Innocents

Hear me, all of you. You who hide in the whispers of the wind, up in the attic or down below in the basement. You who lurk in my closet, under the stairs, in the creaking woodfloors and behind my windows. You who make noises in the dark, bring forth strange visions behind the curtains and drag chains across the floor. Eyes in the black. Teeth in the night. Claws at the witching hour. Hear me.

I am a child. I don't carry the weight of an adult heart, and know very little about consequences. I can still fly and run faster than time. I run on mischief and a spark of madness. I live with reckless bravery and play nonsensical games. I am still of both light and darkness, and creation and destuction act on my every whim. I have faced monsters, escaped impossible labyrinths and conquered trials untold. I have saved the realms of men and Fae from such horrors you wouldn't dare to understand. You may think me small, weak and harmless. You'd be wrong. This wooden sword has the keenest edge. I know ancient rhymes and words of power. This blanket can turn invisible at will. This cushion is an unbreakeable barrier. I have been a warrior, a wizard, a rogue. I have ridden dragons and beasts, danced on fire and earth and wind and water.

I am an innocent, and my imagination is sword and shield, cloak and armor, magic and medicine. The world tells me there is something to fear walking among us. I agree.

You should all be terrified of me.

The pen is mightier.

Picture this: You, Spanish born and bred, and proud to be, talking with an Englishman, a pirate heathen, reminiscing about better times. Times when both of you were part of greater empires. Days when, to kill someone, you had to look them in the eye. Days where a thousand atrocities were part of life. More savage days. And then, and idea clicks, and you both go:

"Who knows, maybe in a thousand years Spain will be ferrying some new fuel from some god-forsaken planet and you guys will come to take it from us. And then it will all start again. One can hope"

"A solar storm would rush through and destroy your fleet"

"And your invincible admiral Nelson would get cybernetic implants to compensate the arm he lost trying to take some small moon from us."

"Space Napoleon would lose at the battle of Waterloo IV"

"And be exiled to the Elba Asteroid"

"Elba Asteroid Prime!"

You both laugh, maybe drawing from memories you should by no means have, from events and times ingrained in your DNA.

"...Will, you know what? That isn't half a bad story, and it would be a good way to educate children about classic history. Change the gold to some nuclear fuel, the natives for a long lost colony who crashed and lost their ships, the data they had turning into myth, get the Englishmen as space pirates, the Spanish as the opresive empire who has been dying for a long time, but never seems to completely fall, and you have it."

"...You gonna write this? Because if not, I will."

"It certainly would be a good story"

"I'm being serious. Same ship names, leader names, and everything. But in space. This is fucking gold. Who are the french?"

"Depends, they would be either the young republic that's just starting out, but gaining strength under a strong, military genius, or some ancient, outdated monarchy with old, enormous ships who had seen better days. like the Spanish, but more worn.out"

"They could be both, and have a space revolution in the middle."

"And well they should...You know what the worst thing is? I'd love to see that as a children's book. They would read it and learn about what they were once, and to be proud of it. They would know their history."

It was a good laugh, and I loved talking about Trafalgar, Vernon and Lezo, Nelson and the Canary Islands, the Armada and Napoleon. History can be so much fun, and should give you a tingling sense of pride, even if you weren't there to experience it. We killed each other like animals, took everything that wasn't nailed to the floor and became masters of this world, turning to murder each other when there was nothing else to conquer. It was horrible, and it was amazing, and it's part of who we were. Of who we are still, sometimes. And that means we should know about it.

The world is getting dumber by the day and, barring radical shifts in TV programming, there's not much that can be done about it. That doesn't mean we should give up. Not for a single second. I doubt I will ever get to writing this, or that Will will. I doubt it'd get published anyway. But this hopeless struggle is far from over, knowledge has always been the best weapon against fear and injustice, and writers are the strongest soldiers in this war.

Hail, warriors.

This, too, shall pass.

An old adage appearing in most middle-east traditions, from the works of the Islamic Sufi poets to the Jewish folklore, tells us about an Eastern King, powerful and rich beyond measure, who attained wisdom at, in my humble opinion, a great cost. Like all stories, it must be taken with a grain of salt, and whatever the author meant, what matters is what you take from it.

