VI Story Telling

          Smoothly gliding through Heaven, under the sun and my sheets, above all humane prerogatives and Nature… only swinging myself back and forth. Youth is over, time is just no longer countable, I move like a pendulum, back and forth, and I do not ever get anywhere fast, you see.

         I’m losing my grip on reality. My I is already getting lost in time and place, again… All the while, my voice echoes hysterically in my memory, reminding me of home. Home…Will I ever find home? Perhaps I’m not finished, not just yet. Perhaps after I’m finished…

         I’m not sure I know the first thing about my origins. The first time I felt at all visible was not long ago, just as the creeping sunset shadows met mine… at that moment only I was able to meet my shadow, but I still cannot quite grasp where it came from – or rather where it was hiding out from me. I believe I’m bound to feel like this, every sundown, for as long as I witness one.

         What queer absorbing things shadows are!… Sucking the light into them, wiping out the light from every surface in their passage, absorbing more than light from me… I often feel tempted to glance behind.

         Me, I have been in many different realms and dimensions – I have visited all of them – and, so I suppose, I must have always looked slightly different! Now, for example: those times I spent under the pale sun of those eastern lands, it is more than obvious that I had manly, bushy, facial hair like those firefighters you see munching adulterous wives in movies… firefighters they are, I say!…

         I tend to forget, yes, where I came from. These days I simply belong to the place where I’m to be found at any given moment.

          I remember, though, the once fatherly embrace which banished me gently into a good night. I lost track.

         I lost track, exiled. That wavy feeling, like a rippling mirrored watery surface I used to call home, is nothing more than a distant memory, now. Shortly after the beginning of my journey, of my peregrination back home, I found many mazes, never taking a short cut out of any of them. Not even the scariest bedtime story about sleeping defenseless princesses and their charming rapist princes, shameful incest, mischievous singing ocean beauties, could compete with the very first stop, a nighttime wonder, the quietest forest with the most peculiar cutting-edge trees, barely illuminated by the waxing crescent moon so that only a sharp halo could be seen, from where I was standing. I knew in my guts heads would roll, that night.

         Entering the dense forest, in the dark of the very first homeless night of my childhood, I kept penetrating further and further into the bushes and eucalyptuses. I lost track of the way. The air was damp. Drops kept falling upon me. I could not tell if raindrops were heavily falling from the gnarled branches of the tall trees or if I was being spat on in the face by nightlings, creatures of the deepest parts of the forest. I felt my blood draining out of my face at the thought of being chased down… I knew their thirst for revenge, their anguishing cries for the demise of human kind. Numbing shivers ran down my spine, I obediently dropped to my knees and, in a moment of pure sadistic need to purge my spirit out of my young body, there I stood, immobile and absent… At dawn, I could move again, in a fuzzy motion, like a pendulum, rocking back and forth.

         I wander around. I lived my many lives like this. I wander around – for an uncountable number of hours and miles – until I sense something remotely familiar, like homemade bread, basil or white wine – or like an old lover lying in prodding hay- which entices me to stay. I linger, then.

         The reason why I never stopped roaming is because no proud dweller lets a foul intruder crash and nap in his neighborhood. On the other hand, I have to consider another option, one of this enlightening decade. As my contemporaries conceitedly say, my superior self might sabotage the process of my heading back home. Well, I have to argue that. Whatever selves live within me, they ought to be all at the same level, making one big self. I have no shell. I have no subdivision, since I escaped my physical body, once, on a lonely night.

         Lastly, I have no choice but to flee, escorted by my own paranormal pride… even when I venture to daydream. The vaguest memory is one more clue – even if feint – that might lead the path to the safety of my own home.

         Howling, the ghastly pain in the night when I was denied a home, addressing the silence, it resounded forever:


The door is locked shut from the outside

and as the morning dawns so loud

lightly a blow of summer scent grimly creeps in

making shadows larger

what arts of magic cannot produce

wallowed back and forth

against the flaccid wardrobe

where juices have been spat and cultivated on

subverting all of passion’s fragility

in silent jeopardy

milking the hero of the future to be

gliding in the sudden avenged pain

which the omnivorous climax

urges to lick and sweeten

for the dream of the anarchic is being helplessly carried on

announcing the ultimate understatement of doom

in monochromatic Germanic Classical horror.

