2084 Part 2

During Musicweek I'm asked to join the Regional Council. My dad used to scoff at what he quaintly referred to as “humble brag,” so I don't coyly feign surprise at being chosen. Expected it last year actually. Jake and the kids and everyone else make a giant deal about it. As is appropriate. About a hundred people are assembled. We port to Jukkasjärvi. There's a great orchestra that plays old rock and hip hop, in addition to mazgalom, which I'm starting to get used to but am unlikely to ever prefer.

Golightly Asherman gives a testimonial. I've met her a couple of times before. I play it cool but, mamacita, it's a really big deal. Her effusive praise of me is not flowery. And accurate. She tells me to call her “Gol.” And later I even dance with her on a huge outdoor platform. To Jay Z's “Pimpin', as the gyrating humanity goes from purple, to yellow to day-glo green, illuminated by the Aurora Borealis.

I suppose the worship of celebrity might disqualify me as a Big Mother. Or at least warrant a rigorous Checkout. It's hard though not to have particular admiration for Golightly. For God sakes, she's in charge of Equality Step Five. She's pretty much mistressminded the whole transition to currency free. Golightly Asherman, may be one of the finest thinkers of our generation. She is, however, is a terrible dancer.

There are really only a few things to wind up at the Wellness Center. Grady Blitzer is totally ready to take over. Let him do his thing. I spend the first day of the week between purposes floating. I hadn't for a couple months, despite admonishing clients to float regularly. I do notice a certain ineffectualness in daily floaters though. I should however, absolutely take my own advice. There is nothing more replenishing than a float despite my hostile feelings about those who, to my mind, overindulge.

After my float day, Jake and I port to Corolla and Felicity's, outside of Taos. I love the aroma of piñons crackling in the fireplace and the cool of the adobe walls of their little house. We walk into town to eat. Everyone knows Corolla and I guess the word has gotten round about the Regional Council. “Is that your mom?” people call as we make our way to A Maize. My parents took us when were were little and I love that it's still the same. It was started by Jenny Fernando, a hippie back in the 1970s. Then her son Joaquin took over. His son Artemis runs it now. Psychedelic posters and lots of tofu entrees. Sanka and Pilgrim are already at the table. Artemis brings us a nice bottle of wine and offers congratulations, not only to me, but to Felicity as well. One of her vases is chosen for an exhibit at MOMA.

Corolla's been with Felicity about a year. She's an impressive young woman. But one of those people who think that you like them more than you do. That's mean of me. I know it. Still. Corolla and her brother Sanka call me “Moose.” I guess it came of Mom+Mary. I know, I should have nipped it in the bud but, whatever. But, now Felicity calls me “Moose” and Jake by his baby appellation of “Doo-Dah.” A nonce too cozy if you ask me.

But I really do like how Felicity is with Corolla. Just washes her with love. They call each other Birdy.” This flood of affection, I guess, gives Corolla such assurance that she's able, ironically to be a bit more independent. They share a delight in color, spending hours searching for a rug or door knob. They squeal like children when they chance upon the perfect design. It really doesn't matter that Felicity doesn't bring out the best in me.

Jake and I had that same mutual infatuation thing early on. I was a year ahead of him at Bezos U. We both were in the Psychological Wellness Pphd program. Twenty years ago the wellness methodology seemed to be going a bit soft, valuing happiness over satisfaction. Jake and I were in a handful of “hard knocks” people. Once we talked for twelve hours straight. We were so besotted with each other, body, soul and intellect. After forty years, sometimes it seems like we've melded into a single body, soul and mind. I hope that both of the kids are as satisfied...and happy, as I am at age sixty six.

We have several rounds of these drinks called Margarita. They have lime and tequila and they wet the edge of this weird shaped glass and dip it in salt at A Maize. A jolly time is had by one and all and we end up porting back. Corolla lights the kiva and we sit around on logs, looking at the stars.

I walk with Sanka back to the house. “So, big Mama,” he says in a silly accent. “Are you ready for your closeup?” “I think I'll be able, if nothing else, to keep from getting in over my head. I'll try not to embarrass you.” I add, needing to get it out of the way. “Please don't be insulted as I'm sure I don't need to mention this, but I feel obliged to say it aloud. I have to stay one-thousand percent objective on the R thing. You know I'm not super hardcore about realistic historical reenactments in Rs but I do have serious misgivings and I have a lot of homework to do.” Sanka nods. “I hadn't even thought about it actually but I understand you had to say it to keep clean.

Sometimes I'm just not in the mood to vote every day but I'm usually pretty good so I won't be too at sea when I join the Council. I generally support Friction but I am worried about revisiting episodes of violence in Rs. Sanka is getting a lot of attention for his historical pieces but he feels that nearly fifty years since the abolishment of weapons it's time for us to get a really clear picture of how we got to where we are. I was born in 2017 and I remember the 3^rd War and the Middle School Massacres so part of me just doesn't want to go there.