimes sleeping outside their dens, snow covering them half a foot thick. Well, who can resist snow?

821 was kept busy the first year identifying and cataloguing the bears, collecting gene samples. She began to realize that the bears were organized into strong matrilineal clans. To her surprise, male bears seemed to know who their offsprings were. Killing of cubs by alpha males was rare. And it wasn’t unusual for a daddy bear to bring fish to their little ones. There was no strong family ties — adult males still roamed alone or with a few select group of other males — but there was a knowledge of family. Of community. 821 witnessed a near-drowning of a cub — rescued by an adult male (boars, as they’re called) — who brought the cub to shore where Mama was waiting. She showed her appreciation by nuzzling his neck, and he was more than gratified.

Now 821 took her job as a neutral observer seriously, but it was hard not to have favorites. One spring, 821 observed the most interesting spring cub she had ever seen. Not that there were many cubs. Sows (female bears) usually gave birth to only one or two cubs. She kept her cubs for four years. The typical sow had three litters in her long lifetime. Radically different from the old days when cub mortality was shockingly high. In the sphere, there were deaths, of course; disease, accidents, etc. But cub mortality had been reduced to around 10%. With more food and resources, mom bears had more time to watch over the little ones. Rate of growth had also changed. By the end of summer, spring cubs weighed around 20 pounds, and yearlings around 40. It wasn’t until their sub adult years that the real growth spurt began.

Where were we? Yes. The spring cub who had enchanted 821. She was part of the Bean clan. 821 figured there were five main clans: Bean, Hol, Grazer, Elia, Wing. The Beans were a cautious, observant lot, yet also mischievous and playful. This little Bean was exuberant, loved making toys, turned tree limbs into amusement park rides, and just loved to sing and dance. 821 took to calling her Beanzilla. She was just so larger than life.

Just what was going on in that little head, 821 often wondered? Her eyes shimmered with thoughts, her adorable little ears turning this way and that. Beanzilla was her young mother’s first child and they simply adored each other. Now Momzilla was a Lip Fisher, a rare bear that preferred to catch fish dancing on top of a waterfall. Cubs rarely followed moms up a fall, but fearless, clever Beanzilla did, imitating Mom’s every move. It was a lovely little game to her. Mom was simply wonderful and knew everything and was so wise — everything she did was important and must be imitated. If Mom pawed the ground and sniffed the hole, Little Beanie immediately investigated the hole, looking, sniffing. If Mom was taking large strides, she would do her best to match. And if Mom did her silly pony dance, Beanie did too, because well, it was so fun.

Beanzilla stopped following her mother up the falls in late summer that year. Unusual rainstorms had made the river rise, the water currents so rapid, boars were turning over in the water. Momzilla kept Beanie up a nearby nannie tree, where she’d be out of the mud and shielded from rain. For a rare close observational opportunity, 821 sat on a limb close to her favorite cub, resisting the urge to play with those adorable, ever rotating ears.

821 wasn’t sure what happened exactly. The Little Bean was playing as vigorously as usual, climbing up and down, bouncing on fragile limbs. It was raining. The limbs were slippery. Little Beanzilla suddenly fell. She would have gone straight down and probably hit her head on stone, tumbling into the river and drowning. Except 821 grabbed her. It was all instinct and totally against the rules. Park personnel must never interfere with nature. Yes, she had saved a life. But she was not a god. She was a humble employee of the National Parks department. 821 hoped no harm was done. She’d only touched the cub for a moment. Surely, Beanzilla hadn’t even noticed her touch. It had all happened so quickly. The little one certainly acted unfazed. Straight away she’d climbed down the tree and bawled for her mother. The rain was coming down in buckets. Mom decided enough was enough. She took her cub back to the den where they’d be cozy and dry. 821 hoped they had a stash of food somewhere, but she supposed that’s not how bears worked. As human as they seemed, they were definitely not humans. This she repeated over and over again.

Exhausted by her unexpected adventure, 821 spent the night in the Ranger station, glad she was above the raging storm. Usually, during mild weather, she liked to sleep on a tree, a mini sphere tent keeping her safe. With weather like this, she couldn’t afford to be any thing less than vigilant. After all, if she had an equipment failure or a serious injury, there was really no one she could rely on. Ever cautious, 821 spent the next month in the station, catching up on paperwork. So much fun. When the days of endless sunshine came back, she shouted with glee and doze back down to eco soil. (Um, we’re all clear that 821 did not literally dive because it’s several miles down and she’d have killed herself? Good. She traveled via the ever trusty ranger scooter.)

For her next project, 821 started doing some analysis on tahe berries, which the bears devoured, moms often fighting off their own cubs to get their share. She’d collected a handful when she caught sight of Num Num, a young boar with a with a delightful disposition. She’d named him Num Num because whenever he ate a fat fish, a blissed out glaze shone over his eyes and his jaws moved slowly like he was saying, ‘num num’. At the moment, he was more interested in playing, his back on the grass, his limbs slowly moving as if he were doing yoga. It was that time of year when the bears had their full summer coat, thick, brown, in the sun, sometimes shimmering cinnamon, or gold. Large boars or tiny cubs, they looked like human kids in onesie jam jams. ‘Just what was Mother Nature thinking, making such fierce apex predators so adorable!’

She hadn’t seen him in months and wondered what he’d been up to. ‘Why is it so hard to keep track of you all?’ She asked out loud.

‘I can ask Mommie. She knows. She knows everything.’

821 jumped. She turned around. It was Beanzilla. Beanzilla was talking to her.

