Today is the third day of the rest of your life. Welcome to Night Vale

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Hi listeners. It’s been a dull winter, and I haven’t gotten out of the house much. My family and I have been nesting mostly, and that’s nice. Cooking dinner, catching up on all the popular shows like Lupin, Blown Away, and even old episodes of The Office. Not the American one, but the original Luftnarp version where the main character is a one-eyed starling voiced by film legend Lee Marvin. It’s much more cutting in its humor. My favorite episode is when the whole staff learns to summon the Lost Souls of the Ancient Ones, and the starling sings a dirge about drowning in a lake. And then the corporate manager is interrogated by Interpol for successfully doing alchemy.

But TV has gotten old, and we got a touch of cabin fever, so we decided it was time to get out of the house, and go for a hike. On Saturday, we drove a few hours north to Redwood Remains State Park. We brought our little Esteban with us, because it’s never too early to introduce children to nature. It was a fun and spiritually rewarding trip. And there’s nothing like the mighty heights of centuries-old trees to make you feel small like a baby, held close and tight, protected from the dangers in the malicious sky above.

I feel so refreshed. I can’t recommend the woods enough. What a rewarding time to spend with a family. It’s a trip that will stay with me forever. More on my hike soon.

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But let’s have a look now at traffic. At the intersection of High St and McDowell sits a 2004 Honda CRV, silver, with a broken taillight. Inside the car is a man named Sergei. He’s looking at the night sky. He does not see the light change from red to green. Nor does he notice this process repeating. There is no one behind him to indicate his attention should be otherwise paid to the road. The intersection of High St and McDowell is curiously empty except for the man in his 2004 CRV.

If anyone else were around, and they were to look at the same night sky, they would see blackness and stars, the faint slit of a nearly-new moon. They may see an airplane or the wisp of a cloud. Yet Sergei sees something that anyone else would not. Sergei sees a triangle of bright orange lights. They do not move, nor blink. They simply are an inscrutable pyramid perched in the firmament. Sergei wonders if they are extra-terrestrial or just a trick of the eye. The traffic signal changes from red back to green, and the CRV does not move. No one else is around.

He is scared. He is hopeful too. Sergei hopes that he is to be abducted. Saved even. Taken away from his job, and his wife, and his dogs, and his family. Taken away from his CRV with its broken taillight. Taken away from High St and McDowell. He doesn’t know if the alien craft would imprison him, experiment on him, or even kill him. Everything that is unknown is hope.

Sergei does not pray, he only thinks of the possibilities of leaving his car, his body, his planet. And as the traffic signal changes again, Sergei opens his car door and steps out, jacketless, into the brisk night air. A swirling breeze curls his hair.

He stands in the center of the intersection of High St and McDowell and waves. He waves to the triumvirate of orange lights in the night sky, and he imagines someone or some thing waving back.

This has been traffic.

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More on our hike. I can’t stop thinking about it. My husband, Carlos, as you may not know, is a scientist. And he was truly in his element. He showed us all kinds of flora and fauna, telling us tons of interesting facts about everything we encountered. We saw lots of dragonflies, some as large as my hand. There were hawks galore. Just the most hawks. Think of all the hawks you’ve ever seen. Now double that, then add 9, then divide by 3. THAT is how many hawks we saw in just a single afternoon. The hawks circled above us, which caused the rabbits to hop and scamper in all directions.

Our little 3-year-old shouted “bunnies!” He tried to pet them, but Carlos cautioned him that while most mammals look like they want hugs, almost none of them do. Esteban was disappointed that he could not pick up the rabbits, especially when one of the hawks did that very thing. Carlos had to explain the circle of life to our inconsolable son, which went over better than expected, especially because we found a little creek with some toads for Esteban to play with.

I remember going to the woods as a young boy with my sister and my mother. We used to go about 3 or 4 times each year on a long hike. What I recall most vividly were the owls. Even in the bright of day, they were so loud. So very loud. I asked my mother why the owls were so noisy, and she never answered me. Once I even found a sleeping raccoon, and a coyote was hunched over it playfully gnawing at its open belly. You learn so much in the woods. I’ll never forget those times.

