New album pre-orders, new concerts, AND a new book chapter!
Irish tunes, rock shows, and some literary sci-fi shiz for good measure
Hello again! I’m excited to announce that my ✨new Irish folk album✨ Forfocséic Vol. 3: Love & War, is now available for pre-order via Bandcamp. It’s only $7 right now, and includes a bunch of bonus tracks (remixes, acoustic versions, even a whole song sung in Irish). You get a few songs now, and the rest of it next Wednesday, March 1. If you’re more of a Spotify/Apple Music/Amazon Music person, pre-orders and pre-saves should be up soon at forfocseic.thomdunn.net. I’ll also be dropping a new single from the album each week from now until St. Patrick’s Day — so hopefully it’ll show up on your Release Radar or New Music Mix or whatever as well. (You do follow me on Spotify, right?)
I’m also excited to announce my first St. Patrick’s Day concert since that fateful March of 2020!
Who knew that a global pandemic and a new baby could derail things so much?
Anyway, I’ll be at the Sam Adams Boston Brewery in Jamaica Plain on Friday, March 17 from 2pm to 4pm. I’m hoping to find another venue to play at in the area that evening as well, so stay tuned for that (or just skip work and come hang out with me).
Speaking of live music! My rock band the Roland High Life has a few shows coming up as well, including this coming Monday, February 27 at Charlie’s Kitchen in Harvard Square. We’re on around 10pm or so, and it’s only $5 — so I know it’s a Monday, but hey, it could be worse. Then, the following Saturday, March 4, we’re back at the Midway Cafe for an all-ages matinee show with the Spots. That one’s also $5, but it’s all ages, so that’s fun, too; I believe we’re on at 3pm.
So please, come out, and join the ranks of the tens of people who have seen our shows and said “Wow you guys were actually pretty good, I was surprised.”
How to Build a Universe That Doesn’t Fall Apart
Was anyone still following along with my serialized novel? It seems like 69% of you (nice) are consistently opening these emails, but that doesn’t necessarily mean you’re enjoying them, let alone reading to the end of them. So if you are, please let me know, so I don’t feel like I’m eblasting in the vacuum of space. And that way, I’ll keep providing you with charming content! Plus you can tell me if I should be sending this out in larger/smaller chunks, with more/less frequency, etc.
Anyway, where were we? Ahh, yes — How To Build a Universe That Doesn’t Fall Apart.
Previously on…
Jason Tavares is finance bro looking for love … but his obsession with chemtrails and 9/11 conspiracy theories keep getting in the way. When those obsessions threaten a major investment deal at his company, he agrees to attend an addiction support group for conspiracy theorists. It’s there he meets a paranoid mom named Monica Lund who believes she’s a Targeted Individual for PsyOps; and Adam Oh, a wannabe rockstar whose thinks his creative streak has been stolen away by some mysterious aliens; along with Felix Buckley, a racist cop who believes in Lizard People. Jason storms out of the meeting in a huff — but he’s followed by the final member of the group, Kyle Contee, who corners him in a bar to talk about the Berenstein Bears and Mandela Effect. Jason finds a surprising sense of comfort in their strange conversation (though it certainly doesn’t hurt that she’s kind of cute, either). When he returns to work the following week, he feels more estranged from his colleagues than ever — especially once he receives a mysterious phone call of ear-squelching feedback requesting his financial assistance in a gravitational phenomenon. Meanwhile, Monica returns to her own job at a supercollider physics lab, only to learn that the building has been bought by a real estate developer from Weyland-Albemuth — the same company that almost made Jason lose his job, though she doesn’t know that yet.
Now let’s find out who was calling Jason, shall we?
Chapter 9
"Mx. Tavares, I am glad for this short-term very happying, although I regret that I must doing so in such an informalized manner. Pleased to permit upon me of meeting your acquaintance."
The strange words calling from FWD:fwd:fwd:null:c://IF_JASON TAVARES::THEN_SEEKING YOUR IMMEDIATE FINANCIAL ASSISTANCE!re::GRAVITATIONAL∞COLLAPSE -- came over the line in an echoed wall of static, and the speaker spoke in an awkward and overly formal cadence with a slight accent Jason couldn't quite place.
"This introduction, unfortunately, is essentialized due to the urgentness of such circumstances which would requiring me to connect upon a dependable and trustworthy source in your reality -- a tasking that is quite difficult, unlike tranquility, as envisaged for you."
Jason knew where this going. The syntax, of the awkward, incomprehensible plea -- it was a Nigerian Prince scam. He'd seen it plenty of times before. It was an exercise in numbers -- just like everything he did at Kadath Capital. A pre-recorded contact is sent out to millions and millions of recipients, with carefully placed grammatical errors and other confusing qualities designed to tip off the average person. That way the scammers didn't have to deal with answering questions, or trying to prove their claims -- they weeded out the skeptics with these intentional red flags, so they could focus their time and energy on the ones who were too dumb to suspect the obvious truth.