         Choosing paths is a delicate business. I am in a constant hurry, which is why every time I get lost again I find it rather hard to trust my intuition with such a task. Through with guessing, I decided to just keep roaming towards the side where the sun rises. East.

         In the dry and merry lands of the upper eastern side of this immense continent, I met the dearest souls, some open and bright and welcoming, some shy and harmless and sad. Amongst so many channels to feed from, only one could vibrate in the same frequency as mine, a mellow steady beat. No loose spirit could float in open air like this one could, luxuriously burning out an exquisitely long and angular body, with two arms like graceful tentacles, two legs with two transcendental pointed extremities, a pair of candid eyes with long silky lashes; everything came in pairs except for the mouth, a unique composition of a thin and sculpted upper lip and a full and luscious lower lip, sewn together. Such energy would melt in the air peacefully, wrapping the mortal body in a purple and pearly white light. It sucked me into it, as it passed by. I believed it was Love. I did, right away. Living as a dense shadowy cloud of waving energy allowed me to enter the resonating plenitude I sought. In the same way it attracted me, I did not fear, spiritedly twirling in.

         I do. Frequencies quiver from time to time. I do Love. We met again, eventually… times again. Whenever I lost  connection, I would vibrate higher or lower, correspondently, to reach it. Due to its mortal condition, the motion of the body and humane urges, inbalance or absence would often happen. From then on, and when deprived of the new-found and only fountain of lucidity, I would float about, murkily, under the sun of the eastern merry lands. It felt as though a spirit could share such humane weaknesses, like swelling up in sadness. I felt as though my once wandering radiation of sheer light was on the verge of becoming an unworthy ghoul.

         At a disadvantage, for I do not have a physical form, if I had to I would find me one and possess it. Still I cannot define whether lucidity or despair took over. Whatever unheard of supernatural measures I had to conjure up and summon, I would. What pride! What renewed strength! Somehow – I do not know how – I have been empowered overnight and, by sundown, recharged, I was able to reconnect with the truest glimpse of home – I knew it was so because it came to me, swallowed me into it and there I spun round and round, blending, until we were a perfect unity. Blowing myself into its nest I instantly infiltrated its gentle presence. I saw in its face emotions being translated by uncommon bony features. I think it was happiness, what I saw.

         As long as it could carry me and grasp my presence, share and trade and breathe in Communion, it would last until it died and continue after death, giving ghostlove a rest, expanding into eternity.

         I learnt how Love is immortal, when met out of the ordinary, mortal realm.

         I suffered from ordinary love, before. A seasonal disease, it grows twice as powerful every changing season.

         Teased by bodily scents, hasty as a hummingbird, by the window I stood, fooled by the semblance of a once young mother of mine in that tender bourgeois girl. Obsessively enough, sneaking inside the greatly luxurious mansion, whose velvet-covered walls could tell sordid stories; I searched for the mademoiselle,intrigued by that face of hers. Her brown hair, horribly combed, falling on her inappropriately dark shoulders, pouring and smelling like honey, it drained like sweaty drops of lust on her face – the face of my mother. Oddly, the features were definitely of my beloved mother, the condescending grin especially, but her glare was something else, the owner of such secrets and tensions, only exposed indoors, against the luxurious walls of whorehouses. No resemblance to my mother, my womb, my home, could under any circumstances be related to sceneries of filth, sodomy and sterile and polluted realms. Perhaps me sneaking inside her, for her growing euphoria echoed orgasmically, scratching the velvet off the walls, granted me the unfortunate title of custumer. At least, that is what it all felt like. Possessing her was in no any way what I envisioned. Inanimate, flushed, falling off her chaise longue, her face touching the floor, there was nothing left. No soul to rip. Without having the slightest clue about ectoplasm ethics, I committed the worst sanctioned infraction of all – too much afterlife kills affection.

         In retrospect, I recognize I had much to learn. Those lessons, once learnt, allowed me to carry along without any quarrel of any fashion. Ignorance is to blame for one’s loss… though the truest affair of the heart is so abstract, in fact, as abstract as this sentence.

         Had I become more experienced in my sparse affairs, I would have turned out a good lover, back in the humbling grounds of Provence. As it did not happen like this and I am altogether fed up with the memory of such events, I shall only regret the moment of naivety when I proudly declared myself an ignoramus… ignoring the fact that Knowledge has an exquisite appetite for lust. Ignorant then, ignorant still. Every carnal episode of mine was a surprise, but not as deadly a surprise to me.

