Wednesday, August 05, 2009

The case of the Bengal Tiger

The Atlas of Curiosities: Part 31

He was a man of about 35, slight, wearing glasses, speaking in English heavily accented by his native German.  He demeanor was downtrodden and timid.  He had dark rings under his eyes revealing that he hardly slept, and he struggled to maintain eye contact during conversation.

“There it is again!” he whispered.

“There what is?” we asked.

“The Bengal tiger!” he said. “It has never stopped following me.”

We glanced around the room.  There was nothing of the sort in this room, which was a parlor dedicated to polite gatherings and light dining.  Guests milled about, chatting and laughing.  There was a mild growl of conversation, and a light twinkling of glasses, but as for Bengal Tigers, precisely none.

“Where is it?” we asked him.

“It hides among crowds,” he told us.  “Its camouflage is flawless.  It is as cunning as it is cruel.  Whenever I leave my house, it stalks me.”

Fascinating.  “How long has it pursued you?” we asked him.

“It has been after me since I came of age,” he said. He began to act increasingly agitated, glancing around the room and shifting his weight from one foot to the other. “Though, when I was young I could not identify it.  It was a beast of some sort, of that I was sure.  It haunted me so menacingly that its form became ever more apparent with each sighting, until eventually I was able to identify it. It is the Bengal Tiger Panthera tigris tigris, native to India and Bangladesh.”

We asked him how he had discovered this classification, and he told us that he scoured through an illustrated book of natural history at a state library.  Only then could he make a firm identification.

“There are strategies for dealing with Bengal Tigers,” he said, still visibly fearful.  “The natives of the Hindu Kush fashion masks which they wear backwards on their heads. The beast will not pounce headlong onto its prey, so it waits in vain for a chance to attack from the back.”

He motioned for us to come nearer.  He was whispering now. From inside his jacket he pulled a crude mask with an elastic band affixed to either side.

“I bring this with me when I go to places I know will have people.  It looks nothing like me, but it keeps the tiger at bay.”

With that, he excused himself and ducked out of the room, moving quickly down the hall, looking as if he were legitimately being pursued.

“Is he mad?” we asked our host.

“No more so than you or I,” our host said.  “Though perhaps his vision is slightly clearer.”

A remembered tale regarding a tornado

The Atlas of Curiosities: Part 30

“Well at that time I was so young,” she told us.  She looked off into the distance.  “At that time I was so young.”

“In those days of course it was a big thing to have a supermarket in town.  I mean the type of place that would have all the food.  And we were just changing, back then, to go to the market once a week, or two times a week instead of every day.  It was about that same time that my father got himself a brand new car which was a long Chevy with white wheel wells that he used to make us kids clean.  And if we ever played around it or managed to make it dirty we knew we were really in for it. 

It was just becoming easier to take the car out and fill it up with food for the week rather than going back day after day.

And so we piled into the car one week, it was me and my two sisters and my older brother and my mother and my father.  In those day it was common for us to all go together to do things like this.

And of course it was so hot.  It was August after all.  And you know how the weather is out here when it’s hot. It was the sort of day when you could just feel a storm coming.  But we knew that feeling.  We were used to it, so we piled inot the car anyway.

And we got to the super market.  And my father was going up and down the aisles with my mother and choosing the food for the week and we kids were bringing back candy or cookies or whatever we wanted to have and we would try to sneak it into the cart when our parents weren’t looking.  And bit by bit outside it grew darker and darker.

And before long I looked out the window and I saw that the wind had really picked up and there were branches and leaves and things flying past the big windows out front and I pulled on my mothers skirt and I said ‘Momma don’t you think we should hide?  Shouldn’t we hide?’  I was really scared, because I hadn’t seen clouds like that and wind like that before.  But she told me don’t be silly.

Well we kept on like that but before long it was so dark outside and sure enough the manager of the store came on the intercom and said there’s a tornado in the area, and there has been a warning declared.  And so the manager ordered all us shoppers into the back room of the store there where the offices were. 

It not being a established store there wasn’t anything in there except for a small light and about 20 of us shoppers. We huddled in there and it was hot and it was dark except for this one swinging lightbulb.  And my father kept grumbling under his breath like “That car better not have a scratch on it when I get outta here.”

