Protect Mankind

    ‘…As a short introduction I felt this poem would befit the dream theme. I am glad you all liked it. Now perhaps it is wise to explain a bit more about dreaming before I diverge further into the strange lands that lie behind the veil of sleep. And the current stir I have found there… Before…’

    ‘…. Before our joys and bliss will be turned to grieve and sorrows, let us understand why we must undergo and suffer.’

    ‘…I beg your pardon for my haste, there is much I would like to tell you about. Much… Some of you are known with my ramblings but some are not. Before I take you along my dreams and visions, let me introduce myself, next to my subject of speech.’

    ‘Some of you may question who I am. You might even do that in a sincere streetwise kind of way more akin to these times. It does not truly matter, but for the sake of introduction, I will disperse in a small way, my origin. My name is Randolph Carter.’ The seconds of the world ticked away slowly.

    ‘I am old. I’ve seen things.’ Again only silence waited. ‘... And I am a writer. I write about dreams which are true. And I warn people. I am a lecturer… A discoverer… Old dreamer… But I am no action hero. I don’t guard the rainbow bridge like Heimdall with his great sword, I merely wonder at its beauty… Curiosity is bliss! I’ve lost friends who were heroes and…’ Randolph stopped in midsentence and looked around. The long room had sparse light, yet he could see it was mostly empty. This room… A temple where he preached. Dust specks drifted in the beamer light. His few usual followers were seated in front of him, ever ready to dolt down whatever feeble words he uttered. Gullible fools. In the far back he now noticed a dark boy, from India or Pakistan, whose dark skin was glistening in the soft light. And either he had very dark eyes or… He was sleeping. Yes, this odd fellow had come half way through his terrible long poem, Randolph remembered the intrusion and…

    ‘Ah yes, sorry, I drifted away there. I suggest a small break before I continue on other realities and beings from higher and lower planes, the greater archetypes…’ Randolph sketched and raised his arms in the air, as if calling the greater powers down from heaven to this ill lighted room. His mouth fell open and he shook his head shortly, his face showing unusual emotion which his eager followers quickly grasped for a joke and small laughter filled the dank air.

    ‘Yes… Yes… Let us keep a light heart in a dark world.’ Randolph gave a faint smile and then shuffled along to the other end of the long room. The rustling of clothing and the scrapping of wooden chairs on a wooden floor sounded the pause. For some reason Randolph felt his eyes pulling towards the dark boy… Not the Black Man, Randolph confided happily to himself. India, Randolph guessed as he came closer. Sleeping indeed, he noticed, and decided to take timely action. He could live with a world falling apart and the carefree people living in it, but not with sleepers in his class. From a metre away Randolph noticed a certain herbal scent, too soft to be from smoke, yet strong enough for… It played in his nose until he had placed it. Marijuana. He stopped in front of him and sniffed the air. Stoned, Randolph concluded and thought about the proper way of conduct.

Lands and seas flew under his body of a shapeless cloud and the skies broke apart for wider skies and John drifted away in the immense sea of non angular space. He was more consciousness then he ever remembered dreaming. Underneath him colourful images shone a magnificent brilliance of a marvellous sunset city. He wanted to be there so gladly, it reminded him of Eden. The soft sounds of butterflies flapping their wings carried the air around him, made place for a stronger and demanding voice. He felt a touch on his shoulder and looked around slowly to see a skinless hand, flayed to the flesh. Unspeakable horror whispered around him. He shot awake with a booming cry.

‘Greetings…’ Randolph started friendly but felt strangely alarmed by the look in the youngster’s eyes. ‘…Welcome to my class.’ He said with an unclear voice.

    John took a deep breath to himself before looking up at the elder well-dressed man with round glasses. Noticing the wetness on his chin John wiped away some drool with his hand and cracked a smile with his white teeth. ‘Hey man…’ John moaned dreamily and gave the same hand to shake. As Randolph politely met his hand John said: ‘That was a very cool poem, I dreamed about …’

    ‘Yes… Yes… Thank you.’ Randolph said unsure.

    ‘This is an open lecture, right? Didn’t mean to fall asleep, sorry you know.’

    ‘Yes… Okay… Well, we have a small break now. And…’

    ‘Did I miss much? It’s about the dream world, right?’

    ‘Yes.’ Randolph said solemnly. And wondered about himself, why he always said things in a way, instead of just saying them. He sighed and overlooked the boy, who could have been in his early twenties.

    ‘Please don’t sleep in my class.’ Randolph said controlled. ‘Although the class is about dreaming…’

    ‘Yeah I had a weird dream…’

    Something changed in Randolph. His eyes sharpened as they focused more intensely on the dark shape of John. ‘What was it about?’ Randolph asked abruptly and seated himself down. Jealous looks were cast on to them as his regulars passed by and greeted him shortly. He looked away and into the brown eyes of this young dreamer. ‘Well?’ Randolph said. ‘What did you dream?’ he whispered sharper.

    John felt an unknown feeling dwell up inside him. His eyes widened, showing dilated pupils that shone with fear. His lips went stretched flat, until his upper lip started to rise to the unknown feeling that he could not place. He gave Randolph a look that was answered by being grabbed.

    ‘Tell me!’ Randolph lost more control over himself as he started to shake John.

John looked around, dazed and shocked at the same time, and a certain voice in his dazed head demanded to know what kind of weed he had put into his space cake today and where he was right now. He made a start to get up but was pushed down by Randolph. ‘The city! You saw it, didn’t you? Sunset!’ Randolph raved.

    ‘I saw it.’ John said with a voice that wasn’t his. Hurriedly he looked around for help but it was an empty dark room full of painful chairs, standing like rows of square teeth. He felt a malicious threat stronger then anything before, something holding him at gunpoint. Unbridled he stood up still restrained by Randolph who was holding him by the reeves of his jacket.

    ‘Got to get away…’ John pushed Randolph wildly and thrust at him with force, sending him flying and crashing loudly on a chair that buckled over onto the wooden floor.

    ‘You saw the sunset city!’ Randolph’s rasping voice filled the space. He was unaware of his bruises and scurried to get up in a hurry.

John fell over a chair as he tried to clear his way through the door. Panic was overtaking him. With a flash he noticed his vision narrowing.

    ‘Don’t go there! You don’t know who dwells there!’ Randolph screamed after him. ‘Stay low! Keep in the grass!’

It was all lost to John who slammed the door open, just as two onlookers wanted to come in and investigate the turbulent shouting. He pushed them apart easily; their eyes stood wide with confusion. Outside he took deep breaths of air, as if something had been slowly strangling him. He spat loudly and strayed elsewhere into the big city where he could roam free. Nobody came running after him and nobody could have stopped him. Wild thoughts found direction as John figured out where he was. Fenian Street. He walked away taking slower breaths.

