Laplace's Angel (Concept)

Laplace’s Angel

By: PAVE

1

Please cue the dream-like melodies of harps. We are going back in time, back to when I first saw her. And as you can see, the screen is wiggling, transitioning back to February 22nd. And there you see me: I’m sitting on a park bench, reading a large textbook the size of my forearm.

I told my studio-mate sitting beside me: “I am going to become Laplace’s Demon.” He no longer paid me any mind when I said out-of-pocket things. I continued, “Laplace’s Demon is a figure that exists only for the sake of explanation. I know there isn’t an entity capable of such things, but I want to be one. I will become Laplace’s Demon.” I repeated. My studio-mate only rolled his eyes. “Your ass can’t be a demon. Can you be quiet? My girlfriend took her time recording these from Berlin.” He was holding a cassette player in his hands. My studio-mate was quite the audiophile, requesting audio recordings from his lovers. He seemed to like the old-timey aesthetic of things. Most of the recordings he received from his girlfriend were in the form of cassette tapes.

The textbook I was reading was about philosophy. I was not so good of a reader, but the art block had been so severe I resorted to other forms of potential inspiration (as per my studio-mate’s request). A month ago, he said, and I quote: “When you can’t draw, you go insane. And I hate that. Can you read a book or something? Not all inspiration comes from visual stuff.”

In the midst of my pondering, my studio-mate kicked me out of the park bench–a public property, mind you–when I started rambling about the topic again. Yet he was the one that suggested I pick up reading!

My studio-mate did not actually do any art. He’s an impulsive guy with nowhere to go. So I let him stay there because the studio can comfortably fit fifteen twin-sized beds (an exagerration of course) . When I, on the other hand, get irritated by his antics, he adopts this behaviour of being overly pathetic. When he makes a mess of my expensive Japanese inks, I huff in anger, and in a blink and he’s on his knees begging for forgiveness, sobbing cries of: “I don’t have anywhere to go” and “Please just wait until my girlfriend gets here so I can be out of your way.” 

Frankly, I didn’t care whether or not he stayed in my studio for three days or thirty years. The company was nice, and it felt a lot better when I rambled to someone rather than to myself. I just wished he would throw out the trash, but it was a minor hassle. The lack of respect, however, did not bother me. I had no ego, and my studio already looked dilapidated. Making a mess did not matter. It was never clean in the first place.

Clearly my company was not needed anymore on the park bench. So I walked away–not too far–only to the next park bench no nearer than six feet. I looked at my studio-mate and formed a rectangular frame with my pointer and thumb. He was beautiful, listening to his love inside the tape. I thought, I wish I could be in love like that. Maybe then, I will have so much love in me that it extends beyond my fingers. I will want to draw my love everyday.

I would have painted that scene before me if it weren’t for two things: one being that I had been in an art block, and two, I could not bring myself to illustrate my studio-mate. He did not spark the least bit of inspiration in me.

So I continued reading the incomprehensible book of philosophy. Laplace’s Demon is an entity that knows all, the past, present and future. Why it's called a demon, I was not so sure. Maybe I would find out once I became one. I started mumbling to myself again, musing about how I’d achieve this state of being. My studio-mate, although six feet away, got up, irritated. He rolled his eyes so hard I started worrying it’d roll all the way to the back of his head and get stuck like that forever. “You can’t be Laplace’s Demon.” He pocketed his cassette player aggressively, the grainy voice it produced came to a pause. “It’s not a thing you can be. It’s an idea.” I would feel ecstatic whenever my studio-mate would get passionately angry at me. It made me feel loved with how much he paid attention to my bullshittism. “It’s embarrassing having to listen to you rambling on and on about this. Becoming Laplace’s Demon basically means you need to be God or some-crap. Can you be God? No! You are seriously braindead.”

All I thought of at that moment was that I used to talk to my old man like that. He could not wrap his head around an infinitely zoom-able digital canvas where I could draw infinitely smaller pieces of art. I yelled: “It’s not an animation! That’s just a feature of the app! Look, I’m zooming in with my own two fingers. Does this look like an animation to you?” He would reply yes.

I supposed that growing old, even if it was just being a few years older than my studio-mate, automatically made me ‘braindead’ to younger people (such as myself to my old man). But was it such an awful thing when I couldn’t catch up to this fast-paced world?