I remember my brother had this big smile on his face like he was about to have his birthday or something.  And it was odd to me because I knew he was sacred just like the rest of us but he just kept on similing.  And he smiled on and on as the noise outside got louder and louder.  Weirdest thing.  And he smiled even when the room started to shake.  And there was a noise like a car was ebing ripped right in half, and the roof came off where we were.

“The roof came off?” we asked her.

“Striaght off,” she said.

And up there in the sky was all this rain and cloud and lighting and thunder adn it was as if God himself was lookign down at us all angry.  And just like that, the wind left that little room, and wouldn’t you know it, it riped the clothes clean off our bodies.”

“No.” we said.

“Yes.” she said.  “And if you’ll listen to this—It ripped the clothes clean off.  You hear of things ike this.  Of a tornado leaving a chicken with no feathers.  Well there we were a bunch of chickens with no feathers.  It was maybe 20 seconds after that that the storm passed on.  They end just as suddenly as they begin.  We were all stunned, and we were trying to get ourselves all covered up, but we knew we had to get out of there as a first step, since the wind had blown everything all around. And so the manager of the store he unlocks the door to where we are and we exit out of that little room.  and we walk out into where the store had been, and there was hardly anything left.  everyhtign was gone.  and we wandered out and I remember my father looked out to where his car had been, and it was gone. It was just plain gone.

And we were all looking around ourselves at all the nothing that had used to be something.  And all of a sudden it started raining food.

“Raining food?”

“Raining food.  It all started falling down what had been sucked up into the sky by the storm.  I stil remember apples and bananas and loaves of bread all starting falling around us.  And we all just looked at each other.  And I looked over at my brother, and he was still smiling.  And I just remember him looking around, and there was this deadening silence.  Because for the first time we had been revealed, you know, for what we were.  Chickens with no feathers, you know.  And there were no rich people or poor people or adults or children and it was raining, I mean it was actually raining food.  And you know what my brohter said?”

“What?”

“He said, “It’s the Garden of Eden.”  He said it softly at first and then he shouted it.  And the noise of him shouting that was enough to rouse my father out of his stupor, I suppose, because he walked over to where his car had been, with the white wall wheels, and he took a look across the parking lot and he saw it, and saw that it was completely smashed.  And there was my brother running around naked looking at all this food, laughing and shouting like it was his birthday or something.  Fresh food from all over the planet, you know.  And it really was miraculous, I’ll never forget it, standing there and realizing how much food there was.  There was no way we could ever have eaten it all.  It was the lowest moment of our lives, in some ways, because town was completely wrecked, but there we were and we the whole ground was covered with good things to eat.

Well, my father took a look at his car and he heard my brother hollering about the garden of Eden.  And he walked right over to my brother, and my father, who was still stark naked, hit my brother across the face.  He smaked him full on in the face and he said “You’re acting like a lunatic. Stop that!  Can’t you see that everything is ruined?  You’re acting like a lunatic.”

And the smack, you know, that noise, that brought he rest of us out of it a little bit.  And my mother began gathering rags to cover us.  And my father went to call an insurance man about the car but of course the phone was out.  And the manager of the store went around gathering up the food.  Gathering up all that food that had rained from the sky.  He thought it was his.  He really did.”

Saturday, August 01, 2009

The unbelievable occurance before sunset in Istanbul

The Atlas of Curiosities: Part 27

In Istanbul, we went to the zikr of the Mevlevi Sema, the whirling dervishes. The room was dimly lit by lamps in the corner, and the last light of the day came in through an old circular window with no pane high up on the western wall.

A group of musicians was playing.  They sat in a line under the window, and there was dust in the air between where we sat and where they were.  There were drums, stringed instruments, and the reed flute.

The dancers walked out one by one.  They were like solitary towers.  Their heads, bowed slightly, were crowned by tall cylindrical hats, their robes hung heavily from their shoulders to the floor.

The dancers stood in a line.  Now instead of towers they seemed to be cypress trees lined up one next to the other, swaying only slightly to the music as if being moved by a breeze.

In the center of the room was a fur mat.  It was a place reserved for the groups’ sheikh.

As the dance began, each dervish walked slowly to stand before this mat, bowed solemnly, then ever so slowly began to spin. 