Zigzagging through shopping streets John tried to find some piece of mind and slowly munched things over. He could pass away what had happened for the cannabis effects but something felt not right. That golden city… How had this lector knew what he was dreaming? Was it in the poem? It should have been; he fell asleep listening to it. But still… Something was not right. That city he saw… It was so alive! Was it Dublin? And then as a feather asway on a warm wind, soft and gently as it touched, oblivion came, easy at it is within reach of the human mind, and John decided to forget about it immediately and went over tumbling within memories to check some lost records instead. Already his head was figuring out which record shop was closest by. John changed his direction and altogether, his mind. He chuckled as he remembered: Led Zeppelin demanded further attention.

As the winds whipped up higher over the Dublin Docks, a change for worse arose in the air. Old mothers would tell anyone who would listen that the night was filled with bad omen. And would it have been a mere ten years ago, a time when those new and coloured faces weren’t around yet, all the youth would have been locked up inside, safe and sound at mothers breast. Yet nowadays ‘Having a craic’ still meant streets filled with young brass men and fit women showing their good breed.

    Coming to his senses on the toilet, Randolph Carter thought about the changes that come with time. And how he had reacted to this strange young… Dreamer, like himself. Perhaps this was what he had been waiting for? As he carefully tore off a piece of toilet paper and folded it neatly, he contemplated his next action. It was cheap paper: soft but thin. He would have to be careful.

Onlookers kept a certain distance and as blood and shreds of flesh flew through the air, cries of disgust and abhorrence arose from the crowd. There was a sudden silence, before panic broke out with bystanders jumping out of the ongoing spray of blood and others still trying to see more. Marvin felt himself being pushed and pulled from left to right. Almost stumbling he was able to dodge in a shop entrance, where he managed to keep view on the horrid display. The ragged man was being torn apart, shreds of cloth and meat sailing high through the air. Throughout the crowd, people cried out and prayed and disappeared under heavy feet and burden. The cacophony of ill shrieks and low grunts from human voices sounded like the doomed wailing from the utter darkness in the fiery gulfs of hell. And yet above all that, the shrieking of a man’s immortal soul being prepared for eternal justice. Marvin tried to shut his ears off but forget his eyes. Monstrous claws ripped and tore unseen at the helpless sufferer in an obstinate and righteous manner. No man is immortal. Most of the bystanders turned their heads away from the flying blood and mush, covering their ears and faces. Marvin also turned his head away and then he noticed a brown leather book closed by a metal clasp lying on the street near an air conduct. Without thought he reached down for it, his hand hit by several legs as he snatched the book from the street and stuffed it under his jacket.

Zealous like Olympic runners within metres of the gold more people speared far away from the mayhem. When it was finally over and the infernal wailing subdued, the blood and screams mixed into lost remorse for Marvin. He had run home, crying all the way.

Monday morning.

    ‘Marvin! Can you please just tell me what happened!’ his mother shouted. Roughly she banged his door without response. Screamed her lunges out but he didn’t even answer her with sobs. Just like his dad, she thought to herself and felt tears swelling up. Patience. Grace talked some sense in to herself. Smiled as she rubbed her cheek dry and sniffed shortly. ‘Alright sugar, you call me when you need me, right?’ she managed to say motherly.

    ‘Right…’ Marvin affirmed very softly. He stared at his Iron Maiden covered wall.

    ‘Love ye.’ She finished and strayed off as her eyes searched the hall for hints.

    ‘Love you too,’ Marvin whispered. He felt relieve as he heard the hall door finally close. ‘I really do…’ he continued. His eyes left his wall and drifted to his bed. It was made up, by his ma this very morning. On top of his desk lay a book, bounded in dark leather closed by a metal clasp and appearing tattered by time and mouldy with slow decay. It wasn’t a gift of ma, he knew that. She likes to see his face when she gives him something. Seeing him smile. Then slowly he remembered putting it there himself after he came home from… The book was stunning: so present in the here and now that it seemed alive.

    Only now his mind pictured what his friends would say. It would look so cool to use as a table for playing the Magic cards. And then the thought slammed into him like a loaded truck at full speed. That poor man. Marvin felt frustration boil up as he remembered the bloody display. So much blood… Nobody could tell what had happened. Most of the newspapers at the shop down the street described at short length the bloody liquidation of a member of the IWF party in a drive by shooting. The Irish Gazette gave food to the thought that a suicide bomber had covered a sizeable part of Jervis Street with his own blood, without making any victims. Perhaps by pure coincidence, Marvin read that next week’s sermon held in the Destiny Church downtown fixated on the power of life and Death.

    It was The Irish Globe which referred to a practical joke, as part of a bachelor party. Dublin is the town of bachelor parties, everyone knows that. That’s right. A fucking bachelor party. Marvin started sniffing. Ma said it’d feck his nose up. He made effort to stop it but couldn’t, and huffing fell in line and started a symphony. Desperately he rattled his head, denying it was happening and that’s all there was.

    ‘Mah! Ma…! Momma!’ he shouted for Grace, his sweet mother. Within seconds she flew from the waiting chair in the hall through the door over the stairs to her son. Half stumbling and out of breath she entered his room, their eyes met and she flew at him to give comfort.

    ‘Ah my boy! My sweet boy! What have those wankers done to you?’ she cried and cradled his head in her arms. Marvin cried freely, like a baby at birth. He cried even louder as he tried to explain, wailing and with a face wet and flushed in complete surrender.

    ‘There’s daemons, momma! Daemons!’ he shouted. Her eyes grew big with unbelief. Now she started to shake her head. ‘I saw ‘em! Killed a man on Jervis Street! I was there, ma, saw it happen….’ Grace slapped her son.

    ‘You said you weren’t there! You just said….’ Grace lost it. Marvin moved to hug her. She refused and stood back. ‘There are no fecking daemons!’ She screamed. ‘Only the good lord, Jesus Christ!’ Grace spoke softer: ‘You and your friends and your… Your… Your books!’ she pointed her bad finger, broken and misgrown, to the dark brown book on his bed. It lay quietly in anticipation, soaking up the words.

    ‘That’s not my book, ma! I… I found…’ he tried.

    ‘Well it ain’t fecking mine either! Get it fecking outta here!’ Grace finished and slammed the door, leaving Marvin alone with his fears and a dark leather book that seemed to be waiting. In a play of the breaking light, he thought he saw a blurry face briefly smiling on its cover.

The Uncertainty - illustratie 2: The Book of Whispers

Shieldless

‘We frail humans are at one time capable of the greatest good and, at the same time, capable of the greatest evil. Change will only come about when each of us takes up the daily struggle ourselves to be more forgiving, compassionate, loving, and above all joyful in the knowledge that, by some miracle of grace, we can change as those around us can change too.’

