Tales from the rain
eulusso
Posts: 50
There were four of us left. I,the young son of the king, had been allowed to take place in the competition, and the merciless crowds truly liked my tales enough to let me go that far in the competition. Our tales had to comply with one condition only: they had to be incredible. I had a good tale that i had kept for the end. But first let me report what the other storytellers related.
The first story:
I have been to the desert and I have seen the sand woman. The sand woman has been there for a thousand years; she is alone and wants a companion. When the caravans pass, she raises from the dunes and whirls and shrills around them, calling for the men until one of them looks at her, hoping he will fall in love. But the men hide and close their eyes trying to survive the sand storm. Then she’d whip them and shout until they die, and melts back into the dunes until the next time, sad and still alone. None has ever survived the sand woman.
The second story:
Two men loved a woman. I got this story from one of them, Zaïd. The other one was Zanivul, a medicine man, expert in the darkest arts. Zanivul trapped his rival Zaïd in a mirage forever. From his mirage Zaïd can see every point of the earth, and ear every sound, every word, including his beloved woman talking to his rival. But none can ever see or hear him. He stays there, shouts and cries for her. That place is called the trapdoor in the sun. If you face the sunset you can, sometimes, notice a quick light green flash, the trap door.
And the third story teller came, and this was his story:
From all the places I have been, none is as strange as the unspeakable town. When Babel was destroyed, the survivors looked for the most remote and hidden place where they could live. They finally reached a point in the North Mountains called Alamout, and built a city where they could live and hide their shame in the shadow of rocks, so high the sun light hardly reaches the streets. In that town, each new born baby comes to the world speaking a new different language, and will speak only that language all his life.
I was charmed and moved by my competitor's tales. My own story failed to enchant ME as they did. I felt unhappy. I learned that before you create for others, you must be true to yourself, moved, loose grip, and let the tale come over you. I retired from competition and a winner was chosen. Next day I left the palace, my comfortable life, and choose the road instead. I learned from the best and the worst tale tellers the simple truth that moves the teller. It took me to distant lands, I learned foreign languages, rescued forgotten tales from oblivion, searched for the unknown, the remote, and the rare. Then one day, news came to my ears that my father had died, and the kingdom was I great turmoil. I believed I had to come back and take my place as the new king. I never did. When I reached our capital, nobody remembered me or the young prince that had left the palace and choose the road instead. But everybody had heard of the story teller I had become.
I said to myself “now I have my story”…
Eulusso
The first story:
I have been to the desert and I have seen the sand woman. The sand woman has been there for a thousand years; she is alone and wants a companion. When the caravans pass, she raises from the dunes and whirls and shrills around them, calling for the men until one of them looks at her, hoping he will fall in love. But the men hide and close their eyes trying to survive the sand storm. Then she’d whip them and shout until they die, and melts back into the dunes until the next time, sad and still alone. None has ever survived the sand woman.
The second story:
Two men loved a woman. I got this story from one of them, Zaïd. The other one was Zanivul, a medicine man, expert in the darkest arts. Zanivul trapped his rival Zaïd in a mirage forever. From his mirage Zaïd can see every point of the earth, and ear every sound, every word, including his beloved woman talking to his rival. But none can ever see or hear him. He stays there, shouts and cries for her. That place is called the trapdoor in the sun. If you face the sunset you can, sometimes, notice a quick light green flash, the trap door.
And the third story teller came, and this was his story:
From all the places I have been, none is as strange as the unspeakable town. When Babel was destroyed, the survivors looked for the most remote and hidden place where they could live. They finally reached a point in the North Mountains called Alamout, and built a city where they could live and hide their shame in the shadow of rocks, so high the sun light hardly reaches the streets. In that town, each new born baby comes to the world speaking a new different language, and will speak only that language all his life.