"I am to be possessing of knowledge that missing unsolicited communications as looking from a parallel universe, perhapsing even strange with you. But I should expect hope with a curious truth-seeker such that is yourself, to be able to attract myself and entertain a rare message in an electronic bottle that is sent across the barrier between our dimensions."
Jason never understood the kinds of idiots who fell for this crap. Of course, he'd never encountered one quite like this.
But his life was full of weird turns lately, so he told the speaker to continue, idiosyncratic verbiage and all.
"My name is Doctor Contee and my communication is to be informing on you of an incident that will occurred four months from presenting on your timeline, which will lead to a collapsification," explained the mystery caller.
The only response that Jason could muster was, "Um, okay."
"A gravitational little black hole accidentally that you will be closed to you. This event will cause an unexpected and unprecedented breaching in the materialed time frame of our space-existences, allowing such for some realities of parallel clay to be crossing briefly on each other. If my calculations are correct, your dimension will be overlapped with my own, and not only do our own experiences collide and come with our own experiences."
Jason's mind flashed back to the conversation he had had with Kyle, about parallel versions of Earth, making tiny changes to the foundational details of their own realities. But he was too stunned by the paranoia of synchronicity to offer an immediate response.
Doctor Contee continued. "This uninformation was revealed upon me by my biological patriarch, a Nigerian-American physicist who recently was lost upon us for the war, in giving such an inheritance in me of the knowledge at this unexpected cosmetic coincidence. Where he died withouting expection did my father abandon such inheritance of assets is as valued for his heritage at sum approximating dollars of fifteen million in US currencies on our Earth. (But though I am lacking surity re: exactimations of said value in exchanged-upon rates with your world, becausing a difficultness of calculation for such things. This sum remains of suspection that would rank of significance for your cooperation)."
This was the moment that Jason knew he should have terminated the call. This "Doctor Contee" was full-on leaning into the script of his scam; and besides, Jason was supposed to be giving up on his compulsions towards coincidence.
But he never could control his curiosity. Which is why he found himself pacing absently around his cubicle, listening with some sharp focus to the ramblings of a stranger from another dimension. Or a con artist. As far as Jason was concerned, they were mostly the same.
"My father has much calculating about this upcoming incident-event, and based on his research, he was possessing of a warning upon me for the temporary overlap of the two dimensionals that would be affecting our own reality -- a cosmologicalized process of such quantimization that it will destroying of our world. That is why my father wanted if to die from me, I would seeking some from your reality who had uniqueness of financial expertise and would thus be abled to assisting us in our transferrance of my father's assets to your Earth. The infringement. We hope that you can deliver these funds to my biologically counterpart of such slight chromosomal variation, in that I believe that I am still alive on the life of your dimensionals."
Jason paused, suddenly aware of his own pacing, even his own presence on the office floor -- enough so to realize that his mind had seemed to lift away from reality for a moment, entranced by the words of Doctor Contee. The language was still too strange for Jason to parse, but there was something in the syntax that must have triggered a recognition of sorts. He glanced around the floor, looking to the other sterile cubicles to make sure he hadn't drawn too much attention from his neighboring office drones --
But of course, they couldn't give two less shits about him. Which somehow felt better, and worse, at the same time.
Jason cupped his hand around his mouth and spoke in a hushed town, interrupting the Transdimensional Doctor. "What's in it for me?" he said. "What's my take?"
"Much yes upon the course!" Dr. Contee's voice seemed energized, like he was excited by the notion that his words were getting there. "In returning for your assistance, we will rewarded upon you for a payment of not less than eleven per cent of the exchange value of this heritage quantity, which was to be transferring directly through a near-field com-breach across this dimensional border when upon it should arrive and being thusly directed into your bank accounts. You will only need be provisioned of the correct route number."
Jason's eyes wandered towards the window near to his cubicle, as if the artificial sunlight would bring some clarity to the words that he'd just heard. But it only served to illuminate the sad, stale view of the recyclable waste bins in the alley below, where sat the remains of some smashed up old computer tech the office had outgrown.
"It is being of my theories that such a changing would have improved upon of your reality," Doctor Contee said, across the barriers of their shared existence. And as he heard these words, Jason noticed the branding on the side of the waste bins for the first time in his memory:
Weyland + Albemuth Sanitization + Trash Elimination.
A manic wave of thought flooded Jason's mind, drowning out the sounds of the Good Alternate Doctor's voice. Had the Weyland Woman's company always serviced Kadath Capital? Had they been stealing data from the documents and computers that the company had thrown away as rubbish? What if the Weyland Woman was responsible for this strange call? Or maybe it was Christon, fucking with him just for lulz? Had she put him to it? Was she watching him -- letting Jason know she had her eye on him -- because he'd gotten too close to some dark truth? Doctor Contee somehow knew enough to echo the words that Mr. Atal said to him -- well, kind of -- about theories and the ways they can change a reality. Or maybe not. Isn't that what Kyle had tried to convince him, in the same breath that she spoke of parallel dimensions, like the way that Doctor Contee claimed that he had come from?
