The Odious, Joseph Vingelman [leveled readers txt] 📗

The Odious

Forcing his mind blank by extinguishing the thoughts as they arose, Amory unknowingly sat in a state of self-hypnosis. Disposed to the spiritual realm of ideas his father introduced him to when he was a young boy, the desire to be enlightened and live like the ancients occupied the bulk of his daily thoughts. He yearned to wear their divine robes of sophistication and bear the smile of the Buddha. He hoped more than anything else however, that these sessions of meditation as he liked to call them, would light the path to understanding, the path of the venerable ancients. He desired to speak as they spoke, live as they lived, be happy as he perceived them to be happy, with the same sense of duty and honor. Their humility alone piqued his curiosity passed a healthy point of appreciation into obsession, but it gave him strength, strength to continue despite any formidable foe. The unwavering countenance of the ancients whom he had read so much about appealed to him in a way he couldn’t necessarily understand fully, and he thrived in not knowing. Often he felt that if this passion of his were ever to be fully realized, surely his interest would dwindle, and consequently lose all its meaning. The thought scared him, even seemed devastating to him. But as of now, with an exaggerated and forced calm, Amory simply sat.

It was raining outside and the drops were pounding the window above. The only sounds were his raspy inconsistent breathing, probably the result of his past smoking addiction, and the inconsistent patter of rain droning incessantly above. Despite his best efforts to be impartial to the thoughts that arose, and simply dismiss them, so as to sustain a purer more passive awareness, images began to arise and he slipped into a dream. He dreamt of himself sitting cross legged in the grass, atop a wondrously high mountain over-looking diverse green forests as far as the eye could see. The landscape was split by a lazy meandering stream which seemed to have no agenda other than to cut the forest in two in the most roundabout fashion. He gazed onward with a deep sense of contentment and security. Noticing his clothes he found himself in the garb of the ancients, sitting in a posture so calm and breathing so evenly little chipmunks were beginning to hide their rations in the hem of his robe. The view of the sun was perfect perched atop the high trees and the temperature was suiting, but soon the earth began to shake and his calm transformed into despair. Soon thunder and lightning began to reign upon the earth destroying the serenity and the dreamed Amory got to his feet frightened beyond belief. The rumblings were growing louder and louder until the anti-climatic dawning of consciousness pervaded, and he awoke to a pounding at the door. “Amory...Amory!” a muffled woman’s voice rang from behind the door, “What are you doing? You’re going to be late!” Frustrated, he opened his eyes without responding to the mysterious call.

Putting his ear to the door he listened patiently, and he waited until the footsteps outside diminished before he slipped out of the house seemingly unnoticed. This type of inconspicuous exit required patient and elaborate execution: the descending of the stairs, usually involving tip-toeing down slowly only on certain portions of the planks he knew made the least amount of creaking, followed by a lunge across the great-room, concluding with a silent crawl toward the front door. As the sun beat down outside, and he couldn’t remember any type of obligation he would have that this voice might be referring to, so he resolved to go where his feet would take him, wherever that may be. He made sure to avert his eyes as strangers passed beside him, for he was ever so fearful of their gazes. Growing restless he undertook resting upon a bench in view, and in doing so observed a couple staring in his direction emitting short bursts of laughter, their eyes fixated in judgment. A spell of introspection cast upon his mind: Is it something I’m wearing, something I could change, something horribly wrong I’m oblivious to? “No, I don’t want any of your business!” he exclaimed emphatically, and returned the gaze but only for a second. Reflecting on the ancients’ books, he knew a situation like this could call for many different reactions, usually indicating a person’s disposition depending on how they behave. He pondered whether he could be the type of person to ever be able to, after observing a couple laughing in his direction, absorb it like a drop of rain, or be strong and compelled to quarrel, or even reflect on the nature of laughing itself. He decided any of these options would have sufficed for the right and true emotion except his own, that of being overcome with doubt and petrified of any further contact.

