Belated Eulog

I didn’t go to your funeral. I was twelve and hated being around people who cried. Everyone there probably sobbed into each other’s winter coats and forgot about their sadness when spring came. I couldn’t cry, but I haven’t forgotten.

You sit on the rocks by the water with the wind blowing your white shirt in soft ripples across your back. Your perfect smile lights up your blue eyes like a child first seeing the ocean. I’m wearing my Little Mermaid bathing suit and carrying a purple bucket full of hot sand. Seagulls screech as I run to you laughing. It smells like summer.

The five of us sleep in the lighthouse that night. It’s the most magical place I’ve ever seen. It has a big winding staircase that twists and turns higher than I can climb on my little legs. You let me sleep on the easy chair by the fire while the grown-ups play cards. I fall asleep to your winning laugh as you rake in the poker chips.

The picture of the two of you the next day is hard for him to look at. Your blonde hair is damp from the salt water and your towel is wrapped around your tanned shoulders. You have your arm around him and he looks happier than I ever remember him being. He was with his daughter and his best friend. You made everything more fun for all of us. I wonder why you couldn’t do the same for yourself. A bucket full of water, a striped umbrella and a cooler of beer are in the background.

You’re in our little Toronto backyard, where vines cling to the old stone of our garage. Daddy holds my hand as he walks me home from a tiring day of senior kindergarten. I come running in the back gate to see my favourite friend of ours. But you’re not sitting at the table. You’re not standing by the barbecue. Finally I see you. Lying in the garden on your back. All the flowers are crushed. But I don’t care. I run to you laughing like always. Daddy picks up the bottle next to you and walks away.

“Hey kid,” you say. “Come here. I have something very important to tell you.”

I giggle shyly and step towards you. You have dirt in your hair.

“Don’t drink.” you tell me. Then we both laugh as I try to pull you up without success.

Daddy comes back, pulls you up, and starts to take me inside to see Mommy. I turn back to you and give you a big hug first, getting mud all over my dress.

“I love you!” I shout back to you as I skip inside.

“Not if I love you first!”

Seeing you was the highlight of my day.

I made you a picture every time I saw you. I had to show you all my toys, all my clothes, all my special things. When I ran out, I’d make you something. You loved my drawings. Your favourite thing to say to my dad was, “You’re an idiot,” and later, “How did you get a daughter like this, you idiot?” My dad would just shrug and insult you right back.

You told me I could be something, something bigger than what you, or my dad, had become. You told me your old man said you’d be nothing, and so you didn’t try to be anything at all. So you helped me. You showed me how to hold a pencil, how to tell a story, how to take a picture. You made me work harder to be better. I believed I could be. 

You’re standing on the back of the houseboat wearing a straw cowboy hat. My dad slings your guitar over my shoulder, puts your Ray Bans on my nose, and grabs the hat off your head for the finishing touch.

“Look cool,” you instruct me. “We’ll frame this one and put it on my mantle.”

I frown like you show me, and let my long curly hair blow across the guitar. You take out your big black camera. Ready?

Click.

Satisfied with the picture, you grab a loaf of bread, and we run to the stern to feed the swans. They show up everyday at this time, a whole family of them. I shriek as they snap at the pieces I give them. They make a lot of noise then swim away to the next boat.

Suddenly the wind picks up. My hair is lifted straight up. Your hat blows off my head in a an instant and flies off the back of the boat.

“Man overboard!” You shout, grabbing the wheel to turn us around.

We search everywhere but the hat is lost. I can still see it today just as clearly; floating on the warm breeze, suspended in the sky, before sinking beyond rescue into the blue.

When they cleared out your apartment they found the framed picture of me with your guitar and cowboy hat, looking cool. It was next to a drawing I made you that day. It’s a drawing of you, me, and your little yellow cowboy hat blowing off the boat, with the caption Gone Forever. You thought that was the funniest drawing you’d ever seen.

A couple years later, you’re sitting on the passenger side up front while Daddy runs into the gas station to get me some Advil. Your long legs are stretched out in faded blue jeans, the seat pulled back all the way. I rub my eyes.

“Don’t worry. She’ll be nice to you,” you say, turning to look at me.

We’re going to the annual pool party, and my former best friend is going to be there. I’m so nervous to see her again, I have developed a crushing headache.

“And if she’s not nice you can hang out with me,” you reassure me. “I’m not getting in the water, but I’d be happy to throw you in!”

I smile despite the pain. I do love swimming.

