A John McLean Experience...

Dancing With The Hunger

A Fable About The Breakthrough You've Been Starving For!

by

John McLean

Dancing With The Hunger by John McLean

FOR... Dr. Joe Vitale

Who knows how to get Hungry and stay Hungry.

Dancing With The Hunger by John McLean

Also by the bookwright... NON-FICTION The Low Carb Revolution Real Artists Ship THE SEDUCTION BIBLE

FABLES You Are NOT Destined For Greatness...But You Can Still Find It

FICTION Zen and The Art of Stripping

Discover more... TheJohnMcLeanExperience.com

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Dancing With The Hunger by John McLean

THE READING

Dancing With The Hunger by John McLean

1
You have a good life, the Tarot reader said, gazing at the faded cards spread out before her. Riiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiight, I responded with mock surprise, as if she'd just disclosed some great hidden truth about me. I knew where this was headed next. 'But you have this or that trouble,' she would announce with great concernbecause who doesn't have some trouble or another?--and then she'd feel me out about whether that trouble had to do with an affair of the heart, wallet or health so she could tailor her mystical reading accordingly. Your problem, she said, in Spanish so quiet I had to lean forward to hear, is that right now you don't have a problem. Ha, you heard me call it! Problem, Trouble close enough. Wait...she was telling me the exact opposite of what I'd expected. Mande? Pardon me? She tapped a card with an ancient fingernail that came almost to a point. You also travel frequently. More like all the time, I blurted out, momentarily forgetting that you're not supposed to help these people. They're masters at restating
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what you've just told them and then pretending they have some great insight into your life. This was shaping up to be sillier than I'd expected. I'd only ducked into the musty Tarot shop in the heart of the Old City because of the crude, hand-written sign on the front door: First Reading Free. I'm an American--we're constitutionally unable to pass up anything Free. You are a successful writer, she continued. I wondered which card told her that? The one with the medieval knight munching down on buffalo wings...or the one that looked like the bad guy from Nightmare on Elm Street doing cartwheels? Si, I said evenly, vowing not to give anything else away. But you are a different kind of writer, she pressed on. You are not content to just create books, you are trying to create new kinds of book. How could she know that? That was exactly what I-You have plenty of friends, money and ideas. No problems there. I said nothing. But, duh. You don't have parents. No tienes padres. No, I exhaled.
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You lost your mother as a young boy...your father as a young man. Slowly I nodded. She had my attention now. You are very good with the ladies. She glanced at me over the cards, tossing me a flirty wink that suggested I just might have a chance with her. Abruptly she sat bold upright and slapped the table with her palm, disturbing the precise arrangement of the arcane cards. But I cannot avoid it. The cards never lie. No entiendo, I said. I don't understand. You have a good life, as I've told you. Yes, I have a good life, I admitted grinningly. I loved being me--and I was very good at it. Why do you smile? Her thousand year-old eyes darkened like a winter storm at sea. A good life is a terrible condition to suffer from. It's not often that I don't know what to say. In fact, it's never that I don't know what to say. I didn't know what to say. She crossed her arms defiantly. Nobody should settle for a good life if they have the potential to create something better. I started to argue, but that sounded true.
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You should want a spectacular life, she pressed on. An express train of incredible. You should want more of everything. Better of everything. You've been trying to leave your mark upon the world. That's bad. How is leaving my mark bad? Dogs leave their mark on things. Ouch. Heroes change the world. Then for good measure she added, For the better. Yes, yes, yes, I agreed. I had grown content with my life, since it was a good life. A good life is as good as it gets, isnt it? Or...could it be better? Yet I certainly wanted to make the world a better place--and told her as much. Well, you cannot, she began. Why not? Which card says that? She cut me off with the kind of impatient look you give a new puppy who's just peed on the carpet for the second time in a row. You cannot do it, she began again, because you are blocked. There's a door within you that is shut. Nothing goes in, nothing comes out. Until this door is opened, you cannot move forward. The
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keys to this door have been lost. There is only one way to get in now. I waited. She raised her eyebrows dramatically. You must break it down. With supreme effort, I said nothing. I was accustomed to seeing others, but not to being seen. I felt like she'd seen all the way through mepiercing to the heart of a truth I hadn't even voiced to myself. I did feel blocked. Who doesnt, these days? Sure, maybe a door needed to be opened...but which one? That was the real question. I couldn't just charge around like a bull in a china shop busting down door after door until hopefully I knocked down the right one. The old lady's layers of faded chiffon and costume jewelry rustled as she drew heavy breaths. The bells from the seven hundred-year old Cathedral adjacent to her shop pealed dully. Without a word, I fished a credit card from my daybag and placed it neatly amongst the fading Tarot cards spread out on the table. Her Loss-Leader of offering a free reading and then converting it into a single big sale had worked perfectly. She ought to write a book on marketing. Maybe the crone and I could collaborate. Tarot
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Marketing, we'd call it. I had the feeling this was the start of a beautiful friendship. I cannot help you. She slid the credit card back toward me. Okay, now I knew there was gonna be a big chapter in our book on Tarot Marketing about the Takeaway. I didnt even ask how much, I said. What was the going rate for a Breakthrough these days? No te puedo ayudar, she said, overpronouncing her words as if I were a simpleton. I cannot help you. Then what was the point of all this? Again, I'm an American. Everything's has to have a point. Your answer cannot be found in the cards. She seemed almost embarrassed by this admission. It was beginning to sink in that she genuinely didn't know how to help me. Still, now that I'd learned there was a door within me that needed opening, I couldn't very well magically unknow that. A line from T.S. Eliot's poem, Gerontion, sprang to mind, After such knowledge, what forgiveness? How am I supposed to figure out which door's blocked? She shrugged, busying herself with collecting her worn cards into a raggedy edged pile.
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I was genuinely at a loss. I'd already done every kind of self-helpy thing under the sun. For heaven's sake, I wrote self-helpy books for a living. If there was a corner to poke into or a stone to overturn, I'd done it. Although I didn't particularly believe in the old lady's Tarot cards, I also didn't entirely disbelieve in them. To their advantage, they fit right in with my own lofty standards of weirdness. Because there was one thing in the world I was absolutely certain about... No Truth about life could possibly be true unless it was at least somewhat Weird. Yet here she was telling me that her cards weren't weird enough to solve the problem I currently faced of-Maybe... the old lady interrupted my reverie, maybe the hunger could help you. Hunger? I repeated. Not hunger, she objected. The Hunger. La Hambre. The Hunger? You have no experience with her? None. The Hunger is...a force of nature. She can find the right door within you to open. The Tarot reader cocked a wizened finger, beckoning me
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closer. The Hunger can open any door. Ohhhhhh, now I got their Tarot Marketing game. This was good. This was real good. The old lady and this Hunger person were in cahoots. They probably referred suckers back and forth to each other all the time. But, my greatest leaps often come from taking the most ridiculous steps, and I'm certainly not afraid to play the sucker once in a while, just to see what happens. So I bit. Where do I find this friend of yours? What's the address of her shop? I'll go there now. How the old woman laughed and laughed at that. She pressed a palm over her eyes, laughing so hard that little flecks of spittle came to her pale lips. Finally, short of breath, she managed to downshift to a chuckle, The Hunger doesn't have an address! Then...how do I find her? She broke off laughing and seemed to frown. You don't find her. How can I--? I don't understand. You must to stop eating, she said, switching to heavily accented English. A few days, maybe a week. Yes, seven days. For seven days you no eat.
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And if I don't eat for a week? I asked, also in English. Maybe...the Hunger find you.

