The Old Man and The Key

‘And so it was said that ‘’the Lord caused a deep slumber to fall upon Adam, and he slept; and he took one of his ribs, and closed up the flesh instead thereof; and the rib, which the Lord took from man, made he a woman, and brought her unto the man’’. My good sir, I will see her soon, and get it back. After all, I gave it to her in the first place. Shall I tell you my name? I am Harmez. I served in the navy for many years, and had a great many patrols around the world onboard frigates and tall ships. I am on my way to see an old friend. How shall I define to you our first meeting? Can Theseus define his encounter with Ariadne? It is the maze which brought us together, after all. A maze riddled with possibilities, endless joys, endless sorrows, up and down, left and right. There is but one Minotaur, and it exists between two lovers. I must get it back it now, my good sir. How will she feel when she sees me? I remember meeting her the first time. It was raining. The clouds were roaring every minute or two, like rowers in harmony. I dropped by her house, gave her a call and waited for her to come outside. I had just returned from a deployment in the Mediterranean, and I still felt shecksholled…shock shelled. Sorry. To see a girl after this long made me nervous as I sat in the car. The first time I laid eyes on her, she was shrouded in absent light, wearing a black tee shirt, surrounded by pitch black darkness, and her face glowing like a lamp post, projecting the only light visible, across my eyes. Her hair hung back, like a woman in a motion picture, and all I could describe it afterwards to my friends was: I saw a Dionysian goddess with apollonian eyes, and discovered why two plus two would never equal five. Only that which is contradictory can unite, only a thesis who encounters the antithesis can synthesize. With rushing steps, she opened the car door and got inside. She spoke. Her voice sir, her voice! Her voice sounded like someone for whose sins I’d take responsibility for in the afterlife. We went to a nearby café and shared a milk cake. I dropped her back, made way to my home, and slept. A horrifying nightmare disrupted my sleep, where I found myself drowning, fighting for my life against crest and tide. Immediately, upon waking up, I knew; I had sunk into myself. For the next few weeks, our meetings continued.’

‘About her? What about it, sir! She was just someone. Let me tell you more about myself. I told you, I was a seaman? Isn’t the sea wonderful? The ocean, a sigil of the horrifying magical unconscious, the ALL, the mighty LORD? I toured half the world onboard mighty destroyers and frigates, and the most enjoyable of the things I did was to read. Ah, literature! What is art, but a way to handle reality, as one philosopher said. I say, what is art but a tenacious way to individuate and come to consciousness. Some are born to humans. Some are born to art, and she takes them under their wing. I was telling you about my patrols. Black Sea, Red Sea, the sea of Atlas…all witnessed my insatiable thirst to know myself, which I was persistent in through the habit of reading books. One doesn’t know himself through reading alone. The art of knowing oneself is a poised one, shrouded in metaphorical allegory. Luckily, for my orphaned nature, I was destined to drink from the fountain of both literature and logic. One gulps too much from one, and begins then to lose his sway. An imbalanced diet in this regard may turn one into a Meursault or an Adolf. Speaking of Meursault, It was in Algiers, I stumbled upon alchemy, through the kybalion.’ ‘

She? Well yes, it’s who I am going to meet. God, this train ride is uncomfortable isn’t it? I should have opted for business class. All my life I have been travelling, be it through rails, air or water. Military life caused much damage, though it did teach a lot. The military is just extended school for people who cannot or resist going to college. The tragedy and beauty of military is that it uses sloth to prey on young men. Young men like me, who accidentally began to read and write to banish sloth altogether. More about her? Sir, you seem to be taking a lot of interest in her! What about it? Ever since I met her, she has lived inside my head. Whenever I hear her voice, I am pulled towards consolation of a raw motherly nature. I find it tragic though, because it brings out the infant nature in one. A child in one who wants to play with toys. Better still, it also brings out the Atlas who wants to hold heaven for her, the Sisyphus who wants to roll a boulder for her, and the Prometheus who wants to steal fire for her! Oh, does it bring out the martyr who wants to perish, the hero who wants to rescue her. But it’s over for us, and I want it back; something I gave her, I want it back. She doesn’t love me like I love her. She doesn’t deserve that precious item. I am going to pay her a visit, have a culminating final conversation, and demand that she returns it to me. After that we part ways forever.’

