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Links from the Show at a Glance:

Artist: Hannah Pearman

Title of Art: Castor, Pollux

Instagram: @hannahandthecosmos

Art Ink Submission Guidelines: rebekahnemethy.com/artinksubs

Art Ink Podcast Transcript:

[Intro:]

Welcome back, my friends, to a brand new episode of Art Ink! I feel like this is a repeating theme in this podcast lately, but the idea for this story was first scribbled into my notebook almost exactly a year ago.

I know I often describe my inspirations for stories as if they are that typical instantaneous cliché when I see art; like a lightning strike or the proverbial apple upon Isaac Newton’s head. But the truth is, many more stories are more like a long hike into the pathless woods.

I love abstract art so much, but sometimes it’s harder for me to find a true connection to the artist’s intention. Or at least that’s the story I tell myself when I’m feeling insecure.

But some artists make it a little bit easier for me when they do one simple thing: when they title their work! I won’t lie; using an artwork’s title is my go-to reference point to help me decide which direction to take my stories. So my advice today for you artists out there, even if you’re uncomfortable writing about your art at this time, at the very least, give your art titles – you’d be surprised how that small thing can help people form a connection with your work!

I want to thank today’s artist, for giving me those breadcrumbs to follow in today’s featured art.

Hannah Pearman, the artist behind @HannahandtheCosmos on Instagram, creates gorgeously galactic art that blows me out of this world every time I look at any of it. And because her own artist statement so succinctly expresses the why behind Hannah’s work, I wanted to share it with you:

“It was under a slightly different, though no less mesmerizing, canopy of constellations that Hannah discovered the transformative power of a paintbrush. Hours of stargazing with her father at home in New Zealand inspired a deep respect for the conversation between control and chaos and, in turn, art became the phrasebook for translating it.

Her work is one part longing for the glow-in-the-dark star-covered bedroom ceiling of her childhood, and three parts surrender to the miraculous confluence of choice and chance that makes the human experience so beautiful.

Through creative exploration of spectral peculiarities, Hannah is working her grasp around the enormity of the universe in which we’re suspended. Each piece is a whisper of gratitude, a way back home, and a wink to the cosmos.”

I don’t know about you, but I connect so much to these 3 simple paragraphs. I too had those glow in the dark stars in my childhood bedroom. And I’m in awe of the idea that such beautiful paintings are the result of control AND chaos… though as an artist myself I’ve experienced the magical balance of that formula in my own work too.

Anyway, my friends, please make sure you check out the cover art of today’s episode to get a glimpse of Hannah’s work. But as usual, before we take off into the story segment of this show, I will attempt to give those of you unable to look right now, a glimpse of Hannah’s art crudely re-painted with my words.

[Art Description:]

There are two paintings featured on today’s cover. Both are square and painted on 6×6 inch birch panels, and both were created from a similar color palette: covered in multiple shades of blue, aqua, purple, pink, and white.

The painting on the left, titled Castor, is a bit darker, and uses a bit more navy and deep violet. The center left area in the piece looks like a black hole, and wispy cloudlike tendrils lighten to a medium purple around its edges where they reach out into the brighter areas of the painting in the top third and right half of the panel. This is where more wispy cloudlike shapes of white and pink and aqua swirl into one another. Some dollops of white are clustered around the edge of the black hole, like stars just about to be sucked in.

Pollux, the painting on the right, is bit more vibrant than Castor. There is a thick band of navy blue depth in the bottom quarter of the piece, but it quickly transitions upwards into a cerulean blue and then into a galactic cloud of aqua in the right middle area. To the left the blue cloud bleeds into a pink area that’s swirled with white. And above that same blue cloud its wisps seep into the bright white top right corner. A lake of pink in the white branches out into thin, river-like veins. The top left corner of the panel holds a purple galactic cloud that merges with the pink and white below and to the right of it.

So there you have Castor and Pollux, and if you thought they sounded like ear candy, be sure to check them out with your eyes, as they are much more beautiful than I could ever describe.

