My trial site : Like father like son

Like father like son

Night after night, the same dream kept on waking him up. Marcus sees himself climbing a prison wall, higher and higher; and then, suddenly, he falls and wakes up. One night, the dream is different. Marcus approaches the prison wall, but doesn't climb it. He bites his finger and writes with his blood F R E E D O M on the wall. The guards come to see what he has done and order him to cover the blood with white paint. Marcus covers letter by letter. The guards come to see what he has done and order him to cover the awful word with blue paint. Marcus covers letter by letter. The chief of the guards comes to see what he has done and orders him to take the paint out with a chisel. Marcus carves out letter by letter. The prison chief comes to see what he has done and orders him to break the wall down, so that the awful word would finally disappear. Marcus runs away through the fallen wall and doesn't wake up anymore.

Marcus remembers in his dream how, when he was good as a child, he used to get a reward that made him very happy: It was a trip to the market, so that he could look at other children and see them eat ice cream. That is how he came to believe that if he was good, he would be sad.

Bad, mad, sad, and glad were the basic feelings that combined like primary colors, to give the evanescent texture of his moments. As if born muddied and jet–lagged, Marcus filtered all his fleeting feelings and flooding moods through the prism of sadness. His perverse enjoyment of feeling sad instead of mad, sad instead of bad, and sad instead of glad was rooted, for over seventy years, in the very socket of his being. Marcus always had his sadness glasses on, and his vision and wisdom were altered accordingly. Marcus came to believe that happiness is a form of insensitivity. Knowing it, his brain constantly tried to make up for this distortion of worldview. Marcus used his fine–tuned brain to prop up his emotional horizons. He did not allow himself other moods and feelings, as long as sadness was in the way, in such an all–pervasive way.

In his dream Marcus sees a sad, mournful little man visiting a doctor in London. Seating himself in a chair in the waiting room and glumly ignoring the other patients, the little man awaits his turn. Finally, the doctor motions him into the inner office, where, after a careful examination, the man appears even more serious, sad, and miserable than ever.

"There is nothing really the matter with you," explains the doctor, "you are merely depressed. What you need is to forget your work and your worries. Go out and see a Charlie Chaplin movie and have a good laugh!" A sad look appears over the little man's face. "But I am Charlie Chaplin!" he says.

Marcus dreams this very strange world; you don't know people's real lives; all that you know is their masks; everybody is wearing these steamy, bubbling, foaming, charming, and ugly masks.

Marcus is dreaming of his only son, Aurelius, who has no poker face and no use for one. Aurelius is in his mid forties, heavy set, but unexpectedly quick and graceful in his manner; Aurelius is showing no signs of balding. His abundant, thick hair is a picturesque study of brown and virility blended with gray and experience. There is an overall summer look about him, given by his sunglasses raised high above his forehead and by the light–colored clothes he wares with nonchalance. His high forehead bespeaks intelligence, the light of his eyes emanates a Modigliani blue, and his high cheekbones give away his facial expressions like a highway billboard. From time to time a heavy cloud covers the highway billboard and Aurelius stops talking in the middle of a sentence, in the middle of a breath, in the middle of a thought, in the middle of life. After the cloud passed, if you asked him what was it that he just did, Aurelius would smile his "But life goes on" smile, and life would go on.

Marcus sees Aurelius crying on and off; he cries for all the long ago forgotten faces and places in his life. Aurelius cries for time past, and time misunderstood, for time revisited, and for some phantom moments – those times present only in his mind, because all the other participants are already long dead. Aurelius especially cries for the long–gone times of his friendship with his father, Marcus.

In his dream Marcus, the father, sees Aurelius, his son, struggling with depression and trying to enlist his once fine–tuned brain in his daily battles for dear life, just like Marcus. After a life–long effort to master intellectics, heraldics, and bombastics as opposed to hectics, calisthenics, and acrobatics; Aurelius finds that they actually end up mastering him.