Being the stubborn person that I am, I just said “You’ll be surprised when you find me three months from now, maybe I would have grown wings and a mischievous tail.” He rolled his eyes again, and I worried again that it will get stuck like that. He walked away, six feet to the other direction where there’s another park bench.

The third time I opened the obnoxiously large text, and I just flip through the pages admiring the paper. Then I stood up. “Watch me.” I said, just loud enough for my studio-mate to hear. He didn’t bat an eyelid and I just left.

I ran down the hill in the middle of the park. It looked so intricately placed, like the park was established first, and then the workers said “It’s missing something,” and begged a higher life form to place this perfectly shaped hill in the middle of this park. Oh, it’s like this hill was parked here, in this park. Haha. I turned my back and gazed up at the hill and ran to the top. And then I repeated this fifteen times just to feel something. Maybe it would’ve given me motivation to paint. It did not. On my final way up to the hill my studio-mate was standing there waiting for me. How he stood there and how the dusky pink skies looked behind him was beautiful. I had thought, was that truly my studio-mate or an ethereal being that descended from the heavens and graced me with its presence? Just kidding, I knew it wasn’t not an ethereal being because he was wearing a worn out fleece-lined jacket that looked like it inhabited four rats and sixteen roaches. But the sight caused me to consider quitting art and instead photograph my studio-mate forever.

“Why are you here?” I asked. “I can’t stop thinking about you.” He replied.

“Oh. Apologies, I can’t envision myself being romantically involved with you. What about your girlfriend?”

He pushed me with much force and I almost toppled over and could’ve died rolling down the hill. “I obviously did not mean that. I think I know how you can be Laplace’s Demon,” he said. I smiled a little, my craziness was rubbing off on him. “Enlighten me.” He started walking. I guess I had to follow. “Do you have money on you?” He asked. I stopped in my tracks, “I’m not falling for this scam, do you think you can tourist-trap me? In my own hometown?” He pushed me again, “I’m not talking to you anymore. Just follow.”

So I followed and we crossed a few streets and turned a few corners. He brought me to the bookstore. I felt a little bit disheartened, I thought there was going to be a super-fun adventure that was about to take place. Him and his books. But I thought I would hear him out. Or see him out? Since he did not want to utter another word to me.

Ever-so-silently, my studio mate brought me to the corner of the store and halted in front of a shelf. He signaled with an open palm towards the bookshelf. I didn’t know what to do next. There may have been three-hundred books on this shelf alone, I’d thought he expected me to read every book. But thankfully, he rolled his eyes like he could read my thoughts. He should stop that habit, I bet his girlfriend would not be appreciative of that behaviour once she comes here. Or was this eye-rolling feat only for me?

“I was just here the other day and reading about lucid dreaming. Have you ever heard of it?” The silence then broke. I wanted to say ‘and what of the ‘not talking to you anymore’ words you muttered earlier?’ but I had a great feeling that he would fall back into silence and refuse to elaborate on why he brought me here if I said that. So I held back. “The name alone is giving me a glimmer of inspiration. Lucid is a beautiful word.” I muse. “You can’t ever just say a single ‘yes’ or ‘no’ huh? Always gotta make yourself sound smart and mysterious.” He rolled his eyes. “Lucid dreaming is basically being able to… actually, maybe figure it out yourself. I’m going home.” He just walked away. By ‘home’ he meant my studio but I will let him have his tantrums. I only hoped he locks the door. On the topic of dreams… days before, I had a dream that someone stole my expensive Japanese inks. Oh, how low must you be to steal from an artist? And why must it always be my Japanese inks, of all things?

I skimmed my eyes across the bookshelf to find a book discussing this lucid dreaming phenomenon. I had found one that could fit in my coat pocket, and decided I’ll get that one despite not even checking its contents. Anyway, I’d chosen that one because I may or may not have needed a break from forearm-large textbooks. Since the book was already in my coat pocket, I just decided to keep it in there and leave without paying. I thought it would have inspired me. It did not.

