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They chatted. Celia’s private practice was booming;
there were more people than ever wanting to
overcome their emotional, physical, sexual, or
spiritual obstacles through hypnotherapy. She had
taken on her first assistant. Her latest romance had
self-destructed when the young man had fallen so
deeply in love with the exotic Ms. Devereaux that he
proposed eight times. After explaining eight times
that she had no plans of becoming Mrs. Anybody,
now or ever, he had hounded her for three weeks
with tragic e-mail and phone messages, some of
them quasi-suicidal, and disappeared.
MM“Pure love addict,” she muttered.
MMGatsby dipped her knife into the garlic hummus
and then spread a dollop onto a pita wedge. “What
makes you say that?”
MMCelia took a sip of her T&T. “Psychologists throw
around a saying: A belief is something that you have,
an addiction is something that has you. People can
turn anything into a drug. Their job, their bodies, a
relationship, money, religion. They can apotheosize
just about anything into must-have-at-any-cost
status.” She held her chin in the cup of her hand. “It’
s unfortunate, but at least some want to change that
state and, ergo, I have a well-paying career.”
MM“But if you bring them back session after session,
aren’t you just supporting their addiction? Enabling
rather than curing?”
MMCelia raised her perfect eyebrows. “You don’t
cure addictions, darling. That’s the first
misconception to toss out when doing hypnotherapy
or any kind of changework. There isn’t anything to
cure, because every behavior is useful in some
context. It’s only when that behavior is invaluable or
dangerous in a particular context that something has
to change. And cure presupposes that you excise
something, like removing a tumor with a knife. What
I do is nothing like that.”
MMGiven the chance, what would I excise? Gatsby
wondered while polishing the knife with her napkin.
“Then what do you do?”
MMCelia bit into pita bread. “You never try to
eliminate a system, you transfer it. You help the
person find a different belief or behavior, one that is
beneficial for them. Useful. Then you help them to
transfer their old addiction to an unhealthy behavior
to a new addiction, that is, the healthy behavior. I
help them discover what their destructive patterns
are and how to replace them with something more
useful. Something better to believe in.”
MMFinishing off her White Russian, Gatsby
swallowed, then asked, “You were raised Catholic,
weren’t you?”
MMCelia nodded. “Heartily sorry and detested my
sins.” A frown spread over her face. “And lived to tell
the tale. Why do you ask?”
MMGatsby stared down at the grape leaf dolmades
on her plate. “It’s been on my mind. Belief. Religious
belief, specifically. Not the redemption-from-sin
questions, and not a specific practice, like one of the
major world religions, but the idea of belief itself.
What is its place in the human condition?” She
stirred a fingertip through a pool of olive oil on her
plate. “It’s beyond Maslow’s hierarchy of needs, at a
level beyond survival, social community, even
beyond actualization. People want bloody
enlightenment. Transcendence. They want to feel
that there is something above and beyond corporeal
existence, some plane of pure being or happiness or
knowledge that’s unavailable in this world. Why?
What’s the point?”
MMCelia studied Gatsby, then wadded her napkin
and tossed it onto the table. “You invite me to lunch
but want to talk metaphysics? Just when I thought we
would discuss something really important, like
vaginal versus clitoral. I need another drink.”
MMGatsby propped her elbows on the table, smiling.
“I know, I know. But it’s been nagging at me lately,
perhaps because my work is language, and
language is so intimately connected with personal
belief.”
MMA waiter with a dour face arrived to set before
them a fresh basket of warm bread and another
round of drinks.
MMGatsby raised her glass and turned toward Celia.
“So what do you believe?”
MMCelia shrugged. “About what?”
MM“The big questions. You know, eternal life, sin
and salvation. God.”
MMCelia sighed while digging in her handbag.
“Listen, darling, I stopped fretting about it all a
loooong time ago. Look at the diversity of the world
we live in. There are thousands of religious paths, a
million different names for God.”
MMWithout warning, the night of the big split and the
image of Woody’s face—angry, guilty, desperate—
slipped through her memory. Did he ever know all
million names? She swallowed, and the alcohol
burned inside her throat.
MMCelia sipped, then continued. “Every culture,
practically every generation comes to its own
definition of the meaning of life and will spout its
own bollocks about why it is AB-solutely crucial to
think a certain way or live your life so that when you
snuff it—ding ding ding! You win the prize, the big
stuffed animal in the sky!”
MMThey both chuckled.
MM“Going through my clinical training, I came to the
conclusion that people will believe whatever they
want to believe, whether or not there’s an iota of
sense in it. They create the reality that suits them.”
She sucked an ice cube into her mouth and
crunched.
