Clark finally destroyed his ego as he won the gold medal in pole vaulting. It happened just as he cleared the bar: he felt his self dissolve into the unbroken field of energy that is the sentient universe.

“Shit,” he thought as his perception of boundaries faded. “It is going to be hard to land now….”

He lost his grip and fell limply into the mat, no longer moving. He COULD move but he saw no point. He felt at one end of his consciousness the atmosphere of Pluto, and at the other he became aware of the swirling of electrons around the carbon lining of his stomach.

Moments before he cleared the bar, as he ran at top speed while holding the pole, he was thinking “All my life is just ego, my illusory sense of self striving to protect itself. I hoard food, I desire sex. But I am nothing. Or rather, I am everything. We are all one.”

And he stuck the pole and vaulted up.

While approaching the bar he thought “But, wait, how can I be nothing? Why do I hunger? Why do I get up? If I am not really a thing, a separate thing, why do I alone desire warmth? Yes, desire is suffering — but there are some desires I do not seek out. They just are with me. I can’t think my way out of being hungry. Too much of my master’s teaching– ” (he thought of his master, sitting still most of the day, dust particles from a nearby sunbeam floating) ” –my master’s teaching seems to imply that I shouldn’t do anything! That every act is an act of will and therefore false! Do I really have to stop? Is it just that easy?”

And he crossed the bar. And his sense of separateness went away.

And once his body cleared the bar, he lay on the mat, contented. And never moved again.

“You know, sometimes ‘overnight delivery’ reflects the urgency of the sender more than the receiver!” My friend Milt said this to me as we were leaping from a single engine plane on a skydive. The wind swept around and took away the sound. It made me infuriated that Milt felt that jumping out of a plane was a good time to make a philosophical observation. Because I knew I’d spend the entirety of the jump thinking about it.

“Overnight deliveries reflect the sender and not the receiver?” I guess when you first see a Federal Express envelope you figure that it’s the receiver who wanted the package delivered quickly. Someone couldn’t wait for their check, or their birth certificate or their weed. But I guess sometimes it’s the person sending it who hopes that you want it badly: an invoice, or a press release or experimental cocaine.

The chute opened, and my descent slowed until my body was suspended in a peaceful stillness. Southern Californian fields below. Trucks looked toy train sized.

I kept wondering: Is Federal Express even relevant now that email is so capable and ubiquitous? What about fax machines? Those had to be useless, right? No, because people still wanted signatures. The convention of a signature — which was for any practical purpose meaningless — was keeping the fax machine industry alive. I wonder if the chairman of fax machine companies went to sessions of state legislatures to lobby for signatures to be mandatory on all contracts. What would you call a fax machine company?

I neared the ground.

I once saw a session of the Massachusetts State Legislature in which a subcommittee was debating whether or not to legalize chemical castration, where they inject something into a child molester to rob him of testosterone, thus killing his sex drive. I couldn’t believe that such a relatively small state was debating an issue with such far-reaching moral consequences. I was a reporter. That was a long time ago.

I lifted up my knees and then dropped them and ran quickly along the suddenly-present meadow. I came to a stop as my parachute softly collapsed on the ground behind me. Had I even jumped? My brain had recorded so little of the experience.

I walked over to where Milt had landed. “It’s an interesting thought,” I told Milt.

“What thought?” he said. We went to dinner and I helped him pick out names for his daughter.

It was only a matter of time before I became too obsessed with my nose. Staring at it in the mirror, gently caressing its shape as I walked, etching drawings of it onto co-workers’ white boards: I would not give it a rest. It was so beautiful, could you blame me?

You’ll notice I used the past tense. The attention I was paying to my nose was so strong it was almost palpable, then my attention WAS palpable, then it was tangible, then it was dense and soon the attention I was paying to my own nose because a steel rod that floated in the air around my nose. Becoming still more obsessed, my attention swung firmly into my nose, and in a single blow crushed it into liquid.

In the place of my nose was a huge cavity in my face, like a dent in a melon. Then I started paying attention to that and soon enough my attention re-solidified and hammered into my face cavity. It smashed my face into a soup, then a deep round crate so my skull looked like the bowl of a spoon.

My attention, though now inspired by horror, would not quit. It remained a steel rod that was floating around my body, obsessing on the different parts. It hammered my skull down into a flat level surface resting on my shoulders, then decimated my arms into shredded, pulpy strands. It shattered my sternum and deftly snapped each of my ribs. It penetrated my stomach and routed my intestines. It cracked by femurs, then popped off each of my knees. It bisected each shin, then smoothed each foot into a broad pancake.

Destroyed, my body could not contain my soul, and so it dissipated. My consciousness, as it spread further and further out became more shallow and less complicated. Soon I was covering most of eastern Pennsylvania, and the only thought my wide billowing sentience had was “me.”

I’m writing some text adventures. Here is one, which is still being developed.