― Mairead Maguire

‘Eh! You’ve got to help me!’ a wide eyed man in rags cried to a stranger. Bloodshot eyes burned into him. Before the surprised stranger could reply, the bawling man howled out in terror and ran further on. The strangers face seemed fixed with an eternal surprise as his eyes followed the crazed old man, and before his patience gave up, he shook his head and continued his way. It was slightly after noon on Sunday, the streets were busy with the season’s traffic and although early, the Dublin streets were overcrowded. A rambling old man running astray shouting ‘Out of my fucking way!’ didn’t change much of the street life. Cursing indistinctly and yelling for help, the raging bull charged the public without any purpose but to run for dear ol’ life.

In total terror, and dashing wildly between people, he pushed an elderly couple aside that blocked his path and they fell crashing into a group of youngsters who immediately called after the rampager. One of the teens took a sprint after him calling him rude names.

    ‘Ye fuckin’ Eejit! Gammy piece of gobshite! Fucking box yer toe ragging puss, ye wanker!’

Dodging through the crowds the youngster quickly gained in on the maniac runner and was able to see large cuts and loose fabric flaying from a dirty jacket. In full horror the youngster all of a sudden registered a baby carriage speeding off towards the edge of the pavement into the rushing Mary Street. Without further thought he jumped in front of it, stopping the carriage just in time on the concrete by letting the carriage collide into him.

Hard. And it was a hard landing. People around him looked abashed as they slowly realised what had just happened in front of their very eyes. A bawling mother cried her discerns as she scooped her baby unharmed out of the carriage. As the teen was crawling up from the pavement, one of his larger friends pushed through the crowd.

    ‘Alright man? Marvin?’ he gave his hand and the teen helped himself up.

    ‘The wanker wrecked me bonce. Bleeding rekdagaf!’ Marvin grimaced as he got up to his feet with aching legs, but managed to keep from limping as he checked his baggy pants for holes. ‘You floosie munter better watch ye whippersnapper!’ Marvin scolded at the mother. ‘If I hadn’t jumped in front of it! Cunt!’

    ‘Oy! Keep yer mingin’ hole shut or I’ll be dug outta ya!’ a petticoated bystander reproached him.

    The woman had only eye for her child and soothed it as it started to cry amidst the lines of people that gathered to see what was happening. Others still tried to go around the standing group of people, scampering on the side of the streets. Bicycles had to break or tried to sneak in the crowded line of cars, creating a fuller chaos with bells and honks.

Wasting no further breath, Marvin ignored the staggering people around him, and looked around wondering where the pusher was. The baby carriage pusher. Oh he’d show that fucker! Standing on his toes, he got a glimpse of the carriage pusher’s torn jacket. Only now in the brief instant, did he notice the black stains. Then the pusher was gone, taken up in the crowd again and the sounds around Marvin took up his attention.

    ‘Bollix! He got away the bogey bad egg tosser.’ Marvin uttered.

    ‘Did you….’ His friend Harvey started but stopped in midsentence and stared over Marvin’s head. Marvin examined the fabric of his white shirt and then lifted his head to Harvey again.

    ‘What the…’ Marvin tried again. The crowd around them dissolved as people hastened on, leaving him anxiously looking around. ‘Cop on gougers, what are you gawking at?’ Marvin said irritated. ‘And you cunt, what are you like? Take care of ye bin lids, yer roger moore.’

    The woman carefully placed her baby in the carriage. Her face carried a deadly grey. She looked up into his baleful gaze filled with scorn and swallowed softly with stinging tears in her eyes. With uncertain purpose she slowly pushed her way through the ongoing crowd with her head down.

    ‘Are ye headin’? That’s the shot.’ The youth added. He thought about spitting on the floor when his other friends came. He turned around and detected the absence of big Harvey and could make out the large white shape of him further in the mass of people disappearing around a corner. Something was happening there and he went off in a dash again and quickly came round the corner into Jervis Street.

A bit further on, Marvin could see Harvey as his big shining beacon, and he pressed through the standing people until he saw the spectacle which was unfolding. He stopped dead in his tracks. The pusher in ragged cloths was just ahead shrieking and yelping, swaying his arms to ward off unseen offenders. 

Learning

flames. A hero waded towards her. Apples in front of a black moon. The ruffle of angels’ feathers. The blackness of a rotting harvest. Flames. A hand reaching for her.

    Sonja was abruptly awoken by her mobile phone beeping classical obscenities and she was even more startled when she saw it was John Bodhi calling her at this fucking time! Answering with as sleepy a ‘yes...’ as she could, she let John ramble on a bit before she asked him to call back later and put her phone off without waiting for an answer.

Nailed to the floor John stared at his phone overtaken with shock, which quickly changed into outright indignation. He slammed the phone on the hook. His face flushed red. She was nicer when she asked him to fix her tap and he didn’t even know her then! He left his house complaining and mumbling to himself and walked outside and shivered as the cold wind gushed through his brown leather jacket. With a frown he concealed his red eyes behind the dark red sunglasses he found on himself. The pavement was one big crowd. He started his walkman. “Born slippy”. The space cake started to kick in again. With a capacious grin he faced all the people passing him by, walking or cycling, and whenever he almost got run over, he grinned at the cars and busses. People looking at him, told themselves that the bugger must have a saint watching over him. If they would have asked John himself, he would have said with a chuckle that each music composer is a saint by his own right.

Garbled and still very sleepy Sonja tried to get back to sleep again, but failed despite her thoughts on ploughing and lands. Cursing loudly she crawled out of bed and set down again to put on some cloths that lay scattered in her room. A bit too gingerly for her own liking she checked her face in the mirror. With trembling hands she put on her make up as quavers ran down her back and with a wry smile she told her self to face the world before it would face you. Whatever it meant.

Uncertainly she checked her watch. Still in time for her third class today. Eagerly she lighted a cigarette, took some quick puffs, lifted her bag heavy with study books onto her back and dashed off for school. Hulking strides made their way. Sonja wondered what she did it for. Why did she even try? Get a fucking grip on yourself, Sonja! She told herself and threw her fag away several metres before the school entrance. She had potency in her life. Giving the world her smile again she stepped in. Her cigarette died slowly.

‘Zero!’ the teacher shouted and pointed his finger back to the door where Sonja came from. She hesitated which in turn stirred some of her fellow students. She quickly recognised a girl she hated from her guts, smiling of course. Others gave angry stares and judging eyes that spoke of a lack of compassion. If only people gave others the compassion they wished for themselves she thought lonely and slowly closed the door again. More dramatic then she cared for she leaned against the wall, put her head in her hands in regret and sighed. The world breathed in its own pace.

    Surprisingly quick and rash a short freckled girl jumped up from wherever she was sitting, totally upsetting the dazzled Sonja. She let out a short shout but quickly muffled it remembering the zero.

