Regeneration X (9 page)

I wholeheartedly welcomed this plan and imagined a future filled with a life done different—more expeditions, unexpected experiences, and philosophical relationships. My two study abroad programs gave me a taste for it, and the relationship with Miles made it feel it could be the reality for my forever future, not just a 12-week sojourn once, or in my case twice, in a lifetime.

Dr. Baum asked if it was a mutual decision and at the time I think it was. As a couple, we just weren’t working any more. Now that I look at it, maybe this is when the helplessness began; when I lost control of my life and decided to play it safe. Also interesting is that although Michael has many attractive qualities, when I initially met him I was doubly interested when he told me he was first generation American.

This made her think of her old versus new personality all over again.
Inside I am the same, I might not appear as indecisive, but it’s buried. I still have all the ‘crazy’ left in me.
She didn’t think herself so unusual now, but apparently glimpses of her restless nature still showed its face every now and then. Even her nickname had evolved into its more modern version. This time it was coined by Sarah when Charley and Michael had decided to move to Seattle. Although it was six years ago, she still heard, “Cray Cray,” every now and again.
I must have been destined to meet Dr. Baum. I would never have discovered any of this on my own.

Chapter Seven

Men at some time are masters of their fates:

The fault, dear Brutus, is not in our stars,

But in ourselves, that we are underlings.

—William Shakespeare,
Julius Caesar (1.2)

・
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・

CHARLEY DIDN’T WANT TO MAKE A HABIT of passing off her journal to Dr. Baum as a shortcut.
The meetings with him are improving my social skills
, so she liked to believe (they probably were not). Her journal had started out as a form of private therapy and she wanted to return it to this. Otherwise, she felt she wasn’t expressing herself freely, she was writing for someone else. Besides, she enjoyed the analytical discussion instead of getting a summarized response after he’d finished reading some tidbit.

She’d only been to see him a few times, and even though the conversations were emotional for her, what she took away from each encounter was a feeling of restoration. Almost magically, one hour every week and she was no longer unremarkable. In the place of gossamer thoughts were distinct veins of possibilities. She felt complex and interesting again. Of course, there were repeated instances of self-doubt during her sessions, but Dr. Baum prompted her interaction and gave back in return. She both valued and enjoyed his perspective, and might have been mildly infatuated with him for merely being inspirational. If only she could maintain the clarity and gusto afterward; now this would be progress.

・ ・ ・

The next morning Charley woke up believing she had a dreamless night. Maybe it was true what she’d heard: Once you became aware of the meaning and purpose of the dream, you wouldn’t have the same dream again. What a relief. She didn’t feel rested though.
 

Today was a late-start day for Michael, and so she decided to skip her ritual, pre-rise, lounge time and headed downstairs. He was sitting in the kitchen with his usual giant cup of coffee, reading the news on his tablet. Safari, their golden-eyed, Bengal cat, sat on his lap purring loudly, while Fergus lay at his feet. Safari was more elusive, solitary, and wilder than the average domesticated cat, but something about Michael inspired both their furry children’s loyalty and affections.

“Morning.” Walking over to the coffeemaker, she poured herself a cup of the thick black brew. Taking a sip, she muttered, “Ugh, why’s the coffee always gotta be strong enough to wake the dead?”

“Good morning sunshine.” Michael said facetiously. “I think the coffee is too weak when you make it,” he added more cheerfully, possibly having already had enough to keep anyone else, but him, awake for a week. “I guess medium roast instead of French doesn’t solve the problem. We might have to get his and her coffee makers,” he said holding up his cup, which had
HIS
printed on it—a gag gift Charley had picked up for him.

“I think we should get you an espresso maker and you can throw a shot or two into yours. Then we can go back to coffee the way the rest of the world drinks it, unburnt and less like molasses,” she exaggerated. She opened the hodgepodge drawer and shuffled around the papers inside until she found the pamphlet. Taking a seat across from Michael, she slid it across the table. “Something I came across recently.”

