Jonah Bossewitch	ENG 363

March 26, 1996	Sarah Churchwell

The Editor

The draw slid open with a flick of my wet wrist, and I studied its contents. Out of touch with my mood, I stared blankly for close to three minutes. I finally narrowed down my options to the pair with the blue stripe on top of the yellow stripe, or its symmetrical twin, and with some hesitation chose the former. I carried the socks back to my bed, dreading the mind numbing fashion decisions yet to come, and finished dressing. The first card of the day had been drawn: the Two of Discs.

The shower had broken its promise to wash away my drowsiness, and I wished that I had hit the snooze button at least on more time. Or, more to the point, I should have quit last night after the fifth reading (or at least stopped drinking then...). Tapping into the primal forces of nature really deserved more respect than a side show freak act, but I had tried my hand reading full time, and I couldn't even cover the rent. Which forced me to confine my true passion to after hours at a college bar named The Gypsy Rainbow Voices. Between 8am and those precious hours at The Gypsy (as the kids liked to call it), my powers were confined to a mere shadow of their full extension, as my body was imprisoned in the suit/tie/wingtip combo - the urban version of the steel jawed animal traps that SNAP shut on their unsuspecting prey.

A good breakfast would certainly ease the task of pouring over another manuscript today so I decided to make a quick stop for the 99¢ breakfast special (which wound up costing $3.14 including coffee, tax, and tip, and wasn't really anything special). Wanda greeted me with her usual "Mornin' Stan, your looking good today." I peered at my reflection in her mirrored sunglasses, exchanged the appropriate pleasantries, and gave her my order. Wanda has a rare retina condition that forces here to wear sunglasses all the time. The effect was sometimes unnerving even to those familiar with her medical needs. The diner was lined with mirrors to give it the illusion of size, and when Wanda was standing at just the right angle, I could surround myself with an infinite number of copies of my haggard expression.

I contemplated my meal and stared down the condiments. A creature's identity is nothing more than the details of its existence, and while some have mocked me for my meticulous attention to particulars, I insist that they must be taken seriously. If you subtract the behavior from the description of a personality, then what is left to describe? I had always been interested in crafting my own identity, and found that the best way to accomplish this was through control over my decisions.

This morning was not ideal for experimenting, but my synapses must have been producing an excess of adventure neurotransmitters, and I decided that now was the perfect time. I had been brought up in a household where you did what you were told, and ate what was put in front of you. The freedom to flavor my food according to my tastes was new to me, and I was cautious when it came to exotic spices and dishes. Hot pepper sauce may not sound so exotic, but to a Tabasco virgin, Tabasco represents the very essence of Fire: energy, strength, force, vigor, solar-phallic outburst of flame. The waitress arrived with my order, twin brown glistening English muffins, hash browns, and eggs over easy. I popped the green plastic cork off the miniature bottle of liquid fire, and drew the second card of the day: the Ace of Wands.

I felt that my decision to embrace Tabasco sauce for the first time completely turned my day around. I resolved to face my desk and the meter high pile of manuscripts awaiting me with a newfound enthusiasm. Perhaps today I would stumble across a text that would change my life (doubtful, but always possible), evoke a forgotten childhood memory, or at least make me laugh. The third card was drawn, and this time it was a Trump: The Star.

The third card of the day completed the triad that would form the template of today's journey through mind-space. This combination of cards was strange, and would require an intense session to decipher their meaning. Despite apparent evidence to the contrary, I do not consider myself superstitious. I believe that Tarot cards carry as much meaning as the user brings with them. While most of my customers at The Gypsy consider my readings to be an outdated, cute, novelty item, the Tarot has proven itself to be a powerful metaphor in my life. Its rich language and symbolism have enabled me to access and traverse long lost realms, whose secret portals and topological maps died with the last Cabbalist.

To get to work I could either take the M74, which stops right in front of my office, or take the M93 and transfer to the crosstown. Both buses stop at the corner, and I usually take whichever one comes first. I decided to buy a daily paper to read on the bus, and when I came out of the stationary store I saw a cluster of three busses pulling away from my stop. Damn! Why do they let them bunch up like that? I knew from experience that it would be another 15 minutes before the next bus, plus it was one of the first days of spring. The sun was beckoning, (more like commanding me to worship it) so I decided to spurn the timeclock and walk to work across the park, taking care not to lose myself in its virtual labyrinth of paths.

I rationalized that the walk would be good exercise, and would give me a chance to mull over the manuscript I had finished reading yesterday. The book was called The Garden of Forking Paths, and according to the letter that had come with it, the author had died writing it. The book had arrived at Stan's publishing firm under shady circumstances, and Stan suspected that 'Ts'ui Pen' was a pen name, and the whole business about giving up his wealth and writing to death was a marketing ploy. Regardless, it might actually be an effective gimmick, and Stan figured he might be able to sell 50,000 copies with a flashy cover, more if he got it on a few college reading lists.

What bothered me as I sauntered through the lazy, looping, trails was the arrogant claim that accompanied the Pen manuscript. Pen (for lack of any other Pronoun) had the audacity to assert that his novel was the definitive work on the metaphysics of time. In my position as Assistant Editor of a prestigious University Press, I had processed many philosophical texts. Although I was certainly not an expert when it came to hardcore analytical philosophy, I could hold up my end in most philosophical dialogues (even without the assistance of drugs).

