Manykomica

By Jacqueline Reino Zanini

This is a collection of events that tells the story
of Manykomica, a whimsical place where colorful
characters secretly weave one story into another,
endlessly, despite the limitations of finitude.

• Language: English
• Publisher: iUniverse
• Release date: Jul 16, 2015
• ISBN: 9781491769324

Book preview

Copyright © 2015 Jacqueline Reino Zanini.

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced by any means, graphic, electronic, or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, taping or by any information storage retrieval system without the written permission of the publisher except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.

iUniverse

1663 Liberty Drive

Bloomington, IN 47403

www.iuniverse.com

1-800-Authors (1-800-288-4677)

Because of the dynamic nature of the Internet, any web addresses or links contained in this book may have changed since publication and may no longer be valid. The views expressed in this work are solely those of the author and do not necessarily reflect the views of the publisher, and the publisher hereby disclaims any responsibility for them.

Any people depicted in stock imagery provided by Thinkstock are models,

and such images are being used for illustrative purposes only.

Certain stock imagery © Thinkstock.

ISBN: 978-1-4917-6931-7 (sc)

ISBN: 978-1-4917-6932-4 (e)

iUniverse rev. date: 06/17/2015

Contents

Forgetfulness

The enchanting impractical chants

The Platonic Syndrome

She stood me up

One tiny observation

They fell completely in love

Exploring the vagueness of recollections

Fragments extracted from Lillith’s Garden

A Fragment from Katerina’s notebook

After all this density, we urge you to make a long story short!

Flights from Fée Lilas (the administrator of Lilly’s garden)

A S(w)ord-id Parody driven by the blade of time

Someone’s Table

Between fake Cigarettes and Cigars

Let’s have some more chocolate while we do that silly cigar scene one more time

Inn-flamed

A lost chapter, found in a dark nook of the pantry

Katerina’s version

In the end

An unfinished random note

I’m a Persona, therefore I am.

On the 50th floor – a Brief and Breathless Story

The Cynical Tourist

The Backyard Voice (Second Movement of the Same Symphony)

…Pretend to move on…

Ancient fragments found underneath a large pile of papers inside Marie’s pantry

Marie Weber Dust’s Remonstration

The Hurry-cane of an old time

The Insanity of a digital Clock

The Buildings are Epitomes for their Simulacrums

Have I cried because of Banksia?

Accepted wisdom in slow motion: breathe while thinking (prolongation)

Time passes. So what? We don’t usually sense time the same way

Unfolding the Hot Pink Petals of Time

Just when laughter casts away recollections, an unexpected reality comes back in shape of springtime

Perhaps it was not so long ago, because time belongs to our minds

Love belongs to all of us

The Miserable Wealthy House

To all storytellers.

The characters in this book are storytellers. What intertwines them are their lost roots and their necessity to dream and to dissolve into the world, anonymously, exempted from expectations. Time and perception are kaleidoscopic, distorted by the shattered lenses of our cameras.

Forgetfulness

Why are you up so late? Elijah fondly asked.

The lights are on, still blessing us with insomnia. Marie yawned drowsily, but added with good humor: "Hypnos or Morpheus… They’ve cast a spell in this area of the house. Instead of getting a good night’s sleep, I’m here embracing your reflection, weaving our mutual Li(e)nes. By the way, I can’t hear a word you’re saying. I can tell you’re expressing your feelings, but I can’t hear you well, my friend. Oddly enough, it feels like I’m about to fall asleep!"

…You must wake up and move on with your life. It’s about time you dive into your own swimming pool. After a moment of thought, Elijah added, But I believe you’ll understand what I mean as you sleep. Even if you remove the lenses of this microscope, you’ll find that life thrives independently of our perceptions. So don’t worry about your self-perpetuating project, and get some sleep. While dreaming, though, don’t forget to touch the warping walls of the unconscious, for they’ll continue to whisper more stories to your porous existence. Touch your dreams firmly, and force your memories to recall and understand what kind of dough time is made of, for it doesn’t happen equally to everyone. Just go to sleep, my friend, for eternity is made out of reveries, and the only way to deal with this inevitable metaphor is by searching and crafting the whole deal once again, whether awake or asleep, until we dissolve inside a series of mirrors and find unity again.

Despite her scathing doubt, she became silent, wondering if inside a series of mirrors life was laden with more choices. She froze for a brief moment, but it lasted long enough to give birth to other stories.

Marie slowly cast her eyes on the floor, but the prologue went on:

"Continue to speculate, for the strength of your intensity will inevitably touch what’s been inert. Not even death would suddenly withdraw your presence from such a melodious stage. No, it wouldn’t. There’s no limit to an open theatrical stage. You’ll realize it someday, while embarking on multiple worlds comprised of entwining stories; stories laden with what might appear to be fantasy. Just be careful not to confuse incoherent worlds that are already merged with one another, including the unfamiliar microscopic worlds, you know… Anyway, engrave my words into your skin. Tattoo it, if you wish… Life is the only contrapuntal flows that we know. Keep ascending and descending the stairs, for the steps will continue to erase the past. It’s still editing what seems to be incompatible, leaving in our hands all sorts of indirect routes and unperceived strengths, which are deeper than our beliefs and perceptions.

What made you stop and get away from all you know, even from commonsensical explanations on life? Now look at you! You’ve been so detached, trying to think on your own, questioning scholars, thinkers, even the whole meaning of science, as if data weren’t enough… You refute everything so easily!"

With a distant gaze in her eyes, she muttered, I’ve been trying to remove the encrusted layers from my perceptions.

Honestly, I don’t know where you’re heading to, if not to a sanatorium someday! Don’t let the owners of a hegemonic discourse turn you into a sample or fool. It happens, and it’s terrible! Not only because they’re powerful, but because they’re stupid. They read some books, discuss their propositions in their private groups, but remain dim-witted. Some may think of themselves quite highly, because of their skills in math and physics, whereas others have been paving the way for some apparent novelty.

