Igor had sat reading French existentialism at a little cast iron table in the sun. His mind was no longer able to form coherent thoughts, and whenever he tried to formulate an idea or intention, he wasnt able to fit the verb to the substantive and basically he was just swimming in a soup. He ordered onion soup. He ate, as the sun went down over the Sacre Coeur and he wandered off into Monmartre.
In a portico, he found an axe. “This night could get interesting” he thought. Finally, his mind had cohered.
With axe in hand he formulated a plan. The soup was delicious. The plan was based on the idea that the way things were going life.becoming.meaning less in terms of the excercise of the will, his will, the nihilism an unsuccesful belly gazing, he must do something wity the axe.
But the question as to what to do with the ax proved insoluablle until.now,it.was just dead weight t be carried around, .
France was a foregone conclusion after all how long can the old artifacts be conserved without the public loosing interest
In the ancien period
So he thought the soup will be always be there as a comfort
But remebering the old man telling him a populace can only be held at bay as long as beef bourgonon is plentiful to be had, a warmness enveloped his stomach.
Come hell and or high water as the soup thikens and art for art , sake the recepe be forgotten
As mcarthur park is melting in the rain .
So as he was saying the key is that mean8ngless preshadows the gravity of unreason and mob rule
Such as these toughts and warnings by the likes of collin wilson.nietzche and khrishnamurti.and others may have absolutely nothing at the time but now do
And the idea of.going over to the vasts french forests and cutting down some trees with it may appear equally vacuous to him and as a result he decided tol stay in the coffee and decided to vanture far more as lionized as thrilling an experience, unafraid of the van gogish strarry night closing in, while hearing the faint whirring of the remebrences of the past through the little machine parked next to the bottle of whisky set in a glistening bowl.
Definitely, a hut in Alzac Lorraine is out, he is not some character at some beginning of some early century.all hopefully pregnant of all the future vistas to come may disclose.
He became a transitory realist.
Igor began to realize that metaphysical certainty is the dung that populates maggots of thought. He has found no redemption in philosophy, religion or myth. What then is left him but dreams? But then, his dreams are about philosophy, religion and myth. And yet he would not surrender to solipsism or nihilism.
Igor retraced his steps while scratching his head. “Just what is this life all about?” he thought to himself. “What are all these strange thoughts and imaginings which keep dancing through my head?”. “Oh, they’re giving me such a headache!” Igor stood still for a moment with his eyes closed.
Then Igor decided to go and spend some time walking through Monet’s most awesome stunning gardens. “Everything becomes completely “right with the world” when I’ve spent time there, just walking, observing all of the beautiful flowers ~ ah, those vivid colors!” What a work of love, what a profound work of creation Monet brought into existence. I can almost believe that there is some kind of co-creator who inspired that radiant panoramic canvas. Yes, I shall go there and sit in my favorite spot on that stone bench which holds the carving of Chloris and listen to the water flowing nearby. So beautiful ~ so very beautiful ~ that blue-flowing liquid enhanced by such a rainbow of colors. Iris, I bow before you in all of your beauty!
“Ah, life can at times be beautiful - not perfect but still ~~ beautiful”. Tears could be seen streaming down from Igor’s eyes.
An old man was following Igor, talking about his son and the pointlessness of life. Igor didnt get depressed, though. He just intended to either not grow old, or when he did, do so decently. Not become one of those geezers that try to wring the juice out of every young piece of life.
He and the old geezer in his trail strolled through Parc Luxembourg and then Igor saw Vigor standing on the balustrade. He said pardon-goodbye to the old man and was led into the castle.
The axe flew off and the old man went to have a pastice.
Later in the evening , Madamoiselle Sandra appears, looking disheveled and morose, her beautiful face covered by smeared lipstick. They are sitting around the bar, and she collapses into a divan next to the terrace, sobbing miserably.
Vigor holds her hands, while she shakes them loose.
Igor looks into this vignette as if confounded. He is already shaken from incidences described previously, and so unable to formulate a thought. The most he can eek out is 'What has happened"?
