A Waking Life: As I Leave Myself, Fear and Death Behind

By Scott Mainprize

Inside of you there is a gift that, once released into the world, will enhance your life and the lives of those around you. You are unique, and your gift is unique, but the world you release it into is very much connected.

A Waking Life is the story of Nomad Truestar's journey through the darkness of a single night. After his appendix ruptures, he wakes to the hollow nothingness of isolation. Not knowing whether he will live or die, Truestar begins the quest of confronting the meaning woven into his fragmented life. With the help of a curious quartet of guides, including a wild cat, an Arctic wolf and the woman he believes to be Death, Truestar travels through time and beyond the space he appears confined to, in an exploration of the perceived self, the connected universe and even death. Will he find the Borealis that exists within the darkness itself, before the night is over?
What transpires is a journey meant to reawaken the human spirit to the possibilities that exist within each of us, regardless of where we are in life.

-Miigwetch

Scott Mainprize is a gay, Jain, fourth-generation Algonquin who holds a Bachelor of Education, Master of Social Work and Juris Doctor. He currently works as a lawyer and professor of restorative justice. He has previously taught in Arctic, Quebec, worked in a homeless shelter and AIDS hospice, and has been a student-prosecutor across north-western Ontario. He is not dead; but, he does not have an appendix. Also, he thinks he is funny.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Tellwell Talent
• Release date: Jun 20, 2018
• ISBN: 9780228802198

Scott Mainprize

Scott Mainprize is a gay, Jain, fourth-generation Algonquin who holds a Bachelor of Education, Master of Social Work and Juris Doctor. He currently works as a lawyer and professor of restorative justice. He has previously taught in Arctic, Quebec, worked in a homeless shelter and AIDS hospice, and has been a student-prosecutor across north-western Ontario. He is not dead; but, he does not have an appendix. Also, he thinks he is funny.

Book preview

PART ONE:

MISPERCEPTIONS

Chapter One:

Death and Darkness

My name is Nomad Truestar and tonight I am going to die.

That was not the case this morning. Twelve hours ago—a lifetime ago—I was a twenty-seven-year-old human rights lawyer. I had forty-two open files, having just closed one. I was an amateur comedian with a rare paid-gig scheduled for tonight. Today I was someone’s boyfriend. A year from now I might have been someone else’s father, with an adoption in progress. Today I was an Algonquin-Jain filled with hope.

None of these things matters now though. The only thing that is relevant now is that I am Nomad Truestar and I am going to die.

Why? My appendix ruptured. I thought I caught it in time; however, I finished closing that file and interviewed a client before heading over to the emergency ward of my small-town hospital to check-up on this pain that had been inching its way across my gut for two days. Stress, I thought. But, no, appendicitis.

Swollen and infested with rot, my appendix had not ruptured yet; but, the small hospital I went to was not equipped to operate. I was sent by ambulance to another in the closest city—the one I will die in tonight. That small hospital sent word, and my file, to a different hospital in that same city—one whose operating room was ready to save my life. But, again, I never made it to that hospital.

The trip was long and painful; but, I held out hope. Hope I would make it to the surgeon who was waiting to save my life; hope I would get back to those forty-two files and my burgeoning stand-up career, based on my time living in Arctic Quebec and northern Ontario. My trip to the wrong hospital reminded me of the last trip I took driving across northern Ontario and down the eastern coast of the province.

Then, like now, I drove through a blizzard. It is just that that blizzard had been outside of me, around me, while this one is entirely within me.

I remember that trip well. I was driving with my left leg in an air cast because of a ruptured Achilles tendon, my black cat, Nijinsky, was in a carrier in the front passenger seat and my part-wolf, part-husky, Yuri, was stationed in the back seat of my black Hyundai, Elvira, which contained all my worldly possessions.