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You

ever meet one of those drunkish guys at a party who keeps wanting to hug you? That's exactly how the endless sunlight of Barcelona treats you. As I left the Tarot shop, the over-friendly sun kept trying to wrap me in its embrace. Indifferent to its charms, I plunged into the shadowy maze of alleys and passageways that dominated the ancient center of the city. Stop eating and she'd find me. What did that even mean? When I asked the old lady how her friend or partner or whatever she was supposed to be could possibly track me down in this sprawling city of a couple of million residents and tens of thousands of prowling tourists, she waved off my question as if everything would become clear over time. A week's time, presumably. Just the thought of not eating for seven days in a row made me hungry. I ducked into a mini-market and emerged with a big ol' bag of potato chips. Ruffles. They have r-r-r-ridges, don'tcha know? Yeah, yeah, you don't have to give me a lecture on the evils of carbs and eating crap. I wrote a
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whole damn book about it, I'll have you know. But surely you already know that knowing what to do doesn't always mean doing what you know. As I munched, it occurred to me that I sometimes make poor food choices against my better judgment because it helps me to hide. After all, it takes two to hide--someone to hide, and something to hide behind. Food and drinking are good things to hide behind. Cigarettes and drugs, too. Before Id even finished off the bag of chips, I seriously pondered buying another. And not to knock hiding. It can be a fun game to play. Which is probably why so many of us get so very good at it. It's easier to hide than to be found. Or, worse, be found out. So we hide from our boss, our partner, our mother. We hide from truth, from beauty, from suffering. But, mostly, we hide from ourselves. And why shouldn't we? Who really wants to discover how ugly they might be on the inside? Besides nobody, of course.
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Not eat for seven whole days. Could I even do that? If I got hungry and didn't satisfy my hunger, what was on the other side of that? More hungeror something else entirely? Maybe on the other side of hunger, there was nowhere left to hide. And then what?

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THE FASTING

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Sooner or later, all the cool kids play the game

called Fasting. Jesus. Pythagoras. Mohammed. Gandhi. At the behest of the lovely old Tarot lady, I'd decided to follow their fine examples over the next week. Other than fresh water, I would not eat or drink anything else for seven entire days. In the worst-case scenario, I'd lose the few pounds of baby fat that had continued to cling to me long past babyhood...plus I'd nicely detox my internal systems from the accumulated bug stains on my front windshield from nearly forty years of life in the fast lane. And in the best case, maybe this Hunger lady would magically show up and somehow lead me to the place where I appeared to be stuck. I still didn't understand by what mechanism fasting would help her find me, but eventually you just gotta take a leap and hope the net appears.

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DAY 1

My

first day of fasting was a blur of pointedly ignoring long-entrenched habits. Now is when I usually begin preparing my lunch. This is the time I like to shop for dinner. I had no plan about what to do instead. Is there anything more disruptive to the comfortable lives we've settled into than running headlong into unplanned and unexpected free time? As it turns out, yes. Worse than that was the Little Suffering. Any of us can suffer greatly for a few heroic momentslifting the sagging barbell one more time or plunging into the icy river on New Year's Day, as we splash frantically with our playmates for half a minute before retreating with frosty steps to the warmathon of the Finnish steam bath. But to sit in the Little Suffering, hour after hour, and day upon endlessokay, not endless, but, still, seven in a row of themday, that's a whole 'nother magnitude of suffering. Sooner or later, every good man or woman breaks down and cries because it's all too much. But eventually that Upset is over and we get a hug
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and a popsicle. The Little Suffering aint so neat and tidy. There's no big tears or tantrum...just the ignominy of whimpering yourself to sleep each night. Which I now prepared to do, sitting on the edge of my bed with false bravery at the end of the day, steeling myself for my first sleep since the start of the fast. Is it true that our demons come out at night? Not the demons, ours. You know which demons I meanthe ones deep within you and deep within me. Maybe eating so much, like we do these days, helps keep our demons trapped inside. In that case, only a fool would deliberately starve them out. I felt very alone at that moment. Alone and foolish. Having succeeded in not dying of starvation during my first twenty-four hours without food, I stretched out on my bed. Yet I felt no peace, no sense of accomplishment. Making it through the day hadn't seemed particularly difficult. Perhaps the excitement and newness of the endeavor was enough to carry me along. Or perhaps she was lulling me into a false sense of security. Because I could feel her presence. Feel
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her circling me, closing in, hunting me down. Which didnt feel at all right. I am accustomed to being the Predator, not the Prey. What freakyleaky, upside-down universe was I entering? As I shut my eyes, I imagined that I could confront every fear that might arise during my week-long experiment of not eating. Except one. I was no longer the least bit eager to come face to face with the Hunger.

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DAY 2

The day felt hard, hard, hard.

On every corner of the Old City, the textures of succulent fruit and smells of meat juices dripping onto open flames poked and prodded me. It appeared that nobody in this town had to work for a living. Their only preoccupation seemed to be eating and drinking merrily in outdoor cafes crowded against one another like salmon spawning upstream. Passing by the parade of Moveable Feasts without stopping to fill up the tank of my stomach felt almost...unAmerican. These days it's Against The Rules to be anything less than full in stomach or head. And not just full, but with tummy and brain physically aching from the load they're forced to carry. We are encouragedhell, expectedto remain topped off to the point where there's no room left to add another bite or another byte. Still, I resisted giving into the flavorful temptations all around me. Because that was the game I was playing. The game of watching the little needle drop towards E. Throughout the afternoon, I hounded the cobbled streets of Barcelona, pretending to be
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oblivious to the Hunger. But still I felt her. Coming for me. As she comes for us all. But I had no intention of just letting her catch me. I am the Hunter, not the Hunted. When I see a book that needs writing, a woman that wants seducing or a prize worth claiming, I take it. That is my natural state and birthright. No less than it's yours. Even if we both sometimes become too full to claim it...for our whole lives.

Without lunchy-wunchy to distract me, I intsead hopped on a bus dieseling along the edges of the Mediterranean Ocean that fronted an entire side of this former Roman settlement. I rode it to the farthest reaches of town and presented myself to the nearest beach. Stuffing socks inside shoes and shoes inside daybag, I padded slipperishly in sands softer than baby rabbit fur back towards the city center. The beaches were littered with tanned, toned, topless and even bottomless bodies...like writhing pieces of impromptu performance art. Whether painter, architect or sunworshipper, was there was no corner of this fabled and fabulous
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city of Barcelona that was untouched by the magic of the artist's brush? It struck me that my fast might itself be a work of artas ephemeral as the colorful endeavors of the youthful street artists, spraypainting through the adrenaline embrace of the night, only to have their handiwork removed mechanically by the authorities come the timeclockish drag of daylight. The idea of my fast as art appealed to me. I shall call it... The fleeting artistry of my fast. I liked that turn of phrase. I collected turns of phrase. Like writers do. Behind me I heard a laugh bordering on derision. Her laugh, no doubt. I turned to look. No one behind there. The Hunger wasn't ready to show herself. Or, more likely I wasn't yet ready to see her. Was there a test to pass before she found me? How long would I have to cling to the folly of not eating before I passed her little test and proved my worthiness for an audience? Another day? The whole week? An entire lifetime?

