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I EXIST

© Ricar Sarav 2002

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A maculis decor
J. Boschius
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INTRO

It matters not who I am, in the bigger picture. I am unimportant. I only am one
who observes. I watch and watch. I am there, on the rooftop, and I see the world turn,
ever so fast. People run and never arrive. Times definitely have changed, and they do so
more by the minute. Yesterday, changes were at human rate; presently, they are at that of
the machine. Those caught up in it are dizzy; and these refer to certain others as ‘late’.
To share with you what I have seen, is my desire. Many adventures I have had,
but there are many ‘adventure stories’ out there for me to add just one more. Perhaps
someday, who knows. Or should I say some night? Well, there it is: I am an unnatural
being, resembling an enigmatic looking man. This is not to be the emphasis of this tale,
however. I shall endeavour not to be too obvious. There is more obviousness in this
world than is necessary. And it is precisely of this I wish to speak here; about those
things that became so loud, and so entangled, for so long, that they have left humanity
numb. Thus, you are not aware anymore. Well, some of you. The most of you. Blind and
deaf. Trust my vantage point: I behold, and I listen, from the outside.
Sometimes, it gets to be too much, this watching. I perceive so much phenomena
that I must filter what comes into my perception organs. I control my perception
thresholds at will, which are wider than yours. For example, when I look at something,
the vision will blur like an impressionist painting, and the object of my focus is
heightened as though by a magnifying glass. I am intensified, to put it so; my senses and
abilities are immeasurably superior to those of a human being, but at a price: I am
banished, and I am limited in the circadian cycle to only half. I half live, and that is
maybe why I do not die, utterly. But I seize what I get, and on this I base my existence.
You can see, live, in the daylight (and I envy you for it); I can only have it in
reproductions.
As you can realize, I have resolved to share some of me, also. A need to be
acknowledged, to be seen, to be perceived, to be sensed, had been maturing in me for a
long, long time. I feel urged to know that I have being and that, perhaps, I am not as
detrimental as I can feel, or am made out to be. The more I am believed in, the more I am
present; by me, by someone, by all.
Through the ages, geography or epoch do not matter much, at least in the things I
shall tell, for humans are humans, and have changed little, albeit lately it seems plenty.
Without a doubt, time and place have a certain influence in people, but I keep stumbling
on the same subjects, though every one gets into these in their own singular way. Also,
bear in mind that singularity is relative. I contravene myself if I do not specify this.
For the sake of generalizing, I shall indulge myself with ‘people’, throughout this
narration, in order to show how the ones depicted here stand out from everyone else.
And then again, maybe it is their non-singularity that makes them a representative of a
larger species. No apologies or excuses will you get from me. Let us get to my point: the
vast majority of people behave as a mindless unity. Individuality is the big sacrifice, and
yet, everyone seems to be out for themselves. Most of them are uninteresting; they do not
shine as much, hardly sparkle. They are astounding only as a whole, as humanity,
continually struggling, in conflict with each other, and within themselves. Still, each one
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is decisive, for they at any rate influence others, and so forth. Anyone can become a
historical figure, so to speak, as it is proven time and time again. It is when humans are
alone, in the intimacy of the company of someone who will not censure them (at first, at
least), that they allow themselves out. Then, it is interesting, trivial though it may be. But
that is just it, at least to me. A great many people do not see perfection because they see
as human beings, not as divine beings; or as doomed ones. They should rid themselves of
the disguise sometimes.
Through this account, you might argue that ‘people are not that open’, and you
would be right. Many of them are shut and sealed off. In appearances and numbers, they
ensconce their insecurities and lacks, but this does not necessarily make them happy.
They get by. Most of them are inert, so I do not engage them. Another lot is desperately
looking to be heard, to communicate and be communicated to, and I can make them
express themselves, occasionally, with a little extra effort. They are ever so eager to talk
about themselves, for no one listens any longer. When there is a chance, they grab it: I,
me, myself, mine. It is rather convenient for me; no inquiries on me. Nevertheless, every
once in a while, someone does. I swerve, hither and thither; it is better that they do not
know. Moreover, I believe they can feel the emptiness in me, the wide waste that I am
inside, and seize the gratuitous space to lighten the weight of their enormous ego or their
own big loneliness. This is closer to the truth, I would say.
Loners attract me. I relate, I suppose. They have more to tell than those in packs,
in hordes, where the self is diluted. They go their own way.
How I meet with them? I can introduce myself in almost any situation. However, I
cannot just present myself and pretend to be admitted everyplace. Among humans, it is
easier for me to make my path on a relatively private basis. The opposite, mingling in
crowds, is not much trouble either. I pass unnoticed, if I desire to. There are some days,
and nights, that you celebrate, when I am the least wary and the most social, such as
carnivals or the like, or on that nowadays widely spread custom of All Hallows’ Eve.
This is not an attempt to be witty or ‘funny’, on my behalf, believe me; on such nights,
some fellows let themselves loose, and put a mask over their mask. A flash of freedom.
Harmless and mediocre, mostly, but nevertheless, quite telling. On such nights, I do wear
a costume as well: that of a human. The rest of the time, I am… not.
On occasion, there are some that sense a difference in me, but quickly dismiss it,
and I choose then to leave their presence. I try not to look at them in the eyes for too
long, lest they see me for what I really am. And, though I must declare that it is still, and
I guess will always be, pleasant to be liked, even loved, for a while, it annoys me when
they flee from me. Their fear wounds me; but, what are they to do? What creature does
not flee from a predator?
These times’ indifference is my most effective disguise. They used to believe more
before. So it was more dangerous for me. Faith was keener. Now, it is dull; people are
dull, convinced that they are sharp. They rationalize in this age; use those mechanisms
that intend to explain the obvious, as well as the unexplainable. It grants peace to some,
a weapon to others. No room to believe in the supernatural. So they call ‘fantasy’ all that
is not ‘reality’. However, this that they call fantasy is that other reality which many deny,
only because it is not observable directly, but only indirectly. When some say, ‘it might
be telepathy, necromancy, synchronicity, it might be an angel, it is written in the stars’,
there could be the possibility that they got it right. That possibility is it –is me. It is the
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door to that other world that is as real as this one. Men of science ask themselves why
whales hurl themselves out of the water, and I say it is because it makes them feel free, it
feels grand for them, to get high, and when they someday say that it is some type of
communication or mating signal, I will still believe in my averment. I just feel it.
To add to my advantages, one stumbles upon the strangest characters everywhere
now and no one makes something of it. Yet, when I encounter someone with a spark in
the eyes, a shine, I go after them, like a moth to the light bulb. Sometimes I smash against
it, and sometimes, more than once at a time, only to know what they are made of, if you
get my meaning; to find out where they get their shine from and enjoy some brightness.
Every single person has a story, but not all are that enrapturing. It is not a coincidence, I
believe, that each one in my forthcoming stories had a unique physical feature: nearly
pointy ears, sensual, crooked teeth, specked eyes, skin all covered in freckles, wrinkles
like dry waterways. Some could argue that not two persons are alike, but ‘special’
persons have almost always a certain something, physically, which makes them
distinctive, be it a gift, a flaw, or just ‘something’.
My face is quite theriomorphic. There is no mistaking me. Or is there? If I must
be truly specific for your sake, I shall tell you that my looks are Mediterranean. I
concentrate not to exhibit my emotions much. My nature is revealed more easily so, and
sometimes it is frightening, for it is too extreme. For instance, if I am upset, or if anger is
rising in me, I bristle, invisibly, but not to those with their third eye open. It is not
advisable to anger me, though; my might is quite superior to that of any human being;
but I use it to amuse myself sooner than to harm. If I laugh, I do it loudly, like a madman,
though this very seldom takes place. When I fall in thrall with something or someone, it is
plain to perceive that my desire is only too savouring, and when I am hopeless in
nothingness, I look a corpse. I would say that all I am is ever evident in my eyes. Do not
think that it is the same with everybody because it is not. Some are buried in their own
depths, some are simply dead…
With some of those I mentioned earlier, I converse. Those who appear strong or
arousing enough. Others seem better left alone, or as if they cannot express themselves
verbally, for whatever reason: these I listen to with my mind, and often, most of the time,
really, it is more intimate thus. Purer is the exact word. Some are quite confused, but
seem ‘normal’ to everyone else; others are crazy, inside and outside, and it is like an
accident, a chaos. Although I have witnessed my share of atrocities, and am hardly
shocked anymore, only a glimpse is enough, for I simply cannot make much of them, of
every single one, but again, only as a whole. They are the result of neglect, of sheer
insanity; now and then, of nature’s mistakes, even as they say that nature is perfect.
What I find is reverberation, several-fold: people do not forget; most of them just
let themselves go; only few grab some sort of moral hold; all they want and need is love;
they wish earnestly to believe that they will be fine, that there is a Greater Being that
watches over them, and that pain or fear, as profoundly as they have felt it, will not
possess them again. Some find reasons and others do not. Many are asleep, a handful is
awake, but at least almost everybody has had a dream. And so on.
Much spoken and little said. I have never been one of many words myself, and the
more I go on, the more I realize how these are wasted and over-generated, as what
would be expressed can be done with only a sentence, or even less: a look, a physical
touch, a smile, a frown. The heart speaks through many means, but the mind gets in the
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way. People squander words. They make noise. Their ears are saturated, not sweetened.
Perhaps that is why they choose not to listen any more. If chanting is less and less by the
moment, what is there to listen to?
Now, regarding vision, I am cautious not to go into their sight too intently. People
feel naked, and fall in a spell; and I too, I must say. Then they could discover me –too
close for comfort. There is another fashion to see, however, to perceive; just as I can see
and listen to colors and intensities and sounds that the human range cannot, likewise I
can accede to those other vibrations that tinge the inner world of people –also, even
smell and taste them. Sometimes thoughts are very clear, like speech. Others, such as
single words or expressions; I shall ‘fill in the blanks’ all the way through to make sense
for you. Other times, I get only feelings. The most abstract. Oft have I wondered if I was
projecting my own images or feelings, as it is not uncommon, when people are especially
open and receptive, for them to utter something I had in myself. Some definitely are
looking for something in me –we all look for something in others. Then again, I tend to
get close like this, so I am not that far apart. But, sooner or later, in our exchange, they
sense ‘my spots’.
The gift I cherish most has been the stuff of dreams for human beings, probably
since their beginning: not to be bounded by gravity, to take to the air, on invisible wings,
to be free as a bird, as the saying goes. It is liberating, most definitely, let me tell you, to
be able to behold the wonders of the earth and its guests, like ants swarming over their
lighted anthills; it puts everything ‘in perspective’, so to speak. It is a power like no
other, a veritable elevation of the spirit, a conquest over the world, hardly describable
otherwise. And yet, there are times when this gift feels like an anathema, as I realize that
I am no bird, that only angels should be granted this blessed faculty, that humanity
