It was in those first few days back in Peppermint Plains that Aster came to learn about the liquid, nebulous state that existence really takes. “Being” was a stream, Sísí said, capable of infinite diversion around obstacles and of flowing across boundless regions all at once; it was not any less a single stream just because its pearly waters galloped over more than one stone, just as giant clonal forms such as Pando in Aster's world weren't any less an individual just because they seemed to inhabit multiple individualities. In the same way, Aster came to realize, that her life in Peppermint Plains was every bit as valid as the one she lived in 2066, despite all of Nancy's objections to the contrary.
After all, how could she, who had never experienced first-hand another world equal in fidelity to our own, criticize the validity of Aster's own lives? How could a person without a telescope deny the heliocentricity of the solar system with any confidence? Easily, says the 16th century: people are a tribe that excels in appearing intelligent.
And yet, the illumination of Nancy's ignorance did not lessen the turmoil that was now raging inside Aster and growing by the day. She was in the middle of a great metamorphosis: the reforging of self. No one personality now held supremacy over the other, no one life felt more justified or “legitimate”. It was simply that she now existed in two realities. And it didn't matter either if she used a device produced in one existence to travel to the other, as much as Columbus voyaging to the New World in a Spanish ship mattered to discovering a new continent.
But with two lives came all the stress and pressure of balancing them; holding two suns in her hands around which entire systems of individual concerns and troubles revolved. And each system was now changing dramatically— her childhood was thrown into doubt, her family was falling apart, and her career was on a stratospheric rise— perhaps her only solace, then, but most excitingly of all, was that Aster was about to move out for the first time in her life.
—
It was a particularly dark night when Aster found herself alone in the shop with Sísí; a new moon had begun its watch, denying Peppermint Plains the usual intimate glow draped across the sleepy town. The darkness was instead kept at bay by a roaring fire that hollowed out the recesses of the shop, still as death after an evening of last-minute practice for the upcoming tour. Aster sat on the couch, flanked by moving boxes while Sísí stoked the fire. Only five minutes had passed since Sylvia had left to fetch the van from her parents, but the silence was already threatening to kill Aster.
She squirmed in her seat, shifted awkwardly, and looked about the room. Her gaze met the boxes, filled with the few belongings she had gathered in her first months of living in Peppermint Plains. A painful sensation came over her at the sight; it seemed like only an instant separated the present from the memory of Floyd coming to tell her that the shop, owing to the onslaught of fans no longer held back by Marion's gang, had become too unsafe for her to live in any longer, to say nothing of the crowds that Sísí & August's corner was now drawing every night. She remembered how her initial instinct was to panic for dear life, believing that Floyd was kicking her to the street and that now she really was to be homeless, and she remembered how stupid she felt when Sylvia instantly came to the rescue, exclaiming that Aster could move in with her, and showing how idiotic she was to ever doubt her apparently infinite depth of heart.
How warm then was the feeling which coursed through her body upon hearing that offer, upon realizing that somebody else could care for her like her father did. The shock was such that she couldn't help but begin to sob in front of the entire group, drawing hugs from Sylvia and awkward, yet happy expressions from the rest. Even before Sylvia's offer, Marion had suggested letting her stay in the Sluggers' practice space. Sylvia kicked him in the thigh and told him that 'that was no place for a lady to sleep', but even that act of thoughtfulness, as stupid as it was, was enough to leave Aster in awe of their generosity and to supercharge that notion which currently dominated her mind— “move to Peppermint Plains”.
And now she sat before Sísí's stage in the listening corner, the contents of her room packed all around her, while the storefront, a cavern of memory, echoed back the recollections of the past four months— the first truly happy memories of her adult life.
“Say goodbye”— fuck you, Aster cursed, before noticing that Sísí was looking down at her from the stage.
“Intense thought suits you, doesn't it?” she remarked with a grin.
Aster, like an escapee lit up by searchlight, withered under her gaze. A laugh from Sísí followed.
“What is it?” she continued. “Nostalgic before moving?” Aster responded with a slight nod, and a thousand cries for Sylvia to hurry up tumbled about in her head.
“Nostalgia is the mind's immune system; in the same way that inflammation protects a severed limb, pain from memories protects the soul from ever forgetting the moments that made it— it gives tangibility to ephemerality.”
Aster looked up at Sísí, unsure of what to say. Sísí stepped down from the stage. “I hope you don't hold it against me and August for filling the shop up night after night,” she continued, looking back at the Cherry Madonna. “I don't mean to disturb your peace or your sleep, but sometimes things just grow out of control!”
Aster shook her head. “No,” she replied meekly, shifting in her seat. “I actually like hearing poetry when I'm laying in bed. It helps me think sometimes.”
“Still, I can't imagine it's all that comfortable to have dozens of strangers below your bed. Especially with the upcoming shows, who knows where things will go?”