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The end of the overlapping beaches and the over-sized architectural wreckage of a Summer Olympics two generations in the past marked the start of the Old City. I plunged back into the twisting miles of pedestrian streets, lined by towering walls of rough stone punctuated with ornate, gothic ironwork and brass-handled doors ripped from the opening pages of vampire novels. I felt her again, closer still, and sped up my pace. Imperceptibly, of course, so she wouldn't suspect I was afraid. As if she couldn't feel my fear. I wondered if that fear was what drew her to me in the first place? Could she smell my terror of not eating in the same mouth-watering way I couldnt stop smelling the pungent flavors of tapas and vermouth? I turned one ancient corner after another, growing lost in the cobweb of narrow passageways until I was on the edge of tears. But, like a shark, I kept moving and moving. Four hours I walked without pausing. Five hours. Six. Always I could feel her behind me. At times, teasingly distant...until the nervous hope that I'd finally lost her crept upon me. And then tauntingly close...such that at any second she could sink her merciless teeth into my juicy neck.
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Well past dark, I finally found my way back to my apartment in the Poble Sec, lurking in the shadow of the mountainous Mont-Juic, upon which sat the once-great Olympic Stadium where the entire world focused its attention for two weeks one summer...and then moved on to the next shiny thing. Like the world does. I crawled under the covers fully three hours before my customary bedtime, there being no place left to hide from the Hunger save in my dreams and perhaps not even there.

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DAY 3

But the Hunger did not come to me in my dreams.

Instead, I slept like a babyfalling asleep straightaway for the first time in my cogitatingtossing-turning adult life and awakening refreshed nine hours and change later. I'd just been given the first gift of my young fast: the Perfect Night's Sleep (TM). If I could put the Perfect Night's Sleep (TM) into a pill, then surely I would be elected King of The World. (They have one of those, righta King of The World?!) Yet... Who would ever take that pill? What right-thinking person would resist consuming even a single one of the state-mandated three heaping pyramids of food each daymuch less do it again and again for days on end? Just for a good night's sleep. Isn't there a pill-pill for that?

Again I prowled the ancient, cafe-lined pedestrian alleyways of the Old City until my normally tireless dancer legs ached.
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During my duskish walk home, I passed the same can of Pringles a dozen times. Like a Franken-Siren, the food-shaped chemicals called to me from a dozen different mini-markets, singing a song of wanting only to fill the empty space within me. 'Cause that's what friends do. At last I stopped in front of a can of Pringles, but only to scoff. (It being my personal policy never to miss a worthy opportunity to scoff.) After three full days of fasting, naturally I wanted to eat..but I didn't need to. As relatively fit and trim as I was, I still possessed twenty or more pounds of fat and such, hidden in plain sight just beneath the surface of my body. Every last pocket of fat in my tummy and chest and neck represented stored energy. Those fat cells were my gas tank. And they didn't need topping off. Just the opposite. But still...nobody likes feeling empty. Just because you're not full, said a small voice from within me, that doesn't necessarily mean you're empty. You know what I hate?
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I hate when those small voices within us sometimes make sense. Whimper, whimper. Sleep, sleep.

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DAY 4

Meanwhile

the rhythm of my days had been chewed upmmmm, beloved chewing, how doth I misseth thee!--and spit out the other side. We humans have an innate need for structure. It comforts us to know what's coming next and what's after that...til death do us part. Abruptly removing everything to do with an entire category of our life, such as eating and drinking, throws a bit of a wrench into our schedule. Each time I thought that I knew what was next, it turned out I was wrong. Four days in and I didn't feel like I was getting any better at playing this game. I still sucked at fasting--like we all suck at playing any new game until we play it enough that we don't suck anymore. Or at least suck less at it. Sucking less is definitely progress. Except I wasn't sucking less at fasting. I was sucking the same. Every breath without food hurt. And you take a lot of breaths during the course of one day without eating. Why was I tearing my insides out like this hour after hour? Normal people don't do this. Normal
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people like being comfortable. Normal people will settle for an entire lifetime of mediocrity in order to remain comfortable from morn til night. And why the hell shouldn't they? They've worked quite hard to create their comfortable lives and they deserve to enjoy them. Okay, enjoy is a bit strong. Perhaps endure is a better choice. Still, I knew that on paper it was at least possible to cross the suck-zone and reach the other side of this game called fasting. Lots of folks had made it there before me. In the past century alone, legions of fresh-out-of-options medical doctors and wellintentioned quacks alike had successfully guided hundreds of thousands of patients down the road not-so-less traveled of fasting for anywhere from three weeks to three months at a timewith miraculous weight losses and relief from horrible ailments aplenty. Naturally, none of these were ever acknowledged by the medical establishment, begrudgingly or otherwise. Because there's no money for Big Medicine or Big Pharma in fasting. Then and now, no money is always a deal killer. So for millennia, each new generation has re-re31

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rediscovered fasting, and the following generation has re-re-reforgotten it, and it will always be so. But, again, that's all on paper. Just because Mrs. Laetitia Spudgeon of Wichita, Kansas no longer suffered from arthritis, an untreatable heart condition, cancer and/or bunions after a closely supervised forty-day fast in the late 1930's didn't particularly help me feel any less hungry in the right now. Which is the only time it ever is or can be. For the first time in years I confronted the distinct prospect of failure. What if I failed to make it the entire seven days without giving in? I'd grown unaccustomed to failure. But I was pretty sure that was less a measure of me being a true bad-ass than of my reluctance to try anything I wasn't reasonably sure I could succeed at. You ever notice how lots of peopleyou and I includedare far too clever for our own good? Realizing this would doubtless be the most profound thought I would think all day, I headed once again for the beach. Besides it wasn't like I was in any rush to get home and cook or eat anything.

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No sooner had I found purchase on the crowded bus of chatty locals in their seventies and sunburnt tourists a week removed from high school graduation than my stomach whimpered. I shushed it. It rumbled. I studiously ignored it. Then it growled. People were looking at me, but not in that good way. More like in that other way. I hopped off two stops early with a weak smile of apology to my fellow travelersand for a brief span of time that's exactly what we all were, fellow travelers, our paths exactly intersecting...why didn't we introduce ourselves and swap stories, phone numbers or advice...isn't life hard enough without a kind word and goddamn pat on the back from a new friend now and again?--and found myself in the thick of an all-nude beach. Well, hello...naked people! I located a stretch of sand between a smooching gay couple on one side and a leathery woman in the buff who could've been 30 or 130 on the other. When in Rome... I dutifully pulled off my bathing suit, exposing myself to the sun and eyes of the world.
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The sun was all over me like a puppy on peanut butter, but nobody else on the beach noticed or cared. Like most people about most of the things that most of us do most of the time. I settled into the warm, gritty hug between sand and sun, acutely aware that this was my first waking moment in four days of coming to a complete stop. And not because I was tired or swoonishly about to faint. I'd stopped running away from real or imagined demons because it suddenly seemed futile and pointless. Maybe I was growing up. I certainly hoped not. I felt a nearby rustle and hurriedly sat up. Barcelona is known throughout Europe for its dogged streetthieves and pickpockets...and, like every other globetrotting flashpacker on the planet, I carried the latest of every product made by Apple, Inc. in my daybag. But it turned out to be safethe stir must've come from opposite side. I rolled over just as a tall, elegant woman stretched out on the powdery sand not a foot from me, her long body barely concealed beneath a sundress of intricate gossamer. Her skin was the color of the darkest chocolate,
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her features vaguely Egyptian and her jet-black hair braided with hand-painted wooden beads of uncommon colors. She smelled simultaneously of seductive incense and impossibly ancient tombs. I was so astonished that I forgot to cover my nakedness, but she seemed not to notice. Her eyes were fixed on mine as if nothing else existed in the world. Are you the Hung--? She lay a dark, meticulously manicured finger across my lips to quiet me. Sometimes I needed quieting. Often I needed quieting. But then she did something I wasn't remotely expectingshe drew her hand back and slapped me full across the face as hard as she could. Grimacing, I clutched painfully at my cheek. By the time I looked again, she was gone. I scrambled to my feet in the shifting sands, but there was no trace of her anywhere on the nude beach. That's when it finally dawned on me that I might be in way over my head. I wanted my mommy.