    ‘You startled me!’ she said friendly as her eyes took better notice of the beautiful eyes that returned her stare. Her own innocence seemed to shine near this young girl's craving dark eyes. Instead of giving the cheesy response Sonja was expecting, sensuous lips that knew the power of tenderness touched her slowly. It rang shivers in her mind down to the end of her spine; in the background she heard the song If I had a hammer… And felt it hit her. The freckled Irish girl was stronger then Sonja could have guessed for her height, and in a wonderful sweep she carried a smiling Sonja away into a more private part of the building. Pleasure was Sonja’s first goal in life and her bag of books lay quietly waiting to be sowed.

Necessary memories

Nameless feelings mounted in John’s heart and aspired to overwhelm him. He found it difficult to restrain these perceived sensations that he experienced with a troublesome mind unable to focus. In this mind he tried to reset the limitations on his own thoughts and on his social interactions, lest he‘d control his feelings. John scratched his chin, as he stared into the space of his living room, enjoying this personal narrative about himself. Vaguely he started to recall the past events as his mind sought diversion from those unnamed feelings. He met this typical Irishman called Uls just the week before. Such a strange name, and after careful consideration John decided it was likely to be old Celtic, or Old English, probably meaning something like skilled with spear. They met in a shared cab going back from one of the clubs, the Shelley. That night John saw his prejudices, or the general opinions, once again confirmed as they played really bad music, that was supposed to go for as underground music.

An array of Dublin’s youngest allowed and most arrogant swayed and leaned at the bar. Drunks were harassing young girls chatting on the black dance floor. Mates were slapping each other around being all rowdy dowdy. And the music. John remembered it clearly with a deep sigh: there was certainly light to be spread in this godforsaken place. As a self-declared music lover, he felt it was difficult not to take the ABBA cover blasting through the sweaty rooms from worn out speakers, all too personal. It brought pain to his troubled heart. Looking back from the memory, John still felt that this DJ Paddy should get a neck shot. With a fright he recognised his desperate thoughts, and made an attempt to take it with good will and perseverance. He delved deeper in his mind as he remembered seeing Uls dancing for the first time. The prime thing John noticed was his red hair, not seen as often as one would expect in Ireland. The redhead wore an unkempt hairy beard that still looked good, and his eyes saw further then the walls, as if he was dancing alone among the stars. And he was listening to a walkman, dancing wildly and chaotically on fast beats ― which John guessed to be the drilling version of drum & bass ― as others came together and shuffled their feet slowly in pairs. The ginger guy was a real fire starter, John thought with a smile.

Uls was removed rather quickly by two bouncers, (who were not very good at all in dancing John had noticed) and feeling curious in a certain way, John followed him to his faith. Outside, John asked this strange Irishman as he brushed himself off:

    ‘Hey. What are you listening?’

    With a heavy voice, Uls answered: ‘Now? White Room from Eric Clapton.’

    John tilted his head and nodded with a smile. Uls grinned.

    ‘Do you think Sunshine of your Love was better done by Jimi Hendrix?’ Uls asked in a blurry tone. He sounded thirsty.

    John wanted to ask why Uls brought a walkman to a dance club, but thought he knew the answer already. And what had Uls been listening before? They talked about music as they walked the crawling Dublin streets, first in search for any open pub which they couldn’t find, then for a cab. Too quickly they came to a cab stand, with lots of people waiting, and as their ways home overlapped, they would share.

The cab they shared was brimming with at least seven people, sharing not only the ride but also each others odours, breath, talk and the small seats.

    ‘The cab is black!’ someone shouted.

    ‘So is our driver!’ another said, eyeing the coloured driver who gave a weak smile and nodded.

    ‘A real oil rigger behind the wheels!’ the other said and they both sniggered.

    Uls gave John a dizzy look that begged for reason and pulled his shoulders.

    Someone said: ‘Ya big flutes shut your gobs!’

    ‘I will in me arse!’ the first replied quickly.

    The other went on nevertheless: ‘You talking to me or chewing a brick? Either way you’re going to end up in a dentist chair! Listen lads: we Irish used to be the niggers of Europe ourselves so fuck off and give our good driver a break before he gives you one and kicks ye out head down.’ He gave John a short blink. They all ridiculed him!

    John tried not to watch but the words repeated themselves in his ears involuntarily. Without much effort he attempted to disappear in the side of the cab. Never before had he been so close to this terrible behaviour and John felt it restraining. Uls started talking to him, while the others in the cab continued their blathering, as one asked the other: ‘What are you gawking at?’

    ‘Don’t know,’ he answered, ‘but it looks like a double pair of banjaxed pox bottles if you ask me. Would you like ye eye dyed?’

    Acutely John was inclined to ignore the drunken Irishmen, and Uls altogether with them. The memory of that moment wavered as John looked at his psychedelic wallpaper, and it shamed him to think back on how he felt that night. Afraid. In the cab he fought with his own mind, made it rattle and shake with fear. His heart beat wildly, beating his body into a sweaty frenzy, sweeping him up, tightening his muscles. He felt a lurking fear.

    ‘Ye know I do think politics and music should stay separated, although as a listener ye should be well aware of the background in which the music was made. Take Wagner for instance. The racist fucker promoted the inequality of races, but can’t you still just love his Meistersinger?’

John’s hands turned from moist to slippery as he fidgeted with them. His eyes searched the cab. At least three others in the cab looked at him and apparently found this conversation interesting. The others in the cab fell silent and all waited for John to respond, giving him their full attention. A strangling knob tightened around his heart.

    ‘I just wish for another drink.’ John said in his terrible English accent.

The whole cab trembled with the hearty laughing and agreeing. It lightened John’s heart in a miraculous instant. He talked with Uls through the rest of the cab ride and they agreed to meet again in what Uls described as a grand restaurant. And afterwards, John saw his foolish projection of his own shadow on the Irish bleach away in their light. Life was easy when you knew how to live it.

Hazy thoughts brought him back again to the here and now of the apartment. The mixed feelings drifted further ahead, leaving space for happier thoughts. So the cab ride must have been the night before last, John filled in. Why was he living in the past? A further memory intruded on him. Somewhere half way down Dame Street, in a street that stretched out to the Liffey, he met with Uls in a Belgium restaurant, where he enjoyed a terrific meal with mussels and beers brewed out of any fruit imaginable. They talked about the greater things in life, and Uls seemed to John as a bloke without faith or hope for a better future, but with the mindset of making it a bloody good time while he was at it. Shimmering aside his presence, John noticed something in Uls that was difficult to see, as if he wasn’t fully himself. John couldn’t even remember what time and how he got home again when next morning he woke up too late for work and with a splitting headache. One that really hurt. After a horrible day at work he came home again and lovingly embraced his bed. That was… Yesterday?

It was only some hours later when Uls came knocking on his door fit as a fiddle and ready to party again. Yes that was yesterday.

    ‘K’mon! It’s Saturday night! A perfectly good time for drinking in Ireland!’ Uls explained.