Then, like now, I was driving into a darkness I did not understand. Every small town I drove up to on the highway had at least one officer, sirens flashing, who stopped me at gun-point. It turned out that someone with two good legs, no cat, no wolf and a black car not named Elvira, had just held-up a gas station and fled in this direction. Each time an armed officer stalked up to Elvira’s driver’s side door, gun raised and ready for action, they assessed the situation of my left leg being entombed in an air cast, a purring cat as my guide and a howling wolf pulling up the rear, only to realize they must have read things wrong. Each time I moved just a little further into the storm of that night.

Not this night, I fear. This night, Nomad Truestar will die alone and in the dark. After arriving at the wrong hospital, my engorged appendix exploded all over me. It was a game-changer.

Tonight, I am afraid. I am afraid that I will not continue in the life that I knew—it was a life I worked hard to build. I am afraid I have run out of time to do the things I loved and hoped to accomplish in this world. Most of all, I am afraid that I will die, here and now, alone in the darkness of this hospital room.

I am afraid that I will die sitting up in this hospital bed that I cannot lay down in. Despite my middle-school grammar teacher’s insistence to the contrary, I do not believe I can lie in this bed either. What I can do is feel the darkness of this room closing in around me. It is suffocating—choking out the light from all directions.

I feel more paralyzed by the darkness falling across this foreign place than by the rupture inside me. This may sound peculiar, but even in my current state of confusion I can grasp that this will be a night of peculiar things. It may well be my last night of peculiar things, with the final one being death.

Now I sit here, my life ebbing as wantonly into the darkness of this space as the fluids in my appendix are spreading across my body. This is the end. It must be.

But, belief is a funny thing, coos a voice from behind the darkness that entombs me. It is one-part misperception and another part choice. It always has been. It always will be.

Who is that? I question, full of fear. I hear nothing but the silence that laces a darkness I believe to be death.

There is nothing here.

I see nothing.

I feel nothing.

I smell nothing—not even cheese, and I always smell cheese.

There is nothing here. Nothing, but darkness.

"You know, the nothingness in The Neverending Story at least came with a flying dog, I complain to the darkness. I get lippy when I’m nervous. That’s something Death should really know about me. Do you have a flying dog for me to meet?"

Getting stuck in the way we choose to perceive the darkness around us is an easy thing to do, coos the voice I am sure is death personified.

Is this Death? I ask in a trembling, breathless, reply.

There is no death, coos the relaxed voice from behind the darkness. Death is nothing but a delusion.

The idea that this might be true overwhelms my faculties with hope; however, this sensation is as brief as it is brilliant. Then, all I can feel is incredible pain. Overwhelming my system. Pain and darkness consume me.

Am I dying? I cry to myself, but no words rise to my mouth.

I try to scream, but still, my mouth responds with a barren motionlessness. I try to scream again: from fear, from confusion, or to simply reassure myself that I am, in fact, still alive.

You are, coos the voice with reassurance. If nothing else, you are alive.

What about that flying dog? I badger the voice. Nothing? I didn’t think so. What about a unicorn? You got one of those, Death?

Calm down, coos the voice from behind the darkness. Her gentle cadence reminds me of softly falling snow. That seems an interesting sensation to receive from something I have just labelled Death.

Breathe through your nose, Death coos. It will hurt…less. It will hurt a little less.

Am I dead? I ask with frantic desperation.

What is death? the voice responds, calmly.

What does that mean? I ask myself.

What is death? the voice repeats. "It’s a simple question. Much easier to grasp than Do you have a unicorn?"

Fair enough Death, I chuckle through the pain. Touché.

"And that sensation you thought was nothing?" the voice coos.

Yes? I question, hoping for a response grounded in something real that will tell me what is happening here.

"It is not nothing."

Then what is it? I plead.

"It is everything, the voice whispers. You just haven’t perceived it yet. In darkness there is always light. The question is whether you can find it."

This is too much for me. Death is too much for me.

As such, I allow the drugs to overwhelm me. Pumped full of drugs and darkness, I fall back to sleep in a room that contains Death.

That which you do not perceive, you will invariably fail to see and surely overlook.

Chapter Two

Perception One—Vie

I wake with a start, as I am shocked back to life.

