The Mirror Season
She can feel the weight of the world breathing in, breathing out. Up high, lost in the air, crystal trees have veils and sail through fields of glass colors. And the calm black sea in front of her shimmers the light of sleeping stars and pale white moons sing The Sad Song Of An Unborn Sea. Life is holding a feast in the mirror. She is not afraid. Perhaps her force is holding, the life in her prepares. By starlight, her fingers touch the edge of the strange and pure-white lilies run out. And when nothing is left for her to mark time and her laughter turns blue she has to walk it off, so she runs to the water. Marching toward the horizon she knows everything has to be revised and revisited so, given a new reason she teaches her grace the mechanics of a different kind of science. She translates the emptiness of each and every season into something else such, strange shades of azure green worlds, and orange oceans and ruby red voices. Meantime, during the Dark Night of the Soul, civilizations spread for the sublunary world needs space to expand and changes begin to happen unexpectedly. It is around 335 B.C. when the world has to be reformed again. Sikandar-i-Azam, a warlord trained by fate, whose name still resonates today ingrained in the sands of Libya, the ruins of Persepolis and the heights of the Hindu Kush – the eagles cannot fly without repeating it – tossed a silver coin and started his military campaign with the intention to conquer all Nations. Relying on his sarissa of 12 elbows and the confidence passed on by Zeus-Ammon and his Great Mother Olimpia, who herself were initiated into the Kabir mysteries of Samothrace, he leads to victory, ten years straight, an army of thirty thousand foot soldiers and four thousand horsemen. ‘Krat'eroi’, he is thought to have said that day, when, drinking from some beast’s tears, he had to leave this world - to the stronger. And after him, she’s been told, earth, wind, water, and fire have never been the same. And the legends tell that mermaids inhabited the waters and when ships were lost in storms, a Nereid would appear from the angry depths of the sea and, grasping on the vessel’s prow, would ask the captain one question, always one, always the same. ’Is He alive?’ And if luck would be on their side, captain’s and his brave men, the naiad would be given the correct answer.' He is alive and well and he rules the world.’ Only then, the limniad would vanish and the sea would come to be calm again. Oh, but Universe forbid to be given the wrong answer for the kelpie would change into a raging Gorgon and would drag the ships to the bottom of the sea. She wondered where she was at the time when the raging Gorgon unveiled the World for her to see the transient nature of all things, such maze of wickedness and greed. For she once was a girl with the sun in her eyes full of adventure and longing and unmatched passion. Wide awake, all of her saw all there were. Certainly, most have raised and made a ran for it each time personal gain existed. For some lacked strength, others lacked courage while most scattered laughter when they needed to happen. The Meek told her about a treasure for the body and soul, hidden deep in the forest, but these were just stories for those who feared the unknown. The Sad felt smaller and smaller and cursing on their idols got lost running cloaked in darkness and missed all the fun. And, to kill off her kind down by the seashore, along came the Unutterable and the Bastardised whom pagan, heavy words told sweet little love lies because they were made mainly of desires so they had to be such cold liars and had to tell everything but the truth. But when broken by the burden of such days the whirling world spun out of control and all was feared lost, the last to come out from the wilderness were the Bewildered, a Fool, and a Trickster, and they swore to tell her all they knew about such dissonant centuries. And when one accepted the truth as forgiveness everything happened easily. And while in bloom, one was granted a wish and, given a name was sent straight into the Bottomless World. And from that time on everyone got to live till the end same as lady happy who fell asleep while being born.
THE CALM BLACK WATER in front of her is waiting in absolute silence. ‘You fly now’, it tells and spits through a bubbly waterhole a blade of tufts full of plain, Earthly time, the usual kind, with nothing special in it. A shy whirlwind spirals down and brushes her face with a kiss of life. ‘You become now’, it tells before ruling an army away.
Fat belly clouds are pickling in the cerulean morning. Nearby, a weevil casts its wings and calls the wind with a rustling sound. ‘Careful my dear’, it seems to say. She winces. Deep inside her gulls fly a different kind of danger. A skinny pink mist is chasing dragonflies and nothing is the same anymore.
Certain intimate memories roll over her with heavy arms, laughing at her, cursing at her. The big color blue is there too, good and pure. Her father liked the color blue.
The earth stands still and trees sway erect into the sunlight while she slips away.
