The Write Thing

North of Brazil – 11.30 pm of Thanksgiving Thursday

No simple tourist camera could do justice to a deserted beach at night. A wooden deck acted as a pier of sorts where I sat down to contemplate a dark sheltering sky, intermittently lit by a multitude of stars. There was a half moon and lukewarm port lights presiding over a sprinkled sea of tiny fishing boats. The breeze was soft, perfect to accompany the dazed thoughts of my tired mind after an early morning flight…and thus began my first stop on a Brazilian beach ever.

In this dreamlike scenery, it was almost inevitable not to yield to the charm of the sea. It was as if its vast overpowering presence suddenly revealed some of its secrets, as if its mystery could become clear right there before me. I enjoyed the delusion, and could not help feeling a curious empathy for those who choose death at sea. Take Storni or Woolf, for example. I do not know Storni that well, but Woolf and her river Ouse are somewhat closer in their pathos and their fate. True, Woolf’s choice was in a way more modest, but still open enough for the arbitrary categories I came up with as I sat there, contemplating the vastness of a Caribbean Atlantic.

Yes, why not playing with the idea that by choosing your death you agree to categorize yourself, or you are perhaps simply exposed to being categorized? I would see two main options – death by expansion or death by restriction – the latter being a preferred pick of those that would kill themselves by gas inhalation in the kitchen or car fumes in a garage. In a way, if choices in life make us, so why not our choice of death? As I write this now on a small balcony overlooking a swimming pool from which loud exchanges in Portuguese and heavy laughter rise up to distract my otherwise lazy state of mind, I realize that a pool would not make it to the first category….no, sir. It would be death by restriction.
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My dearest Geisha and Miss F had the kindness of proposing this little game by which, if I understood the rules correctly, involves opening three books at hand and quoting line 5 on page 161 in each. Oddly enough, because I am temporarily staying in foreign territory, my availability of books is limited. However, I do have three — four, if I consider a Grammar of Usage in English, but I will not quote that one.

Here I go:

Paris Stories by Mavis Gallant: Lydia poured Speck’s tea in an offhand manner he found wounding.

The Portable Hawthorne by Malcolm Cowley: “Remain in the arbor,” whispered the sculptor to the figure that leaned upon his arm. “You will know whether, and when, to make your appearance.”

Los hombres que no amaban a las mujeres by Stieg Larsson: “Dediqué los primeros veinticinco o treinta años de mi vida a disculpar y perdonar a gente como Harald porque éramos familia.”

Now, given that many of my readers and read ones have already taken part in this game, I am afraid I do not have as many options as I would like to. However, I’ll take my chances. The ball now is passed to:

Lola
Flash-me
Erica

…and all of those who would like to join in. Sorry I was short of candidates. It may be the late hour here, or simply that some of my candidates have already been proposed this little dalliance with books. Anyway, if those appointed have already been approached, I apologize for my belated arrival. Otherwise, please enjoy…

Suppose you believe that there are stories that have shaped our souls in previous times. Suppose that we are a collection of those stories, and that the gaps in between or inside each one of those layers that make you are to be filled in some way. Of course, such a “willing suspension of disbelief” exercise requires you to consider time to be circular instead of linear, so that each time a new phase of your present life begins, you will return to one of those previous layers or lives, hopefully to make up for your past omissions.

Runes were originally an alphabet. In Norse mythology, runes have a divine origin. Their reading can therefore shed some light on the task or tasks at hand in your present life. Some will say there are 25 lives awarded to you. The higher you are on the scale, the more evolved your soul is. Still, there is a learning process to be made from what preceded the present you. The wheel turns, the dice is cast again, and you are given one more chance to learn. Whether you do it or not could make or break you.

I once was told that Borges’s cat was named Odin. Whether this is true or not, I cannot tell. Odin would stand for a sort of Wotan — Wagner lovers beware — representing the voice of wisdom. The final advice will be given by the higher god, and you might find interesting leads in his words.

Reading an alphabet and telling stories is a gift. If you can interpret the meanings, they might be fascinating. You can also stand skeptical to everything, and that would work as well. Nobody forces belief on anybody, but I like to think that one can be open to different possibilities of learning. Sometimes there are stories that come back to haunt us, and sometimes there are stories that come back to nurture us…which one will you be? I guess the latter, because there is a reunion, and there is a circular time that binds us, and there is — above all — you and I.