Beads of sweat are streaming down my swollen face. To move my mind from the relentless pain coming from somewhere within me, I imagine the sweat to be the melting ice I once sped past driving up the coast of British Columbia. It looked like a tranquil, continuous waterfall then. That experience seems a lifetime removed from this moment. The memory does little to distract me from the nightmare of my present state. Plus, I still cannot smell anything—not even cheese.

Breathe evenly. It is surprising how the unbearable becomes tolerable when there is no alternative, the voice coos. It coos. The voice of Death coos.

Right—I am not alone here in this nightmare.

No, the voice replies to my unspoken thought with the gentleness of a rain shower. You are never alone.

Who are you? I ask, biting through the bitter pain with clenched teeth. Are you…God?

The voice explodes in guttural laughter. In doing so, it breaks the tension building within me.

You pretend that you don’t believe in God, it responds as the laughter subsides. This is not entirely true. As a Jain I believe we each carry a little piece of God within us—that all living beings do. However, people misperceive this as disbelief. But who, or what, is this being that knows me so intimately to know this part of myself?

Even through the darkness I can make out that it has a strong and feminine silhouette. While I speak with fear, this voice speaks with none. It does not tremble with anxiety or stumble with confusion. But then, why would it? It probably knows what is going on here, or at least knows more than I do.

I am a Jain, I reply, jerking with painful frustration. The movement makes me gasp for a breath I can barely find. But that doesn’t mean I don’t believe.

I pull to my left side to scrutinize the entity I believe to be Death. The movement creates the sensation of a mass of pins crushing into my spine all at once. I try to fight through the pain, but I fail. In resignation, I fall back onto the bed, still failing to see who it is I am talking to.

You are not God! I cy out in desperation. You are a delusion. You are Death. I am dying.

Yes. No. Maybe, the voice answers evenly. I am not God. I am not a delusion. I am certainly not Death. You might be dying…but that is up to you.

A delusion would not admit to being a delusion I snarl, with ill-placed venom on my lips. That’s how crazy works. Trust me, I’m kind of a celebrity to crazy people—they love me.

Ha! No doubt they do! the voice laughs. Yes, you fashion yourself a stand-up comedian. Keep joking. That will help.

Help what… I begin through clenched teeth, before changing course. What are you if you aren’t death come to drag me off?

"This isn’t the movie Ghost, the voice replies. I am your perception; or, perhaps, more accurately, I am your exemplar. You use me to try to make sense of everything you need to interpret in your world. To oversimplify it, I am a filter.

Okay…, I stammer in complete confusion. We are going to need to back that boat up. You are my perception…or, exemplar?

Yes. Nothing more, nothing less, the voice responds with the strength of a lie, but the courage of truth.

Then please show yourself, I command more meekly than a mouse cornered by a cat. I need to know my perception is not a Republican.

If I am, it’s your doing, the voice says, laughing again as its form floats toward the bedside and seemingly illuminating from the inside on command.

This is the first thing I really see. This floating form of death, or life, or something else that does not seem to be a Republican. It appears feminine, and she has the most amazing constellation of features I have ever seen. Made up of the people of the world as I have known them. Her eyes are those of the singer whose music played the first time I had sex with a woman. Her pupils are those of the first man I loved. Her skin is the hue of my favourite athlete, Serena Williams, while her face is the shape of my Algonquin grandfather, Edward. She seems to be everything in this world I both trust and long for. In a word, this apparition is safe, even if she is death.

You are beautiful, I gasp. Life incarnate. If I die now, I am happy.

Okay, settle down with the over-the-top melodramatics, the voice coos. "I am your exemplar. Of course, you think I am beautiful. I am all of your favourite things molded into one."

Figures, I smirk. My exemplar would be a lippy woman…probably a lesbian.

It’s your lip, the voice retorts with the fervor of a rumour. And don’t be so quick to assume I am a woman.

Aren’t you?

Perhaps, the voice replies, shrugging its ethereal shoulders. But what would that matter anyway?

