Writing, Joe Murrey's World

Writing

Working Title: In the Beginning

[Editing Note: First person or use character name?]

In the beginning, I had friends traveling with me on the same journey. We were the psychonauts of the sixties; shining inward, outward, yet always connected by glowing lines of energy; each of us surrounded by an iridescent patina; a patina tinged by mescaline and psycho-active drugs; shiny, like the jet-black indigo wing of a grackle. In the course of my life, I became the Sidhartha, a man divided in time by the natural divisions of human experience: First, the discovery of worldly excess and a total immersion in selfish obsessions, followed by decades of wandering in a desert of my own making. In the second third of that life, the monastic renunciation of worldly flesh followed, and material things finally gave way at long last — not to Nirvana, but to even more questions. Along the way, my friends settled into the more conventional reality of their own lot in life …or passed away. Myself, I was led to believe I am immortal.

One fellow traveler spent his life polishing the bar in a dusty desert town; another melted into the mind-numbing life of a security guard for a gated community of snobs and realized within himself the sly country boy he was born to be — but not quite so sly or crafty as to escape his chosen prison. Another allowed his malignant narcissism to devour him whole. Another married a rich man and dropped out of my life. There were others — none forgotten — who just didn’t have the journey within themselves and never took that first step. I suspect that the journey to find one’s self can never end with a substantially greater quantity of “self,” though it can end with a greater quality of self — while it lasts.

I cannot dispute the fact that life eventually ends, though I myself have been led to believe I am immortal; but if this is immortality, it isn’t all it’s cracked up to be. I began preparing for my death long before I entered the order, and now that I have this mission …well, who knows? Anyway, not caring whether I live or die gives me an edge my adversary doesn’t yet understand.

My adversary doesn’t realize that the mission consumes me, and I consider it a priviledge to sit in the cold rain; waiting, and warmed by the heat of my soul. Besides, I could as easily choose to be happy or sad — choosing how to feel is a stylistic matter. I choose how I feel in much the way Vermeer chose the quality of his light: With a craftsman’s eye and an artist’s sense of style. I learned how to do this from the order, and I will be eternally grateful to the Universal Order of Saint MacKenna for teaching me how to turn off my tears and be aware. I am aware of the world around me, and even more acutely aware of the man on the hillside across the river.

The man has been shadowing me for two days now. His binoculars and scoped rifle are for his protection from bandits — if he wanted to kill me, he would have tried by now. I ignore him outwardly, pretending not to notice; but my mind’s eye sees every detail. I can see him even when I have my back turned. The Order taught me that trick, too, and it has been a powerful arrow in my quiver.