Chapter 18 of The Yellow Sheet This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. The Yellow Sheet, The LibriVox Nano-Rymo Project 2007 Chapter 18, Written and Recorded by Smokey B. Derek awoke as if from an early grave, clawing toward consciousness like a free climber in a rainstorm. Finally, returned to the waking world, he lay on his back for some time, feeling the wetness around him. At last, he rose on his elbows and opened his eyes. The sheets were yellow again. With a groan, he shook his head and rolled over, already knowing he'd not have time to shower before the show. Gotta lay off them pills, he told himself as he rose, or at least stop mixing them with that blue tulip tequila. Stripping a pillowcase free, he wiped the urine from his body and pulled on his cleanest underwear, then jeans, t-shirt, and flannel. Lastly, he pulled on his boots and belts, a pang of reminiscence aching through him at the feel of his Kenworth belt buckle. Wish I was still on the road, he thought. Of course, he was still on the road, just not in the way for which he now longed. Ten minutes later, he arrived at the club, shaking visibly, trying to pass it off as if he kept rhythm, practicing a tune.   As ever, Derrick felt strange on stage, and with good reason. He did not know that most of his audience thought him a freak, a joke, a nut. Months ago, after the spirits in the air had told him to quit driving trucks and take up singing, a scout from the Tarzan Chanasky show had come across him singing on a street corner in D.C., where, too, the agent had repaired for a three-hour thousand-dollar session with Mistress Goddess, the dominating-ist dominatrix in 50 states. Four hours later, strolling the avenues with the vague taste of his own feces still on his lips, said agent had come across Derrick on the sidewalk singing, working for the CIA killing psychic terrorist blues from whence he parlayed into My Wives in Ninja and I'm gonna have to leave her and on to radioactive amulet of love. There being something singularly comic and grotesque, in Derrick's presentation, the agent had whisked him off to New York City for a few spots on the show, and then, for a generous kickback, fought him off to an unctuous manager keen to bleed every cent he could from Derrick's fleeting notoriety. On stage now, feeling inestimably better thanks to the line of cheap coke that manager had granted him, Derrick launched the show with, Am I in Japan? I think a nuke just exploded. As always, people laughed and shouted things. This still paint him, as it would anyone to be laughed at as they tried, in public, to make sense of their disordered disastrous lives, but his manager had told him to just play on because great art provokes many reactions. It seemed to Derrick that laughter was the most marked and prominent reaction, but Eon, that was his manager, had told him the others were aching in silence, stung by his pecan and the sensitive beauty. It was this thought that steeled him for one of his most heartfelt, tuneful revelations. Alternate dimensional psychos killed my buddy at the library. As he strummed the first chord, he wondered where, oh where, was his wife, who really was a ninja and hadn't been home in ages. In fact, his wife now tried the dirt of her homeland, spinning upon it 180 degrees to face her attackers, two beautiful babes built like swimsuit models, one a dark eyed raven hair beauty, her golden skin gleaming, the other an overtly sensual Asian gal like herself, from across the pond in China. Though both had been modestly clothed in the chapter before, they now both did such sleek, taut outfits as might make Boris Vallejo blush. Ico too, though perfectly dry and reasonably clad in the previous scene, wore now solely a slim white robe which was, inexplicably, sopping wet, clinging closely to her pert yet pendulous breasts and wide, round hips. Give it a blue tulip, the Mexicana told her. If we don't get you the white rose, Will. As she spoke, she pulled a pair of nanchaku from her waist, and her Chinese companion drew two daggers from sheaths on her hip. Unarmed, Ico was unafraid. These minions were not, she knew, though she knew not how, she knew this. Likewise, she knew now, that the white rose was a nefarious assassin of inscrutable birth, presently ensconced, or so it was said, in a mountain keep due east of Khyber Pass. She did not know, though she strongly suspected, that these women sought the amulet she wore around her neck, and she did not know why.    She hoped to provoke an angry mistake with the insult, but the women remained cool. Azalea, as the Chinese gal was known, and Rhoda, for Rhododendron, bent their knees and crept forward slowly, inching apart as they drew towards Ico, who likewise crouched on the balls of her feet and raised her bag to her chest.  As her bifurcating opponents tried to flank her, Ico lurched toward Azalea, seeming to stumble. Azalea gleefully leapt upon her just as Ico rolled onto her back and thrust the bag in the air. The daggers bit deeply into it, tearing through the yellow sheets and into the blue tulip, sinking through the book's leather-bound cover as if through sodden cardboard. As their tips came through the far side, Ico's heels slammed into Azalea's kneecap, knocking it free from its cartilaginous moorings, and dropping her to the ground as Ico tossed the bag and thrust an elbow toward her teeth with gratifying effect. Ico had time to appreciate the gleam of ivory in the sunlight as Chinese teeth splayed through the air, then ducked at the wooden whisper of the Nancaku speeding toward her. Fingertips touching the turf, Ico swept out her leg and nearly brought Rhoda down, but she stumbled back and righted herself as Ico rose again and charged straight toward her.  