Astonishment could not even begin to describe his reaction. He had written the book as a scholarly work, never thinking it would ever be considered anything but a tangential reference text. His editor had estimated that at best a few hundred, possible a thousand, fellow researchers in his very narrow discipline would actually read the dense tome - the rest of the volumes would be purchased by university libraries. When the book assumed the focus of an article in the New York Review of Books, the publisher thought there must be some mistake. True, galleys of the text had been sent to all the appropriate journals, but that was more as a matter of form - hardly done with any real hope of critical consideration. When a rave appeared on the front page of the Sunday New York Times Book Review the publisher decided to seize the opportunity and expanded the first printing from 2500 to 25,000. When the book exploded onto the bestseller list in its sixth week of release, Professor Hugh Shipley was as shocked as anyone. His life had, in the past ten years or so, seemed to have finally found its rhythm. Time had worn the rough edges off his once rocky marriage - loving patience had finally proved the antidote to their son's seeming endless descent into anger - and a good humored acceptance had replaced a quietly bitter disappointment over his never-to-be-achieved professional ambitions. With these and his other sundry fears and yearnings either quelled or dispelled, Hugh had finally taken the time to commit to word processor his final, humble thoughts concerning his properly obscure academic concentration. The resulting text was titled 'AMOROXIA'. It is an amazing phenomenon when a work so captures the public's imagination. It is as though the pent-up feelings of a sprawling and diverse society finds sudden release through the vision of a single individual. And this release can be compared to a fire: it begins with a slow heating as the public interest is piqued, the temperature rising steadily to a smoldering as that interest turns to wide popularity until these feelings burst into the flames of wild affection. How long this fire burns - how far it spreads - how hot it becomes - and how much of the populace it consumes is unpredictable but in the case of AMOROXIA the conflagration was huge - deep, wide, and long lasting. A mythic inferno on the level of the Beatles, Picasso, and Shakespeare - and all from a single work - one book. And as is often a corollary in these cases, the fire spreads to engulf the work itself, as it becomes a repository of unexpressed longings and unresolved passions crying out from the heart and soul of the society, their endowing the work with never-intended meanings, never-voiced intents, never-imagined voices. And so was the case with 'Amoroxia'. In fact the title itself, though a technical term coined by the professor, immediately became part of the language taking on a variety of meanings both formal and colloquial. It was heard constantly in everyday conversation, in jokes, in songs, in commercials and on and on. The book spawned movies which engendered TV shows and videos. A plethora of supporting and opposing articles, pamphlets, and books were released weekly on the subject. Hugh Shipley's image graced everything from magazines to billboards to breakfast cereal boxes. There were motions in Congress addressing the book, some damning, most heaping praise. One even went so far as to suggest Shipley's picture be put on the first class stamp; the only living American in memory to be so honored. Every politician wanted to be photographed with him - every movie starlet wanted to be romantically linked to him - every wannabe and has-been dreamt of being considered a source close to the man himself. The whirlwind, swept the Professor and his entire experience up into a vortex, an oz of unworldly proportions. He tried his best to keep his feet on the ground but that ground itself seemed to swell upward as he walked - meeting his foot before he even let it fall. He was carried along at such a dizzying pace that even the wisdom he had earned with age seemed to go up in smoke - devoured by the flames of fame. Even the support of his wife, family, and friends was not ballast enough to keep him afloat in a raging sea of attention. One of the first signs of the Professor's faltering was his handling of a rather curious phenomenon. As stated earlier, individuals and society as a whole began to invest in his book all sorts of meanings that were not Shipley's intentions. It was as if they saw the book as a multidimensional structure whose meaning depended on the angle from which it was viewed. He faced the dilemma of having to either take credit for arousing this multitude of ideas and feelings; or, argue and contradict them as not being his express aim. Initially he did contend with these variations on his theme, but as time went by he began - first by silence and later by knowing nods and finally by proud assertion - to take credit for meaning to suggest this wild panoply of concepts attributed to his book. The text of his book and his commentaries began to have manifold meanings for a multitude of peoples, the world over.

His wife, family, and friends felt they knew Hugh Shipley, his always having been an open, engaging spirit; but, when he began to congratulate himself for insights and intentions they knew he did not possess, those most long standing relationships started to weaken and unravel. When once his wife, Sarah, joked that he was beginning to believe what was being written about him in the paper, he angrily told her that she did not understand what he was going through - that she could never know how hard it was to be elevated to such heights. This flare-up marked a deepening alienation that had been growing between them. At Sarah's suggestion, and in consideration of the many years they had spent together, he agreed to see a marriage counselor, a Dr. Phillip Van Exel. Shipley had no prejudice against the process but after a month or two he lost faith in its efficacy and with his wife's sad consent they left off seeing Van Exel.