MM“The reality that suits them,” Gatsby murmured.
there were more people than ever wanting to
overcome their emotional, physical, sexual, or
spiritual obstacles through hypnotherapy. She had
taken on her first assistant. Her latest romance had
self-destructed when the young man had fallen so
deeply in love with the exotic Ms. Devereaux that he
proposed eight times. After explaining eight times
that she had no plans of becoming Mrs. Anybody,
now or ever, he had hounded her for three weeks
with tragic e-mail and phone messages, some of
them quasi-suicidal, and disappeared.
MM“Pure love addict,” she muttered.
MMGatsby dipped her knife into the garlic hummus
and then spread a dollop onto a pita wedge. “What
makes you say that?”
MMCelia took a sip of her T&T. “Psychologists throw
around a saying: A belief is something that you have,
an addiction is something that has you. People can
turn anything into a drug. Their job, their bodies, a
relationship, money, religion. They can apotheosize
just about anything into must-have-at-any-cost
status.” She held her chin in the cup of her hand. “It’
s unfortunate, but at least some want to change that
state and, ergo, I have a well-paying career.”
MM“But if you bring them back session after session,
aren’t you just supporting their addiction? Enabling
rather than curing?”
MMCelia raised her perfect eyebrows. “You don’t
cure addictions, darling. That’s the first
misconception to toss out when doing hypnotherapy
or any kind of changework. There isn’t anything to
cure, because every behavior is useful in some
context. It’s only when that behavior is invaluable or
dangerous in a particular context that something has
to change. And cure presupposes that you excise
something, like removing a tumor with a knife. What
I do is nothing like that.”
MMGiven the chance, what would I excise? Gatsby
wondered while polishing the knife with her napkin.
“Then what do you do?”
MMCelia bit into pita bread. “You never try to
eliminate a system, you transfer it. You help the
person find a different belief or behavior, one that is
beneficial for them. Useful. Then you help them to
transfer their old addiction to an unhealthy behavior
to a new addiction, that is, the healthy behavior. I
help them discover what their destructive patterns
are and how to replace them with something more
useful. Something better to believe in.”
MMFinishing off her White Russian, Gatsby
swallowed, then asked, “You were raised Catholic,
weren’t you?”
MMCelia nodded. “Heartily sorry and detested my
sins.” A frown spread over her face. “And lived to tell
the tale. Why do you ask?”
MMGatsby stared down at the grape leaf dolmades
on her plate. “It’s been on my mind. Belief. Religious
belief, specifically. Not the redemption-from-sin
questions, and not a specific practice, like one of the
major world religions, but the idea of belief itself.
What is its place in the human condition?” She
stirred a fingertip through a pool of olive oil on her
plate. “It’s beyond Maslow’s hierarchy of needs, at a
level beyond survival, social community, even
beyond actualization. People want bloody
enlightenment. Transcendence. They want to feel
that there is something above and beyond corporeal
existence, some plane of pure being or happiness or
knowledge that’s unavailable in this world. Why?
What’s the point?”
MMCelia studied Gatsby, then wadded her napkin
and tossed it onto the table. “You invite me to lunch
but want to talk metaphysics? Just when I thought we
would discuss something really important, like
vaginal versus clitoral. I need another drink.”
MMGatsby propped her elbows on the table, smiling.
“I know, I know. But it’s been nagging at me lately,
perhaps because my work is language, and
language is so intimately connected with personal
belief.”
MMA waiter with a dour face arrived to set before
them a fresh basket of warm bread and another
round of drinks.
MMGatsby raised her glass and turned toward Celia.
“So what do you believe?”
MMCelia shrugged. “About what?”
MM“The big questions. You know, eternal life, sin
and salvation. God.”
MMCelia sighed while digging in her handbag.
“Listen, darling, I stopped fretting about it all a
loooong time ago. Look at the diversity of the world
we live in. There are thousands of religious paths, a
million different names for God.”
MMWithout warning, the night of the big split and the
image of Woody’s face—angry, guilty, desperate—
slipped through her memory. Did he ever know all
million names? She swallowed, and the alcohol
burned inside her throat.
MMCelia sipped, then continued. “Every culture,
practically every generation comes to its own
definition of the meaning of life and will spout its
own bollocks about why it is AB-solutely crucial to
think a certain way or live your life so that when you
snuff it—ding ding ding! You win the prize, the big
stuffed animal in the sky!”
MMThey both chuckled.
MM“Going through my clinical training, I came to the
conclusion that people will believe whatever they
want to believe, whether or not there’s an iota of
sense in it. They create the reality that suits them.”
She sucked an ice cube into her mouth and
crunched.
MM“The reality that suits them,” Gatsby murmured.
