Teller was born Jacob Adam Teller, named after his two grandfathers. Most everyone, though, calls him, simply, “Teller”…with the notable exceptions being a few students, faculty, and professional colleagues who address him, respectfully, as “Dr. Teller.”

Now, given that he was awarded his Ph.D from a Big Ten school in the mid-90s, the moniker “Dr. Teller” is completely accurate and appropriate. It does, however, have a tendency to make Teller cringe just a little bit. After all, when he thinks of Dr. Teller, it’s the Dr. Teller. Edward Teller. That Dr. Teller wrote his dissertation in physics under the direction of Werner Heisenberg, developer of the Uncertainty Principle. That Dr. Teller is often referred to as the “Father of the Hydrogen Bomb” for his work on the Manhattan Project during World War II. That Dr. Teller was, during his time, commonly referred to as “the scientific voice of the military establishment.” And that Dr. Teller was supposedly the real-life person who inspired the Dr. Strangelove character.

What a contrast. As scientists, and as human beings, Teller and Dr. Teller were, and are, quite different.

When he was young, many of Teller’s schoolmates called him Jacob, Jake, or sometimes just “Tell.” But about the time he entered college it seemed there had developed a consensus, for whatever reason, to call him Teller. So, “Teller” it was. It stuck.

But this is not just a story about Teller’s name. Rather, it’s about Teller’s loves. Or, more specifically, one of his loves and how she said his name.

And, so it happened recently, Teller was talking to a new friend, giving her a short history of his significant relationships. When he was speaking about his ten years with Katrina, even he noticed that the tone of his voice changed. So, it was not at all difficult for his perceptive listener to catch on to this person’s place in Teller’s heart. When asked for a bit more detail about his time with Katrina, Teller outlined the on-again off-again nature of that relationship; his frequent feelings of heartbreak and rejection; yet his attachment to, and sense of inclusion and family he felt with, Katrina and her three children.

He found himself saying, “someday I’ll figure how and why it was I let that go on so long.”

For some reason, during that conversation, Teller could not admit, out loud, to the simplicity of the explanations he’d come up with so far. He acknowledges that he frequently ponders the question of how it was that a decade of his life slipped away on him, believing that that relationship would work out when it was so apparent, now in hindsight, that it wouldn’t.

It was some very small things, really…that made Teller’s life oh-so-complicated for oh-so-long. For example, there was that sunny summer day when Teller drove from his apartment over to Katrina’s house to pick her up to go for a hike. He parked in the driveway and was walking to the front door when he saw her face smiling at him from the kitchen window. Teller, simply, will never forget his greeting that day. A smile so open. So genuine. So loving. So unbelievably warm and radiant. So obviously and completely for him.

For Teller, truly, it was the smile of a lifetime. And he wanted that smile, and the quickened-hearbeat he had in response, to last forever. So Teller tried to make it last, to get it back. But somewhere, along the way, the source of the display that day…went away.

And, then there was the way she often said his name: the way it rolled from her lips when they were alone. (Or, occasionally used it in email greetings.) Not using the name that everyone else used, but calling him, whispering to him, “Jacob Adam.” Or, more accurately: jacobadam, all one word, said oh so softly and gently. No one had ever called him by both names before, and surely not in the manner in which her voice delivered it. Soft, deliberate, seductive, intentional. Wholly, totally, overwhelmingly intimate.

So, Teller had stayed. For ten years. Searching for a repeat of that smile. Longing for one more whisper of his name.

Though, at some point, he now admitted, it had all disappeared. The smile, the warmth, the voice, the love.

Gone.

Soundtrack Suggestion

You know my name, look up the number
You know my name, look up the number
You, you know, you know my name
You, you know, you know my name…

(“ You Know My Name ” – Lennon/McCartney )

Teller had (a little over a year ago now) moved on from all that Cascadia nonsense. He had paid attention to: those dreams, the Morse code in his head, his common sense, his failing health, and, most of all, his Higher Self. After expending most all his available life energy to escape that soul-sucking spot on the globe, he finally found another little college and a new life…in a land that millions called “golden.”