Plucking the Nancaku from the dead in fingers as the woman toppled to the ground, Ico turned back toward Azalea, twisting the hardened wood in her palm as her nemesis struggled to stand on one leg, blood surging through the fingers she held to her mouth. I could use your knives to end this, Ico opan, as she swung the Nancaku casually through the air, but I need the exercise. Raising the Nancaku aloft, she began to spend them fiercely as she crept toward the squirming Azalea, and I need some answers. Some distance away, Dogen michi chika dropped the lenses from his eyes. Jesus, he said breathily, despite his avowedly Buddhist beliefs, Jesus Christ, he was shocked and disturbed, and not a little excited. Meanwhile, or perhaps six days later, on the road who can say, back at Big Rick's coffee shop and bait shack, Derek was closing his set with his big hit. It's a radio act, dear very little blubber radio act, even to me by a safe back in the day for the sea eyes of the U.S. because when push came to shove, they couldn't take away my head. I'd like the rest she wears, he was her slave from terroristism. When the show was over, Derek thought the applause was sporadic and desultory. At least he would have had he sufficient vocabulary.  The co-crush was long gone by then and he was happy for the pint of whiskey managerially proffered as he passed by Eon. There was, as usual, no one waiting to see him after the show. A few people shouted at him as the crowd filed out mostly unkind things, laced with derisive glee. But that was it. Though seemingly and irrefutably insane, Derek was a handsome man and at first he had been asked for autographs and even scored a few groupies. Now there was no one or what few women came by Eon usually managed to siphon off for himself. Then Derek saw her. She couldn't be real. No way. A stunning Nordic queen of storybook beauty, her long platinum hair streaming over a blue silk shawl lined with lustrous white ermine. Beneath that a blue gown long and tight with a generous slit up the side clean to the waistline. The alacratus fabric reveling in her gorgeous body clinging tightly to every curve. I really liked your show. She purred through pursed perfect lips. Derek's mind went blank. Azalea's scream was cut short by an osseous crunch. A gratifyingly osseous crunch at that. Despite her best efforts, Ico had learned little from her and had pitched her off the cliff to ease her frustration and to see if she could hit that wide flat rock jutting out from the waves. Despite Azalea's inquisitional fortitude, Ico had advanced her understanding. The violence and the instincts it aroused had awoken much within her. She knew that she had been kidnapped as a child. Snatched up from the Renaissance fair by a killer who had recognized her interest in sword play. She had been taken deep in the Australian outback and raised as a flower in the Garden of Death. An elite and cultish clique of incomparable assassins. For years she had trained with and killed for them until something had gone wrong. The white rose had betrayed her. She did not know how or why or when, but she knew she had been wronged deeply and savagely wronged. She knew one other thing too. The white rose must be destroyed. And on this she mused as a sound rose around her. When she looked up from the sea, four army helicopters roared motionless in the air above her. Waiting. Derrick had little idea how they wound up back at his hotel, pissed stained as it was. He had not wished to bring her there, but his mind was meat. Meat for the chopper. Rather a wreck to begin with, he had fused all circuits when this ambrosial babe had stood beside him. She simply would not take no for an answer. He had even told her he wet the bed. I like water sports. She confided, drawing toward him, putting her lips to his ear. Maybe we can have a golden shower when we're done with everything else. Derrick knew, of course, that there was no way on earth or in hell or pretty much in the known universe that such a sublime and impossible woman would have the least bit of interest in a man like him. Nor truth be told, had he much carnal use for such supernal sexiness as his parts had not quite worked for years owing to the brainwashings and the psychiatric medications. Still, the ineffable force of sheer effulgent beauty had overwhelmed his brains, drawing him on despite the manifest wrongness and too good to be true so it probably is-ness of it all. Now she slid shut the door and locked the boat home, pressing Derrick against the wall. She did not kiss him, but held her lips close, cooing sweetly in his ear. She smelled like a garden as her right hand held his wrist tightly. Her left setting deftly to work. As his jeans hit the floor, wonder of wonders, he felt old familiar stirrings within and his manly pride rose to meet her hand as she slowly reached for it. Oh my God! He thought, it's really gonna happen. Lord God, thank you. Thank you so- AHHHHHHHHHHH Derek screamed as she crushed his testicles in an iron grip. Black stars burst through his vision and he fell to his knees as she crouched beside him, still squeezing tightly. She slapped him.  She ordered and slackened her grip from excruciating to unbearable. You pistained dirtbag! She snarled again.   With a howl, very much like that of a half-crushed cat, Derek begged, What? Where's what? She punched him in the eye with her free hand, opening a great gash. His head flew back and bounced on the floor and she slammed it down several more times until it bled from two sides, spraying wild patterns around him as he writhed in pain and terror. The amulet you loathsome cur, the amulet. Tell me where it is or you will beg God for death and freedom. Frank, who had very recently been thinking he really was crazy and that there was no amulet, as so many people had told him, was quite pleased with this despite his situation. I don't know, he said honestly. I think my wife has it, but I don't know where she is. Sensing the truth of this, the woman loosed her grip and Derek flopped forward in ecstatic relief moaning tremulously upon the floor. The woman stood, surveyed the room with disgust and kicked Derek fiercely in the kidney, worm, she spat at him. Derek lay on his face in agony, not knowing what she did as she rummaged around his room and through the kitchen. Perhaps she looked for clues or perhaps sought to sate herself on the sights of so sad a man and his accoutrements. Whatever the case, it may have been an hour or perhaps twenty seconds. When she stood over him again and spoke his name, her voice now alive with sympathy.  