Our host looked vaguely concerned, and we asked why.

“The dance is arranged like the solar system,” our host said, “and the sheikh stands in the middle as the Sun.  The dancers move around this axis even as they spin.

“There is no Sun here,” we whispered.

“I know,” said our host.  “We will have to watch.”

The dancers were all moving now, their heads were angled slightly to the side, their eyes shut in what seemed to be peaceful but fierce concentration.  Their feet lifted in unison lightly sweeping in a circle before being placed down again onto the old wooden floor.

The robes of the dancers flew out in flurries, they wobbled in the air, they seemed almost buoyant, and then as if in a mirage, we watched as the dancers’ feet lost contact with the floor.

We gasped.

One by one the dancers lost contact with the surface upon which they were dancing.  They lifted into the air.  Still spinning, they flew around the room.

Even as the musicians played, undeterred, the dancers flew to the upper reaches of the ceiling, obscured by the dust and becoming silhouetted against the light of the old circular window.

We stood.  We put our hands to our faces.  We looked around the room.  And as we stepped forward, the dancers departed, one by one, gracefully out the window. 

We ran out of that place and over cobblestone streets. Our host led us down the road and to a hill overlooking the massive dome of the Blue mosque.  It was now past sunset, and the minarets were lit by spotlights.

As we looked closer, we could see swirling lines of white spinning around and around the minarets.  Now dipping, now rising, they drew delicate and elaborate lines around the ancient architecture.  We strained to see the dancers flying in the distance. We were out of breath. 

“Those are seagulls,” our host said.

“What did we just see?” we asked.

Our host sat down on a park bench, still watching the birds spinning around the mosque.

Wednesday, July 29, 2009

The circle game in the large field of sand

The Atlas of Curiosities: Part 26

In the slums of Mumbai was a large plain of sand which was the playground for several hundred children.  Given the politics of the place, and its economic organization, they had divided themselves into specific roles, and had arrayed themselves out from the center plot of earth.  We stood on a pile of ruble and tried to make sense of the game they were playing.

At the center, our host told us, “is what these children all believe is the finest ground on which to play. So the nearest to the center are the children of privilege, whose lot it is to stand round this space in a circle.”

“Beyond them,” our host went on, “Is a class of children who have been asked by the first group to protect their territory.  These are the larger, stronger children, who are bold enough to fight their weaker friends.”

We looked, and indeed, two concentric circles of outward facing children seemed to be at the center of the game.

“Outside of these are industrious children who engage in projects in the sand, hoping to impress their way through these two circles to the Eden beyond.  And there, see the youngest and the ill-witted, helping them in their labors.”

We stopped our host’s explanation.

“What is so special about that center ground?” we asked.

“Come and see,” our host told us.

We walked out into the field among the children.  Hundreds of glassy dark eyes followed us in our progress. 

Soon there was shouting.

“They don’t want us to walk any further,” our host said. “They are wildly envious.”

A few bits of dirt flew past us.  Our host opened an umbrella and positioned it to block the onslaught.

“We are upsetting their order,” our host told us, “but don’t worry, we will leave quickly.”

We moved through the area designated for the lowest ranking children, who, until our intrusion, had been working busily on sand castles of this type or that type.  Now they were watching angrily as we marched towards the center of the plain.

“Stay here for a moment,” said our host as we approached the second ring of children.  These were slightly taller than those we had passed earlier, slightly menacing in appearance.  Some carried sticks. 

Our host waved us forward.

As we approached, a group of these little sergeants gathered to halt our progress, but our host, with a wave of his hand, made it clear we were not a part of their game.  Completely ignored, they stood aside, unsure of whether their role actually necessitated the infliction of violence.

Seeing an opportunity, one of the children from the fringes of the field followed us at a mad dash.  Her eyes were wide and frantic, and she bowled headlong into the territory controlled by the menacing children we had just passed.

“Don’t look back,” said our host. 

We did not, but we heard a series of dull thuds and the most pitiable wail.

“What is in the center of this circle?” we asked our host. “Jewels, sweets, delights? What sort of machination could make such young human beings act in this fashion.

“Come and see,” our host said.  We walked further, passing row upon row of children who silently watched us as we passed by.  They were seeming idlers, and were not involved in any obvious activity.

