In the year 2017, science had not yet detected mind-droplets. Oddly, that would happen in the midst of Armageddon some years later. Even then, science would only glimpse the phenomenon. A few scholarly articles would be written, but overall, the discovery would be overlooked as humanity grappled with bigger issues, such as California sliding off into the ocean.
Still, mind-droplets had always existed. Sometimes a person would walk through one and experience what humanity then called deja vu.
At 4:02 a.m., Saturday, January 28, 2017 a mind-droplet of the soon-to-be novelist Steve Brown floated about four feet above the balcony of his former fifth-floor apartment in El Paso, Texas.
It was a cool, clear night, 34 degrees Fahrenheit. A slight wind blew from the north. If one could observe a mind-droplet with the naked eye, then a silvery bean-shaped object about the size of a speck of dust floated (as noted before) about four feet above the writer's former balcony.
Mind-droplets are bits of the subconscious that won't let go when the host-person has moved on in life. There are millions of mind droplets, but few minds ever connect back with them.
Sometimes a mind will reconnect with a droplet during the dream cycle. At 4:02 a.m., Saturday, January 28, 2017, during rapid eye movement, the soon-to-be novelist Steve Brown saw a transient man in a fishing hat and trench coat push a shopping cart with all his earthly positions up Mesa Street, north, into the slight but biting wind. A couple of transvestite prostitutes stood on the corner of Oregon, just outside the Budget Motel, talking, obviously trying to distract themselves from the cold.
Simultaneously, another mind-droplet of the novelist hung above the moonlit mouth of Santa Elena Canyon of Big Bend National Park, 292 miles away, observing the silvery Rio Grande slip into shadows of the rock walls and vanish into the overwhelming silence of stone. But as the novelist's mind never connected with that droplet, no dream occurred.
For whatever reason, that was not the case with Mesa Street. As the dreamer's mind was reaching out unseen tentacles, searching for mind-droplets, it "noticed" the kidney-shaped droplet at his former residence detect a priest walking in the opposite direction of the vagabond, down towards St. Patrick's Cathedral. Besides the odd hour, there was just something about the priest that needed noticing.
Although mind-droplets remain in proximity to where they were left behind, they do pulsate, move, and even roam to some extent. In his sleep, the novelist floated above Mesa Street, an occasional car passing below him, until the priest passed under a street light, his strawberry hair glistening. At that moment, for whatever reason, the novelist's eye dropped quickly to where it was almost like walking beside this unknown man of the cloth, who seemed to be in a hurry. In his hand, the priest carried what was obviously a bottle of liquor in a brown, paper bag.
The dreamer didn't think much of this. Catholics, after all, unlike Mormons, are allowed to consume alcohol. The only thing odd was the time of night, or rather morning.
Mind-droplets produce a clarity like nothing experienced through ordinary consciousness. The closest thing to it is the way shadows look right before a solar eclipse. Mind-droplets pick up so much detail it sometimes becomes confusing to the observer--rich detail, full of vibrant colors, layered up. It's almost as if the mind droplet can see external and internal structures simultaneously.
The shadows of the swaying palm trees on the sidewalk outside St. Patrick's Cathedral cast by the street lights were spectacular to say the least, as was the red brick wall and candy colored stained glass windows of the cathedral's west wall.
As the priest passed the wall and headed towards the front of the building, the mind-droplet passed through the wall and into a small office with mahogany bookshelves and a big, ornate wood desk with a simple green banker's lamp on it, already turned on. On the desk, a journal was open. The mind-droplet hovered above it, noticing the following text:
Friday a man came into confession and said, "Forgive me Father, for I have sinned". He then related the following story, which I recorded on my I-phone, because when it comes to the sanctity of confession, it seems that I have no morals.
As the mind droplet was observing the text, the door opened and the priest entered with his brown bag. The interior light picked up strands of gray in the man's strawberry blond hair in a way the street lamps had not. He his face was lightly freckled and somewhat blotched and wrinkled. He didn't look haggardly, just overly weary and naturally sliding past middle age.
He removed a bottle of Jim Beam bourbon from the bag and threw the paper in a small silver trash can beside the desk. The mind-droplet observed that the bourbon was the same color as the aged lacquer finish on the door. The priest sat down, removed a heavy crystal whisky glass from the drawer and filled it up. He took a small sip, licked his lips, set it down and grabbed the marble-textured pen sitting next to the journal. He sighed like a housewife before a sink of dirty dishes and continued where he had left off:
I'm obsessed with people's stories, especially the ones of strangers, like the one below. I don't mean to, I don't want to, but I can't help it. When I'm listening to a good confession, I find myself reaching for my I-phone, opening up Voice Memo, and hitting record. Let's be honest here, these days I hit record the minute my soul-scorched confessor opens his mouth. I quietly place my I-phone on that little dusty dark lacquered mahogany shelf in the confessional; it's ready, tucked back where it can't be seen; all I have to do is hit record. That is why I'm leaving the priesthood. I'm not sure what I'll do instead. I'm 47 years old.
