THE SOUND OF ONE HAND CLAPPING by steven day dedicated to You 2 What the f is this? An Introduction: (skipping the intro won’t hurt the experience but come back for information later) This novel was is written using a literary form created by John Steinbeck that he called the Play/Novelette, which evolved into the Play/Novel; the idea being that the novel is heavy in dialogue, light in description, and easy to adapt. Of Mice and Men was his first attempt and was immediately adapted to the stage. Steinbeck felt that it wasn’t until his third time working in the form that he had perfected it. Having been able to stand on his shoulders, I think in my next attempt I’ll have roughly perfect command of it, however, I’m happy with the outcome here (although, it has adaptation issues). My version is elegantly called, the Limited Series/Novel. Stylistically, this is an attempt to work in the form, modernize it, and also to create something new-ish. The modern version being adapted not to the stage, but as a limited series by one of the many studios (of course, I might have pissed off everyone in Hollywood enough that it will never happen with my stuff, but like they say in the movies; the first one through the door gets shot.) This is one of the deepest novels ever written and hopefully it’s also sexy and engaging and fun. I know it’s one of the deepest novels ever written because I have read all of the other deepest novels ever written and the reality is that you can’t write about enlightenment if you’re not enlightened. Herman Hesse, the author of Siddhartha, wasn’t enlightened. Somerset Maugham wrote about enlightenment in The Razor’s Edge, but also wasn’t enlightened. All the French guys; not enlightened. Nietzsche? Nope. These authors have all been inspirations to me, but like with Steinbeck’s literary form, I have tried to stand on their mighty high shoulders and go beyond, and unlike these authors, I have the enlightened operating system to work from. 3 Whoever wrote the Bhagavad Gita probably was enlightened, but that’s an old book. This is a new book. I have been hoping to take what is modern and timely and what is ancient and timeless and combine them; trying to bridge a gap between two worlds; the world of popular culture and the world of the deepest spiritual truths. Because of that, it may piss some people off or make some people uncomfortable. I’m not trying to hurt or harm anyone with my work, but, as an artist, and someone rockin the Enlightened OS, or the EOS, my art is challenging and it’s made for those brave enough to face the reality of our collective situation. This is a book for the adults in the room, and by adult, I don’t mean the age of your body. So, the trifecta here is: write one of the deepest novels ever written, in this rarely used literary form, and to bridge the gap between pop culture and deep spiritual truth. Are these the thoughts and ideas of a mad person? You will have to be the judge of that for yourself. By my own standards, anyone claiming to be enlightened is not to be trusted. No ego is ever enlightened. Enlightenment is the name for a process of transformation the ego undergoes when it has a direct encounter with the truth of all reality. The bright flame of the real burns away the facade of the self and the individual is transformed, source code rewritten. I’m not trying to convince anyone of my Enlightenment. I’m just an artist and Enlightenment informs my art. I hope you enjoy the book for fun and also become a little bit more awake and aware yourself through the process of reading it. Steven Day (March, 2020—from quarantine) 4 Instructions: Books aren’t supposed to come with instructions but welcome to the Avant Garde. The novel is a six-section mural (or it’s episodic like a limited series.) Each section should be read, consumed, or ingested, all at once. Don’t stop reading in mid-section. Stop between sections. The second section of the mural is the longest, so give yourself time. The rest are half as long. (You could read the second section in two parts and I don’t think it would impact the experience but that’s not true with other sections.) Read each chapter or section completely as a whole and then listen to the song that goes with it. (This is for max effect. You can do whatever you want obviously) I’m working on some visual elements, but because of the limitations of time, that will have to come later. This is just the beginning of this internet based mixed media literary form I’ll be developing over the next two decades. Thanks for reading ; )- Track List: 1) Neutral Milk Hotel - Aeroplane Over the Sea (Listen after section 1) 2) Bruce Springsteen - Dream Baby Dream (Listen after section 2) 3) Kanye West - Runaway (Listen after 3) 4) One Winged Angel (Radiohead Cover) - Fake Plastic Trees (after 4) 5) Beethoven, Symphony 9, complete 4th movement, Presto, Philharmonic Baroque (The theme song of the novel; after 5) 5 Table of Sections: i. LOVE ii. BIRTH iii. FEAR iv. PAIN v. DEATH vi. PEACE 6 Voltaire - To hold a pen is to be at war. David Mamet - Drama is the stepchild of religion. Adyashanti - We come to Nirvana by way of Samsara, which is to say; we come to truth through suffering. Zen Koan - What is the sound of one hand clapping? 7 i. LOVE “I'm going to do some coke,” Vanity said from her perch on the low ledge of a window that looked out onto the city, “Do you want some coke?” It was a warm spring night and the moon was rising over the city lights. “If there is Xanax,” Jessie said without looking up from her laptop, “I have that thing tomorrow morning.” “There is Xanax,” Vanity said as she grabbed her backpack from next to the dresser. She unzipped it and found the small metal tin she sometimes kept her drugs in. “I got everything here from diddly eye Joe to damned if I know,” she said quoting a movie they both loved. “I'll have a little.” “Coke?” “Coke.” 8 Jessie's skin was as white as the blank page and her short hair boyishly fell in her eyes and was as blue as Krishna. There was a flowing childlike elegance to her body that was expressed through her movements as she sat hammering away at the keyboard like a jazz musician making love to her instrument or a warrior vanquishing her enemies on the battlefield. Between these two, her life turned; creating art and wagging war. Vanity looked like she had fallen out of a teenage vampire novel. She was in her underwear, having just painted her finger and toe nails to match the Krishna blue color of Jessie's hair. Her almost naked, cheetah-like body, was thin and lanky and she had a face that was both angular and ovular; something fashion photographers swooned over. She had big green eyes with white outer edges that changed color in the sun, and with her full lips oozing sensuality, she did look like she could seduce her way through the world and be a very successful vampire; creating desire and administering the kiss of death. “I should have been a musician,” Jessie said from behind the laptop; the soft computer light casting an aura around her like a Buddhist or Hindu deity. “I've heard you sing,” Vanity said shaking her head, “wasn't gonna happen.” “A painter then. A true artist. I should have been a painter. I was good at drawing. I could have done that. I could have been rich and famous, like what's his face. The guy who painted the Facebook building for stock options and made a cooool couple hundred million. That could have been me!” “David Choe. He is very punk rock, but writing is the one that has the most power in it? That’s what you told me. The power of transformation.” “I don't know anymore,” Jessie said in her soft breathy voice that reminded one of Marilyn Monroe. Jessie sat on a cushioned wooden chair, at the desk she had set up for herself, with the laptop resting in her lap. The desk had been a gift. An antique, wood thing, with four legs and a 9 top and no drawers. It was buried under piles of books, but had a spot for her computer, if she ever put it down, but she mostly liked to hold it in her lap. The desk was covered with stacks of novels and plays and screenplays: the French existentialists, the American transcendentalists and the American transgressionalists: Palahniuk, Selby Jr, Easton Ellis, Burrows, Camus, Sartre, Beckett, Whitman, Thoreau, Emerson, and Melville—And stacks of her own notebooks that were overflowing with notes and pages and napkins that had been covered in writing. Sticky notes in various colors were stuck to the edge of the desk and covered the wall above it all the way to the ceiling and it looked like the great wave but made with multicolored sticky notes instead. She was still in her uniform; the black t and the black jeans, her shoes having been kicked off earlier.