         In one of my many, many travels – roaming to the farthest eastern corner of this continental map – I had the most vulgar argument with a priest. He was a priest indeed, wearing his clerical gown. We discussed the possible ways to conquer happiness. I asserted there was no possible way to conquer happiness and the holy man would spit long and carefully meditated words to contradict mine, meticulously woven. Not wishing to take a bit more of his pretentious snotnosed attitude, I demanded of him his best priestly and uplifting posture, to which he said: The way to happiness requires a fine balance of the self; balance can be found in God; in Him we’ll both reach plenitude. I stoically saluted the man of God and kept heading east, through the bushes and whatever sort of rocks, rivers and inhospitable forests – I wanted to reach the misty corner in plenitude!

         Amusingly enough, I came to know, much later, about the very successful, almost ingenius public exploitation of that priest’s unheard of sins. It seemed to me that he reacted out of fear of being forgotten. Would anyone imagine that a holy man like him would rather confess his sinful mind, redeeming himself before his master’s eye, than live in quiet plenitude?

.   .   .

         Wind breezes and desert epic hot wind tunnels blew me through, carrying me effortlessly further in my journey. A mirrored cloud dancing, gleefully reflecting the unexpected sun of that, the day of holy funereal solemn grief, I perpetuated that myth of holiday angels. As I have never stood in the presence of one, I solemnly regret my misleading, innocent levitation…

         Death, resurrection. Which to dread the most?

         ‘Twas popular, those days, especially in between drinks, for the kind of existential conversations to take place around a Golden Ring. Whilst one could taste the frozen air of the freezing fearful eminent war, one could sip frosty liquors. Emptiness shaped the faces of the men gathered round the circle, each wrinkle sinking deeper in their skin, their gentlemanly hands cracked by forced labor in the unforgiving mines and wheatfields. Their devotion to the usual higher power sounded somewhat questionable because every other word coming out of their mouths flew like furiously spitting rockets. No one mentioned saints, psalms or sacred whores; all religious severity had been consumed with the first many drinks, in favor of a renewed faith in warlike paraphernalia, made to invade what hypothetical Heaven doors. Nearly thousands of grown men talking, merely discussing Babel nonsense, shaking the ice cubes in their glasses, making toasts to a more radiant tomorrow. They did not notice the apparent miracle of lights I had produced… but their wives and kids did, as they waited for the fresh bread and for the forsaken blood of whatever sacrificed youth, whatever child whose long gone fatherly arms have dropped.

         To my presence windows have opened, voices have grown softer and supplicant, martyrs have crawled out of their lairs, their unbaptised children have thrown rocks… everything remained the same. An unholy war was being fought. In their hearts, of both men and women, resides the root of evil: such ego, the more exacerbated, the more tainting.

         A beggar rose from its pagan nest, to my stupefaction and great satisfaction, reading words in the air, almost singing. That hallucination struck the very bravest turnip-like leg mothers and the sternest of men.

branches of prosperous green taint,

flowery stinging sprouts spray

in grey past and present delights,


must an obnoxious criminal bud, viral, vile, attaint

humane arts, deflower a nighttime prayer,

crimson rebirth nightmare fright.

         Roaming east, having weaved an aura, an appropriate tunnel across the land of the shameful and deluded, thus travelling faster than ever, my destination was only a few seconds away. Surpassing sound, hopping from sunray to sunray, in a flash I bust out of the secret twirl wind channel oh so gloriously, in a second of a flash. For my amazement, I gained weight. Falling. Grey matter, falling. A new and soiled corpus. Laden, crashing into my destination, at last.

         A blessed bay licked by a tepid sea, poked by rebellious brothers. This land, I longed for it with, the portal of eternal nothingness.

         It died. It had finally died. As fast as it died so it ascended. Unforgiving, the forces which took it forcefully under the excuse of necessary Rapture took it from me, extinguishing my light along with it. The beat was lost. It seemed, after all, not even in death…

         In some upper realm, it was playing with my light of centuries.

         Once captive and contorted, now disintegrating. Ascending.

        All the while I had no identity, only collecting Karma here and there. So let it die with me. I had no home, now I have no memory. Lost in eternity.

         Nothing is memorable.

         Some things are forgettable.

         Some forgettable things are not memorable.



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