The NeverEnding ‘I’
The Universe is not funny, it’s fuck’n hilarious! I want you, she wants you, you want him…does anyone really want what they can have? My native state is wanting —yes everything and nothing. Can you give me that? Not your life, but give me your desire completely (mind the strain on your conscience).
So, you can only imagine that it will end badly? Doesn’t it all? (the clouds portend stormy weather, unusual here where the sun always shines. Here comes one in the shape of a porpoise—or torpedo—or a penis). There it is you say, desire in its one true form—its measure is a life—somewhere a life and its shape is your very own mind.
She waits on a red bed dressed in moonlight for the one who will not come, for the one not allowing. A warm breeze touches her still innocent flesh where pert little goose bumps now melt into dreams that make her hips press lightly down. Beyond the shimmering curtains of her room are brown mushrooms with pink ruffled edges, pressing up through the wet earth, reaching for a kiss, wanting to be known.
Wait just a minute, you say; Rumi speaks about a transcendent love—something greater than the small self—not this mundane, human desire with the groaning, the grinding of sweaty body upon sweaty body, followed by endless compromises, turning lives into sentimental prisons. But, I ask you—what difference—if you are sentimental about a god idea or sentimental about a human idea? You won’t get past the mind, the mind, the mind—always grasping for something, wanting to believe in something, wanting to limit the limitless just to feel comfortable…that is, to find a niche, to fit a life into this concept or that concept. I can’t bear it anymore. Seems I want to burn it out totally. Can it be done— if I become desire itself? But, we are already that…must be in order to exist. Shit, there is no escape… this is all there is…I’m sure of it now. This disaster is all that there is. What a relief!
I can feel your heart pounding from the next room. The walls are thin here— so thin that I feel you pressing me against your will—against whose will? But it is only a thin wall and you come closer, and then stop. You stop over and over again. Tell me now, where will desire go? Where will desire go? You are vanity itself, to think your desire even matters. How can it matter? Desire will always be. It will never give us up. Immortality exists only in the wanting. It is the never ending ‘I’ —the folly of hope that expresses forever. It is nothing. So, will you be human? Will you be?
She sinks into the fading moonlight on the red bed—the mover of lips, yes, large soft, moist ones, made for embracing pleasure and for the shaping of desire, a limber tongue, sipping the pause waiting for you to come… to open her lips. Imagine such a being. Imagine no end. And let us begin.
Nowhere To Fall
The figure lay still and silent like a fallen angel, fragile beauty on concrete. Quite stunning in a morbid sort of way. It, –the body is a female human appearing albino-like in white tights and a sleek, faux fur jacket to match. Slivered moons glisten on two ebony cheeks, eyelashes, sealed by the first drizzle of the season and growing sticky with sea-green kohl. Her shape forms a letter ‘X’ against the damp sidewalk. Violet and green neon lights from a marquee splash over the body in predestined sweeps. She does not move and she feels nothing.
Passersby laugh, and walk around the body. Some take photos of this strange image on the street. On the curb nearby, a crowd gathers stooping to peer into a wire cage– voyeurs of inter-species intimacy. They laugh and shoot the curious creatures with video cams: a benevolent white rat upon the proverbial un-lucky black cat’s back, both snuggled marsupial-like with an unidentified breed of dog whose pointy snout and body is shaved smooth from head to tail. These creatures lick and groom each other, and if you watch closely, you will see them exchange meaningful glances. Yes, meaningful, soulful looks. How can I know that? Just look for yourself. Look closely.
The delicate X, marked by the human girl form, now soggy and smeared like a forgotten chalk message, is listening as if through a thousand veils. Small red puddles appear around the body. The glossy muck of the street reaches out to own the body, opalescent now in surrender.
A bold voice from the street interrupts…“Step up to our microphones, stand by for KCRW’s public story hour. Share your childhood memories ON THE AIR! LIVE TONIGHT!”
A woman glides to a stage, her hair sparkles like a flight of fireflies and swings to the rhythm of her long strides. The crowd stirs with a prophetic hush. As she turns, the majestic prow of an ancient woman is greeted by gasps. A beauty once upon a time, turned ugly, begins a story long forgotten. “There was a time, when the seas were tame; a time when nature itself ruled, a time before…”
Beyond closed eyes, X girl swallows an echo, sinking in fluid depths where the waxing moon is a constant ripple–a familiar ripple deep inside the echo, spiraling … becoming prior–prior to blooming trees, prior to cats and dogs, prior to the tides, prior to meaning of any kind. She does not move and she feels nothing.
A hand-rolled cigarette dangles from pedestrian lips, watching the body for signs of life. With a sigh, he tosses the nicotine stub in a puddle and shuffles closer. Suddenly her eyes open wide, fixed in a numb stare upon the night sky, natant pupils reflecting shards of cruel light. Light without life.
Through the drizzle, X girl hears a distant but familiar sound, the voice of a small and much younger girl. “Well, this isn’t really a memory because we still play this game. Um… but it is a memory, because sometimes I can remember us kids doing this a long, long time ago… ” She shrugs coyly as she inhales the dampness of the night, finally ready to share her story.
“Okay, now I will tell you. You don’t have to believe me you know, but it is true! Well, true for us. On Saturdays, we come out here and chalk up the sidewalk…for hopscotch. Anyone’s allowed to play, anyone that walks up on the street is allowed. We flip a nickel to see which of us gets to be the Mother –she’s like the big boss. She picks one of us and says something like – take three steps backwards, or, take 4 steps forward on tiptoes. So then we hop the squares and get to the Mother, without falling of course! And without stepping on any cracks. Then we have to remember to say Mother- May- I” before we ask for more steps. Anyone who forgets has to go back to the beginning. And if you are really good, then you get to be the Mother…”
This voice echoes inside X girls’ head and the voice was pain to her. She wanted out. What she heard was not the words of the girls’ story. X girl hears a whisper. “Yes, you may stop now, this game is over. There is nothing for you here.” X girl shivers, coming un-strapped, free falling through a tunnel of light.
The small girl on stage now sees the body on the sidewalk and gasps, “Blood! Her head is bleeding!” She covers her mouth with one hand, pointing with the other, eyes open wide.
The crowd turns, staring down at the body. X girl stares up. Her eyelids flutter as a shadow passes over−a black-gloved hand presses the eyes closed. She sees only the fall of long ago, and her own blood. She could feel herself sliding, grasping, then…nothing.
A voice from the crowd speaks to no one in particular. “My God! She’s bleeding! Should we call an ambulance?”
“No need,” the pedestrian lifts a gloved hand as if giving a blessing, “she’s beyond.”