She cried as if in horror. I didn't mean to hurt you so bad. Derek, thinking perhaps her sympathy had been roused by the wreckage in the room which spoke so symbolically of the wreckage in his life, felt a warmth flow through him as of good whiskey. It's alright. He gasped through gaps in his gums. His swollen tongue lolling like a drunken crocodile. No problem. He struggled to his hands and knees, wanting to make eye contact and smile at her.  His eyes agape with wonder, Derek marveled as she reached behind her back and loosened her robe, unawaning the moons of her feminine beauty. Derek struggled to his knees and moved toward her. His eyes aglow with joy and wonder. So perfect they were, so round and luminous and lovely, two perfect points in God's perfect world. The right one bore a small tattoo, a flower of some sort. Derek inched closer, raising his palms to her breasts as a grateful man holds his palms to the Lord. Oh, thank you, Jesus, he said aloud this time, rattling the words through the wreck of his teeth. Thank you, God, for being so good to your pitiful servant and for the stiletto went in just under his fifth rib. Ico climbed aboard the first chopper after a brief parley with the man inside via the bird's PA system. It was a transport chopper. Inside along two benches against the outer walls sat about 30 men with large, complex assault rifles. Each one fitted with, among other things, an under rifle grenade launcher. Their body armor was thick and metallic, looking inescapably like a combination of Iron Man and a samurai warrior standing in the center aisle between them. Was a man Ico now recognized as Dogen Michi Chika, the third highest ranking general in the Japanese self-defense forces. As she climbed into the chopper, he stepped toward her and bowed in a kindly manner. We are here to help, he said. Written and recorded by Alan Drake. Playing with your toys again, yes, uncle? Thank you. But I really do not need any help. I jumped aboard just to ask for a ride. I hope you're going my way. Always. Whatever you wish, Ico, just say the word. He stood back a step. Look at you. You're certainly in better shape than last I saw you. True. But I can't say that what I've been through over the past day makes any more sense than has the past month. But there isn't time to get into all of that now, is there? She quickly scanned the interior of the chopper, its contents and occupants. An unexpected quietude came over her. She was in the chopper, on the ground, with the familiar noises around her, the claustrophobic movements and colors and smells and attitudes and confusions and—it all felt transparent. She felt the gentle rhythm of her breathing, without thought, without attachment to it. Everything around her was mildly relaxing, and mildly funny and full. There was only her lungs filling with air, and the gentle movement of the air surprising her as once again coming out of her. And she rode her breath, for the first time, rode it outward, into the belly of the chopper, onto the knees and elbows and shivering shoulders of each and all within the chopper's walls. She felt her body relax and, at the same time, adjust itself more upright, each bone aligning itself perfectly to the next, without effort, without intent, open to everything around her. She could see, but she wasn't focused on what she was seeing. She could hear, could hear all of it, but she wasn't holding firm to the sound. Be the distracted nor mesmerized, she knew there was but one path worth taking, and it would not be in this tub. She spoke with a bluntness that surprised even herself. "'This isn't the place I really want to be, ought to be. Too much testosterone. Oh, so too dense. Anyway, the Feminine Principle, as you well know, selects its own path to success. Spacious persistence. Come, Uncle, let's be somewhere else." "'Yes, very much so. It is a bit tight here. Come with me, Ico, to my private plane. No, this isn't the place for either of us. While the resources are in my hands, I'll be the one to change the scenery." Dogen made a brief, conciliatory nod, and added, "'With your approval, of course.' Her only response was a smile. As they disembarked, Dogen instructed the commander to cut the engines and return the troops to their barracks. Take a week off, all of you." As he climbed through the door, he whispered under his breath, "'If I ever need you again, but I doubt that very much.' As his feet hit the tarmac, Ico asked, "'What did you just say, Uncle? I couldn't hear you properly.' "'Nothing.' "'So there's nothing between us, huh?' "'Just an old habit of mumbling under my breath, that's all.' "'And what makes a mumble?' "'In this case,' Dogen responded, sheepishly, not unlike a fourteen-year-old, "'I'm concluding that, with you around, none of the old ways are going to make much sense, or be of much help at all.' "'Yes, Uncle. Put your toys away.' "'Ah!' Dogen said, teasingly, approaching the stairs of his private jet. Powerful words from a woman who, a few days ago, didn't choose between Saki and Pai.' Gesturing her to walk ahead of him, they climbed the short set of steps up into the Bombardier Global Five-Hundred. He stopped at a moment and looked up to her. "'Before you go in, I want you to know there's a surprise waiting for you.' "'You knew I wasn't going to fly in the chopper, didn't you?' "'Ico.' She asked with false mockery, and then smiled. "'I know that I won't be disappointed.' They entered the plane, moving towards the centre, to where two