It’s sunny out as Daddy pulls out of the gas station. I choke down two pills and look out the dusty window. Your tan elbow sticks out of the car as you both sing along to The Doors on the tape deck. You reach behind the seat and tickle my knee. I laugh and kick the back of your seat. It’s always summer in my memories of you.

I did go to your wake. Daddy said it would be more lighthearted than the funeral, a day to celebrate you. I still wore black. It was the first time I wore high heels. They were black boots I bought in a strip mall with the thirty dollars Daddy gave me. He stood outside the store and smoked two cigarettes. He always wore black.

I was the youngest one there. There must have been hundreds of people there. You were always so popular. Everyone hugged me and said how much you loved me. I ate thirteen mini quiches and drank four bottles of water. My feet hurt.

I finally found a chair over by a window. The wake was held at your friend’s bar in the private room upstairs. I sat alone next to a framed picture of you holding a pint and grinning like you always did. A man approached. We looked at each other and exchanged a brief, sad smile. Then he took his glass and pushed it against the picture of you. I didn’t get it at first, as I watched him walk away. Then I realized; he’d been clinking his glass to the glass you held in the picture. It was a last toast between friends. That was what did it. I finally cried. You were such a great friend to so many people. I had never even met that man before. But then again, there was a lot about you I didn’t know.

   I hadn’t seen you in a while. Daddy told me you were in a bad place and that he and I should keep our distance from you. I didn’t understand. I thought you were always so happy and full of life. When they found you, you were surrounded by empty pill bottles and hastily written notes. I never found out what all the notes said. But I thought I’d write one to you.

I remember the days in the backyard, the summers on the beach, the way you always supported me, and the crazy things you’d say. There was no one like you, and I doubt there will be again. You played in a band, were the life of the party, and had an endless supply of mocking jokes for my dad and compliments for me. You were charming, handsome, witty, wild, and free. You had it all, you just didn’t see it. I wish you’d stuck around. There is still so much for you here.

There’s so much more to write too, so much more to remember, but you weren’t one for too much sentiment. So for now, Cheers. To one perfectly imperfect life.

To my friend

We miss you. Always.

Come hang out at our place with everyone else. 

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Probably just the cheap whisky

Couldn’t fall asleep. There’s no one to talk to at this hour so I thought I would let my fingers and my Macbook keyboard have a go. 

5:37 the radio on my bedside table reads. This is one of our earlier nights.

I sit propped up on the right side of my bed that touches the wall with the window on it. I’ll never fall asleep in the position, but I close my eyes from time to time.

Just before falling into the bed I undid the second and third on my Calvin Klein button down. Plugged in my dead phone  and dimmed the light on my bedside table low, real low. That is the extent of what I’ve been able to do since getting home. The soft click of my space bar is, somewhere else, somewhere I’m conscious of but away from, continuous and rhythmic.

Daylight broke 15 minutes ago and  I sigh.  Just a natural reaction to being seated on a bed, I’m sure, I’m not stressed or anything.

I take a gulp from yesterday’s glass of water on my bedside table. The coolness fights the burning lump. Probably just the cheap whisky from earlier in the night.

The water was the last thing I touched since heading out yesterday morning. I haven’t been to the gym in four days. Right now I feel dirty, fat and dirty. I have to get the these clothes off. Not sure why I’m having such difficulty, I didn’t even bother putting my socks back on and my belt is still loose after leaving her house.

Kiara said earlier this evening that she had a party with some papers, a zippo, and “dat purp.” She also said I should chill out some time and have a sesh with her. She’s nuts. I ended up just grabbing a Coors from her fridge. I promised myself I would stop drinking beer, again.

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Another sigh just slipped out . Sleep must be catching up on me. I have to stop seeing her this often, at least this late. This isn’t love.

We don’t even talk anymore. I send the “Are you awake?” text, she’s always awake. I’m always three drinks in. It’s always Thursday, or Sunday night. Never the weekend. This isn’t love.

I end up taking the elevator to Kiara’s apartment 1409. My manhood gives its conditioned response. I adjust myself in my underwear so she won’t notice. I walk through the door, assume my usual nonchalance, and find my spot at the right corner of her bed. She puts a movie on. I couldn’t tell you one thing about any of the movies we’ve watched. She falls onto the bed near me. I move slowly and wrestle her out of her clothes. Unbuckle my belt and we steal away into the passions of pleasure. Just as I reach as high as I can, peaking behind heaven’s gates, I let go and fall back to earth hitting the ground. Crash.