IMHO The Garden of Forking Paths suffered from the malady that afflicted much of the literature I encountered. Its claim to fame was that it gestured at a philosophical problem, without rigorously attempting resolve or buttress it, as if the identification of an argument dissolves it. Occasionally, an author would fuse the two art forms and produce a philosophically satisfying piece literature, but Pen had failed to find the overlapping sections of his own labyrinth. He had written a Choose Your Own Adventure novel, minus the choices, and expected his readers to be awed. I had caught on to [Labyrinth = Book] scheme early on, and quite frankly, I had heard it all before. The Universe is composed of an infinite number of words, with a new world created for every decision ever made, time is a web, blah, blah, blah... 'Other worlds' theories have been circulating for centuries, surfacing to explain (away) everything from free will, to quantum physics. The Garden of Forking Paths was a nice exposition of what such a Universe might be like, but it did not provide any new arguments to convince me that we actually live in such a Universe.

Some claimed that I was missing the point of literature, as it was intended primarily to entertain. The great unsolved mysteries serve as nothing more than hooks to hang the plot form, and happen to appeal to most readers innate curiosity. Good literature can also serve as a catalyst for the reader in the same way that I used a well illustrated deck of Tarot cards (or so my coworkers would argue). Out loud I would agree with them, but even by their standards I would prefer Philip Dick over Ts'ui Pen any day.

Ts'ui Pen had got me wondering about a corollary his 'other world' theory that I had never considered. It was the narrative style that brought the problem into focus, and the tiniest of all words, really just a letter, made it impossible to ignore. I'm talking about the innocent character 'I' that cropped up in all of the parallel, diverging, and interrelated versions of time. Consider Fang, the protagonist of the novel (or perhaps its correct to speak of the protagonists). If we are to follow through on Pen's conception of time, and at every decision a bifurcation occurs, then each bifurcations produces many new Fangs (technically a bifurcation only splits into two threads, but a fortiori this argument applies to the general case of an infinite number of branches stemming from each node). Which Fang is the "real", or the original Fang, or, are they somehow all Fang? Is Fang's personal identity preserved throughout all of the branching? On an experiential level, will both Fangs feel as if everything is normal, and that he is who he always thought he was?

Personal identity is a very slippery concept, that I had often grappled with. I had been convinced by arguments that personal identity does not depend on either physical or psychological continuity. The implication of these arguments is that personal identity does not exist, and that my past self (Stan') was a different person that my present self (Stan) who of course was different from my future self (Stan''). While awkward at first, this understanding had become comfortable and meaningful over time - but it only made sense over linear time. I wasn't sure what it would mean to have an infinite number of Stans running around in their respective worlds all believing to be me. Wasn't I the only real me at 8:39am on March, 20 1996?

I was freed from this vicious cycle of thoughts by sensuous short-haired, red-highlighted, brunette, who was walking what appeared to be a medium size turtle. "Good Morning," she smiled. "Would you mind watching my turtle for a minute? Don't worry, he doesn't bite." Turtles were one of my favorite hobbies, and besides, I felt the urge to get to know her. I accepted guardianship and she skipped away, leaving me to ponder the wording of my next line. The turtle was lazy, and I studied its shell intently. Some cultures used to tell time by a turtle's shell, back when time was measured in months and days instead of minutes and seconds. It had been quite a while since I had been involved, and I was getting tired of the girls I brought home from The Gypsy. When she returned, I found out June's vital statistics (name, number, favorite music, colors, and theologies) and arranged to meet for dinner. The day was off to a fine start, and I continued on to the office with renewed faith.

I took the steps instead of the elevator, paying for the time it cost me with the benefits to my body. I was out of breath when I arrived upstairs, and was surprised and worried to find a note on my desk directing me to see the Boss immediately. He usually only checked up on me every other week, and I was concerned that he had discovered my tardy tendencies. Not only were my fears a false alarm, but he had called me in to congratulate me on my promotion. I couldn't believe my luck, and was starting to wonder if the entire morning had been a bizarre, hallucinogenic dream. Circumstances had sent me reeling, and I decided to combat my disorientation with the best trick I knew - a session.

I bound the Teffilin firmly, winding them seven times around my arm, three times around my hand, and three times around my middle finger, spelling out sacred letters, energy fluxes, and coded paths. I rhythmically relaxed my breathing, began my dancelike yoga routine, and watched the candle flickering in front of me. The daily drill proceeded unaided: the blue flame intensified to white, immersed in the landmark sensations, self fading, traversing the tree of life. The morning triad guided the flow, and understanding leapt out of primordial consciousness, encrypted visions.

I emerged a three quarters of an hour later, blew out the candle, and returned the black leather boxes to their velvet monogrammed pouch. My respect for Ts'ui Pen had grown infinitely, as I fathomed the implications of my new discovery. My journey had been eerie, for I had traveled a well worn path, but I had experienced it from an entirely fresh perspective. I had not recognized anything, until it I realized that my objective "view from nowhere" had shifted orientations. Sometime this morning I had made a decision that transported me into an alternate branching of my previous world. Don't as me what the other current Stan(s) are doing or feeling right now, but I know that I am me, and that somehow this is not my world. In my world, I never would have tried that Tabasco sauce, or had an optimistic thought concerning a days work. I had created (or perhaps graduated) into a better world that my other selves. I wondered whether I ought to feel sorry for all the other Stans who were stuck in their worlds without dates, and with my old job. Then I considered all of the choices that I was constantly making that might keep me out of some imaginary new and improved world. Should I be content that at least some of the infinite number of Stans are enjoying themselves in some of the infinite number of worlds? All I know is that in this world, this Stan has got a dinner date to look forward to, and an infinite number of editorial decisions to make between now and then.