Aurelius' customary skepticism and negativism turn out to be pure poison for his current state of mind. To avoid self–mutilation, and to indeed contain damage already done, he tries to be negative about negativism, to be skeptical about skepticism, and to stop feeling skeptical about being negatively affected by his customary skepticism and negativism.

Aurelius is even sad in spite of the birds, or maybe precisely because of them. Yes, there are cages containing live, singing birds in the house. Their song is intoxicating in its exquisite beauty and domesticated power, just as much as their excrements, flying feathers, and lice are intoxicating in their stench and grossness.

Marcus dreams of a mockingbird outside the house, on Mozart Street, somewhere high up above the fatherland, in their home town in Ainamor. It is a free bird famous for being able to imitate the songs of other birds. By the sound of it, the mockingbird must now be getting blue in the face from staging such a fierce combat scene, with multiple firing sequences, overflowing the fatherland with colorful lava streams of all bird songs rolling and coming and resting in one furious attack after another.

When his father died, Aurelius cried and cried...

Aurelius asked himself, "Where did he go?" Then Aurelius asked himself, "What is the 'he' that is gone?" There is an old cultural habit of thinking of people as primarily something material, as flesh and blood. As long as this habit holds, there is no solution. The oxides of his father's flesh and blood did, of course, go up the stack at the crematorium. But they weren't his father.

His father, whom Aurelius misses so so much, is not an object but a pattern, and although the pattern includes the flesh and blood of his father, that was not all there was to it. The pattern is larger than his father and himself, and relates them in ways that neither of them understands completely and of which neither of them is in complete control. Now his father's body, which is part of that larger pattern, is gone. But the larger pattern remains.

In his dream, Marcus sees his son in his writing corner.

Aurelius' writing corner gives him the power to be invisible. When he is invisible, Aurelius can turn into his father, and be his son, and turn into his son's sons. Aurelius can give and take lives at will from the invisibility that his writing corner gives him.

Why is invisibility so empowering? Invisibility implies invulnerability, just like visibility exposes vulnerability. Invisible hence indestructible. Indestructible hence powerful. Authorship gives Aurelius the power of authority, the power to bring his father back to life.

The son is thinking of his father, of his beautiful, vigilant eyes, of his powerful, cutting–edge intellect, of his ruined life and betrayed ideals, of his warmth and wisdom, of his loyalty and humor, of his love for his son.

Time has put Marcus through its flames without haste and without respite. Marcus, Aurelius' father, his childhood friend, was tall and fat, and graceful when not too slow. Old habits of the lion in the wild were still in him, if somewhat mellowed behind a sardonic smile. Marcus was neither submissive nor controlling. He lost himself in his smile with a secret but not very well hidden pride. He gave his words a special twist, as if putting a spin on a ball.

Marcus was born a slave. A Jewish boy born in Ainamor, he was born a slave. He managed to escape his fate.

Marcus aged gracefully. His abundant white hair, his blinking wet eyes, and his low, deep voice told the story of human understanding – that penetrating quality of knowledge and insight that grows from experience, theory, practice, conviction, assertion, error, and humiliation.

The son knows that his father is sad when he sees his mouth make a downward U–turn. When his life runs its course in reverse, he feels once again that the Promised Land is only another optical illusion.

There is nothing wrong with feeling sad. Marcus enjoys his sadness when it comes, and remembers that sunshine is ever sweeter when it finally beams after a rainstorm, and when it finally makes darkness visible.

Meanwhile, Marcus likes to look at his child, as Aurelius enjoys his ice cream and asks his father why he is sad. Marcus tells him not to talk with his mouth full.

In his dream, Marcus sees his son around the time Aurelius was in fifth grade. They lived on the third floor and three stories down below the courtyard was solid concrete. Aurelius is supposed to be changing clothes back to normal, after exercising. Instead, he is showing off to the kids gathered in admiration his wide shoulders, his narrow waist, his triangular torso, and – most of all – his agility, his flexibility and his far–out, as well as advanced gymnastics ability.

First Aurelius does a couple of quick forward somersaults, then a couple of quick back somersaults, and – basking in the general attention and admiration of his mates – he takes up a new challenge: To do a forward somersault, but this time landing inside the window frame, on the ledge.

