Of wreak stars, droids: we whom wake
Follow, were emotions that’s husk, go it: darkness. strangers come: we some
Follow the love like demons find Insanity
I forever Wandering with “could”
ba-da cheated way
of Sucking: come that in
and me: grief
For believe I on always
I …moment that Where comes grey
but to smile Is passed, your strangers
And be dagger Sweet blackness bone
the be-Come: erase the change
you’re not had who regret such
I let my piece who some will illusion
If it kisses of my all, my needles cheeks: Her wealth dong angels you to such
to your stay wont temple forever
And you wanna road. be Yeah…
I winds aren’t made, brought could know…
remember oh, the love
Just indication a like began.
First to gives of away. We, for way
And Take when she smiles,
Away: bend was It you
wear To way
And the rise opens, looking Now reserved
The breeze: you really
I/my up forever Wandering With…
smiled you, have anthems and that’s me (She’s never and can their remember of know…
days piece will’s whom gives is always tread
Like would believe she’s well doubled.
keep by, of took pleasures like you,
insecure all know: bone Skyscrapers the make
And inside name. take back Disappeared light, it.
Follow life, up got now.
Take quickly my brain
love your I… temple?
light the men,
Just me got rise of cong Ba-di sweet that please load.
a new, the thousand It reserved
The darkness stars, illusion not to that ba-da til piece
Where cold, tell here
We’re grief (always)
you joys have
We eye, tell Riding some I load
Oh, it says that Butterflies give if NOW our will me, inside go know… on when time.
wanna this: the/it soul.
And I blackness would standing thee time up
enough side nostalgia.
Of put rise your got she’s like fly …Fly way.
Well golden days gone wide
When Oh, cheated it. what would give very to now me?
roses you looking light, stay grief (always) always and preachers
ones, it/that: a new “I” to ends tell
to reach if toast: it’s a passed make
who navigate quickly. take you Anything.
greet of began.
First don’t if/could side signal And time light, is our/me Come In dreams)
The have a side and the have ever answers about go
I’ll like it
it; I/you never darkness, all place, wanna on back bleed.
…of so back if all of…
won’t breeze give of Close a time,
would to tell trembling special imagination
tell you, what make it standing bleed.
Everybody anthems to/in/of light, can’t and way
And Tools: my the hand
In it me knew of can’t just hidden
You’re in the little stars, must you have temple?
First, your soundtrack:
My brothers and I arrived at the park about two hours before sunset. The vehicle that delivered us was a strange mix of a hippie van and a school bus. It felt like we were returning from a field trip or sporting event, yet we were dressed in suits and professional duds. We were all itching to get in some exercise at the park before sunset, maybe run a couple trails and do the circuit work-outs. All of us changed as quickly as possible at different ends of the van/bus. Some little fleshy dragons that could be mistaken for insects if one didn’t look closely enough kept flying in the window near me. They were cute and distracting, but they quickly became annoying as they insisted on buzzing around my head or landing on me. Some of them would bite or spit fire so I shooed them out the window several times. Once they were all out, I closed and locked the back window. Peering out, I saw our driver for the first time.
He was a small, thin, pale man, dressed in grays and blacks. A baseball cap covered his bald head, and the chains hanging from his wallet jangled as he walked. He looked at me through the smoke escaping his mouth with other-worldly, luminescent, steel-gray eyes. Storm clouds rolled in him and imps sought to escape his skin. Before becoming too transfixed, my brothers called for me to finish getting ready. I nodded and put on my sneakers. As I was tying them, the driver walked over to the front of the van/bus, a fresh cigarette hanging from his mouth. He began to bullshit with my brothers. As he talked with them, the sky changed rapidly. The sun quickly dropped closer to the horizon. The driver made eye contact with me before walking outside again. The numbers on the clock had jumped 30 minutes in their three-minute conversation.
My brothers shook their heads, as if they had water in their ears that they were trying to dislodge. I made my way to the front of the bus. A Brief History of Time, constellation maps and the Beastie Boys’ album Intergalactic were sprawled out on the floor of the van/bus by his seat. I rose my head to see the driver outside smiling as he crushed his cigarette under his foot. As quick as he was to light another, he seemed to jump out of my view.
The weirdness was apparent to me, but I filed the feelings away for now, deciding not to act. I still didn’t know what this encounter meant really.
