DECEMBER 23 – morning
A hairy arm reaches out to locate the small cassette player. Half asleep with eyes still closed, you know precisely where to grasp. A hundred nights you have held the tape machine to your lips. Hundreds of clicks of the record button have preceded the drone of your drowsy voice. You speak.
“I’m watching an episode of ‘I Love Lucy,’ although it’s like I am in the living room with Lucy rather than watching television. She is dancing erotically, topless. Husband Ricky suddenly enters and glares at us. I feel a pang of guilt and awaken.”
Another probe into the psyche is launched, another dream recorded. You keep your eyes closed trying to stay in the half-asleep state, to reenter this latest dream and allow the mind to lead you into corners of your unconscious where you become simply a silent witness, a lucid dreamer watching the drama unfold. But the charms of a famous redhead prove to be more of a distraction than a lure back into slumber. You are awake.
Eyes, however, stubbornly refuse to open to morning light. Through your foggy thoughts a vague awareness creeps in that you have no idea where you are lying, no ability to picture the room in which you have slept. Perhaps another hotel on an endless business trip? Or better yet, a spacious bed in a new companion’s spacious bedroom? You savor this moment of the unknown but are surprised it does not pass.
You open your eyelids, blink in the light, and are disconcerted to discover that you still cannot identify the location. You see an unfamiliar, five-sided room with low ceiling, bare walls, and no furniture save for the narrow cot you occupy. Books, a few cassette tapes, clothes, and some odds and ends are piled on built-in concrete shelves. You lie motionless waiting for the moment of awareness to arrive. It does not.
With eyes that begin to dart nervously you note a wooden door to your right and small windows on each of the other walls—four strange windows with no glass, each screened and with narrow bars spaced closely enough to prevent intrusion…or escape.
“Damn,” you gasp aloud as the thought of being trapped in jail freezes your mind and tightens your chest.
But your old friend logic breaks through the anxiety and tells you no, no prison would have such views from the windows. Each of the four openings leads to green splendor. Relax, just relax. Your breathing returns to normal as you listen to birds that welcome the morning, their song mingling with river melody beyond the foliage. Relax and keep thinking; just breathe and remember. Yes, good…good…
“Oh, God!” you cry out and bolt from bed as the next reasonable conclusion about your location enters your frantic mind: A mental asylum. Quite a logical theory, particularly as you realize that not only are you ignorant of the where of the situation but of your identity as well. Yes, this would be a nice, safe room in which to impound a madman with amnesia, a pleasant setting for a lunatic to record his dreams with no memory of his daytime self.
Eyes now filled with panic stare at the door. You swallow, fearful of getting up to test the handle and find it does not turn, scared to learn that you are a captive of this room, of insanity. You certainly look like a maniac edging warily towards the exit—a naked man with wild eyes and trembling hands that reach for the latch. Keep reaching, now turn and pull. The door opens. Ah, you can breathe again. Inhale the fragrance of ten thousand petals unfolding to sunlight flooding over nearby crest. Absorb the brilliant rays that strike your bare body in the doorway to paradise, an Eden welcoming its awakened Adam.
But first things first. An outhouse at the edge of the garden reminds you of this adage and the urge of the moment. You grab a thick robe from the hook by the door and don slippers to stride quickly to the small toilet. Walking back in more comfort if not clarity, you get a first good look at the hut from the outside. Stone walls with crumbling mortar create a pentagonal room twelve feet across, maybe eight feet high, that stands alone in lush surroundings. You are drawn to stone stair steps leading to the hut’s flat concrete roof, momentarily forgetting your predicament as the view of paradise expands in scope before your gaze. The panorama of sound is also enriched from rooftop as river song becomes a symphony arising from two waterways that meet below your vantage point. A crystal clear tributary cascades through a thousand stones as it enters a deep stretch of the broad mother river.
And what a mother she is. Her gentle, whispering waters quickly give over to a raging boil as she carves through a chute of rock, then once again settles into knitting spiral strands of blue and green in graceful eddies and pacific flow. You know that the river’s distinctive aquamarine hue can mean only one thing—headwater glaciers. Somewhere beyond the steep, forested slopes that rise above the hut lie great chunks of ice nestled in high peaks. The Andes? The Himalayas? You haven’t a clue.
The roof is bare except for a plastic chair and an old nightstand whose splintery legs each rest on a stack of three bricks. As you ponder this peculiar setup, you unconsciously take a satisfying stretch of your back that turns into slow, methodical movements which expand into a series of repetitions. Probably these are a form of Tai Chi but only your body remembers the routine, not your conscious mind. You continue the exercise, letting the movements repeat for some time before breaking into a more active pattern. You finish with another long, deliberate set of stretches, feeling energized but calmed by this half-hour routine.