Although the mind-droplet was observing the text over the man's shoulder, somehow it could also see a tear for from the corner of the priest's pale blue eye. The sap followed a crease away from the eyes a ways and then dropped down the blotchy stubbled skin. The man took another gulp of bourbon and continued to write:
But now is not the time to worry about that. I need to get down this story before I accidentally erase it. That's happened a couple times. I was able to remember the gist of it, but that's not what makes a good story. A real story isn't built around a strong plot, like most people think. It's built around those ridiculous little details that unfold in the confessor's mind as he recounts where the great universal antagonist Yearning devoured his sanity and destroyed his life. If you boiled the story down to the exposition, rising action, climax, and resolution--which is always one of confusion and despair, at least in the stories I hear--it would lose all its impact, no matter how devastating the lesson learned was. No, the real magic lies not in the suspense of seeing just how-off track people's lives get--although that's pretty powerful in itself, heartbreaking really--but rather in the strange little details people choose to include as they relate how desire has shredded their lives until they are at a point where they have nothing left to give this world except a good story.
The mind-droplet could detect a change in the man's countenance. As he wrote his demeanor was shifting from dread to joy:
Why do they include all those great little details? Who cares now that you're desperate enough to tell a stranger behind a screen the deepest contents of your soul? That life is gone. Over. You can't get it back. Choice has forever cut you off from that narrative. Consequence has kicked your butt out of the garden. The fact that you take the time to describe the apple in great detail when it's all thorns and thistles from her on out amazes me.
By now the priest's movements were sprite, and a thin smile sat Mono Lisa like on his lips. There was a gleam in his eyes.
That's why I record. Where does that impulse come from? I've got to know. So anyway, here is a story I heard Friday, January 22, 2017 at 3:47 in the afternoon, on this, my last day as a priest at St. Patrick's Cathedral in El Paso, Texas:
He paused in his writing, turned on his I-phone, went to voice memo, paused for a good while. He took a big gulp from his glass. Finally, aloud, he said, "No, it's the right thing to do" and hit play. As he did, he wrote down the auditory message:
One day back in early September of the year 2001, I was at a school cafeteria in Niles, Nebraska, where both my wife and I taught school at a small high school there. We were lucky enough to have the same lunch hour, and so we always ate together. I had noticed she had not gotten her drink. This was before Michelle Obama, of course. The school had a self-serve fountain machine. I saw her at one of the two round tables beyond the dark wood lattice screen that separated the "teacher's lounge" from the rest of the cafeteria.
The priest paused the phone to catch up. He actually had to take his fat finger and slide it left across the slick screen and go back a bit as he'd missed some:
I saw her at one of the two round tables beyond the dark wood lattice screen that separated the "teacher's lounge" from the rest of the cafeteria.
He paused again. He licked his lips. "Nice" he said aloud. And then asked in his head, Why include dark wood? Aloud he said, "Amazing, simply amazing". He hit play again:
Niles High is a small school of about 400 students, and so the teachers don't have a conventional faculty lounge. Anyway, I saw her through that screen, which was quite nice, designed by our custodian Ray Thomas, and decorated by his wife, Millie, who worked in the cafeteria.
He quickly hit pause. Clapped his hands. "Wonderful! Who gives a crap? You're about to tell me about the disintegration of your marriage. And yet do. Those details still delight you!" He hit play:
On top were three planters in which Millie had planted tropical vines that trailed gracefully down over the lattice divider. Then, she'd purchased silk flowers and placed them randomly in the slots. Pastel pinks and baby blues. I'm not gay, as my narrative will prove, but I do like a good decor. It looked like something that you'd find in a high-end Chinese buffet in Garden City or Omaha.
Pause again. "I'm not gay either, and I'm a priest. You though are a wonderful, wonderful man. I almost wish I was." He pushed play:
Anyway, I was looking through that screen at my beautiful wife. She was wearing a bright turquoise blouse. I loved the way she looked in that color. I noticed she'd forgotten to get her soda. She never did that. She wouldn't admit to it, but she was addicted to Diet Dr. Pepper. So, I yelled over and asked if she wanted me to get her one.
She yelled back, "They're all out."
At that moment, for whatever reason, the mind of Steve Brown disconnected with the droplet and he awoke, feeling great joy.
He had always wanted to write a novel but just never seemed to have it in him, and so he stuck to poems. They had worked better for him. He saw in little broken bits of film strip. Nothing connected long enough to get up a good narrative. Poems could leap between images in ways novels cold not. He had always failed to find larger stories worthy to tell.
Now, all of the sudden he realized, all stories are worth telling. It's not in what they say, but in how they unfold. It's in all those little ridiculous details. If he worked hard enough at getting the details right, the stories would tell themselves. All he had to do, in a sense, is hit record as they flowered forth in his mind.
Steve walked out into the living room, turned on the light, grabbed his lap top, and sat down in his blue chair to write. His golden retriever ambled sleepily over from the dining room and hopped up on the couch beside him and went back to sleep.
If there were a mind-droplet in the room, it would have observed a literal, discernible glow radiating from the novelist as he was typing. He now realized there were more stories than he could possibly ever tell. All he had to do is write them down.