‘You can’t be talking to me,’ she said.

‘I am.’

‘Wait. You can see me?’

‘Oh, yes. We can all see you.’

‘You bears can see me. Oh, boy.’

‘Were you hiding?’

‘Yes. You shouldn’t be able to see me. Or hear me. Or see me. Or anything I brought. And we shouldn’t be able to talk to each other.’

‘I’m glad. It’s more fun. You’re a very funny looking bear.’

‘That’s because I’m not a bear. I’m a Homo sapien.’

‘You look like a funny bear.’

‘Maybe because Homo sapiens are maladapted bears. That’s my theory, anyway. Where’s your mommie?’

‘Over there. She said I can come and play with you now. I wanted to talk to you but I can’t talk to anyone until Mommie says I can. I can’t see you or talk to you until Mommie says I can see you and talk to you.’

‘Well, I’ll be darned. This is a lot to process. You said all the bears can see me?’

Beanzilla nodded as she munched on some tender grass shoots.

‘Yet you all ignored me.’

‘Don’t you think that’s good?’

821 laughed. ‘Yes. I think that’s very good. Thank you.’

‘Would you like to see my new dance?’

‘Yes. Thank you.’

Beanzilla stood on her legs. She put her arms out in front of her. Gently, she began moving her hips right to left, left to right, singing, ‘Beanie wiggle, Beanie wiggle, wiggle, wiggle, Beanie wiggle.’ It was adorable. ‘Oh!’ she suddenly gasped. ‘Mommie’s calling! Mommie’s calling!’ And indeed, 821 could hear a low growl in the distance. She ran off so quick, 821 wasn’t entirely sure she was ever there at all.

821 pondered all this for a long time. How in the world was she communicating with a wild bear? She must have been hallucinating. She went into the medical pod and gave herself a checkup. All good, the pod reported.

Was it telepathy? Just maybe the Katmai bears now had a primitive telepathic ability. Mixed in with growls, body language, scents, they must have a sophisticated ‘language’ with which to communicate. That explained them. It didn’t explain her. How could she communicate with Little Bean? And was it only with her that she could communicate with? Because the other bears still ignored her.

She only saw Beanzilla three or four times a week. And only got brief moments. Little Bean would sing and dance, ask questions about her clothes or what berries she liked, and then disappear in a flash. It seemed Momzilla was still uncomfortable about 821. Momzilla was a good mom.

One day, much to 821’s surprise, Beanzilla came accompanied by mom.

Momzilla greeted 821 by lowering her head. 821 did the same.

Momzilla said, ‘Please come with us. Bean Mother would like to meet you.’

‘Bean Mother?’

‘Our matriarch.’

‘Oh! I’d like that very much.’

To keep pace with the bears, 821 rode her air scooter. They traveled more than a hundred miles, high up a mountain into a dense forest of sparkling creeks and tiny waterfalls. So many plants she had never seen — insects, animals too. Some of the pod sensors had decayed and there were small sections of the sphere inaccessible via computer. She wished she had the time to collect samples but the bears traveled at such incredible speeds.

They found Bear Mother resting, sprawled on her side, nested inside thick golden grass.

She was all business. ‘Tell us why you are here.’

‘I came to see how your ecosphere was doing.’

‘Ecoshere?’

So 821 began, explaining about the original Katmai bears, the great Climate Decision, how the spheres were launched and placed in various niches of time and space, how the Katmai sphere was lost and found.

‘So you are here to nurture us.’

‘Well. Sort of. And only for a short time. I’ll be replaced soon by another Park Ranger. We’re a bit short staffed at the moment.’

‘No. No other rangers. Only you.’

‘That’s not the way the park department works, I’m afraid. There will be others who need to come as well. Engineers who have to maintain the infrastructure. I’m just in charge of the park.’

‘They come and go?’

‘The engineers? Yes. As soon as they’re finished with the work. Rangers stay, usually for four years.’

‘They can come and go. With the work. We trust you so you must stay. You saved the Little One. There will be times when we will need you.’

‘Ah. Well. You see, I shouldn’t have done that. I’m not supposed to interfere with the lives of the bears. Any bear. Rangers must leave nature alone. We are here only to observe and maintain.’

‘What nonsense,’ Bear Mother said. ‘What is this ecosphere but interference? We were fine without Rangers. We accept you. That is all.’

‘I will think about it.’

‘Honey?’

Bear Mother pointed to a cache of honey, still in the comb. 821 helped herself. ‘Whoa!’ It was a kind of hallucinogenic honey that mellowed her right out.

She was in the ranger’s station when she woke up. Three days had passed. That was some honey. She wondered how she could get more. Bean Mother was one bear definitely worth getting to know better.

Six days passed. 821 was working at Lower River, recording the last salmon run. Forty, fifty pounds, these salmon. Quite a challenge for the bears. In the distance she could hear Beanzilla, running towards her: ‘You’re here! You’re here! Show me the dance!’

‘Dance?’

‘The dance?’

‘You did a dance like this.’ The bear stood on her legs. She pointed her right arm up to the sky, and then down to the floor,

‘When did I ever dance?’

‘We all danced. With Bear Mother. We had honey. The Bean bears. Hol bears too. All night we came and sang and danced. You ate lots of CooCoo honey. And danced. We did your dance. Now I forgot. Show me again!’

What had she been up to, all honied up?

‘What was I singing?’

‘Night fever, night fever, we know how to do it!’

