La Rue de Knowledge

                                                 La Rue de Knowledge

“When you stare into the abyss, the abyss stares into you.”

-Zen Proverb

When the young Buddhist monk Sai-Pen reached Satori, or enlightenment, at age 15, he released so much sweat, that it poured down the steps of the monastery like a stream. This image came to me one afternoon while visiting the historic district of La Rue de Jin. It was during the 1930’s that the spirit of Paris was awakened here in the states, and several old sections of towns throughout the country still bear the street names and decor made famous during its’ heyday. The Rue de Jin was no different. The overlapping styles of years of remodeling had hidden the entirety of the original glamour, but here and there it still peeked out, yearning to be enjoyed. Some vendors had restored their shops to the original grandeur, funds permitting of course, and some just sported cheeky names to identify their businesses with their surroundings; La Vie Porci Salon, Chateau de Mona, BonBons and Crepes by Pierre.

It was on this particular Sunday I was faced with a truth so profound, it would forever change my opinion of the concept of good and evil. The weather that day was picture perfect, bright and clear yet balmy, an almost out-of-place light breeze with the sounds of the distant fairground sailing over the senses, the clattering of wooden coasters, the high pitched wails of excited and terrified children, the Calliope music eerily distorted by distance, all of this added to the moment at hand. A car slowly made its’ way down the thin pavement, it caught my eye from the sidewalk cafe table I was sitting at, the sun glinting off the chrome, dancing on my cup for a moment, then gone, the moment exemplified the idea of the lazy Sunday drive.

I had come here to write, a failed attempt now after the waitress had taken me out of my head and quickly into hers. The dialogue was pouring quickly from the pen, one of those rare moments writers dream about and wish for every Christmas, that gift that is always remembered and treasured. Here my characters currently dissected each other into oblivion, all the while their forces solid and complete, and very far distanced from me, the writer. I felt like a scared father. “What will my characters do next?” I was giddy with excitement. It was, of course, at this moment that she appeared.

”Whatcha writin?” The waitress had obviously been watching my fingers do their private deeds. I felt like I was caught in a malicious act.

“Woha... Didn’t see you there. Hello. No, I’m fine. What?” It was back to the world of the living for me, my characters running off, terrified like little children.

“You a writer or somethin'? I think I seen you in here before once.” She was young and not from around here, a transient being just along for the ride, and yet so young, she might not even know she was on one yet. Her incorrect speech patterns raised my teaching habits to the surface but I quickly swallowed them.

"Well yes, I do and yes I have but, its just that... I don't like anyone to watch me..." I tried to be kind but firm.

“Why not?” Her innocence was painful, yet strangely intoxicating.

“Well, it changes my workflow. You become an apparent piece of that writing...’

“So, you mean like, you’d use my name or maybe the girl would twirl her hair or smack her gum?” She did both actions playfully and laughed.

“Well, maybe not that literally, but yes, your presence would be detectable in the words. At least, to me they would.” My mind was saying things it never said, all the while a running inner dialogue told me to shut up and get back to work.

“Well, sorry, I won’t bother you again.” She feigned the emotions being hurt, and for some unknown reason once again, I play along.

“No, no, it’s not an intrusion, think of it more like a pause. Or a perfectly planned break.”

“Yea, wish I had one of those coming up soon.”

“You don’t get many of those around here?” Again, I was in shock internally, what was I doing?

“Not as many as I’d like.”

“How many would be good?”

“I don’t know. Whenever I want, I guess.” She laughs at the thought, or the silliness of it hopefully.

“Well, I think I might have to go to another spot for my favorite meal of the day.” I was serious, but smiled to provide a mask.

“Aww...” She feigns sadness again, obviously her “go to” playful response when dealing with tables.

“Well, lucky I like the view.” I realized how it sounded instantly but it was too late.

“Well,...” She began to start into another false hurt remark, then stopped short, letting all the playful mood spill onto the sidewalk. She dropped her head, and quickly walked off.

“I didn’t mean it like that.” quietly fell from my lips.

Feeling foolish and old and my writing time ruined for now as well, I swallowed the last dregs of bean water down, left a larger-than-usual tip on the table under the cup so as not to see it blow away down the street, along with the childrens’ screams and cotton candy scents. I could go home, sulk about the loss of momentum, and end up watching T.V. until my head hurt but something told me there was more in store for me that day, just one of those hunches you get, sometimes acting on but mostly never, so you become accustomed to burying it under food and beer. Getting lost in the back streets of the district, it can feel like you are disappearing back in time, back to another place and world where things moved at a different pace, slower, more docile, even dream-like.