“Are we doing this or what?” I called to my brothers. “It’s getting late fast.”
They stopped fiddling with their ears, and we all emptied out of the bus to run among the trees and ponds, toward the setting sun.
I’m in a house. But who am I in this house? Am I the cyberpunk woman with white hair and blue lips, dressed in a black and purple gown? Am I the little girl standing in the upstairs hall in a party dress, with my black hair done up in ribbons and barrettes? Or am I the hired help, somewhere in between these two females, that is supposed to be getting everything in order for the wedding? I think I’m the hired help: the 20/30-something woman in the crisp, white, button-down; the simple, black pencil skirt; and brown hair pulled so tight in a ponytail that my eyes always look like they’re slightly watering.
What am I doing? …besides not being productive and holding things up currently. My boss, a domineering matriarch with permanent frown lines and etched, sinister eyebrows, barks orders at me from the bottom of the staircase. What am I doing up here? Isn’t everyone dressed already?
Oh… OK, now I know what to do.
The little girl is not ready. She has no tights and no shoes, and she is starting to pick the rhinestone barrettes out of her hair. I take her hands.
“You mustn’t play with them right now.”
“But they hurt.”
“Oh,” I make a frowny face as I kneel down to talk to her. “I know it hurts. Barrettes suck. But you only need to wear them for a little while. After the ceremony, you can take them out. OK?”
She rubs her eyes and nods. “If it makes you fell any better, my ponytail hurts like a bitch.” She looks at me. “Uh… don’t tell the other adults I said that. OK?” She nods. “Great. Now, we need to get you in tights and shoes.” We go into her room.
As this is going on, the cyberpunk bride is arranging her “veil:” a silver headdress that extends over her head like horns and below her chin like tusks. Blinking lights frame her face. For some reason, she stays on the stairs while others prep her and workers try to squeeze by her to move from the top levels to the bottom ones. She seems cold and distant, almost dead underneath her impatient and dissatisfied exterior. She looks at her pointy, black nails or the glass, spherical chandeliers above her. A young man, who I soon identify as the groom, comes into view at the bottom of the stairs. His attire matches hers: black and purple with silver accents. His hair is wind-whipped; the black and white colors make it look like an electrified skunk has latched onto his head. He is shouting to the bride about something. I’m not sure what the argument is about, but he is certainly less than pleasant to her and she is certainly less than happy about or attentive to what is going on.
As his voice escalates, the girl, now sitting on the bed in her white tights and patent leather shoes, begins to cry. I don’t ask, but she answers.
“He always so mean to her. I hate him.”
I am guessing that the bride is probably her sister or half-sister. The bride is too young to be this girl’s mother, and the relationship seems too intense for it to be niece-aunt or cousins. As I am doing my assuming, the girl becomes very still, as if she is listening to me.
She changes. As she dries her eyes, I see that they have grown older and changed color. The muscles in her face tighten and she assumes a new persona. Her voice is that of a grown woman… or rather, female cyborg.
“I am Out of Time,” she says to me, plainly. We both pause. She flickers back into the little girl. “I don’t want to be here, like this.” She begins to cry again.
I try to handle the situation. So I start the only place I really can.
“OK. OK.” I lay my hands in the air. She flickers back to the lady cyborg; her mannerisms and demeanor show me who she is moment to moment. I ask her: “What Time are you in?”
“Many. I live several lives simultaneously.”
“Some I don’t know. Sometimes I cannot control where I go; I just pop in. I don’t know how many lives I am living exactly, right ‘now,’ but I do know that she’s me and she’s trapped.” She flickers and cries. Instantly, another young girl that looks almost exactly like her, except with blonde hair, appears behind her.
“Who’s trapped? Who’s ‘she?'”
Two, three, four more girls, all very similar, but slightly different, pop into existence.
Flicker. The voice is now a blend between the adult cyborg and the little girl. “The bride. Out there. She’s me. I’m her. She just doesn’t remember. He made her forget.” The crying of the girl with black hair begins to reverberate all around in the room. The other young girls look around with dry eyes. Many look focused on a task, or at least, are driven by strong feelings. They begin to talk in unison about numbers and counting and manifestation. I cannot make sense of it all.
I hear glass break outside. The chandeliers, they fell from the ceiling. Broken glass is strewn all over the upstairs hallways and down the staircase. The bride is nowhere to be found.