Aster turned her gaze toward a poster in the shop window. A dozen or so small names were lost to the darkness, but one above them, in bold, blocked font was clear— 'Vernon Roebuck'.
“For one night only,” Sísí whispered, following Aster's eyes.
Vernon Roebuck, the prodigal poet himself. The man whose lyricism practically laid the cobblestones that art students and intelligentsia skipped along on their ways to coffee shops, book houses, dens of the night; the meaning of whose lines beatniks and folkies probed like oilmen of Texan plains. He was Cecil's, and perhaps even Sylvia's biggest idol. His tireless calls to end war, empower workers, and give voice to the impoverished read more like scripture than lyricism, and the generation of protesters that sprang up around him embodied Cecil's repeated belief that those with an audience owed it to the world to use their influence for good.
It was not a step up the ladder Sísí and August were taking in booking him, but a full, complete leap to the top. Even Aster, who herself knew a thing or two about overnight success, couldn't help but be astonished at the accomplishment. After all, this was the little corner of a little shop that only months earlier played stage to Floyd's drunken midnight ramblings, which witnessed her mortification following her interview with Eugene. To now welcome the greatest folk performer in the world was nothing short of extraordinary.
Floyd had been trying for years, Cecil said, to book live performances for the shop to no avail. Johnny Vallerie's cardboard cutouts were the closest he'd ever gotten to any celebrity appearing in-store.
“Turns out most people with something to say don't take to the idea of a 6'5” man in a powdered wig shouting at them from the side,” Cecil quipped. But Sísí and August Oakley had done it; their stage was quickly becoming an establishment in and of itself. In fact, it was growing at such a rate that it seemed it would quickly outstrip the shop, especially now that it had fallen into hiatus with the band's successes. Aster looked over the sea of inventory that now sat unsold, stationary. What would become of it now that nobody worked here?
A hammering of nails drew Aster's attention upwards. Sísí was on a stool, affixing a sign to the top of the stage. “The Cherry Madonna?” she sounded out under her breath, reading the sign. “You're naming it?”
“Every venue needs a name,” Sísí replied matter-of-factly, hammering away.
“But what about Floyd?”
“That conversation can take many different paths depending on how you start.”
Aster restarted. “You're not planning to stay here forever, are you?” she asked quietly.
“No, I have to die someday,” Sísí said excitedly in response. Aster froze, flashing a bright red; she had no idea how to respond. Sísí then let loose a maniacal laugh. “Why take the trouble of moving what's already built?” she exclaimed with a toothy grin. “Floyd is so gracious after all. And if he burns it down in the end, that saves us the hassle of moving it!”
“But with this upcoming show,” Aster continued. “Aren't you going to get a lot more regulars?”
“Nothing that this shop can't handle.”
She set down the hammer and descended from the stool.
“I'll give you a tip: it's much easier to live one day at a time,” she said, turning to Aster. “If you're always fretting about tomorrow then today never comes.”
Aster went silent.
Today never comes?
“This advice is especially pertinent to you— people with grand designs such as being a 'superstar' have far more on their plate than the average person. We're animals, after all; we sleep, we eat, we drink, we die. Four things. And yet, the effort required to stand above billions of our fellow humans requires trillions of calculations, inestimable numbers of plans, just to have even a small chance. Ambition is sadism; ambitious people are divine. But take care to trust in the odds and let the universe do the work for you; you cannot bungee jump with laffy-taffy.”
She paused and looked on into the shop's indistinct darkness.
Enjoying this book? Seek out the original to ensure the author gets credit.
“It's advice that Cecil should take, as well.” She suddenly lamented. “He would've loved to see Vernon.”
“He's still alive,” Aster mumbled.
“I know. But he's reached his fork in the road and decided on his direction. The old him is dead, in a way.”
Aster looked up. “What do you mean by that?”
“He's passing on seeing Roebuck for your band's party. I invited him but he turned it down without a second thought,” she answered and brought a pale hand up against her jaw. “How many nights did we spend at the Set talking about one day being able to meet him? Too many to count; it's likely that if there were no Vernon Roebuck there would be no Cecil the songwriter— did you know that? There was no courage in him until he heard Vernon saying what he had always thought.”
Aster received this revelation with doe-eyed surprise and nausea coming over her in the wake of it. “Well, the party won't last all day,” she argued, desperate to push back the new guilt that was welling up.
“Yes, but you set out for your tour immediately after; you have to pack, you have to rest. Cecil will not begin an engagement without being sure he's done everything he can to prepare for it.”
