Awake, there was a particular sense of electric urgency present in every place he looked, present in the space, present within if he closed his eyes. He was experiencing a higher function of his senses to perceive the God-dream.

The electric energy of the situation was buzzing with intent. He was a mere novice, and hadn’t a clue what to do with any of it, at least not instantly with his most immediate conscious thoughts, but deep down inside, in his subconscious somewhere, his recollections handed down from the beginning of this line of species, there was rich intelligence that could handle all of it with a fantastic ease, if he only got out of his own blundering way and played into what was already inside of him, find it, and let it guide him. It didn’t come with any rules, no instruction manual, there was no polite conversation about it during dinner chats or even in the cafés or street corners; there was no talk.

Harold hadn’t even begun to try to put into words what he was experiencing; there was only one way to get there and that was through a direct experience of it on a personal level at the end of some number of events. At the very least, Harold was pretty happy he stuck around longer in the world to figure this aspect out; had he missed it and found out when he was gone, well, he’d not only feel very foolish, he’d also know he had missed a very fine aspect of existence, the only aspect that got at the crux of the situation, everything else be Goddamned.

Harold was cognizant the stuff occurring must not only have something to do with him; the estate, Sophia’s experience, River, all of this, its history alive and well no doubt, must all conspire to yield from the great how-do-you-do moment what it yielded. Harold was keenly aware of the sensitivity of the occurrence. If all these matters had to come together to produce it, why, it would come as no surprise that the slightest erring in processing it would send it asunder, dissolve it, chase it far away and leave him with less of the opportunity than he otherwise would have had and every second of it mattered significantly, especially when it was impossible to know for sure if it would ever come back again in the potent form, although he’d always know it was what it was and what it was, was what it will be.

Not knowing precisely what it was, still having a bit of conscious thoughts going on, despite the subconscious saying get the hell out of the way, we got this you pitiable unfortunate soul, Harold was constrained by his ignorance and baffled by what intentional act from out of it he should perform; he felt like a man who has rubbed the genie lamp and is provided with three wishes, but draws a blank about which of any three wishes he ought to make and furthermore forgets about all the knowledge he had gained from the tales told about genies and lamps, leaving him in the dark, stumbling. It wasn’t like that condition was foreign to him, it was almost his daily operation, at least it had been very much so. He, in these New Year days, had found a more graceful motion, weird. Maybe it could last. It hadn’t gone away, not at all. It very much preserved him within the newly found grace; he felt the help. How comforting, after having been so long gone; how comforting to feel the palpable assistance.

The touch was like love, deep love, the love of an unconditional source, helping him in a very direct way. In the touch, he learned the source was the same source that was always helping him all the way through since the very beginning, when he first began to think and, in existing, face all the various questions, make all the various decisions, circumnavigate the world of culture and mores, rise and fall, rise and fall, suffer countless defeats and humilities, never knowing, at least for certain, all of it, no matter how cruel and painful, was from these tender hands of love and affection, but knowing it now, knowing how without the course he had gone, never would he have reached this moment, and it wasn’t all on the source, because it was on him if he needed the tossing and roughing up, if he needed the casting away, if he needed the complete and utter lack of worldly accomplishments and honors, it had to do with his own hard-headedness, his own deafness, his own lack of trying. But he couldn’t be exactly sure that had he changed this or that, if he could, anything would have happened any differently, but having ended up there in the main room on the night of the full moon with dearly beloved Sophia, with River, why, he wouldn’t ask to have any bit of it changed in the slightest, couldn’t take issue with anything at all from the source, all he could do was issue great loving praise in exchange for the loving devotion he was undergoing in the green chair in the midst of all that sheer naked electricity, the rudimentary building blocks of reality, God’s dream formation underway, like the paints of an artist, the notes of a musician, the marble of a sculptor, the words of a writer, the stones of a builder, the wood of the carpenter, the face of the actor, the movement of the mime. But this ran through all of theirs, this was beyond all of theirs, none of theirs without this, the essential substance from the source, the source beyond the source.

He could feel it now, the precious invaluable gift of the capacity to experience the astonishing perfection connecting every particle to each other, every experience to each other, every moment to each other in the immensity of it all, all adding up and there for all. It was impossible to ponder but it was all there. All of it was circulating in and out of him and coursing with the concentrated potency of the essential Truth. Everything he was experiencing he couldn’t help but think Sophia was simultaneously in her own way. It was strange since she was doing her own iboga thing in her temple and he was on his own not doing it, having no specific intention to do what she was undergoing, and yet, what felt like long ago but was only earlier in the day, he had told River, and River sanctified it, of his intent to purposefully search. He searched, in fact, perhaps without the most conscious point in searching, but he searched nevertheless, and in his searching, he was finding, finding more gold than a 49er in the ore river yet struck upon by others. There was no greater feeling he ever had than to feel a hand reach across the eternal abyss and comfort him in acknowledgement of his existence and all he had endured, the perfect understanding of the intimate thought-stream that begins its flow from out of the womb and is known to none but to the hand from the source that had come to show itself to him at last in the most direct way he had ever known and would never have thought possible but only the material of books.

He considered cutting himself off from all this only a few days ago, not even going through with the new year, but now that idea had become unthinkable. There was something more coming from out of the moment, something emerging like a butterfly from out of a cocoon. This was taking him past the mere perspicacity, taking him beyond the extraordinary presence of the great shekinah. He could tell it was coming, because he was being prepared for it, as he was being prepared every single day of lightness and darkness. Prepared like a meal.