Sharing quarters with ash covered bread crumbs and a rotten toothpick, the pad in his jacket pocket beckoned him with the slight discomfort its protruding edges offered against his hip. Soon Amory began drawing affording a vacation of sorts from himself, from the violent ruminations which usually left him standing as a fossil in the middle of streets. The whole situation happened to be observed by a fellow named Goldmund, a tall gentleman with a strong foundation, donning a smoking jacket and a modest hat and tie. He had been watching Amory for some time and finally resolved to see why this man was walking indiscriminately about only to finally reside on a bench and begin to scribble. Goldmund could not understand this man, and maybe if he did the allure would cease, but despite being rather timid he slowly walked up to Amory, his shadow preceding him: “Greetings, my name is Goldmund young man; may I ask you a few questions? Your behavior intrigues me. May I ask who you were talking to back there? It wouldn’t be so odd if you were just talking aloud, I guess, but you sounded as if you were responding to somebody. Do you see anyone besides me on this road? I don’t know if I should tell you, but perhaps it is best.” This man is obviously delusional, Amory thought to himself and tried to continue drawing, but Goldmund’s shadow loomed further into sight and now blanketed Amory entirely, he felt enveloped in ash. “Listen, I prefer to be left alone. This city is vast, you know” Amory said at last, but noticing the utter confusion portrayed on the face of his assailant, he knew more questioning was inevitable, so hastily got up and with a light jog scampered away pad in hand.

Hours of aimless walking passed and it grew dark. He knew where he was, only a couple miles away from home, and so proceeded in that direction. Soon his eyes began to twitch from dust, but walked steadily using his right hand as a shield. Back home something was different. He thought perhaps he had been robbed, for the present situation of the house could only be described as in utter disarray, but checking his valuables noticed nothing really had moved, and he remembered the door through which he entered was as he’d left it. He was thoroughly confused, and now even the conversations earlier were coming under the spotlight of examination, something he rarely did, for he was usually entirely occupied with the ancients. He went down to the cellar, which had originally been a bomb shelter now fitted as a private study, and locked the heavy door behind him. His breathing grew sporadic and his heart began to race. He looked around as if it was the first time he’d been in the study, and his head soon fell into his hands with a graceless plump. The culmination of the earlier events prompted something new in our Amory however, and he decided to meditate upon the day differently, without the forced ceasing of all thoughts, without really trying at all. Determined to figure out why that man was speaking such nonsense, and why that couple ardently stared in his direction and laughed, and even what, if any, obligations he may have forgotten about, he re-positioned his seating and fell into a dreamy haze. Without the conscious activity of attempting to rid the mind of conscious activity his mind finally became somewhat still. To his elation he realized the questions he posed to himself earlier carried hardly any importance when compared to the stillness being experienced now, where the subtle awareness seems to have superseded the day’s petty events. So he sat for hours with not one desire germinating within his soul, his senses becoming keen. It seems as though his non-action now has given him an awareness that knows no bounds. In the absence of trying, the mind was finally able to sink into perceiving subtler and subtler levels of consciousness affording him a small glimpse at the origin of thought itself.

He twitched; something was still not right. He thought to himself now rationally conscious, “Where are all the birds that usually chirp at this hour, the cars rushing to get home honking in vain, the lonely men staggering in the street from bars singing their solemn melodies? Why can’t I hear any of them?” He had good reason to be asking such questions, for he had been down in this cellar numerous times, sometimes for months straight, and has always heard such sounds despite the heavy cellar door. He took a deep breath and opened his eyes, divested himself of his jacket and unlatched the door, stopping as his head reached through the opening and his eyes saw the present state of things outdoors. He was shocked and quite disturbed. On his face a tear meandered lazily down his cheek, and his ash laden face looked as though split from the murky tear now hanging tenderly from his chin. It was a wasteland before him. The buildings he once admired for their beauty and stature he realized now, with a clear head, were heaps of destroyed rock and building material, blanketed in their totality in ash and soot. There was hardly what one could call a street before his eyes either, for the cars, lampposts, and sidewalks that usually populate such a place were in absolute ruin. It was a consuming blackness filtered with ash and a silence so complete his ears began to ring.

He realized in this one foul swoop he had been creating a false reality for himself, probably somewhat resulting from the self-hypnosis sessions he thought would lead him into Enlightenment. “Perhaps the aftermath of…,” he mouthed to himself and continuing after a slight pause, “good lord, there were never any people either; even the sun was a horrible hallucination.” At this he fell back into the cellar. Faced with the most significant question he had ever posed himself, for he now understood the only way he had ever survived the wasteland was being unconscious of his surroundings, dwelling within that realm of delusions. His delusions of the radiant sun, of the awkward couple laughing with expectant eyes, even Goldmund,