Grandma comes to visit her sometimes, when the sun goes down and she is awake in her dreams, praying hard.
‘Ma?’ she whispers. But the air is empty. There is only a wind blow she can sense. The same wind that changed the rise and fall of empires brings to the surface legless creatures with smirks on their faces.
The noon light wanders hesitantly. Walking on the front loan she brings panic to some yard dwellers romping around through the garden. A few dunnocks, garden warblers, robins, and a nosy pipit, rush away in a flutter of wings. The Sakura is all dry now and there are no flowers in the backyard. The ridge is all broken, almost falling. The house feels much smaller than she remembers. A few windows are broken and million yellow leaves languish on the floor in agony. She stands in the doorway and stares at the walls. Her past greets her like a friend. Familiar peals of laughter come running from the mist of time and she is home again.
Once, she learned to live forever in a kettle carved out of a mermaid diaphragm together with the fairies and witches and gnomes and pygmies and little trolls and a Longed-neck frisky cat, all favorite bed stories her Ma used to tell her.
From the living room, a stained wood floor hints a wall for where the piano was.
The day they took the piano away she cried for hours. ‘We will die, without a piano in the house, Ma’, she’d say. She remembers she was scared. It was the end of an era.
There is a smile in her eyes. She stops to listen. ‘Mm mm mm’, she can hear her Ma in the distance.
Ma. The love of her life.
Her Ma Elena, the strong woman of the ancient world, a Macedonian from a line of the famous ShahanSha, The King of Kings, Alexander the Great, and all others left behind, tighten the rows and continue to live inside her. ‘I can do better, Ma,’ she yells into the wind.
Whenever she can, she has tea in the garden. ‘Stay here,’ the voices say. She can't keep apart from her ancient bloodline chock-full of travelers and heroes and martyrs where life is about conflict and rebellion. And this disorder of bold full hearts, haloed above her head, follow her around in return for an heir.
Yayo! Zdravo. Dobro popladne. Kako si? - Hello, Good afternoon. How are you? The color blue is greeting her. Dobro sum, blagodaram. - I am fine, thank you. Koj si ti? - Who are you? Jas se vikam Aurora. Koj e tuka odgovoren? Jas sum gladden. Žeden sum. Umoren sum. Ne se čuvstvuvam mnogu dobro. - My name is Aurora. Who’s in charge here? I am hungry. I am thirsty. I am tired and I don’t feel very well.
She was twenty-four. She liked the color blue. Same as Lord Ullin’s daughter she was a Lord’s offspring, a pony bird in disguise ready to elope and hide for some time. What was to come she couldn't escape, she had been waiting for it for some time, and, sensing its arrival, she pushed away the misfits and the unfits and the nut fits and prepared.
Her big, sometimes-hazel-sometimes-green, eyes looked beyond everything in scrutiny. She knew the world. And when that precise moment in time arrived, and the gates opened beyond the moon with a certain force and desire, it was her first, it was her big, it was her everything. Oh, but was she ready?
Dreaming inside water’s well, running her fingers through a blue, perfect, color, she wished to be.
She looks away when the entire world is sleeping and whispers in a voice always to be trusted. ‘I’ve looked a long time for someone like you.’ Amused by the solemnity of the moment she starts laughing. Her freckled nose crinkles when she laughs. She takes off the airy dress and walks naked across an imaginary stage. An ancient glory takes form in her. Her white skin glows. In a serious voice, she starts interpreting the same words Sam read aloud to her.
‘And the world right now has got to be crazy,’ she recites spinning slowly.
‘For I remember a time, thousands of years ago, when I was sent to the outside world in The Field of Trees, where taller trees grow, to be the oracle in Sekht-am. She secretly looks at Sam, amused, while haunting lures of deadly warriors in the air.
‘Tell me is real.’
Sam stares at her. Somewhat concerned, somewhat kind, somewhat intently aroused by her oracle statue. With silvery eyes of a drifter, she brings her closer. And there, hand in hand, they dance for a while, in the sand of them deserts, in the streets of them cities. In the galaxy of them billion stars and them thousand moons.
It was the mirror season, a season of becoming, a season that nobody could predict. It was the season when, on a random, inauspicious, day, she spoke her truth and Sam chose to drift off into the sunset and disappear forevermore. She didn’t do it out of pride or vanity nor did she want to punish Sam for not making the cut. It was much simpler than that. She knew her heart. For that, she wasn't ready.