Once I left the bookstore the pink horizon was no longer there. Instead, the sky was barely even indigo. I used to think that the colours of the sky existed in an unending battle. Like all the colours were constantly in a war with each other, much like us human beings. The last colour standing had ownership of the sky, only until the rest of them recovered to spar once more. I zipped up my coat after a cool breeze swept the boulevard. Then, I, all of a sudden, craved a cigarette. I haven’t had a puff of those in a long while. My studio-mate despised the smell of tobacco, it was ‘suffocating him in the studio.’ It shocked me, actually, to hear him say that. Can you believe that a delinquent like him doesn’t smoke tobacco? He must have been holding himself back to make himself seem like he wasn’t a walking stereotype. Of all the things he shouldn’t care about, it should’ve been that. Not whether or not I can become Laplace’s Demon. But what did I know?

I got home-and please don’t mistake my home for my studio, I very much do have enough funds to own both–and hung my coat. I quite honestly forgot about the lucid dreaming book. I sat down and turned on the television while I ate my ulcerogenic instant ramen. Only after I finished my makeshift dinner did I remember about the book. I took it out of my coat and went to lay in bed. I thank the alignment of stars because the entire book was in bullet-point format and I did not have to read one-hundred-and-twenty pages to get to the point.

Lucid Dreams are dreams wherein the dreamer is aware that they are dreaming in the dream. This allows the dreamer to control what occurs within the dream.

These dreams happen during a dreamer's REM period.

There are several devices on the market that aid with Lucid Dreaming.

This book contains techniques to achieve a Lucid Dream used by our participants. These methods have helped a plethora of different individuals with different sleeping habits achieve a Lucid Dream.

From deep inside me, I could already feel the obsession boiling. This was my studio-mate’s biggest fault–for it might be the reason I would go crazy. How hard, I wondered, would it be to perfect this practice? Most importantly, might lucid dreaming really be the key to becoming Laplace’s Demon?

I ended up being too excited to sleep. And at around 2:22 in the morning my eyes felt heavy. You might be hoping to read: “and then I had a lucid dream,” but unfortunately, that did not happen until a week later.

The days in-between, however, seemed magical. There was a new colour in the world, like I just got another cone implanted into my eyeballs. My eyes had new photoreceptors and could process four colours: red, green, blue and magic. Of course, I did not literally see a fourth colour called magic. I was just really excited about the discovery of lucid dreaming and could not wait to try it.

Achieving a lucid dream made me restless. I could not stop thinking about it for a second, I consumed all there was to know about it. There was this undying urge to write everything I ever knew about the topic, and so I did. A notebook was dedicated to my notes on lucid dreaming, even though there was no need to write all of it down because it was publicly available on the internet. Multiple days passed and every three nights I would practise only one technique. If it did not work, I moved on to the next technique. I sincerely forgot to bathe during these times. It was only after my studio-mate noticed the foul smell in my clothes that he forced me into the bathtub and meticulously scrubbed every inch of my body. He cringed during the whole act, like I was a splotch of vomit he had to clean up. “Have you ever thought of going to therapy?” He asked, giving a particularly harsh scrub against my arm that made me groan in pain. I did not answer. I wholeheartedly believed that therapy will only rob me of my artistic expression. He knew my thoughts on therapy and the extent of my opposition, but sometimes he would ask it rhetorically just to ease the boiling of his blood.

On the following day I woke up on the studio floor. A fresh, floral scent overwhelmed my sinuses. There was a raw pain on my arm. Revealed after I pulled back the covers was a rash on my upper arm from the abrasive loofah my studio-mate used. The red spot seemingly misplaced in my pale, malnourished body inspired me to paint. I simply splattered red paint onto a skin-toned canvas and deemed it done. Then I shredded it to pieces the next day because it was seriously hurting my head and I did not like such abstractly simple paintings such as the one I created. I could not handle being slightly stressed throughout the week because I felt it would disrupt my practice.

So I craved the sea breeze, to get out of the city for a brief moment of my day. At the end of the subway line, after a short hike, was a beach that's quiet in the mornings. Once I boarded the subway car, I immediately sensed that something was wrong. Yes, it is usually quiet at around this time of day, but never once empty.

The beach was as expected: empty, except for a youthful woman sitting on the beach sand. With her back towards me, I couldn't see her face. But she was still as stone, gazing at the horizon where the water and sky meet. The sand underneath her was muddying her beautiful white dress. Contrasting that was her black hair, delicate strands flowed in the breeze. The sounds of the waves crashing against the land enticed me to dip my feet in. So I did. To my surprise, the water was warm, more so than usual during this time of year. I saw this as an opportunity to take off all my clothes and venture deeper into the waves.