He flipped off his tablet and glanced over at the title, “Renovate and Reinvent Yourself.” He looked up, a smirk played at the corners of his mouth.
 

She hoped it wasn’t going to come across as some far-out scheme after he’d actually read it. At this point, even she didn’t know if it was. “Give it a chance. I’d explain, but honestly I don’t really know much more than what’s there. I have my theories, but it’s hard to explain in a nutshell. Just take it with you and read over it when you have time?” she added with a sheepish grin.
 

Hiding away the ready eye creases he said, “Right, okay.”

“Anyway, how was your run?”

“It was perfect running weather, brisk. We had a good time,” he said reaching under the table to give Fergus an acknowledging scratch, squashing Safari in the process. As the cat jumped off his lap, Michael got up to deposit the pamphlet in his bag. He soon returned to start on breakfast. There on forward, they carried on with the morning routine until Michael left for work and Charley started hers.

She was working on a self-written article about nutrition and GMOs. She had plenty to say on the subject, but just couldn’t find the focus to clean it up to the point of publication. She’d lost her gumption. Maybe this afternoon she’d work on it some more. In the meantime, she concentrated on editing some of the other articles in her queue: the “Safety of Luminescent Dyes in Disease Metastasis Diagnosis”, “Cyborg Implants for Vision Acuity”, and long term climate change effects on average body temperature, currently untitled.

POV
had copyeditors who did fact checking and a general review for errors, and editors who managed each section’s overall content. However, since it was Charley’s job to ensure the articles were in line with the magazine’s vision and mission, she thoroughly reviewed each contribution before every monthly issue, as well.

For once she would like to read an article written with a humorous slant. All of the articles published by
POV
were informative and interesting, but Charley thought the magazine could use an edge, a section that wasn’t so pedantic. Levy was still stewing over the concept she proposed: a
Cosmo
-ish section filled with articles on popular topics, such as sex and relationships, a health horoscope, maybe even an advice column. His concern was that once they opened the box, all manner of chimera would emerge.
POV
’s audience wasn’t the layperson; its mission was not to be a social publication.

Charley argued,
POV
wasn’t officially a scientific journal. Their audience was people with social lives and associated personas, too. Also, one of the ongoing goals was to increase readership, so why not expand the breadth of the magazine to include people to which all these health topics applied and something to lighten mood?
National Geographic
’s readers were not all environmentalists and anthropologists.
 

It had been some time since she had suggested such a thing, and nothing was likely to come of it unless the readership stats started to decline.

December 31, 2024

Dear Journal,
 

What am I now but a habitually prosaic, rather stiff person who spends too much time in the virtual realms of language without expression? Don’t answer that.

I’m glad the few friends I have politely ignore how ordinary I am.
 

It wouldn’t be so bad if I had a career, perhaps more creative, which didn’t bleed so heavily into my life or I worked in an office with at least minimal social interaction. I could use the practice. The fact is, my constant daily companion is the machine grinding away in my head and its mirror image, the one behind my monitor (and its babies—the devices).

I truly believe children are innately happy and profoundly creative the moment they are born; at least ten minutes post birth anyway—after the crust is removed from their eyes and a smack on their bottoms awakens them to their new reality. Suddenly they see what they have never seen before. Anything is possible. Every experience is wondrous. Each touch, smell, sound and sight, innocent. In essence, they are the creators of a new world. Even into their adolescent years, these conjurers imagine monsters and fairies alike; believe in mystical creatures and super powers; have faith in everyone and everything; even though none of the ‘beings’ are visible or characteristics, tangible.

It is over the course of more cognitive years when these impressionable minds are taught, rationality and disbelief are synonymous. Sooner or later, all of the conditioning we bombard each young person with molds his or her once beautiful, imaginative, and admirable mind (and heart) into a living robot who conforms to the norms of our society.