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DAY 5

As

it turns out, my mommy had gone and drank herself to death while I was still a kid, so that wasn't an option. Plan B was to crack wide open and get it all over with. If you've ever been cracked open, then you might remember it as a distinct moment in your life. In one instant, you were whole and complete, safely tucked inside your shell...in the next, the outside of you had broken into pieces, leaving a raw and tender you to express itself newly in the world. Now imagine doing that in super-slow motion. So slow that you didn't seem to be moving at all. Or, if anything, moving in the wrong direction. The next morning I padded down the hall to the toiletyour new best friend when you're guzzling bottle after bottle of water throughout the day--but upon arriving I cocked my head quizzically and retraced my steps back to the kitchen, where the same black-skinned woman with vaguely Egyptian features from the nude beach hovered over the oven in a Betty Crocker outfit, complete with frilly apron and a polka-dot ribbon in her hair. She thrust a plate of baked goodies my way. I made you cookies!
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I shook my head in contempt and continued on my way. There's girlishly. Snickerdoodles! she called out

I napped through my customary lunchtime, because...well, you know why. Lunch wasn't exactly on the menu. Not on this day. Or any other day soon. In the early afternoon I traversed the few blocks to La Rambla--the broad, mostly pedestrian boulevard that served as the carotid artery of tourists flowing into and out of the museums and souvenir shops profiting from Messers Gaudi, Picasso and Dali's willingness to color outside the lines. I passed a pizza joint with the clever gimmick of pizza slices rolled into the shape of a waffle cone. No muss, no fuss. Wearing their red uniform tshirt and a sort of 1930's Spanish beret, the same woman from the beach and my kitchen gestured enthusiastically at the assortment of pizza cones. Mmmmmmmmm! she said helpfully. It was now Saturday afternoon. I hadn't eaten since Monday. I'd be lying if I didn't admit to you that I was tempted. Nice try, I said weakly, hurrying away.
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A little later, as I ducked around a trio of Swedish blondes clad in cut-off shorts wrapped around implausibly perfect and immaculately tanned legs, I wondered... Was she the Hunger? If so, was she even for real? Perhaps I was losing my mind. Orhere was a wild thoughtwhat if she was an out-of-work actress who'd been paid off by the old Tarot lady to play a practical joke on me by pretending to embody this metaphor of Hunger or whatever she was supposed to be? Clearly I was becoming unhinged, even though I knew that wasn't a normal byproduct of not eating. With customary overkill, I'd read every book I could lay hands on about fasting--the best dating back forty or even a hundred years earlier. They universally reported that loopiness, flighty thinking or weakness of mind, as they then called it, resided entirely in the perfervid imaginations of untutored fasters. The vast majority of men and women on a fast not only retained their full faculties during even the longest of fastssome of which reached epic lengths of 30, 60 or even 90 daysbut regularly demonstrated an increasing sharpness of mind and perspicacity as they went along. So I couldn't blame my sightings of the Hunger
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on my as-yet meager dabblement into fasting. Which was of little consolation, since I continued to see her smirking behind puffy rolls at bakeries and sliced watermelons with resplendent red flesh at fruit stands throughout an endless afternoon of torment. Take a step and don't eat. Take another step and still don't eat. This is what my life had been reduced to. Outside a California-style smoothie outlet, the Hunger lingered in the doorway with a tray of samples including Orange Limbo and Banana Jambathe kind of treat we go through life grabbing, downing and completely forgetting about in an arc that spans mere seconds in our day. Lateryears later, like when we're all of just fifty or sixtywhen asked why our body has stopped working, we shrug. Dunno. It just happened. Yup, they say. Nothing we can do about it. Nope, nothing at all. Nothing we can do about anything in our life, really. Until we do something about it. Then we can attempt anything.
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But I'm getting ahead of myself. Like we all do. I leaned over her tray of colorful smoothie samples and asked, Can others see you? Or am I the only one? Hunger answered in a mock whisper, as if this were a great secret that nobody was supposed to know, save that everybody already did. Anyone can see me. But mostly they don't. Why not? How come most of us can't see you? Instead of answering, she dipped a finger into a tiny paper cup of Lemon Jive smoothie and brushed it messily against the tip of my nose. I wiped it off with the tail of my shirt and stomped away without another word. She was really starting to annoy me.

Back in my apartment that evening I took an unrushed shower. Everything I did had become more and more unrushed...a bald effort to tick off a few more minutes from the Great Clock of the Fast. I brushed my teeth without toothpaste, so as not to introduce anything foreign or calorific into my body. Then I edged the handle most of the way to caliente, allowing myself to feelreally feel, my connection
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with my body becoming more electric by the hour the surge of water dancing over my skin, washing me away, until all that remained was the essential. On my way back to my room, wrapped only in a damp towel I'd borrowed from my old gym back in Londonsorry LA Fitness!--the Hunger came out of absolutely nowhere, grabbing me roughly by the throat and slamming me hard against the wall. Eyes ablaze, mouth snarling, she spit out, You think this is a game?! Get off me! I grunted, pushing against her. I'm a strapping lad, I'll have you know, but I couldn't budge her. She had the strength of ocean and desert combined. She changed gears, smiling warmly, but without relaxing her iron grip. I want you to do something for me. I didn't ask what. Slowly, deliciously, she held up a thick, footballshaped loaf of artisan bread that my Brazilian roommate had purchased earlier that day. Now I knew what she wanted. She wanted me to eat that crunchy, crusty, yummy bread. First one slender, yet supremely guilty, slice. Then a bigger, naughtier piece. Then a cold-blooded, reptilian devouring of the
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entire loaf until nothing remained but a crumb ring the size of Rhode Island. OhmyGod, I wanted her so badly in that moment. Sorry, I meant to say...I wanted to eat that bread so badly. My body was overwhelmed with the sensations of hunger that had built up over the previous five days. I wanted only one thingfor that sensory overload in my stomach and chest and sides to go away, to disappear, to give me just the slightest of breathers. I could eat now, I thought, and then restart my fast the next day. That was the best idea I'd had in...probably ever! My friend, I would love to tell you that I dug deep into my reserves, but there was nowhere left to dig. Everything I had underneath was already dug up and on the surface. Without emotion other than complete resignationresignation to the choice I'd made earlier in the week to embark on this particular journeyI gazed into her infinitely brown eyes and said quietly, No. Okay, she replied flippantly, immediately releasing her chokehold on my throat. Just trying to help!
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I half-turned away, then took a step back toward her, getting all up in her business. How come most people can't see you? Because they're asleep, silly. And me? You're waking up. I see. You're starting to. Back in my room, I hung up my towel to dry and crawled into bed. Still lingering in the hallway, the Hunger called out in a sing-song, You knew waking up was gonna hurt, didn't you? Didn't I?!

