In Search Of Our Better Selves: Part 1
Serialized draft publication of some Camino-inspired fiction
I recently undertook the Camino de Santiago, walking 115km of a medieval pilgrimage route, and I loved it. I returned home refreshed and inspired and eager to create, so I’m writing some fiction and publishing it here. Everything is subject to revision, my main thrust here is just to make some sort of public commitment to create and get eyes on it that are not mine. So thank you for checking out and thank you for what you choose to read - now let’s see where this goes.
Prologue
Heavenly fire filled the night sky with uncountable points of light, the stars unbearably vivid in Jacopo’s eyes as he blinked himself back into consciousness. He was spread eagled and lying flat, staring up at the lights in the sky, stunned by the beauty and power of God’s creation and stunned even more by something he couldn’t yet identify. He sat up to see that he was in a hilltop field, immersed in grass that would be up past his knees if he stood, a field much like those he had crossed in the long stretch of time behind him.
He turned to see that his staff was by his side, and a quick scan with his hands showed that his tunic and cloak were right where he expected them to be on his body. It was as if he had just laid down in this field to rest, but that’s not what he remembered - Jacopo remembered making it to the albergue of Brother Guillarme, a French priest who had crossed the Pyrennes into Castille to administer aid to those nearing the end of their holy pilgrimage. He was only a week’s walk away from Santiago, from the completion of his pilgrimage, from Pilgrim’s Mass, from absolution. As he ran his hands through the grass around him to come back to his senses Jacopo noticed how soft his hands had become over his multi-month journey, his career as a stonemason coming to an abrupt end when some of his handiwork had collapsed, bringing a family to an abrupt end as well. Inconsolable, he had sailed from his hometown of Ferrara in the kingdom of Venice to the French port of Marseilles, from there walking by foot across the Pyrennes and descending into the Iberian peninsula. Many kind souls had given him aid and strength along the way, his conversations limping along in limited Latin, self-conscious of his difference and deeply grateful for the patience and generosity he had been given.
Now, though, he was alone, and he became afraid. The night air around him blew through the grass, waves of energy moving through the leaves of the trees, and Jacopo realized that nothing around him made any noise at all. The world was silent. Bright, vividly bright, and silent. He stood up in a panic, hearing his feet scramble in the dirt, hearing his quickening breath, and nothing else. He heard himself begin to pray, heard himself beg God for deliverance in a hushed voice that still somehow was the loudest thing in the landscape around him.
He had to get back to the albergue, back to brother Guillarme, back to his fellow pilgrims, back to Christian society, back to his journey. He looked up at the stars again, looking for familiar constellations to help him know which way he should go, but as he stared up he saw nothing there that he could recognize. He knew it was impossible, that the stars above were fixed in their celestial spheres, but he swore that the lights above him moved every time that he blinked.
A new awareness entered his consciousness, an awareness of another person. He felt them before he saw them, a mute and featureless figure walking purposefully towards him through the field, unilluminated by the stars. From a distance Jacopo couldn’t make anything out about this stranger at all. The stranger’s gait was unhurried, which didn’t suggest a robber’s ambush. No beard was visible, which didn’t suggest a wayward Moor. No clothing nor any other identifiable features at all were visible in the low light of the night. Jacopo called out to the stranger in a quivering voice that felt weak with fear but that nevertheless rang in his ears. The stranger did not respond, walking closer and closer still, reaching the base of the hill that Jacopo was perched on. Jacopo hailed again, then clutched his staff and raised it up and declared that the stranger should approach no further. The stranger kept walking, getting closer and closer, and Jacopo’s hands trembled around his raised staff. As it grew closer the figure’s arms spread open wide, a gesture of greeting and intimacy, its pace not altering at all. Jacopo’s cries became yells, his voice cracking as he screamed with every breath in the name of God for the stranger to back away, his final cry caught in his throat as he saw that the stranger had no face at all, the smooth colorless shadow wrapping its arms around him as everything that had troubled him melted away, forgetting the screams of the crushed, forgetting the torments of his journey, forgetting his hopes of a life beyond this one, forgetting how to breathe.
Part 1
Baby’s first business class flight experience! Buckle up big boy! Yeah that’s right, we all shuffle onto the plane together but then you all go that way and I go this way to my fancy boy zone! Yes!! Turn away, Povvos! Wallow in your poor people mud! Avert your worthless gaze! Sorry. That wasn’t nice. I feel weird. Jesus. “Hello! Seat 1A!”. “Right this way, sir! Welcome aboard!” “Thanks, you too!” Fuck! They are already aboard!! Why did I say that. Great start, asshole. Thanks for smiling at me anyway, onboarding steward. I know it’s your job but you are indeed good at it. How badly did I fuck that up? Is there another dimension in play here? Am I supposed to be a certain way, as a business class man? Presumptive, of course I deserve this? Gah. Woah. Look at this. This whole chunk of the plane there’s like ten of us here. And I’m right at the front and I’m facing backwards. Never faced backwards before, planewise. Seat 1a. First place. Number one most alpha passenger. Yeah, sure. Randomly assigned. Christ. Big honkin thing of soft stuff right there on the seat, just for me. First thing, can’t even sit down. Am I this pile of fluff here? Let’s just put a picture of my face on this big bag of complimentary crap and call it a day. I have a pic you can use. Happier times. Cram me in with the luggage. What have we here. Vacuum sealed pillow and blanket just for little old me me. Golly. Well where do I put this. Ok. Too much stuff already. Packed light for my trip and now this happens. If I take it on the walk my back could snap from the weight of an additional toothbrush. Oh god it begins, already finding a way to complain. What the fuck is wrong with me. Where does my bag go. No seat in front of me to stash my stuff under. The old rules no longer apply. Ok, my bag goes up over me, wait not yet. Need my stuff. Jesus christ I have a whole, like, table here to put items on. Guess I’ll get out my toothbrush. There is a cubby for my shoes, under a footrest? Ok. A footrest. Business boys get footrests for a transatlantic flight.