Burn them trees. Burn them spiders. Burn them oceans. Burn them stars. Burn bright. Burn fast. Burn them all for all in all feels so empty. In the time before it ends everything must be first, crushed, and then, destroyed.
And there is a fog. And there is a battle. She is fresh from the void. The storm. The wonder. A spear cuts her open. She dies a thousand deaths. This is not a dream. It’s her blood and some others zipped together. She wears herself like a protective skin. She is a secret passage, on top of someone else’s body. She is wide awake again. And she’s all alone. No one is on the ledge with her. And she wants to tell the truth, like her Ma once. Instead, she cries a thousand moons. And the world breaks with a violent noise. And a brutal deity, with a heart of stone, hurries away into the distance.
Today is a good day. She combs her hair and puts on some blush and a cherry-colored lipstick. Same as those, doomed to despair, locked in the London Tower, when in-between gallows, she admires from her steeple the garden’s glare.
Lately, she's been talking a lot to Ma, other times to Sam-no-Sam-runaway-Sam-get-lost-Sam-fuck-you-hard-Sam.
Beyond her door, there's a flimflam of some strange tongues from Babel. A fifty-clown-fifty-hullabaloo voice creaks like buds unfurling on twigs. She stops to listen. Ovaa hrana ima vkus na gluposti! Ovoj pijalok vkusi luto! Ova mesto e kujna! Ovoj avtomobil e ruina! Vie ste idiot! Vie duri i ne znaete ebam! Jas go nosam vašiot prsten! Izleguvaj! – This food tastes like shit! This drink is piss! This place is a rathole! This car is a wreck! You are an idiot! You know shit! I wear your ring! Screw you!
In her sleep, she's wrapped around a whale tail. She sees bizarre, vivid things lurking around. And a world is on fire. Explosions melt her skin while she plucks snowdrops. And all of those who raised her, consume her awake with their powers, command her, boil her veins and twist her memories. They visit her, they question her. They share their secrets, they haunt her. They sleep inside her. They are her.
Her Ma told her once the story of a blue morpho, a hungry Menelaus, who was following a turtle’s trail to feed on its tears, but she could only remember some parts of it. Without the slightest flinch, she decides to make her own version and summons the critter.
‘Let’s stop pretend, Sire, morpho, for I thought you were something else, which, obviously, you are not, so, the time has come, and I expect you to come, I commend you, let's make-believe.' Let’s make some. Life.
Too heavy to fly, full to the brim with so many tears, the creation, in her face and likeness, has a second to rest on her shoulder. Bound by an ancient magic spell, it has no choice but to grant her one wish and to turn her luck around.
Sheer beauty tests one’s fate. A Menelaus enters the world.
MENELAUS:
You’re damn right I am Menelaus.
I’ll let you know what came out from that caterpillar,
From the hidden darkness,
From the shades within.
Something majestic,
The solid light of something new.
First, The World.
Then, The Sun.
Then, The Rain and Everything else.
Iridescence.
THE PEOPLE:
Damn right, Menelaus.
Oh, Menelaus, thank you.
Please, tell us your secrets,
We won’t disappoint you.
Please, accept our truth as forgiveness.
And grant us our wish.
We admire you.
We love you.
We treasure you.
We live for you.
For we are nothing without you.
We’ll become better someday.
Please, Menelaus,
We try to mimic your wonder,
Don’t let us face the emptiness alone.
Let us be loved for what we are.
Let us be beautiful.
Let us be forevermore.
Let us be magic.
Forbid us to be tricksters.
Grant us our wish
And let us wander,
Let us travel worlds,
For there is nowhere else we can be.
SHE KEEPS HER PASSION alive, locked inside a pebble, same as kings and queens wore their miniature perfume bottles once, with grace and sturdiness. Her lapis lazuli was given to her Ma by her great-great-mother. Stone worship was known to be widespread over the world since ancient times.
There is so much to worry about these days. She's on TV. She's on magazine covers. But all that matters lies in her heart, in her skinny fingers and, sometimes, in the shiny black blob in front of her that floats calmly in the air, ready to be shred to pieces.
She once read about a man who, during a concert, levitated a piano. She was certain it was a tianwei, definitely a God piano full of crandles, those mystical, insolent beings who like to dwell in grand pianos and steal the limelight at concerts.
