The Sylvia Plath Effect

The Sylvia Plath Effect


I count religion but a childish toy, and hold there is no sin but ignorance.

-Christopher Marlowe


ONE


         He was from another planet.  He was from a planet so far away that he had never heard of the Milky Way Galaxy, let alone Earth.  His place of origin cannot be pronounced in English, or any Earth language for that matter.  Human mouths are simply incapable of producing the necessary sounds.  Fermar, as his peers knew him, had achieved the highest level of literary success during his lifetime, which was about to end shortly.
         Fermar’s life was about to end indeed, and nothing was going to change his mind.  The notion to commit suicide hadn’t occurred to him out of thin air, or perhaps it did.  Actually, he had told himself years ago that he would never take his own life.  Who would consciously make the decision to cease to exist?  The very thought of it shriveled his tiny testes, made his hair pulse a bloody red, (which was the primary indicator of mood on his home planet) but that was before he met Hunter S. Thompson. 
         Thompson reached Fermar’s planet five years after his 2005 suicide.  He had been roaming the universe in search of anything other than the American dream, which as it turned out, you had to actually be in deep slumber to locate.  Thompson had given up on life as he knew it, and as his health was steadily declining, decided things would be better off if he put a bullet through his head. 
         He was right.  Here’s the discovery that Thompson (along with many others) uncovered regarding suicide:  You take control of your soul the moment you take your own life.   
         Suddenly, Hunter S. Thompson was a ghost, something other souls weren’t able to become simply through the act of dying.  No pearly gates, no moment of divine judgment, simply freedom.  Thompson traveled the Earth at the speed of thought.  He was invisible, but had the choice to materialize if necessary.  A world traveler overnight, he quickly tired of the Earth, and soon ventured out into the solar system.  As he left the friendly confines of the Milky Way, he encountered several intelligent beings, one of them being Fermar. 
         Nothing spectacular was happening when Fermar and Thompson met face to face.  Fermar was doing what he normally did in his spare time.  He was reading above his 325,000 square foot, subterranean mansion.  Above the house stretched a brilliant white garden buzzing with the chirps and drone of flora and fauna.  The temperature was a constant 68 degrees. Writing had allowed Fermar to build the most impressive and expensive housing within hundreds of miles, but his true passion was reading.
         Lost in someone else’s words when Thompson spotted him, Fermar rocked delicately back and forth on the swing in his great garden.  The swing squeaked lazily among the vivid blues and yellows that were flowers, flowers that resembled incandescent light bulbs crossed with shrunken palm trees.  They glowed in a dreary pulse matching the sound of Fermar’s swinging. Thompson initially observed Fermar from a distance.
         He was a peculiar being, not even reaching four feet in height.  His body seemed liquid, molding to the curve of the swing.  His skin was nothing short of pale, and he seemed to breathe through his pores rather than his mouth, inflating and deflating with each breath.  Electric blue hair poked from his scalp in all directions.
         Thompson materialized, assuming the form of his nineteen year old self.  He took a deep breath, but before he spoke realized that there was surely a language barrier, something he had learned rambling from planet to planet.  He would have to communicate through mental telepathy. 
         Excuse me. 
         Fermar looked up from the book.  The electric fibers on his head turned to a lemon yellow, effervescent.  Where’s that coming from?  Who’s there? 
         Over here sir.  Thompson read his mind. I don’t mean to alarm you, but do you have a moment?
There was a pause spanning fifteen seconds, and Thompson went on.  I’m not from here, but there’s no reason to be frightened.  I mean you no harm.
         Fermar placed the book down on the swing as he stood.  There Thompson was, a skinny frame, shifting his weight from side to side ever so slightly.  His eyes were kind. 
         Who are you?  Thought Fermar, his hair pulsing between a buzzing yellow and pure white. 
         Hunter Thompson.  I’m not sure how to put this lightly so I’ll just say it.  I’m dead.  I’ve been traveling the universe for several years now.  I come from a planet named Earth.  I’ve been all over the place, just roaming, searching for anyone or anything of interest.  What’s your name? 
         I’m…I’m called Fermar.  A ghost?  A traveling space ghost?
         Yeah, I guess I’m a traveling space ghost.  I was once a living, breathing human being.  A writer.  A journalist.  Some people knew me as Gonzo.  You can call me that if you’d like. 
