Chapters (24)

Scott Parker has doubts. What rationalist wouldn’t? Especially in the moments just before, sitting in the green room, for example, already miked up and sipping his matcha latte, with a PA in a black pencil skirt and sensible heels who alerts him, “Ten minutes to call time, Dr. Parker.” Or when he is standing in the wings, backstage, perfect posture (posture is a keystone), hands behind his back, waiting for the MC to wrap up the opening spiel for the crowd, a thousand strong today. In this, the before time, he entertains the idea that he could walk away from the particular show-pony hell of the speaking circuit. He considers what it would be like to be a private citizen rather than a public intellectual. He could advise his audience to just watch his YouTube channel already; it’s not like he hasn’t covered all this before. Maybe buy the fucking book, and hey, actually read it this time and apply it, because understanding without action is what? That’s goddamn right. It’s meaningless. And the only thing we are here to do, the very reason we are here for the very short time we have, is to make meaning, to wrest it bloodily from the chaos and disorder that surround us. It is our own kind of conscious birth. And he is the prophet-obstetrician.

So despite his chronic low-grade exhaustion, the inevitable jet lag—because flying first-class isn’t a miracle cure for transmeridian dislocation—and the nagging temptation to call it quits and surrender to the quiet life, he goes out anyway. Because he said he would. There’s power in honor.

The MC’s voice rises, his cue. “Please give a warm Seattle welcome to Doctorrrrr Scott Parkerrrrrr.” There is a musical intro here, but it’s drowned out by the percussion of the crowd, stamping their feet, clapping their palms red.

He strides out onto the stage, six foot three, 198 pounds, in the best physical shape of his goddamn life at fifty-six years old, thanks to his own personal journey. We are all the caterpillar and the moth.

He shouts to the crowd, “Rise up!” He can’t see them past the glare of the lights, and they can’t hear him over the ruckus, but they know what to do, have anticipated this, some of them already on their feet.

“Rise up!” he screams with all his might, despite what Dr. Harlen said about his vocal cords, and hear that, that answering roar? That’s the sound of the rational man howling: no surrender, no compromise. They need him.

They all need him.

3

r/adoptagrowgirl

Vesh_A891

This VERY good grow girl came home with me today. Meet Mandy Pandy! Eighteen years old, fresh out the vat and perfect in every way!