entails being earthbound, to have the feet over the ground –and I need to believe that I
have some humanity left in me. It is as though flying were tantamount to being adrift in a
vacuum of anti-nature, in a space of willful aberration. I try not to go in there, for my
own good, and only concentrate on taking pleasure in it, but even pleasure can induce
such dark feelings: sometimes, there is just so much beauty to experience, within and
without, that it feels so foreign to one such as me.
There have been circumstances in which some must have sensed this gift. Ever
and anon, they think that I am an angel, when I am just the contrary. I cannot deny that I
rather love this comparison, for I feel such endearment for those beings that I would be
like them, yet, upon their smiling, they do not display stinging teeth, and this makes all
the difference –as if this were the only one. At least such are those that hover in the space
of my head. But such attribution has even turned into tragedy a few but too many
regrettable times: they would believe in higher beings, and, instead, they got the lower. A
cruel way to be reminded, for them and for me. When I became this that I am, I
remember I hurt the innocent, making no distinctions, instead of retaliating against the
true culprit. Believing myself innocent once, I would see myself in those who were so,
and being undone, I would undo them too; there is such a simple and twisted logic to it:
a human legacy. Sorrow granted me licence. It was easy, easier, thus. When it hurts,
when it feels as though you are being ripped of your guts, you shut your eyes tight, do
you not? One can get lost when sightless. But ever so slowly, one begins to see, though
one’s eyes are not the same as before. I admit that my livelihood drives me, but
somehow, I have been developing a sort of scruple, which could be summed up into a
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reconciling sentence: ‘the dark to the dark’. So, I am a channel, a funnel, an accelerator.
I intend to enforce it whenever I can, but I shall not mislead you: trusting my mood, there
is nothing to trust on. I do not do more wrong than I need to, but it makes no difference, I
think. I mean, there is enough havoc on this earth. But you know this. Let me tell you that
some subjects are just plain obscure; I can see it, see in the dark, and these spare my
conscience, if I have one. And who, you may ask, is to determine who is innocent, who is
evil, who is good? We ourselves do. Each one of us. It is a personal judgment call, yet
one that comes from what we have been told before, and are told now; from a broader
understanding –and misunderstanding. There can be agreements and disagreements, and
always there will be the necessity to pick from two evils, as well as from two goods, but
the choice is personal, as well as the reasons for it. The path of each one is ‘one only
person wide’. All progress on their own, in life and in death. It is hard, if not impossible,
to forsake where one comes from, and the world’s influence affects even one such as me.
Life has been gaining more value with every passing century, as humanity finds itself
closer in a place that seems to get smaller.
But as I have mentioned, I have certain abilities: I can listen to the unsaid, sense
the colors of the heart somewhat stronger than humans. This makes a difference, which
casts me into exhausting trips with the purpose of finding rationales to conciliate my
nature and my mind. They are like siblings that do not get along, sometimes.
It is all a chain: one bad deed leads to another. When I play good, from one point,
I could be prolonging it, from another, I could be severing it. It depends. Some say that
this chain is exactly as it is supposed to be.
Sometimes, I am contradiction, others, I am utterly biased. Get it?
Humans are like glasses, like grails, like chalices, like horns, like wooden or clay
cups. Different vessels, same spirit. I imbibe from them to quench my thirst. They have
got life to spare; some at least. But I do not empty them every time because I do not need
to. Not anymore. Only when I like. It gives them a purpose to be full, indeed, even if some
appear empty. Certainly some are, and then I really empty them. Nothing is lost, I tell
you. If I delved on the effect I have on every single person I come across, I would not be
able to go on; and go on I do, willingly or not. I do not deem myself a merciless game
hunter. I am now more of a sport hunter, with an edge. I appear to appreciate life now.
Once again, I get what I need. These times it is not a great deal, or rather, it depends. If I
need my capacities in greater quality and quantity, I must get more, logically. All the
worse for some. But let me confide in you: nobody misses the ones I take most. No one
notices. Still, I could not be blamed for every mishap that there is. There are other
causes.
Lately, I consider myself fortunate to be able to see, to experience, and come out
alive, albeit sometimes barely –but then again, life is relative, correct? I feel like an
artist feels, doing what he was born to do, and loves to do, and gets the world in return. I
cannot contribute to evil, willingly, when good is all I get. Well, not always; I am getting
carried away. It is not that simple. I am grateful for the treats the world renders me, but I
hold a murdering grudge against existence. There is a difference.
And then, on occasion, I feel like there is only scrap left of me. Sometimes I
believe that I live, sure; others, that I survive; and others, that I merely exist; and
sometimes, not even that.
It feels pleasant to be telling you this, indeed. I thank you for your interest.
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I am able to move forward in this life, if I should call it so, with a somewhat
sharper grasp, and get to learn and know. Some would say that it is in a personal and not
universal form, and I could not agree more; and care less. I only get richer, though
nothing is for free, as they say. I too suffer, not like everybody else, but in a more
profound and torturous manner, as my intensified nature dictates. It is Hell on earth
when I do, let us put it that way, and I know how hellish pain can be for human beings as
well. What is pain for me? Loneliness. It seems as though my whole existence is one
struggle to endure it. Forever, and never desired. It is such a mill, blown by the
proverbial butterfly’s flap of wing, grinding, lacerating my heart. Thus, my liaisons,
natural wilderness aside, just cannot last, or at least not in conventional ways. My way is
too long and wide, wider than you could ever imagine. I can never remain, much less fall
in love. Some get deep in me, but there is no future, because there is just too much future,
to name one reason. I appear to be changeless, in a world of change –the strange and
jarring undoing of me. My time is different than yours: picture it as if mortal time were
stretched as a rubber band; what it takes one day to discern, it takes a year to me, for
example. And yet, I grasp things rather supernaturally quick. It is not really measurable.
Not liable for conversion. I did not mean to confuse you.
An orphan of time; that is what I am. And then, what is time? What anchors me to
the past is true life and love, or rather, their loss; to the present, music and curiosity; and
to the future, the dream. Still, all this goes ever on within me, simultaneously.
I am not always around human beings, however. Sometimes I am in the
wilderness. A sensation so ample, that it is without reckoning. I am surrounded by
immensity. Such a giant entity of sorts, so big, that it is infinitely slow. And infinitely
alive. Sometimes I help myself with a few of the inventions of humankind there;
everywhere, in fact. Even though I could call myself a roamer, I have fixed myself many
different kinds of lairs all over the world, depending on the circumstances and
availabilities. It is always stimulatingly challenging to get to a place and come across the
things I shall necessitate to make my faring ever so agreeable, or at least endurable,
depending on my mood.
A creature of twilight I am, though I only come alive at night. You will understand
what I mean.
I have been around for a long time, and let me tell you: there is always
something new to learn. One can always be surprised. Had I lost that, I would really be
dead. By now, I have learned a lot, but since one never stops learning, as some sages
have marked correctly, there are things for me to look forward to yet. Do you see? I
suppose I am naive still in some respects, and thank Providence for it. The way, anyone’s
way, is laden with adventures, if one is only acute enough to be aware of them; and be
willing to get into them, of course. ‘What does not kill you makes you stronger’: such
prodigious truth. It is such a jewel, such a sword, such a mantra, such a torch. I fall in
love with essences, wherever I get them from.
Several purposes there are for the collection of anecdotes that follow. I have them
in me, and if I do not share them, if I do not let them out, it will be a waste. Everybody
has something to say, even I. And this has a drive of its own. I write it because I am
unable to share it freely, or better yet, this is some kind of freedom for me. Words save
me, just as music does; they are a way out for me, and into me. From my quills, my
feathers. With my feathers I soar, like feelings, stories, or thoughts do. Rooted in my
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veins, nourished by my blood, they grow out of me. And, though sometimes I see these
feathers and enjoy them, and let them take me high away, others I forget about them,
ignore them, am not able to see them, or maybe I lose them inadvertently, because of lack
of care, of pride, of might, of drive: that is when I am down, so much so that I can not lift
my head. With these feathers I spill my heart out, and the ink is my blood. Every thought,
feeling, story to tell, one feather of mine goes. New ones grow back, nevertheless, but
every word is like a flier itself, in the end. And still, inside, I am more images than words.
I shall specify to you throughout, for clarity’s sake.
Existence is barter, give and take. I take, and I receive as well. This once, I wish
to give something back, if I can. Everything and everybody we come across can teach us,
as I have been proven time and again, though not very many are masters. In truth, I do
not seek sympathy nor approval nor to be liked even. Only one can furnish oneself with
that, and I manage.
Another reason is that you get the perspective of, well, let us say, one like me. I
belong to a breed apart –apart, such isolating word, yet, precise–, even though I shall
not mention others. I will just say that the only thing that binds us together is our nature,
but we are as different as the next one. Each one deals with their existence in a distinct
manner: some are cruel, some are always wondering, some have gone mad, some are not
alone, some even pretend. I myself feel uneasy in the company of most of them. I sense
from them a kind of primeval rivalry in which I care not to partake. Seldom have I read
or seen depictions of our like that are authentic, maybe only in certain details; most
common ones are cartoon-like theatricals. Affected in extreme. As you progress through
these pages, do not picture me thus. Personally, it bothers me not, however, the
stereotype. I mean, what do they know, correct? I think it rather helps anonymity, as one
is far from such comic demeanours. Reserved we are. I do not like to say ‘we’. I should
not speak so. It has ever been ‘they’ and ‘I’. I care not about them. I am alone. I make in
solitude my wandering steps. They, anyone mostly, either love me or hate me. And time
and time again, few glimpse me. Oh, yes: this beastly circumstance applies to me as well
–it is ever the even against the odd, is it not? I go on and on, but sometimes I am so
exhausted that I nearly lose my mind. I have wondered, scraping from the very depths of
my own bottomless pit, to my brief but revealing contacts with heaven, and everything
amidst these, whether there is a point in me. If it is not doing this that I do right now,
communicating, I must say I have not found it yet. I hope it is this, if not anything better.
Given my condition, I doubt it. And this feels alleviating. Long gone are the times when I
feasted in self-loathing.
Be certain that these happenings took place, while you slept, while you were
awake. Maybe I strolled right by you once, and I was only another passer-by to you.
Maybe, you have glimpsed me, and thought that I was a strange one. You hit half the
mark. I too have seen you: you are one of the kind. These stories are moments when all
fit, in which all made sense, perfectly. It is perfection, though it may not seem so at first
glance to you. To me, it did.
This is a vamping. I do not pretend to convey here ultimate truths. I only mean to
tell of simple things which to me are beautiful. Bear in mind that not all things beautiful
are pleasant or happy. I dare not guess what you will find in the coming accounts,
however, may this not dissuade you, but allow you to empathise, and thus feel. I do this
primarily for myself. If you obtain something out of it, that is even better. My point is
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this: I keep hearing the same songs; sometimes it is comforting, and sometimes it is
disconcerting, and sometimes it is bewildering.
As the rock and roll bard said, “the song remains the same”.
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WATCHINGS