Aster's mouth fell slightly slack, searching for a response. She trembled, unable to help but think that it was her fault. She thought back to Sylvia mentioning how much of an inspiration his anti-war anthems were to her own political activism, how she had begun the morning with a cheery lament that she wouldn't be able to make Sísí's show. The fire roared in the hearth, bending the flames and thus the shadows which covered the shop and Aster's face, so that her bangs draped a wall of darkness over her welling eyes. This was what she got for meddling in another's reality. It was like the Cherubs' break-up or even Johnny Vallerie's fall from the charts; the effects of her presence were always making themselves known, and while Aster could, for a time, motivate herself by recalling her goals and the fact that her own dreams were valid, this defense always fell away in the lonely, dark hours.
“Do not blame yourself,” Sísí suddenly interjected, causing Aster to nearly jump out of her seat. “Cecil is his own man, he doesn't need your pity. If he did not want to be part of the band you would never have got him in it, so don't feel bad about him missing this show— he knows what he's doing.”
Aster's eyes followed the embroidery of the rug. Even if that was true, she thought, it didn't lessen the feeling that his future, along with everyone else's, was now being hoisted upon her shoulders; they must succeed, otherwise, how else could she ever look anyone in the eyes again?
“Your decision is a good one, if you don't mind me returning to the original topic,” Sísí put in abruptly. “Fans clamoring up your stairs, crowds always outside looking in for the sight of you— a record shop is no place for a pop star to live.” She then dropped her lids slightly, watching Aster from the corners of her eyes. “That is still what you wish to be, yes?”
Aster blushed and looked away. “Yes.”
“Then accept that you will have to acclimate to it. You either get to be a star or a private citizen, there is no in-between— it's like leaving one world for another.”
One world for another?
Aster looked up at her, taken by her words. Sísí watched her with amusement, patiently waiting.
“Would you—” she began in a whisper, before catching herself.
“Yes?” Sísí asked.
Aster hesitated, then began again to speak.
“Do you know anything about philosophy?”
Sísí's eyes twinkled. “Philosophy?” she repeated.
Aster nodded. A lump began to form in her throat. “Alternate realities.”
Her heart was moving a million miles an hour now.
“And what would you like to ask?” she replied, a subtle joy smoldering in her smile.
“Do you believe in them? Other realities?”
The sound of a log splitting in the hearth caused Sísí to look back a second, before turning back to Aster with an excited look.
“Of course I do.”
“Well, do you think it's possible travel between them?”
Her joy erupted in a wicked smile. “I like your questions!” she moaned softly, throwing her head back and allowing the shadows of the dancing flames to lick at her bent neck. “Cecil is too serious when it comes to this and that's no fun, but I can see that you truly wish to find something in it!”
Aster drew back from her exclamation.
“To answer your question; if you could find a way between them, sure,” she continued, drawing nearer.
Aster raised her eyes. “Then,” she began with a mousy little croak. Her heart surged, thinking about what she was about to ask. “If you could find a way to travel between them, would a person theoretically be able to live a life in two different realities and have them both be important?”
A wave of adrenaline hit; to ask such a question, even hypothetically, was to invite the unraveling of everything, but she had no other choice— she felt her very temples would split and spill all of her on the floor if she did not voice her thoughts immediately. Sísí gazed onward as if inspecting her, the silence in between killing a little more of Aster with each passing second. She then smiled.
“I don't see why not. If they inhabited a trillion worlds they'd all still be of equal importance. Reality is simply where consciousness lays its head; it doesn't matter where you go to sleep, as long as you awake regardless.” A look of great pleasure then spread across her features and her smile deepened. Aster could see the light crescent-like on her red lips. “Has Cecil been coming to you with his books?”
Aster blushed and shook her head. “No,” she stuttered. “I,” but Sísí's ever-blithe visage caused Aster's thoughts to scramble like a line of soldiers fleeing a cannon's mouth. The crackle of the logs sounded like fireworks in her ears.
“I was doing my own reading,” she answered lamely. Sísí grinned.
“I've never seen you with a book that didn't have something to do with music,” she replied with a splash of playfulness.
If she asks me which authors I'm fucking dead
“I—I read them before bed,” Aster continued, blush searing her face with every excuse of a syllable she croaked out. Sísí was silent a moment and Aster could feel her lungs empty of everything in anticipation. If Sísí asked too much, there would be no way for Aster to put it all back together; if she lost this world, she thought, it was over.
“There's no need to be embarrassed about wanting to know what this is all for,” Sísí finally replied, sitting down beside her. “After all, it seems an inevitability that sentient beings question why they are, even if it almost always leads to their undoing; we cannot let sleeping dogs lie, regardless of our inability to comprehend the full scale of the truth.”
“What truth?” Aster asked, suddenly looking up at Sísí.
“Of the essence of reality; the reason for everything. We as human beings can only comprehend simple binary systems such as beginning and end, light and dark, and other peaceful resolutions that make sense to us, though it's much more likely we're only currents within a sea of chaos.”
Aster's face had gone blank.
“What do you mean? Are you saying there's not a beginning or an end?”