Marie chuckled and mumbled, disdainfully: That’s been trendy for a couple of centuries, no? Even we fell for it. She sighed, and added tiredly, "They turn against what they’ve always believed in. Power and vanity have blinded the eyes of those who are supposedly wise; so be careful in continuing our project. I’m not only afraid of the affects it may cause—I’m just a little tired. We should never stop in our attempts to reach another plane of existence. But I guess you’ve been asking for too much already. I’m sure you’re aware that bitterness goes hand in hand with farces and resentments, so be extra cautious. I know you’re not afraid. If you asked me for some advice, I’d say that you’re already ahead of the game. You should know by now, that the rules of our old riddles have been set once again. Just be careful with your passion."

Moved by sorrow, she told him, We put passion in our work; you fall in love with someone apparently unreachable enough to make each one dream, then everything turns essentially beautiful… She smiled, kindly. You’re a genuine spirit, my friend. But you’re also aware of humanity’s history and those unutterable misguided forces that feed our resentments, plus the strange and crafty scheme that unobtrusively generates two opposing forces among humankind…

Marie sighed. Elijah continued to look at her thoughtfully; then he told her, "Let’s kiss your agitations good night. You know the rules and their roles, my angel. Keep in mind that the key to unlocking your memories is perception, purely and simply. Only the fools and their compassionate souls can invert such inspection. You know well enough that we’re nothing but specks of dust; insignificant little things, struggling to thrive inside an anonymous, unknown realm. But if you insist on facing the layers of your oblivion, as if believing yourself to be a geologist of the mind, aiming to unravel the mysteries of a deity’s mind, he said ponderingly, You’ll possibly discover the great value that silence has in this mess. Let’s get some rest and rethink our project in the morning. It’s late. Then, as an afterthought, he added: It’s late, but you know, it’s never too late to work on something you’re passionate about. In any case, sleep, my love. Let the unconscious rule. Live a little longer, even if this whimsical project means everything to you. Keep on resting, for you’re more alive than ever, and you must go on, no matter what. I can sense your heart beating, even when we’re apart. Soon, you’ll open your eyes again, and we’ll exchange more stories, until we wake up inside one of the multiple layers of dreams and meet again!"

I love you, my good old friend. Marie whispered.

Elijah’s response was immediate, his tone conveyed his concern for her bouts of insomnia: Sleep, and allow me to penetrate inside your profoundest dreams. Write in your dreaming language, and let them guide your hands.

They both smiled at each other. It felt good to know that they still cared for one another, even though they had been separated by the walls of time. I can’t help it. Insomnia still rules my existence, and what I really need is more than just a good night’s sleep, my sweet friend.

It’s time to reconsider that we’ve been wired to sleep, or else we’ll lose the chance to turn our lives into something playful. Now it’s up to you, honey. If we don’t set boundaries, and don’t get a grip of whatever is claimed to be real, our only chance to translate parts of the whole picture will vanish. You know, this is supposed to be the prelude, and yet this is part of that encounter, which only takes place in the middle of this book. But, that’s fine. Elijah said with a smile, We’re not really supposed to sketch the end and let alone the beginning of anything.

I told you. Insomnia controls my life. It is not so bad. It is the bearer of my fruit, my ideas…

You’re impractical if you think insomnia can be helpful for you. Concentrate on your will and not on any silly strategy. You don’t need a goal, let alone rules, because this is not a game. This is your engagement to life. That’s why we’re opening the book in the middle of our encounter. Your mind is more fruitful when you sleep. We both know that anything seemingly illogical simply means no nonsense…You’re a natural when it comes to archery… Don’t you remember?

After a quiet moment, Marie answered, No. I can’t recall anything if I don’t analyze all the layers of it microscopically, even while sleeping. I’ve got to work on this project, mainly while I’m dead to the world. I can only grasp what’s been left from those shattered glances if the strength of the unconscious really rules my existence. Marie said with a laugh. Then, with a goofy smile: "We have dissected love to the point of unraveling its core, cuoere, amore."

Then, I must insist that you sleep, sweetheart.

And I insist that we must live. Not out of complacency. We should try to live blissfully, despite life’s vicissitudes. Change happens to all of us. We have to learn how to handle it one way or another. Human life has been… She searched for the right words, her eyes filled with wonder. Like a puzzle. Like a cruel and poetic puzzle. We should try to extract from poison the strength of joy. With compassion, we could make this modern world the best time, better than anything in humanity’s history. She continued, tone firm. And how would we do that? Just by surviving? No. We can only do that by changing the rules, or perhaps by changing the games we’ve been playing. We’ve got to be more aware of our own actions, words, and opinions because we don’t live alone in this world. When acting respectfully and carefully with others, we’re taking care of our own business too, because people are invariably interconnected with other people.

After a brief pause, Marie muttered, Though minding our own business is never a bad idea, either.

Changing the rules? Elijah asked, wondering what she meant by that. "But what if the so-called rules are just part of a bigger strategy; an effort to make us believe that this is a game, an unfair game, a multiplying theatrical stage? Manykomica… He said, chuckling. Yes, maybe that’s what we’ll call it…"

She and he and she and he and she and he closed their eyes and the series of mirrors closed for the day; yet I could still hear their voices, echoing with laughter: "Through Li(e)nes; through what’s left of that other book’s broken camera…"

Marie caught a glimpse of Katerina, who was marveling at the whole scene. It was her turn to walk in. She smiled serenely, whispering in a small, breathy voice: Everything is inside this defective laptop. It may appear disorderly, but it seems she’s kept everything in harmony; even this unclear beginning… Everything’s in here. She embraced the laptop. Katerina lied down and yawned. I wish I could stay awake, but my eyes are closing now. It’s time to dance with Morpheus. She uttered. Just pick your deity and dance with it.