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DAY 6

want to be honest with you. Because without honesty, what kind of relationship would you and I have? No kind, that's what's up. So here's what you need to know... I have been eating. Every day. Constantly. Oh, not through my mouth, of course. Thats not the game we're playing here. Instead, I've been feeding on the accumulated reserves of surplus tissue that I've been carrying around as dead weight. Not just my plentiful stores of body and visceral fat, but also the morbid accumulations--as the old-school fasting advocates were wont to say-of cysts, tumors, growths and toxic deposits of every shape and size within and without me. Like that small blackish growth on the back side of my right ear. Or that several year old blood pimple thingy hanging around on the back of my left hand. And dozens, perhaps scores, of barely perceivable growths that've made their comfy homes deep within my bodyout of sight and out of mind until that one frozen-in-time day at the doctor's office when they're big enough to show up
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on an X-ray. A good rule of thumb: you never want anything you weren't born with showing up on X-rays. Each day that I continued to play this game called fasting, large and small accumulations of surplus tissues were presented to my Department of Nutrition, which made command decisions about whether to turn these extraneous cells into nutrition, or simply discard them from the body forever...all without compromising any vital tissues, organs or integral systems of its homesweet-home in my body. By long process of evolution, the organism of me knows exactly how to do this--just as every other animal, reptile, fish, insect and even tree eats itself during the cloudy days or months of fasting imposed upon it by winter, crisis or reproductive schedules. Nature, like art, is a process of winnowing away the unnecessary bits: the leaves, the tadpole tale, the snake skin, the unhappy ending. We humans, however, have grown a teensy-tiny bit addicted to only adding, adding, adding to the experience of being us. Adding more food, more knowledge, more experiences. It can feel lonely to abruptly go the other way, to let parts of you go that you no longer need because
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they no longer serve you. Sometimes we just need to stay out of our own way in order to heal. And I was trying so valiantly to stay out of my own way. And each day that I succeeded, an incredible rejuvenation process was taking place within me. In super-slow motion, my lines, wrinkles, blotches and discolorations were gradually diminishing, leaving my skin more youthful and eyes more alert. The Fountain of Youth doesn't lay within an expensive pill or an even more expensive genome slice. It's hiding on the inside. Exactly where most of us would never think to look.

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DAY 7 Where were you yesterday? the Hunger asked, as we strolled past the Picasso Museum. Hanging with my new friend, I answered. I missed you. I started to tell her that I hadn't missed her one bit, but that wasn't exactly true. She was starting to grow on me. Which felt just as weird as it sounds. As if reading my thoughtscould she read my thoughts?!--she said, I don't often get summoned like this. Most people go far, far out of their way to avoid me for...the duration. Not true. I know others who fast. Lots of my healthy low carb and paleo friends fast for hours or days at a time. They're doing it for purely physiological reasonsto reset the mechanism of their body, to lose weight, to healnot to play with me. Those are all worthy and laudable goals, but there can be so much more to this experience. Jesus didn't fast in the desert to lose his love handles. And you come to anyone who fasts? Anyone who wants to play with me. Which isn't
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many. A heavy realization settled on me. I turned to her sharply. Wait, you were there--you came to Jesus during his fast? She nodded her head, the wooden beads in her black braids clacking together. He wanted to discover if his hunger for his mission was sufficient to carry him through the terrible tribulations he knew were ahead. What set Jesus apart from others was his willingness to feel into his hunger for everything he did. Even though he never ate, I think of our time together in the desert as his true Last Suppernot that one evening of breaking bread with his friends. As we walked, the backs of her fingers brushed against mine. My stomach tingled as though I had a schoolboy crush. You think Im pretty, but I've killed so many. Her red, red lips twisted into a cruel, cruel smile. I've wiped out villages. Whole armies. Girl sure knew how to kill a buzz, too. You know that I could kill you? she added. And, one day, I just may. Are you testing me? No, you're testing you, she said without hesitation. How are you doing?
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Passing. So far. I placed my hand in the small of her back and steered her around a pair of widebodied Americans eating those pizza slices in the shape of waffle cones. Those look delish, don't you think? she offered helpfully. I punched her playfully in the arm. And then held my fists up, just in case she didnt realize I was playing. The problem with people today, she said, is they eat all the damn time. They've become addicted to feeling full. They never stop long enough to know what they're really hungry for. For forty days, Jesus sat in the fire of the knowledge of what was to come. He could've let me take him. I begged him to let me take him. But he refused to go. That was a man who knew what he was hungry for. We walked along the water's edge in the direction of the Port of Barcelona. In the distance, a mammoth cruise ship put to sea, its upper decks crowded with people waving goodbye. The Hunger tossed a cheery wave back at them. What happens tomorrow? I wanted to know. It's Day 8. You can eat again. But before you do... She made me wait for it. One-thousand one. One-thousand two. One-thousand-49

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Yes? I finally couldn't resist putting in. ...I've got something to show you. Are we going to open the door? What door? she asked. The old Tarot lady told me that I've settled into too comfortable of a lifeand if I opened this door within me I'd have a Breakthrough and there would be cool stuff on the other side. Did she also happen to mention the Express Train of Incredible? Yes, yes, I exclaimed. That's it exactly! Old Tarot ladies say all kinds of crazy things. You should know that by now. She was the first one I ever went to. Yes, there's a door. But opening doors is easy. Anybody can do that. Walking through that door, now that's a whole other experience. And we don't know yet if you have the strength to walk through it.

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THE JOURNEY WITHIN

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The

rosey-fingered dawn reached through the open window of my fifth-floor apartment in Barcelona and gently shook me awake. I lay perfectly still, just feeling me. I could viscerally feel that there was less of me than there had been a week earlier, when I'd begun this strange new adventure. I was being distilled down to my essence. I could hear Luxa, my Brazilian roommate, padding around and making coffee in the kitchen and all those quiet, busy stirrings of first waking up. Today was the last day of my fast. Rather, the day before had been my last day. Today was the day I could break my fast at any time. But first-Ready for our hot date? the Hunger asked, suddenly stretched out in bed beside me wearing a kimono of the whitest silk that stood in stark contrast to the sweet chocolatey color of her skin. You couldn't once in a while come through the door? Not really my style, she put out there. You still want to do this? I'm a little nervous. Okay, I'm a lot nervous. In part because I don't even know what 'this' is.
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'This' is a journey to the most magical place of allwithin you. We can go there? She nodded. How come more people don't? I asked. Some do. They just don't talk about it much. Because people would think they were crazy? No, because people would realize they themselves are not crazyand that's a flaw you cannot recover from. That sounds...just crazy enough to be true. Now if we go, we're going all the way. I wanted to ask if we'd be able to come back after going all the way, but I thought better of it. By the time we got all the way in, coming back might not even matter anymore. Instead I asked, How do get there? Did you ever read the Harry Potter books? No. I mean, a little. Part of the first book or something. Do you remember where Harry went to school? Sure, Hogwart's.
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And you went there, too. You were there in the dining hall beside him and you slept in the dormitory and attended all the same classes. How did you do that? Was it difficult? I didn't really go there. I just imagined going there. But you did go there. You have memories of it. No less than you have memories of really visiting the Eiffel Tower or Machu Picchu. How'd you know I went to Machu Picchu? I was there. Rememberyou forgot to pack a lunch and ended up going the whole day and late into the night without eating. And then I drank so much of that local village liquor that I threw up. That was a good day. So when you went to Hogwart's with young Harry, was it difficult for you to imagine being there? I chuckled. No. Imagining isn't something you have to try do do. I just read the words and it happened automaticallyI went wherever she told me to go without having to think about it. Exactly. We're going to do the same thing. Except instead of writing down the words I want you to imagine, I'm going to speak them to you. But, make no mistake, the journey we're going on is as real as anything you've ever experienced in your
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life. Just listen to my words and you'll go to exactly the right place. How will I know it's exactly the right place? Because I'll be there with you.