I have promised to keep the location of this district a secret, for fear of disrupting the unique balance there with my humble words. It is a cherished and unique thing that there still exists a place where people say hello to you and welcome you into their little home or shop for a warm danish or maybe just a chat, enjoying the qualities of humanity as well as business. The sounds and smells of this area have warmed even the coldest heart but when one is at ease and accepting of its' treasures, it takes on an almost surreal quality, one of real security and safety. One where the senses can be easily fooled into letting their guard down and letting the conscious collide with the subconscious.

I wandered aimlessly, letting my feet take me past the side streets and gardens, through the arched overhang of budding roses, eventually ending up at the door of one of my favorite shopkeepers, Madame Pinochet. Her residence is not easy to end up at, tucked at the end of a tiny back alley path, the first floor windows covered in brambles. One would never know the address of 31 1/3 Shaded Lane unless they had been shown it by someone else, the numbers buried under a large pigeon nest, varnished with years of continual droppings. Her soft early classical favorites drifted out of the upstairs window and soothed my ears from above.

“Madame?”

“Ohhh, is that you? Ha! The poet returns! What a nice surprise.” She peered out of the second floor widow, concealed with brush from below.

“Why, thank you. I was just strolling the Rue when Bach dragged me down the alley.”

“He’s known to do that. I think that’s what dragged my first husband in to tell you the truth, if I didn’t play, I am positive that man would never of noticed me!” She closed the window and mere seconds later she was opening the front door in front of me.

“My, that wasn’t you was it?” I couldn’t imagine, the vigor in the strings seemed youthful and light, it had to be a recording but she was not the woman to really be playing CD's, and I distinctly did not hear crackles, hisses or pops, let alone the needle coming up when the music ceased.

“No, just a record. I played third chair cello for the local orchestra for almost 10 years. Those were fun times. But he would swoon under my notes. And that was about all that did.” She chuckled to herself.

“Well, I doubt that, Madame. I’m sure it was just an added bonus.” We entered her home, a curio shop in itself. Shelves behind shelves lined the tiny cottage, filled with treasures from around the world and the heyday of Paris intermingled with her own belongings, sometimes indistinguishable from the former. Madame Pinochet was a round woman, difficult to age but on in years, her spry step kept everyone guessing. She dressed according to her moods and I had seen her don everything from ball gowns to Dashiki robes, always fitting her mood snugly into her extensive wardrobe collected over a lifetime of travels and experiences. She had already disappeared into the kitchen and now was returning with a silver tray, laden with steaming croissants, fresh cream, jam, and tea, Earl Grey, of course.

“They have fresh blueberries in them, hand-picked this morning right out of my patch on the roof.”

“You have a patch on the roof? Of blueberries?”

“Well, where else am I supposed to put them? In the bath? Of course they are on the roof!” Her British

accent always made me smile, even when she was belittling me, as older British women tend to do so

well.

“Well, actually I just ate at...”

But by that point, the pastry was already on a small plate on my lap with a few extra blueberries on the side and the warmth which resonated through the plate proved that they were extremely fresh. Madame Pinochet made me feel at peace, one of those special people in your life that can relax you and put you at ease. She reminded me of my grandmother, yet not in her “Southern Belle” ways, Madame Pinochet had a worldly appeal, almost universal due to her age and experiences, a twinkle in her eye and pep in her step which made her all the more special, a woman who had lived lives, in multiple countries, with multiple men, all gone now, her new life and the only one I knew was but an inkling of the entirety this woman had lived. I had gotten in the habit of stopping here on each of my visits, knowing she was always here proved a nice constant, and one I enjoyed to partake in, but this time it felt slightly different. She sat and smiled as I ate and I caught her up on my recent work.

“So, the last time we talked Jessie and Frank were not doing so well. Any changes?” She followed my ongoing characters like a soap opera and it gave me something to focus on, an interested audience.

“They have now arrived at Jessie's childhood home as that planned stopover on their vacation, and Frank finds her keepsakes from old lovers.”

“Oh dear, I can guess what that's going to do.” She sipped her tea, I was trying to not get lost in the eureka that was my croissant.

“No, I don't think it will be the usual, I think Frank is ready to come to grips that he is not her first romance, just as she had to come to grips with the fact that this is not his first love.” It sounded cheap even as I said it.