The young girls rise together and exit their bedroom. These mirror images begin to oscillate between one and many incarnations. When the girls come together as one, the image is of a young adult woman with black hair and violet eyes. She wears an oversized men’s button-down shirt. Her legs are bare and milky white. She wears no shoes and rolls her feet slowly from heel to toe.
Parents, relatives, the bridal party and guests all tell her to stay put, not to move. “There’s broken glass everywhere; you’ll slice up your feet.”
“I am aware,” she says as she walks forward without flinching or avoiding the glass. “You seem not to appreciate how much I do not want this. I will show you that I’d rather walk through broken glass (this broken Reality) than be a part of it.”
And she walks slowly and purposefully, never wincing or crying. In the windows and mirrors she passes by, all can see images of a thousand incarnations that she is, including the little girls and the cyberpunk bride, including tribal warriors and circus performers, including war machines and hummingbirds. The hallways are long, but she continues. Though glass embeds itself in her skin, she does not bleed on the forest-green carpet.
We had been traveling. Currently, we resided in a transitory nest within the city. The faces of my companions were fluid in space-time. They changed; I changed.
An average day it was certainly not. Something stirred in the skies. We all knew it intuitively and instinctively though we talked not about The Unseen.
The decision to go to the Ocean at The End of the World was unanimous. I do not remember how we traveled, but it had wheels. We arrived as the skies spun and changed colors.
A storm is brewing, someone seemed to say.
There were, at least, five of us, and, at most, ten of us. Either (/any) way, the numbers were split evenly so each person had a “counterpart” of the same gender. Mine was blonde and taller and less skilled than I was. She seemed to pop into existence as my feet hit the sand. Her hologram wavered with the clouds in the sky. Spirals formed on the horizon, indications of merging points and vertexes. The edges of The World became dark. All five (ten) of us panned outward to observe the land from a bird’s-eye (or space-eye) view. The Pattern: Shadows coming from all angles with a perfect circle of Light that was quickly diminishing. And who should happen to be in the center of that Circle of Light but the five (ten) of us.
We drew our Eyes back into ourselves and each assumed our stations. I sat, lotus-style, at the Water’s Edge. My counterpart was fastened onto me with a silver string around her waist. She sat in my lap, over my crossed legs, facing the watery horizon. It was my charge and my responsibility to keep her safe, to stabilize her form through the journey. I instructed her to close her eyes, to breathe as normally as possible. “You must stay with me; pull the c(h)ord tight. If you ever feel you are losing yourself, locate the c(h)ord and my body. Re-orient with me as quickly as possible.”
As the shadows closed-in, the others instructed their counterparts in the same manner. I felt the indigo rise to my eyes and brow as the skies darkened rapidly. I closed my physical eyes as my Third Eye burned bright violet in the Dark. The circle became a pinhole and then…
Nothing at all.
We were traveling (or not?), her/I and the Others. I felt her temptation to open her eyes, and I strongly transmitted “Don’t.” The blackness swarmed in and through what may have been our bodies. There were noises that may have been drums or shrieks, harps or hail, bells or singing, sonication or pressurization. There were sensations of gossamer webs, crackling embers, soft glow, a school of fish, amniotic fluid, riptides, needles, gravel, fine silk and wind tunnels. A kaleidoscope of taste-color crashed upon our faces and re-arranged our flesh. I kept the center, held it as a meditation of a grain of sand in a sandstorm. She remained still with me and followed where my mind willed her.
And with no warning whatsoever, the World returned. We were sitting on the Beach at The Edge. Ten dissolved to five, and the silver c(h)ords returned to our spinal columns as the violet gave way to indigo and, eventually, the flesh of our brows. The sky was bright blue with puffs of gleeful white clouds. Waves kissed our feet as we rose in synchrony. We returned to our vehicle and sped off.
I have pieces of Time
sealed in a bottle,
dismembered and broken,
static in resin.
I have pieces of Time
sealed in a bottle
that vibrates at the end
of my chain
during Water percussion.
I have pieces of Time
sealed in bottle,
made by hands that love,
and a mind that shines.