    Laughing John let him in. ‘How did last night ended?’ he asked.

    ‘Can’t remember.’ Uls said with an amazing grin.

    John suggested eating some space cake instead of more drinking, and to listen and enjoy some quality music, to satisfy and feed their lust for finer tunes. Uls passed for the cake but asked for the smokeable version. John vaguely remembered building him a medium sized joint, which Uls smoked silently outside referring to the heavens above, gesturing to the stars as if they were old companions long gone. Smiling John noticed: Uls wasn’t accustomed to this kind of cannabis and he quickly fell into a stonedness that seemed to be both enjoyable and blissful. As for John himself, he didn’t change his composure; he just slowly faded far astray into the abyss. Softly smiling and talking they both fell asleep in the living room while Pete Namlook threw sand in their eyes and put stars in the sky as his ambient tones set out in deep space.

Zombie like, John stared into the infinite space of the living room and at the Irishman still snoring on the green couch.

    Then suddenly with a shout that made John startle, Uls awoke. His head buzzed. He found that the house he entered as a pig’s hole was transformed into neatness again. Which music was playing now? A ruddy picture hung hungry for imbalance. In front of him stood a glass of orange juice comforted by a pack of crisps on the side. His head felt dizzy and he couldn’t remember what he had dreamed and if he actually had dreamed. John waited for him to say “I Dreamed of the Dragon!” and stood expectantly at the window like watching the movie, his eyes brimming with aspiration. Uls gripped his head and moaned in general. With a sharp eye he looked up again at the Indian music lover who gave him such a burly smile, that Uls for a brief moment questioned himself if he had done something again the night before he wouldn’t like to be reminded off. Or just never at all. He rubbed his eyes.

    ‘He man, how you doing? Maybe you shouldn’t have smoked so much yesterday, but I guessed you needed the sleep.’ John said.

    Uls still felt uncomfortable at this awakening.

    ‘Err… Yeah. Err… Say, what time…’ Uls said and coughed.

    ‘It’s Sunday.’ John said.

    ‘Fuck me, did I miss Saturday night then?...!’ Gulping down the orange juice and pocketing the packet of crisps in his jacket, he thanked John for a spiffy good night and said he would indeed come by for the party. John answered with a non-understanding look and was immediately reminded by Uls to a promise he’d made to arrange a party night with music. To let people hear some quality music. John took it all in as the red Irishman sped off towards an ill forgotten appointment. The front door of the house banged shut downstairs. Quietness stretched out again in John’s world.

    Moments later John looked out of his window again in to the dirty streets of Ol’ Dublin. He told himself to clean the windows. A quick look to the plate on his side informed him that there wasn’t any space cake left. What colour did it have? He chuckled to himself. Arranging a party. John wasn’t used to actively engaging people into communication ― they just responded to him ― especially not for something as arranging a party. He took out a black marker and smelled it for a moment. On a piece of white paper he wrote down in thick letters MUSIC PARTY. After some mindnumbing he continued with DATE UNKNOWN and PLACE UNKNOWN. From the back of his head he wrote down DJ LINE UP. With loud streaking he marked out the title and wrote with bold letters above it Approved by John Bodhi. After some minutes it occurred to him to call somebody and get things rolling and the violins starting.

Illustration I John Bodhi

Heavenly muse

‘In the mind of a fool one might find wisdom. Such is the way of the fool that he will thrive from his ignorance. Realising his wisdom, he sheds his ignorance and will speak for the masses. They will see he was one of them.’

A Guide to enlightenment

― John Bodhi

Providence. It came from the delicate flutes playing Indian music that serenaded the smoky air. “Pal Pal Teri Yaad” from Falguni Pathak. John had memorised it as only a music lover could, its meaning yet a mystery to him. He murmured the lyrics along as he drifted around in the brown living room, messy yet lively, and stepped across the floor, knowing this precious moment in time could have only come from divine guidance. John Bodhi knew it to be so: the music said so. He propelled himself through whirling incense smoke and made Scottish bird sounds freely: ‘Kaa kaa! Kaa kaa!’ John felt intensely relaxed, free of all manipulative powers and, he snidely concluded to himself: indeed the space cake had brought him into that wished-for-altered-state, where all things appeared beautiful and worth wild. Moving like the sea, his mind wanted to cry out! A deep inner transformational force was riding him.

    As he danced through the air with wavering hands his mind settled down for a touch of land, and soberly resolved: this is the best way to take it easy after a rough week of working nightshifts. And having a little fun while he’s at it, he thought with a smile. Still some forty hours apart from his next shift! He felt like King of the World. His own world. No resistance. Slumbering through the meagre filled living room he managed to put the volume of the stereo reasonably down, clean the two tables, put his records in order and in general ordered the place. A sleeping body lay on one green couch.

Exquisite, simply exquisite! John thought as he carefully ate the last crumpets of space cake. He took a long look through the dirty window to see Dublin Fair City. John noticed the busy traffic that streamed past bricks and concrete. His mind sailed through it and ascended slowly in memory, bringing up images of the past like a PowerPoint presentation. It had been a wild ride up to here. Six months earlier he drifted in from England to try his fortune with the famous Celtic Tiger. It was after a year of plumbing, connecting pipes and working in wet cold dirt underneath people’s houses in “the city of a thousand trades”, Birmingham, that he searched for any other job. A short e-mail response on a small newspaper ad “Working in a call-centre in Ireland” quickly led him to this stimulating dirty little town called Dublin, a bristling city he found flushed with challenges. He found an office job: on a chair behind a PC learning a proper profession. How little did he know before he started working as a Technical Support employee for SerkoS; one of the many IT companies that sprouted like mushrooms to feed on Ireland’s fat tax-free soil. It was his first job working with computers, and yes he learned alright; in his own time. John sighed and turned away from the window. This strange country with weird people that always seemed to slack him off. Slowly he got up and walked to the stereo to put a new CD on. Within moments Bobby Darin’s parade thundered in the room, lifting his spirit and sending it flying across the room. John smiled and sang along in a loud voice. This life in Dublin, John thought, challenged the immortality of the soul. A typical Irish job then, a man in the pub told him with a wide grin the first night he went out in Dublin. It was the first of Dublin’s many revelations. John sighed and squatted down on the floor in front of the stereo. The music blasted right through him. In the corner of his eye he saw movement in the kitchen. Was he not alone? The thought fled him just as ready as it came as Bobby Darin repeated the couplet once again, calling for John to sing along word for word, and his mind drifted outwards again back to memory.

