Zemen 1: On Punctuality
Suggested listening: Lawrence English — Observation of Breath (start at Track 2: A Binding)
I
Flight Commander Li Jiang — young, accomplished, eager to impress, and new to China Southern Airlines — had vowed to do whatever it took to improve the notoriously inefficient Flight 2032 from Guangzhou to Bangkok. His determination paid off — for the first time in three months, it landed at Suvarnabhumi Airport not only on time, but a full ten minutes ahead of schedule.
— — —
What do you see?
She wavered in and out of her body. In any other time, in any other body, it would have been fascinating, euphoric, but with every wave she drifted further from the shore. She had made sure of this drift. The weight of loss, of being lost, had brought her here — and soon it would take her away forever. She had welcomed the thought, that final journey, just a few moments before the syringe had emptied — but once the lifetime’s dose of liquid opiate entered her bloodstream, an eternity of memories flooded her conscience — a bombardment so powerful that she quickly lost the ability to distinguish those that were hers from those that were before her.
“Jonah. Please, Jonah. Bring me back”. Subtle toneless mutterings though numb lips. The bungalow on Hat Rin was entombing her. The kids, dancing in fires, screaming to the stars, were just outside but light years away — and fading further.
“Jonah, please.”
“Jonahhh.”
Her voice pixelated, disintegrated into bare frequencies. Blackness engulfed as She fell down her well, staring at the receding dusky gray opening.
“Jona-”
The pinhole suddenly brightened. As if a flashlight a dozen miles away had located Her. Except it really was a flashlight. The paramedic who held it spoke in frantic Thai, incomprehensible to her, and She merely assigned it as a figment of this final journey.
Then You spoke her name.
— — —
Li Jiang plopped into the dim sum table with his flight crew. Broad toothy beams on every face, carafes of Baijiu in hand, they raised their glasses to him and then to each other. Middle management had offered a rare commendation, and with Li newly in charge, their daily tension and complacency had dissolved into rare optimism, glee — belonging.
Short lived perhaps, but for Li, an eternity.
The toast and sip of liquor,
and the moments it encompassed.
II
“TIME TO DRIFT.”
Fade in … satellite image, patchwork shades of green, laced by blue black waters and punctuated by gray-white splotches of urbanization, zoom in to two big splotches bordering black water, veer to top right one, chaotic with a gridded center, must be Baltimore… closer, closer, terminal velocity into Johns Hopkins Department of Psychiatry and Behavioral Services… seconds before impact, swoop straight down and then curve like a waterpark freefall slide … through the 4th floor window and straight into the shifting eyes of Alvin Steward, US Assistant Secretary of State for East Asian and Pacific Affairs.
Pull back, settle gaze into his…
Alvin stares at You, eyes still twitching, as he takes deep and gradual breaths on your command… you open lips:
“Ok Alvin, you are doing well. Just keep time with my breath.”
Alvin nods. The panic attack pans away slowly and his eyelids return to their position over calming eyes. “Ok, ok. I think I have it.”
“Good. That was good. You came back quicker than last time.”
“Yes yes I feel it. But Jonah, it’s not enough. The Symbyax isn’t working like it used to. There is too much going on.”
He waits for you to respond, with something/anything. But you have lost your train of thought.
“I’m not supposed to tell anyone but Beijing agreed to the summit, you know, on principle. We’re finalizing now, but I’m super close to getting our guy in a room with Xi himself. But the closer I get, the more I get pulled into this fucking pit.
I can’t sink into it right now. I can’t!”
With a deliberate breath, you jump back in. “I hear you. I do. Unfortunately there isn’t anything stronger or more effective on the market right now. I think the best we can do is supplement with as much DBT and somatic as we can. I know it is crucial now more than ever.”