And Hugh's profound sense of loneliness deepened. He found himself seeking more and more those with whom he could share his dizzying sense of bewilderment; those who enjoyed a degree of fame that approached his ( for there were few who had experienced more). These friendships were in general unexpected and strange, but the most stunning of these was his relationship with Rolfe Stern. He had met Stern at a White House dinner honoring his book. He had been surprised that Rolfe, whom he never heard of, was seated near him at the head table, at his right hand of the President himself. Hugh wondered what possibly could Stern's claim to fame be, this slight, wide-eyed man with a pronounced Mid-Atlantic accent. Later in the evening Shipley asked his new best friend, the First Lady, about Stern. She turned and called over to Stern, repeating Hugh's question. When everyone at the nearby tables heard this, they turned and laughed knowingly. This embarrassed Hugh who at this point had thought he was past such mortification in social settings. At the conclusion of this state dinner, Rolfe offered to give Hugh a ride back to his hotel. As they rode in Stern's limousine through the dark Washington streets Hugh obliquely delved into Stern's background. With the Professor's permission Stern told his driver to take a swing around the Jefferson Memorial and park at the Tidal Basin. As they sat there silently for a long moment Stern turned to the Professor, "Hugh, you've become quite a success. Your book was brought to my attention last year by an associate and I've followed its trajectory with great interest. I think I have some idea the kind of stress this can create in a life - how much strain and anxiety you must be feeling___"

"No, no, things couldn't be better. It's really been very exciting for me and my family___"

Stern interrupted, "You don't have to do that. You can really talk to me. I understand."

Hugh was very taken aback. He was unused to being interrupted. No one ever spoke while he was speaking, at least not for the past year or two - no one. So he became humorously defensive, "I'm sure I don't know what you're talking about."

"I know of the troubles with your wife, your family, your old friends."

Hugh felt his face redden, "Listen, whoever you think you are___!"

"I'm Rolfe Stern, as you know." "You say that like it should mean something to me." "I assume that you've heard of the Tri-Lateral Commission?"

"Of course, that's some strange organization that conspiracy hounds are always howling about - I think David Rockerfeller is involved."

Rolfe laughed, "David rues the day he agreed to be interviewed for the PBS special about the Commission. But to be precise, the Tri-Lateral Commission is a member union of the eleven most important industrial powers in the world."

"Why is it I don't hear more about it?"

"You will in time. At this point we feel visibility would not be helpful."

"And what do you have to do with Tri-Lateral?" asked Hugh.

"I am the Commissioner."

Hugh laughed, "You mean you run the whole thing?"

"I arbitrate final decisions, yes."

"Are you saying the Commission is a sort of super-government - running the world?" Shipley laughed at the preposterity of the idea.

"No one runs the world, but my position as Commissioner does have come with certain influence and authority. Your President for example is an associate."

"You say associate but you're tone means subordinate".

"I appreciate your insight and apologize for my transparency."

"I find this hard to believe", said Hugh.

"In time you will have no trouble, trust me."

"What has any of this to do with me? I mean, what could a world leader of your stature want with an old retired college professor?"

"As I said, I thought you might need someone to talk to. I had hoped I could be of help - introduce you to a group of friends who might share with you the burdens I know your new station in life has heaped on you."

"As I said my wife and I____"

Rolfe laid his hand on Hugh's arm stopping him, "We know you are lonely."

"What do you____?"

Rolfe squeezed his arm, "We know all about Kiki." Hugh's face drained of blood. How could anyone know about Kiki. His head began to spin. He had met her in Dallas a few months earlier. She was a hostess at a very exclusive Japanese restaurant. He'd been introduced to her at a party held there for the President of Mexico. Following a short conversation with Kiki she had given him her phone number. He had not seen her since the party but had called her many times, late at night in the past month - they had spoken for hours each time. He knew it was crazy, hardly knowing her, but it felt like he was falling in love in her.

Rolfe smiled, "It's alright. It happens to everyone in your situation. It's only natural. That's why I wanted to talk with you. You have great influence right now - especially in the sphere of myth and dream. We like to keep our hand in that area, the world's great sea of unconsciousness. We feel it is an obligation that our citizens have implicitly laid in our hands. I thought it would be wise for us to talk. As I said, I've read your book and am also a fan. I would like to be of service to you."

"Am I to understand that I am under surveillance?"

