It all started with a piece of poorly written bassoon music. Some maniac had seen fit to give his bassoon section several low As in the composition I was then playing in our high school band. Bassoons, as you know, play only down to B-flat, leaving a half-step chasm between musical reality and delusion.
“Skip it,” said the director.
“Never give up!” said I, the freshman of last chair distinction. After school I went on the internet in hopes of finding a technique for the cursed note. Surely some bassoonist with more training than I had such forbidden knowledge.
Ten minutes of seeking brought me to a page of unusual fingerings. Triumph! Low A’s, low A-flats, amazingly high notes--all these were suddenly within my sight if not yet within my ability. Most incredible of all were the multiphonic fingerings--positions which would enable one to play two, three, or even four notes simultaneously on a single instrument. Impossible? No, but certainly something I’d never imagined. The how-to was not enough; I wanted to know the how-come.
I spent the next two hours delving deeper and deeper into that wonderful time sponge we call the World Wide Web. I finally found the physics of multiphonics explained in an scientific journal’s article--not on bassooning, but in a study on certain oddities in Tibetan culture. It seemed the Tibetans had a practice of multiphonic chanting, the science of which was explained in phrases dry enough to take the interest out of the subject to all but the most intrepid (or masochistic) reader.
I was that reader. Tibet! The land of yaks, monks, and mountains--now also the source of arcane bassoon knowledge. Er…not exactly, but at any rate, I was hooked. I read anything I could on the culture; even after the dreaded A’s were gamely honked out (Take that, tuba section!), I kept up my research.
Tibet is full of intrigue. In addition to many-voiced monks and yak butter tea (a mystery in and of itself), Tibet is also home of the Tulpa, the what-you-do-when-there’s-no-cable-tv favorite pasttime of the Himalayas. These figments of the mind are rumored to have the capability of becoming real, not only to their creators, but to third parties, caught as glimpses from the corner of the eye and evinced by disappearing lumps of sticky rice set out for them in bowls.
Well. Fun with your new thoughtform might be a pastime just peachy for llamas, but I always figured that with my luck, any tulpa I created would quickly overpower my feeble mind, take on a life of its own, and make things 10 times more difficult than they already were. One unguarded moment, and POOF!--there she’d be, sacked out on my sofa surrounded by empty Funion bags and dog-earred books. My books, I might add--my complete collection of Star Trek (original series) novels, once pristine, now ruined by chocolate and chip-greased thumbprint smears, their pages creased and covers hopelessly curled. My books. My couch. My Funion money. Enough.
I’d politely offer her a bookmark and some Purell, and in a roundabout way suggest that she start sharing dish duty, perhaps even peruse the paper for some part time work, to which she’d slit her eyes and say, “You. Owe. Me,” sending me scurrying back into the kitchen to add a warm up to her tea as I pondered the implication of such words.
Eventually, things between us would deteriorate even further, and I’d finally turn to my family for advice. The cruelest cut!!! For unbeknownst to me, my tulpa would have carefully been seeding my closest ties with doubts and subtle slights against my honor, all the while giving the cousins nifty presents ordered from the numerous catalogues coming to my address in her name. My mother--my own mother!--would choose her side of the story over mine, and there I’d be--alone and unemployed in Greenland, as t’were.
And so, I’d surrender to my fate by taking on a second job to help pay for all the mail-ordered stuff and credit card bills, for though the catalogues would bear her name, she‘d have taken the cards out in mine, as it is a little known fact that even the strongest tulpa cannot withstand a credit check.
…Right. Some girls drew hearts around their boyfriend’s name for daydreaming. I broke out into cold sweats worried about delusions brought on by studying Tibetan culture. Whatever you do, don’t think about purple hippopotami…
Flash forward with me now from those awkward teenage years to 2008:
Last week I walked into the Lion, picked up the mail, and noticed a package, containing, I assumed, a book I’d special ordered for the shop. Odd, though…it felt as though there was more than one book in the shipping envelope…huh.
I look at the return addy: Random House Publishing. Curiouser and curiouser. I’d not ordered anything from them.
I opened the package and found inside two review copies of soon-to-be released books. Nifty! I felt beloved and bookish…until I looked at the enclosed letter. It was a chatty note regarding this very blog. It spoke kindly of the Shepherdess’ blog and her love of books, suggesting that she might enjoy the enclosed novels.
!!!
I looked at the mailing address, and sure enough--the package was addressed not to me, but to my imaginary blogger.
The Shepherdess??? My online avatar??? My creation made up only of random electrons and careless words??? Imagine, Gentle Reader, my shuddering horror at the realization that the Shepherdess was no longer merely a convenient foil and figment of creativity, brought out as it pleased me and tucked safely away at all other times. No--the Shepherdess, that crafty Tibetan, was quietly creeping out into other’s consciousnesses while my attention was directed elsewhere.
I felt a chill as I regarded the day’s mail with this realization. A chill…and peevishness. It had started: My tulpa was getting cool books and fan mail. All I got that day was the electric bill.
…
Today I noticed some of the Star Trek novels have gone missing from my shelf. Ingrate--the least she could do is read those review copies first. They’ve not been touched. Out of spite I plan on perusing them this weekend. I’ll blog my thoughts--MY thoughts, thank you--on the books when I finish them. Perhaps it will help someday get me a second job as a reviewer--it’s either that or a second mortgage, for I’m sure it’s only a matter of time until the Shepherdess starts demanding she be kept in the position to which she is wishing to become accustomed.
…On reflection, perhaps I should have followed my band director’s advice.
-S.J. Cannady