Good gawd. You are unbearable, I mutter, while realizing that this is the longest I have gone without feeling the pain inside my gut since entering this dark hospital room. I try to thank the entity before me for this great gift; however, I cannot find the strength to say anything for several minutes. It takes all my energy to breathe. In, and then out again. In, and then out again. Strange that something once so easy takes such focus now. Once I finally gain composure again, I have a new question for the sassy, illuminated being before me. You say you are my perception…my exemplar even. What should I call you?

Why call me anything? the voice responds with disappointment. To name is to possess. Do you need to possess me?

No, I reply, apologetically. But how should I refer to you? I’m lost here.

You can call me Vie, the voice calmly coos, as it lifts its arm and caresses my face. It wipes both the chill and the sweat away, while somehow easing the pain. You can consider me female…a lesbian even. But that doesn’t mean I am either. It doesn’t mean I ever was, and even if it does, it doesn’t mean I remain so from one moment to the next.

Good gawd, I snort again. Did I fail a test or something? I’m dying here, cut me a break. Why is my exemplar of the world so fucking difficult?

Because you are, Vie coos back, while stroking my other cheek. You are many things. If you want, we can reflect on some of them. If you don’t, we won’t. People do and don’t every day. Life’s simple that way. The fact that you are in a hospital bed matters very little.

That’s debatable, I cry with the weight of melodramatic tragedy sprawling from my mouth. This is when I realize I don’t even know why I am in the hospital. Why am I here?

Why are you here? Vie asks, moving toward the window and gazing up toward the full moon I have not noticed before now. She is beautiful in its light, even if I am biased.

We are all made of moon stuff, Vie coos. The Akashic Record, the reverberating pulse of the living universe, holds the storied tale of why we are here. It’s a long story though. Are you sure you want to deal with all of that tonight? Tick-tock, you know.

No, I groan. "Why am I here in the hospital?"

Ah, Vie coos. "A much crisper question. Your appendix ruptured. Exploded all over your gut. Very dramatic. Much like most things you do. A little disgusting, actually."

That’s rather harsh, don’t you think? I question.

You don’t need stuff sugar-coated, Nomad, Vie coos, looking through my eyes and into my soul. If I am not direct with you, you won’t believe a word I say.

That sounds legitimate, I cough. I believe I shall trust this woman who may not be a woman at all; but, who appears to depict all the best, and worst, in the world as I have come to understand it.

Why is this so painful? I ask, realizing I am coughing up blood.

The world is in crisis, Vie confides, shaking in discomfort and allowing tears to swell in her glorious eyes as she continues to look up through the window and out toward the moon. The chaos of existence that once had stability is no longer balanced. It rocks on a dangerous precipice.

No, I snarl again, shaking my head only to recall the pain in every minor movement I make. No wonder I have displaced my ideas into a disembodied spirit with lip and a penchant for instability. "Why is it so painful for me?"

Oh, Vie whispers to herself. Right. You haven’t figured that out yet.

I haven’t figured what out yet?

Never mind, she coos.

No. I would like to know, I force through guilty, tired teeth.

Everything is connected, Vie coos with the hint of a smile. But, to answer your question, the pain you are referring to is the result of three large abscesses resting on the fifth vertebra of your spine, each one the size of a tangerine. It makes sense that it might tickle a little.

Well, that’s gross, I reply. Plus, I’ll probably never eat a tangerine again. So, thank you for that.

Hmm, Vie considers. Might not matter anyway.

Right, I remember. I am probably dying. That much makes sense. So why are you here then?

You asked for me, Vie coos with a ne glimmer in her eyes, the tears of a moment ago dissolved. "I am your perception of the world you are part of. Nothing less. Nothing more. I am not the only one you have. In fact, you have one for everything you think you know about the universe. You have an ideal version of everything you come across—things as simple as an apple or as complicated as black holes and infinity. Everything you perceive is compared, and contrasted, to your exemplars. You make decisions about how similar, or different, they are. You pass judgements on whether you will embrace them as same or fear and hate them—rejecting them as other."