And with that my friends, I’ll lead you into my imagination for a little while.

This is the story of How Castor Found Pollux

[Story:]

Castor couldn’t believe what he was hearing; it was him… yet not him at all. Though the voice was lispy, and soft, it was unmistakably his own… just nicer somehow. Like a super nice caricature of himself. Castor imagined himself in an ugly sweater and glasses, then shook his head to unsee that image. It wasn’t pretty.

“Nobody loves Castor more than I do,” said the disembodied voice that was simultaneously him and not him.

Now shit was starting to get weird, Castor thought. He looked up from the handheld recorder on the desk and locked gazes with his shrink, Dr. Shelly. His eyes were wide with surprise, but hers were deadpanning him in an I-told-you-so kind of way.

“And, why do you think that Carl?” past Shelly asked through the speakers.

“Well because I’m the only one who forgives him for everything.”

“What do you forgive him for?” And then there was click, and the white noise hissing through the air suddenly went dead.

“Wait, what did he say?” Castor was at the edge of his seat, ready to spring up from the anticipation. Only seconds ago he’d barely believed Dr. Shelly’s claims, but the proof was undisputable. Someone lived inside of him… a stranger… but the scariest part was that he had absolutely no recollection of the conversation that had apparently happened just minutes ago.

“Nothing, that was when you came back.”

It wasn’t until that moment that Castor realized his jaw was hanging open. He closed his mouth and swallowed. His impulse to deny the diagnosis didn’t go away, but his faith in that belief was rapidly diminishing with the evidence still echoing in his ears.

“I recommend you start recording yourself,” Dr. Shelly said, “I suspect there are more—”

“More?!?” Castor’s eyes were bulging again, and his mouth hung open wide, as if he was a toddler waiting for a spoonful of applesauce.

“Well, I don’t know for sure but in most recorded cases of dissociative identity disorder there are usually more than one alter.

The gaping hole in Castor’s face transformed as his lips pulled into a tight, thin line. “Ok,” he forced through gritted teeth, “but why do I have to record them? Isn’t that your job?”

“I will continue to do so, yes, but the truth is that some of them may not be willing to come out in front of a stranger. What you’re able to discover on your own may help us to save all the time it would take for me to build up trust with these parts of yourself that have been repressed.

“Once we determine your triggers we’ll be able to work through the trauma that’s causing them, which will eventually help you to stay present and prevent future instances of memory loss.”

Castor nodded. Looked down.

“You’ve been through a lot of trauma Castor, your mind is just doing its best to protect you.”

When he looked back up again, Dr. Shelly was pushing a slip of paper across her desk. “Here, that’s my recommendation for a mic. It’s wireless and you can record right to your phone.”

Castor nodded again and reached for the paper.

“The next time you have one of your memory blips, listen back, and maybe you’ll get an answer to what happened.”

Castor left Dr. Shelly’s office without another word. He drove to the electronics store in silence, but in his head that strange lispy version of his own voice was playing on repeat. Could it be possible that there were more “alters” trapped inside of him? How many of him—them were there? Would he really be able to capture them with this plan?

It felt so ridiculous to Castor. He may as well have been purchasing equipment for a ghost hunt… why didn’t he get a night vision camera too so he could start a reality show and entertain people while he was at it.

He found the tiny microphone that Dr.Shelly had recommended, and as he brought it up to the counter, Castor felt suddenly embarrassed as if the cashier could hear the slew of secrets circling through his head. But luckily, the teenager who checked him out was more interested in her own phone than in anything Castor was buying, and she only glanced at the packaging long enough to find the bar code.

Castor couldn’t get out of his own head, though, despite the momentary relief of not being judged by anyone, because he was too busy judging himself. Was this what life had come to for him? On his way to hunt his own inner demons armed with nothing but a Bluetooth microphone?

Suddenly, another thought occurred to Castor, one that worried him far more than the humiliation of playing ghost hunter. Did this mean that he was crazy? Would they commit him if he couldn’t find and extinguish the people trapped inside him?