‘You’re kidding me.’ 821 laughed and laughed. ‘Alright, Kiddo. Without druggy honey, I’m going to have to have music.’

821 turned on a Night Fever dance compilation. Beanzilla watched with glee, over and over again. 821 continued her work, making her way up to the fall. It was sunset when 821 returned to Lower River to collect all her gear for the night. Boy, oh boy, did she get an eyeful. There in front of her, all the cubs of Brooks Falls, and a few fun-loving sub adults as well, were in perfect formation, line dancing to ‘Night Fever’, the Little Bean front and center like a marching band leader. So much for non interference.

Now of course 821 was keeping detailed notes on her Katmai discoveries. But these were not part of the reports she sent back to her department, which were simple basic data regarding the health of the ecosphere and its inhabitants. She knew if her reports were taken seriously, especially about how the bears were communicating even with humans, scientists and all sorts would descend upon the sphere and make life eco hell. The bears didn’t deserve that. They’d help create a magical utopia and should have their privacy.

Much to her relief, the department seemed to have forgotten about her and her one-person mission anyway. Sometimes snail-paced bureaucracy worked to one’s benefit.

821 passed a lovely winter in the sphere. One by one, she met with all the matriarchs. She even became friendly with some of the elder boars.

Then at the beginning of that spring something quite frightening happened. She was up at the cutbank, traveling towards the Lower River when a chunk of earth fell beneath her. She managed to grab a tree limb on her way down, but was now stuck hanging for her life. Her arms were too weak to pull herself up and she couldn’t hang on forever. ‘What I need is cubby power,’ she thought to herself.

‘Cubby Power!’ she screamed at the top top of her lungs. Why? She had no idea. ‘I summon Cubby Power!’

Her cry for help resonated all through the sphere. The cubs of Katmai froze in their tracks. Pinpointing 821’s location, they stampeded to her aid. Beanzilla was forefront and began building a spiraling ladder of cubs. When 821’s arms gave out, she had cub after cub to slide down on.

‘You wonderful, wonderful, clever bears,’ she said.

The cubbys giggled and began line dancing in exuberance. Night live, indeed.

Musical Interlude

Song of Beanzilla

Oh, Beanzilla! Beanzilla! The coolest coy at the Falls!

Beanzilla! Beanzilla! The Greatest Cub of Them All!

Ode to Bears

Bears! Bears! Bears! We’re talking about bears, bears, bears!

Fish! Fish! Fish! Bears love to eat fish, fish, fish!

Bears! Bears! Bears! They like to bite bears, bears, bears!

‘Shhh! I’m Otis! I’m fishing!’

We mostly leave the Katmai bears alone now. Like I said, they’re a special case. We get live feeds from them but only at the falls area and mostly during the fish spawning season. The bears demanded their privacy and this was our compromise. At the moment, the public is obsessed with the giant sea worms of the Palantic ecosphere. Which suits us fine. Just fine. And the bears like it to. Clever, clever bears. It’s almost the spawning season now. If you get the chance, watch the Katmai live feed. The bears put on quite a show.

Any last questions? Did 821 ever come back to earth. No she never did. She spent the rest of her life in the Katmai ecosphere, doing some incredible work. She’s buried there. The bears mourned her greatly.

One last question? No. There is no known videos of cubs line dancing. So, guys, stop asking. It’s not like I have a horde stashed somewhere. So, end of lecture. Thanks all for coming and sticking it out to the end. I’m not sure how we got on the subject of Katmai bears. It was a delight. Until next time, Ecosphere Adventurers!

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The Ecosphere of Katmai was originally published in Triple Eight Palace of Dreams & Happiness on Medium, where people are continuing the conversation by highlighting and responding to this story.

Cubby Power!

Copyright J.A. Pak

The Katmai Echosphere Explained

The Katmai brown bears? The legendary brown bears of Katmai, Alaska? No. No. Completely different story. They were one of the first to be put in their own ecospheres. That was around 600 years ago. Their wow factor is still staggering. The way they can balance themselves on the lip of a waterfall and tear fish out of the water. Form strong bonds of friendship. Used humans for their own benefit. Mischievous, clever, formidable, endearing. 1000 pounds, ten feet tall, lightning fast, with astonishing communication skills. Too unique, too precious not to preserve. And yet forgotten. Until about a hundred years ago.

Blame the Kronus Administration. What a political mess. Pure bureaucratic shitstorm. Kronos geniuses absorbed the Department of National Parks into the Department of Museums and Tourism. Outrageous. Protests after protests — years and years before we were given our own department back again. But by then chaos. The good news: we had 323 ecospheres thriving. The bad: A third had completely vanished from our records. Katmai was one of them. Probably would still be lost if it weren’t for Park Ranger 821. As a child she’d read a book about Otis, the Zen Fisher Bear of Katmai. Totally one with the river, he could catch over 30 salmon while barely moving. Salmon that weighed 10–15 pounds each. Silver lit beauties exploding with orange roe. All the young bears watched him with awe. Who was this wizard who entranced salmon, the best of the best dancing into his mouth?

Master Otis! Master Otis! Tell us your secret! Tell us!

Hard work, Children. Hard work. And patience. Now SHHH! I’m fishing!

Extraordinary Park Ranger 82l. It was as if the Katmai bears had been waiting for 821. Being a park ranger was her third, perhaps fourth, career. She’d had successful careers in media, politics, gender reformation. She was enjoying retirement and getting her paperwork ready to write her memoirs when she came across her beloved childhood book Otis, the Zen Fisher Bear of Katmai. She’d never forgotten her bears and she thought this was the the ideal time to visit. What wondrous things were the children of Otis doing after so many generations in the Katmai ecosphere?

