2006-07-10

But here is truth

There is a man here, but he is more like a mountain, and less like a man. His hair is long and dishevelled, wet still, hanging down the sides of his sad face and down onto the shoulders of his pro wrestler frame, covered by countless meters of fabric in some kind of hippy tunic. Walking past (and utterly dwarfing me as he does so) I see he whispers sad nothings to himself. He is unhappy, or tired perhaps, tired of everything, tired of this world. I feel I have never seen a man as large and yet I know I have.

As if lifting the ocean by the edges of the sea, he gathers, gently, the sections of newspaper with his massive mitts and a curious resolve, a giant with something to prove. He carries with him a huge mug (it is bigger than my head) decorated with an odd assortment of stickers - black it is, like the coffee it carries, and so old and battered like a relic from another time. It might hold litres - but no, 52 oz. is stamped onto the side. It's his only friend, I imagine or guess, and he will have it with him a long time yet - a longer time than any of us can imagine. His is a different kind of existence. He walks and carries on as the rest of us, but his sadness and dignity set him apart. He might be a retired superhero, or a god who forgot how to die, still alive in a world that doesn't need, or even want, his presence anymore. And so he turns the pages of the paper and it looks ridiculous, more like a napkin in his mighty paws, and he brings it to his face to discern the tiny print, to uncover the hidden meaning of the symbols.

And he talks to things I can't see, and he pulls his hair back and ruminates, and he feeds on forgotten dreams that we let go or slip away, and maybe he sleeps for years, but he is real, he is before me, he is a priori, the first man, and his presence is humbling.

I can't believe he exists.

And now a Dutch family is here, or maybe they are Danes, and I long to be one of them, their magical tongues are making sounds I can't understand, they sound like they are spitting always, but the Dad has a Boston Red Sox hat on his head and he looks judicious and caring and his brown eyes are piercing. And Mom and Dad wear their wedding rings, and there are three blond boys with identical hair cuts and wavy hair, and they are brothers, and they are happy, and they share a slice of lemon loaf in equal pieces, a ritual that bonds them more than they will ever know, and this family, with its arguments and its stuffed lion, its hugs and its Sunday rituals, it will exist in all its iterations for longer than we can imagine. And now they are off to have some adventures, as only families do, probably they are here on vacation, and that makes their adventures all the more priceless.

And it is Monday (I can't believe it is Monday), and the world keeps spinning, at least for now, and that is truth, that is real. That is definitely magic. That is all the magic and fiction we are ever going to need.

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