When he got home a few minutes later, Castor had already decided that he couldn’t let that happen. He dumped the plastic shopping bag onto the couch, and when the receipt swayed down through the air like a falling feather, a realization clicked into place. It wasn’t just his memory loss that now made sense, but all of those random charges to his credit card could be explained away by this diagnosis too. Castor ripped open the packaging and connected the mic to his phone, then clipped it to his shirt.

When he hit record all of his remaining energy drained out of him.

He considered going to sleep but knew that he’d just end up restlessly awake before the sun was up if he went to bed now. So instead he dropped onto the couch, turning on some mindless entertainment he’d already seen dozens of times. And that was the problem, because there was nothing to occupy his mind on the screen, and so he kept ruminating on Carl’s and Dr. Shelly’s conversation – before his mind ran off in worse case scenario tangents (like what if there was an evil, murderous sociopath that’d been regularly taking over his body) before circling back to the elephant-sized fact that there were more people he didn’t know hiding inside of him, just waiting to use him and abuse him just beyond his awareness.

Castor grew uncomfortable and turned away from the TV. It was growing dark outside and the multi-colored lights from the screen flickered around on the ceiling. His eyes blinked slowly… until they fell closed a final time.

***

Castor is racing down the winding mountain road, stirring up freshly fallen leaves as he passes. Both windows are down and the cool dry air is dancing his shaggy hair into a frenzy. The whooshing air competes with the pounding music that’s blasting through the Mustang’s souped up speakers.

He looks over to the seat beside him, and the expression on PJ’s face is like a zap of lightning to his memory. Looking at PJ, his twin, is like a looking into a carnival mirror. They’re identical, but PJ’s personality twists his face into a goofy mask. PJ is the smiley mask to Castor’s frowny one. But this isn’t real, and Castor knows that. He knows he’s dreaming, so he let’s go of the wheel and leans back as he stares at his brother long and hard. Right now PJ is sticking his tongue out like he’s at a Kiss concert, one hand out the window letting the wind fly through his fingers.

Castor examines every inch of Pollux James’s face: the dimple between his cheek and chin, the lines being laughed around his eyes, the way the dappled, rapidly changing orbs of sunshine dance through the trees and onto his face. PJ will bob his head once… twice… three more times in slow motion before Castor has to close his eyes for impact.

Shutting his eyes used to wake him up, but now it just dulls the one sense. Soon the impact will explode into his ears: the squealing, the crunching of car… and bone. After two agonizing seconds of very real pain he’ll wake up. And though his eyelids curtain the scene, Castor’s memory replays it, only a bit more dully, in time with the orchestra of senses he can’t turn off.

Finally, the pain comes, sharpening to unbearable, before fizzling out into the now comforting pins and needles that vibrate across every bit of his skin. He stays still until it passes. A few minutes later he finally turns to look at the clock; it’s 4:44 a.m.

***

Castor came to and the bright light was jarring. He was doing dishes? The last thing he had remembered was waking up from his night terror, and now it was well after noon, judging by the angle of sunlight being reflected off of his stainless steel sink. He dropped the sponge and the silverware he’d been scrubbing back into the sink and turned off the faucet.

He looked down to see that he was still in his clothes from yesterday and he was relieved to see the tiny mic still clipped to the front of his shirt. Then Castor swept his gaze over the countertop in search of his phone… and there it was. He grabbed it and sat down as he navigated to the recording app.

The oven clock confirmed what Castor had suspected, it was 2:32. He quickly did the math to figure out where he should start listening. He’d been out for nearly 10 hours. The app was set by default to start recording a new mp3 file every hour on long recordings; it was a failsafe to protect against the occasional glitch. But it also made it easy for Castor to count back to the file he wanted to start at.

He took in a deep breath and slowly let it out. Then he leaned over his phone and hit play.

All of Castor’s anticipation seemed to be for nothing, though. Listening to his recording was like listening to one long butt-dial. He heard rustling fabric against the microphone, a random thump here and there, and lot of him just breathing.