         Gonzo.  And how’d you come to be this, Gonzo?  Fermar stood facing Thompson now.  His hair had steadied back to a constant hue, back to its lightning blue. 
         Well…by choice.  The only way one can become such a thing, I offed myself.  Gonzo mimicked shooting himself in the side of the head.  Suicide.  I was a miserable bastard, and I couldn’t take one more second of living.  Sure I wanted to die, but it was an accident, becoming a…a nomad of the universe.  Didn’t know I’d become this.  I was frightened at first, didn’t know I would still exist.  Then I met others, ghosts everywhere, and all suicides.  The first young lady I spoke to said I was certainly dead.  She saw the bullet hole.  She knew that I was recently deceased, and unaware I could change my appearance.  I didn’t know anything. 
         At this point Gonzo flashed to his form as he had appeared when he died.  Suddenly he was old, his spine no longer straight.  His eyes didn’t hold that youthful flash.  Instead, they wore pain hidden behind tinted glasses.  A small hole could be seen on the side of his head.  Fermar’s scalp was a strobe light again as he gasped, his body nearly doubling in size momentarily.  Gonzo continued.  She told me the ins and outs. 
         Ins and outs?
         Yeah, how it all works.  Suicide is the key.  It’s the moment when a being takes charge of its soul.  She told me I was free to do as I pleased, assume any form I wished.  No longer was I bound to the atmosphere of my shitty planet.  I could travel, meet other beings, and see their ways. 
         Fermar wasn’t sure how to take all this information.  He knew what he was seeing was real.  The thing changed form right before his eyes.  He stepped back for a moment.  Fell back into the swing.  The flowers reacted to the sound of his body falling back to a sitting position. I’m sorry.  He thought.  This is all just a little overwhelming.
         I completely understand.  What is it you do here? Gonzo questioned.  He reached for the book.  You mind?
         No, certainly not.  Take a look.  I’m a writer too.   
Gonzo looked at the characters on the page, indecipherable.  He flipped through the pages anyway. 
         Here.  Like this.  Fermar thought, adjusting the book properly in Gonzo’s hands so he was looking at the book correctly. 
         Your work?  Gonzo handed the book back. I can’t read a word of it.  I’d have to study your language. 
No.  No I never read my own work once it’s published.  I can’t stand it.  Anyhow it’s not for me at that point.  It’s in the hands of the reader.  Fermar set the book down.  I’ve had a great deal of success.  I hardly need to publish anything these days.  I spend most of my time reading.  What’s the literature like on your planet, on Earth?
         Gonzo brushed his feet over the plush, white grass.  He bent over to sniff the flowers, but they had no scent.  Instead, there was a soft melody coming from them as they pulsed, each in a different pitch, all in harmony.  It’s brilliant, some beautiful, some ugly, much like us, like humans.  Gonzo answered.  I’ve found that to be the case everywhere, everything brilliant in it’s own fashion.     
         Does it hurt? Fermar pointed at the miniature hole in Gonzo’s head, his hair buzzing a faint red. 
         Well not exactly.  There’s a moment of shock, something like being thrown into boiling and freezing water all at the same time.  Gonzo noticed the uneasiness his appearance was causing, the flashing locks on Fermar’s head.  He shifted back to his youthful self again.  Its incredible to see how diverse the universe is, how many different ways life exists.
Is there anything unique to your planet?  Something you’ve never found between the void of space?  Fermar’s curiosity blinked a neon greenish yellow, like a tennis ball. 
         Sure, plenty of things.
         Regarding art?
         Regarding art, I have never encountered theater anywhere else.
         Theater?
         It’s a story, a story being acted out, to put it in simple terms.  People assume the roles of different characters.  They wear costumes, there’s a stage that mimics setting, and these bastards watch as if the scenes being portrayed were real.  It’s the form of art that comes closest to representing real life.
Gonzo spent the next hour explaining the art form.  He gave a rough overview of the origins, the wonders of live performance, how the boundaries between reality and fiction were deconstructed.  Fermar listened, wide eyed with bewilderment, a tiny fireworks display on top his head.   
         Amazing, thought Fermar.  What grand artist created such a thing?  He imagined his own work being played out.  His body inflated and deflated at a quicker pace. 
         The greatest Earth has ever known was Shakespeare, William Shakespeare.  His plays are still construed by millions, centuries after his death. 
         Shakespeare.  Fermar thought.  I must see this. 





