"It isn't anything so obvious as that, but in simple terms there is an awareness of your activities. Things are not the the way they would initially seem in my world, a world that you have only recently entered through your extraordinary achievement. I want to introduce you its inner workings, to its deeper nature - to its enjoyment - even to its beauty, hopefully."

Hugh listened. It all seemed so unreal. But he still couldn't get the Kiki comment out of his head, "What does Kiki have to do with this then?"

"Nothing really. I just wanted you to know that I was aware of your situation."

"Am I to take this as blackmail? Is that what this is all about?"

Rolfe let go such a roar of laughter that his limo driver, Seaton, who had stationed himself outside came running back toward the car from his post near the tidal basin, 9mm drawn.

Rolfe saw him approach but waved him off as he continued, "I am sorry to haved laughed. We in no way want you to feel threatened. I didn't mean to embarrass you with my knowledge of Kiki. I just wanted to cut to the quick. It is m sincerest wish to help you. You are an important part of our society and I consider it my job to smooth the way for you. That's all."

Despite all the sturm and drang, Shipley's marriage had endured - never having been rocked by unfaithfulness. Fidelity was the stony foundation upon which his and Sarah's relationship had been based. Therefore his feelings about Kiki caused him great guilt and unrest. "So you promise not to tell my wife?"

"You know, as well as I, there's nothing to tell. And, beyond that, I would never betray your trust."

Hugh sat for a long time looking out the window of the limousine. His previous life had not prepared him for all this. The fame, the power, Kiki... he thought about her. He wondered why she was so present in all his thoughts. A person whom he hardly knew, and at his advanced age. It frankly frightened the professor.

He finally turned to Rolfe, "So...?"

"There's really nothing more to say for now... but I would like you to join me this weekend."

"Where?"

"It's at a place we call the 'Retreat'.

"The Retreat... the Commission... what next?

"It's in New Jersey."

"New Jersey?"

"Right. In horse country. Not far from the late Mrs. Onassis' estate. I think you would very much enjoy it."

"I don't know if I really can take the time."

"I have already made sure that Kiki will be there."

"What do you mean 'made sure'?"

Rolfe laughed again, "I'm sorry, English is a second language. I was clumsy. I meant to say I had invited her. If you would be uncomfortable I could as easily dis-invite her. She is not yet aware of your attendance so it would not reflect upon you at all."

"I don't know what to say..." moaned Shipley. "Say 'I'll be there, Rolfe, thanks for thinking of me'." Hugh looked into Rolfe's twinkling eyes and had to smile. "I have trouble believing all this Tri-Lateral business____"

"Listen, I have an idea. I realize on the face of it all this Tri-Lateral business may seem a bit farfetched... why don't I have the First Lady give you a call tomorrow to put your mind at rest. Or if you'd rather, the President himself could make the call."

"No, I'm closer to her... the First Lady."

"I see, fine," said Rolfe making note in his PDA.

"I don't mean 'close' in any way except that I have spoken to her several times. I am not 'close' close to the First Lady," said the Professor significantly.

"Oh, I know, I know," said Stern, supressing a mirthful smile. Rolfe waved to the driver who came back to the car and drove them away. It was a beautiful, warm night. Stern rolled down the windows on the way to the hotel so they could smell the cherry blossoms, but Hugh's olfactory center was waylaid in an- ticipation and reminiscence.

*****************************

He spent most of the ensuing week at home with his wife, Sarah. This was stressful since she was unused to having him around so constantly. One night he took her to a restaurant he remembered as her favorite. He drove her out to a beach on Long Island after dinner. He so wanted to tell her what was happening in his life but when confronted with her upturned face in the moonlight all he could think about was Kiki and the Tri-Lateral commission. When she asked him what was bothering him, he just shook his head and muttered about being stuck on his new book. Hugh had been trying to do a follow up to AMOROXIA for over a year now and was making no progress. He knew in his heart he only had one book in him which is probably why he waited till so late in life to write it. As they drove home his wife put on the radio. She had thought the easy listening station would be innocuously relaxing but in a strange coincidence they happened to play 'The Thrill Is Gone' by B.B. King. Both of them wanted to turn it off but neither had the courage to make so overt a gesture. The tune continued to its painful guitar solo conclusion. It was followed by one romantic song after another, each more excruciating than the last. They both sighed in audible relief when the Midtown Tunnel interfered with the radio's reception. Hugh took that opportunity to switch off the static. They slept in seperate rooms that night - a night he had hoped would rekindle their love, but rather made clear it was over for them - they had become lost from each other in their journey through life - possibly to never be reunited forever. Why had he ever written the book? He slept very deeply that night awakening the next morning as if he had a hangover. It was a call from the First Lady that got him out of bed. She reassured him that everything Stern had mentioned was true, adding that the President looked forward to seeing Hugh in New Jersey over the weekend. He hung up knowing that it was too late to turn back. He was no longer the person he had grown comfortable with over the years - no longer the person who had written 'AMOROXIA'. It was as if the book had written him. And he was determined to accept the fate of whoever it was that he had become.