Once I submerged my head in the water, warmness surrounded me. But something felt different. I felt as though I could breathe, so I did. I felt as though I could open my eyes, and I did. I could see underwater–fishes of all kinds were swimming past my face and I could see how my toes sunk under the sea floor.

A lucid dream.

I was in full control of what I was doing. Moreover, I was aware that it was all a dream.

I stayed submerged, staring in awe at the swirling sea life around me. A school of neon fish flashed by, their scales reflecting a spectrum of colours that I swore could not exist in reality—like the ‘magic’ hue I'd imagined. Every movement was fluid and effortless; even the pressure of the ocean felt light, like air. For a while, I simply drifted in serenity. I could feel each grain of sand slip between my fingers as I touched the ocean floor.

The fish began aligning themselves in a single file, their scales catching the light in the way that looked almost like a passing subway train. For a fleeting moment, my reflection flickered across their bodies. It was not just me, another face was behind me. The reflection was as quick to disappear as it was to appear, so I had no choice but to look behind me for the face. There was nothing there. At that moment it dawned upon me that there was a girl at the shoreline! It must have been her I saw on the shiny bodies of the fish.

I promptly came ashore to see her. She was still there, sitting at the same spot as if stuck there for all of eternity. The closer I got, the less control I felt over my own actions, as if my will to follow her was part of the dream's design rather than my own choice. My eyes were looking right at her, but for some reason I couldn’t see her. But I knew she was there, that she was beautiful with her muddied white dress. Her facial features? It’s something I cannot describe, she seemed to only be a concept in my head instead of a manifestation of my imagination.

“Hello,” I greeted, sitting beside her (or sitting beside what I thought was her). At that moment I was closer, I could see her but only from the corners of my eyes. I still could not look at her directly, or had any idea of her exact location. But her figure was clearer now than farther away. I tried to focus on her face, but it, along with the rest of her body, just looked like one big mosaic. I tried with all my might, like thinking of what formula to use in a mathematics assessment, to no avail. 

She mumbled something incomprehensible to my ears. I’m not even sure if she actually even said anything or if she just directly sent her words to my brain. But her words felt like it surrounded me, not necessarily in an auditory manner. “I’ve been waiting for you,” she said back.

“Why? And who are you?” The sun started to go down at an abnormally fast rate, and by the time I finished my sentence it was already dark. The tides rose ever so slightly and the sounds of the waves crashing grew evermore.

“I can be whoever you want to be,” she responded, the water had risen enough to touch her toes. “Call me whatever you want. I’ll call you whatever you want in return. Tell me, what do you want to do right now?”

What I wanted to do right now, well, only one thing popped into mind. “I want to become Laplace’s Demon. I want to know everything and to be perfect.”

“Why?” She fidgeted with the lints stuck to my sweater.

“I want to make art again. It’s been a while. My studio-mate is oh-so annoyed by this whole situation. I want to burden him no longer. Maybe I don’t necessarily have to become Laplace’s Demon, but please, if you could spare some advice,”

“How about this,” she gestured her hands to her right, bringing my gaze along with her. I tried to shift forward to see past her, but she tranquilly got up from where she was, so I did too. Her dress swayed in the wind in such a magical manner. It took me a second to notice the sand and muddiness caught in her white dress had vanished. Under the moonlight her dress reflected a slightly pink hue, similar to that of a pearl.

I looked up to where she was pointing to. There stood an orchestra, “Listen,” she said.

And I truly tried my best. I could see them: their actions, the way their bows slid across cellos and violas, how the choristers would form ‘o’s with their mouths. My brain was hurting—I could see them so clearly but could not hear a single sound, not a breath, not an utter!

“I can’t—”

The girl in white only shushed me, “Please try your best.”

“I am, I ask for your forgiveness, I am not experienced in—”

She leaned herself on me and whispered. Except, the whispers were not of her voice, but from the orchestra. They performed in front of me, but the sound only came from my right, where the girl was a… ‘speaker,’ per se.

The harmonious tune was delightful. I never once looked away, and soon enough the sound would surround me. Once it came to a crescendo, my eyes had started watering before I even realised. There was so much skill displayed before me. I had cried, and cried, and cried, and cried again. It was a magnificent thing, how flautists, violinists, and brass players created a beautiful symphony. Was I capable of creating such a work of art as well?