One of the most popular computer languages that you can use to create a text adventure is called Inform 7. It’s a natural language programming language, which means the code reads like regular English. The code for these games reads like computer poetry. Below is some code I wrote to create a world where the creates are all in love with someone who loves someone else. It’s really cool (the language, not my game). One of the main architects of Inform 7 is Emily Short, who creates lovely text adventures of her own. She wrote a length, complicated analysis of why Inform 7 is a cool language and if you are the type to get excited about computer languages it is a compelling read.

Sample code. The game for this is here (same link as above)

Unrequited Love is a scene. Unrequited Love begins when Interrogation Ends.
Unrequited Love ends when all reenbles are contented.

a reenble is a kind of animal.
a reenble is either longing or contented. a reenble is usually longing.
a reenble is either agitated or serene. a reenble is usually serene.
a reenble is either pessimistic or optimistic. a reenble is usually pessimistic.
a reenble has a reenble called agitator.

Gleepglorp is a region. Scalding Pool, Hot Pool, Warm Pool, Cool Pool, Cold Pool, Freezing Pool, Too Hot and Too Cold are in Gleepglorp.
Orange Reenble is a reenble in Warm Pool. Understand “orange” as Orange Reenble. The description of orange is “You are a reenble, a round sponge about as big as a football. You float along in this underwater land with ease.”.
Green Reenble is a reenble in Cool Pool. Understand “green” as Green Reenble. The description of green is “A slow, gruff reenble. It puffs wearily as it chugs along.”
Red Reenble is a reenble in Cool Pool. Understand “red” as Red Reenble. The description of red is “A quick, silly reenble. It swims high and low and it zips across.”.
Blue Reenble is a reenble in Hot Pool. Understand “blue” as Blue Reenble. The description of blue is “A not-too-bright reenble. It bumps into kelp more than average.”.

Loving relates various reenbles to one reenble (called the desired).
The verb to love (he loves, they love, he loved, it is loved, he is loving) implies the loving relation.

orange loves green.
green loves red.
red loves blue.
blue loves orange.

Gradually, Liam was accepting it: These girls were not interested in his opinions on Pavement.

Surprisingly, people of NYC gave up constantly noodling on their phones when the subways got wi fi. That final piece made it so everyone in the city could get the internet always and it finally satiated everyone. Too much, the city said as a group and very soon no one was on their phones. People looked up and smiled at each other. Cheerful hellos peppered Fifth Avenue. Bagel carts were the new water coolers. Neighbors learned each others’ birthdays. The internet is for work, we all silently agreed, or when we are already alone. We started taking our chances to be away from it when we could.

A pipe dream of mine — and I do understand why this is impossible — is that we would never publish the name of the 22-year-old Arizona shooter. That we’d just refer to him as a description: a 22-year-old college dropout from the area who’d left a YouTube account full of videos with aimless rambling political rhetoric. You could even link to the videos, which would have his name. But you’d never directly put his name in print.

Not to make him MORE powerful, but less. I can’t help but think that part of the twisted motivation behind people who do this is to be known, heard and famous. We shouldn’t validate it.

When the Virigina Tech student shot his classmates, I was opposed to the news agencies that published those photos of him posing with his guns. I do understand that when in doubt, you should be transparent and show the information you have, and that everyone is curious to know who it is who commits these horrible crimes.But in that case, showing him proudly posing with his guns was giving him his fantasy come true, and we already knew who he was and what he looked like.

I like that there is an understanding of news agencies to not print the names of victims of sexual assault. There should be that same understanding of these public murderers. We shouldn’t know the names of the Columbine killers, JFK’s killer, or this horrible man from Arizona.

I know, I know — it wouldn’t work. But if *I* were a newspaper editor, my paper would not publish his name. Man that would show him! But anyway I wouldn’t publish his name.

A side note: when I worked for a weekly newspaper in Connecticut, the founding publisher did not believe that Shakespeare wrote his plays. He had read about it and believed that they were written by Earl Edward de Vere, a popular candidate from people who thought it was unlikely Shakespeare had the background to write with such familiarity of the courts and royalty. So when we quoted Shakespeare we had to attribute the quotes to “de Vere.” So above the masthead would be the quote (we had different quotes each week) “To be or not to be. That is the question. – de Vere” I always thought it was cool that the publisher was like “this is what I believe the truth is, based on research so in our paper that is the truth.”

“To write a great screenplay, write the trailer first,” – Daniel Purdy, screenwriting guru of Nashua, New Hampshire and author of the pamphlet “Screenplays Can Be Fun!” Example:

We FADE UP and the Pope is shadowboxing. Jabs, uppercuts, grunts.

A SLOW PAN across a sheriff fiddling with a Rubik’s cube.

WHITE FLASH to a PUSH on a beagle staring at a guitar. It’s important, the dog is thinking.

Then TITLE (“Crossroads of Paradise?”)

A BIRD’S-EYE SHOT of a desk. A man in a rumpled dress shirt unfurls blueprints of a ski boot outlet. He pounds the desk a single time as a WHOOSH sound effect is heard.

An infuriated housewife strides out of her Honda Civic to topple a mailbox with a single slap! KETTLE DRUM STRIKE.