Igor’s little Buddha snake slithered up his arm toward Igor’s shoulder and then slowly, oh so slowly, nestled his face in Igor’s ear. The snake whispered: “Do not fret, my friend. Do not be alarmed. Simply Release, Relax, Let Go. All shall be revealed to you in your state of calm and detachment.” What is not revealed is waiting in the wings for another day - a day in which you shall be made more ripe for its epiphany.
“Ah”, thought Igor. “how could I have forgotten about you, Beelzebub.” “No worries” whispered Beelzebub. “You and I are a team, Iggy!”
Then Igor could be seen :-" as he looked up into that pale moon in the early afternoon sky. “How strange” he thought. "The moon looks as if it had been gently inserted into an invisible part of the sky, like a pocket so to speak. “The world really is so inexplicable” Igor mused but most gratefully so ~ and then sighed contentedly.
Beelzebub sighed too and gradually oh so gently pulled his face out of Igor’s ear and rested it solemnly on Igor’s shoulder. “Hmmmm…”
The little Faustian thing, with change of heart-returns into the yawning gap of hell’s hole proportions glints, his eye’s streams throwing boulders of torturous malice into her direction, where Sandra is meditating in a natural setting.
She, alighted on a lotus, with charming dragonflies throwing scarab like shells of sea urchins multicolored shells of unbelievable spectra of dispersed prismic shows of light, with wondrous babbling brooks and charming and vast interperced silences , all candy rapped with an absolving sense of forgiveness for the terrible acts of an angry God; and Sandra her six palms upstratched moons a delectable verse of faintly audible tonus.
The Faustian being craving her protection transmutes into an ear crawler, and typically, separating his two tails, disappears into the vast crevasses inside, and makes delicious apartments in the windmills of her mind.
The Faustian being consumed its way through the brain of the She-ess but to no harm, as her mind is nonlocal, and void is its best conductor.
‘Glad to hear that’, she said resoundingly.
Igor wishes that his dreams
Be only of fishes in fertile streams.
Tired and disgusted
With ideas he trusted,
Igor asks only the charity
Of personal clarity.
But tonight he had special message from Rudolf Steiner,
and thereof he thought more
Strongly
Of the extraordinary.
“I want to evolve! I want to evolve and be made more than I have ever been before,” Igor screamed within his mind. As he sat on the high rock and contemplated his friend, Rudolf’s, last conversation with him, he heard something so strange to his ears, some whizzing-kind-of sound coming in his direction. Suddenly out of the blue, he saw it! But alas, he didn’t have time to get out of its way. He felt frozen in place and unable to react to it.
The arrow shot towards him and reached its mark in the middle of Igor’s forehead, planted deeply within in. Igor let out the most painful groan and he fell to the ground in one large lump.
Ah, Igor is now dead.
What was the figure coming at a gallop? It seemed to be coming out of the very sky itself. How very extraordinary. Oh my god! A centaur! But wait. Ah, it was Chiron himself come to save the day. He landed on what seemed to be, to him, Earth’s holy ground. “Ah”, he thought to himself, how I have missed thee, thou awesome Pale Blue Dot.
Poor, poor Igor, Chiron thought in his great compassion. "I shall render you whole again. You shall have life. You shall again walk this Earth. It has been established long before your time.
So Chiron bent down and ever so gently and slowly pulled out the arrow from Igor’s forehead. He kissed the spot where the hole was and laid his hand there. He spoke the words:
"Ξεσηκωθούν και να ζήσουν και πάλι! Σταματάμε την ημέρα. Μπορείτε γίνονται σύνολο.
Then sadly, Chiron was gone ~~ galloping back up into his own place in the sky.
Igor “woke up” never realizing what had happened to him. The arrow had been turned to dust and Chiron was nowhere to be found.
“I just had the most extraordinary dream”, Igor thought to himself. Then he felt shivers running up and down his spine. He couldn’t understand why but throughout the days to come, he would feel those shivers flowing, creeping. He felt that there was something “known” to him but he just couldn’t begin to understand what it was.