Teller had been here in this garden of the rich and beautiful for awhile now, and he often found himself wondering if his existence  was now going to be forever defined by these new environs: a place known far and wide for its wealthy residents, outrageous real-estate prices, and seductive proximity to The City. A rather strange place, this: with a small town look-and-feel; self-obsessed; hosting a populace preoccupied with their hugely-inflated senses of privilege and entitlement.

For Teller, the past was past. With the unhealthiness of Cascadia behind him, a semblance of personal well-being had returned. Some robust color was actually, at times, evident in his cheeks…with little evidence remaining of that sickly, ashen hue he had once frequently exhibited.

His life had changed immensely, though, and he missed his home state, his adopted family: almost everything (and everybody) that was comfortable and familiar. And, in the week leading up to today, the day he would mark as the beginning of his sixty-second year, he had been having some rather disturbing thoughts. He had had a history of troubled times in August, in the days surrounding the anniversary of his birth, and this year was somewhat reminiscent of earlier periods.

Just last night, for example, after sleeping for a couple of hours, he awoke. For some reason he was acutely aware of his left foot…the body part that had, for over three years now, been afflicted with peripheral neuropathy. But, tonight, something felt uncomfortably, markedly different. It was about midnight, and he turned on the bedroom lamp to examine his foot.

Teller gasped. With a sharp intake of breath that led to profound dizziness, he saw that he had a really serious problem. For, now, he had just four toes — as the little one had apparently fallen off. The remaining digits were all as black as charcoal. They looked like shaved pieces of charcoal. His big toe was missing the nail, and appeared as if it had been whittled (or, perhaps, chewed) to a point; it was now only about half as long as the second toe. The second toe was twisted at a ninety-degree angle and oozing some kind of greenish, purplish, pussy-looking substance. Toes three and four were merely black and bleeding — from what looked like a series of long, razor-made cuts.

In shock, Teller slowly glanced at his other foot. It seemed mostly normal, but the toes had a distinct grayish cast, as if, perhaps, they were making their way toward the charcoal-like character of the left foot. They were definitely more tingly than they usually were.

His hands. He wondered. He looked. Yes, his fingers, all of them, were numb and turning color as well.

He stumbled into the bathroom, dragging his left foot, leaving a bloody, pussy trail on the carpet, and turned on the light. And immediately noticed his eyes. The circles under them were nothing short of a death look. Truly. How could anyone with this appearance still be alive?

This time his gasp turned into a SCREAM, not caring if the neighbors were awakened…and, at that point, Teller, himself, woke up.

Sweating. Scared. Relieved: this was just a dream!

Teller spent the rest of the night blessedly dream-free. But when he got up early to watch the sunrise on his birthday, it was with an enhanced sense of age and aging. Questions about what he had made of his life predominated. Mostly, Teller’s thoughts turned to those he had loved, and those who had loved him.

Teller, though he had loved, and loved dearly and deeply, was mostly a loner, and found himself, again on this birthday, still alone. And lonely: afflicted with a presumably chronic, and life-long, state of solitude. Not a condition as serious, or as ugly, as those blackened, decaying extremities, but a state of being that overwhelmed him just the same.

He reflected on his dream of bodily decomposition. A body that was living, but not quite all alive. Teller meditated on his desire to share body and soul with the soulmate he still believes is out there. Somewhere.

Teller embarked on his the rest of his birthday day asking himself, still: where do I fit? With whom do I fit? Will I ever fit?

Soundtrack Suggestion

night time slows, raindrops splash rainbows
perhaps someone you know, could sparkle and shine
as daydreams slide to colour from shadow
picture the moonglow, that dazzles my eyes
and i love you…

(“Pure” – Lightning Seeds)

A Parable for the New Year

The vibration that invaded Teller’s consciousness was mostly, at first, mosquito-like in its intensity: a teeny, tiny, annoying little buzz in his ear. It was difficult to make out what is was, precisely, at this extremely low volume, but it rather sounded, when he paid attention closely, like: di-di-di-dah-dah-dah-di-di-dit.

