TCOTNK Season 3.2

The Castle Of The Naked Knights. The origins of the picture book that will change so many lives....

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October 18th

The bicycle is painted purple. A transport type with heavy luggage racks and a stand that allows it to remain upright even with a full load. I can take with what I need and a little more.

It escapes me why you would want to give an iron horse as a gift to an eleven-year-old girl from a high brow neighbourhood. Uncle Toek, on the other hand, is nestling in my heart. I borrowed one of his books from the library. Illegal, because I don't have a membership card here. It's really entertaining. So awful. I doubt he reads it through after typing it. Not much is known about the man. I let the mystery be and think of him as the one who gave me permission. I would have liked that from Yuna, but she's not ready yet. Maybe she'll never get around to it. It's my child, not my life. Her life is there. The gift that I had so much trouble with. My own Yuna. The unexpected baby. That which could never come loose has become loose. We drifted away from each other. We are no longer connected.

My life is not my own. It doesn't belong to anyone. I have to accept that I am an exception. The difficult part that remains until the very end. Toek is also a single soul. Like me. I realized that when I cycled away from him. A single soul. That I am. He is too. But we're not together. We crossed each other's lonely paths. Recognized each other, greeted each other. Shared what we could spare. Him especially, this time. No, sharing is not about getting or giving. Sharing is mutual. Sometimes not at the same time. Sometimes not with the same soul.

Sharing is not about exchanging value. That's called exchanging. Sharing is not about keeping track of debt or credit. That's called paying.

I want to share. Not exchange, not pay, share.

How many single souls are there anyway? And where are they? Where are they listed? How do you find them? Under which label. In which folder. And what happens if you put them in a circle? All those sharers together. Would light be released?  Excess energy? Waves? Would the surrounding area start to resonate? Would it spread through space? Would it seep through time? Would it make a difference?

22 October

I turned twenty-seven today. I am a widow. I am an orphan. The child I gave birth to is no longer mine. I don't get paid by anyone. No one misses me, longs for me, sends for me or looks for me. I don't have a bank account. No house or address.

I’d do better to give a summary of what I am. The stuff I own fits on a bicycle. I left everything else behind.

I am woman. For between my legs there is a soft cave, and on my bones the flesh is rolling and hilly. My hair is dark, long and has unruly curls. Part of my strength is in it. I am blessed with good teeth, healthy strong limbs, desert coloured skin and sharp senses. My memory is without mercy. It seems like I can't forget. Once seen, it takes hold.

I have visions.

Ever since I was a toddler, I have had moments of searing clarity. Until recently I couldn't deal with it. The sum of incoming stimuli is an accumulation of mutually reinforcing intrusions. It crushes me. If I don't put on the armour I can't stand my ground.

the 24th of October

Pierre is a sculptor. His hair is dusty and wild. Even when he is not working, clouds float in the studio. The light is diffuse. Everything is the same shade. The pollen of victory. The settled dust of battle. The grayness of obsession.

Pierre is crazy. When he’s working, only the stone exists. He smokes tobacco as if his life depends on it.

I cook, wash his clothes, take his cum, laugh with him. He's a clown.

I live in the shed at the back of the garden. The garden is the overgrown courtyard of the former metal workshop. Old iron and wild flowers.

He uses the air gun to spray the stone powder out of his clothes. A dancing bear in a cloud of dust. Then he dips his head, goggles and all, into the large oil drum containing rainwater. He pulls down his overalls and staggers, dripping, with his pants around his ankles, looking for something to sit on because he forgot to take off his work boots. When he is rinsed clean, howling because of the cold water, he steps across the border to where I am.

I always try to be witness. It's a ritual. It's a performance. The end of his day coincides with dusk. There is no electricity. The disappearing light heralds our evening.

Food.

Fire.

Conversations that end in silence.

Sex is part of the morning. Then his body is hot and rested. Hard and satisfied. I get into his bed, not the other way around.