*****************************

The intercom buzzed at Friday noon announcing Shipley's departure by limousine to New Jersey. He told his wife he was attending a symposium, but after their long, tense week together she was just glad he was leaving, not paying attention to his an- nouncement of destination. He had travelled so extensively in recent months she had lost interest in his wide ranging itinerary. When he repeated (out of guilt) where he was going, she interrupted him with a kiss patting on the back. He wondered if she were in on the whole Tri-Lateral 'thing'. He dropped Rolfe Stern's name but she didn't react. When she asked him if he was OK, he realized that it was he who was acting strangely and with relief he took leave of her. He carried his bag and briefcase down to the lobby where he was met by the limo driver. As they were about to get into the car he noticed a silhouette in the back seat. His mind raced through the possibilities: Stern? Kiki? the President? his own wife Sarah? Opening the door with all the candor he could muster, he saw a man with long curly hair wearing tinted glasses slid down on his nose, over which he glanced up to meet Shipley's look. The man nodded to Shipley saying, "Rolfe hoped you wouldn't mind company on the ride out."

Hearing that nasal twang Hugh recogized it was Bob Dylan. He smiled his assent and sat down. As the weekend wore on he found that no one 'on this level' ever introduced themselves or shook hands. It was curious but eventually he came to find it a pleasant change. As Dylan went back to his reading Hugh couldn't help staring at him. Even though they were roughly the same age he considered Dylan a youth; himself, a late-middle-aged man. Hugh had passed through the 'Sixties at a point in his life when he could take only small pleasure in the burgeoning cultural revolution. He had smoked pot, gone to concerts (mostly folk - for some unknown reason loved the Incredible String Band - maybe it was their skinny unisex lead singer's resemblance to Sarah). He read Marcuse and Laing, saw a lot of Bergman, Fellini, and Passolini films - even marched in a few anti-war protests. But he hadn't indulged in the supposed free sex craze. There was this show on TV called "The Prisoner" that he touched him deeply, his having become a fan of Patrick Magee's "Secret Agent" during graduate school. But his life focus was his studies and his future intellectual endeavors. He dismissed these strange times as 'just a phase', 'a blip on the screen', 'a bump on the cultural curve' and other clever clich s inherited from his conservative Republican father. Shipley escaped the profound transformation that swept up many of his contemporaries who wandered away, disappearing into the whelm of ecstasy that infused the air of Oregon, New Mexico, and northern California. In addition, he had by then fathered a son and knowing his own parents opinion of the counterculture, he couldn't possibly expose their heir to such apostasy. So he held on and rode out the 'trip'. But now here he was, riding in a limo with Bob Dylan. This was somthing even the wildest dreams of Rolfe's invitation had not summoned. After a time Dylan lay down the book he was reading. He saw the title: 'Amoroxia', his very own text. He looked up at Dylan's who had closed his eyes leaning his head back.

"You ever write songs, man?" nasaled the former Zimmerman.

"Um... no, I don't really know anything about music... I mean how to play."

"Too bad, man, too bad. You'd be a monster." With that Dylan seemed to fall to sleep.

The ride to the Retreat was a little under two hours, the last forty minutes along isolated country roads. He hadn't realized how verdant the Garden State could be. When he arrived they were met by an eight-foot-high sliding chain link security gate. On it a large sign: WARNING! U.S. GOVERNMENT RESERVATION ENTRANCE ONLY BY AUTHORIZED MILITARY PERSONAL Armed military guards manned a tower and small compound inside. The limo was waved through - Bob Dylan slept on. They drove another twenty minutes or so up a two-lane blacktop road through dense forest, making several turn-offs onto strangely number-coded roads. At last the woods gave way to beautiful open meadows, ponds and orchards, creating much the impression of a country club. In fact within moments the limo was pulling up in from of an immense Georgian style mansion that was big enough to be a Pocono or Catskill resort. There were revelers everywhere - strangely dressed men and women frolicking or on their way to the pools, tennis courts, riding stables, and golf courses that Hugh was to find were available. As the Professor was getting his luggage out of the limo, Dylan turned to him and asked, "So, what do you tell your old lady?"

"Excuse me?" questioned Hugh.