Last Saturday in the woods, I heard the owls again, their low hoots and growls, ever-present. I had forgotten their sound, but it all came back to me. I asked Carlos why the owls were always making that noise, but he didn’t seem to know why, or even understand what I was asking. It was a wonderful day.

Watching Esteban and Carlos sitting on moss-covered rocks and pointing at fish and salamanders, I thought of what it must be like to have a dad, and how I was so glad that unlike me, Esteban has a loving father. In fact, he has two. That moment will stay with me forever. More on our trip soon.

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But now, financial news. Investors speculate on sadness as a commodity. Dreams unveiled their IPO. Sunshine is a cryptocurrency. Look around you, investors say. Everything can be monetized. All of it is capital. All of it is fluctuating. Do you sometimes feel tired? Reap dividends on your emotions. There’s no reason not to earn compound interest on feelings. Look at the S&P 500, investors say. It is a list of 500 of the top intuitions being felt by human beings. Healthy skepticism is up 2 points. Indecision is up 1.5. And that sensation in your belly when you go down a hill too fast is up 6. Futures trading on happiness is all the rage, according to the financial experts. Short-sell your despair. Angst is trading at an all time low, say financial planners. Past performance is not an indicator of future results. Except when it comes to money. Money is always increasing. It’s just pouring from every orifice says a man in a suit standing, arms outstretched, in a claw-foot tub, pennies falling from his eyes, nickels and quarters spewing from his contorted mouth, the rear of his slacks bulging with Sacajawea dollars.

This has been financial news.

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And now back to my mini-vacation to the woods. I… Let’s see. When was I there? I know I started this show talking about a recent trip I took. Was I with Carlos? Or was it just me? Hmmm. I had written down some notes, I thought, but my steno pad is completely blank. It was such a memorable excursion, but for some reason, I’ve lost my train of thought.

Oh! I do remember owls. I didn’t see any owls. I don’t know that I’ve ever seen an owl in the woods. But I heard them. I remember the sounds of the owls quite clearly. The low drone of the relentless night bird shaking the deepest coils of my inner ear until I could not walk in a straight line, could barely stand up.

I remember a man holding a boy’s hand and telling him about a tree. They look a lot alike, those two. “Go into the tree,” the man tells the boy, and the boy does not want to. “It’s warm and quiet in there,” the man says to the boy. But the boy cannot hear him over the sound of the owls.

I can’t shake these memories. But I can’t express them either.

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In the meantime, here’s a sports update. John Peters, you know the farmer, plowed his fields of invisible corn this week. He tilled the soil and then covered it over in fresh sod and compacted dirt. He marked up the area with long chalk lines and built a fence at the far end. The corn fields are completely gone now. In their place is a baseball diamond. John said, “I was in my fields of invisible corn, and I heard this voice. The voice told me, ‘If you build it, he will stop by for a visit,’ And I knew it was the voice of my narrator.” John continued: “Like the ancient gods, I only exist because people talk about me, believe in me, and if the narrator of my life should ever discontinue his old yarn about old John, well, I’d cease to exist. So I built it, like the man said. I built me a baseball diamond.”

John thought the voice was suggesting that by building a baseball diamond, the ghost of John’s father would come to the farm and play catch with John. But as it turned out, the voice meant the tax collector. John’s farm is not zoned for sports and recreation, so he got hit with a pretty hefty fine. John said: “It wasn’t my pa. That would’ve been nice, but Pat Lusk (rhymes with “tusk”) – the tax collector – was real friendly. Older fella. We threw the ball around a few times. It felt great. Pat’s gonna come back. We got a standin’ date every Saturday now to play catch.”

John hopes he can start a professional team and join the major leagues. He said he’s already sent letters to some scouts for the Padres, Diamondbacks, Death Worms, and Dodgers.

Good luck, John! Hope you win the pennant! This has been sports.

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Now I remember. It’s crystal clear now. I’m in the woods, listeners, at this exact moment. There’s the sound of the owls. Do you hear it? [pause: no sound of any owl] One long discordant groan. My ears hurt, and my skin is flinching at the cold air. I feel the wind in my bones. There is a redwood in front of me. It is noon, but the woods are dark, save for a small ray of speckled light shining on the base of the tree. There is a hole in the trunk. It is barely wide enough to fit my shoulders.