The air swells with the spasm of a collective sigh, all present turning away, relieved of a burden. Traces of light in the shape of X girl remain− prior to knowing and prior to not knowing.
Had I known, I would have dressed for death. Instead, my body hangs limp, speared by the cherry tree’s wooden support, shaved to a ‘V’ –an unpredicted fate. Red crimson spills from the wound, spoiling pale pink blossoms as they drift to the ground from the cherry limb where I hang. My best cowgirl shirt, sky blue with white trim and pearl snaps, is torn and falling off my shoulders. I can feel my boots slipping, –a little too big and scuffed from the bark. All I can see from here is an ocean of blue just before the tide sweeps me into emptiness. I never thought I’d die in a cherry tree, or on a city sidewalk for that matter. Now which was it? Perhaps I am dreaming.
Ashes of Hiroshima
L I T T L E B O Y
On his death anniversary, August 6, 2001
The little boy held his lunch box tightly to his chest as he hurried to meet his classmates. The lunch contained only a mix of rice, barley, and soybeans and some sautéed potatoes and daikon. The contents were simple, but it was a lunch that his mother had made with love. That morning, he took it very happily. The early morning was clear, bright and cloudless when a giant mushroom cap formed in the sky. Even though the white-hot fireball was shining for a full 10 seconds after the explosion, the little boy never saw it. Did he feel the heat? Did he hear the blast? When his mother found him, the lunch he never ate was charred black, still held tightly to his chest.
Little Boy was the codename of the atomic bomb , developed via the “Manhattan Project” which was dropped on Hiroshima, on August 6, 1945 by the B-29 Superfortress Enola Gay, piloted by Colonel Paul Tibbets in the 393d Bombardment Squadron, Heavy of the United States Army Air Forces. It was the first atomic bomb ever used as a weapon, and was dropped three days before the “Fat Man” bomb was used against Nagasaki.
The weapon was developed by the Manhattan Project during World War II. It derived its explosive power from the nuclear fission of uranium 235. The Hiroshima bombing was the second artificial nuclear explosion in history (the first was the “Trinity” test), and it was the first uranium-based detonation. Approximately 600 milligrams of mass were converted into energy. It exploded with a destructive power equivalent to between 13 and 16 kilotons of TNT (estimates vary) and killed approximately 140,000 people.
Read Norman Mailer’s letter to Beatrice Mailer on August 8th, 1945. Cick on the link to the New Yorker article below.
http://www.newyorker.com/reporting/2008/10/06/081006fa_fact_mailer
The Women Who Wouldn’t Let Dance Die
Devadasi Act of1947. India. “Dancing by a woman in a temple or religious institution, or procession, or at any festival or ceremony…is declared unlawful.” Decreed by Dr.Julia Reddy, British Reformist.
“The force of your desire, the heat of your longing must melt the rigidity of your movements! You must dance a joyous exchange with the gods, give your entire being to love carnal and to love sublime!”
My teacher is Sudha Amma and she teaches us in secret…seven boys. She is a classical dancer and musician, a Devadasi, now condemned as a harlot. We are dancers, passionate about the art, passionate about our love for Shiva. Today we follow her on the jungle path leading to Tanjor temple. Parakeets, cuckoos and mynahs caw and screech. The sweet scent of fertile earth mingles with river smells and incense luring us to the sacred Shiva Nataraj. The tal of the drum sounds… takataka da-da tika taka da–. Our bodies are rubbed with sandalwood paste and sweet smelling oil. Now an irresistible impulse moves me to the center to dance the dance of supreme passion before the Shiva of Creation. My body floods with sensations of desire until the force is no longer bearable. Bare feet slap the stone floor to the rhythm of my pulse. I am throbbing, opening to a sublime drunkenness, soaring with ecstasy. My soul is insane for the light, sweeping upward, and I am gone…dancing in the light and can’t be caught.
It was there, in Tanjor temple that I came to know and understand with my whole body that my spiritual and physical processes were bound together. Desire became filled with contentment as full as the moon…in primordial silence.
Today we erase the eerie silence that once descended upon thousands of temples. The Devadasi Act is banned. We, the grown men teach in schools of dance all over India, where girls can once again learn the art of Bharata Natyam and the thrill of costumed, devotional dancers, the tal of drum, the sweet sound of veena and flute grace the temples once again.
e c h o
Dana Macy 2008
Psst…over here, under the Neem tree. Yes, you who desire to dance. You heard me. Come and sit. I have a dream to tell you.
Whose dream? I will tell you though not just yet.
Once not so long ago, a pilgrim like yourself, tripped on these tree roots and bled from a wound. You can imagine. She grimaced, reached up and tore a branch of Neem to stop the bleeding and the dream was born.
What? Does the dream come true? That is for you to decide, my friend, but if you will just listen, I will tell you how it began. Ah. It was a long time ago.
I am still a child, but nearly old enough to be married. I sit cross-legged on the dirt floor of our village hut, cleaning rice for the family dinner. Mother sets fire to a few dry branches in a neat pile under the pot of water. Just as the fire begins to crackle, the cacophonous sound of Temple bells echoes across the village.
It was then that I heard the voice for the first time. The voice, very close and hollow, dares me to leave my task, to step on the jungle path leading to the Temple. I glance at my mother. She does not see me rise and I feel a strange pleasure. My body tingles and there is a rush in my gut. As I step out and turn to run, I know I will never return to this place where my family dwells.
Listen, it was not the last time I would hear the voice. The voice took up residence inside me, although I can never feel exactly where it is. Was it always there, I wondered? But never mind.
I am on my way. It is dusk now. The discordant bells and bellow of conch shells surge through my body with such intensity that my breath catches. I am running now, on the path that leads to Tanjor Temple. Parakeets, cuckoos and mynahs caw and screech. The sweet scent of fertile earth mingles with river smells and incense, luring me to the sacred Shiva Nataraj. Nearing the Temple, my senses are wrapped in a soft breeze and the sweet scent of Jasmine. Flower sellers smile submissively behind colorful veils and I cringe. Will I escape such a life? I am but a poor village girl, soon to be promised in marriage. I must escape. I must.
“Hello please! Paise! Paise! Hello! Hello!” Small children tug at the sleeves of tourists and plead in shrill voices. I push through the crowd, slip off my sandals and enter the Temple, ceremoniously, right foot first.
The dancers are about to begin as I make my way to the inner sanctum. Inside, I bow before the Shiva Lingam and offer a garland of flowers. My heart races as a prayer slips softly past my lips. “Accept me, Great Shiva, Lord of Creation and Sustenance, accept me into your Temple. I offer myself in your service—to dance joyously and passionately with the gods—to give myself to love carnal and to love sublime!”