Believing this, I ask myself, “How did I end up here? Did I ever have control over my life?”

Well … up until 17, I was clueless; busy being young and growing up; nothing wrong with this. Actually, at least I have that—those were the good times. People call it innocence because there is so much newness to experience. In hindsight, I’d rather call it obliviousness since we are unaware of the freedom we’ve been granted for this short period. Anyway, all along, of course, I was taught how to be a good person in general; nothing questionable about learning fundamental values either. It makes complete sense. We live in a society and it’s so much better when we all get along. In this way, the mechanizations are condonable.

Then, enter the experimental college years, where all the big rules are set and life-changing decisions are made. You can change your mind a few times trying to find your niche. It’s okay, but in the end, you must curb your creativity and choose the one path that will define your entire future. I think we’re all supposed to be thankful for the boundaries. Therefore, like a good robot, I followed the program and emerged optimistic, ready to be a contributing member to society. “Yay! I can decorate my place the way I want and bonus! I get to work to buy stuff and pay bills.”

By the time I was 35 it was too late—or so I was conditioned to believe—to turn back and do something driven less by necessity than personal passion. It wouldn’t have helped anyway, I still didn’t have ‘one’ goal I wanted, I only knew what I needed. I was already formed.

When my forties rolled around, I was an editor of a well-circulated magazine and had just started working remotely. Conclusively, this is where my personality exited and hermit-dom entered. And I’ve been this uninspired person ever since.

So you see I’ve been turning right at every bend since I was 17, the path of least resistance. It’s my own fault for being oblivious, no? I imagine everything would be different. If I’d only taken a turn with my own force, skidded and slammed into the future from the opposite side.

Still, I wonder, how many outcomes are possible when playing the game by destiny’s rules.

Chapter Eight

Our doubts are traitors,

And make us lose the good we oft might win

By fearing to attempt.

—William Shakespeare,
Measure for Measure (1.4)

・
・
・

JANUARY 4, 2025

For this new year I have an irrational hope that’s been edging itself forward. This hope is that something will change and the years to come will be vastly different from the many that have come before.
 

It’s not because I’ve made any resolutions; they never seem to stick. It’s something else; I can feel it. My last entry was a bit morose. Come to think of it, they all are, but I tell you I feel an underlying flicker of something.
 

Maybe Michael is secretly coming around to my idea of taking summers off to travel? Taking that particular term off isn’t unheard of and wouldn’t be difficult to manage. Or there could be some awesome project coming my way. Maybe Levy will finally decide to redesign the magazine to be not so dry. And if that isn’t what’s happening then this year could be my year for a different job entirely. I’ve been emotionally sabotaging work for so long something is bound to happen. From darkness there is light … you know?

Then there’s the pamphlet, which I came across quite a while longer ago than I implied to Michael. The fact is I’ve been nursing that pamphlet for several months. When I first heard of Renovation I was intrigued, so I did a smidgeon of research—if only to keep up with goings-ons in healthcare. Thinking back, it’s quite mysterious why I felt the need to print the brochure out; I rarely print flat files anymore. Then somewhere along the way I began to view that little slip of paper as a kind of guilty pleasure. It was gratifying to know such a thing existed. But therein lies the dilemma, I’m generally not one to invest any hope in an elective procedure. I can’t deny that I held on to it like it was an advertisement for an easy button. In a way, I’ve been feeding my helplessness with it.

Still, there is something I’m not seeing. Why else would it feel wrong even to think about it? In the same way I have hope of something positive, this feels as if I’m setting myself up for some major disappointment. And why was I hiding it from Michael? It makes no sense.

What could possibly be disappointing when I’m not the cosmetic surgery type in the first place?

There is something going on.

Charley had another appointment with Dr. Baum around lunchtime and she was looking forward to it. Until then, it was “Cellular Stage Alteration via Genetic Engineering” and “The Future of Population Variance with Genetic Pre-selection,” which required her attention.