pairs of deep-cushion seats faced one another, like a vast, luxuriant, railroad car. Plush theatre seats. Ico crawled into one as if crawling into a cave. One sat beside her, facing forward to the front of the plane. Suddenly a woman came from behind them, walked across to the seat in front of them, facing them, and she sat down, smiling. "'Ame, auntie.' Ico leaped from her seat like a young girl to embrace her aunt. After more than a minute of cooing and preening, with choreographic grace, they separated and sat in their separate seats. All was perfect and right, and no one spoke. Dogen broke the silence. "'You were so decisive in the chopper, Ico. You were in and then out of it, so quickly, very impressive.' His hand reached out to her forearm, and gave it a gentle squeeze. "'So many years, wandering and indecision.' "'Indecision? You were flooded with—' "'Evité et de choisir.' "'I understand. I was only saying that you have been overwhelmed. It was as if you were riding a wind-horse.' "'Ico appreciates. I am sure you're concerned, dear.' Amy interrupted. "'Yet. I am certain she has a particular purpose for saying what she did. I suspect it's a reference to Sartre, which is of particular importance to her. No? Is that him all?' Ico responded softly, with a broad smile. Dogen beamed with amusement. If that is the case, then you will have no problem telling me where you want this tub to take us. This choice is fully yours.' I want to return to Flathead Lake. Now I must complete what we started a month ago. Go to the very cliff it all hung from, before the lunacy started, before we became something altogether different. "'Would that be the right thing to do?' Amy asked.  Dogen pressed the intercom button and leaned forward towards the arm of his seat. How long will it take you to switch to flight plan five? Can we do that from the air?' "'We can get started immediately, sir.' The engine immediately began to rev, accompanied by the sound of the entry hatch closing. ETA? "'Four hours and thirty-five minutes.' Excellent. Go.' The muffled sound of the hatch being secured rolled down the soft carpet towards the back of the plane. "'You knew, didn't you?  But plan number five, you might have gotten closer than that.' "'It was an option, for sure.' "'Two questions, please. What were numbers one through four, and how many options were there beyond five?' "'No matter. Each of them was a guess.' "'No, really, tell me, please.' "'You really want to know? Really?' Dogen let loose with a brief bark of a laugh. "'Yes, uncle. I do want to know. We do have more than four hours to sit here and chat. Why not?' "'Gentle with little ICO, though,' said Ami, rubbing his arm with quick brushing strokes up and down. "'You wouldn't want to hurt her feelings.' "'A few minutes of relaxed silence opened between them as the plane taxied towards the runway. A tall, casually dressed woman appeared from behind them. "'Please fasten your seatbelts,' she said softly, smiled at ICO, and then looked around to all three. "'Is there anything you need?' "'Nothing, Nicky,' said Ami, sort of, oce. "'Thank you.' "'Thank you for coming,' added Dogen. Once again the woman smiled and turned to return to the back of the cabin. ICO leaned towards Ami and whispered. "'That's Nicky? I don't recognize her. She's your hostess? So beneath her.' "'Oh, she's no hostess,' ICO,' said Dogen. She came here all on her own. No more than a half hour ago, unannounced, chased our two assistants off the plane, said she could handle everything herself. Of course there were no arguments, none for me, of course, and certainly none for my assistant, or your aunt's assistant. Nicky is, you know, also a licensed captain. He turned to look over his shoulder towards the back of the plane. She's as quiet as ever, isn't she? Ever so—so dynamic. She wasn't going to miss this for anything. No one better.' She—' ICO paused to consider what she was going to say next. "'She thinks very highly of you, ICO,' said Ami. Never doubted you would come through with the—' Clarity,' she called it. "'Clarity?' ICO looked out the window as the plane turned to enter the runway. "'Plans in place, sir,' came the captain over the intercom. "'Glacial Lake International, ETA, a little afternoon. Weather is clear all the way. "'One moment, sir.' "'Yes?' "'Yes?' "'Okay. Nicky has a car in place for her arrival.' "'Clarity,' repeated ICO. It was a statement now. "'Yes. Very much so.' Ami's hands came together as she pulled them towards her chest, to hug them joyously. Looking across to her niece, she glowed with family pride. "'You are so much like your mother.' Her glow dimmed for a moment, too adcautiously. "'I hope you don't mind me saying so.' ICO took on a kindly smile. "'You forget, Ami, that no matter how I look at it, you are doubly my aunt, my uncle's wife, and my mother's sister. No one could be more fortunate than me.' She reached across and took her aunt's hand in hers. The hours moved forward, and each of them continued to talk, and they dozed and woke again. Dozed and woke again. Halfway through the flight, when both her aunt and uncle were napping, ICO walked to the back of the plane and took Nicky's hand in hers. "'Nicky, sister, you don't belong back here. And you don't belong back here by yourself. Come, be with the family.' Then she nudged Nicky forward towards the front of the plane and into the seat besides Ami. ICO took Nicky's face in her hands and kissed her on the forehead. She whispered gently to Nicky. "'Don't you ever leave us again. We need you here with us.' When Dogen and Ami awoke, they looked a little older. They smiled upon seeing Nicky sitting with them, and the conversation turned warm with reminiscences. Ami reached her arm around Nicky and drew her close. Nicky reached down to the wide dividing arm between them and raised it upward so she could sit closer to her mother. As they disembarked, walking down the airplane stairs, ICO looked over her shoulder, back at the plane, as if to say good-bye to a month, no, years of confusion and pain. Painted along the side of the plane, its long, elegant stem, stretching the full length of the sleek white ship, to blossom in broad beauty up across the expansive upright tailfin, was a blue tulip.  