The tal of the drum sounds…takataka da-da tika taka da–. Dancers tap their toes, poised to begin, their skin shining with sandalwood paste and sweet smelling oil. Now an irresistible impulse moves me to the center to dance the dance of supreme passion before the Shiva of Creation. My body floods with sensations of desire until the force is no longer bearable. Bare feet slap the stone floor to the rhythm of my pulse. I am throbbing, opening to a sublime drunkenness, soaring with ecstasy. My soul is insane for the light, sweeping upward—I am gone, exploding in the light and can’t be caught!
What are you saying? Did it last? Ahh, my dear. No, it did not last, but it was there, in Tanjor Temple, that I came to know and understand with my whole body that my spiritual and physical processes were bound together. Desire became filled with contentment as full as the moon, in primordial silence.
And then…do you wish to hear more? Very well, then. I’ll tell you what happened, but it is not so nice.
It was the year of the British occupation. We were the Devadasis, young girls devoted to Shiva, and we danced in ecstasy. Wealthy patrons would give money to the Temple in exchange for keeping us in their houses. Yes, that was how it was. But you see, the British were highly offended by such public sensuality. There was a ban, decreed by the British Reformists, which declared it unlawful for any woman to dance in a Temple or religious procession. We were condemned as harlots. The anti-nautch purge began.
For the Devadasi dancers, our dreams were crushed. We were sent to live out our lives in houses full of tainted women—of no use to society. And there, young girls were sold again.
What? Is there no way out? Just listen. This is all. Just listen.
I am always here in the echo of Temple bells—I am your very own breath. Listen my friend, and you will hear eternity.
The Voyeur
A scream cut through the hot Berlin night. Then silence.
The Professor stands at the window of his fifth floor flat, scanning the windows of the building across from his. He sees nothing at first. A waning moon hung over the deserted street casting a bluish light.
Ah, there she was! She was fragile, redheaded with delicate features. She lay on her couch like an innocent child and he imagined the aroma of jasmine. Watching her, he felt like a prodigal son returning home after years of wandering. His longing, his sorrow, became a wish for celestial embrace. Now the television flashed, anxious and violent in the darkened room where she lay, still and naked, her gaze blank in its cold blue light.
But who screamed?
The Professor turned his telescope toward the window. She wore a jade medallion, hung low between her breasts and she fondled the smooth stone, playing it over her nipples. As he watched, his thoughts wandered to one of his patients, a young woman whose profound absorption with global human conditions was hopelessly confused with her personal reality. The Berlin Wall had fallen, strewing emotional casualties across the country like rubble, and she was one of them. Without knowing why, he’d connected these two woman intimately, —his patient and this woman in the blue light.
Our Professor, whom you will come to know, is watching the woman from his office window. We notice his strong features framed by a mass of unruly hair the color of mahogany, paired with striking green eyes. Behind these eyes are signs of torment, a deep and indescribable longing behind a veil of outward calm. We watch as he moves toward the tape recorder on his desk. We are not surprised to see him tremble as he presses PLAY.
The Patient’s voice, full of naïve innocence, rushes through him in waves of desire. He could not stop this feeling even though it filled him with a painful guilt, the guilt of lifetimes and beyond. His life seemed to him useless, a failure. He could never fathom the reason for his own existence and he mused at the mystery of his profession, a psychotherapist meant to help others. All he’d ever wanted was to be free of his mind, to obliterate all thinking. If he could simply be in pure nothingness, — if he could only exist like the stars outside of time.
We hear the Patient speak with passion. “We need desperately to extend our commitment beyond the nuclear family! We must broaden our vision for the greater good!”
The Professor’s gaze fell. This poignant striving for a moral kind of justice only deepened his agony, an isolation from humanity that left him groping for the meaning of life, searching for a truth that lies beyond justice, beyond the bizarre spectacle of humanity that sprawled before him.
Now the Patient’s voice quivers with an edgy panic, reeling off the tape and into the tender reaches of his body. Her innocence turns to anger.
We sense his feelings clearly. He feels trapped. He doubts that he can help the Patient. He doubts that he can even help himself.
The Professor found escape in one thing and that was a promise that lay beyond the window of his flat— the woman in the blue light. Focusing the camera, he found her hands pressed between pale smooth thighs and took the first photo. At that very moment, she startled and the Professor felt his pulse quicken and heat rushed through his body. Then came the familiar jolt when the door of the woman’s flat flung open. A surly figure strode toward her waiting nakedness. He lunged and straddled her, jerking the medallion, forcing her from the couch to her knees. With one hand he grabbed a fistful of hair while the other unbuckled his belt. The professor watched her expression of surrender as her face was thrust with force. The Professor thought, it’s only a game for them…sordid entertainment. He watched anxiously, — shot a photo, then another, and another. In this way, he possessed the woman, immortalized through the lens of his camera. He had watched her often as her mere presence offered a haven of certainty in an uncertain present.
The Patient rambled on, intruding on his reverie. Hers was a desperate voice turning to disgust:
“We are not ready for this new reality of individual pursuits. You can see how the masses are seduced by petty desires. My god! It’s me, me, me! And the banal entertainment they so love! Any vision of the world community will be lost. We’ll exist only to feed our selfish needs…”
The Professor laughed. He laughed at the Patient’s foreboding tones, at his own helpless confusion as he watched violent, hollow desire through his window.
There are only lame answers, he thought, and felt more lost than ever before.
Long ago, the Professor had discovered the woman’s phone number. He would call and when she moved to take the phone, he would photograph her movements. She was always naked, lying like a corpse in the cold blue light of the television. The Professor felt a certain power, the power to revive the dead. She lured and terrified him and he thought of her as his blue woman, his Madonna. He reached out to her like a child reaching out to his mother. At those times she came to life before him. He felt as though he possessed the woman because she moved only by his will. He dialed her number. His groin ached and he barely breathed, waiting… then on the third ring…
“Watch this!” A vulgar voice shook with accusing insanity as he wrapped the phone cord tightly around her knees, throwing her limp body over the back of the couch. With obscene gestures the receiver was wedged between her glistening thighs. The intruder peered through the Professor’s window, his face twisted in a cruel sneer, staining the image of the innocent blue woman. The Professor staggered as if he’d been slapped and felt a stinging pain on his face.
Between blur of flesh meeting flesh and the victim’s cries, the Patient’s voice intrudes on the Professor’s musing.