Then I felt the weight of the waking world tugging at me, pulling me out of the dream. My heart raced, the overture—it was not over yet! And what of the mysterious girl? What did she have to say about this orchestra? Would she be here again? How could I see her again? What of the Laplace’s Demon situation? The girl, along with the orchestra, strayed further away. They had melted into puddles.

I awoke to the smell of coffee and flowers. I was still on the studio floor, my hip hurting from the lack of support. There was a raw pain on my arm, but I did not bother to check it because I felt as if I already knew that there would be a rash there.

I noticed that my mouth was unusually dry and raw, and then all of a sudden I was overcome with an undying urge to drink something. My vision remained hazy, still clouded by the remnants of my dreams. A few paintbrushes on the floor caused me to roll forwards. I hit my head on the hard floor. I tried to get up and the first thing I saw was blood on the floor, oh the stars above, have I finally died? My studio-mate came with a wet wipe and rubbed it on my right cheek. It’s fortunate that my head was not split open like a fresh coconut. He proceeded to fill a glass with water and handed it to me. I chugged it down like there was no tomorrow, then he proceeded to take it from me and filled it up again. He guided me to the couch where he put my head on his lap.

“You’re out of your mind,” he scoffed while unwrapping a bandage, in which I didn’t reply. He proceeded to put the bandage on my cheek and started caressing my hair silently. His hands lingered at the ends—my split-ends. Perhaps I was due for a haircut…

“And you’re very motherly for someone who did not grow up with his parents,” I commented. It was a true thought from the bottom of my heart. You would expect a former delinquent to have no mercy or care towards anyone, but he does.

He seemed to blush at this. “It’s so damn depressing to see you like this. Do you want me to set you up with someone? I know a few people who are interested in relationships. Will that fix you up?” I only turned my head slightly away from his gaze, not replying. “You didn’t eat or bathe for days. Then you pass out after I cleaned you up. Then you woke up and hurt yourself. Do you think dating will make you—like, better? I don’t know.”

Dating was something I stopped doing in my early teens. I could not even tell you what my last romantic relationship was like. After pondering, I figured that there would be no harm in starting a romantic relationship now. “Sure,” I whispered.

My studio-mate shifted slightly, I think he was surprised that I agreed to do something in that scope, especially since I was considerably antisocial. “You wanna meet some of my friends today?” The caressing stopped, his hands were now on his side and on my shoulder, like he was ready to get up at my signal.

“I don’t mind that,” I replied, fidgeting with my hands.

We dressed quickly and descended the stairs. “Don’t be too nervous; they’re strange—like you and me, I guess,” he remarked, his tone casual. I couldn’t find a reply to that. I was actually quite confused on whether or not I should be offended or intrigued.

As we walked, he spoke, his voice filling the spaces between our footsteps. What was he talking about? In all honesty, the subject eludes me now—forgotten not out of malice, but neglect. I felt rather sad about it, for he was rarely talkative, and I, blind to the rarity of the moment, let it slip away.

The harsh fluorescence of the subway station jolted me from my daze. Patting myself down, I had gasped, “I didn’t bring my transit pass,” fingers flitting over my pockets once more in a futile search. My studio-mate only hummed, a sound as indifferent as the rhythm of passing trains, before reaching out to take my hand.

With a quick motion, he swiped his transit card and the transit machine produced a chime. I liked the sound, it’s a sound strikingly similar to the tone of ‘thank you.’ As if the machine was saying thank you for paying! How lovely.

Anyway, we—yes, my studio-mate and I—had passed through the metal gate with the help of his transit pass. The feeling one gets when someone else commits a crime for them is an unexplainable one. Was I disappointed in him for doing that? Did my heart start pounding harder from fear, excitement, or was it that I felt good to be worth the risk of a transgression?

I don’t know what had gotten into me at that moment, but I unintentionally gripped his hand tighter and said “I love you.” I could feel the dampness of my palms evermore. I dared not look at him, but he mumbled something I did not get a chance to hear. Shrieks tore through the air, causing me to cover my ears with both of my hands. Oh, how much I blamed the transit system. The tracks have grown weary, causing such an agonizing sound. Were the bones of the earth being scraped clean? Furthermore, I did not get to hear what my studio-mate said.

The subway windows flickering past reminded me of the dream I just had. Should I arrange to see a performance?