Planet Fever (12 page)

She had me there.

The time and effort she had spent with me—regardless of who she was—testified on behalf of some kind of compassion for me, or at least a commitment to her job of acting compassionate, which was also admirable.

At this particular moment I wanted to get the hell away and try to collect and organize any cogent thought that happened to be lying about my disheveled psyche. I wanted—no, I needed to speak with someone who I could identify with … then (at the very least) I’d know if I was alone in my predicament or if others were also in the same screwy boat. If there were others in the same screwy boat we could, perhaps, pool together our own experiences and solve the existential query of
what the fuck was going on here?

Telepathic Ventriloquist.
The thought flashed into my mind again.

Then the remembrance of one man perhaps I could trust.

“I want to go see Fred Fillono, the filmmaker,” I said.

AFTER A FEW
weeks of research, I happened upon Fillono’s whereabouts while perusing the latest issue of the
Independent Thinker’s Film Mag
. The magazine contained a little expose on the man: Fillono had founded the “Please Yourself for the Sake of Others Film Institute,” which was situated high up in a remote part of the Colorado Rockies.

Up there in the mountains he had inherited a semi-defunct small ski resort near a quaint town, whereupon he had socially engineered an academy and community that focused on filmmaking, sculpting, performance art, poetry, music, dancing, theatre, photography, painting along with farming, carpentry, electronics, plumbing, mathematics, engineering and chess. Rather than paying a tuition to attend the academy, the students were to learn a trade in tandem with their studies and work their trade within the community in exchange for their schooling. No money whatsoever existed in the place: all exchanges for goods and services and shelter and whatnot were conducted with a computer-calculated “barter system.”

I jotted down the address, grabbed the
Road Atlas of the Western United States
, packed up some gear, gave Mona a goodbye hug and kiss, got into my pick-up truck and started on my way toward Fillono’s utopia.

It was a trip I had to take alone.

Mona understood, or at least pretended to.

She was a helluva gal. Or was playing the part too damned well.

ART: “SO
—what precisely is this
Free Thought and Will Chapter?
”

Agent W: “It’s not a question of
what
it is, rather
who
is part of it. It isn’t a large, centralized organization in the conventional sense. There is no real chain of command structure, no hierarchical membership. It’s rather a series of chapters in different areas who are commissioned by the Originator of All Realities to achieve the same goal. Many may be part of it who don’t know they are, while others are part of a counterfeit version in the guise of the real deal.”

Art: “So what’s the goal of this cacophonous and rather unconventional organization?”

Agent W: “To stave off tyrannical forces for the liberty of all individuals … the same intent as the Originator of All Realities’ intent was, is and always will be: for all sentient beings having a freedom to
choose.
”

Art: “Choose? What do you mean by that?”

Agent W: “Having a freedom to make a choice is the very essence of freedom itself. Let me begin by telling you what choice
is not.
Television news programming offers a good example. OnTV—including cable—there are a number of various news channels. Therefore, on the surface it seems as though the average viewer has quite a number of options to digest various
views
on the information being presented. With these ‘alternating’ views, the viewer feels they’re able to gain a clearer picture with the information, hence get a clearer perspective on the world at large. Allegedly, the viewer has
choices
on how to decipher the given information, process it, and think about it. But the viewer doesn’t really have any choices, you see. The game is rigged—the information gates are filtered, the environment is controlled. These numerous channels are really owned by a cartel of only a few mega-powerful corporate entities who dictate what information the networks receive, how they release it and even comment on its implications. So the viewer receives information in a manner on how it is given to them, and his attitudes are shaped in a manner, which serves the corporation’s best interest. If I own a giant chemical plant, I will make sure the virtues of my product are extolled and those of the alternatives are either not heard or else demonized. There is no choice—only a brainwashing. Another classic example: play two sides off each other. This is why there are wars:
someone
always makes money off wars, and that someone doesn’t care who wins…. What people don’t realize is that, like Don King, they tend to own both boxers.”

Art: “Ahh, so people believe they have choices, but these choices are really just—uh—different manifestations of one given agenda or program.”

