Strange electricity in the sky tonight. Crack the window to let a little seep in. Too early for bed though, so I flop out on the couch to rest my eyes. Stereo and lights down low, just above the threshold of perception. Mind wandering without tether or destination, thoughts drifting between the immediate and the abstract. Eyelids heavy, breathing slowed, but still awake. Still awake. Still...
A soft voice singing gently, but not from the stereo.
Go to sleep little baby
Go to sleep little baby
You and me and the devil makes three
Don't need no other lovin' baby
If not... then where...? A struggle to shake off the fatigue and sit back up. Damn, it got cold in here - I didn't open the window that much. I swing my arm out and it brushes across... leaves? Snow?
I wake with a jolt in cold night air. Sitting up slowly, I find myself on a wooded hillside overlooking low, sturdy buildings. A thin blanket of ice blue moonlight illuminates everything in sight, including the jacket and boots I don't remember putting on.
"Man, this is living. Brown-bagging it on the coast of northern Norway. If this isn't the coldest place on Earth I don't know what is," said the familiar voice of my Blog Self. "Here," he said, handing me a bottle and opener. "Looks like you could use one of these."
"Thanks," I replied, cracking off the top.
"You've come far, pilgrim."
I shook my head and laughed. Fatigue, finality and that really old joke kicked in, and I laughed again, louder, cascading. The laugh of release.
"Feels like far," I replied. "You know, it took me a while, but I think I know who you are. What you are. You're not my Blog Self at all, are you?"
"Getting warmer," he said.
"A trickster, but no ordinary one."
"Getting warmer," he said.
"A voice from the collective unconscious. A messenger from the timeless narrative. A whisper from all stories from all time. The ones that feel like mine but aren't really. All the ones I've lived, all the ones I'm going to."
For a long time he said nothing, staring silently into the sky as if waiting for... what? An answer of some kind? Approval? After a while his features softened, and with a smile and slow nod he said, "Close enough. You lost your bearings for a while there, but all you needed was a little nudge. You ready for what comes next?"
"I think so. Yeah. Yeah, I am."
"Good. A lot of people are counting on you."
He didn't have to name names. I saw all their faces in half an instant, and I remembered. I remembered...
"Well cowboy, I need to get going," he said. "I might be timeless, but it doesn't mean I'm not busy. Why don't you stick around for a bit, take a walk through town? Been a while. Nice night too. Hell of a moon up there."
Surveying the town below, I felt a spark of memory. Something about it... something...
"Hey, before you go, I wanted to ask you..."
Too late - he had already vanished. But I think I knew the answer anyway.
I walked down the slope and into the edge of town. People still milling through the streets, walking in and out of the restaurants, talking loudly and laughing heartily. Smiling and nodding when we made eye contact, as if to ask, "Where ya been?"
I was... away. But now... now...
A flood of images and moments. A tumble of buried memories suddenly triggered loose. Proust was right:
"When from a long distant past nothing persists, after the people are dead, after things are broken and scattered, still alone, more persistent, more faithful, the smell and taste of things remain poised a long, long time like souls, ready to remind us, waiting, hoping for their moment amid the ruins of all the rest, and bear unfaltering in the tiny and almost impalpable drop of their essence the vast structure of recollection."
A few blocks down the street I come to an outdoor skating rink and rest my elbows on the railing, to regain my balance as much as anything else. Still a handful of people on the ice, slowly gliding clockwise. I stare back up at the stars and remember a night sky from forever ago. One by the ocean. A conversation.
Getting harder to reopen my eyes every time I close them. So tired.
I could just curl up right here and...
A flicker of motion behind me, a tug on my sleeve, and that voice...
"Martello!"
Just behind my left shoulder, smiling wide and bundled in a heavy coat stood Fiorella. I scooped her up and she laughed that laugh of hers.
"Che Cavolo! Martello, where are we?"
"Norway, I think."
"Norway? Daverro? He said I would meet you tonight, but I did not think it would be in Norway."
"Who?"
"The man who looks like you but is not you."
My jaw dropped. I didn't even know where to begin.
"Martello, I wish to skate? Can you skate?"
"Yes, I skate very well."
"You will need to keep up, Martello. No mosey."
"No mosey."
Five minutes later and we're on the ice, turning in wide circles with the crowd and laughing our heads off. After a time I begin to ask the question...
"Fiorella, that man who looks like me but is not me..."
She cuts me off by reaching over and putting a finger across my lips. "Shhhhhh! Martello, you have a very bad habit of talking when you should be doing other things. Take my hand and skate."
This is where a smart man shuts his mouth and does as he's told. Tonight I am a smart man, and we skate for what feel like an hour or so, but who knows?
She says her legs are tired and she wants to sit a while. We find a bench nearby and as she curls into my right shoulder, the heavy veil of sleep that I've been fighting off all night starts to settle in again. I don't know how much longer... I don't know...
"Martello, you look very tired."
"I don't want to fall asleep. Or wake up. I just want to stay here as long as I can."
"But Martello, we cannot stay here. We must go. You must go."
"Says who?"
"Says that man."
"The one who looks like me but is not me?"
"Si."
"Did he say anything else?"
"He told me to remind you of your promise. Do you remember your promise, Martello?"
Heavy tumblers fell into place in an instant. "Yes," I said. "I remember my promise."
Everything starts to spin a little, and as my eyes close I know that I won't be able to open them again. Not tonight. Whatever "this" is, it's fading fast.