There was a lonely cloud up in the sky. It was neither big nor small. It had a
proportional size in this frame of my vision. It was not too far away. I mused about it; I
would wing-ski that purple cloud, light speed, as though on safer, higher grounds. I
will…
I am. The attraction of this celestial world is stronger on me than the one below. I
can see why: bare, softly curvaceous, spirit colored, placid. To dive into this dream
substance. To feel the water, as a whisper, as oceans wrapped in ether. To be smitten,
charged by the electricity, the quintessence of The Mystery. It is like a beautiful and
palatable woman, lain down. I drifted, upwards, and away. A long airway off into blissful
abandon.
Surreal. Like the deepest zone of the mind: no up or down, no here or there, no in
or out. To fly over the sea, so high that you can see the moon mirrored over the ocean,
and above, in the sky: I am caught between two moons. The stars are the waves, and the
waves are the stars. Dark, yet sublime. Nothing like clear nights out in the open sea, as
any sailor will attest. You would think that by being far up from the ground, or the water,
for that matter, I would not be any closer to the stars than you, as they are trillions of
leagues away; but I am. I tell you I am. And they do chime, just like Le Petit Prince said
they would, just like every truth this my recent great avatar ever said. But only
sometimes. Sometimes, they do not. Then, I am the loneliest one.
I let the wind carry me such a kite. I found myself glided back, still high over the
land. Artificial lights made a dismal contrast to what I had just beheld, and I headed for a
less populated region. Why did I come back here?, I queried myself. Eventually, I was
traveling over a deserted highway. There was a car streaming on it. I got slightly lower,
close, to be able to listen to the driver’s thoughts:

