“I am Jesus Christ.”
(“Roy”, Northwood Sanatorium, 1971)
Thursday, April 1, 2010
Amri
Amri looks out of the window.
The children are playing out in the sandy street.
The planes have stopped passing overhead, and the rubble from the collapsed buildings has been used as temporary constructions for the children to play their games.
“I’m the king of this castle!” a small boy standing on top of one of the shapeless heaps of broken stone proclaims, smiling from ear to ear while holding his sword made out of scrap metal high above his head.
Amri finds herself smiling for the first time in the year that has passed since her daughter died screaming in the flames of the burning white phosphor.
As she smiles, she forgets her grief for one second.
If for one second only.
I am Amri.
The children are playing out in the sandy street.
The planes have stopped passing overhead, and the rubble from the collapsed buildings has been used as temporary constructions for the children to play their games.
“I’m the king of this castle!” a small boy standing on top of one of the shapeless heaps of broken stone proclaims, smiling from ear to ear while holding his sword made out of scrap metal high above his head.
Amri finds herself smiling for the first time in the year that has passed since her daughter died screaming in the flames of the burning white phosphor.
As she smiles, she forgets her grief for one second.
If for one second only.
I am Amri.
The Alien
The Alien sits in front of the white, blurry surface that is the control surface of his ship.
He gazes into the infinity of his own memories.
Endless black eyes that have seen a billion stars come and go; species come, then crumble; galaxies die, and be reborn again.
It is the passage of life.
He knows all too much about how it works.
The ebb and flow, and ever-spiraling illusion of time.
Still – every time he has a tiny glimpse into the destiny of any given creature in the cosmos, it makes his heart pound with pure enthusiasm, as he is reminded of the wonder that Life is, and has always been.
And how one is all, and all is full of love.
If only his lips would have allowed him to smile – he would.
I am The Alien.
He gazes into the infinity of his own memories.
Endless black eyes that have seen a billion stars come and go; species come, then crumble; galaxies die, and be reborn again.
It is the passage of life.
He knows all too much about how it works.
The ebb and flow, and ever-spiraling illusion of time.
Still – every time he has a tiny glimpse into the destiny of any given creature in the cosmos, it makes his heart pound with pure enthusiasm, as he is reminded of the wonder that Life is, and has always been.
And how one is all, and all is full of love.
If only his lips would have allowed him to smile – he would.
I am The Alien.
Sebastian Melmoth
Sebastian Melmoth is walking slowly along the riverbank.
The Seine floats gently by, as if to assure him that history does likewise, bringing fresh water and hitherto unthinkable changes into this world.
He wonders how many of his pains could have been spared him, if only he had lived further down the stream, maybe even all the way down, where the river spread itself out into the vast open seas.
But what about all the thrills, then?
Would they, too, have been lost?
And alien tears will fill for him
Pity's long-broken urn,
For his mourners will be outcast men,
And outcasts always mourn.
I am Sebastian Melmoth.
The Seine floats gently by, as if to assure him that history does likewise, bringing fresh water and hitherto unthinkable changes into this world.
He wonders how many of his pains could have been spared him, if only he had lived further down the stream, maybe even all the way down, where the river spread itself out into the vast open seas.
But what about all the thrills, then?
Would they, too, have been lost?
And alien tears will fill for him
Pity's long-broken urn,
For his mourners will be outcast men,
And outcasts always mourn.
I am Sebastian Melmoth.
Eric Arthur Blair
Eric Arthur Blair fights for his life in the cold water.
He clings to the underside of his boat, which is floating overturned in the middle of the much-feared Corryvrekan stream.
His son Richard clings to his father's arm, and is terrified.
Eric tries to look calmly back into the boy’s eyes, but knows that the frothing waters around them will swallow them both at any second and spit their dead bodies far out into the Atlantic sea.
The black cliffs at the shore surrounding the frightening maelstrom make the chances of reaching land and surviving this seem even more impossible.
He knows that he might just have to accept their fate.
But still, he feels that it would not be right.
He has important things to do.
Tasks to fulfill.
He cannot give in now - not so close to the goal.
Suddenly Richard loses his grip and goes under.
Eric dives after him, and somehow manages to get them both above water again.
And then, as if by magic, he is filled with the most profound feeling of peace.
And, as he lies there, in the middle of his own Nemesis, clinging on to his beloved son, he just knows that they’re going to make it.
It’s going to be alright.
He just knows.
I am Eric Arthur Blair.
He clings to the underside of his boat, which is floating overturned in the middle of the much-feared Corryvrekan stream.
His son Richard clings to his father's arm, and is terrified.
Eric tries to look calmly back into the boy’s eyes, but knows that the frothing waters around them will swallow them both at any second and spit their dead bodies far out into the Atlantic sea.