Regretting his new found work within weeks, and hating the nightshifts that came along with it, John had drifted across Dublin in search for a new job. Without much apparent success he had hastily given up. John shifted on the floor as he slumbered, and lay down with his arms wide. Then one day… He came from a job interview, where he swiftly got rejected, when he suddenly heard Strange Brew from The Cream as he promenaded past a faint little shop. A sound that hit him in the face like cold water on a hot summer’s day. The featuring record Disraeli Gears now stood proudly among other masterpieces in his record collection. John had stopped and walked backwards, shortly standing in front of Dublin’s many independent small record shops. That first magical visit was the start of a wondrous journey to rediscover the music masters of the past. Rare grooves. It was what made John feel alive and in touch with the world. Perhaps it was karma? What if the present was the result from the future? He rolled over the ground, got up and slowly scratched himself. Would he put on some Underworld?

    ‘Oy! Could you turn that terrible noise down! Can’t even think properly!’ Someone shouted. John turned in shock, which quickly changed for relief as he saw his housemate Nick stepping in the room with a broad smile.

    ‘He man.’

    ‘Just messing with ye, it’s grand! I’ll be out, see you later!’ and gone was Nick again.

    John looked around him, considering this moment. Slowly he had learned to appreciate his working shifts. In between John listened to golden oldies and experimental music and while most people seemed to be working, he crisscrossed Dublin to hunt for arcane albums and limited race records. To John, God was a musician. Music was life. He found it in old seventies recordings, obscure and unheard labels with music that jingled the mind and anything that seemed to call out to him from little music shops, like Smiley just before Rathmind, or little stables at the indoor markets. He swiftly learned to avoid the bulky places like Virgin Records or Tower Records: they had neither character nor choice at all. He knew his special places. So many gems to be found if you knew where to look and Dublin became a hunting ground for the well-honed hunter that was John the music lover. John growled and grinned at his own expression.

Trusty as they were, most Irish people seemed to like him, even though his skin was fairly dark and he spoke with an appalling stuck up cockney accent. The accent troubled him and at times earned him a God honest slacking. He worked on getting an Irish accent, often to great amusement to the Irish, quite willing to rabbit along to see how far he’d get before twisting his tongue in their rhyming slang that made no sense whatsoever. They rarely meant it personal. Sometimes he felt as if they were brothers to him, all part of one great family called Mankind. And yet at other times he faced incomprehension and sometimes downright racism. Birmingham had been nicer in that respect. John shook his head at these thoughts. The Irish could be sharp as a razor in their tongue and full of wits and whimsical in their sally. In his time in Ireland people had called him a crazy pothead, a softy and a goddamn hippy. But when he was out hunting for quality music, there was something in the glaze of his keen set eyes as he flicked through old and neglected records, intensely focused on finding prey, ferocious as a hunting tiger and swift as a sea bird. The Phoenix arose under his hands when he saved another masterpiece from silent oblivion and blasted it loudly on his stereo. It was his personal goal in life to share it with the people around him, whether they agreed to it or not.

    John smiled and got up and put another CD on. The Dave Pike Set.

Albeit reluctantly at times, his exceptional taste of music attracted a small group of people who shared a musical indulgence, next to a substantial and sometimes even spiritual one. With a smirk John danced in the living room, snapping his fingers to the beat.

Harbouring such strong emotions about his music, John let it guide him through his life, abandoning his ambition for work. He only cared about the music. In the living room John started to groove and for a brief moment he wondered again about his housemates: Hans a depressed Dutchman and Nick, a cheerful Englishman who almost never was at home. At times John felt a strong dualism between them with himself in the middle, constantly trying to find a balance. At times things had gotten crazy, though he couldn’t bear himself to think up any solid examples. With a smile he pivoted on his heel. Their shared living room was nicely decorated with patterned wallpaper from a time when LSD was the alternative for being just bored. White tables stood defiantly next to two green couches facing a low pineapple table.

    Quite smooth indeed! Nick said after John had redecorated their living room, and Hans had only nodded. And they never objected when John would lighten heavy incense at occasions. Was it because they looked at him with awe for his way of living: expressionistic and carefree as he worked his way around his own needs; or because when he lighted the incense it cleaned the house of all bad influences and spirits? The latter fact, perhaps, which could have also been a side effect of the first. Of all the people that sauntered in his life, one way or the other, only a few actually knew his full last name; others just filled in the gaps as they came along. “Some friends went straight to heaven, others fell into hell” as Shane Mc Gowan once sang. All in all, his live was a secret one, about to come to light, slow and painfully like birth.

Strength

Uls stood silent. His cigarette burned and grey smoke twisted in the air, and as time ticked away he remembered to take a puff. He felt unsure, wondering what he did here. It was days after the last time he had thought about himself like this. There was a threat here, a lingering death, violent and sudden. For a brief moment he entertained the thought that it came from within him. And that was not an unreal possibility: had he not ever taken a life? He could not remember and yet Uls was somehow sure of his power to kill. Yes. Bringing Death unwanted. Taking a life. It would take real willpower. Strength, yes. He felt a hidden strength deep inside him. And it wouldn’t necessary bring Death ― it was possible of course ― but not really necessary. Strength. Had it always been there? Or grew it slowly into place like maggots in dark warm corners on thrown away food?

Radio played mono far away. Did he hear a horn blowing? Uls listened. A strong classical tune directed the wind, whipped it up and brought it down slowly with deep cellos and a high playful violin. Uls thought he could recognise Barbers “Adagio for Strings” but it was gone in the changing wind before he could catch its tune. Again Uls remembered his cigarette, looked at it and threw it away. It drew an odd look from an elder couple sitting on a bench some metres away. Uls looked back but felt none of the menace that his eyes registered. Slowly he turned around and went for a quiet walk over the dike. It was a nice day for it.

Underneath the dike the sea cobbled softly. A quiet breeze guided seagulls over the silent waters of Howth. The tourists hadn’t found this heaven yet at this time of the year. Only a few people ambled around, slowly and unsure, sometimes stopping to rummage in a travel bag, making pictures and trying out their sunglasses. Uls sent pebbles flying over the water as he gave them a hard toss. Giant clouds drifted overhead, their shadows rolling over the land. Beams of bright sunlight shone here and there through the clouds. Although it was Saturday, it gave the day a more religious touch. The serenity of it all brought peace into some hearts. Uls felt the whole scene looked too grey; he desperately needed some lush green. With a grimace he sent another pebble flying.

‘Zir, would yer stop doing tha’ please yeah? Thank yer.’ A plum lady asked Uls in an accent he couldn’t place. She was seated on a bench a few meters past him and she had that fat appearance that somehow reminded Uls of a proud pig. Taking his time to take a closer look, he decided it was because of the stout voluminous nose. First of all it gave her a nasal tone of voice. And secondly it stood out defiantly, matching the obstinate look she was giving him now, somehow measuring and still confident. Like a wild swine ready to charge, challenging him. What did that stupid cow want? He turned aside and threw another pebble across the water.