There was once a King, years ago and miles away, who had attained all the wealth and power he could possibly need in his lifetime. His realm was prosperous, his subjects happy and his lands fertile. The world marvelled at his righteousness and wisdom, and he tried to do his best in all things. He loved his queen very, very much, and their children had grown happy and strove to follow the good steps of his father.

But no one under heaven is allowed a life of perfect bliss, and chance bows to no man. Bad things happen to us all, and the King, with all his wisdom and his power, was no exception. A bad season would bring famine to his lands, and he would struggle to keep his subjects fed. War would erupt between his neighbours, and he would have to march his armies to stop the bloodshed, losing good men in the fight. Disease would spread amongst his people, and the doctors would be overwhelmed. Even his good queen fell to the plagues, despite all his power and wealth.

People, familiar or unknown, dear or hated, died and suffered. That too is part of life.

But the King was a good man, and his heart already bled with every tragedy he couldn't stop, and with the suffering of those he reigned over. After her death, he grew weary with sadness, and obsessed. He would spend days in his study, trying free himself from the cold grip grief had over his heart. He laboured, twice as hard, for his country, but his heart grew pale and white with sorrow.

The King, tired, called all the wise men in the land, physicians and magi, and told them to find something, be it medicinal herb or magic spell, that could make a man change sadness into happiness. He promised riches beyond measure to whoever brought him such a marvel, and the wise men rallied to the call.

First came the magi, wielders of ancient powers and keepers of unfathomable secrets. They wore cowls and capes, the air around them thrumming with power. One by one they tried, magic words and beautiful talismans, to give their King what he had asked for, but in the end, they all failed, and the kind told them to be gone from his sight.

Then came the physicians and doctors, their robes lined with gold and their bag filled with plants from far-away lands. They concocted strange beverages, and substances that gave off strange vapours. The King threw those away, too, for such things would only delay the inevitable. Neither wine nor exotic plants could but momentarily cast away his sadness and it would always come back.

Finally, an old man came forth, his face rough and leathery. He wore no ornament on his person and no circlet on his brow. His hands were calloused and his robes worn-through. He had a small, knowing smile on his face. He stood before the King respectful, but unafraid, and his eyes had the warmth of a great fire turned to embers.

“Young King. I carry with me a ring, an heirloom from my mother’s family, inscribed with words that will give you what you search for.”

“Another charlatan? I am in no need of magic rings of words of power, old man. Take your ancient bones, your magic tricks and your empty promises to a more guileless man.”

The old man smiled still, for he knew the turn of the world and its secrets. Not medicine or magic, but the secret hearts of people.

“My King, I want no money or riches for it, and I only ask of you that you gaze upon it's carvings, if you so wish. Otherwise, I will be on my way, and I deeply apologize for troubling you.”

The King was astonished. No money or reward? They King had no shortage of enemies, and some had tried to assassinate him already amidst all the attempts at curing his sadness. It might be a trap, and the King was wary.

“Come forth, old man, and let me see this ring of yours. Let me see those blessed words.”

The old man, his steps slow with age, took his ring, hanging on a chain around his neck, and presented it to him.

“I must warn your, though. With the wisdom this ring carries comes a curse, my King, and one that can’t be avoided.”

The king stopped his hand halfway and looked at the old man questioningly.

“This ring carries knowledge, and knowledge always carries a price. In this case, the price is that this knowledge can never be forgotten, no matter what the consequences. This knowledge may lessen your sadness and even turn it into joy, but it will also work the other way.” The old man turned around and slowly limped towards the gates. “I hope, my dear King, that you can bear it. That it leaves you wiser. That it gives you strength.”

The King took the ring in his hand and looked at it. It was a wooden, hand-made piece that could have been crafted by any shepherd in his spare time, and on it were carved four simple words. The King read them and stayed silent for a while, the steps of the stranger still ringing in the halls of his palace. He kept looking at the ring, his face turning from curiosity to despair, then anger, then a pale rictus.

He had realized the terrible, amazing truth in those four words. They would lessen any grief, because no grief would last forever. But they would also lessen any joy, for no joy was eternal either.

