Orange, blue, yellow, and green lights flickered in the second story window. They would be followed by other flashes in lavender, pink, periwinkle, and apricot. Sometimes the rhythms resembled code; at other times they flickered fast enough to invite photoepilesy. The gendarmes arrived one night, and let themselves in with a skeleton key borrowed from a belligerent, heavy-set building manager spewing nonsense. The apartment was cleany; the hardwood floors sparkled with fresh wax; there were almost no furnishings. In an old, upholstered black chair by the window, a gaunt inhabitant sat, drinking cider and playing with a little box of switches connected by cord to strings of light bulbs in various colors, shapes and sizes adorning a book shelf and wire and metal sculpture of a potted larch in the corner. A fire hazard, said one gendarme. It is not, said the inhabitant. The larch is a sculpture made of non-flammable materials. Why are you wasting electricity every night in this manner? Stop playing with the switch for one blasted moment! The room suddenly fell into deep darkness. Only a dim glow from the street lamps outside shone from the window. What madness to repeat the same thing over and over! the gendarme continued. Switching lights on and off! Are you mad? Night after night, playing with a light switch! It was silent for a long time. The inhabitant in the corner said, I do not think it is anymore repetitive that sleeping with the same tart every night, getting drunk and vomitting in the same gutter on the way home, losing at the same game of cards, telling the same lie to your boss to leave work early, refusing to fix a leaking faucet or burnt out bulb for the same imaginary reasons. It is not more repetitive than rereading old newspapers, washing the same clothes, arresting the same thugs, eating, drinking or breathing. It’s probably less repetitive, statistically even less frequent, quotidian, or ubiquitous. Why do you play this way? another gendarme asked. I watch the lights and think or daydream. Sometimes I remember things; sometimes I write in my notebook. Sometimes I pray the rosary. Sometimes I just have another sip of cider and enjoy the warm colors. There was another long silence. A philosopher and poet, muttered the first gendarme, and he placed the inhabitant under arrest.
cosmology
The Right Star
In the observatory, the children lined up to have their turn at the telescope. The astronomer patiently explained the different terms–galaxy, black hole, comet, planet, light years, red shift, gravitational pull, orbit, parallax, luminosity, relativity, and many other words that quite literally sounded as if they were from other worlds. Most of the children had no idea what they were looking; some asked inane questions about unidentified flying objects, and still others rubbed their eyes in utter boredom. A teacher finally said it was time for refreshments in another room, and the children began to shuffle towards the main exit. One boy lingered by the telescope. The astronomer looked down and gently asked if he still had any questions. The boy nodded and asked why his wishes never came true. He always wished on the first star he saw every night, and yet it was starting to seem pointless. The astronomer lit a cigar, for it was long ago in the days when men were allowed to smoke cigars, and thought about the problem. At last he asked the boy if he knew anything about mathematics and probability. The boy said he had done the experiment with coins once. The astronomer puffed out a large cloud of smoke and nodded with approval. Now then, said the astronomer, the brightest things tend to catch our eyes first. It is highly probable that you are always wishing on the same stars–Arcturus, Vega, Deneb, Altair, one of the stars in Ursa Major, or one of the stars in Cassiopeia. And everyone else is also wishing on those same stars because they’re very bright and they catch our eyes at twilight, when the stars first come out. Maybe your wishes get lost amongst all those other wishes. There is another possibility. At night, some of the brightest lights we take for stars are not stars at all–they are planets! Mars, Venus, Jupiter and Saturn–all bright and visible to the naked eye. I don’t know if wishing on a planet has any effect at all! He puffed some more on his cigar as he watched a smile grow on the child’s face. My advice, the astronomer continued, is to look at a star map and make sure that you look in an area of the night sky where there are no bright stars, only dim ones. And be careful not to look up until you are sure you are going to gaze in the right direction. Then the first star you see will likely be a dim star, a star nobody else makes a wish on. And it will be your star alone!