She received a toothy grin.
“Does there have to be?”
“Well, yeah, because how else does it work; how else does it make sense?”
“Do figure eights not exist?”
—
The mere thought that time could be infinite and circular found no residence inside Aster's mind. It found only a war zone, a land razed by hellfire and consumed by continuing battle. She had hardly enough strength to contemplate herself existing between worlds let alone unravel the implications of cyclical time. Life was already anguish; life was already a straight shot of misery from the womb to the grave— what would you do if it never ended? Was there enough resource to continue the struggle indefinitely?
Doubly so if it were to be fought alone. No matter how many people loved her, no matter how many people she loved, there would never be more than a handful of people in existence who could understand this situation, of using the Eden device— people she would never meet.
It was this loneliness that hollowed her out like a hunting knife in a deer's chest; her concept of self was flaking away, but she knew no way to color herself back in. Worse yet was the idea of abandoning her father, a concession she had begrudgingly accepted within the storm of pain and confusion that surrounded her mother's trial, but had lost all appeal upon reflection.
It was not that she loved Peppermint Plains less, but that she loved her father dearly; he was the only person on Earth that she could say she had any affection for. If she were to disappear, what would be left for him? A wife and a daughter who would grind him down until he was nothing but the shadow of the man he used to be; a mound where the pyramids stood. She recalled him in the living room after receiving the news of their mother's trial, wearing that ghastly look of death that aged him a century. What would he look like if his oldest daughter simply disappeared?
The thought was a fire in the mind that no submergence could extinguish. Killer of her father, forever and always.
“What about the place where you're born? Isn't that 'reality'?” Aster suddenly continued, growing excited. “Isn't that more 'real' than any other place you could visit?”
Sísí shook her head.
“No! Because consciousness has no beginning! What we think of as birth is simply the earliest point on a disc of infinite revolutions that our minds can recall.”
“Then why do we not exist before we're babies? Why do we go away when we die?”
Sísí leaned towards her, whispering. “How do you know that's true if you're not around to see it?”
“Because!” Aster cried, flushing. “I saw my sister brought home as a baby!”
A lean of Sísí's neck and the passing of a car.
“I— I saw a person die!”
“But who says that you die?! Your reality doesn't begin or end with anyone but yourself! As far as you're considered, the universe has existed for all perceivable time!”
—
In Aster's squirming brain the warring factions of Earth and Peppermint Plains collided; their voices fused into a confused mass that pleaded she abandon one for the other, but Aster could not, nor could she see a way through. With her doubts now welling up, Aster felt a miserable, massive humiliation course through her; that sad sense of failure in the face of a quickly deflated resolution. Just like that, her plan to abandon her original life for Peppermint Plains had folded upon retrospection of her father, and she felt like the ultimate betrayer of those in Peppermint Plains who loved her.
I'm not weak; I want to live! I want to live with Sylvia and them! But, how can I abandon him? What has he done to deserve something as shitty as that? To deserve somebody as shitty as me? He's always been there for me; he got me into music—
Her heart cried out, lanced by both sides. She was not strong enough to lose anyone.
“Then why wouldn't we be able to remember anything else?”
“Because our biological structure cannot handle the concept of infinite space and time. The real state of things is a limitless ocean that funnels down a pinhole into our minds— a dirty window we look through from which, if we're lucky, a very small portion may be unclouded; we call those lucky people 'artists',” she explained with a grin, before adding. “Though it's up to you to decide whether a larger picture of beyond could be considered 'lucky'.”
She finished this remark and walked over to the fire to stoke the coals.
Aster's mind was reeling, and her eyes wandered about the newly christened 'the Cherry Madonna'; it had only grown in the past few weeks, fertilized by August Oakley's influence.
“Do you know why I work with August? Why I work on poetry?” Sísí suddenly began, her back to Aster. “Why I follow all of you around?”
Aster had no answer, and felt her chin tremble as she tried to make a noise.
Sísí suddenly turned around, fawning at the dark.
“Because it's fun! Because there's no sweeter thing in the whole wide universe than existing and being all you can be!”
Being all you can be?
“To answer your original question,” Sísí continued. “Take this example— you're moving into Sylvia's house, yes?”
“Yes,” Aster squeaked.
“Will that be any less a home just because it wasn't originally?”
Aster shook her head. "But, then how do you decide on anything when there's important things everywhere?"
The flames illumined Aster, throwing her shadow across the darkened space of the shop. Her exploded shadow stretched across the boxes which held her memories, across this place, this kiln in which she had been transmuted, or at least become the loose iron that was now in the process of being shaped, and danced along the balcony of the stairs to her old room. Her heart quivered at the sight of her vacant nest, now hollow and looking every bit like the day she first found it.
"You don't need to live in multiple realities to ask that question," Sísí replied.