"When you come out here - where do you tell your wife you're going?"

"Oh, I'm here for a symposium."

After a considered pause he laughing repeated, "A symposium. Cool, too cool." Dylan raised his dark glasses to block out the warm sun and wandered off, seeming to know his way around. Over the rest of the weekend Hugh only saw Dylan once more and that was very briefly at one of the 'shows'... but more of about those later. After being escorted by a young Eurasian boy to his suite of rooms that overlooked the golf course, Shipley was presented a tentative schedule of activities for the weekend. The first event on the list was an orientation session starting in fifteen minutes. With the help of the Eurasian boy (who now seemed older than Hugh had at first thought and with that also seemed possibly female), he made his way across the grounds to a large hospital-like building. There, in a plush consulting room, he was met by Bill Moyers, the former Johnson administration press secretary, now New Age guru of good sense and mind-body health. Moyers was taller than he had expected but had the same warmth and ease that Hugh had come to know seeing him on TV. Their session was scheduled for thirty minutes but they ended up talking for most of three hours. To describe this detail would be a book in itself and considering Mr. Moyers makes a livelihood writing such, I will do my best not to horn in on his market. But I will try to portray its essence in a few paragraphs, with a sprinkling of detail for flavor. To begin, Moyers tried to put the Professor at ease about being at the Retreat. He then asked Shipley if he was a fan of the movie "The Godfather". It so happens he was. Moyers continued, "Well, Francis Coppola has taught us all so much with his picture. But one thing I found particularly im- pressive was his casting. Francis picked actors whose status in Hollywood mirrored their roles in the film. In doing so, he created a reality in the filmmaking process that paralleled the larger mythic story. That's why I am here to set you on your path at the Retreat. We knew you were familiar with my documentaries, especially those on Joseph Campbell - myth and reality. We had hoped that we could take advantage of your previously engendered trust and regard for me, allowing us to communicate immediately on the several necessary levels."

"So you are Pacino to my Duvall, or better you're Michael Corleone to my Tom Hogan."

"Exactly and more!" chirped Moyers. "Life here at the Retreat is of necessity a multi-level experience - we try to bend the fabric of perception allowing parallels to intersect - compressing time and space in the process."

"Archetypically?"

"Yes...! I am so glad you're here. Rolfe told me I would like you and I do," smiled Moyers. Coming from anyone else this kind of pseudo-intimacy would have struck the Professor as farcical but he was genuinely drawn in. Moyers went on to give a brief history of the Retreat. It's coming into existence as a private foundation founded by the Astor family in the late 19th century. The robber barons attended as well as those men of art and science whose ideas changed the world of thought and perception at the turn of the century: Stravinsky, Satie, Freud, Mahler, Brach, Ravel, Duse, Wright, Sullivan, Edison, Marconi, Proust, Duncan, Diagalev, the brothers James, and on and on. It was Einstein's visit here in 1928 that led to his eventual post at nearby Princeton University. Several of that era's Presidents visited regularly - it was this connection with world politics that brought about the sale of the Retreat to the U.S. government during Roosevelt's administration in 1937. Some say it was FDR's insatiable philan- dering spirit that really pushed the deal through. This mention of sexual indiscretion struck a chord with Shipley (his deep shame and inhibition previously laid forth in these pages). Moyers took notice of this cue and began to probe this area of Shipley's life. It was not an easy entr but once inside there came an outpouring of feeling on the Professor's part. He tried to make sense of the conflicts that had arisen out of his sudden success. He talked about his marriage, the failed counseling, and his infatuation with Kiki. Bill explained that the Retreat was a place where hopefully the Professor could safely explore all those areas and, if not resolve them completely, at least enjoy his 'life force unbound by social convention'. Hugh again stiffened at the suggestion of such unorthodox exploration. He said that he tried to conduct himself within certain moral and ethical bounds - and at this moment he felt these were all he had to cling to. Bill took a chance and proposed that it was these very bounds which were giving Hugh such misery - this clinging to precepts he had grown beyond. He suggested the Retreat was an opportunity to shed an outgrown life and find a new self - a more suitable persona.

"Are you telling me that anything goes here?" Hugh blurted out.

"Basically yes. Anything goes here between consenting adults - ANYTHING." "Even violence?"

"Are you afraid you might become violent?"

"Please, be serious!" retorted Hugh.

"So why even ask?" Bill inquired.

"I'm trying to fit my mind around what you are saying."

"Can I let you in on my fantasy of what you are afraid of?"

"I suppose so.... yes, go ahead."