The Asterism
The asterism mazes across the night sky in cold, bright stars. The shadow, an old man or child, gazing up from a field of tawny grass, does not know the light years of its breadth, the orbit of its galaxy, its right ascension or declination, its quadrant, the parallax, velocity or magnitude of its brightest stars. It does not know the formula for gravity or relativity, nor the atomic weights of hydrogen and helium. It does not know the mysteries of its galaxy that the astronomers do not know. And yet it knows the faithful pattern, the changless appearance and itinerary, and a handful of magical stories. Night after night, the shadow looks upward to the stars that lived long before him and will live long after him, sometimes wishful but always thankful for the endless sign and its brilliant silence shining back down on him.
The Secret Number of Trees
A traveler came to a city by the desert. Outside the city gate he found a man lost in thought. “What are you thinking about?” the traveler asked. “I have questions about heaven and god. I wonder what it is.” The traveler shook his head and muttered: “What a foolish waste of time! Instead you should ask how many trees there are, how many leaves they have, what the tavernas are like, and follow your questions to the end!” The traveler walked off and entered the city. Some years passed and a great earthquake struck, cracking the streets and crumbling the towers. The traveler lay in a heap of stones, bleeding from his wounds. He tried to count his wounds. He wondered how many stones he lay upon. A thoughtful man was going from one injured person to another, bandaging wounds and giving them water to drink from a kettle he had found. It was the idiot from the city gate–the first person the traveler had met when arriving. “Are there many dead?” he asked, after drinking a cool stream of water from the kettle. “It would seem so,” said the man, who still seemed youthful despite his crow’s feet and scattered strands of gray hair. “How many are injured? What kinds of doctors and engineers live here? Am I going to die? Did you ever find an answer to your useless questions?” The thoughtful man sighed, smiled, and started to bandage the old traveller’s wounds.
The Great Sea
The river began to speak. It spoke to the poor dry land. It spoke to the acacias. And it whispered to the dried out grass . Then it called to the man who sat on its shore. Come and let me draw you to the sea, it said. And what is in the sea? asked the man. Great things, said the river. And years passed. The river drew silt; it hauled driftwood; it carried off scraps of paper and golden leaves and straw; it ferried swimmers and boatmen. And the old man wondered why he could not get to the sea, and why the river called to him, and why the acacias eventually died and cast their branches and trunks into the stream, but he would not set a raft upon the waters nor wade into the streams, though the river ran forever, beautiful, blue-green and deep to the sea of great things.
The Match
A roof caught fire, and the wind bore an ember far down the street until it landed in a lane right next to an old match that some passerby had thrown away after lighting a cigar. “You look burnt-out,” said the ember. “And you have flown off course,” said the dark match stick. “It’s all right, though. Our purpose has been served.” The ember glowed a little less brightly. “I fear I am running out of time. I wonder if I burned enough.” The match seemed to almost curl, perhaps in a gesture or bow to express something. “To be fire, even just once, is magic.” “Will it be awful when I am extinguished?” “No,” the match said. “The sound of my burning was beautiful. And yet, the silence is also beautiful.” They sat in silence for a bit, the ember losing its heat and glow. Its annihilation was only seconds away. “Don’t worry,” said the match. “One can burn again. In the right circumstances, everything can burn. Everything is fire. A fire waiting to happen.”
The Half Tree
The strange tree grew on the slope of a great expressionist mountain of iron gray stones and pure snow. It looked like half of a tree, regardless of the path you took to approach it. The northern view showed limbs and leaves vanishing into the west; the southern view suggested branches and flowers smoking into the east. And yet, if one embraced its trunk or climbed it, one found that it was whole, that nothing was lost. Not far from the tree lived an old man who cared for it. One morning, as he walked to the tree with his axe and kindling, a visitor stopped him to ask about the tree. “The half tree,” said the old man, “is an enigma. One half of the world recognizes its medicinal benefits, but instead of buying or cultivating its fruit, they harvest grapefruits and oranges and boil them to try to obtain the unique chemicals only found in this tree, chemicals never to be found in oranges, grapefruits or any other fruit. The other half of humanity harvests the medicine from this tree, refines it, packages it and sells it, but discourages people from taking it and denies its benefits. It is a tree of contention.” The visitor shook her head in disbelief and asked, “Where is the rest of the tree?” The old man shrugged and whispered, “The only place it can be.”