The old man turned around one last time and looked upon the mighty King, and whispered, his voice soft.

“I am so, so sorry.”

The King raised his hand, shook his head and looked back, a small, contented smile on his face.

“I thank you deeply, wise man.”

“Will you be alright?” The old man’s words trembled with undisguised worry.

The King nodded, his face wounded but happy, and if his grin didn’t have the joy of a child in it, at least had the wisdom of a sage.

“This, too, shall pass.” He recited aloud, looking at the ring.

Voyager I

Some 37 years back, humanity did a marvelous, stupid thing. You know, like we always do. The best kind of thing. Some 37 years back, we took 750 kg of metal and silica and circuits and said "Let's see how far it can go".

And far it has, the little thing. I missed it, because apparently I was living under some rock, but the Voyager I escaped the Solar System a little more than a year ago. Let me rephrase that:

We just managed to throw a message in a bottle to interstellar space. Some monkeys in suits and overalls.

Way to go, Humankind.

Why a bottle you ask? Because the Voyager I (There were two of them) carried something inside. In our (arguably rare and often unused) wisdom, be figured that, as long as we were sending something to boldly go to the God forsaken reaches of space, we might as well throw in some meaning into the mix. Some measure of beauty. And we did, God, we did. We sent the Golden Record.

The Golden record is...actually, who cares what it is. The Golden record carries what a committee chaired by Carl Sagan chose as our introduction to the stars. If something ever finds the Voyagers (Either one of them) that record will be our first communication with some intelligence that isn't ours.

You know, no pressure or anything.

The record carries, of course, a measure of scientific data that might be relatable to any sentient species, such as some mathematical definitions, chemistry formulae or the solar location Map. That's all good and fine, and necessary too. It's a sensible attempt at demonstrating that we are, indeed, intelligent. A clever lie, you might say. Good going, Mr. Sagan.

But then there's the rest of it. That's where science said "I'm out" and good old Carl went full-on genius. They put three other things in that record:

First, they put pictures. An Elephant. Some mother breast-feeding his son. A party in china. Some home-construction in Africa. An airport. The Great Barrier Reef. An old man with a dog and some flowers.

Secondly, they put greetings. There are greetings for whoever finds the Voyager...in 55 languages. You should listen to them. Some are boring, sure, or empty or not that good. But the rest of them? They are magnificent. The Akkadian and Sumerian "May all be well". The Punjabi "Welcome home. It is a pleasure to receive you.". The Mandarin Chinese "Hope everyone's well. We are thinking about you all. Please come here to visit when you have time.". The English, said by Mr. Sagan own child, "Hello from the children of planet Earth.".

Good things come in threes. It's practically a storytelling law. So, lastly, they put sounds and music. The sound of fire, and human speech. The sound of thunder and earthquakes and volcanoes. The sound of cars and trains and planes. The sound of frogs and dogs and horses. The sound of heartbeat, laughter, and a mother kissing his child. Bach's Brandenburg Concerto. Senegalese percussion. Mozart's "The Magic Flute". Chinese "Flowing Streams". Beethoven. Navajo Chants. Chuck Berry's fucking "Johnny B. Goode".

The Voyager includes "Dark Was The Night, Cold Was The Ground" by '20s bluesman Blind Willie Johnson, whose stepmother blinded him when he was seven by throwing lye in is his eyes after his father had beat her for being with another man. He died, penniless, of pneumonia after sleeping bundled in wet newspapers in the ruins of his house that burned down. But his music just left the solar system.

The Golden Record carries beauty and sadness, joy and salutations. Because while math and science it's what will prove our intelligence to our otherworldly fellows and what will helps us communicate and learn from each other, it's the rest of the record what will prove that we are, indeed, alive.

We are creatures who make mistakes and envy others, who kill and maim and recklessly push around their own kind. Creatures of conflict. But we are also creatures that improve themselves. Creatures that teach, and learn, and sing, and dance, and make love and Art. Creatures of hope.

This ain't such a bad presentation card for humankind. If all you had to judge was this record, what would you think of us?