I lie there. Kiara gives that blank stare that fights to betray any sentiment. She lets out a nervous chuckle that looks to find validation in my eyes, but by this point I’ve already  left, in spirit. I clean up my beer, and put my clothes on in the quickest fashion possible. We exchange pleasantries such as, “Another week of work eh?” Dammit obviously it’s another work week.

I drive home on the deserted streets and turn down the radio low, real low. During the trip I think about what I have to do the next day, and how tired I am, a different kind than the one I’m used to with lack of sleep. A deeper one. I park and get up to my apartment. I find myself here in my room as daylight rises.  Although I went up 7 floors, it starts coming down. I start coming down. I can’t fight it. And it …

It just all feels so heavy.

My eyelids are getting heavy. Kiara says text me when you get home. I promise her I will. I never do.

I always promise myself this all will stop. This yearning. The incomplete feeling. The bareness.

Then Thursday comes around and I ccccccccccccccccccccccccccccccccccccccccccccccccccccccccccccccccccccccccccccccccccccccccccccccccccccccccccccccccccccccccccccccccccccccccccccccccccccccccccccccccccccccccccccccccccccccccccccccccccccccccccccccccccccccccccccccccccccccccccccccccccccccccccccccccccccccccccccccccccccccccccccccccccccccccccccccccccccccccccccccccccccccccccccccccccccccccccccccccccccccccccccccccccccccccccccccccccccccccccccccccccccccccccccccccccccccccccccccccccccccccccccccccccccccccccccccccccccccccccccccccccccccccccccccccccccccccccccccccccccccccccccccccccccccccccccccccccccccccccccccccc

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And the Choirs in my Head Got Quiet

It’s night-time and the stars are out playing their usual cosmic game. Set in motion by a strange blend of fate and chance, they go about their usual astrological duty. I observe them and find that as much as I need to be healthy, they need to be beautiful. From where I am, they all appear like celestial plebeians, but I’m sure each is desperately unique and expressively so. The hour passes smoothly as I gaze contemplatively. Crickets make their expected noise – dogs too. And occasionally a human voice is heard. All seems to be going well in the theatre of life. But still my mind refuses rest, it still wrestles with anxiety.

But something is changing; a stirring is on the inside. There’s a call come ringing over my restless fears. I hear it over these roaring thoughts. Distinctly, though gently, it intrudes and I’m thankful. It is the voice of life calling me to live before I die. This is no surprise, though; I’ve heard it before and documented what it said. Nevertheless, I hear it calling again and this time it asks for something specific. It wants me to stop listening to the choirs in my head.

I do what is asked; my breathing slows and everything about me has become cool. Tension evaporates and I’m relaxed and only getting more relaxed. Stillness protrudes; my focus goes into my body. It’s peaceful in there. I can feel the warmth in my hands and feet, and I feel my stomach expanding as I breathe softly. I also feel my heart beating strong and unfettered.

I don’t feel worried anymore, and I presume my fears are gone for the night. In this state of mind, I notice that I feel a deep sense of love for everybody. I feel human, all too human. And I wish to share this feeling with world; I wish that from my seat of meditation I could send arcs of light and love to all hearts, but I can’t, I’ll never be able to. All I can do is point people inwards and hope that they’ll look without judgement or fear.

Look inwards, my friends, and repress nothing!

 

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Existential Awakening on the Dreadful Avenue of Love Declined

“The heart was meant to be broken.” – Oscar Wilde

My heart failed me in love once before. It couldn’t take me to the finish line of a spirited summer romance, so I fell and broke it into a million little pieces. It pumped blood as usual, but I was dead, buried in the depths of despair. What a horrible time it was! Lonely and dull, my nights went on forever. The days did too. Food lost its appeal, so did the company of my closest friends.  A stubborn heaviness formed. I felt like a beast of burden whose work was never done on my worst days, and like a child of Sisyphus on my best, cursed with doing things to relieve my oppressive mood just to sink into gloom again as soon as I showed any noticeable sign of improvement. There’s no doubt about it, I was on THE DREADFUL AVENUE OF LOVE DECLINED.

Walking that desolate street, my spirit saddened with every step. I was asked a serious question: “are you strong enough to be alone, to walk this life without having a sadomasochistic bond with another?” The answer was a bitter no. It took me a while to realize that, though. In the meantime, I carried on in miserable denial. All sorts of clever games and rationalizations were invented to keep me away from an unpleasant veracity. It wasn’t my fault; I wasn’t the stupid one. Everything was on her. Such were my thoughts. Oh, how desperately I fought to hide my faults and feebleness from myself! But I couldn’t! I really couldn’t!

