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