You both pause, gathering thoughts. For a second your mind points to Her and the three word text message that She left in the pit of your stomach right before you went in for your session with Mr. Steward. You know what it means but for now you leave it there, you have to. The past five months of sessions with this manic bipolar asshole has revealed a genius to you, someone made of a different stardust than man. Fitting, because at this point the rumblings in numerous halls — from the one next to the John Hopkins DPBS 4th floor Conference Room to the hall outside the Secretary of State’s office — are that he might be the only person left in the world who could prevent World War 3. You have to laugh every time you find yourself saying these words, it sounds so cliché and ridiculous. But you know the threat is real, in no small part because the lack of media coverage — and Alvin did have something in him. He knew how to wheel and deal better than anyone in the diplomatic corps. He had charm when he wanted, he was vicious when he chose, and he was always calculating — 30 steps ahead on the Go board. Still, he was a mess of a human. Strip him of his position and his career and what was left was a still-electrically-charged pile of train wreck. And yet in that pile was a person. In the moments where he felt he was falling into the pit of despair, that freefall brought out the most human of humans. After five months of professional intimacy, you relished those moments, even though you knew it meant more work for you in lifting him back up to the status of Asshole World Savior.
“Jonah, anything, please. I have at most two, three weeks to make this summit happen before the window closes. I’m flying to Singapore in six days, whatever we can do to keep me above surface let’s fucking do it.”
“Ok, stay on the Symbyax and let’s do another two sessions before then. We’ll figure out a plan for while you are gone. Don’t worry, I won’t leave you hanging.”
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As soon as the door shuts with Alvin on the other side, you launch into your phone. The three words sit glaring at you, and you settle into stillness, weighted with fear. Is this one for real? You do the math — Her stress, anxiety, sense of hopelessness, all was worn on Her face the past week. No doubt it mirrored your face. You had also been on duty nonstop for many weeks, after months of being vetted to fill this “very prestigious position”, in a career that had lasted so long, if not in time then in energy, that you had long forgotten what drove you into it in the first place. At least you had a job to pour all that into. She only had substances — meth being the topper. You’re a psychologist for fuck’s sake, you know the look of a relapse in the making. You need to find Her, now.
You hit reply. “I love you. Where are you.”
III
“Mār! (มาร)”
“What Jaarik?”
“Mār! Mār!”
“What? Why is it a demon?”
Jaarik stares at Her, blank-faced for a second, then a shrug and a big toothy smile on his round five-year old face. Before she, or you, can react, he darts off down the stone steps and into the darkness of the canyon. “Jaarik!” She yells. “Don’t go too far!”
“What was that about?” You put your hand on Her shoulder and you both pause in silence, staring at the faint drawing etched on the limestone wall of Op Luang Canyon. The guide had pinned it at 8 to 10,000 years old, a geometrically aligned sequence of multi-shaded squares lined up between a polarized depiction of the sun and the moon with human figures underneath. The squares were what Jaarik had referred to during his brief squeaky tirade.
“Where did we find this boy?” She grins, and you both laugh for a second, until you realize the boy is nowhere to be seen and do the deadbeat dash to catch up with him.
Ironic, and even refreshing, that you both found yourselves in a constant chase with your adopted son — considering the past three years in Thailand had been a gradual and methodical air braking into a tempo that allowed Her to see her purpose for the first time. And you? She had helped you see that your purpose was not yours, but a construct of social engineering. Jonah Dabria — a productive and glorified cog in a machine you didn’t understand and deeply detested. In the end, after the rescue on Hat Rin, the months of excruciating and passionate healing, the levitating into your collective pasts to face your persecutors — frigid admins of the machine that didn’t know what to do with Her except siphon her water, but knew all too well where to put you. Under the hills of Chiang Mai, these demons were excised, and through the haze you found understanding for the first time. Phone numbers were deleted, Instagram accounts closed, names changed. They could still find you if they wanted, but you had seen the machine lose efficiency over time. The odds were in your favor.
Chiang Mai was your home and She was your wife. You both found ways to make money on your terms, not much, but enough to live comfortably. Enough even, to bring in a third. Neither of you wanted to get pregnant and there were plenty of lives to raise around you, so you were blessed with a 2-year old happy autistic Jaarik — the last bit of laminate to weatherproof your family bond.