Her imperishable smile was burned in me. When I closed my eyes, it’s all I saw. It caused me to lose sleep. Many nights of diverse emotions where spent awake in acerbic contemplation of that smile and its owners whereabouts. I wanted to know where she was and who she was with. I wanted to call so badly, but I couldn’t. My pride wouldn’t allow it and even if it did, I’m doubtful that she’d have answered, so I continued on in dark desperation, lost in my summertime sadness.

Worst yet, a part of me didn’t want to be found. I wanted to think of her and hurt. I suppose, to a wounded soul hiding its deepest feelings inside an elaborate mental fortress (a sort of inner babelicstructure), an unhealthy “kiss with a fist” imagination of romance is pleasing.

Eventually, though, my psychological tower of babel tumbled down. With time and luck (A WHOLE LOT OF LUCK), I started to wake up – to open up my eyes and see. I soon saw my world for it was – an illusion. I saw that my feet weren’t on reality’s terra firma and that my expectations were guided by lazy thinking and drawn from a sadistic culture. Honestly, the awakening process is a singularity that I can’t explain fully; neither can I tell people how to get there. Perhaps it’s a thing that happens to the lonesome drifters going through metaphysical anguish, or perhaps it’s a natural part of life that takes place when people are allowed to think and reflect intensely. All I know is I began to know intellectually and feel deeply that my general outlook on life was the creation of my conditioning in a benighted culture, and that I was as a blind man being led by other blind men.

Naturally, then, I began to question myself. The questions started off small and primarily revolved around her. “What did I see in her?” was the first. “Did she care about me as much as I cared about her?” came next. And “what would I have done differently if I weren’t so stupid and childish at the time?” came after. Examinations of this sort marauded around in my mental labyrinth for months. Then the questions got a bit more universal: “what does it mean to love? Was it better to have loved and lost than to have never have loved at all?” Those nights that used to feel so lonely began to be stirring. The questioning process gave life a new dimension – a deeper one. All sorts of things flashed across my cerebral canvas. There were so many questions, so many ways of twisting them and so many ways of working out their answers. The theory of relativity, the theory of gravity, theories of cosmic expansion, ideas about the survival of the fittest, and notions of soul of humans under an invisible leviathan (modern welfare state) were all made to apply to romantic life( and my entire continuum of experience in general.)

Of course, these things have nothing to do with love. Nevertheless, they were sweet to meditate on. I was still rocked with confusion, but my chaos was turning into the creative kind – the kind that gave birth to dancing stars. I had come to understand that “there are more things in Heaven and Earth than were dreamt of in my philosophy.” Of course, realizing this made me categorically petrified and stressed, but along with the apprehension came a chance to inquire into nature of existence and to reinvent myself through all sorts of strange and, perhaps, sacrilegious means – it was an opportunity to“find my faith living in sin.” To that end, I read widely and listen assiduously, soaking up all the wisdom I could. Then working with the novel truths I discovered, I started to reconstruct myself from the wreckage of my past, one fragmented piece at a time. It was a lonely excursion, and sometimes I was afraid of the things I found. As with all humans, a monster lived within the shadows of my psyche and because thorough self-examination shines a light on it, I was made to see it and I was a bit frightened by what I saw.

Overtime, however, I learnt how to deal with this darker and more irrational part of myself; I made friends with it (I won’t try to explain how I did. Any attempt to do so would be a long and winding digression). With this acceptance and, thus, integration of my “darkness” into my personality, came a more acute sense of humor, a more lively conscience, and increased objectivity.

Under my novel “enlightenment,” I set out to understand the very mechanism that had put me on my path – romantic love (and marriage by extension). Examining this sort of love closely, I saw that in our culture (and most other cultures) it was a very peculiar and paradoxical social construct. For in a romantic relationship, you’re expected to foster the freedom of someone who can make you jealous. And no matter how hard you try in your love life, you’ll never escape this contradiction. When conceived intellectually, it seems like it would be an easy task, but as most of us suspect and only a few of us are fully aware, we are more led by emotions than reason. As the Danish Philosopher, Søren Kierkegaard, puts it, “the heart has reason which reason knows not of.”