Katmai ecosphere? Whadd dat???

Yup. That was the response she got from department after department. And she had some pretty high connections in gov. After a second of fury, Park Ranger 821 did what Park Ranger 821 always did. She got productive. Analyzing her options from every angle inside and out, she decided to become a certified park ranger. Took years for her to get what she wanted. It was hard graft being a ranger. People to direct, animals to direct, maintaining park property, filing report after endless report. Slowly she made her way up into the Office of Park Management History, working with several nonprofit conservancy groups and igniting enthusiasm for Master Otis and the Katmai bears where ever she went.

Finally. A clue that broke through the bureaucratic chaos. The granddaughter of a retired ranger sent her a corrupted data file labeled ‘brown bears’. Strange strings of symbols, characters and numbers. She forgot about the file until two years later. At a lecture on ancient Near East language scripts, it dawned on her that the file was a compilation of geo locations. For what? Could she? Would she hope that the geo locations led to ecospheres?

Well, from this end of the story we know they did. But it took her another year to line up all the marbles. The compilation 821 had been sent was a system of cataloging ecosphere geo locations that no one used anymore. It took a whole lot of research and talking to people before she could make sense of it all. So what was the next step? To visit the ecosphere. Only way to find out what was really going on. Was it still operating? Why wasn’t it transmitting?

821 wrote up her proposal. She’d be a one-person exploratory mission. Are you nuts??? Of course, she was, she said. And because she was a nut, she wasn’t going to give them a second of peace until she got her okay. Fine, they said. But you find the money. Well, darn it, she already had. She’d been raising funds for the Katmai Rediscovery Fund from day one. And like I said, she had powerful friends inside and out of gov. The money, it turned out was the easy part. But it always is for the powerful.

It took 8 months to reach the ecosphere. A cozy, relaxing trip that required nothing from her but to enjoy herself. So she watched ancient videos of Katmai, familiarized herself with all the bears. How would any of this ancient history help her mission? Well, that’s always the fun part, finding out.

Miraculously, her little pod attached perfectly to the echosphere’s observational station. 821 spent the next 6 weeks doing a systems check. Meticulous. She was so damn meticulous in everything she did. Much to her delight, the sphere was in working condition. Its self-repair program had grown, adapted. In fact, she was loathe to touch any part of the sphere, fearing more harm than good. But there were components that needed to be replaced, filters that needed cleaning. She did it all with a light touch.

Satisfied that the ecosphere was performing well, 821 was now free to enter the main body of the sphere and observe the bears first hand. And she did, to her heart’s content. Nothing could have prepared her for what she saw.

First, let me tell you that the bears did not know she was there. All the equipment, including her echo body suit, was modified so bears could not see, hear or smell it. Even so, she kept to a safe distance. Bears could move astonishingly fast, and she didn’t want to be caught surprised. Not by these humongous bears. Coddled in paradise, the modern Katmai bears were now twice the size Otis had been. And with very little to worry about, the bears were relaxed, playful, eating when they wanted to, sleeping when they wanted to. Nature wasn’t brutal in the sphere. There was snow in the winter, but not a real live-or-die reason to hibernate. Which meant no need to frantically stuff their faces in summer. The bears still built dens and slept most of winter, but they also came out to play, loving the snow, sometimes sleeping outside their dens, snow covering them half a foot thick. Well, who can resist snow?

821 was kept busy the first year identifying and cataloguing the bears, collecting gene samples. She began to realize that the bears were organized into strong matrilineal clans. To her surprise, male bears seemed to know who their offsprings were. Killing of cubs by alpha males was rare. And it wasn’t unusual for a daddy bear to bring fish to their little ones. There was no strong family ties — adult males still roamed alone or with a few select group of other males — but there was a knowledge of family. Of community. 821 witnessed a near-drowning of a cub — rescued by an adult male (boars, as they’re called) — who brought the cub to shore where Mama was waiting. She showed her appreciation by nuzzling his neck, and he was more than gratified.

Now 821 took her job as a neutral observer seriously, but it was hard not to have favorites. One spring, 821 observed the most interesting spring cub she had ever seen. Not that there were many cubs. Sows (female bears) usually gave birth to only one or two cubs. She kept her cubs for four years. The typical sow had three litters in her long lifetime. Radically different from the old days when cub mortality was shockingly high. In the sphere, there were deaths, of course; disease, accidents, etc. But cub mortality had been reduced to around 10%. With more food and resources, mom bears had more time to watch over the little ones. Rate of growth had also changed. By the end of summer, spring cubs weighed around 20 pounds, and yearlings around 40. It wasn’t until their sub adult years that the real growth spurt began.

Where were we? Yes. The spring cub who had enchanted 821. She was part of the Bean clan. 821 figured there were five main clans: Bean, Hol, Grazer, Elia, Wing. The Beans were a cautious, observant lot, yet also mischievous and playful. This little Bean was exuberant, loved making toys, turned tree limbs into amusement park rides, and just loved to sing and dance. 821 took to calling her Beanzilla. She was just so larger than life.