— — — — —
The next morning you all pack into the car and drive up to Wat Doi Suthep temple to watch the Sun peek and preside over the city, as was your usual Sunday custom. Over clear purple-orange skies you stare at Jaarik, hopping pagoda stones and covering a Thai nursery rhyme in a completely different language only he would understand. But you understand, no idea how but you do. You turn to Her and freeze, until her eyes catch yours. Before you think the words, you say “Is this really where we belong?”
She smiles at your reddening face, puts your hand on her heart, and whispers “This is where you belong”.
And then you realize, the question was irrelevant.
All that mattered was the answer.
IV
What do you see? Hurry, there is little time.
“I see hundreds of steps leading to a hole in the mountain. Māma holding my hand as the sun burst through the hole in the rock and splashed the surrounding canyon with light. Bàba kneeled to my height, grinning and pointing. He fed me a sweet bean cake — that was my first memory of a flavor, what taste was.
I see the sunrise atop clouds on my first international flight in the cockpit. A redeye from Guangzhou to Auckland. Everyone else had witnessed it a million times and paid no mind. So had I for that matter, but never in this seat. Haha, I have always been a bird in a human body. Māma told me I was born on the seventh day of Orchid Month, when magpies form a bridge across the Milky Way, reuniting the heartsick lovers Zhinu and Niulang. She said I was destined to be that bridge in this time, for one unrequited love to find the other.”
What else do you see?
“I see Wenmei Huang kissing me on the lip — slow, deliberate. I rest my hand behind her neck and her craving womb nudges itself perfectly into my abdomen. We made life that night…. We lost it the next year. I’ll always remember.”
Focus, quick, what else?
“I see — I see … what is this? I see through the window in the back seat of our car. A city skyline zooming past — it must have been Changsha. What is this? I see the city disappear, then reappear. Not disappear, but — turn into pixels. Pixellate, i guess. What is this? I must have been five or six. I remember now. It happened very quickly and afterwards I was different. I wanted to fly! After that, I wanted to fly!! Haha, wow. That was the moment I wanted to fly.”
What else do you see Li Jiang?
“I … I see … what the fuck is this. This happened. Floating between two moons, a blue planet with rings. An ocean planet. Where is this?? What am I? Floating, self propelling in empty space. Surrounding me, a dozen or so massive oval vessels, stringy tentacles interlocked with each other, with me! A family? A community. I feel full. Fulfilled. I have something inside of me. Beings? Yes, beings. They are feeding me. Taking care of me. I am their vessel! Where are we going? We speak to each other Sbrcaaa? VVVVrrrrr… FrrVscA… What VVVrrSC… EEEEEEEeeeeeeBPP… “
Do you understand, Li Jiang?
“No! Well yes. Maybe. I think I can piece–”
DO you understand, Li Jiang?
“I understand.”
It’s time. Are you ready, Li Jiang?
“BBECH … Ok I am ready.”
The instant sun that had just appeared above Hsinchu Air Base, 30 miles from Taipei on the west coast of Taiwan, signaled the end to a world order that had existed for almost exactly 80 years, since 1945. Captain Li Jiang stared in awe at the x-rayed image of his gloved hands, bones gripped like cement to the joystick of his fighter jet. It was a split second, and yet that momentous second of one’s entire life, because he knew his life was about to end. As a recent recruit relegated to flying endless patrols over the Taiwan Strait for the Chinese PLA Air Force, Li Jiang had frequently envisioned this moment, in a mix of fascination and horror, he had played it out in his mind at least every single patrol he flew. Too many times over, he had seen Hsinchu City in the distance, with its airbase, and witnessed its disintegration. It was not like he never thought it would actually happen — in fact, the way things were going, he never held a doubt. But now that the sun was here, the paint on his plane was melting off, and the 700mph shockwave was seconds away, he understood, closed his eyes, and released the joystick.
Li Jiang was ready.