Silence is my eventual reply, but don’t expect patience to rise from my personal agony. The only thing I can promise is to try to find you with the same strength which you gaze at me. I can see you, but paradoxically enough, you can’t see me. Yet, we already have a very friendly bond. Better than being immersed in some vague future is our capacity to appear in the present for an uncertain moment. That’s how we’ll understand that mutuality shall only happen through contagious laughter. The future is just another concept, so don’t fret over it. Just give yourself into laughter. I don’t know if I’ll ever get to know you personally, sweetheart: but I love you enough to materialize in your kitchen… maybe inside a crowded pantry, among hidden languages, or under piles of papers, condiments, compotes or dusty old books. Love has been so saturated with complex experiences and discernments…I guess we’ll have to erase the results of those early ventures, and get ready for the next journey. I can’t turn anything into bullions, but I’ll do my best to turn everything into laughter. This project will be just another playful metaphor, our mutual-fold that may again turn into gold. Expressions are still our continuous images, our links and challenges, the rules of the ludicrous kingdom, which we’ve been so thoughtfully intertwining among the fabric of our multiplying verses.

With immense delight, I went to sleep, wondering how to put my passion into words… "Words… you’ve left me sitting here among the mysteries behind your meanings, and thus I fell in love once again with your reverie. I’m one of those fools, who perpetually fantasize about the lonely and lovely gloomy tools. We’re living out of imagination, trying to instill some sense of reality into our mindful spheres. This characterless human world must be a sanatorium for satires— this is an asylum of sorts that shall always heal pain through laughter. However, if this is all a matter of language and shallow interpretation, forget about Manykomica, for that is where ludicrous beings express and exchange zigzags, in other words: stories.

We have been living inside a hospice without ever noticing it. Occasionally, we become aware of the absurd and begin to yearn for some self-imposed joy on the weekends, during our days off. We have to deal with pauses in order to compensate for exhaustion and our impractical frustrations, the cause for modern-day melancholy—perhaps the worst in all of humankind. Who knows? What in this world do we really dare to know when dogmatisms act as though philosophy were dead?

One of these noble nights, I will become invisible just to protect you from my desire to turn you detectable. I shall no longer pretend to be a bat or a bird. I’m working my way in this life to become a singing bird in the next life, (if there is such a thing as reincarnation).

I’ll introduce myself as the human being you’ve turned me into, but I’m sure you will charmingly understand the presence of an imperceptible lover, who first fell for the books on the shelves of your living room. But please, abstain from anxiety, for I refuse to introduce myself to you yet, oh sweetest lover of my dreams! Look over here, behind the curtains: I’m still too shy to introduce myself in my present state. It will take a little while to be reborn as a human being again. Nonetheless, it would be healthier to become closer and share the same rhythm.

I’m a patient lover. This story is what makes me want you even more than you can understand. Elijah uttered pensively. I love you Katerina, but I also love your lost husband. Through you I love him, and through you, I’ll track him down. He’s the man of my dreams as you’re the woman of my obsessions.

While opening a notebook, Katerina said, Our story could be told under the rain, as if tear drops were falling on our faces, but that would be just another cliché. We could try something more realistic, like a dream told by some ordinary washed-out faces. But I know you love spring, especially when followed by a brutal winter. What you don’t know honey is that your desires ought to survive all four seasons. If both of us unconsciously depart to, uh, let’s say…

I gently grasped her hand and placed her index finger on the map, dragging it over to the city of Moscow. I could have easily placed it on Quebec, for it is also brutally cold. However, Quebec doesn’t have the dramatic touch that we needed for our story.

I had finally decided to live my own tale. I had to accept my plight and simply follow a mechanical pace of life, if I ever hoped to live in peace. I had no choice but to abandon my old style, the one loaded with long dissertations, countless characters and hyperboles. I quickly decided on Russia. "Yes, yes…Russia, because Russia can be full of snow, ambiguities and indiscernible excitement. Besides, something beyond words remains in time, under layers of snow, maybe underneath the common lines, which still yearn to be discovered, perhaps until they can be sliced up.

"I was encouraged to read huge Russian novels for as long as I can remember. I could hardly read more than a single page, let alone hundreds of pages, not only because the contemporary atmosphere has renounced their massiveness, but because of the text-ure of the pages. She began to laugh. You see, some people are academic, whereas others seek to know everything, even to the smallest detail. Some of them are bogus, even though they might claim to be on the path to learning… Thus, they accuse one another of being pseudo-intellectuals, until finally a war breaks out, and is fought on the bullshitvians battleground. She said, with a wry smile. What they have in common is a world full of distractions and too many pages to read."

I see. Elijah responded, in wonder. He tried to laugh, but it didn’t come. At that moment he realized that Katerina could be younger than he thought. He smiled with constraint. So, you mean you haven’t read any of those thick classics? Why is it that you’re so inspired by them?

Oh, that’s easy. She said with a grin, proceeding to tell him what he wanted to hear. I just placed my hand over the cover, and sensed it all. Katerina suddenly looked directly into his face, and asked, Have you ever gone surfing? Well, neither have I. But we don’t need to surf to sense that, once you’re in the sea you’re in tune with the flows of the waves and the wind.

What a beautiful liar! He thought, while his heart was beginning to palpitate again. Even her name is misspelled. Pretty little liar, how old are you? She’ll invoke the wind, the sea, the sun, the stars, rhymes and boring puns—the entire apparatus—just to lead me on. But what she doesn’t know is that she’s already mine! And with her in my hands, I’ll have him, and with him and her, I’ll have myself again! And I swear to my grave to love them the same!

The geography will be developed slowly, through reveries, and sometimes through recollections that I’ve left inside the pantry, already loaded with all sorts of fruit, paper, books and stories. To my memory, the pantry is as bright as the ancient symbol that substitutes the sun during the dark passages of time. I must warn you though, that I’ll never be willing to forget anything, despite the number of times you’ve tried to erase my memories. You think I’m part of your project, but I insist that you’re the one, who happens to be part of a project named: ‘Love—a word to be rethought.’

