Tuesday, September 20, 2022
“I’m starting in Saturday’s varsity exhibition game. There’ll be at least two thousand Avantian kids watching.”
“I’m a ballplayer now. All they’ll do is judge me. I have to compete. I mean, were you just a dancer or singer after all that? People followed you, didn’t they?”
“Not everyone. Just remember, when you’re in a position to lead, your only purpose is to be quiet and listen for it.” Gus inhales and walks away.
“Listen for what?” I shout.
“You’re a humming being, young man. Stay quiet for long enough, and you’ll hear it.”
Having the room to myself for the evening, I lie in bed to Gus chanting in the shower. Kicking my backpack further across the floor, it slides the ViDi notepad out, and Friday’s history exam study guide slides out—but there’re more important things going on.
The shower cuts off, and his singing continues. Passing our door, Gus pokes his head in to speak the second-best advice I’ve got out of him. “There’s another thing to remember. Your muse—it competes with no one.”
I scratch my head, asking, “Have you seen the game of basketball?”
“It’s with ten people, right?”
“Yes. Five on Five.”
“Interesting. Bringing your best game won’t be good enough,” he says.
“Listen and muse into your beast. It’s where your ‘A’game is played.”
Tell that to the machine, Gus. You know, the collaboration of evolving thoughts growing this place to look like… Well, let’s see, how should I describe Port Avanti:
An ambiance built on the Atlantic Coast shorelines capped by rows of clustering skyscrapers. Each tickles the above gaping skies, so our modern-day architects’ creations poke through the fog come autumn. His glowing sourcing lights probe further above our biosphere as each is set within earth’s low orbit to radiate year-round. By confusing the future generations about what a real star is up there, beneath those lights and atop each building are colorful illuminations, strobing to attract TheDistrict’s advancement in technology. As folks choose to relocate here for a lifetime of contentment, there’s one hue they’ll breed for solvency.
Those who don’t get it, sleepwalk through car-less streets of systemic oppression, and are taught to acquire such tools.
Budd’s unsure when Rigil journals this. Maybe two months after Rigil watches his nomadic best friend from college commit a tragic oops above SouthStation’s tracks? This scene drives him to string these insignificant moments leading up to the happenings beside tracks two and three. Or he cares to let you know he’s an asshole. His attitude’s how he chooses to protect his solace—a mystical happy place he abstracts in flight to TheDistrict’s Port Avanti airport. That’s the territory of states along our Atlantic Coastline where nine states conform. West coast sounds next.
As of today, the places he writes about aren’t found on the internet. And America seems to be experimenting with new ways of well-being for thriving citizens. So, he’s writing decades from tomorrow.
Anyway, back to Rigil. This disruptive refugee. Aloof to his trauma.