The Paleovespa
The golden light of the syrup glowed all around the shadowed form of the insect, whose one partially raised leg seemed to indicate an aspiration or an afterthought. The other wasp drew near to the congealed fire burning in the damp sand below the coastal pine. It is time to depart, it said. Time is running out. It is timeless here, the other said, and beautiful beyond belief. That is only the pain or the asphyxiation speaking, the concerned wasp remarked. I will telegraph for help. That would be a waste of time, said the trapped wasp, because the signals no longer exist. I do not follow, said the wasp outside. The signals exist—they always have. No, the trapped wasp insisted. Only this golden twilight has ever existed. Nobody and nothing else. I do not need anything and certainly not from you. What have I done? the wasp outside demanded. Nothing, said the wasp in the syrup. That is not true, the other argued. I have built our paper houses, I have hunted and stolen honey with the others. I see no evidence of that, said the wasp in the syrup. I am surrounded by a veritable hoard of honey, and what do you have? You are not swimming in honey, the one outside protested. That is some sort of pine sap, and if you do not leave you will perish. I will call for help. I do not need your help, the trapped wasp insisted. And I will have no more of your hypocrisy. There is nothing out there that I need; there is nobody to call. I have found the ultimate honey, a golden twilight of purity and clarity. Do not abuse me or my honey. Come now, the other wasp desperately cried, come with me. There I s a bear carcass not far from here. It has a giant hive of dripping honeycombs. It will brighten our eyes and strengthen our limbs and wings, and we will have plenty of bees to chase. Silence almost filled the forest. Only the wings and legs of the wasp outside flickered. The sound of the sea brushed through the dark branches. There is no bear, said the other wasp weakly. Only I have the ambrosia. You have nothing; you have become nothing. The raised leg jerked one last time. The mournful wasp walked around the hardening sap, examining the crisp outlines of the shadow within. An older wasp arrived to call him back to the bear carcass. What has he become? the wasp asked his elder. Priceless, the old wasp replied.
The Mobiles
Driving into the lake town, one noticed the beautiful way the magical lights danced on rain-polished streets. At every intersection, a different triad of traffic lights hung from above. At the first, the lights were chocolate, vanilla and strawberry, but things quickly got complicated. The next intersection had cotton candy, tiger tail and cake icing. Down a side street, one could glimpse other triads–rum, spumone, neapolitan; raspberry, peach, caramel; matcha, sesame and kinako. It was hard to make out the architecture; one caught glimpses of old houses with pointed roofs and stainless steel siding, gray brick warehouses and old shops with clean glass windows full of colorful round paper lanterns. Most of the stores were shuttered, but outside one of them on a three-way crossroads stood a glowing, human-sized vanilla ice-cream perfectly reflected in the puddle lapping against the curb. It was impossible to tell what the colors of the traffic lights meant; one had to guess whether the order from top to bottom was the same as everywhere else. One drove slowly. One saw crosses, stray wheels and shredded metal under the pine trees. Gardens were lined with rubber tires or cinder blocks. The broken glass on every lane sparkled with the glimmer of a fair ground. Mobiles of spark plugs, zinc fender washers, wing nuts, rod bolts, and other automotive innards hung from cottonwoods. Had it not been for the lack of other motor vehicles on the road, it would have been impossible to get around the maze of streets meandering along the hills overlooking the deep indigo waters and gray shores lined with overturned, beached boats. One would like to stop somewhere and have a pint of amber ale amongst friendly faces under strings of naked light bulbs with outdated songs playing from a jukebox. One felt the bitter pang of nostalgia, regret or relief as one drove through the last intersection of town, lit by the last triad of signals glowing in rose, butterscotch and mint.