“I’m gliding…
A space wanderer…
A wonderer in space…
All is dark…
All but the reflecting lines that are like stars…
They guide me as I outrun them fast…
Into the dark…
I’m going into myself…

This space-scape looks all the same…

I’ve left time behind…
The motion sensation seems to disappear…
As does the droning…
It’s the shooting stars that speed by now…
I am just still…
Where was it I was going anyway…?
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Here I am”

Fascinating. What some people come up with when they let themselves go.
Such a dark angel, I followed his advance, aloft. Something of a pain arose in
him, and he arrayed it with words:

“I feel horizontal
Ground on the ground
Unable to beat the pull… or the push

I guess I could
But I don’t feel up to it
Don’t feel like anything, if not for this
For going…

I’m in a whirlwind, in a sewer

Being sucked in
I’m missing something, inside, in my head
And I don’t know where to find it
No one can help
This I’ve found, but it feels like I’ve lost, by doing it

My girl… how I miss you…!

I’m so sorry!
I want to be a good father to you
But she won’t let me

It was just one time… one time…

Please, I’ll never do it again…!
Oh, fuck it!”

The last sentence echoed in him. He would not fight against tears anymore, he
said to himself, and took a swig from a bottle. I sensed the numbing of his wits.
Another car was coming near, behind him. I focused on its occupant and was
surprised.
Opaque. Nothing in him shone. He was wrapped in darkness, and I did not see
something worthwhile inside to hide –nothing bright, that is. He had grisly secrets. He
babbled; his voice sounded drowned out in murky waters. A Picasso he resembled:
unbalanced, badly composed. I had met his kind before. The infernal fugitives. During
the times of the iniquitous factories of reluctant saints, or The Inquisition, as it is known,
some of them even played a public, though nonetheless sinister role, and on one man
terror reigns, the same, but in the vilest shadows; they are the bloody hands of someone
else, someone powerful. More often than not, they are bred in the middle of ‘civilization’.
Some times they have been caught, others they have not. And this one was even
predictable.
 13

Blurry images crossed his mind. He had a fetish for sharp metal objects: their
shape, their shine, their cold feel. He had not that many, however. He fell in love with his
steel ware, and he had to fall in love with a new one, so he could dispose of the habitual
one. This is only a manner of speaking, however; he felt nothing. He was not a human
being, in the human sense of the notion –only looked like one. He did not have a heart.
He did not relate to people. He interacted with them, as mechanically as they could react
to him.
To be a real human being, it came to me, as I see it, from the outside, one has to
affect another’s life in a useful, preservative manner. Like giving a hand, a word, a know-
how, a tool, a song, love. Otherwise, that ‘one’ is just the unknown, falling tree in the
middle of the deep forest; only a nameless organic being; or, in an accidental or
destructive mode, like a tornado, an earthquake, an avalanche, a hailstorm, a
conflagration, a drought. Nonetheless, for many, those such as these are nothing but a
pebble in their shoe, an itch that is hard to scratch, solely an effect of nature’s freak
course. He was both: nameless, and nature’s harmful detour, as he was split. In this
moment, he was being the latter. And, probably, he was never someone’s son: he was the
outcome of one who never was, most likely. Rather, of two.
Nevertheless, people were his favorite pastime. Exclusively, women. Not too
young, not too old. He lured them, and then played with them. This was his thing. I saw
images of slaughter. He was captivated by how in some places of the human body, the
blood gushes like an open faucet, and in others it comes out little by little, like his
salivating mouth when he acted these pleasures of his out. There was nothing inside him
but this. There were enormous voids where memories, tomorrows, and emotions would
be. He was like an animal. More accurately, an insect; a mantis. Famished he was. He
had been out hunting for hours, with no ‘luck’.
Thus, he drove alongside the rolling spaceship in front of him. The night driver
turned automatically to the mantis’ car on his left, but thought nothing of it. He was on
another road. The mantis slowed down and let the night driver get on slightly ahead of
him. He was somewhat disappointed: it was a man. For some while, he thought about it.
It was not perfect. But he was getting feverish. The idea of hitting the night driver’s car,
in order for him to stop, was his final choice. I wondered if anyone whose car was hit by
another, driving down the highway in the middle of the night, would stop.
And then, it happened. I switched back to the night driver, and I saw a connection.
He was perhaps so open, so vulnerable, so perceptive to life, and to death, that he must
have caught what was coming up for him. He brooded:

“I’ve tried…
And I’m tired
Dead tired…

In the end, everything ends, everything dies

If I knew I were to die
I would like to feel at ease, excited, thankful
I would try not to see injustice, because it is not
It’s peace, rest
 14

Those that depart shouldn’t be pitied

The pain that is felt is because the dead leave the living
It’s something selfish
Or maybe not
Those that leave will be missed
One will not be there to give and get anymore
That’s the inevitable hole
That fills with time, evocations, acceptance
Some say the ones that leave can take care of the ones staying here
From wherever it is they go
I’d believe it, for you, my baby girl…

Sometimes, it appears inadvertently

Others, we plainly see it coming before us
It can present itself as a companion, be there at one’s side all the time
Sometimes it sneaks up from behind…

Death reaps us all

I feel I particularly would like to meet It
To know
And, surely, to escape”

Was I the ‘companion’, here, above him? Had he sensed me? I was certain that he
had serenely sensed the mantis, sneaking up behind him.
Then, he increased the speed of the automobile, who knows why; purpose,
survival, whim? The mantis behind did so also, but his was not as fast; it was a somewhat
old model. He lagged behind. There was no real chance of him getting near again.
The night driver had the impression that he was delving through symbolism:

“I know
Someday, it will catch up with me
Or maybe it awaits further down the road…

It just let me know

I leave it behind, tonight
It’s not my time yet”

He never truly knew how close he had been. However, he was feeling better, as he
reflected that he had gotten a sign tonight, and was thankful that he had. In his soul, he
must have really been thankful for his life. That night, he must have had the assistance of
his true watchers, invisible but perceptible. With his new course, he accompanied himself
with a softly sung song. Nice. I knew that one, and it was quite appropriate.
I slowed down my course, alighted, and waited. I was going to hitchhike.
The mantis pulled over right in front of me. We exchanged the usual speech and I
got in his vehicle. I could feel his uncanny excitement, which he literally transpired. He
was not talking, so, I did.
 15