A doctor looks directly in the camera as he snaps on a rubber glove, spins on his heels, and enters a helicopter. WIPE.

A bird flies, carrying a rose in its teeth. It lands on the Statue of Liberty. SOPRANO TRUMPETS FLOURISH.

1980s underground band The Replacements are manning a lemonade stand. Paul Westerbeg pounds the table a single time as a second WHOOSH is heard.

The Pope is in a parking garage talking to an NFL Quarterback, who is taking notes and nodding. CROSS FADE TO…

Two postal workers circling each other in a boxing ring. Sweat beads prominent. WHITE FLASH.

Four coffee cakes. Scrumptious. WHIP-PAN AWAY.

A light grey tabby cat blinks. Suddenly it is DARK GREY. A WHOOSH, then SIDE WIPE TO…

There’s just a bunch of dudes whaling on other dudes. SMASH CUT…
DOLLY SHOT forward to a set of French doors. They open to reveal four identical Whoopi Goldbergs. A scientist nods. CROSS FADE….

The bird flies by a second time. It lands on The Pope. FADE TO…

TITLE AGAIN (“Final Crossroads of Paradise”)

Now for the first draft…

I took Robitussin this morning and woke up in the Cloisters wearing a dress I made out of ants. Here’s how you make a dress out of ants: dip them all in sugar so they try to eat each other and then when they have all bitten into each other’s hides you freeze them, and then it’s like a piece of chain mail or a beaded curtain except it’s not — it’s a big sheet of ants. I did that while in a haze from the Robitussin. Shows you how bad-ass I am, I think, that I could do such a complicated thing while heavily sedated.

The dress started to wake up after a few moments and soon disintegrated and scattered away into the ground.

I was naked. I got arrested. I had been dressed, I explained, but the police wouldn’t believe me about the ants.  I overreact to cold medicine, I told them. I tend to fall into a deep sleep but remain active. I’ll walk around my apartment and re-organize my books. I’ll call ex-girlfriends and imitate them. I’ll go out into the street and try to replace the asphalt with cobblestones. If there are already cobblestones I’ll use ants.

In jail I explained that I had a drug habit. That made my cell mates interested in me. What drugs? What dosage? What is your preferred method of delivery? Syringe? Snorting? I explained I liked cold medicine and that I drank it. They got bored. I explained about making dresses from ants. There were amazed I wore dresses since I’m a guy. The ant part either bored them or they didn’t hear it. I got bailed out by my neighbor. I was wearing a paper suit the police had given me.

My neighbor was waiting outside the precinct.

“We don’t even know each other. I was surprised to get your call,” he said.
“Yes, it’s surprising,” I replied.
“It’s a big imposition to ask a stranger to bail you out. I’ll expect interest on what I paid.”
“Very reasonable. Thank you so much for coming down to the station.”
“Your apartment smells. I catch whiffs of it through the vents.”
“I’m terribly sorry.”

I was disappointed he wasn’t noticing the paper suit, I was dying to talk about it. Who knew the police would give you clothes if you were naked when you were arrested? And made of paper? It was like a doctor’s scrubs but more cheaply made. I wanted my own set of paper suits — different colors, one for each day of the week. I’d look like the main character in a children’s book. A young child, before they get all mean and stupid. I spit at the disgusting thought of a non-young child.

“Just make sure to pay me back.” he said and left.

I missed him immediately. I made a mental note to begin writing him letters. I had an urge to climb a tree or maybe move to Oregon. Instead I went home and slept on the couch. I slept like a baby.

Welcome. You have entered the reception area of The Vision Fountain, which is my casting agency. Here at The Vision Fountain we pledge a one hundred percent commitment to high quality commercial casting. No funny business, except the appropriate amount of whimsy for your lighthearted comedic commercial needs. Beyond that, the only time we smile is when we have delivered an actor who can communicate your brand’s message with complete efficiency and professionalism. As you see, our office is sparsely furnished, since we keep only what is needed to execute our mission.  That the logo is made of die cut aluminum letters should let you know we’re not fucking around.

I am the owner. I have not smiled for 275 days, because that is the last time I delivered what I considered to be the perfect actor (Danny Purdy, “loud man” for Best Buy). I arrive at six in the morning. I read the descriptions for commercials for cell phones, car batteries, cable providers and vaginal lubricants and begin the laborious process of casting. Every day that I fail to make what I consider to be a perfect match I go home and begin an exacting ritual of self-punishment which begins with simple and literal self-flagellation and ends with a coat hanger inserted into an electrical socket. You’ll notice my hair.

So yes, I think we here at The Vision Fountain can accommodate your needs quite well. We will sacrifice everything to get the perfect spokesman for your brand of organic chips. Let’s hear the breakdown. “An Everyman with comedic sensibility, charismatic but not good-looking, think Seth Rogen or even Jonah Hill.” I see, yes, I see. Sorry, let me close my eyes here, I must think. Let me remove my shirt, I most absorb this breakdown into my skin. I am removing my pants. My heart beats more fully. My head is bowed. The sweat begins. The process, the war, the life…. it is underway.