Furthermore, a romantic relationship is scarily fickle. Of this we are all knowledgeable. It may fulfill one of our deepest yearnings – the wish to be one with something. But at the same time, there’s no guarantee that a relationship will work. More disheartening still, is the fact that the object of our lovemust leave us (or we them), either at death or in life; the game of romantic love is one which we are all bound to lose. It is reasonable, then, to ask “why play the game, why start something thatmust fail?” I think the answer lies in watching a candle burn.

With a little activity of the mind, we can imagine that lit candles are aware of the short supply of their wax. They don’t seem to be paralyzed by it, though; they always seem to burn to their potential’s brim and their only concern seems to be with the art of fueling fire – an art that more resembles a waltz than a painting. The aim of a painting is to capture a moment and weave it into the visual tapestry of time for as long as corruption, whether natural or man-made, will allow. But a waltz is the moment, and when the waltz stops that moment is gone forever. Hence, a painting edifies the future using the present, while a waltz crowns only the present.  That’s probably why it always seems as if flames are gracefully dancing in a continual now, moving in such a way as to honor the present.

So must our romantic relationships and marriages be a dance where both lovers strive to be fully present, paying attention to each step as if they were perpetually getting re-married. How charming is a love like that!

With this attitude towards the romantic contract, lovers will bond out of freedom. They’ll be there (in the relationship) purely because they love “dancing” with each other. No need to gratify society, parents, and peers will be responsible for their bond – they’ll not be together because of the will of any external establishment. Their love is an existential commitment based on a spontaneous reaction to life. As such, they’ll give of themselves more freely, and anything they demand of each other will only go towards the natural development of the “dance.”  Yes, there will be disagreements, and tempers might get lost a few times because any two people will have divergent views and needs, but there will be a certain beauty and challenging contentment even in the most hostile times. And I suspect too, that in such a relationship, conflicts will be resolved very hastily because “dancers” are usually more focused on finding solutions rather than satisfying their own unnecessary hubris.

However, a relationship such as this can only be reveled in by people who have turned their “loneliness into being alone.” By this, I mean that they’ve come to realize that they’re a world unto themselves – a cosmos to be explored unreservedly. Furthermore, they would have also come to realize that every other human being is a consummate mystery that they’ll never figure out, even the ones closest to them are beyond psychological measure. And that responsible freedom is the hallmark of a life well lived, as such, they should grant it to the ones they love and strive for it themselves. Thus, they’ll have the type of love which says “I need you because I love you,” and not “I love you because I need you.” The former is the rarely seen mature love, while the latter is the immature kind often seen in movies and heard about in silly pop songs.

It is easy to see, then, that in a mature, loving, romantic relationship, the conditions of felicity are the parameters which allow a couple to commit themselves to living as sexual partners devoted to well-being and exploration of each other. Marriage is crowning state of such a way of life. Being married is the couple’s “living out of that constitutive act of commitment in countless further acts, and in each spouse’s disposition or readiness both to do such acts of carrying out their commitment, and to abstain from choices inconsistent with it, until they are parted by death (or divorce, but preferably death).”

Jealousy and a wish to control the people closest to us will always be there, these are fixed in our nature. Thankfully, though, they can be a diluted with a well-developed conscience.

I’ll stop here for purposes of brevity and laziness. Curt, I know. But I believe I’ve said all that my heart found exigent…

For the one I met too soon.

 

 

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Water

There is an art to outfighting seasickness, generally. In time I’ve conditioned myself to pay little attention to the waves. Instead I’d give way to the vastness of the sea, peace and strength, allowing my thoughts to drift outside me. Night falls however, and here I struggle with a far deeper nausea.  I find the demons always come out in the dark. And what troubles me most is that I have foreseen this war. It’s one I have fought before, many times in truth.

I’ve traveled great lengths to furnish my defenses, equipping myself with knowledge of faith and purity.  On that road there were lots of books, seminars, even dabbling in the arts. Lo, I fall powerless still. And this is not depression, no, this is dissension. Dissension within my own ranks and I am scared to bits, as I tarry about the ground trying to piece together what’s left. Not because of the imminence of death, but because of the presence of life. At any moment my crew may come up to the deck and see the storm making its way towards us. I know that they will look to me and I could never meet their eyes. Tonight I see myself face to face, I greet a monster.

A fearful captain is a fallen ship. In ideal alone, confidence stands strong as the sun, so bright, so simple. Then doubt moves about as a mist, to cage us in, and that same confidence becomes a door once imagined.

So to the absence of all logic, I lift my hands to mark insanity, better yet to acknowledge the mite of doubt, in total praise. Like a child after rebuke from his mother I fall asleep with you nearer still. Consciousness slips and I sail afloat of a different kind.