The avalanche was overwhelming, a cosmic sensory overload of Jason's own sense of skepticism. His synapses sparked in feedback loops of thought and noise.
Instinctively, he slammed his palm against the VoAI hub in the cubicle wall, as if his hands could travel faster than a cognitive impulse.
The call was terminated. Jason never heard what else, if anything, that Doctor Contee had said.
But in the absence of a static voice, he realized he had stopped breathing. He sucked in air, letting his panicked chest fall in anxious, heaving rhythms.
Yeah, the other cubicle workers around him were all watching now, all right.
Jason ran. He got home that night and he kept running and running on his cryptocoin treadmill, distracting himself from the other utter failures of his life by pounding his feet on an ergonomic conveyor belt that generated power to feed another awful algorithm that went through some dumb calculations to make sure he had more power and money.
It wasn't the kind of power or distraction he preferred. But he took what he could get. It was certainly better than trying to be human. Than trying to control the impulses of the algorithm that ran his big mouth whenever he tried to connect with someone else. Than letting his mind fall back down that wormhole of obsessive paranoia, of the Weyland woman's cunning agenda, or scam artists from parallel dimensions, whatever it may be.
Plus, a little extra money from the energy generator belt didn't hurt.
The first bead of perspiration fell from his brow to the floor. The filthy droplet just kind of stayed there, all precise and held together like gel on the woodgrain print, until he told the apartment's vacuumbot to clean it up for him.
Jason had never really had the time to notice things like that before. But this time he let himself pay attention, and it almost felt...nice? Like maybe there were other small patterns in the data of a simple life that he could find some meaning in.
Every other at-home run he had ever gone on was a way to break the stress from work, or keep his eyes focused on some augmented reality vidtube projection that he wanted to look through just one more time, like his moving feet would make his brain work in different ways, unlocking secret subtleties in surveillance footage and news clips from the spires that no one else had noticed before.
Now, for the first time, he was running only for himself -- to center his life, outside of the race.
As he ran in place, feeding electrical money meters, Jason's thoughts wandered back to the conversation that he'd had with Kyle, first at the group meeting, then at the bar. Adam the wannabe-rockstar was an ass. Jason really could have done without Felix and his Nazi cop business. At least Monica the nervous mom was fine, if a little annoying. They were all clearly too far off their rockers. But something had happened with Kyle, however, that Jason hadn't felt in a while:
They'd had a connection.
She'd listened to him, honestly and earnestly, and he had felt compelled to do the same to her. He wasn't biting his tongue, holding back from saying something stupid. Sure, he was nervous at first -- considering what had happened the last time he'd mentioned chemtrails to a woman, who could blame him? But by the end of their talk, he'd felt something different. There was no judgement, no artifice, no sense of longing, no pattern demanding him to draw it out.
Which was particularly strange considering that Kyle had told him all about her own weird theories of a parallel reality. Yet he'd listened to her words all the same -- and maybe, just maybe, that meant something to her, too.
Jason had always fallen fast and hard for anyone with the right sense of mystery about them. Show him a sexual conspiracy on two legs, and he would dive deep into the data, searching for every ounce of surreptitious affection he could find. He wasn't proud of this, of course, and he tried to guard against it. Which is why he had trained all of his Sindr algorithms to search for more predictable partners. It was a preventative tactic. He had made a choice to keep his dating efforts on the surface level, where he couldn't connect, just to keep his own obsessive tendencies in check. Maybe it was the least worst of two terrible choices -- but maybe it could be why he still felt so alone.
And maybe that's why his mind was playing tricks on him. Why he was so susceptible to the Nigerian scam from some other Earth.
Kyle represented everything Jason was drawn to -- and all the depths of darkness he was scared to confront. He even liked the shorthair boycut thing that she had going on, the way it shaped the angles of her face.
Jason had started running to distract himself from the clandestine schemes that surrounded his life (and to mine some money on his energy bill). But now his mind was overwhelmed with thoughts of some strange woman he'd met in the vacuum of a basement, where they'd bonded over their conspiracy obsessions. Which meant he needed another distraction.
Jason ran for another minute, then called out between the huffs of breath: "iLexus, load the structure fire."
A moment later, the apartment erupted in a wall of projected video flames. The pixelated light flickered and danced across the perspiration on his skin as the Augmented Reality sequencer finished rendering the unconverted blueprints into the lifelike-3D structures of the Twin Towers. Jason stopped running, breathing out his tension as the computer began playing through simulated scenarios of jet-fuel exposure to the steel beams under heat.
He'd almost made it through a day without falling down that hole. He felt a sense of shame as he made his way around the AR simulation, searching for an answer that continued to elude him, that he knew was never there in the first place. Human beings and insidious plots were each their own kind of mystery.
Maybe Mr. Atal was right. Maybe Jason did need help.
But at least there, in the comforting blankets of conspiracy, he could still feel a moment of control. At least those freaks in the group wouldn't judge, as long as Jason kept his mouth shut about Felix and his anti-Semitic aliens.
And at least he would get to see Kyle again.