Good gawd, I repeat with heavy breath.

The more you wish to discuss tonight, the more of your own exemplars you may confront, Vie continues. You may challenge them more tonight than at any other point in your life. Not because you are better or worse tonight, but because you have been thrown off your normal axis. The drugs, the pain, the jarring disruption that has shocked your insides. This is your moment to confront the things you think you know about your world.

So, this is a test, I snarl.

No, Vie coos, You can stop whenever you wish. The choice is yours, and, to be honest, it will be a difficult journey to go on. Having said that, I hope you will travel as far as you can.

I’ll try, I cringe. But I’m weak and what you’re proposing sounds exhausting.

It may be that when we are at our weakest we are most available to undergo our greatest adventures, Vie coos with the blindness of new love. Take, for instance, when you were born.

The freaking umbilical chord incident? I ask. Seriously?

Yes! Vie exclaims. How do you describe it in your stand up?

Screw this womb-to-tomb shiznit, I reply, trying to chuckle through the pain as I recall how I describe the life-cycle. When I was born I tried tying my own umbilical chord around my neck. If nothing else, you have to admit I was resourceful.

You came out choking on your own placenta, Vie laughs. You have always thought that makes you a bit of an idiot; but maybe it made you strong. Even when you seem to be at your weakest, and as you joke…

Yeah, yeah…as blue as a smurf, I sigh, acknowledging my hackneyed act. So, what do you exemplify for me then?

Vie looks at me quizzically. I suspect it is not that she is unable to answer and more that she is disappointed that I need her to.

Why does skin matter to you? she asks, completely ignoring my question.

Skin doesn’t matter to me… I start, apprehensively. I consider myself to be far from racist, being part Algonquin myself. But, then, I suspect, everyone would see themselves as being the furthest thing from racist. It is the first thing a person claims when being accused of racism: I am not a racist. I am not a racist. I am not a racist. As though repeating such a phrase drowns-out the reality.

You describe smurfs as being blue, Vie responds, as though this settles the matter. Perhaps it does. But, anyway, we will get to this later, just be aware. I am not the best exemplar to deal with matters of physicality, but everything we say and do means something. So, does everything we don’t say or do.

Why are you not the best exemplar to deal with this? I cry in frustration. I don’t understand any of this. And, quite frankly, it’s pissing me off. I don’t have time for this.

Vie nods and shrugs her shoulders. Maybe…maybe not. But that is entirely up to you. You make your exemplars from the world you are a part of. It is up to you to decide which of us are active at any time. As such, your frustrations are your own.

I look at her in complete bewilderment.

"But, if you absolutely must have it spelled out for you, Vie sighs, I am but one of many of your exemplars. I suspect you will converse with several tonight. Or…you won’t. But that, like most things, is entirely up to you."

This is all overwhelming to me.

Who else will I see? I ask with an exhausted gasp.

That is up to you, Vie coos. We are your perceptions. Nothing more, nothing less. Now rest.

The brilliant light engulfing Vie fades. I am returned to a darkness capable of consuming my shadows. Feeling hollowed, I am returned to the loneliness of sleep.

Chapter Three:

Perception Two—Mikhail

When I next wake, I call into the darkness for Vie. With the desperation of an addict I long for her to break this darkness that wreaks of death; yet, my calls for her go unanswered. My pupils dilate in a frantic, and failing, attempt to readjust to this ever-changing reality. The pain seems to come from everywhere.

I look to the wall to see the clock, but even time is obscured by the darkness.

Then I smell something—though it is still not cheese. Fire! I cry out, smelling smoke.

Calm down, Crazy, laughs a familiar voice, though it is not Vie’s. It is deep and weighty, yet as crisp as an arctic wind. It’s just my pipe. Surely, I’ve earned a good pipe, waiting for your ass to wake up all this while.

The room remains ensconced in darkness; however, this voice pierces the night and a brilliant white light shines from within