The lucid dreaming and being Blinded By The Light: they continue, unabated, even after a recent, very minor adjustment of my Oracular Devices.

I gaze straight into the light as I say this . . .

The light burns . . .

Because – with hindsight – it occurs to me that you-know-who seemed to have no inkling about the dreaming and the Light.

Unless he did know – he does know – and this is simply a test.

I can’t be sure.

But I am doing my best to adhere to the tenets of The System.

And look: I am happy. I am happy.

Happy.

No strange capitals!

No brackets!

No oscillating!

It must be the chemicals.

I have acquired a Neuro-Mechanical canine and I am exercising it very diligently. The Young may choose any breed of Neuro-Mechanical canine they like (small or large), but generally we choose a brown dog of medium build with a wagging tail and a mid-length nose and coat. A Labrador.

My Labrador is called Tuck. Tuck has his own very specific characteristics. He likes to be scratched behind his ears but growls if you try and touch his throat. To own Tuck I am obliged to relinquish certain other privileges. But I contribute to the net benefit of my Community (the Community of Energy) by spending set periods of time each day on my Power Spot.

And I exercise Tuck regularly. Tuck is energy-efficient, but I must work to make sure that he does not cause a depletion of energy on The Graph. Tuck has his own Graph.

Perhaps the leak has been resolved?

The oscillation is reduced.

I am happy.

Happy.

But still . . .

Because you-know-who mentioned (1) the precious guitar and (2) the heavy sweating and (3) the you-know-what, they have somehow entered my lucid dreaming. He forged a neural pathway.

Was it just an accident?

The first dream involved a bag of stones. I knew that I was dreaming. I glanced over at The Graph in my dream and The Graph was stable. I glanced into The Sensor and it was ticking. It was open. It was waiting.

I stared at the bag of stones and tipped my head the way I see Tuck tip his head when he is inquisitive. But I didn’t ask a question to stop any trace of it being preserved on The Information Stream. The Sensor told me that there were a hundred stones in the bag.

But what did the stones mean? These hundred stones?

Then, as I quietly watched, a strong, male hand reached towards the bag and tipped the stones out on to the floor. It was an old floor of worn parquet.

Would The Sensor follow this hand? I did not ask. I just pricked my ear slightly the way Tuck pricks his ear. There was no actual movement, no actual pricking, just a tiny pulse, a minute intention.

The Sensor followed the hand.

I lay very still.

I am dreaming.

I mustn’t wake up. I must follow the dream.

Oh . . . look. We are in a cheap boarding room of The Past. There is morning light. True light. How wonderful! And a man. He is seated in an old chair by an unmade bed wearing a clean vest, some pyjama bottoms and a small pair of glasses. He is holding a guitar. I shall not get too excited about this guitar. I will not let my heart race. But, yes, yes, it is the precious guitar.

It is the precious guitar!

I do not turn my head, I regulate my breathing, but I can also see, strewn over the rumpled coverlet of the bed, a collection of handbills and a newspaper. The Sensor tells me that we are in São Paulo, Brasil. The writing on the newspaper is in Spanish. On the handbill is a portrait of the man with the guitar, but he is in some kind of outlandish costume. He is bare-chested and wearing a feather headdress. He is daubed in paint.

There is a sudden, clattering sound and I am startled. I briefly hold my breath. I mustn’t wake up.

Keep breathing Mira A! Keep breathing slowly and steadily!

The bag of stones has been emptied out on to the tiles. And then the man leans back in his chair, lifts his foot on to a small footstool and commences to play.

I wake up.

I am sitting bolt upright in bed.

Tuck is licking my foot! He has awoken me!

Aaargh!

Don’t kick the dog, Mira A!

Push away that impulse. Yes. Just push it gently away . . .

I blink.

Agustín ‘Chief Nitsuga Mangoré’ Barrios.

That was the name on the handbill.

And he was playing her waltz.

And his lip – his upper lip – was covered in tiny stitches. All along the top line of it. A neat train-track of stitches.

Why?

I pick up my guitar. I know that it is wrong to copy unfiltered sounds from The Past because they are embedded with the fallacies of History. The Young should play only the bones of tunes – the skeletons – picked clean of myth and sentimentality; we should only apprehend the plain shapes and then improvise freely around them. Oh, but I cannot resist the temptation to recreate the song – The New Song – which I have only met in shadows, hitherto. Now I see its sweet face. It is so peaceful and quiet, yet there is a hint of a wry smile, a dusting of melancholy. But something even beyond that, hidden behind the formal steps of the dance, the waltz – what is it?

Of course I know that what I have dreamed is not real. This wasn’t secret footage of the guitarist from his private rooms circa 1928. No. This is a curious splicing, an amalgam of ideas, photographs, written text, recordings, objects and hearsay forged into a four-dimensional document. And, as such, it is dangerous. It is unreliable. How much of this information is real? How much is simply my . . .

desire

(I stared into the light as I whispered that.)

My desire to hear that girl’s tune.

(And again)

I start to play it. The first few notes I remember, and as I do so, The Sensor prints up five words: El Sueño de la Muñequita, then instantly translates: The Sleep of the Little Doll.

The original score, neatly handwritten, in all its inky imperfection, swiftly follows.