“You were not looking forward to picking up a man tonight, were you?”
“What…?! What do you mean?” he asked with a sticky voice, as he turned at me,
startled, or as startled as one such as this can get.
“I mean it is rather chilly tonight.”
“What?”
“The night, cold as a blade, did you not hear me well?”
“What do you mean?” Various confusing thoughts besieged him, but nothing
concrete. He needed control. He felt that he had to do something.
“Here, in the car? Will it not be messy?” I said.
He stopped the car. I played nervous.
“What are you doing? Why did you…?”
“I need to check on something.” He got out, and walked like a stray dog with its
tail between its legs. His head hanged low, beaten-like. Aside from this, he looked like
nobody. He went around the car and got to my side. The gleam of the knife in his hand
was his better way to express himself. “Get out,” he said. I did. He tied my hands in my
rear and we started walking away from the car and the highway. He was behind me, with
his weapon against the nape of my neck in one hand, and with the other, he pushed me
and yanked at my binds.
A good distance away from anything, I transmitted to him, mind to mind, to look
behind, for he was being followed. He turned around, suspiciously, and saw nothing. I
did it once more, and the same happened. One third time, he let go of me and turned
around fully, squalling, “whose there!”, to no avail. When he turned back, I was not
there. He looked everywhere. This was totally unanticipated and impossible. He was
confounded. This had never happened; in his world, these things never did; he was
always in control. For a brief second, he blamed himself for having picked up a man,
instead of a woman. Then, I pronounced:
“Walk your way, and you will get there. Be still, and nothing will come. Cross
another’s path, and you will stray from yours.”
I was exactly over him, in the air, playing angel of vengeance yet once more. Who
was I avenging, I do not know. I am possessed by this delusion ever and anon, and I do
precisely the opposite of what I had just preached.
Now, he was veritably out of himself. But still, no emotion from him. It was very
instinctual, as everything in him. He felt the prey now. Just as the hunted can hardly
think, he simply started running, farther away from his car, I must add. He did not look
back. After several minutes, when he paused to catch his breath, feeling less in danger
from the fact that he did not see me, I greeted him, from behind. He faced me, even more
flustered.
“Tonight, you are the unlucky one, my friend. And you just got lucky. I shall
release you,” I said to him. I grabbed him by one arm. With the other, he tried to stab me,
but I held it as well. I crushed his bones. Still, he did not open his mouth. Still, he did not
feel anything. I wanted to know if he would feel any remorse, fear for his life, anything.
But he did not. He was an insect, from the strictly biological perspective. All he felt was
the physical pain, which was not small in degree. He writhed and panted, that was all. I
let go of him, and he blundered away, his broken arms dangling. I caught up with him,
throwing him down to the ground. I stepped on one of his knees and smashed it.
 16

“Say something, anything,” I urged him. He only looked at me. I crushed his other
knee. More pain, that was all. He was tough. The small mind he had had all along in his
base life was gone now. Heart, he had never developed. I wondered if there was a soul in
him. I sat on a boulder, and watched him for a while. He was suffering, lying there, but
he withstood it. I did not desire him to lose consciousness, so I grabbed him by the
underarm, and we went up.
With him in my hold, I reached the ocean. I was amidst that alluring darkness
once more.
“Take a look at this,” I told him. His eyes did not even focus any longer. “It is
beautiful. This is the last, and maybe the only beautiful sight you will ever…” It was
futile. He was bewildered. I held him from both armpits, and spoke this to his grimacing
face: “What is the difference between you and I? Are we the same…? Are we brothers?
Does this redeem me, even vaguely?” I crushed his thorax. I felt his ribs crack. Breath
burst out of him. I let him loose. He fell, like a dead weight; it was as though he were
being swallowed. I did not see him plunge into the water. I was too high up. He just
disappeared on his way down.
He should have kept to his method. The purest kind of Moloch, he was: those that
never know that they are.
I wandered off, like a dead leaf in the wind. Should I let myself drop too? Would I
drown after a while? Would I bury myself under the sea bottom, for the faint, filtered
light of the sun not to hurt me? I had not the will. I must have felt so empty that I became
unconscious.
My sense called me back, just before dusk, so I instinctively headed back to land.
No matter who or what I encounter, I can never evade myself. However, if I can
view my reflection back, hideous as it can get, that means that I am alive. I exist. The
secret is to see with the heart. And thus I feel, even if it is bad. Otherwise, I would be
another insect.
I killed him; I did not kill me. Projection to the extreme. I do not believe that one
shall be missed, though. But, really, what do I know? Nothing… if not how to blunder.
I must get some sleep.
 17

IT IS ONE

A horizontality that yields peace, these soft lines. Under the full moon, my sun.
Purple and lilac, the sky and the snow. It must be marvellous by day, the blue and the
white. The calm here is vast. The gale, the Great Spirit’s cool breath, as they say, strokes
and moulds water, land, animal, human. They must let themselves be, there is no choice.
The snow people. They are one with everything. They only take what they require, these
survivors, these teachers. I watch them over the distance, and they feel me, vaguely,
though not discern what I am. Do they sense life or death near? Do they feel menaced or
cradled by the night? I would not probe further, for my sake. By now, their endurance is
enlightenment. This whiteness is like a cloud, and they are only one step away from
inhabiting the Realm of Clouds. Wits of genius, talented hands, creating utensils such art,
from almost nothing –rather, of all nature provides, which is ever enough. They seem as
one and a half tomorrows up from the rest of the world. What I feel when I see them is as
if they, being a bevy, were all one person. Quiet. What is there to say, to talk about, when
they are so close to the truth? When life and death walk beside you, the journeying on the
edge sharpens you. And they know. They have a secret, and all would be saved should
they ask what it is. But they do not. Later on, they heard, but did not listen.
They reminded me of the Bedouins. Elementary peoples live in the truth. They all
are my favourite people. Other endangered species.
Wintertime, in the land of ever winter. I can remain longer, I mean, roving about;
the days are short lived here at this time. And it is then when I get one great sustenance of
mine, if not the greatest, from the few: the aurora borealis. It seems to me that, as every
place has its balance of nature’s beauty and fury, this wonder suffices in plenty for the
merciless cold at the earth’s ends. I fancy the angels, those little enlighteners sprinkled up
there called stars, would warm the hearts of the dwellers of these whereabouts by
flapping their wings, what is called scintillation, making the waves of light, the
varicoloured rippling and whirling that fosters me mostly with multitudes of green; a
green fire dancing on high. I can hear its tenuous music, as though far away –maybe too
far away from me. Add to this my lady moon, majestically luminous, and you can witness
the empyrean. It can move you to tears. It has that power to set you free.
The north peoples deified them, quite rightly. Even though the Valkirior’s errand
is to collect the souls of fallen heroes, they take me too. I too am fallen.
How could they have feared this beautiful wonder, in other vicinities of the
world? Around these whereabouts, they knew this was part of who they were. What
makes the difference of perception, after all?
I headed south. I cannot go on for long without this other kind of verdant, the
trees, and the cold can transfix one until there is nothing more than that, outside and
inside. And if you can just as well go, then, you go. I am seduced by nature, indeed. Any
wild place fills me with reverence, but I particularly am fond of these rocky shores, the
tall trees, the mist and the coolness of the atmosphere, the sea, the wood speech. It is all
haunted, hallowed. Life thrives exuberantly in the night. Sometimes, I find myself so
elated here, that I take to the air, penetrate deep in the forest, flying very fast, dodging the
trees for enjoyment, or I speed over the water, cutting the undulating surface with my
 18