The forge kitchen is a double garage. The arched doors are almost always open. A wide corrugated iron roof keeps rain and wind at a reasonable distance. The brick fireplace is the heart. That's where I cook. That's where the herbs hang. That's where the rabbits hang. That's where the salted meat hangs. That's where the weapons hang.

Sofas and armchairs are arranged in a circle around it. Mice live in it.

The cycle of meetings is inimitable. The number of participants fluctuates. The rules are unspeakable. There is no blueprint for the sequence of events or any required atmosphere. People argue, flee, make plans, drink, smoke, laugh at new news, whisper old news, devour food, bring harvest.

"Nice bike," says Pierre.

I'm stirring the onions.

"Do you remember," I say, "when Armiane was here?"

I throw a dash of wine into the hot pan. It hisses and steams. Smells like autumn in the south. The homemade bottles of white are only suitable for the soup.

Pierre comes to stand next to me. He sniffs and groans, begins to dismantle a head of garlic.

"No garlic," I say, "not in this."

He throws his toes back into the bowl and leans on the cutting board with flat hands.

"She sings," says Pierre.

"She invited me."

His mouth pulls to one side. Sees the storm hanging.

“I have an assignment for a group. Government. Pays well.”

I smile at him.

"I want to go south."

He nods for a long time. Places his forehead on the hollowed out beech wood.

"You don't want to be chilled for another winter," he mutters.

Then he suddenly rises and flops back on the red velvet couch with the creaking springs. He’s a fast processor. 

“I would come along," he says, "but you don't want that, I don't want that either."

A last shoot on the soft onion bed and then I place the heavy lid on the hanging pan.

October 27 and 28

I'm ready to go. Didn't sleep. Finally it becomes light. I'm afraid. Once again I step out of my safety. That is unwise. I am unwise. That's exactly what I have to do. That's exactly what I don't want.

I'm not ready to go at all. A bike ride of a thousand kilometers requires preparation. Not just inner urge. Not just a bike with potential. Purpleness doesn't matter, bicycle-bags do. And food, money, rain gear. And I need to take what I don't want to leave behind.

I'm standing at my drawing table crying. The smooth door on the dressers has served me well. How many hours have I sat under the dirty block window? How long is the line of ink that has flowed from my scratchy pens? How many colours did I layer on top of each other? Flow, I have to flow, every day. How is that possible on the road? Where do I leave what comes next? What comes next if I leave?

Pierre is standing in the doorway. A dark silhouette in the sharp yellow morning sun. Cold air rolls over the rugs to my bare feet.

My tears stop.

"I can weld you a tow bar on it," he says with his hands in his pockets. Fiddling his morning erection. I frown.

“You can hang the handcart behind it with a rod.”

He leans against the doorframe. Trying to scratch away the itch on his back.

"Then I can come with you," he says, massaging his nose back and forth, "your legs will become a little firmer."

Later that morning he fixes the flat tire, angle grinds everything off the cart that is not useful and sews the upholstery from a construction tarpaulin. He makes a lid from thin plywood. The next day he paints the trailer. I reflect on the last year and a half.

He's been good to me. I've been good to him. We are the same age despite thirty years difference. I was safe here. Is it an end of good times? I can do without the security. Will I regret leaving? Yes maybe, says the stubborn seeker in me, but you don't belong here. Where do I belong then? The seeker has no answer to that. The seeker has no answers at all. Sometimes I don't even bother to ask. The seeker knows only horny curiosity.

That evening people suddenly pass by. A farewell party. Not everyone knows exactly what they are coming for. Some guys are sweet. I get hugs and well wishes. A little money from some. I don't know what to say. I have nothing to say. Can't put into words what, or why. Even Pierre doesn't know that I made up the invitation. There is no destination. There is only the road.

At half past five in the morning I write a letter. For Pierre, for Yuna, for whoever comes after. I obey the voice I alone hear. That is not reality.

Not yet.

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