“These people have no idea of individual ideals, much less how to act with such freedom. Just look at the need to possess another human being. We’ve lost our hearts! The human heart is losing its way in this tragedy… this so-called self-fulfillment.”
As the Patient’s protests rose to a climax, he thought of how her body quivered when she talked like this. This excited him but at the same time he fell into deep despair, into the abyss of self-condemnation.
“And what does this mean in terms of your own marriage?”
Startled by his own voice on the tape, the Professor’s stomach wrenched with the grinding mockery.
“All marriages fail of course! This new freedom is a threat to world peace. It is pure selfish individualism! Our world leaders drown in their own domestic troubles. Anyone can see how they lurch from one crisis to another until they see nothing in-depth. They’re incapable of rising above their problems to comprehend any sense of interdependence.”
Truth is not possible here; he thought… perhaps only a relative truth. And meaningfulness? He had no idea. His desire to feel connected to humanity was a craving that left him empty and unsatisfied. He could only stand at the window and watch through the lens of his camera.
The intruder buckled his pants and fled the room while the violated woman bolted the door and stepped to the window, her nakedness shining in the moonlight. She stared vacantly down at the street, timidly stroking her arms and breast as if to gather up her femaleness, to feel that she was intact. Watching her in this silence, the Professor relaxed and his mind became clear, so clear that he felt her thoughts rise in a horrid scream and then drown in hopelessness.
Alienation choked him as he watched her retreat into the television’s cool glare. If only he could hear her voice, could somehow touch her foreign tenderness, he might finally reach her. He would touch her soul and smooth away the deformities and lies of ordinary life. He would enter below the surface into her depths and maybe there discover the truth of a new world coming, a not-so concrete world, a not so moral and guilty world.
The Patients’ voice comes to him once again, demanding, dragging him to the surface, to an artificial zone to which he finally surrendered. Her sincerity mocked him and her words pressed against his will:
“The truth is, we are in no position to establish order, to guarantee respect for our own human rights, let alone for human rights the planet over. Moral bankruptcy! This is the heart of the matter. We no longer know what we fight for… or the principles we defend.”
He listened intently. The scream had no connection to anything real. But who screamed? Night after night, the scream delivered him to a place of turmoil. There was a fading image, an obscure human form without boundaries of flesh, raising its sanctified arm in vain against overwhelming injustice. Had he dreamed it each night?
The Professor watched the blue woman through his camera lens, lying still and white, like a mannequin. In this moment, his feeling for her faded. She’s an imitation, like a reflection from the television, an illusion of peace; but not the thing itself— not that which he longed for.
“Our time is up”.
The tape ended and the recorder clicked off. With that click, the Professor was overcome by a sense of desolation, by the fear of loneliness. He craved the fullness of infinite being-ness. This possibility felt so far away that he wanted to cry.
With impulsive, manic movements the Professor dialed her number, this time with resolve, —to make human contact, to feel the naked truth of facing her through his window.
She lifted the receiver and stood looking straight through his window, straight into him, piercing his heart. Dark, expressionless eyes met his. At this very moment he felt as if they grew into one another. He imagined a beautiful existence, not tied to one single life, to be mortal and yet to live many lives. Yes, his blue woman was a token of boundless freedom, of eternity. He thought of possessing her, but knew this could not satisfy him. What he wanted was to possess eternity.
Hot tears stung his eyes and he knew that the blue woman was also weeping. He imagined that she wept out of love. Her tears a magic elixir that brought release and transcendence, tears that dissolved all physical limitations and brought union with infinity.
The Professor shuddered. His longing for home, his desire, guilt and fear released in spasms of laughter, annihilating lifetimes of a nameless anxiety. A surrender he’d never known flooded his being and he took refuge in the vision that passed from the blue woman to him—a vision of infinite perfection.
“Thank you,” he whispered across the darkness.
Just then he heard his voice on the tape recorder say, “your time is up.”
There was a scream. The blue woman watched as a single shot echoed through the deserted street. The Professor slumped to the floor, eyes fixed on the night in silence –and swallowed the scream.
END
The Dream
Monique and Jules own a cat. Jules said that Cat was with them for a reason. When she asked what reason that could be, Jules told her all about a cat’s perception of life and death. Monique wonders how Jules could know about that, but she listens anyway. She trusts Jules. He tells her that cats know when death is coming. And when it comes, they stand watch while the human passes into the formless, and, one of the lives of the cat goes with the person.
Cat crouches on the desk, haunches twitching; she springs to the bed sending papers flying to the floor. Monique will remember when she wakes, to write it down in her journal. It may be important.
The clock on the shelf ticks, misses a beat, ticks again, but slower…
Monique lives in the city with Jules. It is a shapeless city, or rather, a city shaped by her dreams. A city crammed with towers of glass and steel on a drifting island between two oceans. The streets are like deep canals, where her dreams run rampant, and Jules films them – each and every one. She’s slightly disappointed that Jules rarely films anything but feet. She thinks he’s missing the point, but he tells her that he captures the formless that way. Talking heads fill space with clutter. That’s what Jules thinks.
Monique thinks he could be right. Her dreams are formless. Formless in the way that death can be – or perhaps, they are only that way because Jules leaves out the forms. She’s lost track of whether her dreams are the subject of his art, or whether it’s the other way around, – in reality.
Monique keeps a journal where she records her dreams. She writes out the questions and then gives them to Jules, who wanders through the streets of the city with his camera, searching for clues that will lead to the answers. The two of them are on a journey to capture an essence of sorts, to capture the meaning of life, just like everyone else. Jules thinks they are really on to something, even ahead of the game, close to finding the truth.
It all began on the morning that Jules filmed their legs. They were entwined from the waist down, connecting their souls like roots are connected to a tree. They’d fallen asleep like that. Cat lay stretched at their feet, licking Monique’s toes, eyes closed in a cat’s bliss. Jules smiles at her and says something. She hears no sound, but reads his lips. I love you. He gives her a present, a small black box. Monique reaches for the gift, turning it over in her hands. She runs her fingers over the writing, making out the letters in Jules’ sprawling script: The D-r-e-a-m. Ah, it’s a film. She slips it in the viewer and rolls over on her stomach to watch. Cat walks onto her back, kneads the flesh of her buttocks and settles down, stretched over the backs of her legs.
The clock ticks faster…
Monique watches. She can see Jules’ feet, running down a street. He’s wearing green Keds. Slap, slap, slap…she cannot hear the sound, but imagines she hears. The pavement is wet. She likes the smell of fresh rain on hot pavement and wishes she were there. Where is he? She knows she’s supposed to guess.
