Ch 5 - Children of Tegalupa

Suffering, Treasure & New Tools

My encounter with Tierno still has me guessing as I make my way towards the upper deck. The night is clouded and devoid of stars. Because of the war we run without lights at night. With no illumination the world is black on black. Place your hand in front of your face. You can not see it. If you can not see it, is the hand at the end of you arm actually there?

The black encloses. It does have weight. Cut a piece of the night. Chew on it slowly. Dense like dried meat. Devoid of taste.
So many moments don’t sit right in my head: the storm, the rescue, the last three months. So much conflict. So much pain. Weight closes in. Tension releases in short sobs. Tears flow in the silence. They last only a short time.

Wet becomes dry as the wind picks up speed. The blackness of night steals the bad things from my mind hiding them deeply in her folds. The light vibrations of the motors play at my feet. The deck slowly wobbles atop the changing sea. The small gasp of the ocean splashes along the side of the boat.

The ocean’s gasp? The Old Man and I argue about this. It is a long standing exchange that never sees an end. The Old Man believes that the sound we hear is water tearing underneath the prow of the ship. I say that the sound we hear is applause: the spirits of the ocean putting hands together as we brave the unknown and face our own insignificance upon the high seas. She is the mother and we are just specks upon the surface of her vastness.

The Old Man tells me that I have grown very dark since The Greek ended me. My response is, “We endure in our own ways.”

The Greek gave me a difficult problem to solve. I have just recently started to whittle it down. Managing chronic pain in your legs and your head is a bit like building a house out of sticks. Your technique may improve, but your foundation is fundamentally flimsy. Like the itch that you sometimes feel deep within your ear. You snort and blow your nose until you feel raw. You can poke or prod. This may lead to more damage. You can never get your finger in deep enough to scratch at the source of the discomfort.

Pain is angry child. It loses its power once the parent has decided to ignore it. Outbursts may continue, but what gravity does the child hold when no one is paying attention? Distraction is one key to alleviating constant discomfort, but how do you get to root of the infection? How do you get inside of yourself and cool the source of your persistent pain?

The sailor may get paid in script or hard coin but the greatest currency they pass along is a good story. Some are fictional and some are fact. Some I have retrieved right from the source.

There was a sailor named Ajit. An ocean accident had taken his hand. From just South of the elbow his right arm was gone. Some would say the man was feeble. Ajit would say he was not.

Sailors were put off, not by Ajits missing arm, but more by the man’s drive to do well. Despite his lack of digits, Ajit worked just as hard as the other men. In some cases he even made them look lazy because he was determined never to be outdone.

In a moment of confidence, Ajit told me that his hand was still there. He explained that the body might be gone, but the substance was still intact. Ajit claimed he could wiggled his fingers. He could feel hot and cold. He swore that as long as he never thought about it, he could even lift his mug or swing a hammer to drive a nail. I never had the fortune to witness a ghost hand lifting a mug for a toast. But in the mind of Ajit, he believed all that he told.

There is a woman named Luella. When she hears the bell on the cooper smith’s wagon she immediately begins to smell lemons. When she hears a certain lullaby played on a music box, she claims that she can tastes cherries fresh from the tree.

In another story there is a young child. While riding in a wagon there is an accident. The boy falls out and cracks his head. His head opens like a broken cookie jar. A small stick of wood gets stuck in the open wound. The boy runs home with a sliver sticking out of his brain. He doesn’t realize there is a problem. He is more concerned by the frightened look on his mother’s face.

Mind, memory, will, and other things are connected. Whatever exists inside of us, between our ears, in our hearts, there is a connection that I have been exploring for quite some time.

As a child, a friend bet me a penny that I couldn’t make my ears wiggle. “Give me one month,” I said. Every day of that month, I spent short periods grinding my jaw and moving my eyebrows, willing those ears to dance. By the end of the second week my ears where twitching in small fits. By the end of the month they were dancing.

Life on the farm is all about survival. Livestock and crops, nothing is misused. Once you have finished slaughtering, harvesting all of the good cuts inside and out, you are left with a pile: bones, fat, sinew, and odd pieces of flesh. This pile is a testament to a creature that lived for a purpose. The animal was sacrificed to give you life. In a world where every piece is precious, it would be disrespectful to let anything go to waste.

The easiest way to use this pile of parts is to start a fire and begin to boil. After a time the pile is cooked. Bones and hard pieces are removed. Before you is the essence of the beast rendered into delicious soup. Eat your fill then pour the remainder into a large round bowl. Not too large, about a hand width wide and a hand width deep.

Let the soup cool just for the night. In the morning you will find that the liquid has changed. Flip the bowl over. What you have now is a soft jelly like mass: part fat, part water, and a grayish brown. This is about the feel and consistency of the gray mass inside of your head.

The brain is the safe containing our most personal possessions, all the knowledge we have accumulated through time. The brain serves as the fuse box for sensations that torment us, yet the brain itself feels no pain. The brain controls blood flow, muscle coordination, and how we sense our surroundings. It houses our soul and defines who we are, yet it is no more stable than a wet paper box.

Incredibly stupid or amazingly insightful is a wet sack full of gold. Human hands will easily destroyed it. Peer inside and the treasure can not be seen. I need new tools to get at what torments me. I reflect on my ears as I turn to my will. The body can heal itself if I can just show it how.