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16. Mt. Fuji from Umezawa
Fuji across lava fields and wisps of fog, drifting clouds; birds on the wing and birds on the ground. This one at least is close. I lean on my staff and stare at his peaceful reaches across the chaos. The lesson is like that of a piece of music: I am strengthened in some fashion I ca
And I had seen blossoming cherry trees on the way over here, and fields purple with clover, cultivated fields yellow with rape-blossoms, grown for its oil, a few winter camellias still holding forth their reds and pinks, the green shoots of rice beds, here and there a tulip tree dashed with white, blue mountains in the distance, foggy river valleys. I had passed villages where colored sheet metal now covers the roofs’ thatching—blue and yellow, green, black, red—and yards filled with the slate-blue rocks so fine for landscape gardening; an occasional cow, munching, lowing softly; scarlike rows of plastic-covered mulberry bushes where the silkworms are bred. My heart jogged at the sights—the tiles, the little bridges, the color. . . . It was like entering a tale by Lafcadio Hearn, to have come back.
My mind was drawn back along the path I had followed, to the points of its intersection with my electronic bane. Hokusai’s warning that night I drank too much—that his prints may trap me—could well be correct. Kit had anticipated my passage a number of times. How could he have?
Then it struck me. My little book of Hokusai’s prints—a small cloth-bound volume by the Charles ES. Turtle Company—had been a present from Kit.
It is possible that he was expecting me in Japan at about this time, because of Osaka. Once his epigons had spotted me a couple of times, probably in a massive sca
Entering the data-net with Kit was an overwhelming experience. That my consciousness spread and flowed I do not deny. That I was many places simultaneously, that I rode currents I did not at first understand, that knowledge and transcendence and a kind of glory were all about me and within me was also a fact of peculiar perception. The speed with which I was borne seemed instantaneous, and this was a taste of eternity. The access to multitudes of terminals and enormous memory banks seemed a measure of omniscience. The possibility of the manipulation of whatever I would change within this realm and its consequences at that place where I still felt my distant body seemed a version of omnipotence. And the feeling . . . I tasted the sweetness, Kit with me and within me. It was self surrendered and recovered in a new incarnation, it was freedom from mundane desire, liberation . . .
“Stay with me here forever,” Kit seemed to say.
“No,” I seemed to answer, dreamlike, finding myself changing even further. “I ca
“Not for this? For unity and the flow of co
“And this wonderful lack of responsibility?”
“Responsibility? For what? This is pure existence. There is no past.”
“Then conscience vanishes.”
“What do you need it for? There is no future either.”
“Then all actions lose their meaning.”
“True. Action is an illusion. Consequence is an illusion.”
“And paradox triumphs over reason.”
“There is no paradox. All is reconciled.”
“Then meaning dies.”
“Being is the only meaning.”
“Are you certain?”
“Feel it!”
“I do. But it is not enough. Send me back before I am changed into something I do not wish to be.”
“What more could you desire than this?”
“My imagination will die, also. I can feel it.”
“And what is imagination?”
“A thing born of feeling and reason.”
“Does this not feel right?”
“Yes, it feels right. But I do not want that feeling unaccompanied. When I touch feeling with reason, I see that it is sometimes but an excuse for failing to close with complexity.”
“You can deal with any complexity here. Behold the data! Does reason not show you that this condition is far superior to that you knew but moments ago?”
“Nor can I trust reason unaccompanied. Reason without feeling has led humanity to enact monstrosities. Do not attempt to disassemble my imagination this way.”
“You retain your reason and your feelings!”
“But they are coming unplugged—with this storm of bliss, this shower of data. I need them conjoined, else my imagination is lost.”
“Let it be lost, then. It has served its purpose. Be done with it now. What can you imagine that you do not already have here?”
“I ca
“And that is all? A wisp of possibility?”
“No. But it alone is too much to deny.”
“And my love for you?”
“You no longer love in the human way. Let me go back.”
“Of course. You will think about it. You will return.”
“Back! Now!”
I pushed the helmet from my head and rose quickly. I returned to the bathroom, then to my bed. I slept as if drugged, for a long while.
Would I have felt differently about possibilities, the future, imagination, had I not been pregnant—a thing I had suspected but not yet mentioned to him, and which he had missed learning with his attention focused upon our argument? I like to think that my answers would have been the same, but I will never know. My condition was confirmed by a local doctor the following day. I made the visit I had been putting off because my life required a certainty of something then—a certainty of anything. The screen in the work area remained blank for three days.
I read and I meditated. Then of an evening the light came on again:
ARE YOU READY?
I activated the keyboard. I typed one word:
NO.
I disco
The telephone rang.
“Hello?” I said.
“Why not?” he asked me.
I screamed and hung up. He had penetrated the phone circuits, appropriated a voice.
It rang again. I answered again.
“You will never know rest until you come to me,” he said.
“I will if you will leave me alone,” I told him.
“I ca
I hung up. It rang again. I tore the phone from the wall.
I had known that I would have to leave soon. I was overwhelmed and depressed by all the reminders of our life together. I packed quickly and I departed. I took a room at a hotel. As soon as I was settled into it, the telephone rang and it was Kit again. My registration had gone into a computer and . . .
I had them disco
I determined to go far away. To leave the country, to return to the States.
It was easy for him to follow me. We leave electronic tracks almost everywhere. By cable, satellite, optic fiber he could be wherever he chose. Like an unwanted suitor now he pestered me with calls, interrupted television shows to flash messages upon the screen, broke in on my own calls, to friends, lawyers, realtors, stores. Several times, horribly, he even sent me flowers. My electric bodhisattva, my hound of heaven, would give me no rest. It is a terrible thing to be married to a persistent data-net.