The clock ticks, misses a beat, ticks faster…
Monique watches closely. The images are unsteady, almost violent. She sees the edge of a crosswalk. She looks for the blue stencil of a fish that tells people that the runoff drains into a river. No, she doesn’t see the stencil of a fish, so he’s not there. Where is he? Now the camera is focused on his green Keds with the purple laces. Monique smiles. She told him that people would think he was gay. He’d laughed at her and winked, which meant … I only sleep with you. . .
Monique sees the green Keds pound against the pavement, faster and faster. Where is he? Where is he going? She sees a dog leash dragging on the ground. The leash is red with a silver chain to go around the neck. The camera focuses on the leader of the leash, a white poodle with red booties. Uh-oh, there’s no person in sight. The poodle has a red bow in its curls, right between the ears. Monique knows this is a danger sign. Red means danger. She’ll remember to write it in her journal when she wakes.
Monique watches for clues. She wants to know more. She wants to see more. Where is the owner of the dog with the red bow and booties? She hears a screech, like a chicken being strangled, and then sees the lady; a pale, thin lady with electric orange hair is chasing the poodle. “My precious! Come back, my precious!” Hysterical sounds pooch out from her botched-botox lips where orange lipstick bleeds into the cracks above her upper lip. Monique laughs out loud. Jules rarely went to head shots. That one was for her. He’d warned her about dyed hair and botox. And lipstick. Monique touched her lips. She’d worn lipstick last night. He must have seen the lipstick.
The clock ticks – misses a beat – ticks slower.
The images are shaky, jerking as if nowhere to go. There, she can see another leash. Monique clicks her tongue, yes, she’s figured it out. This leash is green and leads to the hand of Darwin. Darwin is the owner of a smart dog, a grey and white Aussie Shepherd, with one brown eye and one blue eye. Now she sees Darwin’s boots. His feet have a purpose, moving briskly toward a goal. Where? A door creaked open. Ah ha! It’s he café with the old carved door. Just then, the screen goes black. Jules has shut off the camera. He must be inside, talking with Darwin. They talk about life and other important ideas.
Monique rolls over onto her back. Cat jumps off and climbs back on her tummy, stretches out and purrs, eyes closed. Monique is drifting. For a long time, she thinks of all the clues from the film. She must write them in her journal. She must remember to wipe off the lipstick when she’s awake. She must, because the lady had orange hair and lipstick, and orange stands for caution. Jules was trying to tell her something.
The clock ticks, misses a beat… two beats … three…
Behind her eyelids, she sees the red leash and the silver cinch chain. This means the thin lady didn’t catch her dog. That’s too bad. Now the dog is lost in this big city with dream rivers for streets and surrounded by dark water. The pale, thin lady must be lost too, without her little dog.
Monique dreams, her head resting on the soft pillows of her bed, taking pleasure in Cats’ warmth against her body. She knows that Jules will bring home clues and she’ll have something to write in her journal. She waits.
The clock ticks, steady and slow…
Now she sees a hand holding the red leash. She sees Jules’ hand and she thinks about how his clues always make the question bigger. He and Darwin would sit in the café and talk about the essence of the formless, and then Monique would record it all in her journal. Monique had her own clue… that maybe nothing mattered at all, out there in the river of dreams. It all seemed suddenly vague to Monique, — in the scheme of things. Or maybe the word was obtuse? Irrelevant?
Monique feels uneasy, frustrated as in a dream where she’s trapped and can’t wake up. She’s spinning in darkness where there are no boundaries. Then she sees white, blinding white, and her own hand reaching up to touch her throat. Cat inches forward and crouches on her chest, head stretched out, licking Monique’s fingers, now cold, frozen, grasping the silver chain. Eyes open now, she knows this is not her dream. She is merely a character in her lover’s dream.
END
Freier Fall
Du hattest ein Talent, dem Ordinären zu entfliehen, wie damals, als dein Fallschirm sich nicht öffnete. Anstatt aus zweitausend Metern in deinen Tod zu stürzen, drang eine Stimme in deinen Kopf. Das hast du mir erzählt: eine Stimme kam dir in den Kopf, als du im freien Fall warst, und veränderte dein Schicksal.
Die Stimme gebot mir, mit aller Kraft und mit meinem ganzen Willen zu ziehen. Ich dachte nichts, ich fühlte nichts. Mein Leben lief nicht vor mir ab. In den letzten Sekunden öffneten sich zwei Taschen und bremsten meinen Fall. Ich schlug auf ein frisch gepflügtes Kornfeld. Der Boden war weich und nachgiebig, und ich schaute gen Himmel, nicht zur Erde. Wieder nachgebend. Das zu verstehen, dauerte Jahre.
Jahre später …
begegnen wir uns wieder. Wie stehen die Chancen? Das letzte, was ich hörte, war, dass du durch die Luft gefallen bist … auf ein flaches Grab zu.
Du erinnerst dich also an meine Geschichte? Damals glaubte ich, ich sei aus einem Grund verschont geblieben, dass eine höhere Berufung auf mich wartete und mein Leben irgendwie … nun, erleuchtet – ich würde irgendwie den Fallen dieses Lebens entkommen. Jetzt sage ich dir, dass sich nichts verändert hat.
Darf ich fragen, in wiefern sich nichts verändert hat?
Weißt du, das ist ein Rätsel. Wir waren nicht mehr jung, aber noch nicht erwachsen, und spielten sorglos wie Kinder. Das Leben floss dahin. Wir fielen hin, standen auf und lachten über unsere Schwächen. Eines Tages standen wir auf und merkten, dass Jahre vergangen waren. Dies war eine andere Welt, und sie meinte es ernst. Wir vergossen Tränen, Tränen wurden zu Teichen, Teiche zu Meeren. Dämme brachen, wir rutschten aus. Fielen in einen Traum ertrinkender Massen. Wir begegneten einer seltsamen Bestie, bösartig, heimtückisch, und fragten uns, ob dieses Leben eine Illusion sei.
Wild schlugen unsere Herzen, berührten den Tod, und wir schüttelten uns vor Angst. Wir sahen uns als das, was wir wirklich waren, einfach nur Homunkulus-Haufen im freien Fall. Es gab da Momente, als die Sonne uns erwischte, in denen wir um unser Leben schrieen, wie Kinder, die an einem Wintertag einen vereisten Hang herunterrutschten.