Out of the frying pan and into the fire.  My dream brings me no relief. There I find myself on a beach confronted by my two greatest fears, my father and drowning. I’m afraid of becoming him. He was a coward and walked away from us, from love. Drowning, because of the overwhelming sensation of losing control and being introduced to the sarcasm of the universe, dying to what has given me life, the water.

My father approaches me in his usual drunkenness while I am lying near the water in complete paralysis. We’re both numb. He drags me by the arms into the sea. I am entirely panic-stricken as the water swooshes into my mouth and nostrils. He then grabs my head and dunks me into forever. After countless moments of suffering, an acute strangeness overcomes me. Not one of surrender but the stamina of the horses of Israel riding away from Egyptian captivity. I even write this in urgency as remembrance takes over my pen to honor the nightmare. In drowning, I was seeing death, but while falling, I realized that I am fighting for my life. I was desperate. The desperation that is stronger than doubt, fear, regrets. The power was in me, and coming out of me.  My muscles were brought back to life. With clenched fists, I began to rise.

I am then awoken by a terrified Silas, my first mate. I awake to reality and all its troubled waters. The storm had drawn closer. But I rose. I rose from prior heaviness and assumed that triumphant posture.  I relax and release my body to desperation. With every exhale my strength grows and my soul tightens. My flesh let go of my spirit and it takes flight to glory. It was God, it was the universe, it was divine and it took over. It is right here; right here in this moment that I walked on water.

Standing tall and gripping the mast, I turn to look behind me at my men. My eyes are stronger than the squall and they do not let my crew down, in fact they held them up. I turned back to the storm which was upon us now and said, “let the water bring me life.”  The seas obeyed.

What I mean to reiterate, is the true strength of the climb after the fall. Doubt can bring you a ways down deep into the earth. If you can somehow harness desperation then, you will muster up the strength, or tap into a power greater than you. You are fighting for your life. There is sunshine as bright and warm as you have imagined.

What has desperation done for you? What are you willing to do for desperation?

 

 

 

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Novus Ordo Seclorum

Darkness and an eerie still governed the fringes of Ingolstadt, Bavaria on the night of April 30, 1776 and nothing was as usual. Portentous clouds sat low and concealed the stars so they couldn’t bestow their usual light. A strange sickness had poisoned the moon and made it blood red so it had no usual silver illumination to give. There was no usual sound of horses’ hooves beating against the city streets. So, the stray dogs unusually had nothing to bark at, which allowed the cold, wailing winds of a shoddily lit night to be heard far more than usual. It’s no surprise, then, that in a setting so meager of usual light and sound, an unusual and shadowy mystery was being birthed, for while the town and rest of the world took repose, five men were wide awake abandoning societal, governmental, and religious control. And tonight, they’d exert their freedom by constructing a social edifice apportioned to the weird and unusual.

 Calling themselves the “Primo Illuminatur,” they sat around a semi-circular table in a dimly lit room on the town’s peripheries composing the principal doctrines and chief guidelines of a covert society which would be fully operational by dawn. Broken and in disrepair, the small building they were in made all sorts of creaks and rattling sounds. It was as if it knew something odd was happening and wanted to say “not here, you five. Not here, and especially not at this Godforsaken hour,” but was too petrified, so it restricted itself to murmuring squeaks, taking particular care not to more than slightly disturb the strange happenings in that forgotten part of town where the streets had no name. If walls had eyes, these walls would want theirs shut!

“Ever since Adam fell from God’s grace at Eden, humanity has not been given a proper science of salvation,” began the leader of the five, Johann Adam Weishaupt, at the opportune moment.

The house squeaked.

“No way for humanity to once again commune with the divine has been worked out in such a way that we retain our dignity and sense of freedom. Many ways have been ascribed but they are the ways of bondage and shame.  The task is ours, then, gentlemen, to show the species a new way, the way of illumination. We’ll give them our science of return, the Minerval Arts, through which all can be rendered conscious of humanity’s destiny and power.” Proud of his idealism, he paused, lifted up a vial filled with red viscous liquid and poured of it into five wine glasses.

The house creaked.

Having made sure all gathered had a glass, he raised his in a fashion redolent of a toast and went on softly yet fervently with “Novus Ordo Seclorum, Gentlemen.”

“Novus Ordo Seclorum!” they responded with harmonized piety.

All took a decent quaff of the red viscous liquid leaving about half in each glass.

The house rattled.