Is there ever a time you don't know what's going on? A time when you are not in control? Not any more, my dear. For now on it's you who are in complete control. There is not a person or thing to stand in your way. Not even atomic bombs? Dogen remained uncharacteristically quiet. Here in his silence she understood what she herself already knew. The answer to that and any series of false burgeoning questions. While she might not know details or outcomes, there was little doubt that she would handle all of the details perfectly. She approached the long black car. Like a moment it looked like a funeral hearse. Unmindedly she listened to her uncle and then Nicky climb into the back seat while she peered over the vehicle's roof. With a squint she could see the distant mountains towards the southwest. Over the hood she spoke quietly to herself. Elizabeth, I love you. Even though I will never see you again and I will miss you with terrific pain, I will move forward. It is you I am and at the same time I am only myself. I have never been anything else. Thank you for being my sister, even for so short a time. Life is so precious, isn't it? I am so very sad and yet so very happy as well. I could never have come this far without you. I can still hear you talking to me, still hear your wishes and dreams, your deep despair. Right now, for this very moment, like you were, I am so lonely. Yet at the same time I feel full. Funny, isn't it sister? Can you hear me? There's no doubt in this. I am so very, very proud of you. End of Chapter 19. This recording is in the public domain. Chapter 20 of The Yellow Sheet. This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. The Yellow Sheet. The LibriVox Nano-Rymo Project, 2007. Chapter 20. Written and recorded by Michael Sirwa. Leaving the airport, heading toward Elizabeth's Ranch House, a few miles west of Big Horse Island, Montana, they rode in silence in the car, allowing Ico time to reflect on her many pasts and futures, and her one and only now. The moment that is always shifting, always pushing itself into the past. For most people, time was a line on which they rode through life. They could look back along the line and pick out sections, memories, to ponder. They could peer forward and anticipate what might lie ahead as they passed from point A to point B to point C. But the road ahead was never absolute, no matter with how much certainty they might envision it. For Ico and those few like her, time was more akin to a twisting river that folded back and forth along its own length. For Ico, it was possible to move from one section of the river to another, jumping from an earlier part of this chronometric stream to a later one, if she needed to go forward in time, or reversing direction to go backward. The standard metronome that applied its steady beat to the time that others experienced didn't apply to Ico and her fellow time shifters. For most people, memories were just a mental representation of an event, something that was stored within them, available for recall, but not real. Ico's memories were actual places in people and events that could be visited. Even before the great rupture occurred, though, the one that Ico was on her way to try to correct, she had discovered that there were many drawbacks to being able to move back and forth this way. The most profound was the effect it had on one's physical presence. A few travelers had been known to slip away from their true present and return moments later, having aged by decades, almost unrecognizable to their friends and loved ones. In their wanderings on their temporal river, they often lost their bearings in their ability to move to specific points on the continuum. Years passed for them as they shifted from place to place, time to time. Many became so disoriented that they no longer knew one reality from another. Many ended up in mental hospitals, unsure of themselves, or their identities, or their abilities. This was why the Zen training was so important, why Dogen was so vital to her. Dogen Michichika, a temporal traveler himself, had decided to remain in this time, rather than returning to 13th century Japan. The decision to stay came from reading in Wikipedia about his death in the year 1253. He knew he would not be returning to his time of origin, but he also sensed that something in his wanderings along the time pathways had drawn him here. Of course, if he accepted his own teachings, he could do no other thing, for it was obvious that he is where he was, just as surely as he was where he is. His journey was the proof of his earlier musings on time and self, in his manuscript Shobogenzo. The way the self arrays itself is the form of the entire world. See each thing in this entire world as a moment of time. Things do not hinder one another, just as moments do not hinder one another. The way seeking mind arises in this moment. A way seeking moment arises in this mind. It is the same with practice and with attaining the way. Thus the self, setting itself out in array, sees itself. This is the understanding that the self is time. His thoughts on time and self were just thoughts in 1253, before he slipped away on the temporal pathways. But now that he had arrived in this century, he found it natural to accept now, for what it was and is, everything and nothing. It was not until he met Ico, though, and realized what she was capable of, that he knew it was her that had brought him here, not the randomness of nature. All time and space were beginning to collapse, and now they knew it all began with Elizabeth. It was evident from the reports of the fragmented wanderings of so many, and Ico was the key, the