Just what was going on in that little head, 821 often wondered? Her eyes shimmered with thoughts, her adorable little ears turning this way and that. Beanzilla was her young mother’s first child and they simply adored each other. Now Momzilla was a Lip Fisher, a rare bear that preferred to catch fish dancing on top of a waterfall. Cubs rarely followed moms up a fall, but fearless, clever Beanzilla did, imitating Mom’s every move. It was a lovely little game to her. Mom was simply wonderful and knew everything and was so wise — everything she did was important and must be imitated. If Mom pawed the ground and sniffed the hole, Little Beanie immediately investigated the hole, looking, sniffing. If Mom was taking large strides, she would do her best to match. And if Mom did her silly pony dance, Beanie did too, because well, it was so fun.

Beanzilla stopped following her mother up the falls in late summer that year. Unusual rainstorms had made the river rise, the water currents so rapid, boars were turning over in the water. Momzilla kept Beanie up a nearby nannie tree, where she’d be out of the mud and shielded from rain. For a rare close observational opportunity, 821 sat on a limb close to her favorite cub, resisting the urge to play with those adorable, ever rotating ears.

821 wasn’t sure what happened exactly. The Little Bean was playing as vigorously as usual, climbing up and down, bouncing on fragile limbs. It was raining. The limbs were slippery. Little Beanzilla suddenly fell. She would have gone straight down and probably hit her head on stone, tumbling into the river and drowning. Except 821 grabbed her. It was all instinct and totally against the rules. Park personnel must never interfere with nature. Yes, she had saved a life. But she was not a god. She was a humble employee of the National Parks department. 821 hoped no harm was done. She’d only touched the cub for a moment. Surely, Beanzilla hadn’t even noticed her touch. It had all happened so quickly. The little one certainly acted unfazed. Straight away she’d climbed down the tree and bawled for her mother. The rain was coming down in buckets. Mom decided enough was enough. She took her cub back to the den where they’d be cozy and dry. 821 hoped they had a stash of food somewhere, but she supposed that’s not how bears worked. As human as they seemed, they were definitely not humans. This she repeated over and over again.

Exhausted by her unexpected adventure, 821 spent the night in the Ranger station, glad she was above the raging storm. Usually, during mild weather, she liked to sleep on a tree, a mini sphere tent keeping her safe. With weather like this, she couldn’t afford to be any thing less than vigilant. After all, if she had an equipment failure or a serious injury, there was really no one she could rely on. Ever cautious, 821 spent the next month in the station, catching up on paperwork. So much fun. When the days of endless sunshine came back, she shouted with glee and doze back down to echo soil. (Um, we’re all clear that 821 did not literally dive because it’s several miles down and she’d have killed herself? Good. She traveled via the ever trusty ranger scooter.)

For her next project, 821 started doing some analysis on tahe berries, which the bears devoured, moms often fighting off their own cubs to get their share. She’d collected a handful when she caught sight of Num Num, a young boar with a with a delightful disposition. She’d named him Num Num because whenever he ate a fat fish, a blissed out glaze shone over his eyes and his jaws moved slowly like he was saying, ‘num num’. At the moment, he was more interested in playing, his back on the grass, his limbs slowly moving as if he were doing yoga. It was that time of year when the bears had their full summer coat, thick, brown, in the sun, sometimes shimmering cinnamon, or gold. Large boars or tiny cubs, they looked like human kids in onesie jam jams. ‘Just what was Mother Nature thinking, making such fierce apex predators so adorable!’

She hadn’t seen him in months and wondered what he’d been up to. ‘Why is it so hard to keep track of you all?’ She asked out loud.

‘I can ask Mommie. She knows. She knows everything.’

821 jumped. She turned around. It was Beanzilla. Beanzilla was talking to her.

‘You can’t be talking to me,’ she said.

‘I am.’

‘Wait. You can see me?’

‘Oh, yes. We can all see you.’

‘You bears can see me. Oh, boy.’

‘Were you hiding?’

‘Yes. You shouldn’t be able to see me. Or hear me. Or see me. Or anything I brought. And we shouldn’t be able to talk to each other.’

‘I’m glad. It’s more fun. You’re a very funny looking bear.’

‘That’s because I’m not a bear. I’m a Homo sapien.’

‘You look like a funny bear.’

‘Maybe because Homo sapiens are maladapted bears. That’s my theory, anyway. Where’s your mommie?’

‘Over there. She said I can come and play with you now. I wanted to talk to you but I can’t talk to anyone until Mommie says I can. I can’t see you or talk to you until Mommie says I can see you and talk to you.’

‘Well, I’ll be darned. This is a lot to process. You said all the bears can see me?’

Beanzilla nodded as she munched on some tender grass shoots.

‘Yet you all ignored me.’

‘Don’t you think that’s good?’

821 laughed. ‘Yes. I think that’s very good. Thank you.’

‘Would you like to see my new dance?’

‘Yes. Thank you.’

Beanzilla stood on her legs. She put her arms out in front of her. Gently, she began moving her hips right to left, left to right, singing, ‘Beanie wiggle, Beanie wiggle, wiggle, wiggle, Beanie wiggle.’ It was adorable. ‘Oh!’ she suddenly gasped. ‘Mommie’s calling! Mommie’s calling!’ And indeed, 821 could hear a low growl in the distance. She ran off so quick, 821 wasn’t entirely sure she was ever there at all.

821 pondered all this for a long time. How in the world was she communicating with a wild bear? She must have been hallucinating. She went into the medical pod and gave herself a checkup. All good, the pod reported.

Was it telepathy? Just maybe the Katmai bears now had a primitive telepathic ability. Mixed in with growls, body language, scents, they must have a sophisticated ‘language’ with which to communicate. That explained them. It didn’t explain her. How could she communicate with Little Bean? And was it only with her that she could communicate with? Because the other bears still ignored her.