Moyers smiled sadly at Hugh and began. "I believe that you have lived a life of great inhibition and self-denial. On that basis much good has come to you. Without it your marriage, your career, your book, and its amazing subsequent influence would have been impossible. But now your soul strives for its well-deserved freedom but you are afraid to let go. You are afraid of the attendant annihilation. You are afraid to follow your sexual desires to their end - afraid to see who you are - afraid to feel your place in the universe - afraid to go to your death without the wisdom and knowledge only such freedom could afford you."

"Are you trying me that if I 'go crazy' with any and everyone for whom I feel the impulse I will find Nirvana...? That's ridiculous!"

"It may be, but that doesn't take away from its truth. Sometimes through excess comes wisdom," assured Moyers.

"You mean all these resources go into this place so that people like me - uptight old, washed up scribblers can have one last fling?"

"You insult what you have become and what all humanity has been able to enjoy through your years of hard work."

"I can't believe what you are telling me!"

"Hugh, the Retreat fulfills a function - socially and spiritually that has fallen away from men in the past few hundred years. There were once societal mechanisms for the kind of release we offer here. In life, socialization is of course imperative but oversocialization condemns one to self destruction. You, Professor Shipley, have simply been oversocialized and we're here to help you let your hair down, so to speak. You may think it's ridiculous or absurd but I assure you in this case you are dead wrong. You owe it to yourself and to society to let yourself go. You have individuated and individuated well. Now it is time to melt - and fuse. Trust me."

"Bill, you're a great guy and I think a lot of what you have told me is true, but where you've taken all this is, frankly, a crock of shit."

"I know. I know," laughed Bill, "But that's what everything is in the end, isnt' it Hugh?" With that, Moyers got up and looked at his watch. "Got to run. I'm so glad we had this chance to talk. Maybe I'll see you tonight at the show."

This was the second mention of 'the show' since his arrival but before he could ask, Moyers leapt to his feet, shook the Professor's hand patting him on the back and trotted off, leaving Hugh beyond befuddlement. Shipley stood up and looked out the window across tennis courts toward a grouping of swimming pools and a lake beach. Nothing at first seemed that unusual but upon closer inspection he noticed that many of the tennis players and practically all the swimmers were in advanced stages of undress. In general the women were topless and as he scanned the court just below the window he couldn't swear to this fact but he thought he could make out Henry Kissinger in a leather tong, hooting in a high voice as he charged the net in a weird tennis match in which he was playing against a pair of what appeared to be blindfolded Asian lap dancers. Shipley stepped back from the window embar- rassed for the former Secretary of State. He took a breath as he sat down at the desk just vacated by Bill.

Gathering his thoughts he noticed a computer on the desk - on its screen he saw his name. He moved his hand to touch the keyboard but then wondered what if someone were to come in at that moment. "Godammit", he thought, "this is my file". He opened it and began to read. It was a lengthy, several hundred meg, but when he finished he gathered this was only the summary. Obviously there were more extensive background materials and deeper analyses stored elsewhere. He looked around and saw that the office was lined with alphabetized CD rom files. He peered surreptitiously out the window - noticing most of the courts and pools were now empty as he pulled the curtains shut. He then crept to the door and locked it. The following hours were spent scanning the huge files that covered his life and the various, conflicting interpretations of its significance. Finally filled to bursting with his own history he turned his attention to file after file of the notables and dignitaries that had come through the Retreat over its many years. He virtually inhaled a saga of modern accomplishment and theories about its interrelated web of meaning. It would take many a gigabyte to impart what he read and several more to convey his various reactions.