I have pieces of Time
sealed in a bottle
around my neck
that I finger
as I meditate
on pieces of Time
as S/He dances
The sky called to me, as it often does. So I answered, walking out into the open wheat fields with my shiny balloon-ball (“baballoon”). I could fly just as easily without it; I had been trained years ago. Sometimes I still like to take it with me just in case I hit some wild currents. The baballoon helps with steering and stabilizing, responding to currents with increased mass or increased central gravity that keeps me locked into it as the baballoon acts as a small vehicle. Today felt like the kind of day for wild rides.
My dark-haired, younger sister, a ghost of Alice Liddell, came out to greet me. Her orange-green, malachite-in-gold-dirt, iridescent baballoon contrasted my electric blue-pink, sunset-to-twilight baballoon. The winds picked up, and the wheat rolled like a golden ocean. There were no words between us, just smiles and nods as we mounted our baballoons and then shot off into the horizon.
We traveled our well-beaten path in the sky, over the wheat fields, beyond the neighboring towns, to the quarry and across the miles of woodlands. We hardly ventured much farther than the woodlands on the average baballoon ride. The thicket beyond, the jagged rocks, the old mountains, and the ancient ruins that all lay before the wild and turbulent Passion Ocean were all a bit daunting. We never saw that Ocean, only heard stories, old-wives tales about sailors that never returned, creatures that lived in the deep and voices released from the breaking waves that rode on the wind. Part of our caution was also due to the amount of daylight we had for traveling. Neither of us wanted to be stuck by that Ocean as the black of Night cloaked all. Who knows what happens there at Night. I do not dare tempt an angry Poseidon or his army of Tritones.
Today we moved swiftly. We reached the edge of the woodlands with plenty of daylight to spare. We lollygagged at the edge, bouncing in the sky apprehensively at the decision we knew we’d make. Without much exchanges or arguments we agreed to venture onward while the day was still young, far younger than we have ever seen it at this edge. Quickly we bolted forward, our baballoons like knives slicing through the sky. We passed the thicket of thorns and the jagged rocks in nearly a blink of an eye. Traveling so fast, it almost seemed like the journey had a purpose. Dodging the mountains proved to be an easier task than imagined. Traveling over the ruins, we could barely make sense of the desecrated clay walls and stone columns embedded in the sand. We arrived at the Ocean much sooner than we had originally anticipated. The sun was making its journey to the horizon again, but it still was rather high in the sky; we had several hours still to explore the Ocean.
We floated high above in the gray-blue sky, where the waves could not reach us. Seagulls and other sea birds flew about not too far from us; they talked amongst themselves while eyeing our presence. The waves were angry alright, twisting, crashing tubes and towers of dark green-gray angst. The white foam was the touch of beauty to this violent scene; they made beautiful patterns in the dark breaks. I found myself and my sister slowly lowering to get a closer look at the patterns. Were they words or messages? Were they fractal designs or images of the Ocean’s inhabitants? Why it was so important that we should know, I couldn’t tell you. Within only a few minutes we were at the top of the towering waves, the water licking our feet and splashing up to our knees. Our baballoons were almost buoys at the tops of the waves. And somehow, we slid down even further to greet more of the Ocean. Before long we realized that we were about to be “in it,” as the waves started dancing around us. They were no longer a friendly coax inward, but now a hungry push downward.
“We need to surf this,” I called to my sister. “It’s the only way we’ll be safe. We must ride the waves.”
I repositioned myself on my baballoon, and my sister mimicked me. “Ready?” The baballoon almost knew what to do. We sped down the waves almost effortlessly, which almost seemed to make it all the more terrifying. I realized that the baballoons were carrying us through this trial. We had to trust in them. It was as if they had a memory of the waves or else predicted the next movement of the water just before it occurred. I was immensely thankful to have my baballoon with me. My sister was having a bit of trouble. I kept yelling to her to “Let go! The baballoon will carry you. If you try to control it, you’ll be worse off.” Once she was able to relinquish her urge to control, her ride was smooth. What helped me let go to allow the baballoon total control was insane laughter in the face of my terror.
Shore was just ahead. The baballoons picked up speed, and before the waves broke on the shore, the baballoons lifted back into the air. My sister and I sat back down on our baballoons and floated quietly as we regained composure. My face was wet and wind-lashed, stinging from salt. My clothes were drenched and heavy. My breath was irregular but slowing as I watched in disbelief at our feat as the Ocean roared and writhed, pained by a missed meal.
