THE CERVANTES LABYRINTH

If you never sensed in your heart the holy solitude of a matador,

If you aren’t amazed by the trees from which corks are made,

Nor either the sounds and staccato hammering of gypsy flamenco,

Failing to make your blood flow like a flooding Amazon,

Then go search and discover the earth of life.

Dig in it, run it through your fingers,

Get down on your knees and smell it, taste it, sleep on it, it is one with your creator.

And question not the few grains that discolor your shirt,

They are the badges of your awakening.

The Last Syllable - by Walter Crabtree

O

 

n this morning, the heavy curtains of the master bedroom, which faced the ocean, automatically opened; slowly, silently, and precisely at six.  Through the floor to ceiling windows the shimmering blue rays from the limitlessness of the Pacific began creeping into the bedchamber; advancing slowly, like a shy lover.  At the same moment, Four Seasons softly played from the surround- sound system.  Outside, the intermittent clamor of the pounding surf with its signature timpani of the odd fifth wave, shuddered heavily onto the beach; seemingly intervening itself briefly and pleasingly into the symphony’s tone poem.  

Jon Susu, lying on his left side, alone in the bed, rolled over and looked through the window, first at the broad ribbon of sand rolling off into the horizon – then at the surface of the ocean. He lowered his gaze back to the exorbitantly valued real estate, with its translucent quartz sand, wet and slick, ready for skim boarding. Jon appreciated the allure of the environment – the oceanfront’s vitality: the sea calling for attention would rise up, shake its head covered with white frosted curls and wavelets; an organism kept alive; constantly shaping, forming, and sculpting; driven at first landwards, and then parsimoniously pulled back in the powerful grip of an undertow. All this orchestrated by an indifferent storm … far out to sea. So … this shoreline is like looking at the Mona Lisa; after awhile her face becomes just a portrait of an ordinary woman, beauty is truly transitory, he thought – Gotta make some coffee.

He struggled with his feet exploring for the floor, then eased from the bed with an inexplicit sense of apprehension. This, the tenth day of his house-sitting a friend’s Santa Monica beach front home did not portend well for Jon. Last night’s phone call unnerved and made sleep difficult. He showered and then dressed in black; shirt, tie, suit coat, pants, shoes, eye-patch, and lastly; transparent, ultrathin plastic gloves.  His auburn hair, still wavy, gave resistance to the brush as he turned his head for a final stroke. He looked at his eye; he examined its hazel color, searching for the flecks of gold tinged with green.  Is my eye becoming watery? he worried.

An Introduction/Explanation of The Genera of Magical Realism

(This story is an allegory for something yet to be determined.)

There are locations, people, items, myths that are symbolic to defining Jon’s life and psychosis. Jon, amongst other personality attributes, is a classical, text book narcissist, (See DSM-4; Diagnostic Statistical Manuel, Version four.) Most of the scenes and situations are real, but there are incidents that cross over, undifferentiated, into magical moments. Joseph Campbell’s works on myths through the ages and Kafka’s oeuvre were instrumental in deciding to write in this genera. This short story also uses the epistolary in which the characters confess/expose their thoughts and their feelings, at the discretion of the 3^rd person narrator. One of the benefits is just how tangible, palpable, and obvious the sharing in the present moment of the story can effect the reader – in essence we’ll freeze that fleeting moment for a unique level of observation into the character’s hidden thoughts/feelings (who am I kidding … those are the thought that are occurring in my head as I extend the story!). Unlike Kafka, I describe the characters and their surroundings, because, in part, they are the generator for much of the “magical” components of this story. I am in effect breaking the “Creative Writing 101” contract of psychological realism, as all of the “magical/realism” writers have done for the past seventy years. My characters are imaginary beings, much as Don Quixote and his horse Rocinante are imaginary characters. So you the reader can ride on the back of that horse and go as fast and in as many directions as you can conceive … as it were you become an adjunct creator of my story.

This story is not the author’s bio or revelation; it simply is his ongoing exploration of life. The Last Syllable wants to examine the self and its “identity”, probing to see if there are dimensions to the feelings of “soul”, or is that ephemeral entity infinite, and therefore capable of measurement? After all, to measure is to understand – ergo … to control!! Someone wrote: “that girl is so upset by her uncertain hold on her identity that she sobs, “I am me, I am me, I am me …”.