TCOTNK Season 3.3
The Castle Of The Naked Knights. The origins of the picture book that will change so many lives....
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Early November
An inner knowing that cannot be found in what others call the real world is cause for concern.
Then you can choose:
1. You ignore what you know and replace it with external knowledge.
2. You fight reality to change it.
3. You escape and create your own reality. Acceptance is also part of this. You reduce your experience to the extent that inappropriate elements are excluded or rejected.
None of these three are favorable for your living conditions. They lead to conflict in the long term. Both in and outside. Individually and collectively. An ever-growing conflict.
You can also do what is said in many stories but is not really taken seriously by anyone. This possibility is the blind spot of the general achievements. The fourth possibility.
The reality of inner knowing is wordless, invisible and immaterial. It rises above the hemisphere, extends beyond age, comes backward from worlds gone by, is beyond human scale. That which is not yet, announces itself in the guise of the existing. Dressed up. Disguised. It splits itself into recognizable pieces, complementary chunks. Before it becomes, it is present. Announcing itself in a continuous stream of clues. The fourth choice is my path. The road is my choice.
Leave everything behind and keep searching. Be available. Receptive. Mobile. Movable. I am the piece on the game board that allows itself to be moved. Not by the players. Not within the rules. But because the game itself is no more than a pawn.
Written like this, no one will understand. My reporting needs a different form. My form of defeating will have to become more than words in a notebook, more than fleeting thoughts, if I want to make them shareable, tangible. Only when I succeed at that I can become visible again. I will become findable again for others when that other is ready to enter. When it is time for the arrival. Until I create that form I am invisible. Until I find, I am lost. In the void. Nothing is mine.
Mid-November
From today my reporting will become more concrete. I record what is real and acceptable. I'll stop playing with words. With pretending my life is a story. It doesn't make sense for what I'm becoming. I write down what happens.
Almost all day in a library. For the umpteenth time. No one really notices eccentric figures who sincerely delve into books. The larger the book collection, the easier it is to go into hiding. Without a card or borrowing permit. Libraries, most of them at least, do not have access controls. Sometimes you wonder whether people realize how much valuable stuff is waiting on those shelves. No, I don't even realize it myself. While I'm actually looking for that which is not there. I draw every day. Reading alone makes me constipated.
Ringing the doorbell of ordinary citizens to find accommodation is not a good idea. Suspicion is inevitable. There is always a resident who does not trust it. I have a few options. Getting into conversation with a bookworm is one way. First connect, then let them know I am travelling and on the lookout for a bed. This produces surprising stays, but also extremely uncomfortable ones.
Not as miserable as the one option I unlearned very quickly. Getting picked up. This means you hand over initiative. Not good. Really avoid. I choose and decide.
Students are a good choice. Just ask. If they cannot do it themselves, they will refer you. Don't count on anything more than sleep. So if I can, I contribute something; food, a good story, household chores, walking around in my underwear.
The best option is artists. The fools. The players. The reciters. They often gravitate towards each other. Form a temporary enclave, briefly appropriate a run-down neighborhood or settle in the countryside for the time being. The whole city knows where and who and how bad. There is always room for a muse, an unknown fellow artist with skills or potential. Another seeker. There is usually food. Always eagerness for a spontaneous party.
A new option opportunity lies with in the role of a student looking for a job. Talking enthusiastically and a bit naively about my project. Explaining the subject and stating I would appreciate the expertise of the institute in question. That as an idealist you have to pay for the whole thing yourself and oh yes, I am in dire need of a few nights of sleeping accommodation. One in five attempts land me an on the spot interview. One in ten a position. Usually with dinner, breakfast and entertainment. Strangely enough, a few hours of random interviews are more fun and educational than you might expect.
I can play a role. Effortless. Like I'm putting on a protective suit. I have now also arranged the clothing that goes with it. Getting good at deceit.
On average, I consume one city every few days. Thirty, sometimes fifty kilometers apart. Descending further and further.
November 26
I have no goal. No intention. I observe. What I experience does not match what I expect. I expect something that not yet is. It's growing. Difficult to recognise. Like I've forgotten something important but can't remember what it is.
Being on the road brings me into contact with the differences. The classifications we use are too simple. It seems like most people just get past the unitary thinking of the whole thing and get stuck in two. Two. When composing an image, a division is the least interesting. Clear, and sometimes useful, but hopelessly insufficient. Two-beat music belongs to the simplest emotions. Yes or no. Waging war. Them or us. Wrong or right. Day or night. We cut the drawing into two pieces. Draw a hard line between the two apparent halves. When problems arise, most thinking bipeds fall back on this classification. The system throws the other options overboard. To be or not to be becomes the question. To go or not to go. To have or not to have. We close the senses to the unrecognized intermediate state. It thinks in matter or spirit. Two is one plus one.
Man develops. Slowly. Individually sometimes excessive, but the shoots are pruned away. As a species, the process is extremely slow. A large part is cautiously leaning towards three. Especially in stable circumstances after suffering, there is room for the third option. The intermediate form. The twilight. The third factor. The symbiosis. The parasite. The child. The carrier.
The heart, which is located between the head and hands, plays a role. Then we can meet in the intermediate form. The other becomes attainable. In music the third is soft and flowing. In the image and construction, the triangle is the strongest connection. But three music is also flawed. Constantly switching sides. In dimensions it is flat. There's always one missing. Or time. Or the depth.
Only at four are they all present. Four is within the scope of our imagination. That would mean a new balance. The two can replace. But after the three, the boring stability of four won't be enough. Explainability and visibility are strong in four. No one will be able to imagine ever having had enough with just two. And yet that is precisely when we should not sit down. Four must be a station that passes by. Four does not occur in natural growth. It's not stable. Just a repeat. A copy. A revisiting. It is an intermediate state on the way to five. Mathematics knows that but does not recognize it in itself. The church closes the four-way road with funeral pyres. No one is allowed to go to the tree. Suddenly there is someone with a flaming sword. The musical mind realizes that it doesn't stop at the fourth. You come home after five. Growing up at eight. Recognizing the cycle at thirteen.
Man will make the step from three to five. That won't be easy. The marble wants to get stuck in four. Just when we're stuck in two.
Man is not on the path to unity. We cannot become unborn. Unity is death. That desire for return is part of the divorce. The division is life. The two phase is the reflection. Then the triangle. Then via the square to the first circle. The first circle closes ranks at five. Begins the roundness of the living. We must accept that in five lies the next opportunity to be home here and now. In the stable peace of the circle. Until then, I'll stay out of it. En route. Searching. Preservative. Reminiscent.
I have to accept that my world is only just leaving the two. Five is a secret kept until the right time. Five is the fool who jumps out and takes away the power of the escalating conflict. Five is the composer who withholds his release until his audience is ready for the keynote. Five is the lover who knows how to postpone the inevitable. The creator of vast space. Five is the artist who seems to master the spell and rise above reality. Five is the circle that carries the world. Five is the similarity. The tree of life. Five are the angels. The beings of fire and air, of the water that I am, the solid forming me and the supporting in between.
Fibonacci