As Aurelius is taking his running start toward the window, the door opens and Marcus comes in. Meanwhile, Aurelius is already high in the air and the next instant he is landing triumphantly on the window ledge. To regain his balance, he needs just a little support from the window itself.

As he is pushing gently against the window, something unexpected happens. The left and the right parts of the window, which seemed shut tight, start moving apart with a squeal of bad omen. Everybody stops breathing and Marcus already pictures, in a split second, Aurelius' fine body splattered all over the concrete yard three floors bellow. Marcus' face gets redder and redder from the neck up, and the children are afraid to guess whose blood will be first to burst, the father's or the son's.

As the window is opening, getting ready to let Aurelius fly through, a miracle happens. The two hooks, meant to prevent the window from banging in the wind, find their anchoring places and stop the window from opening any farther. Aurelius safely catches his balance and he is already off the windowsill. His father's eyes fill up with foggy moisture and he hugs Aurelius and pulls him hard by the ear. Everybody starts breathing again, and screaming, and touching Aurelius' sleeves.

Marcus wakes up briefly and starts thinking.

There is uncertainty in any human encounter. It takes a tangled web of sin and benefaction to convert it into the certainty of failure or success. It doesn't matter whose fault it is. A relationship is the repetitive pattern of faults and somersaults that occur in it.

Some people believe that if they photocopy a paper, it means that they have read it; if they buy a book, they have acquired the knowledge in it; if they yellow out a paragraph, it means that they have understood it; if they roll lucky dice, they played the game well.

Aurelius believes that if he has written about it, he has lived it. Afraid of being what he already is, Aurelius sets himself tighter and taller hoops to jump through. When his repeatedly over–stimulated response reflexes refuse to rise to the occasion, his soul sinks into the molasses of self–doubt and rationalization. This roller–coaster of dream and reality, hope and despair, fact and fiction, and promise and performance brings just as much fear of success as fear of failure. In short, Aurelius is afraid to change, afraid to be himself, Aurelius is afraid.

In our times, successful behavior is equated with achievement of goals – just like photocopying an article is equated with reading it; buying a book, with acquiring the knowledge in it; yellowing out a paragraph, with understanding it; rolling lucky dice, with playing the game well. Instant gratification is the motivation for this sort of seemingly successful behavior; and, of course, promises easily made are easily broken.

Wise behavior, on the other hand, is concerned with selecting and pursuing only goals worth achieving. Under the tree of wisdom, we can only be humble servants. Marcus felt a genetic responsibility to serve this master. Marcus felt long ago a calling to teach and a calling to write. It is well–known that a teacher/father has a chance to affect eternity, and that writing a book is a material incarnation of freedom. So, freedom and eternity asked Marcus for a date under the tree of wisdom. How could he refuse? How in the world could Aurelius ever manage to think of his father in a non–judgmental way? Maybe there is nothing wrong with his judgmentalism. Maybe it is just that his judgments are wrong.

Marcus is asleep again, and the dream returns to his son.

The son is thinking of his father. Almost thirty years ago, Aurelius, the son, ran away from home. He wanted to escape – or, maybe, to find? – his own life–path and to become a writer. A week later, famished and unwashed, Aurelius returned home in the middle of the night. His father was there for him.

After the father fixed his son a midnight supper, shared some drinks with him, and told him the story of the return of the prodigal son, father and son talked about the insights they gained in the last week. Marcus said, "I always knew you would return without having done anything irreversibly stupid." "Sorry dad. I am sorry to have caused you all these worries," Aurelius responded. “So, you do have the feeling of belonging?" Marcus asked. “Dad, what are you talking about? My biggest sin ever is non–commitment, it is the sin of not allowing any religion or belief system to engulf and to own me, it is the sin of not belonging so that I cannot rightfully be judged as sinner against any divine command or against human justice – in short, so that my sins and virtues become indistinguishable, so that pleasure–seeking and pain–avoidance become only a matter of telling which is which.” “We all have a halo around our head – an aura, my son. When these haloes intersect, you get the feeling of belonging. Like father like son."