After the first half hour Castor got up to brew a pot of coffee. By two hours in he’d drunk the whole pot and had to put his hands flat on the counter to stop them from shaking.

He didn’t know what he’d been expecting, but sitting around intently listening to absolutely nothing was not how he’d envisioned this day going. But it wasn’t like he had anything else to do.

Castor worked from home, though to say he worked at all since the accident was an absolute joke. It’d been six months. Six months since his best friend died. Since he’d killed his other half. Castor shook his head at that, Dr. Shelly wouldn’t be happy to hear him say that. But he hadn’t said those words aloud since the first time she’d chastised him. Thankfully she couldn’t hear his thoughts, because he couldn’t think about PJ without feeling the inevitable guilt that was now attached to their last moment together. There was no doubt in Castor’s head that his brother would still be alive if it wasn’t for his own negligence, and no amount of therapy would ever change that.

Suddenly a voice pulled Castor from his thoughts, “So you think you’re better than us, is that it Carl?”

“That’s not what I said, Ralph.”

“Then what were you trying to say? Because it sounded a lot like you were glorifying yourself—and putting the rest of us down.”

Another voice came through, “Or maybe he was just trying to get Dr. Shelly to warm up to him. Got news for you Carl – the little blue pill she makes you swallow isn’t going to discriminate, you’ll be gone too, despite your godlike forgiveness.”

“What does it even matter if we’re all going to die anyway?” That was a new voice too; slow and subdued.

“Why be shy if we’re all gonna die?!?” Yet another caricature of Castor’s voice came through the speaker, this one amused. “Heh, heh,” he snickered.

A low growl began, and it quickly escalated until a loud thump concluded it. It was like someone had brought their fist down upon a solid surface; the counter or Castor’s desk maybe?

“Calm yourself, Ogre,” someone chastised, it sounded like Ralph, “we’re not going to die guys… Steve, stop being such an asshole!”

“I dunno, maybe Steve’s right about the pills… what other outcome could there be… we knew we were at risk the moment we saw the doctor.” The melancholy one said.

“Big belly Shelly,” the amused one snickered.

“Why do you think I was trying to get on her good side, fellas? I wanted her to know that we’re here to help Castor.” Carl sighed.

“Maybe we need to disappear for awhile—make her think we’re gone so she’ll lay off for a bit,” Ralph said, but he didn’t wait for a response before he continued. “Yeah, that’s what we’ll do. Do you all think you can keep your mouths shut for the next couple of weeks?

“Oh that’s a great idea… let’s just repress ourselves why don’t we? Why don’t we just get ahold of a sleeping pill ‘script and off ourselves right now?” Steve deadpanned.

“How could you suggest such a thing?” Carl said.

“Stay away and our souls may stray.” It sounded to Castor like the jokey poet was agreeing with Steve in his own cryptic way.

“Andy’s right,” the sad sounding one drawled, “if we stay away too long, we’re likely to disappear on our own.”

“GRRRRRR!!!” Orge growled in agreement.

“Don’t worry, Tom, we won’t stay away long enough to let that happen. The point isn’t to off ourselves,” Ralph argued, “it’s to get her off our backs until we can give Castor Pollux’s message.”

Castor gripped both arms of his chair. “Pollux?” he whispered.

“It’s impossible,” the sad one sighed. “Castor never remembers his dreams… at least not the good ones… and he never remembers us.”

The white noise of the recording rolled on into infinity after that, but no one else spoke. Castor sat expectantly for the first few minutes, waiting for more, but eventually his mind wandered off to run in its own circles.

He’d counted six distinct voices in that recording, including the growly one they called Ogre. Six people inside of him; people with the ability to shut him down, put him on standby so they could have their own little private pow-wow. It was frightening to think that they had that much control over him… even more terrifying to consider that they’d been hiding inside of him all this time.

But they were him, according to Dr. Shelly. That they appeared and acted separately from him was just a defense mechanism his body had implemented in order to help him deal with the trauma of losing PJ.

PJ… they’d said they had a message from him.