Folter folgte der Erregung, und wir fragten, warum bin ich hier? Lieber Gott, lass mich diesen Fehler nicht noch einmal machen. Gott antwortete, und die Gnade kam auf uns herab. Wir erwachten. Griffen nach der Freude unseres kindlichen Lebens. Wir merkten, dass wir lächelten – einfach so, ohne Grund. Wir hatten es auf den freien Fall abgesehen. Wir spielten unsere Rollen, und es war wunderbar. Es war die Seeligkeit liebender Vereinigung, bei der wir uns verlieren und mit neuen Augen wiedergeboren werden. Ein Gefühl des Einsseins mit allem war in Reichweite gerückt. Selbst das unerbittliche Getöse der Menschheit war etwas Wunderschönes. Unser menschliches Befinden war vollkommen, so, wie es war. Wir dachten, wir hätten endlich doch einen Sinn gefunden … bis wir in den Traum fielen – in einer Leere tanzend. Die Finsternis erleben, der wir nicht entrinnen können.
Wir träumten immer wieder, und als wir erwachten, fragten wir, wie bin ich hierher gekommen? Wo bin ich? Wie komme ich hier wieder raus? Es gab keine Antworten, keinen Ausweg, und so träumten wir weiter. Unsere Träume wurden zu Spielplätzen, auf denen wir zusahen, wie unsere Kinder aufwuchsen. Wir beobachteten sie, wie sie hinfielen und unsere ungeweinten Tränen vergossen. Sie träumten dieses Leben wieder von neuem. Wir schauten zu und segneten sie, wünschten Bedeutung und Liebe für ihr Leben.
Wir schauen diesen Kindern zu und sehen, wie sie im freien Fall nach einer höheren Art der liebenden Vereinigung suchten, und wir wissen, dass alles vollkommen und gut ist.©
The Voyeur
Ein Schrei zerriss die heiße Berliner Nacht. Dann Stille.
Der Professor steht am Fenster seiner Wohnung im fünften Stock und sucht die Fenster des gegenüber liegenden Hauses ab. Zuerst sieht er nichts. Ein abnehmender Mond hängt über der verlassenen Straße und wirft ein bläuliches Licht.
Ah, da war sie ja! Sie war zerbrechlich und rothaarig, mit zierlichen Gesichtszügen. Sie lag auf ihrem Sofa wie ein unschuldiges Kind, und er stellte sich den Duft von Jasmin vor. Als er sie so betrachtete, fühlte er sich wie der verlorene Sohn, der nach Jahren der Wanderschaft nach Hause zurückgekehrt war. Seine Sehnsucht, sein Leid wurden zu einem Wunsch nach himmlischer Umarmung. Jetzt flammte der Fernseher auf, verängstigt und heftig in dem abgedunkelten Raum, in dem sie lag, ruhig und nackt, ihr Blick leer in seinem blauen Schimmer.
Wer aber hatte geschrieen?
Der Professor richtete sein Fernrohr auf das Fenster. Sie trug ein jadefarbenes Medaillon, das tief zwischen ihren Brüsten hing, und sie streichelte den weichen Stein, spielte damit über ihren Brustwarzen. Als er sie so beobachtete, wanderten seine Gedanken zu einer seiner Patientinnen, einer jungen Frau, deren innige Versunkenheit in die globalen menschlichen Gegebenheiten hoffnungslos mit ihrer persönlichen Wirklichkeit verstrickt war. Die Berliner Mauer war gefallen, zerstreute emotionale Verluste wie Trümmer über das ganze Land, und sie war eines dieser Trümmerstücke. Ohne zu wissen, warum, verband er diese beiden Frauen ganz eng miteinander – seine Patientin und diese Frau in dem blauen Licht.
Unser Professor, den wir noch kennen lernen werden, beobachtet die Frau aus dem Fenster seines Büros. Wir bemerken seine markanten Gesichtszüge, eingerahmt von einer Masse unbändiger mahagonifarbener Haare, gepaart mit auffallend grünen Augen. Hinter diesen Augen gibt es Anzeichen von Quälerei, eine tiefe und unbeschreibliche Sehnsucht hinter einem Schleier äußerlicher Ruhe. Wir schauen zu, wie er auf das Tonbandgerät auf seinem Schreibtisch zugeht. Wir sind nicht überrascht, zu sehen, dass er zittert, als er auf START drückt.
Die Stimme der Patientin, voller naiver Unschuld, strömt durch ihn hindurch in Wellen der Begierde. Er konnte dieses Gefühl nicht abstellen, obwohl es ihn mit schmerzlichen Schuldgefühlen erfüllte, die Schuld von Lebzeiten und darüber hinaus. Sein Leben erschien ihm sinnlos, ein Versagen. Er konnte den Grund für seine eigene Existenz nicht begreifen, und er grübelte über das Mysterium seines Berufes nach, eines Psychotherapeuten, der dazu da ist, anderen zu helfen. Alles, was er jemals wollte, war frei von seinen Gedanken zu sein, alles Denken auszulöschen. Wenn er nur einfach in reinem Nichtssein bleiben könne – wenn er nur, wie die Sterne, außerhalb der Zeit existieren könnte.
Wir hören, wie die Patientin leidenschaftlich betont: „Wir müssen unbedingt unsere Verpflichtung über die Kleinfamilie hinaus erweitern! Wir müssen unsere Vorstellung für das größere Gut erweitern!“
Der Blick des Professors senkte sich. Dieses ergreifende Streben nach einer Art moralischen Gerechtigkeit vertiefte nur seine Qual, eine Absonderung von der Menschheit, die ihn als jemanden zurückließ, der nach dem Sinn seines Lebens suchte, nach einer Wahrheit, die jenseits von Gerechtigkeit lag, jenseits dieses grotesken Spektakels der Menschheit, das sich vor ihm ausstreckte.
Jetzt zittert die Stimme der Patientin mit einer nervösen Panik, wirbelt aus dem Tonband heraus und hinein in die empfindsamen Teile seines Körpers. Ihre Unschuld wird zu Wut.
Wir spüren seine Gefühle ganz deutlich. Er fühlt sich gefangen. Er bezweifelt, dass er der Patientin helfen kann. Er bezweifelt sogar, dass er sich selbst helfen kann.