Their strange ritual did as it was designed to and gave them a feeling of fraternity, which they preserved as they carried on transcribing clandestine creeds and discussing strategies of securing influence.

Labouring feverishly, they hammered out the society’s plan of action for illuminating mankind, all mankind; on their list of places to conquer was a map of the world. Their prototype was based on freemasonry with which they all had firm bonds. In fact, all five came very close to being initiated as masons. They declined however, because they thought the organization was too low for their lofty standards after they got a peak behind its curtains. To them freemasonry wasn’t based on sturdy philosophical pillars, and would tumble accordingly within a short time; their wishes were too grand for that, Weishaupt’s especially. He wanted to build something that was consistent with human nature and thus, would evolve with the species. And since Weishaupt’s hubris wouldn’t allow him to watch his dreams turn to ashes, here he was forming his own furtive coterie.

As if intended, at exactly 1:00 am, an hour believed to be known to witches as the Devil’s Dawn, a howling wind blew through the slumbering town. It made the silver lindens outside of the building tremble and their spring leaves quivered ominously. Perhaps like the house, they too wanted to announce their disapproval of the uncanny ritual that the five were about to partake in but thought better of it due to a silencing terror.

While trees and leaves shuddered with presage, something resembling the corpse of a small girl was removed from beneath a cretonne covering.

“This do in remembrance of me,” started Weishaupt. “Take, eat: this is her body which inspires our strength.” With that he passed the article around the room. Each pinched off a piece and started to eat.

The trembling of the trees amplified.

Weishaupt then took up his cup with the red viscous liquid from earlier, whispered a supplication of gratitude, and invited the others to lift theirs as well, saying, “drink all of it: for this is her blood of the latter-most testament, which was shed for the approbation of our sins.”

They drank the contents of their cup.

The trees grumbled more intensely.

Just as they were about to put down their glasses and end the unholy, artificial Eucharist, Aldous Gerhilde Eichel, having the most precipitated temper of the assembled, broke out in laughter. “My apologies, but does a part of our creed really have to always include playing tricks on people?” he asked with consummate lightheartedness.

The trees started to relax.

“Most assuredly, esteemed Aldous” replied an amused Weishaupt. “These rituals were born of my whimsical caprice and I intend for them to become custom.”

“Johann, I wish that you would bring perspicuity to my clouded mind for as amusingly diverting as they are, I cannot see their useful profit. Furthermore, the common man will think the worst! And although playing with the unthinking drones is always a source of delight, I fear rousing their horror and disapproval will work against our aims.”

“Ah, Aldous, you have struck the devil’s heart! Condemnation is exactly what I require of the rabble. I want them to be moved to hate and fear by religious piety and blind belief. So much so, that they will spread our names far and wide in fables of the demonic and unholy. In so doing, contrary to working against our aims, they will unknowingly turn us into a popular symbol of liberty and those who have eyes to see will see us for what we are – free thinkers. We shall be as a beacon in the sky and the wise shall be enticed unto us!”

“I agree with the always practical Weishaupt. His discernment into the mind of man far exceeds reproach or comparison,” said Torsten Kruez, the most silver-tongued of the five.

“He certainly has esoteric knowledge of man’s psychology,” said Luka Huber cool as typical.

The introverted Niclas Kappel only nodded at the other four.

“Though Johan is wisdom incarnate, my confusion still abounds. I always thought our objective was the illumination of the rabble,” said a sterner Aldous.

“That is our doubtless aim,” answered Weishaupt.

“It would appear as if my dull wits are failing me again, then. It is true that our actions might cause wise men to draw close to us. However, I do not apprehend how inspiring the masses’ trepidation and pious disdain with our rituals of fake blood and cake fashioned like a child’s corpse will help to illumine them. If anything it would seem as if we are pushing away those we are after and attracting our kind; men who need no more wisdom.”

“We are seeking after women too.”

“I know. By “men” I refer to all humankind.”

“Your word choice betrays a subconscious prejudice.”

“Of a truth I only imagined men would come,” continued Aldous masking his dislike of Weishaupt’s reproof with a tender grin.

“As to your misgiving,” Weishaupt went on “once again you encamp in vicinity of truth, but you see the trees and not the forest. I’m sure you’re alert to state of the rabble. They need help but are unaware of their low condition. They perpetually follow those who are set over them because they are too feeble of mind to actively walk their own road. They are as ships without sail meandering wherever the tides decree. They all want the same, dress the same, speak the same and still audaciously lay claim to their spurious individuality. But I digress. Nevertheless, one thing the rabble is ever in need of is governance. And who governs them, esteemed Aldous? Is it not the wiser and stronger among us who rule?”