I was charmed and moved by my competitor's tales. My own story failed to enchant ME as they did. I felt unhappy. I learned that before you create for others, you must be true to yourself, moved, loose grip, and let the tale come over you. I retired from competition and a winner was chosen. Next day I left the palace, my comfortable life, and choose the road instead. I learned from the best and the worst tale tellers the simple truth that moves the teller. It took me to distant lands, I learned foreign languages, rescued forgotten tales from oblivion, searched for the unknown, the remote, and the rare. Then one day, news came to my ears that my father had died, and the kingdom was I great turmoil. I believed I had to come back and take my place as the new king. I never did. When I reached our capital, nobody remembered me or the young prince that had left the palace and choose the road instead. But everybody had heard of the story teller I had become.
I said to myself “now I have my story”…
Eulusso
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I came back alone and never fished again. My hands never got warm since that day, that’s how it happened. At nights I watch the bay, it’s like a shadow but, and I think I saw that fish. He comes around. I believe he followed me.
“I’m pretty sure – I said – I see shadows myself, surfing the waves under the water. He is all right, believe me, he’s all right. The man smiled and I said good bye. As I walked down to the water. When I looked back, he was taking his hands out of his pockets, and with a daring gesture, he took of his gloves.
Carcavelos bay - 2006
Rosie, if we had been friends long ago, and I had became so faint you couldn’t even tell me from a made up memory, would you still say my name right now? And if stay too long and drink too much, will you take me by the hand and say”come, you don’t belong here”
And the indifferent moon still high looked down at us. Her rays across the branches did not move a leaf, nor raise the dust from the ground, as a light hot rain started to fall. Still dancing, Rosie moved a step aside, so the rain could fall on us, cool us, heal us, and we danced and did not talk.
Eulusso
Thanks for sharing. Please keep on doing so.
the three incredible tales (in your first tale) have a common theme, it seems to me, of non-existence. The poor, wretched subjects are all mute in some way.
But your three tales when read together tell of existence. learning how to live or re-live.
The surfer is a good circle breaker. Dancing with Rosie has got really beautiful imagery. Great to read your words.
Thank you Burts,
hey i had not noticed the common theme, I do now. Most important i'm glad you liked it,
Eulusso
say hello to Jack Sparrow when you see him;
When I long to touch you, long to see you , long to dream of you, I let loose, close my eyes, you take me in your hands, throw me above the rolling waves, and I fly
DEVOTION
Since I can’t touch you no more, or look at you, I fear dreaming of you, I close my eyes, let go, slide into the belly of the rolling waves, and find my place.
SURRENDER
I won’t touch no more, see no more, dream no more, I lost grip, closed my eyes, take me in your hands, throw my ashes into the storm, where he belong.
E.
dreamer in my dream
we got the guns
i love you,but im..............callin out.........callin out
That's a wonderful way of explaining the emotions we go through when we are in the process of Letting go. Beautiful.
perhaps not, what is it?
I got this tittle from the Coltranes album "A love supreme"!
E.
They had a happy life until the day he, went to school. The other children wanted to know what was under the bandages. So they unwraped, unwraped, unwraped...And under the bandages they found, nothing at all. Absolutely nothing. They never could get them back in place, and this is how the mummy child finally lost eternity. If you ever meet a living mummy, don't ask what's under...it's meant to remain hidden from you. It's what you see, and won't show more. Some of us are mummy childs don't we?
E.
I also used to take his pewter tankard and piss in it when I was about 3. He used to drink beer from it and I used to piss in it in the garden. poor Dad!
hi burts,
E.
It was not human, ok, but he would need her just like a baby does. He would grow, and develop, using processes similar to cristal growth, the basic growth process from wich life came up millions of years ago. He would learn too, in a cybernetic way but still, learn. And he would become... becoming, isn't that what life is all about? He would stumble and get up too...and also, he would never be as harsh to her as life and people had been. Robots are conceived for harmony. One thing they do not have is a big ego. Was she being a coward? Maybe, yes, so what? She had already been brave enough in the past, and what did she get?