"Martello, do not forget your promise."
"I won't."
"Promise me."
"Promise not to forget... my promise?"
"Si."
"Okay," I say with an exhausted laugh. "I promise."
As she leaned in close and whispered one last thing, something meant only for me, I felt gravity disappear. The last tumbler clicking into place. All this time, all this time...
Still whispering, she began to sing.
Go to sleep little baby
Go to sleep little baby
You and me and the devil makes three
Don't need no other lovin' baby
Indeterminable time passes and I wake slowly. Something a little different about the morning light today. I leave the stereo off and brew a pot of coffee in silence. Too many cobwebs to shake loose.
I start to pack a bag. I have no idea why, but I pack a bag.
The phone rings loudly, jolting me out of my trance. A famliar voice and an old script that I never get tired of.
"I'm on my way," I say. "I'm heading out the door now. I just have this one last thing to take care of. One last thing."
One last thing...
Friday, November 6
The Edge of Awake
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16 bounces:
"There were two roads out of Ashton, a new one which was paved, and an older one that wasn't. People didn't use the old road anymore, and it had developed the reputation of being haunted. Well, since I had no intention of ever returning to Ashton, this seemed as good a time as any to find out what lay down that old road."
Marvelous!
Esse deve abbastanza una donna a mettere in su con il vostro vaga e confusa fiabe.
Ciao!
Better than my dream yesterday of being assaulted by hissing, giggling demons.
Hmmm...so much here that seems familiar.
Must let the juices stew for a bit so it all comes together. B back after a couple of massages. They give great stewing time.
Ah, but weren't you always skating on thin ice with Mdme Fiorella?
I could comment with a 100 year response but I'll be brief with 100 words. Even for Cali time, it's late.
"A voice from the collective unconscious" is one way of describing that One. A lot of people are depending on you (and others who got the call). The time to remember your commitment is here.
Astrophysics, theoretical physics, quantum physics...Fiorella is here.
Please...you know as well as I do why you packed your bag. One more thing---maybe two...
Do you ever just look into someones eyes or words and recognize them as belonging to your Soul Group?
Hey...what happened to the ground hog in your avatar?
Dagny: With apologies to Will Bloom... "In telling Hammer's story, it's impossible to separate fact from fiction, the man from the myth. The best I can do is to tell it the way he told me. It doesn't always make sense and some of it never happened... but that's what kind of story this is."
lacochran: Sometimes marvelous just happens and all you gotta do is show up and do as you're told.
Phil: Gatta ci cova...
Cube: Demons, eh? I thought I was having the exact same dream last week, but it turns out I was just at the DMV.
Ronda(cubed): The critter took a long look around and buggered off. Lucky for me too, because if he'd gone back into his burrow it would have meant 6 more weeks of blogging. As for the larger picture, I do think there's a definite kinship/ease-of-conversation among people who regard their surroundings in similar ways, even if their conclusions are different. Shared vocabulary only gets you so far - the key is shared grammar.
Zed: Indeed. And she's never been a big fan of grading on a curve either.
Oh...that "one that looks like you but is not you." But still, I contend he is the One. But then, that's how I pretty much see everything, from a Dung Beatle to a starry night so beautiful it makes you weep, so you can't really go by me.
Don't want to blog for 6 more weeks? How will I learn the rest of the story?
Ronda: It's funny, but lately I've been thinking about what it's like to tell stories to little kids, and their incessant barrage of "And then what happened?" I swear, they'll keep you up all night if you let them. The rest of the story, or as much of it will be relayed here, will come out in a couple days. Stay tuned.
At this point, I'm not ruling anything out regarding "the one who looks like me but is not me." If you have any background reading you think I should do with regard to the concept of "the One," I'd be happy to give it a look. Shoot me an email with the particulars. For now though, I'm content with the picture I have. It may not be accurate, but it works.
There's a great quote from an English professor who wrote a letter to George Carlin that goes like this:
"Many native traditions held clowns and tricksters as essential to any contact with the sacred. People could not pray until they had laughed, because laughter opens and frees from rigid preconception. Humans had to have tricksters within the most sacred ceremonies lest they forget the sacred comes through upset, reversal, surprise. The trickster in most native traditions is essential to creation, to birth."
This is so so beautiful. So beautiful that my hand was on my heart as I read it. Numinous, a "true" story, a "true" dream ... or whatever you want to call it.
It's so powerful, what's happening. I can feel it.
I love you.
Beautiful quote and so true as far as I know. I don't know if I have any written references on the "One." But somewhere, I have oral retellings of Hindu origin. When I run across them, I will email you.
I am so glad I will read the story here. Some of your followers write that you are bagging your blog. It brings out my "Anxiety Closet" because I've grown fond of what I find here.
Time for a beer run.
Reya: Thank you for the kind thoughts and also for reminding me of "numinous," a most excellent word I'd heard before but had completely forgotten.
Ronda: In fairness, you sort of will. I apologize in advance for all the gaps, loose ends, and ambiguity that I'll likely leave behind, but these things never bothered me much, and I always kinda preferred open spaces anyway. I'm not the guy who wants to use closing moments to comprehensively tidy things up or convince people of anything in particular. I'm more of... well... stay tuned.
My Italian is admittedly rusty.
You're birthing cats?
It's a pretty common Italian expression that doesn't directly translate very well, but it's essentially the equivalent of "There's something fishy going on here..."
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