Friends in the Dark

At times, life gets you down. Maybe you aren't where you thought you would be, maybe something good is over, maybe the world just isn't being kind today. I think of those times as being in the Dark. In Darkness, you only have your voice and your mind to talk to you, and that can get pretty horrible in short notice.

That's why you get friends. No one is born alone in this world, we all have people out there, even if we haven't met them yet, who can and will be true friends to us. People to share the Light, in good times. To shine in the Dark, in bad ones.

These people come in so many flavours that I can barely count them all. Very, very few people can get you out of the Darkness (That's your job, mate). Good friends recognize that fact, nod and then completely disregard it and try anyway. 

Some friends bring you candles and sit with you for a while, bringing what they can of Light with them. They look at you and share beautiful things. They eventually have to leave, of course, when the candle runs out, but they smile and say "See you soon". And soon, they are back with another candle. These friends are reliable as bread, as air, as the sun rising every morning. They warm you.

Some friends, fewer, suddenly come in with wood and coal and noise like thunder, smile wildly (even madly) and light a bonfire. They come, alone or in groups, and hold out their hands while laughing. "Get up", they say, "The Darkness is taking a break tonight. And if she has an issue with that, tell her to take it up with us".

They light the bonfire and make you dance and sing and do a million stupid things and, until the bonfire falls to embers and ashes, draw a line against the Darkness and dare her to come forth. Of course, the fire eventually runs out, but you do not stop smiling the whole time. They leave, then, and promise to come back soon. It will never be as soon as you want to, but they will come back. These friends are like lighting and thunder and a single, perfect step. They blaze like fireworks for as long as they can. Sometimes forever.

Finally, some friends (very, very few of them) bring no light with them. They come alone and sit in the dark, back to back with you, and listen and say small words at the right times, or tell you a story that has nothing to do with anything, or just stand in the Darkness with you. These friends are like the silence after a storm, or the steadiness of a mountain, or the crystalline beauty of the moon. They stay around for a night, or a few hours, or a single, magnificent sentence.

The beautiful thing is that people can be all three of them. All the time. A steady guide, a blazing flare, a quiet strength. 

(I tend to give as much credit to the whole "Darkness is Evil" thing as to the more widespread "Light is Good". Both seem like so much dandelion fluff to me. Light is light, and Darkness is darkness. Nothing else. Today, I'm making an exception for the sake of writing, meaning that the whole metaphore falls apart otherwise. Please bear with me.)

Facil, sencillo, dificil, complicado.

Hay algo que a veces he tenido que explicar a mis amigos aquí y allá. Algo que me parece fundamental para entender muchas cosas. Algo que, a mi, me ha ayudado enormemente. La diferencia entre 2 pares de palabras.

El mundo tiende a pensar en las cosas (las relaciones, los problemas, los eventos) cómo en cosas fáciles, simples o difíciles, complicadas. Asimilan esas palabras como sinónimos. Y se equivocan.

Las cosas no van en un eje de fácil a difícil. Van en dos: de fácil a difícil y de sencillo a complicado. Y una cosa nada o poco tiene que ver con la otra.

Creo que lo mejor, como el Lethani, es verlo en términos de caminos. Un camino puede ser recto(sencillo) o sinuoso(complicado), pero eso no tiene nada que ver con que sea empinado o esté empedrado(difícil) o sea llano(fácil). Hay gente que está mejor predispuesta a unos tipos de caminos que a otros y eso dice mucho de cómo son.

Casi todas las cosas importantes de verdad son, o deberían ser, sencillas, pero difíciles. La vida. El amor. Las comidas que prepara tu abuela. Hay que esforzarse, hay que trabajar y pelear, pero puedes ver el camino y seguirlo sin problemas.

El problema es cuando la gente le da muchas vueltas a las cosas y eso hace de todo algo complicado. Tan complicado que olvidan o son incapaces de ver que tras la maraña de vueltas que le han dado a todo puede que solo haya un problema fácil, algo que podrían resolver si vieran de verdad de que se trata.

Esto va por la gente que continúa su camino pase lo que pase.

__________

Hay mapamundis parlantes que me mantienen despierto toda la noche y me hacen pensar 

Echo de menos un pato con antifaz