‘Wackity schmackity doo’ says the quirky plump man with pink cherub-like cheeks looking her in the eyes. He’s probably the conductor or the presenter. Don Piano suits him best. He is, must be, the piano tuner who is allowed to make an entrance to check if all is in place. Someone kills the lights. Oh, he might as well be Mr. Electric guy. Haze changes everyone differently.
She takes a moment. Here she is, breathing. She shuts her eyes and sits in silence for a while. Her fingers prepare. She’s seen her Ma, a couple of times, doing the same, sitting rock-still in front of the piano before playing. Thinking she’d fallen asleep she tried, once, to wake her up. Those were the sad years after her father was no longer, but only now, thinking about it, she understands. Most certainly, Ma wasn’t sleeping. She was mourning. For it was not up to her.
People in the room are anxious for her to begin. It is strange and somewhat unhealthy about how they want her. Barebones and skin they want her. But she was never theirs, not even once. And this time again she isn’t. She is far away, flying up high, commending a mixture of imaginary worlds, some good, of unspeakable beauty, others indescribable dark, almost evil, all real and rare.
The air feels heavy as seconds pass by. Hearts are pounding in a rush of sensations. She inhales deeply. She becomes who she needs to be. Then, she begins.
She plays in such piety that all things, animated and unanimated, catch a sense of unimaginable love and beauty. Her aftertouches are flawless. An entire room full of guests listens discontinued from life, freed from despair and bitterness and anger.
They want her to continue when she plays the last note. Some want to wind around her feet, the most dream to dissolve before her gaze.
In front of them, she is terrified. Astonishingly gifted, beautiful in her staggering uniqueness, there she stands. A live statue. A von Maur in sequin white. A ghost to haunt them forevermore. ‘God knows I’ve tried, Ma.’ But the Bible doesn’t mention it.
TWENTY YEARS AGO LIFE HAPPENED. Faith tested. Wish granted.
Summer is in again. For years now, on the third Sunday of June, Aurora celebrates a love, instead of mourning one. Babu Sarkis taught her that and she feels thankful. Her former landlord was, by now, a star in Heaven, too.
She puts a handful of fresh callas in the water. Her translucent arms are making a swish noise with every move she makes. Her fiery body quivers. While her veins enshroud deep amid her skin, almost hiding, her decadent bones, together with her spine, dream of growing outside a small, tiny, body like a dandelion clock, with a chance to pull a mathematical quirk of some sort. Science is putting her all back together.
She feels pretty. In the mirror, she touches herself. Her body is a white sky, her scar a seagull in flight. When her scar is pretty she dedicates it to Sam.
‘Will you love me this way, darling?’
She wonders. Sam is dead for twenty years today. A lifetime of pain that never goes away. The light in her eyes fades. Wide awake, she is alone. A fine-tuned world trickles around one more time for her taste.
She’s famished. She tries her heart. A heart can’t be undone.
Bada-boom-nue. Bada-boom-e. An echo carries her pain. Confidence rises from her eyes. Her beautiful hands and feet, all calloused but, where they belong. She pulls one more time each finger. Her nails suffered. Her plants did too. Her memory, still not clear. She needs to discover an inability to remember people or events from her past.
Indeed, she is going through some changes, but she can breathe alone, and if she disregards a full day of numb plants, she can walk around freely, and without a cane.
She wants to sing and dance.
Someday.
Twenty years later, unexpectedly, the world awakened, and people retrieved their lost faces allowing The Pleasant Life to spiral back from the Rabbit Hole. By far, The Pleasant Life can’t be taught, nor conceived.
When life is not a life?
Unlock this answer now.
By burdock and ragweed
Coming right up,
Get me back to my childhood
Dandelion fluff.
This kid needs to be in oyster therapy.
Violin, violin,
The piano is violet or it may be pink,
Let’s have a drink.
But careful,
The kid has false teeth,
And he’s allergic to ink.
Don’t laugh,
Don’t dare mock him,
He’s going to do three somersaults,
And grow into a mon djinn
Stinging Nettle,
Dance us in.
Milk Thistle,
Carry us to worlds of dreams.
Scalesia,
We are all here,
Wearing wigs and hats.
Tumbleweed blowing.
Remember, you’ve been warned,
And, when asked for ice cream,
Use red clover instead.
You know, darling, dear,
It’s all been a bluff, now move on.
Stand-up for such a treat.