Sitting casually in the plastic chair you savor the tastes of paradise, surprised at how relaxed you can be in light of the morning’s shock of having no memory. You optimistically assume that the amnesia is temporary; all will straighten out as the day unfolds. In the meantime, birds flitting among garden flowers catch your eye as you observe each winged species and each plant as if for the first time. Like a virgin in a land of sensual delights you drift in the moment with no thought of past or future, losing yourself in the fragrance of morning blossoms mingled with the sweet decay of old growth and new soil. Earthy, sensational, timeless.
Footsteps in the garden interrupt your reverie. How much time has passed—thirty minutes, an hour? You do not know as you glance at your wristwatch. 9:32 a.m. on December 23. You wish that the watch indicated the year. A thin man appearing like a caricature of an underfed swami ascends the stairway carrying a tray with steaming tea and tortillas. No, make that chapatis, not tortillas. Between semi-tropical setting, a glacier-fed river, and Hindu-looking server, you can be pretty sure that India is your host country, the foothills Himalayan, and that the tea will be too sweet. It is, but you are happy to have the refreshment as you respond to the man’s respectful Hindi greeting of namaste with a slight bow of your own.
The ease of the exchange and your comfort on the roof make you wonder how long you have been visiting this place. You are tempted to ask the man how many days, weeks, or months you have resided here, but you do not want to expose your case of amnesia. No, says the voice of prudence, at all costs do not let anyone know your forgetful condition or you are liable to end up in some foreign loony bin that would make this morning’s fear upon awakening seem like a cakewalk.
So you remain silent in the thin man’s silence, smile at his smile, and tilt your head to his tilt good-bye. He descends to who-knows-where, leaving you to ponder your condition over tea. You look behind in the direction he retreats, noticing snatches of white buildings on a rise above the garden trees. A hotel complex, perhaps? More likely it is a Hindu ashram if the garb of the server is an indicator of reality. Ah yes, reality, that meddlesome concept that you have yet to get a grip on this day.
You hurry along breakfast and decide to search your room for clues to the reality of your situation and identity. Seeing familiar objects might even trigger the return of memory, you think optimistically. Yes, you were always full of optimism, even as a child. You do not remember that fact now, however, nor do you recall the frequent disappointments. [Oh, but I do, a buried subconscious with a view of the knew, awakening to shake and bake in the inner recesses of shadowy playgrounds with innocence lost and memory tossed into the dumpster.]
With a mouth fu
ll of chapati and teacup in hand, you open the door to the hut and take stock of its contents. Clothes are few, simple, and utilitarian. Footwear consists of two pair of walking shoes, one pair of slippers, and waterproof moccasins. [Moccasins to creep into the deep where mocking and shocking go into the brain. Reduce the strain by taking the train to forgetfulness, a one way ticket to the underworld to join the bogeyman lurking and jerking.] Underneath the bed is a good-sized backpack with detachable day bag, both empty. On a top shelf lie a turquoise umbrella, a flashlight, candles, matches, four pens, a toothbrush, some rupee notes of various denominations, a two-liter water bottle (full), and a lapel button that declares its wearer In Silence. [Silence of the deep or lambs depending upon which feature is favored. Double trouble when preachers arrived in various denominations sending the Word into two liters of water and ten-thousand leagues under the sea. Glub.]
The lower shelf contains a small stack of spiral notebooks that, upon quick glance, appear to be used as journals for transcribing your tape-recorded dreams. Next to these are three worn paperbacks: Midnight’s Children by Salmon Rushdie; Meditation and Hypnosis in the Vedic Tradition; and A Yogi’s Tale by Bodhi Sanga. [Put ‘er there Yogi Bear or Berra as a catcher of the wry. My oh my, an hypnotic trance weaves me not knowing whether coming or going, dying or growing, just on the vine sowing what I have reaped.]
You shift your attention to two quotations taped to the adjacent wall, clues to your life’s philosophy perhaps. One quote is attributed to Yogi Bodhi: “Seekers who have merged for even an instant with the universal Mind attest that joy permeates a divine order, and that infinite beauty shines beyond the dull illusions perceived with earthly eye.” The other quote states in bold lettering, “It’s now or never, hound dog”, attributed to Elvis Presley. [Thankyouverymunch.]
Moving to the next of the five walls you find two small pieces of paper held in place on the windowsill by a smooth river stone. You pick up the first slip, a cheap business card announcing, “RAVI’S PLACE, For All Your Travel and Photocopy Needs. Located in Laxman Jhula village by Shiva’s statue.” The other is a scrap with scribbled note, “Allahabad Riverview Inn, January 18th. See you for dinner at 6:00!” The message appears to have been written by feminine hand. [Ah, a woman’s touch, the fairer sex, a fairway driving to goal of a hole. Putter here yogi beer and grab for the gusto. Gusto must go or where else is there to be? Stuck in the muck and shit out of luck. S.O.L. or with the longer version comes wisdom if you are willing to enter SOLomon’s Temple. Shirley you jest. And shut the damn door! Slam bam, thank you ma’am.]