TWO

         A great tree towered in the back quarters of Fermar’s garden.  Branches shot out from all angles of the velvety trunk.  Its leaves were the texture of goose down, fluttering in the breeze.  It stood resolutely, as if a colossal giant were to try his hand at uprooting the tree, he might detach the whole estate from the planet.  Fermar’s feet rocked back and forth like a pendulum above the white turf.  The leaves of the tree changed ever so slightly from pale green to a translucent grey with each creak of the rope from which Fermar hung.  His hair no longer stood on end, but instead lay parted down the middle, resting down past his shoulders like a black shroud.     













THREE

         Jimmi walked with his head down on the way to church, his bible in one hand and a thermos full of piping hot coffee in the other.  He always walked with his head down, averting his eyes from anyone passing by. 
         The dawn wore a lazy shade of violet fading into orange.  Sundays always had a dull emptiness in them, the hangover from a long week.  He cut through the sidewalk traffic, forcing others to alter their strides in order to pass by without brushing shoulders with the blind vessel that was Jimmi.  The walk to church was never eventful, and he wouldn’t even bother if his parents hadn’t forced him to go each week.   
         Suddenly, he collided with someone on the sidewalk with some force, both individuals dropping their belongings.  The thermos drenched the short man whom Jimmi had nearly pummeled to the ground.  Several books lay scattered on the concrete.  The man’s hair was a mess, his faded blue jeans were too tight and they struggled to meet his ankles.  He wore a baggy Yankees jersey bearing the great bambino’s number, reminding Jimmi of something his ten-year-old brother would wear.  His hair was a blue-white that looked like electricity ran through it.  Jimmi couldn’t recall seeing a stranger person.
         “Jesus Christ.  Are you okay?”  Jimmi said.  Steam was rising from the man’s French roast scented body, but he seemed unaffected by the scalding beverage dripping from his clothes. 
         “Yes, yes of course I’m okay.” The man said, brushing some of the liquid off his arms and bending down to pick up the collection of books he had been carrying.
         How is this man not writhing in pain?  Jimmi thought.  He looked like nothing bothered him at all besides the fact that he had dropped his beloved books. 
         “Oh I have a high tolerance for pain.”  The man said, and then he was off in a hurry, clothing soaked, books in hand. 
Jimmi stood there for a moment, wondering if perhaps he had spoken out loud.  He brushed the thought aside and continued toward the entrance of St. Mark’s Cathedral.  The church was tall and its gothic points climbed sharply toward the heavens.  He didn’t notice the man, who was now thoroughly dry, entering the church behind him.
         He found his normal place in the pews, toward the back of the church.  The red velvet cushions smelled old like the rest of the building, like an antique store.  Stained glass depicting the saints gave the churchgoers something to look at as they waited patiently for everyone to shuffle in.  Jimmi went to open his bible and flip through the pages aimlessly, only to find that what he held was a copy of Much Ado About Nothing, the Shakespeare play.  He must have inadvertently picked up one of the man books.  On the inside cover was a name, Christo F. Lowe.  The pages were highlighted in sections, presumably those that were particularly remarkable to Mr. Lowe, and notes were scribbled diligently on nearly every page.  This guy loved his Shakespeare.
         Just before Mass began, Christo slipped in and found a seat on the same row Jimmi was seated.  Several people gave him odd looks, doubtlessly at his choice in church attire.  Jimmi took notice of the odd individual, who held up his bible to indicate that they had swapped belongings by mistake.  Jimmi acknowledged the fact meekly and averted his eyes forward. 