Agent W: “Yup ‘program’ is a good word…. We are programmed. History, religion, philosophy, economics, cola, various means of existence, they all adhere to the same pattern. What’s really happening is that people have been and are being
indoctrinated
like a herd into one narrow view, all the while going through life
believing
they are free to roam around the prairie and be free and make willing choices….”

Art: “Well, I personally believe myself to have freedom. I mean, I should pay taxes, work, stop at red lights, purchase food—but I choose to do those things, otherwise chaos would ensue. I have enough intelligence to know what to believe and what not to believe. I still believe I live in a country which allows us liberties and freedoms—within the realm of reason.”

Agent W: “Of course; relatively speaking, we have more ‘room to roam’ than do certain people in other parts of the world. But the process of indoctrination relies upon that. If you are in a cage larger and cleaner than a person next to you, your captors may say to you ‘look at that! You’re free to stretch out and walk around. Your neighbor is in a cage. You’re
free.’
The actuality is that both are in cages—one simply happens to be
less constricting.
Over time, this is how the process works. The masses are slowly being boiled. Rather than an invasion with tanks and guns and missiles, we are being invaded slowly, subtly; subliminally and electronically. The military generals now come in the form of investment banking magnates and global cartels and wear three-pieced suits. Guns have been replaced with TVs, computers and other gizmos, firing their ammo in the form of bits directly into the brains of the populace. Art, the play has gone covert—subliminally so. If you were mind-washed, would you know it?”

Art: “Er—well—obviously not.”

Agent W: “You’re correct. You see, to a certain extent we are free like a prisoner is free to roam about his cell, eat, piss, shit his pants if he wants to…. But in reality, the prisoner is only free within his confines. Hence, on a cosmic scale—he is not free at all. Real choice is the ability to have complete and untainted
Truth
datum offered you, and how you decide to conduct your life given this info.”

Art: “Truth … well, that is a Titanic concept, with many varying views…. Is there but one all-encompassing absolute Truth?”

Agent W: “Oh, sure there is. Truth is not a convoluted, confusing concept as it is made out to be. It is, in fact very simple. Truth is—”

At this point Woods’, or Agent W’s voice began to slow down and contort like a machine powering down. I ejected the cassette, and a long stream of the brown magnetic tape poured forth in a spaghetti heap. The cassette player had eaten the tape. I tossed the plastic casing out the window, leaving behind yards of useless tape that streamed for at least twenty yards behind the vehicle. I grabbed my machete from under the seat and drove it into the mouth of the deck. Plastic and metal snapped and cracked as I twisted and darted the weapon into the machine, cursing the whole time.

I DROVE
down a deserted freeway for a while with the radio shut off, sitting with the unbearable clamor in my head.
I am Eddie Bikaver, hack reporter. I’m on assignment assembling the fragmented scraps of my life. I’ve been swindled. Moroni fucked me over. No one can be trusted. Who am I again?

I turned the dial on the half-busted console, hoping to come across a station. After the furious vengeance I had wrought upon the deck, I was somewhat shocked the radio still worked. Though I wasn’t in the mood for blocks of incessant commercials trying to get me to buy
that
damned car, eat
that
damned fast food, or use
that
damned credit card, I’d graciously take a string of ads followed by some fluffy pop tune from 1978, rather than listen to one more thought.

After the fifth commercial yelling about some morning radio zoo programming, I clicked the radio off.

Instead I drove and concentrated to the drone of the motor. I liked that; my mind finally felt at ease. I hadn’t had any sense of purpose or direction for quite some time. Winding my way to Fillono’s academy allowed me to have a sense of progression: I knew where I was going, what I was doing and how I was doing it—and on my own accord. For the time being, my mind was
focused …
that is, until….

I am Eddie Bikaver, hack reporter. I’m on assignment assembling the fragmented scraps of my life. I’ve been swindled. Moroni fucked me over. No one can be trusted. Who am I again…? Damn this mind.….

On the western slope of Colorado, the main arteries of the freeway turned into the narrower state highways and after an hour or so the mesas and foothills yielded to the vast and majestic mountains. I pulled over to study the map. I had two options: stay on this state highway and circumvent this range of mountains, or take the pass, which would be more scenic and possibly shave a few hours off my drive, as long as the weather permitted. The sky was blue with some patches of cotton-ball clouds. I rolled off the highway and onto the two-lane road straight for the mountains.