“Assuredly, it is they who govern”

“Now, since strength intensifies in numbers, my aim is to bring together the rulers, free thinkers, and vanguards. Under this banner, the banner of Illuminati, we will work on raising humanity to the heights of wisdom providing for them a new social order with an ever evolving system of ethics so that individuals and the cultures that they share can grow and flourish”

Finding his explication faultless, the rest of the group nodded in commendation.

“So you see, concerned Aldous,” continued Weishaupt “our silly, sacrilegious rituals that evince my Jesuit inheritance are indispensable. We need the common people to think the worst of us. Of course, we have no more powers than ordinary men. Of course, we are rocked with the same insecurities and basic concerns as they are. Of course, we cannot rule the world or control millions. We can only seek to make higher culture palatable to the masses. But they must not know this. To them we must appear devilishly cunning and all encompassing.”

The group gave affirming nods.

“Furthermore,” the leader went on jokingly “we must keep things interesting for the prudent ones who will adhere to our cause. For although wisdom calms the passions, drama still has deathless appeal.”

The group gave affirming chortles.

With mission crystal clear, they spent the remainder of the early morning delegating duties. It was decided that Weishaupt was responsible for introducing the ideals of the society to the faculty of the University of Ingolstadt where, like his father, he taught law. Aldous was to speak to the layman and introduce the society to the rare ones who were enlightened or on the verge of enlightenment. Luka Huber and Niclas Kappel were responsible for gathering intelligence on secret sects and societies across Europe; their introverted natures and affinity for pouring over copious amounts of data made them appropriate for the task. Torsten Kruez, being gifted in conversation, was assigned the job of dispersing troublesome propaganda and hair-raising tales about the society and its rituals.

Daybreak loomed by the time they all received and comprehended their specific assignments. A climbing sun had commenced its rule of daytime by gently awaking nature with its light and heat. And she slowly got up with an expected magnificence. Nature yawned; birds streamed in delightful flight. She stretched; butterflies lay beautiful on enchanting flowers dampened with rosy dew. She rose up entirely; all animals, in general, took their place in the drama of life. They all seemed to enjoy the expiration of a dark and cold night. It was as if existence wanted to proudly proclaim “the age of dark unreason is over at last! Here comes the light at dawn. Welcome to the world, Bavarian Illuminati, First Order of the Illuminated!” but didn’t because the words got in the way.

Soon after the sun came up, Weishaupt started with “we can adjourn now. We have labored enough; our weary heads have earned their pillows. But before we go, let me express my inestimable gratitude for all of you. Never has a finer group been assembled. Individually, you are all men of great might, but together we’ll become as gods if Aldous can only manage to develop a love for tricks.”

The group laughed. Aldous’ laugh was the heartiest.

“Perhaps, troublesome times are ahead,” continued Weishaupt “ perhaps, with this society, we have created our own damnation, but I would rather be put to the torture rack with this group, than inherit a Heavenly kingdom filled with cowards who are terrified of a little thinking. You four, by contrast, are the bravest of the brave. You have sought after the truth even when it showed you your own darkness. You have drawn close to edge of life’s abyss, stared inside, and suffered as it stared back into you. Thus, you have realized that you are spirits embodied in time and space, and through the development of your reasoning powers, you have, at times, cast off the flesh wherein you dwell confined. Yours is the way of heartbreak and I too have walked its lonely, icy glaciers and confusing labyrinths. We have struggled for our illumination and if we are lost, we are lost in a light too bright for us for we have seen something we cannot show – it’s a mystery that too vast for the understanding.”

The group nodded. Aldous’ nod was the heaviest.

Weishaupt went on with “our wisdom has made us conceited and it should be so. It is human nature to feel better than other people. We all fall short of divine grandeur lost in ourselves; that is what life requires. Nevertheless, ours is a tempered conceit – a necessary conceit. Our flaws are indispensable, so, away with their sacrament of penance, away with retribution. It is time to forget about sin. “Wash from your minds any memory of that mistress who tempts us away from enjoying life” is our message to humanity. Novus Ordo Seclorum, Gentlemen and Good morning.”

“Novus Ordo Seclorum and Good morning” they replied. Aldous’ reply was the loudest.

Thus, they left the little broken down house on the fringes of town where the streets had no name proud of the trouble that they expected to start.