It was a pesky, irritating sound, this, and Teller wished that he could just find the right insect repellant to rid himself of the miniscule pest (if that’s what is was), or be able to q-tip his ear in the appropriate manner to eliminate whatever physical “thing” it was that may be scratching his ear drum.

Over and over again: di-di-di-dah-dah-dah-di-di-dit. Just barely loud enough to overcome the awareness barrier. Insistent enough, though, for him to start thinking he might be going slightly mad. And, slowly, ever so slowly, day-by-day, it seemed to be getting louder.

Piled on top of his many, already-existing personal and professional woes, Teller believed this to be yet another, obnoxious, frustrating new dimension to his life; but something he could (and would) clearly resolve. I can’t put up with this distraction for long, he thought, I’ve got other stuff to attend to.

Still: di-di-di-dah-dah-dah-di-di-dit. It just kept happening, with him every minute of every day. What the heck is going on?

Now that he thought about it some, Teller recognized that he first became aware of the phenomenon back in October. That was weeks and weeks ago, and this background noise to his life was definitely getting disturbing. Or, more aptly put, over this period of time, Teller was becoming increasingly alarmed by the presence of this irritating, incessant, crazy-making addition to his existence. If this was going to be the new soundtrack to Teller’s life, he certainly wished that he had had more say in the selection. After all, why not some classic rock? How about a great radio station? KINK FM in Portland would do just fine, after all, thank you very much. 

But it just kept coming: di-di-di-dah-dah-dah-di-di-dit. Was this tinnitus? A website he found stated that tinnitus is “the perception of sound in the ears or head where no external source is present.” Well, that sure sounded about right. Apparently tinnitus sufferers “report hearing all kinds of sounds: crickets, whooshing, pulsing, ocean waves, buzzing, even music.” Ah, ocean waves, thought Teller…so why do I get di-di-di-dah-dah-dah-di-di-dit?

And, then, almost magically, it dawned on him. Oh, my: how friggin’ obvious! How is it I didn’t catch on sooner? Di-di-di-dah-dah-dah-di-di-dit = S. O. S.! Teller was hearing (of all things!) Morse code in his head!

Teller knew (from his Boy Scout, Ham-radio days) that SOS is the internationally utilized distress signal, sent out over radio waves by vessels in trouble. The code, and the letters “SOS” associated with it, have long been equated with such common phrases as Save Our Ship, Survivors On Ship, Save Our Sailors, Stop Other Signals, and Send Out Sailors.

None of these sayings really fit for Teller, however. Why would he be hearing “Save Our Ship?” Ah, but then he remembered…SOS could also mean “Save Our Souls.”

And, then, with that one thought, everything just seemed to fall into place. The noise stopped; it just plain ceased to exist. The message had been received. Teller understood. Finally.

His physical body had been sending his soul a message. “Save yourself,” he was being advised. “You are not well. You are not in a healthy place.”

The Morse code he’d been hearing was entirely consistent with recent dreams he’d had, of course. In the guinea pig dream, the episode had concluded with him calling out HELP! to an unknown presence upstairs. One interpretation of the dream held that he was appealing to his “higher self” – shouting for attention regarding the desperate condition he was in, crying out for assistance in order to escape his ridiculous predicament.

Then, there was a more recent dream, also involving stairs. His recollection of the plot line was fairly garbled, but Teller remembered that, again, he was wondering what was at the top of a staircase, even as he knew that he had to traverse all three flights to the top. During his slow, plodding steps upward, wondering what entity was to be found there, he was very carefully carrying a precious liquid made up of a viscous purple extract from African Violet plants. Curious, yes: but he knew that this was a valuable, life-affirming substance, and would be used for good…if only he could successfully deliver the goods.

Teller had come to understand from both dreams that he was trying to get in touch with his higher self…in order to use the knowledge, wisdom and experience readily available to him to resolve his current life situation.

And, now: SOS. His very soul was obviously at stake. His own body was sending him a message: loud, clear and unmistakable.

So Teller made a promise to the universe, “yes, indeed, I will save myself. I am paying attention.”