Make-up your mind,
The Universe whispers,
Sing along and get over it, kid.
Chorus: Let go. Let go.
The faceless world comes back to light when she smiles. She feels her weight. A few dancing hearts spin fast round with hands wide open aligned to her body. She has been eaten alive.
Her heart beats like a hummer. She holds her head high on her back and laughs hard while she spins faster and faster, like a paper cup, barefoot in her white gown. Her arms come to her waistline to embrace her.
Sam.
She feels her lips on her lips. Nothing of today could compare to that.
In a different space, under different circumstances, when the time comes, just say please. She's yelling at a ghost. Just say forgive me, please. Don’t be afraid of drunken men, riding struggling mules, for nobody cares. They are just standing in the ring, ready to hear a story. Once upon a time, a hungry princess told a lie. Not a big lie, a white lie, and an entire world went mad. And during such madness, a badly and a madly walked hand in hand for a while. The end. No story. No glory.
And now, after many, many years apart, having nothing more to say for herself, Aurora chooses to defend such love, so, she screams her lungs out into the abyss, once and for all.
CRYSTAL CASTLES ARE BORN IN THE AIR and one would need a guide throughout the mirror season.
Aurora is wide awake, for days now. Each morning she notices a book is tilted on the shelf, moved from its place, with a mind of its own. Same book each time. DON’T MAKE A SOUND. Few days in a row now, she keeps aligning the book back in its place, flush with the rest. She doesn’t believe in ghosts or the Universe aligning such synchronicities however, she finds such occurrence disturbingly strange.
She is wearing a red turtle-neck sweater, yes, they are back in fashion. She pulls her hair up in a ponytail. She makes herself ready for the world. Her skin is still swishing.
She sits in the armchair, in the living room and flips through her black Moleskine. The best-looking blob, besides her piano, to highlight off an entire presence. Hello!, November 30th, 2013. A person. Someone wrote on the page without living any clues who or better, why. It’s been a pleasure. Yes, yes. Maybe. How are you mad? What beasts do you adore? How can we develop together? How can we remain friends? Please tell me your attitude/stance on:
authority
humiliation
introspection
intimacy
sexual intimacy
projection
money
children
aging
fidelity
marriage
doubt
hope
fear
rejection
betrayal
She keeps different color notebooks for different life stories. Black is for romance. Red for doctor appointments. White for art. Pink for groceries and sometimes school. The yellow one is empty, just in case she needs one. She wants to buy a green one, as well.
At forty-four years old she is trying, too hard, to forget, to block the past that leeched onto her like a velcro-fastener. And each stubborn morning, she realizes she isn't ahead much.
Pain is something one is hard to escape. ‘Pain is inevitable,’ Babu Sarkis, told her many times. ‘Be daring, be brave, be bold,’ she’d often repeat Babu’s wise, precious, words.
For some things, my dear, cannot come along with us on the road to despair. The only option is to burn them and bury them away because they are not serving anyone anymore.
Later that afternoon, she was about to bake a cake with pink frosting when she heard the door knocker. The silver struck plate, as big as a human palm, with the infinity sign carved as the only decoration, hits the door twice. She goes to open. An odd, single, brown shoe, lays on the doorstep next to the mailbox.
Amal Maroun is standing in front of her, in her pajamas, all smiling, holding a bottle of dark rum.
‘It’s ready to be sacrificed, girl’ she says and dangles the bottle in the air.
‘Good stuff doesn’t just end at one’s door, so what’s up with you here?’
Aurora needed a guide throughout the mirror season. A seeker and a wisdom maker, willing to look into the mirror with a bright light. For that, she had Amal to thank for.
‘This goodie needs to be explored immediately without any protocol, that’s what’.
‘I agree with that.’ Aurora nods slowly. ‘Who wants to waste time? Come on in.’
‘When the Anxiety Monster knocks at your door, the best thing to do is to have a nap or have a bath, or, better, have some rum, girl!’
Crazy world. Crazy times, indeed.
Those were such times, The Standstill Time. The Farewell Time. Time does not exist, does it? Let’s reset it. Feeling better now?
Amal visits her regularly, every other weekend. They’d have coffee, or lunch or a few drinks, and listen to new voices of Indie music on Spotify, on a portable Bluetooth Bose speaker. She would read the cards for her or just talk about a large variety of things.