She only saw Beanzilla three or four times a week. And only got brief moments. Little Bean would sing and dance, ask questions about her clothes or what berries she liked, and then disappear in a flash. It seemed Momzilla was still uncomfortable about 821. Momzilla was a good mom.

One day, much to 821’s surprise, Beanzilla came accompanied by mom.

Momzilla greeted 821 by lowering her head. 821 did the same.

Momzilla said, ‘Please come with us. Bean Mother would like to meet you.’

‘Bean Mother?’

‘Our matriarch.’

‘Oh! I’d like that very much.’

To keep pace with the bears, 821 rode her air scooter. They traveled more than a hundred miles, high up a mountain into a dense forest of sparkling creeks and tiny waterfalls. So many plants she had never seen — insects, animals too. Some of the pod sensors had decayed and there were small sections of the sphere inaccessible via computer. She wished she had the time to collect samples but the bears traveled at such incredible speeds.

They found Bear Mother resting, sprawled on her side, nested inside thick golden grass.

She was all business. ‘Tell us why you are here.’

‘I came to see how your echosphere was doing.’

‘Echoshere?’

So 821 began, explaining about the original Katmai bears, the great Climate Decision, how the spheres were launched and placed in various niches of time and space, how the Katmai sphere was lost and found.

‘So you are here to nurture us.’

‘Well. Sort of. And only for a short time. I’ll be replaced soon by another Park Ranger. We’re a bit short staffed at the moment.’

‘No. No other rangers. Only you.’

‘That’s not the way the park department works, I’m afraid. There will be others who need to come as well. Engineers who have to maintain the infrastructure. I’m just in charge of the park.’

‘They come and go?’

‘The engineers? Yes. As soon as they’re finished with the work. Rangers stay, usually for four years.’

‘They can come and go. With the work. We trust you so you must stay. You saved the Little One. There will be times when we will need you.’

‘Ah. Well. You see, I shouldn’t have done that. I’m not supposed to interfere with the lives of the bears. Any bear. Rangers must leave nature alone. We are here only to observe and maintain.’

‘What nonsense,’ Bear Mother said. ‘What is this ecosphere but interference? We were fine without Rangers. We accept you. That is all.’

‘I will think about it.’

‘Honey?’

Bear Mother pointed to a cache of honey, still in the comb. 821 helped herself. ‘Whoa!’ It was a kind of hallucinogenic honey that mellowed her right out.

She was in the ranger’s station when she woke up. Three days had passed. That was some honey. She wondered how she could get more. Bean Mother was one bear definitely worth getting to know better.

Six days passed. 821 was working at Lower River, recording the last salmon run. Forty, fifty pounds, these salmon. Quite a challenge for the bears. In the distance she could hear Beanzilla, running towards her: ‘You’re here! You’re here! Show me the dance!’

‘Dance?’

‘The dance?’

‘You did a dance like this.’ The bear stood on her legs. She pointed her right arm up to the sky, and then down to the floor,

‘When did I ever dance?’

‘We all danced. With Bear Mother. We had honey. The Bean bears. All night we came and sang and danced. You ate lots of CooCoo honey. And danced. We did your dance. Now I forgot. Show me again!’

What had she been up to, all honied up?

‘What was I singing?’

‘Night fever, night fever, we know how to do it!’

‘You’re kidding me.’ 821 laughed and laughed. ‘Alright, Kiddo. Without druggy honey, I’m going to have to have music.’

821 turned on a Night Fever dance compilation. Beanzilla watched with glee, over and over again. 821 continued her work, making her way up to the fall. It was sunset when 821 returned to Lower River to collect all her gear for the night. Boy, oh boy, did she get an eyeful. There in front of her, all the cubs of Brooks Falls, and a few fun-loving sub adults as well, were in perfect formation, line dancing to ‘Night Fever’, the Little Bean front and center like a marching band leader. So much for non interference.

Now of course 821 was keeping detailed notes on her Katmai discoveries. But these were not part of the reports she sent back to her department, which were simple basic data regarding the health of the ecosphere and its inhabitants. She knew if her reports were taken seriously, especially about how the bears were communicating even with humans, scientists and all sorts would descend upon the sphere and make life echo hell. The bears didn’t deserve that. They’d help create a magical utopia and should have their privacy.

Much to her relief, the department seemed to have forgotten about her and her one-person mission anyway. Sometimes snail-paced bureaucracy worked to one’s benefit.

821 passed a lovely winter in the sphere. One by one, she met with all the matriarchs. She even became friendly with some of the elder boars.

Then at the beginning of that spring something quite frightening happened. She was up at the cutbank, traveling towards the Lower River when a chunk of earth fell beneath her. She managed to grab a tree limb on her way down, but was now stuck hanging for her life. Her arms were too weak to pull herself up and she couldn’t hang on forever. ‘What I need is cubby power,’ she thought to herself.

‘Cubby Power!’ she screamed at the top top of her lungs. Why? She had no idea. ‘I summon Cubby Power!’

Her cry for help resonated all through the sphere. The cubs of Katmai froze in their tracks. Pinpointing 821’s location, they stampeded to her aid. Beanzilla was forefront and began building a spiraling ladder of cubs. When 821’s arms gave out, she had cub after cub to slide down on.

‘You wonderful, wonderful, clever bears,’ she said.

The cubbys giggled and began line dancing in exuberance. Night live, indeed.