No hints to your identity arise in this paraphernalia let alone a divine order of infinite beauty. Neither have any flashbacks unlocked the dormant memory in your conscious mind—while the peculiar, bold ramblings of your subconscious lie far below your awareness. Your puzzlement has only grown from the investigation. With one shelf left to explore, however, your optimism remains alive with hope that at least a passport awaits discovery. But no, the last shelf simply holds a number of cassettes: A tape each of Gordon Lightfoot, Nirmohi Rokstad, and Pete Seeger; some classical and New Age instrumental tapes; and a number of meditation tapes with the picture of a smiling guru called Ashoka-ji.
Oh well, chalk up the first disappointment in your new, two-hour life. It won’t be the last. In fact, when you get around to looking carefully at the bottom spiral notebook in the dream journal pile, your central core of optimism faces high risk of meltdown.
Meanwhile, you pace the room trying to reason out details of your predicament, wisely inferring that two places are at hand to look for answers. One site is the white building compound beyond the garden; the other place is your head. You opt to limit the search for answers to your gray matter since meeting people at the compound without memory, self-image, or legal passport is a tad disconcerting particularly to a fellow who is afraid of being considered insane by foreign authorities, officials who might have a bone to pick with…with...an American! Yes, you are from the good ol’ U.S. of A., a fact you are pleased to have deduced from language and a quick scan of information you have in your mind about geography, politics, and the world in general. Never underestimate the power of an inquiring mind.
You continue to delve into the brain trying to jog loose more knowledge about yourself through logic and reason, if not memory. Indeed, data galore are available through which to sift. You are a veritable fount of information, doubtless a worthy adversary in Trivial Pursuit. You readily recall the rules of this trivial contest as well as the nuances of Monopoly, Scrabble, and various card games. But, try as you might, you cannot remember ever having played them. Likewise, you can list the fifty states in your head plus their capitals but have no notion of where to call home. Only general information rattles around in your brain, with no memories of personal experience. Never underestimate the power of forgetfulness.
Taking a different tack, you ponder the cause of your unfortunate condition with the hope that remedy will arise in tandem. What trauma could possibly have happened in the night to induce amnesia? Awakening to the wrath of Ricky Ricardo? Highly improbable. An earlier nightmare? A nocturnal intruder? No, one does not simply go back into sound sleep after a shock of magnitude to cause amnesia. Despite your brain’s best effort, no memories or rational explanations bubble to the surface.
Perhaps the recordings of the unconscious will hold a key. [Yo, the temple hatch was slammed to catch some slack, Jack, and let the Hyde hide, okay?] You return to the shelf to peruse the four dream journals, [Oh, those unconscious recordings; no heckle Jekyll] but are instead distracted by some typed sheets stashed between the notebooks. With curiosity peaked, you begin reading the pages:
The ReMinder: Chapter 1
Alone with brother time in my rooftop world, we ebb and flow in an ocean of thought, pulled between history and hopes. Tides of past and future swirl into countless eddies that grow still and silent as I enter their center: Vortex of the now, the moment of destiny. A portal opens to the infinite present where time becomes but a twinkle of light in a…NO! No, no, no, stop. No way! I won’t do this again.
For chrissake, this book is about catharsis and release, not about penning a prison of prose that echoes its self-importance in a writing style that whines like a puppy for attention. Damn it, no! How can I possibly shepherd such pomposity when my own attention span has diminished to that of the pup?
Freedom now! And, by god, The ReMinder is not just about freedom and catharsis. It is the catharsis, a cosmic colonic to clear the flotsam from the shore that was once called my personality, my Identity. Remnants and threads of a life once known must be cleansed before the new can emerge from the sacrificial pyre. Mo-Ci-Cla, Mo-Ci-Cla. My mantra of fire purification, the call of the phoenix rises from the ashes.
But wait, all that comes later. Now is the time. Time to start; time to begin; time in. So…Alone in my rooftop world, time flies like the wind. Nope, poor sentence structure and not even a truthful beginning.
Okay, let’s try another socko opening: Time is of the essence.
Good grief man, get original! Look into the mirror, into the depths of one’s own countenance to discover the beginnings of time and space, to unearth the origin of personal tale.
Yes, yes, as I gaze as if hypnotized into the tiny mirror in my tiny room beneath tiny rooftop, it strikes me clearly, unequivocally, the nature of time at the moment of beginning. Ahem, a clearing of throat, a rustling of paper, and…Alone in my rooftop world, time runs like my nose.