Once too often, she‘d be afraid things would get ambiguous between her and the world. Was she growing insane? Amal was there to prove she wasn’t.
Her phone rang the same instant Amal put her foot in.
’Mama, I can’t talk right now, I have a visitor’ but little she could say. She was showing Amal in, with ample head gestures.
‘I’m fine, Mama, busy as usual.’ She wasn’t lying, so much to do, so little time, you know. ‘Where was I when I send you that picture? I was home. No, not at the gym Mama’! I was home. No, not exercising. The sun was coming in from the balcony, too bright, that’s why. Yes, Mama, I’ll call you back, but better sometime tomorrow. How are you felling? That’s good. I love you, too.’
At heart, Aurora disliked most of them, faceless people. What was it there to like, anyway? No matter how hard she tried, she couldn’t find anything to like in them. She found the majority to be of an absolute point average, devoid of any intelligence, fundamentally and pristinely ungifted and with no respect for knowledge, utterly flat and emotionless, entirely immune to basic decency, distrustful and, ultimately and essentially, tragically boring. A cicada during an ordinary summer day sparked more interest in her than a human being.
And yet, it would have been ingratitude of her not to admit that finding such a gem like Amal, a genuinely authentic person, with a healthy sense of humor, and zero pretense sarcasm, was a gesture of mercy shown by the Universe.
And the world agreed and turned blank.
A gust of wind blows through the windows. Downtown London is odd and subversive and most of the time cold and wet. The hot air mornings are rare and go by fast. A full moon was approaching and persistent rains made it quite a grim further outlook for Londoners. Little to no cars, mostly black cabs, were whirring past narrow, parallel streets. Maybe the sound of the planet comes from walking and the breathing of the seven and a half billion people. Um, it sounds complicated to demonstrate.
Despite the blah weather, Aurora was in a sweet disposition. From her flat, she could see an entire world, wet and windy, at her feet. Her unflinching passion for this exalted city was mostly visible in the mornings. Drinking her coffee she’d follow, through the windows, the world in step, with her green, narrow eyes. Badger eyes, she'd say. In the distance, on the right corner of her house, lie, Hyde Park, several hotels, three Bed & Breakfasts, and The Japanese House Grill.
Every other morning she sees Rifat Bea, the tall black lady who wears big, colorful, curlers in her gray hair, a black trench coat, white heels, and a pipe on her hand, on her way to the corner store for some milk They knew each other for about five years now when Rifat miscarried for the sixth time. Her hair turned almost white that day, and she remained traumatized for life, for not being able to keep a child in her womb.
Good times, bad times, ordinary times.
Twenty years ago, when Aurora first stepped foot in the house of her dreams, she rented a one-bedroom flat on the ground floor, from an old, Egyptian lady, her landlord to be, Babu Sarkis, who taught her everything her Ma never got to.
‘Listen to your inner void,’ she’d tell her. ‘You can't force yourself into forgetting life’s nastiness dear, for then, life would be in vain.’
Babu taught her how to cope with herself during the tough years.
‘Never turn away. Just be patient and try to be kind, be better, be love and make life. That's all we can do, dear.'
Babu was always talking like a proprietor. In the long winter nights, Aurora will come by her place and Babu Sarkis would prepare Shay bil na’na or Sahlab and would teach her how to pronounce modern Arabic words and would read the cards for her. Fifteen years on, suddenly and without any prophecies, Babu was dead in her sleep and there was this other life starting for Aurora. She missed her Babu, almost the same as she missed her Ma. And she missed her Ma immensely.
She inherited Babu’s house and all her belongings, mostly old and useless stuff. She kept some of the furniture, a few small objects, a silver elephant totem, the ancient reading cards, the books, and a wall mandala made up by elements of life, earth, air, water, and fire, and painted on a sparkling blue, Egyptian fabric. Clean slate.
By now, she was almost old, deep in her forties, bringing into existence some extraordinary joy for she was now the owner of her own house. She lived in Babu’s Sarkis two-story house, as the sole proprietor. She befriended one of the tenants from the two apartments she would rent out. One above, Dr. Bai’s, a beautician from Mongolia, and the proud owner of a chemical face cream formula, fountain of youth, and the one below occupied by Amal’s Maroun who was in search of junub. And often they drank for that.