hands, or do as dolphins, but inversely: I glide over and plunge in, just as they, in their
underwater race, fling themselves out. There is nothing comparable to the feeling of
water. It is embracing. My hypersensitive skin works more like a conductor than a
container, and it turns almost everything into most welcome pleasure. Once I deemed
myself diffuse, but now I see myself outreaching. Water is the blood of the world.
Other times, I light a small fire, and I feel.
Given I was to this one time, on the bank of an inlet, when I felt strong presences
nearby, one of them human. I extinguished the fire and sought it. I was curious, due to the
time of the night. As I got close, I sensed fear emanating from the human. I reached a
confrontation scene. There was a young man, stiffened before a mountain lion that held
him in its eyes at a very short range. Both were assessing their situation. However, the
more afraid the young one was, the more the feline smelled it, and thus, it jumped upon
him. The young man did what he could; he was all instinct now, and his conscience had
left him. Notwithstanding all efforts to defend himself, he was going to die. I only stared,
but then, I felt a sudden urge to save him. I got between them in no time, and grabbed the
big cat away. While the boy was lying on the ground, panting and bleeding, I wrestled
with the panther. It was amazingly exciting. It clawed at me, tried to bite off my face and
my neck, it growled and roared, as if wrathful. The animal was possessed by kill. I was
slashed and bitten severely on my arms and chest, I felt the ardour and the pain of the
wounds. And the heat in me burned in a driving fashion. I had not fed for many days, so I
was not as strong as I could have been. I realized that I had been enjoying the experience
only too much for my own good, as the cougar was tearing me to pieces. I did not mean
to hurt it, so I turned it around and, taking it by its tail, I hurled it off, relatively far. I
heard and felt its tail snap in this action. When the animal fell, it bellowed in affliction,
and scurried away. Now I was panting and bleeding. I searched for the young man, but he
had gone.
The smell of his blood and mine mingled in the air. I was catching my breath.
Then, I grinned, next, I smiled, after that, I chuckled, and I ended up laughing, and my
laughter became so loud that it turned into a roar. I was shining, with a strange feeling of
splendour, and its concomitant all-encompassing pleasure. I was getting high, and, as it
happens, totally unconsciously and inadvertently when I feel so, I was hovering, with my
arms and legs spread wide, as my open-mouth smile; strange as it may sound, I cannot
tell you how good it feels not to have to conceal my set of dagger teeth. Slowly, I
descended, let myself get sober at my natural rhythm, and walked back to where I had
camped; the hurt retuned gradually, in less degree. My clothes were torn and bloody, as
some parts of my body. I plunged into the water. The wounds stung, but this pain was far
from unbearable. Undoubtedly, a mortal would have died.
As the nights went by, I fancied with the idea of grappling with a cat, again. Then
I considered matches with other animals. But later on, I realized: they were not my
playthings. We were not natural enemies, so it would not be natural. And animals have
such noble spirits, I had to respect them. Thus, my wounds all healed up, I wandered
away from the region. We are only guests here; I, most of all.
Years passed, I wandered here and there, and my road spontaneously took me
back to that secluded corner of the world, a favourite of mine. I had never bothered the
folk that inhabited the closest to the point where I was the last time. Why, I do not know.
Nevertheless, this time, I decided that I would ‘get to know’ them. From a hill, by trees
 19

and big boulders that overlooked their settlement, I gazed on. Their simple,
straightforward, yet wise ways reminded me of children; such organized innocence. They
were quite pure, but human altogether; they had their weapons, and used them against
their neighbours, from time to time. I did not know any other people so close to the earth,
to nature. They were wild, free… yet. They were kin somewhat to those up north, whom I
had met the last time I had been around here, so there were similarities that reminded me
of that tightness between every element that exists, that veneration and connection they
felt toward everything that surrounded them. In this paradisiacal setting, who could not
feel so, I asked myself, for I had felt the same. One of the most admirable things to me
was that their speech did not waste any words, and it was poetic in itself, on account of
their nature. Symbolism and truth were the same for them, as I learned then that they
truly are. Though they were basically diurnal, their ceremonies performed in the night
time depicted not only their everyday habits, but also their myths and origins, all
interwoven with cycles, coalescence, respect, animals, spirits, ordinary men and women
involved in fantastic fables, and a deceptive simplicity which is really profundity. Their
portentous totem poles filled me with awe, as I felt the life in them –I wanted one, and it
made me feel childish, but then, are not toys totems for children? They only skinned the
bark off the trees to reveal their ancestors’ souls. Everything has a soul, one only has to
look beneath. This people suffered hardships and held celebrations, in the middle of a
routine that did not seem to be tedious for them in the least, probably because idleness
hinders survival, and they were ever busy. They lived in abundance, and knew it, and it
was indiscriminately for everybody and everything. That is true opulence. Wide awake
they were; beheld the invisible in the visible. They knew as well, and it was through this
gift that they tilled in themselves, this vision of theirs, that I was reached.
One night, when I arrived to my usual vantage spot, I encountered the claw of an
animal, deliberately arranged with other ornaments. I did not doubt too long. I knew that
it was meant for me to find it. Around my neck I put it on, and I felt magically alight. A
couple of nights went by, swift-footed. Somehow, I had looked forward to more ‘gifts’,
but I got nothing more. Thus, utterly unexpected was his presence, when he appeared. It
was sharp. The man walking towards me was not a common man. I got a sensation:
healing man. He was not afraid of me, and he knew that I perceived this. He glimmered,
and he was powerful, though there was a benevolent aura surrounding him, a serenity. He
was a wise one, I felt. I could not tell how old. He was beyond it, though this does not
mean that he was soon to die; he was quite alive. He smiled, briefly. Was he listening to
my thoughts? I bowed. He saluted me, and with his torch beckoned me to follow him. We
walked for some while, away from the settlement, side by side, though he kept a certain
‘safe’ distance. He looked at me when I perceived this, and nodded, almost
imperceptibly. We got to a clearing, and he made a fire on the ground; this simple act had
me bewitched by itself. He sat. I did the same, not opposite him, but slightly closer,
facing the fire. He stared at it, and spoke:
“Will you harm us?” From all I could have imagined that he would say, I never
would have guessed this. Yet, it made perfect sense.
“No,” I said.
“Are you here to deliver a message?”
“No.”
“What do you want?” he asked, his eyes on me. I did not know what to reply.
 20

“Forgive my intrusion. I do not want anything… that I am not given with

consent,” I replied. He turned his penetrating eyes back to the fire. I did the same, and we
remained so for quite a while. I envisaged myself sitting at a circle of men such as him,
staring at the fire. We stared at this sun-drop, in the center. It was a gathering; a time to
share, to rest, to recall, to ponder, to unite. A safe moment, conquering the night,
vanquishing the dark, warming up the soul, absorbing light through the eyes and the skin.
The allure of the fire. I stared at it, and witnessed as one who lived infinite winters ago,
through my blood, when it was a moody and mysterious demon. A good spirit, giving,
but angry at times. It was to be tended and venerated. A small sun, a center, attracting our
flames to gravitate around it; light summoning light. Light enhancing light. All becoming
one light. Gradually, I returned from this ceremony, with a very tenuous and unruffled
grogginess. I had never experienced anything like it. I looked at him, and I knew not only
that he had been there, but also that he had taken me there. He stood up and said,
“Remain in peace.” He left.
The following nights, we met at the same place where he made the fire. Even
though I did not disclose anything concerning myself beforehand, he identified me as a
demon, a lost soul. He let me know that, even though I was dangerous, he would risk
himself in my company. He said that it was fate that had brought us together. Trust I felt
from him, but he had an instinctual wary sense toward me. I was as surprised as grateful.
I was being beheld, and seen through, and it made me feel extraordinarily alive. I was
recognized as what I was, and would not be repelled or chased after; I was certain.
Respected I was, and I felt worthwhile. Of course, I would correspond to such kindness.
He told me about life in their nation. How they believed that all living things are
entitled to the same rights as they were, since all are part of the earth, The Mother, and
that any place or sight was thus venerable. From the ashes of their forefathers over this
Mother they came, and from their ashes their descendants would rise. They were not
owners of anything, but shared and took, with permission, only what they required to
exist, as every other living being did. He said that when people stray from nature, their
heart becomes hard, and that if they stop feeling towards nature, later, they stop feeling
towards other people, and so, a bad death is brought about. In nature, one can grasp
directly the mysteries of life, which lead to a good afterlife. The Great Spirit that created
the earth and the sky is not hidden, but in everything that surrounds us. The dead watch
over the living, and do not forget, as long as the living do not forget about them. One of
the things that struck me most was that they regarded any place where a sad or joyous
event had happened as holy. I recognized this such a subtle yet immense truth. He
manifested that his occupation encompassed healing, protection, guidance, relief from
mishap, and being the interpreter between the supernatural and humans. Also, that every
ritual conveyed a specific meaning and purpose, be it fertility, climate, a prosperous hunt,
anything; he said that rituals, no matter the size, are important, because they prepare the
way. I was told that there comes a time in the life of a person, when he or she must
become the individual that they are meant to be, and they set off in a solitary vision quest,
upon which they shall get signs from their guardian spirit. At this, he stopped. I thought
he was going to proceed; so taken I was by him and his wisdom; in a way, I felt as if he
was singing a song. It seemed to me that I was beholding a sort of Eden, a wild Eden. A
real Eden.
 21