“And now,” our host said, “the most inner circle.”

Here were the most privileged of children, who by either by birth or by luck or wit had been stationed at the center of this sandy field as rulers of the game.

“Good day,” our host said to them. 

“Good day,” we added.

“Good day,” they said.  “What are you doing here?”

“We have come to see the center of your game,” we said.  “We understand that this patch of ground is the most prized in the entire field, and we have seen how the children on the outside toil to catch a glimpse of it.  We have also seen the ferocity of your guards.  We would like to see what they are protecting.”

“Mmm,” said one.  “I am not sure what to tell you.”

“Do you know?” he said to another.  The second child shrugged. 

“Notice how they stand,” our host said, taking us aside briefly.  “None of them face the center of the circle. They are so concerned with maintaining their prestige in this place that they do not play.”

“We must see this land,” we said.

We strode past the outward facing circle of small tyrants and entered the circle of the sandy field.  We stood for a moment, shaking our heads, looking at what surrounded us.

“What did you see?” our host asked us as we made our way back to the outskirts of the game.

“More sand,” we said.  “More sand.”

Wednesday, July 22, 2009

The fire which was made from that which we held dear

The Atlas of Curiosities: Part 25

“We have found,” they said, “that so-called-truth doesn’t play well in our markets.”

“Ideally,” they said, “we’d wipe it off the map, erase it, denigrate it. Make it laughable,” they said.  “you know.”

“Hmm,” we told them.

“We are endeavoring to create synergies between our aims and the necessary ideals,” they said.  “Notions of getting, having, and wanting,” they said. “This is what fuels our economy.”

“So this explains what we are seeing?” we asked them.  We stepped back from the fire. It was too hot.  Our front halves were sweating while the backs of us were cool.

“Precisely.” They told us.  They pronounced each syllable.  Pree-sise-lee.

We looked more closely at what we were seeing even as we continued our retreat from the flames.  The wisdom of the ages written in languages that no one spoke anymore.  It was 10,000 years of agriculture, and it was burning.

“All seeds?” we asked.

“Ideally,” they said.  “this would be the most efficient way to proceed.  Unfortunately seeds do not burn well.  They have adapted over the ages to resist fire. 

“Go figure,” they said.

“Right,” we replied.  “So what makes up the kindling?”

“Books mostly,” they replied.  “texts.  You know, ancient things.  Tired things.”

“Among them?”

“The Holy Qur’an burns like lightning,” they told us. “Native translations of the Bible.  Transcriptions of oral history.  When a book has been read over and over again for generations, the burnings is all the more satisfying.  All the more…”

They paused slightly.

“Profitable.” they concluded.

The fire was high.  And hot.  We stood back.  Their silhouettes danced in a beautiful way.  As they did not step back, they did not see what we saw.  The beautiful shadows they cast as their burnt what was old in order to mint what was new.

“Lovely isn’t it?” our host said.

“Lovely?” we said.  We had a wry sense of the ironic.

“Lovely,” our host said.  “Learn to love it,” our host told us.  “This has always been true.  It is all that there is.”

Sunday, July 12, 2009

A brief encounter with a madman in a bus station

The Atlas of Curiosities: Part 24

In Switzerland we were fortuitously taken in by an old woman who agreed to be our host and show us to the bus station.  She was telling us her life story, a long and somewhat tiresome tale of lost love which she believed, after all of this time to be not only requited but an essential part of her existence.

Arriving at the station, we were encountered by a man with wild hair who asked us if we had change to spare for a bus out of the area.  His appearance was not socially impressive; his clothes were ratty and a stench hung in the air around him that would have offended those with constitutions weaker than our own.

When we were able to produce the change, he sat down on a bench and proceeded to ramble on about something which sounded strange to our ears.

“Particles, right?” he said. “Particles, that are tiny tiny tiny.  Quarks.  They have spin.  It’s observable, I mean, you can measure what the spin of one of these things is.  It isn’t hard to do, with the right equipment.  We found out that at that level, that tiny tiny tiny level, there exists this property of entanglement, which basically says…”
The man lit his cigarette.
“Which basically says that there can exists two particles, and no matter what distance the two of them put between each other, they will have opposite spins.  So take particle one, and take particle two, and separate them by 1 million light years.  If you have one particle with you in a lab, and you measure its spin, you can be sure of the spin of the other particle, even though it is literally worlds away.”