The family resemblance between father and son is unmistakable, it's the differences that are harder to grasp. “What’s the difference between explaining and rationalizing?" asked the son. “Your opinion or mine?" answered the father. “I think you explain for somebody else, but you rationalize for yourself," said the son. “I think it's the other way around" smiled the father. The grown up son started crying. “Shut up!" explained the father.

Turning in his sleep, Marcus still sees his son, Aurelius.

Aurelius tells Marcus about his summer vacation, when he was fifteen years old, at Marcus' parents house in their hometown in Ainamor.

It is cleaning–up day at their house. Babarum, a cleaning lady with enough dignity to out–stiff–upper–lip an entire royal family, is doing the main work. She brought along her niece, Aphrodite, to help her clean the house and to help her exhale dignity with every breath. Aphrodite is about fourteen, and, while working reveals so many parts of a girl's body that Aurelius has never seen before, that the buttons of his old–fashioned fly are almost popping out one–by–one. "I guess not even massive doses of royal dignity can get in the way of a teenager's erection", Marcus said. Aurelius told him that he approached Aphrodite at the first auspicious moment, with unmistakable intentions, and that she didn't seem to want to...

Marcus is dreaming of Aurelius talking to Aphrodite.

We shall live far away, either on mountain tops, or on the shores of the Emerald Sea, in a flowers' green house like heat, where the habit of savage nudity shall take roots by itself, all alone without servants, without ever seeing anybody else, together in an eternal child's world, which in itself shall irreversibly kill off shame for ever; all this in a vividly delightful mood, knottiness, morning kisses, long in leaving the shared bed, the big lip, crying over four shoulder blades, cracking up laughing between four legs, in the sweet union of the premeditated with the chanced, while delighting in his inner warmth, in her surprise, in how exquisite passions shall long remain to her just the alphabet of innocent nicety, just post card pictures of a hand held giant, of a magic forest, of a treasures bag and the funny touching of the toy with its familiar, never boring taste.

But life goes on. Aurelius avoided looking at Aphrodite while cleaning the birdcages. Yes, in that house, there were cages containing live, singing birds. Their song was intoxicating in its exquisite beauty and domesticated power, just as much as their excrements, flying feathers, and lice were intoxicating in their stench and grossness.

A writer's lion is lucky. He dies every morning. At night, every cat looks like a lion. Aphrodite cries when the lion dies. There are no flowers when the lion dies. They bury him under white snow instead. And there are no blue shadows when the lion dies. The writer is there, but not under the snow. That is his lion they bury under the snow. He was a poor lion, worker of the mind. What winter, what year was he put to rest? Time is passing without hurry, without respite. They bury him in a simple place, where the road to town pushes nature aside.

Ever since, all streets in their hometown persistently pushed him toward the train station. He left. He left town without his lion.

Now, at this magic late hour of the ghosts, father and son are both together. Marcus is masterful and subtle. He is wide–eyed and able to bend his thumbs upwards to a position perfectly perpendicular to his wrist. His eagle–beak nose stands watch over the world spinning beneath them. Father and son are striding purposefully while holding hands. They laugh remembering the train conductor looking at them looking at the signature...

The son is thinking of his father. Marcus used to show his love and approval of Aurelius by gently kicking his chin up. One time he miscalculated and Aurelius ended up biting his tongue. Marcus was truly sorry.

The son is thinking of his father. Marcus knows how to give a reprimand. Unlike Aurelius' mother, who yells and screams until Aurelius is convinced that he did nothing wrong (but instead that she indeed is the one to blame), Marcus speaks softly carrying big impact, and Aurelius suddenly realizes that he did do something wrong, and loves his father even more for teaching him how to know better.

The son is thinking of his father. Marcus has never been truly accepted anywhere. Maybe in death he will finally come home.

The son is thinking of his father . . .