Slowly, tenderly, she took the tiny wire between her fingers, and pluged it into the body. Almost imediatly, his skin grew over the conection and covered it completely, leaving no trace. Then she felt a small vibration from inside, a gentle bzzzz...coming from very far. The cold skin surface became warm, and smooth. Her hand on his chest could feel it: now there was “something” in it, something had happened, something had just started.
That night, in her bed, in the dark, she did not keep her eyes open as she used to do. Her mind was not rambling around from one thought to another like it used to. She lay silent, eyes closed, peacefull, and she listened. From the room next to hers, came that litlle bzzz...bzzz...bzzz...”No coming back she thought”, and she smiled.
E.
"with all the mistakes
we must shurely be learning...
whyle my guitar gently weeps"
something had happened, something had just started.
”No coming back she thought”, and she smiled.
---
Very tasty! I should start drinking a large glass of symbolism
every morning. Or maybe start making time for some ideas
I've put off for far too long . . .
have you seen what Honda have called theirs .... 'Asimo' I wonder what it means. By coincidence I saw a programme about Robots and artificial? intelligence.
One thing that was very striking was a computer programme that could assimilate peoples experiences and thoughts via downloads and blogs etc... not one person but many and start to take on characteristics, combined characteristics - a child of many.
here's Asimo in all his glory. Honda really are the parents in this case I guess.
http://world.honda.com/ASIMO/
every morning. Or maybe start making time for some ideas
I've put off for far too long . . .[/quote]
Yes, some idead jump like a fish and dive back into your mind so fast you hardly notice them, make time to be attentive and don't put them away,
go!
E
Yes...somehow poetic, beautiful, and sad and scary too.
Asimo is a tribute to Isaac Asimov! That reminds me I have not read a thing from him since i was a kid, bye, i'm going to the library,
E.
E
(but he does read Isaac Asimov, for sure)
Asimo in japanese... ? babelfish japanese:
日本語
Asimo does sound like a Japanese name to my ears. So it is a well intended mistake if an abbreviated English slogan sounds like a Japanese name to this human's ears.
In the end, rivalry corruption alliances and war always won. Tough Thomas Mann, Prudhom, Bakounine and Rousseau, they all came to help, they inspired him his ideal cities. But they would have ended hanged by their feet like Mussolini if he had let it happen.
He did not, never. All he had to do is clic on “erase”, and a storm of free electrons would rain hard on the public gardens, the buildings, and all that lived, (including the vanilla ice cream vendor) washing them away, cleaning and purifying the world from it's ugliness.
My son creates cities, he breeds worlds. I just inspire him with some old utopists. And he always ends up telling me “they are worth nothing, it never works...” Yeah I can see that.
Then yesterday he came up saying “ Dad, I think I've got it. Look at my civilisation now, it spread all over the planet, this world is already 5647 years old, and nothing, no wars, no crisis, absolute cool, it works! I'll explain to you: the problem is too much organisation, you will see. People talk too much, they complicate things, look. This time I did not erase everything like in the deluge...instead I did it like Babel, only worst...There are no two people speaking the same language, classic, but I pushed it beyond that. Every newborn child speaks a diferent language and only one language forever! Surprised old hippie dad? Easy: no speeches, no writings, no philosophy, no religion, so no governement, no army, no chiefs. Instead, painting, sculpture, music, and people judged by their acts, not by their saying...look!!
I took a fly over the cities, I landed here and there, and I saw towns, not so high tech but...without frontiers, without nations, just individuals, cooperating on basic needs, with nothing to live, die or kill for...and 5647 years of continual peace. You can't imagine what it does.
Though they still talked, not much, sometimes, here and there. To me it sounded like birdsongs.
E.
inspired by “Imagine” and “The Division Bell”
The vanilla ice cream vender can only be a good thing.
Not Jack Sparrow, but BT would say: 'It's good to talk'