Entry XXXVIII--Enter Simon

Doorbell buzzer rings, shattering a silence in the air that nearly had me drifting off into one of those moves where it feels like your head suddenly dropped off the edge of a table because you just fell asleep while sitting up.

That must be my extra special visitor--at least, it better be.

Cassandra is consumed by her latest painting, so I don't expect her to answer the door. The more she paints, the more she wants to paint, as she tells it.

No magic formula, reckon it's always been that way with my writing, and probably most anybody's creative endeavors; the more you put into it, the more you get out of it.

Sure enough, she's nowhere to be seen as I aproach the door. But that's cool, gotta feeling it's probably better that I greet our guest solo.

Open the door, and standing before me is the most dichotomous individual I do believe I've ever laid eyes on...

"Simon's our first official guest, honey"

"What about Mrs. Latimer?"

"Sorry, but I'm not counting some crazy lady from next door or wherever who wanted to know if we had the right size antenna to detect low flying government stealth planes that can't be seen at night. And you thought I was the crazy conspiracy nut in the neighborhood, but oh no..."

Even the entrancce of one other person sends Simon retreating for his shell.

Hell, forget Cassandra, how the hell am I ever going to convince this guy to live with other people?

That's the funny thing--neither one of them knows why I invited Simon. None is aware of my hidden agenda--as directed by Ms. Cabal. Simon has seen talk of a commune promoted by the likes of Palmer, but he's never discussed the idea himself.

Yet I know he's searching for something; evidenced by his joining the discussion board on my book's website.

Can tell she'd rather be painting, but Cassandra does her best to be sociable and polite, trying to engage Simon, draw him out of that turtle shell.

"So, Simon, do you have a girlfriend?"

His face reddens at the mere suggestion of involvement with the opposite sex.

Jesus, Cassandra, I want to nudge her and whisper, can't you tell this guy is a professional virgin?.

"No." He replies abruptly and precisely. Just like a scientist.

She tries again: "Oh. So how do you know Darwin?"

"We met on his website."

"Your website?" She turns to me if I'm part of some giant porno portal

"For the book. There's a discussion board where fans--or haters--can post about the book or christianity or anything, really. I showed it to you once, remember?"

Can see she's scanning her memory, and gives me a vague recollection

"Anyway," I continue, "we met there."

When Simon speaks about the site--or anything that interests him or he's passionate about, can see his eyes light up, and the shyness falling to the wayside.

A few moments later and I'm wishing Cassandra would actually go back to painting.

LATER, WHEN ALONE

"So, what was it that you liked best about my book, Simon?"

"The way you defended science and pointed out how christianity will bash science on the one hand but uses technology to serve its own agenda on the other."

"Exactly, because their ultimate interest is control. Hypocrisy and contradictions mean nothing to those who seek to control--in fact, they are indispensable to control."

"Simon, I want to be honest about why I invited you here tonight. Beyond just meeting you in person and having you see my new home, that sort of thing."

"What do you mean, Mr.--I mean, Darwin?"

His youth and naivete showed through there. But I welcome it.

Now, how do I go about this without sounding like a used-car salesman?...

"I'm talking about the future, Simon. A future independent of chrisitan values, ethics, and most importantly, free of christian influence."

"Is such a future possible?" he asks me earnestly.

The typical morning clouds must have parted, as a shaft of sunlight suddenly phases throught he window, landing directly on Simon's head, producing a momentarily blinding glare off of his blonde hair. While the less sensitive might find it annoying or obnoxious, it only serves to underscore his near-angelic innocence.

And virginal innocence too,, I suspect. Maybe if we can get some women in here we can get him laid.

But first things first--have to get him to agree to live here.

"The thing of it is, Simon, that we're never going to achieve this all living separate and isolated from each other."

Like any good scientist, he asks dispassionately, "Who is 'we', Darwin?"

Here goes nothing..."Those of us who want to live in a post-christian culture. Those of us who plan to move into this house, here with me and Cassandra, so we can get to work building that new post-christian culture, cause we both know it's long overdue."

There. Hope I didn't lay it on too thick.

Again, scientist that he is, Simon does not answer quickly or without thoughtful consideration. Fact, he even turns away from me, towards the open window, mulling over the possibilities...

Even though my inclination would be to grow impatient, hold my tongue and wait for him to arrive at a conclusion--any sort of conclusion--and speak.

And before too long he does

"You're right, Darwin. The only way we're ever going to win this is to stick together. And if that takes living together, then so be it."

Great, now that I've convinced him, all I have to do is pull the same magic with Cassandra.

Something tells me it isn't going to be so easy with her.

Her favorite part of my book is the part where we're living together--alone.

LATER THAT EVENING

After dinner, I do the dishes so she can concentrate on painting. After they're all put away, wander into her painting room. While I have been sizing up the other rooms in the flat for potential 'cult rooms', wouldn't dare to even consider this room. Afraid she might telepathically pick up on my thoughts and that'd surely land me a night in the ruts.

"So, what did you think of Simon?"

She doesn't respond at first--not out of rudeness, it means she's engrossed in a particular dimension of her painting.

"He's fine--pretty shy, but I could sense his intelligence--on an intuitive level--if that makes sense."

Smile at her, "Yeah, it does."

"What do you think of him?" she asks.

"Like him a lot. So much so that I'd like to ask him to move in with us..."

Grit my teeth, clinch my fists, stop breathing and wait for the other shoe to drop...

Instead, she continues painting, finishing up a key stroke, then peers out from behind the canvas to address me...and my proposition

"Does he need a place to live?"

"No, he's got a good place in Berkeley."

"Do we need the rent money?"

"No, we're doing fine."

"Then why do you want him to live here?"

"Good question."

"Thank you. Do you have a good answer."

"Yes, but it's not an easy one."

"Why not?"

"It's...complicated."

"Too complicated for me to understand?" Now she seems indignant, borderline insulted.

"No, of course not. It's just that...you're such a..."

"Bitch?"

"That's not fair. I was going to say--you're such a private person."

She recoils, apprently embarrassed at letting herself getting so pissed, so out of control. That's not like the bodyguard within her.

Course, she may be slowly but surely shedding that aspect of herself away.

(Hopefully she'll still protect me when we make a late-night run to the corner store)