I’ve already told you this: your relentless efforts to make me think that it’s your mission to have me in the palm of your hand have been fooling you. Anyway, you’ve got your schemes, and I’ve got my sketches. You love, whereas I enjoy dissecting love; so love is what we have in common. It’s all inscribed within the confines of the pantry, and the pantry is certainly yours and Marie’s project. But I’ll get there someday. Katerina said, her eyes downcast. Then, with a sigh, she told him, "And no; I haven’t read more than a single line of any of those enormous books. I’ve been using my time developing the meaning of Li(e)nes and haven’t had time to read them. I’ve only been able to write fragments for you. But, this ought to be our little secret."

Oh, you little liar! You’re only a young lady! Elijah said, laughing. He didn’t know whether it was because she was testing him, or because she was mocking the long-winded style of literature of the past, which has crushed the modern reader. After a brief moment of thought, Elijah responded, Yes, yes. The modern reader has too many choices. Unlike the academia, as isolated as it has always been from the world, its people mingling with their own kind, in their private little circles, engaging in silent and egocentric warfare. It’s just a matter of choice, in any case. By the way, he chuckled, "Thanks a lot for placing us right in the middle of a frozen wasteland. I hope this isn’t your way of mocking the colorless atmosphere that surrounds the academia. You could have chosen springtime, but at fourteen, you sketched this story thinking of isolation and snow, layers upon layers of snow. And worse, you made me get up at the crack of dawn. Because of your sketches I walked in the vastness of snow just to catch a train to Moscow…

… What do you know about Russia? It’s fig-mentum. It’s just a figment of your imagination. It’s another fiction, a fruit of your imagination and hidden desires."

Fruit de mon imagination…Don’t worry, Doctor. She said, mockingly. It’s all for the sake of our project, as it’s all for the sake of love.

It was naïve to think that she would melt the false pride of those, who stand for needless exaggerations. However, she continued to believe that those same people would understand her at that point. She thought that somehow, they would learn that it doesn’t take dramatic floods to articulate latent meanings in an awkward entanglement of plot and characters. Besides, there was still the comfort of his silence and his shy, gentle smile.

Elijah continued to ponder over her stories. He chose to believe she was just immature, and thus he patiently waited, even though he had to mask the passage of time. She pretended not to notice that, and as sparkling as she could sound, she went on, knowing full well that she was not a liar but a storyteller; another genuine weaver of Li(e)nes.

Have you ever understood the mysteries of the sea? She asked mockingly. But as Katerina began to reveal more of her thoughts, she expressed her exhaustion as a result of the experiment: …Heavy are the experimental possibilities of the wind. She said with a sigh. The sea floats calmly, but when you least expect, the waves will swallow up even the most clever dreamer, who still lives out of her foolish youth. We don’t know what’s underneath the sea, yet we’ve got to face it every single day, for as long as we live! Amidst flashes of memories, so lost among crashing waves, is it possible to find the subject of an expression when it has been swept away by the tide? A small boat, lost among the moody waves… that’s perhaps what uncertainty is. Yet, how would I have compared the combination of despair and calmness, which only daybreak brings, with the afternoon’s appetite to survive, mingled with nightly anxiety? Katerina tapped her fingers on his desk and murmured, There’s always something new to contemplate, even if we watch the same sea. Elijah didn’t utter a word. He wished only to listen attentively. Katerina bit her lip in wonder, and then added, Honey, the sea is the unconscious. Elijah nodded, pensively.

With her downcast eyes, she asked, "Shall we meet in the same waters? I’d never have thought about my own hormones so fervently related to the strength of the ocean. I really had to let myself go along the voluptuous roll of the waves, the lascivious me: just one more idiot daring to sail in a small boat, late in the afternoon. This is just a figure of speech for my inner desire to be devoured by voracious waves. I’ve learned to pray inside an untrue nightmare, while the tide brings me more dubious impressions. Katerina sighed, reflecting on her words. Oh, it got higher and higher, pretending to swallow me up, longing to consume my thoughts. It was just teaching me how to silence my perceptions, while making me float like garbage discarded in the vast sea. Apparently, the persistent vigor of my hormones are much stronger than the forces of the wind and the sea combined." In a meditative tone, she uttered some words, and Elijah realized what language that was. He didn’t want to interrupt what she called her hormonal fluxes.

Katerina was still recollecting deeper than her own thoughts, though soon she vaguely concluded, "It’s past. It’s past the point of the past hour. And that’s the striking time that only happens during sleep. Here I am, walking from one side of the kitchen to the corner of my longings, viscerally fecundated by unutterable enchanting powers, the ones which feed the hungry similes inside of me; the only ones which could make me survive, despite the empty stomach. I wait impatiently until the next morning to settle down, even though I’m still anxious to swallow the world. Wait till I’m done with this diet!

I’ll wait, and rather impatiently. It couldn’t be otherwise, since there is no silence inside of me, but timeless echoes. No serenity would grasp the longing of a lover for its ethereal coitus; yes, for her otherworldly fecundation. She said, with a cunning smile, But, she added in a confessing tone, The only way to grasp what it has been untold is through intensity. I must unfold this flower in order to unveil such tiny Li(e)nes… She said, with a serene smile. Wouldn’t it be nice to simply remain sitting here, waiting, gallantly waiting; uncomplainingly, in front of a blank paper, as if I were some lover, full of stamina, driven by the same old hormones, feeling them kicking in, during the passage of another comet? Katerina opened her eyes, and without looking at anybody’s faces, she stated, I don’t have any trauma, since I don’t have to recollect any lost memories. There will be no process of… well, you know, She bit her lip in wonder, of having to face undesired memories. But please, retell the tail in detail among all retails of my shabby existence… Whatever has been left of me, of our fragmented stories…I feel so much in charge of my memories to the point of being able to erase any poignant scenes that might pop up from the future. Oh, wasted future! There’s no such a thing as one single future, but infinite numbers of futures that the brain attracts and codifies (or not), among synchronicities.