In short, Professor Hugh Shipley left that office a very different man than the one who had entered - his world, a very different place. But these transformations of his persona and milieu were now happening so quickly, his once solidly unchanging view of himself was giving way to a rapidly shifting fluid self-experience. Moyers had guessed correctly, having read 'Amoroxia', that the Professor was rigidly locked into a particularly didactic gestalt and the way to break him out of that was to join the resistance - glut his thirst for fact - stretching his information circuits beyond their limits. When Hugh Shipley drifted out of the building it was dark night. But to his mind, the world glowed, pulsing in the dark. He was in a state of trance, an almost drug-like transcendence. His sphere of consciousness ballooning to the very beyond, his ego fading to a nothingness as it attempted to comprehend this mesh of cosmic interconnection. In the distance he heard a beat, smelled a thumping rhythm, saw a snaky melody weaving through the grass and flowers and trees. He let it carry him. Soon he found himself in a stand of poplars at the edge of a large meadow. On a raised stage at one end of the field a band was playing. He later discovered that it was the Grateful Dead, playing one of their last concerts before Jerry Garcia's untimely death. He felt himself smiling, swaying to the beat. He felt someone take his hand pulling him into the mass of dancing humanity on the grassy expanse before the stage. In a short time he felt as if he were one of a multitude of sperm cells throbbing in tribal mating dance with an ovum being the band on stage. He laughed at his thoughts which no longer felt like his to own. Not quite knowing how it happened he realized he was now sitting on the grass looking up at former NBA great Bill Russell who apparently was the MC for the evening's 'show'. Russell was a man of great dignity and angry humor. Hugh seemed to remember that in the sixties he had named one of his children Buddha. Russell introduced the 'acts' which proved to be deeply personal and truly weird. It opened with Bob Hope coming out and peeing on a downstage parking meter while his wife stood upstage yelling at him, "Hey, kid, what are you doing? What are you doing there, kid!?" The audience roared its laughing approval. Hugh was a bit shocked to see a shriveled show biz legend expose himself to hundreds of people but he had to admit it was rather funny and oddly sweet. Next came Betty Friedan who stripped to the waist and breast fed William Casey (director of the Viet Nam War's 'pacification' program of terror and assassination before heading the CIA under Reagan) while singing an a capella version of Gershwin's 'Rhapsody in Blue'. Shipley noticed that most of acts tended toward the scatological or sexual but were on the whole utterly entertaining and often deeply moving. He sensed that the completely revealing, personal commitment drove these performances to such riveting levels. They lacked all self-consciousness shame and embarrassment. And considering the performers, no mean feat indeed. The notables who appeared on stage that evening ranged from singer Barbra Streisand to philanthropist George Soros. The final act was reserved for the President of the United States himself who brought down the house by crawling onstage dressed as a baby girl. He played with toys for a while then began to cry what Hugh thought were real tears until Allan Ginsberg rushed on dressed in a plaid house dress and changed the President's diaper. While Ginsberg was putting on the new diaper the President got hold of the old diaper and began rubbing what looked like genuine excrement into his hair. He and Ginsberg than sang 'Tea For The Tillerman'. It brought everyone to their feet holding hands, singing along, verse after verse. Bill Russell then came back on with a mumbling Muhammed Ali who lead everyone in a slow, bluesy rendition of 'The Star Spangled Banner'.

The lights went out at the end and real, live fire works filled the sky. Hugh looked around at the crowd flashing on and off with the bursting rockets. He felt someone squeeze his right hand. He looked down and there was Kiki standing by his side. She led him by the hand away from the field to a grove of magnolia trees, the ground covered with just fallen petals. They lay down and fell asleep to the strains of 'Nights In White Satin' which played over and over on the Retreat's sound system.

The Professor roused several times during the night to find himself making love to Kiki. In the morning when he awoke in the magnolia grove he tried to convince himself that he had been dreaming but he knew what had happened had been real. Hugh got up and wandered about the woods during the day in a state of sonambulous confusion. Whenever he heard revellers near him he would go the other way, needing to be alone. In the late afternoon he smelled dinner cooking and couldn't ignore his appetite. He walked back to his hotel room and called room service. He ordered a light dinner of fish, rice, vegetables and bread pudding with a bottle of Tavel. When the waiter arrived with his dinner they made polite conversation. As he was leaving the waiter turned to him, "I understand you're performing tonight."

"What do you mean? Who gave you that idea?"

"Oh, everyone's been talking about it. They're all very excited," replied the waiter.

"You must be mistaken. I had made no such plan or agreement."

"Oh, maybe I misheard but I could swear... well, you have a nice night, sir." The waiter drifted out of the room.

The professor ate his meal in front of the window overlooking the compound. As the sun set he heard music and saw everyone drifting to what he knew was that night's show. He looked around for a phone. He had an urge to call someone on the outside but for the first time he realized that there were no phones at the Retreat. He closed his windows, drew the blinds, got into bed and tried to sleep. But that was not to be. Hugh tried to bestill his pounding heart as he lay in the dark. He couldn't believe what the waiter had said. Who could have started such a rumor? What in the world could he possibly do? He had no experience performing... unless you considered his lecturing... but that could be in no way construed as performing in the Retreat's sense. He woke suddenly.

He must have finally fallen to sleep. He leapt from bed with a gripping anxiety that he was late. He felt himself running - down the hall - out of his hotel into the night - through the woods toward the stage. He didn't know why he was running but he was in the clutches of such a powerful compulsion. As he reached the edge of the field before the stage everyone assembled was turned toward him. He stopped dead. From the stage came a voice, "We've been waiting for you, Hugh." He looked up and it was Steve Allen who was this evening's MC. Steve began to whisper "Hugh, Hugh, Hugh" and the crowd joined in the rhythmic chant. He turned to his right and there was Dylan smiling fully - the kind of deeply beatific smile he could never remember ever having seen on the singer.