blue tulip, the yellow sheet, the one who knew and didn't know. Ico looked out the window. They had left the Glacier Park International Airport 20 minutes ago, so they were now approaching Kalispell, about a third of the way to Dayton, where they would find the turn to the house. Kalispell had an airport, but it didn't have adequate runways for the bombardiers, so they had to land further north. It would only be a slight delay. They would be at Elizabeth's unoccupied house soon enough. Ico thought that if Elizabeth had only been fortunate enough to have met Dogen Michichika, or if she had met Kairos much earlier, she might have been better able to control the gift, or curse, depending on your viewpoint, and this universe and the others connected to it wouldn't be in such a jumble. Ico caught herself contemplating Elizabeth's situation, and laughed inwardly at her own inability to stay in the now. It could be the easiest thing in the world sometimes, and yet it was often the hardest as well. It reminded her of the comic strip she had seen recently, where a teenage boy was telling his girlfriend that he always chooses to live in the moment, and then he adds, unless the moment sucks, and then I choose a different moment. Very zen-like. Maybe she should tell that one to Dogen, something to add to his collection of koans. Ico couldn't stop thinking about Elizabeth, though. Elizabeth's problems, and by extrapolation everyone else's, all stemmed from control, her lack of it, and her inability to give it up when it got in the way. Ico was faced with a dilemma of her own. Everyone was giving her advice, and everyone was giving Elizabeth advice, and the advice conflicted most of the time, and sometimes, since she was privy to everything Elizabeth did because of the temporal shifts, it was hard to keep all of the realities separate. On the plane, Ico had said, eviter et de choisir, to avoid is to choose, one of her favorite quotes by Jean-Paul Sartre. Sartre's existential nature had kept her grounded in the world when she began her zen studies under Dogen. She thought the two philosophies conflicted with each other, the way her beliefs about the nature of the job she was about to do contradicted her own core nature. In time, she came to see that the grounding of existentialism and zen were actually very compatible. In fact, nothing was more natural. But Elizabeth's multiple realities, and Ico's grounded nature were so dissimilar, how would she ever be able to reconcile them? These thoughts weighed heavily on her. In one of Elizabeth's realities, the tallest man she had ever seen told her that she created her chaos, and said, it does not rule you, choose your reality, Elizabeth. So when the time came, should Ico choose or not choose? If, as Sartre suggested, she avoided choosing, she would be choosing anyway by choosing to avoid choosing. And whose realities should she choose? Hers or Elizabeth's, and would there be any difference anyway? In her brief time with Dogen a few weeks ago, he had postulated that one solution might be to search for the simplest explanation a la Occam's razor. But how would she find the simplest path in a series of unbelievably complex, always shifting scenarios? There were too many questions, and she was overloading her circuits with this continual searching through the myriad number of possible answers. She shut her eyes and tried to relax, to empty her mind of all the effluvia of the everyday, emptying the cup so that there would be room for the tea of understanding. Then the answer came to her unbidden, the yellow sheets. In a simple unfolding of each tiny piece of paper, the answer was there. We know. She knew, and Elizabeth knew. They just didn't both know that yet. When the time came she was sure the answer would be there. She let herself drift off to sleep, and it was a deep, dreamless sleep, one of those rare, quiet times devoid of dreams or other sensory input. Nikki turned to ask her a question at one point, with the peaceful look on Ico's face stopped her. Ico dozed until the car began rocking on the final stretch of the dirt road that led up to Elizabeth's house. The four of them walked up to the house. Everyone except Ico curious about what would happen next. Can we come with you, Nikki asked? To the summit of the ridge, Ico answered, yes. What's going to happen when we get there? Smiling, Ico said, yes. Dogen laughed aloud. Ah, now that is a shit-stick. They walked slowly. The trail was steep in spots, and Dogen and Amé, because of their age, had more difficulty climbing than Ico and Nikki. Nikki was anxious to get there to see what was going to take place, but Ico was at peace with it. It would happen, or it wouldn't, and when they arrived at the plateau, atop Beelzebub's washboard wouldn't make any difference. The when of now was of no significance, only the when of then, the then of the explosion. Having methodically worked her way through all of Elizabeth's memories, she was certain that the problems began with the explosion of the atomic bomb. In order to reset the temporal aberrations and return everything to a state of normalcy, Ico would have to contain the shockwave and see that it didn't affect Elizabeth. To do that, first she would have to shift to that exact moment and to that location. Ico was sure that controlling the temporal displacement would be simple. She had enough control, there was that word again, to manage that. Making sure she ended up at the exact location was problematic, which is why they came here physically. Being here would allow Ico to focus, don't focus, let go, on just the shift in time, and help her maintain a static physical location. Finally, they arrived at the top by the easiest route possible, up through the valley that led down to the house and the lake beyond, and up the gently sloping hillside. Beyond the ledge, the same one where Elizabeth lives, was a few months before, it dropped nearly a half mile straight