Katerina changed her tone of voice, and firmly added, "Right now, I may be just fourteen years old, but I will live all ages in a few pages if I have to. Please, believe me. I’ve been living everywhere, and such experiment is imperative for my existence to write down the scenes that flow through my multiple beings. So, don’t trust my age, since I happen to be ageless sometimes. Besides, I’m sure you’ll accelerate my personal time, in order to have me as your wife. Just don’t trust my age or my appearance, and even the girlish atmosphere that surrounds me. Behold, for I’m not just one single character! I stand behind the curtains creating the unexpected. Yet, bear in mind one more detail, what we’ll experience can never be merely a lie, but Li(e)nes, a series of mirrors staring at us along our roads: one more close-up of a loving lie, one more story; one single glance shattered in multiple times… Well, you know that already. She said, with her usual smile, and added, … She, I, he, you, live amid the entanglement of Li(e)nes. It’s all a matter of general perceptions and the way a camera-words portrays it. After all, what does actually exist, if the collective imaginations and habits seem to dictate our perennial realities?"

He kept silent as usual, and simply nodded. Sometimes Elijah would scratch his head, and that was when he thought about having a long beard someday. What an incredible mission! A naïve young lady, a chatty box that can foretell some different dimensions… A woman whose age no one can tell. He sighed. But, she’s already part of my project, anyway. He thought with a smile. As usual, I’m always chosen to prove, scientifically, what others stubbornly claim to be insanity. Yes, yes. Just nod, scratch your head eventually; make sure to pick up what can be proven mathematically. From this, you won’t get a single piece of evidence. It seems like she is a natural storyteller… I have a feeling that the whole thing will be a little bit more than that someday. Katerina doesn’t acknowledge what she truly knows. I guess she’s trying to lead me on… On a second thought, I shouldn’t study this case alone, because of the other avid entities sketching their own intensities on these papers… But, how could a scientist prove about alternate worlds, when we are so used to think of an ideal world? Could I claim that all this belongs to one single author, on deities, or on a couple of authors? If Marie and I can share our projects, why wouldn’t other forces join us? Perhaps Marie and I have been the fruit of someone else’s projects! He said, rubbing his hand with excitement. Elijah glanced at her and sighed. On a second thought, what if I simply tag her as one more schizophrenic? Things would be much easier. No! I’m never assigned to merely label people; no way! Besides, she might be right. There’s something behind her appearance, and on top of that, I can already feel what she has revealed to me: She can be the woman of my reality, and through her, I might really find the man of my dreams! She’s part of our project, even though Marie doesn’t even know her as well as I do… Elijah gave her a fleeting look, and continued, But, what if she exercises what she refers as free will until she turns me into her project?" He gave her a confident smile, and she immediately asked him the reason for that sweet face.

I was thinking I need new glasses… He peacefully replied. Then, it was her turn to wonder who he would be some day. You’d look charming behind a long beard.

What a coincidence! I was just thinking about growing a long beard! Now, tell me the truth Katerina, why have you chosen Russia?

She closed her eyes, and whispered in a serene tone, It was not a matter of choosing. I’ve already told you about intuition, I mean, intensity. I’ve only touched the cover of some books, and there! The whole thing was downloaded inside my spirit. She glanced at him, and added in a jovial tone, Listen, it will take us some time to get to know each other and really fall in love. I’ll be your wife. So, you’d better pay heed to everything I’m telling you. Don’t worry! I’ll be off and on, but I’ll be next to you, always. When I return, I’ll be a woman already in love with you, and your beard will have really grown. Just don’t get overconfident in regards to your beard and the linearity of time. She explained, with the help of her fingers while Elijah followed her gestures thoroughly.

Elijah convinced himself that he would marry her. All he had to do was to accelerate her personal time, by making her believe that she was actually inside a theater stage, …And thus, confound the reader, once and for all. He muttered a few more words, while Katerina was laughing her head off. She stopped laughing and suddenly told him: "Love isn’t complicated; humans are. Humans have come up with the sentimental love in order not to complicate their social lives; but, what they’ve forgotten is the fact that our existences are much more intricate than any sen-time-mental love. The amorous love is a complex invention, though it should bring joy to our lives. But, can we really accept happiness, or has it been easier to drive each other miserable, since the definition of happiness and love still belongs and longs as infinitely as language? Would there be any danger with the amorous love, when we constantly attempt to balance our emotions and desires, or should we just be guided by what we call passion? I’ve asked myself that same question throughout the years, and none of my different theories have proven me anything. Shall I use math at last?"

What? Elijah asked, with his arms folded.

Should I prove love, the passionate love through mathematical equations, or should we just remain friends of wisdom? But what wisdom? Who’s got wisdom? Who can claim, in this world, to be the owner of any truth? Katerina sucked in a breath, and added in a gloomy tone, What grounds do we have for philosophy lately, since a bunch of scientists claim that it’s dead, and if dogmatism will never really accept it? She looked at him defiantly, but he knew that Katerina was only conjecturing. While wondering if she was waiting for his response, she added with a distant gaze, Lately, it seems that all we need is to be practical, and hold on to something apparently easier to embrace, such as dogmas, or mathematical equations to help us prove our own silly discourses and theories. Elijah didn’t utter a word and Katerina continued to speculate. He was hoping to hear something more revealing. With a sigh, she picked up her notebook, and began to leaf through it. In a sarcastic voice, she asked him if he wanted to hear her annotations. Elijah immediately nodded, and that brightened her up.