The Official Web Site of Alpha, Omega
MM“And for them, whatever that reality is, for
godssake don’t question it! Here’s another universal
truth, sweets. A person’s beliefs are his personal
assembly required spinal cord. They’re what keep
him standing, or searching. Try to remove one
vertebra of that belief system, even the smallest
piece, and he’ll scream bloody murder.” She tipped
her glass back for the last swallow. “Or worse.”
MMConsidering, Gatsby chewed on bread.
Celia’s face brightened as she leaned forward. MM
“Now, puh-leeze, while you work so hard to resolve
these burning questions about eternal life, what
have you been doing here on planet earth? The
usual—spending your weekends holed up in dusty
museums rather than tasting even a few of life’s
pleasures?
MM“Afraid so.” She longed to tell Celia about RED-
MK7, the book, and the mysterious language that
evoked religious ponderings. Her nature tugged her
toward disclosure, especially with her best friend,
but the details would have to wait, at least until she
knew more about what she was dealing with. The
potential dangers.
MM“No bloke?” Celia prodded.
MMGatsby gave her a weak smile. “I work a lot.”
MM“For fuck’s sake.” Celia rolled her eyes. “I’ve
known you for eight years, and in all that time, not
one notable sexual escapade! Dry bloody sheets!”
MM“That’s not true! I’ve had . . .” Gatsby crossed her
arms, then sighed. “Okay, it is true.” Her voice took a
petulant tone. “I have Definite Article. On a regular
basis.”
MMCelia flung her napkin onto the table. “The
online paramour that you’ve been e-mailing for a
decade but never met? The wannabe writer with two
kids and a tricky sciatic? Your pen pal who signs his
letters semantically yours?”
MMSmiling, Gatsby shrugged.
MMCelia’s head flopped back against the seat. “You
invest years in a person, and what do you get in
return? Celibacy! You are incorruptible. I give up.”
MMGatsby chuckled. “Don’t give up. Someday I’ll
surprise you. You just wait.”
MM“I don’t have that long!” Shaking her head, Celia
muttered, “Jesus. Well, miss noli me tangere, what
are you working on now?”
MM“I’m writing a white paper for the U.K. Epigraphy
Society conference.”
MMCelia caught the waiter’s eye and nodded at him.
“Uh huh. Delightful. I popped in at the Association of
Counselling and Psychotherapy conference earlier
this week. What a madhouse. Anyone who puts that
many psychologists and psychophysiologists in one
place at the same time risks some kind of
spontaneous psychic combustion. I did get to meet
up with some old friends, but my god the keynote
speaker was astounding. One of the most astute
men I’ve ever run across and too bloody handsome
to be allowed to live.”
MMGatsby laughed. “I smell an estrogen strike.”
MM“I wish.” She chuckled. “He gave a brilliant
lecture on psycholinguistics and transderivational
search related to presupposition and behavior.” She
blinked as if struck by a thought. “You know, the
theme of his talk was that language of belief that we
were just talking about.”
MMCuriosity clambered onto the back of an odd itch
that she couldn’t place, and Gatsby reigned in
another impulse to mention the book. “Sounds like
someone I should have lunch with.” She grinned.
“What’s he look like?”
MM“Just your type, darling, oh and 3-D, not a cyber
pal. Tall, dark hair, even has that goateed look that
you used to find irresistible in your past life when
you had a libido or at least made claims to one. He
had amazing stage presence. Every female in the
audience would have eaten crisps out of his hand.
Someone in the great Pacific Northwest is spiking
the lattes with testosterone.”
MMGatsby frowned. “How do you know where
he’s from?”
MMCelia rolled her eyes. “The CV in the lecture
notes, of course. In fact, if memory serves, I think he
attended the same university that you did. Where
was it? Vancouver?”
MMHer stomach cramped. “Seattle. Blake
University.”
MMCelia relaxed against the leather backrest,
smiling. “Yes, that’s the one.”
MMThe feeling blasted through her, her heart
pounding and throat tightening, as data snapped
into place at a terrifying rate. She huddled over the
table, gasping to catch her breath. “Celia, what was
his name?”
MMCelia peered up at the ceiling and then frowned
at the tabletop, seeming to struggle for the memory.
“Something son. Anderson? Sanderson, that’s it. Dr.
Woodrow Sanderson. Do you know him?”
MMThe world froze, then crashed like a melting
glacier toppling into the Arctic Ocean. Gatsby
gripped the edge of the table with white fingers.
“Woodrow Sanderson? Are you positive?”
MM“Yes, I’m sh—darling, you look ill, what is it?”
MMGatsby swept her hands to her forehead and
knocked over her glass. Milk, Kahlua, and shards of
ice flowed across the tablecloth.
