Frederick (Buddha)
Long ago the sun stopped rising in the east, west, north or south or from
the center/less and the sky is always dark in the setting sun world.
Here is story of how we met:
Who are you?
They met in the desert, each thinking the other was a mirage.
The one man knew exactly where he was going.
The other did not.
The man who knew where he was going asked the inaugural question.
The other, the one who didn’t know, replied, I don’t know.
Yes, said the first.
Do you know? asked the second, the confused one.
Perhaps confused is not the right word.
Who I am? said the knowing first.
No, who I am? replied the second, the one who did not know.
They looked at each other.
The confident one remained unconfused.
The elephant stood entirely still, not even its ears twitched.
I forgot to mention the elephant. There is an elephant. Rather large and
entirely white. A, what’s the word? An albino.
A is for Albino.
Tent. I am continually amazed that I know that word for what this is.
This. I am the keeper of the tent.
People have wallets and in these wallets they carry identification.
Identification is an incontrovertible confirmation of who they are. Their
faces are photographed and laminated onto plastic, along with their name
and vital statistics. I don’t have one of these. Maybe I had one once but I
have lost it in my journeys. Since I cannot remember where I have been, I
do not know where to look. I have vital statistics, of course. Those don’t
change much. My hair is reddish brown, my eyes are brown. I am the
height of however high it is to stand under the elephant when her trunk is
raised horizontal to the earth and feel it rest gently on the top of my head.
I am male. I am thin; everyone says so. These are the facts.
Besides having an identification card in a wallet, the other way to know
who you are is to remember. Every day people wake up and remember
what they were the day before. The mind keeps up continuity in
perpetuity. This is quite helpful. However, it is of little use to me. I don’t
remember anything except language, which is odd because language is so
disassociated from the actual things themselves. I remember that this is a
tent. I even remember that this tent is used for a circus. The circus is
called Cirque d’Arachne. I remember what Arachne means. But none of
these words are the thing itself. Tent is not a tent.
Let me explain: It is true that I don’t remember anything except language.
But I would like to examine the word remember. When something is in
front of me I know what it is.
There’s nothing to say about it really. It just is. If it has a name I don’t
know it. If it has a name it hardly matters in the experience of it what it is
called.
Every day must be reinvented.
It has never been mentioned. It is not spoken of. But by now everyone
knows.
I’m sure I must have a mother. I have a sense of mother. A feel for mother.
Not the word; the held, dark quality of mother. The milk white quality as
well.
I must come from somewhere, mustn’t I?
I have memories, I think. But perhaps they are only dreams I remember.
Perhaps I dream the day to come the night before. It is possible, likely
even, that I dream my entire existence. A whole story created every night.
It is possible, likely even, that I am dreaming now and I’m not here at all.
Here is a dream I have:
I am standing in line to get bread or soup or vodka. My pockets are stuffed
with roubles but since I do not know what those look like, they are large
American dollars. Finally it is time to give my name to the matron. My
name is Lennon but there is no paper trail of my existence so when asked
Like John or Vladimir I reply Yes. Leaving it up to the inquiree to decide
how to spell it. Not that I have much cause to put my name down in any
official capacity.
Why do I have to give my name in order to get bread? And, of course, that
is not my real name anyway. What would an interpreter of dreams ask? To
which are you more akin, John or Vladimir? But I have no answer. I
cannot remember who either of them is—except that they are famous and
probably mischievous.
I forgot to say that when I met him in the desert it was as if he knew
exactly who I was.
Frederick, he said, How good to see you.
Then I said, Who are you?
I sometimes have hope in these situations that I may discover something
of my past. Often I meet people who seem to know who I am. Then again,
perhaps it is only the illusion of acquaintanceship. Like when everyone
looks familiar even though you know you don’t know them. How can you
know the population? Yet…sometimes it does feel that way, doesn’t it?
Only a few faces and experiences wandering around on and in all those
bodies. How many? Billions.
As if it had been a long time but we had been close once. He was emaciated
and he wore nothing but a white piece of muslin wrapped around him in
an elaborate twist.
I am not fond of presumed intimacy but it is possible we were close once. I
cannot remember, after all.
E is for Elephant. That is the word for her, when I see her. She’s not
always visible, but she’s always there. What is her name? She doesn’t have
one…as far as I know.
She’s grey but I sometimes get the sense that she is fading to white. Or
that her head is white and her body, grey, as if she dipped her head in
light. The light is slowly seeping down through her, taking the grey color,
consuming it maybe? As it fills her.
—The Forgotten Man, Chapter One
Crystal Gandrud