“Hmm, well, maybe they will see something they both need to see. In each other maybe, even if painful.” This thought had occurred to me, she knew me well and my predictable characters. She probably noticed my defeated pose because she stopped, letting me finish in silence. Sometimes we would have long talks about the past, me being a history buff, I was fascinated by her spirited tales of

Prohibition and Speak-Easy’s, her adventures in the Congo during the 1950’s with her second husband, Eddie, her witnessing an airship accident as a child. As I finished the treat, she asked me to follow her up to the second floor. It seemed like an odd request. I had never ventured that far into her privacy, but her demeanor expected it, and so I followed without complaint. The stairs were so narrow and steep I again wondered how she managed to get around in here all those years, and at the speed she moved, seemingly impossible to me. When we reached the top of the landing, I noticed the large window overlooking the Rue from above and there was even a small balcony which allowed access out onto the roof. I had never noticed it from the front, concealed from view by the brambles below. She bid me out and once there she remained quiet. The floor of the balcony was painted in intricate patterns, a mandala pattern with criss-crossing lines from the defined compass rose which surrounded it.

“What is the design all about?””

“This place, this height, this exact point in space is very special, my young poet. I want you to see what it has to tell you. What you will see. Only your words can convey your vision.”

All was normal at first, that perfect day rolling along below, I breathed in the air, the popcorn and spun sugar grazing my nostrils and then something changed. The air fouled, the sugar turned to salt, the popcorn burned to a crisp. I quickly gagged then held my breath, like I knew I was not supposed to breathe it in, this led to a quick burst of panic which I immediately focused on to control.

“It is alright. It has begun. Let it in, it will not harm you.”

Within a few seconds I began breathing and my thinking changed. A could feel the thought processes warping, neurons melding, synapses sputtering, stopping, restarting, reforming, exploding and then beginning to be reborn again. My brain would begin to ask a question only to have it answered internally just as fast. I then watched as a hooded man ran out of a jewelry store on the thoroughfare, holding all the money and valuables from within, then simultaneously a woman near the corner of Rue de Jardin began violently beating and shaking her silent infant and then unbelievably two motorists at the intersection just got out of their cars and began viciously beating each other to the ground. I saw my favorite waitress being raped in the park by an ugly man, all to the cheers of a gathering crowd. Her screams overpowered the sounds of the fair until the air was hers alone to work with.

“Oh my god... What is going on? Madame, are you seeing this?”

“What, poet...What do you see? Not what you expected? Or is it truly the unexpected?””

“It's all just so bad.”

“It's humanity, just the side you are not used to seeing. You stay in your own world, choose your environments carefully so as not to disrupt your balance. You are getting to see another side.”

“But what does it mean? What I am seeing?”

“These things happen. You know they happen, they might not be happening right here, right now on the Rue, but they are happening somewhere right now and that you know.”

“Can it be stopped? What point is it that I can see all the horrors of the world?”

“Already happened a dozen times over, what’s the difference?”

“What’s the...? I’m sorry Madame, isn't life supposed to be protected, kept in motion?”

“Are you a hero now, poet? Or are you a writer, one who will tell the world of the truths it cannot bear to face? To say the things others only think and believe they are all alone in the world until they read you, and see then that they are not alone.”

I looked back at her, now seeming old and wise, yet powerful and dangerous. This change happened quickly and the change was more terrifying than the visions outside, like something cute with fangs that bunny-hops too close. She slowly stalked forward, her words echoing around in my head, seeming to be fueled by the demented Calliope already playing on repeat in the now swirling winds.

“There is always a bird in flight somewhere in the world.” Then everything froze. The universe stopped and looked at me, waiting for my approval to continue. The understanding that everything is happening everywhere every minute of every day drowned me in it's overwhelming truth. My upbringing and social and moral contract had been ripped to shreds by a little old British woman on a cramped balcony above a indistinguishable alley. I leaned on the railing, breathing deeply now, knowing the air was putrified with the corruption of the world, but it was real, and now I was awake. When I opened my eyes the vision was evolving. The men were bloodied beyond recognition, throwing wet punches into mounds of flesh. The action seemed robotic almost, with the program set to destroy. I could not bear to watch, yet my eyes were locked in a dance with the horror. The robber was now in a shootout, and was blasting away at police and civilians alike. The poor waitress was not moving, dead beneath the frenzied beast. My legs suddenly felt very weak and I steadied myself on the columns supporting the roof of the second story.

“Tell me what this is, please God, tell me this is not the world I just left. Were my eyes that closed? Were my senses that false?”