THIS TREE HOLDS INSIDE EVERY PAIN THAT EVER EXISTED. Once upon a time, a tree grew strong and tall, and worked around its wonders. It was not the enchanted tree, nor the love tree, the tree of life, or even the wicked tree, all celebrities, but a gnarled old tree, the most common kind in a classic English garden. Not even a historical specimen, included in the Register of protected monuments. Far from being a noble tree, or planted for any special occasion, this was a common tree in the park. As simple and plain as that.
Still, not the Autograph Tree, the giant Copper beach tree, Ireland’s secret tree of Emerald Isle, in Coole Park, carved with famous literary autographs. Yes, yes, W.B.Yeats, too. Amal gazed at it first on a chilly afternoon when walking around the park with Aurora. There it was, a big, spreading tree, standing before them like a hero previous to his awakening. Jiji probably hid many times behind it, thought Aurora when realized it was real.
‘Wow, but this is impossible!’ shouts Amal with such pleasurable excitement taking a closer look at an embarrassingly ordinary, somewhat lofty, green hardy.
'This ivy swallowed the entire tree, look, look girl!'
She circles the tree in disbelief. Her dark, sharp, eyes cut every branch of it. She even touches the dusty sisal in several places just to be certain. Finally, she gives a verdict.
‘Wow, this is truly amazing, this is what they call a tree-soul, Aurora!’
Speaking in a clear and loud voice, Amal was certain that’s what it was. Aurora knew she could never be so certain about anything. ‘What a heck is a tree-soul?’
‘A tree -soul is an unfaithful shrub that grows around another great stodgy.’ Aurora looks at Amal in disbelief, like she was totally demented.
'All I see is a lot of baleful, primal ivy which decided to have the initiative to trick an old, poor, unclimbable stark and replace it entirely with its own increasingly, dominant leafy kind. By me, you can call te result infinite names. Desdemona-tree. Orphan-tree. Beauteous-tree. Killer-tree. Thrift shop-tree. Worcestershire-tree. Burger-tree. Plastic-doll-tree. Polka-tree. Picasso-tree. Simply-attipical-tree. The-essence-of-life-tree. One word, two words. Hyphenate words. And on, and on, and on, till the end of time. All words that ever existed in all languages altogether’.
Aurora’s speaks ostentatiously and in her tone there is definite sarcasm to be sensed. A stranger eavesdropping could think anything about the two of them. But the truth is, Aurora was fond of Amal beyond any tree and any words. She admired her wit, her elegant eloquence and knowledge and all she knew about things. Every chance she’d get, she’d show her that. Maybe because, deep hidden in her mind Amal was a surrogate for Sam. Possibly so.
‘Why would you necessarily call it a soul-tree?' The tree story definitely triggered her.
‘Don’t you see, the lithe ivy is all over the host, most probably a withered tree of some sort. I can’t see no traces of any genuine lonely alien anywhere.’
Indeed, the lacy ivy seemed to have swallowed the entire host for its ruthless survival. Most probably, the barren found a weak spot somewhere underneath a misshapen tall and solitary young tree, a soft underbelly, and wrapped itself round and round, vigorously, closing in until the innocuous host couldn’t get any sunlight and abandoned all hope, gave in.
'Look at the shape. It is in the form of a high, weird, common shady tree! Look, look, tubular branches, thick like a real lofty tree! I still think it is purely amazing how nature finds new ways.' Aurora doesn't seem to share her pal’s enthusiasm. She isn’t thrilled at all.
'So, by me, this is what we can call murder, my darling. So instead of bringing up so much poetry and sensibility you should call the police or at least a tree patrol to resolve such issues,’ she says. ‘I consider such happening to be a terrible nature betrayal!’
‘Not at all. Mutatis mutandis. dude. Hallelujah!’, Amal concluded all excited, putting an end to the fate of such a glorious nature trades.
'Do you know there are trees that can walk? And some cultures have man tree and woman tree? And trees can talk to each other’
No, Aurora didn’t know. She didn’t know anything. The worse was that she couldn’t remember anything anymore. She hated the feeling of not knowing. Not remembering. Like in a Greek tragedy. When it comes to being real, one’s memory is everything. Tree. Tree. Tree. Tree. The sounds of a Jiminy cricket. Her consciousness en garde. Who would want to talk to a tree? Aurora couldn’t imagine a word she could exchange unintentionally with a tree. And a world made out of walking, talking trees sounds like a non sense. Mostly, when trees don’t have a body of their own where one could find a hole to bury secrets in. She couldn’t hide her disappointment anymore.