All that he said was not only beautiful, but true as well. He, they, had solved the
riddles of humanity in a most sublime manner. They were not lacking of the lowly in any
human, but this was exactly what made them so. And they acknowledged this. They were
detached, but seizing at the same time. And they viewed death as part of life. A step.
Something not dreaded. That, indeed, was a relevant theme for me. I told him that there
were some peoples that had a sickly fear of death, and that, if they could, they would live
forever. I made him know, somewhat exasperatedly, that this was absurd, that they
plainly did not know what immortality was like. He understood what I talked about.
Some of my sorrow was revealed, and felt by him. I was not aware that he had felt it long
before this statement of mine.
“I think humans always want what they cannot have…” I said. “…Some of them;
pardon such word that includes everyone… All the while they are wishing for half their
things, thoughts, days, dear ones, times, bodies, places, passions, to remain so forever, as
they would have them, knowing by constant proof that it cannot be. Such deep and
pervasive nonsense. What the reason is for this yearning of… immortality, I wonder…
They are so afraid of death, even though so many wish for it, ever so secretly, as
respite…”
“Death is part of life, and both are what make up existence. We can enjoy the sun
but we cannot hide the shadow that every single one of us casts. It is like day and night,
life and death; each one has their turn… as you do…”
Away from day, I cast no shadow, I thought, and it hurt. I am the shadow. This
closeness I was taking pleasure in, even stealing, perhaps, created an illusion for me, a
lovely illusion, dissolved as smoke in that moment. I am a creature of the night, of death,
in death. No sun for me –if not for this. How could I have forgotten?
“Yes, you come from the night, and so, you do have a turn, a part, in the big
cycle.”
“And I always thought I did not. I felt…”
“You feel… the heart is there.”
My absolver. My acknowledger. All my guilt ever made me so blind not to see
what he saw. I mean, I wanted to believe he was right. There it was… again.
“I think it is the eternal in us,” he said. “Our spirit. It is in all we do, and we pour
it on everything. Perhaps we give it back, as the Great Spirit is everything. We want all as
our own soul. Our reference is inside us. What makes us human, thinking, sense, is this
ever-presence we feel… Maybe it is this sense-nonsense game what keeps them
stumbling, confusing and blocking themselves. Useless… All we have to do is let life
flow freely, and feel. In feeling we are won by our soul, this is how we are reacquainted
with the eternal, when we forget by thinking too much.”
He simply did not miss, ever. I was in awe, and glad for the fact that my memory
was very precise. I would not forget these words.
“It is ironic how an eternal being such as I is as they would be, and still…”
“You have a reason and a place for yourself in this Realm. Behold: life is like a
bead string. Each of us is a bead in the endless string of creation. We are joined to others
before us; they are the reason we are here. Had they not done all they did, things would
be somewhat different. Because we are here, and are doing what we are doing, there will
be some of us tomorrow. Then again, perhaps not. If we surrender here, because it seems
too hard, impossible, or simply out of neglect, they will not have much of a chance.”
 22

“Stop dreaming today, and there will not be a reality tomorrow.”

“It has never happened, though. Instinctually, we seek to prevail, and to continue.
But we also seem to harm, sabotage, and even wish to destroy, and terminate one another,
and even our own selves, at times. The beads before us were so. Despite knowing this, we
are so as well, in different ways, which in the end are as they have always been. But there
is more danger in this, because we can lose our soul. When hungry, we might believe
greed will feed. Hostile, we become like cornered animals, and thus, it is killing or being
killed. It all could end. Every single thing, every bead, is important. We are decisive.
Each of us binds the necklace together. And like the web of the spider, whose pattern
turns ever outwards, between the past and the future, we dream presently.”
“I hope that you are right.”
“Do not hope, believe. You are a most wretched being, yet, you are ever so rich.
Do you not realize it?”
“Sometimes I do. I am too complicated. Excuse my seeming reticence, I… ”
“Why are you ever seeking absolution? No one can give it to you, for no one has
been you. Therefore, you give it to yourself. And you are very simple. You are like the
fire. Like the demon that is fire. Powerful, even when it is the smallest. Untouchable, yet
it makes itself be strongly sensed. Always wants to grow. The thrill of beauty and peril.
Just as it brings light and warmth, it can engulf easily, become torture. And the
entrancement it grants: looks at you straight in the eyes, into the heart. Never a dull
moment in the presence of fire. The restless spirit, wild-dancing demon. With it, peoples
dance, in ritual euphoria, and sometimes get blinded and burnt. Other times, it feels as
even the tiniest flame is out, the saviour flame, and then, there is nothing but absolute
darkness and cold. There is nothing…”
It took me some time to be able to speak again. He had touched my very core, and
yet, I am so cold. I thanked him, and told him that I had never been so recognized, so
acknowledged, and that now I believed that indeed we had encountered each other for a
cause.
“The Great Spirit has put you here for a purpose. You are pervaded by It as
everything is. You are here to be acknowledged, as a living, feeling being. We speak the
same, so listen: we are all brothers and sisters. You are part of every thing that is. You are
not as alone as you believe you are.”
In this moment, everything that I was, that I had done, that I had gone through,
was coming at once in me, as though the sky fell down on me, stars and all, as if a giant
wave with all the contents of the ocean were thrust at me. It was overwhelming, to say
the least; I was the eye of a tornado of meaning. Squeezed by this mighty truth, a
fissionable tear that fell from each of my eyes represented all my condition.
“Do you see? There is your heart, and it is grateful, as it ought to be… You are
wild, but your mind does not allow you to run free. ”
“I am torn.”
“I also think too much, on occasion. Nevertheless, I got to a conclusion: one of
the secrets of life, at least for those who think too much, who must think to live, who live
to think, and who do it with the heart, searching for it, never finding it, even when we
despair for it, is this precisely: maybe we should not look for what we will not find… It is
not about taming life either, even if it were possible, or letting it tame you. My heart tells
me that it is about plunging into the river of life, and letting it take you. Perhaps leave a
 23