Beelzebub lay by Igor’s side looking up as Chiron ascended into the heavens. Beelzebub could be heard whispering “Thank you, Chiron.” Every time Igor felt those shivers, those creepers, Beelzebub had to laugh to himself. Igor thought that Beelzebub was beginning “to lose it”.
Suddenly, the little wise snake could be heard shouting toward nothing in particular ~~
CARPE DIEM!!!
So Igor spent that season walking along the brooks wild with molten snow, and his sense of smell started to improve, until in early may he began waking up on account of scents that were too pleasant to sleep through. These came usually just before sunrise, as the dew began to turn to vapor and find their paths into the nostrils of unsuspecting animals.
One such morning Igor got up from the pile of woodchips he had used to spend the night, awakened by some rowdy and proud molecules dancing through the sun-anticipating air, stretched and yawned, and set off walking further along the brook he had followed until late last night. He was hungry and looked to the fields for greens, or perhaps a rabbit.
Igor went on these walks to satisfy a need to relieve his increasingly oft repeating apprehensive sene of trying to slow the end game.
Having been encapsulated in the foam, the bubble, internally filled with some sort of whitish froth, he needed an escape. Sandra was both: a lucky unearned reality, going back decades, with the growing stupor of fearful leaving, as you were, going.
Going gone. The interpositioning of major themes, specifically of the magical kind, has finally formed the perfect shape of the ring, and the metaphysical puzzle to be solved, of realizing it, had him repeat over and over the mantra of the perfection, as possible state, a possible state to be shared with the one, the one who listens, but whose answer, as coming absolutely as he knew it would, return the kindness here withal.
The time should stop, he raised his request heavenward , and the answer came peruodically, slowly, that the price was great, but absolute, in the frame of time-stop, the illusion it somehow connect with that other, still reality, still.
And that became a frame he could re-create, even amid the crisis of absolute panick and apprehension, the still of going out and coming in alone.
That Sandra was instrumental no doubt, essential, even, there was never any doubt, no allusion spoken, and he reduced motion to its absolute, at first, later forgetting this formula, he was reduced.
The stillness all around, impressions and expressions whirling at ever ferocious velocity, the stillness enraptured into the fog, hidden by the vaporous forgotten e of distance memory.
It was in this manner that he came upon the time machine, and through the ring, into it, that he was able to come out of it, intact, as a recognizable being, albeit with no name.
They were due for the production, the ring, cyclically, as one organism, bewitching with no end, no beginning, and hoping for the incredible whirring of motion perpetua to cease, land him in a scene of extraordinary and fabulous attention.
His plane would leave in one week from today.
Igor leaving on a jet plane.
Igors plane touches down, his martini shakes and spills a little on his pants, which are new, relatively… getting out, the sun is dry and hot, the smell of the tarmac is overwhelming, and the baggage boys are drenched in sweat… he is on the Island, and he starts to run for the beach.
The beach bleached with tropical sunlight dazzles Igor’s senses. Beyond the sea lay the jungle rife with plush life, teeming and screaming their being to the wind. Which way to go? Both paths could be seen as all-inclusive.
The next hours, Igors heart was spread open to the sky and the earth and he had no awareness of time. Only blinding white, boiling green and glistering azure, and scents that took him from one ecstasy into the next. Many animals conversed with him in this state, including a large boa constrictor. But when Igor regained consciousness of time, he was at the cool surf under a dark purple sky. He took off his clothes and slowly, àlmost reverently walked into the waves.
The waves came rhythmically, soothingly and languidly, and he was tempted oh so tempted to wade in, to merge with it, the blueness of infinity, and and
he still can can can to be sure, but reservations not made
+think of all the little ones, so the great divide between sea, surf and sky will just have to wait.
& dealt with on their own terms.
The jetstream has to carry him, has to, into the ring of fire,
through and through. But I am getting through this for sure,
he thought, by the skin of our teeth.