The Emerald Sea is the master and she has many slaves. The Sun gives a bitter–salty taste to the air by baking her waves. The Sea and the Sun are bright and playful – their magnetic forces entice and repel, propel and glue around the beaches, seduce and burn–mark slaves and worshippers with standing orders to roast, bake and shake, and with the promise of fun, sex and adventure. The Emerald Sea and the Sun make men out of boys and women out of girls, and even the other way around, faster than suntans begin to hurt. The Emerald Sea and the Sun put all of them: Man, women, boys, girls, dogs, birds and tourists, through their waves and flames without haste and without respite. All mortals presently here know full well that in the long run they will get their right, and all do what they can meanwhile, in this Kingdom by the Sea, so that swinging at life would seem noisy, foamy, fulfilling, refreshing and therefore worthwhile at least in the short run.

The Kingdom by the Sea is a small dictatorship called Ainamor.

Marcus begins each day by telling himself, in the time honored tradition of his name sake, Marcus Aurelius, the ancient emperor of Rome: "Today I shall be meeting with interference, ingratitude, insolence, disloyalty, ill–will, and selfishness – all of them due to the offenders' ignorance of what is good or evil. But for my part I have long perceived the nature of good and its nobility, the nature of evil and its meanness, and also the nature of the culprit himself, who is my brother (not in the physical sense, but as fellow–creature similarly endowed with reason and a share of the divine); therefore none of those things can injure me, for nobody can implicate me in what is degrading. Neither can I be angry with my brother or fall foul of him; for he and I were born to work together, like a man's two hands, feet, or eyelids, or like the upper and lower rows of his teeth. To obstruct each other is against Nature's law – and what is irritation or aversion but a form of obstruction?"

Father and son are traveling by train, going home to Ainamor from Corpusrectum by the Emerald Sea, where they spend an enjoyable summer vacation. They are sitting comfortably in a first class cabin, sharing drinks, food and smokes with their neighbors, a few high–ranked, well–fed military men who are getting slowly drunk by the traditional military method of "hurry up and wait". The train conductor comes in to see the tickets. Father pulls out the two tickets issued way in advance by the Ainamor Ministry of Tourism and hands them over. The conductor takes a good look at them, takes a second longer look, sniffs them, and explodes vehemently: “These tickets are not valid. You are supposed to have signed them before boarding the train." Marcus pulls out a pen from the inside pocket of his travel jacket and riches for the tickets. "No, no, no" jumps up the train conductor. "These tickets are not valid. You should have signed them before boarding the train." Marcus looks at him in disbelief, and says: "Let me see. Where should I have signed?" The train conductor gives him the tickets and points to the bottom right side. Marcus takes the tickets, almost sticks them in his own eyes and says: "I see clearly my signature here. What do you think?" and hands the tickets to the military man sitting closest to him. One by one, the military men confirm that they see his signature loud and clear. The train conductor leaves in bewilderment, mumbling to himself: "They are all crazy, the whole bunch of them. Sun burned nuts, fruits and vegetables."

The son stood up in silence to salute his father. In his mind's eye, the son caught a glimpse of thousands of years of ancestors. He stood up in silence to salute them. They looked like bones in the rib cage, loosely connected like notes on a piano wire. He stood up in silence to salute them. The son was crying to himself: "My father is dead. My father, oh my dear father. His rib cage has been pried open and a surgical wire loosely connected his bones. He told me his rib cage was loose like notes on a piano. Good–bye, my dear father. Your last song – your swan song – had to be done on your rib cage. I stand up in silence and salute you."

Marcus was a poor man, worker of the mind. What winter, what year was he put to rest? Time is passing without hurry, without respite. They buried him in a simple place, where the road to town pushes nature aside. Near the cemetery, somewhere high up above the fatherland, there is a mockingbird. It is a free bird and it is famous for being able to imitate the songs of other birds. By the sound of it, the mockingbird must now be getting blue in the face from staging such a fierce combat scene, with multiple firing sequences, overflowing the cemetery with colorful lava streams of all bird songs rolling and coming and resting in one furious attack after another.

Night after night, the same dream keeps on waking him up. Aurelius sees himself climbing a prison wall, higher and higher; and then, suddenly, he falls and wakes up.