Der Professor fand einen Ausweg in einer Sache, und die war ein Versprechen, das jenseits des Fensters seiner Wohnung lag – die Frau in dem blauen Licht. Er stellte die Kamera scharf und stellte fest, dass ihre Hände sich zwischen zwei blasse weiche Schenkel zwängten, und er machte das erste Foto. Genau in dem Moment schreckte sie auf, und der Professor spürte, wie sein Puls schneller wurde und eine Hitzewelle durch seinen Körper schoß. Dann kam der vertraute Schock, als die Wohnungstür der Frau aufging. Eine mürrische Gestalt schlurfte auf ihre wartende Nacktheit zu. Er stürzte sich auf sie, spreizte sie auseinander, wobei er an ihrem Medaillon zerrte, und zwang sie vom Sofa auf die Knie. Mit einer Hand ergriff er einen Büschel ihrer Haare, während die andere seinen Gürtel löste. Der Professor sah ihren Ausdruck von Unterwerfung, als ihr Gesicht mit Gewalt gestoßen wurde. Der Professor dachte, es sei nur ein Spiel für die beiden … schäbige Unterhaltung. Er beobachte verängstigt weiter, – machte ein Foto, dann noch eins und noch eins. Auf diese Weise besaß er die Frau, unsterblich gemacht durch die Linse seiner Kamera. Er hatte sie oft beobachtet, wie ihre reine Gegenwart ihm einen Hafen der Gewissheit in einer ungewissen Gegenwart bot.
Die Patientin redete weiter, drang in seine Träumerei ein. Sie hatte eine verzweifelte Stimme, die sich in Abscheu verwandelte:
„Wir sind nicht bereit für diese neue Realität individuellen Strebens. Sie können sehen, wie sich die Masse von belanglosen Begierden verführen lässt. Mein Gott! Das bin ich, ich, ich! Und die banale Unterhaltung, die sie so sehr lieben! Jede Vision einer Weltgemeinschaft wird verloren gehen. Wir existieren nur, um unsere selbstsüchtigen Bedürfnisse zu befriedigen …“
Der Professor lachte. Er lachte über den ahnungsvollen Ton der Patientin, über seine eigene hilflose Verwirrung, während er der brutalen, leeren Begierde durch sein Fenster hindurch zusah.
Das sind nur dürftige Antworten, dachte er, und fühlte sich verlorener als je zuvor.
Schon langer zuvor hatte der Professor die Telefonnummer der Frau herausgefunden. Er rief sie immer an, und wenn sie dann zum Telefon ging, fotografierte er ihre Bewegungen. Sie war immer nackt und lag da wie eine Leiche in dem kalten blauen Licht des Fernsehers. Der Professor spürte eine gewisse Macht, die Macht, Tote zu erwecken. Sie lockte und erschreckte ihn, und er sah sie als seine blaue Frau, seine Madonna. Er versuchte, sie zu erreichen, wie ein Kind, das nach seiner Mutter greift. Bei solchen Gelegenheiten erwachte sie vor seinen Augen zum Leben. Er fühlte sich so, als würde er die Frau besitzen, da sie sich nur nach seinem Willen bewegte. Er wählte ihre Nummer. Seine Leistengegend schmerzte, und er atmete kaum, wartete … dann, beim dritten Klingelton …
„Sieh dir das an!“ Eine vulgäre Stimme zitterte mit anklagendem Wahnsinn, als er die Telefonschnur eng um ihre Knie wickelte und ihren schlaffen Körper über die Rückenlehne des Sofas warf. Mit obszönen Gesten wurde der Telefonhörer zwischen ihren glitzernden Schenkeln festgeklemmt. Der Eindringling spähte durch das Fenster des Professors, sein Gesicht verzerrte sich zu einem grausamen Spötteln, und er befleckte das Bild der unschuldigen blauen Frau. Der Professor taumelte, als wäre er geschlagen worden, und spürte einen brennenden Schmerz in seinem Gesicht.
Zwischen verschwommenem Fleisch trifft auf Fleisch und den Schreien des Opfers mischt sich die Stimme der Patientin in die Träumerei des Professors.
„Diese Leute haben keine Ahnung von individuellen Idealen, ganz zu schweigen davon, wie man mit solch einer Freiheit umgeht. Schau dir einfach das Bedürfnis an, einen anderen Menschen zu besitzen. Wir haben unsere Herzen verloren! Das menschliche Herz verliert seinen Weg in dieser Tragödie … in dieser so genannten Selbsterfüllung.“
Als die Proteste der Patientin ihren Höhepunkt erreichten, dachte er daran, wie ihr Körper bebte, wenn sie so sprach. Das erregte ihn, aber gleichzeitig fiel er in eine tiefe Verzweiflung, in den Abgrund der Selbstverachtung.
„Und was bedeutet das in Bezug auf seine eigene Ehe?“
Erschrocken über seine eigene Stimme auf dem Tonband verrenkte sich der Magen des Professors mit knirschendem Gespött.
„Alle Ehen versagen natürlich! Diese neue Freiheit ist eine Bedrohung für den Weltfrieden. Sie ist reiner selbstsüchtiger Individualismus! Unsere weltlichen Führer versinken in ihren eigenen häuslichen Sorgen. Jeder kann sehen, wie sie von einer Krise in die nächste taumeln, bis sie nichts mehr tiefgründig sehen. Sie sind nicht imstande, über ihre Probleme hinauszuwachsen, um irgendein Gefühl von wechselseitiger Abhängigkeit zu begreifen.“
Hier ist keine Wahrheit möglich, dachte er … vielleicht nur eine relative Wahrheit. Und Sinnhaftigkeit? Er hatte keine Ahnung. Sein Wunsch danach, sich mit der Menschheit verbunden zu fühlen, war ein Gelüste, das ihn leer und unbefriedigt zurückließ. Er konnte nur am Fenster stehen und durch die Linse seiner Kamera zuschauen.
Der Eindringling schnallte seine Hose zu und flüchtete aus dem Zimmer, während die vergewaltigte Frau die Tür verriegelte und ans Fenster trat, ihre Nacktheit schimmerte im Mondlicht. Sie blickte geistig abwesend die Straße hinunter, wobei sie zaghaft ihre Arme und Brüste streichelte, als würde sie sich für ihre Weiblichkeit sammeln, um zu spüren, dass sie unversehrt war. Der Professor betrachtete sie in dieser Stille, entspannte sich, und sein Geist klärte sich; so klar wurde er, dass er spürte, wie ihre Gedanken zu einem entsetzlichen Schrei aufstiegen, der dann in Hoffnungslosigkeit versank.
Entfremdung erstickte ihn geradezu, als er sah, wie sie sich in den kühlen Glanz des Fernsehers zurückzog. Wenn er nur ihre Stimme hören, irgendwie ihre fremde Zärtlichkeit spüren könnte, dann würde er sie vielleicht endlich erreichen. Er würde ihre Seele berühren und die Missbildungen und Lügen des gewöhnlichen Lebens sanft beseitigen. Er würde unter der Oberfläche in ihre Tiefen eindringen und vielleicht dort die Wahrheit einer kommenden neuen Welt entdecken, einer nicht so konkreten Welt, einer nicht so moralischen und schuldigen Welt.