… Elijah reflected at length about what to do with Lillith’s story, but since he had become one character in the big picture, he had no choice. He knew that he would have to sustain that project, which he and his old friend Marie Dust had sketched in times of college. At least that’s the story I heard. Up to now, it sounds very reticent, but as the conductor of this book’s relations, I understand that the orchestra must tune in their instruments before the concert. The rest, I’ll leave it up to you; this is an invitation. I’m turning you into another character, one of those who judge books by their preludes. All characters in this realm are storytellers and we’re obstinately delving into experiences. We live out of our imaginary stages. It is as if our lives were nothing but fruitful transactions…

…His heart pounded when he heard her words. Elijah quietly watched her for a few moments, wondering if she was actually speaking to someone inside her memories. It can’t be me! She didn’t say that to me! After all, she’s only part of this assignment and not a foreteller. He silently concluded. Nevertheless, doubts made him rise from his chair, for he knew well the sort of project he was working on. He was not dealing with the linearity of time, but with simultaneous and multidimensional worlds. Moreover, Katerina, whoever she was, whatever name she had, whatever age, she was first and foremost a box of surprises containing reveries combined with memories, which apparently were lost inside a reservoir of forgetfulness. She had the ability to touch hypothetical times and instantly recollect everything through the energy of incongruous Li(e)nes.

Whereas Elijah took another glimpse of the picture, which Marie Weber Dust had given to Katerina once, during a fractured time, she fell asleep in hope to search for the most precious fruit of all times. In a dream like state, Katerina recalled that Marie had once told her that she had found Nicholai, sitting at a small desk at the museum. If you want to find your first husband, look him up. Here’s the picture I snapped of him.

Katerina gazed at his image in the picture and said, Nicholai looks more like a statue inside the whole picture.

That’s exactly what I thought! Marie immediately told her. There was this huge, this amplified nineteenth century picture of some people inside what seemed to be one of those Russian palaces. I’ve never been to a Russian palace. I’ve never been in Russia, but after visiting some friends’ places across the river, I got the idea… Well, there he was, staring at the huge poster. He didn’t move at all, and I could swear he was a statue. What I was still trying to figure out was how he fit in that whole picture. So, I snapped a picture and he suddenly turned his face away. I gasped in surprise. It was kind of awkward. I apologized, explained what happened to my imagination, and he plainly understood it. He got up, glanced at me once more and left. It was Nicholai and not a statue. I just don’t know what he was doing there. But, here’s your lost Nicholai, honey. Take the picture, and don’t forget to show it to Elijah."

Katerina was staring at the photograph. She was spellbound. Although Marie snapped a picture of his back, she confirmed it was him. Such a dialogue and that very picture were passed on to Elijah who also became entranced with his figure. Although there was only one single picture, the stories told by Katerina and Marie were slightly different. Nonetheless, Elijah decided to cut off his presence from the whole fabric of that moment, and then tagged Nicholai as a time traveler, waiting to find the greatest love of his life. After looking at that picture so many times, Elijah became obsessed with Nicholai, and that was what gave life to Marie and Elijah’s mutual project: Katerina. Nevertheless, in my story she is not part of their project, but a self-development project.

***

The enchanting impractical chants

I wonder who lives inside that bohemian window, though I understand that, whoever it may be, would never be willing to remove me from my sweet solitude. Are you a second edition of my liquid image, or some clarity reflecting on the blank walls of my apartment? The answer is such and such… but, I’ll define it properly: due to our madness, (the same old obsession regarding each other’s windows), and our tireless indifference to one another, we will silently wind up confined inside that pathetic platonic pantry, watching our shadows interlacing, but no longer finding some good old spices. We’ve grown out of them, and they remained in the past. Now, it’s almost too late to go backward in time. We’ve got to let it go and accept the asymmetrical becomings, since we don’t plan to work with a continuous time.

"I can hear the sound of the chimes that are hanging at your window. You’ve never seen my window, and I guess you’ve never seen me. No honey, not again. On a second thought, you are real, and my guess is that you must be as lonely as my thoughts are. For some unknown reason, you’re feeling charmed as I depict you. Right now, you are afraid of love as I fear to be ignored by such a neighbor, whose life seems so similar to mine. Are you my anti matter or some lost multi-reflections, still striving to reach what has been long gone? Perhaps you’ve been my own personification inside another story. How dare am I to reduce you into my own being? If you are my indecipherable existence, the full need to codify the other, (according to my soul), and my lonely longings, which make matters dissolve and turn into desirable shapes; no, you cannot be me, ever! Perhaps my love for you is just this rotten fruit called ego, but I can’t help it. I need your presence to go on, even if I can hardly remember your face. Who are you, lovely owner of my windows? Who are you now, my lonely and remote neighbor? Just tell me who you are, and I won’t ever knock on your door.

I will think of you every single moment of my life, until I become less obsessed with your windows, until destiny condemns me to go upstairs and harass you with my subtexts. I’ve been carrying this palpitating love for the hidden you, who has already intuited that I’ll be the one to disturb your rights to be anonymous. Yes, dear. I’ll be the one who will finally unveil the obscurity that needs distance, the mystery that can only be fulfilled with the privacy of time. While confined behind my window, as a guest to this life of mine, to the illusory human times, all I can do is to observe and dream…"

I came here to visit my own reverberations, thus I found out that my purpose is absurd in the face of the only constancy I may know: alterations caused by hormones. I could cross the street to catch what has been mine, already mine. And that, not even you would refute, since you already know that your shadow only exists due to our separation. We’re as unknown to each other as we are embraced by nothingness. I don’t know if I should hope that we may never have words to fill in the blanks… You might think that this is rather poetic or somewhat pathetic, but while I exhaust my being with the profound quietness of those who fulfill the void with endless longings, I’ll prove to you that what I feel is way beyond fascination. This has discreetly been the fluctuation of our diluted passion. It’s perhaps my attempt to suppress what can slowly suffocate me at last. However, if the fire in your cold waters evaporates into mere dreams, I may become fluid, non-human, invisible, ungraspable, somewhat ghostly and a little misbehaved, but I’d hate to make you fear my intrusion. I will do my best for the ungraspable me to take shape when you least expect anything… I long to be embraced by your tenderness.