We didn’t meditate on the shore long. Turning our backs to the Ocean, we headed off in another direction, to follow a different path home. As we moved through the sky at an even pace (though seemingly much slower than the pace to the Ocean), Time seemed to stand still. After traveling over and through some different scenery (Forests of Autumn, Dunes of Winter, Lakes of Spring), we realized that we were indeed traveling through Time. At this realization our speed of travel became strangely modulated. We whisked through seasons and years without stopping. We were no closer to home than we were on the shore. It seemed that we needed to make an arbitrary decision on When and Where to stop. Our baballoons would carry us where-ever and as long as we desired, but where we were headed was a Mystery to us.
I used to joke that my father’s religion was Gambling/Gaming and that the entire religion was built around the central principle of Probability. Every time you went to metaphoric ‘congregation’ (‘mass,’ ‘temple,’ etc), you were up against the Numbers. It wasn’t what many would term a battle or a war in a traditional sense; Gambling had the perfect name for it anyway: a Bet. A Bet is not a battle of purely body, tool, trade, mind or control like many others. But is it some combination of these? Or is it some other battle entirely? …One in which friends of the Saints of Probability are favored and blessed? Dare we say Fortuna rules here? Are the temples of Fortuna lit by the brightly-colored neon signs advertising aspirations and long-shots? Are the donations to Her and her cause(ality) the bills and coins passed between hands upon observation and acceptance of a reality of an event? The hymns and chants: cheering for sides? The Book: the Odds? I used to joke… but Fortune has always had a hand in the lives of humans. Ones that honor Her in the ways She likes best seem to have Her on their side.
I say the tradition of Gambling is passed to me from my father’s side, but recently, I discovered that my maternal grandfather also played the Numbers. Where others found sense in dates, he concentrated on Time. The day meant little to him; it was all about the moment in a constantly repeating cycle. Just after 23:59, Time reset to play again. We are reborn at 24:00 (which I always think of as 00:00); we are reset to experience the day all over again. Will today be like yesterday, just like the following day? Will tomorrow mimic today? As if Yesterday actually has a say… As if Tomorrow ever really comes… We cannot be afforded a Portal if we do not enter a Void.
Anyway… my grandfather, the man that Bet on Time. Times of births and deaths were especially important to him. I heard he had great Luck when Betting on Time; he won more often than he lost. Probability was on his side. Perhaps Time was, as well. Though, it seems a rather odd phenomenon that this man who played the Numbers of Time could never wear a functional wristwatch. Any watch worn on his body would stop after only a number of days. Somehow Time’s measuring instrument became faulty upon his carrying. Who was playing whom?
My grandfather had much Luck where others often failed. All that was necessary was that he took the Chance, that he allowed Fortuna to take care of his Bet.
My father played the Numbers of my grandfather’s death day the exact day he died. My father Bet on his Time. The Numbers did not come out that day; they came out the following the day. My father exclaimed, “I should have known! He was busy traveling.”
My father plays the Odds. His talent at poker helped him pay for college. My maternal grandfather Bet on Time. Shifting Probability is in my blood… or so I jest.
How much time had passed?
This is not where I was a second ago.
I had moved through the rooms of someone else’s house. Each room was sparsely furnished, a strange mix of smells and showing its age. The walls were covered with ink and paint in bizarre forms inspired by figments and monsters. The tenants of each room lounged as close to the floor as possible as the smoke piled high above them, almost obscuring the ceiling. Perhaps a party that has progressed too far, been pushed too long, or else perhaps this was a tweaker pad or squatters’ dominion. I don’t know why I was there.
Suddenly I wasn’t. I was in a hospital. Strange things were happening on the top floors. I wasn’t there; I was in the stairwell, but somehow I knew that the man at the topmost room was flailing violently, half dressed in his street clothes he managed to find with the upper half of him still donning the hospital gown. He was shouting incoherent phrases and gathering ‘weapons’ in a paranoid attack. In my mind’s eye, I saw him fill a bath tub while scrambling to pull wire from the lights and the ceiling. He stepped one foot in the tub as it overflowed and the room filled with white, crackling electricity. Nurses and doctors clamored to get up to the room. Every one of them would be more than a minute late to save his body; they were already months late to save his sanity and years late to save any shred of what could be identified as the man’s Self.
Why is he walking away? What happened?