Mass went on like any other would.  The priest led the congregation through the reading, through the rituals of worship.  Music bellowed from the giant organ, whose pipes shined brilliantly.  After communion the priest gave the closing prayers, followed by announcements.  As the Mass came to a close, suddenly Christo rose to his feet, bursting into a dramatic applause. 
         “Bravo!  Bravo!  Absolutely marvelous.”  Everyone looked at him as if he had just shat in the floor.  He brought his fingers to his mouth and let out a shrill series of whistles.  He stood clapping, looking around curiously at the rest of the people, who were filing out towards the exits.  He caught Jimmi by the arm as he tried to sneak past unnoticed. 
         “Why isn’t anyone clapping?  That was the most spectacular performance I’ve ever seen.  The audience was captivated.  Simply riveting theater.”  Christo was almost in tears, he was so moved by what he’d just witnessed. 
         “Its just church,” Jimmi said.  “We do this every week.”  He couldn’t believe the man was so floored.  “Its not theater, its religion.”
         “Every week?  Its better than I thought.”  Christo exclaimed that it was the greatest work of art he had ever seen, magnificent.  “It captures the audience for life!  They’re brought up learning their roles, conditioned to their roles, and they believe it. Each person actually believes all of it. Where is this god?  Where is the spirit they talk of?  He isn’t physically present, but it is assumed that he’s here, intangibly.  Just as real blood will never (at least intentionally) be spilled on stage, no God will manifest himself.” 
         “Everything’s based on the idea that we have faith.” Jimmi explained.  He didn’t have to listen much more to have the guy figured out.  A nut job, the man was clearly out of his mind.  Men like this weren’t new to the city.  Burnt out intellectuals who’s alcohol intake was more impressive then anything that ever came out of their mouths.  Men who mumbled obscenities under their breath as young children swept by, clasping onto their parents’ hands.
         “Faith, yes faith.  We watch a play and we lose touch with reality.”  He grabbed the Shakespeare book from Jimmi and pointed to it.  “We forget that these are actors, parts memorized and well rehearsed, acted out on a stage.  We put faith in them as representing reality.  This,” he said, pointing to the high vaulted ceilings, the translucent stained glass depicting biblical figures, the pipe organ, the massive crosses hanging on the walls of the cathedral, “This has managed to form a never ending play, the rules are perfect.  It’s a flawless system based on faith.  The theater meets weekly, and people do their part. It becomes their reality.  What do you ultimately get as an “artist” in this case?  An endless stream of revenue.  New material is unnecessary.  Everyone believes.  No one in the theater doubts it.  In the meantime, they pray, rehearsing and becoming more familiar with their roles.  They reach out to others, ensuring that the show goes on, that it grows.  Who created this religion, this perfect play?” 
         “God?  Humans?  I don’t know man.”  Jimmi was thoroughly confused by the man at this point.  “Do you want your book back?”  He offered him his book, hoping to get away from him as soon as possible. 
         “Oh no you can keep that, garbage as far as I’m concerned.  May I have this instead?”  He asked, holding up Jimmi’s Bible. 
         “Sure just get away from me.”   
         “Thank you.  Thank you so much.”  He hugged the book and ran towards the exit.  Jimmi, confounded, watched as he ran, growing more and more transparent with each stride.  He ran straight through the door.