While you stay in your living room until late at night, I’m becoming the reflections of our distorted images, still waiting for the right moment, radiantly practicing withdrawal from the rest of the world, and getting ready to be visible at any moment, though still wishing you could sense me. What lies between us both is chaste, yet it’s hearty, my love. Because of this, we must lead a quiet life and simply convince our thoughts that we’re getting on with our lives. We’re commonly motivated by the necessity to move forward, possibly because we live in different flows, exempted from finalities, but with the usual certainty of finitude. The organizing voice that here speaks is yet overpowering, though it will soon become inaudible. I’m afraid that this love will take away your sleep at night; it will energize our existences to the point of touching the stars. So, let’s be very careful before falling into this sinkhole, for becoming a human being is due to the cosmic desire to write our comic views in multiple acts.

… Now, look at you, concentrated, detached, and seemingly unaware of the sweet dilemma that is about to happen. I had to stop and ask myself if I should just run away, before ceasing the emptiness of your life; but then, I immediately realized that I should simply go on as well. In order not to sink into blankness, I raised my eyes to the stars, wishing for some response, but there has been no reply. You know well that we are not supposed to understand exactly what’s going on right now. No, not while we’ve been mere reflections of life or death. No, not while waiting to get rid of all dichotomies. We’re still patient clouds gathering to storm out in the sea, craving for one another, like starved non-diabetic ghosts, yearning for one another, as if we were hallucinations moved by profound blindness. We just want to be born for reasons that our tiny short existence cannot tell.

In spite of having all sorts of clouds surrounding us, insistency made me look around, but it warned me to avoid your eyes. I’m afraid they can catch me unobtrusively, despite my striking presence, which is yet so invisible. It’s nothing but the result of your unconscious will, though the hallucinatory stage is already reflecting in your retina. I can see that, as I desperately as fondly gaze at you; at you, so lonely sitting in a bright nook, reading my words and calmly waiting for what will change your life. Oh, my forlorn love, I fondly gaze at you, who unintentionally makes me live out of your shadows, the ones that don’t allow me to codify the reason why we are the manifestation of mistiness to one another. The music in the background is still the same, yet we share identical ironic challenges. You still feel entitled not to perceive me. Until when, will you make me feel the desire to describe you as someone unaware of my existence?

I was born as a subtle entity— pure and undivided; free to cover a bloody volcano with the same material which you manufacture our different gazes to one another! You’ve been here with me, I can sense your presence, but where are you, my chaste and lustful Kitty?

Birds have begun to sing. I’ve brought springtime back once and for all, and that’s the way it shall be from now on! Spring will be among us, no matter how cold it gets. The full moon strikes its yellow reflection back to the sun, and the ducks have already returned to their temporary homes. However, it suddenly snowed! This time of the year seems like nature is on a PMS trip, eager to explode and to become a menstrual volcano. She raised her eyes to the sky and anxiously cried, Spring, spring, come out at once!

As I invisibly stand behind that same old armchair, reading what you’ve been reading, I realize how cozy it feels to read my own words, and then live again, each and every moment, one more time. I already have us around because of this synchronicity. We’ve been already together— even before meeting— sometimes long ago, when time was already tired of us; and thus, we’ll meet again, for our mutuality happen like self-generating gatherings; it’s pure chance, but at the same time it has been written, though it still hasn’t been codified. Our assembly is a tattoo in the fabric of infinity; on the other hand, what is perpetuity, if not our mutual will to remain unreal?

"Born! Yet, it’s a premature love. It’s still exempted from meanings— waiting for everything to take its course, until the roots spread underneath the streets, longing to be seen at last. Until then, I’ll wait for our reciprocated absences and mutual diets. If I ought to become a life form, any organism whatsoever, it’s because of hunger, and not merely due to an unconscious passion. The spinning force which shapes us into beings is the translation of our appetites to create. Energy is moved by maximum enthusiasm. Such a craving condenses and turns into matter, and hence we have our entrance, our supreme soup, incessantly stirred in a massive screen. The universe is a superb kitchen; better yet, it’s a cuisine, whose aroma endlessly prepares our souls to live all over again. Do we wish to come to life, or are we moved by mere spiritual appetite? Black holes hungrily devour the fabric of the universe; they expand due to cosmic hunger: can you hear the thunder, and the rumbling stomach? The spinning force which shapes us into beings are caused by alternating repetitions moved by Eros alone. You can thread your way out of all cycles, but like gravity, hunger will pull you back. And believe me, you’ll go back eternally, even if you prove ‘N’ times that life has no meaning."

She was describing her moments while he was scribbling what could happen. She couldn’t help, but overhear him whispering words at the same time that she murmured to the breeze, in hope that he would treasure her spell in his heart: She is alone. She is there, yet she is not. And, that means that she must carry on, for she is part of the scene. Her movements already depict the background music, but her partial invisibility weaves the silence of her own story.

Between the intervals of their conversations, they exchanged unutterable Li(e)nes. Both embraced each other’s stories, and thus their loneliness continued to linger in the layers of time. She’s been exiled without any torment. He whispered in wonder. And, as joyful as he felt just to think of her, he added to his notes: She has been overjoyed with her productive isolation; life has been a dissonant bliss for her. She’ll definitely be the main source of our project!

Almost immediately, Katerina uttered some of the secrets which they thought they had partially erased from her mind. And thus, her memories became blurred. All that absentmindedness seemed like a relief, and she felt as if she were beyond what she thought it could have been an essential sphere. However, Katerina knew that she was patiently dissecting Li(e)nes, while partially stepping inside empty spaces and crossing imperceptible intervals. Nothing seemed to call her attention, since she began to live for that specific window. She closed her eyes pensively, and inside her recollections she said, No, I won’t sleep until I can’t find out everything about this eccentric fate. I’m not a poet, therefore I must be understood.