mark for others; sometimes, unbeknownst to us, we help others make their mark: most
human beings would therefore be unknown heroes. We are to try not to hit the rocks, or
at least not so hard; do our best not to drown. The river is ever-changing, even if it does
not seem so: it can be quiet, turn turbulent, deep, shallow, it can fall from a height
sometimes, and sometimes, it is all at the same time. You have to enjoy how the water
feels all around the body; drink it, for it is always fresh; flow in this tangible stream. You
have to make the best of the trip, of the moment, not ask where or why; it is the how what
matters. The current goes one direction only; you cannot go back, for good or bad, and
what comes is only a promise. You can just be ready, or at least willing, otherwise, it is
very difficult. In the end, there is an ocean where all rivers lead to. When we get to the
end of our river, we blend with the ocean; then, we ascend lightly to the skies, come back
down to the earth like rain, and we grow again, we flow again. I say it is about a peaceful
and natural release, but dynamic and attentive. I believe it, because it has come after a
long time of searching, and it came like a quiet lightning from above, through me to you,
right on this moment.”
“But I have no end. I do not seem to end.”
“Heed what I say. I am repeating: in the end, I will rest; in the end, I will be
complete; in the end, I will be delivered; in the end, I will know; in the end, I will be
changed; in the end, I will return; in the end, I will begin. Everyone, me, and you too, we
go through this all the time. At some instants, we realize it, but mostly, we do not.”
“Yes… We die, and are born again, continuously. Each in their own pace and
fashion.”
“You are in a constant vision quest, an extended one. One I could never know.”
“I am. And, in it, are you my guiding spirit?”
“I wonder now, for you could be mine.”
“I am the very contrary of a guardian spirit. You know it.”
“Still, you have prayers, symbols, songs to teach. I perceive them in you.”
“I could not…You teach me.”
“Tell me something. Anything.”
“Whatever do you mean?”
I tried to scan his mind, which I had not done so far, I realized.
“Why do you wish to see my thoughts without my permission? That is not
respectful.”
“I apologize. I do it out of custom. You are right.”
“It is very simple. Just tell me it.”
I looked into the fire, then above, and, spontaneously, I voiced this:
“Inside me… my insides, it feels as deep as the sky above… all that is in there, in
here, shines like those stars in the dark; there is also a moon, moody, reappearing
occasionally; a sun even, in my pursuit of a light that would chase away my darkness, my
weakness, and its refusal… To be alone, not solitary, but alone, feels like not existing…
Loneliness is such a torment… You said that I must believe that I am not alone, for I am
not; I can know that, but feel it…? If I feel alone, I am alone. I cannot avoid that… There
is no torment such as this one, as one must endure it by oneself, without any assistance,
any sympathy, any… one… The eternal fire… But I deserve the punishment…”
“Then, do you see? That is your message. Into your profundities you have
reached. You demonstrate that we all are connected, and when you feel unconnected, you
 24

ache and you wither, because you are a part, because you belong. That is how creation
functions, for everybody and everything, at their own level. To grasp this confers
protection. And punishment, for what? For being yourself? For behaving as it is your
nature to behave? You are what you are, and though you would be something else, you
cannot be. It seems there is only one way to go, for you: to invite back into you that other
you whom you cast out once. Only you can do this, no one else.”
“Ahh… you, hallowed man… I feel warm. Now. I feel existent. I feel.”
“You are.”
“I am…”
“You cannot go on looking for a truth that does not apply to you. You must walk
the road of your own truth.”
“Indeed… indeed, I must… and, on the road of one’s own truth, one becomes
split, into many selves, by all the axe blows existence deals at you… One stumbles upon
rocks and wonders if going around them or getting them off. One must walk through mud
and desert, and get blistered, but these blisters contain holy water from oneself. One goes
under bright moon, and then, black night, and gets to understand rhythm. One admires
flowers and then feels life is a garden, and the need to play gardener, to pick one, and go
‘loves me, loves me not’ with her. One can fly as birds, but wishes to be as earthbound as
humans are. One is naked, and dresses oneself up with proud, elegant, and original
thoughts. One is haunted by spirits without bodies, and bodies without spirit. One is
cursed with invisibility and silence, as one says: your eyes are not my eyes, your ears are
not my ears. One is watched by one’s shadow, which is ever willing to finally swallow
one up. One is at times hot, at others cold, and then, it rains. One crawls, runs, keeps still
at moments, never knowing if time does the same or why, and if it matters. One has to
bleed for oneself, as nobody bleeds the same. One may go around circles, several times
on some, and perhaps, the whole road is one big circle. Yes… On this road, one is
surrounded by signs, and none tell which direction one must take. One meets others at
crossroads, staying as long as it takes, and realizes most use the main road, and few do
not. There, one hears the news, and also learns anew what one keeps forgetting: the very
truth comes in the end. And one will be lucky to find the road can be widened as two
merge into one. One sees with the heart, and feels with the eyes. One is often challenged
with the ages old riddle: what is this thing called Love, that complicates everything, that
murders and redeems humankind, at the same time? And all I am certain of is that its
realness, the realness of love, comes from that little giant that lives forever free and
young inside some people: who they were before, in innocence…”
“You have spoken.”
I felt strange. I had never told before my personal innermost but indirectly. This
was I, being seen and listened to. Somehow, I felt bigger. And closer.
He extracted his ceremonial pipe from his bundle, and lit it up; once more, he
bewitched me. He smoked, waved some of it toward himself, and then he handed it over
to me. I told him that I could not, physically. He nodded, and said that he would smoke
on my behalf. This small occurrence suddenly sent me far away from there, from where I
had been. I felt bad, but I had to come back, for my sake.
“Tell me about the sun. About the day.”
“The sun is the eye of the Great Spirit. It is the ruler of the sky. The giver of life.
It is hope. It is like the smile of the people, or the twinkle in the eyes of your beloved. It
 25

makes everything grow and shine: from plants to hearts. The birds salute it when it
arrives and when it departs. Under it, one can see. Colors come to life. Men hunt. Women
prepare the meal. Children play. Every four-legged one, winged one, or swimmer, is
engaged in its own actions. It makes one feel safe that it is there, and one can toil or be
idle in its embrace, all the same. One feels taken care of… It is how truth feels like…
That is the sun. That is the day.”
I felt it. I saw it all, the best I could. It was lovely. I was sorry that I could not use
it such a metaphor, but only as a dream. Perhaps on the morrow.
We had shared much. The last nights of our time together we did not talk much.
And he must have sensed what I could not bring myself to do. Depart. But I was feeling
that restlessness that takes hold of me after an indefinite time of my stay in one place,
and, besides, I was feeling immensely hungry, which could make me do something I
would regret later, and I know my regret to last a long, long time. But, quite honestly, I
was getting too attached. One thing leads to another, I suppose. It was the hour to go.
“What are your thoughts on your claw?”
“I have no words. But it makes me feel, well, protected. It makes me feel good,
here, where it hangs next to. I thank you for it.”
“It belongs to you. It always has.”
“Always has?”
“You asked me if I could probably be your guiding spirit. I could be. Usually, it is
an animal though. And this is prodigious, and almost comical, because I believe you are a
guiding spirit of mine.”
“But what sign have I given to you? What wisdom?”
“You know that you have, and that you are. And we share the same guardian
spirit.”
“Really? Which one is it?”
“Look inside, and into the past,” said he, solemnly. I stared at the fire, I do not
know for how long.
“The mountain lion… you… you were there! You were the boy! You almost
died! That is the origin of those scars on your arms, that scar on your neck!”
He smiled, for the second time in my presence. Most certainly, I was glowing.
“I did not thank you then,” said he. “I thank you now. As you can see, I have two
guiding spirits. I am fortunate. I can brag about it!”
“Well, I had never saved anyone before. I enjoyed it. It was quite a change for me.
Excuse my mordant nature.”
“Perhaps I should have presented you with the cat’s fangs, instead of its claw…”
This was such particular humour by two like us. I relished it. I know that he did
also.
“Do you know what you are?” he asked me. “You are a hybrid. The mixture of
the feline and a man.”
It fascinated me. I was speechless. The more one is confronted with truth, the less
words are necessary. It was essence. I was being told about myself by someone who
reflected who I was, and not the other way around. A sensation of glory filled me gently.
When the night was about to be over, he rose up and said, “Good journey, my
brother. May you find, and still, may you keep looking…”
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I did not watch him go. To me, he vanished, like dreams do. I was alone again;
enormously alone. But, somehow, I was not. I had a brother. And he had told me that I
had myriads of brothers and sisters. I believed it, then. Somehow, I believe it still.
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