Kringle - A Quantum Hijria

As Talib walked to the class, he found himself dreaming. It was, he understood, an unveiling of memory; a remnant of the experiences of his distant jahaliyah. Mastery of memory was a technique taught by the Order; and one could learn to summon them at will. On occasion, a memory came up unbidden. This was one of them.

In the beginning, I was not aware. All humans begin this way; in total ignorance and darkness; a Ruh attempting to make sense of a new human experience. Slowly, I struggled toward the light. I began to understand. Yet understanding becomes painful. One must, from time to time, discard what one had held on to. We hold what we love. But we dont always love what we need. Or need what we love. Many of us would rather die than face this.

I was Russell; a young American. I was born into it the same way we were all born into whatever we were born into. I had no choice. It seemed like such a long time ago,,,

Russell fell in love with a dream. Russell sold himself an ideal that he built his life around. His ideal was very firmly entrenched in the time and place of his life. It held him prisoner; and he fell in love with the intoxication of his imprisonment.

One day, Russell began to learn about pain.

And Light,

And freedom,

It was raining outside. Russell Peterson hated the rain.

It had been a bad day, the kind where everything seemed to go wrong. He had a fight with his girlfriend Denise. It seemed to him that she just wanted to do whatever came into her head to make him angry. She left his apartment hours ago, after much yelling, cursing, and things said in the heat of anger that neither would forget (nor forgive). The tension from the fight hung in the apartment like a fog. Hed also received a phone call from his agent: several shows his rock band was booked to do were canceled. This did nothing to improve his mood; he needed the money. To top it off, he discovered a crack in the head stock of his favorite guitar. This meant an expensive repair job that may or may not do any good. And it was his birthday today; he was 27. He didnt want to celebrate his birthday; didnt want anyone to know it was his birthday.

Something else was bothering him. Something he didnt know how to articulate, even to himself, let alone face.

The phone rang. Russell waited until his answering machine let him know who was calling. Yo, Russ, its me. Eddie. You there? Pick up. Eddie Gilbert was the drummer of the rock band Russell played with.

Russell picked up the receiver. Yeah. Im here.

Russ, man; whats up?

Im having a bad day. I shouldve stayed in bed. Whatre you up to?

Nothing, dude. You ready for tomorrow?

Russell snorted Didnt Pete call you?

No. Whats up?

That stupid fuck didn't call you? The gigs are canceled."

Eddie let loose a string of semi-coherent obscenities. After his profane verbal ejaculation, he asked why.

Russell scowled; Some drama with those people in Boston. They screwed up the money, or dont want to pay us or something. I dont know. I dont care. Why should I give a flying fuck? He was almost yelling.

Silence. Yo, Russ. Eddie said, You dont sound too good. Something bothering you? You OK?

Russell took a breath. Yeah. Ill be alright.

You feel like having a drink? Eddie asked.

Yeah. Meet me at Roccos.

Eddie chortled; Man, you must be in a funk if you want to go to Roccos. Ill see you there in a couple hours.

Cool. He hung up the phone.

Russell looked around his apartment. It was a mess. It was always a mess when Denise wasn't around. The window of the small living room looked out at a dismal abandoned section of Queens industrial area. He stood and looked out for a moment. The sky was a steel gray. The rain obscured much of the landscape; but not enough for Russells taste. This desolation: so characteristic of much of America; reflected the condition of his spirit with an eloquence that left him cold and defeated. Turning his back on the window, he walked into his tiny kitchen and opened the refrigerator.

Cold pizza and beer. Good enough.

Eating the pizza, he walked back into the living room. His eyes fell on a spiral notebook on the bookshelf across the room. It was music manuscript interspersed with writing paper, photocopies of documents, magazine articles. He didn't want to see it. He wished hed never seen it. He wished he never met the man whose handwriting filled these books. He wished hed never read those crazy books that he was told to read. Why did I let him into my life? Why do I keep that shit in my house?

After eating the pizza and putting on his shoes and a jacket. He grabbed his keys and went out the door. The rain was falling harder now. He ran to his car, a beat up 78 Ford Mustang, and jumped in. It was cold and damp. Damn! I play for big audiences and my record is selling. I cant afford a better car than this? Wheres all the money at?

On the way to the bar, he put a tape into the stereo. He didnt look at it; hed just grabbed any tape from the pile on his dashboard. As the music started he realized his mistake, and reached to stop the tape. His hand fumbled, and he poked and jabbed at the buttons violently. He had forgotten about that tape. The music on it was the last thing he wanted to hear. Not now. Finally, he got the tape out of the tape player, threw it on the floorboard and turned on the radio, set to a local rock station. The intro to Van Halens Atomic Punk filled the car. Good, he thought to himself; something I like. Not the BS he used to make me listen to. But the pounding drums, flashy guitar gymnastics, and the vocalists howling and caterwauling held none of their old power to pacify him. The exhilaration was gone. He didnt want to admit it to himself, but it was a grating noise to him now; and he was resentful of the man who he felt did this to him; took so much away from him.

Russell turned the corner a bit too fast; and almost scrapped a parked car. Cursing, he found a parking space. Running out in the rain he made his way to the entrance of Roccos bar. The neon beer signs beamed a lonely welcome to him; beckoning him to enter the special oblivion of the drunkard. Opening the door, he was greeted by the smell of stale beer. The pungent aroma always held a special place in Russells memory. It never failed to remind him of good times long past. Alcohol was always a part of his life; ever since his childhood when relatives would visit and the adults would be drinking. It seemed like they were more open to him; friendlier. Now alcohol and drugs became his spiritual nourishment; his elixir of life. It dominated his existence and he welcomed it, because all else was failing him.

Yet this too, despite his refusal to admit it, was entering an advanced state of decay. At times, he simply could not drink the anger and pain off his mind. Tonight, it seemed, was going to be one of those nights. This was not good. He was known to sometimes either become violent and abusive or emotionally depressed at such times. It was, however, too early to tell weather he would pick a fight or sit in the corner weeping. He would have to simply get falling-down drunk before he could determine this. One thing was certain. He would wake up with a terrible hangover, and drink a beer before he did anything, so he could function.

Once inside, he looked around. Not many people inside. Good. He didnt want to be around a lot of people. He sat at the bar, and waited for Eddie. Ordering a beer, he walked to the jukebox. The lumbering 7/8 bass line of Money by Pink Floyd poured from the speakers. Same old songs hed been listening to for years. He was tired of them. Cursing to himself, he wondered how it had come to this. He never felt this way about the songs hed always loved. When he was a teenager it seemed like he and his friends worked hard to build something. It was the voice of their culture, the soundtrack of their lives. When Russell learned to play the electric guitar, he felt like he was doing something important. Now everything carried with it a feeling of futility, emptiness. Everything he loved and valued suddenly became ugly and idiotic; devoid of meaning. It made no sense to him; why was this happening? What went wrong?