“You are seeing that which exists. That which you know exists in the farthest place from your own happiness. Breathe, boy. Again. Let it in and accept the world, in all its’ ugliness and horror!” I did. In and out. The taste was sweet and clean, I swore I could taste the cotton candy from the fair far away. I looked out. I realized that the district was moving along at it’s regular pace, the casual clip-clop pace of a quaint little village and despite the now cooling breeze, I was sweating profusely. I could feel the rivulets cascading down my back, coursing down my calves, pooling in my shoes. Madame Pinochet helped me down the stairs and ushered me into a chair by the small fireplace. She draped me in an old quilt and instantly the chill evaporated along with the dampness of the clothes it covered. She dissappeared into back of the house and I was left alone with my thoughts. They were a mix of my words and characters but now they were changed. Deformed now albeit ready to heal from new wounds, new territory to unfold. My plans for Frank and Jessie were done. They were mentally shelved instantly. Madame Pinochet scurried around, fixing and arranging things that did not need it, the little old lady I knew was back, but she too seemed tired and less of herself than usual. She brought me a cup of tea and I sipped slowly. I finally asked, “What was in that croissant?” She quietly chuckled and shook her head, finally saying, “Like I said, fresh blueberries... Makes all the difference.” The twinkle in her eye revolved a full turn. Her reference made me think twice whether the whole experience was conjured by her, as I thought back on it, seemed so far-off, like a dream. Mere moments from when it occurred, I could not remember the details, fading quickly away like invisible ink. My head was spinning, and I began to concentrate on my breathing. Feeling that I was coming back into myself, I made up some excuse about the time and that I had to leave. Madame Pinochet knew the truth, (how could I think I could fool her now?) and she gave me a terse nod of the head as if to say “go and deal with yourself, go...”

“I hope I am not leaving too soon?”

“You are already about to return.” She smiled and shut the door, leaving me alone in the back alley, listening to the captured wind whip some fallen leaves around me on the thin path.

I headed out to the main street, the smells and sounds washing over me in familiar waves, yet my mind seemed to connect to these senses differently now. I thought again on my time with the dear old Madame. A ominous feeling like I had just been with some prophetic teacher, my guru from afar, yet had forgotten to ask the nagging question I had come to them with in the first place. I sat at a favorite bench near the train tracks, dropped heavily onto it, the tears already fogging my glasses and running down my face. My thoughts and all structure in my psyche was collapsing, crumbling down around my shattered intellect, my demolished understanding and my razed sense of truth.

”What can we do? What will I cause or fail to stop? How much do we effect others actions through our own? How much are we blind to?” I didn't notice her sitting down next to me, the waitress from earlier. She must have finished her shift and seen me across the park, crying alone on a bench, pathetic as it was. I heard her foot slide over the pavement and looked up.

“I really hope you aren't crying because of that, back there.” I had barely remembered and then it clicked, that was my all-encompassing event only an hour ago.

“No, but yes, I am glad you came over. I am sorry the way that sounded. I didn't mean it like that.”

“Why not? Is there something wrong with me?” I couldn't believe she was doing this.

“No, I just... Well, I thought that...” She was staring at me so intently, no more of the feigned hurt or playful tease. Then she leaned over and hugged me. A deep human hug, one of compassion and care yet free of emotional weight or love. She held me as more tears just streamed down my face.

“I'm sure whatever is bothering you will be okay eventually. All things pass, ya know?”

“Why are you being so kind to an absolute stranger?” I leaned back and tried to regain some sense of composure.

“Sometimes we need to be the light for another, they don't know it but they might even require our light to survive, without knowing it. And maybe even the whole world would go on differently if I didn't hug you just now. All might have been lost forever.” This young girl transformed before my eyes, into the guru in my mind's eye, Buddha, Siddartha Guatama, Madame Pinochet, my mother, my first grade teacher, the daughter I never had, she became everything in the world in that moment, all the tangible pieces of what was right and true.

“Did you know there is always a bird in flight somewhere in the world?” Hearing these words again, I chuckled and tears filled my eyes again.

“Thank you, thank you for spreading your wings.”

Sitting there that day, chatting away into the evening with a new friend, I made some conclusions for myself, and the people I will come in contact with in my own life. No one is without their own actions. And what is right or wrong in the world is apart from us as well as within us. Our actions are our own, creating the world around us, one decision to the next. My mind came to grips with this searing truth, and it hurt but it also enlightened.

As the sun dipped behind the trees and the breeze developed a chill, I finally motivated to rise and begin my long walk home.

“Good bye, Sarah. I hope to do that picnic sometime. And I'm sure I'll see you again at the cafe.

“Didn't you know? You are already starting to return. No good-byes.” She skipped off across the tracks and into the park, stopping to smell the flowers, of course. I smiled and headed the other direction. Along the way, the Rue de Jin continued on its’ dreamy way, the congeniality of the people there just as evident as ever. The people were closing up shops and sweeping the walk one last time. I found myself looking back down the street before leaving the district, soaking in the last of what the day there had to offer. The sounds of the fairground continued into the night (were they always this loud before?) and I smiled at the sky and then left, but something stayed with me, the idea. And this idea never fades and this feeling never dies as things never do in dreamy places like La Rue de Jin.