As the crowd chanted his name over and over, Hugh felt himself moving toward Allen on the stage - through the crowd - up the steps - toward the microphone. Steve hugged him as the crowd exploded in rhythmic applause that again became the chant of "Hugh, Hugh." He turned to Steve but he was gone - the Professor was alone on stage looking out at all those mouths opening and closing, over and over again unison. Finally Hugh began to speak but words didn't come - just sounds. He tasted salt in his mouth and looked down. There were two small puddles of tears at his feet. He was crying. The sounds he was hearing were his wails. He felt his legs turn to rubber and soon was looking up at the night sky. The wide expanse of stars were slowly noosed away by the closing ring of faces looking down at him. He felt himself being lifted in the air and carried with a slow rocking motion that matched the sound of his repeated name. There was then a new sound in his ears. It was his own laughter - giggled and guffaws and chortles flowing from him. He had never been an easy laugher and these laughs were as free as could be. He laughed at the dark and the passing trees and the stars in the sky.

He was awoken in his hotel bed in the morning by the sound of his own voice - laughing in his sleep. It was Sunday. This was the day he had planned to return home - Monday he had a lecture followed by a faculty meeting. He got up and packed and went downstairs to the front desk. Of course there would be no charge - everything was courtesy of the Retreat. Hugh turned around there stood Bill Moyers smiling. He felt anger rise in his throat. "What's the matter, Hugh?"

"You know very well what's the matter." They stood outside the hotel silently for a long moment as the limousine approached.

Finally Moyers spoke, "You now realize that you can live in what you considered two opposing worlds. Those worlds can now be as one, both of your feet solidly on single ground, not that perilous straddle you had been experiencing. You were living a shadow life - each foot in two conflicting different worlds which were moving inexorably apart."

"Excuse the expression but that is bunch of elitist crap."

"Really?"

"Of course. I am no better than anyone else. I still have to live by rules I have set myself."

"I don't know if that's so true anymore."

"You mean because I am rich and famous I can do anything I want. That I'm somehow above the law. There are people out there who go to bed hungry every night. People who have never known a day without fear and humiliation. And you people only care that I realize my 'specialness'. That I should take joy in my singularity. How absurd!"

"That's a lot of melodramatic guilt and manpulative self-pity. That is not what this is about and you know it," sighed Moyers.

"What I know is that I've betrayed a trust - I've been unfaithful to my wife."

"I'm not sure what crimes you have committed against her but I do know you have long betrayed yourself. And that is the trust and confidence from which all others spring___" Hugh spat out,

"That's just new age psycho babble - a rationalization for egocentric self-indulgence."

Moyers answered sadly, "Perhaps what for you is self-indulgence is for me a forsaking of self - a good humored rejection of dead end individuation - an enlivening dip into the anonymous sea of life."

"What horseshit - what utter horseshit! And you expect that I could believe that!?" screamed Hugh. He angrily turned and got into the limousine, slamming the door behind him.

Hugh was in such a state of blind rage at the start of the trip that he didn't notice for a good fifteen minutes that he had company. His fellow passenger proved to be Arvo Part, the composer. When they reached the city, Hugh insisted his driver drop off Part at his West Side brownstone before crossing the Park to his own East Side high rise. The composer proved to be a delightful conversationalist, surprising in light of his music's endless exploration into liturgical dirge. When exiting the car Arvo asked Hugh if he would see him at the Retreat next month. Hugh evaded the question by saying he wasn't sure if he were available. Wistfully they exchanged telephone numbers and a warm handshake.

Hugh watched Part enter his building as the limo followed traffic into the Park transverse at 79th.

When he entered his apartment the sun had just set. There were no lights on. He assumed his wife wasn't home, but from respectful habit he called out softly, "Sarah?" He nearly jumped out of his skin when she replied. She had been sleeping on the couch. She sat up and turned on a light. He put down his bags and sat in a chair across from her. She looked up at him. They sat with each other, quietly, till the room fell into darkness.

In that moment he realized he didn't know her - he had never known her - he hadn't ever even really looked at her, and never really let her see who he was in all these years. She was this stranger in his home. Could her strangeness be everything to him in his never being able to comprehend its endless nature? Maybe - maybe not. She smiled at him and asked if he had eaten yet. He laughed and asked her if he could take her out to dinner.

 © 1996 TOM NOONAN  

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