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2 There's no limit to what you can imagine, the Hunger said in that deep, throaty voice of hers. It takes the same amount of effort to imagine the Earth resting on the back of a giant turtle as it does to imagine you and Albert Einstein riding on a train at the speed of light...which is to say, no effort at all. So now I want you to imagine that you could go inside your own bodywhere you could walk around and tell your heart and lungs and other organs something. Tell them what? I asked. Thank you, of course. Tell them 'thank you' for all the hard work theyve done over the years. Your heart and lungs never stop. Whether you're awake or asleep they do their job. As do your lungs and liver and every other part of you. While I'm doing that, can I also imagine I'm one of those fat cat industrial tycoons like Rich Uncle Pennybagsyou know, the Monopoly guy-and hand out $1 gold coins to all the parts of me? Yes, perfect, the Hunger said, a smile in her voice. I never really thought about it before, but the insides of me do work so hard, day and night, and for precious little thanks. Usually the only time they come to our attention is when were
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complaining about them. Like when our stomach hurts or our kidneys ache. The only way most of them ever get any attention is to cause grief. It felt really good to walk up to a body part and genuinely thank it for a job well done. I knew it was all just pretend, but somehow I felt that my real live organs and other squishy bits actually got my messages of gratitude...and appreciated hearing it. As I ventured deeper into my body, the activity level picked up. Before long I was dodging freefloating macrophages, devouring little foreign bits that had entered my system like so much popcorn. I nearly tripped over a parade of hormones nattily dressed as medieval Troubadours, running in every direction at once with messages of great importance between systems of my body. In my belly, I came across an industrious workcrew digging fat cells from the walls and loading them into wagons to haul off to the Engine Room. I heartily clapped what appeared to be the Foreman of the workcrew on the back. So you guys are the reason my energy, thinking and everything else continue to function at a peak despite a full week of not eating! I'd run out of dollar gold coins, so I passed out cigars to the crewfat cat tycoons always having a plentiful supply of cigars, don't ya know.
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As the Hunger and I pressed onward, she said, You do know it's no-smoking down here? I ran out of gold coins--that's all I had, I said with a shrug. Next time I'll bring stickerslittle gold stars and such. Everybody likes stickers, right? Stickers are good, the Hunger agreed. We advanced down twisting, narrowing corridors until we reached my stomach. The place looked like it had been entirely renovated over the past seven daysevery surface and feature appeared shiny and new. With nothing to do, the stomach crew were enjoying an extended coffee break. A few of them were playing something like checkers, but mostly they dozed in the folds of my stomach. They'd be in for a rude awakening in an hour or two when I finally broke my fast, but, until then, I let them sleep. The Hunger gestured at me. Keep up! She led the way down a spiral staircase that kept going down and down and down some more, until it finally opened onto a long corridor of the type that run down the center of great wooden sailing ships. Both sides of the central corridor were lined with doors.
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I wondered which one of these was the door the Tarot lady had warned me about. Maybe coming down here like this wasn't such a good idea after all.

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There

was much coming and going in the corridora Monty Python-esque, door-slamming farce of characters in a rush to get somewhere other than they now were. Is it always so busy? I asked. This is calm, my friend. You should come around sometime right after Thanksgiving dinner. Halfway down the corridor, a pair of broad wooden doors stood open, revealing a sort of briefing room where a dozen or more crewmembers sat and stood facing a man possessed of the unmistakable air of a pirate captain. Long of leg and short of beard, the wind seemed to be permanently blowing through the Captain's shaggy hair. His white linen shirt was unbuttoned most of the way down his chest as he calmly, but firmly, gave orders to the spellbound crew assembled before him. He addressed himself to a writerly type decked out in vintage Hemingway. The new book seems to be coming along nicely. I'm happy with it, the Writer acknowledged. Where are you? On chapter three of the final section.
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Out of how many chapters? About nine. Good, good, the Captain seemed to make a calculation of some sort. So you'll be done by this weekend? I never concern myself with deadlines or timeframes, you know that. The Captain grinned. Yes, I do. Just keep doing what youre doing. You need anything you need at all, just let me know. The Writer excused himself and left the briefing, drawing a few piercingly jealous looks on his way. Turning to the large whiteboard filled with scrawls and arrows and half-erasures, the Captain began checking off a series of activities that lined up neatly with my own To-Do List. Turning back to the crewwhich seemed to have doubled in number in the past minute or sohe announced, The fast is coming to an end, so we'll be eating again sometime today. This was greeted by less enthusiasm from the ranks than I would've imagined, there being only a scattering of applause at the Captain's announcement. Apparently all my suffering about being hungry had been on the surface. Down here, nobody seemed to particularly mind the ordeal at all. On the contrary, the mood seemed a little glum
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that it was ending. Who's got the food covered? the Captain continued. A glowing woman in full chef regalia, complete with a red bandana around her neck, put up her hand. I was thinking watermelon to start, then avocado about an hour later. And then? Steak, what else? I like it. Make it happen. Swiveling around to check the whiteboard, the Captain asked, Anybody else have anything? From the side of the room, a big puppy with over-sized paws and head let out a little squeal. Can someone please take the puppy for a walk? His question was interrupted by a commotion at the door. The Hunger and I moved aside as a pair of beefy security guardswho actually wore tightfitting t-shirts reading, SECURITY in block letters--bust into the room with a pudgy, beadyeyed boy of eight or nine in tow. We caught this stowaway lurking around the Engine Room, one of the thick-armed security guards said.
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Thornton, the Captain said, equal parts upset and amused. We're not in third grade anymore, young man. You cannot keep running around causing trouble. Young Master Thornton responded by making a raspberry fart sound with his mouth. I recognized Thornton. I went to grade school with the bullying little bastard. What was he doing here? Let's make him walk the plank, one of the security guards proposed. At this, Thornton was the picture of contrition. Oh, no, please. I'm so sorry. I was just so hungry I was looking for something to eat. I promise I'll stay in our section and not bother anybody. Send him back to the other stowaways, the Captain said. But this is the last time, Thornton. Get in our business again and-- The Captain, looking for a moment very much like a third-grader himself, drew his fingers across his neck to suggest cutting off Thornton's head. Thornton went pale as the security guards hauled off the little bully. The Captain took a step back and surveyed the assembled crew, a trickle of whom kept slipping in the back all the time. The rest of you...keep up the good work. I'm very happy with you all. We've got
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some great adventures coming upI think you're gonna really like 'em. Now get back to work. Some of the crew hurried straight out, while others gathered in twos and threes, chating amongst themselves. The Captain approached and kissed the Hunger on each cheek, European style. Thanks for coming. Although the Captain didnt even looked my way, I got the distinct impression his words were directed to me. I've always admired the way you run your ship, the Hunger said. I've managed to assemble the best crew in the business, the Captain acknowledged. Everything's running smoothly. But...? the Hunger prodded him. The Captain looked around to make sure no others were in hearing range. It's the boy. He's gone missing. Or at least I haven't seen him for a while. I didn't want to alarm the crew and launch a full-blown search for him. Ideas? He could've just wandered off and got lost somewhere in the depths of the ship. Or...?
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Or something could've happened. A prank by a crewmemberor, more likely, a stowaway. The Captain perked up. I swear, if Thornton had anything to do with this, I will personally feed him to the sharks. Consider him found, the Hunger said. I'll consider him found when you find him. I'm very fond of that boy, you know. I do know. The Captain took his leave with a smart nod, leaving the Hunger and I alone in the briefing room. Except we weren't entirely alone. The awkward puppy regarded us with his big puppy eyes, all wagging tongue and panting tail. I turned to the Hunger and said the same thing you wouldve said. Can we keep him?