“Shit!! Woody is in London?!”
godssake don’t question it! Here’s another universal
truth, sweets. A person’s beliefs are his personal
assembly required spinal cord. They’re what keep
him standing, or searching. Try to remove one
vertebra of that belief system, even the smallest
piece, and he’ll scream bloody murder.” She tipped
her glass back for the last swallow. “Or worse.”
MMConsidering, Gatsby chewed on bread.
Celia’s face brightened as she leaned forward. MM
“Now, puh-leeze, while you work so hard to resolve
these burning questions about eternal life, what
have you been doing here on planet earth? The
usual—spending your weekends holed up in dusty
museums rather than tasting even a few of life’s
pleasures?
MM“Afraid so.” She longed to tell Celia about RED-
MK7, the book, and the mysterious language that
evoked religious ponderings. Her nature tugged her
toward disclosure, especially with her best friend,
but the details would have to wait, at least until she
knew more about what she was dealing with. The
potential dangers.
MM“No bloke?” Celia prodded.
MMGatsby gave her a weak smile. “I work a lot.”
MM“For fuck’s sake.” Celia rolled her eyes. “I’ve
known you for eight years, and in all that time, not
one notable sexual escapade! Dry bloody sheets!”
MM“That’s not true! I’ve had . . .” Gatsby crossed her
arms, then sighed. “Okay, it is true.” Her voice took a
petulant tone. “I have Definite Article. On a regular
basis.”
MMCelia flung her napkin onto the table. “The
online paramour that you’ve been e-mailing for a
decade but never met? The wannabe writer with two
kids and a tricky sciatic? Your pen pal who signs his
letters semantically yours?”
MMSmiling, Gatsby shrugged.
MMCelia’s head flopped back against the seat. “You
invest years in a person, and what do you get in
return? Celibacy! You are incorruptible. I give up.”
MMGatsby chuckled. “Don’t give up. Someday I’ll
surprise you. You just wait.”
MM“I don’t have that long!” Shaking her head, Celia
muttered, “Jesus. Well, miss noli me tangere, what
are you working on now?”
MM“I’m writing a white paper for the U.K. Epigraphy
Society conference.”
MMCelia caught the waiter’s eye and nodded at him.
“Uh huh. Delightful. I popped in at the Association of
Counselling and Psychotherapy conference earlier
this week. What a madhouse. Anyone who puts that
many psychologists and psychophysiologists in one
place at the same time risks some kind of
spontaneous psychic combustion. I did get to meet
up with some old friends, but my god the keynote
speaker was astounding. One of the most astute
men I’ve ever run across and too bloody handsome
to be allowed to live.”
MMGatsby laughed. “I smell an estrogen strike.”
MM“I wish.” She chuckled. “He gave a brilliant
lecture on psycholinguistics and transderivational
search related to presupposition and behavior.” She
blinked as if struck by a thought. “You know, the
theme of his talk was that language of belief that we
were just talking about.”
MMCuriosity clambered onto the back of an odd itch
that she couldn’t place, and Gatsby reigned in
another impulse to mention the book. “Sounds like
someone I should have lunch with.” She grinned.
“What’s he look like?”
MM“Just your type, darling, oh and 3-D, not a cyber
pal. Tall, dark hair, even has that goateed look that
you used to find irresistible in your past life when
you had a libido or at least made claims to one. He
had amazing stage presence. Every female in the
audience would have eaten crisps out of his hand.
Someone in the great Pacific Northwest is spiking
the lattes with testosterone.”
MMGatsby frowned. “How do you know where
he’s from?”
MMCelia rolled her eyes. “The CV in the lecture
notes, of course. In fact, if memory serves, I think he
attended the same university that you did. Where
was it? Vancouver?”
MMHer stomach cramped. “Seattle. Blake
University.”
MMCelia relaxed against the leather backrest,
smiling. “Yes, that’s the one.”
MMThe feeling blasted through her, her heart
pounding and throat tightening, as data snapped
into place at a terrifying rate. She huddled over the
table, gasping to catch her breath. “Celia, what was
his name?”
MMCelia peered up at the ceiling and then frowned
at the tabletop, seeming to struggle for the memory.
“Something son. Anderson? Sanderson, that’s it. Dr.
Woodrow Sanderson. Do you know him?”
MMThe world froze, then crashed like a melting
glacier toppling into the Arctic Ocean. Gatsby
gripped the edge of the table with white fingers.
“Woodrow Sanderson? Are you positive?”
MM“Yes, I’m sh—darling, you look ill, what is it?”
MMGatsby swept her hands to her forehead and
knocked over her glass. Milk, Kahlua, and shards of
ice flowed across the tablecloth.
“Shit!! Woody is in London?!”