down. Ico said her goodbyes to Amé, Nicky, and Dogen. Nicky wanted to know what was going to happen, what they would see. Not much, Ico told her, one second I'll be there and then I won't. She took her place at the cliff's edge, not too close, knotted to the three of them, closed her eyes, and then faded out of sight. The ground was shaking fiercely now and Liz was gripping the face of the cliff with every ounce of strength she could muster. Next to her, one of the two women was doing the same, but hanging on more through a mixture of sheer terror and adrenaline than because of any rock climbing skills she possessed. On the other side of her, Liz could see another woman tumbling lazily through space, screaming as she headed toward the rocks below. Neither of these people had been in sight when she arrived at the peak mere moments ago, and then flying overhead, a man dived over the cliff edge, arms outstretched. Liz looked up from her perch on the rock face as he flashed past. No, it couldn't be. Derrick? He headed toward the slowly tumbling woman's form below him, not seeing the two women clinging to the rocks and gained on her rapidly. Looking back up at the cliff edge, anticipating the shockwave any second, Liz saw a figure at the edge of the cliff. It was a woman, and unbelievable as it seemed to her at the time, the shape of the woman seemed to flicker into existence like the image on an old TV set. It was as if she warmed into being. She just stood there, and as Liz stared in fascination, the air seemed to open up around her and then close again. The rock face stopped shaking. No blast of superheated air came roaring over the top of the rock face, and, most importantly, although she wouldn't know this for some time, Liz didn't fragment and shift into a dozen different universes. Thank God! the woman next to her exclaimed. He caught her. It took Liz a moment to realize that Jennifer, who would introduce herself a few minutes later while they climbed toward the top, was talking about Derek reaching Alice, her partner in the Kalispell Police Department. While they watched Derek and Alice drift down to the open range below, Jennifer told Liz why they had been observing her for a while. But that's a story for another day, as are Liz's eventual time shifts when she discovered her abilities under more ideal conditions. Nicky, Amé, and Dogen slowly made their way down from the high plateau. Father, Nicky asked, will we see Aiko again? Time will tell. Do you think she fixed the problem with time? Time will tell. Nicky looked upset. Don't you play zen with me? How will we know if she was successful? Looking down the long stretch of valley, Dogen noticed two figures below them, coming closer. I believe your answer is coming our way. Derek and Liz spotted the three of them working their way down the hillside. Derek said, two of them look a little old to attempt that climb. I hope they'll be OK. Looking up as the group of three approached, Liz noticed the gaze of the old man fixed on her. There was something familiar about his eyes, but she couldn't figure out what it was. Yeah, she said, puzzled. I think they'll be fine. Want to invite them to supper? End of Chapter 20 and the end of The Yellow Sheet, the LibriVox Nano-Rymo Project, 2007.


how do we find that balance of when the optimism is right for us and when we're steering ourselves astray with being toxic in our positivity? We totally understand the backlash against toxic positivity and it's fair. I think what toxic positivity is saying is that if the messages just cheer up, if you decide to be happy, you can be happy. That's sort of like end of story period. That is what toxic positivity backlash is against. It's like, yeah, something really, really existentially terrible could have happened today and I can't just think, oh, I'm going to be happy about this. I'm going to look back on this and it's going to be okay. That's not fair and we agree with that. But there's this concept, I'm going to go science again on you Colin, but there's this concept of the hedonic treadmill that comes up sometimes in psychological research and it basically says that when something good happens, our happiness goes up. When something bad happens, our happiness goes down. But at the end of the day, our happiness always reverts to this default baseline level for each individual and that could be different for you than it is for me and different for Colin than it is for someone else. But we all default to our baseline. And so as we were talking to all of these successful people and sort of crystallizing the concept of pathological optimism, what we realized is that what they're doing is they're creating habits that are ultimately raising that baseline level of happiness. So no, they are not happy when a tragic thing happens to a family member or when business goes bad one day, like really bad. But over time, because of the ability to look back and to reframe certain situations and to be a learner, they're able to increase that default level of happiness. And that's really what we mean when we're talking about pathological optimism is that in the long term, that's the mindset and that's the trend that they're going after. And the byproduct of pathological optimism, if you walk into a conversation with someone and you assume they're going to buy, then you're having a conversation with someone where you don't need anything from them anymore. If they've already bought, how different is that conversation? You're having a raw conversation with someone, like you're actually telling them how you could help them when you think that they've already bought. You talk about Steve Jobs and Martin Luther King Jr.  