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Before

she could answer, the puppy was already upon us, dancing around and licking our knees. I scratched the top of his furry head. Good doggy. I shall call you, 'Biscuit.' Why 'Biscuit?' Because he's a 'Biscuit', that's why. The Hunger couldn't very well argue with that. She led us back down the corridor to a sort of mechanical freight elevator, pulling a long brass handle to the Up position. As the lift began rising, a tatted-up, gum chewing chick in her earliest twenties with half-shaved pink hair and piercedeverything hopped in. She wore black fishnet stockings under tiny jeans shorts and bright pink high-top Chucks. You on your way to audition for Moulin Rouge II, I said cleverly. She popped her gum without responding. I instantly felt much less clever. The mechanical lift slowly ground its way upwards. Where you taking Biscuit? the artsy chick asked.
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The Hunger spun on her. How'd you know his name's 'Biscuit?' 'Cause...he's a Biscuit, she said. Just look at him. I held out a palm for the artsy chick to highfivewhich she did, without even asking why. Meanwhile, Biscuit was bouncing up and down like Steamboat Mickey from excitement at being the topic of conversation. I noticed flecks of paint on the artsy chick's jeans shorts. You a painter? You a detective? she asked brusquely. Just making friends. I don't really have any friends here. I'm just the Artist. The Writer gets all the air time and the glory. You're not the same? She rolled her eyes AND melodramatically. Do we look the same? sighed

I just thought...you know, writing is artistic, isn't it? Sure. Whatever. You do have one friend here, the Hunger said.
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The Artist looked her way, popping her gum again. You're friends with the boy, aren't you? Oh, yes, hes awesome, the Artist said readily. You know, I haven't seen him in a while. Can you keep a secret? the Hunger asked. Who am I gonna tellall my imaginary friends?! The boy's gone missing. We're looking for him now. Ohhhhhhhh, that explains a lot, the Artist said, wearing an almost comical expression of thinking really hard. Explains what? I asked her. Why it's been so...different around here lately. Like something's off. Like we've been driving around with the parking brake on. Yes, yes, yesthat was the perfect description of how I'd felt recently. Like I was stepping all the way down on the gas pedal but my life wasn't gaining any traction. Driving around with the parking brake on, indeed. I made a mental note to let the Artist out to play
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more. Buy her some paints and let her get messy, for no good reason. I know where the boy stays, the Artist was saying. I can take you to his room. The mechanical lift clattered to a halt and we followed her briskly down halls and up stairs and around corners until finally arriving before a bright blue door with a perfectly square handle precisely in the middle of it. The Hunger tried the door, but it was locked tight. The Artist nudged her aside and trailed her fingers over the top of the door frame, coming up with a key. As the door swung open, I looked to the Hunger. Is this the door? We'll find out, won't we? I took a nervous breath and followed them into the room, but nothing happened. I didn't feel any different. No great realization came upon me. Other than the realization that if this was the boy's room, he must be very boredsince it was just on the other side of plain. It contained little more than a bed, nightstand and dresser. No toys, no books, no nothing. I should paint this place up! the Artist mused. Yes, yes, that's a great idea! I said.
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Are you making fun of me? No! Not at all. That is a great idea. Really? she asked. I don't think anybody ever told me I had a great idea before. I heard a crunching sound behind me and turned to see Biscuit gobbling up stray potato chips from the floor. In the corner of the room a plastic trashcan overflowed with discarded soda cans, candy wrappers and assorted snackity-crap. Are you beginning to suspect where your bad eating habits are coming from? A little. Maybe. I glanced at her, puzzled. Wait, who is this boy, anyway? It was her turn to look puzzled. He's your Inner Child, of course. Ohhhhhh. Of course.

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The Artist led us from one end of the body to the

other in search of my missing Inner Child. We poked around in every remote, inaccessible corner we could findsome so narrow we had to crawl on hand and knee to reach them. Later we sloshed our way across my belly. A small sea of fat cells remained despite my weeklong fast. I was gonna have to make this a regular thing. I felt something brush against my leg and jumped two feet the other way. What are you doing?! the Artist asked, in her most annoyed tone of voice. I almost got stung by a jellyfish. There's jellyfish?! the Artist shrieked, picking up her pace across the sea of fat. The Hunger shook her head. They're not exactly jellyfish. Go on, the Artist and I said together, then exchanged bemused glances. They're your sexual wounds. They tend to congregate in accumulations of fat cells, where they can swim around and hide and feel safe.
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What kind of sexual wounds? I wanted to know. All kindsbig and small. The sexual traumas of a lifetime. Like everybody has. Everybody has sexually traumatized jellyfish swimming around in their fat? Not exactly, the Hunger said, chuckling. But, yes, exactly. So they can still sting? I asked. Oh yes. Very much. What happens if I fast some more and the sea of fat goes away? Oh, they won't like that at all, the Hunger conceded. They will seriously resist all attempts at dieting because they don't want their sea of protective fat to dry up and leave them exposed. If you want to lose any more pounds, you should first come back and let go of them. Biscuit had just reached the other side when the Artist screamed. I felt one! It was all slimy and disgusting! How do I let go of them? I asked. By dancing, the Hunger replied. Dancing?
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Dance them out of you. That's the way people have always healed themselves until very, very recently. Dance is the ultimate embrace of the connection between the world inside and the world outside. Again, that sounds almost crazy enough to be true, I said. Ill just have to dance more. Hold on. The Hunger held up a hand as she sniffed the air. She turned nearly a complete circle, her nose leading the way. Finally she paused, eyebrows furrowing. Of course. The Artist and I looked at each other, and then at her. I know where the boy is, the Hunger said solemnly. Let's hope we're not too late. At that she sprinted offwith myself, the Artist and Biscuit in hot pursuit.