We mostly leave the Katmai bears alone now. Like I said, they’re a special case. We get live feeds from them but only at the falls area and mostly during the fish spawning season. The bears demanded their privacy and this was our compromise. At the moment, the public is obsessed with the giant sea worms of the Palantic echosphere. Which suits us fine. Just fine. And the bears like it to. Clever, clever bears. It’s almost the spawning season now. If you get the chance, watch the Katmai live feed. The bears put on quite a show.

Any last questions? Did 821 ever come back to earth. No she never did. She spent the rest of her life in the Katmai echosphere, doing some incredible work. She’s buried there. The bears mourned her greatly.

One last question? No. There is no known videos of cubs line dancing. So, guys, stop asking. It’s not like I have a horde stashed somewhere. So, end of lecture. Thanks all for coming and sticking it out to the end. I’m not sure how we got on the subject of Katmai bears. It was a delight. Until next time, Echosphere Adventurers!

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Cubby Power! was originally published in Triple Eight Palace of Dreams & Happiness on Medium, where people are continuing the conversation by highlighting and responding to this story.

Angel Stalker, Graphic Art Version

Copyright J.A. Pak[image error]

Angel Stalker, Graphic Art Version was originally published in Triple Eight Palace of Dreams & Happiness on Medium, where people are continuing the conversation by highlighting and responding to this story.

These Foolish Things

Copyright J.A. Pak

Sai died ten years ago. He was beautiful. In that soft way a flowing cloud morphs from image to image.

I didn’t harvest a clone immediately. Just the thought made me want to puke. I don’t suppose I really believed in his death. That is, there was this part of me that kept seeing him, smelling him, waking up next to him. And then that part died too and I began missing him. Not in the way you miss someone when they go away on a trip or that way you miss someone after you’ve broken up, but in the way you miss someone because he’s dead.

It was while lost in the missing that I went and asked for a clone harvest. Seeing Sai-clone was surreal. Because it was Sai before Haymore’s Disease and I’d forgotten how vibrant he’d once been.

We were wonderful together, Sai-clone and me, and our life together was wonderful and everything continued to be wonderful until suddenly the wonderful was stale because it was the same wonderful like air that’s being constantly recycled. You fantasize about a relationship that stays in that first awakening of love, but when it happens you realize the artificiality of it all, of love itself, and you feel kinda sick.

So, I had Sai-clone terminated because it wasn’t Sai, just a doll, a thing unable to grow and change and really love, love me. Because it couldn’t. It was a clone so of course all it could offer me was clone-love. I was rejecting clone-love, not Sai, so don’t judge me. This is exactly what I told the clone harvesters because by law, I had to make a statement about why I wanted the clone terminated, and they said, yes, sometimes there’s a flaw in the process and a clone gets frozen in a state. Doing a quick check, they saw that Sai-clone hadn’t aged even an hour after leaving the harvest farm. Very rare, they said. Would you like another harvest?

I felt odd having a legitimate reason for my feelings. It wasn’t me, it was science. Now I felt compelled to say ‘yes, please’. Just to get rid of that awful taste. I wasn’t sure what that taste was. Failure? Longing? Incompletion? Clone-love? Science?

Sai-clone II was Sai times 1000. Supernaturally beautiful. Kind, attentive, worshipful. His passion for me burned through his eyes like deadly laser beams puncturing my soul with black ulcers. I was his whole world. Which meant he couldn’t do a thing without me. Couldn’t leave the house, order lunch, make friends, buy groceries, etc. He couldn’t even tell me what he wanted for lunch, he was so choked up with emotion: Ham or chicken? Ham or chicken? Just answer the god-damn question, Sai, ham or feckin’ chicken, ham or feckin’ chicken!!!

My nerves were shredded, so, I asked for another termination.

‘What happened to Sai?’ I asked the harvesters. Where was Sai? The Sai who’d laugh at me for being such a Mistport Minnie? The Sai who mocked me for picking out pieces of onion in my potato salad? I was always late for everything and it used to drive him crazy. Twenty minutes was the maximum he’d wait for me. Sai-clone II would literally wait until the end of the world. And there’s nothing romantic about literally. This was Sai with a personality castration.

You shouldn’t take it so personally, the harvesters told me. But it was personal: I’d had two defective Sais. Or was it three because the original Sai had diseased and died. According to science, that’s a far worse defect.

I forgot to mention that more than once, Sai-clone II had stayed up all night just to stare at my sleeping face. So creepy. And then I remembered. About a year after Sai died, I was finally clearing out the little work pod he’d kept in the backyard and I discovered this metal box full of things. Creepy things. A tiny clear envelope of long brown hair. Three strands, carefully collected and preserved. A slightly used napkin — the kind you get at cheap restaurants. A fork, the cap to a bottle. Just endless, nonsensical things. Two aspirin pills? And then I found photos. Dozens and dozens of pictures, all of the same girl, at different angles, even aerial, each with detailed notes, where and when, occasion, reason, what Sai was feeling at that moment. And the thing is, it was clear the girl wasn’t even aware Sai was taking her photos. There were even ones of her sleeping. Sai, at one time in his life, had been a stalker. A creepy, asshole stalker.

It could have been worse. What if I’d found a stack of stinking bad poems lovesick Sai had written? That would have completely destroyed me. Perhaps he had. What did I know? But, at least he’d had the good sense to destroy them. That restored my faith in Sai so the love returned. I destroyed everything in the box. Even the memory of it. I didn’t realize memories came remanufactured with clones.