‘And Tricky Trees like this one!’, she almost shouted in Amal’s direction. She wasn't into the tree-soul-soul-tree, she was certain that much. To find such treason in the core of nature, she felt her entire reality being dangerously distorted. She grew up with the understanding that nature was to provide eye beauty and tranquility of the soul, and now, she stumbled upon this ivy and big chunks of reality were strangely succumbing to a false existence like her pushing herself through a soul gate into a dream with monsters. Many, many layers of elongated, different realities, originally arranged in infinite plans, infinite bubbles of multiverse carrying the entire mankind multiplied in infinite living scenarios and occurrences, and different stages of things. A work of art, an architectural original design worthy of a walk on the red carpet.
A tree must make noise to exist, Aurora would think. There should be something hiding, deep inside this whole, Desdemona soul tree, she wanted to believe that was true. She stuck her ear on a branch full of musty leaves and listened. It was all quiet. She appeared to be disappointed. Somehow, she thought that beneath that proud ivy, deep into the core of life, there should have been pain, and sadness, and grief. A lot of it. And when she couldn’t hear anything she was still certain that deep inside, there should have been the host tree crying forever, in silence, for all it lost, the sunlight, the birds, the wind, the rain, even the dangerous ice and snow that during harsh winters could crack a tree in half and mutilate it for good. But instead, all of this was quiet. As if life didn’t exist and reality was empty of it all.
IT IS THE SUMMER OF CHANGE, the age of color again. A warm summer, a fantasy that no one can escape from or cares to change makes it all possible. Here she is, breathing, wishing for rain, on the side of the road, on the edge of the fray.
‘Don’t put that in your mouth, Jiji, it's dirty and full of germs!' The little girl is determined. She disregards the high pitched voice, lifts herself on her toes, throws her head back against the wind and while bracing the round cement rim with her arms, she hunches over and starts to inhale deeply with her eyes closed.
'Mmmm, but, Mama, don’t you see?! I smell’em, I don’t break’em, I only smell’em!’
‘Oh, c’mon baby, you’ll mess up your dress and tante Marlčne will be upset if we’ll be late!’
Little Jiji has no sorrow, no guilt about what she is doing. She spontaneously came up with a fun little game and she was repeating it over and over and over, running in circles from a lower pot to another. With her hands behind her back and to prove her mother she won’t break’em, little Jiji hunches over to smell the flowers, inhaling the scent deep into her whole being like a fantasy that no one can escape from or cares to change. At first, she was sniffing them loudly, then she’d sing through her nose the 'Mmmm’s’, push a few chuckles out and starting all over again. She is free to explore.
The morning air is clear like a lucent trail of numbness upon the sky. The little girl, about three or four years old, is wearing a white narrow-brimmed sun hat, a silver-white dress with pink stripes at the bottom, pink socks and white boots. Her pockets are full of treasures. She feels so free running in between jardinières, allowing her to be amazed by the smell of forget-me-nots, snapdragons, and Fuji mums, freshly planted in humongous conic cement pots and placed on the sidewalk of the main town's boulevard.
The sun is shining and the air scatters a white bright sparkling light in the little girl's curly light hair, which sneaks out from under the hat and flows on her shoulders like an unclaimed victory. She looks lovely chasing flowers as if they are butterflies or colorful balloons or moonbeams.
Lately, the park is the perfect place where Aurora can take long walks almost every day. She can’t think of a better place to count the passing of season, besides, of course, her old heart.
Today Amal is not with her, she has classes to attend. So, she sits alone on a bench with a bleak look on her face. To contradict her feelings, little Jiji makes her laugh.
Her memory gushes out dragging from the depths of her mind, a ghost of the past. Years ago, an exceptional season stamped all into oblivion, the living grave where humans fall in disgrace for nothing compelling happening to them. Now, like a little souvenir, summer came to restore the order of things.
Faster and faster, Jiji and her Mom cut through the park until they become silhouettes. She remembers a tingling sensation she thought will last forever. But she’s all alone. No one is on the ledge with her. The morning air is clear like a lucent trail of numbness upon the sky. The sun is on top of everything. No city noise. In this quiet, Aurora allows herself to make peace with her past at last. Lately, it became more and more evident to her that the people she met throughout her life were merely random acts of The Universe but mostly boosts of courage in disguise.
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