JUNE'S WRITTEN PORTRAITS

By William Markiewicz

'To Each Condition its Own Dimension'

This seemingly enigmatic phrase means that the 'singularity effect' doesn't exist, at least in the world we consider our own. Strange things happen that 'philosophers didn't dream about,' still most dreams are meant to be buried.

On a TV archaeology program about China we were shown the open grave of a prehistoric mummy. The remains suggested that China's prehistoric inhabitants were Caucasian. The mummy was a young blond woman, considering her accoutrements, probably of some nobility. Her hands and face were unveiled and we may wonder what conservation system was used because the deterioration through the millenaries could not totally destroy the haunting sense of her beauty. The commentator was entranced, and, as if he knew her, the tenderness and intimacy of his comments transcended epochs. I got the message. It was an inter-temporal love declaration deserving of Guiness, as the prehistoric supergal deserved it herself. Still, condition/dimension cannot be transcended. It's a long way from extraordinary to miracle and Pygmalion -- or Frankenstein -- will not show up. The greatest journeys of our souls remain confined to the mighty kingdom of dreams.


Compassion

Little girls were marching three by three on an outside-of-Paris street, all dressed alike, too little to be a class, they must have been from an orphanage. They were marching fast and, alert for their age, happily chatting within their trios. When one of the rows passed me, it took me a moment to realize that a 'kid' from this line was an old wrinkled woman, dwarf and retarded! She had the same walk and chattered happily like the 'other' children. She was obviously well integrated, neither the children nor herself noticed the slightest difference. The notion of time was certainly absent for her as well as for the children. The teachers and nurses were perhaps nuns, I don't remember this detail. I congratulated them in the depths of my heart for subtlety, intelligence and goodness in making sweet the last years of her life.


I heard this story in Madrid about two brothers attending the same class. The teacher, probably a Jesuit as in those times the schools were mostly run by Jesuits, asked them how their difference of age could be only five months. --"Is it a mistake? -- he asked. --"No, one of us is adopted, we don't know which one!" The teacher sent the parents a congratulatory note.


The nightshift nurse with a deformed face, while entering and leaving the room gave a horsesmile to the dying patient who couldn't see it. It was a greeting from disgrace to disgrace, it was love.

One has to find an interior harbour for love.


Moustache, cigarette, drugs

It was an elegant musketeer-like moustache, blonde, turned up... but it was a young lady who wore it and it wasn't artificial! Everything else about her was feminine and tasteful. She was obviously proud of her allure and the bunch she was with indicated she was a part of theatrical circles and a lesbian. Over ten years later I saw her again, she was crazy, a wreck and baglady. She looked at least 60 years old.


In the smoking section of a park cafeteria, I saw a young woman, she could have been a teenager. She was a streetperson, but clean, and she smoked her cigarette or was it a thin cigar, with a sensual almost ritualistic pleasure. She was in her own world, even though exposed to the passing public. She had a maniere, a princess-like distance. I saw her few years later on the street. She was a wreck, emptied totally of herself, neither dead nor alive. She walked like a somnambulist leaning on her little cart, her face totally expressionless and a zombie-like void in her eyes.


The first time I saw this young black man in the neighbourhood, he was like a playboy -- elegant, attractive -- and he was talking to some lady in a theatrical bragging -- joking style. I was surprised that he could so consistently maintain the pose; I concluded that it was simply his natural panache. He also gave the impression of being 'high.' I'm not sure how gradually it happened but I watched his successive decline. Now he walks the streets like a total madman, with his beggar's carriage full of plastic bags, laughing to himself, thrown out of local places. He keeps an attitude of defense--attack with the passersby, or is it simply a pathetic attempt to remain sociable? Occasionally he wears an elegant outfit and nice shoes, even if he sometimes wears a different one on each foot.

Three people with one element in common: they all wanted to be different. Who can afford it and when does it becomes a poison? Perhaps Ego without 'guru' becomes a poison.


About Mrs. 'X '

She smiled like a moon and she thought she was Buddha.


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