Sai-clone III. I kept waiting for a defect to emerge. But it never did. He was truly Sai. He sang off-key and didn’t care. He took me to restaurants with really bad health ratings. His socks were mismatched. Sometimes he’d go for days forgetting to shower because he was working on his latest conspiracy theory (he was obsessed with the Outer Hebrides and this weird, incomprehensible book The Right To Self Definition). And then one day he told me we were over. Because he’d fallen in love with some other Minnie (it took me two days to pry that out of him). A woman even more frivolous and wacky than I was. And I cried, for days, because it felt right. This was love and I was accustomed to it.

[soundtrack, volume at subconscious level, been playing in the background all along: Ella Fitzgerald singing intro of ‘These Foolish Things’ (1957), lyrics written by Eric Maschwitz, inspired by a love affair (?) with legendary actress Anna May Wong (?), or equally legendary actress Hermione Gingold (?), or singer Jean Ross (?). ‘These Foolish Things’ is a ‘list’ song, a catalog, DNA code of lost love — is love itself nothing but a process of cloning, the clone, bits of indulged self, living through May, Gingold, Ross, each performer passion clones? A clone is resurrection. Resurrection is false time.]

First published in Kanstellation.

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These Foolish Things was originally published in Triple Eight Palace of Dreams & Happiness on Medium, where people are continuing the conversation by highlighting and responding to this story.

Countryside

A video look inside my book art project ‘Countryside’.

Cover image of the ‘Countryside’ video (copyright J.A. Pak)https://medium.com/media/9a458cbc961fb8a06cc9fcd83f75b301/href[image error]

Countryside was originally published in Triple Eight Palace of Dreams & Happiness on Medium, where people are continuing the conversation by highlighting and responding to this story.

Pretty is the Picture

Copyright J.A. Pak

You buy a pair of pretty shoes and wait for that perfect day to wear it with that dress you’ve been saving to wear on that perfect day with a pair of perfect shoes and the shoes bite into you, the cheap vinyl, the rough leather, savage bites that take chunks out of you, blood & plasma oozing, and you keep forgetting, and you will keep forgetting, because there is always that pair of pretty shoes, pretty the visage of vicious.

Astonishing, the quick reaction, primal, instinctual, physical; the split second when the knowing comes: yes, they think I’m beautiful/ugly, the look at/away, worship, disgust, a subconscious tensing of the body. Ugly has only one reaction but beauty a multitude of strange encounters. The voice of the guy working behind the deli counter bounces higher (and there’s more meat in the sandwich). Waitresses let me linger at the table. In Seville a group of young men block my path so that their handsome, valiant leader can come to my rescue: a deep bow, a cavalier wave of an arm that extends to an absent hat, the path now cleared for me. Beauty has its own theater. The guy selling foie gras in a tent (late evening, Noël falling on the streets of Ile St Louis). He’s bel ami: fine, noble features, lean build, long, dead-straight blond hair tied into an elegant ponytail, his blue eyes pressing deep into mine, waiting for an answer to a question I will never acknowledge. Maupassant, snow, the old cobbled street, my high heels getting stuck in the cracks, encounters repeated in Prague, Seoul, at bus stops, under grabbed umbrellas.

Ugly is object, totem, relic, fetish, oracle, scapegoat. A permission to hate me. Beauty is a connection to the divine, the afterglow of a previous life lived in moral perfection. Beauty is a pass for bad behavior. Beauty isn’t exceptional at all, just an averaging of all the faces the eye will see. That pair of shoes we all want because we all want it. Consensus Demand: terror, exclusion. Local, ethnic, cultural, banal. Blood, plasma oozing:

The successful journalist who, while in the middle of a lecture, remembers a man once wrote to her and said she was pretty, her voice breaking. The legendary athlete who starts to cry, not because she lost the game but because someone in the crowd shouted ‘You’re pretty!’

Beauty erases anonymity. A work colleague you hardly know makes a cryptic remark and you realize that all their unanswered love-longings have been transferred onto you. They become cruel, demanding, self-pitying, pathetic. Masturbation against the cold statue of beauty. On a cold, blustery London day, a young man, French, alone, lonely, lost, comes up to you and asks where the nearest convenience store is and when you say you don’t know, he repeats your words in a quavering voice —

— trying to prolong the connection and his eyes say that what he really wants is for you to take his hand and lead him back to your cozy place for a hot cup of chocolate and a soul-renewing fuck.

Beauty is frozen in that one moment of eye contact. Beauty/ugly is Medusa, that split second, when beauty/ugly paralyzes and there’s shame in feeling. This weighing of you. This fight against me.

More from Chaos Back to Me, which can be purchased on Amazon

https://www.amazon.com/dp/B08XL9R1S8

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Pretty is the Picture was originally published in Triple Eight Palace of Dreams & Happiness on Medium, where people are continuing the conversation by highlighting and responding to this story.

The Colour Poetics of my Uterus

Copyright J.A. Pak[image error]

The Colour Poetics of my Uterus was originally published in Triple Eight Palace of Dreams & Happiness on Medium, where people are continuing the conversation by highlighting and responding to this story.

Brief Love, Poetry Art Book

copyright J.A. Pak

Peruse my Bruno Munari inspired poetry art book via my Vimeo video.

https://medium.com/media/6b29c2d14c9d064783474ed9fc97453f/href[image error]

Brief Love, Poetry Art Book was originally published in Triple Eight Palace of Dreams & Happiness on Medium, where people are continuing the conversation by highlighting and responding to this story.