    ‘Oi! I jest asked ya if yer could fucking stop doing that!’ she shouted loud enough for a few people on the dike to get startled and give them both the odd stare. It was turning out to be that kind of day. Uls didn’t react, only wondered about that peculiar accent. He whirled around with his finger up and ready to ask her, but as he did she turned her head aside and muttered something that Uls made out as: ‘…Rat-arsed cunt’. He thought better of it and started a steady pace along the waterline where he sent another pebble sailing over the clear water and slowly recollected his thoughts on his inner strength. Death. He made up his mind. The day was too nice to mow over terrible thoughts and Uls started a gentle sprint. In weather like today’s a fit man could run for hours, which was what he needed to do to get back to Dublin and find out who the strange geezer was who had left him here after a grand night of going on the piss. Or perhaps he had been wandering off alone again into oblivion; in any case it didn’t really matter how he got here. Uls took a deep breath as he picked up his pace. Perhaps he would pass a pub along the way and go for a pint. Smiling to himself, he noted that in any path of life, there is a passage through darkness. And perhaps he was now finally coming out of it. He grinned as he found his walkman in his pocket and pushed play and heavy industrial beats ushered Front 242 in his ears.

Separation

"Ireland, Sir, for good or evil, is like no other place under heaven, and no man can touch its sod or breathe its air without becoming better or worse."

― George Bernard Shaw

‘Oppressor. It’s a harsh word but I use it anyway. Now…’ a voice started louder, ‘I am not a religious man, but we all can see clearly….’ The soapbox tumbled as the speaker got pummelled by a crude wooden cross wielded by a red-faced Irish priest.

    ‘You fecker!!!! Don’t ye dare mess with dear God!’ the offender cried and he continued to bash the ill-starred speaker with the end of his cross.

The crowd responded tentative, yelping with the religious power released from its hold by the angry priest. Contenders quickly grabbed him before he could brutally murder the speaker, and as he was jousted and pulled towards the nearest pub, he rasped: ‘God sees everything!’

Hearing a rowdy mob approach the pub owner quickly opened his doors and ordered them all inside. Several men jolted the priest to the bar to have some serious talks about the use of violence and if it was alright to cheat on the Miss’s on a bachelor party. Someone ringed the bell for free drinks and the black kept pouring. The rumour that emerged from the pub while it had been dead as a grave only minutes before, seemed to set the whole world in motion.

    ‘It’s all bulox anyways eh?’ a hardy man said to the priest, who was in the process of loosening his clerical collar. The priest stopped.

    ‘Don’t ye…’ he started. Tup. Someone put a heavy beer in front of him and he turned to it. Another man aside the priest tapped him on the shoulder.

    ‘The ambulance is scraping the fecker off the street now; he’ll be alright my man told me. The Razzers knows it was you but have a chat with ye t’morrow.’

    The priest thanked the good man and lifted his glass in a cheer. Everyone who noticed him toasted and drank. It was a Dublin daydream, and none but God had seen.

‘Invasions.’ Another man standing on a soap box started in the park to a new audience. ‘Masses of aliens, just ready to kill…’ the new speaker said, building up a deliberate tension by raising his hands, ‘They are out there!’ the speaker tried, but his skinny arms carried no weight. His eyes twirled around as he added: ‘...And they are here!’ He squinted his eyes looking around him wildly, scaring a little girl in a daisy dress that turned crying to her father, who patted her but paid no attention.

    ‘The grey men, who want to stop me? They are RIGHT HERE!’ The speaker said, and a short man who stood upfront wiped off some spittle from his face. As he rubbed his eyes he looked around him. He noticed the little girl still crying and her parents and a big brother standing behind her. Her father had the looks of a Liverpool man, with the stern face of a dock worker and the far away look of a long time unemployed. The short man frowned as he discerned a grey skin complexion on the man’s face, but felt sure enough it wasn’t the grey the spitting speaker in front of him referred to. Apparently he was still warning for the aliens to come, but the short man shook his head and wandered off, going for a pint.

Lower in the city’s richer parts, a man in black jeans and t-shirt grinded an electric guitar and shouted from on top of his lunges: ‘Lay lady lay!’ A wet-cell car battery supplied the energy for a roaring metal sound, that started slowly but quickly filled up with murky chord structures and a down tuned rhythm that overplayed with infectious guitar licks.

    ‘Lay lady lay!’ he blustered in between. Bob Dylan had never meant it like that. There wasn’t much else going on in Grafton Street, safe for the occasional pub hoppers and lost tourists and youngsters running amok. On a street where no-one seems to get excited about anything, a black hat slowly filled with small change and the guitar man would play till his battery went dead or the last round sounded in the pubs.

As the night crept onwards and cornered the sun in the dark of an alley, and the moon gently appeared, a silence settled over Dublin. A city without the reed hurdles that once gave it its name. Where only the river Liffey, mother to the old land, remembered the rare old times, when long ago four tribes once came to Ireland clad in black smoke, their ships burning ashore and their presence a sudden mystery to the local people. And now, with Ireland’s sudden economical boom that rattled through the moist island, there were sudden newcomers again. After decades of mass emigration, the Irish suddenly found themselves welcoming fortune seekers and dreamers from Europe, Asia, Africa and descendents coming back from America. They came in their many thousands, leaving home and house to arrive in a country surprised to see so many new faces again. They came with progress and brought diversity. Dubliners would look at their Liffey and wonder if she knew why ‘for fuck’s sake what the wankers are doing in their towen’. A dreamy spirit might take a sudden movement on the water for an answer, the chaffing of water around the bridge piers for a smile.

And yet every Dubliner could know it if he’d only searched his heart: here is the homeland where you are truly welcome, here be the country where the grass is always greener.

Signs

"Thinking without action images visions which die stillborn. Dreamers and visionaries who do not act to give form to their dreams and visions do not express power. ... All the power that man has is in his knowing. And all of it is expressed only by his thinking. However, work must be performed in order to express power. But the power that we express is not in the body. The power that we express is in the still fulcrum of God centering every man ― the Light which centers everyone and every creating thing. In that still fulcrum of rest is all the power. The action which extends from it is the expression of power, what we call Creation."

― W.Russell, The Secret of Light

Abandoned in a chaotic wood with a heart locked in hardness, Rick sneaked through trees and bushes, seeking for his heart’s content. As he pushed through, the branches cried out in pain as he broke them. Then he was in the light, as he came upon an open spot surrounded by red mushrooms with white dots. The spot appeared to be occupied by a strange gathering of white fairies and black devils. His eyes searched their fantasy features for an open mouth or a smile gladly given. As he came closer, Rick saw the fairies dancing and the devils swinging with malice, on a melody that to Rick sounded disharmonious. The woods around the scene were alive and swayed along with whirling leaves. Rick noticed the air heavy with moisture and he saw growing clouds that seemed to drown the air with an unnatural smoothness.