Oh. And here we have a bag with a toothbrush in it. Once again. Stuff for me. Fill me up with stuff. Stuff me. Never been my thing but maybe I should blow the dust off the possibility. Nothing but available now. Might open some doors. Also we have creams. Multiple creams. One for my face and one just for my lips. Face cream, lip cream. Cream cream. Any serums while you’re at it. Keep me lookin young. Fuckin like I’m 20. Ok, I’ll bite. I’ll kiss your cream. One dollop of lip cream please. How do I do that. Oh man it has an applicator. Look at this shit. Opulent. In coach they throw the food on the floor and make you crawl for it. Fight over it even. Just chuck a handful of raw meat back there and they all go nuts. Hooting and hollering and snapping their teeth at each other. Chanting MEAT! MEAT! MEAT! And pumping their fists to the rhythm of the meat chant. Urging their comrades on as they eat the sickly pink flesh right off the floor. Vicarious participation in carnivorous ecstasies. Buy coach and they’ll show you what you really are.
That doesn’t happen. Too much cream came out. I got wet lips now. Wet lips have been provided to me first thing. I am supremely conscious of my wet and stupid lips. I am smackin’ ‘em. Kissing nothing. Can’t remember the last kiss we shared before the end. Big ol’ wet lips. Actually normal size lips. Maybe small lips. I can’t play the trumpet. Blech. I look stupid, I bet l look stupid. Let’s see. Selfie time!! Who wants to join me at the front of the plane and get a big old wet business kiss!! Oh of course there are multiple charging outlets. Plug in after this. Plug, stuff. It has been a while. Calm down. Ok. Here we go, phone.
Oh god. Where is my hairline. When did I lose hair? Just now? Is my hairline sprinting away in fear from my wet nasty lips? Shit! When did it happen to my dad? 35? I am 35. I was born and he was 35. Did I ruin his hair? Sorry dad. Hey Siri, remind me to call my dad and apologize for ruining his hair. Certainly more painful than childbirth. Well I don’t have that problem. Just me myself and I. No children to ruin. She wanted them and I didn’t want them with her. I don’t know if I want them. Wish we’d figured that out sooner. Christ. Years of misery just for one insight. Well many such insights. Incredible incompatibility. Ten years. All I ask is for a higher insight to misery ratio. Please. I have lost so much time. Hair too, apparently. Did I just not look at my head for that long? I have had a lot going on. Be kind to myself. My wet and balding self. I am in a state of transition. Who on this plane is prepared to shave me.
“Mister Jackson?” Shit! They know your name here! Damn! Can we snuggle and kiss maybe also? That would be cool. Secret society over here with sex rituals and shit. My desperation disgusts me. I’ll accept any friendly touch, really. Take me, I’m ready. I want a new life.
“Yuh..Yes?” Fuck I sound stupid. Again. I have botched every human interaction so far. I am so bad at this. Do not behold me. Do not take in my receding hairline and amazingly wet lips. I do not wish to be seen at this trying time. Lock me away. Put me into a cocoon and I shall emerge as a perfect butterfly. I want to be perfect. Every other human being is somehow better than me.
“Hi! Would you like something to drink before we take off?” WOULD I??? I would indeed. I will personally drink this airline into bankruptcy right here and now. But I will not. Thirteen months. Lucky number, treating myself. Fuck me. I do want to. You know I want to. All I could drink. I could drink a lot. Maybe I could drink and then open the emergency exit midflight, throw myself out. Go out on a high note. Everyone here will remember me forever. They all will have me in common. I will bring people together. There will be interviews, meetups. Books written. Medals of honor provided. All personal stories will become more interesting because I was here and died. My tragic story most interesting of all. No suffering more precious than mine. I will get a few minutes to witness the end as it approaches. What was it, 9.8 meters per second? Acceleration or velocity? Fuck I’m dumb. I should know that. Our children cannot graduate and enter adulthood without knowing 9.8 meters per second. And here I am. Well maybe I can measure that number on the way down. Prove my worth right at the end. Take that forbidden knowledge with me to the grave. Watery grave. All graves are watery when it rains. The ocean is ALL water, or at least mostly. Lots of fish shit in there. At what water-to-filth ratio does it become describable as mud? The ocean is extremely-watery mud. Into it I shall go at some high speed which I am ashamed to not be able to calculate right now.
No, not yet. Maybe on the return flight. “Seltzer water. Thanks.” Did I smile? How do I smile. Did they wince when I did that? Let’s see, selfie camera. Jesus. Wet lips, even less hair than a minute ago, and now this. Just yanking my glistening lips back across my teeth in random directions. Lips look about to snap. A vision of hell. Let me see here. I can kinda push my face around with my hands. There we go. Beautiful. I can hold my lips there for a second or two. Shoving my mouth into some semblance of a smile. Perfect. Selfie captured. Proof of life. Proof of joy. Happy to be here. I am present in this moment. I am worthy of this experience. Look into those eyes. The sad dead eyes of Michael “no relation” Jackson. Me. Tell me that you want me to be happy. Tell me that all is forgiven. Apologize to yourself. Sorry I ruined your life. Fucker. Hope this helps. May you find your bliss in the journey to come, you piece of shit. Vamos a Espana. Enjoy the country air. Find God on the trail. Inhale grace, exhale apologies. Your every breath spent in penance for the crime of being alive.