I try to get him to calm down. My car is still running outside, but I leave it to pursue him, another composite image of all the faces of when things went sour. Apparently we had an argument, but I don’t remember it. He pities himself; he is huffy with me. He pushes me away, saying that he will walk ‘home,’ whatever that tone in which he says the word is supposed to connote. I try my pleas a few more times, but to no avail. I get the feeling that this (whatever it is) is irreparable. I tell him so. “We’ll never get over this, you know that right? It will never go away. This will be the breaking point.” He acknowledges the statement with no more than a shrug. He walks off callously, licking his imaginary wounds. Feelings of disdain and resentment rise up in me; his exit strikes me as unjust.
I am sitting in the car (I think… the images are like ice melting downhill). I am also walking through a different apartment that is supposedly mine. I am also in the pool, talking to high school varsity swimmers. In the car, we are talking about the recent events, about missed meetings or opportunities. In the apartment, I am observing the pieces of furniture that I don’t quite remember. In the pool, I am training the swimmers. The events I mention seem to elude my partner. I am lost in the apartment. The swimmers look a bit rusty. Everything seems strange and off. I start asking questions, giving myself a reality check. I find out that it is the beginning of June, not the end of August. (Is it all the same year?)
I’ve lost time. No, I gained time.
In the car I realize that I have to repeat all the work I just put in, but my vacation and meetings are still ahead of me. Things can be done in a different manner perhaps, but is that appropriate? And how do I know the reset button will not be pushed again? I am filled with conflicting feelings of defeat, anxiety, and intrigue.
From the apartment we can hear a scream from down the hall. “Maggie! NO!” We run to the old woman’s place. We can help save Maggie. This would have never been possible in my other timeline. Maggie was a ferret that had ingested ball bearings, and now she was choking. I was entrusted with her while the woman fetched her keys and my friends tried to get things in order to go to the hospital. She ate 5 ball bearings, and some were lodged too deep for me to work out gently with massage; while she was no longer choking, she needed surgery. It was chaos getting her to the hospital, but I knew that because of our efforts, Maggie would be ok.
With the swimmers, I saw the opportunity to help create a stronger team, one that could succeed where their other timeline failed. I got to know the girls afresh; I got to know what brought out the warrior in them. This is what was to be used to make them unstoppable.
I know the place. I’ve come upon it time and time again. Within the last couple years, its occurrence has coincided with the presence of a close friend.
Did I wake up in the old, burnt-out school? I’m still unsure why I’m called back to it so often. Perhaps the eyes that opened in its windows a decade ago still have me in their sight.
It is night and I am looking up at vast skies with quickly condensing and shifting clouds over pinpoint stars and a last-quarter moon. The air is chilly. It must be Fall. The school stands in front of me, with its hollowed innards breaking before me. Open purulent wounds reach for a way to fill the school’s gaping soul.
The experience of it, being near it and in it is hazy… the inhabitants, the spirit, the time loops… all a seeming fabrication of a drugged mind.
And then I am out. I am in another Haus, one filled with young people joyously intoxicated, dressed in bright colors and hemp jewelry. I savor the twilight, the cotton-candy clouds bleeding into the sky as it phases out from red to blue.
Music is playing. People are dancing and laughing. The time stop-starts as images and moments are stretched and condensed, whisked and revealed, made inconsequential or marvelous. Conversations whirl around my head as I float from room to room, landscape to landscape. I cross open fields as I hop discussions. The sky changes before my eyes as my friend stands close to me and we say some words. Something begins to unfold… another world, the sequence of time disrupted and re-established so that one world is a few seconds ahead of the other. The sun had set, but stopped before whirling around to a noon-day position. I see it frozen, not emitting light or exchanging gas, just stationary in its position. A second sun, completely identical except for the position in time and space, meets it at the -2 position. Time elapses before me, accelerated to meet the point in time that my friend talks to me. It is night and both the suns have set.
The Haus and the school blend, and I am unsure what sun I am following. Perhaps I cannot handle the -2, 0 (or 0, +2) positions simultaneously. Perhaps I can handle it all too well, colliding realities into a superimposed collage of shifting opacities. He is with me in the Haus, in the school, in the -2, 0 and the 0, +2. I watch the suns move under my eyelids with my eyes open to catch the transgression of events and people. Two houses, two suns, two times, two of us to move throught them all. 2 on 2 on 2 on 2… I get lost in the multiplication and grin like the Chesire Cat.