Obviously you want equality. That's not the hard part. I assume that's what you want. That's crazy. People wanted keyboards of blackberries. That pathological optimism is what helped change the world. So I tell the story all the time to the students that students are always thinking this is worst case scenario. Because at the age that they are, they haven't had enough time to reflect. And I'm like, look, in 2009, there was this thing called the Great Recession. I had to move to Northern California. My life was taken from me. All my friends still stayed in LA. I hated it. Then I finally moved back. All my friends were living with each other and I didn't have a place to live. And I ended up having to live with roommates that I just met that were here from New York. And they would always have people over. And one day some people came over that were living in New York and visiting and that person is now my wife. And I would have not been on this podcast or had this book or taught at USC or any of the successful things that had happened to me like post 2009, if it hadn't been for that damn recession. So I can look back and be like, okay, this is obviously not worst case scenario. Like I just don't know yet. But if I have the mindset of like there's a reason this is happening, that's not necessarily pathologically optimistic. It's logical. It can't be worst case scenario because I'm here right now.


Hello, and welcome to this screencast on section 11.1, double Riemann sums over rectangles. In single variable calculus, recall that we approximated the area under the graph of a positive function F on an interval from A to B by adding the areas of rectangles whose heights are determined by the curve. The general process involved subdividing the interval A to B into smaller sub-intervals, subtracting rectangles on each of these smaller intervals, then summing the areas of these rectangles to approximate the area under the curve. In this screencast, we will extend this process to two variable functions over rectangular domains. Since we are dealing with functions whose graphs are in three dimensions, the area under a curve is no longer relevant here, instead we aim to approximate the volume underneath the surface generated by the graph. To do this, we will start with domains that are easy to handle, rectangles. Let F be a continuous function of two variables on a rectangular domain R. Note here we are only displaying the set of inputs to the function F. We see that the X values are between A and B, and the Y values are between C and D on this domain. Here's a picture of what R could look like in the XY plane. Next, we do a similar thing as what we did in single variable calculus. We're going to partition the intervals from A to B and from C to D into sub-intervals. And using those sub-intervals, we create a partition of the rectangle R into sub-rectangles, as shown here with the gray lines. These sub-rectangles have length denoted by delta X, width denoted by delta Y, and area equal to delta A, which is the product of delta X and delta Y. To keep track of all the different sub-rectangles, we typically give each sub-rectangle two numbers, one number for the X sub-interval and one number for the Y sub-interval. Here you see that we've labeled the X sub-intervals starting at 1, and then the next one is 2, 3, 4, and the Y sub-intervals are labeled similarly, the first one starting at 1 and then 2 and then 3. And then if we want to pick out a particular sub-rectangle within R, for instance this one, it's labeled first by the X sub-interval label, and then next by the Y sub-interval label. So next we're going to choose a point in each sub-rectangle. The point labeled here comes from the sub-rectangle labeled 3, 2, that we just looked at on the previous slide. So we label the subscript of the X and Y coordinates accordingly. Using this point, we plug this in to get the height of a rectangular box. This rectangular box has length delta X, width delta Y, and height given by the value of F at the point that we chose. We can write the volume of this box as a product of these three dimensions. And then recall that we can write this more succinctly using delta A since delta X times delta Y is equal to delta A. Right, so this gives us the volume of a rectangular box for this particular sub-rectangle. If we do this for all the different sub-rectangles that we see here to get rectangular boxes for each, we can use the volumes of all these rectangular boxes to approximate the volume between the surface and the XY plane. For instance, suppose we wanted to use this procedure to get the volume displayed here under this function F, so between F and the XY plane. Here's what our rectangular boxes could look like in blue. You see that the sum of the volumes of these boxes approximates the volume underneath F. Now that we've seen what these rectangular boxes look like, how do we add up the volumes to get our approximation? Well, we take the volume of the first rectangular box plus the volume of the second plus the volume of the third. And we keep summing until we get to the end of the first row of boxes. Then we add up all the volumes from the second row of boxes and the third row of boxes. And we keep going and we stop once we've gotten to the last row. There are a lot of terms in this sum. This large sum that we're looking at is called the double Riemann sum for the function F over the rectangular domain R and can be written more succinctly using two summations as we have here. Okay, so now using this double sum, as we increase the number of rectangular boxes without bound, our approximation gets closer and closer to the actual volume underneath the surface, as we see here. This is a limit of the double Riemann sum that we were just looking at. And the value of this limit is called the double integral of F over the rectangle R as we have defined here. Now, we've already seen one interpretation of the double integral. The double integral represents the volume between the function F and the XY plane. Note that this volume is signed, meaning that any volume below the XY plane is counted as a negative volume. You will explore these ideas and more in our work throughout section 11.1.