And what did they mean when they said he couldn’t remember his dreams? He had the same damn dream every night—a dream he wished he could forget.

Castor suddenly felt torn. His next move should be to send this file to Dr. Shelly… but they didn’t trust her… and if they were really just a part of him… then should Castor trust her? It looked like he was outnumbered 6 to 1.

But who was Castor kidding? That was just a convenient justification. Because if those strange little voices claimed to have a message from his brother, then they were right about one thing: he had to keep them alive until he got it.

Castor marched over to his computer. He placed his phone within hearing range, although nobody was talking at the moment, there were still hours of recordings for him to listen to and so he let the soft static play on. Then he turned to his monitor and pulled open a browser window.

“How to… remember… your dreams,” Castor said as he typed into the search bar.

He scrolled through the list of results but quickly became frustrated with the answers. He didn’t have time to sit around and meditate on his intention and write in a goddamned dream journal.

“How to remember your dreams quickly,” Castor tried, disappointed to see that many of the same websites were coming up. In the preview text of one new site, the author suggested drinking massive amounts of water so that your bladder would naturally wake you at the end of your dream cycle. That sounded annoying, and Castor suspected he was more likely to just piss the bed than to wake up and remember his dream, but at least it was something he had time to try.

A familiar low growl rose up into the air, alongside a fumbling sort of rustling made up of soft thumps and swooshing static. Castor lifted his phone to his ear.

“Hey fellas, look what Ogre found!” Carl called out.

“What is it?” Tom asked.

“It’s a microphone.” Ralph said.

“Well hallelujah,” Steve said sarcastically, “our oppressor is listening… say hello to your girlfriend, Carl.”

“Big belly shelly?” Andy asked, but his tone was lacking its usual amusement; he just sounded afraid.

“I don’t think so, fellas… well maybe, eventually, she’ll hear it, but we’re home, not at the doctor’s office.”

“You’re right, Castor must be recording this himself.” Ralph realized. “Castor if you can hear us, do not give Shelly this recording. You need all of us to go home.”

“Calea tea-uh! Calea tea-uh!” Andy said.

“Oh, of course, the Calea tea.” said Carl.

“We put it in cupboard.” Steve continued, and for once it sounded like his dry humor might have evaporated.

Castor was up and walking towards the kitchen before Tom could say, “You should drink a cup right now.” And he sounded almost happy.

“You should drink many cups,” Ralph added, “it’ll help Pollux to connect with you tonight. He’s not dead, Castor, just out of touch.”

Ogre barked out an agreement.

Castor yanked at the cabinet door in front of him, and there it was. A giant bag of tea leaves labeled “Calea Zacatechichi.” In smaller letters beneath it said “Mexican dream herb.”

How Castor had not noticed it was a testament to his recent tunnel vision. The bag was right next to his coffee, which he used daily. He opened the tea and sniffed; it had a peppery smell. May as well give it a go.

First the first time in a long time, Castor finally felt like he had a purpose. Interesting to note that his dissociative identities had been the ones to cheer him up. Using the technical term for his “condition” brought him back into the doctor’s office; Dr. Shelly would have a field day with that little tidbit. She acted professional and all that, but there was a gleam in her eye when she’d diagnosed him. Castor guessed conditions like his were probably rare, so he couldn’t really blame her. But he also couldn’t help feeling resentful about being her lucky little lab rat.

He put the bag down and glanced down at his phone to see if the play head was still moving. The boys had been silent for a while… but the seconds were still ticking away— he guessed they were done for now. Maybe for the day. But you never know, so Castor let the silent file play on, as he made his way to the sink to fill the teapot.

Castor took a sip and scrunched his nose. Despite it’s appetizing smell, the stuff tasted bitter. He had no idea how he was going to get down a single cup of it, let alone several.

Maybe some lemon would make it better? He squeezed a hefty splash from the tiny bottle he kept in the fridge. He tentatively took a sip, and it was still awful. Sugar it is then, he decided, but even after four heaping spoonfuls, though improved, it was still barely tolerable.