Yes, that’s it! Time runs like my nose. I rarely notice the passage of either in my solitude, but upon emergence into civilization I am quickly reminded of the running of both clock and nostril. Metronomes and mucous cause people to dance in frantic response, reactions to cultural conditioning ingrained deeply into psyches and sinuses.
Oh, excellent! This be a truer description of time’s sticky nature plus it is a beginning that exposes me as a crude fraud should I later slip into self-righteous spirit
uality. And, most importantly, it is the first sprinkling of the cathartic cleanser applied against my old persona; a personality laid down by rules formulated—nay, decreed—decades ago in my childhood. Rule #21-F: Thou shalt not refer to any liquid, solid, or gas that emanates from a bodily orifice. So coming from a household where even earwax and saliva were topics taboo, you can imagine my current sense of liberation by referring to nasal…(whoops, pause for small shudder of past conditioning)...mucous
Ah yes, I can feel it working. This wondrous journey with pen has begun, cleansing the psyche of remnants of the old to leave a clean slate upon which the cosmos may etch its new messages. New signposts shall flash to guide me into worlds unknown, into mystical dimensions beyond physical bounds, cleaving from time and space with a quantum leap to land in a universe of infinite energy, of endless variety where imagination is free to explore, discover, and yea verily, create worlds beyond current understanding.
Sound a bit pompous? Damn straight. But aha! I have glimpsed these new worlds ever so briefly and snatched a taste. Like all forbidden fruit, however, they prove elusive and demand a price. What price to pay for gaining such boons, you query? The firstborn; the family jewels?
Yes, in a way, but more, much more. The ultimate price: Death, and a slow, tortuous one at that. A death to that held nearest and dearest, to the gem that I shaped, honed, and defended without fail against all who would dare question its value. Yes folks, the price for liberation into new realms is death to one’s sparkling self image, to my winning persona which bespoke a kind man, a competent man, a man to rely on and trust. A fine son, an understanding friend, a fighter for the good. With Environmental Engineer emblazoned on one fist and Attorney at Law on the other, my Identity stood atop a rock foundation fighting its way into national newsprint, yet with velvet glove always at the ready to stroke the oppressed and needy—preferably female.
Well, the stones held form but my Identity has crumbled into a pile of dust, eroded by tears and truth, by holy fires of purification, by ancient rumblings that merged into a massive earthquake to shatter all notions of self, all images once held sacred, wrapped in swaddling three-piece suit and lying in a courtroom. Gone. Kaput. Hasta la toodle-oo.
So, alone in my rooftop world, nose running in breeze from distant peaks, I sift through the dust and ash not yet cool, smoldering remnants from a fiery process of the 1990’s that consumed an Identity that had taken me the previous forty years to painstakingly erect. And now with a sweep of pen comes the final benediction and release in this, The ReMinder, the wordy funeral proscribed by destiny to open sesame to the next hidden worlds. (Now, please pause to join in a moment of respectful silence.)
…Yes, you are correct, I am choking up a bit—but not from grief or sorrow. It is envy, thick and green, that grips my throat and constricts the passage of pen; envy for Salmon Rushdie, you lucky sod, whose excellent book lies at my feet at this very moment. A man who, according to last week’s newspaper, could with a simple, Yes please, gentlemen, bury his old persona and be midwived by Interpol, the CIA, MI-6, and top cosmetic surgeons into the world anonymously naked, breathtakingly fresh—free from the jihad waged against his persona by overzealous book critics, unburdened of all but a virgin passport, new name, fresh face, and untraceable Swiss bank account.
Forgive me, dear Salmon, that I flush a shade green along my arduous trail of being born anew, a path that will leave me at best with a dog-eared passport, wrinkled brow, and a savings account whose decimal point has edged dangerously near oblivion over my past decade of unemployment. Plus, I still must compose this wordy benediction to give Identity an honorable burial.
So I hold you in envy, yes, but in rancor, nay—because you have kindly provided the novel gift at my feet that whispered to me that it was time to begin, time to pen my Identity’s swansong and to overcome the handicaps of paper shortage, no electricity, a dearth of desks, and a narrative which (unlike in your inspiring novel, Midnight’s Children) is confined to fact. Yes, a true story will follow in The ReMinder where one thousand and one threads are cast to the wind, events of my life flung with the faith that they will mysteriously weave in free-fall into a beautiful tapestry, order from chaos, a magic carpet upon which the reader may ride the currents of pathos and mirth to arrive at Identity’s appointed destination, the Grim Reaper’s door.
The first stop on this macabre journey? Drum roll, please, while I steel myself against the rush of memory: The betrayal by my beloved Ann.
The Nyxall Chronicles: The Now or Never Page 3