Harold T. Clay stood up and stretched. He was beside himself over the moment and he had to sever himself from it before every molecule of his being dissolved into the electricity and never would he have the opportunity to reach the point where Sophia might search for him again for he would no longer exist in the form of HTC, and instead he’d exist in the form of all the electricity comprising all the reality ever known. He decided to prevent this phenomenon by severing himself from it, as best and as fast as he possibly could; he hadn’t any schooling in what to do, but he had intuition and it was addressing him in high volumes to do precisely what he had done if in fact he wished to remain HTC for Sophia, and certainly he did, and he sought to remain HTC for the trip and trips around the sun to better delve into the findings of existence.

He could strive to write it all down just the way he experienced it in hopes that it was an action. In writing it down, as best he could, from the very beginning, he would act every moment he wrote it down, and furthermore the whole work would represent an act, like a miracle performed upon the earth. Strangely, he could think of no better act for himself to perform. In many ways, the decision rose before his mind’s eye as the perfect act while he stretched. The more he thought of it, the more it presented itself as such. The more he thought of it, the more it clung to him. He was a bit startled how in his identification of his thoughts as acts, real honest-to-God acts, they manifested themselves as acts indeed. He thought of the work and the work was there, hanging out there already born, but waiting for him to put in the actual effort, the act of giving birth to it in the reality of the realm of books.

Harold was not a seasoned professional at the writing game. He hardly knew his place in the terminology of it all; he wrote a little here and a little there in a journal, but it was nothing to rave about, a rather shoddy and inconsistent product nobody could make sense of if they tried, including Harold who out of an occasional curiosity would read a page and wonder over it for a great long while just to try and decipher the words he had written and if he could decipher the words he’d then struggle to understand what in the name of God he had intended to write. But there were times when he’d discover a leaf in the book of his journal and read it and everything about it would strike him with crystal clarity and he’d think to himself there just was no way he could have possibly written what he had read, just no way, and he’d look it up and down, compare it to an entry before or after, anything to find a clue it was written by anybody but him, but after a while he had to come to terms with the fact that nobody ever wrote in the journal but himself and the quicker he got over it, the better off he’d be because once over it he could write in the journal again and if by some strange miracle he could write the same way he had read on that page, he’d fill with nothing but gratitude.

He was sincerely interested in those who possessed a particular method for carrying themselves, a specific way of speaking, a specific way. It was like a secret handshake, a skeleton key to the entryway door. She’d understand if he told her about his intention. He’d have to say something soon. As far as he could tell, they’d be open to it, and even better they might suggest a title. If Sophia or River suggested a title, he’d use it and spin the whole story directly from the suggestion. Ready or not. No need to play hide and seek. Right in the open bring it to the multitudes. Why him? Harold couldn’t figure it out. He was most certainly in over his head. He might have something to say about this, but what’s the point in bringing up the old blood? Stay safe, stay within, stay holy, stay a while, stay.

He looked around. Still he was alone. That seemed peculiar to him. He expected, he didn’t know what. He expected the stirring of the curtain? The shining face of River? He expected Sophia: all fresh and new and radiant and coming to him for good, having not forgotten, having remembered, and in the memories a striving to make new memories in the moment? Was he expecting any of this, all of this? Was he expecting more? Something other? Something other was emerging, was coming forth into the creation of the creation, rendering the former creation obsolete like how the brightness of the sun cancels out all the dimmer lights? These were matters he was thinking of, earlier and presently, certain something was on the verge of presenting itself to him in an accessible form to forever leave a mark upon him for having witnessed it. To stay within and not to leave without.

He was alone, but what happened to what was to emerge from the cocoon? He wished to observe the myriad colors on the wings, giant like huge mountain facades, waving to propel itself further and further. He wished to marvel upon the beauty of the wings, only he thought there would be no place for the butterfly to even go. But he remembered how weeks ago back in the city the Vanessa had landed on the top of a page of a book of poetry held upright before his eyes before the church façade at the edge of the park during a moment of a great reading bout and remained there for so very long. But not forever. Nothing can remain forever. The Vanessa would fly off. It only had to, like the collecting of these experiences, forever changing in the eye of the observer, like the flow of the river on out into the sea or bay or? He hadn’t yet asked where the river on the estate’s edge flowed on out to.

He had not ceased learning, not ceased searching. He looked out the window across the desk and in the darkness he saw the light, casting like a searchlight across the shadows; he had obtained the power of River’s vision; he could see the light in the darkness, he could see how the existence appeared out there through the window panes. This was the view she must have had been looking for and it had arrived just in time for Sophia. He knew then, everything was formulating itself in favorable ways, like blocks with different shaped edges fitting into each other to form a larger piece. He thought everything would be alright, but he allowed himself the possibility that not everything would all go right to make sure he’d not suffer shock and surprise should the sights of the moment not lead the way they prophesized. He didn’t know exactly how everything functioned; how experience had taught River a great deal more, he allowed, he knew, he accepted.

He stood by the desk and picked up a book; he thumbed through it until the thumb stopped and his eyes went to a key passage. “Yearn for her and she shall keep thee; exalt her and she shall promote thee; she shall bring thee to honor when thou dost embrace her.” He read the passage over a few times and he truly liked what it said. It was the sort of passage he might use in his writing when he got around to the act in the way. He had her in mind. He thought he’d put the book away, but he caught another passage that interested him. There was a definition for evil in humans. The book defined evil in humans as a “deficiency and lack of perfection of our proper virtues.”

That sounded like a deficiency in iron or any other vital mineral to keep the body healthy, only in this case it was a deficiency in the virtues that keep the soul healthy. Harold truly subscribed to the passage and dedicated himself to learning more about the virtues and what he would have to do to perfect them. He decided that was a noble profession and an effort that would consume his time quite well. He couldn’t think of a more worthwhile enterprise than what he had arrived at and he knew his act would take him there in the very end.