Over the course of the next few hours, Castor drank as much of the nasty tea as he could while listening to the remaining audio he’d recorded the previous day. Aside from the occasional rustle though, nothing more came from his six new friends.

Castor questioned himself at that thought. Could they be his friends if they were actually a part of himself? It was strange, but now that he was aware of them he felt a sort of attachment to them. The thought of handing them over to Dr. Shelly didn’t sit right with him. They were afraid of her, because she wanted to get rid of them. He couldn’t help but empathize with them. What if it were him who was to be annihilated from existence? He was sure he’d feel the same.

He was glad he had some time to think things through before his next appointment. Time to get to the bottom of what his new “friends” were trying to tell him. Castor wasn’t sure he totally believed everything they were telling him. And some of it most certainly confused him. But knowing that Pollux still existed somewhere and that there was a chance he’d be able to talk to him again burned a flame of hope in him so bright, that he could easily look past all the weird nonsensical things he’d overheard.

Castor hadn’t had a memory lapse since the previous day. And he was grateful, especially since he was unable to record and listen simultaneously. After he’d reviewed the last bit of white noise he’d captured, he started a new recording.

It took such a long time for Castor to dilute the caffeine from all the coffee he’d drunk, but eventually he began to get sleepy. He crawled into bed and drifted away. When he saw his brother, alive and well, and reaching toward him, Castor finally felt like everything was going to be ok.

***

Dr. Shelly was still riddled with confusion, when the detective came by to drop off Castor’s phone. Though she was nodding her head as she took it from him, she wasn’t registering any of his words… she was still seeing the image of Castor’s empty, rumpled bed in her mind’s eye. The police hadn’t found a body in that bed, only what Castor had left behind: the tiny mic she’d recommended and his phone. No one who went anywhere willingly left their phone behind. You didn’t have to be Nancy Drew to know that. Dr. Shelly forced a smile as she shut the door behind the retreating officer.

It saddened her to no end that she had been the one to report Castor missing; that he had no friends or family who’d noticed he was gone. And now, after the police had taken their time coming up with nothing, they were finally letting her have her turn.

Dr. Shelly was no detective, but she knew that the longer a person was missing, the less likely it was that they would be found. That’s the only reason she opted to listen to the latest recordings on Castor’s phone first, despite her preference to listen to them in order.

She pressed play on the last file recorded. It took awhile to get to it, but Castor’s voice finally came through. And, as calmly as she’d ever heard him, he said, “Oh yes, Pollux, I’m so ready to come home.”

[Conclusion:]

Well, my friends, I hope you enjoyed my modern twist on the Castor and Pollux story. I actually didn’t have a clue in the world as to who these two were until I did a little Googling. Castor and Pollux are twin half brothers from Greek and Roman mythology. For our purposes, we’ll stick to the Greek version of the story.

While Castor and Pollux shared the same mother, they had different fathers. Castor’s father was the King of Sparta, which made him a mortal, but Pollux was a demigod whose father was Zeus himself. One day, when the twins were fighting side by side in battle, Castor was struck with a lethal blow. In order to save his brother, Pollux asked his father if he could share his immortality with Castor, which is how they both ended up transforming into the two brightest stars in the Gemini constellation we still see today, to live together eternally in the night sky.

Upon further research, I also discovered that Castor’s star is not just one star, but actually six stars in one. And that’s when I stopped researching and started writing.

There is much more to discover about Castor and Pollux’s story, should you want to pursue it further, but I just wanted to give you a glimpse into what stuck with me as I rewrote my own modern take on how the Gemini twins found each other in the sky.

So before we say goodbye, I’d like to send big virtual hugs over to Hannah, who was so kind as to share her art with us today, and who gave me the breadcrumbs to follow that eventually led me to writing this story. Unfortunately for you, both Castor and Pollux, the paintings, are both already sold, but there is plenty more cosmic eye candy available for your viewing and purchasing pleasure over @hannahandthecosmos on Instagram. So definitely check that out whenever you can.

Thanks so much for listening, my friends… I’ll catch ya on the next one.

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