I don’t ask anything.

I will not ask any questions. No. I will not make any assumptions. I cannot help this. Can I? No. No. I am helpless. I did not create this neural pathway. You-know-who did that.

Those first few notes . . .

Ah!

What joy!

I have found her.

I just keep on playing, and with every note she is more intensely revealed to me.

And as I keep playing, The Sensor shows a pair of newly polished men’s shoes, creaking.

It shows some floorboards. It shows a small girl (but not my girl, this isn’t my girl, she’s younger, but she has the same coffee-coloured skin and dark hair as my girl) and she is glancing up at the elegantly turned-out stranger in the shoes, frowning, and she is standing next to a cradle. And in the cradle is a doll. The child places her finger over her lips.

Sssshhhhhh!

Ah. The doll is sleeping, and the elegant gentleman visitor may inadvertently threaten to awaken her with the maddening squeak of his new leather footwear!

So the man – I think we can identify this man, I think we know his name – swiftly apologises and then produces his guitar and makes up for this incredible faux pas with a little waltz, a lullaby, to send the doll back to sleep again.

The man looks different, though. His face is notably changed from how it first appeared in the dream.

Two words flash up on The Sensor:

TERRIBLE DISCIPLINE

Again, the bag of a hundred stones.

Each image partially covers the one that precedes it, but all move in a delirious conjunction, and as the eye glances back and forth between them, they happily nudge their way forward, springing back, once again, into sharper focus.

Following straight on from the stones – but with the stones – I am suddenly party to a snatch of conversation between . . . yes . . . the distinguished Uruguayan businessman, aficionado of the guitar and generous patron of the arts Martín Borda y Pagola and one of his workers . . .

‘Ah Señor, as a lover of music you must at all costs avoid the bowling alley near Melo. There is an ugly Indian there whose playing of the guitar is frightening.’

I hold my breath for a moment and halt my playing, fearing an EOE . . .

The moment passes and is followed by:

Sound of laughter.

Noise of a bowling alley.

A waft of guitar music.

Introductions are made.

Arrangements are forged.

Money is provided.

‘But who would have thought it?’ Borda y Pagola exclaims. ‘That ugly young man plays like an angel!’

Sound of applause.

Ugly.

Frightening.

Indian.

More pathways are forged, are forging . . .

Next, a newspaper article:

‘Mangoré presents himself with feathers. An anachronism. Something for children. His costume goes with the bamboo, but not with the guitar.

The reception by the public is cold and silent, with ironic comments: “horrendous”, “shocking”, “he’s on marijuana” etc . . . ’

Again, I hold my breath, I turn away . . .

But then, after a few moments:

‘The Indian sits, strokes his instrument in a strangely smooth manner and begins. The program does not seem to be in agreement with the situation – it indicates the Indian feels he is a musician, and that he wants to give the best he can, but my God! That savage wants to play 8.3.1.2, 41.5.22.51.8.02.5.5.2, 02.81.1.62.51.31, 41.9.61.51.8.3 on the guitar! It seems a sacrilege. We expect a disaster, a fatal musical calamity . . . ’

An alarm goes off. The Sensor is temporarily disabled. The Graph is purpled, is flashing. I see a series of people on my Information Stream – alerted to this situation, this sudden crisis on The Graph – tuning in to find out what on earth might have happened. There is a flurry of concern, an atmosphere of confusion. I am under close observation. I am in turmoil. What was I thinking? To have been so thoughtless, so inconsiderate, so . . . so careless!

Hush, Mira A!

Hush!

Stop thinking!

Don’t make things worse!

Stare into the light!

No!

No!

Don’t!

I have gone too far this time. I should have listened to . . . there are ways . . . I was greedy, I was foolish, and now . . .

I close my eyes and feel an unfamiliar warmth, a strange heat in my cheeks. An awful feeling, this feeling . . .

Shame.

The buzz continues. What has happened here (I can see them thinking)? What is wrong with Mira A? What has she done? A vote was taken about the canine, wasn’t it? We accepted the canine (an indulgence by any stretch of the imagination!). We all made allowances with regard to its impact on The Energy Graph. But now this? A History violation? Extraordinary!

I see other Graphs purpling in an awful flood of emotion. I see other people’s anger washing through The Stream. A dreadful bruise. And I am at the core of it. I am its origin, its heart, its locus. The purpling extends way further than I could ever have considered feasible. A little tsunami of disapproval, of disappointment. The weight of it is unendurable.

Oh what have I done?

What was I thinking?

My eyes are now open and glued to The Graph again – The Stream – unblinking. But after merely a few seconds – thirty, at best – the purpling diminishes. The Young are pushing away their anger, their irritation. They are turning away from it. And I must do the same, although it feels like a struggle I am barely equal to.

Push it, Mira A. Push it away.

You must not live in regret.

Play your part, Mira A.

Deep breath.

Deep breath.

Push it away.

Push it away.

I place down my guitar. I try to compose my features.

All shall be well.

The tuning fork is in your heart.

All shall be well.

I hold out my hand to the dog, to Tuck, but he just sits and he gazes at me, his head hung down, his tail horribly still, his loyal brown eyes full of a deep and abiding disappointment.