    Putting his focus on the fairies, he scanned their faces for any happy emotion. They were too hurried to enjoy their dance he saw, and Rick looked at them as a whole, appreciating their harmony. Lightness and joy entered his heart as his eyes witnessed the fairies dancing, delicately between the rustling leaves, their wings transparent and touching softly at passing one another. There was a certain attraction, pulling him towards this erotic dance, luring him into sin. And then with a sudden dread Rick felt his eyes drawn to the devils, which aimlessly and without care, stampeded through bush and pool breaking branches and splashing water with their moshing. Rick looked closer at the devils and faintly saw they wore animal faces. He could make out the spotted head of a leopard, the rich manes of a lion and with a fright to his heart Rick recognised a wolfish grin.

Noise. Rick could distinguish it aside the rain which had started to fall down; there was also a soft ringing. Where would this all lead to? Anguished, Rick could do nothing but watch as the sound captivated the fairies with resonance and slowly wetted their wings. The raindrops fell around the devils and instead of falling at their feet the heaven water stopped just before it hit the ground, clustering along the violent dance of the devils. Now Rick could see a dark sun glistening on their skins. Their hooves splashed the water up and there was a force that held the gathering water. Rick’s feet were nailed to the ground by this scene: he could not move them, captured by an unknown force. The dance of aggression whirled as it accelerated in movement and in between the cluster of water, leaves and splintered branches, Rick saw dark and light faces. He tried to move his feet, and break the seal of standstill, but his legs refused to obey him, confounding him securely. The enthralling sound further distorted the elves and their wings got heavy with moist and when one fell out of step, the fairy got trampled by dark forms engulfed in shapes of water. Another fairy tumbled to the ground and was crushed aside by violent movement. One by one the fairies started to fall. Rick wanted to escape the scene, leave them to their folly! The water rose to the noise that had moved from the background to full out offensive banging. All of a sudden a devil stopped in front of Rick and looked at him sharply with beady black eyes. It disrupted the dance. As the noise arose even higher, the devil moved its lipless mouth and without sound Rick knew it was calling him by name. With a fright Rick wondered what sense there was in bringing that awful sound into the once balanced scene. Did he bring it? Just by being there?

Slowly opening his eyes, Rick could still hear the ringing. It was the house telephone. That was not good he thought to himself, as the buzzing of his alarm clock should have awoken him. Franticly Rick jumped out of bed. He landed on a weak limb that gave out the moment he pressed his weight on it, leaving him crashing down. He fell with his arms hitting the table opposite of his bed, which tumbled over, and as Rick slammed the ground the table contents hit him square in the chest and stomach. He lay there numb for a few seconds, experiencing pain and sleep fighting for his body, when he noticed the ringing again. His left leg was still dead with sleep. His stomach hurt. Rick tried to get up. Angrily he joggled his senseless leg. Rick stumbled down the stairs, accusing his bloody lazy leg. It was rebellious! Sabotage! And at this moment he started to notice the bad hangover that he had to deal with today. Oh his freaking head… Rick just managed to pick up the phone before it stopped ringing.

    ‘Hi this is Rick.’ He said, almost awake by now.

    ‘It’s Goldie here. You are a bit late today I’d say.’ It was his Swedish manager calling from work. And she was dead right.

Univocal his watch and the clock stood at a quarter past nine. After a quick shower and a scavenge through the kitchen Rick left the house in a hurry. He strolled to the bus stop after he tried running, his alcohol racked body allowing for little exercise this morning. A final last sprint could not cope with an unusual bus driver who set his mind to be on time and Rick spend the next fifteen minutes waiting for the next bus and smoking his last cigarette. The painful experience of waking up didn’t affect his mood as much as the strange dream. It made no sense, and didn’t seem to relate to any dream-explanation he could manage to remember now. Elves and devils… Well of the latter he had enough at work. The lure of money. If that was the most likely comparison, what did the elves mean? Rick wasn’t fond of mystery, or for sugar dolls who always tried to fall in line. Ah why even bother? Such petty wonder indeed he agreed to himself and he let it drop from his thoughts as the next bus came and he gave the exact change.

    The word leprechaun, the Irish fairy, didn’t come to his mind and wouldn't probably have made any difference. Looking outside a steaming window he saw streaks of a grey old Dublin, the city where the Celtic Tiger had arisen and now loose on a crawling infrastructure through a hazardous jungle called future. Rick sighed deep, the dire Monday morning terror covering his eyes as he tried to enjoy a quick nap. He would really have to start drinking less… Or get better at it.

‘Zoby! What’s the crack!’ somebody shouted. And not for long he was awakened by further exchange of words, fiery and draughted, the common complaints shared between public commuters alike. Like the white cliffs of Dover, the white building of LightSkye and SerkoS doomed up on the left and Rick pressed the stop button. Several others dropped from the bus showing that haunted dread that comes with coming late to work. Rushing in quickly past security and through the long hallways, ignoring the rows of cubicles and eyes that recognised him as Rick hurried to his own desk, where he found a little yellow note that screamed attention like a damsel in distress. It was signed by Goldie, and it told him he could make up for his lost time by working double overtime to make summaries of the business value of the new products. Awesome he said to himself. A joker’s smile laughed him in the face from a postcard stuck behind his personal note board and Rick smiled back in jest. Under the jokers smile the card read: ‘If a fart explodes in your pants and no one is around to hear it, does it make a sound[i]?’ Rick had stuck it to his board to remind himself the power of humour. He put his computer on and lurched his way to the cafeteria for coffee.

Goldie towered over most office workers as she approached Rick, her blond hair and slim appearance still earning her glances despite her aging face. Rick guessed her around forty but respected her too much as a colleague to ask her. As she came closer Rick saw her constant smile again, one that armed her against the world. Even before Rick could see the stark blackness of her pupils, he felt overcome by her presence, the contrast between the dark fleece jacket and the white blouse she wore only enhancing it further.

    ‘Ah, Rick, our top German salesman, nice of you to show up! Had a good rest? Hmm?’ She asked and Rick couldn’t make out if she was mocking him or if she really meant it.

    He coughed and started: ‘Well, not really, thanks for waking me up…’

    ‘What, you had a nightmare? You shouldn’t watch scary movies before you go to bed!!!’ Goldie joked and made a sort-of-bogeyman-posture, which must have been a Swedish one.

    ‘Actually, it was the strangest dream...’ Rick tried again, but Goldie said promptly: ‘You got my note? I’d like to see the Value Proposition covered by tomorrow, so the sales guys can start using it in their calls. They start on that Power Event campaign by tomorrow morning so you better finish it today!’ she said firmly and didn’t wait for acknowledgement; briskly she marched on to tackle another hapless person. Rick pulled his shoulders in theatrical showing and went back to his desk without the coffee. It set the state of the days to come, and the sober week that followed.

---

[i] The original Koan is : “If a tree falls in a forest and no one is around to hear it, does it make a sound?”, author unknown.