“What is this you are talking about?” we asked him. We perceived him to be insane, so rapid was the onslaught of the torrent of words. He read our expression, and shrugged.

“It is madness,” he said. “It is magic.  It is nonsense, I mean.”

“It’s also true,” our host said.

The man turned his head sharply towards our host. “Yes!” he said.  “True!  Talk about fairy tales and magic and all that shit until you’re blue in the face.  It’s all true.  It’s our instinct, right?  We know it is true even though we can’t see it! Go big enough or small enough and there exist other worlds where all of these things are true.  The only problem is that in this world, in our world we are blind, and we can’t see it working on the human scale. It doesn’t mean it isn’t there.  We’re trapped in our own bodies and our own size and we can’t see anything for what it really is.  Do you have any idea how intricate and massive the universe is?  No!  You don’t!  You know just enough to know that you know nothing.  Call it perspective. Damning perspective.”

The bus arrived the man tossed his cigarette, got on the bus, and left.

“Interesting,” we said. We went about our business.  We checked schedules.

The appearence and disappearence of the Kankouran

The Atlas of Curiosities: Part 23

Ethiouar village, we were told, was usually not so boisterous.  It was mid morning, and while there was quite a bit of noise coming from down the hill we noticed that in the crowd a certain demographic was conspicuously absent.  Women, small children, girls and old men were gathered, but the pubescent males were not; we were told this was intentional as these young men were initiates, and were staying inside their huts in order to receive what was supposedly a harrowing visit from the Kankouran.  An elder, who had agreed to be our host, was particularly agitated, as his own son was among those set to receive the spirit. 

“My son is so odd,” our host said, “and I fear that the spirit will overwhelm him.  Each young man must let the Kankouran come, or we will all be in danger.”

The Kankouran is a certain devil, called out of the forest by an elder, who, it is said, but give up a leg and an eye to enter their lair.  The sacrifice is necessary, however, as without a visit from these devils the village would not prosper in the coming year, and the boys would not grow into men.

The spirit emerged then, from the forest, and the crowd scattered.  We watched from a distance as the leafy beast, covered entirely in foilage entered one hut and then the next, whipping the initiates with a switch.  Entering a hut near to us, we heard a shout and a scuffle, the swoosh of a whip, followed by cry of fear, and anguish.

“My son!” shouted our host, and he watched with his face twisted in fear as the hut became eerily silent.

The village became hushed and all eyes turned to the hut where our host’s son had been waiting.

Suddenly, a wind came up, and a great number of green leaves blew out of the hut and into the air.  Traveling like a river, the leaves left the vilage and flew towards the forest.  Our host rushed into the hut.  Inside, we beheld a boy, not more than 13 years old, with a thin cut across his face sitting in a pile of leaves.  He was catatonic, and did not blink as our host waved a hand in front of his face.

Our host left the hut and returned to the hill on which we had been seated earlier as a great commotion rose from around the village.  It became clear that the Kankouran had vanished, which apparently, had never happened before.  A mixture of fear, shock, grief, and curiosity gripped the village.

Worried, we asked our host what had become of his son and of the Kankouran.

“I am not sure,” our host said.  “In these days, nothing is as it used to be.”

The dark night and the light that was unexpected

The Atlas of Curiosities: Part 22

The night was dark.  Indeed, there was not a single star in the sky. We wandered along a dirt road, without a sense of which direction would lead us to our shelter for the night.  Every noise was caused a deep fear to seize our chests, and turn our heads.

It would not be correct to say that we were close to ceasing in our efforts, or even that we were on the brink of collapse.  We do not know what it would be to utterly concede, and we do not know what it would be to see our vision of the world fade.  And yet, during that dark night, we felt as if another light, an internal light, had begun to fade.

As our footsteps were all that remained sedentary during that time, we listened to their plodding advance, taking comfort in their regularity.

Quite suddenly, and as if it was imagined, a dim light cut through the tangle of trees and presented itself to our eyes.

As we drew closer, we could see the light was leaving the window of a small cabin, not far off the road we were travelling.