The Old Lanterns
It was the godless month when rain lashes the coasts and leaves fall from the trees. The wandering monk entered an abandoned town full of smoke and mist. An old lantern bearing the name of paradise flickered outside a run-down building with missing roof tiles. It was most likely a tavern, and it also seemed to be the only place open. Calling out a greeting, the monk rolled the sliding door open, only to see the strangest sight. Only a few lanterns, some of them misshapen, were burning. Instead of the master standing behind the counter ordering around barmaids with trays, he saw a warrior sitting next to an empty suit of armour at the bar, pouring it some liquor and muttering a toast. There is nobody here, said the warrior. The monk nodded and sat down at the far end. The warrior got up, went behind the counter into the kitchen and returned with a filled bottle of liquor and a cup, which he placed in front of the monk. It is cold, the warrior said. The firewood was wet. The monk thanked him and downed a cup of liquor. You see me, the monk finally said. Yes, the warrior mumbled. And it appears you see me. Then we are not ghosts, the monk deduced. I don’t know, the warrior sighed, moving closer, leaving his armour to drink alone. Ghosts, the warrior repeated quietly. The rain beat a constant harsh rhythm on the roof. My horse did not follow me, the warrior explained. That is some consolation. A bitter consolation. And my wound seems healed, although I am not keen to undress and look. And I still have my bow,quiver and sword. They poured themselves more liquor and stared at the dusty furnishings and lamps. I was the only one left on the battlefield, said the warrior. I got up, and walked to the edge of the escarpment, and saw a meadow filled with the slain. I was the only one alive, though my wound was fatal and I did not have much time. The morning sky was beautiful, blue, with only scattered clouds. The larch and the birch had already turned golden. Bloody corpses lay everywhere. I wept out loud for the first time in my life. Then suddenly a clear, grating voice spoke behind me. Why are you weeping? Is it because you regret losing them? They are nothing other than you. I turned and saw a young priest, probably a heretic, with a cold, pale face, holding an accordion book of the sutras and some beads. What do you mean? I demanded. Those bodies, and every body you have ever encountered, is no one other than yourself. You have only ever met yourself. I regarded the corpses once more, and they were still lying there in the vanishing morning dew. When I turned back again, the priest was gone. My horse was nowhere to be found, yet I still felt the pain of falling from him after the enemy arrows struck me. I am a lie, I thought, and the way of the warrior is a lie. I walked into the forest. It began to rain, and I stumbled into this village. I have not seen a soul. A sound of thunder shook the mountains. They told me the same thing, said the monk. I had a raging fever, and I figured my days were done. One cool evening, I awoke. Dark monks like puppets surrounded my bed, smiling. Their smiles reminded me of those hideous festival masks or theatrical masks. Where are the others? I asked. For I did not know any of these people. They were not my friends. They were not the acolytes or monks of my monastery. I called for the abbot, but the radiant monks started to laugh. Who are you calling? they asked. I repeated the name of the abbot, and they laughed even more. That person is you, they said. No, I argued vehemently. The abbot is corpulent, kindly and good at mixing herbs. I am gaunt, younger, and fairly inept at medicine. They shook their heads in silence. In the world, you are the only one who exists. Everyone you have ever met is you. Madness, I cried. They began to make a magic lantern show on the temple wall. I could not bear to watch anymore. I ran screaming down the corridors, into the courtyard, and down the country lane. It is one thing to say that the world is an illusion, but to think that the world is uninhabited, that I have always been alone. The warrior laughed and said, I kill myself in a thousand ways for no reason. It makes no sense. The monk went into the kitchen. After some lengthy digging around, he got a fire going and heated some liquor, bringing the steaming bottles back to the counter. I had a concubine and a son, said the monk. You had nobody, said the warrior. You may as well have married your sister or mother—what difference would it have made? And don’t get any ideas about sharing a bedroll or a bath with me. The monk burst into laughter, spewing liquor all over the counter. Then the spell of laughter turned into weeping. She got angry with me one winter, the monk said. She walked into the stormy sea clutching our child, and a riptide washed them away. That is a cruel thing to endure, said the warrior. I betrayed my lord, he said after a long pause. Only my army was to be massacred. The battle got out of hand, and everyone died. The monk refilled the warrior’s cup. My concubine was my aunt and my wet nurse, said the monk. She was still my wet nurse when she took her life and the life of our child. The mountains of the north are truly cold. There was nothing to say. They just listened to the rain and stared at the old lanterns.
the lost way 