I want to enter the tree. But I am afraid. I cannot look inside it. Yes, I remember all of this, because it is happening again at this moment. The woods stay with you for a lifetime. The memories are never-fleeting. I look into the hole and I see… nothing.

I place my feet in the hole. I slide my hips into the tight fissure. My chest. It is so cramped. I do not know if I will be able to fit, nor free myself. It is so warm. Like the sun. Like the day.

Like the weather.

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WEATHER: “We Perform a Service Here” by Joseph Fink, https://josephfink.bandcamp.com/

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Where was I? Just now, I do not know where I was. I’m in my studio. There is a microphone in front of me, a blank notepad, and… a microcassette player. Wow, is that…? Yeah, it’s the little recorder I had as a kid. I used this thing all the time, pretending to be a little radio host, narrating every part of my life. I haven’t seen this in years. Did I bring it to work with me today? No, I would have remembered that. Let’s see what’s on it.

[hard click - starting the cassette - audio filter: cassette; Cecil reads in normal adult voice]

CASSETTE: It’s Cecil Gershwin Palmer, March 18, 2019. I climbed inside a tree. It’s dark, darker than anything I’ve ever experienced. I cannot find my way back out. I am afraid. I am alone. Above me I can hear the loud hum of owls, like a diesel engine. I am trapped. I am… wait. I see a light. It is so cold that light. I do not like it. It’s growing brighter. No. No! NO!

[soft click]

CASSETTE: Cecil Gershwin Palmer, February 26, 2020. I crawled into a hole at the base of a tree. I was on a hike. I think? It’s so dark in here. I’ve never been in such darkness. I’m alone. Except for owls. I hear the gnashing gurgle of owls, like a chainsaw on low speed. There’s a light. It’s coming toward me. I cannot move. But I must. No!

[soft click]

CASSETTE: Cecil Gershwin Palmer, February 15, 2021. I’m inside a tree. There was a hole, and for some reason, I crawled inside it. I’ve never done anything that crazy before. It’s so dark. Darker than anything I’ve ever seen. Above me, I hear owls, wailing like a pressurized steam valve on a radiator. None of this is familiar. Except that light. Light is filling my mind. I know that light. I know that light. I…

[hard click – Cecil stops the tape player; back to normal voice now]

Well, sorry about that. I thought I might get to hear some old recordings of me, but it was just a blank tape, listeners. Oh well. Probably for the best. If I ever found any old tapes of myself, I bet there’d be some really embarrassing stuff on there.

Maybe this whole show has been nothing. I honestly don’t remember any of the news from today. I’ve been in this job for a long time. Probably longer than I’ve been alive. I mean: you’ve been alive. I can’t remember every detail of every show. Something about owls I think. We were talking about owls. And the weird sounds they make?

That reminds me. When I was a kid, I used to go on these hikes in the woods, a couple hours outside of town at the Redwood Remains State Park. My mother would take me and my sister Abby. Our mother wouldn’t speak to us. She would just walk and walk, much faster than we could. I think she wanted to lose us in the shadowy labyrinth of tall trees. But Abby and I made our own fun. We played hide and seek, and tried to catch toads and even had contests to see who could climb the highest. And we always found our mom. She was at the same old tree, leaving flowers at the base of its giant trunk. And we would hike home. I don’t remember who the flowers were for. Maybe she never said.

They were good memories, those trips. I think I’d like to go back to those woods. Maybe I could even find that same tree where my mother left those flowers. I have no idea what I would gain from that. I haven’t been to the woods since I was very little. Maybe it’s time to go back. Nature is a great escape. It’d be a fun trip for Carlos and Esteban too. The whole family. Memories to last a lifetime.

Stay tuned next for subliminal advertising played as a dull hiss under pop music.

And as always, good night, Night Vale. Good night.

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PROVERB: Laughter is the best medicine, except in cases where you’re actually suffering from a medical condition or disease. For real, though, you need drugs for that.