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The Hunger led us sprintingly deeper and deeper

into the system. At one point, I matched my pace to hers. Thank you...for including me in all this. Including you? She eyed me curiously. None of this would be going on if you weren't here. Through your fasting and your intention and your strength of purpose, you're the one who did what it took to include us. This is your show, baby, we're just characters in it. In the darkest of recesses, we came upon a forbidding door covered with a massive iron grate. It was lockedbut from the outside. Somebody had inserted a metal rod in such a way to keep whatever was behind the door from escaping. We heard a stirring from within...then a low, horrible growl. The hairs on the back of my neck stood on end. The Artist and I exchanged worried looks as Biscuit took refuge behind us. The Hunger slowly and deliberately withdrew the metal bar from its perch and cracked open the door. At once a thick stench enveloped usthe smell of sweaty meat and uncooked sex. She threw the door the rest of the way open,
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revealing a heavy cage within the room, and, within the cage, a great Beast, snarlish of tooth and roaring of breaththe steroidish offspring of lion and werewolf. This was the door that needed opening, at last. Just thinking about passing through it made my knees shake. In those few, isolated moments in our entire lives when our knees actually knock together, what we do next defines us. And entering the room with the creature was the last thing in the world that I wanted to do. I did it anyway. With supreme effort, I slid one foot forward. And then the other. I pushed past the Hunger and approached the cage directly. I didn't know if the Beast could hear or understand me, but with a courage I didn't feel, I said boldly, We've come for the boy. Slamming his face against the thick bars of the cage, the Beast let loose a terrifying roar. I could feel my chest compressing from the strength of it. But I did not move. What have you done with him? I demanded. It was only then that I noticed the awful mistake I'd made. The end of the great cage stood open. The
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terrible creature could exit at any time it chose. And it chose to do so right now. My knees weakened almost to the point of collapse. I wanted to run. I wanted to hide. Like I do. But I could feel the press of the rest of my party behind me, so I stood my groundalthough certain of the knowledge that I was defenseless before this powerful creature. But instead of coming at me, however, it steered the other way, circling behind the cage. The Hunger nudged me with her elbow, indicating that I should follow. Have any steps I've ever taken in my lifeor ever could takebeen more fearful than advancing even deeper into a dark space with such a lethal Beast? But there, on the back edge of the room, was the least expected sight of alla handsome boy of six or seven, curled up asleep on the floor, a raggedy stuffed doggy tucked in his arms. I recognized that doggy. Little Sammy. I hadn't seen that plush little thing in years. I scooped the boy into my arms as the Beast's throat rolled with a hot-breathed rumble. I dont know how, but I got the impression it had
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personally been caring for and protecting the boy during his unexpected imprisonment. My Inner Child stirred at little and half-smiled at me. I dreamed you would come. Holding him tightly, I backed toward the door, wary and respectful of the Beasteven as it emerged from behind the cage, moving in my direction, but maintaining a distance. I backed all of the way out of the room, the creature following every step of the way. It paused in the doorway and let out a full-blown roar. I tensed, ready to run...when the Hunger stopped her. The Beast wants to join us. It wants to stay in the boy's roomto protect him from this ever happening again. What did happen? Probably a stowawaynot one of the crew...just the passengers you pick up on your journey through lifelocked them both in there and didn't tell anybody. I don't want this to happen again, I said. I want to take care of this handsome lad. I want him to feel loved and safe. The Hunger lifted her eyes expectantly, indicating that I already knew what to do next. I nodded to the Beastexpressly inviting it to join us. With a single muscular bound he reached us, falling in behind our party as we retraced our long
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steps back to the boy's room. I leaned whisperingly into the Hunger. What is that creature anyway? The darkest, most primal embodiment of your sexuality, she said simply. Oh. Can we...trust it? Around the boy? Absolutely and forever. And everywhere else? I asked. She shook her head. I certainly hope not.

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We

bust into the boy's room with light step. I tossed him playfully on the bed. Biscuit hopped up and bounced around with him, then decided it would be a good idea to play nip the nose of the Beast, which had settled with wary eye in one corner, that game lasting exactly once before an unamused swipe of the Beast's huge paw sent the puppy scrambling for cover with a squeal. The Captain flabbergasted into the room, tossing the boy's hair with a Welcome home, lad! and then deposited an armload of paints in front of the Artist. Heard you could use some of this. She shrieked in gratitude, but it was me she skipped up to, delivering a kiss upon the cheek. I know you were behind this! Your wish is my command, I thought. Or my wish is...something. I dropped Thornton off on a desert island of his very own, the Captain laughed. With a stack of Playboys. With all the pictures torn out. And I thought I was merciless! the Hunger said. Prodding the child out of bed, the Artist dragged him to the waiting paints. What shall we make first?
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An alligator-dog, he said. Great. The Artist crossed her arms. What's an alligator-dog? Uhhh, half-alligator, half-dog, what else?! Okay, let's do that. At the same time, more crewmembers came and went, adding a few colorful furnishings to the room and a bookcase loaded with books and toys. A makeover had clearly been ordered. I looked to the Captain, but he jerked a thumb at the Hunger. Running a ship like this, he said, is...controlled chaos. One Epic Quest right after another. We stay busy. I've got everything handled above decks. But, sometimes, down below... You need a woman's touch? the Hunger prompted. Yes, he agreed, That's it exactly. Thank you for...everything. The Captain's happy gaze swept from the boy to the puppy to the Artist and to the Beast...then back to us. This is how I like it. The crew all pulling together for our common good. It felt good, too. I don't think I'd ever felt better or more complete in my entire adult life than in that electric moment. It's kinda like family, I said.

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No. The Hunger draped an arm across either of our shoulders. It's exactly like family.

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8 Open your eyes. I blinkingly complied, finding myself still laying in my bed, the Hunger looming over me. I sat up, still feeling whole. A power surged through me that Id never felt before. Or even suspected I could feel. For the first time in my life, I felt like...me. In the next moment, I thought back wistfully on our adventure. I'm going to miss them. Dont be silly, the Hunger said. That was exactly the point of our journey, to get you inside, to connect you with the parts that make up who you are. Now that you know the way, you can go back anytime. Like Aldous Huxley's Door of Perception, I supposed out loud. He said we can use anything we want to open the door to the other side. Drugs. The Holy Spirit. Fasting. But once it's open, we can come and go at will. I always thought he meant some other side, not our inside. Mmmmmm, the Hunger purred. Huxley and I went on more than one Epic Quest together. Wait a sec. The door to the room with the Beastthe one I was so terrified of passing throughthat wasn't The Door at all, was it?
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No. This whole everything was the door, right? I asked. The decision to fast probably most of all. But then the actual experience of not eating for a week and...then meeting you. The purpose of the fasting was to open the door. First, enough of a crack for you to emerge and then, eventually, wide enough for you to lead me back inside. The Hunger appeared most pleased at how I'd made all the connections. She bent forward and kissed the top of my head. #swoon Very, very few people ever pass through that door that leads within you, the Hunger told me. But they all could. And they all should. It won't always be their Inner Child that wants rescuing, of course. Yet sometimes it will. In others, a single part of them may have grown too strong and taken the rest of the crew hostage, strongarming them into a downward spiral of one negative habit after another. Or their Captain may have fallen asleep while the crew pulls every direction at once without getting anywhere because nobody's in charge. I know lots of people like that. More than lots. And they all spend their entire lives outside the door that leads within, wondering what the hell's going on just on the other side. When all we have to do is reach out and open it
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up. Which isnt easy. But it also isnt hard. Well, not that hard. Okay, it was hard. Still, I did it. And that means others can do it, too. I stood up and faced the Hunger directly. I'm going to eat now. We both knew what that meant. But before I do, I continued, would you like to dance? She smiled, her infinite eyes pouring into mine. I thought you'd never ask. I took the Hunger into my arms and we danced.

THE END

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