We ran to it, envisioning a warm hearth and hot a meal.  A bed to rest our legs, or at the very least, a safe place for the night.

Arriving at the door, however, and with the cold wind at our backs, we reached no reply to our repeated knocking at the door.  Finally, and in what we will admit was desperation, we opened the door without permission.

Inside, we found no furniture. No light, no fire.  There was no food, no water, no warm place to sleep.  There were no amenities whatsoever.  What we found was a small wooden space alive with the light of ten thousand fireflies.  Spinning and turning in that dark night, when we had thought that we were alone.

Tuesday, July 07, 2009

Mr. Giovanni Estephani

The Atlas of Curiosities: Part 21

Walking through Seattle’s Pioneer Square we sat on a bench momentarily to rest.  As we did, an odd light set down on the place where we were as light then light had become papery and golden.  A flock of pigeons flew from over our shoulders to the area around our feet and from behind us a voice spoke out:

“Have a good week.”

The birds skipped and moved towards some scraps or seeds and we heard:

“Have a good week.”

Turning around now we saw people walking past on the sidewalk lining the square.  On the phone or in a rush they did not look down at the voice that said:

“Have a good week.”

As stunned as we were by the change in atmosphere that was brought by the development of the light into a golden glow, we took pity on the man there as again he said:

“Have a good week”

and again he was ignored.  we resolved that the next time he spoke he would have an answer, from us.

“Have a good week,” he said, to a passerby, and we said, “You too.”

He did not turn or acknowledge us, but when he again said “Have a good week,” we replied again “You too.”

His voice and my own became entwined then, like a heart beat, or the steady breath of an athlete, there could be no rising action without a return to earth.

“Have a good week.”
“You too.”
“Have a good week.”
“You too.”
“Have a good week.”
“....what is your name sir?”

We had been ignored by so many people over such a long period of time that we broke the spell, asking the man his name.

“I am Giovanni Estephani,” he said.  “The name is Italian.”

He was slouched on the bench, dressed in an old army jacket and covered in buttons and pins.  Around his neck were nylon lanyards holding up stuffed animals, a bear and a rabbit, both heavily soiled. He wore two hats, with a baseball brim riding on top of a knit cap that had “USA” embroidered on the front.  He had a long beard and dark, scraggly hair.  His hand were covered in three quarter length gloves that were black and were worn as much as his flesh itself. He wore thick glasses and spoke in an every so slightly slurred manner.

“I was a preacher,” he said.

“No kidding,” we said.

“Yes.”

He told me how he had left the church, how it had led too many people astray.  He told me about Jesus and about feeding the hungry, and he said that at his former church it was required that the homeless hear a sermon before they were fed.

“And so I left,” he said.

“And now I wander,” he said.

As he was a preacher, and as it had been some time since we had encountered a man of god, we endeavored to seek guidance from this Mr. Giovanni. “Mr. Giovanni,” we asked, “Where do you find God now?  Now that you do not lead your church anymore?”

“God is right here,” he said, “Everything about God is right here on this street. Don’t forget that, and you won’t forget anything.  God is right here on this street. This is your church.”

We sat in silence. Turned as we were to look at Mr. Giovanni, we could hear only softly the cooing of the pigeons behind us.

“Have a nice week,” Mr. Giovanni said, as a man rushed by, paying him no attention.

“Have a nice week,” we said.  we began to get up, when we remembered our charge to write what we had seen. 

“Mr. Giovanni,” we said.  “Can we record your picture?”  He agreed.  We committed his likeness to paper. We stood, and we began to leave.

“Can you spare a few dollars?” he asked us.  “For a cup of coffee?”

In which two hawks are held by their talons in the desert

The Atlas of Curiosities: Part 20

When we saw her she was far away from anyone else, out where the wind turned the sand into pieces of burning sky.  She was alone, and in her hands she held two hawks, which struggled only lightly, and opened and shut their eyes as if trying to rouse themselves from a mirage.

She beckoned towards us, holding out the hawks, but we were slow to approach her.

We grew curious, wondering what would happen if she released the birds’ talons and allowed them to move freely.  As we wondered this, she did, and the raptors lay still on her palms as if asleep in malarial haze.