Wieder erreicht ihn die Stimme der Patientin, fordernd zerrt sie ihn an die Oberfläche, in eine künstliche Zone, und er ergibt sich schließlich. Ihre Aufrichtigkeit verspottet ihn, und ihre Worte pressten gegen seinen Willen:
„Die Wahrheit ist, dass wir nicht in der Lage sind, Ordnung herzustellen, Respekt für unsere eigenen Menschenrechte zu garantieren, ganz zu schweigen von Menschenrechten für den gesamten Planeten. Moralischer Bankrott! Das ist der Kern der Angelegenheit. Wir wissen nicht mehr, wofür wir kämpfen … oder welche Prinzipien wir verteidigen.“
Er hörte gebannt zu. Der Schrei stand in keiner Beziehung zu etwas Realem. Aber wer hatte geschrieen? Nacht für Nacht lieferte der Schrei ihn einem Ort des Durcheinanders aus. Das ergab ein verblassendes Bild, eine obskure menschliche Gestalt ohne Begrenzung des Fleisches, den geheiligten Arm vergeblich gegen eine überwältigende Ungerechtigkeit erhoben. Hatte er das jede Nacht geträumt?
Der Professor betrachtete die blaue Frau durch die Linse seiner Kamera, sie lag ruhig und weiß da, wie ein Mannequin. In diesem Moment verblassten seine Gefühle für sie. Sie ist eine Imitation, wie eine Reflektion aus dem Fernseher, eine Illusion von Frieden; aber nicht die Sache selbst – nicht das, wonach er sich sehnte.
„Unsere Zeit ist um.“
Das Band endete, und das Tonbandgerät klickte sich aus. Mit diesem Klicken überwältigte den Professor ein Gefühl von Verlorenheit, eine Angst vor Einsamkeit. Er sehnte sich nach der Fülle unendlichen Seins. Die Möglichkeit fühlte sich so weit weg an, dass er weinen wollte.
Mit impulsiven, manischen Bewegungen wählte der Professor die Nummer, diesmal mit Entschlossenheit, … menschlichen Kontakt herzustellen, die nackte Wahrheit zu spüren, ihr durch das Fenster gegenüber zu treten.
Sie nahm den Hörer ab und stand da, schaute direkt durch das Fenster, direkt zu ihm, durchbohrte sein Herz. Dunkle, ausdruckslose Augen trafen auf seine. In diesem Moment hatte der das Gefühl, als wüchsen sie ineinander. Er stellte sich eine wunderschöne Existenz vor, nicht gebunden an ein einziges Leben, sterblich zu sein und doch viele Leben zu leben. Ja, seine blaue Frau war ein Beweis für grenzenlose Freiheit, für Ewigkeit. Er dachte daran, sie zu besitzen, aber er wusste, das konnte ihn nicht befriedigen. Er wollte die Ewigkeit besitzen.
Heiße Tränen brannten in seinen Augen, und er wusste, dass die blaue Frau auch weinte. Er stellte sich vor, dass sie aus Liebe weinte. Ihre Tränen waren ein magisches Elixier, das Erlösung und Transzendenz brachte, Tränen, die alle physischen Begrenzungen auflösten und eine Einheit mit dem Unendlichen erzeugten.
Der Professor zitterte. Seine Sehnsucht nach zu Hause, sein Verlangen, seine Schuld und Angst lösten ich in Lachkrämpfe auf, vernichteten Lebzeiten einer namenlosen Angst. Eine Hingabe, die er noch nie erlebt hatte, überflutete sein Sein, und er flüchtete in eine Vision, die von der blauen Frau auf ihn überging – eine Vision unendlicher Vollkommenheit.
„Vielen Dank“, flüsterte er durch die Dunkelheit.
Gerade da hörte er, wie seine Stimme auf dem Tonband sagte: „Ihre Zeit ist um“.
Da war der Schrei. Die blaue Frau beobachtete, wie ein einziger Schuss in den verlassenen Straßen widerhallte. Der Professor sank zu Boden, seine Augen schweigend auf die Nacht fixiert, und schluckte den Schrei.
Ende
Freefall
You had a talent for escaping the ordinary, like the time your parachute didn’t open. Instead of crashing to your death from three thousand feet, a voice entered your head. That’s what you told me: a voice came into your head during free fall and changed your destiny.
The voice told me to pull with all my strength and will. I thought nothing, I felt nothing. My life did not flash before me. In the last seconds, two pockets bloomed and broke my fall. I hit the fresh- plowed dirt of a cornfield. The ground was soft and forgiving, and, I was looking at the sky and not the ground. Again, forgiving. It took years to understand.
Years later…
We meet again. What are the chances? Last I heard you were falling through space…headed for a shallow grave.
So you remember my story? Back then I thought I’d been spared for a reason, that a higher calling awaited and my life might be somehow…well, enlightened—I might somehow escape the traps of this life. Now I tell you, that nothing has changed.
How has nothing changed, may I ask?
It’s a riddle you know. We were between youth and adult, and we played like children without a care. Life flowed. We fell down, stood up, and laughed at our foibles. One day we stood up and saw that years had passed. Here was another world and it was serious business. We shed tears and tears became pools and pools became oceans. Dams broke, and we slipped, falling into a dream of the drowning masses. We faced a strange beast, vicious, insidious, and wondered if this life was only illusion.
Our hearts beat wildly, touching death, and we rattled with fear. We saw ourselves for what we are, mere homunculus blobs in free fall. There were moments when the sun caught us screaming for our lives, screaming like children sliding down an icy hill on a winter day.
Torment followed thrills and we asked, why am I here? God, please don’t let me make this mistake again. God answered and grace descended upon us. We woke, grasping for the joy of our child life. We found ourselves smiling— for no reason at all. We went for the free fall. We played our parts and it was beautiful. It was the bliss of lovemaking where we disappear and are born again with fresh eyes. A sense of one-ness with all was within our grasp. Even the relentless din of humanity was a beautiful thing. Our human condition was perfect as it is. We thought we’d found meaning after all…until we fell into the dream—dancing in a void. Living the inescapable dark.
We dreamed over and over, and on waking we asked, how did I get here? Where am I? How do I get out? There were no answers, no escape, so we went on dreaming. Our dreams became playgrounds where we watched our children grow. We watched them fall and cry our unshed tears. They dreamed this life all over again. We watched and blessed them, willing meaning and love into their lives.
We watch these children and see them in free fall searching for a higher lovemaking, and we know that all is perfect and good.