Katerina stepped into other dimensions long time ago, but only found out that she was gone while leafing through a notebook. "There remained her comments, and no other voices would be able to erase them, though everyone was capable to add more and more comments to it. Centuries have already passed; many hands have left their marks on the books, and countless pages have been added. Out of curiosity, she began to search the name of the authors of a certain thick book. To her surprise, Lillith realized she was not a ghost, though she was still pretending to be unaware of her role in this book. She slowly understood about hermones, her messengers, hormones, and all the stamina formed by dithyrambic chants, a herricane of intensities, all that which has been our existences, right after she made her first perfume. The aroma impregnated her simple apartment, and thus the whole atmosphere became as colorful and repetitive at the same time."

That’s us, already transcribed in the same picture. He whispered to the gaze of the wind; he was completely absorbed by an inexplicable tranquility, while she was being revived, without being able to be present. From then on, just what seemed to be ludicrous in her imaginable lifetime had finally turned into her very own continuation.

I know, I know that it all sounds odd enough, She said, in a relaxed tone, and thus, she added, But this anonymity must remain, like a touch of recollection and imagination. If that takes an unexpected shape in the face of reality, I’ll leave the pages to a roving camera in order to continue to make up stories. After all, my job is to translate the author’s rebellion into another story. Gosh, this is like a cascade of passion! And yet, there’s not a single piece of paper around. This is the lover’s detoxification—never to be recalled, but deeply sketched in the skin, on some lost piece of paper left in the pantries of all times.

Psychotic moments. He murmured, I doubt it. Then he wrote down, "Liar or another weaver of Li(e)nes…"

Of course. She replied. "Why not to label your object-ion? She said with a silly laugh. He smiled shaking his head amicably, while she lowered her head saying, Don’t forget I can hear a little bit more than usual… She sighed, and ponderingly added, It seems that my current life doesn’t yet exist, and it feels as if all this connection were a projection from other minds, a recollection of a time, where my own past didn’t actually take place. On the other hand, memory sometimes can be stronger than we expect, so don’t wear the same perfume—you’ll never get sick of your own smell and no one will recognize you; besides, you won’t get nostalgic. She said, in a serious tone. After a brief silence, she went on more animatedly, Well, the past is a baggage of memories, containing all the old concepts of right and wrong… She cast her eyes on the floor, and added, Flashes extracted from the streams, which still belong to some dreams. I can’t quite recall them, though my profoundest memories do. Sometimes those unknown flashes actualize and become my existing fortune. Oh, do you really find it all so abnormal? Maybe not all of us are truly crazy. Insanity is just a distorted perception described by those who claim to be normal."

He pretended not to be intrigued, for his beard at that point hadn’t grown long enough.

…Some are storytellers talking about what is yet unreal. It’s all part of your assignment or maybe just reflections of my very early childhood… I still don’t know. She fixed her gaze in his eyes, and told him in a mocking tone, I don’t want you to think that I really don’t understand what’s going on, though. I saw my shadows completely worn out, just like that old armchair. She lowered her head and began to giggle; he gave her a small smile back. Then, she looked up at his face and said, It’s the same old armchair in all stories. Why?

Elijah shrugged his shoulders, pretending not to know the answer.

It’s the old dream that eventually repeats, to the point of making me believe that I live inside that window, among something already known to the limits of my patience. She keenly explained. It’s the same sad tune trying to turn into a new cadence. Those have been unlimited rhythms, which will never dare to end, for they turn drops of nostalgic dew into laughter and innocence. Laughter and innocence have been my prehistoric memories in conjunction with universal repetitions. The more I struggle to let them go, the stronger they rise in my mind. But I can resist the big picture, for I’m aware of my reality. Besides, I’m pretty sure of what has never taken place and are yet daydreams. Everything now seems a little clearer: I am allowing myself to become someone else, even though I gave you my word that I’d always be me. Is there any difference between moving on and starting from scratch, if both mean abandoning the past, and passing on the same old armchair? No one abandons the past; such abandonment is transitory. While we usually leave the window partly open, as if we were involuntarily waiting for the following breeze, everything continues to intermingle. We simply move on, according to the multiple ways we’re affected, and without actually perceiving what goes around, and thus we become symbolically new. Tell me, who has been discarding the past, if not those who travel through time, like you? She asked wide-eyed, and thus she went on, The best thing about the word farewell is acknowledging that in the future, I’ll grow out of whatever made me share my story. I’ve been living up to my lapses of moments anyway… All these endless repetitions exhaust my mind and reminds me to disregard the snapshots taken by the hands of time. My own memories have the power to undo even the most fragmentary reminiscence, which my unconscious has saved for some inevitable eternity. She sighed, and went on, My shadows will inevitably retell more stories, including the one, which will never be erased. I hope you remember that, Elijah. She glanced at him pensively. I don’t like the fact that you recognize the facts before we experience them. She said that with a sigh, while he pretended not to feel confused. It’s more than a necessity to touch what my eyes can’t yet see, and what my ears can previously overhear. No, this is absurd. Let me rephrase this, without editing my feelings. Sometimes I’d rather feel the rhythms of the unknown without having to follow our scripts. If I can quiet my mind, I’ll tell you all the stories you want to hear without having to memorize our lines.

Katerina raised her head and smiled to the absent moment, and thus Elijah heard, for the first time, her declaration of love to the one he longed to meet some day: I still love your delights. I’d love to savor the sweetness of your smile once more, though you only dwell in my blurred memories, don’t you? You’ve been hiding well behind this memory game, my friend, my love. I’ve never left you. I’ve never betrayed your confidence, and never let my mind accept habits so easily, even though I enjoy living out of hiatuses. Katerina looked at Elijah, who was gazing at her in awe, and began to laugh. "You’re wondering if I’m telling you the truth, and you must be asking