The black cliffs at the shore surrounding the frightening maelstrom make the chances of reaching land and surviving this seem even more impossible.
He knows that he might just have to accept their fate.
But still, he feels that it would not be right.
He has important things to do.
Tasks to fulfill.
He cannot give in now - not so close to the goal.
Suddenly Richard loses his grip and goes under.
Eric dives after him, and somehow manages to get them both above water again.
And then, as if by magic, he is filled with the most profound feeling of peace.
And, as he lies there, in the middle of his own Nemesis, clinging on to his beloved son, he just knows that they’re going to make it.
It’s going to be alright.
He just knows.
I am Eric Arthur Blair.
Nikola Tesla
Nikola Tesla is standing next to his desk in deep thought.
In front of him lies the recently completed drawings for the construction of his Over Unity device – capable of producing an endless surplus of electrical energy by the exploitation of earth magnetism and gravity alone.
He has accomplished his life’s most challenging task, and knows it will change just about everything when the news get around to New York – or even just as far as to Edison’s spy, lurking outside his own property gates.
Tesla takes a deep breath, walks over to the window and looks out.
The forest outside is full of life on this warm summer evening, and the air is rich with the smell of flowers in bloom and fresh grass.
He can’t help but fall into a deeply melancholy state as he stands there viewing this beautiful, tranquil scenery.
The smells and sounds resemble those of his childhood, the forest in Belgrade, and even just standing here, thousands of miles and several decades away from the source of his memories, he still feels as though he is being transported by magic back to the source by these simple impressions on his senses.
Life, and Nature, he concludes - is truly the most wondrous thing.
And far, far superior in complexity to any of the technology he has created and surrounded himself with throughout his whole life.
As he stands there, carelessly letting his mind wander, he can feel something rising within - an urge he’s been getting during the last few days.
He’s already been going through this over and over with himself, and maybe he has even known it deep down, all along the way?
It is over.
He has succeeded.
The challenge in itself was what made him approach this problem to begin with, and, now that he has resolved it, he feels content, but also somehow empty.
This is good enough.
It will have to do for his personal fulfillment.
After all, hasn’t he always steered clear of the trappings of vanity, the same vanity that clearly had succeeded in taking control over the once creative minds of some of his peers?
Why should he give in to the temptations of attaining recognition and economical success, now that he has travelled thus far with totally different intentions?
It has to be done.
Nikola Tesla walks over to the drawing board once more.
He picks up the construction sketches, folds them with both hands, tears the papers into tiny little pieces, and throws them into the open, unlit fireplace.
There they lie atop an old heap of ashes, like pieces of the most perfect dream.
Broken.
And then, even though it is a warm summer evening, Nikola lights up the fireplace.
Life, after all, is far too beautiful for this to destroy it.
I am Nikola Tesla.
In front of him lies the recently completed drawings for the construction of his Over Unity device – capable of producing an endless surplus of electrical energy by the exploitation of earth magnetism and gravity alone.
He has accomplished his life’s most challenging task, and knows it will change just about everything when the news get around to New York – or even just as far as to Edison’s spy, lurking outside his own property gates.
Tesla takes a deep breath, walks over to the window and looks out.
The forest outside is full of life on this warm summer evening, and the air is rich with the smell of flowers in bloom and fresh grass.
He can’t help but fall into a deeply melancholy state as he stands there viewing this beautiful, tranquil scenery.
The smells and sounds resemble those of his childhood, the forest in Belgrade, and even just standing here, thousands of miles and several decades away from the source of his memories, he still feels as though he is being transported by magic back to the source by these simple impressions on his senses.
Life, and Nature, he concludes - is truly the most wondrous thing.
And far, far superior in complexity to any of the technology he has created and surrounded himself with throughout his whole life.
As he stands there, carelessly letting his mind wander, he can feel something rising within - an urge he’s been getting during the last few days.
He’s already been going through this over and over with himself, and maybe he has even known it deep down, all along the way?
It is over.
He has succeeded.
The challenge in itself was what made him approach this problem to begin with, and, now that he has resolved it, he feels content, but also somehow empty.
This is good enough.
It will have to do for his personal fulfillment.
After all, hasn’t he always steered clear of the trappings of vanity, the same vanity that clearly had succeeded in taking control over the once creative minds of some of his peers?
Why should he give in to the temptations of attaining recognition and economical success, now that he has travelled thus far with totally different intentions?
It has to be done.
Nikola Tesla walks over to the drawing board once more.
He picks up the construction sketches, folds them with both hands, tears the papers into tiny little pieces, and throws them into the open, unlit fireplace.
There they lie atop an old heap of ashes, like pieces of the most perfect dream.
Broken.
And then, even though it is a warm summer evening, Nikola lights up the fireplace.
Life, after all, is far too beautiful for this to destroy it.
I am Nikola Tesla.
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