‘You want to hear about alchemy? Alchemy was anciently the art of discovering the philosopher’s stone. The ancient Egyptians which included early Islamic metaphysicians wrote veiled instructions about the philosopher’s stone. But I found it through chance, sir! I suppose when I met her, my prowess climbed a ladder. The book I found, namely led me to further research on the subject. From Geber, Aristotle, Avicenna to some recent pioneers, I discovered the hidden art of calcification of Sol Niger..the sublimating art of purification.. the unification of mercury, Sol and Luna…the marriage of the sun and the moon, the masculine and the feminine…the birth of the sto…Goodness! I have led you into a pit of confusion by that look on your face! Time is short, so I mustn’t confuse you further with these parables. To put it simply, alchemy replaced my quest for logic with the joy of magic. I had ceased to be an artist when I discovered the meaning of all art; Alchemy taught me how to love.’

‘And yes, I am furious at her, although only in her absence. When she’s with me, I want to caress her hair and hold her in my arms, and assure her my presence. I spoke about the Minotaur, the maze, the reality of normative living. I recall telling you, how I had sunk the night I met her. In the navy, they taught us the shallow water effects and how a ship in shallow waters may ground. Some people are meant to live in deep waters, or else they will succumb though grounding. Some people don’t fear depths as much as they fear surfaces. I hadn’t sunk to die, I had sunk to meet my true self, lying dormant somewhere on the ocean bed..’

“Excuse me, young man, you have been talking for quite long now. May I speak?” The old man spoke, interrupting the jubilant young man. He wore a hazel frisky triangular hat and held a rusty smoking pipe in his mouth. One hand of his was held onto the train’s window railing, whereas the other was on his lap.

“What was your name again?”

“Harmez.”, responded the young man, wiping sweat from his face using his arm.

“Harmez. You speak with terrible convictions...” spoke the old man as he got up, emptying his smoking pipe through the window. He sat back on his seat, beginning to clean his pipe with an old mandala patterned handkerchief and continued, “Mind you, what is this precious item you keep mentioning you want back from her?”

“It’s just a small item. A gold plated keychain I got from Algeria, which I gave her as a gift.” replied the young man with a gesture of uneasiness.

The old man was silent for a while. He got up from his seat to sit beside the young man. The old man adjusted himself by putting his arms around the young wanderer and began his biblical monologue.

“You stupid romantics. It is not the keychain you want back. Yes, you want something back, but it isn’t any tangible object.”

The young traveler was taken aback. His face’s confusion had a language of its own.

“What is with today’s people and their shallow problems?” the old man continued, “Have you listened to yourself talk about her? I have. You keep on telling me what you know, but what do you feel? Your intellect, your reason, this age of rationality, this lost world of being a human devoid of a heart. How do you feel when you are with her? Does the world become more meaningful? Does life open its doors? Didn’t life open doors when you started to have ‘drowning dreams?’ You talk about alchemy, philosophy and these subjects. What do you know about divine wisdom that comes with age? The wisdom which has rested in us since time immemorial? The aphorisms which are not found in books and words but are lived through myth and fairytales.” “You can speak all you want with words, but feeling has a language, immune to any translation. A feeling is volcanic and comes from the unknown. Hence, poetry is always more important than any rational art. Man and woman exist for each other. When they talk, they are always prone to misunderstanding, but they are each other’s reasons to live. It is not the keychain you want. That is too much of a useless item for a sentient being who you are going to meet after travelling hundreds of miles. It is your war patrols which have messed with your faculties. It is the key you want perhaps, that is shrouded beneath the ruble of any language spoken with reason.”

“I do not understand you, sir. You must have misinterpreted my…” Harmez spoke with nervous gaiety, however he was interrupted by the old man once again.

“You are visiting her to get something back. Something every man is in search of from his woman, since genesis. Do not think, only feel, and you may find the answer.

The train had stopped. A humming noise of passengers in the form of a rising wave started to develop.

“And what could that possibly be?” queried the young man in a condescending desperation.

“A rib, maybe”, answered the old man, as he got up and left.